The Triumphant Lady: OR, The CROWNED INNOCENCE.  
A Choice and Authentic Piece of the Famous, DeCERIZIERS, Almoner to the King.  
Translated into ENGLISH, out of the Original FRENCH, BY Sir WILLIAM LOWER KNIGHT.  
London, Printed for GA. BEDELL, and THO. COLLINS, and are to be sold at their Shop at the Middle-Temple Gate in Fleetstreet, 1656.   

  

To the READER.  
Gentle Reader,  
BEfore I touch upon the Lady, who is now to be the glorious Subject of my Discourse, give me leave, I pray you, to look back a little upon my Illustrious Innocence, Genivieva, whom I am obliged to vindicate. Me thinks I hear some ignorant Incredulous say, that she is a Romantic Lady, a Fabulous Divinity, and no Authentic Piece, as I have set her forth in my Prefaces to the world. To convince their Error, to clear their understanding, and to rectify their judgement, I would have them know, that I drew it forth just so as it is to be seen with Puteanus, and Raderus in his Bavaria. Aubert Miréus having given in his Belgic Feasts many praises to that holy Princess, assureth that her Life is written by Matthew Emichius of the Order of the Reverend Father's Carmilites, or White Friars, and which is conserved yet to this day in the Charter house of Confluence upon the Rhine. Now though I might say, that all that which I assured of that generous Woman is true, since it might arrive unto her indeed, and that the fair Apparitions which I described, were showed to her spirit, yet I will content you, and discover with simplicity what is purely of her History. It is true, that Genevieva Princess of the House of Brabant, was married to a Palatine of Treves; it is true, that she swooned at the departure of her Sifroy; that she was fair, and tempted by Golo: it is true, that she gave him a box, and that he put her into Prison; that her husband commanded her death upon a suspicion which this evil servant gave him, through the Artifices of a woman, suspected of Magic. It is true, that two of his Domestics upon the point of killing her, left her 〈◊〉; and that they met a little dog, which lost his tongue to conserve that of the Countess. It is true, that a voice promised her the assistance of heaven, entering into the wood, and that a Hind nourished her child the space of seven years. It is true that the Palatine in Hunting, was conducted into his Wife's Cave, and that he knew her. It is true, that he made her Slanderer to die with the punishment which I observed, that that Innocent Lady ended holily, after she received the Communion, that they built an Hermitage in the place of her Penitence, and that we have seen there in the following ages our Lady of Mersen. If I said that her Cr●o●fie spoke to her, it is to be interpreted of that mute language, wherewith God speaks inwardly to his Favourites, or we should remember Peter the Martyr. When the Cross followed her, that was meant spiritually, as it happens to all the afflicted, or really, as to the most Blessed Isabel d'Vuans. The Wolf which clothed the little Benoni, could he not use the same gratitude with the Hyena of the great Macaires. It would be easy for me to find all the other circumstances of my Illustrious Innocence, if it were any way necessary; but I think it is enough to make confessed, that I gave no Fictions to those that took the pains to read it. In my opinion, this illustration sufficeth to undeceive those who think to be deceived. It only rests unto me to answer those Sages who wonder at this, that Genevieva remained so long unknown, and who demand if it were not easy for her to retire to her patents. Certainly, these Demands should be made to Genevieva rather than to me; notwithstading I think that one should not doubt of a History, as soon as one meets there some circumstances difficult to receive. If God permitted that this Virtuous Princess should be mistaken by her own husband, is there any cause of Admiration that no body hath known her? Was there not more cause to wonder at this, that his Providence having given us his Son for three years, he hide him thirty years in a Country the most frequented of the earth, and in the most famous Town of the Universe? God hides himself in the midst of the Sun, why could he not hid a woman in an infinite Forest, and in Dens which make wild Beasts afraid? His Providence laboured itself to turn aside those, whom hazard or design would conduct unto that solitude, to trouble the devotions of our Saint. When God speaks in secret unto any one, he draws him aside: but as his Discourses are important, they are commonly long. And why should God have inspired the thought of Genevieva to retire herself toward her Parents, who might be dead or ill affectionated? Moreover, my Reader, Heaven would not revenge an Innocent, it pretended only to see a Saint to suffer. The Court of Princes, where there is nothing but delights, was not proper for this purpose. I care not to satisfy those that complain of the reason and resentments which I gave to the Animals and to the Trees, upon the miseries and the departure of Genevieva. This reproach comes (without doubt) but from those who know not the Liberty of the Orator; who may even in the judgement of the most severe Masters, make the plants and stones to speak.  
So much for Genevieva. For Hirlanda, whose Triumphant life I now treat of; I suppose I shall need no Apology, because none will deny her the Crown, but such as are stupid or malicious: yet I foresee that those who will have demonstrations of Mathematics upon the truth of History, will not fail to quarrel with her whom I serve, and that some people will take it for a tale made for pastime.  
My Reader, before you take part with the Incredulous, or Easie, I pray you to remember; that you believe more strange ones upon the recital of Titus Livius, and Quintus Curtius, and that there are many such in our best Books. And then though this should be a symbolic History, should I not be pardoned this Liberty in this kind of Writings: since it is granted, that Saint John Damascene hath used them in the Life of his Josaphat. It would be easy for me to employ the example of the Queen Elvira, or of the Empress Matilda, which I have touched in my following Discourse, but besides that their adventures have circumstances as suspected as those which I propose, they are too common not to be known.  
Receive then my Hirlanda, whom I have drawn by the cares of one of our Father's worthy of credit, from a Manuscript of the Town of Autun. Perhaps without his Diligence and Charity she might remain forever buried in oblivion. We know, thanks be to God, what can be objected to this History; but we know well also what ought to be answered thereunto. If I would wrangle, I should find without trouble as much probability for me recital, as the Objectors pretend to give prop to their doubt. I force no body to receive my sentiments; if any one will be obstinate, let him permit me to be plain. In case that I deceive myself, my error shall not be of those whereof Heresies are made; and likewise I dare to assure it less criminal than a presumptuous knowledge; since that simplicity which hath no malice ought not to suffer any reproach. Remember notwithstanding, that though I say that Hirlanda was Duchess of Bretany, this aught to be understood according to the Alamans' manner of speaking, who call all the Princes of a House, Duke or Marquis of the Province whereof it bears the name. For example, in their use, those of Saxony, of Bavaria, or of Brandenburg take the title thereof, though they possess not the demain. And surely it is not to divine in my own cause, since Dargentreius and other Authors of the History of Bretanie, speak often enough in this manner. You will judge well that the ornaments which I give it, set it forth without altering it, and that by this conduct I endeavour to instruct and to divert the spirit, without pretending to corrupt it.  
Would to God that those pens which are held up to be delicate, would employ themselves to collect in the same design the divers accidents of History, without amusing them in making worlds fairer than that which God hath made. We should see that our youth would become learned in recreating themselves, and that those fatal sources which empoison so many souls, would be dry by the proper industry of those that have given them course. Whilst that these fair wits shall resolve themselves to render this good service to the Church, I conjure those that shall do me the honour to read this work, to read it with equity & without pre-occupation; perhaps they will find here no less divertisement & profit, than there is danger in those mysterious pieces. Let us not leave our selus to be deceived by that ridiculous persuasion which the devil upholds with all his power, that fair expressions belong not but to the family of Theagines and Chari●lea. Why should the language of the Religious be as rude as their robe and their life? Make they profession of ill speaking, or rather, come they all from Arabia, or from some country more savage? Have we not seen some of them who were clothed with the fairest pomp of the world, to seek under this virtuous disguisement the souls: which run to their ruin? What will they? that Love; who is but a child, should render men eloquent; and that Zeal, which is a Seraphin, should not hinder them to be mute? Let us grant notwithstanding, that there is as little ill instruction in the works of those Messieurs, as choice words in ours; who should dare to maintain, that there is merit to read them? But if we derive no advantage from this reading, and that all the sages assure that it is not without suspicion of crime, who will be so prodigal of his time, as to abandon himself to this dangerous idleness? All posterity mocketh that Bishop, who would rather lose his Mitre, then disavow a fable. Permit me to tell you, my reader, that one would make a much worse judgement of your obstination, if not to quit for a testoon of paper, you should imprudently hazard Paradise. But one learns the world and civility from Romance; grant that it be so: who will resolve himself to lose innocence, or at least to hazard it upon the expectation of so small a gain? I assure not that, which notwithstanding is but too true, that the reading of these pieces is much more fatal to good manners, then that of those other works which openly make profession to instruct men in debauchery. Every one can comprehend it by this sole reflection, that we have horror of a declared enemy, and use precaution against the danger which is known unto us. On the contrary, there is no person that helps not to deceive himself, when the occasion of failing seems to favour the inclination which it intends to corrupt. To speak truth, I know not who will give his approbation to Romances, after the glorious Francis de Sales hath strucken them with Anathema. I will not make use of the answer which he made to a Lady who consulted him upon that kind of writings: it sufficeth me to let you know, that this great Prelate named them the Prenticeship of a trade which is infamous enough. Would it pleased God, for the little love which I have, for me, and the perfect hate which I bear to those agreeable corrupters of innocence, that their work and mine were reduced into ashes to choke that bloodsucker. But since that all my tears, and those of good people deface not one of their lines, I will never cease to continue the endeavour which I use to procure their ruin: perhaps though my weakness gives subject unto some to laugh, it will inspire courage and will in others to secure me.   

DISCOURSE. That it is a greater and more noble Effect of Courage to suffer then to revenge Calumny.  
FORCE, a Principal and most necessary Virtue of man hath two Effects, Sufferance and Action: and to express me more neatly; Force acteth with Courage, and sustaineth with Patience. By its first Office it should moderate that generous impetuosity, which solicits us continually unto great Enterprises; and by the second, it represseth the fears which the distrust of our power imprinteth in us at the encounter of the difficult. Aristotle, the clearest of all those who have known Nature, assureth in the third Book of his Morals, that the Force which sustains meriteth much more praise, then that which assaulteth: Behold his reasons, There is this difference between him that acteth, and him that suffereth, that the first is the master of his Action, and therefore as the beginning of his endeavour is in his liberty, his progress depends of his constancy. If he knows himself weak, he ceaseth; nothing obligeth him to carry on his assault but the hope of the Victory which he hath begun. On the contrary, the second is constrained in the sufferance, for as much as the relief of his evil springs from the sole defect of power in those that labour him. Now who sees not that it is more difficult to remain long  in the Conflict of grief (that which Patience ought to do) then to be moved with resolution for some moments to the design of great things, which proceedeth from courage? from whence I conclude, since it is more easy to have vigour for some minutes, then for months and years it is less in our power to be patiented then courageous. Moreover, he that suffers, hath all his evil present, and he that assaults sees his only to come: yea the evil of the Patient, is a grief real which torments him, and that of the Courageous is oftentimes but an imagination which threatens him. I think no body doubts that the present grief is not more incommodious, then that which we look upon in the future. Nature is moved in the apprehension of the evil which shows itself, but she despairs in the combat of that which afflicts her; nothing comforts her in the actual convulsions of her pain, and a thousand precautions promise her succour, when her misery is distant. That great Philosopher of whom I borrow these Reasons, produceth a third better than the others. Never doth the Courage resolve itself to the pursuit of an enemy, but it promiseth itself the Victory: On the contrary, Patience scarce sees herself assailed, but she apprchends to be overcome. It is not a discretion that we should expect from an Adversary to accommodate himself to our forces, in such manner as be would dispute with us the advantage with honour. As his design is to vanquish, his wisdom is to measure himself before the Combat; if he sees himself not able, he careth not to hazard himself; but if he thinks that he hath more strength than his enemy hath resistance than he contracts himself, drawing new forces from the weakness of another. Saint Thomas upholds the sentiments of Aristorle with this solid Discourse. One cannot doubt that the perfect suppression of fear is not more hard to find, than the just temperament of choler which are the two effects of Force; then there is more mer●t in sufferance then in action. For as much as danger which is the proper object of choler and fear, concurs of itself, and by its natural condition to moderate audacity and on the contrary it aideth timility. And therefore the repression of fear is less easy than the moderation of the motion, which is opposed to it: for besides th●t our inclination is for Choler, which accompanies courage; patience is always followed of fear, which is, the strong est to be the weakest of our affections. Now it is certain, that it belongeth to Force to assault, for as much as it rules audacity, and sustains in correcting fear. It is less then, to do, then to suffer. So the Holy Ghost praising the Beauties of his Spouse, speaks not of her armed hand, but of her neck adorned with a thousand Bucklers, because we have a thousand evils from which we should defend ourselves. From all this Dispute I gather, That there is much more Courage to suffer Calumny, then to revenge it, since Revenge acteth, and Patience sustaineth. Though this truth remains strongly enough established upon these Reasons, I think it fit to add some others, which are proper to the subject which I treat of. It is not a little glory to triumph of an enemy, whose ●ate is no less unjust than damageable; for as much as he who is the Conqueror of another, seems to become the Master. So that the same Motive which thrusts us on to superiority, solicits us to revenge. But we ought to observe, that man having more aversion from Infamy then love for esteem, it is more glorious to repress the sentiments of injury, then to satisfy the appetite of glory. The secret principle of this inclination is found in that reasonable interest, which perswades us, that the entire ruin of our being excites more our fears and flights, than its perfection merits our desires and searcher. So is it certain, (what greediness soever we have for reputation) that we never hazard its pursuit in the occasions of dishonour. A great Courage gives itself up unto the dangers of losing life, because he sees his recompense in the esteem; but he withholds himself from the Encounter of reproach, because he feareth the Infamy. Therefore it is no wonder if I say, that it is more to suffer detraction which endeavours to sully us, then to revenge it, since the peaceable acquiesment hath this ill witness, that we love ignominy, and the effort which we make to reject it discovereth our impatience. And really, to consider the forces which we employ in the one and the other, we shall find that reason alone aids us to suffer Calumny, and that a great number of passions thrust us on to revenge it. We have always esteemed a Victory by the little assistance of the Conqueror, and by the advantages of the Conquered. Who can then deny, that a man who combats with Reason alone against a great crowd of enemies, meriteth no more Eulogies, than he who is sucoured of all sides? All the difficulty that there is to suffer comes not from the infirmity of the person that suffers, it comes also from the power of the causes, which produce the sufferance. Add unto that, that very often there is no hope to acquire glory; and that one hath always cause to require the satisfaction thereof by Justice. But if the difficulty of a work augments the glory and price thereof, it is not hard to conclude of that which I have said, that the Courageous who repulseth the outrage, meriteth less Praise and Recompense, than the patiented that endures it. So must it be confessed, that the last proof of Christian generosity is in the pardon of the Offence, since it is more easy to give our goods then our resentments▪ We may permit without crying, that force take our Wealth from us, for they are not tied to our flesh; but we cannot suffer without patience, that one should ravish Glory from us, because it is glued to our spirit. Much more it seems easy to witness Constancy, when one cuts off a member from us, which hath no annection but with a part of our body, then to use resignation when one loseth honour, which relateth to the whole soul. This Discourse makes it sufficiently to be comprehended, that Patience i● 〈◊〉 mystery of Christianity, and that at less than the instruction of a God, we could not have known a Virtue, which makes us enemies of our selus. But if the generosity which we practise in suffering, meriteth glory, what praise should we not give to the courage of those who lose without displeasure what all men seek with so much zeal? It belongs not but unto Jesus Christ, and unto those that are near his Cross, to bear peaceably the outrages which it is just and glorious to repulse. Nothing can resolve us thereunto, but the example and grace of a God, since Nature is repugnant unto it, and reason forbids not to pursue the punishment thereof.  
But to put this truth into a light which may be seen and sensible to all the world, I think it fit to join History to reason. That which I will produce, carries an illustrious proof of the courage which revengeth the calumny, and of the patience that suffers it. Since all the evil comes from the side where the North wind bloweth (to speak in the terms of the Holy Ghost) it is not inconvenient to draw from thence some famous example of slander. Henry the fourth, Emperor of Germany, having resolved to choose a Princess that might partake with him the delights of his Empire, he fixed his thought upon one of the daughters of Henry the second King of England. Though he had never seen Matilda, her portrait gave him love; so must he confess that the pencil never did better in the expression of all the parts, which make up a perfect visage. But what! if the copy of an excellent beauty could kindle so many innocent fires; is there not cause to fear that its Original made fatal combustions? Love is a flame of another nature then that of the lightning, which fixeth but on the oaks and fir; she spareth not the meanest fortunes, because very often their ambition as well as their design is to burn; contrary to those humble plants that hid themselves in the fire of heaven, for fear to be perceived of it. Behold the misfortune that happened, (as the History relates it) to a Gentleman of the Emperor's house. This rash person having beheld his Mistress with too much curiousity, had so little discretion as to speak of Love to a Queen, who pessessed as much virtue as she had beauty. The refusal which he received, gave him with the shame of his demand, a lively apprehension of the punishment which his presumption merited. To divert the storm thereof, he judged that he must gain the spirit of Henry, and prevent his judgement upon the complaint which he believed Matilda would make unto him of his impudence: In this design he spoke to the Emperor, and told him with much candour, that his wife ceased not to solicit him to a disloyalty, the sole thought whereof, he supposed would be culpable. In a word, that the Princess would have him for her friend. We have s●en but very few Sovereigns that take pleasure to divide their Crown; but we see yet fewer husbands that suffer the participation of their bed. The woman is a Kingdom of the man; (as St. chrysostom assures it) if this Monarchy degenerates into a Republic, the Monarch falls into fury: perhaps Henry would have dissembled if any one of his Provinces had given itself to a tyrant, but his indignation witnessed well that be could not suffer that his wife should offer herself to one of his servants. The suspicion that he received of her upon the report of a slanderer, caused that he cast Matilda into prison, swearing by his Sceptre and his Life, that the blood of that unfortunate Princess should wash off that spot, if no body presented himself for the proof of her innocence. Behold then that poor Queen in a straight prison, where the horror of death could not make her to pronounce one word of despair or of murmur: she adored the Providence that permitted her oppression; but if she spoke or deplored, it was but to witness the joy of her sufferance. That she might not betray her virtue, she was contented to protest once of her innocence, and to say, that never cither her body or her heart were divided. They say, that jealoufie is an excess of love, and that a husband would never fear to lose the affection of his wife, if he esteemed her not much, and judged her not worthy to be sought. Let every one believe hereof what be will, for my part. I maintain that this distrustful passion takes more from hatred, then from love, since it looks but upon the ruin of its object in stead of procuring the advantages of it. Never will any one think that Henry loved Matilda with excess, if he considers that he persecuted her without pity; all things were disposed for the punishment of this deplorable Princess, and they began already to dress her a wood pile, according to the custom then▪ which was that an adulterous woman should expire in the flames: the lamentable spectacle of this sad preparation could not change the countenance of the Princess; to see her constancy, one would judge that it was a Comedy, in which every one acted well his part, except she who was the subject thereof. As they expected the day which was to shut the lifts to the Champions of the Empress; there arrived a Hermit at the Court who was permitted entrance into the prison from whence Matilda beheld death to come. This Religious man, after he had heard the general confession of the poor Queen, and known her perfect innocence, departed out of the prison to appear the next day in the lists, with resolution to defend a virtue which he saw unjustly oppressed. I will not extend the ceremonies of this combat, it is sufficient to say, that heaven aided for this bout the good intention of a simple in behalf of an innocent. The Calumniator was constrained to confess the virtue of Matilda, and afterward to die upon an infamous Gibbet▪ I know that this History hath nothing good but its end▪ and that there is nothing but the cleverness of the former ages that can justify it. That Cavalier which presented himself for Champion to the Princess, was quite otherwise then he seemed to be; the habit of a Religious man under which he appeared, served as a vail to his design, and not as vestment to his profession: and not to disguise a disguisement, it was a French Prince, who touched with the misery of Matilda, had quitted his Court to come to defend Innocence, after he had known by the artifice which he used, the truth or falsehood of her accusation. As he had finished an enterprise which would be glorious in all its circumstances, if it had not employed that unlawful means, he retired himself, remaining unknown, as before. If the History assured us not that it was the last of the Berangers, Count of Barcelona and Provence, whom it names different from the others, Remond Teste d'estoupe, we should not know yet his name and quality. Those who have thought that the merit of that protection acquired him Provence, have not well read the Records, which import expressly, that this Sovereignty came unto him by his marriage with Douce the one of its heir esse. All this supposed, as the History represents it, I leave now to judge if Matilda meriteth not more praises for having suffered without murmur, than Remond for having vanquished with good fortune. It is a spectacle which hath the eyes of men for witnesses and admirers, to see a Prince in hazard of his life without other interest then of justice: but an Empress in infamy, and without impatience, it is in my judgement a miracle, which may arrest both the Angels and God himself. The arms of Remond have asplendor that shall never perish, and the tears of Matilda a sweetness which triumphs eternally. I admire the courage of the Cavalier, but I am ravished with the patience of that happy unfortunate.   

The Triumphant Lady: OR, The Crowned Innocence.  
Tears have (I know) not sweetness, which makes us to love them; and though them may be the marks of grief in those that shed them, they are motives of joy to those that consider them. The sole sight of one in misery gives the experience of this truth: But if any one remain insensible by an afflicted person, we ought to believe either that he is not a man, or rather that he is blind. The greatest and fairest Monster that Africa ever nourished, confesseth that the agreeable Lies of Virgil, deceived him with so much cunning, that he took pleasure to deplore with Dido, whose feigned griefs produced true regrets in his soul. But if it be true that all sorts of Wretches draw us to the compassion of their sufferings, and that we resent a kind of pleasure to sigh with them; it is much surer, when the subject of the affliction seems unto us to merit a good or less rigorous fortune. That fair Offenderesse, who sold so many repentances unto Greece, no sooner appeared in the midst of the Areopage, but he was changed; and those that should courageously bend their spirits unto Equity, mollified themselves effeminately unto love. I know that pity alone made not this strange change, and that it was assisted with a Vice, wherewith an old man should never be suspected, much less seized. Besides I am not ignorant that that afflicted Beauty gained her Judges, rather by her tears and by the compassion of her mifery, then by the lustre of her Graces, which could not but be extinct or obscured by the lively apprehension of a death as shameful as her life. Philosophy is much troubled to observe the secret causes of that flux and reflux of our eyes. For to say that we take of the nature of that charitable Bird, which cannot behold a sick person without becoming so herself, nor be in health by a face infected with the Jaundice, is to express by an example what we comprehend not by reason: and though we should be satisfied with this consideration, and that our spirit would yield itself to that sentiment, we should not know nevertheless the reason of that joy which tickles us in deploring. I confess, that compassion charging us with the miseries of another it obliges us to tears, and therefore it is impossible, that we should not cherish a Remedy which comforts us in part; or heals us wholly. But what! Cannot one love sorrow without rejoicing at it? Perhaps that suffering being ordinary, and as it were natural unto us, we receive pleasure to fool the attaint thereof from whatsoever place it comes; this familiarity is not so agreeable, that it may not be troublesome: Is it not that the misfortune of our neighbour pleaseth us? certainly it could not cause in us at once contentment and pity. If we should love the hurt of a miserable person, me thinks we should not deplore him: if we should deplore him, who will believe that we should love him? My Reader, I leave this curious search to give you the subject thereof in your proper sentiment: I fear not to put you off, since the tears which I promise you are sweet, and since I am assured that what shall attrist you, can and aught, infallibly to rejoice you.  
Poor Hirlanda, how the sad sight of your disgraces touches my heart to the quick! And how much more willingly would I give tears to your misfortunes, than ornament to your History! It is true, that I cannot relate your Adventures without lamenting them; and therefore if I oblige me to describe them, I oblige me to deplore. That which comforts me, is, that if you languish through necessity, I sigh with compassion; and that if the malice of another makes you to suffer, your sole virtue causeth me bitterness; much more when I consider the first source of your tears, and see an eternal providence which travels in the accidents of your life; I draw pleasure from your sorrow, because you draw your happiness from thence. Grant then, if you please, that I discover to posterity an example, which the injustice of the times would ravish from it: Perhaps you will not revive unprofitably, and will borrow some Splendour from the Obscurity which ●ndeavoured to bury you. I fear not that the remembrance of that which afflicted you formerly, troubleth you; since you know perfectly, that it is the very same which crownes you now. Your felicity is too pure to mingle itself, and your fortune too constant to be shaken. I dare likewise to promise me, that my pen can produce you new sentiments of joy, provided that it represents unto you naturally your ancient miseries. For the motive which I give you thereof, refuse me not the assistance which is necessary for me to give it you: I can do nothing without your help, as I will enterprise nothing without your consent.  
But I perceive (my Reader) that this Discourse troubles you, and if I deceive not myself, you would desire to know already the end of a History, whereof I have not yet touched the beginning. Well then since you will deplore, I consent thereto. I care not to defend you from the tears which are innocent, and which I likewise esteem reasonable. Look upon the skirt of this Wood, which the Winter hath deprived of all its beauties: approach that Rock which thrusts forth gross bubbles of water, and you shall ●nd there the sad subject of your plaints and tears. Believe not nevertheless that this universal death which appears to your eyes in the withered grass, and upon the naked trees, merits the resentments of a heart, which is provoked with the glory not to be inhuman. That poor woman whom you see following a Flock, which was sent forth from the Grange, rather to recreate then to feed, should furnish you a lamentable Object of Piety. Her head leaning upon her right arm sustained with her knee, her look , and almost dead, her whole countenance and her exterior tell you sufficiently that she hath very little courage, or much misfortune, Ask her not her condition, grief hinders her to speak; believe not that her Equipage tells it you; these tottered Garments that defend her from the cold, make not that she is not a Princess: Without discovering the disgraces which have obliged her to serve, I think that it is enough to tell you that she is miserable, to constrain you to weep. Notwithstanding I will advertise you that she is a Saint, for fear that the excess of her misfortunes should make you to believe her a Criminal. Perhaps if she had had less innocence, she should have had more good fortune: but without divining, it is certain, that her High Birth is the sole cause of her great fall. Yes, Deplorable Princess, I doubt not at all but your Fortune would have been better, if your extraction had not been illustrious: But too, who could assure that your Virtue would have been Heroic, if your Blood had been Rustic? He who disposed the accidents of your life, ought not to regulate his conduct upon the sentment of those that cannot conceive it. For my part, I love better to adore his Providences with submission, then to seek the Secret thereof with danger: in the one I may fear of the temerity, and in the other I should hope of the merit.  
Hirlanda Duchess of Bretany, became conceived with child of a Son, whose Birth caused much more grief to his Parents, than it promised them solid joys: She was not five Months gone, but her Husband was constrained to quit her, to the end to follow the King in a War, unto which, Honour as well as his Duty called him. There are none but those who are yet in the first tendernesses of a chaste and innocent marriage, that can comprehend the rigours of a separation that comes to trouble them. When the hearts are married as well as the bodies, there is no death whose convulsions would be more unpitiful, than those of a grievous departure: Death in taking from us life and sight, takes from us the sentiment of all that which we love; but a departure or absence leaves us eyes only to represent unto us the things which can displease us. Artus (so will I name an unknown, since that name is ordinary in the house of Bretany) being upon the point to departed, employed all the reasons which could consolate his Spouse.  
Madam (said he unto her) I am not ignorant that you know me too well to believe that any thing of the world separates me from you, but the sole necessity to obey my Sovereign. Since the time that heaven conjoined us, it hath made me to discover so many virtues in your soul, that I observe no more perfections in your body: and really I may say unto you, that both the one and the other tie me so strongly unto you, that if disobedience could be honourable, your consideration would persuade me that it should be just. That which aids me to overcome my repugnance, is that I know you would esteem me unworthy of you; if I should lose an occasion, wherein I may acquire glory in witnessing my fidelity: by the contempt which I make of dangers, you will comprehend the account which you ought to make of my Love; since I protest unto you, that I forget the care to conserve my life, but will never lose the remembrance of my dear Hirlanda.  
Though the Prince was generous enough, his tears and silence witnessed a little weakness, when he perceived that his wife began to grow tender, and that continuing to speak unto her, he continued to afflict her. It is better to break off briskly then to unwind one's self leisureably in the occasions wherein we fear to show forth less courage than affection. Artus made use of this counsel: for feigning that his Journey was not pressing, he went away the next morning at the break of day, leaving a Gentleman to bring him the plaints and regrets of the Duchess. But surely it was impossible for him to be faithful in his report; because to express her tears well, he ought to have her love. One of the principal recommendations which the Prince left with his wife's Domestics; was to have a great care of the Burden she went with, and speedily to advertise him of the success of her Childbed, in case that he should be absent at that time.  
Whilst the Duke advanced towards Paris, and the Princess continued her regrets, I think it is not amiss to withdraw us both from the one and the other, so should we not contribute any thing to the Voyage of Artus, nor to the consolation of Hirlanda.  
To conceive the strange accident which was to arrive in Bretany, it is fit to pass into England. It is in that sland, which anciently bore the name of Albion, and changed it as often as the War made her to change Masters, that the tempest is form which I fear. The Duke had a brother at London, who was bred up at the King of England's Court: Were it that his inclination had made him a stranger, or that interest had suggested unto him to seek support against his blood. Whatsoever it was, Gerard was absent (that was his name) when the Prince was constrained to enterprise a long voyage. Behold the subject which made him to visit his Country again.  
I know not how it happeneth, that the most puissant Monarches of the world cannot defend themselves from the common weaknesses of nature; their Scarlet exempts them not from the Purples, nor their Guards assure them against the other maladies. But if we see with admiration that they are smitten with a disease, which for having the boldness to attach Kings, takes insolently the name of Royal, there is no cause to wonder, when the infirmities of the basest popularity persecutes them. It is a spectacle worthy of pity, to see a Prince gnawn with vermin, and to understand from History, that he who spoke like a God, was eaten up of Lice, as the most miserable of his slaves. Henod is not the only example which we have of these disasters; even those who have merited favours from heaven, have not been dispensed from these miseries of the earth. Constantine, for whom the eternal Providence prepared so many Miracles and Victories, was he not seen half corrupted with the Leprosy? All those that studied his health, could not cure him, nor preserve him from that filthy and shameful infection. There was no remedy which was not used, but there was not any which was not unprofitable. He that healed Naaman in Jordan, reserved unto himself that Cure. Learn, ye Powers of the earth, learn, that God can humble Princes, and that if you have the temerity to displease him, he hath the power to destroy you: There needeth but the least of his winds (as said the holiest of our Monarches) to sink the King of France; at a less rate than that, he can bring you to reason; one spark of his fire can burn you, and one drop of his waters drown you: if he will, the Fever dries you up; if he will, the Dropsy splits you; and yet though your life be subject to these feeble accidents, that proud Pomp which disguiseth but the outside, makes you to presume much of your Greatness. You insolently think that you are not beneath your Creator, because you are a little above the other Creatures: the hurt that you may do unto them, persuades you that you ought not to fear any thing from his arm, and that yours hath nothing which can stop it; as if there were a great glory to be able to do unto others, what they may suffer from them. Know then once again, that you have a Master who brings down the proudest heads by the sole will of destroying them, nothing being able to restrain his hand, nor to change his counsel.  
At the same time that the brother of Artus was in England, he who was the Sovereign of that Land, was touched with so obstinate a Leprosy, that the disease seemed to derive succour and force from the remedies which were employed to vanquish it. That poor Prince seeing that all the industry of his Physicians advanced as little his Cure as his Hopes, he caused a Jew to be called, whose knowledge was very much in reputation in all his Kingdom. As he exposed unto him his Disease, and implored his aid, this Miscreant, who would not employ malice, if it had not all the blackness whereof it could be capable, demanded some days to study his infirmity. A while after, this Jew returned to the Palace loaden with a great number of Remedies; which the King used; whilst the quacking of his Esculapius could deceive his confidence. But whether this Leprosy was of another nature then that of the Jews, who are more subject to that malady, than any Nation of the earth, or that in truth this Physician was but a Mountebank; he vexed himself to swallow so many loathsome Potions, and to see himself lanced every day, as was almost insufferable.  
The Jew, who perceived it, making use of this device, but to maintain his Fortune, took occasion to represent to his Patient, that his Infirmity being supernatural, his Majesty should not wonder if the Medicine endeavoured unprofitably to secure him; that for his part he had a conceit that there was Witchcraft in his indisposition: notwithstanding, that he should not despair of his health, provided that his impatience made him not to distrust his skills: He added, that that great God who had given him so much power upon Nature, had not denied him to do something against Magic: But if he would be courageous to take a Remedy which he would prescribe him, he should have no less docility to believe without examination the infallible virtue thereof. The King who feared not to drink poison, provided he might have hopes to be cured, interrupted a Discourse which troubled him almost as much as his Disease.  
My good friend (said he unto him) I pray thee comfort my body, and amuse thee not to persuade my spirit; I am ready to do whatsoever thou wilt; command only, and thou shalt be obeyed. I put no bounds to my submission, whilst I may see some assurance in thy promises.  
Is it fatal unto Princes who are infected with Leprosy, to meet always with Physicians that oblige them to be cruel for to be sound, and to lose humanity to acquire a little good health? He who treated with our Patient, failed not to represent unto him, That the first Emperor of the Christians (whatsoever the History says of it) was cured of a Disease like unto his, by such a Remedy as he prepared. And not to entertain you unprofitably with vain words, Know, Sir, that you shall be cured, if you can resolve to wash yourself with the blood of a little child. There is nothing more easy (interrupted the King.) Then can I protest unto you (replied the Jew) that there is nothing in the world, more powerful against that corruption which ruins you. This malady having its first source in the mass of the blood, we must endeavour to put it again into its proper and natural constitution: Nothing can more contribute thereunto then a pure blood, and mingled with all kinds of qualities enemies, for as much as our great Master teacheth us, that one contrary is cured by another. But because this Remedy is exterior, and the Disease possesseth the interior of the body, we must assist it in taking something that may encounter it even in its retreat. The King pined with impatience to hear so many words, and to see so little effect; I conjure thee, my friend (said he) finish speedily, or I die. To that which I have said (answered the Jew) you must add the heart of the fame Infant, eating it very warm, and if it can be, yet panting. The Prince, who thought not to find a mischievous Remedy, provided that it was possible, resented some horror, when he heard, that to recover his health, he must become Antropophage. But surely his spirit entered into very great perplexities, when he understood that that Infant, necessary for his Cure, was to be of high Birth; and much more, when he was told, that the Waters of Baptism would 〈◊〉 away from his blood, the virtue which the Jew assured to be natural against the Leprosy. What resolution should a poor sick person take, who is deceived with the good opinion of his Physician, and transported with the desire of his health? Whatever repugnance ours resented, he resolved to omit nothing that might restore him, persuading himself that the life of a Monarch more imported the good of the State, then that of all the young Lords that were in his Island, Is there any thing that is unjust (said he) when it is necessary? So is it that the Theology of the great ones concludes when they love better the interest of their fortune, than the sanctity of their conscience.  
But alas! Where is that innocent Victim, which is to die? Perhaps it is not born, yet, although they kill it already: Perhaps it plays in the bosom, of its mother, and tasteth the sweetness thereof, whilst cruelty meditates to make it drink the last gall of Nature.  
Whosoever thou art little Innocent, thy misfortune toucheth my heart; and I cannot behold thy blood without shedding my tears. Finish not thy Birth, if thou art not in the world, or haste to die, if thou art in the arms of the Nurse. On how much better were it for thee to perish then to appear: Death will be more favourable unto thee, the less life it leaves thee.  
And you, poor mother, Was it well done of Nature not to give you some foresight of your griefs? I conjure you, desire not to see that dear child, which is form in your womb: It will be the sweet and the sorrowful subject of your afflictions: it will be the innocent Persecutor of your heart, and the deplorable cause of your Martyrdom; but I am to blame to trouble the contentments that ravish you. Poor Mother, I am to blame to draw you from that sweetness, which glues you to that Infant. Haste you to taste all the pleasures that you can. Kiss those little eyes, press those cheeks against yours, hid all that amiable babe in your heart, if you can. Perceive you not that it witnesseth by its tremble and quivering, that it fears, or that it loves? See you not how it presseth upon your bosom, how it laboureth to enter once again there? Desolate mother, Look upon those little eyes; do they not tell you that that poor Innocent is going to die? and that mouth which cannot speak yet, expresseth it not by its silence; the adieu which it gives you, and the cruelty which it expecteth?  
Without doubt you are curious to know the news of our Duke, and of our Duchess.  
Before you may understand it from me, my Reader, I pray you to observe in the brutish Discourse of our Jew, the true features of Superstition. Why must there be an Infant of an illustrious house? Why must not this little Prince be baptised? Perhaps that Nobility is a Simple against the Leprosy? Perhaps that a water which hath received the Benediction of heaven, takes from the blood its natural virtue? No, believe it not, the Devil who presides at this Cure, pretends to kill a soul, and not to heal a body. All these conditions serve but to envelope his design, and to give colour to his malice.  
Let us return to our subject.  
Hirlanda prepares herself to lie in, all her Court made Devotions and Prayers for her happy deliverance; there was no person that desired not a little Master, no body that begged it not of God. Whilst that all things were between hope and fear in Bretany, Artus who was already come to the Army, suffered cruel tortures in his soul; continually the Image of his dear Spouse came to seek him, and to bring him new affrights from her: now he flattered himself with the hope of a quick return, and anon he afflicted himself with an apprehension that he should never see her more.  
I will not conceal from you an accident which caused him much trouble. One day as he was in an ill humour more than ordinary, he of his Domestics that opproached him with most confidence, having surprised him in this condition, conjured him to discover unto him what caused his grief. The Prince, who used not to hid his heart from this Favourite, confessed unto him, that the precedent night he had had a dream, which held him in great inquietudes. I was not throughly asleep (said he unto him) but it seemed unto me, that I saw my poor Hirlanda stretched out dead upon her bed, and a cruel Vulture seized upon her belly, and tore out her bowels. No body appeared to secure her; for though at times a very feeble motion, and some languishing sighs made me believe that she lived, there was about her but two Harpies, which with their talons and sight assisted that dreadful Bird, whose horrible figure presenteth itself continually to my memory. Behold the subject of my sorrow, and that which afflicteth me sensibly.  
As he continued his Discourse, the Almoner, who was a man very capable, presented himself in his chamber, from whence he endeavoured to retire, when he perceived them in private conference. But Artus, who was touched with the curiosity to be instructed, and with the desire to divert himself, commanded him to enter, and then having related unto him his Vision, he conjured him to tell him what he thought of it. The Almoner, who had no less modesty than capacity, forgot not to excuse himself, beseeching his Excellence to believe, that as he had always despised Artemidorus, he never employed either his time or pains to study him; notwithstanding he said, that he would willingly adventure to tell him what Theology permitteth to believe thereof, which he thought not unnecessary, since oftentimes we attribute too much or too little unto Dreams. Behold his Discourse.  
My Lord, Since it pleaseth your Excellence to hear what I have sometime learned upon this Subject, I most humbly beseech you to believe, That only my incapacity will obstruct your full satisfaction; and that if I were more knowing, you should be more enlightened: And not to divert me from your intention, I think it cannot be said, that Dreams which are the motions of the soul, that forms itself divers figures, or receives them, should be all false illusions or infallible truths▪ Whatsoever respect the profane have had for the vain Science which is made of it, the wisest sort of people mock equally the Superstitious, and the Incredulous, Aristotle, whose humour is not to believe without good caution, could not approve the opinion of his Master, who would that all the Dreams of the night came from the Gods, and therefore that they should be Celestial and Supernatural instructions for men: And to speak truth (as he observeth) the Dogs and other Beasts dreaming as well as we, there is little likelihood, that such high Majesties would abase themselves to instruct Brute●▪ Philon, who always professed himself a great partaker of the Platonics, makes dreams to be born in the soul from the sympathy of its motions to the course of the Universe. Syneses' acknowledgeth a certain spirit, which I know not, that serves them for seat and carriage, in the same manner as the naturalists conduct vigour and life into all the parts of man: Others make them to slide from the stars, and some dare boldly to assure that the fancies of our spirit, are but the remembrances of the knowledges, which it brings from without into our body.  
It cannot be denied but Hypocrates hath better found out the source and principle of them, when for the most part he attributes them unto Nature, and sometimes to its Author: he had said all, if he had added, that the devils atingle themselves very often in our sleep; it is true, that having not distinguished the evil genius from the good, we should confound these two divers causes. That there comes unto us dreams from nature, the experience of all the nights teacheth 〈◊〉 that God sends them often enough, the holy Scripture instructeth 〈◊〉 in it. Who would be so rash as to contest, that those of Abraham, of Isaak, of Jacob, and of Joseph (without speaking of that other Joseph of the new Testament) should not be the advertisements of heaven to these illustrious Patriarches? I enterprise not to verify▪ that the devils make men to dream; and that sometimes, to give them some belief of their Divinity, they give them presentments of their good or evil fortunes. There is not any one that knows never so little the profane history, who is ignorant of that which is related of Podalirus in the Poüille of Naples, of that of Serapis in Alexandria, and of Esculapius at Pergamus. Who hath not heard speak of the Chapel of that Pasiphaé, which was adored in the suburbs of Lacedimon, and beyond Venus de Gaze, where the young maids went to dream the adventures of their Lovers? without doubt this infamous commerce, which continues yet to this day with the devils, upon the success of marriages, hath no other beginning but in these sacrilegious observations of the idolaters. We know but too much the impurity of these devotions: for those that propose to themselves other ends then to know marriages, behold the ceremony of them.  
Those that consult the devils, after they have sacrificed a black sheep unto them, wrapped themselves round about with his skin, and slept so in their temples, to the end, to oblige them both by their confidence and liberality, to discover unto them in dreams, what is to arrive unto them: I confess, that these false divinities expected not always, that these poor blinded souls should render them such ridiculous homages, as if they were provoked to prevent their merit, they devanced sometimes the devotions. And therefore when Socrates dreamt that he entered into the town of Phthia, which was interpreted of his death, because that word signified corruption, his Gods used magnificence. And when Odatis loved her dear Zariader, and Zariader his fair Odatis, without ever seeing one another but in a dream; and that a while after that Infanta presented the viol of gold, (which was to choose her a husband) to that young Prince, who appeared unknown in her chamber, it was an effect of their impulsion, rather than of her prudence. I speak not of Alexander, who dreamt the taking of Tyre, in seeing a Satire in his sleep, as those Divines interpret it, because that Satyros signifies in the Greek language, Tyre is thine. Did not Const●ntius also receive an advertisement of his disaster, going against the Sarazens, when he imagined in his sleep that he went forth of Thessalonica, whose syllables (divided) make these three words, Thes al●o nequin, leave the victory to another. When Astia●● saw a vine to come forth from the belly of Mandana, and the mother of Augustus believed that her bowels were carried away unto heaven, the devils pretended to put themselves in credit by the presages of a greatness, which they promised in dreams, and which the true God destined them in truth.  
But to the end that these events and such others as resemble them, may not carry our spirit to believe that all our dreams are true, it is fit to consider what conjectures we may innocently draw from them: and to speak in few words what I think thereof, it is certain, that we ought as little to suspect the truth of the dreams which come from God, as to receive those which come from the devils, though sometimes they be free from imposture; the reason is, that we own our belief unto God, and our contempt to the devils. Nevertheless, it appertaineth not to every one to judge of these nocturnal visions, prudence obligeth us to leave the discernment thereof to those that govern our consciences. In regard of the natural dreams, whither they proceed from the reflection which the soul makes upon its passed actions, or that they have their principle in the habitude of the body it is evident that one may recollect without crime what is to arrive unto us, since the humour which commands within us is the necessary cause thereof, and the rest of our precedent actions, may be the signs of those which are to follow. Behold the bond or annexion of the accidents of our life with our dreams, & consequently the foundation which they give to the presages which we draw from them. Dreams proceed for the most part from the temperament, the temperament forms our manners, our manners have an ascendant upon out actions in that they produce them or rule them; our journal actions have much relation and power upon the effects, whose causes are secret to us. There is no magic then but the spirit sees our accidents in our dreams, provided, that one assures not this infallible sight. So we learn from the conduct of the spiritual Fathers, that one may form probable judgements, not from the act, but from the inclination of the vice, or of the virtue of a persons dreams. Behold upon what foundation a man that fears to sin, even in his sleep, and resists the filthy imaginations thereof, can assure himself that he loves purity, and that an unlawful pleasure should be troubled to surprise his reason when it awakes. The conjectures which concern not the liberty are less suspected: therefore it may be believed that he who dreams but of pleasant things is of a sanguine humour, that those in whom Phlegm predominates, have in their visions but water, shipwreck, rain and snows; the choleric makes still almost war, during the profound peace of his repose: and the melancholy sees not but sorrowful objects, and horrible phantosmes. Thus the physicians can prudently judge of the intemperature of the humour, by the assiduity of dreaming the same things. Now the reason why we know better the excess of the temperament of that which passeth in the night than the day, it is that the humour suffers not any diversion in its operations, whilst the soul reposes, and that being not employed in her most important actions, she suspendeth not those of the body, which follows ordinarily her application. I pretend not to deny, that the most familiar source of our dreams, is in the entertainments and businesses of the day; because that the species thereof being yet fully fresh, the spirit, which is at leisure, amuseth itself to review them; and because that its reason is but half awaked, it rangeth them so ill, and confounds them, sometimes with so much disorder, that of the fairest images of the day▪ there succeedeth thereof but strange grotesques or confused representations. Behold, my Lord, from whence I think that your dream proceeds, you ought not then, in my opinion, to conclude that there is any thing mischievous to arrive to your Lady, but rather that your imagination hath not well rallied all the thoughts which have entertained you since your departure from her. So ended he his discourse.  
Thanks unto God, I have not so weak a spirit, to yield me to the presages of an evil dream; notwithstanding, if the Vulture were a Monster, cruel enough to figure an inhuman Prince, I would say, unfortunate Gerard, that it should be thee. I know not whether it was by hazard, or through design, that this young Lord was present at the discourse of the Jew. Howsoever it was, it is certain, that all being departed from his Chamber, he went to the King, to the end to make him apprehend how much his health-imported the repose of his State; and that the interest of one sole child should not make so many people suffer. All the difficulty that seemed to be in the thing, was to meet with one of a fit Birth. Gerard, who played the Politician; judged that there was hazard in choosing one of the Island, for as much as his death might alter the spirit of many of his most faithful subjects. But the sick was soon assured, by the offer which a cruel Uncle made him to release him of his pain. My Reader, wonder not if I conceal you his name, I have no less shame, than horror to know it, and would it had pleased God that it had never been known in the History.  
Let us withdraw from a Court▪ where we should be constrained to assist at the massacre of an Innocent, it is better to pass into that of our Duchess, where all the world rejoiced in the hope to see there suddenly a new Master. Though Hi●landa had cause to fear her first throws, she expected notwithstanding the pains thereof with impatience: The desire which she had to leave a pledge of her chaste amours to the Prince, made her to say a hundred times, that she should die contentedly, if she might give her life to a son, and a son to her Husband: The joy of all this House was much augmented, when it was told to the Duchess that her Brother in Law was upon the point to arrive. As soon as she had advertisement thereof, she ran with all the speed that she could to meet him.  
Deplorable Princess, What do you? Apprehend you not a fall, which it seems you seek by your precipitation? Let us not retain her, joy transports her, there can be but little moderation, where there is much affection. Scarce had she met this dear brother at the entrance of the Castle, but she cast herself about his neck: to tell you what she did, it would be to tell you little less than what she would have done if her Artus had been returned. On the other side, Gerard rendered her all the Testimonies which could be expected from a true amity.  
Madam (said he at the same time that he feigned to be able to speak) I should have other then common words to express unto you my resentments. I am ravished to see you, but I am the more so, in that I cannot tell it you, to see you in the condition to be one of the happiest mothers of the earth. If I deceive me not, you are upon the point to give us a young Artus, at least your Vermilion complexion, and that vigour which appeareth in your whole body makes me believe that you have conceived nothing but what is generous. Though you have more need of a Midwife then of a younger Brother, who is not versed therein; I rejoice notwithstanding to be at your lying in, to the end, to render you a part of the offices and tendernesses which you should expect from my Brother; it seems long unto me till I hold that little Babe in my arms. (Oh Traitor! it will be too soon.) Besides, I declare unto you, my good Sister, that it belongs unto me to rock him, and that I will not suffer any body to pay him these petty Devoires to my prejudice. The sweetness of this Compliment mollified Hirlanda in such manner, that she could not reply unto him one sole word; so was it better to answer him with the heart, then with the mouth.  
Some days slid away in good cheer, and preparatives for the Lying in; nine months being now even fully accomplished since the Conception of the Duchess. The good mother would herself prepare the little swaddling , and other moveables for her dear Infant, Whilst this happy day advanced, what did Gerard? He put on the best countenance he could to beget in the Duchess a perfect confidence of an unfeigned Amity. But alas! Heart of man, how perfidious art thou? At the same time that his sister made him all the Entertainment that she could, he mingled with it the most dangerous perplexity that her Innocence could fear. The Midwife and Nurse, who attended the Birth of that little Prince, were already in Hirlanda her house; since the arrival of her Brother in Law; these were the two women that he attempted, but with so much cunning, that his conduct passed in the beginning for a simple design only to affectionate them to the succours of his sister, and to the ears of her child. He advised them notwithstanding to discover nothing of his Liberalities to the other Domestics; for fear that his favour might put them into jealousy; nor likewise to his Sister, lest that it might pass with her in stead of the recompense which she destined them. At last, after a long practice, judging that he possessed enough the spirit of these Mercenary souls, he declared unto them that their fortune depended on their courage, and that if they had never so little heart, they might hope good fortune enough. The assurance to put themselves in place where they should have nothing to fear, gave them the boldness to enterprise any thing. And then all that he demanded from their fidelity, was to feign that his sister's child was dead in her labour, and to follow him in a Country, where he pretended to cause it to be brought up, for great reasons, which obliged him to withdraw it from its mother.  
At last the very moment of lying in arrived, the Convulsions thereof were so violent for the space of a day, that it was easily believed, that nothing would proceed thence, but the death of the poor Princess. It is true yet, that she was delivered in a swoon, which gave opportunity enough to those whom Gerard had gained, to betake themselves to the sea, where a Shallop attended them. They were to embark in a place of the Armoric, which at this day is called Quidalet, and was then named Alethe, a word which in its Orginal signifies Error, this place merited formerly so much veneration from the Inhabitants of these coasts, that all the slaves which the tempest brought to this Sanctuary, recovered their liberty as soon as they touched the borders of that happy Land. But this good fortune happened not to those that stole away our little Prince, for scarce were they entered into their Shallop, but a troop of armed men boarded them; their angry Visages, and their naked swords shined so bright amidst the darkness, which the first break of the day had not fully dissipated, that our Fugitives could draw from thence but a fatal presage of their ruin. Behold them than Captives, and loaden with Irons in a place where the most miserable quitted them: These poor people surprised with an accident, which they had neither apprehended nor foreseen, doubted whether they should lament or bless their very fortunate misfortune. The knowledge which they had of their Crime gave them too much fear of the punishment, to rejoice at this favourable disaster. On the other side, seeing themselves delivered from a death which they began to taste when they were arrested, it was impossible that the present joy should not put some good interval to the fears which their evil conscience furnished them.  
Adoreable providence of God, which conducts so wisely the misfortunes of the wicked, that it leaves them fear enough in the bottom of their hearts to punish them, and confidence whereby not to yield themselves to despair. My Reader, You know the just Motive of their apprehension, but you are ignorant for a while of that of their joy; be not troubled with that which is to arrive to our Fugitives, there is but one Innocent amongst them: Perhaps these Strangers that hold him, will have pity of his misery. But though they should want sweetness to spare his life, the death which they shall make him suffer, will be a favour to him; both because it will be more humane than that which they destiny him, and because he is less sensible of the grief, than he shall be, if compassion permits him to grow up. In respect of them who have carried him away, there is nothing too cruel and rigorous that may arrive unto them: let their Pirates have all the ill will that the sea hath ever maintained, it will not be too much to punish them. I would not have you to consider a poor mother in the convulsions of death; I would not have you think of the interest of a Prince, who is not yet unfortunate, but with the foresight of his misfortune. It is sufficient to make you consent to the death of the guilty, to put you in mind of their Treason. Without doubt servants merit not for the most part the outrages which they receive from their Masters: if they are faithful, they ought to be humane to them. But if avarice or some other passion takes from them that quality which hinders them to be our most dangerous enemies, because they are our Domestics, I think that we cannot have too much severity to punish them: But if nothing obligeth us to their pardon, when their infidelity toucheth but our goods, who could give us a thought of goodness in their behalf, when their rage assaulteth our honour, or our lives?  
Poor Artus, it is now that you should see your dear Hirlanda, either dead, or dying upon her bed; it is now that you should find a Vulture and Harpies about her. It is true, that they are gone, and that there rests nothing by the desolate Princess, but the marks of their cruelty on her disgraced face, and in her languishing eyes.  
As soon as the sorrowful Lady came again to herself, and that grief permitted her to sigh, she demanded her child. Alas, Madam, (replied one of her women) be not curious to see him, he is in a condition more capable to give you horror then consolation. It is no matter (said the poor mother) let him be brought unto me. You will die then (answered that subtle Wretch, who had all the intentions of Gerard) at a less rate than that. I think that you should not fix your eyes upon a body half form, or to speak better, upon a lump of flesh, which denotes as little life as humane shape; they have already cast it into the earth. My dear Girl, tell me at least, is it Christian? Madam, you should ask, if it be Man.  
Let us not stay by this unfortunate Princess, she enters again into the Agony of her Trances, but it is to bring forth nothing but sighs and plaints. I assure you, my Reader, that there is no less trouble to express them then to hear them, and that it is equally impossible for me to be the Spectator thereof, and the Writer. To offend neither your eyes or ears, I think it is fit to withdraw us from Hirlanda's chamber, for I am persuaded, that you desire to understand the Adventures of our poor little Infidel. Whatsoever curiosity presseth you, you must know many things before that: and really, though we are troubled to see the miseries of our Duchess, it is fit now that we are accustomed to her evils, to suffer them in company, than so discreetly to husband our grief. I conjure notwithstanding the Reader, if it happens that he deplores with her, not to blame me of hardness; it will not be the Artifice of my Discourse, nor the force of my expression, that shall oblige him to this resentment, but only the cruelty of her fortune.  
The Princess was not yet up of her Childbed, but her brother in Law began to give her more open proofs of his ill will; first by an usage very rude, and then by words extremely injurious. O God, what a cruel displeasure is it to a mother, to reproach her, that she is the Homicide of her fruit! This was notwithstanding the Crime wherewith Gerard accused his sister, adding, that if she had had as much love for her husband, as she had for a certain Gentleman her neighbour, she would not have so ill husbanded the hopes of her house.  
Poor Hirlanda! What can you say to these sorrowful news? But what could you do when you perceived, that the Artifices of your cruel brother in Law had changed the spirit of all your Domestics? That of the Duchess was not malicious enough to penetrate the intricacy of that conduct; behold the natural recital thereof. There was amongst the women of Hirlanda a Damosel, who had always had her principal confidence; it was she that contributed most to her ruin. Gerard having known the weakness of that maid, he gained her in such sort to his passion, that he disposed of her more absolutely than modesty and fidelity would allow her. This was the confident he made use of to affright her Mistress, an hundred times a day she cast new fears into her soul, as if she had discovered the secrets of Gerard. Hirlanda knew well that her Brother had very much altered her Husband against her, which he expressed unto her by a letter, whose outrageous compliments made of her eyes two living sources of tears: Notwithstanding, the Duke had not spoken so clearly, that he could content Gerard, nor assure the Princess; but if he gave cause of fear to his wife, he furnished the means to embroile his brother. He did it with too much success; for that cursed confident, having told her a hundred times, that that young Prince had commission from Artus to put her to death, she cast such an apprehension into her mind, that having no other counsel but fear, she resolved herself upon a flight.  
Co poor Princess, go amongst the lands and forests, though you may find there Bears and Wolves, you shall find nothing so cruel as a brother in law. The desire which I have that those who have began to peruse this history, may finish it, obligeth me to say nothing of the sorry equipage of our fugitive, because I am assured that the recital which I should make thereof, would give more desire to deplore, than curiosity to read. Let us let Hirlanda go.  
I know not whether Gerard was ravished with the resolution which his sister had taken; for as much as he believed to have in her flight strong proofs against her innocence: he made semblance notwithstanding to make search for her, to the end, that Artus might not suspect him of collusion in his carriage. After a diligence which might beget a belief that he had sought her, he would go unto the Duke himself to be the messenger of so many wretched tidings: it is not necessary to touch by parcels the addresses which he used to assist the jealousy of his brother. I fear already, that I have left an ill example to posterity, without needing to leave it such particular instructions of malice. Perhaps some one will find it very strange, that Gerard employed not poison to rid himself of his sister: without doubt there is cause to wonder at it, since he had rage and baseness enough. Notwithstanding, to examine well his conduct, we have wherewith to praise his evil policy; for his design being to enjoy the inheritance of his brother: he would not give him the means of having heirs, in leaving him the liberty to choose another wife. Behold then a man in a new celibat, from whence he was not sure to come forth till after seven years, which the simplicity of our ancestors destined to the uncertainty of widow-hoods.  
I should amuse my Reader with things which would give him impatience, if I would relate what passed in Hirlanda's house, since she quitted it. In my opinion, it is better to seek our unhappy Princess, then to instruct one's self with the regrets of her unfortunate husband.  
He lived almost seven years in a melantholy which punished sensibly, though slowly, his precipitation, when a troop of Gentlemen (his neighbours) came to take leave of him for a voyage to Saint Michael. Every one knows that this place of devotion is in the confines of those two Nations, who, for being of very different humours, have need of an armed Saint to keep them in peace. It is true, that the jealousy to possess so powerful a Protector, would trouble their repose, if to content those two people, the river Coesnon lost not his in quitting his bed, to the end, that successively this glorious Archangel might be Norman and Britain.  
As this Nobility of whom I have spoken, had rendered these devoirs to that Prince of the Angels, one of the most considerable of the troop named the l'Olive, took leave of his companions to visit an aunt which he had a little further into Normandy: he was not a little troubled to find her house, which a very great wood covered of all sides, and perhaps he had not found it, if he had not met with a country woman, who put him into the path which led to the castle; Inform you not of her name, it sufficeth to know that it was a poor woman, who had the care of ordering the affairs of the back Court. She had led the flocks to the field to cheer them a little; but to speak truth, it was rather to weep with more liberty.  
One cannot easily express the good entertainment which our Cavalier received in the house of his aunt: all the neighbourhood was invited to come to contribute to that good Lady's rejoycement. The place of that abode was one of the most agreeable residences that one could desire to be in: but to speak the truth, the winter there was a hideous, as in any other place of the earth; all the avenues thereof were so hindered by the waters which rolled down in its valley, that one might believe it was not without artifice that the approach unto it was forbidden: this inconvenience of coming forth, obliged the company to remain in the house, and to divert itself in the halls and galleries. It pleaseth me to make you participate of a pastime which meriteth your attention, since it can as much instruct your spirit, as it contented the eyes and ears of those that practised it. There was a gallery in that house, which looked upon the East, where all the Promenades of winter were form. Those who had given them design, had suggested them ornament. All the walls were adorned with excellent pictures; but one should offend the Mistress of the house, to believe that she could have suffered that what was but to recreate the sight, should serve here to wound hearts. She had too much charity to propose naked persons to the cruel rigours of a cold which pardoned not even those who were the best clothed: there was not one figure which was not modest: the Painter himself had given so much naturalness to their decency, that one would think that modesty animate; but if there appeared any naked thing in the cloth, a reasonable spirit would easily judge that the expression of the history was more looked upon then the design of the pleasure.  
One afternoon, as all the company was in that gallery, they prayed a very understanding old Gentleman to decipher these pictures, and to serve for interpreter to those strangers, who spoke to all the world without being understood but▪ of the Learned, because the language of picture, though sensible, is mute. After a long refusal in point of modesty, that wise Seigneur, who would rather have concealed, then produced that treasure which sew persons love, began his discourse in these terms; Since you will not consider that those of my age speak sometimes too long, I run the hazard of being troublesome unto you, by the obligation which you impose on me to be complacent. Your curiosity will make your patience to suffer: I promise you notwithstanding, though I cannot content the former, that I will relieve the later as soon as you shall signify to me that you desire it. The season invites us not to the bath, yet I must (without quitting that good fire) lend you in the first place to that river which seems to flow from that cloth. Would you not judge by the inequality of those floods which raise themselves one upon the other, that they crowd together to fly? You comprehend well that this river is no other but the miraculous labourer of Egypt, of whom the history tells us so many wonders. That Nymph which you see at the place from whence the water seems to come, is it not the famous Isi, unto whose tears the fable attributes the inundation of Nile, which hath no other cause but the reins and snows of Ethiopia. It is true that the young maid weeps, and therefore she augments these waters; but besides that, the little which she contributes thereto cannot make a great inundation; she hath a much truer, and more sensible cause of tears, than the death of Osiris. I perceive the little Moses, whom the cruelty of Phara●h hath condemned with all the Hebrew males unto shipwreck; his poor sister sighs his misfortune, and attends at that river side, by her mother's command, the sad success of his fortune; she works pity in you, I make no doubt on't; let us not lose our tears, though after her example: though this little Prophet hath no other bark then that rush pannier, which is given him for a tomb, he shall find a happy port, because he hath God for Pilot. Behold that Princess that walks upon the brink of the river with her maids, Chance brings her not there, her design is to bathe herself in those wholesome waters which make women fruitful, to the end, to give an heir unto Egypt: She seeks a son for her Father, and heaven raises her up a God, so the Scripture names this poor deserted infant. But alas, a new danger threatens his life; I see him in that place where the water turns from him. It is one of those monsters, to whom Nature hath not given terms of greatness, perhaps, because they increase always in cruelty. Would you not say that this Crocodile hides himself in the bul-rushes, to expect his prey there, and that he opens his mouth already to devour it? Notwithstanding, though the eye judges that his floods advance and conduct that vessel into this gulf, he ought not to fear any thing that is within; for besides that, that this monster is well fixed to the picture, he takes a posture that cannot give distrust▪ That bird which plays in his throat, is the little Trochilus, which we call Roytelet. There is a very straight amity between these two animals, though fare different in humour, which shows that resemblance is not always the mother of love. Consider, I pray you, the pleasure that this dragon takes in the service of his little friend, who rids the teeth of the remains of his dinner. The industry of the Painter appeareth in this, that he expresseth even the pain that this sluggish beast hath to hold up his jaws so long, but he witnesseth well that he knows the secrets of Nature, since from the back of the bird he hath framed towards the palate of the Crocodile, a very sharp feather, which threatens him with a wound, if he give him not leisure to finish his business. We should not imagine that to make a perfect picture, the Painter wanted discourse, in exposing a Queen to that fierce animal. He knows well that the Crocodile hath no cruelty in that place of the Nile, not by reason of that plum which a famous Magician cast therein, as the history will have us believe; but because of the abundant feeding that is there, without being obliged to seek it, as above Memphis, where the fish is scarce. Forget not to observe, that the pencil hath even put that secret into the countenance of those women, since they all look upon the monster with assurance. These sheep which ruminate in the shade of the sedges, wherewith the river is palisadoed, though fearful, are without apprehension; so perceive they not the wolf, that carries away one of their companions; nothing hinders him to bleat, but that crafty animal, who takes him by the throat, for fear that his cry should discover his theft: the dogs do what they can to overtake that robber, but the perspective hath put him so fare off, that their diligence is unprofitable. In the mean time the shepherds sleep at their ease, because they know not their loss. One would swear that he who leans against the trunk of that tree, blows; the inflation of his mouth persuades me so almost. What say you of that tree which is enveloped only with one leaf of Moss? That fantasy is of Art, which teacheth us by that ingenious Grotesque, the natural freshness of those leavs, and their excessive largeness.  
The Interpretet made here a little pause, and looking about for a Gentlewoman of the company, who was of a sweet humour, and good wit, he said unto her, I fear that you have no desire to taste the fruits which are fastened to that tree, for if we believe the Orientials, it is the tree of knowledge, whose fruit is called amongst them Magadan, Adam's apples, and really, besides their beauty and figure, which resembles very much our citrons, their taste is very agreeable to the mouth, and dangerous to the stomach, which denoteth sin well, that hath something sweet in its birth.  
The second Tablet represents that famous judgement which was the first effect of Solomon's wisdom; two women lying together in one and the same chamber, it happened one night, that the most negligent smothered her infant, whom she had put in the bed by her, to give it more easily the teat. That which she did, being awaked, signified enough that this accident was without design, and without malice; for scarce perceived she it, but behold her at her companions bed, from whence she took her son, substituting the dead one in his place. The morning which discovered this deceit, put much trouble in the house. Each of the mothers protested that hers lived, and that the other had robbed her of it. Solomon, who began to be King, must begin to be Judge, through an affair so confused: that woman of the two which feigned best, seemed in the judgement of all the Counsel to uphold solidly her cause. No, said the young Prince, it is not just that one alone possess wholly this infant, since the right of the one, is not more clear than that of the other; to content them both, let it be divided. To see the personages of this picture, you would judge that this sentence took from them all their colour and motion, except from the false mother, who laughed with pleasure, approving a cruelty which was favourable unto her. You know the subject of that picture, but perhaps you discover not the artifice thereof. Before you consider it, I would fain tell you that the Painter hath committed a fault, not in his art, whose laws he hath perfectly-observed, but in chronology, placing Solomon in that miraculous throne, which he built not but long time after this judgement. It is to be believed, that this happy fault was of purpose, and that he would rather appear Architect, then scrupulous in the knowledge of the times; so is there not a piece which is not studied, be it in the body of the work, be it in the columns, the chapters, the freeze, and the rest of its ornaments. Really, if I knew not that these Lions, which hold up the tribunal, are of gold and jyroy, I should fear that they were living. Let us look but on the principal of the piece; should you not say that these two old men who are by the King, do meditate the reasons of a sentence, which surpriseth their wisdom? In the mean time, a soldier of the guard takes that poor little one who lives even in the image, and holding him up by the heels, he stretches out his arm with strength, the better to assure his stroke; his sight is fixed upon the place where he intends to make the division to render it more easy▪ notwithstanding he hath a corner of his eye upon the King, participating his look to those two objects, as if he demanded the time to let fall his stroke: it is this that aught to take fear from you, in that he hurts not that Innocent, who though turned topsie turvie, endeavours unprofitably to join his hands in the air by an instinct of nature, who also turns his eyes unto heaven▪ from whence we learn at our birth, that it is from thence that our assistance comes. But I pray you to consider how his leg and left thigh falling upon his flank, make there, with their weight, a marvellous contraction. The distension of his stomach caused by the fall of his belly, merits no less admiration, since it expresseth even the pain of the infant. That young woman which you see at the end of the Picture, and who holds her apron in a condition to receive the half of that body, pretends to be the mother thereof, though to speak truth, there is not one feature in her face that witnesseth it. She seems to have left all the fear and pity on the countenance of that good old woman that follows her: consider, I pray you how fear withdraws her lips, to the end, that only one tooth which is left her may appear; her front, where every moment of her life hath placed a wrinkle, heaps itself up in the midst in such sort, that you might judge that all these lines have their centre there, to mark unto her the hour of dying. Since you are near enough to that pillar, forget not to behold that little boy, who hides himself under its garlands and embroideries. You believe that it is but an ornament of the hall, which is represented in the picture, and yet to see the endeavour that he makes to raise himself aloft, and his attention on that which is done below, you would say that he fears for all the little boys. I know not if it be that child which is going to die that makes him afraid, or he that you see dead in that square: his lips already blue, and the action of that dog, which nothing but his attachment hinders to sent him, show sufficiently that he is the sorrowful subject of that process. Good God, how the death of him that lives yet, appears naturally in the face of the true mother! one would easily believe that she hath nothing more than these two words to say unto Solomon, Sir, I quit my part of him; see how she stretches her arms between the sword and her son, either to stop, or to receive the stroke. You know the rest of the History, so that it shall not need to trouble you more: if I had not forgotten the discretion that I promised you, I had made an end long since of wronging your patience. Old men have short memories, and great inclination to speak, as I have already said unto you: I shall be so short in that which remains, that your goodness will voluntarily pardon my former tediousness. You judge without doubt, by these trees and hills which show themselves but half-ways, that the Painter represents us a night in his work: this deep silence which makes the repose of all Nature, seems it not likewise expressed unto you by the pencil: how that hare which I perceive in that bush gathers up himself perfectly in form, and how these little birds which cannot be distinguished, because the obscurity makes them all of one colour, sleep quietly. I should fear that that greatest, which a darkness more charged makes me take for a Mearl, should tumble, if I knew not that a fall upon the wing is without danger of hurt. But though the shadows would not mark out into you sufficiently a night, in lifting your eyes towards the heaven, which a pale and washed Azure depaints above the Picture, the stars would make it appear sufficiently. Know you not the Bear, which shines with more brightness than any other of these stars? behold a little lower Andromeda▪ behold the Swan; I know not if it be of purpose or by chance that the Painter hath made nothing to break but the constellations, which mark unto us the flight or retreat of some one of the earth into heaven. I should believe it almost, if he had not lightly traced the milky way, by which the Profane assure that the Gods go to counsel, and the Pilgrims to Saint James, us the simple imagine. That young woman who is mounted upon an Ass, and holds a child in her arms, it is the divine Mary, who comes forth of that Village which you see in the bottom of the Picture. Her poor Husband follows her, leading the Ass which carries all the baggage of the greatest and most illustrious Family of the Universe. Perceive you not that the darkness retires at the approach of these Torches, which two Angels carry before their little Monarch. This imagination of the Painter is excellent, but his thought is better yet, since he pretends to insinuate, that the Eclipse of that divine Sun which hides himself in our flesh, appeareth to the world to dissipate our darkness. He goeth forthwith to invade that of Egypt, which is its true Country, since Moses was there a miraculous night in plain midday.  
This last Tablet where I see the massacre of the Innocents', carries the subject of the flight of Jesus and of his mother: you know too well the History thereof to believe me obliged to make you the recital of it. Regard the Action of these Personages, you may say, that there is not one of them which cries not, except that poor mother, whose tongue the Executioner roots out, to punish her with her grief, and to hinder her to complain. I fear to be cruel in obliging you to turn your eyes upon those three Soldiers, who make a Pyramid of the heads of these pitiful victim. It is true, that their rage equals not that of this other, who for fear that a poor woman should conceal her son in her belly, tears it out gasping from her bowels. Behold another sitting, who endeavoured to feign that she hath no fear, because she hath no Infant: but whilst she useth this innocent hypocrisy, I know not if that poor little one, fearing that he should not be a Martyr, advanceth his arm from beneath her coat where he was hidden. One of these Inhumanes mocketh it, and cuts it behind, making sign to his companion to finish. See (I pray you) the despair of that mother, who afflicts herself at this, that drawing herson from between the hands of the Executioner, there remains in her hands but one thigh of him. Not one appeared more content than she, who leaning herself upon her child to cover it from the sword, received it athwart her body. This sad Spectacle afflicts you, I make no doubt on't, so will I stay your eyes no longer there; I desire only that you would consider the endeavour which that woman makes to withdraw hers; one would judge that she puts it out of the Picture, so much sally hath the Painter given it; but alas! she cannot keep it from the Courtedass, which cleaves it in two in the midst of the air.  
Whilst that this wise old man entertained the company with so much satisfaction, that it would be hard to express it, it happened that the Chevalier d● Olive cast his sight upon that woman who had conducted him to the Castle● you would have said, that all this discourse had no other design but to make her weep; notwithstanding, as she perceived that they dooked upon her, she constrained her eyes to an obedience, which was not very perfect, because that from time to time her cears began again to distil. I can no longer forbear to tell you that this unknown person was our unfortunate Hirlanda, who for seven years remained in that house in quality of a servant; her greatest trouble was, to let nothing appear of her condition: but though her Prudence had always suppressed the liveliest splendour thereof, she could not so conceal herself, but her Mistress discovered many things that made her to be considered. Behold that which obliged her to keep her by her, and to love her discourse. It is hard for a Peasant to act a Prince, there will oftentimes slip from him something of the Country. A Person of Birth hath no less trouble to dissemble; though his fortune should bellow, his courage is always high. If it happeneth likewise that he is constrained to humble himself to Employments unworthy of his blood, it communicates unto them, I know not what Grace, which ennobleth them, and hinders them to be Rustic Occupations  
But alas, how much more desiteable had it been to our Duchess, not so often to approach her that took so much pleasure in her Service? At least it cannot be denied but this last Encounter was fatal to her; for at last the misfortune of her poor child was not so prudent concealed but some inkling thereof was come to her ears. She had heard it reported, that that dear moiety of herself had been ravished from her, that they had exposed it to the treacherous waters of the sea, and that a company of Pirates had seized the vessel that carried it away. Was not this enough to persuade her, that these Pictures which were deciphered in her presence, were but Images of her misfortune; so believed she that the design of this discourse looked upon her, though there was no such thought. When they spoke of the little Moses abandoned to the floods of Nile, Love said unto her, Poor Hirlanda, behold thy poor Infant: if she contemplated the Massacre of the Innocents', presently she imagined that hers had met with some Herod. The flight of the holy mother of God, and her exile into Egypt, made her to remember the day that she left her house, and her seven years' abode in that of her Mistress. She cared not to assuage her grief in considering the happy end of the Adventures which the Painter had represented in his Work. She chose not in their History, but that which was proper to her affliction. Good God, how weak is the spirit of m●n to resist an evil, and how ingenious it is to augment its troubles!  
Hirlanda, is there nothing in all these Pictures capable to consolate your grief by the hope of a better fortune? Cherish you your misfortune so tenderly, that you should seek with care the means to entertain it? I confess, that the disaster of your son, cannot have more illustrious figures than Moses and those other children; but why take you only that which is evil in their History? But if your modesty makes you to believe that having nothing like to their merit, you ought not to expect any thing equal to the benefits which obligeth them, I consent that you should presume little of your virtue, provided that you conceive no: any distrust of God's goodness. Expect not the favor● that appertain but to the Patriarches and Saints, but despair not of a protection, which he denies not even to his enemies. Since you cannot think that he saves your little Prince with the Prophets, be confident that he will not despise him more than the Profane. If all these great miracles cannot move your spirit, nor so many rich Pictures leave any impression in your sentments, cast at least a light view upon these hang; you shall see there Romulus by a Wolf that gives him suck, and Cyrus by a dog that defends him: Hieron is exposed here to the Hornets, and Lagus to the Vultures; but a swarm of Bees stands Sentinel for that, and an Eagle for this. Forget not to consider Lamisses, whom Agolmond King of the Lombard's raises from the end of his Lance to the Throne, drawing him out of a Lake where he had been cast with his six twin Brothers. Hirlanda cannot stop herself at this.  
Notwithstanding let us not believe that this happened without the conduct of that Providence which governs the least accidents of the world. I said, that the Lord d' Olive perceived the Duchess tears, which obliged him from time to time to look upon her. As he considered her, a thought came into his mind, that she was without doubt that unfortunate Princess, which vanished away in Bretany. She seemed unto him at first extravagant, as being not able to find a woman of that condition in a Country Chambermaid; notwithstanding considering the features of her face and her stature, he concluded that he need no more doubt thereof. When the company was retired, our Knight went to find out his Ant, and prayed her to tell him the truth. The good Lady, who knew well enough how to treat persons of that quality, replied unto him, that if God had done her the favour to send unto her a woman of that rank and merit, she would not fail in the duties of a most humble servant.  
Lastly, not able to quit this imagination, he conjured her to examine that stranger, and to constrain her to declare her name and Country. Not to make unprofitable Discourses, Hirlanda confessed that she was that unfortunate Duchess; this confession changed the whole house, for as much as she that commanded, would now obey at her turn. D' Olive failed not to render her all the respects that he believed was due unto her, both in regard of her Dignity, and because of her virtue. Notwithstanding they judged wisely, that they should not make this report to break forth at a clap, and prudence obliged them to live in the same conduct, which appeared before.  
Hirlanda was not troubled to play her part, because she exercised it many years; but surely our good Ant suffered much, when she must act the Mistress. A hundred times before she was ware, she rendered her great submissions, and called her Madam in the presence of her Domestics: for our Gentleman, he resolved to pass into Bretany, to the end to dispose the Duke to the return of his innocent wife: Upon the point to departed, he protested that he should never he content until he saw his Princess in the honours which she merited, and that he should think his life well employed, if he might die in maintaining her Virtue. The Duchess failed not to assure him of the esteem which she made of his Service, but that it would be an inconsolate regret unto her to see him take pains to procure her content.  
My Cavalier (said she) I cannot dissemble to you, that your good will obligeth me, and that though I have not the means to acknowledge it, I have heart enough to resent it. I own to your Courage rather than to my Virtue, the Design which you take to relieve an oppressed Innocence; but permit me to tell you, that I more desire to live unknown then justified, and l●sse covet the Dignity of a Duchess, then cherish the condition of a Slave. Alas, what advantage procure you me▪ when you shall place we again in Artus house▪ Perhaps I shall be there more happy then in the first years of my Marriage, and shall find another Husband then he that threatened me with death? Doth not Gerard live still? And if he lives, what should I hope from him after a Turkish cruelty? Think you that he that chargeth me with the death of an Innocent, whom he hath massacred, can suffer a face which reproacheth his cruelty to him? Hath he not the same motives to hurt me, and his brother the same weakness to believe him without hearing me? O how much more  is it to me to remain unknown in a house where Virtue defends me from inquietudes, then to go seek new tempests, where I have never found repose. Would you ravish from me the delights which I taste by your Aunt, who is to me in stead of a mother, since I had the happiness to be known unto her? Is there any thing in the Palace of Artus, which countervails the sweetness which I taste in this concealed life, where the goodness of God renders itself so sensible to my poor heart, that I doubt if the place of my Exile be not of my glory. But though so favourable a Sanctuary should be grievous unto me, and that I should promise me more love and fidedelity amongst my own, what is there in that sweet life that is constant and must not end? Believe me (my Cavalier) that fair vanity of the Court lasts not always, we must soon or late break those fetters of Gold, which makes so many voluntary slaves. Should you have so little goodness for me, to persuade me to put myself again to a chain, from whence so amiable is Providence hath delivered me? When I remember the little leisure that we have to think of God, and the necessity which enforceth almost the best courages to abandon themselves to the world, I have no less repugnance to think of my former life, than obligation to amend the faults thereof. My Noble Sir, leave me here where I have no Jealousy to content, no Traitor to fly, nor any troublesome persons to defend myself from. But if I remain in a condition, wherein I cannot acknowledge the affection which you witness to have for Hirlanda, believe that you oblige an unable, and not an ungrateful person. I dare likewise to assure you, that God taking care to recompense you at my request, you shall have more cause to bless my little power, than reason to desire to change my fortune.  
The Knight de l'Olive was much troubled to bring the resolution of the Princess to the change which he proposed to her. Notwithstanding after he had excused the Duke of his credulity, upon this, that it is hard for a Husband to love with passion, and to love without jealousy, he presented unto her that the fault which he had done, and whereof he had a hundred times repent, would hold him henceforward in distrust of all reports that might be made him. Besides, that being himself witness of a virtue which was disguised unto him; it would be as easy for him to reject the calumny, if it had impudence, as it would be hard for him to take the pretences. [After all, Madam (added he) it is not so much your interest to pass again into Bretany, as that of all your subjects: I omit notwithstanding that their happiness depends of your conduct; and that never any one of your Domestics shall come forth of his misery but by your means. Consider only what you own to your Husband, and what you own to yourself. I believe that you are not ignorant that his safety depends partly on you, and that having charms enough to hinder his debauches, you should be guilty of them, if you remove a remedy which can cure him of it. My zeal should excuse the liberty which I take, to represent unto you your duty. For that which concerns you, I think that no body can contradict me, if I assure that you cannot suffer longer the oppression of your Innocence, and that you will begin to be criminal, when you shall begin to oppose yourself to your justification. I should not care to persuade you to your return, if I foresaw it not glorious, and knew not that it is necessary for us.  
As our Cavalier had ended that last word, the good Princess drawing a deep sigh from her heart, said unto him,  
Well, since you judge it so, I consent to be yet miserable. Go, and prosper: I see well that my God will have me to suffer, endeavour to place again the poor Hirlanda, where every day she shall be constrained to see and show good countenance to the Murderer of her child. I speak not of the honour which they endeavoured there to ravish from me: Innocent Victim, thy sole misfortune toucheth me, because thou livest no more.  
A few days after the Gentleman departed to observe the time and means to accomplish his design: He was not long with Artus, but he took occasion to make him the Overture thereof. One day the Duke being at the Chase, as the Knight de l' Olive entertained him very much with the happiness of his condition, and perceived that Artus was not of his opinion, and likewise that the Prince confessed to him that many things were wanting to his contentment. I think, added the Cavalier, that your Excellence could henceforth desire nothing which you enjoy not; but if any thing be wanting to your felicity, I suppose that it is a chaste Hirlanda. At this word, as if one had pierced the heart of Artus, he sent forth a sigh thence, which declared plainly enough that he had touched his inclination.  
My Cavalier (said he unto him) would to God that it was as easy for me to possess her, as to desire her, I should then believe my happiness accomplished, and you should have cause to tell me, that I ought to be content. But if I cannot be perfectly happy but in the fruition of a good so perfect, I am sure never to live without displeasure, since I have no assurance ever to see Hirlanda again. Alas, how that cruel night which ravished her from me, hath given me disquiet ones! She is dead, my dear friend, and with her all my joys are vanished. And though she lived, who knows the place of her retreat? And if any one knew it, who could persuade her to come from thence? She should have goodness enough to forget, that I am culpable of all the evils which she endureth, and that my credulity hath made her fidelity to be doubted.  
Sir, (replied the l'Olive) it is rather your evil fortune, than your evil will, which gives cause to these displeasures. Though it touch a woman to see herself suspected, there is left her always so much reason to penetrate, that the umbrage of a husband proceeds from the excess, and not from the defect of his love; and that if he were but a little jealous, he would not be very ardent. I know well that the thought which clasheth the fidelity of a wife, suspects her Virtue, but also it witnesseth the esteem of her good qualities; so that Jealousy offends not so much the Virtue of a woman, as it forbids the Surprises of an envious person. I am assured that your Hirlanda is still yours, and that if she hath quitted your house, it is to conserve you the most precious of your goods against the malice of those who have endeavoured to destroy her 〈◊〉 Doubt as little of her life, as of her affection: But if your Excellence please to command me to find her, I assure myself that you shall see within a few days both her love and her face.  
Whilst the Cavalier held this Discourse, he kindled an ardent desire in the soul of Artus.  
My Cavalier (replied lie) I think it is to no purpose to dream of Hirlanda, but I can well protest, that if she lives, no body could render me a more acceptable service, then to persuade her to return.  
The Gentleman stayed no longer to open himself to the Duke in all the particulars that happened to him; he related unto him how he had found his dear Spouse in a disguised habit with one of his Aunts, where since her Quality was known, she received all the honours that were due unto her. From this time forward the face of Artus was wholly changed, there was seen there no other melarcholy, but that which the impatience to see the Duchess, imprinted therein.  
Scarce were they returned from the chase, but the Knight De l'Olive was commanded to pass again into Normandy to conduct his Mistress. It is hard to express the regrets of Hirlanda, and of her good Hostess, when they were to give the last adieu: nothing could sweeten their separation, but the promise to see one another in the Spring. So must it be granted that there are no delights comparable unto those of a life retired from the noise and crowd of the world. It is not in the dirt of towns that heaven sheds his dew, there is but the country which receives those pure favours, and can taste them; it is there that God speaks to his Elect, that he entertains them familiarly; and to speak all in a word, it is there that he possesseth them without trouble. Our holy Princess saw well what she lost, so witnessed she it enough by her tears.  
The Duke having understood that his wife was but a day's journey from his house, he departed with a good number of Gentlemen to receive her with all the testimonies of a true and perfect good will. I will not tell you that there was a little confusion in the first salutation. Artus could not think of his too much credulity without-blushing, notwithstanding the transport of joy overcame all the other resentments of his soul. A thousand times he asked pardon of the Duchess, protesting to her that the excess only of his affection had been the cause of his error. Hirlanda, who knew well that the forgetting of injuries, was the proof of a good courage, gave to the Duke all the assurances that she could of having no remembrance at all of what was passed; she sought likewise reasons to persuade him that he had not offended, to the end that he might not have cause to fear. I pass lightly this first interview, because it is impossible for me to express the ceremonies thereof; what I can say is only to assure that this happy day was like unto that of the Duke's nuptials; all the rejoycements thereof were renewed. A great number of Nobles came to the palace of Artus to congratulate with him his good fortune, and with the Princess her happy return.  
It seemed that so much joy could not suffer any sorrow in hearts so content; but alas, Hirlanda saw not her dear son! her grief was without consolation, because her evil was without remedy: the poor little one was dead both in the opinion of the father, who believed him smothered in his birth, and in that of the mother, who had some doubt of his shipwreck. Never cast she her eyes upon her childbed, but all her trances renewed in her heart: if any one of the women which served her formerly, presented themselves to her, one would have said that it was to advertise her to weep. Oftentimes she would retire herself all alone into that fatal chamber where her dear child had been ravished from her; and as she saw herself without witness, she afflicted herself without compassion. Hirlanda (said she) must thou live the remainder of thy days in a place where thou oughtest to die? Why did not those who snatched an infant from thee out of thy bowels, tear out also thy heart? would their pity be inhuman, and show that virtue itself is criminal in a barbarous foul? Oh poor victim, how desirable would it have been unto me to expire with thee, if thou art dead; or to languish in thy company, if thou livest!  
My Reader, you know well that the son of our Duchess is not yet dead, if there be not arrived to him some new accident, and more cruel than the former which assaulted him. I am much deceived, if I told you not that upon the point of his embarkment a troop of unknown people entered into the vessel, and seized upon the traitors that carried him away, as they would cast him into the sea. This order came from Gerard, uncle to the little one, who judged this precaution necessary to the secret of his design; it is so, that an evil action may be assured, that it shall be soon or late recompensed, even by those that profit by its malice, and that give the counsel thereof. But where have they conducted that band of criminals who without doubt fear to live, because they merit a rigorous punishment, and who desire yet to fear long, because they come to see death? It is that which I will tell you, my Reader, provided, you will permit me to instruct you with a thing which you shall confess to be for my purpose.  
St. Maloes, a Town of high Bretain, is at this day sufficiently known by that famous garrison of dogs which keep it by night, whilst the floods of the sea which guard it the day, retire themselves to leave them in faction. It is a part of that territory, whose people are named Diublintres by Pliny, Caesar, and Strabo. But besides that, and the great traffic which it maintains, the Episcopal seat which John Bishop of Alethe transported there in the year 1172 makes it to pass for one of the considerable Towns of the Province: four miles from St. Maloes' is the famous Town of Monfort, whose name is great enough in the history, by reason of the miracle or prodigy which hath been constantly observed there for the space of three or four ages, and whereof the last hath seen the end. It is enough to name the Duck of Monfort, to make all those of the country to remember, that every year a wild Duck issuing out of the neighbouring Marsh came the first of May to the Church, where sometimes more than ten thousand persons conducted her in procession, and from whence she retired herself after the offering, leaving one of her twelve Ducklins to the Curate, for a monument of her natural piety. What love soever that bird had for her little ones, this loss was not considerable; for besides that she made a present unto God, there always remained unto her a good number. But alas, the unfortunate Hirlanda loses her only one, and loses him for ever, since the sacred waters of baptism assure her not to see him again, nor ever to meet that dear moiety of herself. My reader, I would fain that these circumstances should design you the place where we are to find again our little Prince.  
At the same time that the Nurse accompanied with her husband, and some confidents of him that hath gained them, prepared their passage for England; God, who never forsaketh the innocent in affliction, thought of the means to take from them this precious infant. A venerable old man, named Bertrand, governed at that time the Abbey of St. Maloes', which since is changed into a Cathedral; scarce had this holy man taken his first sleep one night, but an Angel appeared unto him, and communded him from God to awake his servants presently, and to send them towards Alethe to stop fugitives which carried away a little boy who had not received baptism. The Abbot, who knew perfectly the voice of him whom he was to obey, called his brother, who reposed in another apartment, and with all the diligence that could be used, without incommodating himself, commanded him to execute what I have already insinuated. It was no hard thing for people resolved and well armed, to force five or six rogues, whom fear had more than half overcome; there was notwithstanding no more but the Nurse with her husband that was taken, holding in her arms that poor victim which she carried to death: the others were either slain in the defence, or saved themselves in the darkness. Until than the Abbot knew nothing of our history; but he learned of the Prisoners the birth of the child, and of the Angel the sad adventure which attended it in England. It is not to be doubted also, that God revealed unto him the conduct which he should take for the future in its education: though the good old man was touched with compassion, seeing the tears of the Nurse, who confessed not the truth but by constraint, he caused her to be put into a prison, where she soon lost her husband. This wicked woman, questioned about the parents of the child, feigned that as she walked in the road, a troop of thiefs had carried them away.  
The good Abbot could sufficiently convict her, both by the equipage of the little one, which was not conformable to those of her condition, and by her tears, which without doubt would not have accused her good fortune.  
How admirable is our great God in his sweet and secret providences! at the same time that our little stranger entered into the Monastery, the sister of Bertrand, who had a little girl at her breast, lost it, as if that innocent creature had not lived until that moment, but to keep her mother's milk for him. This death caused her parents much displeasure; but the Abbot, who looked upon this, accident as a particular disposition of heaven, had not much trouble to comfort them. Having caused his sister to be called, he said unto her,  
My Daughter, you have lost your ●hild, if it be to lose her to restore her unto him who gave her you; I blame not your tears, because they are just, provided, that they be not obstinate. Though God could take your goods without rendering you either account thereof or recompense, he is notwithstanding so good, that he would not take from you a daughter, without giving you a boy in her place. Receive him from his hand by mine, and give me this proof of your amity, that you have no less care of his breeding, then if he were your son. Perhaps this abandoned babe shall be the happiness of your House; and if God give you other children, this little miserable may be the cause of their good fortune. But though you should expect no other reward but from heaven; you have a motive just enough to do this good office to this Orphan, since I assure you from God, that he hath adopted him for son.  
As he had ended these few words, he put the little Bertrand into her arms: Berita (that was the name of this virtuous Gentlewoman) received him with no less respects then if God himself had charged her with him. But that which meriteth more consideration; she no sooner pressed him on her bosom, but he entered into her heart, having as much tenderness for him, as she should have resented for a son, of whom she should have been the true mother I am too hasty to tell you the name of our little one; for to speak truth, he had not yet any. It was but the third day after he was received, that the holy old man give him his, willing that she whom he bade chosen him for Nurse, should hold him at the font with him. After the ceremony of the Baptism was finished, and that his Godmother had put her dear Nursling into his swaddling , there happened a thing which drew tears from the good Abbot. Scarce had he that little Christian in his arms, but he opened his little eyes, and then holding them fixedly settled upon the venerable face of Bererand, he betook himself to smile, but in a manner so natural and orderly, that one would have judged that he thanked him for his charities. The Saint knew well that children begin to laugh at the seventh day of their birth, and therefore this little Prince being of that term, was to give the same signs which are ordinary to those of his age. Notwithstanding, he would rather believe that this laughter was an effect of Grace, than a motion of Nature, and that he expressed himself rather Christian then Man by this miraculous joy. There was no body there that grew not tender, seeing the good old man to weep as abundantly upon that child, as if he were to baptise him again with his tears. He spoke unto it so many things as was sufficient to make one swoon with tenderness, but he spoke not enough to make himself comprehended of any other but of his brother, to whom alone he had discovered all his secret. His wisdom made him to judge that he must keep secret what Heaven had revealed but to him. Let us withdraw us from our little Prince, no ill things can arrive unto him, since God interests himself in his preservation. We cannot divine all that which passed in this retreat, but it is to be presumed, that the Abbot who had received that infant from the hands of the Divine providence, and put him into the bosom of his own sister, would not neglect the breeding of it. We will leave him under so good and charitable a Master; whilst we visit his Mother.  
My Reader, I am assured if you look upon but the appearance and outside of Hirlanda's fortune, that you will believe it now happy: all the world endeavours with complacence to content her, and no body is so rash to contradict her wil Artus, who was the most concerned in that she should live content, gave her every day new proofs of his affection; he was ravished when he could discover any thing which might please his wife; so that he gave her in this last usage wherewith to judge, that if she had been persecuted, he had been deceived. There was not any, even to the greatest enemy of his repose, that would not persuade her that he had passion to serve her. You comprehend well that I mean Gerard, author of all the tempest, which the virtuous Princess is coming to sustain. When she returned unto Bretany, this young Lord was not there, that was it which gave him cause to dispatch unto her a Gentleman in post, to assure her, that if some indisposition had not constrained him to keep his bed, he had been himself the messenger of his joy: this evil brother in law feigned to bear a good part in the domestic rejoycement; notwithstanding it is certain that his compliment was but the pretence which he took, to make known the spirit of his brother, and of his sister. It sufficeth me to insert here one of his letters, not to serve for ill example to hypocrisy, but to give a precaution against the surprises of his malice. My Reader, you know sufficiently the heart of Gerard; judge, I pray you, of his words.  
Madam, as soon as I had the news of your happy return, I protest unto you that my soul, which had always been sad for your retreat, was seized with so sudden and sensible a joy, that it was as hard for me to regulate it then, as it is difficult for me to express it now. And really, though I had no interest in the contentments of my Lord the Duke, and that you were unto me a person indifferent, it is enough to know your virtue, to congratulate your prosperities. God who sees the bottom of my heart, knows that I have no other thought, and that as there is no man in the world that honoureth your merit more than I, there is not any one that participates more in your joy. I speak this unto you, not to make you believe that I should be in the rank which I have touched, but to oblige you to comprehend, that, being brother as I am, I am ravished as I ought. Besides the general reason which obligeth all honest people to cherish the happy success of virtue; and the particular which comes unto me from alliance, I have a proper motive to like the glory which heaven giveth unto yours. I will freely confess unto you, that the fear which I had lest the indiscretion of my zeal might have given some subject to your flight, held me in inquietude at your return, and that I apprehended, you would believe me an artificial enemy, for having endeavoured to be a faithful servant. My reason represented to me unprofitably, that you would judge that the emotion which I expressed upon the accident of your lying in, was a proof that I desired passionately the happy issue of it. I apprehended always that some evil spirit would disguise my carriage unto you, to the prejudice of my affection; now that you are in condition to hear from my mouth the protestations of my fidelity, I would, if you are the object of my imprudence, that you would be also the judge thereof. There is no punishment which I find not sweet, provided, that my trouble might be compatible with your amity; and that in suffering the punishment which you shall ordain me, I comfort myself with the good will wherewith I desire that you should honour me. My friends will make you to see that there is as little artifice in my former actions, as deceit in my words, and you will acknowledge, Madam, that I cannot be so criminal and bold, as to approach you, after having offended you. My fever augments the ardour which presseth me to come to render you my devoirs. Adieu, Madam, I am as I have always been,  
Your faithful humble servant. GERARD.  
Oh traitor! If the service passed which thou hast rendered to that innocent Princess, must serve for a model unto those which she is to expect from thee for the future; tell her rather that she hath cause to make provision of patience to suffer thy malice, then to assure herself of thy good will. As the Gentleman that Gerard sent, returned, and had understood that his Master might come without danger to salute his brother and sister in law, he departed from the place of his abode, and came unto their house; his arrivul was a new motive of joy to the Duke and Duchess: he had not penetrated the malicious design of Gerard, and she dissembled it with much wisdom and pleasure. There is no contentment like that to overcome a just anger: at the same time that we stop the sallies thereof, we taste the delights of a triumph. Hirlanda had the experience of these sweetnesses, therefore it was that she had not much trouble to keep herself in the practice of so commendable a constraint. Gerard failed not of his side to render her all the complacencies of a very discreet person, and all the services of a very passionate friend. So that the Princess contributing to her error through her proper goodness, and her brother by his fine policies, she was not much troubled to lose her former sentiments, and to believe that Gerard had no less true affection, than he seemed to make sincere protestations. But alas, how innocence sometimes brings herself to the disposition of her ruin; and how often would she be safe, if she were a little distrustful! Poor Hialanda, why make you not use of the experience of what hath passed, to secure you from the evil which may arrive unto you? It is not to offend the virtue of another, but to use ones own well; if you had a little less confidence, you should have much more good fortune. Why endeavour we to give suspicions and fears to our virtuous Lady? her sweetness, her modesty, her affability, and her innocence are defences good enough against the assaults of malice and of envy. Let us permit our Princess to enjoy, repose and delights, of which misfortune would have deprived her so long time.  
The History observes that the Duke and Duchess lived together in perfect intelligence the space of seven years: God never fails to do us as much good as evil in this life, to the end that this mixture may moderate our joys, and comfort our displeasures. It is not that he intendeth to give us the recompense of our virtue, but rather a motive to hold fast in its painful combats. His great reward attends us in heaven; in which certainly we have an illustrious testimony of the wisdom of our Sovereign, who will not that we should possess much wealth, whilst we have need of a Guardian. In the course of this sweet life, the Duchess was brought to bed of a Daughter, which caused sensible joys to her husband: notwithstanding, Hirlanda was but half content, because he had but the moiety of his desire. The sum of her wishes was to possess a son, to the end to sustain his House, and to carry his name to Posterity. But alas, how little men know that which they should, they ask sometimes children of God, and they find that they are Vipers which tear out their bowels, either with their persecution, or with their cares.  
Poor Hirlanda, have you not in your former. Childbed wherewith to oblige you not to desire a second? Is it not enough to lose a son, without losing also a daughter, and with her, honour and life?  
Gerard seeing that the succession of his Brother went from him by the birth of this Heiress, he attempted to render the Conception thereof suspected, and to deceive the spirit of his brother, as he had already done before. Notwithstanding he would carry himself more cunningly then at first, endeavouring to cover his evil design with some good pretence He governed himself with so much artifice, that one would have thought him Protector of her whom he intended to destroy. Behold how he began to contrive his plot.  
Being one day with his Brother in a Garden belonging to the Castle, as he perceived that his spirit laboureed with some melancholy, he feigned to be much troubled thereat. Sir, (said he unto him) I wonder to see you sad in the common joy of your House, and that you should be the only one that participates not in the good fortune of your Family. What is wanting to your contentments, now that heaven hath blessed your Marriage? Really (replied Artus) you have hit it the●e, and found out wherewith to comfort me; you could not better tell me, that I have a most just cause to afflict me, then to say, that I am the father of a daughter. I have a great Obligation to Hirlanda fo● this fair present that she gives me to sustain so strongly my house.  
My Reader, Judge of the goodness of this spirit, who makes his wife ●riminial for having not brought a Son into the world. Must she not be at least a Goddess, to content his humour? ●ince the Patriarch Jacob answered Rachel, That he was not God to give her children. I find that the plaint of our Duke is more extravagant, then that of this good Lady; for if it be true, that the fathers contribute more to the birth of their Heirs then the mothers, Artus is more culpable than Hirlanda. Behold notwithstanding the murmur of many fantastic husbands, who take occasion to persecute, or at least to frown upon their wives, because they have no children, or not such as they desire with passion.  
Our evil brother had no mind to represent this to the Duke, he contented himself to make an answer, which indeed charged not the Princess, but left her in suspicion to have voluntarily contributed to this defect, through the austerities and penitencies which weaken nature. Notwithstanding (added he) we should not blame a person, when she offends but through too much zeal; otherwise it would be sometimes a crime to have virtue.  
Behold Gerard Philosopher and Preacher: see him now Cheater and Slanderer. A while after as he perceived that his brother continued his coldness, he visited his sister in Law, and counselled her to render herself more complacent to the humours of Artus, disclosing unto her the cause of his change. It is not to be doubted but the honest caresses of a wife can do much upon the spirit of a Husband; but if he be savage and capricious, they provoke him more than they gain him. It is that which Gerard intended, and which he obtained, because that the Duke being of a fierce nature, the more tenderness Hirlanda expressed to him, the more he despised her. Besides, he began to believe that there was artifice in these Testimonies of love, and that she intended rather to deceive him, then to pacify him.  
This umbrage was strongly upheld by an accident which happened one day to the Prince in the beginning of his dinner: for as he opened his napkin, he found therein a note, wherein there was but these words, Take heed of a flattering woman. I will not tell you who was the Author of this device; but I can assure you that it forwarded very much the Design of Gerard, which was to render the Duchess suspected to her Husband. Since this fatal day he spoke not one reasonable word to Hirlanda; when he met her, it was but to do her injury.  
Unfortunate Princess! your disaster toucheth you sensibly, I doubt not of it; since it deserves the tears of all the world, I consent that you should lament. No, no Hirlanda weep not, it is better that Virtue command with you then Impatience: but if you cannot deny your tears to your grief, I conjure you to make provision of them for another time.  
Without doubt it is not hard to judge, that our brother in Law was in too good a way to stop himself; his Artifice had too much success to quit the match, upon the point to gain it. His familiar spirit suggested him the means, which he had not yet employed.  
I have not yet told you, that the Duke had in his neighbourhood a Cavalier who was redoubtable to the whole Province: the advantages which he had had in many Encounters, gave him the heart to fear nothing. Notwithstanding I can scarce believe that he was perfectly courageous, seeing he was a Traitor. Gerard thought it fit to gain this man to destroy his sister; he tried all that which he judged would corrupt him; but it was no hard matter to acquire a man, who was for every one that sought an opportunity to do evil. Behold then the resolution taken to put Artus in distrust of his wife, see the conduct thereof.  
After that this dangerous spirit had sounded the Dukes, and found disposition enough in his soul to receive a calumny, he took a time one day to speak unto him in these terms.  
My Lord, if I had not more passion for your glory then prudence to dissemble your injuries, I might be blamed for the i'll service, which I am notwithstanding obliged to render you. I would the report which runs through the Province were false, it is too common to conceal it from you; if your Excellence please to give me leave to discover to you what I know thereof, I will avouch nothing which I will not maintain at the peril of my life. I believe, my Lord, that you are not ignorant what is spoken openly of the privacies of my Lady with the Lord de l'Olive. It is not but since to day that he ought to be suspected of you, since all his life hath been but a continual plot to ruin her. Whilst your Excellence was absent, he never was from her; when she was away, he kept her by one of his Aunts; now that you have begun to discover their practices, he flies your Court, either to avoid his punishment, or to dissipate your suspicions. I doubt not but one might say more thereof, if it were not better to give you only this advice by precaution, then to enlighten you too much by a truth so odious.  
The Traitor ended here, but to provoke more and more the curiosity of the Duke, who failed not to press him to instruct him with the rest.  
It is not without constraint that I am to finish: but since you will have it so, I must tell you against my will, that no body believes that ever you were father. Would to God that I had not seen those privaces, which made me to know him that contributeth truly to the birth of the Duchess children. I should be without doubt more discreet, then to speak unto you of it, if I were not the most ardent, as the most obliged to serve you. But since all the world knows this disgrace, it would be to love your shame, to conceal it from him alone that can easily find a remedy for it. I am persuaded that your Excellence will approve my fidelity without my pretending to a recompense for it; since I am resolved to give you this testimony thereof, to expose my life to defend your honour, and to maintain my word both together.  
Good God, what a strange monster is calumny! But what an unpitiful fury is jealousy! How powerful is she when she meets with a feeble spirit!  
The first effect of the Imposture of this Traitor was, that the Duke caused to be taken away from Hirlanda her little daughter.  
This Virtuous Princess was in her Apartment, when a troop of Servants cast themselves without respect into her Chamber, she held her poor little Innocent in her arms, when the most insolent of these Rascals snatched it from her by force.  
My Reader, I assure you that Hirlanda wept not, because that the violence of her grief seized so that desolate Mother, that she was rather as one dead▪ then as one afflicted. But scarce was she come to the liberty of knowing herself, but she began plaints and regrets, which would have touched the soul of a Barbarian. But Artus had not even the heart of such a one; never would he suffer that the Duchess should cast herself at his feet to implore his justice.  
Poor Hirlanda, I have nothing to say unto you in this extremity, which surpriseth my spirit as well as yours, if not that you must resolve to die, and to live in Innocence I care not to speak unto you now of a Providence, which seems to abandon you. Suffer then at least, since it is inevitable, suffer since it is necessary.  
In the horrible confusion which began to trouble that little Court, Artus caused his brother to be called, to communicate unto him his displeasure, and to take his advice of what he ought to do in this dangerous conjuncture. Gerard, who knew well that the Duke was carried enough of himself unto violence, feigned at first to repress the sallies thereof; but it was only to the end to assure the death of the Princess, and the better to cover his base Treachery. Perfidious, believest thou that all the world is blind, and that no body hath eyes good enough to penetrate into thy malice! He said unto him first, that one should do nothing rashly in an affair of such importance; that jealousy ought to be suspected when it hath to do with the honour of a woman, whose most criminal Liberties merit death; that though the disloyalty of the Duchess should be true, one ought to take heed that her punishment might not be unadvised; that his Excellence had means to be cleared upon this point, without putting himself to the hazard of condemning an Innocent; that he should give this glory of not revenging an injury before seeing it judged. And then who would dare to assure that he who appeacheth the Crime, hath not invented it? Since he presents himself to the combat to maintain his deposition, I think that one cannot justly refuse her party, to produce some one for her defence. If she be innocent, she should not be oppressed, if she be guilty, you need not fear that heaven will favour her malice.  
My Reader, you comprehend sufficiently that Gerard would not be so just, if he believed not the ruin of his sister infallible, and that if he doubted the success of the combat, he would not tempt the peril thereof. Moreover, he would not that he should be thought to be sullied with the blame of a murder, which he promised himself to perform with praise.  
Great God, permit me to ask of thee, where is that Providence which watcheth over the actions of men, and glories to support the Innocent? Since thou forsakest our Princess, and that I cannot doubt of thy equity, Hirlanda is culpable; so see I that poor Lady whom they drag to a prison. Providence of my God is it there that you would have her? Alas! what a great mercy would you have done her, to leave her to die in the woods, or to live in servitude! her end being not shameful, would have been sweet unto her, and her languishment supportable.  
Whilst the Duchess expected, either the punishment which should dispatch her, or a miracle to save her, permit, after having taken leave of her, that we consider the apparel of her judgement.  
It is now, poor Princess, that I permit you to weep; I would not that you should look upon your death nor your children's to excite your tears. Cast only your eyes upon the sad furniture of your chamber, call the servants which are by you; this spectacle is lamentable enough to merit all your sighs and your regrets.  
But what! Will they condemn Hirlanda upon the deposition of a Traitor! Shall it not be allowed her to reproach this false witness, or to prove her innocence? O how desirable would it have been to our virtuous Criminal, since she could not expect any sweetness from her Husband, to live in the rigour of the Old Law, where only Adulterers died! If any jealous person suspected his wife of disloyalty, he led her to the Temple of Jerusalem, where the High Priest presented her those bitter waters, which Moses describes in the fifth Chapter of Numbers. If she were guilty and had the boldness to drink thereof, she burst presently asunder; God giving to a little water and dust gathered from the Tabernacle, the power to putrify her belly, and to do the same evil to her Accomplice, if we believe the Rabbins. On the contrary, those that were accused falsely, were cured of all kinds of Diseases, obtaining a Male child at the end of nine months, if their marriages had been barren until then.  
Poor Hirlanda, you had bitter waters enough, since your eyes were two living sources of tears; but alas! they could not justify you to a Barbarian, who had no justice for you.  
I know not if this proof of the Jews introduced not amongst our Ancestors the custom of purging themselves of the Crimes which were imposed on them by boiling water; a hand pure from vice came forth from thence fairer. Our ancient Gauls took not always the pains to heat the water, but stripping those whom they could not convict, they cast them tied hand and foot into a Lake or River, stretched upon a Buckler or a Cross; when the water bore up their body without letting it sink, it approved their virtue. Charlemagne considering that a Criminal was sometimes more light than an Innocent, forbade that Innocence should longer be so weighed. Perhaps he would not also that that glorious tree which had born Jesus Christ, should serve for punishment to the wicked.  
The most ordinary justification was made by the means of hot iron, which was a coulter or share of a Plough. One of our greatest Kings ordained, that there should be nine of them set in a rank, upon which they were to march bare foot without burning themselves. The History of Almania reports, that Cunegonda proved her Chastity to Henry the second her husband in this manner; and ours saith, that Lewis King of Germany, Nephew to our Charles the Bald, deputed him thirty men, of which twenty should make the trial of the cold and hot water, and the other ten of the burning iron.  
Moreover we ought not to forget in this observation the custom of justifying one's self by oath upon the bodies of the Saints, Saint Denis,  and Martin. Much more all our Antiquity reverenced so religiously the person of Pepin the Short, that they would swear solemnly upon his , presuming that he who had the boldness to approach that Royal Purple, could not be sullied with Crime.  
The most unjust proof of Innocence or of Crime, was that of Duel, so many times forbidden, and so many times practised. The first prohihition thereof, which was made at the Council of Valence in the reign of Lotharius, brought excommunication to the Conqueror, and privation of burial to the Conquered It is not unfit to represent here, the form of these combats, to make known the injustice of them. When a Crime worthy of death could not be proved true, nor convicted as false, the Informer presented the Combat man to man, and the Accused threw down the gage of Battle, which the Judge received after the exposition of the Crime, ordaining imprisonment, both to the one and the other, until the day of their Duel. The time come, they were brought into a close field before noon lightly, armed at the cost of the High Justice; their hair was cut round about their ears, leaving to their choice the liberty to anoint themselves, to the end to be more supple. Four Knights guarded the field, where the Champions were no sooner entered, holding one another by the hand, but they put themselves on their knees with a reciprocal protestation, that nothing of the world but the right of their cause, obliged them to try the chance of Arms. After the profession of their Faith, and the assurance which they gave not to use Sorcery, the Accused said unto him, Man whom I hold, I am innocent of such a Crime. To which the other answered, calling him by his name, N. Thou liest. After this fair Compliment, the Marshals gave them Arms, and the Heralds cried, Let them go in the King's name. If the Accused remained dead on the place, he was to be hanged on a Gibbet; if he resisted until the night, he was declared Victorious.  
Behold the Ceremonies which were observed as well on foot as a horse back: from whence it is easy to comprehend, God being not obliged to work miracles, that there is nothing less equitable, than these ridiculous and fatal Duels. For besides that for the most part an unfortunate virtue is abandoned of succour, it happened often enough that an unjust Accuser had better success than a weak Innocent, because he had more strength and skill. And therefore I do not wonder that the Church had darted all her Thunderbolts against the brutish customs which expose the merit of good men to the punishments of the wicked; and that our Monarches, in whose Courts principally this madness was in vigour, have armed the Laws to the ruin of these public ruins.  
But alas, poor Hirlanda! Though you be innocent, you must either perish without defence, or defend yourself without force; if your merit hath no support, there will be no safety.  
Whilst the Duke and his Ministers employed themselves to seek out a death for our holy Princess, she disposed herself to receive it Christianly. It must be confessed nevertheless, that the conformity which she had to the just will of her God hindered her not to complain of her evils. And to speak truly, if ever a Patience hath found any cause to be grieved, judge you not that it is that of our unfortunate Duchess! Count, I pray you, all the good moments of her fortune, scarce will you see there one day entirely happy. She entered not into her Husband's house, but she met there a brother in Law, who made her lose honour and repose. Remains your heart insensible after having considered a woman of that condition, to wander all alone in the woods, and to live in the dens; to conserve there a life which she could desire to lose? In your opinion is it not a spectacle worthy of all the pity of good souls to see a Princess keep the Cows, and to employ herself about the sheep? Formerly some Christian Ladies have bean condemned to the Stable. and to the baseft Offices of a house; but those were not their husbands that constrained them to live in this baseness. The Motive which caused their contempt, and the condition of the persons, which ordained their torment, consolated all the bitterness of their fortune. It is a pleasure to suffer of the Herod's and Nero's; but to have Artus for Tyrant, it is to speak truly, to have wherewith to deplore. Can you not say that God takes pleasure to deceive our innocent Princess? After that Custom had rendered her banishment light, and that she felt no more her evils, by reason of the long habitude of her fufferance, he sent her a Cavalier to conduct her into a prison, where she should meet with new griefs.  
Let us seek in the life of Hirlanda, the cause of her disgraces, let us seek in Hirlanda herself: we shall find her life all pure, and all holy, and Hirlanda in a prison: whilst a thousand persons of her birth live in delights, she languisheth in necessity. All these considerations representing themselves to the spirit of our prisoner, it was impossible for her not to deplore her condition.  
One day the woman that served her, being entered into her chamber, where for a sumptuous couch, cloth of Estare, and Balisters, there was but an old straw bed, she could not choose but sigh. Hirlanda wondered at it, because they had chosen her this old woman, as the cruelest of all the furies which they could give her; this extraordinary sentiment obliged her to inform herself of the cause of her sorrow. Madam (replied that woman) it is hard for me to command my tears, when I think of your miseries; notwithstanding, I have always suppressed the grief thereof whilst I believed the relief, but now that I see you at the point of your death, I lose my constancy in losing my hope. My Reader, permit me to interrupt this sorrowful discourse, to ask you what you think of the answer of our Princess: I assure me that you will pardon her, if this news put some little trouble into her soul, and if the fear of a punishment as shameful as unjust made her change countenance: you comprehend not well the anguish of her imprisonment, nor the excess of her ordinary griefs, if you judge that this news afflicted her; you know not that there was no death which would not be more sweet than her life, if you believe that the assurance to die, comforted her not. My good friend (said she unto her) I see well that my good fortune offendeth you, since you are troubled at a thing which rejoiceth me: is it not a great good to departed out of prison, and to departed thence with assurance never to come there again? Perhaps the grave is more fearful than this prison, I should believe it, if one were sensible there, and that its worms were more troublesome than this misery which consumes me. But yet of what death must I finish? Madam (answered she) they prepare the wood-pile, where you are to expire, in case there be no person that will defend your honour in taking away your accuser's life. All things are already prepared, but not one of those that run to this spectacle, presents himself to secure you. She asked her further if the Lord de l'Olive were not in the country; that was the Cavalier in whom she had all the remains of her confidence; and as she understood his absence, she prayed that Governess to cause a Priest to come unto her to prepare herself unto death by the Sacraments, which are the buds of the true life, and the seed of immortality. She could not refuse her that consolation, which she enjoyed as long as possibly she could, because she passed the best part of the day with a good religious man whom they had sent her. All the night of that fatal morning which was to see her martyrdom, was employed in entertaining herself with God, into whose hands she consigned a thousand times her life and honour. Of all the circumstances of her death, nothing afflicted her but the examen of her honesty, which was put over to the fortune of arms.  
Never notwithstanding did this courageous Princess let forth one sole tear, nor sigh; on the contrary, imagining with herself that she was going to see again her poor children, she felt a joy, whose transports she was troubled to moderate: Yes, (cried she out) I shall soon see you, innocent victim. But that thought gave her not pleasure long, nor her virtue constancy, because it made her to remember that these two little creatures had been the innocent cause of her troubles and dishonours. Then opening her eyes unto tears, and her mouth to regrets, she spoke thus to her amiable Master: My God, I complain not to die unfortunate; I am grieved only to die infamous; I demand not that thou shouldst give me life, I desire that thou wouldst conserve my reputation. Alas! must I, for being born in a great fortune, and for having possessed wealth; lose honour? oh how much more desirable had it been to me to be born in a country village, and to live in the incommodities of a straight poverty, then to see me raised to serve as a butt unto evil fortune! At least, my pitiful Master, why wouldst thou not leave me in those woods where the first accident of my marriage had cast me? I should have found there the trees and rocks sensible to my plaints, and the Echoes would have expressed my grief to sweeten me the sharpness thereof. What consolation were it, my amiable Saviour, to live the rest of my days in shadow and obscurity! but it was too great a favour for a Princess, whom thou wouldst render more miserable than a country woman. Thou must see Hirlanda die in reproach, to see her with contentment. And well, my God, since thou ordain'st it, I consent thereunto, protesting, that nothing is more agreeable unto me, then that which is grievous to me: provided, that I suffer with thy approbation, and in thy orders, I shall not suffer against my will. Let us die, Hirlanda, let us die, since we can live no more; let us die, since we live but by halves: thy poor children are no more in the world, why wouldst thou remain there?  
Our generous Princess passed almost the whole night in these sentiments, which seemed to balance her soul between the fear, and the desire of death: notwithstanding any repugnance which she had to die without justification, she confented at last to lose as well the esteem of men, as her life. The break of day scarce appeared yet, but every one disposed himself to this spectacle, the event whereof all the world feared and desired. To see the consternation of the whole town, one would have judged that Rennes. prepared itself for the funerals of all her inhabitants (this place was chosen to render the action more celebrious). There was erected a great theatre for the Court, in a place which was found then the most capable of that sad ceremony; aside of that was to be seen one lesser, which by the apparel thereof, one would judge to be that of the poor Hirlanda. A black cloth reaching even to the ground covered it, a chair of velvet, two or three seats of the same colour made up the fatal furniture of this scaffold. In the midst of the theatre was placed a table in form of an Altar, to lay there a crucifix enveloped with a cypress, as with a sad cloud which presaged but misfortune to all the Assembly. The Heaven extraordinarily charged, seemed to be willing that this execution should be done in the night, so little light gave the Sun. There was at the foot of the scaffold a great number of faggots, all ready to take fire; in a word, there wanted no more but the poor Duchess upon the pile, to make the most pitiful spectacle that ever History hath represented unto us.  
My dear reader, if you have your eyes full of tears, I conjure you to dry them, to contemplate that Nobility which appeared rather to be upon that great Theatre to die, then to see. Behold, I pray you, that Lady which approacheth, you judge well that it is the deplorable Hirlanda, whom they lead to punishment; her long mourning robe; the vail which covers her face, and of all sides descends even to her girdle, denotes, that it is she herself; at least they tell me, that this equipage was that of the Adulterers amongst the Ancients. O God How comes it that this word is slipped from my pen, since it hath more cruelty for the heart of my Princess then death itself I Providence of my God, is it there then that you conduct a crowned head; which hath no other crime but its misfortune, and which perhaps might live in honour, if it could live in impiety? Is it so then that you take pleasure to afflict those that adore you? have you but racks and punishments for those that should expect your recompenses? If your thunderbolts seek Criminals, behold them upon the Throne which brave your power; behold them in the Lists, who provoke all your vengeances. Gerard and his false witness, deserve they that you should spare their lives? With what service have they ever honoured you? Perhaps there is but the massacre of Lambs that pleaseth you, and that you suffer willingly the Tigers and Bears to tear your faithful servants. My God, I will never think it, since thou art good, I will always believe the contrary, since thou art just.  
Yet I see not any person that presents himself for the defence of Hirlanda, and though even compassion of her evil should raise her up some Champion, it would be only to die for company. Her atlversary hath too much experience of his forces, to hazard himself in a combat, whose success should be doubtful. This Traitor mounted a great black horse; his Livery was of a changeable taffats, and his shield bare in a sable field a Golden Dragon armed and languid, which devoured a sheep Argent, with this device, Without mercy. Seems it not unto you that all this apparel denotes the lamentable presages of the death of our unfortunate Princess? Who sees not in this dragon, and in the feeble animal which he devours, Gerard and his sister in law? Let us not be so rash as to accuse heaven of hardness, never sees he our miseries without pity; but if he retards sometimes his assistance, it is but to make us know the need thereof, and to adore the miracle.  
As the trumpet sounded for the last time, and that every one looked upon Hirlanda's pile, a Champion appeared at the end of the lists, who cloven the press to enter there.  
The Duchess, who was half dead, began to be insensible to all kind of motions; but those who had pity yet in their souls, conceived some good hope, when they saw that God sent her succour. Some there were that believed, that it was the Guardian Angel of the Princess, others would have it to be the Lord de l'Olive. All these names were of good Augury; but whosoever it was, it is certain that there was good reason to think that it was her Tutelar. His Courser white as snow; his Livery green, sowed with cares of gold; his Ermine Argent in a field of Sinople; and the soul of his device, Nothing sullies me, signified the hope of the Spectators, the cares of the Cavalier, and the innocence of the poor Lady. Notwithstanding, there was no body that despaired not of the happy success of the combat, when they saw a young child, who appeared to have more force in the attractions of his face, then in the nerves of his arms. His grace and his dexterity to manage his horse, begat some feeble ray of confidence, but his age yet too tender, dissipated it. My Reader, take heed that you have not the fears of that sorrowful assembly: remember that David was young and delicate, Goliath robustious and dreadful.  
As our Cavalier advanced himself, and had rendered his devoirs to the Duke, and to all the Nobles that accompanied him, he demanded if there was any one there so wicked as to accuse the chaste Hirlanda: Young man (said his Adversary unto him) you are ill instructed with the life of that woman, if you judge her such. My Reader, perinit me to disguise unto you so the injurious answer that he made, I feared that you would not be touched with so sensible a displeasure as our Champion, who endeavoured to turn back those ill words with a box, and the Lie. But he must employ ruder arms; so the sound of the trumpet, and the generous fury of the horses carried them to the combat. Their first course was so strong, that it carried the traitor half out of the saddle, and the young Cavalier wholly. This accident afflicted all those who wished him a happy fortune, and gave occasion to his Adversary to alight to pierce him with his sword; but scarce was he off before he saw him again in his saddle almost as soon as fallen. He judged well that the time which he should take to remount a horseback, would give this young man leisure to hurt him in exposing himself to his stroke; behold therefore rallying all the strength that he had, he endeavoured to fight him with equal forces, in killing his horse. Great God, forget not that it is thou that fightest for innocence, and that thou canst not abandon this young Prince without making it believed that thou wilt despise the merit of virtue. Our Goliath having then stretched out his full arm, plunged his sword so deeply into the shoulder of his enemy's horse, that whatsoever endeavour he used, he could not draw it out again. That which the wisdom of the flesh had suggested him to the ruin of another, succeeded to his own; for his Adversary leaping off, gave him a mortal thrust under the gorget. The joyful cry which was raised in the Assembly, made it to be comprehended that every one lived with the death of this Traitor: that which rested to him of life, was but to curse his misfortune, and to declare the Innocence of the Princess. Artus himself wept for joy of it; for though a husband be ashamed to have lightly suspected his wife of little faith, he is ravished to see himself deceived by the jealousy: there is no man so stupid, that would appear just, by the conviction of a crime which caused his umbrages; in this point we love better to be judged suspicious then reasonable.  
Here black thoughts, here criminal distrusts come to acknowledge in this event, that your murmurs have rashly assaulted the divine Providence; come to render homage to those secret conducts which are hidden to us but to be adoreable to us. As soon as the Heralds had received the last word of the Traitor, they went to take the Conqueror to present him to the Duchess. My Reader, I think that you have long desired to know this Cavalier: you have the sentiment of all that famous Assembly of our good Princess, who desires with passion to speak to him. O spectacle of love and joy! At the instant that our Champion approached the scaffold of the Innocent, she had some thought that the Conquerors Ermine was a work of her hands; the stuff and fashion rather of the invelope of an Infant, then of the Livery of a Knight, propped well her belief. Lastly, as he put himself on his knees before the Duchess, he declared unto her his name, his birth, and his quality: Madam, (said he unto her) behold that unfortunate son which hath caused you so many griefs; but most fortunate, since God makes him to day Protector of her that brought him into the world. Let his goodness take away my life when it shall please him, it troubles me no more to die, since you live by the means of him, who was almost seen to be the innocent cause of your ruin. I know not if the poor Hirlanda believed the words of the little Bertrand, or rather, the assurances which love gave to her heart, of the truth of his adventures. Howsoever it was, she replied not unto this discourse but with tender tears, which flowed from her eyes so abundantly, that she could scarce see him whom she held embraced. Oh God what sweetness is there to taste a pleasure, when it comes contrary to our expectation!  
Artus, who saw all the caresses of his wife, without knowing the motive of them, believed at first that these demonstrations of good will were testimonies of gratitude. Notwithstanding he could not believe, that she who had so many reasons to appear modest and stayed, should leave herself lose unto privacies which passed the devoirs of a reasonable acknowledgement, between persons of different sexes. Poor Artus, if thou knewst thy good fortune! As the Duke was in this astonishment, Hirlanda presented him her Champion, and said unto him only these three words, Sir, Behold your Son. Really, I admire not that he wanted words, since all great joys are mute, as well as excessive griefs. When one resents lively a passion, there is much trouble to express it. Artus being out of his most deep ecstasies, beheld that face which he had never seen, and which he believed nevertheless to know. All the world would have sworn that it was the Duchess', if one and the same person could have two of them. Those who penetrate a little the secrets of Nature, do know that it is the mark of a legitimate birth in the children, when the sons resemble the mothers, and the daughters the fathers. These are glorious ignorances' to some persons, since it is unprofitable, and likewise dangerous to comprehend things, which may in clearing the understanding, corrupt the heart.  
Whilst that the Duke and Duchess were in the examen and admiration of the wonders which passed before their eyes, Bertrand Abbot of St. Maloes', who had been spectator of the combat with the rest of the Nobless, advanced himself towards them, to instruct and assure them of a truth, which they came only to know. After he related unto them how he received their child, upon the point to be carried away into England, he told them, that by the commandment of God he had armed that little Prince to defend her that was accused for his birth, and for his murder. He forgot not to add, that the Angel which declared unto him what heaven ordained to this young Lord, had not failed to tell him what arms he would have him use. And to the end that you believe my words no more than the circumstances which render you your good fortune certain; I will give unto you an irreproachable testimony thereof: This said, he commanded that the Nurse should be brought, whom he had caused to come to Rennes to put this prodigy out of doubt. The poor woman seeing herself at the Duchess feet, asked her pardon, protesting that she offended not through malice; her Highness might well forgive her, if the artifices of Gerard had circumvented her simplicity. After this confession, she continued to report with much cleverness and candour what had passed in the Duchess childbed, and upon what persuasions she consented to his carrying away; there need no more doubt of a thing which had so many miraculous proofs to support it. Artus having then saluted his dear wife, he held her this discourse.  
Madam, I confess that my soul is so divided between the admiration of that which hath passed, and the regret of that which hath passed between you and me, that I have no less shame than pleasure to see me before your eyes. I adore with all my ravishments the amiable Providence which hath conserved me him whom I supposed destroyed, and her that I would destroy. Let his goodness for ever be praised of men and Angels, in that he hath vouchsafed to do so many miracles, to keep me from being guilty of the death of two Innocents'. Alas! where wouldst thou have been, my poor son, if heaven had forsaken thee? And where would you have been, Hirlanda, if it had not powerfully succoured you? But what, have I the boldness to tell you that you are dear unto me, after such visible marks of cruelty? Was it not enough that my rigour had obliged an unfortunate to fly from my house, without endeavouring to make an Innocent go out of the world? Madam. I cannot deny that my first fault renders me not unworthy of your good will; but who should dare also to doubt that you have not sweetness and goodness enough for both of them together? It is the only Motive of mercy which I can represent unto you, since I have nothing in me which solicits you not to revenge. But if you will that I fix the hope of my pardon on any thing out of you, I conjure you by the love and tendernesses that we own to this dear moiety of ourselves, to forget your miseries and my errors, that you may live as haply for the future, as you have lived innocent for the time passed; for my part, I will contribute thereunto with all my power, assuring you that the only joy which I desire in the world, is to see you live there content.  
As he had finished, and that the Princess assured him the best that she could to forget her misfortunes, the one and the other cast themselves at one time about the neck of the young Bertrand, which they wet all over with the torrent of their tears. Plato hath not ill named children the glue of the husband & of the wife, since it is true that they are not tied to their fathers and mothers, but to unite them by that means. Artus and Hirlanda make the proof of this sentiment.  
During the sweet ecstasies of their ravishment, Gerard touched with the remorse of his conscience, and convicted by the testimony of so many true depositions, endeavoured to save himself, as he contrived the project. But whether that the custom was so, or that the Prince had ordained it in this manner, the Ports of the Town were all shut, so that he was arrested in the same place, where a little before he made account to triumph.  
Providence of my God, how unjustly do men accuse thee, to say either, that thou seest not the malice of the wicked, or that thou dissemblest the excesses thereof! as if thou wert blind in thy understanding, or unjust in thy conduct. I confess, that thou strikest not the sinner as soon as he merits it; but who sees not that thou expectest his repentance by this delay, or meditatest his punishment in the mean time? O how true it is that the prosperity of the wicked melteth like snow, and that nothing of his fortune remains with him, but the delicacy, which disposes him to suffer his punishment with more bitterness. To see the cruelties and artifices of Gerard, who would not have judged, that Innocence could not defend itself from his persecution? To see the first successes of his plots, who would have dared to hope for the virtue of his sister? And yet behold Gerard in the prison, where the poor Hirlanda shed so many tears; behold Hirlanda where Gerard promised himself so many delights.  
This wicked Prince being then convicted of all the abominable practices which we have touched, the consent of all the world ran to a severe condemnation. Himself thought himself so unworthy to live, that he dared not to dream of his pardon: there was none but she who ought most to pursue his death, that endeavoured to remove it. She left not out one reason that might be advantageous to his cause, but what could her goodness suggest unto her, which rendered not Gerard more culpable? To speak in his behalf, was it not highly to publish that she was extremely good to pray for her Persecutor; and he excessively wicked, to have persecuted so holy a Princess? The more sweetness she made appear, the less he seemed to merit it; because that the virtue and merit of those which we offend, augmenteth much their injury. It is cruelty to be pitiful, when the compassion of a Criminal makes us to forget the interests of an Innocent; and therefore it is sometimes sweetness to want mercy, and to bend one's resolution against the favourable thoughts which inspire pity.  
My Reader, For fear to trouble the joy which you have to see a Virtue perfectly justified, I will not represent unto you Gerard in a prison, where both the humane and the divine Justice have condemned him to languish all his life, his feet and hands cut off. It is true, that his sufferance was not long, since his life was short. The regret to have afflicted a person worthy of all kinds of respects, and unto whom he owed all the love of the world, wrought upon him more than could be imagined. The last sentiment which he had of his fault, made his death to be lamented even of those who should rejoice thereof; as he felt himself near his end, he sent unto the Duchess, to conjure her to forget his evil conduct, protesting that he should die with contentment, if he might die with that favour. Demand you not why I give to this Innocence the name of Crowned; since she triumpheth, we should not deny her the Crown. Descend into the prison of Gerard, and you shall see there our holy Princess, who endeavours to comfort her Criminal; she spares neither words nor caresses, to make him believe, that this last moment of his life, razeth out the remembrance of the many years of his persecution. To the end to take away altogether suspicion, she would shut his eyes herself, deploring his agonies, as if her dear Bertrand were dead.  
After having rendered testimonies of so sweet a goodness to her capital enemy, those who had been but the Ministers of his cruelty, ought not to fear any thing of Hirlanda's resentments; so would she never consent that they should speak of the death of that evil Nurse, who left herself to be corrupted by Gerard. What (said that good Princess unto those that would incline her to that Justice) have you so little affection for me, as to desire to ruin all the proofs of my Innocence? Know you not that it is glorious to Hirlanda to see those to live, that employed themselves to make her die? If you love me, importune me no more; I should be ungrateful, if I were perfectly just. So far am I from having cause to procure her a punishment, that I believe me obliged to give her a recompense. Hath she not accompanied my poor little one in his miseries? Hath she not presented him the teat in his necessities? And not to fix me only to the services which look but upon mine, am I not redevable unto her for the illustrious testimony which puts my virtue out of suspicion and fear? Behold how our Duchess looked upon the fault of another through the fairest place that she could have. See how all those that suffer like she should revenge themselves with her. Whatsoever evil an enemy doth us, we shall always have some Reason to excuse him, and even to like his persecution, provided that we regard him where he is profitable unto us. But we must not expect this discretion, but from Heroic Virtues, since the common sort of men find too often darts of Offence, even in the most obliging favours.  
One should not demand if those who had done good to the Mother and son, received the reward of their service and good will. The holy old man Bertrand would have no other recompense but that which he expected from heaven; but he permitted his brother and sister to profit by the benefits of the Duke and Duchess, who considered them not otherwise then themselves, seeing they had been so long the father and mother of their dear Infant.  
The whole Province bore a part in the public rejoycement; nothing was forgotten that might contribute to the joy of that little Court. The Attorneys, the Justs, the Courses at the Ring, the Dances, the Masques, and all the other exercises of Gallantry, might persuade that it was the first day of Artus and Hirlanda's Nuptials, if they had not seen the little Bertrand, who was the chaste fruit thereof. After some years of a life, as sweet, as the first of her marriage had been bitter, with a common consent, the Duke and Duchess put their Ducal Crown upon the head of their son, who failed not afterward to labour with all his power the contentments of them both.  
The History hath observed nothing in particular of that which passed since this memorable accident; but though it speaks of the good fortune of Hirlanda, we must not believe that her greatest prosperity consisted in the petty contentments of the earth: It is in heaven that she receives her full and perfect recompense; it is with this recompense that she concludes that which is worth unto Innocence, a persecution which she hath not merited, and that there is no virtue more desirable, then that which possesseth nothing here below of Honours or Wealth. Who could comprehend the sweet joys that come unto her now from that dear solitude where she passed her exile of seven years? Who could penetrate into the esteem of the sufferances of her imprisonment?  
Virtuous Princess! There is none but you that may know the weight and value of that precious dishonour, and of that glorious Infamy, which hath shadowed your purity, but to make the splendour thereof to appear with the more vigour.  
They hold, that the most illustrious monument which rests unto us of this strange adventure, is in the Eschutcheon of Bretany, where they will have the Ermine to have taken a place to conserve honourably the memory of it. If it be so that the Arms of this Province have their birth in the Cradle of Bertrand, it seems that they have judged very fitly, that that which had served to the safety of one of her Princes, should be employed hence-foward in the highest marks of their glory. They say then, that after this famous event, the Ermine succeeds three sheaves of corn bound with God, which Penthieura withholds in the skirt of Bretany. or rather in the Scutcheon of Gules in nine Mascles d'or, which those of the House of Rohan have received since this divorce. I know well that some Authors make these Mascles to come from one Maclianus, who lived in the time of our great King Lodowick. But surely, to dissemble nothing my thoughts, I see not what resemblance there can be between his name and their figure. Without giving the glory of all that which we have famous in France, to Romance, we may say, that the Counts of Rohan, have chosen for Arms what was most rare within the Territory of their Dominion, where almost all the stones and plants are traced with certain figures which represent Mascles. Thus the Lords of that ancient House carry Arms as natural as the Inhabitants of Tenedos, who marked an Axe in their coat, because that the Crabs of their Promontory Asterion, had their scale imprinted with the perfect figure of an Axe.  
Though the sheaves or Mascles have yielded to the Ermine, either because that one of the Dukes of Bretany saw one day our Lady habited with that delicate and noble skin, or because that the Prince of whom we speak, was enveloped therewith; it is without doubt that the ancient Kings of arms, who were not so knowing as the new, have failed in the enamel, and in the blazon of the Scutcheon of Bretany, since its ground aught to be of argent, and not of sable, but rather its spots which they made of argent. As much as we may call into doubt of what I writ of the Ermine, at least we ought not to deny that it hath always been in great veneration in this Duchy. I leave out many proofs thereof; without speaking of the Castle of the Ermine, it sufficeth me to produce only one of them, to make appear that the purple was not more august amongst the Romans, than the Ermine was sometimes so to the Bretains.  
No body is ignorant, that almost all Sovereigns have instituted Orders of Knighthood, either to witness to posterity the esteem which they made of the things which they used in their composition, or to give to their subjects some glorious motives of generosity: so Charles Martel invented the Order of the Gene●; King Robert son of Capet, that of the Star; and Saint Lewis the second of the loss of the Jennet, and of the Crescent; leaving to Lewis the second that followed him that of St. Michael. Henry the third, willing to render thanks to the Holy Ghost for that he was born, chosen King of Poland, and the year following called to the Crown of France the day of its Festival, he instituted his Order of the Holy Ghost: In imitation of them, the English have found out their Garter; the Burgundians their Fleece, and the Bretains the Order of the Ermine, or of the Espy. Francis the second instituted it in the year 1450. The Choler was of two circles of gold, wherein a great number of Espies were interlaced in cross: in the last circle hung on two chains of gold an Ermine passing upon a flowery bank with this device, To my life. I have a great inclination to believe, that the adventure of Bertrand, and the innocence of our Hirlanda, gave subject to this institution. The nature of that animal, more white than snow, and who suffers rather to be taken of the Hunter, then to save herself in a dirty place, furnisheth no little resemblance to the purity of that Illustrious Princess.  
I oblige no body to receive my sentiments, but I should well dare to pray honest men to cast their eyes upon this History. I am assured, if they do me the honour to seek divertisement to their reading, that they will have another opinion of Hirlanda's miseries on the end, then on the beginning of her adventures. My Reader, your excellent nature persuades me that you have not seen this Innocent amongst the forests, and in prison, without weeping with her the injustice of her fortune. Without doubt her little Bertrand raised pity in you, when you knew that he was destined to death; and that she who should give him life, carried him to the tomb. Confess unto me freely, have you not a little murmured in that it seemed the Providence of God did abandon the Innocents' to the cruelty of the Guilty? Fear not to acknowledge a sentiment wherewith the greatest Saints have been sometimes surprised; provided, that you have resisted an evil judgement, which so long a train of misfortunes hath endeavoured to form in your spirit; you may pass for weak, but not for criminal. And though you should have staggered a little, I am certain that the end of this lamentable and marvellous History, would have sustained and redressed your steps: I dare likewise to promise me that the triumphs and glory of Hirlanda, will make you to wish a like fortune. Believe it not therefore better than that of Joan of Arc, who would sigh still under the oppression of calumny, if she were not impassable in the glory of the blessed. If it happeneth that you be afflicted (without doubt it will happen) and that God recompenseth your sufferings in this life, praise his goodness in that he descendeth so to your weakness. If he ordains only that your virtue be acknowledged, after the disguisements of envy, content you with that, and demand not insolently where are the fruits of your merit. But if he will that your innocence be suspected even unto that day of the last judgement, when the great Marscarade of this life shall finish, adore with submission his Providence which conceals our sanctity to assure the treasure thereof. Hold for indubitable that almost all men pass in the world Incognitò: those that appear to have much merit, have too often but the show thereof. On the contrary, a great number of persons resemble those noble strangers that traverse our France under extreme modest habits: their quality is unknown, but their life and their purse is assured. Rejoice you at this, that your virtue is secret; the less splendour it shall have, the more constancy: in losing its lustre, it acquires merit.  
The ill opinion that I ought to have of my works, makes me to fear that few people draw fruit from them; but the good which I have of them that deign to read them, makes me to hope that they will not be altogether unprofitable. Perhaps that the villainous strokes which I give unto Calumny in my Discourses, will inspire the hatred thereof; and that the Histories which present the Idea of a perfect patience, will beget the love or contempt of the persecution of tongues. Who would be so weak to apprehend that little noise which detraction makes, or so insensible to neglect the precious merit that it produceth? It belongs not but unto him that thinks to lose, to gain; when an envious person endeavours to ravish his honour from him. I grant, that he takes from us as little as may be of our lustre, he never toucheth his true subject. There is this difference between the honest man, and the man of honour, that the first hath the true good, which is merit; and the second possesseth the splendour thereof, which consisteth in the esteem. I should not be of the opinion of those that think that honour makes the last perfection of virtue, or to speak better in their sentiment, that honour is the perfect virtue. What appearance is there that the last feature of man should be out of him, and that ever he should be completed, if those that look on him judge him not? Our condition would be worse than that of the meanest works of Art and Nature, which receive not their accomplishment from the thought which is form of their excellence, but rather from an interior term which finisheth them. Honour being then a strange mark of virtue, calumny may hinder us to pass for people of Honour, but it cannot make us not to be virtuous: in spite of all its envy, we shall be honourable, if we have merit, although we cannot be honoured, if we possess not its favour. I dare likewise assure, that detraction, which endeavours to wound virtue, is advantageous to its glory; not only by the encreasements that it gives to its principle, but also by the relief wherewith it raiseth its rays. They are not the beauties only of a face, which draw new graces from the blackness that seems to disfigure them: these shadows which the malice of a jealous person would fasten upon merit, serve not but to make it to be remarkable, in the same manner, as there is but the Eclipse that gives us the means to see the Sun. To judge at first, and upon the first sight, one would blieve that these gulfs which appear in the pictures, pierce the wall that bears them, and that these Abysines which a little oil and colours make upon the cloth, prepare shipwreck to the eyes and imaginations that contemplate them. And yet if we look here more narrowly and nearer, we shall find that these precipies are at the highest superficies of the portrait, and that the point of the most eminent mountains, hath no more elevation, than the hollowness of these deep Enfonceurs; that is, an agreeable illusion, and a profitable deceit, which abaseth us to raise us; let us judge sound of calumny, and we shall see, that though she hath some other design, she hath notwithstanding that effect. How many great Virtues are there which are unknown unto us, because no body hath traduced them? How many are there that glitter, because malice hath cast a cloud upon them? Not to go from my subject, and to leave an example which merits our application: Should Hirlanda have come unto us without her disgraces? should we have known her merit, if it had not been combated? A thousand Princesses of as high a birth as she, remain buried in oblivion, in not having met with a brother in law, or in having one better than Gerard. There is reason then sometimes to wish misfortunes; imprisonment is then advantageous; an enemy hath benefits, and dishonour, glory. But if it happen that calumny takes truly from us what we possess amongst men, never goes it so far as to God; the loss which we make, will be but an Eclipse in the Ephemerideses of the time that passeth, and not in the book of life which remains eternally. Comfort yourself then, my Reader, if tongues do you some injustice: perhaps you will judge one day, that those whom you make the object now of all your hates, do merit actions of thanks from your acknowledgement. But if you cannot have these lights in this life, and that the love of a detractor would be a virtue too hard, I consent that you should conserve your reputation carefully; provided, that your care be without impressment. Should you not be blind to lose peace, which is the dear treasure of your heart, to defend renown, which is but the invisible picture of your virtue? In case that you should quit a little of the tranquillity of your spirit, I conjure you diminish nothing of the Innocence of your soul. Remember, that that jealousy which with too much inquietude combats honour, hazardeth not only its lustre, but ruins also the merit which serves for foundation unto it. The fable saith, that Jupiter broke the eggs of the Eagle which he had in his bosom, in shaking off the mute of the bird that defiled his purple; how lively it expresseth that which you would do if you should abandon virtue, to conserve its fame? It is an ill fashion to take away the blemishes of a face, to strip the skin off; it is that notwithstanding which a mother doth, passionate of her child's complexion, and a man too amorous of his reputation: she woundeth a flesh, which she would purify from its defects, and he offends the merit which he pretends to privilege from blame. My Reader, since I have but one word to say unto you, receive this last advice from me, and believe me true, if I maintain, that the least troublesome way to conserve the esteem of men, is to make little account of their sentiment. Come you yourself to the practice of this generous contempt; and I am certain, that as soon as you leave tongues to speak, your virtue triumpheth; and that if you suffer quietly their malice, you assure for ever your Innocence.  
FINIS.