The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
with such a mischief: and therefore if it were only I, that knew
herein the king’s order, then should my disobedience {249} be a
warrant of your safety. But to one more,’ said he, ‘namely the captain
of the ship, Plexirtus hath opened so much touching the effect of
murdering you, though I think laying the cause rather upon an old
grudge, than his hope of Artaxia. And myself, before the consideration
of your excellencies had drawn love and pity into my mind, imparted it
to such, as I thought fittest for such a mischief: therefore I wish
you to stand upon your guard, assuring you that what I can do for your
safety, you shall see, if it come to the push, by me performed.’ We
thanked him, as the matter indeed deserved, and from that time would
no more disarm ourselves, nor the one sleep without his friend’s eyes
waked for him; so that it delayed the going forward of their bad
enterprise, while they thought it rather chance, than providence,
which made us so behave ourselves.
“But when we came within half a day’s sailing of the shore, so that
they saw it was speedily, or not at all to be done; then, and I
remember it was about the first watch in the night, came the captain
and whispered the counsellor in the ear: but he, as it would seem,
dissuaded him from it: the captain, who had been a pirate from his
youth, and often blooded in it, with a loud voice swore that if
Plexirtus bade him, he would not stick to kill God himself. And
therewith called his mates, and in the King’s name willed them to take
us alive or dead, encouraging them with the spoil of us, which he
said, and indeed was true, would yield many exceeding rich jewels. But
the counsellor, according to his promise, commanded them they should
not commit such a villainy, protesting that he would stand between
them and the king’s anger therein. Wherewith the captain enraged:
‘Nay,’ said he, ‘then we must begin with this traitor himself,’ and
therewith gave him a sore blow upon the head, who honestly did the
best he could to revenge himself.
“But then we knew it time rather to encounter, than wait for mischief.
And so against the captain we went, who straight was environed with
most part of the soldiers and mariners. And yet the truth is, there
were some, whom either the authority of the counsellor, doubt of the
king’s mind, or liking of us, made draw their swords of our side, so
that quickly it grew a most confused fight. For the narrowness of the
place, the darkness of time, and the uncertainty in such a tumult how
to know friends from foes, made the rage of the swords rather guide
than be guided by their masters. For my cousin and me, truly I think
we never performed less in any place, doing no other hurt than the
defence of ourselves, and succouring them who came, for it, drove us
to: for not discerning perfectly, who were for, or against us, we
thought it less evil to spare a foe, than spoil a friend. But from the
highest {250} to the lowest part of the ship there was no place left,
without cries of murdering, and murdered persons. The captain I
happened a while to fight withal, but was driven to part with him by
hearing the cry of the counsellor, who received a mortal wound,
mistaken of one of his own side.
“Some of the wiser would call to parley, and wish peace: but while the
words of peace were in their mouths, some of their evil auditors gave
them death for their hire. So that no man almost could conceive hope
of living, but by being last alive: and therefore every one was
willing to make himself room, by dispatching almost any other: so that
the great number in the ship was reduced to exceeding few, when of
those few the most part weary of those troubles, leapt into the boat,
which was fast to the ship; but while they that were first were
cutting off the rope that tied it, others came leaping in so
disorderly that they drowned both the boat and themselves.
“But while even in that little remnant, like the children of Cadmus,
we continued still to slay one another, a fire, which, whether by the
desperate malice of some, or intention to separate, or accidentally,
while all things were cast up and down, it should seem had taken a
good while before, but never heeded of us; who only thought to
preserve or revenge, now violently burst out in many places and began
to master the principal parts of the ship. Then necessity made us see,
that a common enemy sets one at a civil war: for that little all we
are, as if we had been waged by some man to quench a fire, straight
went to resist that furious enemy by all art and labour: but it was
too late, for already it did embrace and devour from the stern to the
waist of the ship: so as labouring in vain, we were driven to get up
to the prow of the ship, by the work of nature seeking to preserve
life as long as we could; while truly it was a strange and ugly sight
to see so huge a fire, as it quickly grew to be in the sea; and in the
night, as if it had come to light as to death. And by and by it had
burned off the mast, which all this while had proudly borne the sail,
the wind, as might seem, delighted to carry fire and blood in his
mouth, but now it fell overboard, and the fire growing nearer us, it
was not only terrible in respect of what we were to attend, but
insupportable through the heat of it.
“So that we were constrained to bide it no longer, but disarming and
stripping ourselves, and laying ourselves upon such things as we
thought might help our swimming to the land, too far for our strength
to bear us, my cousin and I threw ourselves into the sea. But I had
swam a very little way when I felt, by reason of a wound I had, that I
should not be able to abide the travel: and therefore seeing the mast,
whose tackling had been burnt off, float {251} clear from the ship, I
swam unto it, and getting on it, I found mine own sword, which by
chance, when I threw it away, caught by a piece of canvas, had hung to
the mast. I was glad because I loved it well, but gladder, when I saw
at the other end the captain of the ship, and of all this mischief,
who having a long pike, belike had borne himself up with that till he
had set himself upon the mast. But when I perceived him, ‘Villain,’
said I, ‘dost thou think to over-live so many honest men whom thy
falsehood hath brought to destruction?’ with that bestriding the mast,
I got by little and little towards him after such a manner as boys are
wont, if ever you saw that sport, when they ride the wild mare. And he
perceiving my intention, like a fellow that had much more courage than
honesty, set himself to resist: but I had in short space gotten within
him, and, giving him a sound blow, sent him to feed fishes. But there
myself remained, until by pirates I was taken up, and among them again
taken prisoner, and brought into Laconia.”
“But what,” said Philoclea, “became of your cousin Musidorus?” “Lost,”
said Pyrocles. “Ah, my Pyrocles,” said Philoclea, “I am glad I have
taken you. I perceive you lovers do not always say truly: as though I
knew not your cousin Dorus the shepherd?” “Life of my desires,” said
Pyrocles, “what is mine, even to my soul, is yours, but the secret of
my friend is not mine. But if you know so much, then I may truly say,
he is lost since he is no more his own. But I perceive your noble
sister and you are great friends, and well doth it become you so to
be.” “But go forward, dear Pyrocles, I long to hear out till your
meeting me: for there to me-ward is the best part of your story.” “Ah
sweet Philoclea,” said Pyrocles, “do you think I can think so precious
leisure as this well spent in talking? are your eyes a fit book, think
you, to read a tale upon? is my love quiet enough to be an historian?
dear princess, be gracious unto me.” And then he fain would have
remembered to have forgot himself. But she with a sweetly disobeying
grace, desired him that her desire once for ever might serve, that no
spot might disgrace that love which shortly she hoped should be to the
world warrantable. Fain he would not have heard, till she threatened
anger; and then the poor lover durst not, because he durst not. “Nay,
I pray thee, dear Pyrocles,” said she, “let me have my story.” “Sweet
princess,” said he, “give my thoughts a little respite: and if it
please you, since this time must be so spoiled, yet it shall suffer
the less harm if you vouchsafe to bestow your voice, and let me know
how the good queen Erona was betrayed into such danger, and why
Plangus sought me. For indeed I should pity greatly any mischance
fallen to that princess.” “I will,” said Philoclea, smiling, “so you
{252} give me your word your hands shall be quiet auditors.” “They
shall,” said he, “because subject.”
Then began she to speak, but with so pretty and delightful a majesty,
when she set her countenance to tell the matter, that Pyrocles could
not choose but rebel so far as to kiss her. She would have pulled her
head away, and spoke, but while she spoke, he kissed, and it seemed he
fed upon her words; but she got away. “How will you have your
discourse,” said she, “without you let my lips alone?” He yielded, and
took her hand. “On this,” said he, “will I revenge my wrong;” and so
began to make much of that hand, when her tale, and his delight were
interrupted by Miso, who taking her time, while Basilius’s back was
turned, came unto them, and told Philoclea, she deserved she knew what
for leaving her mother, being evil at ease, to keep company with
strangers. But Philoclea telling her that she was there by her
father’s commandment, she went away muttering that though her back and
her shoulders and her neck were broken, yet as long as her tongue
would wag, it should do her errand to her mother; and so went up to
Gynecia, who was at that time miserably vexed with this manner of
dream. It seemed unto her to be in a place full of thorns, which so
molested her that she could neither abide standing still, nor tread
safely going forward. In this case she thought Zelmane being upon a
fair hill, delightful to the eye, and easy in appearance, called her
thither, whither with such anguish being come, Zelmane was vanished
and she found nothing but a dead body like unto her husband, which
seeming at the first with a strange smell to infect her, as she was
ready likewise within a while to die; the dead body, she thought, took
her in his arms, and said, “Gynecia, leave all, for here is thy only
rest.”
With that she awaked, crying very loud, “Zelmane, Zelmane.”
But remembering herself, and seeing Basilius by (her guilty conscience
more suspecting than being suspected) she turned her call, and called
for Philoclea. Miso forthwith like a valiant shrew, looking at
Basilius, as though she would speak though she died for it, told
Gynecia that her daughter had been a whole hour together in secret
talk with Zelmane. “And,” said she, “for my part I could not be heard,
your daughters are brought up in such awe, though I told her of your
pleasure sufficiently.” Gynecia as if she had heard her last doom
pronounced against her, with a side look and changed countenance, “O
my lord,” said she, “what mean you to suffer those young folks
together?” Basilius, that aimed nothing at the mark of her suspicion,
smiling, took her in his arms: “Sweet wife,” said he, “I thank you for
your care of your child; but they must be youths of other metal than
Zelmane that can endanger her.” “O but----,” cried Gynecia, and
therewith {253} she stayed, for then indeed she did suffer a right
conflict betwixt the force of love, and rage of jealousy. Many times
was she about to satisfy the spite of her mind, and tell Basilius how
she knew Zelmane to be far otherwise than the outward appearance. But
those many times were all put back by the manifold objections of her