Chapter IV: Book IV: , Cantos IV., V.; Book V., Canto III (1)

Among the good and brave knights who fought in Faeryland was a false one named Braggadochio.

Wandering aimlessly about the forests, this man had one day come upon a noble horse, fully caparisoned, and a spear lying by its side. Here was his chance! He made no endeavour to find the owner of the steed, but straightway appropriated both horse and spear.

Finding himself thus armed and mounted, his ambition rose; he determined to call himself a knight, and to set out for the famous court of Gloriana.

He had not gone far when he saw a man sitting idly on a sunny bank. At this Braggadochio puffed himself out in order to look grand, pricked on his horse, and ran at the man full tilt. In terror the man fell flat upon the ground, and lifting up his hands, cried out piteously for mercy. Thereupon Braggadochio thought himself a great warrior, and thundered at his victim in a loud voice, calling him all sorts of names, and commanding him to yield or die, adding that he might think himself happy to be permitted a choice.

The man cried out that he yielded. Then Braggadochio told him, that if he would prostrate himself on the earth and kiss his stirrups he would accept him as his thrall. Immediately the coward cringed at his feet, and did him homage as his liege lord.

By-and-bye this craven thrall became emboldened, for he found out Braggadochio's character, and being full of cunning, resolved to keep in his master's favour by humouring his vanity.

So they went forth. Braggadochio the knight, and Trompart the squire, a fitting pair.

Very soon after they had cast in their fortunes together, they met Archimago, the great and cruel wizard. Now Archimago had a secret grudge against certain knights, and was in search of some one to avenge his fancied wrong. Delighted to see so imposing a personage as Braggadochio, he inquired of Trompart what mighty man this was that rode on a golden saddle, yet carried no weapon save a single spear. Trompart replied that his lord was a great adventurer, who had lost his sword in a hard fight, and had sworn never to wear another until he had avenged himself of his loss. His master's spear, he alleged, was weapon enough to make a thousand combatants quake.

Archimago was much delighted, and he bowed low to Braggadochio, and told the story of his wrongs.

When Braggadochio heard it, he pretended to be very angry, and threatened the offending knights with instant death if Archimago would only tell him where to find them. This the enchanter at once did; but he warned Braggadochio that his enemies were two of the mightiest knights that lived, and begged him to arm himself with a sword as well as his spear.

But Braggadochio scorned his advice, laughed at the notion of measuring his might by the arms he bore, and taunted the enchanter with the weakness of old age, declaring that Archimago little knew what his right arm had done. At this the old man grew ashamed of his mistrust, yet could not dismiss it from his mind.

As he hesitated whether to speak again Braggadochio broke out into a loud boast, declaring that he had once slain seven knights with a single blade, and had then sworn never again to wear a sword unless it were that belonging to the noblest knight alive.

By this grand speech he thought to get rid of Archimago and his troublesome request. But not so, for the enchanter at once promised to bring him by next day the flaming sword of Prince Arthur, "noblest knight alive"; and as he spoke he vanished, leaving no trace behind.

And now the boaster began to fear, and to wonder who this strange man might be. His wonder soon changed to panic, and the bold champions, Trompart and Braggadochio, fled from the spot as if the very ground Archimago had trod would rise and pursue them.

They did not once look back until they reached a green forest, and there they concealed themselves. But their terror was by no means gone: every leaf that moved, every sound the wind made caused their valiant hearts to quake, while all the time they feigned that they were only pretending fear.

At length a shrill horn echoed through the wood, and some one was heard moving quickly in the thicket. This new cause of fright so overcame Braggadochio that he tumbled hastily from his horse and crept into a bush. Trompart waited to see what would happen. Presently there issued from the brushwood a lady in hunting dress. She was very beautiful: her habit was adorned with rich jewels, and her stately bearing showed her to be of princely birth. In her hand she carried a boar-spear, and at her back was slung a bow and a quiver full of steel headed darts.

When Trompart saw the lady, fear seized upon him, and he could not tell whether to flee away or to remain in hiding, but she soon spied him out, and asked whether he had seen a wounded hind pass by. Addressing her in most respectful terms, Trompart replied that he had not, and then begged of her to tell him which of the goddesses she was. She was on the point of replying when something moved in the thicket. It was Braggadochio, but the damsel thought it was her prey, and, bending her bow, would have made a speedy end of the boaster had not Trompart stayed her hand, and explained that his lord, far-famed for bold achievement, lay shrouded there.

As he spoke Braggadochio crept forth on hands and knees; then, rising up boldly, shook his helmet fiercely, trying to appear as if he had just been awakened from deep slumber. The sight of her beauty restored him to self-confidence, and he was beginning to resume airs of vanity when a vision of the weapons she carried cowed him. Her manner, however, again reassured him. She addressed him as a companion-in-arms, and Braggadochio, taking up the strain, recounted the wondrous deeds he had done, then boldly asked who she was that thus ranged the forest and did not dwell at court. To this she replied, that honour was only truly to be found in toil, and that he who idled at home need not hope to win it.

While she spoke Braggadochio, presuming on her graciousness, grew more and more insolent in his demeanour. Indignant, the goddess bent her javelin threateningly, then turned and fled apace. Braggadochio was at first dismayed, but was far too great a coward to pursue. So, concluding that he had better depart lest worse things should befall, he mounted his steed and rode away in so clumsy and untrained a manner that the noble animal chafed under him, and yearned to be eased of his burden.

Some time after this, as Braggadochio and Trompart, who now also possessed a steed, were going on their way, they saw a rude rustic seated on the roadside by a beautiful lady, richly decked with jewels. Now, these were no other than the false Florimell and her lover, son of the old witch who had sent the cruel beast after Florimell the true. Braggadochio thought a knight such as himself more suited to the fair lady than any rustic. He therefore couched his spear, rode up to the man, declaring that the damsel was his, and must be yielded to him on pain of death.

The rustic, greatly alarmed, and not daring to fight against so powerful-looking an enemy, let his lady go, and Braggadochio mounted her on Trompart's horse and led her off, a proud and happy man. As they journeyed he began to make love to her, but presently their love-making came to an abrupt end, for they encountered an armed knight, who advanced towards them on a heavy charger that trampled the ground with a sound like thunder.

The appearance of this knight greatly disconcerted Braggadochio, but he looked as fierce as he could, and made a show of cheering his lady, who also was afraid. The knight came on, fierce and powerful, and bade Braggadochio give up the lady or else do battle for her. This challenge made the boaster quake with terror, but he put on the best appearance of bravery he could, and addressing the stranger declared that man to be very foolish who sought to win with words what he had gained with blows. At this the knight grew angry, and told Braggadochio to prepare to fight.

"Then," said Braggadochio, "since die thou wilt, let us both turn our steeds, ride back a certain distance, and meet in equal tilt." They did as he suggested, and retired one from the other about a furlong's space, when Braggadochio, whose last intention was to fight, rode away, and without looking back, left his lady-love to take her chance, caring only for his own safety. Thus did his valour show itself!

After several further adventures, Braggadochio one day encountered a party of knights and ladies who were on their way to a great tournament. He rode up to them and they treated him courteously, and allowed him to accompany them.

Now, it happened that the fair but false Florimell whom Braggadochio had so basely deserted was of this company, and rode with a knight named Blandamour. No sooner did Braggadochio see her than he wished to have her back again. He therefore declared that he had before won her in battle and that she was his by right. But Blandamour would not listen to his claim, and taunting him with having lost his lady-love decreed that Braggadochio must fight for her once more if he wished to make good his pretended right. He further proposed that the false Florimell should stand side by side with a wicked old witch named Ate, who was of their company, and that he who won the day should have the lady, and he who was beaten, the witch. The company were all pleased with this proposal, and false Florimell and the hag were brought forward, whereupon all began to laugh. Then Braggadochio, glad of any excuse which saved him from fighting, declared that he would be no party to any such bargain; if Blandamour liked to offer another lady as fair as Florimell, he would agree to fight, but he would not risk his life on the chance of gaining so poor a prize as Ate. At this they all smiled, the false Florimell upbraided him with want of gallantry and Ate, the witch, tried to urge him on, but he cared for none of them, and remained obstinate.

In order to keep the peace, a brave knight, Cambello, who chanced to ride with them, reminded the company that they were on their way to a great tournament, and had better not waste their strength in quarrelling on the way, but wait until they arrived where each could fight his fill and, if they wished, fight out this quarrel also. So they passed off Blandamour's proposal as a joke, and went on together; but all the way they mocked at Braggadochio and made a laughingstock of him.

Now, the tournament to which this company was going was one arranged by the good knight Satyrane, he who had picked up the lost girdle of the true Florimell.

It was to be held in her honour, and to last for three days. To the combatant who most distinguished himself the right was reserved of claiming the hand of the fairest lady present, and to that lady Satyrane would yield Florimell's golden girdle.

On the first day, Sir Satyrane himself was judged the victor. On the second, Braggadochio's opportunity arose; but when his turn came to fight, he looked so uncertain and fearful that the knight Triamond, indignant at his cowardly hesitation, stepped forward and took his place. The third day was no more favourable to the braggart, for a strange knight appeared within the lists, who bore all others down, and won the honours of the tournament.

Then followed a contest as to which was fairest of the many damsels who had graced the combat. Knight after knight advanced his lady, but of them all, Florimell the false was deemed most lovely, and to her the girdle was awarded.

Now, this girdle had been framed by magic skill, and could not be made to clasp upon falsehood of any kind. It would not therefore fasten on the false Florimell, who, however, insisted upon wearing it, although she was forced to tie it on.

And here fortune favoured Braggadochio, for there arose a great quarrel as to whose Florimell should be. The knight who had rightfully won her was no other than Britomart, who cared nothing for her prize. Then Braggadochio stepped forward and called Florimell to witness that he had before won her in battle. At his audacity the uproar grew more loud, for all the knights hated and despised Braggadochio. At length Sir Satyrane proposed that all should forego their claim, and that the false Florimell should be placed in their midst, and of her own free will choose her rightful lord. To this the knights agreed, and after looking long at each one, as if she would fain have pleased them all, Florimell turned to Braggadochio. The knights were almost mad with disappointment and anger at her choice, so Braggadochio, feeling rather uncomfortable and not very safe among them, bore her off in the night, and left them to complain.

Soon after this the true Florimell was married, as you have already heard, to Marinell. Immediately after the wedding, Marinell held a great tournament, in which he and six friendly knights maintained Florimell's beauty against that of any lady all the world over.

The lists were open to all who cared to enter them, and many were the honours lost and won, but when the third day dawned, Marinell still wore the victor's laurel. This day was to end the tournament, and as the fight grew more and more fierce, Marinell became surrounded, and was in serious danger. At that moment the brave Sir Artegal, whom Britomart sought, entered the tilting-yard, and at the same time, Braggadochio, Trompart, and the lady. Sir Artegal saw Marinell's danger, and hastened to his aid, but not wishing to be recognized, he changed shields with Braggadochio before entering the lists. After a hard combat, he succeeded in rescuing Marinell from the opposing knights, and together they won every honour of the field.

The tournament ended, Sir Artegal returned his shield to Braggadochio, and the whole company repaired to the great hall, where the judges of the tilting match were to announce the name of him who had won the prize. There also stood the true Florimell, ready to greet every knight according to the deeds he had done. Then the judges called for the stranger knight who had rescued Marinell, but Artegal did not move, and in his stead Braggadochio advanced and showed his shield, which all recognized as that belonging to the victor. The trumpets sounded three times in his honour, the judges awarded him the prize, and Florimell came forth to greet him and to thank him for the honour he had done her name. But Braggadochio received her courteous words with scorn, declaring that what he had done had been for his own lady's sake, and not for hers.

At these rude words, Florimell turned aside, and Braggadochio, who had kept his lady veiled until now, brought her boldly forth before all the people, maintaining that she and not the other was Florimell the true. She was indeed fair, and for a moment the assemblage was stupified, and agreed that if this were not the Florimell famed throughout Faeryland, she was yet more beautiful. Even Marinell was dismayed, and knew not what to believe. Then arose Sir Artegal, and no longer able to contain his anger against Braggadochio, plainly discovered himself, and charging the boaster with utter falsehood, declared it was he and not Braggadochio who had rescued Marinell; for proof of which he pointed to the false knight's unused sword. He next called for Florimell, and leading her up to the other, caused the two to stand side by side. Behold, the false could not abide the presence of the true, and the false Florimell faded away before their eyes, and no trace of her was left but the empty girdle. The people were struck dumb with astonishment, and Braggadochio was seized with despair and remained as still as if he were lifeless. Artegal broke the silence, for he stooped and lifted the girdle, and presented it to Florimell. She fastened it on her waist, and it fitted perfectly; and all were convinced that this was indeed Florimell, and crowded around her, giving her tokens of their joy.

Meantime, a commotion arose in the hall. The knight Guyon, to whom the stolen horse belonged, had arrived, and seeing Braggadochio's horse recognized it as his own. Seizing its reins with one hand and drawing his sword with the other, he insisted on having it restored. Braggadochio refused, and a quarrel ensued, which bade fair to be a bloody one. Then Artegal came forward and asked Guyon whether he could prove the steed to be his own. Guyon replied that there was a mark inside the horse's mouth by which he could certainly recognize it. At this several of those present tried to open its mouth, and were severely bitten for their pains. Then came Guyon himself, and called his steed by its name, at which the horse broke loose from its bonds in its joy and followed Guyon, opening its mouth so that all could see whose he was.

Now Artegal was deemed the just, and all looked to him for judgment in the quarrel. He decreed the proof sufficient, and condemned Braggadochio to go on foot until he could obtain a horse honestly. Braggadochio raged and raved in fury, and made Artegal at length so angry that he three times laid his hand on his sword to kill him, but Sir Guyon stayed his anger, saying that Braggadochio was unworthy the vengeance of a true knight.

So was Sir Artegal pacified, but Talus, his servant, seized Braggadochio, and, dragging him out of the hall, shaved off his beard, reversed his shield, blotted out his device, broke his sword, and scattered his armour. Then, rushing after Trompart, who had tried to make away, he disarmed him also, and scourged him out of the court; and, amidst the laughter and scorn of the knights and their ladies, Braggadochio and his follower finally disappeared.

HOW BRITOMART FOUND ARTEGAL.

Faerie Queene. Book IV. Cantos IV., V., VI.

After leaving the abode of Busyran, the cruel enchanter, Britomart and Amoret met with many adventures, but in none of these did they encounter either Scudamour or Artegal. At length Britomart heard of Sir Satyrane's famous tournament, and to it, accompanied by Amoret, she repaired.

It was the last day of the tournament when they arrived. Many brave combats had already taken place, but for this day was reserved the most eager display of valour. Full many a knightly deed was wrought, and when fortune seemed to forsake the side of Satyrane, he himself was ever ready to assist his knights and uphold their honour, proving once again his far-famed prowess. Nor was there one that day who did not put forth his utmost strength, as might be well seen from the many wounds received, the shivered spears and broken swords, and horses that ran riderless. Still the knights of Sir Satyrane kept the ascendency. But when the day had dragged on a weary pace, there appeared from out the other side a stranger. Whence he came no man could say, nor could they discover aught from the arms which he bore. His steed was caparisoned with oaken leaves, his armour looked like wild weeds decked with wood mosses, and on his ragged shield was the strange device, "Salvagesse sans finesse." On entering the lists this new-comer levelled his spear at the first knight he met, and overthrew him at the first encounter. Knight after knight he vanquished, until his spear split, and then he drew his sword, and with it hewed and slashed at helmets until everyone began to shun the very sight of him as of death itself. And now all men wondered who this was, and whence he came, inquiring one of another by what name he was called, and when they could learn nothing they dubbed him the Savage Knight because of his wild appearance. He was, however, no knight of the woods, but Artegal, the brave and mighty.

Thus were Sir Satyrane and his knights dismayed by the sole power of Artegal, and none of them durst stand in the field before him, but were beaten back and chased about all the day, until evening came, and the sun began to slant downwards in the heavens. Then, again, there rushed out from the thickest press, an unknown knight, who in turn put to shame even the glory of Sir Artegal.

This was Britomart, who, eager to restore the day to Sir Satyrane, bent her powerful spear towards Artegal's helmet, and smote him so sore a blow that he fell from his charger, and was for a time unable to arise. Nor did others who crossed spears with the stranger fare better; and when the fighting was over, Britomart, content with having restored the glory of the field to Satyrane, went on her way with Amoret, ignorant that she had, all unawares, seen and fought with Artegal her love.

He, however, was sore at heart, by reason of his defeat, and eager to have his revenge on the unknown warrior.

Meantime, Scudamour still sought his wife. He had, by this time, heard of her rescue, but instead of feeling grateful to Britomart, he was jealous and suspicious of her, for the wicked hag Ate had spoken ill of the noble maid, and tried to create enmity against her.

From being suspicious, Scudamour became unjust, and in his wrath against Britomart, had nearly slain old Glauce, her faithful squire. In vain did the aged dame try to pacify his wrath; the more calmly she spoke, the more angry he grew, and yet their common interest held them together. At length, after various wanderings, they one day encountered an armed knight, who, when he saw them approach, rode rapidly towards them as if bent on an attack. Scudamour, perceiving his purpose, rode forward, ready for the combat, but, as the other knight came near and saw the arms which Scudamour bore, he checked his charger, and riding quietly up, addressed him courteously, calling him by his name, and praying to be pardoned for the offence against a friend which he had so nearly committed.

To this, Scudamour replied, that at worst it were a slight offence to try his sword with any venturous knight, and begged to know who it was that had thus called him by name.

"Call me the Savage Knight," said Artegal, "as others do."

"Then," said Scudamour, "interpret your name; have you taken it for some secret purpose, or only because your home is in the forest?"

"The other day," Artegal replied, "a stranger knight did me shame, and I wait to wreak revenge upon him when he shall pass this way."

At this answer, Scudamour asked who the stranger knight might be, and Artegal told him that he was one whose name was unknown, although his fame was far renowned. He was called the Knight of the Heben Spear, and having borne down all opponents in a great tournament lately held by Sir Satyrane, had departed, carrying with him the fairest lady ever seen.

When Scudamour heard mention of the dread spear, he knew it must be Britomart of whom Artegal spoke, and his rage kindling afresh, he exclaimed in angry accents--

"This is not the first uncourtly deed of which that knight is guilty; he hath stolen from me my true love, and if this hand can aid in the revenge you purpose, it shall not fail you when the time arrives."

So together they plotted vengeance on the unconscious and noble Britomart.

While they were thus talking, they saw far off, a knight, dressed in foreign arms and strange accoutrements, whom on nearer approach, they recognized as none other than this same Knight of the Heben Spear. Then Scudamour prayed Sir Artegal to let him make the first attack. Artegal granted the request, and Scudamour, preparing his spear for battle, ran fiercely against his foe. Britomart, seeing his intention, prepared to receive the onset, and so entertained Sir Scudamour, that presently both horse and rider were on the ground.

And now Artegal, beholding Scudamour's mischance, advanced his lance, and full of rage and vengeance, rode against the maiden; but lo! all unawares, Artegal also left his saddle, and to his great amazement, found himself on the ground. He leapt lightly up, and snatching his deadly blade, sprang upon Britomart, assailing her with such vigour that although she was mounted and he on foot, she was forced to give way before him. Now, as they fought, it happened that Britomart wheeled suddenly round, when Sir Artegal's sword struck a blow behind her crest, which falling backward, wounded her steed, and forced her to dismount.

Not a whit dismayed, she cast from her the enchanted spear, and betook herself to her shield and sword. So furiously did she fight that Artegal, exhausted by his long combat, had to yield before her, and her sword pierced through his armour and wounded him so that his blood flowed freely on the green grass.

But now the tide of battle began to change, for Britomart grew weary, while Artegal, through very fighting, seemed to gain rather than to lose strength. He showered blow after blow on his opponent as if he would tear her body from her soul, and then gathering together all his force, the Savage Knight upraised his arm to deal a stroke from which it seemed impossible that Britomart could escape with her life. Down came the cruel blow, and falling on her helmet, struck off the face-piece, then glancing aside, did no further hurt.

And now appeared the maiden's beauteous countenance, shining like the ruddy morn; and all around, her fair hair--loosened from its band by the stir of the fight--fell like a golden shower glistening as the shining sand. And as Sir Artegal once more raised his sword, thinking to deal the last deadly blow, his arm was suddenly arrested; and benumbed with secret fear, shrank from its revengeful purpose, while the cruel sword fell from his slackened fingers to the ground. Then Artegal, having gazed long on the fair and unexpected vision, fell humbly on his knee, thinking that she who stood before him was a heavenly goddess, and horror-struck with what he had done, prayed for pardon.

But Britomart, full of wrath because of the stroke that had revealed her face, still held her arm uplifted, and standing sternly over the knight, threatened to strike unless he would return to the combat, bidding him arise or he should surely die. But Artegal only prayed the more earnestly for pardon, or if that were refused him, besought that she would take her will and inflict on him what punishment she chose.

And when Scudamour, who now quaked with fear, watched her as she stood resolute, and beheld how fair and heavenly her countenance appeared, he crossed himself, and began to worship her as a celestial vision. And old Glauce seeing this, and knowing that now all jealousy of Britomart would be at rest, was joyful at the thought of a good ending to her sore trouble, and greeting her lost nursling, prayed her as she loved her faithful squire to grant these warriors a truce. The maiden yielded to her request, and the knights raised their beavers to show who they were.

When Britomart beheld the face of Artegal in all its manly beauty, she saw that it was the countenance she had beheld in the magic mirror in her father's house; her angry courage gave way, her haughty spirit became subdued, and her upraised arm fell quietly by her side.

But the maiden was very proud, and cared not to show that she was conquered, so by-and-bye she tried to uplift her hand again, as if rage and revenge still remained in her soul, but it fell harmless, for she caught sight of Sir Artegal's fair countenance. Then she tried to force bitter, angry words from her tongue, but it too refused to obey her will, and instead of wrathful speeches, would utter only mild and gentle words.

And Scudamour, relieved from all his jealous fears by the vision of her loveliness, grew sportive in his speech, rallying Sir Artegal on his so sudden humble behaviour towards his late opponent.

"Indeed, Sir Artegal," he exclaimed, "I delight to see you, who were wont to despise all fair dames, become so suddenly a lady's thrall."

When Britomart heard the name of Artegal, she knew in very truth that this was the knight whom Merlin had told her she should wed. Her heart gave a great leap. She trembled for sudden joy and secret fear, while the blood rushed through her veins and mounted to her fair face. Then, fearful of betraying herself, she strove the harder to continue in her former angry mood, trying thus to hide her newly-awakened feeling.

And now old Glauce began to speak wise words.

"Ye gentle knights," she said, "whom fortune hath brought to be spectators of the emotion which secret fate hath wrought in this fair lady, marvel not, and henceforth be not the prey of idle fears and jealous thoughts. Nor may you, Sir Artegal, again disdain the might of woman's arm, which hath twice conquered you, nor any longer be rebellious unto love, which is the crown of knighthood and the bond of noble minds. And you, fair lady knight," continued the old woman, "relent, and grant him your grace."

Britomart blushed deeply at her nurse's words, but Artegal rejoiced in his inmost heart, yet dared not make too sudden a change in his demeanour, nor show openly the love which her beauty and quiet dignity of manner, so grave and full of princeliness, inspired within him. But his passion grew the stronger from the very restraint imposed upon him.

Here Scudamour, whose heart had all this time been racked with fear and hope, interposed, with a request for tidings of Amoret. This Britomart at once granted, and went on to relate a sad tale: how, after freeing her from the enchanter, and guarding her with tender care and love for many a day, she had lost her in a wild desert, where from sheer weariness Britomart had fallen asleep.

Poor Scudamour was terribly cast down by these melancholy tidings, and only plucked up a faint hope when Britomart pledged herself to remain with him until together they found the missing dame.

Meantime the three combatants being thus reconciled one to another, mounted their steeds, and rode towards a certain resting-place known to Sir Artegal, where they were well received and cared for. Here they remained until their wounds were healed, and their weary limbs thoroughly rested.

And all the time they sojourned there, Sir Artegal served Britomart with meek service, watching continually how he might best please her. Thus day by day he made progress in his suit; and though Britomart in her womanly pride tried hard to conceal the love she bore him she could not quite succeed. So well did Artegal woo, so skilfully did he contrive, that at length he brought the noble damsel to bay and forced her to lay aside her seeming indifference and to hearken to his words. And as she listened to the vows with which he swore to love and guard her, Britomart's reserve gave way, and she yielded a glad consent to love and own him for her lord until marriage should unite them for ever.

But their marriage might not be yet, for Sir Artegal had been sent out from the court of Gloriana, Queen of Faeryland, on a hard adventure, and until it was achieved he might not turn aside from following after it. And now that his limbs were rested and his wounds were healed, the knight knew the time was come when he must leave Britomart and continue on his way, so he told her of the adventure on which he was bound. She, poor maiden, having just begun to taste of the rest and comfort of his presence, was sorely grieved and exceeding loth to be so soon parted from her "dearest love." But he, strong in the sense of duty, persuaded her to acquiesce, and with fresh vows of love and constancy, promised to return to her so soon as ever his enterprise was ended, which would not, he thought, be longer than three months.

Early next morning, Sir Artegal rose and pursued his way unattended, save by Britomart, who insisted on accompanying him a certain distance.

As they rode, she found first one, and then another excuse for delay, and talked of the perils he must encounter; perils of which the fearless maiden would have thought little for herself. But it was of no avail; all her stratagems but served to wear away the day; evening came, when they must part. Full often Britomart took leave of her lord, each time finding some last injunction to give, until at length she had spent all her words and could find no further pretext for delay, and so with right heavy heart she left him, and returned to fulfil her promise to Scudamour.

How Sir Artegal did at last return from his enterprise and marry the Princess Britomart, Spenser does not say, for he did not live to end all the tales he had begun. But we know that they were married and lived happily, for Merlin prophesied this when Britomart and Glauce went together to his cave.

CAMBELLO AND TRIAMOND.

Faerie Queene. Book IV. Cantos II., III.

Once upon a time there lived a knight named Cambello, who had a sister called Canacee. This sister was very beautiful, and was the most learned lady of her day. She was skilled in the works of nature and in magic arts; she understood the virtues of herbs and the sounds of beasts and birds, and was as good as she was learned.

Now many lords and knights loved Canacee. She, however, showed favour to none; but the more difficult she was to gain, the more was she sought after. Then arose quarrels among her numerous wooers, who ofttimes fought for her in bloody combat.

When Cambello saw this, he perceived it would cause much mischief, and he set about to consider how to prevent these unseemly deeds.

So one day, when this bold and mighty company of knights were assembled together, and were quarrelling as usual, Cambello proposed that if they really loved his sister they should choose three from among their number as champions. These three were to challenge and fight him for his sister's hand, and the bravest was to become her acknowledged suitor.

This was a bold offer on Cambello's part, but Canacee employed her skill on his behalf. She sent him a ring, which, amongst its many virtues had the strange power of staunching the bleeding of a mortal wound. The properties of the ring were well-known, and when her lovers saw Cambello receive it, they began to falter and to wonder whether it were worth while to risk life against such odds for a lady of whose favour they were after all uncertain.

Amongst the knights were three brothers, Priamond, Diamond, and Triamond. These three were born on the same day and loved one another dearly. Each had his own way of fighting. Priamond fought on foot, and for weapons used a spear and cutlass, Triamond on horseback with spear and shield, while Diamond, who was equally at home on horse or foot, used only a cutlass. Bolder men never lived.

Now their mother, Agape, was a fairy, and had the power of knowing secret things, and as her sons grew up and showed a love of daring, she feared lest they should thereby incur disaster. She therefore determined to visit the three sister Fates and to inquire of them concerning her sons. She had to leave the bright earth and go far underground to a deep dark abyss where was their dwelling.

Agape found the sisters sitting round the fateful distaff, which Clotho held while Lachesis span the threads that measured out men's lives, and cruel Atropos cut them in twain. Saluting the Fates she sat by, and as she watched them spin and cut the threads, her heart grew sad, and she trembled as she told them the cause of her coming.

They at once consented to reveal to her the fate of her sons, and proceeded to spin out their threads. Agape trembled still more to see how short and thin these were. She besought that they might be drawn out longer, but to this the sisters would not listen.

Then she craved another boon, and asked that when the eldest, whose thread was shortest, died, his life might pass into the second son, and that when the second died, both lives might pass into the third. This boon they granted, and Agape went home to find her sons arrayed in armour ready for fight. She did not tell them their destiny, but warned them to beware of danger and exhorted them to love each other.

Now these three brothers were the champions chosen by Canacee's wooers to challenge Cambello.

The day of combat was appointed, and as soon as it was dawn the knights assembled in the field clad in shining armour. The lists were enclosed with rails to keep off the press of people; at one side sat six judges, while at the other, Canacee, beautifully dressed, was seated on a stage where she could both see and be seen by those who fought for her.

The first to enter the lists was Cambello, who walked with stately step and fearless countenance; soon after came the three brothers, bearing gilt shields and broad banners. They marched three times round the field, bowing low to Canacee each time they passed her stage, while trumpets sounded and clarions played.

This ceremony over, Cambello and Sir Priamond advanced from the opposite sides of the lists; a trumpet blew, and they met in fierce encounter. They were a well-matched pair, and it was hard for the on-lookers to say who was the better man.

At length Priamond struck so mighty a blow that it pierced Cambello's shoulder, and forced him to lower his shield. Yet no blood fell from the wound, and the pain of it only made Cambello fight the more fiercely. Driving his spear at Priamond, he smote him in the thigh so that the knight reeled in agony; then Cambello drove at him afresh, and this time fixed his spear so firmly that in drawing it out the head broke.

Mad with pain and rage, Priamond now charged, thrusting his spear through Cambello's beaver. The weapon broke in his hand, and Cambello, dragging out the broken head, flung it back with fury. It struck Priamond in the throat, and wounded him so that he died, whereupon his life passed into Diamond, as the Fates had predicted.

At once Sir Diamond rushed forth into his brother's place, and, accepting Cambello's challenge, the trumpets sounded, and the fight began again. Fiercely they fought, while blood flowed freely, and their weapons flashed fire as stroke fell on stroke; but for a long time the issue was uncertain.

At length Diamond heaved his axe at Cambello with such force that it must have killed him had he not seen it and swerved aside. Then Diamond, who was bowed almost to the ground with the weight of his own blow, slipped. Seizing his opportunity, Cambello with one dread stroke severed his opponent's head from his shoulders. And behold! his body remained upright for a time before it fell senseless to the earth. The spectators were much astonished, for they did not know the Fates' decree, nor that the lifeless trunk had been inhabited by a double soul, which lingered awhile before it passed to Triamond.

Then Triamond, filled with the life and grief of two, leapt forth to avenge his brothers' death. And, notwithstanding the hard fight and his many wounds, Cambello met him as fresh as if he had not fought at all, for the ring not only prevented his wounds from bleeding, but restored his wearied spirits and revived his powers.

But Triamond was a fearless foe, and fought so desperately that Cambello was forced to retreat, until from his very fury Triamond grew breathless. Then Cambello attacked him in turn, compelling him to retire. And so the fight went on until both were sorely wounded, and Triamond's strength gave way from loss of blood. But Cambello, through the virtue of the ring, grew ever stronger, and striking Triamond on the hauberk, pierced it through, and so wounded him that he fell, to all appearance, dead.

But only one of his three lives had gone from him, and, to the utter surprise of all beholders, he suddenly arose and began again to assail Cambello. Cambello was astounded at this strange sight, and in his amazement stood still and off his guard, until Triamond's repeated thrusts compelled him to defend himself. He now fought more cautiously than he had done before, as if his adversary were some uncanny thing, so that Triamond imagined the knight was getting faint-hearted, and that victory was at hand. So thinking, he upheaved his mighty blade and aimed a terrible blow at Cambello. He, seeing it come, leapt skilfully aside, and pierced Triamond under the arm, wounding him right through to the shoulder. But Cambello did not altogether escape the heavy blow, which, falling on his head, hurt him wofully. Both combatants fell to the ground, seemingly dead. Thereupon the on-lookers thought the tournament ended, and the judges rose from their seats. The field-marshals broke up the lists, and went to remove the armour from the slain warriors, and poor Canacee wailed aloud for her brother. When, behold! both knights started lightly from the ground, and once more began the combat.

For a long time they fought fiercely, recklessly, as if caring only to end the contest. No one could say who would win, and all were watching eagerly, yet sadly, for the death of one or both, when suddenly a great noise was heard, so great that the champions themselves stood still. And lo! driving at a furious speed, there appeared a chariot, drawn by lions and decked with gold and precious ornaments, in which there sat a lady of wondrous beauty. She was bounteous as well as beautiful, and learned in all magic arts, for she was Cambina, the daughter of Agape, and sister of Triamond, to whose aid she came.

There was terrible confusion as she drove through the thick crowds, for the people pressed to see her, and her unruly steeds grew restive, and overthrew many of the mob.

In one hand she held a rod of wondrous power, in the other a cup filled with Nepenthe, a drink devised by the gods to take away anger from the hearts of men, and give peace in its stead. As she came up to the lists she touched the rail with her wand, and it at once flew open. Then she descended from her chariot, and bid "All hail!" first to her brother and then to Cambello. But they were eager to return to the combat, and paid her scant attention. Seeing this, she flung herself on the bloody ground, and with tears prayed them by all that was dear to them to cease. Her entreaty availing not, she touched them lightly with her wand, whereupon their swords fell from them, and as they stood doubtful whether or not to resume them, she handed them the soothing draught, and they being very thirsty, drank of it eagerly.

Then was a wonder wrought, for the two fierce combatants ceased fighting, and kissed each other, and plighted hands as friends for evermore. When the on-lookers beheld this fair sight they shouted aloud for joy, and Canacee descended in haste from her exalted seat, and came to see what the shout portended. When she found the fighting ended and the foes at peace, she greeted Cambina, the strange lady, and offered her love and friendship.

The trumpets sounded, and they all arose to depart. Cambina took Canacee in her chariot, and Triamond and Cambello returned home together, and the people rejoiced with great feasting in the land.

And after a time Triamond took Canacee, and Cambello took Cambina to be their wives, and no such friends or lovers were anywhere to be found.

THE STORY OF TIMIAS.

Faerie Queene. Book III., Canto V.; Book IV., Cantos VII., VIII.; Book VI., Canto V.

You may remember that the good Prince Arthur had a squire named Timias. He it was who went in pursuit of the forester that so rudely followed Florimell. He thus became separated from his lord and had many adventures before he again saw Prince Arthur, who grieved sorely over the loss of his beloved squire.

Timias' first adventure was an encounter with the forester. He chased him through thick woods, a long and weary way, and more than once had nearly avenged the rude fellow's discourtesy towards Florimell. But the forester managed to escape, either because his horse was swifter or his knowledge of the woods better than that of Timias. He made his way to his two brethren, who dwelt with him in the wilds. To them he complained of the ill done him by the squire, and so excited their wrath that they determined to set out forthwith and aid him in making an end of Timias.

All three therefore repaired to a hidden glade, close by a narrow ford, difficult at any time to cross, and now swollen by recent rains. They knew that Timias must pass this ford, and here they lay in wait.

Things fell out just as the brothers expected. All unaware of danger the squire rode up, and began to cross the ford. The moment he did so, the forester stepped out upon the opposite bank, and daring Timias to move another step, threw a dart at him, which struck his habergeon. The blow did not harm him but it made him very angry, all the more so that the bank on which the forester stood was so high that Timias could not reach his antagonist.

At this moment one of the brothers shot a poisoned arrow out of the thicket, which wounded the squire, and caused him exceeding pain. Still he struggled on against all difficulties, and at length reached the opposite bank, where the third brother now attacked him with a bill-hook. Timias avoided the blow and killed the man with a thrust of his spear.

This increased the rage of the surviving brothers, who made a fresh attack with renewed energy. Timias, however, singled out one, and directing his whole force against him, struck a blow which cleft his head from skull to chin. Filled with rage and horror, the last brother shot an arrow at the squire, and immediately attempted flight, but Timias overtook him, and just as he entered the stream, struck off his head.

Timias was now freed from the three brothers, but his troubles were not over, for his poisoned wound bled so profusely that he soon fell from his horse in a deadly faint. He was in a sad plight all alone in the forest, but--

Providence heavenly passeth living thought,
And doth for wretched man's relief make way.

While he lay in the swoon, Belphoebe the huntress, she whom Braggadochio had seen, came where the squire lay. She found him lying in a pool of blood, his hair matted and tangled, his eyes fixed and his lips pale. She recoiled with horror at the sight, but she was a good and brave woman and looked again, and as she looked her heart grew pitiful, and stooping down she felt his pulse. Finding that it still beat she raised his head and rubbed his temples, and then unfastened his armour. This done, she hastened to the woods, where she found herbs, which she carefully prepared. The juice of the herbs she poured into the wound and then bound it with her scarf. By-and-bye Timias opened his eyes and saw the lady standing by him, her bow and golden quiver lying at her feet. He thought her an angel or a goddess, and addressing her as such, asked what service he could render in return for her care. To this Belphoebe replied that she was only the daughter of a wood-nymph and that she desired nothing but his recovery for reward.

By this time the damsels of the huntress arrived and were despatched to recover Timias' strayed steed. Having brought it back, they set him upon it and led him gently to their dwelling.

It lay in a pleasant glade, surrounded by mountains whose mighty woods cast great shadows, and in the midst of which a little stream murmured softly over a rocky bed. By the stream was a fair spot planted with myrtles and laurels, and among these stood a rich pavilion. Here they laid Timias on a soft couch, and here Belphoebe daily dressed his wounds until he became quite well and strong. And then, from gratitude for Belphoebe's care and admiration of her rare virtues, Timias gave up all thought of returning to the Prince, and remained in the forest as her faithful attendant.

One day when hunting with Belphoebe and her damsels, Timias, as often happens in the chase, got separated from his companions, and while wandering about in search of them, came suddenly upon a poor lady who was being carried off by a cruel giant. He instantly went to her rescue, and succeeded in freeing the lady. But he was himself in great danger when Belphoebe, attracted by the noise of the fight, came to his aid, and bending her bow pursued the giant to the door of his den, where she slew him with an arrow.

Meantime Timias, always kind and gentle, was filled with pity for the fair lady whom he had rescued. She had fainted from terror and was much bruised by the fray and the cruel grasp of the monster. The squire knelt by her side, examined her wounds with tender touch, wiped her dewy and unconscious eyes, and in his pitifulness kissed them. At that moment Belphoebe returned, and when she saw her faithful squire so tender towards the lady, her heart swelled with proud disdain. In her sudden passion she was ready to have killed both squire and lady with the very bow which had already slain the monster. She however restrained herself, and drawing near to Timias, exclaimed, "Is this the faith?" then turned and fled.

Distressed at her rebuke Timias instantly arose and followed her, but ever as he drew near she threatened him with her bow and would not permit him to approach her. After a long and fruitless pursuit the squire was forced to turn back with a sad heart. Finding a solitary part of the forest he chose a glade made gloomy with mossy trees, and there built a hut to live in. He broke his weapons and threw them away, vowing never again to fight nor ever again speak to a woman, but to live alone and deplore his grief. The better to keep his foolish vow he cut and spoiled his clothes, let his hair grow until it fell untended over his shoulders, ate only wild fruits and drank only running water. Thus he weakened himself until he was unfit to carry arms, and disguised himself until no one could recognize him.

Indeed it chanced that one day Prince Arthur came into that part of the forest and found Timias in this wretched plight. The Prince talked to him and tried to make out who he was, but never guessed he was all the time addressing his lost squire. Timias would not speak, but only bowed reverently, and the Prince was obliged to go away sad at heart. He thought the miserable man some love-lorn swain, for he saw the name of Belphoebe cut on many of the trees, and remarked how he brightened at the sound of the name and even kissed the ground where it was written.

Thus Timias dwelt alone, wasting his youth in selfish solitude, until one day, as he lay bemoaning himself, a turtle dove that had lately lost her mate happened to come that way. Seeing one so sad, she paused in her flight and began to mourn with Timias. She sat by his side and sang so pitiful and so human a ditty that the squire fancied he heard in it his own name; and as he listened, he shed many tears and beat his breast and tore his hair in his sadness.