The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
happily contrived: the King not once daring to send to seek me, lest
he should by that discover his own craft used in this dangerous
deluding of the Laconian noblemen.
“But I was scarce a month absent, when he, whose eyes held the reins
of his constancy, the object being removed, married (as it was before
determined) the beauteous Lemnia, who, now in possession of his love,
sticked not to make known to him this whole matter, which otherwise in
her behalf I was bound to keep secret. Thus, Sir, if my desire to obey
your commands hath made the story of my misfortunes tedious, you may
excuse me, since all is done for your satisfaction.”
“Fair Queen,” replied Basilius, “the sweetly-delivered strangeness of
the story would still ravish the hearers with a desire of a further
cause of attentiveness, did not a greater desire in us, who know your
virtues, hasten to hear the end of your much pitied distress.” And so,
calling Amphialus to him, having agreed on the day of marriage between
the Queen and him, they all arose; for now their appetites (growing
jealous of the satisfaction their minds received by the former
discourse) began to solicit them in the behalf of their stomachs.
{653}
After dinner, when most of the company began to imp the wings of time
with the feathers of several recreations, Amphialus and Helen
privately went together into an arbour in the garden, where, first
with tears, the common apology of overjoyed affection, they speak
their minds in silence, their panting hearts, as they embraced, with
mutual desire, beating their envious garments that gave them not leave
to meet. At length Helen, gracefully shaking her head as if she would
shake away the drops that, like the morning-dew on full ripe cherries,
hung on her rosy cheeks: “O Amphialus!” said she, and then kissed him,
as loth to leave so perfect a sentence without a comma; “I will not
say you were unkind, but----,” and there with his lips (loth, loth,
belike, to accuse him) she closed up her speech. “My sole happiness!”
replied Amphialus, softly wringing her hand, “though the foulness of
my fault be no fit subject for her to speak of who breathes nothing
but goodness, yet I want not an accuser: my soul sets forth my
ingratitude; nor can I yet conceive how mercy can be so far removed
from justice, as to find a pardon from my offence: But you have given
it, and, if it be any requital, it shall be my after-life’s study to
love and honour your virtues, as it was hitherto to offend you.” “It
is fit therefore,” said Helen, with the counterfeit settledness of
majesty, “we impose a penance upon you for your oversight, and this it
shall be, that henceforth you neither speak nor think of that you
account your fault: and to help you in obeying my commands, I must
entreat you to keep your mind and tongue, for a time, busied in
telling me what befell you in your travels since our being at Corinth;
and do it not so niggardly, as if you meant to conceal what fame hath
so largely blown abroad: yet, if you were exposed at any time to much
danger, dwell not there too long, lest I forget I have you here.”
“Most dear lady,” said Amphialus, “to conform my speech to your last
request would make me disobedient to your first command. Shall I begin
with my departure from you? alas! at what time should I more employ my
memory and speech in discovery of my faulty self than now? But I see
your eyes begin to take anger into them; I will no longer insist on
mine own accusation.
“Know therefore, most constant lady, that, accompanied only with
Fidutio my page, when I had passed the limits of your dominion, at
that time of day when the high-mounted sun makes least shadows,
wearied with travel, and desirous of some shelter from the sun’s
violent rays, I laid myself under the protection of an olive tree,
thinking to set my mutinous thoughts at peace, but it would not be:
these outward signs could not appease the fury of an inward enemy.
Thus I lay, dearly purchasing the little {654} ease of my body with
the affliction of mind, until mine ears, like faithful servants,
desirous to end this dissention between their master and himself,
caused all the powers of my mind to join in attentiveness; and mine
eyes, loth to be outgone in such good offices, did look that way from
whence the noise came; where I might discern six men armed, on
horseback, carry a fair lady with them, whose tears and out-cries well
showed her indisposition to that journey. This sight moved compassion
in me, and pity brought a desire to help her distress, but my horse
(divining, belike, my intent, and unwilling to leave his food) could
by no means be taken; so that, mad with anger, I began to repeat over
all the misfortunes that ever had befallen me, to let this know it
wanted no fellows, when there came posting that way, one whom by his
haste I guessed to have been of the company gone before. Of whom I
entreated to know what fault could be so heinous that might take away
the name of injury from so unmanly a violence as they offered to so
beauteous a lady: But he, with a scornful silence, smiled, and would
be gone; and so, perhaps, he might, had not the narrowness of the way,
and his courteous horse that would not tread upon me, compelled him to
stay. Whereat his anger burst forth into these threats: ‘Villain!’
said he, ‘thy want of armour shall not excuse thee from a death
wilfully drawn upon thee; and though there be no glory, there will be
satisfaction in thy overthrow.’ Then, drawing his horse a little back,
he alighted, and without further complement, ran towards me: But his
fury brought him too hastily to his death, for thinking, belike, his
threatening mouth was able to defend itself, he forgot to put by my
sword that by good fortune lay in his way, and so justly his death
entered at his mouth, whose life I think was in his tongue. At his
fall Fidutio came in, who helping to fit on the armour, of which we
had disfurnished this unserviceable knight, I mounted on his horse,
that seemed to have regarded my haste more than mine own, and riding
on the spur, I overtook my company, for so they would needs make
themselves, saluting me by the name of my friend Satibarsis. But the
better observance soon put them out of that opinion. So that guessing
(indeed rightly) that I had killed Satibarsis, and by that means got
his armour, without desire to be further than by their own conjecture
satisfied, they joined all hands in his revenge. But the lady’s cause
was just, whose rescue I came to, and the all-seeing providence that
would not see justice over-laid, fought for me. And now five of them
had either received their well deserved payment of death, or were kept
by their wounds from further opposition, when the sixth, who all this
while had held the lady, and looked on, seeing my hand (whose weakness
had left such {655} precedents of the effects of a good cause) now set
against him alone, took his prisoner by the hair, and with his sword
gave her a deep wound in the neck. That inhuman act would have given
desire to the most barbarous, and power of revenge to the most
cowardly: but he, as if he meant to save me a labour, making haste
that their warm blood should meet, with the same sword runs himself
through, dying as just a judge as he was a traitorous offender.
Amazement would have fixed mine eyes upon him, but the lady’s wound
brought them to her succour. Experience on myself, made me skilful,
and my fair patient officious, so that tying up the wound, for some
time I staunched the blood; she, in the meantime, with her watery eyes
bent toward heaven, heartily praying for my good fortune, and many
times thanking her destiny, that, with her death, had ended the
miseries of her ever-dying life. When I had done comforting her, as I
thought, with my opinion of her safety, I entreated to know her name,
and the cause of this injury done to her. ‘No, no,’ replied she,
‘courteous stranger, the comfort of my near-coming death (in spite of
the torment the memory of my most wretched life puts me to) brings
this cheerfulness I now present in my looks: and though the least
delay of my end is accompanied with a world of sorrows, yet I am glad,
for satisfaction of your demand, my breath is a while preserved.
“‘My name is Leaucade, the only daughter to Count Brunio, a man of
large possessions in this country, whom, you may well think, because
in expectation of his lands, many sued for, and those not of the
meanest esteem: but my carelessness of love had taught me such a
carriage, that further than of the favour of my courtesy (of which
they did all indifferently partake) none could boast. And this, till
about a year since, was my daily practice, disdaining (as most that
have not known it do) so ridiculous a passion as I then esteemed love.
At which time this Fluento, whose happy hand hath done us both right,
came to my father’s court. A neighbour prince, with whom (for
encroaching upon the bounds of his territory) my father hath had much
dissention. But a reconcilement being made between them, and both
alike thinking the best means to persevere in amity were to have us
two joined in marriage; without my knowledge (as if it were fit I
should be a stranger to their proceeding) determine of the match. But,
alas! Sir, at this time I was so far from being at their dispose, that
I was not at mine own: for love (I think keeping mischief until it
were ripe for me) had presented a gentleman to mine eyes, by birth
noble, whose ancestors, all to his father, being men of known virtue
in the country, were admitted to the prime offices of the kingdom. But
he taking a pride to be unthrifty, and little esteeming these public
{656} employments, lavished exceedingly both his fame and patrimony;
yet it seemed he only made away his estate to purchase goodness for
his child: such a son he was father to, so rare, so excellent. His
name was Persidas;’ and at that word the tears gushed forth in such
abundance that it seemed her blood had changed his course and colour
to run forth at the sluices of her eyes: ‘Alas! Sir, what shall I say
of him? or who, from Leaucade, will believe the desert of Persidas?
But, alas! if they deserve no credit that love him, in this country
you must hear nothing of him; the knowledge of his person, and the
love of his virtues, being things inseparable. In him begun this
tragedy, in me it ends: for when my father and Fluento had drawn their
agreement to a head, then, and not before, he thought it time, he
said, to let me know my happiness.’ And thus, finding me alone, he
breaks the matter to me: ‘Dear child, I have, ever since the death of
your virtuous mother (though much importuned by many) reserved you to
these years unmarried, because your content should be of counsel with
me in your choice: and happy was this delay for the honour of our
house; for, behold! Fluento makes his fortunes serviceable to your
will: Prince Fluento, daughter, whose powerful greatness the neighbour
potentates stand in awe of: him I have won for you, and so forward we
be that this day-fortnight he is to take you to wife.’ ‘Father,’ said
I, ‘that your wisdom hath deferred my marriage hitherto to give me the
comfort of election, my obedience, my only requital, shall be the same
it ever was to you: and yet I wonder, that having attained to these
years, when my judgment in my choice may be received, you will exclude
me from the end for which I was so long reserved; just like a
physician that telleth his patient he hath brought a potion to cure
him, yet says he must by no means take it. I must be married to Prince
Fluento, and yet your meaning is, I should have liberty to choose; as
if this enforcement destroyed not my freedom of election. That he is a
man, beyond all respects, as you praise him, fit for your estate, I