GASTON DE BLONDEVILLE. (continued 2)

The King held it to be the last; a momentary doubt had entered his mind; but he promptly dismissed it. His Highness was commanding, that the stranger should be removed; and, for the present, 114confined in the castle; when Prince Edward, who, young as he was, had closely observed all that had passed, craved humbly of the King, his father, to suffer the merchant to be further questioned; and the King consented thereto.

Then the man was asked, whether he could tell the year and the month, when the robbery he spoke of had been committed. He was ready enough with his answers, and said it was on the eighteenth of October, in the year twelve hundred and fifty-three, and on the chase; that he was sure of the time, because it was within three days of that, when he should have paid to a goldsmith the most part of the money, whereof he was robbed. Upon this, the King seemed to consider awhile, for he knew, that, about that time, a camp lay in the neighbourhood of Warwick and on the edge of the forest, and 115that Sir Gaston was there, he being then serving as esquire to Sir Pierse Mallory.

At the last words of the merchant, Sir Gaston moved towards the King, as though he would privily say something; but his Highness reproved him with a frown; and asked the merchant at what hour the robbery was committed, and what were the array and appearance of the robbers?

The knight interrupting the reply, then said aloud, “Sire! I entreat you, be mindful of the condition of disgrace, in which I must stand, if you seem to give countenance to this scandalous accusation. I know not, that I shall be able to breathe, if it be thought, that your Highness could, for one minute, think it possible I could have committed so foul a deed.”

King Henry, looking kindly upon him said, “It is right you should be cleared with those, who know you not so well as 116I do; and chiefly with those, who love not men of your country; and, therefore, would I examine this witless charge to the uttermost.” His Highness then made all his questions over again.

The merchant considered awhile, and somewhat of his boldness seemed to forsake him: he then answered, “the number of the robbers was three; they were most of them tall in stature; they wore cloaks about them, and had masks on their faces.”

“Masks?” said the King.

“Masks!” murmured the courtiers, with one voice.

The King, daunting the accuser with the anger of his countenance, said, “You could swear to this knight, as one of the robbers, and yet you say, he had a mask on his face! I suspect you now for an impostor more than for a moody man. If it prove so, tremble! for I swear by my 117sword you shall not escape. I give you one more warning, to stop before you totally plunge into your ruin.”

At these words, delivered with vehemence, the paleness left Sir Gaston’s face, and he made a profound obeisance, showing his gratitude to the King. The accuser, dismayed, could not immediately find his voice, as it seemed. Haply, he could not so speedily send back his thoughts to the rest of his story. Incontinently, the most of the assemblage began to look ychon in other’s face.

By-and-bye, the merchant said, that in the struggle between his companions and the robbers, two of the vizors fell off, and so he saw plainly the faces of the robbers, and he perfectly remembered the face of the knight. His Highness, without telling his thoughts on this, which many there present scrupled not to hold an after-invention of the accuser, commanded him 118to begin his tale anew, and to tell, one by one, every particular he could bring to mind of the alleged adventure; but before he began, Sir Gaston, surveying him, asked whether, about four years back, he was not at Embrun, in the Dauphiné.

Denying, that he had been at that place, the accuser then renewed his story, which purported, that he and his companions were travelling, about the close of day, through the forest, or chase, of Kenilworth, when they were attacked by robbers. He was bidden to repeat the number of them and of his company, which he did, without varying his tale. The King asked how long after sunset it was when the assault began? which he could not readily tell; but said it was so nearly dark, that hardly could he see the figures of the robbers under the shade of the woods, from which they burst: the merchant paused a moment—

119“Go on,” said the King, impatiently:—

“But I could, afterwards, see them plainly enough by a torch I took from my companions, who had lighted it, at a smith’s in a village by the way-side; an iron-smith’s.”

The King asked him if he knew the name of this village, but he knew it not; and whether he should know the smith again? and he answered, he thought he should. Then he was ordered to proceed with his story:

“My kinsman,” said he, “was the only one of us, who was well-armed; and a braver spirit never lived. He fought with his sword that man, who now stands beside your Highness; it was a trusty weapon, and had done him good service in Syria, where he had it for booty, after a skirmish, as I heard. When my kinsman first made up to that man, I followed him with the torch, and to aid him, as I might, 120with an oaken staff I had in my hand; but I received a blow upon the arm, that held the torch, which was knocked to the ground, and the vizor of the man fell also, that very man, who now presses behind your Highness’s chair. The torch was not extinguished, and, by its light, I plainly saw that same countenance, that now glares upon me so vengefully. I saw it while he aimed the blow, which penetrated the head of my unfortunate kinsman, Reginald de Folville.”

The merchant paused, seemingly overcome by the remembrance of this event, while Sir Gaston exclaimed,—“Was it Reginald de Folville? He was esquire to a knight of Saint John, and was then at Lydda: so much for the truth of your story in that main point.”

At the first words of Sir Gaston, the King and the courtiers had turned their faces upon him; but though his words 121were so strong and sufficient, they beheld in his countenance paleness and consternation. But he soon recovered; and, asking pardon of his Highness for the emotion with which he had spoken, accounted for it by saying, that Reginald de Folville had been his earliest friend.

“Your father’s friend, you must surely mean,” said the merchant; “for he was at the wars at a time, that would have made that possible. You must have been a child, when he went there.”

“I was then a child,” said Sir Gaston, averting his eyes from the stranger; “and I must ever remember the kindness he showed me after the death of my father; I owe him much. He went from Provence to Syria; I heard he fell in battle there. Sure I am he never returned: he died in battle there.”

“He died in the forest of Ardenn,” said the merchant with solemnity, “and lies 122buried in the priory of Saint Mary here. He died by your hand: that is his very sword by your side; I remember it now.”

The audacity of this assertion struck all present and none more than the King himself. His Highness desired to examine the sword, and asked the merchant why he had not sooner challenged it; to which he answered nothing. Sir Gaston, as he delivered it on his knee to the King, said—“If I know my accuser, which I think I do, he is no stranger to this weapon: he knows well that I usually wear it; but it never belonged to Reginald de Folville. My liege, it was my father’s sword; he won it in the plains of Palestine.”

The King examined it with attention. It was of eastern shape and finely wrought. In the hilt were a few jewels. Prince Edward, as he leaned over it, pointed out to his father a motto in an unknown tongue; and then, at some distance below 123it, a date, with the Roman letters, H. A., remarking, that probably these letters alluded to some exploit achieved in the year noted. The King addressed himself to Sir Gaston for the meaning of the motto and of these letters; but he knew not their meaning, and said they were as when his father won the sword from his enemy.

Then the King addressed the merchant with the same question, observing, that, as the sword seemed to be familiar to him, he probably had been told the signification of the letters on it. With that, the merchant was hastily advancing to receive it of one, to whom his Highness had delivered it; when he suddenly drew back, covered his eyes with his hand, and stood immovable. Those near almost expected to see him fall, as he had done before in the castle court on the night last past. Sir Gaston, at the same time, stepping forward, presumed to take it, and to deliver it again to the King, 124with these words:—“Your Highness will not tempt the villany of this man by putting him in possession of the sword he falsely claims.”

But the merchant claimed it not; nor could he even endure to look upon it. Heavy sighs burst from him, while with eyes still covered with his hands, he said,—“That was the sword, with which the villain murdered him; and can I endure to take it in my hand, and to look upon the blade, on which his life blood flowed?” and he groaned more piteously than before.

There were some in the hall, who instantly thought this sorrow of the merchant was a mimickry, and asked how it could happen, that his kinsman was killed by his own weapon; to which, soon as he could recollect his thoughts, he made answer, that the robber, on wrenching the sword from his friend, struck him his death-wound with it. The King, returning 125the sword to the young knight, bade him keep it forthcoming till he should demand it of him again, and then said to the stranger these or such-like words:—

“You, a man unknown to me and to mine, and without a name, except as far as you have declared one, have dared to come into my court, and to accuse to me one of my own servants, a gentleman and a knight, of a crime most foul and incredible. You have related your story, and I have waited patiently for some evidence, that the murderer of your kinsman, if, in truth, he were ever destroyed by violence, was Sir Gaston de Blondeville. I find none, except your story. And in this you have not scrupled to affirm, that you would have seized him for the murderer, even in a distant land, though you also say, that your knowledge of his countenance was obtained only from the sudden (and, therefore, the uncertain) light of 126a torch lying on the ground, at a moment, when the danger you were yourself exposed to, might, it may be readily believed, have prevented you from closely observing any face whatsoever. You must be held unworthy of credit; and I commit you into safe custody, till it shall be discovered who you are, and who those are, who urged you to this base accusation.”

When his Highness had ended, they were going to convey away the merchant from his presence, but he craved leave to speak, and it was granted.

“My liege,” said he, “at any other than that moment of horror, I might have seen the face of this stranger, without remembering it the next; but the impression made, at that moment, will remain with me, as long as the strong feelings, which then struck me, shall return with the recollection of my kinsman’s fate. On seeing the same face, I was seized with the 127same horror; your Highness’s people can be witnesses, that yester-eve, when I saw that knight, I fell into convulsions, and was carried senseless from your presence.”

His Highness, remembering what had happened, and, on inquiry, finding, that this was the very man, who had then fallen senseless, perceived, that the merchant had not spoken this untruly. He asked again whether he was known to any person in Kenilworth, also whether either of the merchants, travelling in his company, at the period of the alleged murder, was at hand. The accuser stood, for a while, bewildered, and then repeating, that he was a stranger, having only passed through the place, a few times, on his way to or from Coventry, said, that of his two companions one was dead, and the other following his merchandize, in a distant land.

“Then,” said the King, “it appears you 128cannot bring any evidence of the truth of your story; even so far, as that a robbery was actually committed. Your accusation of this knight is, therefore, likely to be impelled either by malice, or by some other bad motive. If it shall prove so, dread the punishment that awaits you.”

“My liege,” said Sir Gaston, “I think I know the man, and also his motive. He wronged my father at Embrun; and now his malice,—but this story is connected with family circumstances, that should only be divulged to your Highness; and, if you will suffer me to unfold them in private, I shall prove, not mine innocence only—for of that your Highness does not doubt—but that man’s former and present guilt.”

At these words, the stranger fell again on his knees, and besought aloud justice on “a villain.”

The King looked long upon him and 129upon Sir Gaston, and sat pondering awhile. He then turned to the merchant, and, bidding him rise, asked him, a second time, if he were not known to any one person in Kenilworth? and received for answer, “Only as a traveller.”

“An adventure as remarkable as that you have related,” pursued his Highness, “must have been known here at the time it happened, and must be remembered now. It is strange, if there be none who can recollect you also.”

“My lord,” observed Prince Edward, “he said his friend was buried here in the priory. If so, the prior must know him and his strange history.”

“Said he so?” quoth the King; and, turning to the stranger, he inquired how it happened, that he was not known to the prior? and who it was that commanded the burial of his kinsman.

The merchant said, he had himself ordered 130it, and had conversed with a monk and even with the Prior himself.

“Then you are known to the Prior, at least,” said the King; “he will surely recollect your story: let him be sent for. It is strange you should have said you were unknown: you are either guilty of falsehood, or your senses are unsettled.”

The stranger raised his hand to his head and sighed. “I recollect the Prior,” said he, “but he may not remember me.”

“We shall see!” said the King, calmly, as he rose from his chair: “If you are innocent, fear not! if you are guilty, you will lose your life, in seeking that of an innocent man.”

As his Highness left the hall, he looked somewhat sternly upon the accuser, and commanded, that he should be held in close custody, while more inquiry should be made. He then ordered Sir Gaston to attend him in his privy-chamber, and so 131departed forth of the hall, leaving the accuser speechless and dismayed.

As the merchant was led through this court of the castle to the tower, where was his prison, the lady Barbara, sitting in her bower-window above, saw the passing crowd, and inquired the occasion of it; but none would inform her. While she gazed with curiosity, she observed Sir Gaston going to the King’s privy-chamber; he looked not at her window, but went his way with a hurried step, and with such a countenance as she had never witnessed in him, till this time. At length, word was brought to my lady, her mother, of what had passed before his Highness. The Earl, her father, was promptly filled with disgust; and thought the occurrence would be sufficient to prevent the marriage, which neither his English heart, nor his pride of ancient blood, had suffered him to approve. His daughter, the lady 132Barbara, was differently minded; she would not believe him she loved capable of even a dishonourable action, much less of so foul a one; and, assured of his innocence, she would have thrown herself at the King’s feet, had that seemed always, as it did at first, proper, to urge his Highness to clear Sir Gaston instantly from the suspicion.

But truly the King needed no advocate for Sir Gaston de Blondeville; and so she thought, at last. His Highness’s own inclination was sufficient; and so angered was his generous spirit by what he held to be not only a false, but a malicious accusation, that he had determined after proof of this, to give a signal warning by the accuser’s doom; and this not only to prevent other false accusations proceeding from private motives, but to reprove and caution those of his subjects, who had a public prejudice against strangers, and 133were too likely to delight in the ruin of such especially as had risen to honours.

The King, therefore, willingly gave audience privately to the young knight, that he might explain to him the circumstances, which should assure him of his innocence. What Sir Gaston told his Highness was never assuredly known; some reports went on one side of the matter, some on the other: there was not one witness of what passed. Who then might know, unless they could guess by the countenances, and by what passed, when the hearing was over? But, if they had gone by no other guide, they would have been all for the knight, since he had made the King quite convinced; and moreover, the Earl of Huntingdon was summoned to the closet, where the King promised him the honour of the young knight would always remain unsullied in his opinion; and so commanded, that the marriage with the 134lady Barbara should be solemnized, as had been before appointed, on the day next following.

The Earl besought, nay, as some say, dared to remonstrate, that the marriage should be postponed till the stranger should have been lawfully convicted of falsehood; but his Highness said, “Nay; lest it should seem that the accusation was probable enough to require such delay. It is already well-known, as a matter agreed upon, that the nuptials are to be held on the morrow, the preparations are nearly all made, and they are public. It is necessary for the honour of Sir Gaston de Blondeville, that the appointment should be kept. If you are not convinced, still you will not be required to make disavowal of any thought you may have; for I myself will lead your daughter to the porch, and will so, by my presence and by this act of parental kindness, show my 135estimation both of the fair bride and of him who shall become your son. Farther proof of my regard shall not be wanting hereafter.”

His Highness was peremptory, and the Earl, swayed by his master’s positive opinion, and, it may be, by that promise of regard hereafter, at last obeyed.

While these things were passing in the King’s chamber, the unhappy merchant was taken to a turret of the castle, called Cæsar’s Tower; and there, with nothing but a pallet and the bare walls, was left to think of his jeopardy. What his thoughts were I know not; but he was heard sorely to sigh and groan, and with good reason; for, if he knew himself perjured, he knew also, that he should find no mercy from the King; and, if innocent, he could expect little justice against so great a favourite. But, whatever were his meditations, they held not till night, for he was called and 136led forth of the tower into the presence of the King; and, before even-song, the Prior of Saint Mary’s was in attendance upon his Highness. He was not an aged man, yet was he a stern one. When he was asked whether ever before he had seen the merchant, he answered resolutely, that he had no knowledge of him. The same question being put to the merchant, touching his knowledge of the Prior, he returned a like answer.

At this seeming self-contradiction, the King could scarcely command his anger, till it was discovered, that a Prior of Saint Mary’s had died, since the time when the murder was alleged to have been committed, and that it must needs be he, whom the merchant meant.

“But, where is the monk, with whom you consulted?” asked the King; “can you tell his name?”

“His name was Ewdwyn,” replied the merchant.

137“He died yesternight!” said the Prior.

At this there was a pause, and a dead silence throughout the chamber. Sir Gaston looked darkly on his accuser; his accuser directed his eyes to the King and then on high; but, in a short minute, he fell down, as though he were a dying man. The King, touched at his sufferings, commanded him from his chamber, that aid might be administered unto him. And then, that he might know whether this accusation of Sir Gaston were through malice, or mistake—for now pity inclined him to think the last—and also, that Sir Gaston might have mistaken, when he took this for the man, of whose deeds at Embrun he had talked; that he might know the truth on all this, he ordered the Prior to make inquiry in his community, whether the body of any person known to have been murdered in the forest of Ardenn, three years before, had been deposited in the chapel, or in the cemetery of the convent. Likewise, 138he commanded the Prior to have inquiry made in Kenilworth, whether any person remembered such an accident, or any house had received the dead body. And this he ordered, that it might always be seen he had desired to have justice done towards the wretched merchant, as well as for Sir Gaston de Blondeville.

This being appointed, the King departed to his great chamber, there to keep his state; the Prior to his convent, to resume his spiritual musings; the accused lover to his mistress; and the merchant was conveyed to his prison tower.

The King kept state, that night, with the Earl of Cornwall, the Archbishop of York, the Bishop of Winchester, the Bishop of Lincoln, Henry de Wernham, his chaplain, who also had the custody of the Great Seal, the Earl of Norfolk, the Earl of Hereford and a number of other nobles of the realm; but the Queen kept her state apart.

139The King’s great chamber was marvellous to behold. There were twenty-five wax-lights held by esquires of the household, all in the King’s livery, gentils as they were; also twenty-five wax torches were fixed high up over the tapestry. The walls were, that night, gorgeous with the story of Troy-town in ancient tapestries; there you might see the flames burning and the towers falling, and old King Priam, with beard as white as snow, his crown upon his head, and his Queen Hecuba tearing her dishevelled locks for grief. And there was that renowned son, who carried off his aged father, with his little child holding by his garment, and his wife following, all disconsolate. This was a piteous sight to see pourtrayed; but that it were nothing save a heathen story.

The floor of that chamber was not strewed either with rushes or with litter of any sort, but was laid in little checquers 140of divers colours; and, where his Highness sat, under his cloth of state, was spread a silken carpet of full crimson, fringed about with gold, as likewise his chair and canopy of estate. But the finest sight was the cupboards, piled up with plates and cups of gold and silver, in readiness for the King, when he should take his VOIDE. These were in that great Oriel, which his Highness had newly made in this chamber, before the bay; and which was closed about with painted glass from the highest cup-board to the arched roof, where hung a silver lamp, that made the whole glow with its light.

There were, that night, playing in the chamber, the King’s twelve minstrels, all clothed, for his honour and dignity, in sumptuous livery, with their virger to order their pipyngs and blowings. There were, besides, the children of the chapel singing, at times, from the brown gallery; so that, the doors being open, you might 141have heard them through all that side of the castle; and those, who sat afar off in the great hall, needed none other music.

There also was Maister Henry, the versifier, whose ballad of the Giant of Cornwall was this night rehearsed to the harp by Richard, the King’s harper, as was his famous Chronicle of Charlemagne, which lasted, till his Highness was well nigh weary, when he jocularly called out, having tasted of his golden cup, that Henry should have a butt of wine with his wages, if he would shorten his ballads by one-half. Maister Henry, who was a Frenchman, took this in good part, and, having especial care ever after to make his ballads nigher to too short than too long, became, in time, a notable rhymer. But let those do so who can. Some are famous one way, some another; for mine own part, I must be circumstantial, or else nothing, as this “Trew Chronique” in due time must show.

That night, the King played at “Checkere” 142with the Earl of Norfolk, on a board laid with jasper and chrystal, the check-men being of the same. Some said the king’s and queens were of ebony, studded over with jewels, but of this I know not.

But, the finest sight of all was the going of the chamberlain to the cup-board, accompanied of three nobles of the highest estate in the realm, that were there present, (save the King’s family) to receive the King’s cup and spice-plates; and then the bringing up of the voide before his Highness. And, first, the usher, having assembled the King’s sewers, their towels about their necks, with the four esquires of the body and the knights and esquires of the household, to the number of seventeen; these, with divers other officers, being met at the cup-board, the Chamberlain took the King’s towel, and, having kissed it, as the custom is, delivered it to the Earl of Norfolk, he being of the highest estate, 143who reverently received the same, and laid it safely upon his shoulder. Then, the said chamberlain gave the gold spice-plates covered to the Earl of Hereford; and then the King’s cup of massive gold, covered also, to the Earl of Warwick. At the same time were given to the knights of the household the Archbishop’s spice-plate and cup, covered also, to be carried up, by the space of one minute after the King’s.

And, certes, it was a goodly sight to see all these nobles and gentils marching up the great chamber (the minstrels playing the while), compassed about with esquires, bearing great lights to the number of thirteen, especial care being taken, as the manner all times has been at the voide, that the lights were odd in number.

First, then, went the usher, with his torch and rod, making passage; the chamberlain, with his chain and wand of 144office; then the five esquires, of the body, bearing wax-lights before the Earl of Norfolk, with the towel; then, three esquires about the Lord of Hereford, bearing the spice-plates; then, other three before the Lord Warwick, bearing the King’s cup covered; then followed one knight of the household, bearing a single torch; so making up altogether the just number of lights. Amongst them went four knights of the household, well renowned for bravery and noble bearing, with the Archbishop’s spice-plate and cup.

When this array drew near to the King, he, standing up under his cloth of estate, which was rolled up high, with the young Prince Edward on one hand and the Archbishop on the other, the Chamberlain taking the covers from off the spice-plates, gave assaye unto the Earl of Gloucester. The King, before he took his spice, made a beck to the Archbishop, that he should 145take his first; and the knights having advanced, as they well knew would be seemly, the Archbishop forthwith obeyed.

But, when the Chamberlain uncovered the cup, all the minstrels in the chamber blew up louder than ever, and so held on till his Highness took the ypocras, so that every roof in the castle rung with joy.

The King and Archbishop being served, his Highness’s cup and spice-plates were again covered, but not so the Archbishop’s. Then were the spice and cup carried to Prince Edward and the Earl of Cornwall, by the knights; to the bishops by the esquires of the household, and to the other estates by the esquires also. Which being done, his Highness forthwith departed for “all night,” the trumpets blowing before him. Then, were three healths drank, one to the King, one to the Queen, and one to the Prince Edward; after which it were not meet, that the assemblage should 146remain, and straight the great chamber was avoyded of all there present.

The Queen, that night, sat in her bower with all her ladies. There were mynstrelsy and dancing to the harp and viol. The Lady Barbara was the marveil of all, that beheld her moving to the sound of viols like unto some sprite, rather than to a poor mortal. Prince Edward danced with her a round, and the Queen often honoured her with her pleasing speech. Sir Gaston, though he beheld her, showed not his wonted joy. He stood apart looking on, and, when her Highness spoke to him, he seemed nigh to senseless of the honour.

The dancing being ended, Pierre, a Norman and the Queen’s chief minstrel, apparelled in the guise of his country, sang some of his ballads on the harp, in his own tongue, which, albeit, they were not esteemed like unto Maister Henry’s, yet did they not displease. The first tuning 147was in words which have been thus rendered into English by one, who had learned much of the new speech, not then familiar, except with some few.

THE BRIDAL.

Lightly, lightly, bounded the roe,

The hind o’er the forest was fleeing;

The small birds tuned on every bough,

In sun and shade their gleeing.

And purple cups, and silver bells

From the green leaves were peeping;

The wild-rose smiled in the mossy dells:

Nought but the thorn was weeping.

And so bright in the sun its tears did shine,

They showed like tears of pleasure;

And the airs of May, through the budding spray,

Breathed joyance, without measure.

For this was Isabel’s bridal morn

Who loved each bud and flower,

The wild-wood shade, the mountain head,

The deep vale’s mead and bower.

148And now was her festival gaily kept

By hagled brook and fountain,

From the low green bank, where the violet slept,

To the blue hill-top and mountain.

And lightly, lightly, bounded the roe,

His footstep wing’d with pleasure,

And small birds sang from every bough,

Welcomes beyond all measure.

At the end of this ballad, the minstrel rang out his harp in full joyance; and then, falling note by note, he dropped into a faltering murmur, as of deep sorrow, and so continued for some space, till those who heard him, perceived the witch of melancholy stealing upon them.

The Queen, deeming such strain unsuitable to the time, commanded him to change the measure, and sound forth one more gay, a lay of Provence, her native land, whither she knew he had been for his learning; but he, enthralled by the magic 149of his own mood, loving not to be commanded, still hung his head over the harp, listening to that pleasure-full melancholy and heeding nothing but its sweet sound.

At last, being made to know fully her Highness’s will, he sang the song of a Troubadour; for, though he loved best the ditties of Normandy, his own land, there was scarce one of Provence, which he had not gained; and the Queen did not let him forget them, so often did she command those, which she affected best. And now he sang forth to his harp a “roundel” in the Provençal tongue, made by a knight of the “Order of Fine Eyes.” They, who then heard him, would have thought he loved any thing less than melancholy, so light and debonnaire was the music he rang out; and many could hardly keep their steps from dancing to that gallant measure. But it lasted not long; for, making a 150pause and looking wistfully at the Lady Barbara, he struck forth, on a sudden, some of his deepest tones, with a wild yet solemn grace, such as brought tears into the eyes of many a fair lady, and darted dread into the heart of one there present. It seemed as if the shadows of prophecy were moving over the strings, and calling from them some strange and fearful story yet to be. And then again did the harper’s voice steal trembling forth, as do the moon’s beams, when pale clouds pass over, saddening, but not fully obscuring their brightness: yet might every one hear plainly all his words. Here it is done into English by the same hand; but the verses be not all divided into equal numbers:—

I.

O’er the high western wolds afar,

Glimmer’d some lights of yesterday;

And there, one bright, but trembling star

Among the streaky shadows lay,

151The traveller’s lonely warning.

But soon the winds, that sing day’s dirge,

Did o’er that star the shadows urge,

And hung the night with mourning!

II.

“What steps on the waste are beating?”

He listened not long on the ground,

’Ere he fearfully heard a sound,

As of trampling hoofs retreating:

And a dismal cry and a foot draw nigh;

“Stand ho!” ’twas an armed man passed by:

But he spoke no sound of greeting,

And seemed like a death-shade fleeting.

III.

O’er the lone mountains riding,

He gallop’d by gloomsome ways,

Where night-mists were abiding,

Round the witch of evil days:

Her name is written on the wind,

That speaks in cliffs and caves confin’d.

List there when the waning moon goes down,

And thou’lt hear the call her spirits own;

But as they pass, hold a chrystal glass,

Or thou’lt sorely rue the wild witch-tone.

152IV.

O’er the lone mountains riding,

From a distant land he came,

No step his dark step guiding;

But he thought he saw a flame,

That bright, or dim, would sport awhile;

Then vanish, as in very guile;

He heard, as he passed, the witch-name sound;

And his startled steed, at a single bound,

Bore him away from that evil ground.

V.

But o’er the mountains pacing

As fast as he can flee,

Strange steps his steps are tracing,

And a shape he cannot see;

And, though he flee away, so prest,

Whether to north, or south or west,

Toward the past, or coming day,

(So dim the night he may not say)

Still oft by fits did ghastly gleam,

A corpse-light, all unknown to him.

VI.

He followed the light o’er deserts wide,

Down in deep glens, where wild becks wail;

153He followed by darkened forest side;

He followed with dread, though link’d in mail;

Till it stayed before an iron gate,

Where battled turrets kept their state,

O’er towers so high and massy strong,

They seemed to giant-king belong.

VII.

Sir Adomar looked him all around:

Turret on turret hung on high,

Shaping black lines on the dim sky;

Sir Adomar looked him all around;

Nought, save this castle, could he spy,

Though, heavily clanged a death-bell’s sound;

And in each pause of the shuddering blast,

Moans were heard as of one from ’neath the ground!

VIII.

He struck on the gate with his good sword:

“Ho! wardour, ho!” but never a word

Return’d the wardour from within.

“The storm is loud, the night is dark,

I hear from the woods the dog-wolf bark.

Up, wardour, up! it were a sin

To turn a traveller from your tower,

At such a lone and dreary hour;

A Saracen would let me in!”

154IX.

The wardour was watching through the loop,

How many were of the stranger’s troop.

He had left his torch in the cullis’ bar,

And it let down a light on the lonely night,

That showed him harnessed, as for war.

His coat was mail, his helm was steel;

His visor did his look reveal;

Yet o’er his brow it cast a shade,

That made the wardour more afraid,

Than did the crimsoned plume above,

Or the mighty grasp of his iron glove.

He would not let the stranger in,

Till one, awakened by the din—

One whom the wardour need obey—

Seeing a lonely knight stand there,

Bade the wardour nought to fear:

He feared still, but he said not Nay:

Yet he would not ope the portal gate

To an unknown knight, without his state;

For neither squire, nor page, he saw:

He bade him then to the postern draw.

X.

The knight dismounted at the call;

The porter let him through the wall;

155He turned the weary steed to stall,

And led the knight to the lordly hall.

I’ the lordly hall, so wide and dim,

One drowsy squire awaited him.

The ashy wood lay, white and cold,

On the raised hearth, where late was told,

With fiery eye and accent loud,

The deed of martial prowess proud;

Where late was told, in whispers low,

Some tale of terror and of woe,

The while each listener bent his head,

Nor lost a word the trouveur said:

Till fear crept o’er each nerve and vein,

That late had swell’d to martial strain;

And shadows crept along the wall,

Such as the sinful soul appal:

Till each, who heard, look’d round with dread,

And saw some phantom of the dead.

XI.

Now silent was the hearth and lone,

Save that a stag-hound slumber’d there.

The tables in disorder were,

With relics of the evening fare;

The household to their rest were gone,

156And now no light was seen but one,

The light that led the stranger on;

That show’d above steel armour gleaming,

And many a dusky banner streaming,

From the black rafters of the roof,

In the night-wind, far aloof,

Like to some flitting phantom seeming;

And, stalking o’er the rushy floor,

It showed the knight where steps of gore

Had stain’d its green, with foot-prints red.

And the stag-hound, as the knight passed by,

Sent forth a mournful fearful cry.

XII.

The drowsy squire the stranger led;

(The wardour to his post was sped.)

They traversed the hall in silent march:

At the end was a door in a mitred arch.

The knight stood before that mitred door,

And gazed on a warrior shape above,

That seem’d to watch the passage o’er.

In his altered look strange passions strove!

The armoured shape leaned on its sword,

And downward bent its steely face,

As jealous who below might pace,

Or about to speak the challenge-word;

157And it seemed the very form of one,

The knight perforce must look upon.

XIII.

Thus, while he stood in wonder-trance,

The squire upheld the torch on high,

Viewing the guest with watchful eye;

And marvelling what strange mischance

So check’d his step, and fix’d his glance:—

“Sir knight, why gaze you on that steel?

It is a baron’s good and bold;

Had he been here, no welcome cold

Would he have shown a stranger-knight,

Who trusted to his towers at night.”

XIV.

The spell of fant’sie loos’d awhile,

The knight return’d a grateful smile,

With thanks for this so courteous style;

And, then with thoughtful accent said,

While yet he stood, that shape before,

“The armour some resemblance had

To that of a dear friend no more!

A friend!”—he paus’d,—“a friend long dead!”

This, while he said, his colour fled.

The squire seem’d not to note his pain,

But, with fair speech, began again

158Excuse to make for slender fare,

That it was night, and, not aware

Of honour’d guest approaching there,

The menials to their rest had gone;

A chamber should be fitted soon.

His squire and page should welcom’d be;

Right well he longed that squire to see.

XV.

The wearied knight a gesture made,

And looked his thanks, but nothing said;

Save that, for rest alone he prayed.

He sighed, as through that guarded arch,

And vaulted gloom, he held his march;

And there, before his doubting sight,

Glided again a pale sad light,

Full often he had seen with fear,

Yet more he felt to meet it here.

Then came they to an iron door,

And the knight beheld that flame no more.

It opened to a second hall,

Where warriors frowned upon the wall;

And ladies smiled in portraiture,

With downcast eye and look demure.

An umbered flash the red torch threw,

Athwart each warrior’s steadfast brow;

159And hardly might the gleam declare

A baron grim from lady fair.

XVI.

There is no need that I should tell,

What hasty fare the stranger took;

Nor how the squire, with silent look,

Watched, wondering, what had him befell;

So strangely gleamed his hollow eyes,

From forth the lifted beaver’s shade

So wan his lips, like one that dies,

So few the words and thanks he paid!

XVII.

Though round the hall his looks would steal,

Not well did torch or lamp reveal

The portraiture of warriors grim,

Or noble dames hung there so dim;

Their frowns and smiles were lost to him.

But once, when that he turned his head

Where the fix’d torch a gleaming shed,

A sable form, ill seen at most,

Went gliding up a stair, on high,

Passed through an open gallery,

And through a door-way there was lost,

That seemed to lead to antient rooms,

Such as where silence dwells, and glooms.

160The knight, he felt a sudden chill,

Though nought he said of what had sped;

But the spicy draught he deeply quaff’d,

Whenever the page his cup did fill.

And from his spirits chaced the ill.

XVIII.

The night-cheer o’er, the page led on

The stranger to his resting-place.

He led the way, that form had gone:

On the high stair he stood a space,

Waiting the knight’s reluctant pace,

Then, with mute reverence, marshalled him

Through many a gallery, long and dim,

Where helmets watched, in order grim;

Through many a chamber, wide and lorn,

Where wint’ry damps had half withdrawn

The storied paintings on the wall.

Electra, o’er her brother’s urn,

There bent the head, and seemed to mourn;

There, too, as meet in room and hall,

Troy’s tale^[2] and Hector’s piteous fall:

Here Priam’s Court, in purple and pall,

161Its golden splendour now had lost;

But Helen, on the rampart stood,

And pointed to the Grecian host,

Out-stretching to the briny flood.

Here Hector’s wife sat in her bower,

Waiting her lord’s returning hour;

And ‘broidering ’midst her maiden train,

While her infant played with silken skein.

There—but it boots not that I say,

What stories once, in long array,

Lived on those walls, now ghastly clay.

XIX.

The knight would oft, as he strode by,

Cast on their shade a searching eye;

And pause, as list’ning some drear sound,

That rose within the glimmering bound:

And start, as though some fearful sight

Passed along this gloom of night;

But, at a lesser winding stair,

(The long drawn chambers ended there,)

When to that narrow stair he drew,

He thought a robe of mourning hue

Went fleeting up that winding way;

No glimpse had he of shape or ray;

No foot he heard the stair ascend.

162Yet still that seeming garment passed,

As though some fiend, with evil haste,

Did up that lonely tower wend.

XX.

The knight, he stood on the step below—

“Whither, my young page, dost thou go?

Who dwells within this lonely tower,

Passing with speed, in sable weed—

Passing with speed, at this dead hour?”

“Nobody, save the raven-crow,

Dwells within this lonely tower;

And here, Sir knight, is your resting-bower!”

“But in this tower I may not rest,

Till I know who that stair has pressed;

Did you not see that black weed wave?”

“Yes, knight, I saw the raven’s wing,

Glint up that wall with sudden spring:

And hark! you now may hear him crave!”

XXI.

“It is not courteous, that my bower

Should be within this ruin’d tower!”

“But see, knight, ’tis not in decay;

The storm hath blown a bar away,

And the raven through the loop doth stray;

His nest is wet on the battlement grey:

163Your chamber is a stately room,

Hung round with work of choicest loom;

And erst it was the resting-place

Of our dear Lady Baroness,

Before she went to stranger-land.

My lord yet strays on foreign strand.

The chamber has another stair,

Leading to many chambers fair;

But no step goes by night so far,

Since my lord baron went to war.”

XXII.

The page stept on with torch before,

Far as that stately chamber’s door.

“Page! lift that light—fain would I know,

Whither that second flight doth go?”

“It goes to a battlement up on high,

And to a turret perching by.”

“Doth none keep watch on that turret high?”

“None, but the raven with his cry!

Your rest, Sir knight, he will not break;

To traitors only doth he speak.

They say he scents the new spilt blood.”

Upon the stair the raven stood!

He turn’d his dark eye on the knight,

And, screaming, upward winged his flight.

The wondering page looked back with fright,

164And met the stranger’s fiery glance;

Then, hardly daring to advance,

Lingered he at that chamber-door;

“On,” said the knight, “with torch before!”

Scarce was the page the threshhold o’er,

When check he made, and pale he turn’d;

Dim and more dim the torch-flame burn’d.

The knight look’d on, but nothing saw,

That might explain this sudden awe.

XXIII.

A spacious chamber there was spread,

And, for his rest, a stately bed;

Fresh rushes on the floor were strewn;

Faint on the arras’d walls were shown

The heroes of some antient story,

Now faded, like their mortal glory.

Another form, as dark as doom,

Stood within that chamber’s gloom,

Unseen by those who entered there.

His cause of dread the page thus said:

“Methought I saw, within that chair,

The baron’s self, my very lord;

I saw it, on a true man’s word:

I saw my lord return’d from far,

Arrayed, as he went forth to war!

165He fixed his very eyes on me,

But looked not, as he wont to look.

Yet now no living shape I see,

And know that here he could not be;

For, long since, he these walls forsook:

Yet is it strange such visions pale,

Should o’er my waking sight prevail.”

XXIV.

“Whose are these antient walls, I pray?”

The sullen stranger ’gan to say:

“Sir, know you not these towers and halls

Watch where the foaming Conway falls?

Who should these walls and towers own?

And the wide woods and forest round,

Even to Snowdon’s utmost bound,

Save the brave lord of Eglamore?”

The knight explained his ignorance,

He was a wanderer late from France.

The page surveyed him o’er again;

He thought the wily knight did feign:

A deadly hue was on his cheek;

His looks spoke more than words may speak.

Yet to the page, though much it told,

He read not all it might unfold.

166XXV.

The knight perceived his doubting thought,

And drew a badge forth from his breast;

Some noble Order’s golden crest,

Upon a field of silver wrought.

“This badge,” he said, “with blood was bought.”

He turn’d with haughty frown away.

The page did not more doubt betray;

But service offered to undo

His casque and linked harness true;

But the stranger gravely said him Nay,

And refused that night to disarray.

XXVI.

Wondering, yet fearing to demand,

Why to these towers from distant land,

The knight had come, without his train,

Pondered the youth his doubts again;

Again, as though his thoughts he read,

The knight look’d sternly down and said,

“My squire and my foot-page I missed

At night-fall, when the woods betwixt.

But they perchance may shelter find,

From this bitter-blowing wind,

In the deep hollow of some hill,

Till the dawn break, and the storm be still.”

167XXVII.

“But the wolf bays in the blast afar;

Sir knight, how may they scape such war?

I hear him now—he nearer howls!

Mercy! mercy! save their souls!”

“Hark!” said the knight, and stood aghast;

It was no wolf-howl in the blast;

It was a blood-hound’s dreadful bay,

The stranger heard, with such dismay—

The blood-hound at the tower below;

That over pathless hill and dale,

Had tracked a murderer in the gale,

And came to claim his master’s foe.

While listening to the lengthen’d yell,

The stranger seemed to hear his knell.

“A blood-hound loose, and at this hour!

Your rest, sir knight, had ill been kept;

Nor one within these gates had slept,

Had I been in my distant tower.”

The page he lighted a lamp on high;

The stranger stifled scarce a sigh,

That heavily for utterance pressed.

He heard the page’s steps descend,

And go where the long chambers bend,

Down to the halls, and th’ outer walls.

168The page knew not the chance he ran;

He was marked with the blood of a murder’d man!

XXVIII.

The knight, he listened in silent dread,

Till now, the blood-hound’s voice was stilled;

But soon a low voice near him sped,

That every nerve with horror thrilled.

He looked the way that lone voice came,

And saw, by the lamp’s tall spiring flame,

A portraiture on the wall beneath,

Of noble dame, that seemed to breathe.

Robed in sable weeds was she:

The gleam fell on that lady’s brow;

There, written dimly, you might see,

The characters of hopeless woe.

XXIX.

Soon as that lady’s face he saw,

All other dread his heart forsook;

He gazed with fixt and frenzied awe,

And vainly tried away to look:

For to his fearful sight it seemed,

As though her eyes on his were bent;

And, where the pale flame wavering gleamed,

As if her varying cheek were blent

169With lights and shades of death;

While round her lips a grim smile drew,

And the rose paled that on them blew;

And, with faint lingering breath,

“Prepare,” she said, “thy hour is nigh!

Unpitying, thou hast seen me die;

Unpitied be thy mortal sigh!”

XXX.

He heard the words—the words alone;

He heard not that deep solemn groan;

He heard not the clang of the ‘larum bell,

Nor from the gates that horn-blast swell;

Nor heard the many-trampling hoofs,

Nor voices calling in the gale,

And ringing round the castle roofs,

Till they made the ’battled raven quail;

Nor heard the funeral shriek, that broke

Through every hall and lofty tower;

He heard alone the words she spoke.

XXXI.

Nor saw he in the court below,

By the torches’ umbered glow,

Borne upon his bleeding bier,

With wounds unclosed and open eyes,

A warrior stretched in death draw near;

Nor heard the loud and louder cries,

170This piteous sight of horror drew

From every friend and vassal true.

But he knew that voice at his chamber-door,

And straight the witch-veil of glamour

Falls, and his wonder-trance is o’er.

He hears his summons in that sound;

It is the bark of the true blood-hound.

True to his murdered lord is he;

He has traced the steps he could not see—

Traced them o’er darkened miles and miles,

O’er glen and mountain, wood and moor,

Through all their swift and winding wiles,

Till he stopped before his master’s door,

And bayed the murderer in his bower.

XXXII.

The castle gates were strait unbarred,

And he sprang before his bleeding lord;

He passed the page unheeded by,

And tracked the stranger’s steps on high;

Till at the door, that closed him in,

Loud and dread became his din.

The doors are burst, and the spectre-light

Betrayeth the form of the blood-tracked knight:

He was armed all over in coat of mail,

But nothing did steel that night avail;

He fell a torn corpse, beside that chair,

Whereunto the page did late appear,

171By the dark glamour-art revealed,

His murdered lord with lance and shield.

The murderer fell, and his death-wound found

In the terrible fangs of the true blood-hound.

Here the voice of the minstrel ceased; and, after striking a few notes of his harp, full and deep, he rested with a look of sorrow. His eyes dwelt on the Lady Barbara—but she heeded him not; but sat with head inclined, as if still listening to his dismal tale. There followed a dread silence in the room, as of expectation of that which was to follow. Some there were, who said the ditty was already ended; yet they would fain have heard something of the pitiful history of that unhappy lady, whose portraiture was in the tower-chamber, and would have known what was the guilty motive of the knight against the Lord of Eglamore; and how it chanced he came so unwittingly to his 172castle. Others there were then present, who, having noticed the young Gaston de Blondeville to be ill at ease, the while the minstrel sung, and being, perchance, already moved by the merchant’s strange accusation, scrupled not to think the story touched him nearly; and that Pierre rested, not because his ditty was at an end, or from weariness; but that he doubted whether it would be well to proceed to the second part.

However this may be, he needed not have stayed his strain, for Sir Gaston was no longer in the chamber. Whether Pierre knew this or not, he began once more to strike upon the harp; when, on a sudden, the king’s trumpets were heard blowing up near the stair; and anon, his Highness entered the bower, it being almost time that he should go to his rest for “all-night.”

There was no more harping; Pierre 173tuning not up his second fit; and belike, if his Highness had been there at first, he would have bidden him to shorten his ballad by one-half.

The King looked about for Sir Gaston; and, espying him not, asked wherefore he was not there; but, before any answer could be given, the knight had returned, and now approached his Highness. He was then commanded to dance a round with the Lady Barbara, and he obeyed; but many there noted the sadness on his brow, though his steps were light and gay.

A more pleasureful sight could not be than the Queen’s bower, as it was at that time, where she sat in estate, under a cloth of gold, her ladies standing about her chair, and her maidens on either hand, below the steps of her throne; and two young damsels of surpassing beauty and richly bedight, sitting on the first step, at 174her feet; the same, that were used so to sit, when her Highness kept state in the great hall at festivals.

Behind them, half encircling the throne, stood twenty household esquires, holding great wax torches, right richly beseen in the king’s livery, and proud to wear it, gentils as they were, as I said before, and of ancient families in the countries from whence they came.

The arched roof was curiously wrought in that fashion, which King Henry had newly brought into favour; and, besides these lights, a great crystal lamp, that hung from the roof, shone over the chamber and upon the goodly assemblage, as they looked upon the Lady Barbara, passing so winningly in the dance. That night, the Earl of Richmond bore the Queen’s spice-plate, and Sir Philip de Kinton her cup.

When the Lady Barbara had ended 175her dance, the Queen called her to her chair; and, making her take of the sweetmeats from her own plate, spoke commendable words to her, as did his Highness King Henry. Then the Queen, turning to the Lady Gloucester, took from her hands a girdle, richly beset with jewels, and, clasping it on the Lady Barbara, kissed her, and bade her wear it ever, for her sake and for her honour. Her Highness then stretched out her hand to Sir Gaston, who, kneeling, put it to his lips. “May you, Sir knight,” said her Highness, “as well deserve this lady, as she deserves this token of my regard!”

Then, the King said many gracious things, and seemed so merry of heart, that he made all around him gladsome; till, the Voide being ended, he went forth with the Queen, the trumpets blowing before them; and the chamber was then speedily avoided for all night.

176While these things were passing in the chambers of estate, there were divers wassailings and merriments making in other places of the castle. In the great hall were feasting and revelling, but not of estate. There were tumblers and jugglers and morrice-dancers and mimicks and mummers, with pipings and blowings, that made the roofs ring.

The monks at the priory heard them afar, while at the last even-song, and long after; and well I wote, that had it not been the King’s castle, there had been some rebuke, as indeed due, for such noise made. The Prior in his chamber sat alone; listening, I guess, in gloomy mood to the revelry; and, all that night, only Edmund the monk and mass Peter with him: he came not forth to midnight-song.

But now I must return, and so must ye that hear, or read, to the castle. In 177the hall there was a dancer on stilts, playing the while on a recorder; there were dancers on one leg, and dancers upon the head; but that which most rejoiced many of the beholders, were the disguisings and the quaint antics of the mummers. There came a whole troop, some wearing the heads of asses, some of bulls, some of calves, some of cats, who brayed and kicked, bellowed and tossed, scratched and mewed, to the very life. Others, like stags and hares, hounds and apes, kept not so pertinently to their pretended natures, but marched on with solemn state, as much as might be, hand in hand, as if they had been loving friends and neighbours; yet each with a dagger stuck in his girdle. And others again, with fools’ girdles and bells hanging to them; tossing their heads, and cutting such strange capers, to the noise of pipes and drums, as made the sides of many to 178shake with laughter, and roused up every hawk on perch there to shake his bells in concert.

But all this was child’s play, though it was often done before the worshipfullest estates, in comparison of the sayer’s art; which, when he could be heard between whiles, when the loud revelry paused and held breath, was marvellous to hear: and, as soon as those mad-heads caught the words of that tale-teller, sooth to say, they soon were still and hushed, as though no living soul but he breathed there; listening to his dismal tradey, with tears in their eyes, or quaking for fear of the strange things he told them. He, the while, with solemn visage, showing as though he himself believed all the marvels he related, and not showing roguish smiles, as some do, kept on always to the far end of his long tale: though some learned clerks would oft-times comment 179to their neighbours upon his marvels, as if he had purported lofty matter worth their notice, and did not merely strive to while an idle tide away.

In other parts of the castle were those gentils and honest gentlewomen, that, misliking the loud revelry of the hall, drew together in chambers apart; and delighted themselves with histories of times past, the sad hopes of lovers, or the deeds of brave knights, or otherwise in singing and harping, after their own manner.

In the lower hall too was feasting, and the mirth did not stop short of the “Kuchane,” so that every man to the lowest degree was joyous; and each chamber and tower rung with song, or laughter, save the prison tower of the poor merchant. He, as he lay on his pallet-bed, heard those sounds of music and jollity, in confused uproar rising through the courts, while his heart was stricken with 180fear and sadness; for, whether he were right or not in believing Sir Gaston to be the murderer of his friend, it is certain, that he had seen his friend murdered, and that too, as he had said, in the woods of Ardenn.

He was, at this time, far from his home and friends, and had been travelling, over these parts, a lonesome stranger, along the foss-way from Lincoln, southward; having been on his merchandize into the north seas, and having landed on the eastern coast. Coming again to that place, where, a few years back, he had buried his friend, the remembrance of him broke out in fresh grief; and, hearing that the king was coming to keep festival in Kenilworth, he resolved to break the matter to him; as well as to adventure to tell him, the times were such it was no longer safe to journey in any part of his kingdom.

The most audacious robberies, certes, 181were then committed at noon-day with impunity; nay, the very thieves themselves feared not to be seen walking about, little attempt being made to seize them, or, in any wise, to suppress these scandalous outrages. Not only then did the sad fall of his friend, but also the fearful condition of the living, urge the merchant to make the truth known to the king.

With this design he had rested at Kenilworth, but not at the house where he had formerly suffered such affliction; and, on the king’s arrival, had gone forth in the crowd to behold him, though he had not intended to present his petition in that time of turmoil. But, when he saw near his Highness, riding as it were in the top of favour, the very man, whom he thought to be the slayer of his kinsman; when he beheld that look, which he felt to dart into his heart, and to revive there all the horror he had felt at the 182aspect of the murderer, at the moment when his friend had been stricken down—then it was, that, overcome by the strength of his feelings, he dropped down senseless in the castle court, as hath been related.

And now, what had he gained by his courageous demand of justice? Suspicion, contempt, fear, grief, a prison, and, perhaps, death. Yet did he not repent the effort he had made, so honest was his grief for the fate of his kinsman; so much was his mind possessed with the notion, that he had accused his very murderer; so confident was he that he was performing a duty; and, what is more, so sure was he, that to perform his duty in this world is the wisest, the most truly cunning thing a man can contrive to do. Whether his suspicions concerning the knight were just or not; these, his conclusions touching his own conduct, none 183but fools, or villains, that is, none but fools—will deny.

Thus he lay on his pallet, alike deprived of sleep by the jollity of others and by his own grievous reflections. A lamp burned beside him, but it served only to show the forlornness of his condition, in this high and distant tower. Sometimes, he would rise and look through his grated window upon the inner court of the castle, listening there awhile to the distant minstrelsy and to the confusion of numberless voices, footsteps and closing doors, that rose from many a chamber below. Anon, a torch-bearer would pass the court, a page, perhaps, or a yeoman; and would show the gloomy towers above and the steps of the guest he led at their feet. But, this passed, nothing could the prisoner see, save here and there, a lamp burning through a casement of glass (and 184a goodly show there was of such windows now in this castle) like stars through a clouded sky; but mostly the glorious beams of the great hall, that struck through the windows and lighted the air above. Once he heard the trumpets blow, and thought the King was coming forth, and once he fancied he saw, in the person of one who followed a torch-bearer, Sir Gaston himself. Then turned he from the casement, looked no more, and fell upon his pallet.

At last, every distant sound grew fainter; the noise of the dancers ceased; then the minstrelsy sunk low; the voices of the hall revellers became few; he heard less frequently the doors opened and shut; and then he heard the fastening of bolts and bars: and, afar off, the castle gates closed for the night; and soon all grew still, as though no living creature inhabited there.

185And thus it kept, until the wayte piped his second watch in all the courts. Then the stranger arose, and, looking again through his grate, saw him well, by the light his groom carried, piping the hour. And, when the man had finished his saye, he went round the court, his boy-groom holding up the torch, while he tried every door, and found that all was safe. By this light too, he perceived the wardour’s men on guard; but no living being else was seen. The windows of the great hall were dark; and, the torch being gone, nothing glimmered through the night, save one great star, which wizards say is evil. It stayed, at his hour, right over King Henry’s lodgings; but for whom it watched, who was there that might tell? The prisoner knew the star, and all that was thought of it, and he betook him to his pallet groaning heavily.

He had not long been there, when, as 186he thought, a voice near him spoke his name. Now, there was a small grate looked out from his chamber upon the stair; and thence the voice seemed to come. The prisoner, raising himself from his pallet, turned, and saw there the figure of a man passing away. He kept his eyes fixed, for some space, upon the grate, but the figure appeared no more, and he sunk again on his pallet.

The voice, faint and passing as it was, had thrilled him with dread. Whose it was, wherefore it had called him by a name known but to few, and had then passed away, without communing with him, he tried in vain to understand; yet seemed it not wholly new to him.

END OF VOL. I.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.

Renumbered footnotes.