L I G) RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVLR^SITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823, 
 B"73,ci
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 '■^M. 
 
 fif
 
 
 Y K^'
 
 DE FOIX; 
 
 OR, 
 
 SKETCHES OF THE MANNERS AND CUSTOMS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 ^n ^i^tocical l^omance. 
 
 BY ANNA ELIZA BRAY, 
 LATE MRS. CHARLES STOTHARD, 
 
 AUTHOR OP LETTERS WRITTEN DURING A TOUR THROUGH NORMANDY, 
 
 BRITANNY, AND OTHER PARTS OF FRANCE, IN 1818; MEMOIRS 
 
 OF THE LIFE OF THE LATE CHARLES ALFRED STOTHARD, 
 
 F. S. A. &C. &C. &C. 
 
 Knightes 
 
 Armed for lists 
 
 ■ The minstralcie, the service at the feste. 
 
 The great geftes to the most and leste. 
 The rich array of Theseus' paleis. 
 And who sate first and last upon the deis. 
 What ladies fayrest ben or best dancing. 
 
 Or which of them can carole best or sing 
 
 Of all this make I mentioun. 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 IN. THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED KOR 
 
 LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, AND GREEN, 
 PATEllNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1826.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED L'Y THOMAS DAVISON, UHlTKFlilAKS.
 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 It will appear evident to the erudite 
 reader, that the author of this work has 
 been indebted to the delightful pages of 
 Froissart for the groundwork of her narra- 
 tive. 
 
 Froissart for some time resided at the 
 castle of Gaston Phoebus, Count de Foix ; 
 and as he enjoyed a familiar intercourse 
 with that celebrated prince, and many di- 
 stinguished knights of his suite, we may 
 well suppose he possessed an opportunity 
 of gaining much authentic intelligence re- 
 specting the various characters and events 
 of his court. The melancholy death of
 
 IV ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 the youthful Gaston de Foix ; the fate of 
 Sir Peter Arnaut de Beam ; the wars with 
 Armagnac and Lourde ; the detention of 
 the lands of the Lady Jane of Boulogne, 
 and other circumstances, are all mentioned 
 by the venerable chronicler as events that 
 became known to him whilst visiting the 
 court of Orthes. 
 
 These circumstances have therefore been 
 interwoven by the author in the tissue 
 of her story. The truth of history has 
 not been violated in important facts, while 
 imagination has filled up the outline with 
 characters and events suited to the nature 
 of Romance. In sketching the manners 
 and customs of the period in which the 
 plot of her work is laid, she has also chiefly 
 followed the ocular testimony of Froissart : 
 she has, however, derived some useful in-
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. V 
 
 formation from the writers on ancient 
 Chivalry, particularly from the excellent 
 treatise of St. Palaye. 
 
 The author feels a melancholy pleasure 
 in stating, that her knowledge relative to 
 the armour, &c. worn during the period 
 described, was gained from an attentive 
 study of the works* of her lamented hus- 
 band, the late Mr. Charles Stothard, whose 
 pen and pencil were so successfully em- 
 ployed in affording copious and valuable 
 illustrations of the antiquities of the middle 
 ages. 
 
 Vicarage, Tavistock, Devon, 
 November 1, 1825. 
 
 * See the " Monumental Effigies of Great Britain/' 
 drawn and etched by the late Charles Alfred Stoth- 
 ard, F.S.A. ; also his papers inserted in the " Me- 
 moirs" of his life, published by Messrs. Longman 
 and Co.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 Page 
 Chap. I. The Forest . ... 1 
 
 Chap. II. The Priory . . . 38 
 
 Chap. III. The Supper . . . . 65 
 
 Chap. IV. The Court . . , . 106 
 
 Chap. V. The Inquiry . ... 141 
 
 Chap. VI. The Token . . .151 
 
 Chap. VII. The Interview .... 178 
 
 Chap. VIII. The Banquet . . .211 
 
 Chap. IX. The Vigil of Arms . . . 254
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Line 16, page 10, for holy patience, read a true and hcly patience. 
 —.17, — 10, for eaten with thee, read eaten with thee, my 
 master. 
 
 — 20, — 35, /or fair, rcflfi favour. 
 
 In the note, 51, for at his period, read at this period. 
 
 — I, — 69, /or objectto, 7-ca<i object to. 
 
 — 14, — 68,j'^or two, read one. 
 
 — 11, — Tl,for round, read around. 
 
 8, — \06, for recesses which, read recesses of which. 
 
 __ 5, — 107} for massive towers within their enclosure ; upon, 
 
 read massive towers; within their enclosure 
 
 upon. 
 17, — 128, /or a token, read Such a token. 
 
 — 13, 183, /or worshipped that power, read worshipped one 
 
 God, that power. 
 
 — 9, — 246, /or illuminated, read illumined. 
 
 — 17, — 261, , or my Father, read my God. 
 
 — 7} — 272, for hear a full, read have a fulL 
 
 — 2, — 273, /or ita performance, read its full performance.
 
 D E F O I X. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE FOREST. 
 
 A knight there was, and that a worthy man, 
 That fro the time, that he firste began, 
 To riden out, he loved chivalrie 
 Troutlie and honour, fredom, and courtesie. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 It was towards the close of an unusually sultry 
 day, in the month of August, during a summer of 
 the latter part of the fourteenth century, when 
 the clouds gathering thick and portentous, ob- 
 scured the glowing brilliancy of a setting sun, 
 that illumined the richly wooded hills of the fer- 
 tile province of Beam. The birds fast scudded 
 to their covert, whilst, eager on the M'ing, their 
 little throats chirped forth a cheerless and a 
 warning note. The rustling of the leaves, agi- 
 tated by the rising of the tempest, broke upon 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 I)E FOIX. 
 
 the silence of evening in Ioav sounds. The winds 
 suddenly arose, and now swept along in one con- 
 tinued rush ; now paused, and again burst in loud 
 and lengthened cadence, above the surrounding 
 woods, bending their lofty tops, with an undu- 
 lating motion, like a flood of " mighty waters." 
 
 These warnings were not unheeded by two 
 persons, who rode along a solitary path, in the 
 direction towards the Castle of Gaston Phoebus, 
 Count de Foix, lord of the provinces of Foix and 
 Beam. So intricate was the path, and so cir- 
 cuitous in its course, that none but those well 
 acquainted with the track, could with any degree 
 of certainty venture upon it. The foremost horse- 
 man was well mounted upon a young and beau- 
 tiful courser, which though somewhat jaded with 
 travel, seemed yet to bear his rider, with a stately, 
 and erect mien, as if conscious of the proud bur- 
 den that bestrode his sleek and pampered sides. 
 
 The Knight, (for such he was,) who rode thus 
 gallantly along, appeared, from his well turned 
 limbs, his ample chest, and graceful carriage, to 
 be of gentle degree and in the very flower of 
 his youth : while the easy manage of his steed,
 
 I>E FOIX. 
 
 showed liini an accomplished horseman : a cha- 
 racter, ^\'hich the youth of the period, eagerly 
 aspired to bear, as it was held honourable and 
 necessary in the military qualifications for a 
 knight. He was clad in polished steel, his head 
 guarded by a glittering basinet, from the pointed 
 crown of which, arose a heron's plume. The visor 
 was raised, and displayed a countenance of manly 
 beauty, characterized by the lofty brow, and the 
 proud glance of an eye, that spoke a mind of 
 haughty bearing. His mustachios fell on either 
 side his upper lip, over the mail that closely 
 enveloped his face. His haubergeon, (or coat of 
 mail,) was covered by a surcoat of red velvet, 
 upon \\hich was wrought, purfled with pearls, 
 on a field azure, six white martlets. 
 
 In his strong, and gauntletted hand, he held a 
 lance, attached to the end of which was a small 
 red pennon. His sword, emblazoned like his 
 surcoat, was slung by a strap round his neck, 
 supported by his bridle arm, and secured, at the 
 pummel, by a chain of silver, which was attached 
 to the right of his breast, just below the camail 
 (a piece of chain-mail armour), worn about the 
 
 B 2
 
 4 DE FOIX. 
 
 neck dependent from tlie basinet to the shonlders. 
 His feet, guarded by the soleret, or pointed shoe, 
 rested in stirrups of enamelled steel. 
 
 The horse that bore this comely Knight, was 
 covered with housings of silk, which hung from 
 either side the animal, embroidered with the 
 arms of his rider upon a ground of blue and 
 silver. On the forehead of the courser, appeared 
 a small plate, called the chanfrain, formed of 
 metal, and covered with velvet, having the six 
 white martlets worked upon it in pearls. 
 
 The Esquire of the Knight, followed his 
 master's steps, well mounted upon a handsome, 
 chestnut-coloured horse. His head "was sur- 
 mounted by a steel cap, and his body clothed in 
 a thick, quilted coat of leather, closely set with 
 gilt nails; little armour, either plate, or mail, 
 being at this time worn by an Esquire. He 
 M^as armed with a sword ; and from the saddle- 
 bow, hung an axe. There, also, depended the 
 helmet of his master ; as that ponderous guard for 
 the head, was alone worn by the Knight, over 
 the basinet, in tournament or battle. 
 
 For some time, the travellers journeyed on in
 
 DE FOIX. 
 
 silence, which was at length broken by the fore- 
 most rider, who, turning to his Esquire, ex- 
 claimed, " Agos, yonder clouds look black, and 
 threatening. If we reach not this castle ere 
 night-fall, I see little else than the prospect of 
 losing our way in the dark, or of passing the 
 time till morning dawns under the shelter of 
 these forest trees." 
 
 " They will afford but a sorry shelter against 
 the pelting of such a storm as seems coming 
 up yonder," replied the Esquire, " and craving 
 your pardon. Sir Equitan, we have other mis- 
 haps to fear, besides thunder bolts, and showers. 
 For it seems not to live in your knightly re- 
 membrance, that we have this day ridden seven 
 good leagues, since we washed our throats with 
 the stirrup cup, or tasted the comfort of a pot- 
 tage. For my own part, although I fear not the 
 value of a rusty dagger, a night's lodging in the 
 open air, while the lightning plays like a will o' 
 the ^v^sp upon my steel cap, yet I would have 
 wherewithal to keep my spirits up ; but mayhap 
 you think not of these things, but rather of that
 
 \ 
 
 DE roix. 
 
 new surcoat, and those gay housings, you are 
 clight withal. And sooth to say, they suit but 
 ill with such a night, as we are like to have of 
 it. For myself, who care not the spoiling of the 
 best new jerkin that ever Squire wore, there is 
 no mischance, or foe I heed to meet so much as 
 hunger. A well conditioned soldier has but one 
 foe to wrestle with, the enemy of his master, 
 but a starving man hath another, and a stronger, 
 in the danger of his own necessity. By the 
 holy bones of St. Anthony, though this were 
 the eve of his day, were it as strict a fast as ever 
 priest enjoined, I would eat the first slice of a 
 roasted kid that came in my way, and give ten 
 marks to-morrow morning to a Romish par- 
 doner, to sell me an absolution for my sin, 
 rather than endure tliis craving of the body's 
 citadel." 
 
 " If thy hunger be so importunate, Agos," 
 said the Knight, " the nearest way to satisfy 
 that, and my desire to clear this storm, lies, not 
 in vain prating, but in some effort to find the 
 right road through these intricate turnings.
 
 1)E FOIX. 7 
 
 J\itliee ride forward, and see if thou canst light 
 on either traveller or hind, who may counsel us 
 the way to our destination." 
 
 " That will I, truly," replied the Esquire. 
 " Tarry you here, Sir Equitan, and if I find not 
 the way through these brakes and wild paths, it 
 will be the worse for thy bright armour, that 
 shall make thee glitter like a sun beam, and 
 rank first amongst the gay Knights who throng 
 the court of the gallant Count de Foix. But 
 fear not, my master ; in pity to thy bravery, and 
 my own stomach, I promise a speedy return." 
 
 So saying, the hungry Esquire spurred his 
 horse, and set off in quest of some intelligence 
 to guide them through the wood. Agos de 
 Guisfort, (for such is the name by which our 
 Esquire was known,) for some time wandered 
 on through paths that seemed rather to increase 
 in intricacy than to offer any chance of ter- 
 mination. Here and there the way was im- 
 peded by the large and spreading boughs of 
 some oak tree, whose venerable trunk was en- 
 circled with tendrils of green ivy, stealing on
 
 O ' DE FOIX. 
 
 from branch to branch, as they twined about its 
 antique limbs. 
 
 The evening drew on apace, whilst Agos yet 
 searched about in vain; now turning to the 
 right, now to the left, then back again; sometimes 
 pausing to catch a low and distant sound, in 
 the faint hope that it might proceed from the 
 habitation of a human being. At length the 
 dim shade of twilight gradually obscured the 
 surrounding objects, and the thick clouds that 
 gathered in the west, rising, as it were, towards 
 the centre of the heavens, rolled on slowly, till 
 they settled into one dense, black mass, which 
 seemed every moment about to burst upon the 
 woods beneath. Agos looked again through their 
 intricacies, yet nothing appeared but the deep red 
 light that tinged the horizon, and was here and 
 there discovered through the boughs of the trees. 
 
 The Esquire, tired of a hopeless search, and 
 despairing to find the path, now first remem- 
 bered, that should he longer tarry, his difficulties 
 might be increased by a second vain attempt, 
 that of finding the way back to his master^
 
 DE FOIX. 9 
 
 guided only by the dim light of evening, and 
 his own imperfect recollection of the track. 
 Thus was he doubly doubtful ; and as many per- 
 sons, who, while two threatening evils lie before 
 them, when they should seize on the readiest 
 mode to escape from that which is most certain, 
 suffer the time for action to elapse in delibera- 
 tion, till all hope is past ; so it is most likely 
 would Agos now have done, had not the case 
 decided for itself, by the appearance of Sir Equi- 
 tan : for the knight, tired of waiting for his tardy 
 esquire, had followed him by the track of his 
 horse's feet in the ground, and joined him at the 
 moment the first, distant peal of thunder mut- 
 tered in a low and continued sound. 
 
 " Agos," said Sir Equitan, " it is vain to seek 
 for human direction in such a place, as this wild 
 forest, and at such a time. We have assuredly 
 lost our road; let us guide our horses to yonder 
 knoll where the trees are thickest, and there rest 
 till morning shall relieve us from our present 
 strait." 
 
 Agos paused, and ere he made a reply, seemed 
 to be pondering if there were any scheme, or
 
 10 PE FOIX. 
 
 invention within the compass of his own brain, 
 that could supply a remedy against a supperless 
 lodging in a lonely wood, " I have seen much, 
 and endured much," at length exclaimed the 
 Esquire, " but never till this hour, did I look to 
 satisfy my hunger by the air, my thirst by the 
 rain-drops, to find rest in a hurricane, and to say 
 matins with the thunder for a chorus. But 
 such is the life of those, who think to gain 
 Heaven and good fortune by the way of arms. 
 Nevertheless, Sir Equitan, when no help can be 
 found, we must even take up a friar's trade, and 
 with something more of honesty ; for what they 
 preach we need practise, and show to these trees, 
 for these are likely to be our only witnesses, a 
 holy patience. I have eaten with thee, I have 
 pledged thee in the wine-cup, and this night 
 will I fast with thee; but such a fast as the 
 Devil shall make account of, for it is sore against 
 the will." 
 
 The travellers now proceeded as fast as the 
 path, over-grown with brambles, and almost 
 choked with long grass, and weeds, would 
 admit. They had nearly gained the knoll, when
 
 DE FOIX. 11 
 
 suddenly a slight rustling of the leaves was 
 heard near them ; and immediately a quick and 
 light step, as if of some one who hastily passed 
 on, struck upon their ear. 
 
 " Stop ! whoever thou art, for the love of 
 Heaven and all the Saints," exclaimed Agos, 
 " stop, and guide two starving travellers through 
 these dismal paths." 
 
 No answer was returned, and Agos, springing 
 from his horse, ga^'e the reins to Sir Equitan to 
 hold the animal, and made immediately towards 
 the spot whence the steps were heard, wdth the 
 quick and eager effort which men use when 
 rushing upon an enterprise they are determined 
 to accomplish. The path through which he ran, 
 directly crossed a second path that led from 
 another part of the forest. The Esquire paused 
 not a moment, and in his haste to meet the un- 
 known person, the sound of whose steps had 
 alone been his guide, he came so suddenly in 
 contact with him, that, like two vessels carried 
 on, the one by a fresh gale, and the other by a 
 rapid current, they met, and struck with such
 
 12 
 
 DE roix. 
 
 force, that the weaker was nearly borne down by 
 the strojiger. 
 
 Agos, who had thus caused the stranger almost 
 to measure his length upon the ground, and 
 fearing lest upon his rising he should lose the 
 only opportunity that seemed likely to offer 
 itself to free them from their perplexity, scarcely 
 knowing what he did, suddenly and without ex- 
 planation seized upon the other, and bade him 
 for the love of St. Mary to give some direction, 
 or to guide him through the forest. 
 
 *' And who are you," replied the stranger, 
 " who thus rudely demand it? your rough 
 courtesy may be repaid in kind. I know not 
 that either my leisure or my inclination may wait 
 upon your occasions. I am not used to be com- 
 manded by such as you appear. These woods 
 offer wide paths, and liberty enough, for such as 
 have known perhaps the prison, and the gyves." 
 
 " The prison and the gyves !" re-echoed Agos. 
 " Hark thee ! youngster, for you are but a boy. 
 If that lambs wool, that grows upon your head, 
 but visits not your chin, did not protect you,
 
 ui: FOix. 13 
 
 my steel had paid such insolence, and 1 had 
 taught you, that no leech can lay the fever of a 
 saucy tongue with half so cool a medicine. I 
 am a gentleman ; and therefore guide me, and 
 yonder knight, who is riding towards us, through 
 this forest, or I will use one of its boughs so 
 well upon your back, that you shall need no 
 penitential scourge for many days to come." 
 
 " Keep your threats for those who may need 
 them," replied the stranger, " I do not fear you. 
 Let me pass on, for whilst I tarry, I shall but 
 laugh at the folly of one, who thinks to find 
 assistance at his need by the use of a rough 
 hand, and the asking of a rude tongue." 
 
 Agos, whose temper was none of the coolest, 
 was now roused between the dread of the pro- 
 spect before him, and the insolence of the stranger, 
 to such a height, that he had raised his arm, to 
 put part of his threat in execution, when Sir 
 Eqnitan rode up, and by his presence checked 
 the anger of the one, and the audacity of the 
 other. 
 
 " What foolish broil is this?" said the knight; 
 " you left me but now to seek some way to
 
 14 T)F. FOTX. 
 
 escape the discomforts of the niglit passed in a 
 lonely wood, and do you think to cure the evil 
 by an idle quarrel with a mere youth ? Where- 
 fore is all this ? but our necessities have little 
 time for debate. Prithee tell me, young stranger, 
 are you of these parts? and can you guide me 
 to the castle of the noble Gaston Phoebus, Count 
 de Foix ? I will repay your pains with some- 
 thing more than thanks." 
 
 " I can, sir Knight," replied the boy, in a 
 gentler manner, " I can guide you to my lord 
 de Foix, but your thanks shall be my only 
 guerdon ; for I am not one of those who make 
 a craft of service. Yet you shall hardly reach 
 the castle ere nightfall. I came thence to-day, 
 and passed some hours at angling in a neigh- 
 bouring stream, that waters this forest. Whilst 
 waiting for one of my companions, who pro- 
 mised there to join me, and bear me company 
 back to the castle ; exhausted with fatigue, and 
 heat, I threw myself under an oak tree, and 
 having fallen asleep, am but now awake, to find 
 myself alone, night coming on, with a storm for 
 its herald. My haste was little less than yours to
 
 BK FOTX. 15 
 
 seek shelter, and I was about to make my way 
 to the monastery of St. Mary's, which stands 
 upon the borders of this forest Thither can I 
 conduct you, and I doubt not Prior Philip will 
 give you welcome, and a lodging for the night. 
 And when day returns I will be your guide to 
 the castle of my noble master, the Count de 
 Foix." 
 
 " Let us on then, good youth," said Sir Equi- 
 tan, " and prithee mount behind me ; it will save 
 your labour, and hasten our purpose, and I will 
 guide the horse as you direct." 
 
 The boy instantly sprang up, and seated him- 
 self upon the courser, with the light and agile 
 bound of one accustomed to the athletic exercises 
 of the youth of that period. " Thou art nimble 
 as a hare," cried Sir Equitan, " when she springs 
 from her pursuers. I will warrant thee used to 
 the manage, and the chase. Tell me wlio art 
 thou ? what is thy state, and thy name ?" 
 
 " Truly," answered tlie boy, " I am one of 
 those who have had some rubs with Fortune, in 
 lier angry mood. I was born in England. My 
 parents were of gentle blood but poor, for the
 
 16 DF. FOIX. 
 
 wars liad ruined tliem. They died when 1 was 
 yet a chikl ; and some time after, I followed a 
 gallant knight, who was my kinsman, in the 
 service of a page. We came into France, and 
 at length visited the court of the Count de Foix, 
 where I was so well liked for my qualities, that 
 on my master's return to his native country he 
 left me at Orthes, in the honourable employ- 
 ment of page to the beauteous lady Jane of 
 Boulogne, who is a ward to my lord de Foix." 
 
 " And what are your qualities," said Agos, 
 " that should constitute you a Squire of Dames ? 
 do they lie in that malapert tongue ? Is it for 
 that you are the chosen favourite to attend my 
 lady, when she needs a civil varlet?" 
 
 " My qualities," rejoined the page, " are 
 such as you are little acquainted with, having 
 no spice of them in your own rude spirit. I 
 ride with my lady to the chase, I awake the 
 echoes of the wood, that mock my merry horn. 
 And sometimes, before the lark sings his matins 
 to the dawn, before his wing can brush the 
 fresh dew from the rose, I pluck it for her. 
 Sometimes I soothe her with my song. In her
 
 DE FOIX. IT 
 
 chamber I discourse on love and chivalry. I 
 follow her to mass, to court, or to shrift. When 
 she is merry I laugh with her, when sad I weep. 
 1 can bear a letter for my lady, a token or a 
 message. I can speak the truth to her, and now 
 and then I can tell a lie for her. In short I am 
 page of honour to the fairest lady that Heaven 
 ever smiled upon. This is my state, and for my 
 name, it is simply M^illiam, or as men call me, 
 in memory of my birth, ^^"ill of the West, the 
 merry Englisli page." 
 
 " Thou hast most page-like qualities indeed," 
 said Sir Equitan, " and of thy lady, who is so fair, 
 thou shalt hereafter tell me more. But Agos 
 has advanced befoie us. Who is it that crosses 
 our path, and even now stops him? I cannot 
 plainly distinguish through the twilight, but by 
 his long robes, it seems as if it were' some one 
 clad in the garb of a monk." 
 
 And so it was. For upon Agos having ad- 
 vanced a few paces before his master, whilst Wil- 
 liam was summing up his own qualities, he was 
 suddeidy stopt and accosted by one of the order 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 UE FOIX. 
 
 of St. Francis, or tlie Friars Minor, whose duty 
 it was to wander about the world preaching 
 boldly the gospel of Christ, warning the sinner, 
 encouraging the penitent, and denouncing the 
 judgments of God, without fear, or respect of 
 persons. Begging as pilgrims, and receiving 
 from the hand of Charity, the common necessaries 
 of life. 
 
 The friar, who now addressed Agos, was at- 
 tired in the habit of his order, in a long gown of 
 gray stuff, surmounted by a black mantle, that 
 fell in ample folds about his limbs. A white 
 linen cloth appeared around his chin and neck, 
 and hung as low as the bosom. A cord of com- 
 mon rope, from which depended a rosary and 
 cross, was girt about his waist. His feet were 
 bare. 
 
 " What would you, friend, with me ?" in- 
 quired Agos, who seemed impatient of the least 
 delay. " We have no time to lose ; speak quickly, 
 and let me pass on. You cross my path." 
 
 " I am a poor brother," said the friar, " of 
 the order of St. Francis, I seek hereabouts the
 
 DE FOIX. 19 
 
 monastery of St. Mary ; where I mean this night 
 to crave the rights of charity, and I pray you to 
 direct me to it." 
 
 " Tliitlier we are going ourselves," replied 
 Sir Eqiiitan, who had stopt his horse to listen to 
 the friar ; " you are welcome, holy man, to beatf 
 us company." 
 
 " Thanks," said the stranger, " I will gladly 
 go wdth you." 
 
 " Get up then behind me," cried Agos, 
 " without delay. Say no more thanks, and in 
 Heaven's name let us hasten on." 
 
 " I may not do that," replied the Franciscan : 
 " know ye not that a brother of the order of the 
 blessed St. Francis is forl>idden alike to ride, or 
 to cover his feet, that he may always be exposed 
 to hardship and toil ; tluit as travel is a part of 
 his duty, lie may have a constant cause of pain 
 and mortification present with him, in his way 
 of life, which is destiiu^d to wanderings, poverty, 
 and obedience." 
 
 " For thy wanderings — holy friar," said Agos, 
 " thou canst not have a fitter place than these 
 woods to exercise them in ; and here too thy 
 
 c2
 
 20 DE FOIX. 
 
 poverty will find no tempter to shake its v-irtue ; 
 for thy obedience — should the wicked spirit get 
 the mastery, and bid thee hang thyself, to be 
 rid of such evils, these trees are high enough 
 to swing upon. And thy own cord wall do 
 vengeance on thy neck for the sorrows it has 
 spared thy back. If thou wilt go with us, why 
 mount behind me, it is but confessing another 
 sin; and thou wilt have the plea of necessity 
 for its commission, which all sinners cannot 
 offer. Those who sin wantonly, do it for the 
 pleasure of Satan ; those who transgress to follow 
 mere inclination, to satisfy their own. But the 
 sins of necessity are such as a man may sleep 
 under, and cure by an extra whipping, and for 
 which the saints and the church provide whole- 
 some remedies. But if thou wilt be obstinate 
 we must even ride on, and bid thee exercise 
 another christian virtue, that of patience with 
 thy enemies, for thou wilt not call such as leave 
 thee benighted in a wood, thy friends." 
 
 " I forgive your jests," said the friar, " but I 
 M'ill not break the vow of my order. No ! I 
 would sooner perish. Good even' to you, friend,
 
 DE FOIX. 21 
 
 for such I will still call you, as my fellow being, 
 as the creature of that good Providence \vhom I 
 serve, and who will not abandon one, that ob- 
 serves the vows made at his altar." 
 
 " We will not leave you thus," said Sir Equi- 
 tan ; " no, holy man, you who respect the obli- 
 gation of your vows to Heaven, shall find that 
 we respect the charities of man to man : walk by 
 our horses' sides, and we will slacken our pace 
 to accommodate yours." 
 
 " We are not far," observed the page, " from 
 the monastery of St. Mary, we may yet reach it 
 before the storm bursts upon us." 
 
 To the infinite dissatisfaction of Agos, the 
 whole party now slackened their pace to accom- 
 modate the poor Franciscan, whose fatigue did not 
 allow him to make any great speed. Agos had 
 little reverence for friars of any kind, and could 
 ill brook the least delay for their service, but he 
 was obliged to submit to the will of his master. 
 Agos had led the free and joyous life of arms, 
 and though from habit he feared not death in 
 the field, yet his imagination, pictured it to him,
 
 22 DE FOIX. 
 
 in terrific colours, wlien its visitation was accom- 
 panied by hunger in the woods. 
 
 Whilst the party journeyed on towards the 
 monastery, Sir Equitan questioned the friar re- 
 specting the purpose of his present wanderings, 
 and was surprised to hear, that he was going to 
 the castle of the Count de Foix. " Surely, holy 
 man," said he, " the festival which that lord is 
 about to hold, the gay court, thronged by high 
 born dames of rarest beauty, by knights from the 
 most distant provinces of France, can be no place 
 for one of your profession." 
 
 " You are in error," replied the friar, " this 
 festival is the very cause of my going thither. I 
 go to warn the young of the deluding snares of 
 pleasure ; to show the old, that whilst they revel, 
 they do it upon the very verge of the grave, 
 that is opening to receive them. In fine I go to 
 preach the terrors of a future judgment, to de- 
 nounce vengeance on the sinner. I have before 
 visited the court of De Foix, when I spoke to 
 the Count such things, as it would have been 
 better for himself, had he heeded them. I warned
 
 DE FOIX. 23 
 
 him of the consequence of passion. Truth made 
 me bold, but her simple words sound harsh in 
 the ear of princes ; my warning M^as neglected, 
 and my lord de Foix — but no more of that. I 
 seek his court again, and for a better purpose. 
 Some feelings, some objects I surely must find 
 changed. Yet no matter, I will still speak with 
 the voice of truth. In this life the fulfilment of 
 our duties, must not be measured by their suc- 
 cess ; it is enough for us, that we take heed to 
 practise them. Their benefit or their failure 
 rests with Heaven." 
 
 " You speak somewhat mysteriously of my 
 lord de Foix," said the page; " I am of his house- 
 hold. I have been sheltered by his bounty, and 
 fed at his board. And more than this, I have 
 had from him, what to the poor dependant is of 
 greater worth than the gold of princes, I have 
 had gracious words of kindness from liim. Thus 
 bound to love the Count de Foix, I will not rest 
 silent, and hear my master named in terms that 
 imply dishonour. I know him to be great and 
 noble. Speak the truth, and that shall never de- 
 fame him."
 
 24 DE FOIX. 
 
 " Heaven forbid, I should speak other than 
 truth," replied the friar. " I know De Foix to 
 be great and noble, where passion does not in- 
 terfere. I can speak his praise, but I cannot 
 flatter. Yet this is not the point, I have uttered 
 nothing derogatory to his honour, nor to his dig- 
 nity." 
 
 *' You have uttered no positive accusation," 
 said Sir Equitan, " but still you dropt some 
 words, sufficient to excite curiosity, if not suspi- 
 cion. Since you coupled your remarks with a 
 degree of insinuation, and insinuations are worse 
 than a direct charge : the latter speaks plainly, 
 and may be challenged by direct means, it is 
 like a foe, who meets us in the light of day ; but 
 insinuation, like the assassin, who stabs us in the 
 dark, deals forth the wound, whilst the destroyer 
 is shrouded from detection." 
 
 " Ay," said Agos, gladly putting in a word, 
 when the discourse was likely not to be very 
 favourable to the friar, " give me any thing but 
 fighting in ambush ; I like no archer hid behind 
 a hedge ; yet even he, when his arrows are all 
 spent, can harm no more : yet draw but a monk's
 
 DE FOIX. 25 
 
 cowl over your head, and closed in by a hedge 
 like that, the tongue shall let fly such shafts of 
 detraction, that never cease, till they kill the 
 character at least, if not the man." 
 
 " Peace, sinner," said the friar : " defame not 
 those whose tono^ues are consecrated to the will 
 of Heaven. Our just reprehension of sin, is 
 termed by the world, slander, our admonitions 
 insolence. But what good thing is there that 
 prejudice will not despise? The very virtues of 
 the just are a reproach to the evil minded; and 
 the bad part of mankind, judging the hearts of 
 others by the dark colour of their own, attribute 
 to all alike, either open sin, or hypocrisy. For 
 these things we grieve. Yet no man is perfect, 
 and to our OM'n character of monitor in reprehen- 
 sion for the errors and crimes of other men, we 
 have to add, that of penitent for our own." 
 
 " In faith, a wholesome argument," cried Agos, 
 " that should help thy conscience to let thee get 
 up behind me upon my horse, and not delay us 
 thus by j)reaching in the woods : for as I am, 
 what thou termest me, a sinner, thou, who art a
 
 26 DE roix. 
 
 penitent, should give mc thy assistance. For 
 notwithstanding thy admonitions, depend upon 
 it, sin will ever ride on first, and give penitence 
 the crupper; seldom will she resign the reins, 
 if she be once mounted, till either a great fall, 
 or mere weariness, oblige her to it : for she 
 gains her firm sitting, just as much by habit as 
 a horseman does his place in the saddle." 
 
 " Your words are light, and yet they speak 
 too sad a truth," rejoined the Franciscan. 
 
 The page now declared they were near the 
 boundary walls of the monastery of St. Mary, 
 and the party pursued their route, much rejoiced 
 at the intelligence, yet little disposed for con- 
 versation during the remainder of the way. 
 
 And thus shall we leave them, to finish their 
 little journey towards the monastery, whilst we 
 say a word or two to the reader, in our own 
 character, proposing to be to him, like the 
 chorus in the plays of the olden time, who, 
 when a seasonable pause occurred by the close 
 of a scene, or the ending of an act, just stept in 
 before the curtain, and gave the audience such
 
 DE FOIX. 27 
 
 intelligence as it was most fitting- they should 
 receive, for the better comprehension of the plot, 
 and circumstances that were going on, during 
 the performance of the piece, but which they 
 were not likely to gather, in plain and absolute 
 terms, from the characters themselves. Fol- 
 lowing therefore a similar intention, with a hope 
 of communicating to our reader whatever know- 
 ledge we may possess of our subject, and giving 
 him at least as clear a view as we ourselves have 
 of the scene of our story, we shall now offer a 
 few remarks respecting feudal manners, and the 
 ancient and honourable office of page, an office 
 so proudly held by our young friend William, or 
 Will of the West. 
 
 At a time when three fourths of Europe might 
 be justly considered in a barbarous and unculti- 
 vated state of society, the exercise of arms in 
 some measure, supplied the imperfect admini- 
 stration of defective laws : many being compelled 
 to withstand the efforts of tyranny, or the rapine 
 of injustice, by individual prowess. So that 
 those claims of liberty, and natural right, which 
 in jnore civilized times are dispensed by the
 
 28 DE FOIX. 
 
 legislator, were then in many instances alone to 
 be supported by the point of the sword. 
 
 The plea of necessity, is generally that of 
 nature, and whilst it was confined by our an- 
 cestors to the defence of what every man might 
 justly feel to be his own property, or privileges, 
 much might be said, in favor both of its utility, 
 and of its moral justice. The abuse therefore of 
 the system, and not its existence, became dan- 
 gerous. The passions of individuals interfered, 
 created causes of enmity, and pleas of discontent, 
 to satisfy some private end that had no founda- 
 tion in natural right. Thus were the weak or 
 the defenceless, frequently at the mercy of any 
 one who possessed the means, or the power to 
 accomplish the purposes of a private enmity. 
 
 The abasement and misery of the people, have 
 ever been found the certain consequences of the 
 unlimited exercise of arbitrary power, as it is 
 alone in the general administration of impartial 
 laws, that a barrier can be found of sufficient 
 strength to withstand the fatal effects of private 
 passion and individual feeling. The system, 
 tlierefore, of seeking redress for wrongs by the
 
 DE FOIX. 29 
 
 sword, which so much prevailed during the 
 middle ages, might, perhaps, but for the spirit 
 of chivalry which accompanied it, have reduced 
 the whole state of Europe into one great theatre 
 of savage outrage. The martial character, the 
 generous feeling, and the high sense of honour 
 which were considered indispensable qualities 
 in the profession of a Knight, not only served 
 as a protection to the weak, but, in a very great 
 degree, softened by their influence the rigour of 
 the times, and prevented those dangers which 
 threatened society at large from the universal 
 practice of constant and domestic warfare. 
 
 A strict observance of the laws of chivalry, 
 like those of honour in modern days, formed a 
 part of the character of a gentleman, or one of 
 birth and breeding. These laws were so early, 
 and so forcibly impressed on the mind of youth, 
 that they became, as it were, a bridle to regulate 
 and curb the passions of the individual ; for that 
 Knight was ever held recreant and base, the 
 very scorn of his fellows, who, to satisfy a pri- 
 vate resentment, or even a purpose of just in-
 
 30 DE FOIX. 
 
 dignation, would attempt any thing that mili- 
 tated against the laws of his order. 
 
 The early and devoted attention, of such as 
 were designed for knighthood, to the fair sex, 
 served also to refine their manners, and to 
 create a delicacy and benevolence of mind, that 
 subdued the ferocious spirit which is generally 
 found to exist in warlike and uncultivated so- 
 ciety. With the young cavaliers, love pre- 
 ceded in its influence the actual existence of 
 the feeling. It was a sentiment rather than a 
 passion ; they were taught even from childliood 
 to consider it as a merit, inseparably connected 
 with whatever was great or generous in the cha- 
 racter of man, as the peculiar distinction of virtue. 
 
 The altar of love was that at whose pure 
 shrine no incense must be offered but such as 
 was worthy of its object, before whose flame 
 whatever was noisome or unseemly perished, 
 whose warmth whilst it glowed within the heart, 
 and delighted the fancy, created, animated, in- 
 spired in the mind of its votaries great attempts 
 and glorious achievements. This delicate com-
 
 DE FOIX. 
 
 31 
 
 mcrce with the other sex, wholly free from liber- 
 tinism, banished from its intercourse whatever 
 was gross or unbecoming, and though each 
 Knight, at a more advanced period, devoted his 
 affections to some fair individual who became 
 the mistress of his heart, and to whom he re- 
 ferred all his honours, yet a general reverence 
 and admiration for the sex at large, was early 
 cultivated in his bosom. 
 
 This feeling, whilst it was often recognised 
 by the name of love, more frequently bore the 
 character of friendship. It partook of its kind- 
 nesses and its confidence, without the alarms of 
 violent emotion, and knew neither the watchful 
 vigilance of suspicion, nor the tortures of jea- 
 lousy. To the constancy of that friendship which 
 subsists between men, it superadded a devoted 
 zeal, and the refinements of polite manners. 
 The very restraint which it possessed, arising 
 from the difference of sexes, preserved the dig- 
 nity of its character, by preventing its degene- 
 rating into rude familiarity. 
 
 In these ages, it is true, the notions of love 
 were carried to such :i height, that they ob-
 
 32 DE FOIX. 
 
 tained, in after times, by way of expressing; 
 their extravagance, the title of Roina/ice ; but 
 this very romance of fieling^ however extrava- 
 gant, although half ideal, became the standard 
 of excellence, the mould, as it were, in A\'hich 
 virtue endeavoured to model her own image, to 
 induce an imitation of her finer beauties in those 
 who copied from her. The more perfect the 
 model proposed for the imitation of others, the 
 nearer will that imitation arrive at excellence : 
 like the painter, vAxo copies the inimitable statues 
 of antiquity, that he may give to his o\A'n de- 
 lineations of common nature the refined and 
 poetic grace of Grecian genius. 
 
 The profession of chivalry, during the middle 
 ages, was universally considered the chief honour 
 of all of noble blood, and many who had not 
 the distinction of birth to confer diginity upon 
 their name, eagerly sought, by following a pro- 
 fession so replete wdth danger, to acquire for 
 themselves that renown thej- could not claim 
 from ancestry. This martial spirit was en- 
 couraged by the chief nobility, for at a time 
 when the courts of the feudal Barons frequently
 
 1)F. FdlX. 33 
 
 rivalled both in splendour and in power those 
 of kings themselves, it became a part of their 
 policy, as well as of their magnificence, to attach 
 to their own house a number of spirited and 
 warlike retainers. 
 
 To further the accomplishment of this object, 
 the courts of the barons and petty princes were 
 always open for the reception of the children 
 not only of such nobles as were deceased, or 
 disabled by war, calamity or imprisonment, from 
 protecting their offspring, but also of those of 
 less elevated birth. In these courts the young 
 persons received their military education, be- 
 came attached to the service of their lord, and, 
 finally, after having gone through the several 
 grades of chivalry, were knighted by him, and 
 called into the field: sometimes to make war 
 upon a neighbouring Baron, sometimes to defend 
 their own territories, and even occasionally to 
 oppose their legitimate sovereign. 
 
 The youths thus trained to arms, were, during 
 their infancy, committed to the charge of wo- 
 men ; they were given over to the instruction of 
 a governor, when they had arrived at their 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 DE roix. 
 
 eighth or ninth year, and at this period their 
 military education commenced. They were ac- 
 customed to the chase, and to all athletic exer- 
 cises. They were taught the manage of the 
 war horse, and clad in a suit of armour adapted 
 to their size and years, which was increased in 
 bulk and weight as they grew older and stronger. 
 They were made to practise in the lists the 
 use of the lance and the sword. Their agility 
 was put to the test, by making them vault into 
 the saddle whilst their charger was at full career 
 within the ring. They were obliged to equip 
 both themselves and their horses at a few minutes' 
 warning; to bear hardships, to endure fatigue, 
 and to venture their lives in the pursuit of 
 glory. 
 
 To such as were designed for a military life 
 (and sometimes to others), the first situation 
 assigned was that of page, a station, in its higher 
 branches, of considerable honour; the meaner 
 or body pages, as they were called, who were 
 not designed to bear arms, being little else than 
 family domestics. The page of the first order 
 was taught to love his God, and to fear and
 
 DE FOIX. 35 
 
 reverence the church with all her holy mysteries 
 and superstitions ; and although this fear was 
 sometimes lost in the after licence of a military 
 career, yet a tincture of it generally accompanied 
 the man through life. 
 
 The next great precept instilled into the bosom 
 of the youth, was tliat of devotion to the fair 
 sex, and he was made to select some beautiful 
 and amiable lady in the court or castle, to 
 whom his services were to be more peculiarly 
 directed. It became his duty to attend upon 
 her both in her public and her private hours of 
 amusement ; to follow her to the chase, the ball, 
 the banquet, and the church ; to bear her com- 
 pany in her journeys, carry her messages, and 
 present to her the wine cup at the board. 
 
 These services were also occasionally rendered 
 to the lord or the lady, by the pages who were 
 thus especially devoted to some damsel of their 
 train. The fair thus bestowed upon them, by 
 their noble protectors, and the praises they re- 
 ceived from her as the mistress of their youthful 
 affections, often influenced the conduct of these 
 boys throughout their after life. The former 
 
 d2
 
 36 DE FOIX. 
 
 made them faithful, and zealous in the discharge 
 of their military duties, and the latter raised in 
 them an emulation of spirit, a courteous and 
 gallant bearing, alike ornamental to the knight 
 either at the court, or in the field. 
 
 The liberal protection given by the nobles 
 to youths who were sometimes either orphans, 
 illegitimate, friendless, or wholly unprotected^ 
 not only proved a source of immediate benefit 
 to the benefactors themselves, but raised a spirit 
 of emulation in their children ; whilst the ties of 
 affection, thus early formed between the young 
 persons, in the happy hours of open-minded in- 
 fancy, in their future lives frequently became 
 a bond of indissoluble friendship. So that the 
 adopted page, and the son of his lord, when each 
 had attained the honour of knighthood, were 
 often brothers in arms : by this fraternal union, 
 they were bound to espouse the cause, and be- 
 come the mutual protectors, and abettors of each 
 other. 
 
 The old romances speak often of these early 
 and faithful attachments ; and some honourable 
 instances of them, have been mentioned by the
 
 DE FOIX. 37 
 
 ancient chroniclers. In a few cases, the favours 
 thus bestowed by the lord upon a favorite re- 
 tainer, might plant in an ungenerous mind the 
 seeds of jealousy, that ripened into malice in the 
 bosom of a kinsman, or even of liis own son. 
 But such instances were rarely seen to be the 
 consequence. 
 
 The next step to knighthood, on quitting the 
 post of page, was that of becoming an esquire, 
 whose office to attend upon the knight is gene- 
 rally known. There were also esquires devoted 
 to the service of the lady of the castle, and her 
 lord ; and others who filled the place of chamber- 
 lains, to whose charge was committed the keep- 
 ing of the jewels, the plate, and whatever was 
 held most precious in the household. The highest 
 post of this nature was that of body squire, who 
 bore the pennon of the knight in action, and 
 followed him in all his most perilous enterprises 
 and adventures.
 
 38 DE FOIX. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE PRIORY. 
 
 Like one that stands upon a promontory 
 
 And spies a far-ofF shore, where he would tread : 
 Wishing his foot were equal with his eye, 
 And chides the sea that sunders him from thence ; 
 Saying — he'll lade it dry to have his way. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 The Priory of St. Mary, towards whose 
 walls, in the last chapter, we left the young 
 page conducting the travellers, was situated on 
 the borders of the extensive forest of Orthes, 
 near the town of that name, then the capital of 
 Beam. It was a vast and magnificent pile of 
 Gothic structure ; having large gardens within 
 its boundary walls. These were thick, strong, 
 and battlemented, calculated for defence in case 
 of an attack from without, and flanked by many 
 a ponderous tower. The state of society at 
 this period rendered such fortifications necessary, 
 even to the monks; the sanctity of their re-
 
 DE FOIX. 
 
 39 
 
 ligious life being insufficient to guard tliem 
 from the pillage that generally followed the in- 
 cursions, either of a neighbouring baron, or the 
 assaults of the free bands, so common in this 
 part of Europe. 
 
 The Monastery was beautifully situated in a 
 romantic valley of the province, commanding a 
 view of the town and castle of Ortlies, its rich 
 and fertile plains abounding with corn, flax, and 
 vineyards. It was sheltered by the forest from 
 the northern winds; and towards the south as 
 far as the eye could extend, appeared this rich 
 champaign, now glowing with the varied tints 
 of summer, that gave an additional charm to its 
 own natural character of beauty. Here and 
 there, appeared a town or hamlet, glittering in 
 the sunshine, like specks of silver, relieving by 
 their contrast, the dark green colour of the masses 
 of wood, formed by the fir tree, so common in 
 this province. 
 
 The river Gave, that watered Beam, stole, 
 winding in its course, through these delicious 
 valleys, and was seen, now of a light blue, then 
 of a darker color, sparkling, or obscured, and
 
 40 DE FOIX. 
 
 changing its appearance, as the passing cloud 
 either threw a temporary shadow upon its clear 
 and tranquil surface, or left it again in sunshine. 
 At length the river seemed to dwindle into a 
 narrow line, as it receded in the distance towards 
 the foot of the lofty Pyrenees; \vhose tops, 
 crowned with eternal snows, formed a striking 
 contrast with the warm colours of the landscape, 
 that glowed beneath their base. 
 
 Half way up appeared hung as it were in mid 
 air many a strong castle ; the extent of which, 
 though the work of thousands of human hands, 
 shrunk into nothing, when compared with the 
 huge masses of rock, that varied by their pro- 
 jection, the somewhat regular declivity of these 
 mountains. The foaming cataract (breaking loose 
 as it were from the confines of its prison within 
 the earth) came thundering down their sides, 
 carrying, in its course, large portions of the 
 rocks, and the strong and " gnarled oak" torn 
 from its roots. 
 
 Near to the Monastery, stood, as we before 
 mentioned, the great forest of Orthes; a spot 
 which although it sometimes created alarm, by
 
 DF. FOIX. 41 
 
 uftorcling a secure and temporary shelter to the 
 free bands, or to the ambuscade, and skirmishing 
 parties of a foe, yet in these days was more fre- 
 quently the occasion of delight, by offering a 
 range desirable to the hunter. It was here the 
 Count de Foix (whose original Treatise upon 
 Hunting and Hawking is still preserved in tlie 
 royal library at Paris) often pursued his favorite 
 sport, and it was here too, that the prior of the 
 monastery in question, had built for himself a 
 hunting seat, as a place of relaxation from the 
 severer duties of his function. 
 
 The prior of the Monastery of St. Mary, 
 Philip of Avignon (whose order was that of the 
 Benedictines, called by way of pre-eminence the 
 Holy Rule) was a man of extraordinary powers 
 of mind, both natural, and acquired : and whose 
 learning in the obscured state of literature of the 
 period appeared almost supernatural, as a meteor 
 of light in the midst of darkness. Of his birth no 
 one knew the origin ; but, by his name, he was 
 generally understood to be of Avignon. From 
 his skill in negotiation, and as an able conductor 
 of court intrigue, he had been employed by the
 
 4.2 DE FOIX. 
 
 pope to carry on some private affairs between 
 his holiness, the King of Navarre, and several of 
 the neighbouring barons. On like errands he had 
 also been sent to De Foix : till the count, struck 
 with his talents, felt desirous of exclusively pos- 
 sessing so able an instrument, and attached 
 Philip to his own service, by creating him from 
 a simple priest to be the prior of the Monastery 
 of our Lady of Orthes. 
 
 That Clement should thus have suffered himself 
 to be deprived of so useful an agent, surprised 
 many ; but the policy of courts, it is to be pre- 
 sumed, was oftentimes as mysterious in the four- 
 teenth century, as in the present. And some did 
 not scruple to whisper (when they were far from 
 Avignon) that his holiness, although he valued 
 the useful agency of Philip's abilities, yet thought 
 the splendour of his tiara somewhat lessened by 
 its serving as a glass to reflect the brilliancy of 
 those talents, which he intended should help to 
 guide, but not dazzle the eyes of his consistory. 
 And others thought, perhaps with truth, that 
 jealous, as it was known, even the Holy See 
 itself was of the power of De Foix, it might be
 
 DK FOIX. 43 
 
 found expedient, to suffer one of the pope's own 
 creatures to be placed near the person of the 
 Count, who might still act as a useful emissary 
 for his holiness of Avignon. 
 
 Such were the whispers of the time, but 
 true or false, Prior Philip heeded them not, nor 
 was he so deeply concerned for the interests 
 of any one, whether pope, king, or count, as 
 for his own. He was one of those beings, 
 who resolve to make all things subservient to 
 their own immediate purpose; and his purpose 
 was ambition. He had studied mankind, not 
 for speculation but for profit : and his philoso- 
 phical contemplation of his fellow creatures was 
 bounded by the view of making them serviceable 
 to himself. 
 
 Keen in observing each finer light and shade 
 of the human character, he knew how to adapt 
 both circumstances, and occasions, to the prevail- 
 ing passion, or the humour of the individual he 
 had to deal with ; and whilst he resolved upon 
 the accomplishment of some object that was to 
 further his views, he artfully connected with his 
 own ludden motive, some plausible interest of
 
 DE FOIX. 
 
 the party concerned ; and would frequently by 
 letting fall a sentence, oiFering a remark, hinting 
 a possibility, or dropping an insinuation, give 
 rise to those very suggestions, he dared not 
 openly avow ; and which, by these means, ap- 
 peared to the persons themselves the sole result 
 of their own councils, whilst, in fact, they arose 
 from the expert cunning of the monk. 
 
 A great observer of past actions, he was a cool 
 calculator of future- and remote possibilities ; and, 
 with him, when they concerned his own advance- 
 ment, these were far from being of an humble 
 nature. Great in his ambition, he disdained to 
 fix it upon minor objects ; yet, whilst the ter- 
 mination of his views was of a lofty character, he 
 did not overlook the minute steps that must be 
 passed, before the boundary of their summit 
 could be attained. 
 
 Full therefore of plots for gaining a possible 
 advantage : steady, patient, and persevering in 
 execution ; undaunted by mischance, and reso- 
 lute in his purpose, Philip of Avignon, already 
 enjoyed the day-dream of his greatness. And 
 ever mindful that " lowliness is young ambition'.*
 
 DE FOIX. 45 
 
 ladder," he had already, by its aid, climbed some 
 of the slippery heights of fortune ; and looked 
 with a serious hope to the attainment of that 
 summit of his desires, where he was ultimately 
 to bind his ambitious brows with nothing less 
 than the triple crown. 
 
 But like all projectors of vain and human 
 ambition, if their object be great or small, he 
 saw only, in the contemplation of his own 
 projects, the fair side of the picture. Exalted 
 by his opinion of his own powers, their energies 
 turned what seemed almost impossible into pro- 
 bable. And whilst in his imagination Philip 
 stept forward from prior to abbot, from abbot to 
 bishop, from bishop to cardinal, and from cardinal 
 to the deputy of heaven upon earth, tlie keeper 
 of its sacred keys; whilst thus he revelled in 
 the luxury of thought, and sometimes decorated 
 this picture of himself, drawn by his fancy, with 
 the red hat, or the purple robes of office, he was 
 in fact, but walking the rounds of his owai little 
 territory, as prior of the Monastery of St. Mary 
 of Orthes, dependent on the Count de Foix, 
 and only hoping to gain advancement by the
 
 46 DE FOIX. 
 
 cunning of intrigue, and the influence of 
 money. 
 
 Of the power of the' latter, Philip was by no 
 means ignorant; and, next to that which had 
 descended from the blessed St. Peter himself, 
 he thought no key covdd so well bind, or unlock, 
 the treasures most to be desired on earth as that 
 of worldly gold. To possess such a key, was to 
 be possessed of power in its most active form ; 
 yet for the present Philip viewed only its shadow, 
 but longed to grasp the substance. 
 
 Plans, possibilities, and expectations kept alive 
 his hopes ; and whilst he calculated upon gaining 
 advancement, or of rising on the death of an- 
 other, there was one thing Prior Philip quite 
 forgot — that he was himself mortal ; and possibly 
 before his views could be accomplished, might 
 himself fill up that grave in which his calcula- 
 tions had already quietly interred others. 
 
 Upon the evening of that day on which we 
 opened the first chapter, the prior was seated in 
 his own apartment, engaged in making designs 
 for some improvements in the church of his 
 monastery, that were to be executed at the ex-
 
 DE FOIX. 47 
 
 pense of De FoLx ; for amongst his other talents, 
 Philip possessed that of an able architect. Indeed 
 the most eminent persons of that class were then 
 found within the seclusion of the monasteries. 
 Philip sat attentively considering his subject, 
 ^^■ith the parchments before him, his pen in his 
 hand, and various mathematical instruments 
 scattered upon the table. 
 
 He was this evening dressed, not in his costly 
 robes as prior, such as he wore on days of cere- 
 mony, but in the ordinary habit of the Bene- 
 dictines. His gown was black, hanging below 
 his feet, in ample folds ; the sleeves were large 
 and full ; Ids mantle and cowl were also of a 
 black colour. The sombre character of tliis 
 attire, being only relieved by the white chin- 
 cloth, or ^^^mple, that fell as low as the bosom. 
 His waist was girt round with a broad black 
 belt, clasped wath a gold buckle. A rosary de- 
 pended from his side : and his only distinction 
 as prior of the brotherhood, appeared by wearing 
 about his neck a chain of gold, to which was at- 
 tached a cross of the same metal ; whilst his tunic
 
 48 DE FOIX. 
 
 was fastened in front by a morse, or broocli, 
 richly enamelled, in mosaic work, with precious 
 stones, and representing the Virgin Mary. 
 
 The prior was of that age, when the counten- 
 ance supplies by its fixed character, its gi*avity, 
 and dignity of aspect, what it may have lost of 
 the more captivating, but less imposing graces 
 of youth; in which is seen the intelligence of 
 experienced manhood, without the imbecility of 
 old age. Philip was tall, and well-formed ; and 
 by an upright carriage, a graceful, yet reserved 
 demeanour, there was something about him that 
 forbade familiarity and created respect. So that 
 his worst enemies, although they scrupled not to 
 satisfy their spleen behind his back, felt too 
 much awed by his presence to offer a ])ersonal 
 insult, or to show contempt. 
 
 The general character of his aspect was that 
 of ti-anquil contemplation; for he was one of 
 those who possessed perfect self-command, and 
 could timely check the outward expression of 
 the inward workings of passion ; so that it re- 
 quired no ordinary observer to know the real
 
 DE FOIX. 49 
 
 state of his iVelings, wIr-ii lie chose to ilissembk^ 
 them. His foreliea^i was handsome, his eyes 
 penetrating, and, but for an indescribable, yet 
 certain expression they possessed, with a habit 
 of looking, as it were askance, from out the 
 corners of their half-closed lids, there was no- 
 thing striking in the character of liis face, which 
 would lead to a suspicion of that of his heart. 
 
 Tlie prior was seated in a spacious chamber 
 of the gothic edifice just described, which re- 
 ceived its principal light from four high arched, 
 and richly fretted windows ; and at the east end 
 of the room, within a recess, ascended by a few 
 steps, appeared a beautiful oriel window of 
 stained glass, enclosed by a tracery of the finest 
 work. The ceiling was formed of carved oak, 
 perforated in various elegant devices, and de- 
 corated at the termination of each arched beam, 
 with a fantastic mixture of carved heads ; some 
 representing those of saints, and others, those of 
 clo^\Tls or monsters. 
 
 An image of the Virgin carved in wood, and 
 richly painted and gilt, stood within a niche 
 above the door-way. The walls were hung with 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 DE FOIX. 
 
 sundry pictures, highly finished, in the hard 
 style and severe outline of the gothic school; 
 yet possessing, that nature, and simplicity, so 
 characteristic of its works. Each saint intro- 
 duced in these subjects appeared with a glory 
 around the head, painted in leaf gold. The prin- 
 cipal pictures represented the acts of the blessed 
 St. Benedict, beginning with his birth at Spo- 
 leto in Italy, and bearing the date of that event, 
 A. D. 480, beneath. His penance in the rocky 
 wilderness was also depicted, and finally his death 
 at his own monastery of Cassino. 
 
 The lower part of the chamber was hung with 
 tapestry ingeniously worked by some neighbour- 
 ing nuns ; and represented the pious labours of 
 the holy Albus, a monk of the Benedictine order, 
 who first converted to Christianity the province 
 of Gascony. 
 
 The chair in which Prior Philip was seated, 
 was of a character suited to the house. It was 
 carved in oak, and on its back, bore the twelve 
 apostles. Two angels with spreading wings 
 formed the arms ; and singular to say, the whole 
 weight of these holy personages, was supported
 
 UE FOIX. 51 
 
 by four most incongruous legs ; the two foremost 
 representing- a couple of gothic devils playing 
 upon the violin, and the tviro hinder, as many 
 clowns with their baubles in their hands. The 
 table upon which the Prior leaned, was also of 
 carved oak, but only its feet could be seen, as 
 the top was covered by a cloth of woollen, whose 
 various colors were woven into a representation 
 of some church or monastery. 
 
 The meditations of the holy man, were inter- 
 rupted by the entrance of a monk, John the 
 Chronicler, whose name bespoke his office. Bro- 
 ther John softly raised the latch, and with a 
 noiseless step stole into the room : where ad- 
 vancing a few paces he made a profound re- 
 verence to his superior but did not speak, as if 
 fearful of disturbing his reverie, and awaited 
 some word, or notice from the prior, to begin 
 the conversation. The monk brought with him 
 a roll of parchments, and an illuminated book*, 
 
 ♦At his period the Gothic MSS.were decorated in a mag- 
 nificent style, and every figure introduced in their illumi- 
 nations, whatever might be the date of their story, was 
 seen dressed in the costume of the time of the illuminator ; 
 so that the heroes of Greece and Rome, a Leonidas, or a 
 
 e2 
 
 0. OF IIJL^LIB,
 
 52 DE roix, 
 
 upon the margin of whose pages, depicted with 
 minute attention, appeared the subjects illustra- 
 tive of the work, upon which the Chronicler had 
 been engaged. 
 
 " Good even', brother John," said the Prior, 
 putting down his pen, and slightly inclining his 
 head, as he addressed the monk, " What have 
 you there ?" 
 
 " I have brought, holy father," said the Chro- 
 nicler, " the book I wrote at your desire, and 
 which Walter the Illuminator has just finished, 
 that it may be ready, as you directed, to present 
 to the Count de Foix, at the festival of our Lady. 
 I have brought also these parchments, w^hich it 
 has cost me much trouble to erase, and clear of 
 their original matter, in order to make room for 
 the homilies of the blessed St. Hildebert. The 
 
 Caesar, appeared attired like knights, and esquires, adorned 
 with the emblems of the Romish Church. These delinea- 
 tions were faithfully minute, carefully pencilled and de- 
 corated with the most brilliant colouring, intermixed with 
 ultramarine, and richly embossed gold, in lavish pro- 
 fusion : the initial letter of each chapter, as well as the 
 fancied ornaments surrounding its page, displaying that 
 degree of lightness, taste, and elegance, so peculiar to the 
 works of art of the middle ages.
 
 DK FOIX. 53 
 
 matter of these writings was in the Latin tongue, 
 composed by one Sir Titus Livy, a great hea- 
 then : knowing that after times would never 
 think of him, whilst my chronicles would be 
 read by the latest posterity, I have not scrupled 
 to make Sir Titus give place to me in these 
 parchments." 
 
 " Thou hast done well," said the Prior, " and 
 hast shown the proper judgment of a chronicler. 
 Hut is this all you bring me — nothing but arecord 
 of the dead, and no news of the living ? Is my 
 messenger returned whom I sent to gain private 
 intelligence at Toulouse? are my letters gone 
 to Avignon?" 
 
 " Thy messenger is not returned," replied 
 John ; " thy letters are on the road. But, for 
 the certainty, that either the messenger, or the 
 letters, will reach their destination in safety, no 
 one can answer. The free bands are out again 
 scouring the country far and near, and Basile le 
 Mengeant of Lourde leads them to pillage every 
 where save in Foix and Beam ; for there the 
 lances of the Count keep the rogues at bay, and 
 our good knights track their footsteps as the
 
 54 DE FOIX. 
 
 blood-hound does the scent: but 1 have other 
 news for you, holy father; the Lord Peter of 
 Roussillon is dead." 
 
 " What !" exclaimed the Prior, " Peter of 
 Roussillon dead !" 
 
 " It is even so," answered John, " he is no 
 more, and I am to chronicle the acts of the late 
 noble lord." 
 
 " Noble," said the prior, " he little merited 
 that title, brother John." 
 
 " I speak it," replied the chronicler, *' only in 
 respect to his rank and state." 
 
 " A greater tyrant than the Lord of Rous- 
 sillon never lived," said the Prior : " I have heard 
 him boast, that he has often stormed a castle after 
 breakfast, hanged the inhabitants, whilst he un- 
 laced his corslet, and made the cooks roast his 
 dinner by the embers of the burning pile : and 
 for cold-blooded deeds he had not his equal ; but 
 he is now well rewarded, hell shall burn fiercer 
 to receive him. Set him down in thy chronicle 
 a villain. He never heeded the church. If a 
 florin could have freed his father's soul from 
 purgatory, he Avould not give it. If I had seen
 
 I)E FOIX. 55 
 
 Lim before Jie died, I would have threatened him 
 with the terrors of tlie church. Had he left some 
 of his ill got wealth to pious uses, it might have 
 helped to ease, his soul from the grievous bur- 
 den of his sins. Who is his heir ?" 
 
 '• His son, Robert of Roussillon, is the heir," 
 answered John; " but my news is not yet all 
 told : the greater part of his wealth is bequeathed 
 to this inonastery." 
 
 " To this monastery !" exclaimed the asto- 
 nished Prior. 
 
 " It is so, indeed," replied John, " for whilst 
 the late lord was sick, brother Francis, of our 
 liouse, chanced to be near him, and visited 
 Roussillon out of Christian charity. He found 
 the wretched sinner howling and calling upon 
 God, in the last agonies of death ; so Francis 
 gave him pardon, and the unction, and the 
 hopes of bliss, on the condition that he should 
 apply his worldly substance to the holy uses of 
 this house." 
 
 " Francis did his duty as a churchman," an- 
 swered the Prior, " and though the sins of the 
 Lord of Roussillon had been yet blacker than
 
 56 DE FOIX. 
 
 they were, such pious acts of penitence would 
 wash them out. Tlie rewards of Paradise keep 
 pace with our repentance. Roussillon is there- 
 fore now but the gainer even by his sins, and 
 though his wealth was ill got, yet the foresight 
 of Heaven, knowing that it would finally be 
 applied to pious uses, allowed him the means of 
 amassing it. The bounty of the late lord to this 
 monastery must not be forgotten, Heaven is 
 merciful, and teaches its charities to all men. 
 Roussillon was penitent, let us not be hard upon 
 him. Give him an honourable memory in thy 
 chronicle, brother John. Let his piety be an 
 example to other lords. But when are we to 
 receive what has been thus worthily bequeathed 
 to our house ?" 
 
 " Ay, there is the point," said John, " for 
 his son Robert vows we shall never touch a 
 florin of the legacy. He most impiously pleads 
 as his excuse, that when the late lord, at the de- 
 sire of brother Francis, marked his cross upon 
 the deed of gift (for Roussillon being no clerk 
 was unable to write his name) it was even then 
 void, as my lord at that time was frenzied by
 
 DE FOIX. 67 
 
 the violence of tlie fever which caused his death. 
 His son, therefore, swears, he will resist our 
 just claims upon his father's land." 
 
 " Let him do so," replied the Prior : " I pos- 
 sess some interest at Avignon. He shall be out- 
 hiwed and excommunicated as a robber who has 
 pillaged the church. He shall be held so till every 
 florin can be paid down upon the nail. The 
 curses of his holiness shall fall upon his head." 
 
 " Roussillon will not heed that," said the 
 chronicler : " he is such a hardened sinner, that 
 I question whether he would not sell his holi- 
 ness's blessing for a brace of florins. He says 
 he will maintain his right, either by trial of 
 battle, in the lists, or in the courts of my Lord 
 dcFoix." 
 
 " No," answered the Prior, " he shall do 
 neither. We will instantly have him excom- 
 municated, and his lands, without reserve, 
 shall be seized upon for the benefit of the 
 church. He shall not try his cause in ' armed 
 lists.' We will meet him with the arms of 
 heaven, with the thunders of Avignon. He 
 shall not carry his cause before the Count de
 
 58 DE FOIX. 
 
 Foix ; for although my lord is strict in observing 
 his prayers and penances, he is no great friend 
 to the church. His son, Sir Evan, would be a 
 better instrument to support her rights. Evan 
 shall be named as the successor of his father. 
 The Count thinks he has paid my services with 
 making me Prior of St. Mary; and I am to 
 wait his pleasure for a bishopric forsooth. But 
 to our business ; the lands of Roussillon shall be 
 seized upon for the church. His son may starve 
 or die, as he lists. It is no matter what be- 
 comes of such a profligate ; and look, brother 
 John, that you observe the directions I have 
 given you respecting the memory of the late 
 lord in your chronicle." 
 
 " I will," replied the obsequious Monk. 
 
 " And now we speak of chronicles," said the 
 Prior, " I will give you, brother, a few precepts 
 respecting history, that you may bear them in 
 mind, as a light of direction through the diflBcult 
 paths of human learning. History should be as 
 a glass, where mankind may view the actions of 
 past ages, reflected, clear, true, and perfect. 
 Let wisdom, therefore, instruct you with her 
 
 I 
 
 i
 
 DE FOIX. 59 
 
 counsels, take impartial justice as your rule, let 
 truth guide the pen, and to the latest hour of 
 time your works, as an historian, will delight, 
 instruct, and amuse mankind." 
 
 Such was the speech of Prior Philip on the 
 benefits of history ; and lest our readers should 
 think thes3 latter instructions not quite con- 
 sistent with the former ones respecting the Lord 
 of Roussillon, or that the Prior designed to im- 
 pose upon the chronicler by attempting to make 
 himself appear what he was not, an impartial 
 and upright man, we beg leave to say, it 
 was no such thing. Prior Philip had not the 
 least intention to impose on brother John. Both 
 knew each other to be villains, and both acted 
 in concert together. There was but this differ- 
 ence between them, that the former was the 
 greater rogue from possessing the greater power 
 to l)e such, that of stronger intellect. 
 
 Philip and John went on together like the 
 head and the hands, as members of the same 
 body ; Philip contrived villanies, and John exe- 
 cuted them. The one was superior in art and 
 dissimulation, the other in low cunning. Each
 
 60 DE FOIX. 
 
 had some private end to accomplish, and each 
 fonnd an interest in aiding the otlier. Philip 
 held the pre-eminence wholly by the superiority 
 of his talents, and John became the subservient 
 tool by the inferiority of his abilities : like a 
 rabble mob, who, though they may be all bad 
 alike, yet follow some arch rogue that becomes 
 their leader, simply by having more wit than 
 the wretched creatures he misleads. 
 
 Thus, then, can we in no way account for 
 Prior Philip's last speech, except by supposing 
 (as dissimulation was a leading feature in his 
 character), he had so long been accustomed to 
 dissimulate in the presence of others, that, from 
 mere habit, he now and then did so, even be- 
 fore his own minion. Philip, in truth, might be 
 compared to certain actors on our modern stage, 
 who have been so long: accustomed to the airs 
 and manners of assumed majesty, or the soft- 
 ness of artificial feeling, that, when oflF the stage, 
 they still stalk about, or strut through the pur- 
 lieus of the theatre, with all the grandeur they 
 are wont to exhibit before its scenes. 
 
 At the conclusion of the last speech upon the
 
 DE FOIX. 
 
 61 
 
 merits of history, Prior Philip walked towards 
 the oriel window we have before noticed, against 
 which the rain now loudly rattled. " This 
 is a dismal evening," said the Prior, " and so 
 darkened by the gathering storm, that the colours 
 of yon window can scarcely be distinguished. 
 One word more, and you shall leave me, and 
 order my lamp hither. Have you, brother John, 
 made enquiry respecting the health of the old 
 blind Bishop of Lescar? His diocese is within 
 tlie gift of De Foix, and if any thing should 
 happen to the reverend prelate, I might per- 
 haps — but how fares he ?" 
 
 " 111 enough," answered John : " his friends 
 despair of his life, unless some one could in- 
 duce the great leech. Master William de Harsley, 
 to come from Toulouse and give his help. He 
 has refused to take the journey ; but it is thought 
 that as you did the Doctor a service, by bring- 
 ing him to attend upon his holiness of Avignon, 
 he might come at your entreaty, would you send 
 one of our house to solicit him ?" 
 
 " I cannot," said the Prior : " it would be 
 wrong to send away our people at this time,
 
 62 DE FOIX. 
 
 when tliey should all be present at the festival 
 of the blessed Virgin, the mother of God, to do 
 honour to her day. And I doubt if it would be 
 an act of charity to do so. The Bishop of Lescar 
 is a worthy prelate, holy and zealous. To defer 
 his passage to a better world, would be no charity. 
 Nor let us delay that moment, when his darkened 
 orbs of sight will be opened to look upon the 
 glories of eternity. Still we will not be want- 
 ing in kindness to him, you shall visit him, 
 brother John. The suffering and the good, 
 ought not to perish by a painful, lingering 
 death. You shall therefore take with you a 
 mild narcotic, that I will prepare, and it shall 
 help the worthy bishop to a gentle sleep in his 
 last hours." 
 
 At this instant, whilst Philip was thus hinting 
 his foul purpose to the monk, a loud peal of 
 thunder burst upon their startled ear; and the 
 painted window, which had before been ob- 
 scured in total darkness, was suddenly lighted 
 up, as the fires of Heaven flashed from the 
 electric clouds, and illumined all its brilliant 
 colors. Natural agency sometimes acts upon
 
 DE FOIX. 63 
 
 the worst minds, wlien moral causes would fail in 
 their effects. Thus Philip, who but a moment 
 before, could in his contemplation of crime, defy 
 the great Maker of all things, trembled beneath 
 the creatures of his will, " the wind and storm 
 fulfilling his word." The flash which suddenly 
 illumined the glories of that window, before ob- 
 scured in shade, now seemed, as the light of an 
 offended and Almighty justice, to strike upon 
 the Prior, and to tell him, that the shrouded 
 darkness of the sinner's ways, in the eye of 
 Heaven, stand naked to its boundless view. 
 Philip started, and turning to John, exclaimed, 
 " Some other time, we will send the drug some 
 other time." 
 
 No sooner had he uttered these words, than the 
 Warder's horn was heard to blow, and the sound 
 was speedily followed, by the noise occasioned 
 by opening the heavy portal of the monastery. 
 " See who is at the gates," said Philip. The 
 monk obeyed, and soon returned. " It is," he in- 
 formed the Prior, " Sir Espaign du Lyon. He 
 comes to take shelter for the night ; for, having 
 ridden out from Orthes, he is overtaken by the
 
 64 DE FOIX. 
 
 storm, and now craves the comfort of a bed, 
 some pottage, and ypur own good company to 
 pass away the time." 
 
 " Sir Espaign du Lyon, the foolish old prater," 
 said the Prior. " He is always craving some 
 entertainment that may give him an occasion of 
 gossip. However, bid him welcome. I will but 
 retire to my oratory, it is the time for prayer. 
 I will then return and greet the old courtier. 
 Do you, brother John, order a mass to be said 
 this night in the crypt of our church, for the re- 
 pose of the soul of the late pious Lord of Rous- 
 sillon. And let Gregory, the preaching Friar, 
 say some homily upon the occasion. You may 
 yourself, brother, stay to hear it, as we will dis- 
 pense with your attendance for the remainder of 
 the evening." 
 
 Brother John, whose taste for homilies, was 
 exactly like that which, in our days, is at- 
 tributed to the grocers' boys for figs, excused 
 himself from this permission; and leaving the 
 reverend Prior to his devotions in the oratory, 
 he went to 'give orders about the mass, and then 
 to seek the company of Sir Espaign du Lyon.
 
 DE FOIX. 65 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE SUPPER. 
 
 This fellow is wise enough to play the fool. 
 And to do that well, craves a kind of wit ; 
 He must observe their mood on whom he jests. 
 The quality of persons, and the time. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 We must now return to our travellers, whom 
 we left in the forest seeking their way to the 
 Monastery of St. Mary of Orthes, guided 
 thither by Will of the West. They soon 
 reached its precincts, and, arrived without the 
 gates, Agos de Guisfort blew his horn, and the 
 warder appeared at a loop-hole, in one of the 
 flanking towers of the draw-bridge. Upon hear- 
 ing the purpose of the travellers, he descended, 
 and opened the wicket, or small gate, by the 
 side of the large arched entry, to admit the 
 party to the court-yard \Aithin. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 DE FOIX. 
 
 " And pray, Master Warder," said Agos, 
 " doth thy house admit only two legged ani- 
 mals, and not those who walk upon four? how 
 dost thou think our horses can go through this 
 wicket ? Open speedily the great gates, and let 
 them pass in." 
 
 " It is not our custom to do so after complin," 
 said the Warder. 
 
 " Then liere I stay," rejoined Agos, " for I 
 would rather batter down this door, than leave 
 my good horse to do penance before the gates 
 of the best monastery in Christendom." 
 
 The Warder after ^some hesitation complied, 
 and the Avhole party entered within the court- 
 yard of the priory, where, in consequence of the 
 darkness of the evening, the travellers were 
 prevented from distinguishing the beauty of the 
 magnificent Gothic structure before them, of 
 which we shall offer a brief sketch to the reader. 
 
 The priory and the great church of St. Mary's 
 were of that fine order of florid Gothic architec- 
 ture, peculiar to the period on which we treat ; 
 neither the times that passed before, nor those 
 of a later date, having produced any thing that 
 
 
 'iSsJ
 
 DE FOIX. 67 
 
 can be compared \\itli it. The buildings of the 
 priory were not all of the same era, yet its ge- 
 neral character was light, rich, and elegant: a 
 style that may be termed midway, between the 
 plain and early gothie, and the innovation it ex- 
 perienced by the introduction of the compound 
 arch and ti-efoiled windows of the fifteenth 
 century. Nothing could exceed the magnifi- 
 cence of the facade of the church, or that of its 
 great portal. 
 
 Above the door-way stood, in a richly fretted 
 niche, the figure of the Virgin Mary, holding 
 the infant Saviour in her arms, sculptured with 
 that graceful simplicity and delicate feeling which 
 characterized the works of the artists of this 
 period. Immediately above these figures was 
 seen a round or wheel .window, of vast dimen- 
 sions, glowing with the thousand dyes of its 
 beautiful stained glass. Beyond the window, 
 covering the whole fa9ade of the building, and 
 placed within niches of the most exquisite work- 
 manship, were seen the statues of the twelve 
 Apostles, and sundry barons and knights, the 
 latter in armour, with their lances in their hands. 
 
 f2 
 
 .fh
 
 68 DE FOIX. 
 
 These had gained their elevated posts by the 
 persons they represented having, during their 
 lifetime, contributed towards the erection of the 
 church. 
 
 In the compartment around the Virgin and 
 Child, appeared various quatrefoil ornaments. 
 Within each of these was introduced an exqui- 
 sitely carved groupe of figures, representing 
 some subject from the Holy Scriptures; so that 
 it might literally be said, there was not a stone 
 in the front of this magnificent pile but appeared 
 covered with the finest carving. 
 
 The four Evangelists, larger than life, each 
 bearing an appropriate emblem, stood two on 
 either side the outer entrance of the portal, and 
 the other two in like manner within, at the ter- 
 mination of the flight of steps before the doorway. 
 
 On either side the portal arose a high tower^ 
 whose ornaments, and pointed windows, fretted 
 and carved into a thousand beautiful and fantas- 
 tic forms (no two of them alike), presented to the 
 spectator such a combination of elegance, fancy, 
 and magnificence, that the whole looked like the 
 work of fairy hands, and the eye wandered on
 
 DE FOIX. 
 
 69 
 
 from one objectto another in wonder and de- 
 light. The wliole front of the building was 
 finished at the top by a light and elegant range 
 of battlements, formed of open work : and they 
 might be compared, for beautiful variety and de- 
 licately fine forms, to the icicles as they hang 
 and glitter in a frosty morning upon the leafless 
 boughs of the trees. Yet (singular contrast) 
 with that fanciful incongruity of the gothic ages, 
 carved heads were here and there introduced to 
 decorate a key-stone, to ornament the capital of 
 a column, or to range along the flutings of an 
 arch, these images representing monsters or 
 clowns, the latter surmounted with the cap and 
 bells of folly : and two double-headed chimeras, 
 far extending their necks beyond the building, 
 spouted from their mouths the water that fell 
 above upon the roof. 
 
 Before this portal, within the court-yard, stood 
 an octagonal cross, with niches on each of its 
 sides, bearing M-^ithin their several recesses the 
 figure of a saint or martyr. Upon the top ap- 
 peared the Redeemer of mankind, nailed to the 
 cross ; the Virgin and the favourite disciple were
 
 10 DE FOIX. 
 
 seen on either side, with clasped hands and ele- 
 vated looks, expressive of sorrow mingled with 
 hope. Immediately below them stood St. Bene- 
 dict, with his right hand upraised (two fingers 
 being extended, whilst the rest were bent), in the 
 act of bestowing the benediction. At the foot 
 of this cross, the pure water of a cool fountain 
 played from out the huge jaws of a gothic lion. 
 And entering within a second gateway that led to 
 another court, appeared the range of cloisters, 
 surrounding the square on every side, and vying 
 in magnificence of structure with the rest of the 
 building. 
 
 The Knight, his Esquire, the Franciscan, and 
 the Page, were ushered into the common hall, 
 where they staid whilst a lay brother, who acted 
 as warder, went to announce their arrival to the 
 Prior. During his absence, Sir Equitan had an 
 opportunity of observing, by the light of the 
 torches that burnt in the hall, the person of his 
 young guide. Will of the West. 
 
 The boy appeared to be about fourteen years 
 old ; he was a handsome and a well-grown youth, 
 with an open countenance, and a complexion,
 
 DE FOIX. 71 
 
 whose clear white was rendered more brilliant 
 by the contrast it derived from the glowing 
 effusion of red that overspread his cheeke. His 
 eyes were blue, and possessed an animated ex- 
 pression of sense and feeling. His mouth (a 
 feature in the human countenance that generally 
 affords a certain indication of the temper of the 
 individual) possessed peculiar sweetness. The 
 lips were full, and of the deepest carnation, 
 whilst a smile, that had become habitual, played 
 round them, and was ever ready to attend upon 
 the feelings of affection, mirth, or good will, that 
 filled the warm heart of the young page. His 
 hair was of the palest brown, and curled in rich 
 profusion about his head. 
 
 Should our readers feel desirous of viewing 
 the portrait of this interesting youth, we think 
 they might be referred to the royal library of 
 Paris, where it is probable it may be seen in the 
 illuminated MS. treatise upon Hawking and 
 Hunting composed by the Count de Foix. 
 
 We fancy William there appears, amongst 
 the pages of the Count, dressed after the fashion 
 of the times, mi-parti, with the right leg of his
 
 72 DE FOIX. 
 
 pantaloon (or stocking that reached from the hip 
 to the foot) of a deep blue colour, and the left 
 leg of a bright scarlet. Upon his feet are seen 
 the long-toed solerette, or pointed shoe (peculiar 
 to the fourteenth century), fastened across the 
 instep by a thong of leather. He wears in this 
 portrait a green jerkin or coat, that falls half 
 way down the thigh, with full sleeves of the 
 same colour, finishing at the elbow, and falling 
 over a tight under-sleeve of scarlet. A black 
 belt, intermixed with white, is slung across his 
 shoulders, and a short dagger depends from the 
 left side. Upon his head he wears a blue, close 
 cap, ornamented round the border, and finished 
 with a sharp point in the centre, that falls over 
 the forehead. Above the point appears a single 
 jewel, from which arise a couple of white ostrich 
 feathers, gracefully drooping towards the back 
 of the head. 
 
 The dress in which William thus appears, 
 was the general habit of the pages and varlets 
 of the fourteenth century, sometimes varying in 
 colour or in its minuter parts, according to the 
 taste of the lord to whose service they belonged.
 
 DE roix. 
 
 73 
 
 The party was soon admitted into the presence 
 of the Prior, who was taking a cup of wine with 
 Sir Espaign du Lyon, and brother John, in the 
 apartment before noticed. Philip received his 
 guests with courtesy : for all the religious houses 
 of the order of St. Benedict were especially 
 bound to entertain pilgrims and travellers of 
 every description. The Prior arose and noticed 
 each person as he came into the room. 
 
 " You are most welcome, fair knight," he said 
 as he spoke to Sir Equitan, " welcome to such 
 entertainment as this poor monastery affords." 
 
 " Peace be unto this house !" exclaimed the 
 Franciscan as he slowly passed in, the words 
 with which all the brothers of his order saluted 
 the habitation where they entered to receive 
 liospitality. 
 
 " Peace be unto the house," re- echoed Agos 
 who followed the friar, " but war be upon its 
 pantry. For never before this night did I so 
 long to commence an attack upon the whole race 
 of fish, flesh, and fowl. Good even' to you, holy 
 father ; we will crave your blessing, and a short
 
 74 DE FOIX. 
 
 grace, for we are sore put to it for wherewithal 
 to comfort and support the creature." 
 
 " Silence, Agos," said Sir Equitan. " I crave, 
 holy Prior, the rights of hospitality: for I am 
 a stranger to these parts, and purpose on the 
 morrow to seek the Count de Foix. I have 
 travelled far in obedience to my vow, which 
 binds me never to return to my own inheritance 
 till I have broken a lance in every famous court 
 of this kingdom, where the Ksts are free, and 
 there are valiant knights. And hearing the 
 Lord,de Foix holds a festival in honour of the 
 Virgin, I am come to try my fortunes in the 
 tournament of Orthes." 
 
 " The court of De Foix is already thronged 
 by noble strangers," replied the Prior, " and 
 your purpose, fair Knight, suits your years, and 
 your profession. This gay Esquire I take to be 
 your attendant : he is welcome. My young 
 Page too, we are old acquaintance. How do 
 you, William? When did you leave Orthes, 
 and how fares the noble Count, and the ladies 
 of his court ?"
 
 DE FOIX. 76 
 
 " They are all well," replied the page ; " the 
 Lady Jane of Boulogne, and Isabel de GreiUy, 
 are employed in working a robe to be presented 
 to the Virgin at her assumption. And the old 
 Countess de la Karasse is busy in moulding a 
 wax leg, which she means to offer, with her 
 prayers, at the shrine of our lady, to beg the 
 Virgin will in pity accept the offering and the 
 prayers together, in the hope that her own leg 
 may find some ease ; for the Countess de la Ka- 
 rasse is sorely troubled with the gout." 
 
 " She had better offer," said Agos, " the rich 
 meats of stewed nightingales, stuffed peacocks, 
 and the bucks' fat, round haunches, that have 
 helped to bring it on : they would make her 
 prayers of some avail to her disejise. I know how 
 your old court dames feed." 
 
 "• May a blessing be upon her work !" said 
 the Prior, not heeding the free remarks of Agos ; 
 and turning to the Knight, he once more bid 
 him welcome. " Go, brother John," continued 
 Philip, " tell the Pantler to bring some refresh- 
 ments to this chamber; it is past the hour of 
 refection ; here our guests shall sup, for the
 
 76 DE FOIX. 
 
 blessed St. Benedict hath taught us that hospi- 
 tality should be ready at all hours to make the 
 stranger welcome." 
 
 Whilst these preparations were making for 
 the supper, the party, excepting the Franciscan, 
 entered into familiar discourse. Indeed the wan- 
 dering monk seemed to take little interest in 
 what was passing, but had retired somewhat 
 apart from the rest of the company, and ap- 
 peared attentively viewing Sir Equitan. In the 
 course of the conversation it was noticed, that 
 Sir Espaign du Lyon, had for many years been 
 attached to the service of the Count de Foix, 
 and that there was not a feat of arms done within 
 the provinces of Foix and Beam, but he could 
 give a minute account of the transaction. 
 
 The desire of Sir Espaign to do so, soon be- 
 came evident, and he seemed to possess no ordi- 
 nary share of curiosity in learning the business 
 of other people. In fine he was, what Prior 
 Philip had termed him, a gTeat prater, and, like 
 all praters, was anxious to collect matter as fuel 
 for his intelligence. We take this opportunity 
 of stating that the Sir Espaign du Lyon here in-
 
 DE FOIX. 77 
 
 troduced to the acquaintance of the reader, is 
 the same respectable and amusing old knight, 
 who so much delighted with his long stories, that 
 venerable chronicler, Sir John Froissart, whilst 
 they rode together from Tarbes, to the court of 
 the noble Count de Foix. 
 
 Sir Espaign du Lyon was a well looking man, 
 about sixty years old, with a certain martial 
 air, that showed he had been in his youth as 
 much accustomed to the field, as he now was to 
 the court. He was dressed in a black velvet 
 jerkin, trimmed with a fine fur, called minever, 
 and a scarlet suit beneath; over his shoulders 
 appeared a rich mantle of scarlet; a massive 
 chain of gold hung round his neck. Upon his 
 head he wore a tippet, or hood of black velvet, 
 which was ornamented with a chaplet of pearls. 
 The splendid girdle that bound his waist, sup- 
 ported a beautiful belt, that crossed the hips, 
 and by which the sword was suspended ; the last 
 was of polished steel, and finely enamelled at 
 the hilt. 
 
 Supper was at length served, when the genial 
 kindness inspired by the sight of a good meal,
 
 78 DE FOIX. 
 
 upon which every hungiy member of a company 
 is about to regale, seemed to possess the whole 
 party, and the Franciscan no longer keeping in 
 the back-ground, took his seat next to Agos at 
 the board. 
 
 " Prithee," said the jovial squire, turning to- 
 wards him, " tell me, holy Franciscan, art thou 
 •not vowed to hold a life of pains and mortifica- 
 tions ?" 
 
 " It is our duty to observe such a life," replied 
 the friar. 
 
 " Why, then," said Agos, " bid thy supper 
 be of one mind with thy journey, for as thou 
 wouldest not ride my horse, to save thy legs the 
 toil of travel, it were surely better to fast, and 
 so mortify and keep down thy stomach's pride : 
 at least thou wilt eat but trencher l)read, and 
 wilkyn, or perhaps a little senage ?" 
 
 " No," answered the friar, " I will eat flesh ; 
 for the brothers of St. Francis may partake of 
 any thing that is set before them, as wayfarers 
 and wanderers are wont to do." 
 
 " A wise rule, by my faith," said Agos, " for 
 one who journeys to the banquet of a prince :
 
 1)E FOIX. 79 
 
 and as thou likest good meat, it will not taste 
 the worse, to join to thy mess a cup of good 
 wine ; come, friar, wilt thou drink ?" 
 
 " No," replied the Franciscan, " wine is an 
 enemy to wit, I will taste only water." 
 
 " Well then," cried Agos, " brother John 
 will pledge us in the cup, and with him too I 
 will also taste this venison pasty." 
 
 " I will pledge thee in the cup," replied the 
 Chronicler, " but I must not taste the pasty." 
 
 " The rule of the blessed St. Benedict," said 
 the Prior, " somewhat differs from that of St. 
 Francis ; we are allowed to eat no flesh." 
 
 " No flesh that is four-legged, you mean," 
 cried Agos ; "for brother John seems mailing 
 good a siege upon yon capon." 
 
 " It is even so," answered John ; " the fowls 
 of the air, having but two legs, it is therefore 
 thought the good St. Benedict did not intend 
 to ^prohibit them our use, under the name of 
 Jlesh. All creatures being two-legged are con- 
 sequently allowed to our order." 
 
 " Well," exclaimed Agos, " of all wisdom, 
 give me that of holy church, which can ex-
 
 80 DE FOIX. 
 
 pound all human difficulties, and rather than 
 want a loop-hole to creep out at, will confound 
 too, the very plainest things. Henceforth I will 
 set it down in my memory that fowls and fish 
 are of one genus, and so a fast day shall always 
 be with me one of feasting. Come, brother 
 John, fill up another cup ; this wine is your right 
 true liquor ; it warms the heart, and sparkles in 
 the cup, giving joyous moments, like the bright 
 eyes of a fair-haired Norman wench." 
 
 " What knowest thou of Norman wenches, 
 Agos?" said Sir Equitan, smiling at the gay hu- 
 mour of his Esquire. 
 
 "You are not then from Normandy?" ob- 
 served Sir Espaign du Lyon, glad to have an 
 opportunity of putting in a word of enquiry, as 
 he addressed the Knight. 
 
 " No," replied Sir Equitan. 
 
 " Perhaps of Bretagne, then ?" continued the 
 enquirer. 
 
 " No," was again the answer. 
 
 " Or it may be of Burgundy, or Hainault ?" 
 resumed Sir Espaign. 
 
 « Of neither," said the Knight.
 
 DE FOIX. 81 
 
 " England, perhaps?" 
 
 " No," replied Sir Equitau, " I am a French- 
 man." 
 
 " France is a large kingdom, having many 
 provinces," observed the courtier. 
 
 " It hath," said Sir Eqiiitan. 
 
 " Ay, and with many inquisitive old knights 
 in them too," retorted Agos. 
 
 " One of your state and gallant bearing," 
 continued the inflexible Sir Espaign, without 
 heeding the Squire, and thinking by the use of 
 a little adroit flattery to gain some intelligence, 
 *' one of your state and gallant bearing must be 
 of noble blood, and proud no doubt to boast his 
 lineage, and the honour of his native province." 
 
 " The glory of our lineage," said Sir Equitan, 
 " can do no honour to ourselves, unless, like a 
 glass, we reflect the rays that form it: and as 
 for the province of a Frenchman, it should be 
 wherever he can serve his prince." 
 
 "A most noble answer," exclaimed Sir Espaign. 
 " I pledge you, to your success in arms, gentle 
 knight, and I am much mistaken, if that gallant 
 spirit has not made captive some fair lady's aff^ec- 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 89 UE FOIX. 
 
 tions. I would drink to her health too, if I knew 
 her name ; but we shall learn it. We shall find 
 you out at the tournament, unless you will join 
 me and drink to her now." 
 
 Sir Equitan held the cup to his lips, bowed 
 to Sir Espaign du Lyon, and drank off the con- 
 tents without speaking. 
 
 " Pray, old Sir Knight," said Agos, address- 
 ing the courtier, " dost thou ever angle ?" 
 
 " Ah ! marry do I," replied Sir Espaign ; " I 
 sometimes follow that sport in the river Gave." 
 " Why then," continued Agos, " when you 
 have been sitting upon its banks, with your 
 little hazel wand in your hand, did you never 
 observe, whilst you bobbed it, and jerked it above 
 the stream, that though you now and then hooked 
 a young fish, that hardly feels his fins, yet the 
 sly old trout, as cunning as the fisher, and used 
 to his tricks, just nibbles at the bait, but keeping 
 quite clear of the hook, sports awhile, and passes 
 down the stream in safety. A lesson that all 
 keen fishers may remember." 
 
 The conversation was here interrupted by the 
 entrance of the Sacrist, who came to speak witli
 
 DE FOIX. 83 
 
 the Prior respecting- some orders he had o;iven 
 for the decoration of the church on the 15th of 
 August, the day of the assumption of the Virgin 
 Mary. The Sacrist, after receiving some further 
 orders, was thus questioned by the Prior. 
 
 " Is the church hung with the tapestry * as I 
 directed? Is the feretrumf in proper order? Are 
 the clialices all burnished? And are all the 
 ampuls :(: taken from their cases and arranged as 
 I desired? Has the door of the tabernacle S been 
 painted ?" 
 
 " All is done as you directed, holy father," 
 said the Sacrist, " and brother Walter, the 
 illimiinator, is now painting the new right door 
 
 * It was customary to liang the churches with some 
 piece of tapestry on the days of festivals. 
 
 t The Feretrum, or bier, was generally constructed of 
 gold or silver, richly worked, with divers Catholic em- 
 blems. Feretra were used for carrying the host. 
 
 t The Anipullse held chrism, or such rehcs as were 
 best preservi'd in a phial. 'IMiey wore generally of 
 crystal. 
 
 § The tabernacle was often made of ivory, standing 
 upon four feet, with two leaves, or folding doors, painted 
 both within and without. It was used to hold the cup 
 (which contained the host) at the high altar. 
 
 g2
 
 84. 1)E FOIX. 
 
 of the tabernacle, for the okl one was quite off 
 its hinges." 
 
 " And what subject is he painting upon the 
 new one ?" enquired the Prior. 
 
 " Truly that of the broiling of the blessed St. 
 Lawrence upon burning coals," said the Sacrist. 
 
 " Good," replied the Prior. 
 
 " Good," re-echoed Agos, " holiness hath a 
 strange acceptation of terms. Now for my 
 own part, who confess that the flesh upon my 
 bones hath no great longing after martyrdom, 
 were I to find the way to heaven, by the grill- 
 ings and roastiiigs of my body, I should think it 
 more like the fiery road to Satan's habitation, 
 than the path to paradise." 
 
 " The death of the l)lessed St. Lawrence 
 was not a voluntary act of his own," observed 
 the Prior, " he was made to suffer for the faith 
 by heathens." 
 
 " Voluntary ! no, in faith," cried Agos, " for 
 neither saint nor sinner, if he be not a madman, 
 or a fool, could have much taste for such warm 
 trials of his bodily constitution, and must know 
 well enough that to broil his own bones, can
 
 DE FOIX. 85 
 
 neither give pleasure nor do honour to the power 
 that made him." 
 
 Tlie monks all looked aghast, and shrugged 
 up their shoulders as if they felt a mingled sen- 
 sation of wonder and horror, at the heresies thus 
 freely expressed by the licentious squire. The 
 truth was, Agos de Guisfort was somewhat of a 
 free-thinker for his daj^, never friendly to the 
 monks, nor to the superstitions of their church, 
 and being now rather warmed by copious 
 draughts of wine, he forgot the respect that 
 was due to his entertainers. However, they 
 deigned not to notice this last speech, and the 
 Prior continued his interrogatories to the Sacrist. 
 
 " What have you done with the ampuls taken 
 from the great chamber ?" said he. 
 
 " That," replied the Sacrist, " having in it a 
 precious tooth of the good St. Cecily, I put on 
 the altar-table, by the side of a piece of the true 
 cross ; and the scull of St. Gregory near the jaw- 
 bones of the eleven thousand Virgins, in the 
 chapel of the great aisle." 
 
 " Art thou sure, brother Sacrist," said Agos, 
 " that they are but the jaw-bones of those eleven
 
 86 DE FOIX. 
 
 thousand Virgins? for, on my faith, should but 
 the smallest part of their tongues remain in them, 
 who knows but that the restless spirits of their 
 original proprietors may work a miracle, and set 
 them talking ? and should they do so, St. Gregory 
 will stand no chance at all ; for if the tongue of 
 one woman will often defy priestcraft to lay it 
 quiet, those of eleven thousand would set at 
 naught the Pope himself, and all the church to 
 boot." 
 
 " Do not profane holy things with such un- 
 hallowed jests," said the Franciscan sternly. 
 
 " So, so," cried A^os, " you will have no jest- 
 ing made about these damsels. But you are 
 right, it suits your craft ; a friar is never more 
 grave, than when any of womankind are in the 
 case, for then be sure he is plotting mischief, and 
 looking more towards earth than heaven." 
 
 *' We never look at womankind," said the 
 Franciscan, " but with the eyes of holiness, 
 either in pity to them, as the daughters of sin- 
 ful Eve, or with brotherly love, to give them, on 
 the confession of their sins, the absolution of 
 the church."
 
 DE FOIX. 87 
 
 " I will wager you ten florins," replied Agos, 
 " and put down your gold, that from your own 
 words, I will prove, you speak any thing but 
 sooth, for if you look upon them as the daughters 
 of Eve, or take their confession, the very com- 
 munication of their evil deeds, shall corrupt the 
 sanctity of your thoughts ; and as for brotherly 
 love " 
 
 " Peace," said the Franciscan, " thou hast 
 drunk much wine, and I have tasted none. I 
 will not therefore cope with thee in words. But 
 talk not thus, of thy idle wagers ; for know the 
 brothers of St. Francis are not allowed even 
 to touch the smallest coin of money, be it gold, 
 silver, or any other metal." 
 
 " Neither to heed women, nor drink wine, nor 
 touch gold ?" cried Agos, " then may the brothers 
 of St. Francis dispense with all their mortifica- 
 tions, for in this world they can have no plea- 
 sures. And as for sin, they may bid defiance to 
 the evil one in his own person, and throw down 
 the gage, for if they withstand such baits, nothing- 
 can possibly assault them with temptation." 
 
 The Sacrist again addressed himself to the
 
 88 DE FOIX. 
 
 Prior. " Some repair," he said, " must be done 
 to the Pyx * that holds the chain with which St. 
 Catherine bound the devil. And the true rod 
 of Moses has lost the tail of the golden serpent 
 stuck at the end of it." 
 
 Agos, made bold by wine, heeded not the 
 presence of the holy men, and again interrupted 
 them, exclaiming, " Why then, brother Sacrist, 
 prithee repair the pyx by one of the links of that 
 same chain, and St. Catherine will soon find 
 another to supply its place ; for if a woman 
 once bind the evil one to her service, she will 
 form link after link in the forge of sin, rather 
 than let him loose again ; and as for the defect 
 in the other relic that thou speakest of, why re- 
 pair it with the tail of Satan himself, which can- 
 not be out of place, when it is made to supply 
 that of the serpent." 
 
 " Where is Martin of Bigorre ?" inquired 
 
 the Prior. " Truly," said the Sacrist, " he is 
 
 busy in making a crown for the blessed Virgin, 
 
 * A Pyx, though generally appropriated to the host, 
 somethnes contained relics. The two extraordinary ones 
 here mentioned were highly valued by the Roman Catholic 
 Ohurch.
 
 1)E FOIX. 89 
 
 as brother Francis is in moulding- a new wax 
 Iiead for her image ; and her left arm too wants 
 repair, for it is in such a broken condition, that 
 it will not bear the ropes with which she is to 
 be taken up above the rood-loft at her assump- 
 tion. The child held by her right arm will do 
 well, as we have bound it on tight, and dressed 
 it in a new suit of clothes, made after the fashion 
 of a page. The \ irgin's gite too, and her petti- 
 coats, are new, and Walter, the illuminator, 
 who has a fine hand at devices, has painted them 
 over with the souls in purgatory, and the blessed 
 St. Dunstan taking the devil by the nose." 
 
 Agos was again about to oflfer some profane 
 jest, when a frown from the Prior, and the com- 
 mands of his master, effectually silenced the gay 
 humoured and now somewhat light headed 
 Squire. 
 
 The Sacrist was dismissed, and the discourse 
 presently took a more serious turn relating to 
 the affairs of Foix and Beam. 
 
 Here Sir Espaign du Lyon was quite at 
 home, and told, with some eagerness, all he 
 really knew concerning them; but still wishuig
 
 90 DE FOIX. 
 
 to appear the great man of a great man, like 
 many other courtiers, he, by various half sen- 
 tences, shrugs, and significant nods of the head, 
 now and then timely introduced, with a mys- 
 terious and important air, implied that he knew 
 more than he chose to make public. 
 
 " Pray, Sir Espaign du Lyon," said the 
 Prior, " is not the truce between the Count 
 de Foix, and the Lord of Armagnac, almost ex- 
 pired ?" 
 
 " It is," replied the ancient Knight. 
 
 " And what are the Count's intentions ?" in- 
 quired the Prior, " does he mean speedily to 
 renew the war on his own quarrel, or upon that 
 of the Lady Jane of Boulogne, to regain the in- 
 heritance of his fair ward ?" 
 
 Sir Espaign gave a significant nod of the 
 head, saying, in reply, " The Count's measures 
 are well considered ; he is a wise Prince, ever 
 prudent in council, and secret in his resolves, 
 undertaking nothing lightly, and cautious in 
 reposing his confidence ; placing it alone in the 
 bosom of such persons as may, by their wisdom 
 and experience, help him with wholesome advice.
 
 1)E FOIX. 91 
 
 There are some knights in whom the Count 
 trusts, who must not speak too freely, and who 
 may know more than it would be expedient to 
 communicate. But it may be the Count may 
 possibly renew the war, or he may defer his 
 present measures till he sees what steps the Duke 
 de Berry M'ill take with his rebellious people 
 at Toulouse, for there is mortal enmity between 
 my Lord de Foix and the Duke." 
 
 " Upon my faith," said Agos, " we have 
 learnt just as much from your intelligence, as 
 we could have gained by consulting one of those 
 carved monsters' heads, that grin upon us from 
 this ceiling, placed there, I suppose, for the be- 
 nefit of these holy brothers, for they being like 
 nothing either in hea\'en or earth, the monks 
 might fall down and worship them, and never 
 break the canon. Why I could give more cer- 
 tahi intelligence than you have told. Si r Knight. 
 The people of Toulouse are quiet enough now, 
 and the gay old Duke de Berry is amongst 
 them, cursing my Lord de Foix for his kite in- 
 terference, and drinking the good citizens' healths
 
 92 DE FOIX. 
 
 in Languedocian wine, with a fair word and a 
 hearty kiss for every pretty damsel whom he 
 meets. There is no rebellion now, but the 
 Duke vows vengeance on the Count. Yet one 
 good act he has done him, that of keeping the 
 head of Basile le Mengeant of Lourde upon 
 his shoulders ; for the sly rogue was taken in 
 one of his own traps, and the citizens of Tou- 
 louse would have had oif his head but for 
 the Duke, who interfered, and got off both 
 le Mengeant and his fellow captain, John de 
 Beam, for a ransom, and so sent them back 
 again to their own horde of wolves, whose den is 
 in the strong castle of Lourde, that they might 
 be of some use, and make the Knights of Foix 
 and Beam keep their lances bright, for Basile 
 le Mengeant is too good a Captain to let his 
 free bands howl within their own den for want 
 of seeking their prey ; he will give your knights 
 some skirmishing, I warrant. As to my Lord 
 of Armagnac, I believe he is as great a thief as 
 the rest of them, and that is all I know about 
 the matter."
 
 DE FOIK. 
 
 93 
 
 " Has the Lord of Armagnac long been at 
 war with the Count de Foix ?" inquired Sir 
 Equitan. 
 
 " Yes," said Sir Espaign, " it is an ancient 
 quarrel between their houses, and now rendered 
 more inveterate by a second cause of strife, a 
 quarrel which my Lord de Foix has taken up 
 on account of the Lady Jane of Boulogne." 
 
 " And what will be done on the expiration of 
 this truce?" again inquired Sir Equitan. 
 
 Sir Espaign du Lyon, again looked mysteri- 
 ous, and was beginning with " It may 6(?," 
 when Will of the West, who sat opposite to 
 him, exclaimed, " Dear me, Sir Espaign, every 
 body knows my Lord de Foix intends to make 
 Avar upon the Armagnacs, as soon as the truce 
 expires, on behalf of my beauteous mistress, the 
 Lady Jane, to recover her inheritance of Com- 
 minges, which John of Armagnac unlawfully 
 withholds from her. And I wondered to hear 
 the holy Prior Philip ask you concerning it, as 
 you both know all about the matter ; and many 
 say, that the reverend Prior is so often with my
 
 94 DF. FOIX. 
 
 Lord de Foix in private, that the Count heeds 
 liis counsels more than he does yours." 
 
 Sir Espaign felt much offended at this artless 
 speech of the young Page ; and drawing himself 
 back in his chair, he extended both his hands 
 upon the arms of it, and looked \nth a con- 
 temptuous frown upon the Page ; just as an old 
 mastiff, sitting quietly on the ground, extends 
 his fore paws, and looks surlily upon some little 
 cur which stands in front teazing him by his 
 yelping. 
 
 " Peace, varlet," said the offended Knight, 
 " state matters are no subjects for the tongues 
 of boys to prate upon." 
 
 " Is my Lord de Foix," inquired Sir Equi- 
 tan, " AV'ell provided witli knights, and men at 
 arms ?" 
 
 " No prince in Europe better," said Sir Es- 
 paign ; " and as you seem a stranger to these 
 parts, we will fill out another cup of wine, aiul 
 then I will tell you all about the matter." 
 
 The wine was filled out, and the travelers 
 settling themselves in their seats, the more con-
 
 DF. FOIX. 
 
 95 
 
 veniently to look at the narrator, they each 
 assumed an attentive air, whilst old Sir Espaign 
 put on one of importance ; and after clearing his 
 voice with another cup of wine, he hemmed 
 thrice, and thus began : " You know " 
 
 " We know nothing yet," said Agos. 
 
 " Do not interrupt me," replied Sir Espaign. 
 " You must know, then, that about a century 
 ago, there was a noble count of Beam, whose 
 name was Gaston, a great lord, and a valiant 
 man at arms : you may see his effigy of brass in 
 the church of the Friars Minor in Orthes, where 
 he was interred, having caused this effigy of him- 
 self to be made during his lifetime*; in it he ap- 
 pears dressed in his armour, the limbs in the effigy 
 giving a very exact resemblance of the gigantic 
 size of his own, for he was one of the largest and 
 the strongest men of his day." 
 
 " You have now interrupted yourself," said 
 Agos, " for what has the effigy of Sir Gaston de 
 Beam to do with your story ?" 
 
 * This was a common practice. See a paper upon the 
 subject of Effigies, written by the late Cliarles A. Stothard, 
 F.S.A.and inserted in the Memoirs of liis Life, page a-;?.
 
 9G DE FOTX. 
 
 " You must knoAV then," continued Sir Es- 
 paign, " this Sir Gaston de Beam had two 
 beautiful daughters. The eldest he gave in 
 marriage to a lord of Armagnac, and her sister 
 to a Count de Foix, nephew to the king of Ar- 
 ragon, whose royal arms, paly or, and gules, are 
 still borne by the house of De Foix. Now it 
 chanced that Sir Gaston de Beam was at war 
 with the king of Castile, who entered Beam 
 with his army, resolving to over-mn and destro}^ 
 the country. Sir Gaston collected his men at 
 arms, and sent to his two sons-in-law, desiring 
 their assistance ; and that they would bring into 
 the field all their knights, squires, and varlets, 
 well horsed and armed. The Count de Foix 
 instantly obeyed the summons ; but the lord of 
 Armagnac, instead of doing the same, only sent 
 a herald bearing letters of excuse to his father- 
 in-law. I will now give you an account of the 
 battle." 
 
 " We can dispense wath that part of the story," 
 said Agos, " we have seen too many battles to 
 need to hear the fashion of them." 
 
 " Well then," continued Sir Espaigu, " Sir
 
 DE roix. 9T 
 
 Gaston de Beam was much angered at tlie con- 
 duct of his son-in-law, the lord of Armagnac, so 
 he and the Count de Foix resolved to lead their 
 men into the field, and without farther assist- 
 ance to give battle to the king of Castile. They 
 did 80, and the victory was achieved by the 
 valour and address of the Count de Foix, who 
 pursued his foes as far as Biscay. The king 
 was nearly taken prisoner, and only escaped by 
 seeking shelter in an abbey, where he dressed 
 liimself in the habit of a monk. The Castilians 
 were completely defeated, and Sir Gaston de 
 Beam, on his return to the castle of Orthes, 
 summoned all his people to attend him in the 
 great hall, where, embracing the gallant De Foix, 
 he publicly declared that he not only bestowed 
 upon him the lands of Foix, but, after his own 
 death, those of Beam, which he had intended to 
 bequeath to the lord of Armagnac, as the portion 
 of his eldest daughter, now forfeited by this base 
 desertion of her lord in time of need. The 
 knights and varlets all promised fealty to the 
 Count de Foix, as the heir of Sir Gaston de 
 Beam. But no sooner was the latter dead, than 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 9S DE rorx. 
 
 the lord of Arniagnac laid claim to the lands of 
 Beam, and thus began a war, which has been 
 handed down from father to son, between the 
 two houses of Foix and Armagnac, and exists to 
 the present day." 
 
 " You told us also, valiant Sir Espaign du 
 Lyon," said Sir Equitan, " that there was a 
 second cause of quarrel between the present re- 
 presentatives of their houses." 
 
 " That is what I am now about to relate to 
 you," replied Sir Espaign, " and pray be very 
 attentive to each particular, for they are all of 
 importance. You must know then that Eleanor 
 of Comminges, a kinswoman to the present 
 Lord de Foix, married John Count of Boulogne, 
 in the hope that he would by force of arms 
 regain for her the lands of Comminges, which 
 had been unlawfully seized by the present lord 
 of Armagnac. But the Count of Boulogne loved 
 pleasure more than battle, and staid quietly at 
 home : a thing which so enraged his wife, that 
 she left him for ever, to live with her own friends 
 in Arragon. She brought away with her their 
 onlychild, Jane: and soon after this separation (for
 
 HE FOIX. 99 
 
 it happened some years since), the Lady Eleanor 
 came to the court of the present Count de Foix, 
 and committed to his protection her only child, 
 then an infant girl, and implored him to give her 
 shelter at Orthes, and guard her from the wicked 
 designs of the lord of Armagnac, who had seized 
 upon Comminges, the lands to which this 
 daughter was the rightful heir. She was de- 
 sirous to place her with the Count, because she 
 knew he was so powerful that he could protect 
 her child, as she feared Armagnac would carry 
 her off, and thus keep quiet possession of what 
 he had so unlawfully gained. The Count re- 
 ceived the fair child, Jane of Boulogne, with 
 every mark of kindness; and promised her mother 
 (who is now dead), that he would not only bring 
 her up as his own daughter, but at a proper time 
 would endeavour to regain for her the possession 
 of her lands. 
 
 " The first part of this promise has been 
 strictly observed ; but the wars and enterprises 
 in which the Count has been engaged for some 
 years, have hitherto delayed his intentions re-' 
 
 h2
 
 100 DE FOTX. 
 
 specting the lands ; but it niay be he will shortly 
 take up arms to do Jane of Boulogne right." 
 
 " Arms can never be wanting, nor knights to 
 bear them, in so righteous a cause as that of the 
 Lady Jane," said Sir Equitan. " Her beauty 
 and her worth is spoken of by every knight who 
 has visited the castle of Orthes. It is when 
 espousing such a cause a member of our order 
 feels the value of that profession, which gives 
 him the power to assert the rights of innocence 
 and beauty with the strength of his arm, and 
 the valour of his heart ; it is the exercise of its 
 functions in such a quarrel which gives to chivalry 
 the honourable pre-eminence it holds beyond all 
 other professions in the world." 
 
 *' Save that of the church," said the Prior : 
 '* the ministry, like the attributes of Heaven, can 
 be second to none." 
 
 " The attributes of Heaven," replied Sir Equi- 
 tan, " are those of justice and of mercy ; and 
 such as dispense them, impartially, become its 
 ministers. Thus the knight who wields the sword 
 of justice in the field to chastise the foes of vir-
 
 UE FOIX. 
 
 101 
 
 tiie, yet shows ^nercy to the fallen and the van- 
 quished, imitates by his charity the divine Origin 
 of Good." 
 
 " I am very willing to allow, sir knight," 
 said the Prior, " the benefits of the profession of 
 arms, since carnal Mars must be carried on whilst 
 sinful men exist. But I never can allow chivalry 
 to compare her worldly toils with the labours of 
 spiritual contest and heavenly discipline." 
 
 " I am no churchman," replied Sir Equitan, 
 " and perhaps know something more of the 
 tilting-lance than of the mass-book, yet I am a 
 christian (here the young knight devoutly crossed 
 himself, and bowed his head to the image of the 
 Virgin that stood above the door) ; and I have 
 ever thought some active craft, which enabled 
 me, like the Samaritan, who helped his brother 
 at his need, to rescue the miserable and to support 
 the just, M-as the best way to show my faith in 
 the revealed law of Heaven. The discipline of 
 the world is more severe than that of the cloister ; 
 and the task of subdiung our own passions in the 
 midst of temptation, requires more virtue than 
 can be exercised in a solitude, where there is
 
 102 DE FOIX. 
 
 little chance of their being assailed. Yet I see 
 not why religion and chivalry may not go hand 
 in hand together, like members of the same 
 body. The church should have the voice of 
 Heaven to issue its mandates, and chivalry be as 
 her arm to execute her behests." 
 
 " It is true," said the Prior, " but our pro- 
 fession, as superior to yours must be allowed, 
 even in a worldly view." 
 
 " I shall hardly admit that," replied Sir 
 Equitan. 
 
 " Consider," continued Philip (and he took 
 up the illuminated manuscript brother John had 
 brought to him), "consider that to the church, as a 
 body, we are indebted for the preservation of lite- 
 rature. When Europe was overrun by the horde 
 of the ferocious nations of the North, Learning 
 had no friend. Persecuted and affrighted, like 
 the dove of Noah, she could no where find rest 
 for the sole of her foot, save on the palm-branch 
 tliat grows about the peaceful dwelling of the 
 monk. The barbarous northern nations, accus- 
 tomed to some practice of devotion, though 
 heathenish and abominable from these uses, still
 
 DE FOIX. 103 
 
 brought with them one spark of better feeling. 
 So that whilst they razed to the ground the pa- 
 laces of princes, and the castles of the barons, they 
 often spared the walls of the monastery, and the 
 humble cell of the recluse, impressed by some 
 faint shadow of respect for those who were de- 
 voted to the service of the invisible world : thus, 
 whilst the gold of princes was torn from their 
 possessors with carnage and execration, the poor 
 monk, with the more precious treasures of his 
 parcliments, his manuscripts, and his poverty, was 
 suffered to be at peace." 
 
 The Prior paused for a moment, and thus con- 
 tinued, — " Even in our enlightened times, when 
 the improved state of society in the fourteenth 
 century has dispelled the night of ignorance and 
 barbarity, learning still finds her refuge within 
 the walls of the monastery, else would chivalry 
 and the din of arms fright her from the world : 
 and learning, which teaches us to understand 
 and to value the arts of peace, is of greater 
 benefit to mankind, than the study of arms, that 
 leads to its destruction. Arms may be necessary 
 to humble barbarity, but learning, if widely dif--
 
 104 DE roix. 
 
 fused, would extirpate the existence of them. And 
 after all, Sir Equitan, you knights, who live but 
 on the breath of your exploits, you could not 
 yourselves chronicle them, for the best of you are 
 but sorry clerks ; and were it not for the solitude, 
 the pen, and the learning of the monk, after- 
 times would view no more traces of your honour- 
 able deeds, than one can of the goodly vessel that 
 swiftly passes through the waters, agitating their 
 current, and furrowing their clear bosom; but 
 almost as swiftly as she makes her way, the 
 waters close again, and settle into their former 
 smoothness. Thus you see arms must ever be 
 the debtor of learning ; and Charity, too, stands 
 at the monastic door, with wide-spread arms, to 
 welcome to her bosom every child of want." 
 
 Such were the words of the Prior, and long 
 did he and Sir Equitan continue to discuss the 
 merits of their several professions, till the great 
 bell of the priory told twelve. Father Philip 
 then said he must retire to rest, as the brothers 
 of St. Benedict arose at two o'clock in the morn- 
 ing for prayers and meditations, and did not alter- 
 wards repose.
 
 DE FOIX. 105 
 
 During this long discussion, the Franciscan 
 took no part in it, but seemed absorbed in his 
 own thoughts. Brother John did little more than 
 give his assent to the opinion of the Prior, as the 
 echo follows the sound. Agos de Guisfort, and 
 Will of the West, had both fallen asleep, and 
 Sir Espaign du Lyon was nodding. The dor- 
 torour was now summoned to conduct the tra- 
 vellers to the dormitory, or common sleeping- 
 room of the guests, where we shall leave them 
 to their repose, and turn to what will be found 
 in the next chapter.
 
 106 DE FOIX. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE COURT. 
 
 His years but young, but his experience old. 
 His head unmellowed, but his judgment ripe. 
 And in a word (for far behind his worth 
 Come all the praises that I now bestow) 
 He is complete in feature, and in mind, 
 VVith all good grace, to grace a gentleman. 
 
 Shakespeake. 
 
 The castle of Gaston Phoebus Count de Foix, 
 was situated near the town of Ortlies. It stood 
 upon the summit of a beautiful eminence, gentle 
 in its ascent, but rocky, bold, and abrupt, in that 
 part of the elevation which overhung the river 
 Gave. Above these latter declivities the emi- 
 nence was clothed with the finest woods, the vivid 
 greens and deep recesses which formed a pleasing 
 contrast with the gray hues of the noble and ex- 
 tensive castle, whose towers crowned their sum 
 mit, and rose above their tops. The castle, like 
 most residences of the feudal princes, was not
 
 DE I'OIX. 
 
 lot 
 
 only calculated for defence, but also for magni- 
 ficence ; it contained the palace, and the state of 
 the Count de Foix. 
 
 The outward walls were flanked by above 
 thirty massive towers within their enclosure; 
 upon the highest mound of earth stood the don- 
 jon, or keep, a work of great antiquity ; it seemed 
 to look dark and sternly upon the buildings be- 
 neath, like the founder and the guardian of their 
 race. The portal, or chief entrance, was flanked 
 by two round towers on either side, in the 
 impenetrable walls of which were seen divers 
 small windows and loop-holes for the archers. 
 Above this gateway was suspended a brazen 
 helmet, to denote to travellers, that the Count 
 de Foix dispensed the rights of hospitality to all 
 knights and squires who might chance to enter 
 his territory. This arched gateway, and the 
 smaller one, or wicket, by its side, was richly 
 decked \dth carvings in stone, as were also the 
 windows above : a style of architecture that pre- 
 vailed at this period, and of which many interest- 
 ing specimens still exist. 
 
 The courtyard within, or outer Ballium, was
 
 108 DE FOIX. 
 
 surrounded by buildings for the use of the men 
 at arms ; and, passing through a second entry, 
 also flanked by towers, the eye was at once pre- 
 sented with the whole range of that part of the 
 structure which formed the palace of the Count, 
 appropriated to his state*. This palace con- 
 tained nealy two hundred apartments, beside 
 the Baron's hall, that occupied the whole lower 
 range of the south front. Towards the east 
 arose a magnificent chapel, decorated with carv- 
 ings, and the windows filled with stained glass. 
 Within its walls, the ashes of many a member 
 of the house of De Foix reposed, beneath their 
 brazen or marble effigies. 
 
 The lower apartments of the palace were 
 entered by various arched doorways, each sur- 
 mounted wdth the arms of the Count, and his alli- 
 ances carved in stone. In front of the second 
 tier of windows was seen a light and elegant 
 balcony, or rather communicating gallery, that 
 led from one window to another. At the back 
 part of this range of buildings, but still within 
 
 * The word stale ib here used in its old acccptatioii, 
 that of the retinue of a prince,
 
 DE FOIX. 
 
 109 
 
 die walk of the castle, was the g-arden of the 
 palace, decorated with statues, fountains, par- 
 terres of flowers and alcoves. A winding path 
 in the garden led to a postern door in the castle 
 walls, which opened upon the woods that over- 
 hung the Grave. 
 
 It is in an apartment of this palace, (where 
 tlie Count de Foix usually gave audience to 
 strangers, or to the members of his household,) 
 that we shall introduce him to our readers, and 
 as it is possible they may not all be familiar 
 with the domestic customs of the period of our 
 history, it will not here be amiss to describe the 
 Chamber of Audience. 
 
 It was lofty and spacious, lighted by six 
 large arched windoAvs that overlooked the gar- 
 den, and commanded a view of the country as 
 far as the eye could range, where the blue 
 distance was finished by the bold outline of the 
 Pyrenees, that often looked against the setting 
 sun, like a flat mass of purple upon a ground of 
 brightest gold. The chamber was hung with 
 Venetian tapestry, representing the siege of 
 Troy, and the acts of Achilles and Hector. A
 
 110 DE FOIX. 
 
 mirror, also of Venetian manufacture, and at 
 that time considered of almost inestimable value, 
 hung facing the entry of the apartment. The 
 floor was inlaid with coloured marbles, and 
 strewed with fresh rushes, whose green and 
 cool appearance was considered a luxury during 
 the summer heats. 
 
 The most beautiful flowers of the season, 
 placed in vases of chased silver, decorated the 
 room. The chair of state was of carved ivory, 
 inlaid with gold. Behind it arose a high back, 
 which supported a canopy, the whole formed of 
 crimson velvet, fringed and embroidered with 
 gold. Opposite the chair of state stood a luffet, 
 a piece of magnificence then in general use, 
 which, according as it was constructed, denoted 
 the rank of its owner. It M^as formed of finely 
 carved oak, the back part, nearly half the height 
 of the room, was finished by a rich canopy, with 
 pinnacles at the top, that projected beyond the 
 three rows of shelves beneath. These shelves, 
 covered with napkins of white silk, and silver 
 tissue, bore upon them ewers, basins, vases, 
 flagons, and cups of the finest chased gold and
 
 ni: Foix. Ill 
 
 silver, with two comjit boxes*, (oi- spice boxes) 
 each of pure gold, and set with jewels. The 
 three shelves of the buflfet denoted that the rank 
 of de Foix was that of a county or earl. The 
 dukes of the blood royal were entitled to four 
 shelves to their buifets, and the king alone to 
 five. 
 
 A table, covered witlx cloth of gold, and sup- 
 ported by large chased silver feet, stood opposite 
 the chair. Around the apartment were divers 
 couches, each finished with a canopy and pin- 
 nacles (to correspond with the buffet), and 
 covered with a piece of purple velvet, em- 
 broidered with gold, that trained upon the 
 ground. At the east end of this apartment, a 
 door opened into an oratory, that joined the pri- 
 vate room of the Count de Foix. This he never 
 quitted till after the hour of noon, when he 
 usually entered the Chamber of Audience. 
 
 Upon the morning following the day we have 
 before noticed, several members of the court at 
 
 * These comfit boxes are described by the chroniclers of 
 the period, as pieces of state peculiar to kings, princes, 
 and earls.
 
 112 DE FOIX. 
 
 Ortlies were assembled to receive the Count at 
 liis accustomed hour. The principal persons in 
 attendance were the Lord of Corasse, Sir Evan 
 and Sir Gracien de Foix (the two latter being 
 illegitimate sons of the Count), a youth named 
 Eustace the Adopted, the Lady Jane of Bou- 
 logne, and de Foix's own niece, the lovely Lady 
 Isabel de Greilly, with the old Countess de la 
 Karasse. These were already standing about 
 the chair of state, in the expectation that, in a 
 few minutes, the door of the oratory would open 
 to usher in their lord ; and we cannot here re^ 
 sist pausing awhile, to take a slight view of 
 some of these noble personages, whose names 
 are not unfrequently mentioned in the annals of 
 the fourteenth centiu-y. 
 
 Sir Evan and Sir Gracien de Foix, were both 
 handsome young men : the former had much of 
 the dignity of his father in his coimtenance and 
 mi^n, but blended with an air of more than com- 
 mon pride ; there was something in Evan which 
 created respect, but forbade to love him. Both 
 these youths were magnificently attired, in the 
 habit of the period. Sir Evan wore a tight dress,
 
 1)E FOIX. \\3 
 
 tJiat readied from the hip to the foot, of pale 
 blue silk, and above it tiie coat or vest sat close 
 to the body, and fell half way down the thigli. 
 This vest was formed of crimson brocade, em- 
 broidered with gold, and fastened down the front 
 with a row of brooches, like buttons, composed 
 of precious stones. The throat was bare, and the 
 mantle, about the shoulders, of pale blue velvet, 
 hung nearly as low as the feet, the border being 
 scalloped, and crossing the breast, this mantle 
 was fastened down the right shoulder by a row 
 of four /ermai/s, or clasps, of jewels. Upon his 
 head. Sir Evan wore a circle or fillet of fine 
 pearls, and a belt elegantly wrought in gold, and 
 set with jewels, was girt about his hips. The 
 shoes, that reached as high as the instep, were of 
 embroidered velvet *. 
 
 Eustace the Adopted, who stood by the side of 
 Sir Evan, was something younger than either of 
 the Count's sons ; he was of a comely person, 
 tall, and well formed ; his countenance, which ex- 
 
 * For an example of the style of dress here described, 
 see the effigy of Williain of Hatfield, in Stothard's 
 " Monumental Effigies of Great Britain." 
 
 VOL. J. i
 
 114 DE roix. 
 
 hibited the graces of manly beauty (yet scarcely 
 in its prime), though it was occasionally lit up 
 with the fire of a young and martial spirit, ge- 
 nerally expressed the fixed character and the 
 dejected look of a thoughtful and melancholy 
 temper. 
 
 The lady Jane of Boulogne, appeared in a 
 dress of white silk, that fell in graceful folds 
 below her feet; her sleeves, of the same material, 
 were long and tight, and fastened from the wrist 
 to the elbow with jewels. The upper part of 
 her dress and the waist was confined by a CoiC' 
 Hardie * of green velvet, trimmed with ermine ; 
 it reached just above the bosom, and the robe or 
 mantle was fastened to either side by a fermail 
 of jewels placed in front near the shoulders, 
 whilst the Cote-Hardie was clasped down the 
 breast by diamonds. Her fine brown hair, parted 
 at the back of the head, was bound into two long 
 tresses or plaits, that hung down the back ; and 
 
 * The Cote-Hardie was a summer dress with the ladies 
 towards the latter part of the 14th century. See remarks 
 on ancient costume by the late C. A. Stothard, in the 
 " Memoirs" of his life.
 
 DE FOIX. 115 
 
 uround her brows, she wore a circle of emerahls, 
 intermLxed with natural flowers. A light scarf 
 of silver tissue, that occasionally served the pur- 
 pose of a veil, was thrown carelessly about her 
 neck. This attire was well calculated to display 
 to advantage her graceful person; and she re- 
 minds us so much of Chaucer's beautiful descrip- 
 tion of Emilie, that we trust the reader will 
 pardon its insertion. 
 
 Her yellow heere was broicled in a tresse. 
 Behind her back, a yerde long 1 gesse ; 
 And in the garden, as the sonne up riste. 
 She roniid up and down, and as she liste 
 She gatherith flouris, party white and rede. 
 To make a sotill garland for her hede 
 And as an aungel hevynly she song. 
 
 In the person of Jane of Boulogne, there was 
 that union of grace and majesty, which is calcu- 
 lated to inspire a feeling of reverence with ad- 
 miration. Her eyes were blue, and possessed 
 both sweetness and expression. Her cheek per- 
 haps had a little too much in it of the lily, but 
 when animated by feeling, or glowing from exer- 
 cise, it emulated the vermeil of the rose ; or it 
 might be compared to the delicacy of a fleecy 
 
 i 2
 
 116 DE Forx. 
 
 cloud, when it is just tinged with tlie crimson 
 light of the opening day. 
 
 Isabel de Greilly, though inferior to Jane in 
 the perfection of beauty, yet possessed all that 
 it is capable of achieving, — fascination. Her 
 stature was somewiiat below the middle height, 
 yet so graceful was her form, so light and airy 
 every motion, such sweetness of disposition, and 
 such a glow of health and vivacity of spirit, 
 played in her eyes, and animated every fea- 
 ture, that she seemed like the creature of a vi- 
 sionary world, and still possessed, as it were, the 
 simplicity and playful spirit of a child, with the 
 wit and intelligence of riper years. Her dress 
 was of the fashion of the lady Jane's, and the 
 arms of her house were embroidered upon her 
 gown and mantle. 
 
 The door of the oratory at length opened, and 
 the Count de Foix, attended by the esquires and 
 chamberlains of his state, entered the hall of 
 audience, and took his seat beneath the canopy. 
 The Count was of a noble and majestic person ; 
 he was bareheaded, and attired in a long Dal- 
 matic of purple velvet, embroidered with gold,
 
 DE FOIX. 117 
 
 tiiat fell below his feet. His mantle, of tlie finest 
 scarlet cloth, was trimmed with ermine, and upon 
 the front part which crossed the breast, as well 
 as upon the back, were seen worked in pearls, 
 the arms and bearings of his house. 
 
 The Count graciously saluted the company, 
 and after some general conversation, and re- 
 marks upon the coming festival, the tournaments 
 and the knights who were to combat, he thus 
 addressed the auditory : " The festival we are 
 about to hold in honour of the blessed Virgin, is 
 full of import, for at that time, upon the expira- 
 tion of the truce, I have resolved to take up 
 arms, to do the noble lady Jane of Boulogne 
 right, and to wrest from the lord of Armagnac 
 her lands, which he unlawfully possesses. My 
 proclamation will be issued at the tournament, 
 that all such knights as are desirous of gaining 
 honour, and their lady's favour, may take up 
 arms, to subdue tyranny, and to restore to the 
 lawful heir the lands of Comminges. Pru- 
 dence will be necessary in the conduct of our 
 affairs, as I find the garrison of Lourde, under 
 pretext of bearing arms for England, in the right
 
 118 DE roix. 
 
 of Aquitaine, are now pillaging the country, and 
 making prisoner, for the sake of ransom, every 
 unfortunate baron, knight, or churchman, who 
 may chance to fall within their power. And it is 
 whispered that the lord of Armagnac, by means 
 of their leaders, John de Beam, and Basile le 
 Mengeant, is even now tampering with the free 
 bands of Lourde, to purchase their assistance 
 against us in the war we are about to wage. 
 Their emissaries are abroad, and wandering 
 through the country, to learn our strength, and 
 how our castles stand defended." 
 
 At the conclusion of this address. Sir Evan dc 
 Foix advanced, and making his obeisance to the 
 Count, " My gracious lord and father," he said, 
 " Sir Espaign du Lyon waits without, accom- 
 panied by Philip of A\'ignon, and a stranger 
 knight, who comes to try his fortunes in the 
 tournament." 
 
 " Give them entrance," replied the Count, 
 " and do you, my lord of Corasse, and Sir Evan 
 de Foix, conduct them hither." The Count was 
 obeyed, and after they had quitted the chamber 
 to marshal in the strangers, the ladies Jane and
 
 DE FOIX. 119 
 
 Isabel advanced towards their lord, and kneeling 
 at his feet, the former begged a boon. The 
 Count bid her arise, saying she could scarcely 
 ask what he would deny. 
 
 " My request, my lord," replied Jane, " is but 
 a simple one ; it is to beg your gracious leave, 
 that after the festival of the Virgin, myself, and 
 the lady Isabel, may have permission to make a 
 pilgrimage to the shrine of the blessed St. Ann, 
 beyond the Forest of Orthes ; where by prayer and 
 penance, we may hope to gain her interference 
 at the throne of Heaven, to obtain success to our 
 cause. There can be no danger in our travel, 
 for the good saint, and the relic I wear next to 
 my heart, will protect us ; and were it otherwise, 
 the lowly guise, and the poverty of a palmer, 
 would be our security : they are things too mean 
 to attract the eye of avarice ; even the free bands 
 of Lourde, dared they venture nigh to Orthes, 
 would offer no let to such a holy purpose." 
 
 " Your prayer is granted, Jane of Boulogne," 
 said the Count ; " but here comes Sir Evan, and 
 the Prior, with strangers in their company." 
 
 The door of the chamber of audience was
 
 120 DE FOIX. 
 
 thrown back, whilst Evan de Foix, and the Lord 
 of Corasse, ushered in the party we left at the 
 monastery in the conclusion of our last chapter. 
 The usual compliments passed between the Count 
 and each individual, when Sir Equitan having 
 stated his purpose for visiting Orthes in much 
 the same terms he formerly did to the Prior, the 
 Count de Foix requested him to tell his name 
 and lineage. 
 
 " My lord," said the knight, " I am of noble 
 blood ; my name is Equitan ; but till the purpose 
 of my vow is accomplished, I may not add to it 
 another. I combat for fame, and for the honour 
 of beauty : for the present, therefore, I must be 
 alone recognised by that title which best suits my 
 occasion — Sir Equitan, Poursuivant d' Amour." 
 
 *' Be it so," replied the Count; " such titles and 
 such vows are common with the young gallants 
 of France, who pay their worship at the shrine 
 of love with more devotion than to any other 
 saints. Your bearing. Sir Poursuivant d' Amour, 
 is the herald of your good name, and I shall need 
 no other caution for your merit : once more you 
 are welcome. Proclamation of the tournament
 
 nt loix. 
 
 121 
 
 luis been already made ; and as you purpose en- 
 tering the lists, you must this day, according to 
 custom, hang up your shield and helmet in the 
 church of the Monastery of the Friars Minor in 
 Orthes : Sir Espaign will guide you thither." 
 
 " That I will most gladly," replied the an- 
 cient knight : " a brave display of arms is there 
 already ; and those of this stranger, I doubt not, 
 will be an honourable addition to their number." 
 
 " And now," continued the Count de Foix, 
 " I will in this presence make known my 
 farther purpose. Come forward, Eustace. This 
 youth. Sir Equitan, (though he is dear to me 
 as my own blood) is mine but by adoption. 
 It is now seventeen years since he was first 
 brought to this castle, he was then but two years 
 old. I have educated him as my own child, and 
 he has repaid my love with a true and loyal 
 affection. For the last year he has been the 
 esquire of my own person, and valiantly has he 
 acquitted himself of that duty. Now, though, 
 according to the laws of chivalry, no person, but 
 by the special favour of an earl, can receive knight- 
 hood before he has attained the age of twenty-
 
 122 DE FOIX. 
 
 one years; yet in consideration of this youth's 
 worth, I purpose granting it to him, and will 
 abate the two remaining years of his minority. 
 He shall receive the honour of knighthood at 
 this festival, so that by the prowess of his arm 
 he may endeavour to deserve his spurs in the 
 tournament. Eustace, you will keep the vigil of 
 arms in the church of the Friars Minor. And 
 may Heaven and the Virgin prosper you in all 
 honour as a valiant knight !" 
 
 Eustace threw himself upon his knees before 
 the Count, and for some moments was so over- 
 come by strong emotion as to be unable to 
 speak. At length he exclaimed, " My gracious 
 lord — you who are more to me than a father, how 
 shall the poor Eustace, the child of want and 
 misery, who but for your kindness must have 
 perished, how shall he thank you? I have a 
 heart — I can feel, but words are made for small 
 occasions, they are weak and powerless now. 
 When such noble bounty should give utterance. 
 to the warmest feelings, I cannot speak mine. 
 The misfortunes of my birth, which to some 
 may seem my disgrace and shame, shall be to
 
 Di: Foix. 123 
 
 me the occiision of au honest [)ri(le. For never 
 can my necessities be named, but your bounty 
 must bear them company. Oh ! my dear lord, 
 may He who is the father of the fatherless, who 
 shed tlie dew of his blessing upon my orphan 
 head^ and has bound about your brows the 
 golden circle, may he ever guard and protect 
 you, and give me a heart faithful and true to 
 you !" 
 
 " Enough, enough," said the Count, and turn- 
 ing aside he wiped away a tear as it started into 
 his eyes. " Your own virtue, Eustace, is suf- 
 ficient apology for the misfortunes of your birth. 
 You are second to none in my affections, and 
 in all things you shall ever find me, indeed a 
 father." 
 
 " My lord," said Sir Evan de Foix, as he ad- 
 vanced towards the Count, " may I be bold 
 enough to tell you that the favour you are now 
 about to grant to Eustace will, I fear, give oc- 
 casion for discontent to many of your household. 
 You have those about your person, who have as 
 faithfully served you ; who arc eager to buckle on 
 the spurs of knighthood, and to sliow their valour
 
 IM DE FOIX. 
 
 in arms. Thus stands the fresh and hungry falcon 
 on the perch, that longs to spread abroad her 
 wings, and from the vault of lleaven, to dart 
 upon her prey. Do not then, I beseech you, 
 give any cause for discontent amongst your state. 
 At such a time we need all hearts ready and 
 willing to oppose the Lord of Armagnac. The 
 favour you now grant to Eustace was denied to 
 my brother and myself; why should it be con- 
 ferred on one unknown, who can claim neither 
 name, nor arms, but such as you may please to 
 give him?" 
 
 The Count, whose passions were easily roused 
 to anger, looked sternly upon his son, and ex- 
 claimed in a voice of more than ordinary au- 
 thority, "Evan, Evan, darest thou this to me? 
 and in this presence too ? Have not all my people 
 justice at my hand ? of what then can they com- 
 plain? If I favour the youth of my adoption, 
 yet do them no wrong, what doth it concern 
 them? Suppose I will that Eustace should be 
 second to myself in Orthes, who dare claim it 
 as their right ? far less the creation of a simple 
 knight bachelor before the ordinary time. But
 
 DE FOIX. 125 
 
 know it is my roill to do so, and who shall 
 question it? The will of De Foix was never 
 questioned twice even by the boldest knight. 
 Look well then to yourself." 
 
 " My lord," said Philip of Avignon, " suffer 
 me to plead this young man's excuse. He is 
 your son, his speech is somewhat rash, yet it is 
 his zeal to serve the righteous cause tliat makes 
 him speak without consideration for himself. 
 And you must pardon a lover, who from his de- 
 votion to the Lady Jane of Boulogne, feels thus 
 alive to every danger which may aflFect her in- 
 terest ; for her sake he would content all parties, 
 that no jealousies may stir up strife amongst 
 your people, lest they should fall off from her 
 cause. It is you, my lord, who have fanned this 
 infant passion into a flame, you have sanctioned 
 Sir Evan's hopes, you must therefore pardon the 
 vain alarms that follow the regards of a suitor." 
 
 " It is indeed true," replied the Count, some- 
 what softened in his manner by the apology of 
 the Prior, " I have destined for Sir Evan de 
 Foix the highest prize of valour, the hand of 
 the Lady Jane of Boulogne — may he deserve it !
 
 126 DE FOIX. 
 
 And for you, my fair niece, Isabel de Greilly, 
 after we have regained the lands of Comminges 
 for the Lady Jane, it is my intention that she 
 shall not go singly to offer up her vows at the 
 nuptial altar. For you, Isabel, shall bear her 
 company with my second son, Sir Gracien, as 
 your lord and husband. You know your late 
 father's will, you must marry by my direction, 
 or forfeit your inheritance to me. Or should you 
 be perverse, and take the veil, then your gold 
 is given to the Priory of St. Mary of Orthes, 
 where Father Philip may consecrate it to any 
 holy use." 
 
 " Whatever be the destiny of the lady," said 
 Philip, " may heaven guide her choice, and in- 
 spire her with good thoughts to observe her 
 obedience to the Count de Foix." 
 
 " My obedience," replied Isabel, " I fear will 
 be of little value to heaven, and of less to my 
 lord, unless it proceeds from a willing mind. 
 But my desires rest satisfied in their present 
 freedom. I desire not the state of a married 
 lady, and I have less inclination for the cell of a 
 nun."
 
 DE FOIX. 127 
 
 The Count smiled incredulously at Isabel's 
 reply, and turning to her fair companion, he 
 said, " You, Jane of Boulogne, are silent. You 
 liave spoken no voucher for your obedience." 
 
 " My lord," replied Jane, " I am under your 
 controul, my voucher for obedience is not ne- 
 cessary. Yet I own the recovery of my in- 
 heritance would afford me more joy could I 
 liave hoped to gain something of the freedom as 
 well as of the consequence of power. Should Sir 
 Evan de Foix recover for me my lands, he will 
 be entitled to my gratitude ; but should he seek 
 the payment of the obligation by my hand, it is 
 you, my lord, he must thank for it, as you \vill 
 give him what I have no power to bestow, for 
 my hand would never freely sunder itself from 
 my heart." 
 
 The Count frowned, and Sir Evan de Foix 
 though he spoke not, yet his cheek turned pale, 
 and his lip quivered with passion. Sir Equitan, 
 who for some time had stood gazing in mute 
 attention upon the fine countenance of the beau- 
 tiful Jane, seemed at once to enter into the 
 feelings of her mind, and almost by an invo-
 
 128 DE FOIX. 
 
 luntary impulse, he exclaimed, " The spirit of a 
 true knight would never enforce such a payment 
 for any debt of gratitude, and it would spurn the 
 base thought which could lead him to accept that 
 guerdon the heart refused to bestow. To combat 
 in the cause of virtue and of beauty gives its own 
 reward, such are the sentiments of every true 
 knight, and such must be those of Sir Evan de 
 Foix. To you. Lady Jane of Boulogne," (con- 
 tinued Sir Equitain, whilst he gracefully dropt 
 upon his knee before her) " to you, and to your 
 cause, I consecrate my sword, my knighthood, 
 and my honour. Deign, I beseech you, fair 
 lady, to accept my service, and give me some 
 token of your favour, that I may bear it about 
 with me; it shall be the dearest pennon that 
 ever knight bore, and the sight of a token will 
 add strength to my arm, and valour to my heart. 
 It shall wave from my crest in the day of battle, 
 as the beacon to guide my followers' steps to 
 honour and renown." 
 
 The Lady Jane blushed, and, with an air 
 of modest dignity, she took from her shoulders 
 the scarf of silver tissue, and presenting it to
 
 DK roix. 129 
 
 the kneeling Knight, she said, " Thanks, Sir 
 Equitan, I accept your service ; take this as the 
 token, and remember that the prayers and 
 gratitude of her who gave it must be for ever 
 yours." 
 
 Sir Equitan pressed the scarf to his lips, and 
 bound it round his shoulders. The Count be- 
 trayed no emotion of surprise or of displeasure, 
 38 such acts of gallantry were common in the 
 days of chivalry ; but Sir Evan de Foix, whose 
 countenance during this scene had alternately 
 varied with the emotions of anger, could no 
 longer keep silence. 
 
 " That scarf, Lady Jane," he exclaimed, 
 " should have been mine, and should not thus 
 lightly have been bestowed upon a stranger. I 
 have long dedicated my sword to your service, 
 and as I purposed to combat in the tournament 
 for the honour of your beauty, I would have 
 craved it at your hand. But it is bestowed. 
 However, though it may for a while wave above 
 the crest of this proud stranger, still it shall be 
 mine, if fortune and my firm resolves keep pace. 
 I, therefore, in this presence, throw down my 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 DE FOIX. 
 
 glove in gage of battle, to meet you, Sir Equi- 
 tan, Poursuivant d' Amour, in the open lists. I 
 challenge you to three courses with the lance, 
 three with the buttle axe, and as many with the 
 dagger. And that white scarf, which you have 
 forestalled from me, which then shall wave like 
 a gay streamer, I will pluck from off your helm, 
 to place it upon my own." 
 
 Sir Evan de Foix threw down his gage of 
 battle, and, with an air of proud disdain, retired 
 some paces from the company. 
 
 " I accept the challenge," said Sir Equitan, 
 calmly. " Agos, take up the glove ; and learn 
 this. Sir Evan de Foix, that before you pluck 
 from me this lady's scarf (whose colour figures 
 the pure spirit of her who bestowed it upon me), 
 we must change its hue from that of Trhite to 
 red, for never shall you wrest it from me, till it 
 is steeped in the heart's blood of him who owns 
 it now." 
 
 " My Lord de Foix, have we your permission 
 that this wager of battle may go forward ; may 
 we be <lelivered of our vows in the expected 
 tournament ?"
 
 DE FOIX. 131 
 
 " You have my permission," replied the 
 Count ; " I will not be your hindrance. You 
 are welcome, both of you, to show your valour 
 in arms. But I would counsel you, Sir Equitan, 
 to be more careful henceforth how you inter- 
 fere in those concerns, that in no way affect 
 yourself." 
 
 " Alas," exclaimed the Franciscan, who had 
 hitherto remained silent, attentively observing 
 all that had passed, " how apt is the spirit of 
 youth to take offence ! Oh, gentle knights, is it 
 thus you waste, in vain brawls about a simple 
 maiden's token, that martial courage which 
 should lead you both to higher and to more use- 
 ful deeds of arms? When the holy sepulchre 
 of Christ is profaned by infidels, when chris- 
 tians are suffering by the dreadful schism of the 
 church, and our holy father, Clement of Avignon, 
 is threatened by the false pontiff. Urban of 
 Rome, were it not better to put your lances in 
 the rest, for the cause of heaven, than to wage 
 a bloody combat for a lady's scarf? Oh man ? 
 vain man ! when wilt thou learn wisdom ?" 
 
 " Your calling, holy Franciscan," observed 
 
 k2
 
 132 DE FOIX. 
 
 the Count, " gives the licence of freedom to 
 your tongue. As a minister of the church yon 
 counsel well ; but know that young gallants de- 
 light in deeds of danger, as a beadsman doth in 
 the penance that mortifies his spirit. Farewell, 
 my friends, farewell, Sir Equitan, till the hour 
 of the banquet, when I shall look to meet you 
 in the castle hall." 
 
 The Count retired, and Sir Espaign du Lyon, 
 fearful of another brawl, reminded Sir Equitan 
 of observing the ceremony of hanging up his 
 shield. They soon after left the castle to accom- 
 plish this purpose in the church of the Friars 
 Minor, the rest of the company dispersed, and 
 Philip of Avignon, and Sir Evan de Foix, at 
 length found themselves alone in the Chamber 
 of Audience. Evan closed the door, and, pacing 
 the apartment with hasty steps, seemed agitated 
 by contending passions. 
 
 " So," cried he to Philip, " I am beset ever}'- 
 way with torments ; it is not enough that the 
 beggarly boy of a common peasant, or, perhaps, 
 of one even of a lower degree, should rise to 
 knighthood, honour, favour with the Count ; that
 
 DE FOIX. 133 
 
 he should eclipse me iii the good report of the 
 world; but that this stranger, this Sir Equitan, 
 or Sir Nobody, must come and rival me in my 
 tenderest hope, the favour of the Lady Jane of 
 Boulogne. Did you mark how she gave the 
 scarf to him ; there was more in it than a com- 
 mon token : I could read a very cunning mean- 
 ing in the gift ; it seemed to say, ' Take me 
 and my lands, they will scarcely stand for ask- 
 ing.' Did you observe her eye, her cheek ? it 
 blushed the conscious truth. Oh woman ! wo- 
 man ! if all deceits were but pent up in one 
 form, they would be in that of thine. Thy 
 heart is as light as the vane which is perched on 
 the house top, following every new gust that 
 blows; thy will is more wanton than that of 
 the fantastic ape, which can devise nothing but 
 mischief; and thy temper, like water, will shine 
 bright, and run smooth, till it turns with the 
 tide, and swallows up all within the vortex of its 
 angry current. I could almost find it in my 
 soul to hate the Lady Jane, to pay her scorn 
 with scorn. But I am sworn to her cause ; her 
 wealth too will give me power, and add to my
 
 134 DE FOIX. 
 
 strength in obtaining the end of all my hopes, 
 that of succeeding to my father in his titles and 
 authority, as if I were born the legitimate heir 
 of De Foix. And tiiis proud knight too, if it 
 were but to anger him and bring down his 
 haughty spirit, I would win her. Wlien she is my 
 wife she shall sue to me — the time may come 
 when I will claim her, as the falcon doth tJie 
 affrighted bird that she holds within her grasp." 
 
 The Prior, who had allowed Sir Evan de Folx 
 thus to give vent to his impassioned feelings, 
 was now about to speak; but ere he could do 
 so, Evan again burst forth in a tone of bitter 
 invective. 
 
 " But this Eustace," he said, " I fear him. 
 Prior ; indeed I fear him ; so besotted is my 
 father with affection for the boy, that he is to 
 Eustace, like the swoln cloud to the earth, 
 that does nothing but drop ' fatness' to enrich 
 it. Eustace, Eustace will supplant me, and be 
 my ruin with the Count, unless we prevent it. 
 Remember, Prior, my word is given ; once let 
 me be the lord of Jane of Boulogne and her 
 lands of Comminges, and thou art bishop of its
 
 DE lOlX. 135 
 
 diocese, for tlie see is still vacant by this schism 
 concerning- the true pope, and then a cardinal's 
 red hat will come as easy to thy head as to thy 
 hopes. But prithee counsel me ; what can we do ? 
 Let no thought slumber that may assist us in this 
 extremity, for thy hopes rest on mine." 
 
 " I know it," replied Philip ; " but that hasty 
 temper which masters your reason, is more your 
 own enemy than the colour of the times. You 
 did WTong to question the Count's purpose re- 
 specting Eustace; let him be made a knight; 
 let him go on; I tell you he will be his own 
 ruin with your father, and I will help it." 
 
 " TeU me," exclaimed Evan, " I beseech you 
 tell me by what means ?" 
 
 '• Not yet, not yet," replied the Prior ; " you 
 are too hasty : did I trust you now with all my 
 purpose, your haste would mar it. But, for the 
 present, to satisfy you, learn this ; that there is 
 not an act of any import done within this castle, 
 but /know it; nay more, I know the very spirit, 
 almost the secret thoughts of every one who 
 lives within its walls."
 
 136 DE FOIX. 
 
 " How," exclaimed Evan, " hast thou too a 
 Jamiliar ?" 
 
 " No matter," said the Prior, " what are my 
 means, if they effect their purpose ; there are 
 those who can awake the powers of hell to do 
 them service." 
 
 Evan shuddered ; for although insensible to the 
 moral precepts of religion, he was tremblingly 
 alive to all the superstitious credulity of the 
 times. 
 
 " I have many means," continued Philip : " 1 
 have familiars of the flesh too, that breathe the 
 air of heaven like you and me. John the chro- 
 nicler, and myself, are both confessors to the 
 chief members of this house ; and thus the very 
 simple maids will sometimes whisper, what it 
 were better to conceal. And as to Eustace, I 
 tell you, that I know his very soul: when a 
 boy he was placed under my care, to make a 
 churchman of him ; he was apt enough in be- 
 coming a clerk, but he loved not a monk's cowl, 
 and so he returned to the Count; but, accustomed 
 to my authority, he still looks up to me with
 
 DE FOIX. 137 
 
 reverence and awe ; yet he never loved me : na- 
 tures so opposite feel no love for each other." 
 
 " If it is so," observed Sir Evan de Foix, " he 
 will never trust you; how can you then work 
 upon his mind ?" 
 
 " You know nothing of mankind," replied 
 Philip ; " Eustace is full of soft eflfeminate aflfec- 
 tions ; and then he is as simple and as unsuspi- 
 cious as the novice in her cell ; yet hasty, and of 
 quick feelings, easily hurt, but equally forgiving. 
 In short he is made up of tears and honesty, fit 
 for nothing but his own ruin, and what in this 
 world will ever make him play the fool. Have 
 no fears of him ; leave me to deal with him, and 
 he shall either venture upon some mad exploit 
 in tliis war with my Lord of Armagnac, that 
 shall cost him his life, or he shall ruin liimself 
 with the Count, as occasion may best serve. I 
 spare him now, till all is ripe for action; you 
 shall know more hereafter." 
 
 " Ay," said Evan, " but this Sir Equitan — 
 there is more in his assumed title of Poursuivant 
 d' Amour, than he would fain have us think. I 
 shall have my eye upon liim; and do you set
 
 138 DE FOIX. 
 
 brother John to work ; let him employ some en- 
 gine to find out who he is. But Jane of Bou- 
 logne, what power can work upon her will? 
 There I am lost again." 
 
 " Fear not," replied the Prior, ".a woman is 
 made up of contradictions, and may be played 
 upon as easily as we touch the viol, or the rebec ; 
 it is but finding out the master key, and every 
 chord will vibrate to the sound. With woman 
 the master key is vanity : why, she will weep to 
 see a bird caught in a trap, yet sit with calm 
 composure to look upon the bloody lists, when 
 they are holden in honour of her beauty. Wo- 
 men are but the pastimes of an idle hour, or, like 
 the household cat, useful and necessary. But 
 that Jane of Boulogne has wealth (which I would 
 aim to win, if I were not a churchman), I could 
 despise you for loving her, and for being angered 
 by a girl, a very garden plant, tall and white, 
 like a lily." 
 
 " No," said Sir Evan de Foix, " you mistake 
 my nature ; I was not formed to be the slave of 
 woman's beauty. True it is that such perfec- 
 tion of female loveliness as shines forth in the
 
 DE FOIX. 139 
 
 lady Jane, I never yet beheld; and she has 
 stirred up in my soul some warm and thrilling- 
 hopes, that will not let me calmly resign her to 
 another : tliis I confess ; but think not I can play 
 the whining lover ; I cannot weep, and sue, and 
 watch her fancy, nor wait the suit of time to 
 gain a return of her affections : I can but woo 
 her after a soldier's fashion, with my sword in 
 hand, and claim her by the right of conquest. 
 So she be mine, and her lands to boot, I care not 
 by what means." 
 
 " Hold you to that," replied the Prior, " and 
 if all else fail, I will give her to you. She will 
 not be the first maiden whom force has wedded 
 to her lord. Remember Mary of Hungary ; 
 would Henry de Blancquefort, thinkest thou, 
 ever have been crowned king, had he been nice 
 as to the means of gaining the heiress of a 
 throne? But I must leave you. Where shall 
 we meet again ? You will be at the banquet ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Evan, thoughtfully ; " and before 
 that hour, I will seek the lady Jane of Bou- 
 logne." 
 
 " Remember," continued Pliilip, " to cuhn that
 
 110 DE FOIX. 
 
 hasty spirit. Passion is a tyrant, who will pluck 
 reason from her seat, and ruin all her empire- 
 Leave hot and testy feelings for those the world 
 call honest, who act as they feel, and devise no- 
 thing ; but for men who would watch the temper 
 of the times, to turn them into profit, who cal- 
 culate the consequence of every act before it is 
 set on foot, they must hold the even course of a 
 cool tempered judgment. Remember this ; and 
 so farewell."
 
 DE FOIX. 141 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE INQUIRY. 
 
 I had a thing to say — ^but let it go. 
 
 The sun is in the heavens, and the proud day, 
 
 Attended with the pleasures of the world. 
 
 Is all too wanton and too full of gawds 
 
 To give me audience. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 "In truth," said Sir Espaign du Lyon (as lie 
 rode by the side of Sir Equitan to the monastery 
 of the Friars Minor) " there was something very 
 mad-brained in Sir Evan de Foix, to tlirow down 
 liis gauntlet upon so small an occasion as that of 
 the lady Jane's bestowing a token upon you ; a 
 thing as common as the offer of a young knight's 
 service to a fair damsel. Why, I remember 
 in my youthful days, when I tilted in Britanny 
 M'ith John de Montfort, before his gallant and 
 lion-hearted Countess, the ladies (Heaven rest
 
 142 DE roix. 
 
 their souls ! for I believe they are most of them 
 dead now) were so delighted with my valour, 
 that they took oiF scarfs, hoods, jewels, and hang- 
 ing-sleeves, to bestow them upon me as tokens ; 
 so that, after the tournament, they found them- 
 selves stripped to the bodice and petticoat, and 
 could only laugh at each other." 
 
 " Indeed," replied Sir Equitan, " there can 
 be no doubt of the honour, in which you were 
 held, brave Sir Espaign, by the ladies. For my 
 own part, I do not scruple to aver, that to gain 
 the favour of such a beauteous maiden as the 
 lady Jane of Boulogne, I would venture my life 
 and fortunes in any fray of arms ; I thought she 
 looked unhappy when the Count insisted upon 
 her alliance with his hot-tempered son. Yet 
 for Sir Evan de Foix there is a great excuse; 
 the desire to possess such a prize of beauty, and 
 the jealousy of a lover, were enough to make 
 him throw down his gage of battle in a smaller 
 matter. I am glad he did so, since I would not 
 wish him of all others for a friend, who is destined 
 to be her lord against her will. But prithee, tell 
 me, who is this Eustace? There is about him
 
 DE FOIX. 143 
 
 that ingenuous manner, that modesty of aspect 
 and demeanour, w hich bespeaks our good opinion. 
 Who is he, and what are his misfortunes ?" 
 
 " In truth," replied Sir Espaign, " who he is 
 I cannot tell you, nor do I think that even the 
 Count himself really knows who were his parents- 
 All I can tell you is, that some years since, when 
 this Eustace was a pretty child, scarce two years 
 old, the Countess de Foix, who was charity her- 
 self, one day told my lord she had a present for 
 him, and craved it as a boon, that he would accept 
 her gift, and take care of it in the manner she 
 should direct. The Count, who then dearly 
 loved his lady, (not dreaming what the gift should 
 prove to be), granted her boon; when, lo and 
 behold, the Countess beckoned to one of her 
 damsels, who speedily brought into the chamber, 
 and put in her arms this lovely boy. ' Here, 
 my lord,' said the Countess, ' this is my gift to 
 you ; take it, and bring up this unfortunate little 
 stranger as your own child, and may God reward 
 you for the good deed.' The Count was sur- 
 prised, and begged his lady to tell him the story 
 of the child. ' In truth, my lord,' replied his-
 
 144 DE FOTX. 
 
 wife, ' that I cannot do, for I have vowed bj'^ 
 the blessed Virgin to conceal it within my OM'n 
 bosom, and the name of the person by whom the 
 infant was committed to my care. Suffer me, 
 then, alone to tell you, that tliis boy is truly the 
 child of misfortune; and that an occasion of 
 great necessity renders it proper you should pro- 
 tect its helpless innocence. This is all I can 
 say, and may Heaven and the Virgin guide its 
 future fortunes.' The Count, who is very ge- 
 nerous, received the infant, and gave it the name 
 of Eustace the Adopted : the boy was educated 
 at Orthes, and for some time was placed with 
 Father Philip. The rest you know ; and all that 
 I can add is, that from his conduct, his parts, and 
 disposition, Eustace deserves the favour and esti- 
 mation in which he is now held by my Lord de 
 Foix : though it has become matter of jealousy 
 to some I will not name." 
 
 " It is very singidar," observed Sir Equitan. 
 " Is there no clue to find out the birth of this 
 young man? And where is the Countess de 
 Foix ?" 
 
 " There are some things," replied Sir Espaign,
 
 1)E FOIX. 145 
 
 *•' I ilo not wish to speak about. Tlie Countess 
 (\e Foix is alive, but — (and here tlie old kniglit 
 looked around him, and drawing nearer to his 
 companion, he continued in a half whisper) but 
 she does not now live with the Count, and for cer- 
 tain reasons she is never named in his presence." 
 
 " How ?" said Sir Equitan, " has she been 
 guilty of any disloyal act to her husband ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no," continued the ancient courtier, 
 " there never breathed a purer spirit ; but — some 
 other time I may tell you the matter. It is but 
 a melancholy tale, and it is not every one I 
 would trust with the relation of it ; for although 
 every body knows it, yet none care to tell of it, 
 lest they might anger my Lord de Foix." 
 
 " And has the Count, then, no legitimate 
 heirs to his estate ? had he no children by the 
 Countess?" inquired Sir Equitan. 
 
 " Ah ! truly had he," replied Sir Espaign, " as 
 fine a son as the light of Heaven ever shone 
 upon. But alas (here the tears started into the 
 old man's eyes, and made their course down his 
 furrowed cheeks ; he wiped them luistily away, 
 and continued), but, alas, he is lost !" 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 DE FOIX. 
 
 " Dead !" exclaimed Sir Equitan. 
 
 " Ay, dead! dead!" replied Sir Espaign. " Oh 
 Gaston, sweet boy ! hadst thou lived, thy un- 
 happy father would not now be thus bereaved" of 
 the honour of his house. Foix and Beam would 
 no longer bewail the loss of one worthy to inherit 
 as their prince. And thy poor mother, like the 
 bird whose young one has been rifled from her 
 nest, would not now sit as the widowed dove 
 upon the branch, who mourns alike the loss of 
 her nursling, and the company of her mate. Oh, 
 Sir Equitan, these old eyes of mine have looked 
 upon such sad sights in Orthes, that rather than 
 have beheld them, 1 could wish their light had 
 been quenched in the tomb. But God's ways 
 are not as our ways, his will is mysterious, but 
 be it done." 
 
 " You have, reverend man," said Sir Equitan, 
 " excited in my bosom a painful feeling of cu- 
 riosity to know more than perhaps concerns me. 
 The story of Eustace, so remarkable, and these 
 dark hints of the melancholy fate of the boy 
 Gaston, and that of his unhappy mother, all 
 make me desirous to know more, more than I
 
 DE rOTX. lit 
 
 dare ask. And the Count, too, surrounded by 
 power, wealth, and honour, chief amongst princes, 
 as he is amongst men, can he be thus unhappy ?" 
 
 " Ay, he is indeed unhappy," replied Sir 
 Espaign, mournfully ; " he bears himself well, 
 but liis heart has never known any touch of joy 
 since the death of his son. If you observe him 
 close, you shall note all is not well within. He 
 is often grave, moody, and melancholy. Some- 
 times absent in the midst of company, and subject 
 to sudden starts of passion. He never leaves 
 his cliamber till after the hour of noon, scarcely 
 tastes food during the day, and never sups till 
 midnight. Then at table none dare speak to him, 
 till he first addresses them ; he is very violent 
 and passionate, and no one who values his freedom 
 or his head, would venture to utter in the pre- 
 sence of the Count the name of his wife, or that 
 of his unfortimate son." 
 
 " Was the manner of the boy's death then so 
 terrible ?" inquired the knight. 
 
 " I — I will not speak of it now," replied Sir 
 Espaign ; " in some other place, at another time, 
 perhaps, you shall hear more." 
 
 l2
 
 148 DE FOIX. 
 
 " And has the Count then," continued Sir 
 Equitan, " no legitimate heir ?" 
 
 " He has no legitimate child now living," said 
 Sir Espaign, " his heir is the lord of Chatelbonne, 
 but the Count de Foix detests him. And it is 
 thought by some (for my lord can give his estate 
 to whom he pleases) that he intends to make 
 his bastard son, Sir Evan de Foix, the heir to 
 his County and dominions; and others think 
 that should he live to see old age, and his love 
 hold for Eustace, that even he has a better chance 
 than the bastard to be named as the successor. 
 These whisperings and suspicions, and the un- 
 certainty of the heirship, make much jealousy, 
 murmuring, and ill blood amongst certain of his 
 household, that I care not to name. Had Gaston 
 lived, he was the natural heir, and all would 
 have been M^ell. For my own part, I love and 
 pity the noble Count de Foix ; he is adored by 
 liis people and feared by his enemies, nay, and 
 perhaps too by his friends — ^f or they do say — it 
 is whispered (continued the old man, lowering 
 his voice) that the Count has a familiar." 
 
 " A familiar !" exclaimed Sir Equitan.
 
 DE lOlX. 141) 
 
 " Ay, a familiar," said Sir Espaign ; " for it 
 is certain that the very day after the king of 
 Castile wiis defeated by the king of Portugal at 
 the great battle of Aljubarota, the Count de Foix 
 knew of that defeat, and that the flower of the 
 chivalry of Beam had been slain in the contest. 
 Now as Aljubarota, at the utmost speed, is ten 
 days journey from Orthes, how could the Count 
 know of this circumstance by any human means ? 
 But I tell you, that if it were worth while, there 
 would not be so much as a silver spoon lost in 
 Orthes, but the Count would know of it: and 
 there are those who will talk about their betters, 
 be they of church or state. Philip of Avignon, 
 and my lord of Corasse, are both thought to 
 have intercourse with the spirits of the air and 
 the powers of darkness ; but for my own part I 
 say nothing. It is better sometimes to observe 
 in peace, than to be a busy prater. But we are 
 now come without the gates of the monastery of 
 the Friars Minor ; you shall visit the church, and 
 after you have there suspended your helmet and 
 shield with the usual ceremonies, we will then 
 call in at the hotel of the Moon, in Orthes, and
 
 150 Dli FOIX. 
 
 take a cup with its host, Sir Ernaiiton clu Pin. 
 There shall we find brave company, and hear 
 how the world goes; for Sir Ernauton usually 
 lodges such squires and knights as the castle 
 cannot contain, when it is overstocked with 
 guests." 
 
 Sir Equitan gave his assent to this proposal ; 
 and whilst these knights are taking a social cup 
 with the worthy host of the Moon, we shall say 
 a word or two to the reader about Eustace the 
 Adopted, and some other persons at the court 
 of Orthes, to whose acquaintance he has lately 
 been introduced.
 
 DE FOIX. 151 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE TOKEN. 
 
 Wc that are true lovers, run into strange capers : but 
 as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal 
 in folly. 
 
 Shaksfeare. 
 
 The ladies, Jane of Boulogne, and Isabel de 
 Greilly, had botli been educated at the castle of 
 Orthes. The story of the former is already told 
 by Sir Espaign du Lyon, and that of the latter 
 may be briefly stated. Isabel was the only 
 legitimate child of the Captal de Buch, who had 
 married the sister of the Count de Foix. Her 
 mother died whilst she was in her infancy, and 
 the Captal soon after that event committed the 
 child to the care of her uncle, that she might be 
 brought up with the Lady Jane, as his own life 
 of arms would not allow him to give mucli at- 
 tention to her education. 
 
 l^on the death of Do Buch, he bequeathed
 
 152 DE rojx. 
 
 to Isabel his large possessions on the singular 
 conditions the Count stated, in the last chapter, 
 as he hoped by such a will to ensure for his 
 daughter an alliance with the house of De Foix, 
 and that she should never be induced to act in 
 opposition to the Count, unless it were in order 
 to devote her life to the service of Heaven as a 
 nun. 
 
 Jane of Boulogne, Isabel de Greilly, and Eu- 
 stace the Adopted, were all much of the same 
 age, and had been playmates together during 
 their childhood in the castle of Orthes ; and till 
 within the last few years, Eustace had shared 
 with them in the instructions they received from 
 the governors of youth at the castle. 
 
 The learning of the Count de Foix, and his 
 delight in literature, proved of the utmost ad- 
 vantage to these young persons, as they were 
 by his direction instructed in the arts both of 
 reading and writing ; acquirements seldom given 
 but to those who w^ere designed for -the church. 
 Few women in these times could read, and far 
 less could they so mucli as write their names. 
 The knights, too, as father Philip remarked,
 
 HE FOIX. 153 
 
 were often but sorry clerks, many were ignorant 
 of the first riulimcnts : and the greatest warrior 
 and captain who flourished in France during the 
 fourteenth century, the celebrated Bertrand du 
 Guesclin, was not only ignorant, but proud of 
 his want of learning; for he considered all lite- 
 rary attainments fit only for monks, and unwortliy 
 a man at arms. Bertrand would laugh at a 
 knight who could read, and was wont to call 
 such as were clerks (or learned persons)^<r/'aZ 
 hoods. And the great English soldier, Sir 
 Walter Manny, when mth filial piety he sought 
 the sepulchre of his father (who had been mur- 
 dered whilst Sir Walter was an infant), did not 
 feel assured he had found the right tomb, till he 
 had sent for a clerk to read the inscription for him. 
 When it is considered that the manners of a 
 court are always formed upon the example of 
 its prince, it will no longer be a matter of sur- 
 prise that the court of Orthes should have be- 
 come one of the most refined and learned for its 
 day in Europe ; as De Foix was himself both a 
 scholar and a patron of learning. Jane, Isabel, 
 and Eustace, in the artless hours of infancy,
 
 154- D£ FOIX. 
 
 liad grown up together with the open-hearted 
 feelings of confidence and affection. Together 
 they had studied, together they had pursued the 
 sports of hawking and hunting, exercises that 
 formed the recreation of the ladies of this 
 period. 
 
 They had all likewise been instructed in the 
 science of the minstrel ; the lute, the harp, and 
 the rebec, were their favourite instruments ; and 
 whilst Eustace would sometimes play and sing 
 to them, or at others read aloud one of the MS. 
 Romances that formed a part of the library of 
 the Count : these maidens would embroider 
 tapestry for the church, or work the arms of 
 their houses upon their mantles and gowns. 
 
 Dancing also formed a part of their educa- 
 tion, an accomplishment held in the same esti- 
 mation as music, with the young and gallant 
 followers of a court. Many characteristic traits 
 of this appear in the manners of the times ; 
 amongst them that of the young Lord de Couci 
 may be here noticed, for he was so proud of his 
 " dancing and carolling^" that when he was in- 
 troduced to King Richard the Second, at his
 
 UE FOIX. 155 
 
 palace of Eltliam, my Lord de Coiici exliibited 
 his talents in both, " to the great contentment of' 
 the king and his ministers.^' 
 
 A love of poetry and music (for they have 
 ever gone hand in liand together) had been 
 widely diffused through Europe by the Trouba- 
 dours, persons who Avere not only minstrels, but 
 who had rendered familiar, and improved that 
 class of poetry, which was known by the name 
 of Provencal. The Troubadours flourished from 
 about the beginning of the twelfth, to the end of 
 the fourteenth century, when, after a gradual 
 decline, their order became extinct. At their 
 first rise they were held honourable, and in 
 much estimation by all ranks of people. Wil- 
 liam Count of Poitu, a soldier and a scholar, 
 obtained a high reputation as a Troubadour. 
 Richard the First of England was also of the 
 order, and many even of the clergy thought it 
 no disparagement to their dignity, to be con- 
 sidered as followers of the " gaie science." 
 
 The general favour in which they were held 
 lio univers-ally prevailed, that the Troubadour
 
 156 DE FOIX. 
 
 was a welcome guest in tlie court of the prince, 
 the hall of the baron, within the walls of a con- 
 vent, or the precincts of a camp. The knights 
 cherished the minstrel who sung to his harp the 
 verses he had composed in record of their valour, 
 and the lady, whose beauty was the theme of 
 his song, welcomed the professor of an art whose 
 chief excellence consisted in telling of her power 
 over love and arms. 
 
 Critics have considered the Troubadour, or 
 Provencal, as the first regular school of poetry 
 that was formed after the decline of Roman 
 verse, and so far is it now chiefly interesting 
 to posterity. Although at the commencement 
 many of the Troubadours were often persons of 
 rank and state, yet, towards their decline, they 
 were chiefly composed of the younger brothers 
 and relatives of noble houses. Towards the 
 close of their career, they lost their primitive 
 honourable character by falling in with the vices 
 of the times, and as they degenerated in morals, 
 so did they in the excellence of their art : and it 
 was not till then that the Jonglems appear to
 
 DE FOIX. 15'7 
 
 liave boon introduced. These merelj^ sung the 
 compositions of their predecessors, and united 
 to the fascinations of the minstrel the arts of the 
 juggler. To return from this digression to our 
 subject. 
 
 Jane and Isabel, though wholly opposite in 
 character, were uniform in taste, and this uni- 
 formity of pursuit laid the basis of a lasting 
 friendsliip between them; for although dissimilar 
 natures are often united in the bonds of the 
 closest affection, it is rarely, if ever, found to 
 exist where there is a total difference in taste. 
 Thus the. mind that is serious, and the mind 
 that is gay, the tender and the inflexible cha- 
 racter may unite : but the learned and the igno- 
 rant, the lover of nature, poetry, and art, and 
 the mere man of tlie world, who is insensible to 
 their beauties, where do we ever find that they 
 unite in any bond of sympathy or friendship ? 
 
 Jane and Isabel loved each other with the 
 tenderest affection ; the former was of a serious, 
 candid, and constant mind, modest and timid in 
 her deportment, of a lively sensibility, not quick
 
 158 T)V. FOIX. 
 
 in forming an opinion unless it was sanctioned 
 by her reason, yet, when once formed, fearless 
 in asserting it, and inflexible in a purpose of 
 just action or feeling. 
 
 Isabel de Greilly, though possessed of equal 
 sensibility, did not, like her fair friend, govern 
 it by reason. She was the very creature of 
 feeling ; fortunately her feelings were generally 
 on the side of what is right, or, like all persons 
 who act from feeling instead of principle, she 
 would perpetually have been doing what was 
 wrong. Her imagination was active and vivid, 
 constantly presenting some new idea, or some 
 new object, which, arousing her sensibility, gave 
 birth (as the idea or the object changed) to a 
 conduct often marked by caprice, but never 
 by ill nature. It might be said that her heart 
 W'as too good for her head, and that although 
 the former sometimes led her astray, the latter 
 generally brought her back to the right path 
 again. Isabel was thoughtless, gay, and ani- 
 mated. Conscious of the fascination of her own 
 attractions, she \^'as somewhat ^^ain, and would
 
 DE FOIX. 159 
 
 too often (for the truth must be spokeii) exer- 
 cise their influence from the mere love of power, 
 by playing upon the feelings of another. 
 
 Such were these friends, who loved with sin- 
 cerity, and could admire each other without a 
 spark of that envy or petty feeling, which too 
 often prevents any rooted friendship subsisting 
 between persons of the same sex and age. The 
 companion of their childhood, the adopted brother 
 of their riper years, the gentle Eustace, was sin- 
 cerely regarded by them both. Jane truly loved 
 him as a brother; Isabel called him such, but 
 would scarcely allow she loved him at all, till 
 some action, some word, betrayed the kindness 
 of her heart towards him, when, in the next mo- 
 ment perhaps, whim, vanity, or caprice, or it 
 might be the idle desire of playing with the 
 feelings over which she had any power, woidd 
 often lead her into the most unkind and contra- 
 dictory acts that wounded deeply, without the 
 intention of doing an injury. 
 
 As for Eustace, he was by nature of a serious 
 cast of temper ; the mysterious circinnstances of 
 his birth, a constant desire to know who he really
 
 IGO DE FOIX. 
 
 was, tlie wish to believe himself nobly descended, 
 and at the same time the apprehension that he 
 might prove perhaps (as Sir Evan de Foix often 
 scornfully intimated) to be but the offspring of a 
 base peasant ; these conflicting hopes and appre- 
 hensions early tinctured his mind with melan- 
 choly; and though to a superficial observer he 
 might appear, from his quiet and reserved de- 
 meanour, almost insensible, yet, on the slightest 
 word, from the least circumstance that really 
 touched his heart, he was, in a moment, animated 
 or overpowered by the keen sensibility of his feel- 
 ings. Eustace M^as good; he was therefore grate- 
 ful; grateful to the Count, and dearly attached 
 to the interests of his benefactor. Eustace would 
 have preferred death to any act that might ho\A'- 
 ever distantly impeach his loyalty to De FoLx. 
 
 The soul of Eustace was the soul of honour, 
 not merely in that acceptation in which the word 
 was then generally understood, as applying to 
 deeds of arms, but in its largest sense, as in- 
 fluencing every thought, every act of the heart, 
 where honour was held sacred. Brave and ge- 
 nerous, humbled by misfortune, but of a proud
 
 DE FOIX. 161 
 
 and lofty feeling* in the cause of truth, Eustace 
 was deservedly beloved by the Count, and envied 
 or hated by men of meaner spirits, who contemn 
 whatever is beyond their sphere, and yet fear 
 that very height which they censure, because 
 they can never attain it. Notwithstanding his 
 thoughtful character and refined feelings Eu- 
 stace was skilled in arms ; the sterner virtues of 
 a soldier imposed but little restraint on the tender 
 sensibilities of his heart, and the desire he en- 
 tertained to discover his birth, to prove himself 
 worthy in arms of being descended from a noble 
 race, had accompanied him from infancy to youth; 
 it had become a part of himself, a feeling that 
 influenced every act of his life. Thus had he 
 grown up, affectionate to his fair adopted sisters, 
 grateful to his benefactor, and kind to every 
 human creature within the sphere of his influence 
 or conduct. 
 
 Some days had now elapsed since the arrival 
 of Sir Equitan at Orthes, during which time he 
 had been honourably entertained by the Count, 
 and had assiduously cultivated the favour of the 
 lady Jane of Boulogne, by those thousand little 
 
 VOL. I. . M
 
 162 DE FOIX. 
 
 acts that almost imperceptibly win upon the 
 heart; these can scarcely be defined, and for 
 them there is no name, unless we call them the 
 offspring of sympathy and affection ; acts that are 
 felt before they are acknowledged, and can alone 
 be understood by the heart capable of the same 
 feelings their language can thus delicately ex- 
 press. 
 
 There are persons whose minds are formed in 
 moulds so suited to each other, that no sooner do 
 they meet than they feel incited to regard and 
 esteem by the similarity of their thoughts, by 
 the force of sympathy and congeniality of soul. 
 And there are others, M'hose natures, on the con- 
 trary, are wholly opposite, that neither time nor 
 circumstances can ever make them blend with 
 any touch of unison. Thus we may be strangers 
 with the companion of years ; we may be friends 
 with the companion of yesterday. 
 
 Whether any, or all of these reflections may 
 be applicable to the lady Jane and Sir Equitan, 
 it is impossible with certainty to declare ; but 
 we may suppose they were ; for true it is, that 
 notwithstanding the cunning of Father Philip,
 
 DE FOIX. 163 
 
 the jealousy of Sir Evan de Foix, and the de- 
 clared purpose of the Count to bestow her in mar- 
 riage upon his son, the lady Jane was not averse 
 to receiving the vows of love and constancy, 
 which Sir Equitan seized every opportunity of 
 offerino- at her feet. 
 
 True it is, that on certain occasions, particu- 
 larly when in the presence of the Count, the 
 lovers managed so adroitly, that the lively Isabel 
 contrived, from pure good nature to her blush- 
 ing friend, to turn the attention of Sir Equitan 
 chiefly towards herself, and to receive, as per- 
 sonally intended, many a delicate word or token 
 of affection that was designed by him for the 
 lady Jane. This conduct gave but little alarm 
 to the Count, for the gay spirit and the thought- 
 less disposition of Isabel de GreiUy had rendered 
 her a sort of privileged person, who might do a 
 thousand acts, and say as many things without 
 any meaning, which in a different or more serious 
 character, ^\•ould be not only inconsistent, but 
 supposed to imply some grave purpose. 
 
 Sir Gracien de Foix was nothing jealous of 
 these coquetries in Isabel, for as he was too 
 
 M 2
 
 164 DE FOIX. 
 
 much in love with himself ever to feel any spark 
 of that fine passion for his lively cousin, he was 
 wholly indifferent towards her. The Count had 
 told him he was to marry Isabel ; he had no ob- 
 jection to marry her, and he had no objection 
 not to marry her. If the Count had given to 
 him a young greyhound, or Isabel de Greilly, 
 either were likely to be equally well received ; 
 and yet Sir Gracien had so good an opinion of 
 himself, that he never doubted but that Isabel 
 in her heart, must prefer him to all other suitors ; 
 even his being so frequently an object of her 
 ridicule, he considered but a certain mark of 
 that preference which female modesty induced 
 her thus to disguise. 
 
 Yet there was nothing positively bad in Sir 
 Gracien de Foix ; he was of a handsome person, 
 and had qualities which, but for his intolerable 
 vanity, might have done honour to his family. 
 But, like a pernicious weed, that, if once suffered 
 to take root, will overspread and obscure the 
 productions of the richest soil, so did vanity in 
 this young man ]irevent the growth of whatever 
 is most estimable in youth.
 
 UK FOIX. 165 
 
 The conduct we have just noticed in Isabel 
 towards Sir Equitan, gave pain to some persons, 
 and deceived others ; but it never did for a mo- 
 ment deceive either Prior Philip, or Sir Evan de 
 Foix; the former cunning, adroit, and vigilant, 
 was seldom deceived, where his interest ren- 
 dered it necessary he should be clearly in- 
 formed respecting the truth ; he had also many 
 spies and retainers beside his great engine John 
 the chronicler, and Sir Evan de Foix was ren- 
 dered too watchful, too quick-sighted by love, to 
 be easily deceived respecting the affections of 
 Jane of Boulogne. 
 
 Well could he remark, that her colour would 
 suddenly change when she addressed Sir Equi- 
 tan, that her voice often faltered, and that in her 
 whole air and demeanour towards him, there was 
 a constraint, sometimes an embarrassment, that 
 she evinced towards no other to whom she ad- 
 dressed herself. Whilst Sir Equitan, he ob- 
 served, could freely talk and latigh with Isabel ; 
 he coidd see her enter the room without a change 
 of aspect, and with the gallant spirit of the age, 
 he could discourse with her about love, or com- 
 pliment her upon her beauty. But with Jane
 
 166 UE FOIX. 
 
 of Boulogne Sir Equitan was less lively, and 
 more timid ; with lier his eyes spoke more than 
 his tongue ; the latter seemed to forget to pro- 
 nounce her beautiful, whilst the former appeared 
 riveted on her charms. 
 
 It was during a delightful afternoon, a few 
 days previous to the Festival of the Virgin, whilst 
 these ladies and young knights were recreating 
 themselves in the garden of the palace, that Eu- 
 stace suddenly joined them. His countenance 
 looked more than usually dejected, and there was 
 altogether something in his air and manner that 
 struck every one present as remarkable : con- 
 trary to his usual reserve, he talked quick and 
 successively, and soon after fell into such a fit of 
 abstraction that for a time he appeared insensible 
 to those about him. Each ventured some jest 
 upon this demeanour. Eustace faintly smiled, 
 and seemed to make an effort in assuming his 
 ordinary manner, alleging some slight excuse as 
 an apology for what had been observed. 
 
 " In sooth," said Sir Evan de Foix, " one 
 would think, gentle Eiistace, that the prospect 
 of knighthood was ill suited to your health : and 
 that the vigil of arms you are now nightly
 
 DE FOIX. 167 
 
 keeping in the cliureii of the Friars Minor, had 
 presented to your view some spectred object 
 of the other world. Sir Peter Arnaut de Beam, 
 who lies buried there, has he walked? or does 
 he lie just as quiet and well-armed as he used to 
 do, by the side of the great east window of the 
 church ?" 
 
 " You are merry knights," replied Eustace, 
 " and I confess that I may have some appear- 
 ances about me that excite surprise, for my mind 
 has been agitated with many anxious thoughts : 
 the honour of becoming a member of so august 
 a profession as that of chivalry has seriously 
 affected me. I am to combat also for the first 
 time in the lists as a knight, and I would fain 
 acquit myself well." 
 
 " Then in truth," said Sir Equitan, " you must 
 first choose a fair lady to be the mistress of your 
 heart ; for a knight without love, is like a sky 
 without a sun : he has its radiance neither to 
 warm nor to guide him. Follow my example, 
 Eustace ; for you must bear some lady's token 
 with you to the tournament, or you will never 
 come off victor. Were I in your place, I would 
 beg the lady Ii>abel do Greitly, in pity for the
 
 168 DE FOIX. 
 
 wounds her own bright eyes inflict, to give me 
 some token of her favour." 
 
 Eustace looked confused at this speech, but 
 turning to Isabel he exclaimed, " Dear lady, Sir 
 Equitan counsels me well ; I would crave a token 
 of you, that should animate my courage, and 
 give me a hope, that the good will of her w^ho 
 bestowed it, went with me for my success in the 
 tournament." 
 
 " Nay," cried Isabel, " and wherefore should 
 you seek a token at my hands ? Here is my fair 
 cousin of Boulogne, ask her for one : and should 
 she grant the request, you have most probably a 
 double gift — that of my lady Jane's favour, and 
 a glove from Sir Evan de Foix, to whom you 
 will do a great kindness, in thus offering him 
 occasion for throwing down the gage; for Sir 
 Evan hath a wonderous love of battle, and he 
 would at this moment fain quarrel with me, but 
 that hood and gite * cannot buckle on casque and 
 haubergeon. Prithee, dear lady Jane, bestow 
 on Eustace a favour ; for, if I were in your place, 
 
 * Gown. " And she came after] in a gitc of red. 
 Chaucer, Reve's Tale, line 3952.
 
 DE FOIX. 169 
 
 I would teach fifty Sir Evan de Foix, and as 
 many Counts to boot that I woukl have my own 
 ^vill, and both Sir Eqnitan and Eustace should 
 go to the tournament, so covered with my 
 tokens, tliat they would find no lack of housings 
 even for their horse. And as to jealousy, why 
 Sir Evan should have most excellent cause : so 
 that the lover that is, should teach the husband 
 that is to be, to hope for full indulgence in his 
 favourite humour ; and what wife can go beyond 
 that mark to please her lord? Besides she will 
 give by it a constant theme to keep alive his 
 spirits, for fear they should sleep, and matri- 
 mony become as dull and inanimate as the 
 penance of the hooded monk." 
 
 " Your gay mood. Lady Isabel," said Sir Evan, 
 " but that we know your words are lighter than 
 your purpose, would show a bad example to your 
 own sex, and alarm ours ; we should fear to trust 
 you." 
 
 " Oh ! never trust me," replied the gay Isabel, 
 " for I have constancy in nothing but the re- 
 solution to satisfy my own will. The Count, 
 who is never wiser than when he manages the
 
 170 DE FOIX. 
 
 affairs of other people, to make tliem suit his 
 own, has destined me for his son, Sir Gracien 
 de Foix, and my Lady Jane for you, Sir Evan. 
 I would therefore counsel both of you to take ex- 
 ample from Sir Gracien and myself. We have 
 no jealousy, no throwing down of gauntlets, and 
 drawing the sword of battle upon slight occasions. 
 Do now but look upon Sir Gracien, and see how 
 comfortably his love sits about him, it neither 
 disturbs his rest, alters his good mien, nor makes 
 him think one jot the less of his new armour, and 
 his gay surcoat. Yet for all that, poor Sir Gracien 
 is so deeply enamoured with one person in this 
 world besides his mistress (continued Isabel, 
 archly) that did I not now and then, out of pure 
 charity, smile upon him, and bid him woo me, 
 his thoughts are so possessed by the other object 
 of his admiration, that he would forget the actual 
 presence of his mistress." 
 
 " To forget the presence of the Lady Isabel 
 de Greilly," said Sir Gracien with an affected 
 softness of manner, " would be impossible ; as 
 well might I forget the properties and offices 
 that belong to gentle blood, in the quality of a
 
 ni: loix. 171 
 
 kniglit. I, fair Isabel, although unused to ask a 
 grace of any lady, yet / also would crave some 
 token at your hands to bear with me to the 
 tournament. Give me, therefore, I beseech you, 
 that clasp of bright gold, methiid^s it is a more 
 becoming token for a gentleman to bear about 
 with him than a certain quantity and measure of 
 a lady's silks." 
 
 " As to the clasp," replied Isabel, " it being as 
 you say of gold, it is no fit emblem to be craved 
 by the lips of true love. For gold and love, they 
 say, never go together, but they presently part 
 company, the one to seek the palace of Hymen 
 through the paths of ambition, and the other, 
 too generally to pass his way, drooping and 
 weeping, till he takes shelter within the de- 
 spised, but pleasant cot of some humble rustic. 
 No, no. Sir Gracien, love must never ask for 
 gold. But yet I will give you a token, one that 
 shall show no falsehood, and will never deceive 
 you but with your own good M'ill." 
 
 And so saying, the gay Isabel presented Sir 
 Gracien with a small mirror set in ivory, such as
 
 172 
 
 DE FOIX. 
 
 the ladies of this period were wont to carry about 
 with them, or sometimes to keep by the side of 
 their crucifix on their dressing table. The mirror 
 was neatly set within a rim of ivory, and upon 
 the back part, carved in the same material, ap- 
 peared a representation of the meeting of two 
 lovers. The lady bore upon her arm a squirrel 
 which she held by a string; two attendants were 
 seen in the back ground, the one holding the 
 horse of the gallant, and the other playing upon 
 the rebec, or three- stringed viol. 
 
 Sir Gracien de Foix, whose egregious vanity 
 either did not, or would not let him appear to 
 comprehend the satirical meaning of the token, 
 received it with pure good will. He admired the 
 clear beauty of the mirror, as he gave a satis- 
 factory glance at his own features reflected in it, 
 and turning to Isabel, thanked her for having 
 bestowed upon him such a fine token of her 
 favour. 
 
 " Upon the faith I owe St. Ann," said Isabel, 
 " the finest thing about it will l)e the gay trap- 
 pings it shows, whenever it reflects the braveries
 
 HE FOTX. 173 
 
 of Sir Gracien de Foix. And yet were I Sir 
 Gracien, it should only be consulted on lioly 
 days, for then think how good a lesson the 
 mirror would teach ! Father Philip, or the preach- 
 ing Franciscan, who is come amongst us, could 
 scarcely speak a better. For you can never 
 look upon it, and see reflected those long ring- 
 lets, that are so carefully set, each in its own 
 proper sphere, but you must presently tliink 
 how soon they will be there reflected white and 
 grizzled. And your cheeks too, which look as 
 if they had never felt the sun, excepting through 
 the lattice guarded by silken hangings, you 
 must remember, that in a little time, the mirror 
 will show them to you pale, yellow, and wrinkled 
 with age. In short, you can never contemplate 
 what Sir Gracien now is, without thinking what 
 Sir Gracien will soon be, when no more traces 
 shall be left of all Sir Gracien once loved, than 
 can be seen in the old winter-withered bough, 
 of the once young tree that was budding forth 
 its summer trophies." 
 
 " If this be the use of your token, fair Isabel,"
 
 17t DE roix. 
 
 said Sir Equitan, " you had better have bestowed 
 vipon Sir Gracien the skull that decorates a her- 
 mit's cell, which will tell the whole lesson in one 
 word, for death is the end of all things." 
 
 " Ah ! truly is it," replied Isabel, " and the 
 beginning of many, especially in matters of af- 
 fection : for thus we weep for the lover in death, 
 whom we scorned whilst he was alive ; and our 
 best friends we often begin to love when the 
 tomb has covered them from our hate. And how 
 often do those who have laboured all their lives 
 to gain riches, never begin to use them till the 
 first coin properly bestowed is paid to the maker 
 of their graves!" 
 
 " Indeed," said Jane of Boulogne, " your merry 
 mood, Isabel, might teach some persons with as 
 much truth and more temper than many a graver 
 lecture ; but you sport everywhere, and rest no- 
 where. You are still wide from the mark, for 
 what has death or this discourse to do with the 
 token Eustace craved at your hands? Prithee, 
 Isabel, return to the right point." 
 
 " Why," exclaimed Isabel, " did he not ask
 
 DE rorx. 175 
 
 of me a token for the tournament? and I always 
 thought that tournaments, battles, and . death, 
 had been in close alliance." 
 
 " Ay," said Eustace, " I did indeed crave a 
 token, and if I were to ask the golden clasp, it 
 would not be for the value of the precious metal, 
 as it is rated by worldly estimation, but as a 
 proper token ; for gold being the purest, and 
 most ductile of all metals, it is a fit emblem for 
 a young knight whose thoughts should be pure 
 as refined gold, and as easy to bend to any holy 
 purpose. And since you have so pleasantly 
 contented Sir Gracien, give me the clasp, fair 
 Isabel, it is the first favour I have ever craved 
 at your hand, and I will endeavour not to dis- 
 grace it in the first bearing of my lance." 
 
 " Why then," said Isabel, " I will grant your 
 desire, and you shall have the golden token ; 
 come, prepare to receive it." 
 
 With these words she took the bright clasp 
 from her bosom, whilst Eustace bent on one 
 knee before her, prepared to receive the gift; 
 but as he knelt down, his cheek turned pale, 
 and tlie hand he held extended trembled with
 
 176 DE roix. 
 
 emotion. Isabel glanced her quick eye upon 
 him, and still continued holding the token 
 within her own hand. 
 
 Sir Equitan who stood near the kneeling 
 youth, upon hearing the words of Isabel, ex- 
 claimed, " In truth, fair Eustace, a gift so pre- 
 cious must add such valour to your arm, that 
 few can hope to meet you in the lists on equal 
 terms : that little clasp shall make you victor." 
 
 " Nay then," said Isabel, with a light and 
 careless air, " if my token carry with it such in- 
 vincible power, it is too much to bestow upon 
 one knight, so you Sir Equitan shall even share 
 it with Eustace ;" and so saying, Isabel took the 
 delicately-worked gold clasp and snapped it be- 
 tween her fingers. And presenting one half of 
 it to Sir Equitan, and the other to Eustace, she 
 added, laughing, " There, share my good will 
 between you, and may you both be equally the 
 victors of the tournament." 
 
 Sir Equitan was about to reply to Isabel, 
 but she bid him only thank her by his success 
 in arms, and without noticing Eustace, she 
 bounded away with a light step and left the
 
 Dr. FOIX. lit 
 
 company surprised, and not knowing what to 
 think of the scene that had just passed. 
 
 Eustace felt deeply hurt: it was the first favour 
 he had ever asked of Isabel, and that too at a 
 time when it was really considered one of im- 
 port, for he had solicited it in order to bear it 
 with him to the tournament at his first essay in 
 arms. Isabel by her conduct, although but in a 
 trifling matter, had thus placed a stranger (by 
 making him a sharer in her favour) upon an 
 equality with one who was the friend of years, 
 the brother of her childhood. 
 
 Stung to the very soul by such a light and un- 
 kind act, Eustace could ill brook the merriment 
 of the knights, occasioned by the disappointment 
 he had received from Isabel. He hastily left 
 them, and followed in quest of her to a distant 
 part of the garden. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 178 DE FOIX. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE INTERVIEW. 
 
 For aught that ever I could read. 
 
 Could ever hear by tale or history, 
 
 The course of true love never did run smooth ; 
 
 But either it was diflPerent in blood. 
 
 Or else misgrafted in respect of years. 
 
 Or else it stood upon the choice of friends ; 
 
 Or if there were a sympathy in choice. 
 
 War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it. 
 
 Making it momentary as a sound, 
 
 Swift as a shadow, short as any dream. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 To those who are at all acquainted with the 
 secrets of the human heart, it must be known 
 that when the mind is deeply imbued with any 
 serious passion, nothing can more terribly jar 
 upon its feelings with the touch of discord, than 
 that of ill timed mirth. It is like the violation 
 of whatever is held sacred; it breaks through 
 the sanctuary of our most hallowed aifections, 
 and drags them forth to the heartless mockery
 
 1)F. FOIX. 179 
 
 of the insensible mind ; it scoft's at pain, and often 
 turns into ridicule those finer feelings the scoffer 
 has never known, and could never understand. 
 
 Eustace at this moment felt its effects ; he 
 followed the steps of Isabel, and having for some 
 time sought her in vain, he at length joined her 
 just after she had entered a little gothic plea- 
 sure house that had been erected in the gardens 
 of the palace. It stood near a woody recess, 
 surrounded by flowering shrubs, and sheltered 
 from the heat of the sun by the graceful boughs 
 of the tall and beautiful acacia. A small stream 
 of water, near the entrance, had been guided by 
 the hand of art, to fall over some masses of 
 granite, whose moss-grown tops, decorated with 
 several rock and water plants, contributed to 
 the charm of the spot. The low murniurings 
 of the stream made a pleasing and a lulling 
 sound, that was often accompanied by strains of 
 the sweetest harmony ; for it was here that the 
 ladies of the castle, or some minstrel of their 
 suite, frequently beguiled the sultry hours of 
 noon by playing upon their instruments, and 
 singing a ballad or a roundelay. And it was 
 
 n2
 
 180 DE FOIX. 
 
 liere too that they often repeated an Ave Maria 
 before the figure of the Virgin and child, which 
 stood within a niche in the interior of the 
 building. 
 
 Isabel was now seated at the base of this 
 niche, and all gay and thoughtless as she was, 
 although she had so recently, wantonly, and 
 deeply wounded the feelings of Eustace, she 
 looked at this moment as if wholly unconscious 
 of the pain she had so lately inflicted. Eustace 
 was struck by her appearance ; strong and 
 mingled emotions seemed for a while to deny 
 him the power of utterance, and he could 
 only faintly exclaim, " Oh, Isabel, I am most 
 wretched !" The energy of manner, and the 
 disordered countenance of him who pronounced 
 these words, effectually disarmed any spirit of 
 levity that might still lurk within the bosom of 
 Isabel : she gazed upon him with anxious feel- 
 ings, and uttered but the name of " Eustace." 
 
 He paused, and advancing near to her, seized 
 her hand, which he pressed with ardour to his 
 lips, as the tears burst from his eyes : " Oh, 
 Isabel," he said, " why, why are you thus wan-
 
 DE FOIX. 
 
 181 
 
 tonly cruel to him you have rendered the most 
 unhappy of beings ? I know well my fate, that 
 I am doomed to a life of hopeless suffering ; but 
 could I have seen in you some touch of pity for 
 me, some sympathy, I think I could better bear 
 the sorrows that await me. But thus, thus 
 wantonly to sport with my feelings, it is too 
 much !" 
 
 Isabel cast her eyes upon the ground, she 
 did not speak, nor did she attempt to withdraw 
 the hand that Eustace still held within his grasp. 
 " Isabel," he continued, " do not thus remain 
 silent : speak to me, I conjure you, look but 
 upon me, and tell me that I am not hateful to 
 you ; say but you pity me, and I shall be more a 
 man : these tears, as they fall from my eyes, re- 
 proach me for thus giving way to the feelings 
 that feed their source. But think how dreadful 
 is my lot. Would to Heaven that I had died 
 ere the charity of the Countess de Foix had 
 placed me in a situation, where I am exposed to 
 all the impressions that make up the honour and 
 the delights of other men, arid yet where I can 
 only feel them to plunge me into deeper misery."
 
 182 DE lOIX. 
 
 Isabel wept, and unable longer to restrain 
 her feelings, she faintly answered, " Eustace, 
 too well you know, that you do not suffer 
 alone." 
 
 " How can I think it ?" continued Eustace ; 
 " there are moments when you are all my ten- 
 derest hopes could wish you, kind, gentle, and 
 compassionate, pure as the angel spirits which 
 guard your rest. And Oh ! Isabel, there are 
 times when you tear from me all these happy 
 thoughts, and make me believe you to be like 
 the light hearted, who rend the wound they 
 make with wanton cruelty." 
 
 " How Kttle," said Isabel, " do you know my 
 heart ! believe me, Eustace, mirth and careless 
 words are not always the indications of a mind 
 at peace. Happiness is of a tranquil temper, 
 for her feelings are those of certainty. She 
 knows neither the fluctuations of hope, nor the 
 anxieties of fear. The sorrowful, not unfre- 
 quently, endeavour to divert by mirth the in- 
 cessant cares that in secret prey upon their 
 heart : I have often smiled when mine has ached 
 with anguish. Am I, think you, Eustace, less
 
 DE rojx. 183 
 
 wretched than yourself? I have but a choice of 
 evils, the cell of a nun, or the hand of Sir Gracien 
 de Foix." 
 
 " Ay, it is that," replied Eustace, " which 
 distracts me : brought up with you from child- 
 hood, I loved you before I knew the name of 
 love. In our infancy we had no separate hours, 
 M'e played, we learnt together : together we 
 wandered through this very garden, and plucked 
 the flowers which then looked gay as our owti 
 happy state. We had but one mind, one heart ; 
 together we grew up, we knew but one common 
 lot ; and together Ave have w^orshipped that Power 
 who made us, who planted within our breast the 
 feelings that have governed us, the feelings of 
 nature. Can they be wrong ? No, Isabel, it is 
 the world which teaches artificial feelings, and 
 such are sinful. But those implanted in us by 
 the great Creator, are like his own beneficence, 
 holy, virtuous and sacred; dependent alone on 
 Him who gave them. Were they but unmixed 
 with other feelings, think how full might be our 
 cup of happiness !" 
 
 " Yes," said Isabel, " but as it is, the cup is
 
 184 DE I'OIX. 
 
 presented to our lips, whilst we are forbidden to 
 taste of it." 
 
 " Do you feel this, Isabel?" continued Eu- 
 stace : " then indeed I am wretched. Torn by a 
 thousand contending passions, how often have I 
 wished, as I have laid my head upon the pillow 
 that offered no rest to me, that I might never 
 rise to view the morning's light ! I am bound 
 to the Count de Foix by every tie of duty and 
 of gratitude. I would rather sacrifice my life, 
 nay, Isabel, were it possible, I would rather 
 sacrifice what is far dearer to me, my love, than 
 I would commit the least disloyal act against my 
 Lord de Foix." 
 
 " To love is no dishonour," said Isabel. 
 
 " No," cried Eustace, " but such is my deep 
 sense of the duties I owe the Count, that I tax 
 my very thoughts which war against his will. I 
 am the child of his bounty, and when I daily 
 receive some fresh instance of his goodness to- 
 wards me, and mark how entire his confidence 
 rests upon my integrity. Oh, Isabel ! how can I 
 repay the kindness of my generous benefactor, 
 by becoming the instrument of destruction to his
 
 DE FOIX. 185 
 
 peace ; to ruin all his hopes, to steal from him 
 the affections of her he loves as his own child ? 
 But then to resign you to Sir Gracien de Foix ! 
 to give up such sweet perfections to him who 
 cannot feel their worth, to one who loves nothing 
 but himself — Isabel, the thought is madness. — 
 There are moments, when driven by despair, I 
 am almost tempted to rush into the presence of 
 the Coimt, there to tell him the story of my un- 
 happy love : and to bid him crush at his feet the 
 ungrateful Eustace, the base-born peasant, who 
 has dared repay his bounty by such ingratitude, 
 such bold presumption." 
 
 " Do not," exclaimed Isabel emphatically, 
 clasping her hands, " do not, I beseech you, let 
 any excess of feeling tempt you to the com- 
 mission of an act so rash. Your noble gratitude 
 to the Count has rendered you blind to his cha- 
 racter : to do what you but hint, would be to 
 rush on certain death. He now considers you 
 entirely the creature of his will; that he has 
 moulded you like wax in the hand that takes 
 any print we give it, and he does not dream you 
 could ever entertain a thought, but such as he
 
 186 DE FOIX. 
 
 suggests. Once undeceive lilm, and all your 
 generous virtue would be as nothing in liis sight. 
 He would spurn you from him; and his very 
 feelings for you, now so powerful, would still 
 hold their degree, although they changed their 
 nature. His love for you is great, so would be 
 his hatred. Do not rely upon his affection: 
 think not the pride of De Foix would ever con- 
 sent that Isabel de Greilly, his niece, should 
 form an alliance with one of unknown birth. I 
 tell you, no prince breathing is prouder than the 
 Count, for the vain honour of his house. And 
 were such an alternative but put to the proof, 
 rather would he see these limbs of mine torn 
 piecemeal from each other, than consent to any 
 supposed degradation of his blood. O Eustace ! 
 I implore you, I would kneel and conjure you, 
 as you love me, as you hold dear the being whose 
 life hangs but on yours, do not act thus rashly : 
 be watcliful, wary; and never, never trust the 
 Coimt with the sad story of our most disastrous 
 love." 
 
 Eustace, whilst the beautiful girl thus ad- 
 chessed him, stood gazing upon her, as if lost to
 
 DE FOIX. 187 
 
 every surrouiuling object, lost to Iiimselt", to every 
 alarm, and alone sensible that this impassioned 
 address for his preservation was made to him by 
 the being he adored. 
 
 *' Isabel," he exclaimed, " be ever thus, thus 
 kind, and the worst ills of fortune that can befal 
 me, what are they ? Nothing. — Possessed of your 
 affection, I am happy. To gain you what would 
 I not attempt, what would I not sacrifice ? every 
 tiling but my honour; for could I sacrifice that, 
 I should be unworthy of Isabel. Dear, generous 
 girl, pardon my reproaches, pardon my sus- 
 picions, forgive every angry thought. I am but 
 as a wayward child, that fears he knows not 
 what. Think how dear you are to me : I have 
 no friend but the Count; and he, you say, regards 
 me but as his creature. I have nor home, nor 
 name, country nor family, you are all to me : 
 were I dead, there is no eye but that of Isabel's 
 that would drop a tear upon my grave ! How 
 can I ever part from you ?" 
 
 " Why these sad thoughts ?" said Isabel : 
 " something may happen ; or should it come to 
 the worst, all light as my conduct may seem to
 
 188 i)F, roix. 
 
 many, my heart is true to you. I will rather 
 devote my days to the cell of a nun, than wear 
 them out in the double falsehood of a wretched 
 wife, false to my love, false to my duty : these 
 lips shall never so far belie my heart. Yet 
 something may be done to save us both from 
 ruin." 
 
 " Wliat can be done ?" replied Eustace, "what 
 are my hopes ? I will never gain you by dis- 
 honour ; there is no way but that which leads to 
 death, that can ever give peace to the wretched 
 Eustace." 
 
 " Talk not thus, I beseech you," said Isabel ; 
 " let us rather think hoAV to avoid evils than to 
 imagine them. Eustace, there is a boon I would 
 crave of you, and you shall not deny it me." 
 
 " I can deny you nothing," replied Eustace : 
 " what is it you would ask ?" 
 
 " It is," said Isabel, " that when you combat 
 in the lists, you will avoid all unnecessary danger 
 — and that " Isabel hesitated. 
 
 " That — what?" exclaimed Eustace. 
 
 " That," continued Isabel still hesitating, 
 " you would not combat with Sir Equitan : but
 
 or, roix. 189 
 
 if it should be in your power, that you would 
 rather aid him, and defend him against the malice 
 of others." 
 
 Isabel blushed deeply; Eustace gazed upon 
 her with astonishment, and exclaimed, " Tliis, 
 Isabel, is a strange boon to ask of me, who have 
 so dearly suffered by your favour to Sir Equitan. 
 Nor can I even conjecture, (without admitting 
 base and unworthy suspicions, which I will not,) 
 wherefore his safety can be so dear to you, that 
 it should be thus coupled with my own. Isabel, 
 it would be generous in you to tell me frankly 
 wherefore this request is made. Let me but 
 know the motive. But you are silent, and I 
 cannot ask nor beg the knowledge of what you 
 are thus desirous to withhold. Do not, I beseech 
 you, again trifle with my feelings. But no, you 
 cannot thus deceive me ; I will trust you, abuse 
 not therefore the confidence of an unbounded 
 love; I will grant your request: Sir Equitan 
 shall fear no treachery if I am near him." 
 
 " You are generous, Eustace," said Isabel, 
 warmly ; " but remember the first part of my 
 request was for your own safety."
 
 190 UE FOIX, 
 
 " Alas !" replied Eustace, " what is it you ask 
 of me but a cruel boon? You would save me 
 from death, to have me live in misery: yet, 
 Isabel, your boon is granted, I will do nothing- 
 rashly. For the rest, I am but as one marked 
 for suffering. Yet were there but a ray of hope 
 that time or any chance might give you to me, 
 guided by that single ray, it should lead me on 
 through the paths of human casualty, like the 
 star of the morning that glimmers through the 
 darkest night, giving a faint promise of the day. 
 I have not yet learnt the full purpose of the 
 Count, but I find that I am destined to be the 
 leader of some enterprise against my lord of 
 Armagnac. Have you heard aught ?" 
 
 " No," said Isabel; " but whatever is the 
 enterprise, be careful of your life. Long, I hope, 
 it will not detain you from the castle; for re- 
 member, Eustace, there is one who will anxiously 
 watch the hour of your return, and who may 
 beguile the time of your absence with some 
 follies that might wound your peace." 
 
 " Say not so," cried Eustace, " for there I 
 fear to trust you, I fear to trust myself; when I
 
 nr. Foix. 191 
 
 am absent from you, a thousand fears, and some- 
 times your own conduct, creates such wild alarms, 
 such violent emotions within my bosom, that 
 even in these hours of happiness, I fear to trust 
 you. Remember, too, your strange request 
 about Sir Equitan. Why this mystery? And 
 then but this very afternoon, why did you thus 
 lightly make him an equal sharer in the token I 
 craved at your hands ? Sir Equitan, too, is often 
 with you ; I saw you but this morning in earnest 
 conference with him. Wliy did you give him 
 the token ?" 
 
 " I gave it him," replied Isabel, " to satisfy 
 the whim of a moment : and Sir Equitan is a fair 
 and gallant knight; one whom I would freely 
 countenance, to mortify the vanity of Sir Gracien 
 de Foix." 
 
 " And to torture me," said Eustace. " Isabel, 
 I conjure you, as you value my life, do not thus 
 make a vain and dangerous trial of my temper : 
 I am willing to believe tliat Sir Equitan is no 
 more to you than any other knight; tell me 
 therefore frankly, to relieve my mind from the 
 anxiety of unsatisfied conjecture, why is his safety
 
 192 DE FOIX. 
 
 thus dear to you ? and what was the nature of 
 your earnest conference with him this morning 
 in the garden ? I have no thought I would con- 
 ceal from you ; and must I thus vainly solicit a 
 return of that confidence I fondly hoped was 
 mutual?" 
 
 Isabel blushed, looked confused, and conjured 
 Eustace to urge her no farther : there was no- 
 thing, she said, in the conduct of Sir Equitan 
 particularly addressed to herself; but there was 
 something, she admitted, which she could not 
 entirely reveal, respecting her conference with 
 Sir Equitan, even to Eustace. He was asto- 
 nished at her words, and his countenance be- 
 trayed marks of the greatest agitation. He was 
 about to reply, when at the moment the sound 
 of a footstep struck upon her ear ; the door of 
 the gothic pleasure-house was gently opened, 
 and Prior Philip stood before the surprised 
 lovers. 
 
 The confusion of their appearance was too evi- 
 dent to escape the penetrating eye of the Prior, 
 but he passed it unnoticed, and apologized for his 
 intrusion. The manner of his apology implied
 
 DE FOIX. 193 
 
 more than the terms in which it was made, it 
 seemed to say that the interruption he feared 
 was not one of an ordinary nature, and that he 
 had probably broken in upon a secret confer- 
 ence. Isabel was abashed, and cast her eyes 
 upon the ground ; the confusion of Eustace in- 
 creased, whilst his own disturbed feelings, from 
 what had just passed before the Prior's entrance, 
 rendered the task of assuming composure still 
 more difficult. He wished the holy man in his 
 cell, or any where, rather than thus to have in- 
 terrupted them at such a moment by his pre- 
 sence. 
 
 " I fear," said Philip, " I am here an intruder ; 
 but I came in quest of the lady Isabel, whom I 
 tliought to find alone ; as Sir Equitan, the Pour- 
 suivant d' Amour (who, I doubt not, well deserves 
 that addition to his name, for he is most de- 
 voted in his love of beauty), told me that the 
 lady Isabel was here, and that he was waiting to 
 meet her in the garden." 
 
 Eustace, whose feelings had been before much 
 irritated, was struck by this speech. What had 
 just past, the scene of the afternoon, all recurred 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 DE FOIX. 
 
 to his mind, and the latent embers of jealousy 
 that ever lurk within the bosom of true love, 
 now caught the flame, and were speedily lighted 
 up. He looked at Isabel with an agitated and 
 reproachful countenance, exclaiming in a voice 
 of vainly suppressed emotion, " Shall I, Lady 
 Isabel, conduct you to this appointed meeting 
 with Sir Equitan ? he expects you, it seems ; it 
 were pity to delay him." 
 
 The pride of Isabel, offended by the tone of 
 irony in which this speech was concluded, and 
 by the renewed suspicions of Eustace, after the 
 assurances she had but just given him of her 
 affection, for a time overcame her tenderness, 
 and instead of soothing the disturbed feelings of 
 Eustace, she rather irritated them, by answering 
 in a cold and marked manner — 
 
 " No, Eustace, my conference with Sir Equi- 
 tan, does not need your presence, I can seek 
 him alone. Good even' to you, holy Prior, I 
 will attend you at the accustomed hour in my 
 oratory." And so saying, without deigning to 
 look upon Eustace, (for perhaps she feared to 
 trust her heart, in opposition to her pride), she
 
 DE FOIX. 195 
 
 left the apartment with a quick and hurried step. 
 Had Isabel but looked at the countenance of the 
 unhappy Eustace, it is most probable she would 
 have changed her purpose, and instead of leaving 
 him to the misery of his irritated feelings, she 
 would have remained to soothe them. 
 
 Prior Philip had long been perfectly well ac- 
 quainted with the state of the affections of these 
 young persons ; he had delivered the speech re- 
 lative to Sir Equitan with a mischievous intent, 
 though he had spoken entirely correct as to the 
 information he received of Isabel's being in the 
 pleasure-house, but with certain omissions of 
 words, which, had they been subjoined, would 
 have entirely altered the nature of her expected 
 interview with Sir Equitan, and would have 
 caused no uneasiness to Eustace ; for Sir Equitan 
 only said to the Prior, that Isabel was in the 
 garden, and that the Lady Jane of Boulogne and 
 liimself were expecting her to join them before 
 they returned into the palace. Thus it was on 
 this occasion (as it may be often seen in the 
 affairs of human life) that truth spoken but in 
 
 o 2
 
 196 DE POIX. 
 
 part, may sometimes do as much miscliief as 
 entire falsehood. 
 
 The Prior had his own reasons for dropping 
 the few words above stated ; he well knew they 
 would act upon the mind of Eustace \vith painful 
 eifect, and having overheard some part of the 
 discourse respecting Sir Equitan, he was aware 
 they were well-timed to assist his purposes. The 
 florins of Isabel, which were to be at his dis- 
 posal, as Prior of the monastery of St. Mary, in 
 case she took the veil, had so far excited the 
 cupidity of Philip, that he had long resolved to 
 attempt every means to induce Isabel to become 
 a nun. 
 
 The Prior had attentively observed her cha- 
 racter, and his habitual study of human nature, 
 rendered him a great master in that art, which 
 can penetrate into the recesses of the mind. He 
 knew Isabel to be thoughtless, vain, and head- 
 strong, but of a tender and affectionate heart; 
 the vivacity of her spirits, and the superiority of 
 her sense, he also knew, had taught her to look 
 with abhorrence upon a cloister. With her.
 
 DE FOIX. 19T 
 
 superstition liad no power; lie knew therefore 
 that there was but one way to bend her to his 
 will, by acting upon her mind through the me- 
 dium of her affections ; and he doubted not, that, 
 could he once but deeply engage, and then dis- 
 appoint them, the fervour of her feelings, and 
 the enthusiasm of her character, would render it 
 an easy matter for him to seize the moment, 
 when the mind rushes from one state of despera- 
 tion to another, to induce her at once to declare 
 for a religious life. 
 
 Philip had witnessed the growing affection 
 subsisting between Isabel and Eustace ; and he 
 had artfully encouraged it, but not by any direct 
 means ; the effect was felt, whilst the cause was 
 iniseen. In furtherance of his plan, it was the 
 Prior who had first also suggested to De Foix 
 the union of Isabel with Sir Gracien: Philip 
 knew that to this the lady never would consent 
 when it came to the point; and the Count, ever 
 firm in purpose, having once declared such an 
 union should take place, he was aware would 
 never relinquish the design. This therefore 
 placed an effectual barrier between Eustace and
 
 198 DE FOIX. 
 
 Isabel; and it only remained to create some 
 powerful cause of dissension between the lovers, 
 tliat might entirely destroy their mutual con- 
 fidence in each other, for the Prior to seize upon 
 such an opportunity of placing the disappointed 
 Isabel within the walls of a religious house, 
 where he would take especial care she should 
 have no farther communication with the world; 
 whilst the unfortunate attachment of poor Eu- 
 stace might, if necessary, be made the instru- 
 ment of his ruin with the Count. 
 
 Such was the artful plan, the refined intrigue 
 of Prior Philip. He was well aware of the 
 possibility of its failure; but he was also aware, 
 that in attempting to gain the gold of Isabel, he 
 had to play a desperate game ; for it vras only 
 upon her becoming a nun that he could possess 
 it: should she be the wife of Eustace, or of Sir 
 Gracien, the florins were equally lost to him. 
 
 Ambition was the ruling passion of the selfish 
 prior. It was to further his own ambitious views 
 that he wished the violent-spirited Sir Evan de 
 Foix (upon whose mind he acted by alternately 
 flattering his passions, and awakening his fears
 
 DE FOTX. 199 
 
 by the terrors of superstition) to be named as 
 successor to the Count. From this motive also 
 he was desirous that Evan should be the husband 
 of Jane of Boulogne, that he might recover for 
 her tliose lands, in the diocese of Comminges, of 
 which see the Prior hoped by these means to be- 
 come the bishop. It was in order to gain wealth, 
 to help Ids ambitious projects, that he intrigued 
 to possess the florins of Isabel's inheritance. In 
 short, ambition was the deity the Prior worshipped 
 beneath the hypocritical sanctity of his gown 
 and hood. For that he would sacrifice whatever 
 is held most sacred on earth, and for that he had 
 sacrificed his hopes of Heaven. Having thus 
 far explained his secret motives of action, with 
 all the windings of his dark intrigues, we must 
 now return to our narrative : thus necessarily 
 interrupted for the better comprehension of his 
 plans. 
 
 When Isabel quitted the gothic pleasure- 
 house, Philip was left alone with Eustace. The 
 distressed state of mind in the latter was too evi- 
 dent to escape notice ; this the Prior knew, and
 
 iiOO DE FOIX. 
 
 therefore assuming an air of compassion, thus 
 addressed him : 
 
 " My son ! whence this emotion ? what is it 
 thus deeply affects you? You look like one 
 whose feelings are all bound up within such 
 grief as points but to despair. Eustace, I cannot 
 see you thus without wishing to know the cause, 
 that I may speak to you the words of consolation, 
 or guide your wandering thoughts with some 
 friendly direction. Tell me, what is it thus 
 moves you?" 
 
 " Nothing," replied Eustace, " or perhaps 
 some foolish thoughts. I am to combat for the 
 first time in the lists, and, to be like all other 
 knights, I craved a token of the Lady Isabel." 
 
 " Ay," said Philip carelessly, " and which she 
 bestowed upon Sir Equitan, who made her no 
 request." 
 
 The pale cheek of Eustace became flushed by 
 a sudden glow of anger at these words of the 
 artful Prior, but he did not reply to them. 
 
 " And is this all ?" continued Philip. " No, 
 no, my son, there is more in this. Eustace, you
 
 DE FOIX. 201 
 
 were once under my care, the child of my in- 
 struction. I taught you the craft of human 
 learning, and to fathom the depths of nature in 
 many of her secrets. I taught you, too, the 
 mysteries of our holy faith. I was your spiritual 
 father, and I would now guide your unwary steps 
 through the dangerous paths of youth as your 
 eartlily father, woidd you but trust me ; but 
 there is one thing, however, that I see the world 
 has taught you — to deceive your friend." 
 
 " No !" exclaimed Eustace, " that reproach is 
 most unjust : I have deceived myself. No, Prior, 
 I am not ungrateful ; still do I remember that to 
 your instruction I owe the best treasure of my 
 manhood — learning and knowledge. But, oh 
 forgive me ! there are some feelings that over- 
 power my mind, for which I condemn myself, 
 and yet I dare not trust them even to you." 
 
 " How ?" replied Philip, " so young, and yet 
 so secret. This looks not well: there is no 
 mystery in virtuous thoughts, and the feelings 
 of youth should be as open to the light of Heaven 
 as the fair dawn of their years." 
 
 " Alas !" said Eustace, " there are some feel-
 
 202 DE FOIX. 
 
 ings which can alone be understood by the heart 
 that is their victim ; feelings for which the world 
 has no sympathy, and which the grave brow of 
 severe wisdom, and austere age, would but de- 
 spise; yet they make up the sum of many a 
 young man's lot. I beseech you, father, spare 
 me ; I am not an ingrate, nor do I despise the 
 counsels of the elder and the sage. I cannot 
 dissimulate the truth, and yet I would not re- 
 veal it." 
 
 " Then will I read it,'* replied the Prior, and 
 he fixed his keen eye with a determined look 
 upon the countenance of Eustace ; " I can mark 
 in that wan cheek, in the melancholy of your 
 mood, your love of solitude, and sudden change 
 of purpose, some outward workings from a hidden 
 cause. These all tell me, that a deep-rooted 
 feeling liu'ks within the breast; they are but 
 signals and sure notes of a perturbed and anxious 
 mind. And think you I cannot mark, that at 
 the very name of Isabel de Greilly, the blood 
 will rise into your cheek ? Oh blind and foolish 
 fondness ! Is it thus you would shipwreck all 
 the rich lading of your golden hopes, to follow a
 
 D£ FOIX. 203 
 
 vain shadow ? Are your years of manhood thus 
 to shame themselves to wear out their prune in 
 the soft dalliance of a light affection, and for 
 one who values you even as she would her young 
 falcon, that she accustoms to her lure ?" 
 
 " Father !" exclaimed Eustace, " I will not 
 utter falsehood, nor can I deign to evade a truth. 
 I do not blush to feel my love is not a crime. 
 Nor is it in my power to look on Isabel but 
 with dear aJGFection. Yet I know the danger, 
 the madness, of such feelings ; but as I hope to 
 find my rest in Heaven, they are involuntary. 
 I never sought her love by any studied suit, 
 nor by dishonest means. I have never hoped 
 to win her. Censiue, despise me if you will, 
 but spare her name. Do not, I beseech you, thus 
 >vantonly defame a creature, so sweet, so pure, 
 and gentle !" 
 
 " You talk of her," said Philip, " as a boy 
 wo\dd of his young dove that he fondles in its 
 cage. So sweet, so pure, and gentle ! Her 
 sweetness is like that of the flower, w^hich 
 spreads abroad its blossom for every insect Mdiich 
 may flutter ])y and choose to taste it. Her
 
 204 DE FOIX. 
 
 purity is falsehood, and her gentleness that of 
 the young tigress, who crouches till she may 
 spring for your destruction. You know not the 
 heart of woman. It is vain and wanton in all, 
 but most of all in Isabel de Greilly." 
 
 " No," said Eustace, " whatever are the light 
 shadows of defect, which may for a while obscure 
 the beauty of her character, I will not think thus 
 of her. She is like those bright crystals, in 
 which the slightest specks by contrast show the 
 stronger. My Isabel can never be a wanton." 
 
 " Your Isabel !" reiterated the Prior, con- 
 temptuously, " Sir Gracien's Isabel ! Sir Equi- 
 tan's Isabel ! every body's Isabel ! She is the 
 betrothed wife of the Count's son, her own 
 consent is given, and look how she demeans 
 herself. One hour she is in secret conference 
 with this Poursuivant D' Amour, at another she 
 is closeted with you, whilst he but waits without 
 the door a second meeting. Oh ! Eustace, can 
 I thus behold you rushing headlong on ruin, with- 
 out stretching forth a friendly hand to save you ? 
 Remember the Count ! think you he would 
 deign thus to offer council where he may com-
 
 DE FOIX. 205 
 
 mand ? And will you madly sacrifice his favour 
 to follow a girl who will lead you on like those 
 deceptive lights, that guide the unwary traveller 
 to destruction. Leave a vain pursuit, forget a 
 boyish passion: and should this idle love, still 
 lull you with the music of its voice, drown it in 
 the loud clarion that rings the peal to arms. 
 You are designed by the favour of De Foix to 
 head some enterprise that shall crown you with 
 honour ; do not, therefore, at such a time as this, 
 be found backward in the path of duty." 
 
 " Never," said Eustace, " shall my arm be 
 wanting when it can wield a lance to serve the 
 Count. No, Prior, had I a hope (but that I 
 have not), it would be founded on the attempt 
 to do some bold and dangerous act, to prove 
 how dear I prize the interests of De Foix. 
 Could I but trace the origin of my unhappy 
 birth ! — I have often dreamed it might be proved 
 I was not the base-born peasant men repute me. 
 Had I but noble blood to plead in favour of my 
 suit, perhaps even the Count, who loves me, 
 would rather bestow fair Isabel on one of her own 
 choice, than on his son who cares not for her."
 
 206 DE FOIX. 
 
 " How apt," replied Philip, " is the spirit of 
 youth to fashion circumstances by its own hopes ! 
 Alas ! it is well known that the mystery of your 
 birtli was none wath the charitable Countess, 
 when she, in secret, brought you to the notice 
 of her lord. Do you madly \nsh to fathom this 
 mystery, only to have it proved with greater 
 certainty, that you are but what you are re- 
 puted, the low-born child of charity, fostered 
 and reared by the bounty of adoption ? Think 
 you that the Count would ever listen to such a 
 suit for his own niece, the destined bride of his 
 son ! No, he would crush you, as the snake he 
 had warmed into life within his bosom, and who 
 had thus dared to dart its ingrate tongue, to sting 
 its noble benefactor. But were this possible, I 
 tell you once again, that Isabel, who now suifers 
 you to follow her (knowing how fruitless is your 
 love) to gratify a vain and idle mind, would her- 
 self despise you, and laugh to see the full-blown 
 bubble of your hopes, raised by the breath of 
 youthful folly, burst, and vanish into air." 
 
 " I am indeed most wretched !" exclaimed 
 Eustace, who, unable longer to struggle with
 
 Dli FOIX. 20T 
 
 his feelings, spoke in a tone of the deepest de- 
 jection ; " I am humbled even to the dust, 
 scorned by the world, reproached for the mis- 
 fortunes of my birth : what have I left but my 
 integrity and trust in God? these I will still 
 preserve. Let ruin come then, since it is in- 
 evitable. I had no hope of Isabel, I have long- 
 felt that tlie hour \vould come when I must re- 
 sign her; but I was not prepared to resign her 
 thus. The thought of her purity, of her noble 
 nature ; and that she felt a sympathy for those 
 sufferings she could not alleviate, would have 
 sustained me through the trial. This thought I 
 \nll preserve to the last; nothing but herself, 
 but her own act, shall ever shake my firm opinion 
 of her worth. I have looked up to Isabel in life, 
 as I would to a bright star that guided me, al- 
 though beyond our sphere ; whose light was mine 
 but by reflection, and which I fondly hoped 
 would still shine bright and eff'ulgent, till I fixed 
 upon it my last gaze in death ; and better, far 
 better were a thousand deaths, than the thought 
 that Isabel was false." 
 
 " Alas," said the Prior, in a subdued voice,
 
 208 DE FOIX. 
 
 " would to Heaven that I, my son, could view 
 her with a lover's eye, to think her true and 
 holy as she seems to you. I but pity your 
 weakness, and I would strive to cure it. Like 
 the skilful leech, who probes the wound, before 
 he heals it, I would now make it bleed apace, 
 to save you from its mortal danger. Yet still, in 
 pity to your feelings, I will do nothing rashly. 
 Remember but the counsels of your friend, and 
 till I have certain proof to show you the false- 
 hood of this Lady Isabel, I will not name her 
 more. Be cautious, trust not her blandishments, 
 think upon the Count, wreck not, for the folly of 
 a moment, the fair promise of your future years. 
 Be prudent, and above all do not trust your rea- 
 son to the sorcery of beauty's charm. Let not 
 fair words beguile you. Confide in me, I am 
 your friend — farewell." 
 
 The Prior left the unhappy youth to the 
 company of his own distracted thoughts. The 
 seeds of jealousy, as we have before observed, 
 had long been lurking within the bosom 
 of Eustace, and the follies of Isabel had 
 greatly assisted their growth. Eustace, like
 
 Di: Foix. 209 
 
 most persons who are of an easy unsuspicious 
 nature, was but too susceptible of those im- 
 pressions which fostered his own propensities. 
 Thus the artful remarks and insinuations of 
 Prior Philip, and his bold assertions respecting 
 the levity of Isabel, (unfortunately but too well 
 sanctioned by her own thoughtless conduct) 
 made a deeper impression upon the mind of 
 Eustace than he was himself either aware of or 
 Mailing to admit. 
 
 There is nothing, perhaps, more painful than 
 the conviction of the worthlessness of one we 
 have long loved, and considered as possessed of 
 every excellence. To find such a being false, 
 creates so painful, so humiliating a feeling, that 
 we turn from it with trembling anxiety, and 
 often with the fixed resolve not to believe it 
 true. We would in some instances sooner con- 
 tinue to be deceived, than convinced of a truth 
 so dreadful in its nature. And even when con- 
 vinced, rather than suppose our situation sin- 
 gular, we would seek no other support to our 
 wounded pride, than to lay the blame on human 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 DE FOIX. 
 
 nature, and at once conclude that all mankind 
 must be equally false and deceitful. 
 
 Eustace, when thus artfully led to suspect 
 Isabel, experienced the truth of these remarks 
 in their fullest force, and after giving way to a 
 thousand various and distracting thoughts, at 
 length resolved, that either there was no truth 
 on earth, or that Isabel de Greilly could not de- 
 ceive ; and that nothing but the most glaring 
 conviction should ever shake his opinion of her 
 sincerity and worth.
 
 DE FOIX. 211 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE BANOUET. 
 
 Innocence shall make 
 
 False accusation blush, and tyranny 
 
 Tremble at patience. Shakespeare. 
 
 Before we take more particular notice of the 
 vigil of arms, wliicli Eustace was now keeping 
 in the church of the Friars Minor of Orthes, 
 preparatory to his receiving the honour of 
 knighthood, it may not be amiss to say some- 
 thing of the rank and office of a knight, by crea- 
 tion; a rank very different in ancient times from 
 that into which it has degenerated in modern 
 days, when certain respectable aldermen, who 
 have risen to civic honours by successful traffic, 
 are often, upon the presentation of an address, 
 metamorphosed from simple Mr. so and so, who 
 kept shop in the city, into Sir James, Sir .John, 
 and Sir Harry, and who return home laden with 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 212 
 
 DE FOIX. 
 
 "blushing honours," fully qualified to "make 
 any Joan a lady." 
 
 In ancient times, knighthood was the reward 
 of merit, and as such, it was indeed an honour ; 
 never obtained till the person upon whom it 
 was conferred had undergone all the necessary 
 severe and preparatory exercises, and whose 
 conduct was as free from unworthy principles as 
 from the imputation of cowardice. The simple 
 knight, or knight bachelor, bore only a pennon, 
 and had the command of a certain number of 
 men at arms. The knight banneret, as the title 
 implied, bore a banner, and was one who raised 
 troops at his own charge for the service of his 
 prince. All knights possessed the privilege of 
 creating other knights : a power frequently exer- 
 cised upon the eve of battle. 
 
 Before receiving the honour of knighthood, it 
 was necessary that the person who obtained it 
 should serve a certain time as an esquire, and 
 that he should have attained the age of twenty- 
 one years, no youth being admitted a member 
 of chivalry before that period, unless by the 
 especial favour of his lord or prince.
 
 DE FOIX. 213 
 
 Tlie character of kniglitliood was held so ho- 
 nourable, that kings were ambitious to obtain 
 it; an instance is recorded of the young- monarch 
 Charles the Sixth of France, who was so desir- 
 ous to buckle on his spurs, that he could not 
 rest in peace till he was knighted. Some great 
 princes received the honours of the order, even 
 at the font during infancy, in the presence of 
 their royal parents. 
 
 It is unnecessary to enumerate what were 
 considered the particular qualities belonging 
 to chivalry, because knighthood, and whatever 
 is held most sacred, honourable, and worthy 
 amongst men, were deemed synonymous. The 
 simple word Jcnight was used to express them 
 all. The distinction in which the knights were 
 held by all classes of society is well known ; 
 they were every where received as persons who 
 might claim as their privilege tlie welcome of 
 honour and hospitality. At all feasts they were 
 the most distinguished guests ; and to them, on 
 such occasions, was appropriated the most costly 
 presents, such as large sums of money, splendid
 
 214 DE FOIX. 
 
 mantles lined with ermine or minever, costly 
 stuffs, armour, horses, pearls, and precious 
 metals. 
 
 The female sex ever received them with 
 marked attention, and seldom did a knight ven- 
 ture the dangers of the tournament, mthout 
 bearing with him a sleeve, a scarf, a hoodj or a 
 jewel, as a token from some fair hand to decorate 
 his helmet in the lists. The ladies also would 
 frequently assist in arming the knight for com- 
 bat, and sometimes embroidered the device upon 
 his pennon, or the emblazonments of his sur- 
 coat ; and many thought it preferable that their 
 lover should die a cavalier in the field, than 
 live without that distinction ignobly free from 
 danger. Jouvencal includes knighthood as one 
 of the three orders of the state ; denominating 
 the church as the head, chivalry as the arms, 
 and the citizens, mechanics, &c. as the inferior 
 parts of the body. 
 
 Such was the honourable rank of a knight in 
 ancient times ; but if he shared largely in all 
 those possessions and privileges which constitute
 
 DE FOIX. 215 
 
 whatever is most desirable in human life, he 
 shared equally its dangers, its vicissitudes, and 
 its diffieidties. He was bound to take up arms 
 in the defence of all the oppressed and inno- 
 cent, who might call on him for his assistance. 
 He was to shun no danger, and was expected 
 to brave all climates and all seasons, whilst en- 
 gaged in his profession. His days often harass- 
 ing, and his nights houseless; he felt the ex- 
 tremities of heat and cold, of hunger and thirst ; 
 and however great the spoils he might occasion- 
 ally win in battle, if taken prisoner, he fre- 
 quently was reduced to ruin by the enormous 
 ransom that liis victor sometimes demanded as 
 the purchase of his freedom. 
 
 Nothing can be more strikingly characteristic 
 of the sacred observance in which a knight held 
 his word of honour, than the circumstance of 
 his person being generally set at liberty upon 
 giving a simple promise that he consented to 
 pay the ransom demanded, and would convey it 
 to his opponent on the earliest opportunity. 
 Froissart relates a curious instance of this na- 
 ture, when he tells us that the young Duke
 
 216 i)E roix. 
 
 of Gueldres, vipon being taken prisoner by a 
 squire named Arurant, was conveyed to a di- 
 stant town ; but the squire finding that a large 
 body of men at arms were coming to rescue his 
 noble prisoner, he thought it unsafe to remain 
 where he was : he therefore gave the duke pre- 
 sent liberty, upon his passing ?iis word as a 
 km'ght that he would return to captivity at a 
 certain strong castle Arurant named, where the 
 squire purposed going to secure his prisoner. 
 
 The duke pledged his M'ord, and though he 
 was rescued in perfect safety, and arrived at 
 Konisberg, he instantly returned to the captivity 
 of the fortunate squire, who afterwards received 
 a large simi stipulated for his ransom from the 
 states. 
 
 The knight was bound to defend the person, 
 the honour, the fortunes, and the good name of 
 the lady to whom he was devoted : so that even 
 if she had done what was amiss, and still persisted 
 in declaring her innocence, the knight was 
 obliged to take up arms in her behalf. A re- 
 markable instance of this nature is also men- 
 tioned by Froissart, who has detailed the cir-
 
 Di; loix. 217 
 
 cumstanees in a most lively and interesting man- 
 ner, describing the combat and all tlie proceed- 
 ings. It is the trial of battle between James 
 le Gris and John de Carogne, upon the wife 
 of the latter accusing the former of having dis- 
 honoured her during the absence of her hus- 
 band. And although it was proved that the 
 accused person was seen seventy miles from the 
 place where she resided, four hours after the 
 time alleged by the lady for the commission of 
 the crime ; yet as a doubt remained in favour of 
 her assertion, and as she maintained its truth, 
 the parliament of Paris referred the cause to 
 judicial combat, and the husband. Sir John de 
 Carogne, was obliged to tilt at Paris with James 
 le Gris for life or death. Had he failed in con- 
 quering James, the lady was to have been burnt 
 alive upon the spot, whilst her lord was hanged 
 in her presence. 
 
 Froissart relates many instances of knights 
 who oflfered combat, for no other cause than that 
 of breaking a lance in honour of their lady for 
 the love they bore her, or for the fame of her 
 beauty. Some of these bold adventurers lost
 
 218 DE FOIX. 
 
 their lives in the attempt. So interesting, indeed, 
 is the subject of ancient chivalry, that it offers a 
 wide field for discussion and remark, far beyond 
 the proposed limits of the present work. Suffice 
 it therefore to observe, that a knight in former 
 times was held in the same light in which we 
 now consider the character of a perfect gentle- 
 man ; as one made up of honour, courtesy, and 
 benevolence : to which the knight superadded 
 the qualities and exercises of a warrior. 
 
 Before the day arrived on which the youth 
 was received as a member of the body of chivalry, 
 he was obliged to keep the vigil of arms, unless 
 upon occasions of emergency ; as on the eve of 
 a battle, or immediately after a victory, when 
 preparatory ceremonials were necessarily dis- 
 pensed with. This vigil of arms was a sacred 
 preparation; it was calculated to make a deep 
 impression upon the mind of the individual, and 
 was also considered symbolic of the profession in 
 which he was about to engage. For some time 
 previous to the day of knighthood, the young 
 man was admonished to attend the reading of 
 homilies on moral and religious subjects. " Nights
 
 IDE lOIX. 219 
 
 passed in prayer (says St. Palaye), the sacra- 
 ments of penance, confession, and of the Eucharist, 
 received with the utmost devotion; bathings, 
 which signified the purity of manners necessary 
 in the state of chivalry, and white habits, in 
 imitation of the Neophytes, or new converts, as 
 another symbol of the same purity; all these 
 duties of preparation were to be performed in 
 the most devout manner by the youth previous 
 to his being armed." 
 
 For several nights he was also obliged to 
 watch his arms, which were laid by the high 
 altar in the church or chapel near his residence. 
 This ceremony was called the vigil of aj-ms ; 
 and he was expected to employ himself during 
 the time of his vigil in prayer and devout medi- 
 tation, for the better ensuring his success in that 
 profession, which was considered as peculiarly 
 acceptable, and next to the church in the favour 
 of Heaven. During the vigil of arms, the young 
 man was sometimes attended by a priest or 
 sponsor, and he was sometimes alone. He was 
 always attired on the occasion in a dress com- 
 posed of white garments ; and the lord or knight
 
 220 DE FOIX. 
 
 who was to dub or create him a member of the 
 body of chivalry, was considered as his sponsor 
 from the moment he commenced the ceremony. 
 Eustace, upon the evening of that day, so 
 fraught with painful effects upon his feelings, 
 was to keep this vigil (for the last time previous 
 to being knighted) in the church of the Friars 
 Minor of Orthes. After his anxious interview 
 with Isabel de Greilly, and his still more anxious 
 conference with the Prior, he felt little disposed 
 to join the company at the banquet. Still he 
 could not, without exciting the surprise of the 
 Count, wholly abstain from it. He therefore 
 joined the party, but not till De Foix had taken 
 his seat at the board ; when he glided into the 
 hall, and endeavoured, by mixing in the throng 
 of young knights and squires, to avoid the par- 
 ticular notice of any one. 
 
 As he glanced his eye around, he perceived 
 the Prior seated near the Count. Sir Evan de 
 Foix stood on the right hand, and carved the 
 meats which were set before his father at the 
 table; whilst Sir Gracien, and three other 
 knights, brought and removed these meats, and
 
 i)E Forx. 221 
 
 the dishes of gay and fanciful devices that were 
 served up. Sir Equitan, Poursuivant d' Amour, 
 sat between the Lady Jane of Boulogne and 
 Isabel de Greilly; the old Countess de la Karasse 
 and Sir Espaign du Lyon, formed the rest of the 
 company who were honoured by being admitted 
 to the board of the Count. Several long tables, 
 extending the one below tlie other, reached to the 
 very extremity of the hall ; these were crowded 
 with knights, squires, and ladies, each elegantly 
 attired ; for the approaching festival and tourna- 
 ment had rendered the court of Orthes more than 
 usually brilliant. 
 
 At the moment Eustace entered, the minstrels 
 were playing one of those harmonious airs, that 
 so peculiarly delighted their lord. The hall was 
 splendidly illuminated with torches and waxen 
 tapers, and hung with the richest tapestry, fes- 
 tooned above with flowers; whilst silver vases, 
 placed at certain intervals, presented the trea- 
 sures of summer in her choicest flowers. The 
 tables were covered with gold and silver plate. 
 In addition to this the gay and gaudy attire of 
 the heralds and minstrels, dressed in cloth of
 
 222 DE FOIX. 
 
 gold, produced that lively effect which cannot 
 fail to exhilarate the mind of youth when free 
 from the anxieties of care. 
 
 But upon the mind of Eustace it had a con- 
 trary effect; every thing around him seemed to 
 rejoice the heart, whilst his alone was wretched. 
 '* Alas !" said he, " Why am I here ? This place 
 is but a mockery to me ; it is like the decorated 
 altar to the victim who is there to be the sacri- 
 fice. O humble, but thrice Itappy lot of the 
 poor and needy ! who have peace within their 
 bosom : far better is the thatched roof that shel- 
 ters tranquil poverty, than the palace which 
 covers with its silken hangings the aching brow 
 of care." 
 
 As Eustace pronounced these words in a low 
 and almost inaudible voice, he was surprised by 
 observing that the Franciscan (who seemed to 
 take no part in the entertainment) was standing 
 alone, and near him : his cowl was thrown over 
 his head, and it so shaded his countenance, that 
 his features could not be distinctly observed. 
 " Poor boy," exclaimed the monk, " you are 
 indeed the victim; and these white robes in
 
 DE FOIX. 223 
 
 which you are decked, look like the garments 
 proper for the sacrifice. I pity you." 
 
 " These garments, holy man," replied Eu- 
 stace, " I wear as becoming my occasion ; for I 
 am this night to complete my vigil of arms." 
 
 " I know it," said the Franciscan, " and shortly 
 will they serve to array you for the tomb ; you 
 are the victim of treachery." 
 
 Eustace started: " Holy Mary !" he exclaimed, 
 " what is it you tell me ! But, no ; I am too poor, 
 too humble, too despised to be the victim of any 
 treachery, but such as may arise from my own 
 follies." 
 
 " And now you add to them," continued the 
 Franciscan ; " you leave the humble state in 
 which nature designed you to be happy, for the 
 empty fame and the peril of arms." 
 
 " I know well, reverend man," said Eustace, 
 " that it is the business of your calling to con- 
 demn all worldly toils, such as we term those of 
 honour and of fame ; to point the more tranquil 
 and certain path to heaven, through the peaceful 
 walk of the cloistered monk." 
 
 " And think you," replied the Franciscan,
 
 224 DE FOIX. 
 
 " that is all the duty of our calling? Learn, young 
 man, to judge aright; the path of heaven is only 
 direct when it folloAVS the beacon light that 
 should guide the steps of man, to assist his fel- 
 low-traveller on the way. I have no time to 
 lose ; I would save you from destruction. Nay, 
 think not my words are light ; I am not one of 
 those who let fly the shaft at random to fall 
 without an aim. Once more, I repeat that I 
 would save you — save you from treachery — from 
 destruction." 
 
 " Oh heavens !" exclaimed Eustace, "where 
 will my sorrows find their close ! Alas ! I know 
 not whom in this world I have offended, that any 
 one should seek my ruin and destruction : yet 
 there is an awful solemnity about your manner, 
 and in your holy calling, that makes me give 
 credit to your words, else I should be loth to 
 heed them. Tell me, then, what is the danger 
 that awaits me, and how I may avoid it." 
 
 " Not here," said the Franciscan ; " not here ; 
 meet me to-night at Calvary, by the church of the 
 Friars Minor, in Orthes. Remember the hour 
 of twelve at Calvary; there will Imeet you."
 
 DU FOIX. 
 
 225 
 
 " I will obey you," replied Eustace, in a low 
 and agitated voice. He had scarcely spoken these 
 words, when the Franciscan suddenly quitted 
 him ; and, slowly pacing the hall, he placed him- 
 self near the person of the Count de Foix, where 
 he stood in silent attention to what was passing. 
 At this moment Sir Gracien poured from a golden 
 flagon a goblet of wine, which he then tasted, 
 and advancing towards his father, to whom he 
 was to present the cup, he was about kneeling 
 at his feet to offer it, when Sir Gracien's foot 
 si ipt from the step of the dais, and the goblet 
 and its contents fell to the ground. The Count 
 smiled : " How !" he exclaimed, " why, this was 
 ill offered, Sir Gracien, and you are yet an un- 
 skilful cup-bearer ; but where is Eustace ? for it 
 is he who was wont to serve to me the cup of 
 repose. Where is Eustace ?" 
 
 Sir Gracien, who seemed much discomposed 
 at finding the wine had fallen upon his gay 
 attire, hastily retired from the company ; and no 
 sooner had the Count made this inquiry for his 
 young favouritCj than it was re-echoed by his ob- 
 sequious attendants, and, " Where is Eustace ?" 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 DF. FOIX, 
 
 sounded through the hall. Eustace endeavoured 
 to assume a composed air, and advancing to- 
 wards a buffet of state that was placed near the 
 dais, he took from beneath a napkia of silver 
 tissue a golden flagon that had been hitherto 
 untouched, and taking from the same shelf of 
 the buffet another cup, he opened a comfit box, 
 which contained spices, and after throwing in a 
 small quantity of spice he poured out the wine : 
 " Tliis," said Eustace to the Prior, as he ad- 
 vanced towards the dais, " is the hippocras * that 
 I am wont to give to my lord ;" and gracefidly 
 kneeling at the feet of the Count, he offered the 
 cup to his benefactor : in doing so, his hand 
 trembled with emotion, and he cast his dejected 
 eyes upon the ground. " How !" said De Foix, 
 *' how is this ! thy hand can so ill present the 
 cup, that its contents are like to follow those of 
 Sir Gracien's. Why, what ails thee, boy ? look 
 up." 
 
 Eustace obeyed : " Gracious Heaven !" con- 
 
 * Hippocras mixed with spices was often given at night 
 to lords and princes, as the draught of repose : it was also 
 a favourite beverage of the period.
 
 Dr. loix. 22'7 
 
 tinned the Count, " art llion ill, my eliild ? thine 
 eyes are liag-gard, and thy cheek is pale. Should 
 such an aspect be the harbinger of the honours 
 that await thee on the morrow ? Speak, tell me, 
 Eustace, what is it thus aftects thee ?" 
 
 " Nothing-, my lord," replied Eustace, in evi- 
 dent confusion, " Nothing; or it may be that — 
 that—" 
 
 "That what?" said the Count; "tell me 
 what has liappened ?" 
 
 Eustace was wholly unable to reply ; and he 
 stood before the Count silent and motionless. 
 De Foix looked astonished, and still held the 
 cup, as if unconscious of its use, when the Prior 
 turning to him, softly whispered, " My lord, 
 Eustace has not tasted of the contents of the 
 goblet ; to-night tliat part of his duty is omitted." 
 
 " True," said the Count ; " but the hand of a 
 faithful servant can offer nothing ill to his lord ; 
 I know his loyalty, and I fear not to trust him." 
 
 " Oh, my lord," exclaimed Sir Evan de Foix, 
 boldly, " forbear to drink, the cup maybe mortal 
 to you ; there is something more in this than 
 common. Here, Eustace, first taste of the cup
 
 528 Df. FOLK. 
 
 you have presented to my noble father ; you have 
 some motive for this omission of your duty." 
 
 Eustace started, at these words, from his mo- 
 tionless position ; the blood that had before for- 
 saken his cheek, at once rushed back to it, in a 
 full torrent, and overspread his countenance : 
 he stood with a proud and erect mien ; the base 
 suspicion which had so cruelly and so falsely im- 
 plied that Eustace could be guilty of treachery 
 to the Count, at once aroused every latent feeling 
 of his character ; he was no longer the humbled, 
 the dejected Eustace ; conscious integrity made 
 him bold ; and, with a voice at once firm and 
 commanding, that well accorded with the dignity 
 of his aspect and demeanour, he calmly took the 
 cup, and thus addressed Sir Evan, his ungenerous 
 accuser — 
 
 " The infamous suspicion by which you, Sir 
 Evan de FoLx, have dared to accuse me, merits 
 alone my contempt: here I stand in the pre- 
 sence of the Count, my friend, my benefactor ; 
 to the commands of my Lord de Foix in all 
 things I submit my life, my fortunes; but for 
 your base suspicion, your test, which bids me
 
 T>r. Fojx. 229 
 
 drink of the cup to vindicate my innocence, 1 
 scorn it. I will not stoop to such a vindication. 
 Here is the cup ; the wine is pure and harmless 
 as the spring that issues from the bosom of its 
 native rock. I need but quaff it, to prove the 
 baseness of the slander ; but I hold in contempt 
 so cheap a vindication. Let guilt fear sus- 
 picion, innocence can brave it. Thus, then, 
 and thus I scorn the test (continued Eustace, as 
 he dashed the contents of the goblet upon the 
 ground) and now. Sir Evan de Foix, I pledge 
 myself before the face of Heaven, in the name 
 of the Count, as his liege man and vassal, to 
 prove my innocence by the way of arms. There 
 is my glove, let him M'ho dares to doubt me take 
 it up, and may Heaven and the Virgin maintain 
 the rightful cause ! My soul I give to God, my 
 body to the test." 
 
 " I take thy gauntlet up, proud youth," said 
 Sir Evan de Foix : " if thy former conduct ex- 
 cited suspicion, thy refusal of the test confirms 
 it ; but such insolence and bold presumption 
 shall not pass unpunished ; I will meet thee in 
 the lists."
 
 230 nr, roix. 
 
 " Forbear," exclaimed the Franciscan, "■ for- 
 bear ; my Lord de Foix, to you I make my ap- 
 peal, that this challenge should not go forward. 
 Eustace (now under a heavy penance of the 
 church to purge his soul from sin, before he 
 receives the order of a knight) cannot, by the 
 laws of chivalry, throw down his gauntlet, nor 
 accept a challenge. To you. Count de Foix, 
 therefore, I appeal ; and I charge you, in the 
 sacred name of Him who has delegated to you 
 your earthly power, and to whom you must 
 render its account, I charge you do your duty, 
 and on the instant forbid this combat." 
 
 The Count looked astonished, and alternately 
 cast his eyes upon Eustace and upon the Fran- 
 ciscan. " Your speech is bold and strange," 
 he exclaimed ; " and who are you, who thus pre- 
 sume to dictate to De Foix ? But yet your]words 
 speak truth. 
 
 " Eustace, take up the glove, and you, Evan de 
 Foix, learn more temper. Eustace, your con- 
 duct, which every one here present lias this 
 night witnessed, excites my surprise, I will not 
 say suspicion 5 for so true do I believe you, and
 
 DE rt)ix. 231 
 
 so firmly did you prefer to wager your life in 
 battle, to the simple test of drinking of the cup, 
 that I cannot suspect a breast so bold and daring 
 could harbour treason. And when I think upon 
 my love to you, it seems impossible that you 
 could wish to harm me, for my death would 
 rather make your ruin than your advancement. 
 Yet all things considered, this strange demeanour 
 and agitated offer of the cup, this were enough 
 to alarm a mind less disposed than mine to. think 
 you honest. And it is somewhat singular too, 
 that the holy Franciscan should thus interpose 
 in an affair where my safety was the subject of 
 debate, and that he should seek to prevent a 
 combat where the judgment of Heaven was in 
 direct appeal. I know not, Eustace, what this 
 Franciscan is to you, yet let him bewai'e ; but 
 for his sacred habit, that protects him, we would 
 examine narrowly the pretensions of a man who 
 is thus bold in teaching us our duty." 
 
 " My lord," said Eustace, " I know not the 
 reverend man ; I have never seen his face, for, I 
 understand, he has vowed never to uncover it be- 
 fore man till the purpose of his vow to visit the
 
 232 DE FOIX. 
 
 Holy Land is accomplished. I have occasion- 
 ally listened to the pious discourses that he has 
 addressed to us since his arrival at Orthes ; I may 
 say that I know him but in his public con- 
 ferences." 
 
 " Or, perhaps," observed Sir Evan de Foix, 
 " in his private conferences in a public assem- 
 bly ; for, if I mistake not, but a few minutes be- 
 fore, you, Eustace, took the flagon, from which 
 you poured the hippocras, the Franciscan was 
 in earnest conference with you under the oriel 
 window, within the most obscure recess of this 
 hall." 
 
 " How !" exclaimed the Count, " is this true, 
 Eustace ?" 
 
 " It is, my lord," replied Eustace, " the 
 Franciscan there addressed me." 
 
 " And what was the theme of your discourse, 
 young man," said Prior Philip; "for, doubt- 
 less, a conference with so holy a brother of St. 
 Francis must be of advantage to all who may 
 but hear it repeated." 
 
 Eustace was again agitated; he could not re- 
 'peat the fearful warnings of the Franciscan
 
 DE FOIX. 233 
 
 respecting liis own safety, and he scorned to 
 stoop to falsehood ; he therefore replied, but 
 with evident confusion, " The discourse was 
 but of little concern to any one but myself." 
 
 " The friends who love you, gentle youth," 
 said Philip, " share in whatever concerns you ; 
 and as the mind of my Lord de FoLx lias been 
 somewhat disturbed by the unfortunate events of 
 this evening, it is your duty to afford him every 
 satisfaction within your power, and this may 
 clear your hitherto fair name from the least 
 shadow of suspicion." 
 
 " True," said the Count ; " and as you but 
 now, Eustace, declared you 'would submit to my 
 commands in all things, I desire you to repeat 
 to me the subject of discourse between this holy 
 man and yourself." 
 
 " My lord," replied Eustace, " I would en- 
 treat you to forbear the question. The subject 
 of our discourse was not for the general ear." 
 
 " What !" exclaimed the Coimt, and he 
 frowned as he spoke, " again mysterious ! Say, 
 what is this ? Art thou only obedient to me in
 
 234 DE roix. 
 
 profession, and not in act? Nay, I command 
 thee speak the truth, and on the instant." 
 
 Eustace cast his eyes up to Heaven, as if in- 
 ternally ejaculating a prayer for some direction 
 how to act in a moment so fraught with difficulty. 
 He looked again pale and disordered ; at length 
 he said, " My lord, if I must speak, I conjure 
 you let it be to yourself in private ; and first 
 permit me to address but a few words to the 
 Franciscan." 
 
 " Why, this is some unfathomable mystery !" 
 exclaimed the Count. " You awaken in my 
 mind a thousand suspicions that else had slum- 
 bered. What am I to think? into what dark 
 labyrinth of terrible conjecture would you not 
 force me ? You have your choice to speak direct, 
 or else to leave me to my own interpretation of 
 the strange character of your words and actions. 
 I know not this Franciscan. Wlio is he? why 
 comes he here ?" 
 
 " You not know me. Count de Foix?" ex- 
 claimed the Franciscan, who advanced and stood 
 immediately facing the lord he thus addressed. 
 " You know me not ? Nay, think again ; and if
 
 DF. foix. 235 
 
 you can forget me, there is one word I could 
 utter that shouhl awaken your remembrance, 
 even were you sinking into the forgetfulness of 
 death. When I saw you last, you were not thus 
 unmindful. I saw you upon the eve of St. 
 Nicholas, in the church of the Friars Minor. 
 Now do you remember me ? now do you know 
 me ? now will you question Eustace ?" 
 
 The countenance of De Foix became white 
 as death at these words : his hands, which had 
 before been extended upon the arms of the chair 
 of state in which he sat, dropt motionless by his 
 side ; he breathed short ; and after a strong effort 
 to subdue and conceal the powerful workings of 
 his feelings, he hastily said, " I do remember 
 something of thee, when thou didst address to 
 me a rhapsody of words, upon hearing of a vision 
 respecting the blessed St. Nicholas, which had 
 much troubled my mind." 
 
 The Franciscan's countenance could not be 
 observed beneath the shade of his projecting 
 cowl that overhung his face; the mouth alone 
 could be imperfectly perceived : his lips seemed 
 to smile contemptuously at these words of De
 
 236 DE FOIX. 
 
 Foix, but he did not reply to them. Whatever 
 might have been the nature of the Count's con- 
 nexion with the Friar, it was evident that the 
 recognition of it had greatly agitated his mind. 
 The Count endeavoured to pass it off as well as 
 he could; and lest his agitation should be still 
 more apparent if he instantly dismissed Eustace, 
 he continued to converse with him. 
 
 " Since," he said, " the repetition of what 
 may have passed between yourself and the 
 Franciscan would be painful to you in public, 
 Eustace, I will grant your request; and at a 
 more convenient time I will demand the ex- 
 planation, as you desire, in private. , In the 
 interval, let me give you this caution for your 
 own security ; as I doubt not your thoughts and 
 actions are true and loyal to me, so let your 
 conduct be open and direct, that you may put to 
 silence the low, but dangerous, whispers of sus- 
 picion. And remember that the youth in whom 
 I trust, I expect should be as faithful and obe- 
 dient to me in his acts which are unseen, as he 
 is in those that are as open to observation as the 
 light of Heaven."
 
 DF. FOIX. 237 
 
 Eustace, who truly loxecl the Count, and was 
 really desirous of obeying him, felt these words 
 as a just and deserved reproach for his secret 
 and unfortunate attachment to Isabel. His con- 
 science smote him, and he sighed deeply. He 
 cast his eyes upon the ground, and again raising 
 them, the beautiful object of his affection, who 
 at this moment looked less gay and brilliant, 
 but not less lovely than ever, met his view. Eu- 
 stace, whilst he gazed upon Isabel, felt some 
 relief from the pain of self-accusation. " For 
 who," thought he, " could have passed his life 
 as I have done beneath the same roof with Isabel 
 de Greilly, and could avoid loving her ?" He 
 looked again, and the eyes of Isabel met his; 
 they spoke with more than ordinary expression 
 the feelings of her mind, but she quickly turned 
 them away ; and as if displeased with her own 
 involimtary emotion, and anxious to hide it from 
 observation, she commenced an immeaning dia- 
 logue with Sir Equitan upon the first subject 
 that came into her thoughts. 
 
 The Count continued speaking. " Eustace, 
 to-night you hold the last vigil of your arms;
 
 238 L)F. FOIX. 
 
 to-morrow you will receive from my hand, as? 
 the sponsor of your knighthood, the sword that 
 shall inaugurate you as a member of the order of 
 chivalry. May Heaven and the Virgin prosper 
 you in all honour as a worthy knight." 
 
 " Oh, my dear lord," said Eustace, (overcome 
 by the manner in which De Foix had dismissed 
 his late suspicions, and had so generously re- 
 turned to the subject of his advancement), " how 
 can I ever cease to love and honour you? You 
 have sheltered my childhood, trained me up to vir- 
 tue and to arms ; and e^'en now, when many a less 
 noble mind would have dwelt upon unkind 
 thoughts, you seek to do me good. Oh may 
 my sword be ever devoted to the cause and the 
 interests of him who has so generously bestowed 
 it." 
 
 " Ay," said Prior Philip, " may it ever be 
 so ; and may no light follies of thy vmripe years, 
 by their eifects unnerve that manly arm. And 
 may thy thoughts, (which to thy acts are like 
 the fountain's source that supplies its several 
 springs and sends them forth,) may they be e^-er 
 just and obedient to tliy noble benefactor."
 
 DF FOIX. 239 
 
 " I trust, Father Philip," replied Euetaee, 
 " that I shall never be ungrateful to my Lord 
 de Foix." 
 
 " I know thou wilt not," said the Count ; " I 
 have ever trusted thee, and even now I am will- 
 ing to confide in thy integrity." 
 
 " Such a confidence," observed the Prior, still 
 addressing Eustace, " can be alone repaid by 
 that devoted gratitude, which would not scruple 
 to offer any sacrifice, however painful, that might 
 be necessary to thy lord. Eustace, let the good- 
 ness of thy benefactor make thee tremble to dis- 
 obey him but in thought. And remember that 
 thy entire submission to his will is the best and 
 the only return thy inexperienced youth can 
 offer for his kindness." 
 
 Eustace perfectly luiv^rrstood the full meaning 
 of these words of the a;rtful Prior, and yet he 
 felt they were harsh and almost cruel. That 
 Philip should seize upon a moment when his 
 mind was so powerfully affected by contending 
 feelings, to remind him he must for ever resign 
 Isabel de Greilly, seemed to Eustace at once 
 the effect of a rigid morality and a stern temper.
 
 240 DK roix. 
 
 He looked mournfully upon Isabel, and turning 
 towards Philip, lie said in a voice of cold acqui- 
 escence, " Prior, I trust that I know my duty." 
 
 " Son," replied Philip, " then I trust that you 
 will practise it." 
 
 " Come, come," said the Count, rising, " leave 
 this subject, Philip ; you shall school Eustace at 
 some other time. 
 
 " You holy men think all occasions meet for 
 your discourse, but in sooth they are somewhat 
 out of place in the banquet hall. And see the 
 company rise, they are forming into parties for 
 the dance. The minstrels too play a sweet air. 
 Come, Eustace, you shall join the revellers. 
 Here, Jane of Boulogne, Sir Evan awaits your 
 hand to lead you to the dance. But where is 
 Sir Gracien ? why is he absent ? Yet since it is 
 so, here, Eustace, lead out our fair niece Isabel, 
 and be her partner for the ball." 
 
 Eustace advanced, and oflfered his hand to 
 Isabel, she received it in silence, and notwith- 
 standing all the recent painful occurrences, at 
 the thrilling emotion Eustace experienced upon 
 touching the fair hand of the beautiful Isabel,
 
 DE FOIX. 2tl 
 
 he forgot at that moment every thing-, but the 
 consciousness of being near the adored object of 
 his admiration. A sudden glow of pleasure filled 
 his heart, and animated his countenance. 
 
 So quick, so capable of transition, so like the 
 sunshine of an April day, are the lively sensa- 
 tions that convey pleasure to the bosom of youth. 
 A few years more, and the charm which con- 
 stitutes them is for ever broken. For with what 
 painful experience do those few years instruct 
 us ! how fully do tliey teach that disappointment 
 and sorrow make up the sum of human life, and 
 that nothing is permanent on this side the grave 
 but principles of Christian virtue ! These add 
 their radiance to the noontide of our happiest 
 years, are not obscured in their decline, and will 
 still light us on our way, like a star of guidance, 
 when the clouds of age are gathering round us, 
 and we need a sure direction through all the 
 storms and perils of our worldly pilgrimage. 
 
 Jane of Boulogne was obliged to submit to 
 receive Sir Evan de Foix as her partner. Eu- 
 stace was about to lead out Isabel, when Prior 
 Philip, who had no desire that he should do so, 
 
 VOL. r. B
 
 249 DE FOIX. 
 
 suddenly interposed. " My Lord," said he, ad- 
 dressing the Count, " pardon my presumption, 
 but Eustace is to-night to keep the last vigil of 
 his arms, and as he is under an enjoined penance 
 of the church till such time as he becomes a 
 knight, it were as unseemly that he should lead 
 out a damsel in the dance, as it would be that he 
 should give a challenge." 
 
 " You are right. Prior," replied the Count ; 
 " we must therefore deprive you, Eustace, of 
 the fair hand of our cousin, and as Sir Gracien 
 is still absent from the hall, I would entreat you, 
 Sir Equitan, to become the partner of the Lady 
 Isabel." 
 
 At these words Sir Equitan gallantly seized 
 the hand of the lovely Isabel de Greilly, and 
 bowing to the Count, he led her to the farther 
 end of the hall. The disappointed Eustace, who 
 this evening seemed destined to experience every 
 mortification, remained by the side of the Count 
 in silent dejection. 
 
 The tables were now removed, and the green 
 rushes swept away from that part of the hall ap- 
 propriated for the ball. The minstrels played
 
 BK roix. 21.3 
 
 gaily to tlic liglit motion of the dancers' feet; 
 every one seemed cheerful and animated, every 
 one seemed happy, but Eustace. His eyes were 
 riveted upon the extremity of the hall, where 
 they followed the elegant figure of Isabel, and 
 as they every now and then lost sight of her, 
 amidst the mazes of the dance, still the scarf 
 which she wore about her shoulders lightly 
 floated in the air, and arrested his attention ; he 
 envied that very scarf which thus could hover 
 round her, and was privileged never to be ab- 
 sent from her; so fantastic and so wandering 
 are the thoughts of a lover. 
 
 Whilst Eustace was thus engaged in con- 
 templating the gay scene before him, and in 
 gazing upon his beloved Isabel, he forgot every 
 thing but the object of his aflFections; his vigil 
 of arms, his appointment with the Franciscan, 
 were alike unheeded, till, during a pause of the 
 music, he distinctly heard the great bell of the 
 castle strike twelve. Eustace started from his 
 reverie, and remembering that he had already 
 staid beyond the usual time of his return to the 
 
 R 2
 
 244 DE FOIX. 
 
 vigil of arms in the churcli of the Friars Minor, 
 (where lie was also at midnight to meet the 
 Franciscan at the Calvary in its cemetery) he 
 resolved to delay no longer the moment of his 
 departure. 
 
 Taking therefore a hasty leave of the Count, 
 for the purpose, as he declared, of watching Ids 
 arms, he walked to the extremity of the hall 
 with the intention to leave it at the great en- 
 trance. As there was a much nearer way for 
 his departure, by a small door near that part of 
 the hall, where Eustace had been standing with 
 De Foix, it is impossible to account for his 
 giving himself the trouble to walk to the ex- 
 tremity of the hall for the mere purpose of 
 quitting it, unless we recollect that it was there 
 that Isabel de Greilly was engaged with the 
 dancers. 
 
 At the moment Eustace reached the spot, the 
 dancers were just returning to their seats : Sir 
 Equitan and Isabel stood leaning against one 
 of the large columns that supported the roof. 
 Eustace in his way out M'as obliged to pass be-
 
 DE FOIX. 24'5 
 
 liind this column, when the following remark- 
 able words uttered by Sir Equitan roused his 
 attention. 
 
 " I would not have you trust any one, fair 
 Isabel, at present, with the knowledge of it." 
 
 " Fear not," said Isabel ; " when an affair so 
 near my heart is in question, I can be secret as 
 the grave : nothing shall be known till all is safe 
 and prepared. Then I may throw of the mask, 
 and prove that I only wore it upon an occasion 
 of great necessity. You shall be happy, you 
 have nothing to fear." 
 
 Eustace (who had heard the first part of these 
 words as he passed near the back of the column) 
 had been induced almost involuntarily to remain 
 there a moment, till the rush towards the door 
 upon the conclusion of the dance had passed 
 away. A thrilling interest occasioned by the 
 utterance of words so remarkable, detained him 
 a moment longer, till, recollecting that he was 
 attending to a discourse not designed for his ear, 
 he suddenly rushed from the spot, and left the 
 hall with a quick and hurried step, as if he 
 wished ])y the rapidity of his motion to fly from
 
 246 DE FOIX. 
 
 the tormenting reflections which arose in suc- 
 cession to irritate and influence his mind. In 
 like manner did he pass the great portal and the 
 court-yard of the castle ; he scarcely seemed to 
 touch the ground. At length, having gained the 
 open country between the castle, and the town 
 of Orthes, he somewhat slackened his pace. 
 
 The night was calm and serene, and beauti- 
 fully illuminated by the subdued light of the 
 moon. To an agitated soul there is no external 
 object capable of producing such soothing effects 
 as a view of the face of nature. Whilst con- 
 templating the vast and beautiful works of an 
 almighty hand, we are insensibly led to com- 
 pare them with the insignificance of our own 
 existence. Amidst the immensity of creation 
 we think how little is the space we occupy in 
 this wide world, and that a few years, at the 
 utmost, will make that little less. Yet how 
 busily do we fill it up with the anxieties, the 
 turmoils, the disorders of our own passions. We 
 look to the face of nature, and there behold that 
 all is calm, all tranquilly following the order of 
 creation, dependent alone on God. All seems
 
 DE FOIX. 2A7 
 
 to speak joy and harmony through the useful 
 hours of the day, and to sleep peacefully at night 
 beneath the favour of heaven. 
 
 But of all the objects in the natural world, 
 however soothing their general character, no- 
 thing is so capable perhaps of tranquillizing our 
 distracted thoughts as the fixed contemplation of 
 water : so smooth, so fresh, so still in its ap- 
 pearance, yet possessing a sufficiency of gentle 
 motion to keep up the idea of animation ; now 
 reflecting the passing cloud, or now sparlding 
 with the long and silver rays of the moon ; one 
 wave propelling and succeeding another, with a 
 soft and lulling sound. Eustace felt its effects, 
 as he paused for a moment on the banks of the 
 broad expanse of the Gave. The night was 
 clear and serene : it might indeed be said, in the 
 words of our own Shakespeare : 
 
 " It is but the day light sick. 
 It looks a little paler, 'tis a day 
 Such as the day is when the sun is hid." 
 
 The M'oods and surrounding hills were beauti- 
 fully silvered, whilst every tower of the castle, 
 every church or cottage in the neighbourhood,
 
 248 DE FOIX. 
 
 was distinctly seen glittering in the light of the 
 moon. Eustace looked upon one of these cottages 
 that stood near the bank of the river. The beams 
 of a taper spread through the window, and he 
 heard from within the sweet and simple strains 
 of a hymn to the Virgin, sung by its humble in- 
 habitants. The contrast between their state of 
 peaceful and pious enjoyment, and his own 
 agitated feelings, struck forcibly upon his mind ; 
 and turning towards the Gave with folded arms, 
 he leant upon a stump of a decayed tree, and con- 
 templated its smooth waters. 
 
 " Alas !" said Eustace, " how like the life of 
 man is the flow of thy busy and unceasing waves ! 
 one murmurs on a while, and is succeeded by an- 
 other, then sinks amidst the multitude, and is for 
 ever lost to the view. Yet, oh how different 
 from the passions that agitate mankind are thy 
 clear waters ! They are content to follow their 
 even course, as nature designed them; whilst 
 man is content Math nothing as it is, with no- 
 thing as it ought to be. His wants are arti- 
 ficial, his refinements misery. And his af- 
 fections, the best gift of his Creator, designed
 
 DE FOIX. 219 
 
 as the noble source of his enjoyments ; tlicy are 
 tortured, or abandoned, or made to follow as 
 only secondary in the train of his mere worldly 
 possessions. Thy gifts, O Heaven ! are holy, 
 pure, and sacred ! but how doth man abuse, how 
 doth he contemn the order of thy creation, and 
 let loose, as a mountain torrent, the wild and 
 furious current of his passions, that overwhelms 
 and destroys whatever is most virtuous and 
 happy." 
 
 Eustace wept. His mind had been so worked 
 upon, so distracted, by the various emotions of 
 the day, and, above all, by the extraordinary and 
 mysterious words that he had accidentally heard 
 dropt by Sir Equitan and Isabel, that he found 
 a relief in tears from the painful and almost 
 suffocating sensation which oppressed him. He 
 thought of Isabel with feelings " more of sorrow 
 than of anger ;" for Eustace was too much over- 
 come, too deeply hurt, to be capable of the 
 energy of anger ; he could only weep ; he could 
 only think how dearly he had loved, and how 
 entirely he had trusted. Coidd Isabel thus 
 cruelly deceive him? Could she abandon the
 
 250 DE FOIX. 
 
 choice of her long and early affections for tlie 
 new favourite of yesterday ? " No, no," thought 
 Eustace, as the apprehension darted through his 
 mind, " such cruelty could hardly exist in hu- 
 man nature, far less in the bosom of Isabel de 
 Greilly: I will not believe it; but yet what 
 words ! and then her anxiety to protect Sir 
 Equitan from danger at the tournament, the 
 gift of the clasp, their meeting, her evident con- 
 fusion, her refusal to explain the cause to me, 
 the Prior's suspicions ; and, above all, those ex- 
 traordinary words ! Gracious heaven ! what, 
 what am I to think ?" 
 
 Eustace leant upon his arms, with liis head 
 between his hands, pressing them hard upon 
 his forehead. He wept, and even sobbed with 
 anguish. The smooth face of the waters, that 
 had for a while tranquillized Ids feelings, now 
 was unheeded. He closed his eyes; he looked but 
 upon the terrible image presented by his own 
 imagination, and suggested to his mind by the 
 thought of the possibility of Isabel's falsehood : 
 he looked and shuddered. 
 
 At this moment the full chorus of voices raised
 
 DE FOIX. 251 
 
 by the neighbouring cottagers, as they conchided 
 their evening hymn to the Virgin, struck upon 
 liis ear, and he started from his fixed position. 
 
 " Gracious heaven !" he exclaimed, " can these 
 poor uneducated people thus pour forth their 
 pious effusions to the holy mother of God, and 
 I, who have been better taught, forget my duty, 
 forget it in the remembrance of an earthly and 
 unhappy affection ! What have I done that 
 should render me thus wretched ? whom have I 
 injured, whom have I offended? whom have I 
 offended but thee, oh ! my Father, my Creator ? 
 An earthly object has occupied that fervour of 
 affection which should be thine. Thou art the 
 dispenser of justice, the parent of mercy, thus 
 am I })unished. Thou art jealous of the love of 
 thy children ; thou hast said it, O my Father ! 
 and thy words are immutable as the law of thy 
 will. Still, still thou art merciful, and even now, 
 when every worldly hope forsakes me, thou wilt 
 hear, thou wilt protect me; whilst I, like the 
 prodigal, return but to my father's house when 
 all things else have abandoned me." 
 
 Eustace dropt upon his knees at these words,
 
 252 DE FOIX. 
 
 and, with clasped hands and raised eyes, he ejacu- 
 lated a fervent prayer to his Creator, and con- 
 cluded with an address to the Virgin, imploring 
 her pity and protection. His orisons accom- 
 plished, he arose from the ground, and quitted 
 the spot in a more composed state of mind than 
 that in which he had first come to it. Thus did 
 he experience, from the exercise of his religious 
 duties, that internal comfort and support which 
 can alone administer permanent consolation to 
 the bosom of the afflicted. 
 
 As Eustace passed the cottage that had so 
 much affected his feelings, he paused for a mo- 
 ment and sighed; and in that moment he thought, 
 that had he remained in the lowly station in 
 which he believed he was born, he might perhaps 
 have been happier ; " for an exalted station," said 
 Eustace, " is not always one of happiness : and 
 whilst nature lies as open to the view of the vassal 
 as to that of his lord, his lowly station leaves him 
 free to enjoy it in security; for he is too poor 
 for envy, and too insignificant for the tongue of 
 malice : he may love his God, and enjoy all 
 creation, if he be humble-minded, in peace, and
 
 DE FOIX. 253 
 
 sleep soundly at night without a warder to keep 
 the door." 
 
 These reflections had another good effect on 
 Eustace ; they helped to humble his spirit : and 
 as humility (the chief grace of a true Christian, 
 although the rarest to be found) is the best cal- 
 culated of all graces to assist us in bearing mis- 
 fortune, so did it now assist Eustace in meeting 
 his calamities with a firmer mind. He thought 
 humbly of himself, and considered that if his 
 afflictions were the allotment of Heaven as a pu- 
 nishment for sin, it was his duty to submit with 
 silent acquiescence : to feel it as a chastisement, 
 but not to sink under it in despair.
 
 254. DE FOIX, 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE VIGIL OF ARMS. 
 
 The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Eustace hastened towards the monastery of 
 the Friars Minor of Orthes. It was in the church 
 of that house he was to complete his vigil of 
 arms ; it was in its cemetery at Calvary he was 
 appointed to meet the Franciscan. The Calvary 
 here mentioned stood, surrounded by cypress and 
 yew trees, in a retired part of the churchyard. 
 It was formed by a large cross, erected on the 
 summit of a little mound of earth. The image of 
 our Saviour, the size of life, carved in wood, was 
 nailed upon the cross. The figures of the Virgin 
 and the favourite disciple, of the same size and 
 material, stood at the feet of the image. The 
 earth surrounding the cross was strewed with
 
 DE FOIX. 255 
 
 liiiman skulls and bones ; whilst a single taper, 
 inclosed within glass to prevent its being extin- 
 guished by the air, was kept burning day and 
 night, upon the top of the cross. 
 
 It was here that many severe penances were 
 performed by the zealous followers of the church 
 of Rome ; it was here that the guilty, and some- 
 times the innocent breast, often poured forth their 
 supplications in superstitious adoration, at the 
 foot of the representation of Mount Calvary. 
 
 As Eustace advanced towards the spot, he 
 observed a figure glide amongst the trees, and 
 in the next moment it stood beneath the cross. 
 When he had nearly gained the mount, he per- 
 ceived the figure was wrapped in the black gar- 
 ments of a monk. Eustace doubted not that 
 this was the Franciscan, and hastening towards 
 him, with increased speed, " Father !" he ex- 
 claimed, as he approached, " I have been detained 
 beyond the hour of our appointment ; but I could 
 not leave the Count de Foix sooner, without ex- 
 citing his suspicions ; and after what had passed, 
 that might have been dangerous to us both : but 
 oh ! with what emotions have I awaited the hour
 
 25G DE FOTX. 
 
 of this secret conference, when a purpose of such 
 import, yet so terrible, is to be made known to 
 me!" 
 
 " If you expect such a purpose to be made 
 known to you from me, young man," exclaimed 
 the person Eustace had addressed, " your ex- 
 pectation will not be fulfilled; as I find, from 
 your discourse, you have erroneously taken me 
 for another." 
 
 " You are not, then, the Franciscan ?" said 
 Eustace, heedlessly. 
 
 " No," replied the stranger, " I am not of the 
 order of St. Francis, although a monk." 
 
 Eustace started; and the thought of his own 
 imprudence now first rushed with conviction upon 
 his mind. He knew not what to say, or how to 
 act ; the hope that he was unknown to the per- 
 son he had so unthinkingly addressed, was the 
 only one in which he could confide. He feared 
 to tarry, lest some word, some question, might 
 ensue, that would betray him; yet he wished, if 
 possible, to be made acquainted with the name 
 of the stranger. Eustace hesitated ; he feared to 
 stay, and yet he lingered. As the monk turned
 
 DE FOIX. 257 
 
 towards the cross, a ray of light from the taper 
 that burned above, suddenly gleamed upon his 
 countenance. Eustace thought it was a coun- 
 tenance (imperfectly as he caught this casual 
 view of it) which he had before seen, yet he felt 
 doubtful, and the monk drew his cowl still closer 
 about his head, and bidding Eustace farewell, 
 he slowly withdrew from Calvary. 
 
 Eustace remained for some time riveted to 
 the spot, revolving in his mind the strange 
 events of the evening, and anxiously expecting 
 the arrival of the Franciscan ; but no Franciscan 
 appeared. At length he remembered that the 
 time was so far spent, that it was absolutely ne- 
 cessary he should complete the vigil of arms in 
 the church. With thi^ intention he turned aside 
 into the path that led to a small door-way which 
 opened upon the west aisle, and of which he 
 had the key, till his vigil should be finished. 
 
 The church of the Friars Minor of Orthes 
 was an ancient gothic pile, of massive rather 
 than elegant construction. The columns that 
 supported the roof, and divided the aisles, were 
 of an extraordinary magnitude, and the low 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 DE FOIX. 
 
 arched windows were filled with stained glass. 
 The high altar, placed witliin the chancel at the 
 east end, was richly decorated, and had been 
 presented to the church by an ancestor of the 
 present Count de Foix. The altar-table was 
 covered with crimson velvet, embroidered with 
 gold, and the Christ that stood upon it was a 
 very ancient figure, carved in wood, and now 
 black with age. The image was attired in 
 silken embroidery, hung with jewels, and se- 
 veral small pieces of gold in the shape of a 
 human heart : these were the offerings of various 
 devotees. 
 
 Several relics magnificently set in gold, and 
 also decorated with jewels, were laid out upon 
 the table, intermixed with silver vases contain- 
 ing flowers, and two missals, bound in velvet, 
 and studded with golden clasps, were laid near 
 the foot of the Christ. Behind the altar-table 
 was placed the tabernacle that enclosed the 
 host; this was entirely of wrought gold: and 
 above was seen a small shrine composed of 
 crystal, lapis lazuli, gold, and precious stones. 
 This little shrine contained a piece of the true
 
 DE FOIX. 259 
 
 cross brought from the Holy Land by one of the 
 Counts de Foix. 
 
 It was in front of this altar that the arms of 
 Eustace were placed. They rested upon a fe- 
 ^retrum covered with white silk, and the golden 
 sword with which he was to receive the honour 
 of knighthood on the morrow, was extended upon 
 the table. A few burning tapers faintly glim- 
 mered around the altar, whilst a more solemn 
 and imposing light was seen reflected by the 
 moon through the many-coloured portions of 
 the painted glass, that threw their blue and 
 sober rays upon the walls of the church, finely 
 contrasted, and rendered yet more solemn by 
 the total darkness of those parts of the interior 
 where the light was intercepted by the broad 
 and massive columns and altars dedicated to 
 various saints. 
 
 Near the great east window of the church, 
 and to the right of the high altar, appeared be- 
 neath a richly fretted and low gothic arch, the 
 tomb and monumental effigy of Sir Peter Ar- 
 naut de Beam, the late governor of the castle 
 of Lourde, who had been placed in that situa- 
 
 s2
 
 260 DE FOIX. 
 
 tion by Etlward tlie Black Prince, when he 
 claimed the garrison and castle in right of his 
 duchy of Aquitaine. The effigy was of white 
 marble ; it represented the deceased in a recum- 
 bent posture ; the hands were raised in the atti- 
 tude of prayer ; the figure was fully armed, but 
 wore only the basnet upon the head, which was 
 supported by the helmet in place of a cushion. 
 The countenance of this effigy, agreeably to the 
 custom of the time, afforded a correct repre- 
 sentation of that of the deceased person. The 
 whole was beautifully executed by a skilful 
 artist, and had been newly erected in the church, 
 where masses were yearly said on the anniver- 
 sary of his death, for the repose of the soul of 
 Sir Peter Arnaut de Beam. 
 
 Eustace entered the western aisle by the door 
 we have before mentioned, and having carefully 
 surveyed the church, and found no one in it, he 
 dipped his hand in the holy water that stood 
 near the great entry, and made the sign of the 
 cross vipon his breast. He then advanced to- 
 wards the high altar, where he devoutly pro- 
 strated himself upon his knees and repeated the
 
 DE roix. 261 
 
 particular prayers enjoined to be said by all 
 those who were observing the vigil of arms. 
 These acts of piety accomplished, Eustace arose, 
 and slowly paced up and down the chancel be- 
 fore the altar where his arms had been placed. 
 
 He now endeavoured to compose his thoughts 
 to serious meditation, as that was deemed one 
 considerable part of the duty in which he was 
 engaged ; but the effort was vain : in spite of all 
 his struggles his thoughts constantly wandered 
 to the events of the past evening, nor could he 
 dismiss Isabel one moment from his mind. In- 
 deed, so much had her image engrossed his en- 
 tire soul, that Eustace, in the hope to say it 
 with fixed attention, had more than once re- 
 peated a prayer which her remembrance had 
 disturbed in the midst of his first ejaculations. 
 Eustace at length found all his efforts to dismiss 
 these busy thoughts were vain; he no longer 
 made them, and breathing a secret prayer that 
 he might be forgiven this unwilling neglect of 
 his duty, he gave himself up to his own reflec- 
 tions. 
 
 He thought upon Isabel, upon Sir Equitan,
 
 262 DE FOIX. 
 
 the Prior, the Count, the stranger he had spoken 
 to at Calvary, and, above all, at this moment, he 
 considered the extraordinary conduct of the 
 Franciscan, that he should appear to possess the 
 knowledge of circumstances so important to his 
 safety, express such a desire to communicate 
 them, make an appointment, and then apparently 
 abandon it ; these were circumstances calculated 
 to awaken his most serious thoughts. The curio- 
 sity he felt to be satisfied respecting them was 
 intense and painful. He considered and re- 
 considered every thing again and again, till he 
 was lost in doubt and perplexity. 
 
 Whilst Eustace was thus occupied, the bell 
 of the monastery of the Friars Minor tolled one. 
 The sound was deep and solemn. It broke upon 
 the stillness of night with that awful effect, the 
 circumstances, the place, and the hour, were cal- 
 culated to produce. Things that appear trifling, 
 and pass unheeded during the busy occupation 
 of the cheerful day, strike us with peculiar effect 
 amidst the stillness, the silence, and the obscurity 
 of the night. « The bell sounds one," thought 
 Eustace ; " in another hour my vigil will be at
 
 DE FOIX. 263 
 
 an end, and 1 shall not see this extraordinary 
 man." 
 
 Eustace passed the low arch which contain- 
 ed the tomb of Sir Peter Arnaut de Beam. 
 At this moment the moon breaking forth in un- 
 clouded splendour, a ray of her light streamed 
 through a window of the chancel that was princi- 
 pally filled with blue stained glass. The stream 
 of light which derived its colour from the window 
 through which it passed, shone full and direct 
 upon the monument, and every feature of the 
 effigy was distinctly seen. Eustace paused to 
 contemplate it. The brow was manly but severe, 
 and the whole countenance of a peculiar and 
 marked character. It was such a coimtenance as 
 is seldom seen ; but being once observed, could 
 never be forgotten. 
 
 Eustace was riveted to the spot. He thought 
 he had never beheld a face that seemed to speak 
 with so much expression the character of the 
 mind. " What," said he, " must he have been 
 when living, whose features, though in marble, 
 can thus arrest attention ? what must have been 
 that soul which gave them animation ? Yet that
 
 264 DE FOIX. 
 
 is for ever fled ; and aD that now remains of tlie 
 body is this feeble record of its having once 
 existed. What, then, is life ! vrhat death ! Life, 
 that fades away so soon for ever; and death, that 
 opens to the soiil the gate of an eternal kingdom ! 
 Oh life and death ! how are you both misnamed ! 
 Far more, however, are you both misprised ! 
 Men toil for the possessions of a moment ; they 
 are anxious about the pleasures of a day; but 
 they reck not the things of eternity. Oh what 
 a lesson doth this cold marble teach ! It is the 
 image of death, who is now the ^dctor of its 
 original. What a lesson doth it speak to me ! 
 Peace to the soul of him whose ashes rest beneath ; 
 and though I should never again behold that 
 countenance which has awakened such feelings 
 in my mind, I will bear the remembrance of it 
 to the last hour of my existence." 
 
 Eustace, whilst he pronounced these words in 
 a subdued tone of voice, thought he heai-d a slight 
 rustling near him : he started, and immediately 
 the sound was followed by a sigh. Eustace 
 suddenly turned towards the spot whence the 
 noise came : but who shall describe his sensa-
 
 DE roix. 265 
 
 tions — what can speak his astonisliment — when 
 lie distinctly beheld by the light of the moon 
 that gleamed through the church, the same ex- 
 traordinary countenance he had contemplated in 
 the marble effigy, standing before him. 
 
 Eustace was speechless. The figure neither 
 moved nor spoke, but gazed upon him with a 
 fixed attention. Eustace, who was naturally of 
 a bold and fearless spirit in the affairs and amidst 
 the events of human life, felt overpowered and 
 appalled by the apparition of another world, 
 which he firmly believed now stood before him. 
 Yet his bosom was guiltless; and, strongly armed 
 by conscious innocence, the thought of why 
 should he fear the visitation of the dead rushed 
 into his mind with the force of conviction. " No," 
 thought he, " I will fear nothing but my God." 
 
 These ideas passed, as it were, in a momejit 
 through Ids mind, and reanimated his sinking 
 spirits. Still his heart beat quick, and his whole 
 frame trembled, as he looked upon the awful 
 being who stood before him. He made an effort 
 to speak, but still his tongue denied utterance. 
 He made a second effort, and thun addressed the
 
 266 DE FOIX. 
 
 fearful apparition : " Tell me, I conjure thee, in 
 the name of the Almighty Father of the living 
 and of the dead, who thou art, and what is the 
 purpose of this awful visitation." 
 
 " Art thou, then, surprised to see me ?" re- 
 plied the being Eustace had addressed. " Thou 
 didst not meet me at the appointed hour at 
 Calvary." 
 
 " Art thou then the Franciscan?" replied 
 Eustace quickly. 
 
 " Ay," said the Friar; " but wherefore this 
 amazement ? I stole softly into the church, and 
 glided near you in silence, lest you might not 
 be alone. Why are you thus alarmed ?" 
 
 " Father," replied Eustace, " 1 never till this 
 hour beheld your countenance without your cowl; 
 for when at Orthes, you were wont to keep it 
 close about your head, so that no one might di- 
 stinctly see your features." 
 
 " That is true," said the Franciscan, " and I 
 may have my reasons for it. But wherefore 
 should the sight of it now cause such alarm ?" 
 
 " I am almost ashamed to tell you," replied 
 Eustace ; " but yet I will confess that but a mo-
 
 i)i: FOix. 267 
 
 ment before yoii entered the chureli, I had been 
 contemplating the face of this effigy of Sir Peter 
 Arnaut de Beam; and judge how I was asto- 
 nished, when, upon suddenly turning towards 
 you, I beheld its exact resemblance in your 
 own !" 
 
 The Friar remained silent for a few minutes, 
 and took no farther notice of the circumstance. 
 " But why," said he to Eustace, " why did you 
 fail me at Calvary at the hour of twelve ? A 
 monk came to the spot to make his orisons as I 
 lingered near it ; his presence compelled me to 
 retire ; I dared not there await to meet you for 
 prudent reasons." 
 
 Eustace excused himself by saying, that he 
 had been detained at Orthes till a late hour by 
 being near the Count de Foix, whose suspicions 
 he feared to awaken if he had suddenly quitted 
 the hall ; but he did not mention his own in- 
 cautious conduct upon meeting the stranger at 
 Calvary. Indeed, at this moment he did not 
 think of it; for the extraordinary and sudden 
 appearance of the Franciscan, and his exact re- 
 semblance to the effigy of Sir Peter Arnaut de
 
 268 DE FOIX. 
 
 Beam, for tlie time wholly absorbed his thoughts; 
 and he could yet scarcely convince himself that 
 it was really the Franciscan, and a creature of 
 this world, who stood before him. 
 
 The Franciscan, after a pause, again fixed his 
 steadfast gaze upon Eustace, " Hast thou forgot," 
 he said, " the purpose that now brings me to 
 thee : dost thou remember it is one of import to 
 thyself?" 
 
 " Father," replied Eustace, " I know well 
 you told me, such it was, and I am impatient to 
 learn its import." 
 
 " Dost thou believe my words?" continued 
 the Friar. 
 
 " Ay, truly do I," said Eustace, " for I know 
 not how it is, but there is that about thee, holy 
 man, that makes me think thee true, and yet I 
 tremble whilst I believe thy truth." 
 
 " Then," exclaimed the Franciscan, in a 
 solemn and elevated voice, " then first swear, 
 at the foot of this most sacred image, swear, that 
 what I shall reveal to you this night, that what I 
 shall instruct you must be done, you will keep 
 secret as death, ay, silent as the grave, till such
 
 DE FOIX. 269 
 
 time as I shall give you the sanction to reveal 
 it. Swear tojulfil the purpose I shall enjoin" 
 
 " Never," replied Eustace : " no never will I 
 blindly bind myself by oaths so solemn, to the 
 commission of an act to whose nature I am a 
 stranger. Oh Heaven ! think into what a gulf 
 of sin and misery I might sink my soul !" 
 
 " Eustace," said the Franciscan, sternly, 
 " would you know the secret of your birth ?" 
 
 " Would I know the secret of my birth !" 
 repeated Eustace, in breathless anxiety, " in- 
 deed I would ; nay, almost could I purchase the 
 knowledge of my birth with the forfeit of my 
 life." 
 
 " Then swear, as I enjoin you," replied the 
 Friar, " and you shall know it." 
 
 Eustace paused; a strong emotion seemed to 
 agitiite his bosom ; he passed his hand across his 
 forehead, and the next moment calmly replied, 
 " Leave me, tempter. I would freely stake my 
 life to learn the secret of my birth ; but know I 
 will not stake my soul." 
 
 " Be not thus obdurate," said the Friar ; " art 
 thou resolved thus to withstand my importunity?
 
 270 DE roix. 
 
 Then listen ; suppose that it were in my power 
 to prove thee of exalted birth, so that thou 
 shouldst boldly demand and win the beauteous 
 Isabel (for I know you love her), wouldst thou 
 then swear?" 
 
 " You could not do it," replied Eustace, 
 hastily. 
 
 " Are you sure of that?" rejoined the Fran- 
 ciscan. 
 
 " Give me some proof," said Eustace, " that 
 you have the power, before I answer you." 
 
 " I will," replied the Franciscan. " When 
 the Countess de Foix committed thee to the 
 care of her lord, she gave the Count a precious 
 ring which she said had been thy mother's. She 
 gave it to her lord, in secret, and made him 
 solemnly promise that the existence of that ring 
 should never be made known to any one save 
 thyself. And the Count also promised, that, 
 shoiddst thou live to become a knight, on the 
 day thou shouldst be created such, he would place 
 upon thy hand that ring; and on the morrow 
 thou art to receive it." 
 
 Eustace pressed his hands together, and
 
 DE FOIX. 271 
 
 raised liis eyes in silent amazement. " Is not 
 this true ?" continued the Franciscan : " now, 
 have I given proof enough that I can do what I 
 told thee ?" 
 
 *' It is most true," replied the youth, " and, so 
 help me heaven ! the Count believes, as I did, 
 that not a creature living knows of the secret of 
 that ring, save ourselves and the Countess, who, 
 with such strong entreaty, begged that its story 
 might for ever rest unknown. And who art 
 thou, thou most mysterious, most extraordinary 
 man, who can thus awaken in my soul thoughts, 
 hopes, expectations, that had long seemed vain, 
 cold, and fruitless ? Tell me, in pity, I beseech 
 you, tell me more. Who am I? who is my 
 father ? does my mother live ? what is my name, 
 my county ? how can I prove my birth ?" 
 
 " Stop," said the Franciscan, " be not so 
 hasty; I will tell thee nothing till the oath I 
 would enjoin has passed thy lips. Swear to 
 keep secret what I shall reveal^ swear to obey 
 me in what I shall enjoin." 
 
 Eustace stood like one upon the brink of a
 
 272 DF roix. 
 
 deep and dangerous gulf, that he fain would 
 pass, and yet feared to attempt it. He hesi- 
 tated, and after a moment's silence, in which he 
 seemed to be collecting the scattered energies 
 of his whole mind into one strong effort, he re- 
 plied in a firm tone, " Father ! repeat thy words ; 
 once more repeat them : let me hear a full, clear 
 . comprehension of their import." 
 
 The Franciscan complied with this request. 
 
 *' Then mark me !" said Eustace, in a de- 
 termined voice ; " thou hast held out such in- 
 ducements, such temptations, to shake the prin- 
 ciples of all I hold most sacred to my soul, that 
 but for the grace of God (which now makes me 
 strong against thy powerful tempting) I could 
 not resist thee. Go, then, bury thy secret in 
 eternal silence ; leave me the poor, the unhappy, 
 the base-reputed Eustace that I am, so that thou 
 leavest me innocent ; and I will be still unhappy 
 and despised. But know, that life, nor death, 
 nor hope of Isabel, nor even her love, shall ever 
 make me do an act I hold a treason to the God 
 that made me. And think not one who could
 
 DE FOIX. 273 
 
 Wlndly take an oath, to do he knows not what, 
 can ever hold its performance sacred." 
 
 " Tlien tliou art worthy," exclaimed the 
 Franciscan, " ay, worthy as my fondest liope 
 would have thee. Eustace, thy refusal of the 
 oath forbids me to tell thee all 1 could reveal, 
 for 1 am but sent to thee by one w^ho has a 
 nearer claim to thee than I have. And oidy on 
 thy swearing, strictly swearing, as I proposed to 
 thee, am I allowed to clear up all the mystery 
 of thy birth. But so do I revere thy principles, 
 thy noble nature, that what I may reveal I will ; 
 and I will teach thee where thou mayest seek to 
 learn all I am forbid to tell, save on the con- 
 ditions I have named. Know then — but hush ! 
 I thought I heard a sound." 
 
 " No," said Eustace, " it was but the wind 
 that stirred something which echoed through 
 these long vaulted aisles. Come near the tomb, 
 there we may speak securely, and if any one 
 advances, we must see them ere they are close 
 upon us." 
 
 " The night wanes apace," replied the Fran- 
 ciscan, " and I have much to tell thee." 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 DE FOIX. 
 
 ■ " Speak quickly, then," said Eustace. 
 
 " I will," rejoined the friar ; " know, then, 
 you are an object of envy and hatred with Sir 
 Evan de Foix. Be careful how you act; for he 
 aims at your ruin with the Count ; and beware 
 how you trust the crafty Prior Philip." 
 
 " Do you know aught, father," said Eustace 
 hastily, " that should make you speak thus of 
 the Prior ? I know he is of a cold repulsive 
 temper, with little feeling for any object of this 
 world ; but I never suspected he was dishonest 
 in his deeds ? 
 
 " I have no proof that he is so," replied the 
 Franciscan ; " but I know his character is cold, 
 crafty, and selfish. Such men are ever danger- 
 ous, and on the watch to bend to their own in- 
 terests the open and unsuspicious mind. And 
 above all, Eustace, do not trust the Count de 
 Foix." 
 
 " Not trust the Count de Foix !" repeated 
 Eustace, " why he is my dearest friend, my 
 benefactor, I am the child of his adoption. He 
 is ever gracious and noble in his conduct to- 
 wards me ; I love him as my own soul."
 
 T)E FOIX. 2*75 
 
 The Franciscan shook his lieatl mournfully 
 and sighed. " Alas ! Eustace, you know him 
 not; true, he has been all you say to you in 
 outward act, but yet " 
 
 " What !" exclaimed Eustace hastily, inter- 
 rupting him, " how in outward act, what mean 
 you ?" 
 
 " You must not rely upon him," replied the 
 Franciscan, " and never will you be in safety, 
 till you have for ever bid adieu to Orthes." 
 
 " You jistonish me !" said Eustace, " what 
 can this mean ? T can never cease to love De 
 Foix ; indeed, I can never cease to think the 
 generous Count my friend." 
 
 " You have hitherto been too humble, too in- 
 significant," continued the friar, " to excite his 
 fears, but the time may come — " the Franciscan 
 hesitated, and then added, " the time may come, 
 when, possibly, the Count may change his feel- 
 ings for you." 
 
 " Oh ! never," said Eustace; " for I will never 
 be \uigrateful to him, never do an act of dis- 
 honour towards him, how then can he change P" 
 
 " Alas !" replied the Franciscan, " thy ge- 
 
 T 2
 
 276 DE FOIX. 
 
 nerous and open mind can believe no ill exists 
 in any one ; but the Count is capable of 
 treachery." 
 
 " Oh ! do not say so," exclaimed Eustace, 
 " you do him cruel wrong, I will not believe it." 
 
 " Would to Heaven," answered the friar, " it 
 were so ! I do not wrong him, Eustace. What 
 I must now reveal to you, I trust to your ho- 
 nour to keep it secret ; for should the Count but 
 know I had repeated the sad story, my life 
 might pay the forfeit of my confidence. You 
 will be secret ?" 
 
 " Ay," said Eustace, " I will never utter what 
 is trusted to my honour, and what being made 
 known might injure the safety of another ; you 
 may confide in me." 
 
 *' Look, then, upon this tomb," continued the 
 Franciscan, " mark the countenance of this 
 effigy, for it is of him whose ashes now repose 
 beneath it that I would speak." 
 
 " I have already noted well," replied Eustace, 
 with considerable emotion, " the extraordinary 
 features of that countenance, and they seem 
 living and animated in thy own."
 
 DE FOIX. 277 
 
 " Yet his, which this marble so well repre- 
 sents," replied the friar, " lie buried in this 
 spot" — (the holy man again started) — " I am 
 sure I heard a step." 
 
 " No, no," said Eustace impatiently, " thy 
 senses are acute and strong, and the least motion 
 finds its echo in thy ear ; it is nothing but the 
 wind that sounds through these ancient vaults." 
 
 " Know, then," continued the Franciscan, 
 " that Sir Peter Arnaut de Beam, who lies 
 buried here, was a very valiant and accomplished 
 knight, noble in family, and still more noble in 
 mind ; he was, too, related to the Count de Foix. 
 When Edward the Black Prince of England 
 took possession of the strong castle of Lourde, 
 in right of his duchy of Aquitaine, he appointed 
 this Sir Peter Arnaut de Beam (who had loyally 
 served him) to be governor of Lourde, and re- 
 gent for England of the province of Bigorre. 
 Some time after, the French, headed by the 
 Duke of Anjpu, assaulted Lourde ; but so valiantly 
 did Sir Peter defend the castle for his prince, 
 the gallant Edward, that the Duke, finding it 
 useless to carry on the siege, withdrew his forces
 
 278 DK FOIX. 
 
 and retired, sending a private messenger to the 
 Count de Foix. The nature of this private 
 conference was never known, but, from what so 
 soon after occurred, it may be easily under- 
 stood ; especially as the Count feared the Duke 
 of Anjou would invade his territories ; and, on 
 this account, he was earnest in recommending 
 himself to the favour of the Duke. After the 
 departure of the messenger, the Count de Foix 
 summoned his cousin. Sir Peter Arnaut de 
 Beam, in an amicable manner, to attend him at 
 Orthes. Sir Peter was advised by his brother, 
 John de Beam, and those who loved him, not 
 to obey the summons of the Count ; but his soul 
 was too noble for suspicion, and, disdaining fear, 
 he heeded not the counsel of his friends. Before 
 he quitted Lourde, he gave the garrison and 
 castle to the command of his brother, John de 
 Beam, and charged him, should he never more 
 return, that Lourde might still be maintained 
 for Edward of England. John took an oath to 
 obey his commands, and that oath he faithfully 
 fulfilled." 
 
 " I knew not the particidars of this event,"
 
 DE FOIX. 279 
 
 said Eustace, " but I have heard Jolui de Beam 
 is a most valiant captain." 
 
 The Franciscan continued — " The Count re- 
 ceived Sir Peter Arnaut de Beam kindly, and 
 for some days entertained him with all the out- 
 ward marks of affection, so that he was lulled 
 into security. He believed the Count had sought 
 his presence at Orthes but for the sake of love 
 and kindred. When, however, the time arrived 
 that Sir Peter was to bid adieu to the Count, De 
 Foix called him aside, and artfully proposed that 
 he should surrender into his hands the castle of 
 Lourde, as the Duke of Anjou suspected it was 
 by the instigation of the Count he had so firmly 
 maintained it for England. Sir Peter Arnaut 
 de Beam, unmoved by this false pretext, boldly 
 and firmly refused his assent to such a disloyal 
 act, which he held a treason towards his prince ; 
 and declared he would maintain Lourde for Eng- 
 land, even to the death. ' Dost thou say so?' 
 exclaimed the Count; ' tlieu, by this head, Sir 
 Peter, thou hast not said it for nought !' and, as 
 lie uttered these words, De Foix drew a dagger 
 from beneath his vest, and foully stabbed liis
 
 280 DE FOIX. 
 
 noble kinsman on the instant. Sir Peter fell to 
 the ground ; he was mortally wounded ; and in 
 this state the Count caused his helpless cousin 
 to be thrown into a dungeon, where he pe- 
 rished." 
 
 Eustace, whilst the Franciscan related this 
 dreadful narrative, stood fixed in silent atten- 
 tion. His soul seemed wholly absorbed, and alter- 
 nately swayed by strong emotions of pity and 
 indignation. At length he e^^;laimed, " Is it 
 possible ? Could the Count de ^oix be guilty of 
 such baseness? Oh friar, can it — can it be true? 
 And must I learn to hate the friend I have so 
 dearly loved? one to whom I have looked up 
 through life as an example ? him whom I thought 
 the perfect model of all honour ? Oh, why did 
 you tell me this? v/hy have you made me 
 wretched ? but alas ! tell me all your sad tale, 
 and I will strive to bear it as I ought. Would 
 no one interfere? was there no one by, who 
 would rush between the Count and the dagger 
 that he drew to plunge a fellow-creature into 
 an eternal state ?" 
 
 " Yes, some there were present," continued
 
 DE FOIX. 281 
 
 the Franciscan, " but they dared not interfere ; 
 their own lives would have been the forfeit." 
 
 " And if they had," cried Eustace, " they 
 would have died in doing a brave act, to save a 
 valiant man." 
 
 " It may be," continued the friar, " that the 
 Count has since felt some remorse ; for he gave 
 the remains of his unfortunate cousin an honour- 
 able interment, and allows a certain sum to this 
 house for saying a yearly mass for the repose of 
 the soul of Sir Peter Arnaut de Beam upon the 
 anniversary of the day of his death. He has 
 also caused this tomb and effigy to he erected 
 to his memory." 
 
 Eustace paid the tribute of his tears to the 
 memory of the brave man who had thus untimely 
 perished. He again expressed his abhorrence 
 of the deed, and the anguish he felt upon learn- 
 ing the Count had been the instrument of such 
 cruelty. After another pause, he said, " I thought, 
 holy friar, that the garrison of Lourde was only 
 composed of the base, marauding free bands, 
 such jis Edward the Black Prince led into Sj)ain 
 on behalf of Peter the Cruel at the battle of
 
 282 DE FOIX. 
 
 Najara. How came it, then, that Sir Peter Ar- 
 naut de Beam could be the leader of such a 
 company ?" 
 
 " They were free bands, but not so base as 
 you deem them then," replied the Franciscan : 
 " after the murder of their noble leader, they in 
 a great measure changed their character ; some 
 of the bravest men left the castle, and returned 
 to England, whilst those who remained overran 
 and harassed, for a time, the territories of the 
 Count de Foix. Resolute in their purpose of 
 revenging the death of De Beam, they cared 
 little in what manner it was accomplished ; and 
 it was not till then that they insisted the fierce 
 Basil le Mengeant should take part with John 
 de Beam in the command of Lourde ; and from 
 that hour to the present they as frequently quarrel 
 amongst themselves as wdth their enemies. One 
 evil passion, thus indulged without restraint, ge- 
 nerally leads to farther violence : so it was with 
 those of Lourde, till at length they became, from 
 a garrison of brave and honourable men, who 
 originally held the castle for England, a mere 
 band of marauding freebooters, ready to plunder
 
 DE FOIX. 283 
 
 wherever they might obtain spoil, and willing 
 to espouse any cause that offered a chance of 
 profit." 
 
 " And now, father," said Eustace, " tell me, 
 I beseech you, where it is that I am to seek the 
 person whom, you said, would reveal to me the 
 secret of my birth." 
 
 " You must seek him at the castle of Lourde," 
 replied the Franciscan. 
 
 " At the castle of Lourde !" repeated Eu- 
 stace, " what is it you would have me do ? 
 Would you have me seek the lion in his den, 
 join these base marauders, the sworn enemies of 
 the Count, and then expose myself to the hazard 
 ©f either being compelled to unite with them, or 
 of lingering out a miserable existence in the 
 dungeons of their impregnable castle ? No, fa- 
 ther, that were madness." 
 
 " Madness or not, it is necessity," said the 
 friar ; "for alone at Lourde can you ever obtain 
 the knowledge of your birth, unless you will 
 consent to take the oath I proposed to you." 
 
 " No, never will I do it," replied Eustace ; 
 " 1 would rather [)erish at Lourde, by ventur-
 
 284 DE FOIX. 
 
 ing thither upon thy counsel, than I would live 
 here in safety by an act so impious." 
 
 " Then there is no alternative," said the 
 Franciscan ; " you must resolve to seek the in- 
 telligence at Lourde." 
 
 " But how," inquired Eustace, " could I 
 venture, without a seeming treason to my Lord 
 de Foix ? and if I should depart, how could I 
 ever pass the castle gates of Lourde m ithout a 
 token? And even when there, whom must I 
 seek ?" 
 
 " I will tell you," replied the friar. " The 
 Count intends, upon your becoming a knight, 
 to send you to a distant fortress, where you are 
 to bear letters to one of his allied barons, to bid 
 him prepare to assist De Foix against the lord 
 of Armagnac. Your commission ended for the 
 service of the Count, you shall seek the castle 
 of Lourde alone, and when you are arrived at its 
 gates, show but this token, and you will gain 
 admittance on the instant ; the rest will then be 
 made known to you." At these words the Fran- 
 ciscan took a small cross of chased gold, sus- 
 pended by a chain of the same metal, from be-
 
 DE FOIX. 285 
 
 neath his mantle. This he threw around the 
 neck of Eustace. " You must depart," he con- 
 tinued, " on your earliest opportunity, and no 
 harm will attend you." 
 
 Eustace, on hearing these words of instruc- 
 tion, looked with doubt and astonishment upon 
 the friar. " Hast thou, reverend father," he said, 
 " who seemest so holy, hast thou any intercourse 
 with the dangerous and wicked garrison of 
 Lourde ? Art thou allied with John de Beam, 
 and the fierce Basil le Mengeant ? How ought 
 I to trust the associate of men like these ? And 
 if I am of noble birth, as you have darkly hinted, 
 who can I there hope to find who would help 
 me to assert it with the honour due to true no- 
 bility of blood ?" 
 
 " Fear not," replied the Franciscan ; " all are 
 not base who breathe within the walls of Lourde, 
 no more than all are just who rule within the 
 palace of Orthes. And know, young man, that 
 by a brother of St. Francis, the haunts of public 
 crime and vice in the freebooters' castle are as 
 much sought out, as the secret paths of sin in 
 the precincts of a court. He would seek both, to
 
 286 DE FOIX. 
 
 reprove both. Dost thou remember what I tohl 
 thee of the ring ? Canst thou then doubt ?" 
 
 " No," said Eustace ; " that is a proof beyond 
 all doubt. I will repair to Lourde, I will abide 
 the consequence ; and may Heaven, who knows 
 the cause that leads me thither, give it a happy 
 issue !" 
 
 " Amen, my son," rejoined the Franciscan, 
 " Heaven will make it prosper, for the cause is 
 just. After to-morrow I leave Orthes, as I 
 came hither in private and unknown. Remem- 
 ber my injunctions, and obey them." 
 
 At this moment the bell of the monastery 
 struck the hour of two. Eustace had now staid 
 the time that completed the vigil of his arms. 
 Ere he left the church, he again prostrated him- 
 self before the foot of the altar, and after repeat- 
 ing a prayer, he arose, and bidding farewell to 
 the Franciscan, he hastened back to the castle. 
 
 END OE VOL.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 TRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITKFRI ARS.
 

 
 
 ii^
 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 041416337