The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
of thee; but now thyself is the sea which drowns my comfort; thyself
is the pirate that robs thyself from me; thy own will becomes thy evil
fortune.” Then turned he his thoughts to all forms of guesses that
might light upon the purpose and course of Pyrocles, for he was not so
sure by his words that it was love, as he was doubtful where the love
was. One time he thought some beauty in Laconia had laid hold of his
eyes; another time he feared that it might be Parthenia’s excellency
which had broken the bands of all former resolution; but the more he
thought the more he knew not what to think, armies of objections
rising against any accepted opinion.
Then as careful he was what to do himself: at length determined never
to leave seeking him till his search should be either by meeting
accomplished, or by death ended. Therefore (for all the unkindness
bearing tender respect that his friend’s secret determination should
be kept from any suspicion in others) he went to Kalander, and told
him that he had received a message from his friend, by which he
understood he was gone back again into Laconia about some matters
greatly importing the poor men, whose protection he had undertaken,
and that it was in any sort {47} fit for him to follow him, but in
such private wise, as not to be known, and that therefore he would as
then bid him farewell; arming himself in a black armour, as either a
badge, or prognostication of his mind, and taking only with him a good
store of money and a few choice jewels, leaving the greatest number of
them, and most of his apparel with Kalander, which he did partly to
give the more cause to Kalander to expect their return, and so to be
the less curiously inquisitive after them--and partly to leave those
honourable thanks unto him for his charge and kindness, which he knew
he would not other way receive. The good old man having neither reason
to dissuade nor hope to persuade, received the things with mind of a
keeper, not of an owner; but, before he went, desired he might have
the happiness fully to know what they were, which, he said, he had
ever till then delayed, fearing to be importune: but now he would not
be so much an enemy to his desires as any longer to imprison them in
silence. Palladius told him that the matter was not so secret but that
so worthy a friend deserved the knowledge, and should have it as soon
as he might speak with his friend, without whose consent (because
their promise bound him otherwise) he could not reveal it; but bade
him hold for most assured that if they lived but a while he should
find that they which bore the names of Diaphantus and Palladius would
give him and his cause to think his noble courtesy well employed.
Kalander would press him no further, but desiring that he might have
leave to go, or at least to send his son and servants with him:
Palladius brake off all ceremonies by telling him his case stood so
that his greatest favour should be in making least ado of his parting.
Wherewith Kalander knowing it to be more cumber than courtesy to
strive, abstained from further urging him, but not from hearty
mourning the loss of so sweet a conversation.
Only Clitophon by vehement importunity obtained to go with him to come
again to Diaphantus, whom he named and accounted his lord. And in such
private guise departed Palladius, though having a companion to talk
withal, yet talking much more with unkindness. And first they went to
Mantinea; whereof because Parthenia was, he suspected there might be
some cause of his abode. But, finding there no news of him, he went to
Tegea, Ripa, Enispae, Stimphalus, and Phineus, famous for the
poisonous Stygian water, and through all the rest of Arcadia, making
their eyes, their ears, and their tongues serve almost for nothing but
that inquiry. But they could know nothing but that in none of those
places he was known. And so went they, making one place succeed to
another in like uncertainty to their search, many times encountering
strange adventures worthy to be registered in the rolls of fame: but
this may not be omitted. As they passed {48} in a pleasant valley (on
either side of which high hills lifted up their beetle-brows, as if
they would overlook the pleasantness of their under-prospect) they
were by the daintiness of the place, and the weariness of themselves,
invited to light from their horses, and pulled off their bits that
they might something refresh their mouths upon the grass (which
plentifully grew, brought up under the care of those well-shading
trees), they themselves laid them down hard by the murmuring music of
certain waters which spouted out of the side of the hills, and in the
bottom of the valley made of many springs a pretty brook, like a
commonwealth of many families; but when they had a while hearkened to
the persuasion of sleep, they rose and walked onward in that shady
place till Clitophon espied a piece of armour, and not far off another
piece; and so the sight of one piece teaching him to look for more, he
at length found all, with head-piece and shield, by the device whereof
he straight knew it to be the armour of his cousin, the noble
Amphialus. Whereupon (fearing some inconvenience happened unto him) he
told both his doubt and cause of doubt to Palladius, who, considering
thereof, thought best to make no longer stay, but to follow on, lest
perchance some violence were offered to so worthy a knight, whom the
fame of the world seemed to set in balance with any knight living. Yet
with a sudden conceit, having long borne great honour to the name of
Amphialus, Palladius thought best to take that armour, thinking
thereby to learn by them that should know that armour some news of
Amphialus, and yet not hinder him in the search of Diaphantus too. So
he, by the help of Clitophon, quickly put on that armour, whereof
there was no one piece wanting, though hacked in some places,
betraying some fighting not long since passed. It was something too
great, but yet served well enough. And so, getting on their horses,
they travelled but a little way when in the opening of the mouth of
the valley into a fair field they met with a coach drawn with four
milk-white horses, furnished all in black with a black-a-moor boy upon
every horse, they all apparelled in white, the coach itself very
richly furnished in black and white. But before they could come so
near as to discern what was within, there came running upon them above
a dozen horsemen, who cried to them to yield themselves prisoners or
else they should die. But Palladius, not accustomed to grant over the
possession of himself upon so unjust titles, with sword drawn gave
them so rude an answer that divers of them never had breath to reply
again: for, being well backed by Clitophon, and having an excellent
horse under him, when he was overpressed by some he avoided them, and
ere the other thought of it, punished in him his fellow’s faults, and
so either with cunning or with force, or rather with a cunning {49}
force, left none of them either living or able to make his life serve
to others’ hurt. Which being done, he approached the coach, assuring
the black boys they should have no hurt, who were else ready to have
run away; and looking in the coach, he found in the one end a lady of
great beauty, and such a beauty as showed forth the beams both of
wisdom and good nature, but all as much darkened as might be, with
sorrow. In the other, two ladies (who by their demeanour showed well
they were but her servants) holding before them a picture in which was
a goodly gentleman whom he knew not, painted, having in their faces a
certain waiting sorrow, their eyes being infected with their
mistress’s weeping. But the chief lady having not so much as once
heard the noise of this conflict (so had sorrow closed up all the
entries of her mind, and love tied her senses to that beloved
picture), now the shadow of him falling upon the picture made her cast
up her eye, and seeing the armour which too well she knew, thinking
him to be Amphialus, the lord of her desires (blood coming more freely
into her cheeks, as though it would be bold, and yet there growing new
again pale for fear) with a pitiful look, like one unjustly condemned.
“My Lord Amphialus,” said she, “you have enough punished me; it is
time for cruelty to leave you, and evil fortune me; if not, I pray you
(and to grant my prayer fitter time nor place you cannot have)
accomplish the one even now, and finish the other.” With that, sorrow
impatient to be slowly uttered in her often staying speeches, poured
itself so fast into tears, that Palladius could not hold her longer in
error, but pulling off his helmet, “Madam,” said he, “I perceive you
mistake me; I am a stranger in these parts, set upon without any cause
given by me by some of your servants, whom, because I have in my just
defence evil intreated, I came to make my excuse to you, whom seeing
such as I do, I find greater cause why I should crave pardon of you.”
When she saw his face and heard his speech she looked out of the
coach, and seeing her men, some slain, some lying under their dead
horses and striving to get from under them, without making more
account of the matter; “Truly,” said she, “they are well served that
durst lift up their arms against that armour. But, Sir Knight,” said
she, “I pray you tell me, how came you by this armour? for if it be by
the death of him that owned it, then have I more to say unto you.”
Palladius assured her it was not so, telling her the true manner how
he found it. “It is like enough,” said she, “for that agrees with the
manner he hath lately used. But I beseech you, Sir,” said she, “since
your prowess hath bereft me of my company, let it yet so far heal the
wounds itself hath given as to guard me to the next town.” “How great
soever my business be, fair lady,” said he, “it shall willingly yield
to so noble a cause: {50} but first, even by the favour you bear to
the lord of this noble armour, I conjure you to tell me the story of
your fortune herein, lest, hereafter, when the image of so excellent a
lady in so strange a plight come before mine eyes, I condemn myself of
want of consideration in not having demanded thus much. Neither ask I
it without protestation that wherein my sword and faith may avail you
they shall bind themselves to your service.” “Your conjuration, fair
knight,” said she, “is too strong for my poor spirit to disobey, and
that shall make me (without any other hope, my ruin being but by one
unrelievable) to grant your will herein, and to say the truth, a
strange niceness were it in me to refrain that from the ears of a
person representing so much worthiness, which I am glad even to rocks
and woods to utter. Know you then that my name is Helen, queen by
birth, and hitherto possessed of the fair city and territory of
Corinth. I can say no more of myself but that I am beloved of my
people, and may justly say beloved, since they are content to bear
with my absence and folly. But I being left by my father’s death, and
accepted by my people in the highest degree that country could
receive; as soon, or rather, before that my age was ripe for it, my
court quickly swarmed full of suitors: some, perchance, loving my
estate, others my person; but once, I know all of them, however my
possessions were in their heart, my beauty, such as it is, was in
their mouths, many strangers of princely and noble blood, and all of
mine own country, to whom either birth or virtue gave courage to avow
so high a desire.
“Among the rest, or rather, before the rest, was the lord Philoxenus,
son and heir to the virtuous nobleman, Timotheus, which Timotheus was
a man both in power, riches, parentage, and, which passed all these,
goodness; and, which followed all these, love of the people, beyond