Licenced, May 9 1678.  
Ro. L'Estrange.   

Fatal Prudence, OR, DEMOCRATES, THE Unfortunate Hero.  
A Novel.  
Translated out of French.  
LONDON, Printed by J. Bennet for R. Bentley and M. Magnes in russel-street near Covent-Garden, 1679.   

Fatal Prudence, OR, DEMOCRATES, THE Unfortunate Hero.  
A Novel.  
THe Unfortunate Hero of this History, having through many considerable services merited the good Graces of his King, and seeing himself honoured with his favour, and being possessed of a very large estate by his liberalities, descended a while to make some reflection within himself of that glorious Rank and Eminence he was in at Court by his Prince, and to examine to what those of his quality were exposed. He looked on the favour he had, not as those use to do who are yet in prosperity, he had better eyes than your generality of favourites, who know not that it is deceitful, but when they can no longer keep it from destroying them. He saw very well that it was inconstant, and that he ought to mistrust it, that it exposed to all the dangers immaginable those whom it raises to the highest dignity and honours, and that in giving them riches and credit, it makes their best friends become their Emulators, and renders all those inferior to them enviously jealous of their glory and happiness. The consideration of all these things made Democrates (for so was this unfortunate Hero called) resolved to take a very strict care of his least accounts, and of all his words: that so he might not raise to himself any enemies, nor give those, whom the noise of his fortune might make malicious, any occasion of becoming prejudicial to him, though they should daily watch for an Opportunity to be so; nor to undertake any thing which he had not very well examined, and to follow the Directions of prudence, when those that were equal to him never did consult it.  
He had scarce made this resolution, but the Duke Nicanor, brother to the King his Master, desired him to assist him in his Love, and acquainted him with the design he had to marry Fulciana, a Lady that was one of the greatest beauties that shone in the Kingdom, and daughter to one of the first Officers of the Crown, but whom he could not marry without blemishing his quality, because she had not received so many advantages from fortune as to place her in the number of Princesses, as she had from Nature, which had made her one of the Charming beauties in the world. This confidence gave Democrates a very great trouble, for he well knew prudence sometimes was altogether unprofitable, in that it could not give happy Counsels. But yet, after he had sufficiently consulted what he ought to do, he thought that to oblige at once both the King his Master, and the Duke Nicanor, it was his duty to dissuade the Prince from a design that would be a disreputation to his glory, & contrary to the esteems that all persons, even the highest dignified of the Kingdom, had conceived of him. He told him therefore, he thought he should not deserve the honour he did him, if he should disguise his sentiments to him, whereupon he represented to him in terms that were as pressing as respectful, all that might oblige him to leave off such a design, and that he could not marry Fulciana without lessening himself extremely, and without betraying his quality, and lowering that great reputation he had acquired. The Prince, after he had heard all his reasons, did as most Lovers use to do when they are persuaded of the truth of what is told them, that is to say, approve them sighing, and told Democrates he was not then in a condition to hearken to his counsels, because it was not in his power to follow them.  
A little after the King hearing of the Amours of his Brother, and fearing he would make an alliance so prejudicial to his quality, told Democrates, that as he had always assumed the care of his fortune, so he would also take upon him that of his marriage, and give him still new accessions with the beautiful Fulciana, though Democrates had not as yet engaged his heart to any, and had beheld in that person all he was able to desire, yet the resolution of the King to marry him gave him a very sensible affliction; because the Duke Nicanor, who was passionately fired with the same charms, had made a Discovery of his Love to him, and also desired him to serve him in it. He endeavoured nevertheless to conceal from the King's eyes the surprise that that discourse was the occasion of to him, and after he had returned him his acknowledgements for all the favours and kindness he for him, and testified to him that he was ready to do all he should command him, he made him to foresee that he had no mind to marry Fulciana, but through obedience; and that he had not yet any design to dispose of himself, nor any inclination for that fair one; the King, who was firmly resolved upon that marriage, did not seem to apprehend any thing of what Democrates would fain have had him understood, and told him he was glad to see him in the resolution of obliging him. Democrates went away from him very much troubled, and was musing all the rest of the day, and all the night, about the means to keep himself in the good graces of the King, and in those of the Duke Nicanor; but Prudence not having furnished him with any, or at least having given him but very weak ones, he went the next day betimes to wait upon the Duke, who no sooner preceiv'd him coming into his chamber, but he looked upon him with eyes full of threatening, and told him in a very disdainful manner, and which showed a great deal of scorn, I do not any longer wonder, why you were able to persuade me not to marry Fulciana, a Rival ought not to give any other Counsels to his Rival; but you ought to regard your difference that is betwixt us, not to abuse my confidence, to sacrifice all your flame to me, and not to demand of the King the object of my vows, and that of my earnest desires. You may, added he with a look capable to make a heart of the greatest assurance and resolution tremble, press on this marriage if you are weary of living; but let heaven be my witness, you shall sooner be in the arms of death, then in those of Fulciana. Death, replied Democrates to him, shall not beget any fear in me in the estate to which I am reduced, and I do so much the more earnestly desire it, as I see it is only that which can deliver me from the confusion into which I am cast, by the confidence you have made me of your Love, and that extreme kindness the King has for me; since that that confidence makes me to pass for a traitor, and for one ungrateful, without having merited that name; and that the Bounties of the King, in bestowing upon me more than I desire, makes me to pass for their Rival, without ever loving the object of their flame; but to show you, continued he, that all I say is true, if you can find out any means to prevent my marrying of Fulciana, and keep the King from being displeased with me for it, I protest to you I'll subscribe to whatever you are pleased to have me, and I will likewise, to assist you, do all that ever I am able, without appearing ungrateful to the King's bounties, and rebellious to his commands. This discourse, far from giving the Duke Nicanor any Joy, only served to increase the trouble he had in his breast; he knew very well that a Rival was not all he had to fear, and that the King having heard of his passion, did not press Democrates to marry Fulciana, but only to prevent his marrying of her; this consideration made him almost ; fear and grief took possession of his soul, and for some time kept him from speaking; but after his grief had lost a little of its violence, and he was somewhat come to himself, he told Democrates, he would think upon what he had said, and that on his side nothing should be spared to make things succeed according to his desires. Democrates being retired, the Duke opened his breast again to grief, and was buried in a profound study, which he got not out of till he had light upon a way to divert the blow which threatened him. He resolved with himself, the more easily to attain the end of his design, to remove Democrates from the high place he held in the King's affection, and therein to follow the examples of all great men, who sacrifice to their interests all those who serve them, and who little are troubled for the misfortunes that befall them, so they can but have what they desire: this made our despairing Lover go and tell the King that Democrates proclaimed openly that he had more hatred than Love for Fulciana, that he had rather lose his favour, then marry her, that he knew how to turn aside the stroke, and that it was more than he could do, to make him buy, at the expense of his heart, the bounties he had received from him; and that his services having merited those rewards, it was not just that he should buy them over again, or rather sacrifice himself to conserve 'em; the King did so much the more readily believe this discourse, as he began to remember that Democrates had made him foresee he would not marry Fulciana, but only in obedience to him, which so incensed him, that a little more would have made him been immediately arrested. After the Duke Nicanor had persuaded the King his brother what he had a mind to make him believe, Fulciana, the Father of his Mistress, who joined with him in the intrigue, came by his order to speak to the King and to conjure him not to give his daughter to a man, who only had a scorn & an aversion for her; he would with all his heart most readily have consented to this match, if the heart of Democrates had been disposed to it, but that since he discovered by those discourses that he would never have any Love for her, and that he would not marry her but by constraint, he entreated him that he might have the sentiments of a father, and that he might not consent to the unhappiness of a daughter, whom he most tenderly loved. As the King was going to reply to him, Fulciana entered to act the personage of the Duke Nicanor, her Father and she had resolved on beforehand to have her represent. Fulcian had no sooner perceived her, but he feigned to be much surprised, and asked her if she came to stir up the King's pity, and to divert the misery she was threatened with. I come, replied she to him, maugre all the aversion I have for Democrates, and all the hatred he declares he has for me, to show I can obey the commands of my Prince, and to tell him I am ready to follow his Laws. Ah! child, did Fulcian answer her, think upon what you are doing, and do not promise that which you may have cause to repent of, and do not so rashly run to meet your misery. Although I very well know, replied she, that I am likely to be the most wretched person in the world, in marrying him whom my Prince would give me, yet I will never relent, that I have obeyed my King: it is a crime to refuse him any thing; he demands of me my heart, and it is to him that I give it, and not to Democrates, though I am ready to marry him. Ah, Sir! cried out Fulcian, throwing himself at the King's feet, have pity of a child, who to obey you, has none for herself; and if my prayers and tears cannot soften you, suffer yourself to be overcome by her generosity, and content yourself with her obedience.  
These Discourses so surprised the King, that after he had admired the power that Fulciana had over herself, he sent them both away without resolving on any thing, and told them he would advise what to do.  
Whilst all these things were happening, the Duke Nicanor, whom Love had inspired with all these stratagems and devises, waited the issue of them with impatience; for he had not made Fulciana say, that she was ready to marry Democrates, but that so their actions might be the less observed, and that there might be no suspicion either of the Love that that fair one had for him, or of the hopes he gave her of marrying her: but at the same time, after such an acknowledgement to prevent the Kings pressing on the marriage which he feared, and also that it should not be accomplished, he caused the Father of Fulciana to oppose it, and to drive things off so long till he had absolutely removed Democrates from the place he held in the King's affection, and had made all the world believe that he had a most invincible hatred for Fulciana, he hoped if all these things did not cause the breaking off the match which he feared, they would at least serve to gain him time; and indeed he did obtain a great deal; for the King testified so much anger against Demoerates, that it was a long while before he was willing to permit him to come into his presence. On the other side, seeing himself yet but ill confirmed in his Estates, and Fulcian having very great credit, and several considerable friends, he was afraid to provoke him; so that all these things, joined to the thoughts he had, that since Fulciana consented to marry Democrates, she was not so much beloved by the Duke his brother as they had been persuading him, troubled him exceedingly, and made it a long time before he could determine any thing. He found he was not likely to get out of the incertainty and confusion which he perceived himself involved in, if he had not resolved to send for Democrates, and to discourse with him in private, to see if he could not persuade him to stifle, or at least to conceal the hatred he thought he had for Fulciana; but he was extraordinarily surprised to learn from his mouth, that he found himself more disposed to Love then hatred, and that he begged of him not to demand the cause of that coldness and indifference he had shown the first time he had spoken to him of that marriage. That Discourse made the King suspect some part of the truth, and he obliged Democrates to tell him the rest, which he thought he might do, without any imprudence, and without losing the respect he owed to the Duke Nicanor, after what he had done for him, the King having learned all, confessed he had acted prudently, and not being any longer able to doubt of the Love which his Brother had for Fulciana, and fearing that that fair one would suffer herself to be vanquished by the charms of ambition, again told Democrates that he would have him marry her, and that he would protect him from the fury of his Brother: which he promised, not knowing any means how to turn it off.  
The Duke Nicanor having learned this news, sought every where for Democrates, to immolate him to his Love, and to his choler; but not having found him, he resolved to marry Fulciana privately, and afterwards to declare his marriage to the King. He communicated that design to Fulcian, who seeing by that his Ambition satisfied, told him he might be married without fearing any thing, and if the King resolved to make his marriage void, he would then discover to him that he could not bring any into his family who might procure him more considerable advantages than his daughter, and that he had still need of Fulcian and his friends.  
There wanted no more to oblige the the Duke of Nicanor to marry the adorable Fulciana, which he did in the presence of several considerable witnesses. In the mean time news was brought to the King of it, who notwithstanding caused her to be sought for, to make her marry Democrates in his presence whom she was already married to. For indeed he could not give any belief to the certainty of it, until it was confirmed to him by the Duke his Brother, who presently came to throw himself at his knees, and to entreat him to consent to his marriage. He told him he knew very well he was much to blame in that he had done it without his knowledge; but he had not the power to be Master of his passion, which he had a long time contended with, and that it was impossible for him to resist the violence of his Love, and to deny his hand (where he had sacrificed his heart) to the most beautiful person in the world: the King replied to him, that for a Mistress he could not make choice of one who might be more advantageous to him, and he doubted not but Fulciana had that honour; but that he did not believe she was his wife, and he knew very well that he was, too prudent, and had too much Spirit to do so great an injury to his Quality and Eminence. He replied to him, that what he told him was true, and named him all those persons who had seen him married. The King stood immovable at this discourse, with despite and choler in his eyes, and especially in his Countenance; but yet he durst not let them break out but lightly, nor go to break off so unequal a marriage; because he saw very well that Fulcian having had that temerity to permit it, he had likewise more friends and greater power than he imagined, and that he could not oppose him without raising up against him a party of the most considerable Grandees in the Realm, which was the cause that he pardoned his Brother, and that he agreed to his marriage rather through policy, than out of any satisfaction he received by it.  
The choler and despite of the King, (being thus forcibly stifled in him, as that he durst not let it break forth either against the Duke his Brother, or against Fulcina,) fell upon Democrates; he was greatly enraged against him, and blamed his prudence, which he but a little before did so highly value. He told him that he was the cause of the injury his Brother had done to his blood, and so deprived him of his favour, but yet without banishing him the Court, where he afterwards looked upon him for sometime, but 〈◊〉 with a great deal of indifference.  
Democrates, perceiving that he was deprived of the good graces of his Prince, and that he had no favourable place in the mind of the Duke Nicanor, because when he had justified himself of what that Duke had said to the King, he had consented to the marriage of Fulciana, knew at his own expense, that when misfortune is obstinately resolved to pursue a person, prudence signifies very little, and how profitable soever it is at other times, one consults it then but in vain. Is there any one, says he, (in bewailing himself with his friends at the disgrace that had happened to him,) to whom prudence can be favourable; when he is forced to do evil, whatever it is possible for him to do? and when he runs the same danger in not pursuing its direction? Those whose lives, fate has determined shall be miserable, and yet who have the Election given them of two or three punishments, have enough to consult of prudence to know what they shall do, and notwithstanding at last they are necessitated to choose one punishment. Fortune has now almost put me into this condition, I could not consent to what the King-commanded me, without provoking the Duke Nicanor, nor consent to what Duke Nicanor would have me, without incensing the King; and my unhappiness was such, that I did draw upon myself his anger in doing nothing.  
Five or six months were spent before Democrates was restored to the good graces of his Prince, but at last the King, considering that the Marriage of his brother had been more profitable to him then he had imagined, and that Fulcian had hindered a great many discontented persons from breaking out into any violences, & had brought them to their duty and submission, looked upon this prudent unfortunate man with as good an eye as ever he had done before his disgrace; but he did not restore him to his confidence; he loved him without making him his favourite, that place cannot be easily rendered to those who have once lost it, through the good order that those observe, who by their wit and happy address have known how to make themselves Masters of it.  
Our Hero who was not wholly satisfied with the reparation that Fortune then did make him, perceiving himself much less employed than when he had been his Prince's favourite, and was entrusted with all his secrets, was resolved to try whether the persecutions of Love were any thing pleasanter than those his evil fortune caused him, and gave up himself to be charmed with the beauties of Sestiana, the Daughter of Count Sestianes', who was not altogether so happy in point of Estate as he, but who was of as illustrious a Family: Although his passion was very violent, yet as he did nothing but with a great deal of prudence, he was resolved to know before he would declare it, if it were likely to be approved of, and would not make a discovery of his flame, before that his actions, his services, and his regards had made the judication. Sestianes' began to perceive his love, and wished with all his heart that his tongue would confirm what his eyes did seem to tell him, when her father was solicited for her by a considerable person: Sestianes' fearing jest he might fall off, gave him his word before he had ever acquainted his daughter with it, and came not to tell her the news till after the marriage was concluded on. This fair one, who began to have some inclinations for Democrates, received it with a very cold indifference; but she always told her father that she was ready to be led by his commands, which she looked upon as her duty to do, as much because of the obedience she owed him, as because that Democrates had not as yet declared the passion he had for her.  
This unhappy Lover whom Prudence had always betrayed, had scarcely learned this sad and afflictive news, but he came to wait upon Sestiana to make a discovery of his love to her; She had no sooner perceived it but she was instantly sensible of so great an emotion, and so violent a grief in her breast, that it was plainly remarkable in her face. Democrates on his part appeared so planet-struck, that he could not so much as get one word, which occasioned them a great while to do nothing but keep their eyes fixed upon one another, without having the power to speak a syllable; but at last Democrates broke the silence, and after he had eased himself of two or three sighs which lay very heavy upon his soul, and which made the afflicted fair one sufficiently to know the trouble he had in it, he said to her; Is it possible, Madam, that what I have now lately heard is true, and that you are within these few days to be led to the Altar by— Yes, reported she to him in a little kind of rage, I am, since you have been willing to permit it: Pardon me, my Lord, replied she immediately, repenting that she spoke to him in that manner, and do not attribute it to any thing but the terrible transports of grief I have upon my spirit, and which do confound me, that they keep me from thinking either of what I do or say. Ah! Madam, did Democrates answer her, flinging himself at her knees, You need not longer conceal from me, that I should have been the happiest man in the world, if fate which continually is persecuting me, had not fully opposed it; Your eyes and mouth do tell it me; they are witnesses you cannot disavow; do not make them false, for heaven's sake, but suffer me to feel in all their extent the fatal and yet charming displeasures of learning my happiness, when it is impossible for me to enjoy it: They will give me joy and sadness both together, the former in hearing that I have the glory to be beloved by so fair and generous a person, and the latter in having known it too late, and in not having sooner declared my passion to you. Ah, cruel man! replied Sestiana to him sighing, why did you no sooner speak of it? or why do you speak of it so late? If you loved me, as you say you did, you ought to have loved my repose, and not to deprive me of it, to let me believe that you have never had any kindness for me: The little worth there is in me, replied Democrates to her, not rendering my loss considerable, ought not to cause that of your repose; but as my loss is vastly great in losing you, it is only I myself ought to complain, and to repent that I have no sooner discovered my flame to you: From whence did it then proceed, said Sestiana to him, that you were so long without speaking of it? those who demand a heart, answered he her, without having merited it by their services, by their love and submissions, have been often ill received; I looked on yours as too considerable to be hazarded; besides I was not ignorant that a heart does not sacrifice its self but to the knowledge it hath of the Love of its votary, and not to the demand he shall make of it, and that there is no beauty but refuses it to those who have not merited it by their Love and Services, unless ambition constrains them to it, or that the grandeur and the illustrious merit of those who demand it do oblige them: as likewise we ought not to be esteemed Lovers, as soon as we begin our passion; it is time which must acquire that quality, and those who have not discovered that they do with justice possess it, are much to blame to pretend that they are beloved, because they begin to love. The Love of a beautiful and charming person ought not to be the conquest of a Gallants first sigh; and those who are so vain to believe they could obtain it before they have learned to love, deserve to meet with the highest severity and Indignation of the fair One, whose heart they are so bold to demand. This has been it, continued Democrates, which made me forbear so long to discover the ardour with which I burn, and as I feared provoking you by the confession of my Love, I was willing to dispose your breast to it by dutiful submissions, by my assiduities, and by a thousand other marks of the most violent passion that ever was.  
Sestiana could not hear this discourse without dismissing some sighs, and when Democrates, had left of speaking, she told him, that since she had mistrusted his merit, and he had thought he could never obtain her heart before he had made himself worthy of it by his services and by his Love, he ought to have prevented the unhappiness that had befell him, to have demanded her of her father as soon as he had taken up the design of loving her, and afterwards to have endeavoured by his cares and assiduities to obtain her of herself. Ah! Madam, replied he to her, I was not willing to serve myself that way, but would have obtained your heart of yourself alone, and have had you to render it to the proofs of my Love, and not to your duty; without that, I should never have thought to have the glorious advantage of being beloved by so fair and beautiful a person, though possibly you would have consented without any trouble to marry me; I should not have known how to distinguish your Love from your Obedience, but should have always thought you ought to hate me, not doubting but I should have merited your hatred, for having demanded you of any other besides yourself. They continued still some time together in disburthening themselves of their sighs, and in bewailing their unhappiness, and when they were taking their leaves of one another, Sestiana advises Democrates to go and declare to her Father the Love he had for her, and she desired him at the same time not to see her any more, if he could obtain nothing from him: this unfortunate Lover had no sooner left her, but he went to discover his passion to Sestianes', who told him, that he did as much resent the displeasure as himself, in that he had not sooner declared his passion, but now his Daughter's marriage was too far gone to break it off. Democrates, after this answer that he had foreseen, returned as afflicted, as you may imagine, you yourselves should be in the like circumstances, and a few days after he had the cruel dissatisfaction to see a person married whom he loved even to adoration, and by whom he was likewise greatly beloved. Then did he repent the time he had lost before he had declared his Love, and then did he a thousand times detest the prudence that had counselled him to act in that manner.  
Fortune, which till then had still seemed to repent for all the insultations she had made over our Hero, and for all the miseries she had procured him, seemed in this to repent more than ever; since that Sestiana became a widow within three months after she was married. The death of her Husband gave Democrates a fresh opportunity to make his applications to her. Sestianes' approved both of his visits, and of the address he made to his Daughter, and there was only a waiting for the expiration of the year of her mourning to celebrate the marriage; when, on a sudden, Fortune, which was resolved to be no longer favourable to this Lover, or rather which had not seemed to be favourable to him, but to make him the more deeply sensible of the afflictions she was preparing for him, declared herself absolutely his enemy.  
Affairs were then in this posture, when Theomedes, a Prince of the blood, and a near relation of the Kings, received this Letter from one of the Officers of the Army.  
To Prince THEOMEDES.  
BEing now just upon the point of going to be accountable to the Gods for my actions, and seeing myself very near my last moment of life, I thought it was my duty to reveal to you a business that concerns you very much. A few days since one of my acquaintance came to demand of me whether I would join in a conspiracy that was contrived against your Life: he would not acquaint me with the names of the confederates, but all that I could draw from him was, that he believed that Democrates was one of the Number, because he was too great a friend to those who had engaged him in it, not to be one, & that it was impossible for him to be wholly unacquainted with it. He was to have come to me two days afterwards, to give me more certain intelligences of it, and to know my resolution, but he was the next day killed in the sedition you know lately happened in this City, which has been the cause that I could not know any thing more of it. You ought after this advice to conserve the days that are so dear to the State.  
Poligesne.  
Theomedes had no sooner read over this Letter, but he went and carried it to the King, who was greatly surprised to find the name of Democrates in it; but as he could not imagine him to be capable of so great a baseness, he would not make him be arrested, as Theomedes demanded, before he had sent to his house who had writ this Letter, to see if no ways were to be found out whereby to get some further discoveries and satisfactions: but those who went thither having found him dead, came back without having got any other information, and without having learned any thing that might deliver them out of the trouble and confusion into which in all probability this Letter was likely to cast I know not how many.  
This could not be kept so secret; but that Democrates who had great friends, was advertised of it; but as he knew himself innocent, and did not think the King had any suspicion to his disadvantage, nor gave any credit to the Imposture, he would not follow the advice of those who counselled him to fly.  
Sestianes', who was the Author of this conspiracy, having confusedly learned this news, and fearing that Democrates, who as it was reported, knew the name of the chief of the conspiracy, would discover him, came to see him without examining well what he did, as most guilty persons do, who lose their Judgement by the fear they have upon them, and told him, that he had heard he would accuse him; but that those who might have told him he was guilty (in case he had been told so) accused him unjustly, and their suspicions were not grounded any otherwise then in that they knew the Prince Theomedes was his Enemy, and hated him mortally, which made them believe that, to be delivered of so powerful and redoubted an Enemy, and who was very prejudicial to him at Court, he had resolved to be his death.  
This Discourse much surprised Democrates, he told Sestianes' that he acquainted him with things he had never heard of, that he did not believe he could ceive so horrible a thought, and so contrary his glory, and that never to having known the Authors, nor the complices of this conspiracy, nor so much indeed as that they had conspired it, he ne'er thought of accusing him, nor any other: those words in some measure dissipated Sestianes' fear, and kept him from flying, as he had proposed to himself. He went after he had quitted Democrates, to find out his companions in this conspiracy, and bid them not be alarmed, whatsoever they might hear reported, for he was sure there was no body knew any thing.  
Whilst things went on thus, they resolved to arrest Democrates, to oblige him to tell what he knew of this conspiracy. This unfortunate Hero learned this news without appearing in the least alarmed at it, and indeed without any change of countenance; and as he relied much upon his innocence, he went to address himself to his Prince as he was wont to do, which caused him to have the honour of being arrested in the King's Palace, and conducted to Prison by those Guards. He was kept there two days without having any thing said to him, and on the third he was interrogated, but to no purpose, this unhappy Innocent not being able to discover what he did not know; they shown him afterwards Poligesne's Letter, to see whither that would not surprise him, and make some motion in his face. But he without seeming any whit astonished, answered those that shown it him, that either Poligesne was an impostor, or that he who had a mind to have seduced him was one, and as these Judges could not get any other answer from him, they went their way, and related nothing to the King and Prince Theomedes, but only the resolution of Democrates.  
When those who came to interrogate him were gone, he made reflections upon the Letter they had showed him, by which he understood that the Author of the conspiracy was of his acquaintance, and one of his friends: he run over in his mind all those he knew, to see if among his friends there was any he could think capable of this baseness, and upon whom he might fasten his suspicions; but not having found any, he remembered what Sestianes' had come and told him some time before he was taken prisoner, and immediately suspected part of the truth, which greatly troubled him, and gave him cruel inquietudes; for if on one side he was almost ready to despair to have any reason to suspect the father of his Mistress of an action so foul and so unworthy a man of Honour; on the other side he thought himself obliged to tell all he knew, and was persuaded that it was to make himself a criminal, and to wound his honour to keep it undiscovered; yet after he had consulted with himself what he should do, he saw very well that he ought not to accuse a man of the quality of Sestianes' without any proofs, and upon a simple conjecture, and that if the evil treatments he had received from the Prince Theomedes made his Enemies believe it was he who had conspired against him, it was a motive strong enough to make his friends believe that he was suspected unjustly, and that without knowing the truth, would be to draw consequences to his disadvantage, absolutely contrary to his glory and injurious to his reputation; wherefore, after he had well consulted prudence, to see what he had best do, it gave him only the advice to be silent, and not to speak of what it was impossible for him to prove, and that which might undoubtedly make him lose the heart of his Mistress: yet possibly had he harkened less to the Counsels of prudence, and had said all he knew, that Sestianes' astonished, confounded and surprised, as ordinarily most criminals are, when they see they are discovered, would not so well have known how to hid his surprise and trouble, and that his countenance would have discovered his crime, but as he had no proofs, it might be not only to run the hazard of losing the heart of his Mistress, but also be in danger to be looked upon as an Impostor, for uttering that he could not make out: not but that if Democrates had been happy, fortune might have made him prosperous in acting after this manner, but as he proposed to himself that he would follow prudence in all things, and not put any thing to hazard, he ought not to undertake that which might be in the least perilous.  
In the mean time whilst that this criminal without a crime, or rather this innocent victim of misfortune, gave himself up holy to his inquietude, and sought out means to get rid of the doubt that was upon his spirit, Sestianes' on his part was in a fear and trouble very difficult to be expressed. Sometimes he thought Democrates knew his crime, and that the Love he bore his Daughter kept him from speaking of it, sometimes he fancied he knew nothing of it, and then again he was persuaded, that he could not be very long Master of his secret, but would be constrained to declare it. His mind, being tossed about with all these different thoughts, successively gave up itself to fear, grief, torment, and hope, without ever getting it dispossessed of those wracking Inquietudes, no, not in those very moments wherein he flattered himself that Democrates knew not any thing, or if he had acquainted him with all, his love would have kept him from making any discovery.  
Though Sestianes' was still in fear, and his disquiets were great, and though the troubles and cares of Democrates were much more smart and pungent, and his griefs by far more sensible, yet all those torments came not near the cruel displeasures that Sestiana resented, and as glory was a thousand times more dear to her then her life, and love; it was only despite that caused all her sighs, she was more deeply touched at Democrates' being imprisoned, because she had loved him, then because she did love him, and she had a most unexpressable regret that she had suffered a person to get her esteem and tenderness whom she Judged unworthy of it, and whom she thought was guilty of the most shameful and horrid baseness in the world. This generous Person did not resemble those who cannot hate the objects they have loved, and who cannot see the crimes that Lovers do commit after they have once known how to gain their hearts, but with the eyes of their love; that is to say, only to excuse them, she looked not upon the pretended crime of Democrates with any other eyes then those of her choler, and only aimed to be revenged both of him, and of herself, for that he had been able to constrain her Love; and to make her declare to him the weakness of her heart in bearing him so ardent an affection: wherefore she took up a resolution never to marry him, although he should get out of prison, and be perfectly restored into the King's favour, unless she should be fully purged of that injurious suspicion with which his reputation had been sullied.  
Whilst Sestiana gave up herself wholly to her despite, Democrates was several times interrogated; but he still showed an equal assurance and resolution, and the Prince Theomedes not doubting but that he had some secret Enemies, took so great a care over himself, that those who had a design to take away his life, could not find any favourable opportunity to put their purpose in execution.  
The Imprisonment of Democrates, who could not be thought guilty of a crime so unworthy of him, and so contrary to the great reputation he had acquired, extremely troubled several of his friends: and, above them all, Anaxander, who was a stranger of an Illustrious Family, and whose Name is known throughout a good part of Europe. They had made some Voyages together, and had contracted so great a friendship, that I know not how to express it, but in saying, that all the Histories have said of the most strongest friendships in the world cannot equal that which was between them. It had been already a good while that this stranger had designed to go back into his own Country, and his departure had not been retarded, but through the great affection he bore to Democrates, whom he could not then tell how to leave. But yet now he did resolve to go, seeing his friend in prison; but it was only for his service, as you will find in the sequel.  
This generous and faithful friend made his departure with all the precipitation he could, and went out of the Kingdom without taking his leave of any person, and even without saluting the King, to whom he was very well known; because all these things he thought might be advantageous to him, in the design he had to serve his friend, and that he might derive from thence such consequences, as should be capable to get that to be believed which he had a mind to persuade.  
Democrate's imprisonment began to be the public discourse, both among the great ones, and the common people. All Judgements were divided, and there were different thoughts about this action according to the different inclinations of persons. Some spoke of him as a Notorious Criminal, others maintained his innocence, and there were some that could not tell how to think him either one way or other, and knew not what they had best believe, the King himself, and the Prince Theomedes began to find themselves under no small trouble and confusion; whilst Democrates, though the only person that was accused, and a prisoner, enjoyed a greater tranquillity than any of 'em, and felt his Soul as serene and calm as ever.  
Matters were in this posture, that is to say, no more advanced than they were the first day of Democrates' being taken prisoner, when Anaxander, who was at last gone out of the Kingdom, in which his friend was unjustly accused, writ to the King this Letter which, if you please, you may peruse.  
To the KING.  
I Thought myself obliged to acquaint your Majesty, not to let an Innocent perish, that I am the Author of that conspiracy you have heard of, which threatens the life of Prince Theomedes, and that the friendship which is between Democrates and me, hath made some of the conspirators believe, that I might have discovered to him the design I had against the life of that Prince; but I too much loved that dear and generous friend, to engage him in it. Yet possibly I had done it, if he had not been your subject; but his crime had been too great to set upon the Relations of a King, from whom he had received so many signal favours, this reason obliged me to be careful of his glory, and not to put him into the unworthy, and cruel necessity of betraying, either his King, or his friend. Such an acknowledgement will no doubt surprise you; but my crime is so glorious, that I hope time will discover that only the generous can blacken themselves with the like sin, and that how criminal soever I declare myself to be, posterity will not reproach my glory. As I should be troubled that Prince Thoemedes should lose his life upon any other subject then that for which I had resolved to sacrifice him, I would inform him that there are some of your subjects who conspire against him, though I cannot tell by whom they are engaged to it, nor what their motives is that thrust them on.  
Anaxander.  
As Anaxander was endowed both with a great presence of wit, and command of prudence; and what had happened, concluded him from doubting that Prince Theomedes had secret Enemies, and that they did conspire against him, she gave him that information that so the confession of a crime which he had not committed, should not make the guilty believe that they were in any safety, and likewise that this Prince should not expose himself to their fury.  
I will leave you to Judge of the King's surprise, and of the astonishment of Prince Theomedes, as soon as they had red Anaxanders' Letter. They were along time, both of them, without knowing either what they ought to do, or even believe: but at last the King, who had not yet stifled in his breast all the sentiments of esteem he had formerly had for Democrates, was of opinion that he might believe that Letter, and that which confirmed it in his thoughts was the remembrance of that precipitation that Anaxander had made to be gone, and that he seemed to glory in his crime, in saying, that posterity would not reproach his glory, and the agreement he found of this Letter to that of Poligesne's, who had written that he was not assured of Democrates' being joined in the conspiracy; but that he believed he might possibly know of it, because one of his friends was the Author of it.  
As we live in an age where invention reigns, and where experience discovers daily that it is not in the power of Kings to hinder a prisoner from knowing all that passes, either for, or against him, the friends of Democrates soon got him to be informed of all that Anaxander had writ in his favour; they also got conveyed a copy of the Letter he had sent to the King, in his justification. This Letter gave our illustrious prisoner as great a trouble and intanglement, as it had done the King, and Prince Theomedes; he could not persuade himself that a person so generous, and the very bottom of whose soul he thought he knew, could be capable of such a crime, and the more he considered him either as innocent, or guilty, he was resolved to save his life, the more that generosity made him doubt that he was guilty.  
He had not been many moments in that reflection, but he quited it to fix upon another. If Anaxander said he, in himself, was innocent, he would have found out some way to let me understand that he did not accuse himself, but to save me my honour, and perhaps my life; and would not have exposed me to the hard Necessity of doubting of his Innocence, in a time, wherein he would possibly have divulged mine at the expense of his glory. He was a long while in this cruel uncertainty, but at last whatever ground he had to doubt, he could not be persuaded that so perfect a friend could possibly be guilty.  
Though Democrates had a deal of prudence, and a very piercing wit, he had his imagination filled with too many different thoughts, to present at once before him, the prudence which Anaxander had made use of in this emergency. For that generous friend had not a mind, for several considerable reasons, to let him know the truth of what he writ to the King, he apprehended that he should not find out a person that would be faithful enough to acquaint him with it viva voce, or if he should write to him, there might be a great deal of difficulty to get that Letter come safe into his hands without any surprise. But yet these were not the principal reasons which obliged him not to discover to Democrates, that he was innocent, and only did declare himself the contrary to serve him, he had a more powerful reason then all those, and as he knew the generosity of that illustrious unfortunate man, he did apprehend, that if he did know the truth he would discover it, and avow that his friend did only render himself criminal to serve him.  
Sestianes' learned all that passed, but yet these Intelligences could not dissipate his fears, and smooth his breast into a calm, he knew very well that that had not altered the state of things, he saw well that if Democrates knew he was a criminal, it was still in his power to declare him so, and as he was the Author of the conspiracy, he knew better than any person that Anaxander could not make himself guilty but out of generosity, and to save his friend; and he also did much doubt of the reasons which had induced him to give that advice, that he had put at the end of his Letter to the Prince Theomedes.  
The King, who as I have already told you, began to retrieve his esteem for our Hero, and who was of opinion that Anaxanders' Letter might be relied upon, after he had made Theomedes to consent to it, who was the most interessed in this affair, declared that Democrates was innocent, and gave order he should be let out of prison.  
This generous unfortunate person was no sooner set at liberty, but he went to throw himself at the King's feet. I know Signior, said he to him, how dear the liberty which I now receive, has cost the glory of the most perfect friend that ever was: that too obliging Anaxander has not made himself guilty but to make me innocent, all his crime is my unhappiness he has thought he ought to give me at the expense of his reputation, those illustrious & almost incredible marks of his friendship, but too disadvantageous for himself; since they make him lose the esteem he had acquired among men: I will resume my setters to render him back his glory and his innocence, mine will be powerful enough to free me from 'em, or if in spite of all its power I am constrained to perish, I shall not have the sensible and cruel displeasure of living, and of knowing myself the cause of a crime which will be unjustly imputed to the most virtuous of all men. You deserve, replied the King to him, amazed at this discourse, to have chains put on you far more heavy than those you now have quitted, not so much for the crime of which you are possibly too justly suspected, as for the trouble and confusion you endeavour to throw into the breast of a King, who does all he can to defend you from those perils you are threatened with: I cannot secure you from them with justice, but in finding another guilty who justifies you; and yet when I have found him you implore your Rhetoric to persuade me that he is innocent, and do all you can to destroy what I have been hitherto doing for you. Cease, ungrateful, your opposition to my bounties, and if you will not do it, because I desire it, do it then either out of pity to yourself, or from the obedience you own me, and do not give me the regret of making him perish, who has been heretofore honoured with my Confidence: Though you should believe Anaxander is innocent, yet receive the testimonies of that friendship he gives you, and do not publish that he is not guilty, but leave it to time to justify him; it renders justice to all the world, it does not suffer itself to be corrupted but oftentimes brings to light the innocence of those who have been thought culpable, and the crimes of those who pass not only for innocent but likewise for most virtuous. Think upon what I say, and take you heed of pulling down my anger upon you, which should be so much the more violent as you shall have forced it to break out.  
The King said no more to him but left Democrates in an inquietude and perplexity, from which he found it very painful to relieve himself.  
He was hardly got to his own house, but he complained of fortune, which had too dearly sold him the liberty he had then so lately received; insomuch that he did as earnestly desire as ever he had done, to be sent back into the prison from which he was but newly delivered; and also complained of the King's favours to him, which he then found too cruel: What, said he to himself, in reflecting upon what that Prince had told him, ought I to suffer so faithful a friend as Anaxaender, who gives me such powerful and generous marks of his friendship, to lose for my sake the reputation he has gotten in the world? aught I to suffer his name to be dishonoured, and posterity to doubt of his Innocence? but on the other side, ought I to oppose the commands of my Prince? aught I to deny him that which he requires of me? aught I to despise his bounties, and cause a moment of inquietude to a King who hath so much loved me, and from whom I have received so many signal benefits? no, no, I own too much to that Royal Benefactor, I cannot without a crime resist his commands; but though he should have never bestowed any favour on me, he is my Prince, and I am his subject, and in that quality I own him all. Love, and friendship ought to give place to duty, Subjects own all to their Prince, and we own him obedience preferably to those who brought us into the world.  
Democrates thus entertained his thoughts, when Sestianes' came to visit him, to congratulate him for the good fortune of being set at liberty. After he had paid his compliments, Democrates told him what had taken up his imagination before his arrival, and the scruple he had to suffer it to be thought that so perfect a friend as Anaxander was should be capable of the most base and infamous of all crimes, and the most unworthy the title of a gallant or generous man.  
Sestianes', who fearing lest he should be discovered, had wished with all his soul they had never spoke of this conspiracy, and that Anaxander who was absent had still been thought culpable, answered him, that if that friend was criminal, he ought not to have that scruple, and that he was extremely too blame to conserve it if he was not. The generous, added he, always receive a great deal of renown from their famous actions; Anaxander, in doing what he has done for you, hath laboured more for his own glory then for yours; that interessed generous person in saving your life, and in restoring the honour of it to you, puts you but in the condition you were before suspected; but what does he not do for himself? since by it he obtains the immortal & glorious happiness of passing in the ages to come for a grand example of friendship, since he will have the glory of having been the most generous man in the world, and of having done the most remarkable action that ever was, and which will make his memory live, and posterity speak of him with admiration and Eulogies: do not you put so many obstacles, pursued he, to so many glorious advantages that he would presently purchase at the expense of a little honour, which he will only lose for a time, and which will be restored to him with much more lustre than it will be lost with ignominy; this is the fruit he expects from the service that he shall have rendered you, and this is that which he will gain in serving of you, if you do not oppose it: Do not speak any more of crime or guilty, and let the remembrance thereof for a time lie dead, since that otherwise Anaxander could not acquire the glory he aims at from so generous an action, and that it would be said he is of intelligence with you, and that you are resolved to render that to him which he lends you in the same time he gives it to you. Democrates answered Sestianes', that all those reasons could not satisfy the scruple he had in him, that posterity did not always do justice, and that very often it was misinformed of the truth; that it made him almost despair to see the glory of his friend hazarded for ever, whilst that the truly guilty lived in safety; he brought out those words with an air that made Sestianes' believe he intended them to be spoke to him, which was the cause that he did what we shall tell you in the succession of this History.  
As soon as Sestianes' was departed, Democrates went to see his Mistress, whom he found all alone; he went to cast himself down at her feet, but Sestiana prevented his doing it, and told him with a great deal of fierceness and scorn, that after what had befell him she could no longer hearken to his sighs without wounding her glory, nor suffer a criminal to entertain her with his passion. Ah! Madam, replied Democrates to her, with an air extreme full of respect, and as sorrowful as passionate, if all the wretched are Criminals, I avow to you I am the most guilty of all men, since I am the most unfortunate, but yet not so much, for having been unjustly suspected of the most shameful baseness imaginable, but because I have no longer the glorious advantage of being beloved by the most beautiful and most equitable person in the earth: Since you believe me equitable, answered Sestiana to him, you ought not to complain of me. I see plainly, replied that unfortunate Lover to her, that though to this present I always thought myself to be innocent, that I had never brought any reproach to my glory, and that also now, I do not know my crime, yet I must needs be a grand Criminal, since you doubt of my Innocence. I doubt it with Justice, reported to him the provoked fair one, and if what Anaxander has written in your favour was sufficient to get you out of prison, and to restore you your life, it is not sufficient to render you your honour, nor is it enough to make me believe that I should not love in you a man blasted with a most hateful crime; it is not enough to hinder me from doubting your innocence, and it is not enough for my satisfaction, for my repose, and for my glory. Ah! wherefore have I ever seen you? wherefore have you discovered your flames to me? wherefore have I loved you? wherefore have you been able to constrain me in spite of myself to show you my tenderest affections; wherefore have you put me in a capacity of regretting all my life the love I have born you? and wherefore shall I speak it? yes, to punish you for your crime, to punish you for having known how to constrain me to confess my Love to you, and to make you suffer if you still love me; wherefore— but whence is it that my heart cannot speak it without sighing, wherefore base man? wherefore notwithstanding all my despite, have I still more love for you then I ought to have. Though I read in your countenance that this discourse is not displeasing to you, pursued she, with eyes inflamed with despite, with love, and rage, and that you meet with nothing in it to punish you, yet know, that this new confession of my flame ought to make you suffer more than you imagine, if you loved me truly; since there is nothing in the world can oblige me to give you my hand, before your innocence be so fully justified, that I shall have no further room to doubt of it; for in a word, continued she, though you be pardoned, yet you are not sufficiently justified. When one has once lost one's honour, it is not so easily recovered, and there is need of more convincing proofs then what a friend writes, who would gladly sacrifice his glory to the friendship he has for you, and who possibly would speak otherwise, if he once saw himself charged with fetters.  
This discourse gave Democrates both a sensible affliction, and as sensible a joy; for if on the one side he was even ravished to learn that Sestiana had loved him always, and to see that notwithstanding all her despite she had not the power to conceal her love from him; on the other side he resented a most incredible grief to see himself not in a condition to possess her, nor that he knew any ways in the world how to justine his innocence so fully, that it might be impossible for his fair and beautiful Mistress to be able to doubt of it. These thoughts for some time took up his mind, and occasioned him for some moments not to answer her, but at last he broke off his silence, and said to her, I do not know any thing, Madam, that can better prove my innocence to you, and that can better make it known to all the world, than the passion I have for you, and which I have been so hardy as to declare to you A heart that had found itself culpable, would not have had a sufficient assurance to give you the marks of his flame, and to demand of you the permission and honour to sigh for you, it would not have dared to add this crime to that which it would have been sullied with, and it would have apprehended that your wit and your eyes which penetrate all things, and which have a particular power of discerning, would quickly have found out both its crime and its most secret sentiments. Do not endeavour, interrupted Sestiana, to seduce my ●●●pite by this flattering discourse, and if you will oblige me, let me alone to enjoy it till such time that I shall be no longer able to doubt of your innocence. I must then, replied Democrates to her, wait (if so be I can do it without expiring) till fortune which has rendered me guilty, makes a discovery of my innocence; possibly it will labour my justification, when I shall least think of it, in the same manner as it has laboured to eclipse my glory, when I as little suspected it. As this inconstant Deity often makes persons guilty, that so she may divert herself with the trouble and confusion into which she casts them, she is also pleased to restore them their innocence, when they believe their virtue shall never be known, and when they despair to see themselves again in the same degree of honour as they were before they had the unhappiness to be attacked by that flitting goodness. This time will come, Madam, and you will know then that I am not altogether unworthy of the Love you bear me. Ah! why is not this time come already, cried Sestiana to herself, do not you imagine, replied she immediately, that Love makes me speak in this manner, it is my glory only that takes up all my thoughts, and all that is capable of securing it, so sensibly touches me, that none ought to admire I show so much of ardour, when there is something told me that may serve either to re-establish it, or bring an accession to it. But, Madam, did Democrates answer her, if by the justifying of my innocence, I could render you the glory which you have lost, because you have loved me, shall not your love be satisfied, and shall not this justification be also as sensible to it as to your glory? Be you the judge of it, repeated Sestiana to him, the tenderness you know I have for you, and do not demand any thing more of me. They were yet some time together, during which Democrates knew, that if that fair one had any great love for him, she had yet a greater ascendent over her spirit, and that it would be impossible for him to obtain her hand, before he should purge himself of the pretended crime with which she thought he might be yet suspected.  
Democrates was scarcely gone from Sestiana, but he was thinking of the means to justify himself in that manner as the fair one demanded; but the more he was musing on 'em, the more he found himself perplexed, for he began to believe that Sestianes' was the true criminal, and the Council that he had given him, to believe that Anaxander was guilty, and to extinguish the remembrance of a crime whereof it was almost impossible to discover the Author, added to what he had told him just before he was taken prisoner, confirmed him in that thought, and redoubled the inquietude that tormented him. What if I should said he accuse Sestianes'? what if he should confess his crime, and by his acknowledgement I should be justified? I should then do what Sestiana requires of me, I should likewise make a discovery of my innocence, and satisfy her glory; but also, as that would cause me to do more than she demands, I should, in finding out the means of making myself be beloved, find out those of making myself be hated at the same time. I should, in finding out the means of obtaining her hand, find out those of making her refuse to give it me, and to conclude, I should in finding out the means of justifying myself, find out those of making myself in her esteem guilty of a crime much more odious than this is now lie under the imputation of and such are the rigours and severities of fate which is resolutely determined to follow me, that I cannot do the one without the other, not pass for innocent before the object to whom I would justify myself, without passing at the same time in her thoughts for ungrateful, cruel, and for much more guilty than I do appear to her at present. After that this afflicted Lover had been for some time entertaining himself with these sad and lamentable thoughts, and had made all these things be run over in his imagination, he was immovable like a statue for a good considerable time, and stood as it were so buried in his grief, that very scarcely did he give any sign of life: when he was a little come out of that trouble which the excess of his grief had cast him into, he bethought himself on a sudden, that he had found out the secret of getting out of the incertainty and trouble in which he was. I must, said he to himself, declare to Sestiana all I know, and discover to her all the reasons that persuade me, to believe her father is the Author of the crime of which I am suspected, and demand of her that she will marry me by way of recompense, for having so faithfully kept the secret, and to oblige me to keep it still, and I hope that the silence I have observed for her sake, and the fear she will have of my breaking it, will cause her not to refuse giving me her hand, lest she appear ungrateful towards her Father and me. He had hardly remained a moment in these remarkable & flattering thoughts, but he quitted them to let himself be hurried away by others. To act in this manner, said he, would be to hazard too much, if Sestiana should not give any belief to my discourse, she would be obliged to have for me an invincible hatred, and far from obtaining it by this way, I should for ever lose the place I possess in her heart: I ought therefore to act with prudence, it is too fair a virtue to lose, it will furnish me with other means to attain the end of my desires; and as I am sure of the tender affections of that divine beauty which causes all my pains, I ought to hope that she will have pity of my torments, and that time, my services, my respects, and my innocence will make her at last resolve to marry me.  
These were the flattering hopes wherewith Democrates buoyed up himself, and the deference he had for the Counsels that prudence gave him; but it ought not to be wondered at, he never remembered that it had always been against him, he forgot the miseries that it had caused him, as soon as ever the danger or the mischief was past, and though it had always proved treacherous to him, he would nevertheless rely upon it, and could not resolve to abandon it.  
A little while after he returned to Sestiana, whom he found as invincible as before, and who repeated to him only the same things that she had already said; which gave him such a cruel vexation and despite, that he went to tell her Father how obstinately she refused to marry him, and withal to desire him that he would consider his promise to him, and to speak to Sestiana in his favour. Sestianes' who had resolved to ruin Democrates, and who notwithstanding all the love this passionate Gallant had for his Daughter, did not think himself secure; because he persuaded himself that he might very well betray a Father-in Law, to re-establish the glory of a friend, to whom he was so greatly obliged; received him outwardly with the greatest joy imaginable, for he had resolved to be very civil to him until he should find a fit opportunity to work his absolute ruin, he promised him to employ with his Daughter all the authority of a Father, and declared to him that he should be sensible how great his satisfaction was in it by the earnestness of his endeavours to conclude their Marriage. Democrates conjured him not to employ all his authority, and not to be enraged against the object of his most dear and tender desires, and told him, that the love he had for Sestiana was too full of respect to desire she should be any whit provoked, or to have her obliged to do any thing with violence. Sestianes' made answer to him, that he was exceeding glad to find in him those sentiments, and that he would manage things in such a manner as that both should be satisfied.  
After that Democrates had given him a thousand thanks, and had conjured him to be as good as his word, he took his leave of him; but Sestianes' to continue the part of a dissembling impostor and traitor, that he had accustomed himself to act; instead of what he had promised to do for him, bid his daughter always to treat him in that manner she had done since that he was got out of prison, and forbade her to let him know it was by his order that she treated him so. As that generous person thought her Father acted by the fame motives as she did, this discourse did not give her any trouble, and she presently replied to him, that she would obey him so much the more willingly, as that he commanded nothing of her but what she had already resolved to do. A little while after there was presented to Sestiana a match more considerable by far than Democrates was. This blind Father, whose ambition was the only engine that moved him in all his actions, immediately bid his Daughter not to reject Arcas, (for so was this new Lover called) but to keep him up with some small hopes, but yet without letting Democrates know it was by his command; which caused Sestiana to be very much troubled, and which made her know more certainly that she still bore our Hero a far greater Love than ever she imagined. Yet Sestianes' began to find himself in a strange perplexity, for he durst not let his Daughter marry Arcas, because she was long before promised to Democrates, and he was terrible afraid that this affront might provoke him so, as to make him speak all that he thought he knew, sooner than he would have done: and on the other side, he would not give her to Democrates; because he was only searching for a favourable occasion to ruin him.  
During this inquietude of his, our Hero who relied upon his word, and upon the Love which Sestiana had not been able to conceal from him, began to have his mind now more at ease, and settled in him; without ever in the least overseeing the new misfortunes with which he was threatened. After he had taken order about his Love, he was contriving some means not to pass for ungrateful towards Anaxander, whom he always thought innocent of the crime of which he had accused himself; but not precisely knowing the place where he was, and not being willing to write to him by ordinary ways, he gave a letter to one of his own Servants, and sent him to look him out, where he imagined he was most likely to be, and as he did not doubt of the fidelity of this Servant, from whom he had never any thing of a secret, and that he would not have Anaxander believe he had hazarded his reputation to save a guilty person, he ordered him to assure him from his own mouth that he was innocent, and to tell him, to prove the truth of it to him, that he thought that Sestianes' was really guilty, and the author of that conspiracy; but that he had no mind to accuse him, because of the love he bore to his daughter, and not being willing to trust all this to paper, he only writ five or six lines to this most dear friend, to give him proofs of his health, and to make him see that he enjoyed the liberty which he so frankly had procured him.  
As we live in an age where a secret is no longer a virtue, and the things that we would keep the most private and concealed, are in a short time known to those from whom we most desire to have them kept a mystery, it seems Democrates was not long without apprehending he had a Rival, and that a favoured one too, not only by the father of his Mistress, but by his Mistress herself; this news was more sensible to him, and touched him deeper than all the outrageous cruelties that fortune had till then made him suffer; he abandoned himself wholly to his grief and rage, he called a thousand times Sestiana faithless, and Sestianes' a traitor, and perfidious, and even doubted sometimes if he had not best tell all that obliged him to believe, that he was the author of the conspiracy which had been made against Theomedes; but as he was too prudent to hearken to those thoughts that were conceived in the heats and transports of a first motion, and to follow the counsels of choler, he quickly turned from that design to another, viz. of going to wait upon Sestianes' and his daughter, & to reproach them for their perfidiousness, and their breach of promise; but whether they were not within, or else that they would not be spoke withal by him, it was impossible for him to have a sight of them.  
If the news of Arca's love had been a very great affliction to Democrates, Sestianes' was quite despairing when he understood that he had heard of it, because he saw himself thereby obliged to labour his ruin; for his ambition to see his daughter married to Arcas (who next to the Princes of the blood, was one of the first of the Kingdom) being joined to the fear he was in, that Democrates would discover him one day, and that likewise after an affront so sensible to his flame, he would declare that he was criminal much sooner than he had or would have done, did powerfully solicit him to procure his ruin, in what manner soever it might be; but this new misfortune obliged him to take the soon opportunity he could to do it in; wherefore from that day, after he had commanded his Daughter to treat Arcas & Democrates with an equal kindness, and to endeavour to keep them both to her, until such time that he should make known his choice to her, he went his way to one of his Country houses, with two or three of those that were of the conspiracy against Theomedes, that so they might contrive amongst them the means to execute the design he had projected, and to discourse together freely, without being afraid of any one's overhearing them. They were scarce got half a league from the Town, when they perceived a good way off them a man set upon by three others; they did what they could to relieve him, but the assailants who were thiefs, seeing them coming up directly to them, betook themselves to flight; but the rage they were in to see themselves surprised, made them give this person whom they had designed to rob, several wounds, so that Sestianes' and those with him found the poor miserable wretch even without life; when they were got up to him, they searched him immediately to see if they could find any thing about him which might serve to make him known, but they met with nothing save a Letter which was directed to Anaxander, and which was written with Democrates his own hand, which made them, after they had anew examined who it might possibly be, to know for certain that it was one of his own servants, (for indeed it was he whom Democrates had sent to Anaxander.) Sestianes' had easily got open the Letter, for as it happened, it had been run through with one of the thrusts that the dead body had received, just there where the seal was, so that it was in a manner open of itself: he read it with a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction, because it might make the innocence of our Hero be called again into question, and because he thought that it might serve him in the design he had, which caused him to give it those to read who were with him, who told him after they had seen it, that it would be sufficient to show it to the King and to Prince Theomedes, to get Democrates be put into fetters again, from which he was but newly released, and to make him be believed that he was guilty. Sestianes' who would have had surer ways to ruin him, at first resisted it; but at last he resolved upon it, seeing he should not expose himself to any danger in doing so, and that he ought not to let slip an occasion that fortune seemed to present to him expressly for his service, and that which yet was a stronger inducement to him, was, that if by that means he came not to the end of his hopes, it should be in his power in the same manner as before, to execute what he had resolved upon. The matter being thus settled, one of the two who had given this counsel, recalled his word a few months after, and said, that they had not well weighed what they did, and that Sestianes' would be likely to destroy himself, if he went to put in execution what they had projected together; since that Democrates seeing himself accused by him whom he knew to be really guilty, would not be able to refrain accusing him in his turn, and to tell all that he knew. That is all that I demand, replied Sestianes', and that is the true way to justify myself, and for ever to deprive me of the fear that I have of being discovered. When I shall have accused Democrates, and he shall accuse me afterwards, he won't be thought worthy to be believed, nor will any thing he shall say find any credit, for they will cry out, that he speaks so merely out of rage and matter of revenge, that he would not accuse me but only because I have impeached him, and if he had known that I had been a criminal, he would not have tarried so long before he had accused me. All those that would accuse me after this, let them know my crime, or or know it not, will be looked upon as Impostors, and it will not be hard for me to make it be believed, either that they are friends to Democrates, or that they are gained by him; So that that Letter will be doubly profitable to me, for it will both serve me against Democrates, and against those who shall be apt to accuse me, and it will likewise keep off others from having the confidence to do it, for fear lest I turn the crime upon themselves.  
This perfidious Man, having confirmed himself in this resolution, so fitly took his time, that he did not give the King this letter but in the presence of Prince Theomedes, for fear, that if the Prince had not been there by, the osteem the King had for Democrates had kept him from making him be arrested again, and that he had quite stifled this proof of his crime.  
The success of this baseness answered the expectation of him who had been guilty of it: the King after he had learned how this Letter came to be found, and had read it over, could not refrain showing it to Prince Theomedes; because that Sestianes' in giving it to him had said out aloud enough to make the Prince know what it was.  
Theomedes having seen the Letter, said without much examining what he had read, he was so highly transported with choler, that Democrates having himself giving undisputable proofs of his crime, it was very fit and necessary to have him clapped up again, and that without doubt he would acknowledge then what they could not before get him to confess. The King who thought that demand was just and equitable, immediately gave orders to have him put anew into prison. He could not but admire as well as Theomedes to see Sestianes' accuse a man that was so near being his Son in Law; but he answered, that he ought to sacrifice all things to the Royal blood, and that since Democrates was guilty of so ignominious a crime, he was unworthy to come into his family, that he had lost all the esteem he once had for him, and that he would no longer acknowledge him for a man that aspired to be made happy in the possession of his Daughter.  
The unfortunate Democrates therefore returned to his fetters from which he had been but newly released, but he was not long there before they spoke to him about it, for the next day he was sent for to be interrogated, and to see what he had to say for the letter he had written to Anaxander which they shown him; it was contained in these words.  
DEMOCRATES to the Generous ANAXANDER.  
TO charge yourself with my crime to free me from my fetters, and to oblige me, to ruin the great reputation you have in the world, and the esteem that your virtue has gained you are such signal and valuable favours, as can never be returned; and I must acknowledge that I shall be obliged to you, not only so long as I live, but even after I am dead, since you have kept my memory from being stained with a crime of which you yourself have purged me. I will not say any more about it, for I believe you are not ignorant that if nothing can be imagined capable to requite such an obligation, it is impossible to find out terms that may be sufficient to express it well, wherefore I will content myself to assure you that I am ready to pour out all my blood for the generous Anaxander, to which I own both my honour and my life.  
After that Democrates had seen this Letter, he said without ever altering his countenance, that indeed it was writ with his own hand, and that he did not see it could be any ways prejudicial to him, nor did it make it evident that he was guilty of a crime that had never entered into his thoughts; his Judges replied to him that his Letter was contrary to his words, and that he affirmed in it, that Anaxander had charged himself with a crime to deliver him from his Fetters, and that he was redevable to him for his life. They added, that nothing was able to keep them from believing such convincing proofs, and that he could not deny what he had just then affirmed, in confessing the Letter they had shown him, and which was addressed to Anaxander, was of his own hand-writing. They bid him afterward speak whither he had any thing to say that might serve for his justification. Honour, replied this illustrious and generousprisoner to them, which is a thousand times more dear to me than my life, obliges me to answer you, and if I was not afraid of losing it in dying, the world should see me run with joy to meet my death; since nothing but that can deliver me from the infultation of my evil fortune. I will say then since it is honour, and not the fear of death, that would have me defend myself, that none need to wonder if I writ to Anaxander, not as to a criminal, but as to the generousest person upon earth, since I never have believed that he was guilty of the crime which he has accused himself of, to deliver me from the danger he saw me threatened withal; but am and shall be always persuaded that his generosity, and the friendship he has testified to me, did oblige him to undertake what he has done in my favour. You cannot doubt but that I thought thus as soon as I knew he had imputed that Crime to himself, when I shall tell you, that I declared it to the King, who is a witness you cannot refuse, and whom every body will think, both in duty and justice, you ought to believe. Acknowledging therefore Anaxander innocent, and that generous friend having declared himself guilty, to discover to me the greatness of his friendship, and to free me from my chains, could I write otherwise to him (without deserving to be looked on for it as a criminal) then that he had charged himself with my crime in declaring that he was guilty of that which I myself was accused of, since that though he was innocent and I was so likewise, it is still true that he did take upon himself my crime, since it was that which I was accused of. Ought one afterwards to wonder if I writ to him; that jowe him both my honour and my life? was I not equally in danger, either as innocent, or as a criminal? have not I the same obligations to him also both ways? and has he not done as much for me, as if it had been impossible to doubt of the crime which was imposed upon me?  
When Democrates had ended his discourse, his Judges went away very much satisfied with his answer, and made it visible both in their eyes, and countenance, that they approved his reasons. But that did not keep him from complaining of the rigours and injustice of his fate, and to show more concern and trouble at his imprisonment than he had done the first time he had been taken. What said he to himself, seeing he was alone, must my prudence and my love procure to me so sensible an affront? must I be aecused by him whom I ought to accuse? and must I be in Irons in the room of him whom I ought to have put there before now? 'tis too much to suffer unjustly, let us discover the proofs we have of the crime of Sestianes', so as he has done those he had against us, and if that cannot save us, nor is able to work his ruin, let us have at least the pleasure of accusing him who impeaches us, of making his innocence to be suspected, and of giving him some confusion and trouble as well as he has us. Yes, the lot is cast for it, let us no longer hearken either to love or prudence. But what, replied he immediately, if I have too long taken their counsels, and if my prudence ruined me, I cannot in this case be imprudent, without doing a far greater injury to myself then prudence has ever done me; since that having let the time be lost of accusing Sestianes' I cannot now speak against him, without being looked upon for an impostor, and a wicked wretch, and without giving them to think that it is only revenge which makes me do so, and that I would not ruin him but because he has been the cause that I am now a prisoner. Ah! prudence, cried he to himself, after he had reflected upon all the misfortunes it had caused him, how dear do you cost me now? wherefore have you hindered me from putting into the letter I writ to Anaxander, all that I had a mind he should know, and wherefore have you counselled me to have him only know it by the mouth of him I sent to him? I do see very well that you resolve I shall have the unprofitable satisfaction not only of having hearkened to, but also followed your counsels in all things that have happened to me of trouble and vexation, and to console me in my misfortunes; you would have me impute all to Fate, which has put things to such a pass that prudence fails in whatsoever it advises, and produces effects contrary to those it has been wont to do. It is true, said he, going on talking to himself in that melancholy way, that since I resolved to be governed by prudence in all things, and have learned to know it, I have perceived that one ought to rely no more upon it then upon fortune, & whatsoever it has made one undertake for the best, has often proved to be very unhappy. It is at present so suspected, that those who are directed by it as a guide of their actions, and those who never in the least consult it, do equally mistrust it, & both of them, thinking that every body uses it as a vail to hid other designs than what they make to be visible, apprehend it in another, and are so very fearful of it, that they are not sensible of the mischief it does, but when they are passed all hopes & opportunity of remedying it.  
This Illustrious and Eminent prisoner, who had no other entertainment then that which his sad and troubled thoughts furnished him withal, was three or four days before he knew what to do, either to save himself, or ruin himself; and during this time, he resented all that love choler, and revenge do make those suffer who are labouring under those 3. cruel passions. He laid before him the perfidiousness of Sestianes', whom he began to look upon as the most deceitful and wicked of all men breathing, and he did whatsoever he could to stifle the love he had for his Daughter, but she had too powerful an ascendent in his heart, for him to be able to remove her from it in so short a time, and he made very unprofitable attempts about it; for the more he thought on Sestiana, the more her beauty came into his memory, and notwithstanding all his resistance, it gave an accession to the love he had for that charming & generous person, & which he endeavoured to destroy with so little success.  
As this Irresolute Lover had his thoughts more upon his love, than his imprisonment, and upon the fetters that Sestiana had made him wear, than on those in which his supposed crime retained him, word was brought him from the King, that his prison was open, and he might go out when he pleased. This news, which he did not at all suspect, surprised him exceedingly. He thought the right guilty persons were discovered, and went immediately to be informed of it to one of his relations houses, who had been very serviceable to him the former time when he had been a prisoner, and who since his last misfortune had found a means to let him know in his prison, that he would employ both all his Estate, and all his friends to make him fully convinced of the share he took in his interests. As Democrates was just at his house, he met him coming out to acquaint him with all that had happened; he told him that his Judges, knowing the esteem the King had for him, and being fully persuaded of his Innocence, by the answer he had made them, had declared that they believed him Innocent, and said that though he should have been a Criminal, yet things were in such a posture that they could not Judge him with any justice. He added, that Prince Theomedes having been desired by several persons of quality whom he named to him, to consent to his being set at liberty, that Prince thought himself obliged to solicit for him, for fear of making to himself any more enemies, in seeking, with too great an earnestness and resolution, the ruin of a person whose crime was not averred, and who possibly had never been his enemy. Our Hero having understood all these things, went to return his acknowledgement to the King for all the favours he had shown him. He likewise thought himself obliged to go and thank Prince Theomedes, which he did after he had been to wait upon the King; and the next day he went to visit all those that had interessed themselves in his favour; and after all he sent one of his servants where he suspected Anaxander to be, to advertise him of all that had happened; but he gave him no letter, for fear lest fortune which has persecuted him with as much fury as blindness, should invert the proofs of his innocence, to render him guilty.  
After he had done all that either civility or duty exacted from him, he had a great desire to answer the demands of his love; to give his flame some satisfaction; and to go and see his Mistress; But what Sestianes' had done to ruin him, made him see so much unworthiness in that visit, that he durst not grant any thing to his love for fear of bringing any blemish to his glory. Never did any Lover see himself in a greater and more cruel perplexity; he would very fain see Sestiana, and yet he would not see her; love her, and yet not love her, put her out of his thoughts, and yet keep her in them. What, said he to himself, reflecting upon the miseries that his love did make him suffer, must I love the Daughter of a man, that not only hath desired my ruin, but all whose actions have too much encouraged me to believe that he is guilty of the crime, of which he has made me twice unjustly suspected? but what, said he, entertaining himself still with his thoughts, if Sestianes' is base and perfidious, Sestiana is one the most generous and most virtuous persons in the world; but how can so much virtue, and so much baseness be found in one and the same blood? noe, Noah, I only help to abuse myself, I fall into the same snares, that Love sets for me, and that Tyrant who is resolved to make me love her, makes me see in her such virtues as she has not; since she is the Daughter of Sestianes', she must needs resemble him, and be perfidious and wicked as he is; but (alas!) though she be of his blood, she is still one of the most charming persons in the creation; the Crime of her Father has not changed the beautiful lineaments of her face; she loves me, I ought to love her, since that Love can only be repaid by love. Perhaps I have done her an injury, when the crime of her Father makes me doubt her virtue; it is no new thing to see wicked parents have virtuous children, nor wicked children to have virtuous parents. After he had strengthened himself in this opinion, and had resolutely determined not to banish from his heart the love he had for Sestiana, he fully concluded not to recriminate upon Sestianes', but to sacrifice his choler, and his resentment to his love. He was no sooner settled in his resolution, but he perceived Sestianes' coming up to him. That sight awakened again his choler, and notwithstanding the resolution he had taken not to discover his resentments to him, yet he could not refrain uttering these words to him. You ought not said he to him, with so much eagerness to lay hold upon all occasions of ruining me, for fear lest I should accuse you, and I have been secret, I think, for a sufficient time, to oblige you to believe that I could still be so. I do not know, replied Sestianes' to him, with a look full of disdain, what it is you mean, and if I am guilty of any crime of which I ought to be accused it is only in your fancy; but I should be too blame to wonder at it, added he, what my duty has obliged me to do against you very likely may not inspire you with any thing to my advantage, but revenge may possibly have made you seek out all ways to ruin me; but my innocency secures me from all that you can say against me, and those persons that are disinteressed will still know, when you speak after the manner you do now, that it is only revenge which makes you capable of having any such discourse: as for my part, continued he, though I am very sorry I have lost your friendship, yet I shall never repent my having done what I ought for the safety of the Prince Theomedes: we own all to persons of his blood, and in the like occasion, we are obliged to do the same thing for all the World. Have you that confidence to speak to me in this manner, replied Democrates to him, and have you forgot what you told me some time before I was taken prisoner, the first time that I was unjustly suspected? whatsoever I might have told you, reported Sestianes' to him with a very great assurance, I never told you I was a criminal, and if I had been so, and you had known it, I should not have had that presumption to carry to the King the Letter that you wrote to Anaxander; and as it was by mere accident that I met with it, I could, to serve you, have made it not to be seen, and I had done it, without doubt, if my duty had not obliged me to the contrary; howsoever I am extremely overjoyed, that those great proofs of your crime have not produced against you the fatal effects you could not but expect from them. But as I am not endued with less virtue than my Daughter, I am not willing to have for my Son-in-Law a man who is not cleared but by favour of the crime, of which possibly with too much justice he may have been suspected. I take myself to be quit of my promise after what has happened to you, and if you think I treat you too severely, impute it only to your crime, or if you are innocent, impute it then to your misfortune.  
Saying these last words he left Democrates, but in such a condition that was enough to make the most hardy to fear, and to stir up pity in those that are least sensible. He had a good mind to break out into the violence of his rage, and follow Sestianes', to make him repent of his so insolent discourse, but the excess of that sadness and grief into which those injurious words had put him, rendered him powerless, and were the cause, that the fire and rage that was visible in his eyes, was not able to appear in his actions. Then did he solemnly swear that he would never any longer think of Sestiana's charms, and the hatred he had conceived against the Father, and which had an accession by his discourse, made him in appearance stifle all the love he had for the daughter.  
Five or six days passed in which Democrates did all he could to drive Sestiana out of his thoughts, and that fair one all that she could possibly think of, to forget Democrates.  
In the mean time Sestianes' who feared nothing from our Hero, frequently saw those that were of the conspiracy with him, and discovered to them that the alarm which had been given the Prince Theomedes was the cause that he always went well guarded, and that they must wait, and take up other measures then those they had resolved on. He flattered them with the hopes of a happy success, and made them foresee that if any of them had the confidence to accuse him, he could order 〈◊〉 so, that the crime should revert upon him, for he would say that he was bribed by Democrates, who according to all appearances, studied to revenge himself of the sensible affront he had given to his honour, in presenting the King with the letter he wrote to Anaxander; which had been easy for him, because none of them could give in proofs of his conspiracy, being all engaged only by word.  
But though Sestianes' feared nothing from Democrates, yet he resolved not to let a person live who he knew very well would be his mortalenemy, after he had offended him in two such ticklelish points as are honour and love; but as nothing did engage him to precipitate his ruin, he waited till time furnished him with a favourable opportunity to set about it with safety, and without fear of being ever discovered: and being as expert in his politics, as he was treacherous and wicked, he stirred up Arcas, in covert words, to kill Democrates, telling him that as long as he lived, it was impossible for him to root him out of the heart of his Daughter, and that he would have the dissatisfaction of knowing that she loved another besides himself; which so awakend the Jealousy of this new Gallant, that he narrowly watched the actions of Sestiana, to see if after the prohibitions of her Father to love his Rival, and evermore to speak to him, her love would make her find out any way to come to discourse with him.  
Whilst these things were happening, Democrates was the most perplexed man in the world. The love that he thought he had for ever driven out of his breast, had by degrees got in again, and ruled there with so much violence, that he could not find out any ways to get the mastery of it; which obliged him by all means imaginable to try if he could not possibly speak with Sestiana privately, to learn if he was still beloved by her, and to resolve, according as she treated him, whether he should persevere in his Love, or continue the efforts he made, to stifle a flame, which tyrannised in his breast with so absolute an Empire, and which he had several times unprofitably attempted to remove from it.  
After he had a good while been contriving how to come to the end of this design, and to entertain the object of his vows with that freedom he desired, he thought it was his best way to entreat the service of one of Sestiana's relations, who had always testified to him a very great esteem, and also as great a friendship; and to beg of her to order it so, that this fair one might be one day at her house, that so he might have the happiness of discoursing with her there. Sestiana who had an absolute confidence in this person, and who did as earnestly desire to speak with Democrates, as Democrates did to speak with her, made her the same request, so that this Lady found it no hard matter to give them both a satisfaction.  
The day that these two Lovers were to see one another being come, they each of them resolved, on their parts to resist with all the power they could the tender sentiments that Love inspired into them; and to that end both of them left their lodgings in this resolution, but when they were got together, a very small matter would have made them forgot what they had resolved upon, and have set them upon new protestations of Love: for though their design was fully to hate one another, and to make their hatred visible by the reciprocal testimonies of it; yet they were never in a less disposition to do it. But however, Sestiana, who had a very great ascendent over herself, and who was resolved to be as good as her intentions, spoke first, and said to Democrates, I would willingly demand a favour of you, which I desire you would grant me in the name of that Love which has reciprocally reigned in both our hearts; if you still love me, and if you have any kindness for yourself, you ought not to deny it me, it being a thing that will re-establish our repose, and keep us from doing that which may be shameful to us; it is a thing that will be profitable to us both, and which will spare us a great many sighs: in a word, it is your hatred; I do whatsoever I can to give you mine, but I know very well that without the help of yours all my efforts will signify little. This request added she, looking steadfastly upon him, ought not to give you so great a surprise as I see plainly by your countenance it does, for I demand nothing of you but what is just, you own me your hatred, and I likewise own you mine; you own me yours, after what my Father has done against you; and I own you mine, because you have had the confidence to demand of me my heart, and even to seduce it, yours being stained with a crime which as yet you have not been able to purge yourself of, but through the bounties of the King, and the favours of Prince Theomedes. You see by that, continued she, that we cannot love one another without betraying our glory, and not to have a hatred for each other is to wound it, and therefore you ought to grant me yours, for the price of mine. Ah! Madam replied Democrates to her with a languishing voice, and an air the most passionate in the world, if there be nothing but my hatred that can draw upon me yours, I am sure you will never hate me as long as you live; you demand that of me which is not in my power, for love and hatred are not voluntary things, and if when one has once began either to love or hate, it is impossible any longer to be Master of those two great and violent passions, it is very difficult to kindle them when one has not as yet began to resent them. But yet I will avow to you, if that can bring you any satisfaction, that my desires were agreeable to yours, that I have done whatever I could to hate you, and that it has not been possible for me to effect it, any more than it has been for you; which clearly shows that our hearts do not agree with our desires, that they have given themselves up absolutely to love, and that they have not any place in them to receive hatred. Since you will not hate me, replied Sestiana to him, I will be more generous than you, I will begin first to do my duty, and by my example inspire into you those sentiments you ought to have What, Madam, answered Democrates, can you then resolve to hate me, when you ought to give me the most signal marks of your love? Ah! let me beseech you think of the violence I do to myself for your sake, and remember that the ardent affection I conserve for you, after those treatments I have received from your father, aught to make you have in my favour more pleasant and obliging sentiments. That ardent affection which you conserve for me, after an affront which ought to be so sensible to you, replied she to him, produces more effects than you imagine, for if it makes me to know the greatness and excess of your love, it at the same time makes me to understand your baseness, and if according to the rule, which is, that one should return love for love, it obliges me to have a kindness for you, according then to that other, which is, that one should look upon the base with contempt, it obliges me to hate you. Do whatsoever you please, replied this unfortunate Lover to her, I will bear all from you without murmuring, I will respect your choler, I will respect your hatred, and in spite of all your contempts, I will conserve for you a love so firm and constant, that there shall be nothing in the world capable to shake it. Well then! answered this Generous Heroine Lover, since you force me to acknowledge a weakness, which shall never be of advantage to you, I do love you, I own it, and though I would, yet I cannot oblige my heart to hate you; but in spite of all that love that this perfidious heart will conserve, I am going to marry Arcas, to make you know that. Ah! Madam, (interrupted the miserable Domocrates, whom those words had almost rendered ,) what crime have committed that can oblige you to punish me with so much rigour? hate me rather, for heaven's sake, then love me in this manner. So long as you shall hate me, I shall hope always that my love, and my respects may be able one day to o'ercome your hatred, and render me possessor of one of the fairest persons in the world; but when I shall see you in the arms of Arcas, I shall only hope from death to derive the end of all my pains and sufferings. Yet if you knew, pursued he, fetching a deep sigh, what I do for your repose, and if you knew the tears, and the cruel afflictions I keep from you, I am sure you would treat me with less rigour; but whatsoever the evils that my silence causes me, your repose is too dear to me not to prefer it to mine; I should be afraid I might see you die with regret and grief, and that fear forces me to conceal from you a secret which would cost you too dear. All that I demand of you, continued he, for the reward of a service, which possibly you will never know the greatness of, and which proceeds only from an excess of love and generosity, is that you would not marry Arcas. You would then, interrupted Sestiana, oblige me to pay a service without knowing it, and even without knowing whether it be true that you have rendered me any or no. Ah! Madam, cried Democrates, interrupting he rin his turn, this service has somewhat so particular in it, that I cannot render it to you, and discover it to you both together; the one is incompatible with the other, and if I told it you, I should not then render it to you. Since that this secret is of so great importance, replied this charming person to him, I will not oblige you to reveal it, and show myself curious, as the generality of my sex do, for fear my curiosity should be punished, and I should repent my earnestness in pressing you to discover it. This discourse, replied Democrates to to her, does not surprise me, I knew long since how much above other women you were, and that you do nothing wherein there is not an extraordinary height of prudence to be observed; but in short, Madam, as this virtue is not repugnant to that which I demand of you, and and that it does not oblige you to betray me, let me beseech you to tell me, what it is you would have me to hope for, and if you are resolved to marry,— Ah! let us not discourse any longer, said the fair Lady interrupting him, either of love, or of marriage, do not force me if you love me, to discover my weakness to you and do not constrain me to betray my virtue. When you were without a Rival, I did not find it so difficult to testify my choler to you; but now I must complain of you in spite of all my resistance; my heart will not let me resolve to hate you, but speaks to me in your favour, and tells me you will cost me not a few tears. I do not know whence this melancholy foreknowledge proceeds, but I perceive very well that pity does interess itself as much for you, as Love; and endeavours to stifle all those sentiments I ought to have to your disadvantage. Do not inquire any further, answered-our Hero, from whence those sentiments of love and pity proceed, that speak to you so much in my favour, my Love and my innocence without doubt are the cause of them, and thereby do advertise you, not to betray in marrying Arcas, the most faithful and most passionate of all Lovers; because that when you come to be convinced of his innocence, the death you will have brought upon him by your cruel carriage, will oblige you to bestow upon him some tears. The Lady stayed till then without pouring out any, but at those very words she could not forbear shedding a few, which she mingled with those sighs that at the same time broke from her, and immediately took her leave of him, not to give him the satisfaction he might have derived from the pleasureableness of a frailty which was of so much advantage to him: but she told him as she was going away, that if she could make her duty to agree with her Love, he might assure himself that she would do whatsoever he desired her, and that she would never marry Arcas. Democrates, after he had this answer, returned back again, but not so well satisfied as he would have been, if he had had a less knowledge of the power that Sestiana had over herself, for he was sensible that although this generous person had more than an ordinary kindness for him, yet she would sacrifice her love to her duty, and the obedience she owed to her Father would make her to marry his Rival, though indeed she had never so great an aversion to him.  
As this Lover, whose heart was divided between hope and fear, was going to his lodgings, he found an occasion to exercise his valour, for he met with a numerous troop of seditious persons, who had conspired the ruin of all the House Royal. He put himself in the head of the Soldiers whom the King had sent to seize those Traitors and perfidious subjects, and to punish, by a sudden death, those they could not arrest. Democrates animated them in such a manner by his courage and words, that they wrought miracles by his Example, and brought back five hundred of those seditious fellows prisoners.  
The King having heard what was done, received our Hero with a tenderness as you may easily imagine, and the Prince Theomedes, who was no less obliged to him then the King, in as much as the conspiracy respected all the House Royal, testified to him the esteem he had of his valour.  
And whilst love and fortune were treating Democrates in a more civil and obliging manner than they had done before for I know not how long, fear began to take a violent possession of the heart of Sestianes'. He could not tell what was become of one of those who joined with him in the conspiracy against Prince Theomedes, and as it was he of all the number whom he most mistrusted, his absence gave him so great an inquietude as would be very difficult to express, unless one could be sensible of all that fear produces in the hearts of criminals that are afraid of being discovered.  
But as there is nothing can be kept so secret long, as to be a reserve from jealous Lovers, Arcas, who had very faithful spies, was soon informed that Sestiana had had a long discourse with Democrates at one of her cousin's houses. He immediately complained to her Father of it, who was glad to hear it, & assured him that for the future he would so order things, as they should not be able to find out any way for a conversation. He would have made the same complaint to Sestiana, but she received it in such a manner, as made him know that his love & his jealousy were both indifferent to her and that he would find it a hard matter to root out of her breast a Rival who had made himself Master of it, and who had long before obtained her esteem, and had surprised her tenderest affections. There was very little wanting, to make this Lover, who abandoned himself to his despair, lose that respect which is due to so charming a Sex, and to speak like one that is jealous, and a husband, instead of speaking like an enamoured Gallant: and the violence he did himself in retaining his jealous transports, made him go away from this fair and scornful Lady, full of an extraordinary despite, and so furious a jealousy, that as soon as he was got within his own doors, he wrote a challenge to Democrates, to oblige him to fight him the next day.  
Our Hero was too generous not to meet at this assignation of honour, and indeed he was first at the place, which Arcas had appointed. That Rival, whom despite and choler animated, came thither a little after. They were not long before they had their swords in their hands, and were engaged; and they immediately, by the passes they made, gave one another the mutual marks of their valour, but at last, you must know (without any necessity of my describing to you the manner of their combat, which I was no eye witness of) that Arcas was forced to ask his life of Democrates, and to promise him that he would never marry Sestiana. Fame quickly spread this news abroad, and Sestianes' was as much afflicted at it, as his daughter had joy, and the whole Court commended Democrates, and esteemed his prudence, in that he had given life to a man of the quality of Arcas, and who had in the opinion of all the world such relations and friends as would most certainly revenge his death.  
But whilst hope began to repossess the heart of Democrates, and likewise he to feel the joy that fortune never gave him but for a few moments, and only to presage new miseries, Arcas felt whatsoever rage and despair make those endure who are violently tormented with them, and a little more would have made him revenge upon himself the injurious and sensible affront that fate had put upon him.  
If those two Lovers resented, the one joy, and the other grief, Sestiana singly resented both; for if Democrates' victory gave her the former, she was greatly troubled in that she could not see him, nor have the liberty to speak with him, and the assurance that her father gave her, that he would never consent she should marry him, in a great measure allayed the joy she had at first conceived from the victory of that dear and faithful Lover.  
But as misfortune, which never observes any measures in the evils it causes, when it has once begun to make a person feel the rigour of its most cruel and piercing malice, and which was resolved that our illustrious and generous Hero should be exposed to the grievous and terrible severity of its assaults, and that the unfortunate Democrates should not long make her waver between joy and sadness; though she was in a condition much more capable to raise pity, then stir up envy, for the joy she had was so far from causing the effects it was wont to produce, that it only served to make her the more sensible of the unjust and tormenting pains of her destiny; it found that she was still too favourably dealt with, and that her grief ought not to be mixed with any joy at all, nor with any hopes of ever being able to get out of it, nor so much as to see it lessen and decay; and therefore made her know with as much diligence, as those, who thought they brought good news, could inform her, that the faithful and unfortunate Democrates had been cruelly assassinated the precedent evening, as he was going from his lodgings to wait upon the Prince, by three men unknown, who after they had given him several mortal wounds, with all the hast they could, betook themselves to their heels for safety, and they proved so successful to them, that those who had pursued them, were not able so much as to learn any news of them.  
The generous and faithful Lover of the unfortunate Democrates had no sooner heard this sad and fatal truth, but the lively excess of that grief she resented at it, so violently seized upon her, that at first she was not able to complain of her fate for a loss that was so sensible to her; but as soon as the trouble into which this dreadful news had put her, was a little dissipated, and her grief had given her leisure to reflect upon the new calamities that her unhappiness had brought upon her, and to think of the death of a person to whom she had given her heart, she discovered, by her sighs and tears, and by her complaints, that notwithstanding the ardent affection Areas had for her, and the commands that her father had laid upon her to be favourable to it, she had still had a kindness for Democrates, and that she did yet love him even after his death.  
Though Sestiana was in one of the saddest and deplorable conditions in the world; though her miseries were extreme, and one would think that nothing was capable of giving them any accession, yet her cruel destiny, which was not weary of persecuting her, had, in causing the death of Democrates, prepared new matter to increase the grief of this illustrious miserable Lady; and to redouble her tears; since that those, who confirmed to her the death of her Lover, told her likewise that those Assassins having thought him dead, after they had given him so many wounds, had betook themselves to their heels, and that Democrates had also yet so much strength as to speak to those who were come to his relief, and to tell them that the condition in which he was, obliged him to inform the King and Prince Theomedes that he believed Sestianes' was the Author of the conspiracy against the latter of them, and that the Love he had for the divine Sestiana, had kept him from making any discovery of it. They also added, that after he had pronounced the name of Sestiana, those sighs which Love had made him fetch, joined to the extreme weakness, that the loss of his blood had put him into, for some time had kept him from speaking; but at last he had said with much ado, that he was not fully assured that Sestianes' was guilty, but that he had very powerful indications of it, and that Prince Theomedes ought only to make use of his words, to constrain him, in case he was a criminal, to discover all himself, after he had got him arrested, or at least but to oblige that Prince to mistrust him, and to take heed that he does not expose himself to the fury of his assaults.  
It is impossible to represent well to you the estate of the afflicted Sestiana, after she had heard of this new misfortune. Fear, despite, hatred, Love and grief had their several combats in her, from which she never got with any advantage, but the end of them was always fatal to her repose. Fear made her apprehend something that would be of very ill consequence to her Father; despite and hatred made her hate him, whom love for all that forced her still to have a kindness for, though he was only fit for his grave; and grief made her bewail him whom she detested. Her sighs were divided between love and Nature, she gave some to the future unhappiness of her Father, and some she bestowed on her Lover, and if she was not to be comforted for the loss of him, those words he uttered dying against her Father, afflicted her yet more. She loved him, bewailed him, and hated him altogether: she harkened to her duty, she followed the sentiments that love inspired into her, and at the same time gave somewhat too to her despite; but though she did what she could to content them all, yet her mind was no whit the less quiet nor her afflictions less great and cruel, and grief got absolute mistress of her soul, and tormented it with all the rigour and severity that it is wont to make use of when it has a mind to give a cruel persecution to those whom it undertakes to make most miserable, by putting them into a condition never to be able to enjoy a moment's repose.  
Democrates' words at dying were quickly carried to the King, and to Prince Theomedes, who were no less surprised at them, then at the death of that generous unfortunate man. They were both very hard to believe that Sestianes' should be guilty, and what he had done outwardly for Theomedes, in giving to the King the letter that Democrates had writ to Anaxander, kept that Prince from giving any credit to that information against him. But yet as nothing is dearer to us than life, which ought to be kept with the greatest care, he was resolved to let him be atrested if he was to be found, that so he might be the better satisfied of the truth of it, and to see if his looks would not betray him, and if his surprise of finding himself a prisoner would not make him confess a crime of which he was only suspected by force, or make him do what he could to the contrary, give some manifestations of it, & designed at the same time to set him at liberty, if he did not acknowledge any thing, without forcing him by any wrack or torture to declare himself guilty. But it was not the love he had for Sestianes', nor any happiness that he wished him, obliged him to act after this manner; but what he thought he had done to serve him, in accusing Democrates, who was to have been his Son in-Law, had much lessened the severity he would have had towards him, and engaged him to treat him generously, at least until he might have some proofs of the attempt of which he was accused.  
Prince Theomedes was in this resolution, and had already desired the King to permit Sestianes' to be arrested, and to go out of prison a little while after, if he should not confess himself a criminal, and if no other more convincing proofs could be alleged against him of his crime then the last words of Democrates, which did not positively conclude him guilty, when that Sestianes' was coming up to them where they were. The King, and Prince Theomedes were greatly surprised to see him, for they could not doubt but that he had heard of the last words of Democrates, which were spoke before too great a multitude not to have been reported to him, and they were persuaded that he would rather have thought upon flying, then upon coming thither. But this perfidious wretch was too subtle too have conceived any such design that would have been so prejudicial to him, and he had not resolved to betray himself. I come, said he to them with a countenance that seemed not to have the least concern upon it in the world, and with as great an assurance in his voice; to render myself a prisoner, to justify me of what Democrates has said of me dying: had I been criminal, I should not with so much confidence dare now to appear before you, I should have been by this time far enough off of this place, and have had time enough to make my escape from the just chastisement that would have been due to me; but I desire to prove it a mere imposture, and so show my innocence, for it is only virtue that is the cause of my crime. Yes, my virtue is all that has rendered me guilty; since that, continued he, addressing himself to Prince Theomedes, what I lately did for you, in discovering the Letter that Democrates was sending to his friend, was the occasion of his resolving to do what he could to make my innocence be suspected, and to be revenged for my making his to be called in question. It is well known how sweet revenge is, and what it will prompt a man to do; what effects it produces daily; that there are some persons who find it impossible to stifle the sentiments it inspires them withal; that there are some with whom it never dies; and indeed who keep it up even after death, in leaving it as an Inheritance to their Children or friends, or else in saying such words when they are dying, as make 'em persecute, after their death, those whom they were resolved to be revenged of while they were alive. This revenge is oft times too deeply rooted in the hearts of men, and which of all the passions dies last with them: which has made Democrates to say that he had very powerful manifestations of my crime: it is clearly demonstrable by those last words, that he was cruelly troubled with this outrageous passion, that it completed his desires, and took up all his thoughts; since that then when he should have been only thinking on that great account he was going to make to the Gods of all his actions, it was only the power of revenge that was able to open his mouth. Yet he had not that audaciousness positively to affirm that I was a Criminal, for fear lest his Imposture might have been too apparent; but was forced, in-spite of his good inclination to ruin me to be contented with only making my innocence doubted of, possibly thinking, that in case his wounds should not be mortal, he might be obliged to prove what he had said. And thus you see, continued he, both what is my crime, and wherefore I am criminal, yet notwithstanding my Innocence, if you suspect me to be guilty, said he, throwing himself upon his knees before the King, and Prince Theomedes, I have deserved to die, and will seek it with a passionate earnestness, since I've merited your anger and whosoever has had the unhappiness to displease Kings and Princes, and has procured himself their anger, is unworthy to live, or at least deserves to have but a languishing life, accompanied with a thousand miseries, and full of melancholy fears, and torments, and inquietudes.  
If the King and Prince Theomedes could not keep their surprise from being taken notice of, in seeing Sestianes' coming up to them, his words made it much more visible in their looks: they stood a good while silent, not knowing what they had best to do, nor indeed what they had best to say to him; but at last being overcome by his artifices, they took the most deceitful and perfidious of all men breathing for the most generous, and thought it would be an injustice to question his innocence, and that they ought to send him away with a perfect absolution; that which persuaded Theomedes to it, was, that if he had conspired against him, which he could not believe, for the reasons I have acquainted you with, this civil treatment would oblige him possibly to change his design of killing him, into that of doing him service.  
This crafty perfidious wretch, after he had kissed the King's hand and the Princes, withdrew very much satisfied at the favourable success of so uncommon a temerity, and as before ever he went about this devise, he had acquainted his assosiates with it, and bid them not to be alarmed at it, nor fear any thing, he went straight from the presence to give them an account of what had passed, and to let them know the good fortune, that his address and artifices bade met with, and the esteem that the King and Prince Theomedes had of him. This intelligence did exceedingly rejoice the confederates; they thought they had no cause of apprehending any thing, but that they were as safe as could be, and that no mischief could be fall them, it being out of the power of fortune to betray them, and ever to make them be discovered, having got a person so witty, so fortunate, and so courageous as Sestianes', who was able to turn those things to his advantage, which in all probability, would have wrought his absolute ruin.  
When Sestiana was informed with how much honour her Father was come off of the imputation he lay under, her fear began by degrees to abate, in thinking that her Father was not looked upon as criminal, and that he was not taken prisoner, but the more this fear grew off, the greater was her regret for the death of so faithful a Lover; all her virtue, though it was most severely strict, could not keep her from bestowing some tears on a person who had like to take away her Father's life. I perceive very well, said she to herself, if Democrates were still living, my virtue would not suffer me, either to see him, or to love him, or so much as permit him to have any Love for me; but pity obliges me, do what I can, to bewail the unhappy fate of him to whom I had given my heart; none ought to wonder at it, nor ought I to wonder at it myself, pity produces many other effects, and if it force us to bewail our enemies, when they are no longer in a capacity of doing us any hurt, none need to be amazed, if it makes us to regret those whom we have loved. I wish, said she to herself, discoursing still with her thoughts, that Democrates had not spoke against my Father, but has not my Father spoke against him, and after he had promised he should marry me, did not he deprive him of all hopes that he would ever give me his hand? I wish that Democrates had had those sentiments a generous person ought to have, but he was a Man; that is to say, sensible of injuries, and besides, an abused Lover, and those two things do often oblige persons to do both more than they ought, and more than they would. To conclude, I wish that Democrates had not done what an Heroic, but what a severe and scrupulous virtue inspires in those who possess it in the supremest degree; but revenge, that cruel imperious passion, which always governs with an absolute Empire the hearts of those it has got the power over, and which has as little reason to qualify it as love, and besides is full as blind; that Tyrant of Souls did force him, in spite of all his resistance, to prefer its counsels to those of generosity. These were the sentiments of Sestiana, who imputed to revenge all that Democrates had spoke against her Father, and who never yet suspected the truth, and was less disposed to divine it, for it is very rare for a child to doubt the innocence of those who are the occasion of their coming into the world.  
But although Democrates was almost universally lamented, and his friends took his death with a great deal of grief, which was likewise bewailed most passionately by her, who notwithstanding the severity of her virtue, had not the power to hate him, yet his death was not left to be unpunished, though they were ignorant of the Authors of it. Not but that Arcas was suspected of it; but the want of sufficient proof, together with his eminent quality, kept the relations of Democrates from discovering their resentment and revenge, as much as they had done, had they known that another had been the Author of so foul and base an action, or had they had any sufficient proofs against those who had been so, to which there might have been some credit given.  
Sestianes' began to hope for a favourable success of his barbarous and cruel design; he thought he had blown over all the storms that threatened him, that he was not likely to be exposed to the reverse of fortune, and that the esteem the Prince Theomedes testified to him, would give him a more convenient opportunity to execute what he had resolved upon when the Court received a Letter from Anaxander, whom fame, & the particular friends of Democrates, had informed of all that had past. This sad and generous friend of our Hero, who studied to be revenged of his death, sent word that it was no longer necessary to keep things in disguise, and that he was Innocent of the crime, of which he had impeached himself, to save a friend, who was no more a Criminal than he or the clearest person alive; but that he was very sure that what Democrates had said against Sestianes' after he had received his death's wound, was most certainly true, that the love he had for his Daughter, was the occasion that he did not discover it sooner, and that the Father of that fair One suspecting our Hero knew of his crime, had accused him purely out of fear, that so if it should happen to him to be accused again, he might have a very fair plea for himself, and make the world believe that what he should speak was only out of malice and revenge. He added also that his friend had given him a full account of all these things a little before that fatal accident befell him, and in the same letter sent all the particulars that made Democrates to suspect Sestianes', and what he had said before he was taken prisoner the first time. Moreover he offered to come, if they desired it, to render himself a prisoner to maintain what he said, and to defend the honour of his friend after his death as well as he had done when he was living, and earnestly petitioned the King to let Sestianes' be arrested to force him to discover all, and shown him that he should not run the hazard of committing an injustice, in case he did act in that manner; so long as it was always in his power to restore him his liberty, if he judged him to be innocent, but that it was necessary to have him arrested for the safety of Prince Theomedes' life; because he knew of no other Criminals but him, and that what he had said, after he had excused himself for fa●ing the life and honour of his friend, was only that the true guilty persons, whom yet he did not know, might not live in any security, and that the Prince Theomedes might not remain any longer exposed to their fury.  
This Letter was presented to the King with as much faithfulness as secrecy, and was perused by him and Theomedes without Sestianes' knowing any thing of it in the world. It gave them a very great confusion, and before they ever went about making Sestianes' to be arrested, they examined into the whole life of Democrates, to see if he had never been guilty of any action misbecoming a Gallant man, and which might give them any cause not to believe him. They likewise upon the same account looked over all the actions of Anaxander, and whatever they had known of him, during the time he had made his residence in that Court; but they found nothing in neither of them that did not very highly commend their virtue, and their generosity, and which did not persuade them to give an entire belief to all their words. They also reflected upon all they knew of Sestianes'; but they were sensible upon several occasions, that he had given them some cause of doubting his virtue; and they believed that since Democrates had never given them any of mistrusting his with justice, and that he accused him at a time, when persons are wont to speak the truth more than at any other time; upon the whole, they thought they were obliged to believe Sestianes' guilty: all these things considered with what they began to be persuaded of that he had possibly blinded them by a false and pretended semblance of virtue, and that his generosity was only an artifice to dazzle them, and to divert the blow that threatened him, made them resolve to have him taken, and be clapped up in the Tower, where none might be admitted to discourse with him, which they immediately caused to be put in execution.  
Though he was not a little surprised to see himself become a prisoner, yet he had so much wit with him as to conceal his inward disorder, and though fear had taken full possession of his heart, yet his countenance did show all the tranquillity imaginable, and as he perceived they had no proofs against him, and had only put him into prison to see if he would not betray himself, he defended himself so admirably, that he deceived all those who in the least thought any thing to his disadvantage. He was demanded why, upon the report that ran up and down, that Democrates knew all the Conspiracy, he had told him, that he was unjustly suspected, except he had always apprehended him, or had heard that he should be accused by him. They added also, that if he was not guilty, he should not have made such a discourse, and that whether either he had suspected him, or had really told him that he was a Criminal, or that he pretended he had heard it, there was still an equal ground to doubt his Innocence; since if that was true which was told to Democrates, that he was guilty, of necessity there was a report of it, and likewise some proofs of his crime, and if it was not, in all probability he only came to sound him, and to endeavour to know cunningly of him, if it were true or not, that he was acquainted with all the conspiracy, thereby the better to order his affairs. Sestianes' answered, that nothing of all this was true, and that if he had been to wait upon Democrates, to hold such a discourse with him, he should not have dared to act against him, as he had done, for fear he should have recriminated upon him, and that since he had said nothing of it all the time he lived, whilst it was supposed that he had said those things to him, which very likely would have ruined him, and that he had not so much as spoke of them when he was dying, it was very easy to see that it was a mere falsity that was imputed to him. He added that it was no wonder if Anaxander did seek to take away his life, for having put into the hands of the King the letter that Democrates writ to him, that he had done things much more considerable to secure the reputation of his friend, and that since he had rendered himself guilty for his sake, though he was Innocent, he might very easily be induced to tell a lie to be revenged of a person who had acted against him, who was not able to bear his crime without horror, and who likewise could not refrain showing the proofs he had of it.  
Never were persons seen in a greater perplexity and confusion than were the King and Prince Theomedes, after they had heard the answer that Sestianes' made, they were clearly of opinion that he might justly be suspected, but they did not see which way he could be convicted, and as all probabilities signify nothing without positive proofs, and that it is a most unjust thing to condemn a person upon a bare suspicion, they could not tell how in the world to get out of this trouble that Sestianes' put them into by his confidence, and undaunted resolution. What, said Prince Theomedes, must I confound the Innocent with the guilty, believe the most generous of all men are the most base, and the most perfidious and that the most perfidious & base are the most generous? must I think Anaxander to be an Imposter? and must I think Sestianes' a wicked and perfidious wretch that has determined my death? he, who, to serve me, declared against his designed Son in Law? and must I, in a word, by a cruel necessity do an injury to the memory of Democrates, and doubt his Innocence, who all his life was never known to be guilty of an action unworthy an honourable person? But what, said he again presently, must I be always in fear? daily exposed to danger, and wait till he, whose life I dare not yet take away, come and run me through? Yes, I ought always to be exposed to danger and not fear the fury of those who aim at my life; fear is unworthy of a Prince, and much more of a generous man: Princes ought not to be too careful to secure themselves from the danger that threatens them, their courage and their virtue ought to be their guard, and to answer for what befalls them, and that which is looked upon as foresight in others, will in them be counted baseness and Cowardice.  
Prince Theomedes, after he had a pretty while abandoned himself to his inquietude, began to hearken to those sentiments which generosity usually inspires into persons of his Rank and Quality, and went to demand of the King, that the most Criminal of all men might be set at liberty, when word was brought that one of the five hundred prisoners, who had been taken in the late conspiracy, where there were ten thousand that risen up against all the Royal house, accused Sestianes' of the Crime, which Democrates had charged him with as he was dying. This undaunted Criminal, who was ignorant who he should be, said as soon as ever he heard of it, that this fellow was some cheat and impostor, that he did unjustly accuse him, and that he would make him to confess the contrary, and deny all he had said. Whereupon Cleobis (for so was that prisoner called) was brought before him; but he was greatly surprised when he saw that it was one of those who had been of the conspiracy with him, and that it was the same person, who we were mentioning before, was missing, and for whom he was so much concerned since, that he knew not what was become of him, and also that it was him of all the Number whom he most suspected. The sight of him had even almost made him change his countenance, and his emotion went very near to discover what he had always concealed with so favourable a success. Yet notwithstanding, his confidence having immediately banished the fear that had begun to seize upon his heart, he looked upon Cleobis with an air full of fierceness and a contemning scorn mixed together, and said with a disdainful smile; though in the condition I am in at present, I might fear all things from my Enemies, and that the imposture, which may justly be termed, the innocents' executioner, makes use of all the most cruel and artificious ways of malice to take away my life, yet it is sufficient to scarter my fear, that it is only Cleobis who presents himself, and is the man that accuses me. I do not believe the King nor the Prince Theomedes will easily give any credit to him: for any one may very well think, that if I had conspired, I should not have discovered the secret to a man so much to be mistrusted, and it is very apparent that he does not now accuse me, but only to prolong his life, and by this artifice to hope, that Prince Theomedes, thinking himself greatly obliged to him, will demand his pardon of the King: I have been assured by some persons of my acquaintance, that my Enemies, and the Relations of Domocrates, has promised to get his crime pardoned, provided he would say that which he had been so hardy to utter against me, and which he still neither durst, nor can maintain. But though all this should not be true, pursued he, it is very well known that he has formerly been my greatest Enemy, and that he was forced to seek my friendship. All these circumstances do discover, that his former hatred had not now been awakened, but that he saw he had a most convenient opportunity for it; nor that he had accused me, but either from the prospect he had thereby to obtain his pardon, or from the satisfaction he should have to see me perish with him; and that there ought not to be any credit given to such a person, whom so many several reasons do induce to accuse an innocent.  
If before that Cleobis had accused Sestianes', the King and Prince Theomedes' perplexity was great, this discourse of that subtle and ingenious Politician gave a greater accession to it, and he had still so much good fortune, that he made use of those things which were most likely to ruin him, to confound others, and cast them into a far greater trouble than that with which his breast was agitated; but at last that good fortune grew weary, of accompanying so perfidious a wretch; and Heaven, which was resolved to leave him no longer unpunished, now made a truth to be known which had so long been kept secret, which had given confusion to so many persons, and which until then, could never be discovered, what ever ways they had made use of, and notwithstanding all they had done to find it out. But yet this wicked man had the happiness not to betray himself, and still stood it out with a great deal of wit and bravery, as long as it was possible for him. He did not put fortune to the blush for the good services she had done him, but he showed that his boldness, his constancy, and his wit did equal his crimes, and possibly he might yet have defended himself longer, if that some of the conspirators, whom Cleobis named, had not fled for it, and if the others had not been taken prisoners, discovered all the particularities, maintained to Sestianes' face that he was guilty, and had not by convincing proofs, and such as were impossible to be doubted of, deprived him of all the means of defending himself any longer.  
They asked Cleobis, to be more clearly satisfied in all things, why he, (who had told Poligesnes, that he would discover all things to him, and who was dead before he saw him,) had said, that he believed Demotrates was of the conspiracy. Cleobis answered, that they had all thought so, for he being so near marrying the daughter of Sestianes', they were fully persuaded that he had communicated his design to him, but it seems that time had discovered to them the contrary.  
The perfidious Sestianes', seeing himself convicted, yet was not at all the more alarmed at it, nor did he show any actions that betrayed the constancy he had always testified, he confessed all without changing his countenance, and spoke with as much assurance, as if his judges had been the Criminals, and he their Judge. Yes, said he to them, since I cannot tell how any longer to defend myself, I acknowledge I did conspire against Prince Theomedes, and the ill Offices he did me at Court, together with the displeasure I received in that he had given to one of his creatures a place which the King intended to bestow on me, and which he had even promised me, did make me hatch the design of taking away his life, and for that purpose I elected such persons as had as indifferent a kindness for him as myself, and who had as great reason to complain of him; and if you examine well all those of the confederacy, added he, you will find that the greatest number of them are those that live near his lands and dominions, and whom he has by his unjust tyranny, obliged to have an invincible hatred for him, and to study all ways imaginable how to compass his death. After this confession you may imagine that Democrates was innocent, and that I would not have destroyed him but for fear lest he should accuse me in the thoughts I had, that one of the Conspirators had discovered all to him, and that it was only for that he had been suspected of the crime that I was the Author of. If Democrates, said I to myself, knows all, nothing but the love he bears my daughter, will keep him from speaking & revealing my crime; but as there are several things that may stifle this love, that may make him repent of his silence, and at last hearken to his duty, when it shall counsel him to discover and betray me, it is my best way to make him undergo the same fate, as I have designed for the Prince Theomedes, and to be only thinking now how I should effect it with the greatest safety. I was in this resolution, when a mere chance presented me with the means to bring it about, more secret, and less perilous, than those were I had proposed to myself, and gave me an opportunity to execute part of what I had projected, and without any blood shed, to divert the blow that teemed to threaten me. The letter that Democrates writ to Anaxander fell into my hands, and I thought it my prudentest course to put it into those of the Kings, and that this ill office I should do to the unfortunate Innocent person would prevent all manner of belief of whatsoever he should say against me. You have known the success of it, but you are ignorant yet that the fear of being discovered having taken a new possession of my heart, and that the desire which Ambition had kindled in me, to see my Daughter married to Arcas, who is, as you know, both by his Estate, and birth, much more considerable than Democrates, obliged me to seek out fresh occasions of destroying this latter. Fortune, which continued still favourable to me, presented me with one less hazardous than the former: I knew that Arcas was cruelly persecuted by his jealousy, and that he could not endure my Daughter should conserve any tenderness for Democrates, I made use of this occasion to bring my design about, and told him, that he ought not to suffer a Rival to have half shares of a heart which ought to belong wholly to him. As there is need of but a little thing to stir up a jealous man, who does not doubt but that his Rival has too great an Interest in the favours of his Mistress, and whom Arcas his jealousy had counselled before to call him to an account for it, he straight fought with Democrates, and in that duel met with the shameful success you have heard of; which being so fatal to his honour, he came to give me a relation of his unhappiness, and of the sensible disgrace that Fortune had made him receive. I knowing him then to be in a humour fit to undertake any thing, I told him it was such a shame to suffer his Rival to live any longer, and to have an object that should daily represent to him the affront his honour had received, that without any more a do he was resolved to put a period to his days. A short time after he caused Democrates to be assassinated by three persons whom he had hired for that purpose, or rather by three of those mercenary Assassins, who are daily employed in such murders. Now, continued he, after this particular information, you ought not to ask any thing further of me, and I have told you more than you would have known had you only learned that I was the Author of Democrates his death; since that without my Conncel, Arcas possibly would never have assassinated him. This is, pursued he, a faithful account of all my crimes, and all the favour I demand of you, if you can grant any to so great a Criminal as I am, is to hasten the day of my death, lost I should repent that I had committed them, and that the tormenting rigour of a long & cruel imprisonment should abate my constancy, so as it would do my countenance, and make those who should be spectators at my Death, to think, that I was afraid of punishments, and that Death was terrible to me. I know very well, continued he, that I cannot hope for pardon, and as I would not desire to live after I had acknowledged myself a Criminal, I confess all my crimes, and even those whereof I was not accused, that so the horror you ought to have to suffer so great a Criminal to live, should oblige you to give a sudden determination of my death, and as short a day for it.  
Though Sestianes' was long before suspected, and even before his confession they ceased any longer to doubt of his crime, yet his discourse was very surprising to those Judges, as well as it acquainted them with the Author of our Heroe's Death. They caused him to be locked up again, and went to inform the King and Prince Theomedes of all had passed, and what Sestianes' had told them. Their astonishment could not keep them from bestowing some sighs upon the Death of Democrates, whose innocence thereby was fully known to them, and reflecting upon the generosity of Anaxander, whom the trouble and confusion in which they were, had till then kept them from esteeming as they ought to have done; Prince Theomedes cried out, that he had never seen a person so generous, nor so faithful a friend, and that he had reason to boast of his crime in the first Letter he had sent them, the mysterious fence of which he so perfectly knew, and which he had reason to say, that as bad a Criminal as he declared himself to be, he hoped that posterity should not be able to reproach his honour; since that his crime was so glorious, and generous, that posterity ought to conserve the remembrance of it, to cause it to be admired by all those that should hear it.  
The King having understood, by the relation that was given him, what Sestianes' had said, and heard of all the crimes he had charged himself with, and that Arcas had caused Democrates to be murdered, immediately ordered him to be arrested; but as he was of too illustrious a birth, and likewise had several Relations and Friends that held a very considerable rank at Court, he presently learned all that had passed there, and by a hasty flight had escaped the prison they had prepared for him, and some time after they heard that he was got into France. As for Sestianes' he had what he desired, and was a little while after condemned to lose his head. Prince Theomedes would nevertheless have used his utmost interest to prevent that sentence against his life, if he had been only guilty against him; but there was so much perfidiousness in his crime, which came from a breast so black and wicked, that he was judged utterly unworthy to obtain any favour, and that such a perfidious and dangerous man ought not to be permitted to live, who knew how to dissemble with so much art, and who was capable of accomplishing whatsoever he undertook, which could be no other than such things as must needs have most cruel and pernicious consequences.  
This crafty and undaunted Criminal satisfied at the expense of his life the sentence that had been given against him, and died as almost all of that Country are wont to do, that is to say, with a constancy worthy to be admired, and so it was by a great number of people, who spoke very advantageously of his Criminal and ingenious carriage, and said, that he had a wit capable of the most difficult and hazardous enterprises.  
That which was the more remarkable in this History, was, that Democrates, without thinking in the least of it, had himself laboured to revenge his death, before he died, and that Heaven had suffered Cleobis to be among the five hundred prisoners, whom that generous Hero had helped to take, in the service of his King, without knowing that among them there was a person, who could remove the doubt they had of his Innocence, and discover the real guilty person, and who, in re-establishing his glory, could hinder posterity from making his memory odious, and in a word, who could revenge his death, by the blood of the most perfidious man in the world.  
I think it is not necessary to relate what Sestiana said, and did, between the condemnation of her Father, and his death, nor at that time that she heard of his death; for it is very well known than the power of grief makes one at first not to resent it, that the surprise it causes keeps one silent, and that the extreme weakness it east's one into, takes away the sense. The violence of Sestiana's grief produced all these effects, and she could not resent, and know all the calamities that were befallen her altogether, until the trouble and seizure were a little over, which gave her such fatal and sensible intelligences. But when she was a little come to herself, and in a condition of resenting the cruel assaults of her grief. O heavens! said she to herself, is it possible you should have resolved that I should endure so many miseries? is it possible that you should permit it, and can it be believed that a poor harmless maid should be destined to bear all the rage of the most barbarous and pitiless fate? Ah! how did Democrates say to me, when I spoke to him of the crime which he was unjustly accused of, that the guilty person would cost me many tears. Both the guilty and the innocent do cost me so at once; I knew not the crime of one, until it was impossible for me to prevent his destruction, and I did not learn the innocence of the other until after his Death. I did not demand so much, nor would I have known of my Father's crime, only have heard of the innocence of Democrates, but I would have known it, that so I might have recompensed it, and not have been obliged only to pour out tears. Ah! too sensible loss of a dear and faithful Lover, into what a sad condition do you reduce me? Ah! Democrates, how will thy Death cost me tears? ah! too blind Father, what have you done? ah! but what, pursued she, am I sensible of what I do? I more bewail a Lover then a Father; yes, it is true, I do bewail him, and that without shocking either reason, or duty, or virtue; and though I ought to bewail them both, yet fate will have it, that he who should be the dearest to me, should be the least bewailed. Ah! wherefore too scrupulous Lover, did you not discover your secret to me, I should have known your innocence, and would have married you before my Father had forbid it; but you imagined, that I would not have believed your discourses, and you would not put any thing to the hazard. You resolved to be prudent, but your prudence, which was almost fatal to you, has not in this occasion been more favourable then formerly. It is true it has spared me many displeasures which possibly would not have been so cruel to me, and which perhaps I might have now forgot, and I acknowledge this service after thy death. But replied she immediately, ought I to count that a Service, which makes me now to weep, and which has caused thy death, and likewise that of my Fathers? yes, continued she, it was one, but time has made it fatal, our common unhappiness has poisoned it; and prudence, which promises, and which affords others so much good fortune, will give us only causes of afflicting ourselves, and after it did make thee lose the favour of thy Prince, kept thee from making any further declaration of thy flame to me, when thou mightest have married me, to have made me doubt your Innocence, to have betrayed you in all things, and to have rendered all your actions fatal to you, and at last to have cost you your life, that if it had not hindered you from being the death of Arcas, that inhuman Rival had not made you be assassinated. It is impossible for life to be any longer pleasing to me, after the loss of so faithful a Lover, and it cannot but be hateful to me after the death of a Father who has lost his head upon a Scaffold; wherefore in honour and Love I ought to be so much the more desirous to die, since it is only that which can put an end to all my cruel torments, with which my Soul will be overwhelmed as long as I have a day to live.  
The sorrow of this fair and generous afflicted Lady could not possibly meet with any diminution, time which for the most part wears out other griefs, how cruel so ever, could do nothing upon hers, till at last she met with what she so much desired, which was so violent a , that in a few days it put an end to all her troubles, as it did to her life.  
Five or six months after all these bloody and Tragical adventures, they were informed that Anaxander had revenged the death of his friend, for having met Arcas in France, he obliged him to draw, in which duel he only received a slight wound from him, but came off a conqueror, by laying his Enemy dead at his feet,  
FINIS.   

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