Chapter XLI: Book VI: {633} (1)

[_This Sixth Book was written in the Year 1633._]

What changes in fortune the princes of Macedon and Thessaly have passed, together with what event the uncertain actions of so blind a goddess have been crowned, they may remember, whose ears have been fed with the eloquent story, written by the never-enough renowned Sir Philip Sidney.

Basilius, therefore, having beheld with the eye of success, the accomplishment of his misinterpreted oracle, hastened (together with Euarchus) to his court of Mantinea; where the infinite assembly, and the public sacrifices of his subjects, did well witness what joy did possess their hearts, whose eyes were restored to the sight of long eclipsed sovereignty. Fame, also, proud to be the messenger of such royal news, had soon (with speedy flight) passed the limits of Arcadia, so that in few days the court was filled with foreign princes, whom either the tie of a long observed league of amity, or a nearness in blood to Basilius, at such a time, brought thither to congratulate with him, or were such, whose honour-thirsty minds hunted after occasions to make known their acts in chivalry.

And now was the marriage-day come, when Pamela, attired in the stately ornament of beauteous majesty, led by the constant forwardness of a virtuous mind, waited on by the many thoughts of his fore-past crosses in her love, which now made up a perfect harmony in the pleasing discord of endeared affection, was brought to church; whom, soon after, her sister Philoclea (being in the same degree of happiness, clad in the bashful innocency of an unspotted soul, guided by the shame-faced desire of her Pyrocles’s satisfaction, attended on by many graces of a mild cheerfulness) followed; both equally admired, both equally looked on.

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The temple (whereto in triumph beauty and majesty were led prisoners by the famous sisters) was a fit dwelling-place for the Arcadian deities, fenced from the sun and winds’ too free access, by many ranks of even-grown, even-set trees, near which, in divided branches, ran two clear streams, whose sweet murmur (as they tumbled over their bed of pebble stones) did much adorn the religious solitariness of that place. And, that nothing should be wanting that might set forth the careful judgment of the builder, it was seated in such a near distance from the palace, as might not presently bury the gloriousness of the show, nor cloy the beholders with the tediousness of the sight. In the way, on both hands, were many altars, on which the crowned entrails of the much-promising sacrifices were laid. At the door the two sisters were received by as many virgins, attired in a white lawn livery, with garlands on their heads of lilies and roses intermixed, holding in their left hands a pair of pigeons, the grateful offering to the queen of love. Soon after, the accustomed rites in the Arcadian nuptials being ended, the King and Euarchus, with the rest of the princes, returned unto a stately palace, sumptuously furnished, where both art and nature seemed to be at variance, whether should bestow most ornaments to enrich so rare a work: seated where the earth did rise a little (as proud to be the supporter of so curious a building) by means whereof, the sight had freedom to overlook a large territory, where the green level of the Arcadian plains, beautified by the intercourse of many forests, represented the delightful mixture of a civil wilderness. The building of marble, where, whether the art in carving into many forms the in vain resisting hardness of the stone, the cunning in knitting these disjointed members, or the invention in contriving their several rooms, did excel, was hard to be judged of.

The inside also might well be the inner part of so glorious an outside; for, besides the well-matched largeness of the rooms, and lightsome pleasantness of the windows, it was all hung with the choice rareness of far-fetched arras, in which the ingenious workman, with the curious pencil of his little needle, had limned the dumb records of revived antiquity. Here did he present the memorable siege of Thebes, where the ruins of her walls seemed yet to hang, and make the beholders fear the downfall of the lively stones. There you might see how cunningly he had expressed the constrained flight of the Trojan prince, and the cruel sacrifice of enraged Dido’s love. Nor was the story of Scylla forgotten, who there stood before Minos, with the present of her father’s fatal hair; while you might perceive, by his bent brows and disdainful countenance, the just reward of her unnatural attempt. With these and others, wherein cost and invention strove {635} for the mastery, were the hangings adorned; yet these many stories did so stealingly succeed each other that the most curious observer’s eye (though his admiration might dwell on each piece) could find no cause of stay until he had overlooked them all. But neither these, nor what art or nature could have added, did set forth so much the palace, as the graceful presence of the Arcadian sisters; whose beauties, till now, of long time had borne a part with their troubled minds, in a sweet pilgrimage to a happy event; and therefore at this present, so far disburdened of those thoughts, as it was to be settled in the most desired enjoying of unspeakable bliss, the imagination would needs persuade, if it were possible, were bettered.

Dinner being set and ended, while the knights (who, to honour that day with tilting, and to show what they dared and could effect in the service, as they thought, of unresistable beauties) were putting on their armour, there entered the hall a page, who, with submissive humbleness, told the King, he was sent from his master, the naked knight, who desired there to be received as a challenger, to eternize, as the justness of his cause required, the famous memory of his deceased mistress Helen, the Queen of Corinth. Basilius, much pitying the before-unheard death of so excellent a queen, willed the page to relate the circumstance, which being strange in itself, and of so great a subject, wrought a passionate willingness in the hearers to be attentive.

“After that fortune,” said he, “had bestowed, by the conquest of Amphialus, at Cecropia’s castle, the victory on his adversary the black knight, this queen (having long time, by the command of love, her inward tyrant, made all Greece a stage for her wandering passions) at length went thither, where the end of her search was the beginning of her sorrows. Finding the curtains of eternal night ready to close up his eyes, who (in the voyage her affection made) had alway been the port she steered to; yet hoping she knew not what, that if perhaps Proserpine should meet in Elysium his departed soul, she would in mere compassion of her sorrow, send it back to reinhabit her ancient seat; she carried the life little-desiring body, to Corinth, where, at that time, lived an aged man, by name Artelio, one whose fortunate experience in desperate cures had made famous. Him, by the powerful command of his queen, and the humble tears of a still-mistrusting lover, she conjures to employ the uttermost of his skill in preserving him in whom she lived. Some time there was ere his vital spirits, almost now proved strangers to their wonted mansion, would accept the tie of hospitality; but when the hand of art had taught them courtesy, and that each sense, though faintly, did exercise his charge, Amphialus, returning to himself, from that sweet ignorance of cares {636} wherein he lived, began to question, in what estate the castle was against the besiegers? thinking he had always been there; when Helen entered the room with a countenance where beauty appeared through the clouds of care and fear of his danger: Her, the double and deeply wounded patient (bearing still about him the inward picture of Philoclea, whom long I have heard, in vain he loved) thought to be the same saint, the remembrance of whom returned, together with his wandering soul, from which it was inseparable. Now, therefore, with a languishing look (the true herald of what he suffered) ‘Lady,’ said he, ‘though the welcome harbinger of a near-following death hath provided this body (while it was mine, alway devoted to your service) as a lodging for his master an ever-certain guest, yet when I pass to the Elysian plains (if any memory there remain of this world of comfort you now vouchsafe, heaven knows! your faithful, though unfortunate servant) I shall never cease to pay the eternal tribute of thanks to well-deserving death, who, with his presence brings the happiness in life denied me.’

“The Queen with a pensive silence, sorrowing she stood to act the counterfeit of her rival, and still desirous to enjoy the sweet speech of her revived Amphialus, was like a passenger, whom the loud command of the rough winds had forced to wander through the unevenness of the deep-furrowed seas, now in sight of land, equally distracted between the desire to leave his unnatural habitation, where each wave seems to be the proud messenger of destruction, and fear to approach it, being jealous of his hard entertainment on the rocky shore: thus did she continue (fixed in a doubtful imagination) loth to interrupt his pleasing speech, and more than grieved he meant not her whom he spoke to, until Amphialus (strengthening his newly recovered senses with the conceited presence of Philoclea) found his error, and then, with a look on his mistaken object (which he could not make disdainful, because his happy thoughts had once adored it for Philoclea) he suddenly fell into a deadly trance, whereat Helen (feelingly suffering in his danger) ran to him, and bedewing his even then lovely face with the loving oblation of her many tears, she together poured forth the most passionate plaints that love could invent, or grief utter; so as a while, this accident overthrowing the fabric of her half-built comfort with the suddenness of so unlooked-for an assault, constrained her (with bemoaning his case) to forget the care of his safety; but being withdrawn by her servants, the indisposition of her body, caused her a while to entertain in bed the fever of her affectionate sorrow.

“In the meantime, Amphialus, by the skilful care of Artelio, was again brought to enjoy that, whose loss he would account his {637} chiefest happiness; and faintly withdrawing the cover that obscured his weak sight, and settling his look upon Artelio, ‘Father,’ said he, ‘if you felt the inward agonies of my tormented soul, as you see the desperate state of my low-brought body, I assure myself you would not be so inhuman, there to employ your endeavours, where, when they have wrought their effect, they serve only to confirm the memory of fore-passed calamity, with the growing apprehension of future misfortune. But since my destinies have so set down, that the whole course of my life should be inevitably disastrous, I must think my tragedy is not yet acted; though what worse than hath befallen me cannot be imagined, or what may be kept in store (more than I have passed), far exceeds my apprehension, though not my expectation.’

“Here he began to run over his unfortunate love to Philoclea, the killing of Parthenia, his overthrow in the encounter with the black knight; inserting many more disgraces, which the most envious of his glory, would not have cast as aspersions on his well-known fame. Thus, with the thought that fate (whose working he could not limit) had reserved him for more mischief, he suffered his wounds to be cured; and soon after, walking one evening, as his manner was, in the garden, he chose a time, as he thought unespied by any, to convey himself through a back-door, and there finding his horse (which his page had brought by his appointment) he rode away, whither he knew not, and not much cared, so he might leave her, whose affection deserved a more courteous farewell. But alas! when she heard of his going, what tongue is able to express her sorrow, in whom the equally tormenting passions of grief and despair were lifted to their uttermost height?

“Two days, since the departure of Amphialus, posted away, striving in vain to overtake their irrecoverable fellows, and now the third was come, to be a prologue to the following tragedy: when Helen (slacking the violent course of her incessant plaints) gave occasion to her servants to be less mistrustful of her actions, thinking that time began to wear away her sorrows. But she (as by the event was gathered) using this as a policy to rid herself of the cumber of careful attendance, when (now her truce, in show, with sorrow, and the restraint of her plaints had wrought the effect she desired) taking her trusty servant Mylama with her, and leaving a letter with Lada (whom, besides Mylama, she only trusted with this secret) which, upon the first knowledge of her flight, should be given to Drenus the chief of her council; wherein she excused her secret stealing away, by a vow passed to Apollo, in such manner to go a pilgrimage to Delphos; she put herself on her journey, having an army of passions for her convoy, led by love, {638} and waited on by desire, in hope of what she knew was hopeless; yet often checking her despairing foresight with such unlikely possibilities as affection (upon these occasions) is wont to supply.

“Many days she had not wandered (changing places, to renew her companions in sorrow) when coming into a pleasant valley, where of each side, many trees (in the green-leaved mantle of their summer livery) did apparel two neighbour mountains, where some sunburnt sapless pines, by the advantage of the ground (like little-deserving, in themselves, birth-only ennobled men) overtopped the straight upraised cedar, the stock of self-begun honour. Through this flowery plain ran a many-headed crystal current that did indent the earth as it smoothly glided by, to make the obligation of friendship between them more firm; and where, it fame-like, increased by travel, there (as it was the natural) so, it seemed to have been the politic body of the state of springs, such was the constant care of the fountain magistrates, and such the well-agreeing union of the watery commons. Here she stayed (invited by solitariness, the best repose for wearied sorrow) yet giving no respite to her mind, she spoke nothing but Amphialus, or of Amphialus. ‘O Amphialus!’ did she say, and to this invocation the flattering nymph (that always seconds what is spoken) did join the like of her own; and Helen delighted to hear the sound of so sweet a name beaten back upon her, for a time sealed up her lips, listening (with attentive silence) what echo would have further said. But she (who of all the powers of a reasonable soul, only had a memory and a tongue only serviceable for that use) together gave over to reflect her borrowed language, expecting (with like stillness) her further speech. But Helen, not able longer to restrain the overflow of her panting heart, began to cry out, ‘Unkind Amphialus!’ This also did the echo repeat. But she hearing by the rebound of the words, Amphialus accused. ‘Discourteous nymph,’ said she, ‘and how is Amphialus unkind? Can the harmony of such excellence admit so foul a fault to bear a part with his virtues? Yet, woe is me! he is unkind. Could his hard heart else suffer this love of his (which I only name because it is the only part worth naming in me) thus long unregarded? Could not my crown (crowned in being a foot-stool to Amphialus) have purchased some respect? Alas! no: how could unhappy Helen expect the Fates reserved so great a blessing in store for her?’

“She had not long debated the reasons of her misfortune, when Rinatus (the only brother to Timotheus, but younger by many years) chanced to pass that way. A man on whom fame had bestowed, and deservingly, the name of valiant; yet of disposition so mischievously cruel, and ambitiously proud, that where his deeds might well have claimed so great an honour, there his {639} conditions (as well weighed) brought a reproachful burden to the balance of his reputation. He (his father dying young, and unwilling to dismember his estate, and unable otherwise to satisfy the hopes of his son’s ambition) hearing of the wars of Laconia, went thither; where soon he purchased the opinion of a man resolute to undertake, and fortunate to execute what he had undertaken: and serving under Eborbas (chief commander for the king) because of the sympathy of humours between them (whereby nature did insinuate for Rinatus, and taught him flattery without dissimulation) he grew great in his favour. Soon after this, Eborbas in a conflict between him and the Helots being mortally wounded, yet in death, careful of the welfare of his country, recommended this Rinatus (partly for his good liking of him, but principally for his experience in wars, and well-seconded judgment) to the king, who, though with some opposition (the country-men repining at his, a stranger’s advancement) after trusty Eborbas’s death, preferred him to the same place. His discharge of which, outwent so far the envy of the jealous noblemen, that well might their king and they, in the death of the valiant Eborbas, deplore the loss of a private man, but must confess that this watchful care and undaunted well-ordered courage, did survive in this their general.

“In this esteem he had scarce lived a year, when, hearing of his brother and nephew’s death, together with his undoubted right to the large territory which his brother in his life-time had enjoyed, he, notwithstanding, continued in the charge to which he was lately advanced: framing in his conceit his new-acquired greatness but as a step to climb the sovereignty of Laconia: which being elective, he thought the easier to be compassed, having by his bounteous affability gained the hearts of the soldiers, and being already possessed of the chief forts (the best strength of the country) wherein he had placed such who had their devotions linked to his will, because they owed him the benefit of their creation. But finding the accomplishment of these practices to depend upon the death of the king, which, his youth promised was unlikely soon to happen, and fearful to draw on the discovery of his practices by seeking any secret means to make him away, whom the watchful eye of dutiful observance did warrant secure from any traitorous plots, he solicits the King to dispense with his presence, who (seeing the ground of his journey to be the just cause of his long-deferred revenge for Timotheus his brother, and Philoxenus his nephew’s death, now a peace was lately concluded with the Helots, and therefore his absence the more excusable) upon condition of a speedy return, though unwilling, yet for his satisfaction, grants his request: who now on his journey, {640} and having in his way to cross this valley, met the unfortunate queen, whom, though her habit might disguise, her words (overheard) did assure Rinatus his willingness to believe that she was the same she so often spoke herself to be, the unfortunate Helen.

“Awhile he stood doubtful of the person, awhile amazed at so fortunate an encounter, and a long time perplexed what punishment his revenge would judge fit for (the conceited heinousness of) his brother and nephew’s death. At length the Queen (now first withdrawing her thoughts from that object whereto affection, in sweetest contemplation, had bound them, and suffering her mind, before retired within itself, now to be informed by her servant’s sense) seeing this stranger near her, began, as her manner was, to find by enquiry what he knew of Amphialus. ‘Wicked woman,’ replied Rinatus, ‘the all-seeing justice hath now delivered thee to receive fit punishment for Philoxenus’s and Timotheus’s death,’ and using no more words, presently caused her to be mounted on horseback, prolonging her life to make her death more miserable. Thus far hath Mylama discovered, who, poor lady, was there left, most cruelly beaten, to be the reporter of Rinatus’s revenge, and her mistress’s hard hap.

“The last act of this tragedy, my master had the fortune to know, by one of trust and great esteem in the court of Laconia, to which Rinatus had conveyed Helen, where, for a time, she was honourably entertained, finding no want but of command and liberty; the king, belike fearing the power of the wronged Corinthians, preserving her as a sure card for a dead lift. But when he understood that one Tenarus (a man apt to practice innovations, and at this time able, when the many-headed multitude wanted the awful presence of their sovereign) took upon him the government, pretending a title to the crown, as descended from those, from whom Helen’s ancestors, as he alleged, had traitorously forced it, then did the tyrant of Laconia, finding the way secure for his mischievous practice, vehemently importuned by Rinatus, and urged forward by the politic wickedness of his own desire to pleasure the new king, secretly cause Helen to be poisoned: Such was the end of this great queen, justly beloved of all who heard the fame of her virtues, and therefore justly to be deplored of all who hear the unredeemable loss of so many perfections.”

Basilius, and the rest of the princes, were much moved with so tragical a story, especially Musidorus, who (in search of Pyrocles) having the fortune to see her, could witness, that though fame had borrowed all men’s mouths to proclaim her many excellencies, yet it was far from doing right to her desert. But {641} this was no fit lodging for pity to dwell in, where joy had so great a command. The messenger therefore being permitted to part, with free leave for his master to enter the lists, judges were appointed, and the challenge proclaimed.

The challenger understanding of the King’s liking of his demand, came forth of his pavilion, with armour so lively representing nakedness, wounded in many places (where the staunchless blood, in the course the workman had allotted it, seemed to drop destruction) that many thought a madness had possessed him (so unarmed, so wounded) to present himself in such a trial, where a surer defence, and a sounder body were more needful. Before him went six, as savages, bearing the lances for his first courses; who coming within distance to be heard, did sing these following verses.

Too soon you fled from hence to that fair place, The happy period of a well-run race: Too late I stay in grief’s eternal night, To do this penance for my over-sight. Once let me die, let not my dying life Prolong my woes, and keep my thoughts at strife: Let him that did offend your heav’nly eyes, Now please your anger with self-sacrifice.

Then one of them, reaching him a lance, he began his course against Tyro Prince of Andria, famous for his constant love to the fair Lydia, now married, and Queen of Epire, and ever fortunate in the course of his adventures: but here his fortune gave place to virtue, or rather joined with her to assist the naked knight; for, at the third encounter, he was put beside his saddle, much bruised in body, and no less afflicted in mind.

The next that supplied his place, was Pausanias, a Macedonian, one, who in his late wars had done Euarchus faithful service, and now, thinking to be as successful in this enterprise, had put on armour to do honour to his mistress: but his first course compelled him to acknowledge he was deceived, seeing himself fall so short of his expectation.

To him succeeded Nicanor, a Corinthian knight, advanced by the new king, one extremely confident of himself, because never tried, and now very forward, fearing to be prevented of the honour, for which already, in conceit, he had triumphed at Corinth with the great applause of the people, and the good liking of the king. But the naked knight, at second course, cut off both his life and imagined trophy: for, couching his lance, and allotting it in his course a just descent, rightly levelled by his well-judging experience, it met with Nicanor’s sight, and passing thorough that weak {642} resistance, it pierced his right eye, and with it his brain, so that Nicanor fell down, forgetful both of his forethought fame and following reproach. With this adventure the tilting that day ended; the sun with loose rays, posting to his western home, and the naked knight retired himself to his pavilion, whence he sent his page, who, humbly, for his master, entreated, that his unwillingness to be known should excuse the omission of his duty to the king.

Thus that night drew on, which to them who enjoyed delight, seemed to have put on all her sails to be the speedier in passing over. But far other was the naked knight’s apprehension: he (who made her ugly darkness a pattern of the sorrow his afflicted soul endured) thought she was becalmed in the sea of his misfortune. At length Phoebus, weary of his importunity, made haste to distribute his grateful light to his care-tired senses; and he as soon embracing the smallest show of comfort, put on his armour. About two hours after, the judges being set, and Basilius and Euarchus (with the rest of the court) present, Leonatus, the young King of Pontus (who had been there to acknowledge his beholdingness to them whom he was deservingly bound to) took the field. His armour was of a dark colour, through which many flames seemed to break out, as when the clouds, great in labour with exhalations, at length gave way to their more violent power: his three first courses promised a more happy event than fortune meant he should enjoy, for (having performed them with a well-ordered firmness in his seat, and a moving constancy in the carriage of his lance, to the great delight of the beholders) the fourth time he was dismounted; whose disgrace Pyrocles was ready to revenge, but he was, by a secret look from Philoclea, commanded the contrary. Then Telamon, Phelauceas and Diremus felt, with little advantage in fortune, the like success.

Thus, most part of that morning, the naked knight, with little resistance, had the best against all comers, which most of the lookers-on, with public acclamation, did testify, but he having given over the use of himself to sorrow, sometimes by the careless shaking of his head, did let them know, they burdened his desert with the unpleasing weight of his praise; and staying a while on horseback, he expected the next adventurer, with such a demeanour of himself, that (though it did accuse him of much grief) could not conceal the grace of his stately presence. But when he saw none ready to take the field, with an humble bend taking his leave of the king, he softly trotted towards his tent, not so much to repose his body, as to give a quiet way to the assaults of his mind. At length, when all the beholders’ expectations were almost wearied, there entered the lists a lady, attended only by one page, who {643} having alighted, presently went towards the place where Basilius sat, where first kneeling, then taking away a black scarf (which grief had hired to join with herself, in eclipsing the excellent feature of a most fair face) she began to speak; but Basilius and Gynecia hastily ran to embrace Helen Queen of Corinth, for this was she. Great was the joy of her revived presence, and great the desire to know the means of her safety. But she (accounting these gratulations cumbersome, and the relation of her adventures tedious) fixing her watery eyes on Basilius: “Great king, I am,” said she, “that unfortunate Helen, sometime Queen of Corinth, now both deprived of crown and kingdom by Tenarus. Yet why should I mention this, as fit to be inserted among my greatest misfortunes? The cause why now I come, is my care of Amphialus’s safety, in whom I live, to whose disdain I have vowed the tribute of my constant love. He (alas! why should I live to speak it?) not long since following the course of his adventures, came to Amasia, where he was made prisoner, and carried to Dunalbus prince of that country, whose brother it was Amphialus’s fortune to kill in rescue of a lady, to whom he would have offered dishonourable violence. These news came to mine ears (to add more to many miseries) at that time when I chanced to be at Delphos, pouring forth my heartiest devotions for my most beloved, my most unkind Amphialus: but the pitying God, either to stay my hands from the execution they intended (but to what end might that be? that God knows; for no time can unbend my affection) or, as heaven grant it may be, in commiseration of my case, thus comforted me:

Helen, return; a naked knight shall find Rest for thy hopes, and quiet to thy mind.

“Thus far have I wandered, led by that divine promise, in pursuit of such a one: But nowhere can I find a happy event to confirm that oracle; yet dare I not despair, having so high a warrant; nor hope, having so bad success.”

“You are fortunately come,” said the King, “This knight, whose skill in arms hath made your well-deserving virtues famous, may be that man pointed out by the finger of heaven, to release Amphialus, who both in name and armour represents a naked knight.” “O no,” said the Queen, “it cannot be expected that Apollo, would leave so plain a way for us to track out the footsteps of his obscure mysteries.” “Madam,” replied Basilius (having first placed her in a chair by him) “the all-seeing providence, with whom the ends of all things are present, is sometimes pleased to cast forth the emblem of our destinies, so strangely hidden in the covert of ambiguous words, that, doubtless, {644} it serves to beget nothing but matters of distrust, and labyrinths of errors, where the imagination a thousand ways may be led astray; of this you have a present proof, confirmed by my experience. And sometimes the same justice unfolds the secret of our fate, and plainly lets us know the mystery of our fortune; yet even that plainness, to the curious search of our still-mistrusting brain, becomes a reason sufficient to enforce us to a contrary belief. This last, I think (if, in the interpretation of an oracle, my opinion may be received) is that mean, whereby Apollo both reveals and hides the author of Amphialus’s freedom.”

This said, he sends presently for the naked knight, who as soon obeying the king’s command, as he was completely armed, came before him; to whom Basilius cheerfully told (as glad to be the reporter of good news to him, whose prowess in arms deservingly gained much of his good opinion) of Helen’s being there, together with her desire to employ him in an action the heavens had also interested him in. “What is it,” replied the naked knight, “that, without such a command, I would not endeavour to accomplish for my most dear Helen?” And then, with excess of comfort and astonishment, his weak limbs were ready to give over the support of his joy-burdened body; but, being upheld by Musidorus, who stood next him, his overcharged spirits had time to recollect themselves.

The Queen gathering comfort from his promise, and seeing fair likelihood of the oracle’s accomplishment, with the oratory of love, who thinks no words but his own able to express his mind, began in this manner: “Sir, ill-fortune my awful governess, as in the most of my actions she is pleased to keep a hard hand over me, so in this (distrustful belike of my willingness) she forces me to repeat my wonted lesson of receiving courtesies without power of requital; making one undeserved favour from you become a cause of further beholdingness to you: But the glory that follows your good success in this adventure (the best spur to set forward brave spirits to noble actions) hath almost assured me that the love you profess, and a distressed lady’s cause, need not join petitioners in a request your virtue must be willing to grant. The reward of your victory, is the releasing of Amphialus, of whom I may speak, and the world with me, all praise-worthy things.” “Madam,” replied the naked knight, “I thought the gods could not have favoured me more than in giving you respite of life, and me power to be serviceable to you: but when I consider the end I must employ my endeavours to, it buries my conceited happiness in the grave of a certain misfortune. Shall I labour to preserve that monster of men, whose story (if the world will needs read) contains nothing but a volume of disasters, and a vain {645} discourse of a few adventures cast upon him by the blindness of chance? Shall I hazard my life for him, against whom, had I lives innumerable, I would venture them all? Shall I live to make another happy in your favour, and cross mine own desires? No, madam, I will sooner leave my blood here before you, as a testimony that fear hath no interest in my disobedience to your command, than I will make my after-life, truly miserable in the burden of a hopeless affection.” To this the Queen awhile in tears, as if her eyes strove to speak for her, made a silent answer; but when her sighs had breathed forth the over-charge of her breast, first she kneeled, then faintly said: “O eternal president of this court of cares, when will thy just pity commiserate my distress! Alas, Sir, what new way have the gods found to vent their malice on me! have I made disdain my only mishap, and must now affection towards me be another undeserved misfortune? Behold, Sir, and, if you can, with pity, a Queen born to command a suppliant at your feet, begging what goodness solicits you to grant, release Amphialus: and if your jealousy thinks he hath too much interest in my love, restore him to the world that wants him, I will vow a virgin’s life.” “Stay, virtuous Queen,” replied the naked knight, and lifting up his beaver, “receive,” said he, “thou best of women! the overjoyed Amphialus.”

The Queen, as when the ocean swells with the rage of a tempest, if on a sudden these blasts be appeased, yet the proud waves, mindful of their fore-passed injury, and indisposed to so speedy a reconcilement, some while retain the rough remembrance of the winds’ malice, so were her thoughts, before moved by the storm of despair, though now she had cause of contented quiet, on a sudden, incapable of so unlooked-for a happiness, first doubt, then amazement, lastly excess of joy, by succession, were admitted to the helm of her distressed heart. But when joy had once got to be the steersman, his want of practice (by his long absence from that employment) soon brought a confusion; here the warm tears of sorrow, there the cold drops of a present comfort, did strive whether should show itself most officious in drowning her pale blushing cheeks: At length they both, no longer able to resist this powerful invasion of their minds, as by mutual consent, fell the one entwined in the other’s arms, and made the earth happy in bearing such matchless lovers. But their senses being soon restored to their wonted function, after some passionate words (to which their eyes and touch of their hands gave the life of expression) Amphialus, divided into many minds by the turbulent working of his thoughts, turning towards his uncle, with his eyes fixed on the ground, stood with the grace of a man condemned, who having led a loathsome life in an ugly dungeon, is now {646} brought to a freedom of looking upon the open air, yet sees the day is but a taper to light him to his execution. Of the one side he was brought from the hell of despair, wherein he lived in the assurance of Helen’s death, to the certainty of her life and presence; of the other, what was his treason to his uncle to expect, but an infamous death, and a divorce from his new-born happiness. The shame also of a crime so foul as his rebellion, was not the least torment to his mind, unwillingly beaten from a settled course of virtue by Cecropia’s practices. At length, when these thoughts, that almost overcame all the powers of life in him, were themselves overcome by his resolution, casting himself at Basilius’s feet, thus said: “Great Sir, if treason in a subject, and unnaturalness in a nephew, be punishable, here you have before you a fit exercise for your justice, I am that subject whose rebellion interrupted the contented quiet of my King’s solitary life, and brought him to behold the bloody tragedy of a civil dissention in his divided state: I am that nephew, whom a wilful disobedience made a traitor to the nearness of his blood. Hither did I come, Orestes-like, tormented by the inward fright of my guilty conscience, with my blood to wash away (if good fortune, in the defence of the cause I undertook, would draw death upon me) the stains of such unpardonable faults; but now that I have found what I least looked for (and then he cast a side-look on Helen) for her, I confess, I should desire to live, if your just indignation might find mercy for so heinous offences, which I will not strive to mitigate, however justly I may; for I would think such faults ill-excused with which, to ease myself, I must have burdened my nearest friends.”

Basilius, first graciously lifting him from the ground: “Nephew,” replied he, “did I retain the memory of your youthful oversights, this your virtuous acknowledgment were sufficient to bear them away; but long since I have buried in oblivion the thought of your rashness because I knew (by what after happened) that the gods had made you an instrument to work their ends; it were injury therefore to question his actions, whose will was not his own, being over-ruled by their all-commanding decree. No, nephew, I do not only pardon these transgressions, but freely also do resign all such possessions as your father held in Arcadia, taken from you in the last war, and now in the hands of Philanax. Live happy in your choice, I shall be proud of our alliance with the crown of Corinth, and shall rejoice to see the succession continue in our blood.” This said, he led him to Gynecia, then to Euarchus, but when he came to Musidorus: “This, nephew, is that black knight,” said he, “who at your last meeting gave such evident proof of his unconquerable valour; this is Musidorus the Prince of Thessalia, {647} whom the gods have bestowed as a blessing on my daughter Pamela.” Amphialus, now assured by the king’s speech, unto whose hand the honour of his conquest had fallen (for doubt had long tormented him that, some baser hand had reaped the glory of his victory). “Prince Musidorus,” said he, “my hard success in our last encounter much perplexed me; not that my confidence of myself was lifted to such an arrogant presumption to think my strength and skill in arms matchless, but that it grieved me, an unknown knight (one, whom the world might think had concealed his name, lest, together with him, his bad fortune in trials of that kind might be discovered) should have the better of me. But now, that I know to whose lot my victory hath fallen, I do not only bring an excuse, but an honour from the worthiness of the conqueror.”

“Courteous Amphialus,” replied the Prince, “whose side the advantage of fortune did then incline to, if it may be determined, with greater reason, and more desert, should the honour be given you, than bestowed on me; but, however, such trial I then made of your manhood that, hereafter, I shall desire to be of your part.” “Worthy Prince,” said Amphialus, “your virtue will always choose to be of the weaker side.” And so turning to Philoclea, “Divine lady,” said he, “in your excellent choice of the famous Pyrocles, you have (besides the happiness gained to yourself, for which the world may envy you) showed me the way to my best hopes, by grafting my affection in the stock of my Helen’s constancy.” “Dear cousin,” replied Philoclea, “I am glad it was in my power, and your good fortune, so much to better your choice in so excellent a remove:” And so, casting a bashful look towards Pyrocles: “Sir,” said she, “we may join in thanksgiving. This is my cousin, whose virtuous disposition during our imprisonment was our safest defence against my Aunt Cecropia’s cruelty.” “I do acknowledge it,” said Pyrocles, “and besides this favour, in which we have a common interest, Sir, I must crave pardon for a wound given you at such a time when, belike, you made patience your only defence.”

Amphialus stood with his eyes fixed on Pyrocles, for his memory supplied him with a confused remembrance of such a face: Zelmane he could not take him to be, her sex and this change, at their first birth, destroyed these apprehensions. Pyrocles, his heart swore he was not, whose youth and beauty, God wot! were no fit livery for such achievements as the world famed him for. Thus awhile he continued, troubled with the uncertainty of conjectures, until Pyrocles (happily conceiving the cause of his amazement) stopped his further admiration by letting him know that the then Zelmane was the now Pyrocles. Whereat Amphialus, {648} as one newly waked out of a dream, cried out, “Anaxius, Anaxius,” said he, “’twas the Prince of Macedon (not a woman) overcame thee. Wheresoever thy soul be, let it keep this time festival as the birthday of thy glory.” And so, after mutual embraces, together with the rest of the princes, they entered the palace, where, when they were seated, the eyes of all the company were set on the Queen of Corinth, longing to know the story of her strange fortune; now a queen, then a prisoner; now alive, then dead; which she, at Basilius’s entreaty, with a majesty which her fortune could not change, because it was innate, thus declared.

“Great Sir! that I was made prisoner by Rinatus, and by him carried to Laconia, fame, together with the news of my supposed death, belike hath brought you; the rest, since you esteem worthy your hearing, I shall esteem worthy my relation. There yet governs, and then did, among the nobility of Laconia, one Creton, a man elected to the crown rather to recompense the desert of his ancestors, than for his own virtues, beloved and borne with for the same reason; such an everlasting monument of itself, can goodness leave to posterity. To him when I was brought, my guilt and my guilty self, with the best oratory Rinatus had, was made known, who, with vehement importunity, desired that my speedy punishment, as my fault, should be terrible. The king answered, though he found his demands reasonable, and such to which he was sure there could be no opposition made, yet he thought it fit the nobility should be acquainted with so weighty a cause before he proceeded further in it, and so, for this time (being committed to the charge of Pertinax, chamberlain to the king) I was dismissed. The next day, the council being sent for, my cause ran the hazard of many opinions; some thought it fit I should die; and though justice, said they, might not dispense with such severity, yet it was fit to please Rinatus, one who had deserved well, and had the power, if otherwise he were dealt with, to revenge his injury. Others, the more in number, and esteemed the wiser, because the King held with them, opposed this sentence, alleging, so inconsiderate an act might call the safety of Laconia in question; ‘For,’ said they, ‘shall we think the Corinthians so degenerate, that, being justly incensed against us they will not endeavour to revenge the death of their prince, in the shade of whose reign they enjoy that peace and plenty their neighbours envy them for? And if they stir in it, what people is so barbarous, whom the justness of their cause will not procure into the society of this war? See then if a private man’s satisfaction be to be compared to these ensuing dangers? No, let her live, and when the gods do otherwise dispose of her, let her death come without the ruin of Laconia.’ This determined, a new doubt arose, how I should be disposed of. {649} They that before thought it expedient I should die, now that opinion was put by, concluded that it was best to send me to Corinth, with an honourable convoy, so to tie them by a perpetual bond of gratitude, to be their friends whom they so much feared to be their enemies; the rest, to gratify the King, whose affection they perceived to lean that way, and well assured it was an advice too profitable to be rejected that gained a kingdom, though his promise after the queen’s death (who, not long before, left him a widower) had been passed to Lemnia, a fair and virtuous lady, daughter to my keeper Pertinax, yet they wished, if so he pleased, my crown might win me to his bed, little doubting but I had thought it an egregious felicity to be so graced. The King, after many protractions, at length, as if he were wrought to it by a desire to satisfy the nobility rather than self-will, declares his mind to be directed by them; which, once known, behold! the flattery of the court began to fawn upon me; who more observed? who more admired? Only Rinatus, much impatient of this my greatness in court, uttered some words in choler, which made known, by a further inquiry, a conspiracy of his against the king, so that soon after (the rather to give me, whom they studied to please, satisfaction) he was beheaded.

“But long it was not before fortune, neither constant to my happy adversity, nor adverse felicity, had brought thither (sent by the usurper Tenarus) a wise, but wicked instrument, whom he called his ambassador, who laboured, by the policy of his high-reaching brain, and the secret practices of his undermining gold, so far for his master’s ends, that now, in an instant, the still-changing face of court-respect began to frown upon me: my death was decreed, and until the time were appointed for it, myself made a close prisoner in my accustomed gaol. But the King, chiefly moved with the hope of my crown, and drawn by a self-conceit of liking to my sorrow, which, perhaps, had a sympathy with his melancholy, wouldst needs continue the suit of his affection to me, though he durst not interpose his over-ruled authority for my liberty. Thus, for a time, did I live, accompanied by some few whom the king might trust with his intents, he, in show, courting his first love Lemnia, and making that a pretence to come private to her father’s house near adjoining to court. But indeed, as at that time he could have no reason to dissemble with me, this kindness came another way; which Lemnia suspecting, and being as far gone in affection to this double-dealing king, as he was in the profession of a little-regarded love to me, her watchful eye soon found the advantage of a happy opportunity to hear himself speak his own deceit, with such a heart-burning vehemency that Lemnia (who had placed herself, unknown to either of us, behind the {650} hangings) scarce could suppress her entry to play a part in our comedy of affection. But to his demands truth answered for me plainly that death, in whose expectation I lived, would be far more pleasing than the marriage he thought so reasonable; adding withal to my speech much of Lemnia’s praise, which she deserved, to instruct his eyes that indeed were blind in his choice.

“But when he parted, vowing to be severe in my punishment, unless I resolved better at his next coming, behold Lemnia, with tears in her eyes, fell at my feet, and when she saw amazement in my looks, with a kind bashfulness, taking my hand, and rising with that help: ‘Virtuous lady,’ said she, ‘if ever you have been acquainted with the tyranny of all-commanding affection, to that judge I appeal, who (though courtesy and good manners oppose him) will find my fault excusable. This man, who in your presence hath been the trumpet of his own inconstancy, first with the vehement protestation of his sincere affection, won me in gratefulness to meet him, in recompense of his unknown dissimulation, if such then it were; and now with the good liking of the state, were the solemnities appointed for our marriage, when your arrival crossed those hopes, and drew his thoughts to their natural temper of unstayedness. But since I have found, by this fortunate unmannerliness, your answers so resolutely opposed to his demands, henceforth I vow to work your freedom, or bring myself to perish with you.’ Her fault found an easy pardon at the tribunal she appealed to--I thanked her, as there was good cause, for her desire of my good; only I wished, if my freedom could not be procured without danger to her, she should not heap miseries upon me by joining herself a companion in my disasters. She comforts me with the hope of a better event, and to bring her intention to a wished success, she wins my unwillingness to show some favour to the king: which next day I did, having placed Lemnia where she had placed herself the day before, to be a witness to our conference; for otherwise, perhaps, her love this second time might have egged her suspicion, already prone that way, to the distrust of a practice betwixt us. And happy was this forced dissimulation; for the King, not long before his coming to me, had received advertisement that the usurper of Corinth had levied an army, and set forth many ships to invade Laconia, making the delay of my promised execution the pretence of this war; which being also known, they (who, together with this foreign enemy, feared the rebellion of the Helots, who always lay in wait for an opportunity of such advantage) now, more than ever, began to solicit the King to satisfy so potent an enemy in so just a demand. The King, well weighing the imminent dangers that were to be prevented by my death, and seeing the little {651} comfort he did enjoy by the prolonging of my life (likely every day to increase my obstinacy, being none of those lovers that would die for his disdaining mistress) was ready to deliver me over as a sacrifice for the state and country, when, behold! his sails were filled with self-opinion of my favour. Borne up, therefore, with the wings of hope, he returns to court, where love (or some indulgent fate) inspired this project into his head; he calls the nobility, and after a long narration of the mischiefs that hung over Laconia, he desires their advice for prevention. They, glad that the only opposer, as they thought, of their designs, would have recourse to their directions, in that cause wherein they were jealous of his partaking after a flattering insinuation (the common exordium to men of his place) they concluded that it was fit Helen should die. ‘I doubt it not,’ said he (nor was it to that end I sought your counsel) ‘that the necessity of the times, the welfare of our person, and the preservation of our estate required her death; but it much perplexed me, that our fame should bleed with her, or that the world should say the threats of the King of Corinth had enforced us to behead her whom lately we were to take to wife. ’Twas this, my lords, that caused my misinterpreted resolution to hang in suspense; for this I have turned my invention into all forms, and now, behold, I have found an even way to lead me between the perils of a threatened war, and the ill-bought quiet of an ignominious peace. My will is she be brought to court (for Pertinax’s house I think not convenient for this project) and placed here, with such about her as I know most trusty in such a secret; then, that her keepers, at farthest within two days, poison her; which done, we will give it out she died of a disease; and to confirm this opinion in the vulgar, we will honour her death with such funeral pomp as the state of her life required. Thus shall our cause of dissention with Corinth be taken away, and we freed from that imputation the world might justly lay upon us.’ The nobility, with silent admiration, began to applaud what he had determined, chiefly Pertinax, who, making the common cause his pretence, laboured by all means to confirm a resolution so necessary for his daughter Lemnia’s happiness.