The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia
of breaking, that the forsaken knight fell to the ground, quite for
that instant forgetting both love and hatred: and Amphialus (finding
himself also in such weakness, as he looked for speedy death) glad of
the victory, though little hoping to enjoy it, pulled up his vizor,
meaning with his dagger to give him death; but instead of death, he
gave him life: for the air so revived his spirits, that coming to
himself, and seeing his present danger, with a life conquering death,
he took Amphialus by the thigh, and together rose himself, and
overturned him. But Amphialus scrambled up again, both now so weak
indeed, as their motions rather seemed the after-drops of a storm,
than any matter of great fury.
But Amphialus might repent himself of his wilful breaking his sword:
for the forsaken knight (having with the extremity of justly-conceived
hate, and the unpitifulness of his own near-threatening death, blotted
out all compliments of courtesy) let fly at him so cruelly, that
though the blows were weak, yet weakness upon a weakened subject,
proved such strength, that Amphialus having attempted in vain once or
twice to close with him, receiving wound upon wound, sent his whole
burden to strike the earth with falling, since he could strike his foe
no better in standing: giving no other tokens of himself, than as of a
man even ready to take his oath to be death’s true servant.
Which when the hardy brothers of Anaxius perceived, not reckoning law
of arms, nor use of chivalry, they flew in to defend their friend, or
revenge their loss of him. But they were forthwith encountered with
the two brave companions of the forsaken knight, whereof the one being
all in green, both armour and furniture, it {386} seemed a pleasant
garden, wherein grew orange trees; which with their golden fruits,
cunningly beaten in and embroidered, greatly enriched the eye-pleasing
colour of green. In his shield was a sheep feeding in a pleasant
field, with this word, “Without fear or envy.” And therefore was
called the knight of the sheep. The other knight was all in milk
white, his attiring else all cut in stars, which made of cloth of
silver, and silver spangles, each way seemed to cast many aspects. His
device was the very pole itself, about which many stars stirring, but
the place itself left void. The word was, “The best place yet
reserved.” But these four knights inheriting the hate of their
friends, began a most fierce combat: the forsaken knight himself not
able to help his side, but was driven to sit him down, with the
extreme faintness of his more and more fainting body. But these
valiant couples seeking honour by dishonouring, and to build safety
upon ruin, gave new appetites to the almost glutted eyes of the
beholders; and now blood began to put sweat from the full possession
of their outsides, no advantage being yet to be seen, only the knight
of the sheep seeming most inclined to deliver, and effecting most of
all that viewed him, when a company of soldiers sent by Cecropia, came
out in boats to the island, and all came running to the destruction of
the three knights, whereof one was utterly unable to defend himself.
But then did the other two knights show their wonderful courage and
fidelity, for turning back to back, and both bestriding the black
forsaken knight (who had fainted so long till he had lost the feeling
of faintness) they held play against the rest, though the two brothers
unknightly helped them; till Philanax, who watchfully attended such
traitorous practices, sent likewise over, both by boat and swimming,
so choice a number, as did put most of the others to the sword. Only
the two brothers, with some of the bravest of them, carrying away the
body of Amphialus, which they would rather have died, than have left
behind them.
So was the forsaken knight, laid upon cloaks, carried home to the
camp. But his two friends knowing his earnest desire not to be known,
covering him from anybody’s eyes, conveyed him to their own tent:
Basilius himself conquering his earnest desire to see him, with fear
to displease him, who had fought so notably in his quarrel. But fame
set the honour upon his back, which he would not suffer to shine in
his face: no man’s mouth being barren of praises to the noble knight
that had battered the most esteemed knight in the world; everybody
praying for his life, and thinking that therein they prayed for
themselves. But he himself, when by the diligent care of friends, and
well-applied cunning of surgeons, he came to renew again the league
between his mind and body; then fell he to a fresh war with his own
thoughts, wrongfully {387} condemning his manhood, laying cowardice to
himself, whom the impudentest backbiter would not have so wronged. For
his courage (used to use victory as an inheritance) could brook no
resistance at any time: but now that he had promised himself not only
the conquest of him, but the scaling of the walls, and delivery of
Pamela, though he had done beyond all others’ expectation, yet so
short was he of his own, that he hated to look upon the sun that had
seen him do so weakly: and so much abhorred all visitation or honour,
whereof he thought himself unworthy, that he besought his two noble
friends to carry him away to a castle not far off, where he might cure
his wounds, and never be known till he made success excuse this, as he
thought, want in him. They lovingly obeyed him, leaving Basilius and
all the camp very sorry for the parting of these three unknown
knights, in whose prowess they had reposed the greatest trust of
victory.
But they being gone, Basilius and Philanax gave good order to the
strengthening of the siege, fortifying themselves, so that they feared
no more any such sudden onset, as that of Anaxius. And they within (by
reason of Anaxius’s hurt, but especially of Amphialus’s) gave
themselves only to a diligent watch and ward, making no sallies out,
but committing the principal trust to Zoilus and Lycurgus. For Anaxius
was yet forced to keep his chamber. And as for Amphialus, his body had
such wounds, and he gave such wounds to his mind, as easily it could
not be determined whether death or he made the greater haste one to
the other: for when the diligent care of cunning surgeons had brought
life to the possession of his own right, sorrow and shame, like two
corrupted servants, came waiting of it, persuading nothing but the
giving over of itself to destruction. They laid before his eyes his
present case, painting every piece of it in most ugly colours: they
showed him his love wrapped in despair, his fame blotted by overthrow;
so that if before he languished, because he could not obtain his
desiring, he now lamented, because he durst not desire the obtaining.
“Recreant Amphialus,” would he say to himself, “how darest thou
entitle thyself the lover of Philoclea, that hath neither showed
thyself a faithful coward, or a valiant rebel, but both rebellious and
cowardly, which no law can quit, nor grace have pity of? alas! life!
what little pleasure thou dost me, to give me nothing but sense of
reproach, and exercise of ruin? I would, sweet Philoclea, I had died,
before thy eyes had seen my weakness: and then perchance with some
sigh thou wouldst have confessed, thou hadst lost a worthy servant.
But now, caitiff that I am, whatever I have done, serves but to build
up my rival’s glory.”
To these speeches he would couple such gestures of vexation, and would
fortify the gestures with such effects of fury, as sometimes {388}
offering to tear up his wounds, sometimes to refuse the sustenance of
meat, and council of physicians, that his perplexed mother was driven
to make him by force to be tended, with extreme courtesy to herself,
and annoyance to him: till in the end he was contented to promise her
he would attempt no violence upon himself, upon condition he might be
troubled by nobody but only his physicians: his melancholy detesting
all company, so that the very surgeons nor servants durst speak unto
him in doing him service; only he had prayed his mother, as she
tendered his life, she would procure him grace, and that without that
she would never come at him more.
His mother, who had confined all her love only unto him, set only such
about him as were absolutely at her commandment, whom she forbade to
let him know anything that passed in the castle, till his wounds were
cured, but as she from time to time should instruct them: she, for
herself, being resolved, now she had the government of all things in
her own hands, to satisfy her son’s love by their yielding, or satisfy
her own revenge in their punishment. Yet first, because she would be
the freer from outward force, she sent a messenger to the camp to
denounce unto Basilius, that if he did not presently raise his siege,
she would cause the heads of the three ladies, prisoners, to be cut
off before his eyes. And to make him the more fear a present
performance, she caused his two daughters and Zelmane to be led unto
the walls, where she had made a scaffold, easy to be seen by Basilius:
and there caused them to be kept, as ready for the slaughter, till
answer came from Basilius. A sight full of pity it was, to see these
three (all excelling in all those excellencies, wherewith nature can
beautify anybody: Pamela giving sweetness to majesty; Philoclea
enriching nobleness with humbleness, Zelmane setting in womanly beauty
manlike valour) to be thus subjected to the basest injury of unjust
fortune. One might see in Pamela a willingness to die, rather than to
have life at other’s discretion; though sometimes a princely disdain
would sparkle out of her princely eyes, that it should be in other’s
power to force her to die. In Philoclea a pretty fear came up, to
endamask her rosy cheeks: but it was such a fear, as rather seemed a
kindly child to her innate humbleness, than any other dismayedness: or
if she were dismayed, it was more for Zelmane, than for herself; or if
more for herself, it was because Zelmane should lose her. As for
Zelmane, as she went with her hands bound (for they durst not
adventure on her well-known valour, especially among a people, which
perchance might be moved by such a spectacle to some revolt) she was
the true image of overmastered courage, and of spite, that sees no
remedy. For her breast swelled withal, the blood burst out at her
{389} nose, and she looked paler than accustomed, with her eyes cast
upon the ground, with such a grace, as if she were fallen out with the
heavens, for suffering such an injury. The lookers on were so moved
withal, as they misliked what themselves did, and yet still did what
themselves misliked. For some glad to rid themselves of the dangerous
annoyances of this siege, some willing to shorten the way to
Amphialus’s succession, whereon they were dependants, some, and the
greatest some, doing because others did, and suffering because none
durst begin to hinder, did in this sort set their hands to this, in
their own conscience, wicked enterprise.
But when this message was brought to Basilius, and that this pitiful
preparation was a sufficient letter of credit for him to believe it,
he called unto him his chief counsellors: among which, those he
chiefly trusted were Philanax and Kalander, lately come to the camp at
Basilius’s commandment, and in himself weary of his solitary life,
wanting his son’s presence, and never having heard from his beloved
guests since they departed from him. Now in this doubt what he should
do, he willed Kalander to give him his advice: who spoke much to this
purpose. “You command me, Sir,” said he, “to speak, rather because you
will keep your wonted grave and noble manner, to do nothing of
importance without counsel, than that in this cause, which indeed hath