Chapter XXII: Part 22

Faire Ladies, at such time as the good King _William_ reigned in _Sicily_, there lived within the same Dominions a young Gentleman, named _Signior Amarigo_, Abbot of _Trapani_, who (among his other worldly blessings, commonly termed the goods of Fortune) was not unfurnished of children; and therefore having neede of servants, he made his provision of them as best he might. At that time, certaine Gallies of _Geneway_ Pyrates comming from the Easterne parts, which coasting along _Armenia_, had taken divers children; he bought some of them, thinking that they were Turkes. They all resembling clownish Peazants, yet there was one among them, who seemed to be of more tractable and gentle nature, yea, and of a more affable countenance then any of the rest, being named, _Theodoro_: who growing on in yeeres, (albeit he lived in the condition of a servant) was educated among _Amarigoes_ Children, and as enstructed rather by nature, then accident, his conditions were very much commended, as also the feature of his body, which proved so highly pleasing to his Master _Amarigo_, that he made him a free man, and imagining him to be a Turke, caused him to be baptized, and named _Pedro_, creating him superintendent of all his affaires, and reposing his chiefest trust in him.

As the other Children of _Signior Amarigo_ grew in yeeres and stature, so did a Daughter of his, named _Violenta_, a very goodly and beautifull Damosell, somewhat over-long kept from marriage by her Fathers covetousnesse, and casting an eye of good liking on poore _Pedro_. Now, albeit shee loved him very dearely, and all his behaviour was most pleasing to her, yet maiden modesty forbad her to reveale it, till Love (too long concealed) must needes disclose itselfe. Which _Pedro_ at the length tooke notice of, and grew so forward towards her in equality of affection, as the very sight of her was his onely happinesse. Yet very fearefull he was, least it should be noted, either by any of the House, or the Maiden her selfe: who yet well observed it, and to her no meane contentment, as it appeared no lesse (on the other side) to honest _Pedro_.

While thus they loved together meerely in dumbe shewes, not daring to speake to each other, (though nothing more desired) to find some ease in this their oppressing passions: Fortune, even as if shee pittied their so long languishing, enstructed them how to find out a way, whereby they might both better releeve themselves. _Signior Amarigo_, about some two or three miles distance from _Trapani_, had a Countrey-House or Farme, whereto his Wife, with her Daughter and some other women, used oftentimes to make their resort, as it were in sportfull recreation; _Pedro_ alwayes being diligent to man them thither. One time among the rest, it came to passe, as often it falleth out in the Summer season, that the faire Skie became suddenly over-clouded, even as they were returning home towards _Trapani_, threatning a storme of raine to overtake them, except they made the speedier haste.

_Pedro_, who was young, and likewise _Violenta_, went farre more lightly then her Mother and her company, as much perhaps provoked by love, as feare of the sudden raine falling, and paced on so fast before them, that they were wholly out of sight. After many flashes of lightning, and a few dreadfull clappes of thunder, there fell such a tempestuous shower of hayle, as compelled the Mother and her traine to shelter themselves in a poore Countrey-mans Cottage. _Pedro_ and _Violenta_, having no other refuge, ranne likewise into a poore Sheepe-coate, so over ruined, as it was in danger to fall on their heads; for no body dwelt in it, neither stood any other house neere it, and it was scarcely any shelter for them, howbeit, necessity enforceth to make shift with the meanest. The storme encreasing more & more, and they coveting to avoide it so well as they could; sighes and drie hemmes were often inter-vented, as dumbly (before) they were wont to doe, when willingly they could affoord another kind of speaking.

At last _Pedro_ tooke heart, and saide: I would this shower would never cease, that I might be alwayes where I am. The like could I wish, answered _Violenta_, so we were in a better place of safety. These wishes drew on other gentle language, with modest kisses and embraces, the onely ease to poore Lovers soules; so that the raine ceased not, till they had taken order for their oftner conversing, and absolute plighting of their faithes together. By this time the storme was fairely over-blowne, and they attending on the way, till the Mother and the rest were come, with whom they returned to _Trapani_, where by wise and provident meanes, they often conferred in private together, and enjoyed the benefit of their amorous desires; yet free from any ill surmise or suspition.

But, as Lovers felicities are sildome permanent, without one encountring crosse or other: so these stolne pleasures of _Pedro_ and _Violenta_, met with as sowre a sauce in the farewell. For, shee proved to be conceived with childe, then which could befall them no heavier affliction, and _Pedro_ fearing to loose his life therefore, determined immediate flight, and revealed his purpose to _Violenta_. Which when she heard, she told him plainly, that if he fled, forth-with shee would kill her selfe. Alas deare Love (quoth _Pedro_) with what reason can you wish my tarrying here? This conception of yours, doth discover our offence, which a Fathers pity may easily pardon in you: but I being his servant and vassall, shall be punished both for your sinne and mine, because he will have no mercy on me. Content thy selfe _Pedro_, replyed _Violenta_, I will take such order for mine owne offence, by the discreete counsell of my loving Mother, that no blame shall any way be laide on thee, or so much as a surmise, except thou wilt fondly betray thy selfe. If you can doe so, answered _Pedro_, and constantly maintaine your promise; I will not depart, but see that you prove to be so good as your word.

_Violenta_, who had concealed her amisse so long as shee could, and saw no other remedy, but now at last it must needes be discovered; went privately to her Mother, and (in teares) revealed her infirmity, humbly craving her pardon, and furtherance in hiding it from her Father. The Mother being extraordinarily displeased, chiding her with many sharpe and angry speeches, would needes know with whom shee had thus offended. The Daughter (to keepe _Pedro_ from any detection) forged a Tale of her owne braine, farre from any truth indeede, which her Mother verily beleeving, and willing to preserve her Daughter from shame, as also the fierce anger of her Husband, he being a man of very implacable nature: conveyed her to the Countrey-Farme, whither _Signior Amarigo_ sildome or never resorted, intending (under the shadow of sicknesse) to let her lie in there, without the least suspition of any in _Trapani_.

Sinne and shame can never be so closely carried, or clouded with the greatest cunning; but truth hath a loop-light whereby to discover it, even when it supposeth it selfe in the surest safety. For, on the very day of her deliverance, at such time as the Mother, and some few friends (sworne to secrecy) were about the businesse: _Signior Amarigo_, having beene in company of other Gentlemen, to flye his Hawke at the River, upon a sudden, (but very unfortunately, albeit he was alone by himselfe) stept into his Farme house, even to the next roome where the women were, and heard the new-borne Babe to cry, whereat marvelling not a little, he called for his Wife, to know what young childe cryed in his House. The Mother, amazed at his so strange comming thither, which never before he had used to doe, and pittying the wofull distresse of her Daughter, which now could be no longer covered, revealed what happened to _Violenta_. But he, being nothing so rash in beliefe, as his Wife was, made answere, that it was impossible for his Daughter to be conceived with childe, because he never observed the least signe of love in her to any man whatsoever, and therefore he would be satisfied in the truth, as shee expected any favour from him, for elsee there was no other way but death.

The Mother laboured by all meanes shee could devise, to pacifie her Husbands fury, which proved all in vaine; for being thus impatiently incensed, he drew foorth his Sword, and stepping with it drawne into the Chamber (where she had been delivered of a goodly Sonne) he said unto her. Either tell me who is the Father of this Bastard, or thou and it shall perish both together. Poore _Violenta_, lesse respecting her owne life, then she did the childes; forgot her sollemne promise made to _Pedro_, and discovered all. Which when _Amarigo_ had heard, he grew so desperately enraged, that hardly he could forbeare from killing her. But after he had spoken what his fury enstructed him, hee mounted on Horse-backe againe, ryding backe to _Trapani_, where he disclosed the injury which _Pedro_ had done him, to a noble Gentleman, named _Signior Conrado_, who was Captaine for the King over the City.

Before poore _Pedro_ could have any intelligence, or so much as suspected any treachery against him; he was suddenly apprehended, and being called in question, stood not on any deniall, but confessed truly what he had done: whereupon, within some few dayes after, he was condemned by the Captaine, to be whipt to the place of execution, and afterward to be hanged by the necke. _Signior Amarigo_, because he would cut off (at one and the same time) not onely the lives of the two poore Lovers, but their childes also; as a franticke man, violently carried from all sense of compassion, even when _Pedro_ was led and whipt to his death: he mingled strong poyson in a Cup of wine, delivering it to a trusty servant of his owne, and a naked Rapier withall, speaking to him in this manner. Goe carry these two presents to my late Daughter _Violenta_, and tell her from me, that in this instant houre, two severall kinds of death are offered unto her, and one of them she must make choyce of, either to drinke the poyson, and so die, or to run her body on this Rapiers point, which if she denie to doe, she shall be haled to the publike market place, and presently be burned in the sight of her lewd companion, according as shee hath worthily deserved. When thou hast delivered her this message, take her bastard brat, so lately since borne, and dash his braines out against the walles, and afterward throw him to my Dogges to feede on.

When the Father had given this cruell sentence, both against his own Daughter, and her young Sonne, the servant, readier to doe evill, then any good, went to the place where his Daughter was kept. Poore condemned _Pedro_, (as you have heard) was ledde whipt to the Jybbet, and passing (as it pleased the Captaines Officers to guide him) by a faire Inne: at the same time were lodged there three chiefe persons of _Armenia_, whom the King of the Countrey had sent to _Rome_, as Ambassadours to the Popes Holinesse, to negociate about an important businesse neerely concerning the King and State. Reposing there for some few dayes, as being much wearied with their journey, and highly honoured by the Gentlemen of _Trapani_, especially _Signior Amarigo_; these Ambassadours standing in their Chamber window, heard the wofull lamentations of _Pedro_ in his passage by.

_Pedro_ was naked from the middle upward, and his hands bound fast behind him, but being well observed by one of the Ambassadours, a man aged, and of great authority, named _Phineo_: he espied a great red spot uppon his breast, not painted, or procured by his punishment, but naturally imprinted in the flesh, which women (in these parts) terme the Rose. Uppon the sight hereof, he suddenly remembred a Sonne of his owne, which was stolne from him about fifteene yeeres before, by Pyrates on the Sea-coast of _Laiazzo_, never hearing any tydings of him afterward. Upon further consideration, and compairing his Sonnes age with the likelyhood of this poore wretched mans; thus he conferred with his owne thoughts. If my Sonne (quoth he) be living, his age is equall to this mans time, and by the redde blemish on his brest, it plainely speakes him for to be my Sonne.

Moreover, thus he conceived, that if it were he, he could not but remember his owne name, his Fathers, and the Armenian Language; wherefore, when hee was just opposite before the window, hee called aloud to him, saying: _Theodoro. Pedro_ hearing the voyce, presently listed up his head, and _Phineo_ speaking _Armenian_, saide: Of whence art thou, and what is thy Fathers name? The Sergeants (in reverence to the Lord Ambassadour) stayed a while, till _Pedro_ had returned his answer, who saide. I am an _Armenian_ borne, Sonne to one _Phineo_, and was brought hither I cannot tell by whom. _Phineo_ hearing this, knew then assuredly, that this was the same Sonne which he had lost; wherefore, the teares standing in his eyes with conceite of joy: downe he descended from the window, and the other Ambassadours with him, running in among the Sergeants to embrace his Sonne, and casting his owne rich Cloake about his whipt body, entreating them to forbeare and proceed no further, till they heard what command he should returne withall unto them; which very willingly they promised to doe.

Already, by the generall rumour dispersed abroade, _Phineo_ had understood the occasion, why _Pedro_ was thus punished, and sentenced to be hanged; wherefore, accompanied with his fellow Ambassadours, and all their attending traine, he went to _Signior Conrado_, and spake thus to him. My Lord, he whom you have sent to death as a slave, is a free Gentleman borne, and my Sonne, able to make her amends whom he hath dishonoured, by taking her in mariage as his lawfull Wife. Let me therefore entreate you, to make stay of the execution, untill it may be knowne, whether she will accept him as her Husband, or no; least (if she be so pleased) you offend directly against your owne Law. When _Signior Conrado_ heard, that _Pedro_ was Sonne to the Lord Ambassadour, he wondered thereat not a little, and being somewhat ashamed of his fortunes error, confessed, that the claime of _Phineo_ was conformable to Law, and ought not to be denied him; going presently to the Councell Chamber, sending for _Signior Amarigo_ immediately thither, and acquainting him fully with the case.

_Amarigo_, who beleeved that his Daughter and her Child were already dead, was the wofullest man in the World, for his so rash proceeding, knowing very well, that if shee were not dead, the scandall would easily be wipt away with credit. Wherefore he sent in all poast haste, to the place where his Daughter lay, that if his command were not already executed, by no meanes to have it done at all. He who went on this speedy errand, found there _Signior Amarigoes_ servant standing before _Violenta_, with the Cup of poyson in his one hand, and the drawne Rapier in the other, reproaching herewith very foule and injurious speeches, because shee had delayed the time so long, and would not accept the one or other, striving (by violence) to make her take the one. But hearing his Masters command to the contrary, he left her, and returned backe to him, certifying him how the case stood.

Most highly pleased was _Amarigo_ with these glad newes, and going to the Ambassadour _Phineo_, in teares excused himselfe (so well as he could) for his severity, and craving pardon; assured him, that if _Theodoro_ would accept his Daughter in mariage, willingly he would bestow her on him. _Phineo_ allowed his excuses to be tollerable, and saide beside; If my Sonne will not mary your Daughter, then let the sentence of death be executed on him. _Amarigo_ and _Phineo_ being thus accorded, they went to poore _Theodoro_, fearefully looking every minute when he should die, yet joyfull that he had found his Father, who presently moved the question to him. _Theodoro_ hearing that _Violenta_ should be his Wife, if he would so accept her: was overcome with such exceeding joy, as if he had leapt out of hell into Paradise; confessing, that no greater felicity could befall him, if _Violenta_ her selfe were so well pleased as he.

The like motion was made to her, to understand her disposition in this case, who hearing what good hap had befalne _Theodoro_, and now in like manner must happen to her: whereas not long before, when two such violent deathes were prepared for her, and one of them she must needes embrace, shee accounted her misery beyond all other womens, but shee now thought her selfe above all in happinesse, if she might be wife to her beloved _Theodoro_, submitting herselfe wholy to her Fathers disposing. The mariage being agreed on betweene them, it was celebrated with great pompe and sollemnity, a generall Feast being made for all the Citizens, and the young maried couple nourished up their sweete Son, which grew to be a very comely childe.

After that the Embassie was dispatched at _Rome_, and _Phineo_ (with the rest) was returned thither againe; _Violenta_ did reverence him as her owne naturall Father, and he was not a little proud of so lovely a Daughter, beginning a fresh feasting againe, and continuing the same a whole moneth together. Within some short while after, a Galley being fairely furnished for the purpose, _Phineo_, his Sonne, Daughter, and their young Son went aboard, sayling away thence to _Laiazzo_, where afterward they lived long in much tranquility.

Anastasio, _a Gentleman of the Family of the_ Honesti, _by loving the Daughter to_ Signior Paulo Traversario, _lavishly wasted a great part of his substance, without receiving any love from her againe. By perswasion of some of his kindred and friends, he went to a Countrey dwelling of his, called_ Chiasso, _where he saw a Knight desperately pursue a young Damosell, whom he slew, and afterward gave her to be devoured by his Hounds._ Anastasio _invited his friends, and hers also whom he so dearely loved, to take part of a dinner with him, who likewise saw the same Damosell so torne in peeces: which his unkind Love perceiving, and fearing least the like ill fortune should happen to her; shee accepted_ Anastasio _to be her Husband._

The eighth Novell.

_Declaring, that Love not onely makes a man prodigall, but also an enemy to himselfe. Moreover, adventure oftentimes bringeth such matters to passe, as wit and cunning in man can never comprehend._

So soone as Madam _Lauretta_ held her peace, Madam _Philomena_ (by the Queenes command) began, and saide. Lovely Ladies, as pitty is most highly commended in our Sexe, even so is cruelty in us as severely revenged (oftentimes) by divine ordination. Which that you may the better know, and learne likewise to shun, as a deadly evill; I purpose to make apparant by a Novell, no lesse full of compassion, then delectable.

_Ravenna_ being a very ancient City in _Romania_, there dwelt sometime a great number of worthy Gentlemen, among whom I am to speake of one more especially, named _Anastasio_, descended from the Family of the _Honesti_, who by the death of his Father, and an Unkle of his, was left extraordinarily abounding in riches, and growing to yeeres fitting for mariage, (as young Gallants are easily apt enough to doe) he became enamoured of a very beautifull Gentlewoman, who was Daughter to _Signior Paulo Traversario_, one of the most ancient and noble Families in all the Countrey. Nor made he any doubt, but by his meanes and industrious endeavour, to derive affection from her againe; for hee carried himselfe like a brave minded Gentleman, liberall in his expences, honest and affable in all his actions, which commonly are the true notes of a good nature, and highly to be commended in any man. But, howsoever Fortune became his enemy, these laudable parts of manhood did not any way friend him, but rather appeared hurtfull to him: so cruell, unkind, and almost meerely savage did she shew her selfe to him; perhaps in pride of her singular beauty, or presuming on her nobility by birth, both which are on her blemishes, then ornaments in a woman, especially when they be abused.

The harsh and uncivill usage in her, grew very distastefull to _Anastasio_, and so unsufferable, that after a long time of fruitlesse service, requited still with nothing but coy disdain; desperate resolutions entred into his brain, and often he was minded to kill himselfe. But better thoughts supplanting those furious passions, he abstained from any such violent act; & governed by more manly consideration, determined, that as she hated him, he would requite her with the like, if he could: wherein he became altogether deceived, because as his hopes grew to a dayly decaying, yet his love enlarged it selfe more and more.

Thus _Anastasio_ persevering still in his bootelesse affection, and his expences not limited within any compasse; it appeared in the judgement of his Kindred and Friends, that he was falne into a mighty consumption, both of his body and meanes. In which respect, many times they advised him to leave the City of _Ravenna_, and live in some other place for such a while; as might set a more moderate stint upon his spendings, and bridle the indiscreete course of his love, the onely fuell which fed this furious fire.

_Anastasio_ held out thus a long time, without lending an eare to such friendly counsell: but in the end, he was so neerely followed by them, as being no longer able to deny them, he promised to accomplish their request. Whereupon, making such extraordinary preparation, as if he were to set thence for _France_ or _Spaine_, or elsee into some further distant countrey: he mounted on horsebacke, and accompanied with some few of his familiar friends, departed from _Ravenna_, and rode to a country dwelling house of his owne, about three or foure miles distant from the Cittie, which was called _Chiasso_, and there (upon a very goodly greene) erecting divers Tents and Pavillions, such as great persons make use of in the time of a Progresse: he said to his friends, which came with him thither, that there hee determined to make his abiding, they all returning backe unto _Ravenna_, and might come to visite him againe so often as they pleased.

Now, it came to passe, that about the beginning of May, it being then a very milde and serrene season, and he leading there a much more magnificent life, then ever he had done before, inviting divers to dine with him this day, and as many to morrow, and not to leave him till after supper: upon the sodaine, falling into remembrance of his cruell Mistris, hee commanded all his servants to forbeare his company, and suffer him to walke alone by himselfe awhile, because he had occasion of private meditations, wherein he would not (by any meanes) be troubled. It was then about the ninth houre of the day, and he walking on solitary all alone, having gone some halfe miles distance from his Tents, entred into a Grove of Pine-trees, never minding dinner time, or any thing elsee, but only the unkind requitall of his love.

Sodainly he heard the voice of a woman, seeming to make most mournfull complaints, which breaking of his silent considerations, made him to lift up his head, to know the reason of this noise. When he saw himselfe so farre entred into the Grove, before he could imagine where he was; hee looked amazedly round about him, and out of a little thicket of bushes & briars, round engirt with spreading trees, hee espyed a young Damosell come running towards him, naked from the middle upward, her haire dishevelled on her shoulders, and her faire skinne rent and torne with the briars and brambles, so that the blood ran trickling downe mainly; shee weeping, wringing her hands, and crying out for mercy so lowde as shee could. Two fierce Blood-hounds also followed swiftly after, and where their teeth tooke hold, did most cruelly bite her. Last of all (mounted on a lusty blacke Courser) came gallopping a Knight, with a very sterne and angry countenance, holding a drawne short Sword in his hand, giving her very vile and dreadfull speeches, and threatning everie minute to kill her.

This strange and uncouth sight, bred in him no meane admiration, as also kinde compassion to the unfortunate woman; out of which compassion, sprung an earnest desire, to deliver her (if he could) from a death so full of anguish and horror: but seeing himselfe to be without Armes, hee ran and pluckt up the plant of a Tree, which handling as if it had beene a staffe, he opposed himselfe against the Dogges and the Knight, who seeing him comming, cryed out in this manner to him. _Anastasio_, put not thy selfe in any opposition, but referre to my Hounds and me, to punish this wicked woman as she hath justly deserved. And in speaking these words, the Hounds tooke fast hold on her body, so staying her, untill the Knight was come neerer to her, and alighted from his horse: when _Anastasio_ (after some other angry speeches) spake thus unto him. I cannot tell what or who thou art, albeit thou takest such knowledge of me: yet I must say, that it is meere cowardize in a Knight, being armed as thou art, to offer to kill a naked woman, and make thy dogges thus to seize on her, as if she were a savage beast; therefore beleeve me, I will defend her so farre as I am able.

_Anastasio_, answered the Knight, I am of the same City as thou art, and do well remember, that thou wast a little Ladde, when I (who was then named _Guido Anastasio_, and thine Unckle) became as intirely in love with this woman, as now thou art of _Paulo Traversarioes_ daughter. But through her coy disdaine and cruelty, such was my heavy fate, that desperately I slew my selfe with this short sword which thou beholdest in mine hand: for which rash sinfull deede, I was and am condemned to eternall punishment. This wicked woman, rejoycing immeasurably in mine unhappie death, remained no long time alive after me, and for her mercilesse sinne of cruelty, and taking pleasure in my oppressing torments; dying unrepentant, and in pride of her scorne, she had the like sentence of condemnation pronounced on her, and sent to the same place where I was tormented.

There the three impartiall Judges, imposed this further infliction on us both; namely, that shee should flye in this manner before mee, and I (who loved her so deerely while I lived) must pursue her as my deadly enemy, not like a woman that had any taste of love in her. And so often as I can overtake her, I am to kill her with this sword, the same Weapon wherewith I slew my selfe. Then am I enjoyned, therewith to open her accursed body, and teare out her hard and frozen heart, with her other inwards, as now thou seest me doe, which I give unto my hounds to feede on. Afterward, such is the appointment of the supreame powers, that she re-assumeth life againe, even as if she had not bene dead at all, and falling to the same kinde of flight, I with my houndes am still to follow her, without any respite or intermission. Every Friday, and just at this houre, our course is this way, where shee suffereth the just punishment inflicted on her. Nor do we rest any of the other dayes, but are appointed unto other places, where she cruelly executed her malice against me, being now (of her dear affectionate friend) ordained to be her endlesse enemy, and to pursue her in this manner, for so many yeeres, as she exercised monthes of cruelty towards me. Hinder me not then, in being the executioner of divine justice; for all thy interposition is but in vaine, in seeking to crosse the appointment of supreame powers.

_Anastasio_ having attentively heard all this discourse, his haire stoode upright like Porcupines quils, and his soule was so shaken with the terror, that he stept back to suffer the Knight to doe what he was enjoyned, looking yet with milde commiseration on the poore woman. Who kneeling most humbly before the Knight, & sternly seised on by the two blood hounds, he opened her brest with his weapon, drawing foorth her heart and bowelse, which instantly he threw to the dogges, and they devoured them very greedily. Soone after, the Damosell (as if none of this punishment had bene inflicted on her) started up sodainly, running amaine towards the Sea shore, and the Hounds swiftly following her, as the Knight did the like, after he had taken his sword, and was mounted on horseback; so that _Anastasio_ had soon lost all sight of them, and could not gesse what was become of them.

After he had heard and observed all these things, he stoode awhile as confounded with feare and pitty, like a simple silly man, hoodwinkt with his owne passions, not knowing the subtle enemies cunning illusions, in offering false suggestions to the sight, to worke his owne ends thereby, & encrease the number of his deceived servants. Forthwith hee perswaded himself, that he might make good use of this womans tormenting, so justly imposed on the Knight to prosecute, if thus it should continue still every Friday. Wherefore, setting a good note or marke upon the place, hee returned backe to his owne people, and at such time as hee thought convenient, sent for divers of his kindred and friends from _Ravenna_, who being present with him, thus hee spake to them.

Deare Kinsmen and Friends, ye have a long while importuned mee, to discontinue my over doating love to her, whom you all think, and I find to be my mortall enemy: as also, to give over my lavish expences, wherein I confesse my selfe too prodigal; both which requests of yours, I will condiscend to, provided, that you will performe one gracious favour for mee; Namely, that on Friday next, Signior _Paulo Traversario_, his wife, daughter, with all other women linked in linage to them, and such beside onely as you shall please to appoynt, will vouchsafe to accept a dinner heere with mee; as for the reason thereto mooving mee, you shall then more at large be acquainted withall. This appeared no difficult matter for them to accomplish: wherefore, being returned to _Ravenna_, and as they found the time answerable to their purpose, they invited such as _Anastasio_ had appointed them. And although they found it somewhat an hard matter, to gain her company whom he so deerely affected; yet notwithstanding, the other women won her along with them.

A most magnificent dinner had _Anastasio_ provided, and the tables were covered under the Pine-trees, where hee saw the cruell Lady so pursued and slaine: directing the guests so in their seating, that the yong Gentlewoman his unkinde Mistresse, sate with her face opposite unto the place, where the dismall spectacle was to be seene. About the closing up of dinner, they beganne to heare the noise of the poore prosecuted Woman, which drove them all to much admiration; desiring to know what it was, and no one resolving them, they arose from the tables, and looking directly as the noise came to them, they espied the wofull Woman, the Dogges eagerly pursuing her; and the armed Knight on horseback, gallopping fiercely after them with his drawn weapon, and came very nere unto the company, who cryed out with lowd exclaimes against the dogs and the Knight, stepping forth in assistance of the injuried woman.

The Knight spake unto them, as formerly hee had done to _Anastasio_, (which made them draw backe, possessed with feare and admiration) acting the same cruelty as hee did the Friday before, not differing in the least degree. Most of the Gentlewomen there present, being neere allyed to the unfortunate Woman, and likewise to the Knight, remembring well both his love and death, did shed teares as plentifully, as if it had bin to the very persons themselves, in visiall performance of the action indeede. Which tragicall Scene being passed over, and the Woman and Knight gone out of their sight: all that had seene this straunge accident, fell into diversity of confused opinions, yet not daring to disclose them, as doubting some further danger to ensue thereon.

But beyond al the rest, none could compare in feare and astonishment with the cruell yong Maide affected by _Anastasio_, who both saw and observed all with a more inward apprehension, knowing very well, that the morall of this dismall spectacle, carried a much neerer application to her then any other in all the company. For now she could call to mind, how unkinde and cruell she had shewn her selfe to _Anastasio_, even as the other Gentlewoman formerly did to her Lover, still flying from him in great contempt and scorne: for which, shee thought the Blood-hounds also pursued her at the heeles already, and a sword of due vengeance to mangle her body. This feare grew so powerfull in her, that, to prevent the like heavy doome from falling on her; she studied (by all her best & commendable meanes, and therein bestowed all the night season) how to change her hatred into kinde love, which at the length shee fully obtayned, and then purposed to prosecute in this manner.

Secretly she sent a faithfull Chamber-maide of her owne, to greete _Anastasio_ on her behalfe; humbly entreating him to come see her: because now she was absolutely determined, to give him satisfaction in all which (with honour) he could request of her. Whereto _Anastasio_ answered, that he accepted her message thankfully, and desired no other favour at her hand, but that which stood with her owne offer, namely, to be his Wife in honourable marriage. The Maide knowing sufficiently, that hee could not be more desirous of the match, then her Mistresse shewed her selfe to be, made answere in her name, that this motion would bee most welcome to her.

Heereupon, the Gentlewoman her selfe, became the solicitour to her Father and Mother, telling them plainly, that she was willing to bee the Wife of _Anastasio_: which newes did so highly content them, that uppon the Sunday next following, the mariage was very worthily sollemnized, and they lived and loved together very kindly. Thus the divine bounty, out of the malignant enemies secret machinations, can cause good effects to arise and succeede. For, from this conceite of fearfull imagination in her, not onely happened this long desired conversion, of a Maide so obstinately scornfull and proud: but likewise al the women of _Ravenna_ (being admonished by her example) grew afterward more kinde and tractable to mens honest motions, then ever they shewed themselves before. And let me make some use hereof (faire Ladies) to you, not to stand over-nicely conceited of your beauty and good parts, when men (growing enamored of you by them) solicite you with their best and humblest services. Remember then this disdainfull Gentlewoman, but more especially her, who being the death of so kinde a Lover, was therefore condemned to perpetuall punishment, and hee made the minister thereof, whom she had cast off with coy disdaine, from which I wish your minds to be as free, as mine is ready to do you any acceptable service.

Frederigo, _of the_ Alberighi _Family, loved a Gentlewoman, and was not requited with like love againe. By bountifull expences, and over liberall invitations, he wasted and consumed all his lands and goods, having nothing left him, but a Hawke or Faulcon. His unkinde Mistresse happeneth to come visite him, and he not having any other foode for her dinner; made a daintie dish of his Faulcone for her to feede on. Being conquered by this his exceeding kinde courtesie, she changed her former hatred towardes him, accepting him as her Husband in marriage, and made him a man of wealthy possessions._

The ninth Novell.

_Wherein is figured to the life, the notable kindnesse and courtesie, of a true and constant Lover: As also the magnanimous minde of a famous Lady._

Madame _Philomena_ having finished her discourse, the Queene perceiving, that her turne was the next, in regard of the priviledge granted to _Dioneus_; with a smiling countenance thus she spake. Now or never am I to maintaine the order which was instituted when we beganne this commendable exercise, whereto I yeeld with all humble obedience. And (worthy Ladies) I am to acquaint you with a Novell, in some sort answerable to the precedent, not onely to let you know, how powerfully your kindnesses do prevaile, in such as have a free and gentle soule: but also to advise you, in being bountifull, where vertue doth justly chalenge it. And evermore, let your favours shine on worthy deservers, without the direction of chaunce or Fortune, who never bestoweth any gift by discretion; but rashly without consideration, even to the first she blindly meets withall.

You are to understand then, that _Coppo di Borghese Domenichi_, who was of our owne City, and perhaps (as yet) his name remaineth in great and reverend authority, now in these dayes of ours, as well deserving eternal memory; yet more for his vertues and commendable qualities, then any boast of Nobility from his predecessors. This man, being well entred into yeares, and drawing towards the finishing of his dayes; it was his only delight and felicity, in conversation among his neighbours, to talke of matters concerning antiquity, and some other things within compasse of his owne knowledge: which he would deliver in such singular order, (having an absolute memory) and with the best Language, as verie few or none could do the like. Among the multiplicity of his queint discourses, I remember he told us, that sometime there lived in _Florence_ a yong Gentleman, named _Frederigo_, Sonne to Signior _Philippo Alberigho_, who was held and reputed, both for Armes, and all other actions beseeming a Gentleman, hardly to have his equall through all _Tuscany_.

This _Frederigo_ (as it is no rare matter in yong Gentlemen) became enamored of a Gentlewoman, named Madam _Giana_, who was esteemed (in her time) to be the fairest and most gracious Lady in all _Florence_. In which respect, and to reach the height of his desire, he made many sumptuous Feasts and Banquets, Joustes, Tiltes, Tournaments, and all other noble actions of Armes, beside, sending her infinite rich and costly presents, making spare of nothing, but lashing all out in lavish expence. Notwithstanding, shee being no lesse honest then faire, made no reckoning of whatsoever he did for her sake, or the least respect of his owne person. So that _Frederigo_, spending thus daily more, then his meanes and ability could maintaine, and no supplies any way redounding to him, or his faculties (as very easily they might) diminished in such sort, that he became so poore; as he had nothing left him, but a small poore Farme to live upon, the silly revenewes whereof were so meane, as scarcely allowed him meat and drinke; yet had he a Faire Hawke or Faulcon, hardly any where to be fellowed, so expeditious and sure she was of flight. His low ebbe and poverty, no way quailing his love to the Lady, but rather setting a keener edge thereon; he saw the City life could no longer containe him, where most he coveted to abide: and therefore, betooke himselfe to his poore Countrey Farme, to let his Faulcon get him his dinner and supper, patiently supporting his penurious estate, without suite or meanes making to one, for helpe or reliefe in any such necessity.

While thus he continued in this extremity, it came to passe, that the Husband to Madam _Giana_ fell sicke, and his debility of body being such, as little, or no hope of life remained: he made his last will and testament, ordaining thereby, that his Sonne (already growne to indifferent stature) should be heire to all his Lands and riches, wherein hee abounded very greatly. Next unto him, if he chanced to die without a lawfull heire, hee substituted his Wife, whom most dearely he affected, and so departed out of this life. Madam _Giana_ being thus left a widow; as commonly it is the custome of our City Dames, during the Summer season, shee went to a House of her owne in the Countrey, which was somewhat neere to poore _Frederigoes_ Farme, and where he lived in such an honest kind of contented poverty.

Hereupon, the young Gentleman her Sonne, taking great delight in Hounds and Hawkes; grew into familiarity with poore _Frederigo_, and having seene many faire flights of his Faulcon, they pleased him so extraordinarily, that he earnestly desired to enjoy her as his owne; yet durst not move the motion for her, because he saw how choycely _Frederigo_ esteemed her. Within a short while after, the young Gentleman, became very sicke, whereat his Mother greeved exceedingly, (as having no more but he, and therefore loved him the more entirely) never parting from him either night or day, comforting him so kindly as shee could, and demanding, if he had a desire to any thing, willing him to reveale it, and assuring him withall, that (if it were within the compasse of possibility) he should have it. The youth hearing how many times shee had made him these offers, and with such vehement protestations of performance, at last thus spake.

Mother (quoth he) if you can doe so much for me, as that I may have _Frederigoes_ Faulcon, I am perswaded, that my sicknesse soone will cease. The Lady hearing this, sate some short while musing to her selfe, and began to consider, what shee might best doe to compasse her Sonnes desire: for well shee knew, how long a time _Frederigo_ had most lovingly kept it, not suffering it ever to be out of his sight. Moreover, shee remembred, how earnest in affection he had beene to her, never thinking himselfe happy, but onely when he was in her company; wherefore, shee entred into this private consultation with her owne thoughts. Shall I send, or goe my selfe in person, to request the Faulcon of him, it being the best that ever flew? It is his onely Jewell of delight, and that taken from him, no longer can he wish to live in this World. How farre then voide of understanding shall I shew my selfe, to rob a Gentleman of his sole felicity, having no other joy or comfort left him? These and the like considerations, wheeled about her troubled braine, onely in tender care and love to her Sonne, perswading her selfe assuredly, that the Faulcon were her own, if shee would but request it: yet not knowing whereon it were best to resolve, shee returned no answer to her Sonne, but sate still in her silent meditations. At the length, love to the youth, so prevailed with her, that she concluded on his contentation, and (come of it what could) shee would not send for it; but goe her selfe in person to request it, and then returne home againe with it, whereupon thus she spake. Sonne, comfort thy selfe, and let languishing thoughts no longer offend thee: for here I promise thee, that the first thing I doe to morrow morning, shall be my journey for the Faulcon, and assure thy selfe, that I will bring it with me. Whereat the youth was so joyed, that he imagined, his sicknesse began instantly a little to leave him, and promised him a speedy recovery.

Somewhat early the next morning, the Lady, in care of her sicke Sons health, was up and ready betimes, and taking another Gentlewoman with her; onely as a mornings recreation, shee walked to _Frederigoes_ poore Countrey Farme, knowing that it would not a little glad him to see her. At the time of her arrivall there, he was (by chance) in a silly Garden, on the backe-side of his House, because (as yet) it was no convenient time for flight: but when he heard, that Madam _Giana_, was come thither, and desired to have some conference with him; as one almost confounded with admiration, in all haste he ran to her, and saluted her with most humble reverence. Shee in all modest and gracious manner, requited him with the like salutations, thus speaking to him. _Signior Frederigo_, your owne best wishes befriend you, I am now come hither, to recompence some part of your passed travailes, which heretofore you pretended to suffer for my sake, when your love was more to me, then did well become you to offer, or my selfe to accept. And such is the nature of my recompence, that I make my selfe your guest, and meane this day to dine with you, as also this Gentlewoman, making no doubt of our welcome: whereto, with lowly reverence, thus he replyed.

Madam, I doe not remember, that ever I sustained any losse or hinderance by you, but rather so much good, as if I was woorth any thing, it proceeded from your great deservings, and by the service in which I did stand engaged to you. But my present happinesse can no way bee equalled, derived from your super-abounding gracious favour, and more then common course of kindnesse, vouchsafing (of your owne liberal nature) to come and visit so poore a servant. Oh that I had as much to spend againe, as heeretofore riotously I have run thorow: what a welcome wold your poore Host bestow upon you, for gracing this homely house with your divine presence? With these wordes, hee conducted her into his house, and then into his simple Garden, where having no convenient company for her, he saide. Madam, the poverty of this place is such, that it affoordeth none fit for your conversation: this poore woman, wife to an honest Husbandman will attend on you, while I (with some speede) shall make ready dinner.

Poore _Frederigo_, although his necessity was extreame, and his greefe great, remembring his former inordinate expences, a moity whereof would now have stood him in some sted; yet hee had a heart as free and forward as ever, not a jotte dejected in his minde, though utterly overthrowne by Fortune. Alas! how was his good soule afflicted, that he had nothing wherewith to honour his Lady? Up and downe he runnes, one while this way, then againe another, exclaiming on his disastrous Fate, like a man enraged, or bereft of senses: for he had not one peny of mony neither pawne or pledge, wherewith to procure any. The time hasted on, and he would gladly (though in meane measure) expresse his honourable respect of the Lady. To begge of any, his nature denied it, and to borrow he could not, because his neighbours were all as needie as himselfe.

At last, looking round about, and seeing his Faulcon standing on her pearch, which he felt to be very plumpe and fat, being voide of all other helpes in his neede, and thinking her to be a Fowle meete for so Noble a Lady to feede on: without any further demurring or delay, he pluckt off her necke, and caused the poore woman presently to pull her Feathers: which being done, he put her on the spit, and in short time she was daintily roasted. Himselfe covered the table, set bread and salt on, and laid the Napkins, whereof he had but a few left him. Going then with chearfull lookes into the Garden, telling the Lady that dinner was ready, and nothing now wanted, but her presence. Shee, and the Gentlewoman went in, and being seated at the table, not knowing what they fed on, the Falcon was all their foode; and _Frederigo_ not a little joyfull, that his credite was so well saved. When they were risen from the table, and had spent some small time in familiar conference: the Lady thought it fitte, to acquaint him with the reason of her comming thither, and therefore (in very kinde manner) thus began.

_Frederigo_, if you do yet remember your former carriage towards me, as also my many modest and chaste denials, which (perhaps) you thought to favour of a harsh, cruell, and un-womanly nature: I make no doubt, but you will wonder at my present presumption, when you understande the occasion, which expressely mooved me to come hither. But if you were possessed of children, or ever had any, whereby you might comprehend what love (in nature) is due unto them: then I durst assure my self, that you would partly hold mee excused.

Now, in regard that you never had any, and I my selfe (for my part) have but onely one, I stand not exempted from those Lawes, which are in common to other mothers. And being compelled to obey the power of those Lawes; contrary to mine owne will, and those duties which reason ought to maintaine: I am to request such a gift of you, which I am certaine, that you do make most precious account of, as in manly equity you can do no lesse. For, Fortune hath bin so extreamly adverse to you, that she hath robbed you of all other pleasures, allowing you no comfort or delight, but onely that poore one, which is your faire Faulcone. Of which Bird, my Sonne is become so straungely desirous, as, if I doe not bring it to him at my comming home; I feare so much the extreamity of his sicknesse, as nothing can ensue thereon, but his losse of life. Wherefore I beseech you, not in regard of the love you have born me, for thereby you stand no way obliged: but in your owne true gentle nature (the which hath alwayes declared it selfe ready in you, to do more kinde offices generally, then any other Gentleman that I know) you will be pleased to give her me, or at the least, let me buy her of you. Which if you do, I shall freely then confesse, that onely by your meanes, my Sonnes life is saved, and wee both shall for ever remaine engaged to you.

When _Frederigo_ had heard the Ladies request, which was now quite out of his power to graunt, because it had bene her service at dinner: he stood like a man meerely dulled in his sences, the teares trickling amaine downe his cheekes: and he not able to utter one word. Which shee perceiving, began to conjecture immediately, that these teares and passions proceeded rather from greefe of minde, as being loather to part with his Faulcon, then any other kinde of matter: which made her readie to say, that she would not have it. Neverthelesse shee did not speake, but rather tarried to attend his answer. Which, after some small respite and pawse, he returned in this manner.

Madame, since the houre, when first mine affection became soly devoted to your service; Fortune hath bene crosse and contrary to mee, in many occasions, as justly, and in good reason I may complain of her. Yet all seemed light and easie to be indured, in comparison of her present malicious contradiction, to my utter overthrow, and perpetuall molestation. Considering, that you are come hither to my poore house, which (while I was rich and able) you would not so much as vouchsafe to look on. And now you have requested a small matter of mee, wherein shee hath also most crookedly thwarted me, because she hath disabled mee, in bestowing so meane a gift, as your selfe will confesse, when it shall be related to you in very few words.

So soone as I heard, that it was your gracious pleasure to dine with me, having regard to your excellency, and what (by merit) is justly due unto you: I thought it a part of my bounden dutie, to entertaine you with such exquisite viands, as my poore power could any way compas, and farre beyond respect or welcome, to other common and ordinarie persons. Whereupon, remembring my Faulcon, which nowe you aske for; and her goodnesse, excelling all other of her kinde; I supposed, that she would make a dainty dish for your dyet, and having drest hir, so well as I could devise to do: you have fed hartily on her, and I am proud that I have so well bestowne her. But perceiving now, that you would have her for your sicke Sonne; it is no meane affliction to mee, that I am disabled of yeelding you contentment, which all my lifetime I have desired to doe.