The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
and therefore his absence the more excusable) upon condition of a
speedy return, though unwilling, yet for his satisfaction, grants his
request: who now on his journey, {640} and having in his way to cross
this valley, met the unfortunate queen, whom, though her habit might
disguise, her words (overheard) did assure Rinatus his willingness to
believe that she was the same she so often spoke herself to be, the
unfortunate Helen.
“Awhile he stood doubtful of the person, awhile amazed at so fortunate
an encounter, and a long time perplexed what punishment his revenge
would judge fit for (the conceited heinousness of) his brother and
nephew’s death. At length the Queen (now first withdrawing her
thoughts from that object whereto affection, in sweetest
contemplation, had bound them, and suffering her mind, before retired
within itself, now to be informed by her servant’s sense) seeing this
stranger near her, began, as her manner was, to find by enquiry what
he knew of Amphialus. ‘Wicked woman,’ replied Rinatus, ‘the all-seeing
justice hath now delivered thee to receive fit punishment for
Philoxenus’s and Timotheus’s death,’ and using no more words,
presently caused her to be mounted on horseback, prolonging her life
to make her death more miserable. Thus far hath Mylama discovered,
who, poor lady, was there left, most cruelly beaten, to be the
reporter of Rinatus’s revenge, and her mistress’s hard hap.
“The last act of this tragedy, my master had the fortune to know, by
one of trust and great esteem in the court of Laconia, to which
Rinatus had conveyed Helen, where, for a time, she was honourably
entertained, finding no want but of command and liberty; the king,
belike fearing the power of the wronged Corinthians, preserving her as
a sure card for a dead lift. But when he understood that one Tenarus
(a man apt to practice innovations, and at this time able, when the
many-headed multitude wanted the awful presence of their sovereign)
took upon him the government, pretending a title to the crown, as
descended from those, from whom Helen’s ancestors, as he alleged, had
traitorously forced it, then did the tyrant of Laconia, finding the
way secure for his mischievous practice, vehemently importuned by
Rinatus, and urged forward by the politic wickedness of his own desire
to pleasure the new king, secretly cause Helen to be poisoned: Such
was the end of this great queen, justly beloved of all who heard the
fame of her virtues, and therefore justly to be deplored of all who
hear the unredeemable loss of so many perfections.”
Basilius, and the rest of the princes, were much moved with so
tragical a story, especially Musidorus, who (in search of Pyrocles)
having the fortune to see her, could witness, that though fame had
borrowed all men’s mouths to proclaim her many excellencies, yet it
was far from doing right to her desert. But {641} this was no fit
lodging for pity to dwell in, where joy had so great a command. The
messenger therefore being permitted to part, with free leave for his
master to enter the lists, judges were appointed, and the challenge
proclaimed.
The challenger understanding of the King’s liking of his demand, came
forth of his pavilion, with armour so lively representing nakedness,
wounded in many places (where the staunchless blood, in the course the
workman had allotted it, seemed to drop destruction) that many thought
a madness had possessed him (so unarmed, so wounded) to present
himself in such a trial, where a surer defence, and a sounder body
were more needful. Before him went six, as savages, bearing the lances
for his first courses; who coming within distance to be heard, did
sing these following verses.
Too soon you fled from hence to that fair place,
The happy period of a well-run race:
Too late I stay in grief’s eternal night,
To do this penance for my over-sight.
Once let me die, let not my dying life
Prolong my woes, and keep my thoughts at strife:
Let him that did offend your heav’nly eyes,
Now please your anger with self-sacrifice.
Then one of them, reaching him a lance, he began his course against
Tyro Prince of Andria, famous for his constant love to the fair Lydia,
now married, and Queen of Epire, and ever fortunate in the course of
his adventures: but here his fortune gave place to virtue, or rather
joined with her to assist the naked knight; for, at the third
encounter, he was put beside his saddle, much bruised in body, and no
less afflicted in mind.
The next that supplied his place, was Pausanias, a Macedonian, one,
who in his late wars had done Euarchus faithful service, and now,
thinking to be as successful in this enterprise, had put on armour to
do honour to his mistress: but his first course compelled him to
acknowledge he was deceived, seeing himself fall so short of his
expectation.
To him succeeded Nicanor, a Corinthian knight, advanced by the new
king, one extremely confident of himself, because never tried, and now
very forward, fearing to be prevented of the honour, for which
already, in conceit, he had triumphed at Corinth with the great
applause of the people, and the good liking of the king. But the naked
knight, at second course, cut off both his life and imagined trophy:
for, couching his lance, and allotting it in his course a just
descent, rightly levelled by his well-judging experience, it met with
Nicanor’s sight, and passing thorough that weak {642} resistance, it
pierced his right eye, and with it his brain, so that Nicanor fell
down, forgetful both of his forethought fame and following reproach.
With this adventure the tilting that day ended; the sun with loose
rays, posting to his western home, and the naked knight retired
himself to his pavilion, whence he sent his page, who, humbly, for his
master, entreated, that his unwillingness to be known should excuse
the omission of his duty to the king.
Thus that night drew on, which to them who enjoyed delight, seemed to
have put on all her sails to be the speedier in passing over. But far
other was the naked knight’s apprehension: he (who made her ugly
darkness a pattern of the sorrow his afflicted soul endured) thought
she was becalmed in the sea of his misfortune. At length Phoebus,
weary of his importunity, made haste to distribute his grateful light
to his care-tired senses; and he as soon embracing the smallest show
of comfort, put on his armour. About two hours after, the judges being
set, and Basilius and Euarchus (with the rest of the court) present,
Leonatus, the young King of Pontus (who had been there to acknowledge
his beholdingness to them whom he was deservingly bound to) took the
field. His armour was of a dark colour, through which many flames
seemed to break out, as when the clouds, great in labour with
exhalations, at length gave way to their more violent power: his three
first courses promised a more happy event than fortune meant he should
enjoy, for (having performed them with a well-ordered firmness in his
seat, and a moving constancy in the carriage of his lance, to the
great delight of the beholders) the fourth time he was dismounted;
whose disgrace Pyrocles was ready to revenge, but he was, by a secret
look from Philoclea, commanded the contrary. Then Telamon, Phelauceas
and Diremus felt, with little advantage in fortune, the like success.
Thus, most part of that morning, the naked knight, with little
resistance, had the best against all comers, which most of the
lookers-on, with public acclamation, did testify, but he having given
over the use of himself to sorrow, sometimes by the careless shaking
of his head, did let them know, they burdened his desert with the
unpleasing weight of his praise; and staying a while on horseback, he
expected the next adventurer, with such a demeanour of himself, that
(though it did accuse him of much grief) could not conceal the grace
of his stately presence. But when he saw none ready to take the field,
with an humble bend taking his leave of the king, he softly trotted
towards his tent, not so much to repose his body, as to give a quiet
way to the assaults of his mind. At length, when all the beholders’
expectations were almost wearied, there entered the lists a lady,
attended only by one page, who {643} having alighted, presently went
towards the place where Basilius sat, where first kneeling, then
taking away a black scarf (which grief had hired to join with herself,
in eclipsing the excellent feature of a most fair face) she began to
speak; but Basilius and Gynecia hastily ran to embrace Helen Queen of
Corinth, for this was she. Great was the joy of her revived presence,
and great the desire to know the means of her safety. But she
(accounting these gratulations cumbersome, and the relation of her
adventures tedious) fixing her watery eyes on Basilius: “Great king, I
am,” said she, “that unfortunate Helen, sometime Queen of Corinth, now
both deprived of crown and kingdom by Tenarus. Yet why should I
mention this, as fit to be inserted among my greatest misfortunes? The
cause why now I come, is my care of Amphialus’s safety, in whom I
live, to whose disdain I have vowed the tribute of my constant love.
He (alas! why should I live to speak it?) not long since following the
course of his adventures, came to Amasia, where he was made prisoner,
and carried to Dunalbus prince of that country, whose brother it was
Amphialus’s fortune to kill in rescue of a lady, to whom he would have
offered dishonourable violence. These news came to mine ears (to add
more to many miseries) at that time when I chanced to be at Delphos,
pouring forth my heartiest devotions for my most beloved, my most
unkind Amphialus: but the pitying God, either to stay my hands from
the execution they intended (but to what end might that be? that God
knows; for no time can unbend my affection) or, as heaven grant it may
be, in commiseration of my case, thus comforted me:
Helen, return; a naked knight shall find
Rest for thy hopes, and quiet to thy mind.
“Thus far have I wandered, led by that divine promise, in pursuit of
such a one: But nowhere can I find a happy event to confirm that
oracle; yet dare I not despair, having so high a warrant; nor hope,
having so bad success.”
“You are fortunately come,” said the King, “This knight, whose skill
in arms hath made your well-deserving virtues famous, may be that man
pointed out by the finger of heaven, to release Amphialus, who both in
name and armour represents a naked knight.” “O no,” said the Queen,
“it cannot be expected that Apollo, would leave so plain a way for us
to track out the footsteps of his obscure mysteries.” “Madam,” replied
Basilius (having first placed her in a chair by him) “the all-seeing
providence, with whom the ends of all things are present, is sometimes
pleased to cast forth the emblem of our destinies, so strangely hidden
in the covert of ambiguous words, that, doubtless, {644} it serves to
beget nothing but matters of distrust, and labyrinths of errors, where
the imagination a thousand ways may be led astray; of this you have a
present proof, confirmed by my experience. And sometimes the same
justice unfolds the secret of our fate, and plainly lets us know the
mystery of our fortune; yet even that plainness, to the curious search
of our still-mistrusting brain, becomes a reason sufficient to enforce
us to a contrary belief. This last, I think (if, in the interpretation
of an oracle, my opinion may be received) is that mean, whereby Apollo
both reveals and hides the author of Amphialus’s freedom.”
This said, he sends presently for the naked knight, who as soon
obeying the king’s command, as he was completely armed, came before
him; to whom Basilius cheerfully told (as glad to be the reporter of