Chapter XXIII: Book III: {299} (4)

But as soon as Amphialus landed, he sent his squire to Phalantus to tell him that there was the knight ready to know whether he had anything to say to him. Phalantus answered that his answer now must be in the language of lances; and so each attended the warning of the trumpets, which were to sound at the appointment of four judges, who with consideration of the same had divided the ground. Phalantus’s horse young, and feeling the youth of his master, stood curveting, which being well governed by Phalantus, gave such a glittering grace as when the sun in a clear day shines upon a waving water. Amphialus’s horse stood pawing upon the ground, with his further hoof before, as if he would for his master’s cause begin to make himself angry: till the trumpets sounding together, together they set spurs to their horses, together took their lances from their thighs, conveyed them up into the rest together, together let them sink downward, so as it was a delectable sight in a dangerous effect; and a pleasant consideration that there was so perfect agreement in so mortal disagreement; like a music made of cunning discords. But their horses keeping an even line their masters had skilfully allotted unto them, passed one by another without encountering, although either might feel the angry breath of the other. But the staves being come to a just descent, even when the mark was ready to meet them, Amphialus was run through the vamplate, and under the arm, so that the staff appearing behind him, it seemed to the beholders, he had been in danger. But he struck Phalantus just upon the gorget, so that he battered the lames thereof, and made his head almost touch the back of his horse. But either side having stayed the spur, and used the bit to stop their horse’s fury, casting away the truncheons of their staves, and drawing their swords, they attended the second summons of the death-threatening trumpet which quickly followed; and they as soon making their horses answer their hands, with a gentle gallop, set one toward the other, till they being come to the nearness of a little more than a stave’s length. Amphialus trusting more to the strength, than to the nimbleness of his horse, put him forth with speedy violence, and making his head join to the other’s flank, guided his blow with discretion, and strengthening it with the course of his horse, struck Phalantus upon the head in such sort that his feeling sense did both dazzle his sight, and astonish his hearing. But Phalantus (not accustomed to be ungrateful to such benefits) struck him upon the side of his face, with such force that he thought his jaw had been cut asunder; though the faithfulness of his armour indeed guarded him from further damage. And so remained they awhile, rather angry with fighting, than fighting for anger, till Amphialus’s horse leaning hard upon the other, and winning ground, the other horse feeling himself pressed, began to {350} rise a little before, as he was wont to do in his curvet, which advantage Amphialus taking, set forward his own horse with the further spur, so that Phalantus’s horse came over with his master under him. Which Amphialus seeing, lighted with the intention to help Phalantus. But his horse that had faulted, rather with untimely art than want of force, got up from burdening his burden, so that Phalantus, in the fall having gotten his feet free off the stirrup, could, though something bruised, arise, and seeing Amphialus near him, he asked him whether he had given him any help in removing his horse. Amphialus said “No.” “Truly,” said Phalantus, “I asked it, because I would not willingly have fought with him that had had my life in his mercy. But now,” said Phalantus, “before we proceed further, let me know who you are, because never did any man bring me to the like fortune.” Amphialus, listing to keep himself unknown, told him he was a gentleman to whom Amphialus that day had given armour and horse to try his valour, having never before been in any combat worthy remembrance. “Ah,” said Phalantus in a rage, “and must I be the exercise of your prentice age?” and with that, choler took away either the bruise, or the feeling of the bruise, so that he entered afresh into the combat, and boiling into his arms the disdain of his heart, struck so thick upon Amphialus, as if every blow would fain have been foremost. But Amphialus, that many like trials had taught, great spending to leave small remnants, let pass the storm with strong wards, and nimble avoidings, till his time fit, both for distance and nakedness, he struck him so cruel a blow on the knee that the poor gentleman fell down withal in a swoon.

But Amphialus, pitying approved valour, made precious by natural courtesy, went to him, and taking off his headpiece to give him air, the young knight (disdaining to buy life with yielding, bade him use his fortune, for he was resolved never to yield. “No more you shall,” said Amphialus, “if it be not to my request that you will account yourself to have great interest in me.” Phalantus more overcome by his kindness, than by his fortune, desired yet once again to know his name, who in his first beginning had shown such fury in his face, and yet such stay in his fury. Amphialus then named himself, telling him withal he would think his name much bettered if it might be honoured by the title of his friend. But no balm could be more comfortable to his wound than the knowledge thereof was to his mind, when he knew his mishap should be excused by the renowned valour of the other. And so promising each to other assuredness of goodwill, Phalantus, of whom Amphialus would have no other ransom but his word of friendship, was conveyed into the camp, where he {351} would but little remain among the enemies of Amphialus, but went to seek his adventures other-where.

As for Amphialus, he was received with triumph into the castle, although one might see by his eyes (humbly lifted up to the window where Philoclea stood) that he was rather suppliant than victorious: which occasion Cecropia taking, who as then stood by Philoclea, and had lately left Pamela in another room, whence also she might see the combat. “Sweet lady,” said she, “now you may see whether you have cause to love my son, who then lies under your feet, when he stands upon the neck of his bravest enemies.” “Alas!” said Philoclea, “a simple service to me, methinks it is, to have those who come to succour me destroyed: if it be my duty to call it love, be it so: but the effects it bring forth, I confess I account hateful.” Cecropia grew so angry with this unkind answer that she could not abstain from telling her that she was like them that could not sleep, when they were softly laid: but that if her son would follow her counsel, he should take another course with her: and so flung away from her.

Yet, knowing the desperate melancholy of Amphialus in like cases, framed to him a very thankful message, powdering it with some hope-giving phrases, which were of such joy to Amphialus that he, though against public respect and importunity of dissuaders, presently caused it to be made known to the camp that whatsoever knight would try the like fortune as Phalantus did, he should in like sort be answered: so that divers of the valiantest, partly of themselves, partly at the instigation of Basilius, attempted the combat with him; and according to everyone’s humour, so were the causes of the challenge grounded: one laying treason to his charge; another preferring himself in the worthiness to serve Philoclea; a third exalting some lady’s beauty beyond either of the sisters; a fourth laying disgrace to love itself naming it the bewitcher of the wit, the rebel to reason, the betrayer of resolution, the defiler of thoughts, the underminer of magnanimity, the flatterer of vice, the slave of weakness, the infection of youth, the madness of age, the curse of life, and reproach of death; a fifth disdaining to cast at less than at all, would make the cause of his quarrel the causers of love, and proclaim his blasphemies against womankind; that namely, that sex was the oversight of nature, the disgrace of reasonableness, the obstinate cowards, the slave born tyrants, the shops of vanities, the gilded weather cocks, in whom conscience is but peevishness, chastity, waywardness, and gratefulness a miracle. But all these challenges, how well soever indited, were so well answered, that some by death taught others, though past learning themselves, and some by yielding gave themselves the lie for having blasphemed; to the great grief of Basilius to see his rebel {352} prevail, and in his own sight, to crown himself with deserved honour.

Whereupon thirsting for revenge, and else not hoping to prevail, the best of his camp being already overthrown, he sent a messenger to Argalus, in whose approved courage and force he had, and had cause, to have great confidence, with a letter, requiring him to take his quarrel in hand, from which he had hitherto spared him in respect of his late marriage. But now his honour, and (as he esteemed it) felicity standing upon it, he could no longer forbear to challenge of him his faithful service.

The messenger made speed, and found Argalus at a castle of his own, sitting in a parlour with the fair Parthenia, he reading in a book the stories of Hercules, she by him, as to hear him read: but while his eyes looked on the book, she looked on his eyes, and sometimes staying him with some pretty question, not so much to be resolved of the doubt, as to give him occasion to look upon her: a happy couple, he joying in her, she joying in herself, but in herself, because she enjoyed him: both increased their riches by giving to each other; each making one life double, because they made a double life one; where desire never wanted satisfaction, nor satisfaction ever bred satiety; he ruling, because she would obey, or rather because she would obey, he therein ruling.

But when the messenger came in with letters in his hand, and haste in his countenance, though she knew not what to fear, yet she feared because she knew not; but she rose, and went aside, while he delivered his letters and message: yet afar off she looked, now at the messenger, and then at her husband: the same fear, which made her loth to have cause of fear, yet making her seek cause to nourish her fear. And well she found there was some serious matter: for her husband’s countenance figured some resolution between lothness and necessity: and once his eye cast upon her, and finding hers upon him, he blushed, and she blushed, because he blushed, and yet straight grew pale because she knew not why he had blushed. But when he had read, and heard, and dispatched away the messenger, like a man in whom honour could not be rocked asleep by affection, with promise quickly to follow; he came to Parthenia, and as sorry as might be for parting, and yet more sorry for her sorrow, he gave her the letter to read. She with fearful slowness took it, and with fearful quickness read it, and having read it. “Ah my Argalus,” said she, “and have you made such haste to answer? and are you so soon resolved to leave me?” but he discoursing unto her how much it imported his honour, which since it was dear to him, he knew it would be dear unto her, her reason overclouded with sorrow, suffered her not presently to reply, but left the charge thereof to tears, and sighs, {353} which he not able to bear, left her alone, and went to give order for his present departure.

But by that time he was armed, and ready to go, she had recovered a little strength of spirit again, and coming out, and seeing him armed, and wanting nothing for his departure but her farewell, she ran to him, took him by the arm, and kneeling down without regard who either heard her speech, or saw her demeanour. “My Argalus, my Argalus,” said she, “do not thus forsake me. Remember, alas remember that I have interest in you, which I will never yield shall be thus adventured. Your valour is already sufficiently known: sufficiently have you already done for your country: enough, enough there are beside you to lose less worthy lives. Woe is me, what shall become of me if you thus abandon me? then was it time for you to follow those adventures, when you adventured nobody but yourself, and were nobody’s but your own. But now pardon me, that now, or never, I claim mine own; mine you are, and without me you can undertake no danger: and will you endanger Parthenia? Parthenia shall be in the battle of your fight: Parthenia shall smart in your pain, and your blood must be bled by Parthenia.” “Dear Parthenia,” said he, “this is the first time that ever you resisted my will: I thank you for it, but persevere not in it; and let not the tears of these most beloved eyes be a presage unto me of that which you would not should happen, I shall live, doubt not: for so great a blessing as you are was not given unto me so soon to be deprived of it. Look for me, therefore, shortly, and victorious; and prepare a joyful welcome, and I will wish for no other triumph.” She answered not, but stood as it were thunder-stricken with amazement; for true love made obedience stand up against all other passions. But when he took her in his arms, and sought to print his heart in her sweet lips, she fell in a swoon, so that he was fain to leave her to her gentlewomen, and carried away by the tyranny of honour, though with many a back cast look and hearty groan, went to the camp. Where understanding the notable victories of Amphialus, he thought to give him some days respite of rest, because he would not have his victory disgraced by the other’s weariness. In which days, he sought by all means (having leave to parley with him) to dissuade him from his enterprise: and then imparting his mind to Basilius, because he found Amphialus was inflexible, wrote his defy unto him in this manner.

Right famous Amphialus, if my persuasion in reason, or prayer in goodwill, might prevail with you, you should by better means be like to obtain your desire. You should make many brave enemies become your faithful servants, and make your honour fly up to heaven, being carried up by both wings of valour and justice; {354} whereof now it wants the latter. But since my suit nor counsel can get no place in you, disdain not to receive a mortal challenge, from a man so inferior unto you in virtue, that I do not so much mislike of the deed, as I have the doer in admiration. Prepare therefore yourself, according to the noble manner you have used, and think not lightly of never so weak an arm, which strikes with the sword of justice.

To this he quickly received this answer.

Much more famous Argalus, I whom never threatenings could make afraid, am now terrified by your noble courtesy. For well I know, from what height of virtue it doth proceed, and what cause I have to doubt such virtue bent to my ruin: but love, which justifieth the injustice you lay unto me, doth also animate me against all dangers, since I come full of him by whom yourself have been (if I be not deceived) sometimes conquered. I will therefore attend your appearance in the isle, carrying this advantage with me, that as it shall be a singular honour, if I get the victory, so there can be no dishonour in being overcome by Argalus.

The challenge thus denounced and accepted, Argalus was armed in white armour, which was all gilded over with knots of women’s hair, which came down from the crest of his head-piece and spread itself in rich quantity over all his armour; his furniture was cut out in the fashion of an eagle, whereof the beak (made into a rich jewel) was fastened to the saddle, the tail covered the crupper of the horse, and the wings served for trappings; which falling off each side, as the horse stirred, the bird seemed to fly. His poitrel and reins were embroidered with feathers suitable unto it: upon his right arm he wore a sleeve which his dear Parthenia had made for him, to be worn in a joust, in the time that success was ungrateful to their well-deserved love: it was full of bleeding hearts, though never intended to any bloody enterprise. In his shield (as his own device) he had two palm-trees near one another, with a word signifying, “In that sort flourishing.” His horse was of fiery sorrel, with black feet, and black list on his back, who with open nostrils breathed war, before he could see an enemy: and now up with one leg, and then with another, seemed to complain of nature that she had made him any whit earthy.

But he had scarcely viewed the ground of the island, and considered the advantages, if any were, thereof, before the castle boat had delivered Amphialus, in all points provided to give a hard entertainment. And then sending each to other their squires in honourable manner, to know whether they should attend any further ceremony, the trumpets sounding, the horses with smooth {355} running, the staves with unshaken motion, obediently performed their choleric commandments. But when they drew near, Argalus’s horse being hot, pressed in with his head, which Amphialus perceiving, knowing if he gave him his side it should be to his disadvantage, pressed in also with him, so that both the horses and men met shoulder to shoulder, so that the horses (hurt as much with the striking as being stricken) tumbled down to the earth, dangerously to their masters, but that they, by strength nimble, and by use skilful in the falling, shunned the harm of the fall, and without more respite drew out their swords with a gallant bravery, each striving to show himself the less endamaged, and to make known that they were glad they had now nothing else to trust to but their own virtue. True it is that Amphialus was the sooner up, but Argalus had his sword out the sooner; and then fell they to the cruellest combat, that any present eye had seen. Their swords first, like canons, battering down the walls of their armour, making breaches almost in every place for troops of wounds to enter. Among the rest, Argalus gave a great wound to Amphialus’s disarmed face, though part of the force of it Amphialus warded upon his shield, and withal, first casting his eye up to Philoclea’s window, as if he had fetched his courage thence, feigning to extend the same sort of blow, turned his sword, and, with a mighty reverse, gave a cruel wound to the right arm of Argalus, the unfaithful armour yielding to the sword’s strong-guided sharpness. But though the blood accused the hurt of Argalus, yet would he in no action of his confess it: but keeping himself in a lower ward, stood watching with timely thrusts to repair his loss, which quickly he did. For Amphialus, following his fawning fortune, laid on so thick upon Argalus that his shield had almost fallen piecemeal to the earth, when Argalus, coming in with his right foot, and something stooping to come under his armour, thrust him into the belly dangerously; and mortally it would have been, but that with the blow before, Amphialus had over-stricken himself so, that he fell sideward down, and with falling saved himself from ruin, the sword by that means slipping aside and not piercing more deeply. Argalus seeing him fall, threatening with voice and sword, bade him yield. But he striving without answer to rise, Argalus struck him with all his might upon his head. But his hurt arm not able to master so sound a force, let the sword fall so that Amphialus, though astonished with the blow, could arise: which Argalus considering, ran in to grasp with him, and so closed together; falling so to the ground, now one getting above, and then the other; at length, both weary of so unlovely embracements, with a dissenting consent got up, and went to their swords but happened, each on his enemies; where Argalus finding his foe’s {356} sword garnished in blood, his heart rose with the same sword to revenge it, and on that blade to ally their bloods together. But his mind was evil waited on by his lamed force, so that he received still more and more wounds, which made all his armour seem to blush, that it had defended his master no better. But Amphialus perceiving it, and weighing the small hatefulness of their quarrel with the worthiness of the knight, desired him to take pity of himself. But Argalus, the more repining, the more he found himself in disadvantage, filling his veins with spite instead of blood, and making courage arise against faintness (like a candle, which a little before it goes out, gives then the greatest blaze) so did he unite all his force, that casting away the little remnant of his shield, and taking his sword in both hands, he struck such a notable blow, that he cleft his shield, armour, and arm almost to the bone.

But then Amphialus forgot all ceremonies, and with cruel blows made more of his best blood succeed the rest: till his hand being stayed by his ear, his ear filled with a pitiful cry, the cry guided his sight to an excellent fair lady, who came running as fast as she could, and yet because she could not so fast as she would, she sent her lamentable voice before her: and being come, and being known to them both to be the beautiful Parthenia, who had that night dreamed she saw her husband in such estate as she then found him, which made her make such haste thither, they both marvelled. But Parthenia ran between them, fear of love making her forget the fear of nature, and then fell down at their feet, determining so to part them, till she could get breath to sigh out her doleful speeches: and when her breath, which running had spent, and dismayedness made slow to return, had by sobs gotten into her sorrow-closed breast, for a while she could say nothing, but, “O wretched eyes of mine, O wailful sight, O day of darkness!” At length turning her eyes, wherein sorrow swam, to Amphialus, “My Lord,” said she, “it is said you love; in the power of that love, I beseech you to leave off this combat, as ever your heart may find comfort in his affection, even for her sake, I crave it: or if you be mortally determined, be so pitiful unto me, as first to kill me, that I might not see the death of Argalus.” Amphialus was about to have answered, when Argalus, vexed with his fortune, but most vexed that she should see him in that fortune; “Ah Parthenia,” said he, “never until now unwelcome unto me, do you come to get my life by request? and cannot Argalus live but by request? is that a life?” With that he went aside, for fear of hurting her, and would have began the combat afresh. But Amphialus not only conjured by that which held the monarchy of his mind, but even in his noble heart melting with compassion at {357} so passionate a sight, desired him to withhold his hands, for that he should strike one who sought his favour, and would not make resistance. A notable example of the wonderful effects of virtue, where the conqueror sought for friendship of the conquered, and the conquered would not pardon the conqueror: both indeed being of that mind to love each other for accepting, but not for giving mercy, and neither affected to outlive a dishonour: so that Argalus, not so much striving with Amphialus, for if he had him in the like sort, in like sort he would have dealt with him, as labouring against his own power, which he chiefly despised, set himself forward, stretching his strength to the uttermost. But the fire of that strife, blown with his inward rage, boiled out his blood in such abundance that he was driven to rest himself upon the pommel of his sword: and then each thing beginning to turn round in the dance of death before his eyes, his sight both dazzled and dimmed, till, thinking to sit down, he fell in a swoon. Parthenia and Amphialus both hastily went unto him: Amphialus took off his helmet, and Parthenia laid his head in her lap, tearing off her linen sleeves and partlet to serve about his wounds: to bind which she took off her hair-lace, and would have cut off her fair hair herself, but that the squires and judges came in with fitter things for that purpose: while she bewailed herself with so lamentable sweetness, as was enough to have taught sorrow to the gladdest thoughts, and have engraved it in the minds of hardest metal.

“O Parthenia, no more Parthenia,” said she, “what art thou? what seest thou? how is thy bliss in a moment fallen? how wert thou even now before all ladies the example of perfect happiness, and now the gazing stock of endless misery? O God, what hath been my desert, to be thus punished? Or if such had been my desert, why was I not myself punished? O wandering life, to what wilderness wouldst thou lead me. But sorrow, I hope thou art sharp enough to save my labour from other remedies. Argalus, Argalus, I will follow thee, I will follow thee.”

But with that Argalus came out of his swoon, and lifting up his languishing eyes, which a painful rest and iron sleep did seek to lock up, seeing her in whom, even dying, he lived, and himself seated in so beloved a place, it seemed a little cheerful blood came up to his cheeks, like a burning coal, almost dead, if some breath a little revive it: and forcing up, the best he could, his feeble voice, “My dear, my better half,” said he, “I find I must now leave thee: and by that sweet hand, and fair eyes of thine I swear that death brings nothing with it to grieve me but that I must leave thee, and cannot remain to answer part of thy infinite deserts with being some comfort unto thee. But since so it pleaseth Him, {358} whose wisdom and goodness guideth all, put thy confidence in Him, and one day we shall blessedly meet again, never to depart: meanwhile live happily, dear Parthenia, and I persuade myself, it will increase the blessedness of my soul so to see thee. Love well the remembrance of thy loving, and truly loving Argalus: and let not,” with that word he sighed, “this disgrace of mine make thee one day think thou hadst an unworthy husband.” They could scarcely understand the last words: for death began to seize himself of his heart, neither could Parthenia make answer, so full was her breast of anguish. But while the other sought to stanch his remediless wounds, she with her kisses made him happy: for his last breath was delivered into her mouth.

But when indeed she found his ghost was gone, then sorrow lost the wit of utterance, and grew rageful, and mad, so that she tore her beautiful face, and rent her hair, as though they could serve for nothing, since Argalus was gone; till Amphialus (so moved with pity of that sight as that he honoured his adversary’s death with tears) caused her, with the help of her women that came with her, partly by force to be conveyed into the boat, with the dead body of Argalus, from which she would not depart. And being come on the other side, there she was received by Basilius himself, with all the funeral pomp of military discipline, trailing all their ensigns upon the ground, making their warlike instruments sound doleful notes, and Basilius with comfort in his mouth and woe in his face, sought to persuade some ease into Parthenia’s mind: but all was as easeful to her, as the handling of sore wounds: all the honour done, being to her but the triumph of her ruin, she finding no comfort but in desperate yielding to sorrow: and rather determined to hate herself if ever she would find ease thereof. And well might she hear as she passed through the camp the great praises spoken of her husband, which were all records of her loss. But the more excellent he was, being indeed counted second to none in all Greece, the more did the breath of those praises bear up the wings of Amphialus’s fame: to whom yet such was his case, that trophy upon trophy, still did but build up the monument of his thraldom; he ever finding himself in such favour of Philoclea that she was most absent when he was present with her; and ever sorriest when he had best success: which would have made him renounce all comfort, but that his mother with diversity of devices kept up his heart.

But while he allayed thus his outward glory with inward discomfort, he was like to have been overtaken with a notable treason, the beginning whereof (though merely ridiculous) had like to have brought forth to him a weeping effect.

Among other that attended Basilius in this expedition, Dametas {359} was one; whether to be present with him, or absent from Miso, once, certain it was without any mind to make his sword cursed by any widow. Now being in the camp, while each talk seemed injurious, which did not acknowledge some duty to the fame of Amphialus, it fell out sometimes in communication, that as the speech of heaven doth often beget the mention of hell, so the admirable prowess of Amphialus (by a contrary) brought forth the remembrance of the cowardice of Clinias: insomuch, as it grew almost to a proverb, “As very a coward as Clinias;” describing him in such sort, that in the end Dametas began to think with himself that if he made a challenge unto him he would never answer it; and that then he should greatly increase the favourable conceit of Basilius. This fancy of his he uttered to a young gentleman that waited upon Philanax, in whose friendship he had especial confidence, because he haunted his company, laughing often merrily at his speeches, and not a little extolling the goodly dotes of Mopsa. The young gentleman as glad as if he had found a hare sitting, egged him on, breaking the matter with Philanax, and then, for fear the humour should quail in him, wrote a challenge himself for Dametas, and brought it to him. But when Dametas read it, putting his head on his shoulder, and somewhat smiling, he said, it was pretty indeed, but that it had not a lofty style enough; and so, would needs indite it in this sort.

O Clinias, thou Clinias, the wickedest worm that ever went upon two legs; the very fritter of fraud, and seething pot of iniquity: I Dametas, chief governor of all the royal cattle, and also of Pamela (whom thy master most perniciously hath suggested out of my dominion) do defy thee in a mortal affray from the bodkin to the pike upward: Which if thou dost presume to take in hand, I will, out of that superfluous body of thine, make thy soul to be evacuated.

The young gentleman seemed dumb-stricken with admiration, and presently took upon him to be the bearer thereof, while the heat of the fit lasted; and having gotten leave of Basilius (everybody helping on to ease his mind, overcharged with melancholy) he went into the town, according to the manner before time used, and, in the presence of Amphialus, delivered this letter to Clinias; desiring to have an answer, which might be fit for his reputation. Clinias opened it, read it, and, in the reading, his blood, not daring to be in so dangerous a place, went out of his face, and hid itself more inwardly: and his very words, as if they were afraid of blows, came very slowly out of his mouth: but, as well as his panting breath would utter it, he bade him tell the lout that sent him, that he disdained to have anything to do with him. But Amphialus, perceiving the matter, took him aside, and very {360} earnestly dealt with him, not to shame himself; Amphialus only desirous to bring it to pass, to make some sport to Philoclea: but, not being able to persuade him, Amphialus licensed the gentleman, telling him that by next morning he should have an answer.

The young gentleman, sorry he had sped no better, returned to Dametas, who had fetched many a sower-breathed sigh, for fear Clinias would accept the challenge. But when he perceived, by his trusty messenger, that this delay was in effect a denial, there being no disposition in him to accept it, then lo, Dametas began to speak his loud voice, to look big, to march up and down, and, in his march, to lift his legs higher than he was wont, swearing, by no mean devotions, that the walls should not keep the coward from him, but he would fetch him out of his coney-burrow: and then was hotter than ever to provide himself of horse and armour, saying he would go to the island bravely addubed, and show himself to his charge Pamela. To this purpose many willing hands were about him, letting him have reins, poitrel, with the rest of the furniture, and very brave bases; but all coming from divers houses, neither colour nor fashion, showed any kindred one with another. But that liked Dametas the better, for that he thought would argue, that he was master of many brave furnitures. Then gave he order to a painter for his device; which was a plough with the oxen loosed from it, a sword, with a great number of arms and legs cut off: and lastly, a great army of pen and ink-horns, and books. Neither did he stick to tell the secret of his intent; which was that he had left off the plough to do such bloody deeds with his sword, as many ink-horns and books should be employed about the historifying of them: and being asked, why he set no word unto it, he said, that was indeed like the painter, that saith in his picture, “here is the dog, and there is the hare:” and with that he laughed so perfectly, as was great consolation to the beholders. Yet remembering that Miso would not take it well at his return, if he forgot his duty to her, he caused in a border about to be written, “Miso, mine own pigsnie, thou shalt hear news of Dametas.”

Thus all things being condignly ordered, with an ill-favoured impatience he waited until the next morning, that he might make a muster of himself in the island, often asking them that very diligently waited upon them, whether it were not pity that such a coward as Clinias should set his run-away feet upon the face of the earth.

But as he was, by divers principal young gentlemen, to his no small glory, lifted up on horseback, comes a page of Amphialus, who with humble smiling reverence, delivered a letter unto him from Clinias, whom Amphialus had brought to this; first with {361} persuasions (that for certain, if he did accept the combat, Dametas would never dare to appear, and that then the honour should be his) but principally threatening him that if he refused it, he would turn him out of the town to be put to death for a traitor by Basilius: so as the present fear (ever to a coward most terrible) of being turned out of the town, made him, though full unwillingly, undertake the other fear, wherein he had some show of hope, that Dametas might hap either to be sick, or not to have the courage to perform the matter. But when Dametas heard the name of Clinias, very aptly suspecting what the matter might be, he bade the page carry back his letter, like a naughty boy as he was; for he was in no humour, he told him, of reading letters. But Dametas his friend, first persuading him, that for certain it was some submission, took upon him so much boldness as to open the letter, and to read it aloud, in this sort.

Filthy drivel, unworthy to have thy name set in any letter by a soldier’s handwriting, could thy wretched heart think it was timorousness that made Clinias suspend awhile his answer? no, caitiff, no: it was but as a ram, which goes back to return with the greater force: Know therefore, that thou shalt no sooner appear (appear now if thou darest) I say thou shalt no sooner appear in the island (O happy thou if thou dost not appear) but that I will come upon thee with all my force, and cut thee in pieces (mark what I say) joint after joint, to the eternal terror of all presumptuous villains. Therefore look what thou dost; for I tell thee, horrible smart and pains shall be thy lot, if thou wilt needs be so foolish, I having given thee no such cause as to meet with me.

These terrible words Clinias used, hoping they would give a cooling to the heat of Dametas’s courage: and so indeed they did, that he did groan to hear the thundering of those threatenings. And when the gentlemen had ended the reading of them, Dametas told them, that in his opinion he thought this answer came too late, and that therefore he might very well go and disarm himself, especially considering the other had in courteous manner warned him not to come: but they having him now on horseback, led him into the ferry, and so into the island; the clashing of his own armour striking miserable fear into him, and in his mind, thinking great unkindness in his friend that he had brought him to a matter so contrary to his complexion. There stayed he but a little (the gentleman that came with him teaching him how to use his sword and lance, while he cast his eye about, to see which way he might run away, cursing all islands for being evil situated) when Clinias with a brave sound of trumpets landed at the other end: who came all the way debating with himself, what he had deserved of Amphialus to drive him to those inconveniences. Sometimes his wit {362} made him bethink himself what was best to be done: but fear did so corrupt his wit, that whatsoever he thought was best, he still found danger therein; fearfulness (contrary to all other vices) making him think the better of another, the worse he found himself, rather imagining in himself what words he would use (if he were overcome) to get his life of Dametas, than how to overcome, whereof he could think with no patience. But oftentimes looking to the earth, pitifully complaining, that a man of such sufficiency, as he thought himself, should in his best years be swallowed up by so base an element: fain he would have prayed, but he had not heart enough to have confidence in prayer; the glittering of the armour, and sounding of trumpets giving such an assault to the weak breach of his false senses, that he grew from the degree of fear to an amazement, not almost to know what he did, till two judges (chosen for the purpose) making the trumpet cease, and taking the oath of these champions, that they came without guile or witchcraft, set them at wonted distance, one from the other.

Then the trumpets sounding, Dametas’s horse (used to such causes) when he thought least of the matter, started out so lustily, that Dametas was jogged back with head and body, and pulling withal his bridle-hand, the horse, that was tender of mouth, made half a stop, and fell to bounding, so that Dametas threw away his lance, and with both his hands held by the pommel, the horse half running, half leaping, till he met with Clinias; who fearing he should miss his rest, had put his staff therein before he began his career: neither would he then have begun, but that at the trumpets warning, one (that stood behind) struck on his horse, who running swiftly, the wind took such hold of his staff, that it crossed quite over his breast, in that sort gave a flat bastinado to Dametas: who half out of his saddle, went near to his old occupation of digging the earth, but with the crest of his helmet. Clinias when he was past him, not knowing what he had done, but fearing lest Dametas were at his back, turned with a wide turn; and seeing him on the ground, he thought then was his time, or never, to tread him under his horse’s feet; and withal, if he could, hurt him with his lance, which had not broken, the encounter was so easy. But putting forth his horse, what with the falling of the staff too low before the legs of the horse, and the coming upon Dametas, who was then scrambling up, the horse fell over and over, and lay upon Clinias. Which Dametas, who was gotten up, perceiving, drew out his sword, prying which way he might best come to kill Clinias behind. But the horse that lay upon him, kept such a pawing with his feet, that Dametas durst not approach, but very leisurely, so as the horse, being lusty, got up, and withal began {363} to strike, and leap, that Dametas started back a good way, and gave Clinias time to rise, but so bruised in body, and broken in heart, that he meant to yield himself to mercy; and with that intent drew out his sword, intending when he came nearer to present the pommel of it to Dametas. But Dametas, when he saw him coming with his sword drawn, not conceiving any such intent, went back as fast as his back and heels would lead him. But as Clinias found that he began to think a possibility in the victory, and therefore followed him with the cruel haste of a prevailing coward; laying upon Dametas, who did nothing but cry out to him to hold his hand, sometimes that he was dead, sometimes that he would complain to Basilius; but still bore the blows ungratefully, going back, till at length he came into the water with one of his feet.

But then a new fear of drowning took him, so that daring not to go back, nor to deliberate (the blows still so lighted on him) nor to yield, because of the cruel threatenings of Clinias, fear being come to the extremity, fell to a madness of despair; so that (winking as hard as ever he could) he began to deal some blows, and his arm (being used to the flail in his youth) laid them on so thick that Clinias now began with lamentable eyes to see his own blood come out in many places: and before he had lost half an ounce, finding in himself that he fainted, cried out aloud to Dametas that he yielded. “Throw away thy sword then,” said Dametas, “and I will save thee;” but still laying on as fast as he could. Clinias straight obeyed, and humbly craved mercy, telling him his sword was gone. Then Dametas first opened his eyes, and seeing him indeed unweaponed, made him stand a good way off from it; and then willed him to lie down upon the earth as flat as he could; Clinias obeyed; and Dametas (who never could think himself safe, till Clinias were dead) began to think with himself, that if he struck at him with his sword, if he did not kill him at the first blow, that then Clinias might hap to rise, and revenge himself. Therefore he thought best to kneel down upon him, and with a great whittle he had (having disarmed his head) to cut his throat, which he had used so with calves, as he had no small dexterity in it. But while he sought for his knife, which under his armour he could not well find out, and that Clinias lay with so sheepish a quietness, as if he would have been glad to have his throat cut for fear of more pain, the judges came in, and took Dametas from off him, telling him he did against the law of arms, having promised life if he threw away his sword. Dametas was loath to consent, till they swore, they would not suffer him to fight any more, when he was up; and then more forced, then persuaded, he let him rise, crowing over him, and warning him to take heed {364} how he dealt any more with any that came of his father’s kindred. But thus this combat of cowards being finished, Dametas was with much mirth and melody received into the camp as victorious, never a page there failing to wait upon his triumph.

But Clinias, though he wanted heart to prevent shame, yet he wanted not wit to feel shame; not so much repining at it for the abhorring of shame, as for the discommodities, that to them that are ashamed, ensue. For well he deemed, it would be a great bar to his practice, and a pulling on of injuries, when men needed not care how they used him. Insomuch, that Clinias (finding himself the scorning-stock of every company) fell with repining, to hate the cause thereof; and hate in a coward’s heart, could set itself no other limits, but death. Which purpose was well egged on by representing unto himself, what danger he lately was in; which still kept no less ugly figure in his mind than when it was present; and quickly (even in his dissembling countenance) might be discerned a concealed grudge. For though he forced himself to a far more diligent officiousness toward Amphialus than ever before, yet a leering eye upon the one side at him, a countenance still framed to smiling before him (how little cause soever there was of smiling) and grumbling behind him at any of his commandments, with an uncertain manner of behaviour: his words coming out, though full of flattery, yet slowly, and hoarsely pronounced, might well have blazed what arms his false heart bore. But despised, because of his cowardliness, and not marked because despised, he had the freer scope of practice. Which he did the more desperately enter into, because the daily dangers Amphialus did submit himself unto, made Clinias assuredly look for his overthrow, and for his own consequently, if he did not redeem his former treason to Basilius, with a more treasonable falsehood toward Amphialus. His chief care therefore was, to find out among all sorts of the Amphialians, whom either like fear, tediousness of the siege, or discontent of some unsatisfied ambition would make apt to dig in the same mine that he did: and some already of wealthy weary folks, and unconstant youths (who had not found such sudden success as they had promised themselves) he had made stoop to his lure. But of none he made so good account as of Artesia, sister to the late slain Ismenus, and the chief of the six maids, who had trained out the princesses to their banquet of misery: so much did the sharpness of her wit countervail, as he thought, any other defects of her sex: for she had undertaken that dangerous practice by the persuasion of Cecropia, who assured her that the two princesses should be made away, and then Amphialus would marry her, which she was the apter to believe, by some false persuasion her glass had given her of her own incomparable {365} excellencies, and by the great favour she knew he bare to her brother Ismenus, which, like a self-flattering woman, she conceived was done for her sake. But when she had achieved her attempt, and that she found the princesses were so far from their intended death, as that one of them was like to be her sovereign; and that neither her service won of Amphialus much more than an ordinary favour, nor her over-large offering herself to a mind otherwise owed, had obtained a looked for acceptation: disdain to be disdained, spite of a frustrate hope, and perchance unquenched lust-grown rage, made her unquiet thoughts find no other rest, but malice; which was increased by the death of her brother, whom she judged neither succoured against Philanax, nor revenged upon Philanax. But all these coals were well blown by the company she especially kept with Zelmane all this time of her imprisonment. For finding her presence uncheerful to the mourning Philoclea, and condemned of the high-hearted Pamela, she spent her time most with Zelmane: Who though at the first hardly brooking the instrument of their misery, learning cunning in the school of adversity, in time framed herself to yield her acceptable entertainment. For Zelmane, when she had by that unexpected mischief her body imprisoned, her valour over-mastered, her wit beguiled, her desires barred, her love eclipsed; assured of evil, fearing worse, able to know Philoclea’s misfortune, and not able to succour her, she was a great while before the greatness of her heart could descend to sorrow, but rather rose boiling up in spite and disdain, reason hardly making courage believe that it was distressed: but as if the walls would be afraid of her, so would her looks shoot out threatenings upon them. But the fetters of servitude, growing heavier with wearing, made her feel her case, and the little prevailing of repining: and then grief got a seat in her softened mind, making sweetness of past comforts, by due title, claim tears of present discomforts: and since her fortune made her able to help as little as anybody, yet to be able to wail as much as anybody; solitary sorrow, with a continual circle in herself, going out at her own mouth, to come in again at her own ears. Then was the name of Philoclea graved in the glass windows, and by the foolish idolatry of affection, no sooner written, than adored; and no sooner adored, than pitied: all the wonted praises (she was wont to give unto her) being now but figures of rhetoric to amplify the injuries of misfortune; against which being alone, she would often make invective declamations, methodised only by raging sorrow.

But when Artesia did insinuate herself into her acquaintance, she gave the government of her courage to wit, and was content to familiarize herself with her: so much the rather, as that she {366} perceived in her certain flaws of ill-concealed discontentment: insomuch that when Zelmane would sweeten her mouth with the praise of the sisters, especially setting forth their noble gratefulness in never forgetting well-intended services, and invoking the justice of the gods not to suffer such treasures to be wrongfully hidden, and sometimes with a kind of unkindness charging Artesia that she had been abused to abuse so worthy persons: Artesia, though falsely, would protest that she had been beguiled in it, never meaning other matter than recreation; and yet withal by alleging how ungratefully she was dealt with, it was easy to be seen it was the unrewarding, and not the evil employing her service, which grieved her. But Zelmane, using her own bias to bowl near the mistress of her own thoughts, was content to lend her belief, and withal to magnify her desert, if willingly she would deliver, whom unwillingly she had imprisoned; leaving no argument which might tickle ambition, or flatter revenge. So that Artesia, pushed forward by Clinias, and drawn onward by Zelmane, bound herself to that practice; wherein Zelmane, for her part, desired no more but to have armour and weapons brought into her chamber, not doubting therewith to perform anything, how impossible soever, which longing love can persuade, and invincible valour dare promise.