ARCADIA BOOK III (continued 3)

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

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

But Clinias, whose faith could never comprehend the mysteries of courage, persuaded Artesia, while he by corruption had drawn the guard of one gate, to open it, when he would appoint the time to the enemy, that she should impoison Amphialus, which she might the easier do, because she herself had used to make the broths, when Amphialus, either wearied or wounded, did use such diet. And all things already were ready to be put in execution, when they thought best to break this matter with the two excellent sisters, not doubting of their consent in a thing so behoveful to themselves: their reasons being that the princesses knowing their service, might be sure to preserve them from the fury of the entering soldiers: whereof Clinias, even so, could scarcely be sufficiently certain: and withal, making them privy to their action, to bind them afterwards to a promised gratefulness towards them. They went therefore at one time, when they knew them to be alone, Clinias to Philoclea, and Artesia to Pamela; and Clinias, with no few words, did set forth what an exploit was intended for her service. But Philoclea, in whose clear mind, treason could find no hiding-place, told him that she would be glad if he could persuade her cousin to deliver her, and that she would never forget his service therein; but that she desired him to lay down any such way of mischief, for, that for her part, she would rather yield to perpetual imprisonment than consent to the destroying her cousin, who, she knew, loved her, though wronged her. This unlooked-for answer amazed Clinias, so that he had no other remedy in his mind but to kneel down to Philoclea, and beseech her to keep it secret, considering that the intention was for her service, and vowing, since she misliked it, to proceed no further therein, she comforted him with promise of silence, which she performed.

But that little availed; for Artesia having in like sort opened this device to Pamela, she, in whose mind virtue governed with the sceptre of knowledge, hating so horrible a wickedness, and straight judging what was fit to do: “Wicked woman,” said she, “whose unrepenting heart can find no way to amend treason, but by treason, now the time is come that thy wretched wiles have caught thyself in thine own net: as for me, let the gods dispose of me as shall please them; but sure it shall be no such way, nor way-leader, by which I will come to liberty.” This she spoke something with a louder voice than she was wont to use, so that Cecropia heard the noise, who was, sooner than Artesia imagined she would, come up, to bring Pamela to a window where she might see a notable skirmish happened in the camp, as she thought among themselves: and being a cunning fisher in troubled waters, straight found by their voices and gestures there was some matter of consequence, which she desired Pamela to tell her. “Ask of her,” said Pamela, “and learn to know, that who do falsehood to their superiors, teach falsehood to their inferiors.” More she would not say. But Cecropia taking away the each-way guilty Artesia, with fear of torture, got of her the whole practice: so that Zelmane was the more closely imprisoned, and Clinias, with the rest of his corrupted mates, according to their merits, executed: for as for Artesia, she was but locked up in her chamber, Amphialus not consenting, for the love he bore to Ismenus, that further punishment should be laid upon her.

But the noise they heard in the camp was by occasion of the famous prince Anaxius, nephew to the giant Euardes, whom Pyrocles slew; a prince of body exceedingly strong, in arms so skilful and fortunate, as no man was thought to excel him; of courage that knew not how to fear; of parts worthy praise, if they had not been guided by pride, and followed by injustice. For by a strange composition of mind, there was no man more tenderly sensible in anything offered to himself, which in the farthest-fetched construction might be wrested to the name of wrong; no man that in his own actions could worse distinguish between valour and violence: so proud, that he could not abstain from a Thraso-like boasting, and yet, so unlucky a lodging his virtues had gotten, he would never boast more than he would accomplish, falsely accounting an inflexible anger a courageous constancy; esteeming fear and astonishment righter causes of admiration, than love and honour. This man had four sundry times fought with Amphialus, but Mars had been so impartial an arbiter, that neither side got advantage of the other. But in the end, it happened that Anaxius found Amphialus, unknown in great danger, and saved his life: whereupon, loving his own benefit, began to favour him, so much the more, as thinking so well of himself, he could not choose but like him, whom he found a match for himself: which at last grew to as much friendship towards him, as could by a proud heart be conceived. So as in this travel (seeking Pyrocles to be revenged of his uncle’s death) hearing of this siege, never taking pains to examine the quarrel, like a man whose will was his god, and his hand his law, taking with him his two brothers, men accounted little inferior to himself in martial matters, and two hundred chosen horsemen, with whom he thought himself able to conquer the world, yet commanding the rest of his forces to follow, he himself upon such an unexpected suddenness entered in upon the back of Basilius, that many with great unkindness took their death, not knowing why, nor how they were so murdered. There, if ever, did he make known the wonderfulness of his force. But the valiant and faithful Philanax, with well-governed speed, made such head against him as would have showed how soon courage falls in the ditch which hath not the eye of wisdom; but that Amphialus at the same time issued out and winning with abundance of courage one of the sconces which Basilius had builded, made way for his friend Anaxius, with great loss of both sides, but especially of the Basilians, such notable monuments had those two swords especially left of their master’s redoubted worthiness.

There, with the respect fit to his estate, the honour due to his worthiness, and the kindness which accompanies friendship, made fast by interchanged benefits, did Amphialus enforce himself, as much as in a besieged town he could, to make Anaxius know that his succour was not so needful as his presence grateful. For causing the streets and houses of the town to witness his welcome, making both soldiers and magistrates in their countenances to show their gladness of him, he led him to his mother, whom he besought to entertain him with no less love and kindness, than as one who once had saved her son’s life, and now came to save both life and honour. “Tush,” said Anaxius, speaking aloud, looking upon his brothers, “I am only sorry there are not half-a-dozen kings more about you, than what Anaxius can do might be the better manifested.” His brothers smiled, as though he had over-modestly spoken, far underneath the pitch of his power. Then was he disarmed at the earnest request of Amphialus: for Anaxius boiled with desire to issue out upon the enemies, persuading himself that the sun should not be set before he had overthrown them. And having reposed himself, Amphialus asked him whether he would visit the young princesses. But Anaxius whispered him in the ear, “In truth,” said he, “dear friend Amphialus, though I am none of those that love to speak for themselves, I never came yet in company of ladies but that they fell in love with me. And that I in my heart scorn them as a peevish paltry sex, nor worthy to communicate with my virtues, would not do you the wrong: since, as I hear, you do debase yourself so much as to affect them.” The courteous Amphialus could have been angry with him for those words; but knowing his humour, suffered him to dance to his own music: and gave himself to entertain both him and his brothers, with as cheerful a manner as could issue from a mind whom unlucky love had filled with melancholy. For to Anaxius he yielded the direction of all. He gave the watch-word, and if any grace were granted, the means were to be made to Anaxius. And that night when supper was ended wherein Amphialus would needs himself wait upon him, he caused in boats upon the lake an excellent music to be ordered; which, though Anaxius might conceive was for his honour, yet indeed he was but the brick wall to convey it to the ears of the beloved Philoclea.

The music was of cornets, whereof one answering the other, with a sweet emulation striving for the glory of music, and striking upon the smooth face of the quiet lake, was then delivered up to the castle walls, which with a proud reverberation, spreading it into the air, it seemed before the harmony came to the ear, that it had enriched itself in travel, the nature of those places adding melody to that melodious instrument. And when a while that instrument had made a brave proclamation to all possessed minds of attention, an excellent concert straight followed, of five viols, and as many voices; which all being but orators of their master’s passions, bestowed this song upon her that thought upon another matter.

The fire to see my wrongs for anger burneth;

The air in rain for my affection weepeth:

The sea to ebb for grief his flowing turneth:

The earth with pity dull his centre keepeth.

Fame is with wonder blazed;

Time runs away for sorrow:

Place standeth still amazed,

To see my night of evils, which hath no morrow.

Alas all only she no pity taketh

To know my miseries, but chaste and cruel,

My fall her glory maketh;

Yet still her eyes give to my flame their fuel.

Fire, burn me quite, till sense of burning leave me:

Air, let me draw thy Breath no more in anguish:

Sea, drown’d in thee of tedious life bereave me;

Earth, take this Earth wherein my spirits languish.

Fame, say I was not born:

Time, haste my dying hour.

Place, see my grave uptorn:

Fire, air, sea, earth, fame, time, place, show your power.

Alas from all their help I am exiled:

For hers am I, and death fears her displeasure.

Fie death thou art beguiled:

Though I be hers, she makes of me no treasure.

But Anaxius, seeming a-weary before it was ended, told Amphialus, that for his part he liked no music but the neighing of horses, the sound of trumpets, and the cries of yielding persons: and therefore desired, that the next morning they should issue upon the same place where they had entered that day, not doubting to make them quickly a-weary of being the besiegers of Anaxius. Amphialus, who had no whit less courage, though nothing blown up with pride, willingly condescended: and so the next morning, giving false alarm to the other side of the camp, Amphialus at Anaxius’s earnest request, staying within the town to see it guarded, Anaxius and his brethren, Lycurgus and Zoilus sallied out with the best chosen men. But Basilius, having been the last day somewhat unprovided, now had better fortified the overthrown sconce; and so well had prepared everything for defence, that it was impossible for any valour from within to prevail. Yet things were performed by Anaxius beyond the credit of the credulous: for thrice, valiantly followed by his brothers, did he set up his banner upon the rampire of the enemy; though thrice again by the multitude, and advantage of the place, but especially by the coming of three valiant knights, he was driven down again. Numbers there were that day, whose deaths and overthrows were excused by the well known sword of Anaxius: but the rest by the length of time and injury of historians have been wrapped up in dark forgetfulness; only Tressenius is spoken of, because when all abandoned the place, he only made head to Anaxius; till having lost one of his legs, yet not lost the heart of fighting, Lycurgus, second brother to Anaxius, cruelly murdered him; Anaxius himself disdaining any further to deal with them.

But so far had Anaxius at the third time prevailed, that now the Basilians began to let their courage descend to their feet; Basilius and Philanax in vain striving with reverence of authority to bridle the flight of astonishment, and to teach fear, discretion: so that Amphialus, seeing victory show such a flattering countenance to him, came out with all his force, hoping that day to end the siege.

But that fancy altered quickly, by the sudden coming to the other side of the three knights, whereof the one was in white armour, the other in green, and the third by his black armour and device, straight known to be the notable knight who the first day had given fortune so short a stop with his notable deeds, fighting hand to hand with the deemed invincible Amphialus. For the very cowards no sooner saw him, but as borrowing some of his spirit, they went like young eagles to the prey, under the wing of their dam. For the three adventurers, not content to keep them from their rampire, leapt down among them, and entered into a brave combat with the three valiant brothers. But to whether side fortune would have been partial, could not be determined. For the Basilians, lightened with the beams of their strangers’ valour, followed so thick, that the Amphialians were glad with some haste to retire to the wall-ward: though Anaxius neither reason, fear, nor example, could make him assuage the fury of his fight: until one of the Basilians (unworthy to have his name registered, since he did it cowardly, sideward, when he least looked that way) almost cut off one of his legs, so that he fell down, blaspheming heaven, that all the influences thereof had power to overthrow him: and there death would have seized on his proud heart, but that Amphialus took in hand the black knight, while some of his soldiers conveyed away Anaxius, so requiting life for life unto him.

And for the love and example of Amphialus, the fight began to enter into a new fit of heat: when Basilius, that thought enough to be done for that day, caused retreat to be sounded; fearing lest his men following over-earnestly, might be the loss of those excellent knights whom he desired to know. The knights as soon as they heard the retreat, though they were eagerly set, knowing that courage without discipline, is nearer beastliness than manhood, drew back their swords, though hungry of more blood: especially the black knight, who knowing of Amphialus, could not refrain to tell him, that this was the second time he escaped out of his hands, but that he would shortly bring him a bill of all the former accounts. Amphialus seeing it fit to retire also, most of his people being hurt, both in bodies and hearts, withdrew himself with so well-seated a resolution, that it was as far from anger, as from dismayedness, answering no other to the black knight’s threats, but that when he brought him his account, he should find a good paymaster.

The fight being ceased, and each side withdrawn within their strengths, Basilius sent Philanax to entertain the strange knights, and to bring them unto him that he might acknowledge what honour was due to their virtue. But they excused themselves, desiring to be known first by their deeds, before their names should accuse their unworthiness: and though the other replied according as they deserved, yet (finding that unwelcome courtesy is a degree of injury) he suffered them to retire themselves to a tent of their own without the camp, where they kept themselves secret: Philanax himself being called away to another strange knight; strange not only by the unlooked-for-ness of his coming, but by the strange manner of his coming.

For he had before him four damsels, and so many behind him, all upon palfreys, and all apparelled in mourning weeds; each of them a servant on each side, with like liveries of sorrow. Himself in an armour, all painted over with such a cunning of shadow, that it represented a gaping sepulchre; the furniture of his horse was all of cypress branches: wherewith in old time they were wont to dress graves. His bases, which he wore so long, as they came almost to his ankle, were embroidered only with black worms, which seemed to crawl up and down, as ready to devour him. In his shield, for impresa, he had a beautiful child, but having two heads, whereon the one showed that it was already dead; the other alive, but in that case, necessarily looking for death. The word was: “No way to be rid from death, but by death.”

This knight of the tomb, for so the soldiers termed him, sent to Basilius to demand leave to send a damsel into the town, to call out Amphialus, according as before time some others had done. Which being granted, as glad any would undertake the charge, which nobody else in that camp was known willing to do, the damsel went in, and having with tears sobbed out a brave challenge to Amphialus, from the knight of the tomb, Amphialus honourably entertaining the gentlewoman, and desiring to know the knight’s name, which the doleful gentlewoman would not discover, accepted the challenge, only desiring the gentlewoman to say thus much to the strange knight from him, that if his mind were like to his title, there were more cause of affinity than enmity between them. And therefore presently, accordingly as he was wont, as soon as he perceived the knight of the tomb, with his damsels and judge, was come into the island, he also went over in accustomed manner; and yet for the courtesy of his nature, desired to speak with him.

But the knight of the tomb, with silence and drawing his horse back, showed no will to hear, nor speak: but with lance on thigh, made him know, it was fit for him to go to the other end of the career, whence waiting the start of the unknown knight, he likewise made his spurs claim haste of his horse. But when his staff was in his rest, coming down to meet with the knight, now very near him, he perceived the knight had missed his rest: wherefore the courteous Amphialus would not let his lance descend: but with a gallant grace, ran over the head of his therein friended enemy: and having stopped his horse, and with the turning of him, blessed his sight with the window where he thought Philoclea might stand, he perceived the knight had lighted from his horse, and thrown away his staff, angry with his misfortune, as of having missed his rest, and drawn his sword, to make that supply his fellow’s fault; he also alighted, and drew his sword, esteeming victory with advantage, rather robbed than purchased: and so the other coming eagerly toward him, he with his shield out; and sword aloft, with more bravery than anger drew unto him, and straight made their swords speak for them a pretty while with equal fierceness. But Amphialus, to whom the earth brought forth few matches, having both much more skill to choose the places, and more force to work upon the chosen, had already made many windows in his armour for death to come in at, when in the nobleness of his nature abhorring to make the punishment overgo the offence, he stepped a little back, and withal, “Sir knight,” said he, “you may easily see that it pleaseth God to favour my cause; employ your valour against them that wish you hurt, for my part I have not deserved hate of you.” “Thou liest, false traitor,” said the other, with an angry, but weak voice; but Amphialus, in whom abused kindness became spiteful rage. “Ah barbarous wretch,” said he, “only courageous in discourtesy, thou shalt soon see whether thy tongue hath betrayed thy heart, or no:” and with that redoubled his blows, gave him a great wound upon his neck, and closing with him, overthrew him, and with the fall thrust him mortally into the body, and with that went to pull off his helmet, with intention to make him give himself the lie, for having so said, or to cut off his head.

But the headpiece was no sooner off, but that there fell about the shoulders of the overcome knight the treasure of fair golden hair, which with the face, soon known by the badge of excellency, witnessed that it was Parthenia, the unfortunately virtuous wife of Argalus; her beauty then, even in the despite of the past sorrow, or coming death, assuring all beholders that it was nothing short of perfection. For her exceeding fair eyes, having with continual weeping gotten a little redness about them, her round sweetly swelling lips a little trembling, as though they kissed their neighbour death; in her cheeks the whiteness striving by little and little to get upon the rosiness of them; her neck, a neck indeed of alabaster, displaying the wound, which with most dainty blood laboured to drown his own beauties; so that here was a river of purest red, there an island of perfectest white, each giving lustre to the other, with the sweet countenance, God knows, full of an unaffected languishing: though these things to a grossly conceiving sense might seem disgraces, yet indeed were they but apparelling beauty in a new fashion, which all looked upon through the spectacles of pity, did even increase the lines of her natural fairness; so that Amphialus was astonished with grief, compassion and shame, detesting his fortune that made him unfortunate in victory.

Therefore putting off his headpiece and gauntlet, kneeling down unto her, and with tears testifying his sorrow, he offered his, by himself accursed, hands to help her, protesting his life and power to be ready to do her honour. But Parthenia, who had inward messengers of the desired death’s approach, looking upon him, and straight turning away her feeble sight, as from a delightless object, drawing out her words, which her breath, loth to depart from so sweet a body, did faintly deliver: “Sir,” said she, “I pray you, if prayers have place in enemies, to let my maids take my body untouched by you: the only honour I now desire by your means, is, that I have no honour of you. Argalus made no such bargain with you, that the hands which killed him, should help me. I have of them, and I do not only pardon you, but thank you for it, the service which I desired. There rests nothing now, but that I go live with him, since whose death I have done nothing but die.” Then pausing, and a little fainting, and again coming to herself; “O sweet life, welcome,” said she, “now feel I the bands united of the cruel death, which so long hath held me. And O life, O death, answer for me, that my thoughts have not so much as in a dream tasted any comfort, since they were deprived of Argalus. I come, my Argalus, I come: and, O God, hide my faults in thy mercies, and grant, as I feel thou dost grant, that in thy eternal love, we may love each other eternally. And this, O Lord:”——but there Atropos[5] cut off her sentence: for with that, casting up both eyes and hands to the skies, the noble soul departed (one might well assure himself) to heaven, which left the body in so heavenly a demeanour.

But Amphialus, with a heart oppressed with grief, because of her request, withdrew himself: but the judges, as full of pity, had been all this while disarming her, and her gentlewomen with lamentable cries labouring to staunch the remediless wounds: and a while she was dead before they perceived it, death being able to divide the soul, but not the beauty from that body. But when the infallible tokens of death assured them of their loss, one of the women would have killed herself, but that the squire of Amphialus perceiving, by force held her. Others that had as strong passion, though weaker resolution, fell to cast dust upon their heads, to tear their garments; all falling upon the earth, and crying upon their sweet mistress, as if their cries could persuade the soul to leave the celestial happiness, to come again into the elements of sorrow: one time calling to remembrance her virtue, chasteness, sweetness, and goodness to them; another time accursing themselves that they had obeyed her; being deceived by her words, who assured them that it was revealed unto her that she should have her heart’s desire in the battle against Amphialus, which they wrongly understood. Then kissing her cold hands and feet, weary of the world, since she was gone who was their world, the very heavens seemed with a cloudy countenance to lour at the loss, and fame itself (though by nature glad to tell such rare accidents) yet could not choose but deliver it in lamentable accents, and in such sort went it quickly all over the camp: and as if the air had been infected with sorrow, no heart was so hard, but was as subject to that contagion; the rareness of the accident, matching together, the rarely matched together, pity with admiration. Basilius himself came forth, and brought the fair Gynecia with him, who was come into the camp under colour of visiting her husband, and hearing of her daughters: but indeed Zelmane was the saint to which her pilgrimage was intended, cursing, envying, blessing, and in her heart kissing the walls which imprisoned her. But both they, with Philanax, and the rest of the principal nobility, went out to make honour triumph over death, conveying that excellent body (whereto Basilius himself would needs lend his shoulder) to a church a mile from the camp, where the valiant Argalus lay entombed; recommending to that sepulchre the blessed relics of a faithful and virtuous love, giving order for the making of two marble images to represent them, and each way enriching the tomb: upon which Basilius himself caused this epitaph to be written,

His Being was in her alone.

And he not Being she was none.

They joy’d One joy, One grief they griev’d,

One love they lov’d, One life they liv’d.

The hand was One, One was the sword

That did his death, her death afford.

As all the rest; so now the stone

That tombs the Two is justly One.

ARGALUS and PARTHENIA.

Then with eyes full of tears, and mouths full of her praises, returned they to the camp, with more and more hate against Amphialus, who, poor gentleman, had therefore greater portion of woe than any of them. For that courteous heart, which would have grieved but to have heard the like adventure, was rent with remembering himself to be the author; so that his wisdom could not so far temper his passion, but that he took his sword, counted the best in the world (which with much blood he had once conquered of a mighty giant) and broke it into many pieces, which afterwards he had good cause to repent, saying, that neither it was worthy to serve the noble exercise of chivalry, nor any other worthy to feel that sword, which had stricken so excellent a lady; and withal, banishing all cheerfulness of his countenance he returned home: where he got him to his bed, not so much to rest his restless mind, as to avoid all company; the sight whereof was tedious unto him. And then melancholy, only rich in unfortunate remembrances, brought before him all the mishaps with which his life had wrestled: taking this, not only as a confirming of the former, but a presage of following misery, and to his heart, already overcome by sorrowfulness, even trifling misfortunes came, to fill up the roll of a grieved memory, labouring only his wits to pierce further and further into his own wretchedness. So as all that night, in despite of darkness, he held his eyes open; and in the morning, when the light began to restore to each body his colour, then with curtains barred he himself from the enjoying of it; neither willing to feel the comfort of the day, nor the ease of the night, until his mother (who never knew what love meant, but only to him-ward) came to his bedside, and beginning with loving earnestness to lay a kind chiding upon him, because he would suffer the weakness of sorrow to conquer the strength of his virtues; he did with a broken piecemeal speech, as if the tempest of passion unorderly blew out his words, remember the mishaps of his youth, the evils he had been the cause of, his rebelling with shame, and that shame increased with shameful accidents, the deaths of Philoxenus and Parthenia, wherein he found himself hated of the ever-ruling powers, but especially (and so especially, as the rest seemed nothing when he came to that) his fatal love to Philoclea: to whom he had so governed himself as one that could neither conquer, nor yield; being of the one side a slave, and of the other a jailor: and withal almost upbraiding unto his mother the little success of her large hoping promises, he in effect finding Philoclea nothing mollified, and now himself, so cast down as he thought himself unworthy of better. But his mother, as she had plentiful cause, making him see that of his other griefs there was little or no fault in himself, and therefore there ought to be little or no grief in him; when she came to the head of the sore, indeed seeing that she could no longer patch up her former promises (he taking a desperate deafness to all delaying hopes) she confessed plainly that she could prevail nothing: but the fault was his own, who had marred the young girl by seeking to have that by prayer, which he should have taken by authority. That it were an absurd cunning to make high ladders to go in a plain way; so was it an untimely and foolish flattery, there to beseech, where one might command, puffing them up by being besought, with such a self-pride of superiority, that it was not, forsooth, to be held out but by denial. “O God,” said Amphialus, “how well I thought my fortune would bring forth this end of your labours? assure yourself, mother, I will sooner pull out these eyes, than they should look upon the heavenly Philoclea, but as upon a heaven whence they have their light, and to which they are subject. If they will pour down any influences of comfort: O happy I: but if by the sacrifice of a faithful heart, they will not be called unto me, let me languish and wither with languishing, and grieve with withering, but never so much as repine with never so much grieving. Mother, O Mother, lust may well be a tyrant, but true love where it is indeed, it is a servant. Accursed more than I am, may I be, if ever I did approach her, but that I freezed as much in a fearful reverence, as I burned in a vehement desire. Did ever man’s eye look through love upon the majesty of virtue, shining through beauty, but that he became, as it well became him, a captive? and it is the style of the captive to write, ‘Our will and pleasure?’”

“Tush, tush, son,” said Cecropia, “if you say you love, but withal you fear, you fear lest you should offend. Offend? and how know you that you should offend? because she doth deny. Deny? now by my truth, if your sadness would let me laugh, I could laugh heartily to see that you are ignorant, that ‘No’ is no Negative in a woman’s mouth. My son, believe me, a woman speaking of women; a lover’s modesty among us is much more praised, than liked: or if we like it, so well we like it, that for marring of his modesty, he shall never proceed further. Each virtue hath his time: if you command your soldier to march foremost, and he for courtesy put others before him, would you praise his modesty? love is your general, he bids you dare, and will Amphialus be a dastard? let example serve: do you think Theseus should ever have gotten Antiope with sighing and crossing his arms? he ravished her, and ravished her that was an Amazon, and therefore had gotten a habit of stoutness above the nature of a woman: but having ravished her, he got a child of her. And I say no more, but that, they say, is not gotten without consent on both sides. Iole had her own father killed by Hercules, and herself ravished, by force ravished, and yet ere long this ravished and unfathered lady could sportfully put on the lion’s skin upon her own fair shoulders, and play with the club with her own delicate hands: so easily had she pardoned the ravisher, that she could not but delight in those weapons of ravishing. But above all mark Helen, daughter to Jupiter, who could never brook her mannerly-wooing Menelaus, but disdained his humbleness, and loathed his softness. But so well she could like the force of enforcing Paris, that for him she could abide what might be abidden. But what? Menelaus takes heart, he recovers her by force, by force carries her home, by force enjoys her; and she who would never like him for serviceableness, ever after loved him for violence. For what can be more agreeable than upon force to lay the fault of desire, and in one instant to join a dear delight with a just excuse? or rather the true cause is (pardon me, O woman-kind, for revealing to mine own son the truth of this mystery) we think there wants fire, where we find no sparkles, at least of fury. Truly I have known a great lady, long sought by most great, most wise, most beautiful, and most valiant persons, never won, because they did over-superstitiously solicit her: the same lady brought under by another, inferior to all them in all those qualities, only because he could use that imperious masterfulness which nature gives to men above women. For indeed, son, I confess unto you, in our very creation we are servants: and who prayeth his servants, shall never be well obeyed: but as a ready horse straight yields when he finds one that will make him yield, the same falls to bounds when feels a fearful horseman. Awake thy spirits, good Amphialus, and assure thyself, that though she refuseth, she refuseth but to endear the obtaining. If she weep, and chide, and protest before it be gotten, she can but weep, and chide, and protest, when it is gotten. Think, she would not strive, but that she means to try thy force; and my Amphialus, know thyself a man, and show thyself a man; and, believe me upon my word, a woman is a woman.”

Amphialus was about to answer her, when a gentleman of his made him understand that there was a messenger come, who had brought a letter unto him from out of the camp: whom he presently calling for, took, opened, and read the letter, importing this.

To thee Amphialus of Arcadia, the forsaken knight wisheth health and courage, that by my hand thou mayest receive punishment for thy treason, according to thine own offer, which wickedly occasioned, thou hast proudly begun, and accursedly maintained. I will presently (if thy mind faint thee not for his own guiltiness) meet thee in thy island, in such order, as hath by the former been used: or if thou likest not the time, place, or weapon, I am ready to take thy own reasonable choice in any of them, so as thou do perform the substance. Make me such answer as may show that thou hast some taste of honour: and so I leave thee, to live till I meet thee.

Amphialus read it, and with a deep sigh (according to the humour of inward affliction) seemed even to condemn himself, as though indeed his reproaches were true. But howsoever the dullness of melancholy would have languishingly yielded thereunto, his courage, unused to such injuries, desired help of anger to make him this answer.

Forsaken knight, though your nameless challenge might carry in itself excuse for a man of my birth and estate, yet herein set your heart at rest, you shall not be forsaken. I will, without stay, answer you in the wonted manner, and come both armed in your foolish threatenings, and yet the more fearless, expecting weak blows, where I find so strong words. You shall not therefore long attend me in the island, before proof teach you, that of my life you have made yourself too large a promise. In the meantime, farewell.

This being written, and delivered, the messenger told him that his lord would, if he liked the same, bring two knights with him to be his patrons. Which Amphialus accepted, and withal shaking off, with resolution, his mother’s importunate persuasions, he furnished himself for the fight, but not in his wonted furniture. For now, as if he would turn his inside outward, he would needs appear all in black; his decking both for himself, and horse, being cut out into the fashion of very rags: yet all so daintily joined together with precious stones, as it was a brave raggedness, and a rich poverty: and so cunningly had the workman followed his humour in his armour, that he had given it a rusty show, and yet so that any man might perceive was by art, and not negligence; carrying at one instant a disgraced handsomeness, and a new oldness. In his shield he bare for his device, a Night, by an excellent painter, excellently painted, with a sun with a shadow, and upon the shadow a speech signifying, that it only was barred from enjoying that, whereof it had his life? or “From whose I am, banished.” In his crest he carried Philoclea’s knives, the only token of her forced favour.

So passed he over into the island, taking with him the two brothers of Anaxius, where he found the forsaken knight attired in his own livery, as black as sorrow itself could see itself in the blackest glass: his ornaments of the same hue, but formed into the figures of ravens, which seemed to gape for carrion: only his reins were snakes, which finely wrapping themselves one within the other, their heads came together to the cheeks and bosses of the bit, where they might seem to bite at the horse, and the horse, as he champed the bit, to bite at them, and that the white foam was engendered by the poisonous fury of the combat. His impresa was a Catoblepa[6], which so long lies dead, as the moon, whereto it hath so natural a sympathy, wants her light. The word signified, that the moon wanted not the light, but the poor beast wanted the moon’s light. He had in his headpiece, a whip to witness a self-punishing repentance. Their very horses were coal black too, not having so much as one star to give light to their night of blackness: so as one would have thought they had been the two sons of sorrow and were come hither to fight for their birthright in that sorry inheritance.

Which alliance of passions so moved Amphialus, already tender minded by the afflictions of love, that without staff or sword drawn, he trotted fairly to the forsaken knight, willing to have put off this combat, to which his melancholy heart did, more than ever in like occasion, misgive him: and therefore saluting him, “Good knight,” said he, “because we are men, and should know reason why we do things, tell me the cause, that makes you thus eager to fight with me.” “Because I affirm,” answered the forsaken knight, “that thou dost most rebellious injury to these ladies to whom all men owe service.” “You shall not fight with me,” said Amphialus, “upon the quarrel: for I confess the same too: but it proceeds from their own beauty, to enforce love to offer this force.” “I maintain then,” said the forsaken knight, “that thou art not worthy so to love.” “And that I confess too,” said Amphialus, “since the world is not so richly blessed, as to bring forth anything worthy thereof. But no more unworthy than any other, since in none can be a more worthy love.” “Yes, more unworthy than myself,” said the forsaken knight, “for though I deserve contempt, thou deservest both contempt and hatred.”

But Amphialus by that thinking, though wrongly, each indeed mistaking other, that he was his rival, forgot all mind of reconciliation, and having all his thoughts bound up in choler, never staying either judge, trumpet, or his own lance, drew out his sword, and saying, “Thou liest, false villain,” unto him, his words and blows came so quick together, as the one seemed a lightning of the other’s thunder. But he found no barren ground of such seed: for it yielded him his own with such increase, that though reason and amazement go rarely together, yet the most reasonable eyes that saw it, found reason to be amazed at the fury of their combat. Never game of death better played; never fury set itself forth in greater bravery. The courteous Vulcan, when he wrought at his more courteous wife’s request Aeneas an armour, made not his hammer beget a greater sound than the swords of these noble knights did: they needed no fire to their forge, for they made the fire to shine at the meeting of their swords and armours, each side fetching still new spirit from the castle window, and careful of keeping their sight that way as a matter of greater consideration in their combat, than either the advantage of sun or wind; which sun and wind, if the astonished eyes of the beholders were not by the astonishment deceived, did both stand still to be beholders of this rare match. For neither could their amazed eyes discern motion of the sun, and no breath of wind stirred, as if either for fear it would not come among such blows, or with delight had eyes so busy, as it had forgot to open his mouth. This fight being the more cruel, since both love and hatred conspired to sharpen their humours, that hard it was to say whether love with one trumpet, or hatred with another, gave the louder alarm to their courages. Spite, rage, disdain, shame, revenge, came waiting upon hatred: of the other side came with love, longing desire, both invincible hope, and fearless despair, with rival-like jealousy, which, although brought up within doors in the school of Cupid, should show themselves no less forward than the other dusty band of Mars, to make themselves notable in the notableness of this combat. Of either side confidence, unacquainted with loss, but assuring trust to overcome, and good experience how to overcome: now seconding their terrible blows with cunning labouring the horses to win ground of the enemy; now unlooked-for parting one from the other to win advantages by an advantageous return. But force against force, skill against skill, so interchangeably encountered that it was not easy to determine whether enterprising, or preventing came former: both sometimes at one instant, doing and suffering wrong, and choler no less rising of the doing than of the suffering. But as the fire, the more fuel is put to it, the more hungry still it is to devour more, so the more they struck, the more unsatisfied they were with striking. Their very armour by piecemeal fell away from them; and yet their flesh abode the wounds constantly, as though it were less sensible of smart, than the senseless armour: their blood in most places staining their black colour, as if it would give a more lively colour of mourning than black can do. And so long a space they fought, while neither virtue nor fortune seemed partial of either side: which so tormented the unquiet heart of Amphialus, that he resolved to see a quick end: and therefore with the violence of courage, adding strength to his blow, he struck in such wise upon the side of the other’s head that his remembrance left that battered lodging, so that he was quite from himself, casting his arms abroad, and ready to fall down; his sword likewise went out of his hand, but that being fast by a chain to his arm, he could not lose. And Amphialus used the favour of occasion, redoubling his blows: but the horse, weary to be beaten, as well as the master, carried his master away, till he came unto himself. But then who could have seen him, might well have discerned shame in his cheeks, and revenge in his eyes: so that setting his teeth together with rage, he came running upon Amphialus, reaching out his arm, which had gathered up his sword, meaning with that blow to have cleaved Amphialus in two. But Amphialus, seeing the blow coming, shunned it with nimble turning his horse aside; wherewith the forsaken knight overstrake himself, so as almost he came down with his own strength: but the more hungry of his purpose, the more he was barred the food of it: disdaining the resistance, both of force and fortune, he returned upon the spur again, and ran with such violence upon Amphialus that his horse with the force of the shock rose up before, almost overturned: which Amphialus perceiving, with rein and spur put forth his horse, and withal gave a mighty blow in the descent of his horse, upon the shoulder of the forsaken knight, from whence sliding, it fell upon the neck of his horse, so as horse and man fell to the ground: but he was scarce down before he was upon his feet again, with brave gesture showing rising of courage, in the falling of fortune. But the courteous Amphialus excused himself, for having, against his will, killed his horse. “Excuse thyself for viler faults,” answered the forsaken knight, “and use this poor advantage the best thou canst, for thou shalt quickly find thou hast need of more.” “Thy folly,” said Amphialus, “shall not make me forget myself:” and therefore, trotting a little aside, alighted from his horse, because he would not have fortune come to claim any part of the victory. Which courteous act would have mollified the noble heart of the forsaken knight, if any other had done it besides the jailor of his mistress; but that was a sufficient defeasance of the firmest bond of good nature; and therefore he was no sooner alighted but that he ran unto him, re-entering into as cruel a fight as eye did ever see, or thought could reasonably imagine; far beyond the reach of weak words to be able to express it. For what they had done on horseback, was but a morsel to keep their stomachs in appetite in comparison of that which now (being themselves) they did. Nor ever glutton by the change of dainty diet could be brought to fresh feeding, when he might have been satisfied before, with more earnestness, than those, by the change of their manner of fight, fell clean to a new fight, though any else would have thought they had their fill already. Amphialus being the taller man, for the most part stood with his right leg before, his shield at the uttermost length of his arm; his sword high, but with the point towards his enemy. But when he struck, which came so thick, as if every blow would strive to be foremost, his arm seemed still a postilion of death. The forsaken knight showed with like skill, unlike gesture, keeping himself in continual motion, proportioning the distance between them to anything that Amphialus attempted; his eye guided his foot, and his foot conveyed his hand; and since nature had made him something the lower of the two, he made art follow, and not strive with nature; shunning rather than warding his blows; like a cunning mastiff who knows the sharpness of the horn and strength of the bull, fights low to get his proper advantage; answering mightiness with nimbleness, and yet at times employing his wonderful force, wherein he was second to none. In sum, the blows were strong, the thrusts thick, and the avoidings cunning. But the forsaken knight, that thought it a degree of being conquered to be long in conquering, struck him so mighty a blow, that he made Amphialus put knee to the ground, without any humbleness. But when he felt himself stricken down, and saw himself stricken down by his rival, then shame seemed one arm, and disdain another; fury in his eyes, and revenge in his heart; skill and force gave place and they took the place of skill and force, with so unweariable a manner that the forsaken knight was driven also to leave the stern of cunning, and gave himself wholly to be guided by the storm of fury: there being in both, because hate would not suffer admiration, extreme disdain to find themselves so matched.

“What,” said Amphialus to himself, “am I Amphialus, before whom so many monsters and giants have fallen dead, when I only sought causeless adventures? and can one knight now withstand me in the presence of Philoclea, and fighting for Philoclea, or since I lost my liberty, have I lost my courage, have I gotten the heart of a slave as well as the fortune? If an army were against me in the sight of Philoclea, could it resist me? O beast, one man resists thee: thy rival resists thee: or am I indeed Amphialus? have not passions killed him, and wretched I, I know not how, succeeded into his place?” Of the other side the forsaken knight with no less spite fell out with himself; “Hast thou broken,” said he to himself, “the commandment of thy only princess, to come now into her presence, and in her presence to prove thyself a coward? Doth Asia and Egypt set up trophies unto thee to be matched here by a traitor? O noble Barsanes, how shamed will thy soul be, that he that slew thee, should be resisted by this one man? O incomparable Pyrocles, more grieved wilt thou be with thy friend’s shame, than with thine own imprisonment, when thou shalt know how little I have been able to do for the delivery of thee, and these heavenly princesses. Am I worthy to be friend to the most valorous prince that ever was entitled valorous, and show myself so weak a wretch? No, shamed Musidorus, worthy for nothing but to keep sheep, get thee a sheep-hook again, since thou canst use a sword no better.”

Thus at times did they, now with one thought, then with another, sharpen their over-sharp humours; like the lion that beats himself with his own tail, to make himself the more angry. These thoughts indeed not staying, but whetting their angry swords, which now had put on the apparel of cruelty: they bleeding so abundantly, that everybody that saw them, fainted for them, and yet they fainted not in themselves: their smart being more sensible to other eyes than to their own feeling. Wrath and courage barring the common sense from bringing any message of their case to the mind: pain, weariness, and weakness, not daring to make known their case, though already in the limits of death, in the presence of so violent fury: which filling the veins with rage instead of blood, and making the mind minister spirits to the body, a great while held out their fight, like an arrow shot upward by the force of the bow, though by his own nature he would go downward. The forsaken knight had the more wounds, but Amphialus had the sorer; which the other, watching time and place, had cunningly given unto him: who ever saw a well-manned galley fight with a tall ship, might make unto himself some kind of comparison of the difference of these two knights; a better couple than which the world could not brag of. Amphialus seemed to excel in strength, the forsaken knight in nimbleness; and yet did the one’s strength excel in nimbleness, and the other’s nimbleness excel in strength; but now strength and nimbleness were both gone, and excess of courage only maintained the fight. Three times had Amphialus, with his mighty blows driven the forsaken knight to go staggering backward, but every one of these times he requited pain with smart, and shame with repulse. And now whether he had cause, or that over-much confidence, an over-forward scholar of unconquered courage, made him think he had cause, he began to persuade himself he had the advantage of the combat though the advantage he took himself to have was only that he should be the later to die: which hope, hate, as unsecret as love, could not conceal, but drawing himself a little back from him, broke out in these manner of words.

“Ah Amphialus,” said the forsaken knight, “this third time thou shalt not escape me, but thy death shall satisfy thy injury and my malice, and pay for the cruelty thou showedst in killing the noble Argalus, and the fair Parthenia.” “In troth,” said Amphialus, “thou art the best knight that ever I fought withal, which would make me willing to grant thee thy life, if thy wit were as good as thy courage; that, besides other follies, layest that to my charge, which most against my will was committed. But whether my death be in thy power, or no, let this tell thee;” and upon the word waited a blow, which parted his shield in two pieces; and despising the weak resistance of his already broken armour, made a great breach into his heart side, as if he would make a passage for his love to get out at.

But pain rather seemed to increase life, than to weaken life in these champions. For the forsaken knight coming in with his right leg, and making it guide the force of the blow, struck Amphialus upon the belly so horrible a wound, that his guts came out withal. Which Amphialus perceiving (fearing death, only because it should come with overthrow) he seemed to conjure all his strength for one moment’s service; and so lifting up his sword with both hands, hit the forsaken knight upon the head, a blow, wherewith his sword broke. But, as if it would do a notable service before it died, it prevailed so, even in the instant of breaking, that the forsaken knight fell to the ground, quite for that instant forgetting both love and hatred: and Amphialus (finding himself also in such weakness, as he looked for speedy death) glad of the victory, though little hoping to enjoy it, pulled up his vizor, meaning with his dagger to give him death; but instead of death, he gave him life: for the air so revived his spirits, that coming to himself, and seeing his present danger, with a life conquering death, he took Amphialus by the thigh, and together rose himself, and overturned him. But Amphialus scrambled up again, both now so weak indeed, as their motions rather seemed the after-drops of a storm, than any matter of great fury.

But Amphialus might repent himself of his wilful breaking his sword: for the forsaken knight (having with the extremity of justly-conceived hate, and the unpitifulness of his own near-threatening death, blotted out all compliments of courtesy) let fly at him so cruelly, that though the blows were weak, yet weakness upon a weakened subject, proved such strength, that Amphialus having attempted in vain once or twice to close with him, receiving wound upon wound, sent his whole burden to strike the earth with falling, since he could strike his foe no better in standing: giving no other tokens of himself, than as of a man even ready to take his oath to be death’s true servant.

Which when the hardy brothers of Anaxius perceived, not reckoning law of arms, nor use of chivalry, they flew in to defend their friend, or revenge their loss of him. But they were forthwith encountered with the two brave companions of the forsaken knight, whereof the one being all in green, both armour and furniture, it seemed a pleasant garden, wherein grew orange trees; which with their golden fruits, cunningly beaten in and embroidered, greatly enriched the eye-pleasing colour of green. In his shield was a sheep feeding in a pleasant field, with this word, “Without fear or envy.” And therefore was called the knight of the sheep. The other knight was all in milk white, his attiring else all cut in stars, which made of cloth of silver, and silver spangles, each way seemed to cast many aspects. His device was the very pole itself, about which many stars stirring, but the place itself left void. The word was, “The best place yet reserved.” But these four knights inheriting the hate of their friends, began a most fierce combat: the forsaken knight himself not able to help his side, but was driven to sit him down, with the extreme faintness of his more and more fainting body. But these valiant couples seeking honour by dishonouring, and to build safety upon ruin, gave new appetites to the almost glutted eyes of the beholders; and now blood began to put sweat from the full possession of their outsides, no advantage being yet to be seen, only the knight of the sheep seeming most inclined to deliver, and effecting most of all that viewed him, when a company of soldiers sent by Cecropia, came out in boats to the island, and all came running to the destruction of the three knights, whereof one was utterly unable to defend himself.

But then did the other two knights show their wonderful courage and fidelity, for turning back to back, and both bestriding the black forsaken knight (who had fainted so long till he had lost the feeling of faintness) they held play against the rest, though the two brothers unknightly helped them; till Philanax, who watchfully attended such traitorous practices, sent likewise over, both by boat and swimming, so choice a number, as did put most of the others to the sword. Only the two brothers, with some of the bravest of them, carrying away the body of Amphialus, which they would rather have died, than have left behind them.

So was the forsaken knight, laid upon cloaks, carried home to the camp. But his two friends knowing his earnest desire not to be known, covering him from anybody’s eyes, conveyed him to their own tent: Basilius himself conquering his earnest desire to see him, with fear to displease him, who had fought so notably in his quarrel. But fame set the honour upon his back, which he would not suffer to shine in his face: no man’s mouth being barren of praises to the noble knight that had battered the most esteemed knight in the world; everybody praying for his life, and thinking that therein they prayed for themselves. But he himself, when by the diligent care of friends, and well-applied cunning of surgeons, he came to renew again the league between his mind and body; then fell he to a fresh war with his own thoughts, wrongfully condemning his manhood, laying cowardice to himself, whom the impudentest backbiter would not have so wronged. For his courage (used to use victory as an inheritance) could brook no resistance at any time: but now that he had promised himself not only the conquest of him, but the scaling of the walls, and delivery of Pamela, though he had done beyond all others’ expectation, yet so short was he of his own, that he hated to look upon the sun that had seen him do so weakly: and so much abhorred all visitation or honour, whereof he thought himself unworthy, that he besought his two noble friends to carry him away to a castle not far off, where he might cure his wounds, and never be known till he made success excuse this, as he thought, want in him. They lovingly obeyed him, leaving Basilius and all the camp very sorry for the parting of these three unknown knights, in whose prowess they had reposed the greatest trust of victory.

But they being gone, Basilius and Philanax gave good order to the strengthening of the siege, fortifying themselves, so that they feared no more any such sudden onset, as that of Anaxius. And they within (by reason of Anaxius’s hurt, but especially of Amphialus’s) gave themselves only to a diligent watch and ward, making no sallies out, but committing the principal trust to Zoilus and Lycurgus. For Anaxius was yet forced to keep his chamber. And as for Amphialus, his body had such wounds, and he gave such wounds to his mind, as easily it could not be determined whether death or he made the greater haste one to the other: for when the diligent care of cunning surgeons had brought life to the possession of his own right, sorrow and shame, like two corrupted servants, came waiting of it, persuading nothing but the giving over of itself to destruction. They laid before his eyes his present case, painting every piece of it in most ugly colours: they showed him his love wrapped in despair, his fame blotted by overthrow; so that if before he languished, because he could not obtain his desiring, he now lamented, because he durst not desire the obtaining. “Recreant Amphialus,” would he say to himself, “how darest thou entitle thyself the lover of Philoclea, that hath neither showed thyself a faithful coward, or a valiant rebel, but both rebellious and cowardly, which no law can quit, nor grace have pity of? alas! life! what little pleasure thou dost me, to give me nothing but sense of reproach, and exercise of ruin? I would, sweet Philoclea, I had died, before thy eyes had seen my weakness: and then perchance with some sigh thou wouldst have confessed, thou hadst lost a worthy servant. But now, caitiff that I am, whatever I have done, serves but to build up my rival’s glory.”

To these speeches he would couple such gestures of vexation, and would fortify the gestures with such effects of fury, as sometimes offering to tear up his wounds, sometimes to refuse the sustenance of meat, and council of physicians, that his perplexed mother was driven to make him by force to be tended, with extreme courtesy to herself, and annoyance to him: till in the end he was contented to promise her he would attempt no violence upon himself, upon condition he might be troubled by nobody but only his physicians: his melancholy detesting all company, so that the very surgeons nor servants durst speak unto him in doing him service; only he had prayed his mother, as she tendered his life, she would procure him grace, and that without that she would never come at him more.

His mother, who had confined all her love only unto him, set only such about him as were absolutely at her commandment, whom she forbade to let him know anything that passed in the castle, till his wounds were cured, but as she from time to time should instruct them: she, for herself, being resolved, now she had the government of all things in her own hands, to satisfy her son’s love by their yielding, or satisfy her own revenge in their punishment. Yet first, because she would be the freer from outward force, she sent a messenger to the camp to denounce unto Basilius, that if he did not presently raise his siege, she would cause the heads of the three ladies, prisoners, to be cut off before his eyes. And to make him the more fear a present performance, she caused his two daughters and Zelmane to be led unto the walls, where she had made a scaffold, easy to be seen by Basilius: and there caused them to be kept, as ready for the slaughter, till answer came from Basilius. A sight full of pity it was, to see these three (all excelling in all those excellencies, wherewith nature can beautify anybody: Pamela giving sweetness to majesty; Philoclea enriching nobleness with humbleness, Zelmane setting in womanly beauty manlike valour) to be thus subjected to the basest injury of unjust fortune. One might see in Pamela a willingness to die, rather than to have life at other’s discretion; though sometimes a princely disdain would sparkle out of her princely eyes, that it should be in other’s power to force her to die. In Philoclea a pretty fear came up, to endamask her rosy cheeks: but it was such a fear, as rather seemed a kindly child to her innate humbleness, than any other dismayedness: or if she were dismayed, it was more for Zelmane, than for herself; or if more for herself, it was because Zelmane should lose her. As for Zelmane, as she went with her hands bound (for they durst not adventure on her well-known valour, especially among a people, which perchance might be moved by such a spectacle to some revolt) she was the true image of overmastered courage, and of spite, that sees no remedy. For her breast swelled withal, the blood burst out at her nose, and she looked paler than accustomed, with her eyes cast upon the ground, with such a grace, as if she were fallen out with the heavens, for suffering such an injury. The lookers on were so moved withal, as they misliked what themselves did, and yet still did what themselves misliked. For some glad to rid themselves of the dangerous annoyances of this siege, some willing to shorten the way to Amphialus’s succession, whereon they were dependants, some, and the greatest some, doing because others did, and suffering because none durst begin to hinder, did in this sort set their hands to this, in their own conscience, wicked enterprise.

But when this message was brought to Basilius, and that this pitiful preparation was a sufficient letter of credit for him to believe it, he called unto him his chief counsellors: among which, those he chiefly trusted were Philanax and Kalander, lately come to the camp at Basilius’s commandment, and in himself weary of his solitary life, wanting his son’s presence, and never having heard from his beloved guests since they departed from him. Now in this doubt what he should do, he willed Kalander to give him his advice: who spoke much to this purpose. “You command me, Sir,” said he, “to speak, rather because you will keep your wonted grave and noble manner, to do nothing of importance without counsel, than that in this cause, which indeed hath but one way, your mind needs to have any counsel: so that my speech shall rather be to confirm what you have already determined, than to argue against any possibility of other determination. For what sophistical scholar can find any question in this, whether you will have your incomparable daughters live or die? whether since you be here to cause their deliverance, you will make your being here the cause of their destruction? for nothing can be more insensible than to think what one doth, and to forget the end why it is done. Do therefore as I am sure you mean to do, remove the siege, and after seek by practice, or other gentle means, to recover that which by force you cannot: and therefore is indeed, when it pleaseth you, more counsel to be taken. Once, in extremities the winning of time is the purchase of life, and worse by no means than their deaths can befall unto you. A man might use more words, if it were to any purpose to gild gold, or that I had any cause to doubt of your mind: but you are wise, and are a father.” He said no more, for he durst not attempt to persuade the marrying of his daughter to Amphialus, but left that to bring in at another consultation. But Basilius made sign to Philanax, who standing a while in a maze as inwardly perplexed, at last thus delivered his opinion.

“If ever I could wish my faith untried, and my counsel untrusted, it should be at this time, when in truth I must confess I would be content to purchase silence with discredit. But since you command, I obey: only let me say thus much, that I obey not to these excellent ladies’ father, but to my prince: and a prince it is to whom I give counsel. Therefore as to a prince I say, that the grave, and, I well know, true-minded counsel of my Lord Kalander had come in good time when you first took arms, before all your subjects got notice of your intention, before so much blood was spent, and before they were driven to seek this shift for their last remedy. But if now, this force you away, why did you take arms, since you might be sure when ever they were in extremity they would have recourse to this threatening? and for a wise man to take in hand that which his enemy may with a word overthrow, hath in my conceit great incongruity, and as great, not to forethink what his enemy in reason will do. But they threaten they will kill your daughters. What if they promised you, if you removed your siege, they would honourably send home your daughters? would you be angry at their promises? truly no more ought you to be terrified by their threatenings. For yet of the two, promise binds faith more than threatening. But indeed a prince of judgment ought not to consider what his enemies promise, or threaten, but what the promisers and threateners in reason will do; and the nearest conjecture thereunto, is what is best for their own behoof to do. They threaten, if you remove not, they will kill your daughters: and if you do remove, what surety have you but that they will kill them? since if the purpose be to cut off all impediments of Amphialus’s ambition, the same cause will continue when you are away; and so much the more encouraged, as the revenging power is absent, and they have the more opportunity to draw their factious friends about them; but if it be for their security only, the same cause will bring forth the same effects: and for their security they will preserve them. But it may be said, no man knows what desperate folks will do; it is true, and as true that no reason nor policy can prevent what desperate folks will do: and therefore they are among those dangers, which wisdom is not to reckon. Only let it suffice to take away their despair, which may be by granting pardon for what is past; so that the ladies may be freely delivered. And let them that are your subjects trust you that are their prince; do not you subject yourself to trust them, who are so untrusty as to be manifest traitors. For if they find you so base-minded, as by their threatening to remove your force, what indignity is it, that they would not bring you unto still by the same threatening? since then if love stir them, love will keep them from murdering what they love: and if ambition provoke them, ambitious they will be when you are away, as well as while you are here: take not away your force, which bars not the one, and bridles the other. For as for their shows and words, they are but fear-babes, not worthy once to move a worthy man’s conceit, which must still consider what in reason they are like to do. Their despair, I grant, you shall do well to prevent: which as it is the last of all resolutions, so no man falls into it, while so good a way as you may offer, is open unto them. In sum, you are a prince, and a father of people, who ought with the eye of wisdom, the hand of fortitude, and the heart of justice, to set down all private conceits, in comparison of what for the public is profitable.”

He would have proceeded on, when Gynecia came running in amazed for her daughter Pamela, but mad for Zelmane: and falling at Basilius’s feet, besought him to make no delay, using such gestures of compassion instead of stopped words, that Basilius, otherwise enough tender-minded, easily granted to raise the siege, which he saw dangerous to his daughters; but indeed more careful for Zelmane, by whose besieged person the poor old man was straightly besieged: so as to rid him of the famine of his mind, he went in speed away, discharging his soldiers: only leaving the authority, as before, in Philanax’s hands, he himself went with Gynecia to a strong castle of his, where he took counsel how first to deliver Zelmane, whom he called the poor stranger, as though only law of hospitality moved him; and for that purpose sent divers messengers to traffic with Cecropia.

But she by this means rid of the present danger of the siege, desiring Zoilus and Lycurgus to take the care, till their brother recovered, of revictualling and furnishing the city, both with men and what else wanted, against any new occasion should urge them, she herself disdaining to hearken to Basilius, without he would grant his daughter in marriage to her son, which by no means he would be brought unto, bent all the sharpness of her malicious wit, how to bring a comfortable grant to her son, whereupon she well found no less than his life depended. Therefore for a while she attempted all means of eloquent praying, and flattering persuasions, mingling sometimes gifts, sometimes threatenings, as she had cause to hope, that either open force or undermining would best win the castle of their resolution. And ever as much as she did to Philoclea, so much did she to Pamela, though in manner sometimes differing, as she found fit to level at the one’s noble height, and the other’s sweet lowliness. For though she knew her son’s heart had wholly given itself to Philoclea, yet seeing the equal gifts in Pamela, she hoped a fair grant would recover the sorrow of a fair refusal; cruelly intending the present impoisoning the one, as soon as the other’s affection were purchased.

But in vain were all her vain oratory employed. Pamela’s determination was built upon so brave a rock that no shot of hers could reach unto it: and Philoclea, though humbly seated, was so environed with sweet rivers of clear virtue, as could neither be battered nor undermined: her witty persuasions had wise answers; her eloquence recompensed with sweetness; her threatenings repelled with disdain in the one, and patience in the other; her gifts either not accepted, or accepted to obey, but not to bind. So as Cecropia in nature violent, cruel, because ambitious; hateful, for old rooted grudge to their mother, and now spiteful, because she could not prevail with girls, as she counted them: lastly, drawn on by her love to her son, and held up by a tyrannical authority, forthwith followed the bias of her own crooked disposition, and doubling and redoubling her threatenings, fell to confirm some of her threatened effects; first withdrawing all comfort both of servants and service from them. But that these excellent ladies had been used unto, even at home, and then found in themselves how much good the hardness of education doth to the resistance of misery. Then dishonourably using them both in diet and lodging, by a contempt to pull down their thoughts to yielding. But as before, the consideration of a prison had disgraced all ornaments, so now the same consideration made them attend all diseasefulness. Then still as she found those not prevail, would she go forward with giving them terrors, sometimes with noise of horror, sometimes with sudden frightings in the night, when the solitary darkness thereof might easier astonish the disarmed senses. But as all virtue and love resisted, strengthened one by the other, when each found itself over vehemently assaulted; Cecropia still sweetening her fierceness with fair promises, if they would promise fair, that feeling evil, and seeing a way far better, their minds might the sooner be mollified. But they that could not taste her behaviour, when it was pleasing indeed, could worse now, when they had lost all taste by her injuries.

She resolving all extremities rather than fail of conquest, pursued on her rugged way; letting no day pass without new and new perplexing the poor ladies’ minds, and troubling their bodies; and still swelling the more she was stopped, and growing hot with her own doings; at length abominable rage carried her to absolute tyrannies; so that taking with her certain old women, of wicked dispositions, and apt for envy’s sake to be cruel to youth and beauty, with a countenance impoisoned with malice, flew to the sweet Philoclea, as if so many kites should come about a white dove, and matching violent gestures with mischievous threatenings, she having a rod in her hand, like a fury that should carry wood to the burning of Diana’s temple, fell to scourge that most beautiful body: love in vain holding the shield of beauty against her blind cruelty. The sun drew clouds up to hide his face from so pitiful a sight, and the very stone wall did yield drops of sweat for agony of such a mischief: each senseless thing had sense of pity, only they that had sense were senseless. Virtue rarely found her worldly weakness more, than by the oppression of that day: and weeping Cupid told his weeping mother, that he was sorry he was not deaf as well as blind, that he might never know so lamentable a work. Philoclea, with tearful eyes and sobbing breast, as soon as her weariness rather than compassion gave her respite, kneeled down to Cecropia, and making pity in her face honourable, and torment delightful, besought her since she hated her, for what cause she took God to witness she knew not, that she would at once take away her life, and not please herself with the tormenting of a poor gentlewoman. “If,” said she, “the common course of humanity cannot move you, nor the having me in your own walls cannot claim pity, nor womanly mercy, nor near alliance, nor remembrance, how miserable soever now, that I am a prince’s daughter, yet let the love, you have often told me, your son bears me, so much procure, that for his sake one death may be thought enough for me. I have not lived so many years but that one death may be able to conclude them. Neither have my faults I hope, been so many, but that one death may satisfy them. It is no great suit to an enemy, when but death is desired. I crave but that. As for the granting your request, know for certain you lose your labours, being every day further off minded from becoming his wife, who useth me like a slave.”

But that, instead of getting grace, renewed again Cecropia’s fury; so that, excellent creature, she was newly again tormented by these hellish monsters: Cecropia using no other words, but that she was a proud and ungrateful wench, and that she would teach her to know her own good, since of herself she would not conceive it. So that with silence and patience (like a fair gorgeous armour, hammered upon by an ill-favoured smith) she abode her pitiless dealing with her; till rather reserving her for more, than meaning to end, they left her to an uncomfortable leisure, to consider with herself her fortune; both helpless, herself being a prisoner; and hopeless, since Zelmane was a prisoner; who therein only was short of the bottom of misery, that she knew not how unworthily her angel, by these devils, were abused: but wanted, God wot, no stings of grief when those words did but strike upon her heart, that Philoclea was a captive, and she not able to succour her. For well she knew the confidence Philoclea had in her, and well she knew Philoclea had cause to have confidence, and all trodden under foot by the wheel of senseless fortune. Yet if there be that imperious power in the soul, that it can deliver knowledge to another without bodily organs; so vehement were the working of their spirits, that one met with the other, though themselves perceived it not, but only thought it to be the doubling of their own loving fancies. And that was the only worldly thing whereon Philoclea rested her mind, that she knew she should die beloved of Zelmane, and would die rather than to be false to Zelmane. And so this most dainty nymph, easing the pain of her mind with thinking of another’s pain; and almost forgetting the pain of her body, through the pain of her mind, she wasted even longing for the conclusion of her tedious tragedy.

But for a while she was unvisited, Cecropia employing her time in using the like cruelty upon Pamela, her heart growing not only to desire the fruit of punishing them, but even to delight in the punishing them. But if ever the beams of perfection shined through the clouds of affliction, if ever virtue took a body to show his (else-unconceivable) beauty, it was in Pamela. For when reason taught her there was no resistance, for to just resistance first her heart was inclined, then with so heavenly a quietness, and so graceful a calmness, did she suffer the divers kinds of torments she used to her, that while they vexed her fair body, it seemed that she rather directed than obeyed the vexation. And when Cecropia ended, and asked whether her heart would yield, she a little smiled, but such a smiling as showed no love, and yet could not but be lovely. “And then, beastly woman,” said she, “follow on, do what thou wilt and canst upon me: for I know thy power is not unlimited. Thou mayest well wreck this silly body, but thou canst never overthrow. For my part I will not do thee the pleasure to desire death of thee: but assure thyself, both my life and death shall triumph with honour, laying shame upon thy detestable tyranny.”

And so, in effect, conquering their doing with her suffering, while Cecropia tried as many sorts of pains, that might rather vex them than spoil them (for that she would not do while she was in any hope to win either of them for her son) Pamela remained almost as much content with trial in herself, what virtue could do, as grieved with the misery wherein she found herself plunged; only sometimes her thoughts softened in her, when with open wings they flew to Musidorus. For then she would think with herself, how grievously Musidorus would take this her misery; and she that wept not for herself, wept yet Musidorus’s tears which he would weep for her. For gentle love did easier yield to lamentation, than the constancy of virtue would else admit. Then would she remember the case wherein she had left her poor shepherd, and she that wished death for herself, feared death for him; and she that condemned in herself the feebleness of sorrow, yet thought it great reason to be sorry for his sorrow: and she that long had prayed for the virtuous joining themselves together, now thinking to die herself, heartily prayed that long time their fortunes might be separated. “Live long, my Musidorus,” would she say, “and let my name live in thy mouth, in thy heart my memory. Live long, that thou mayest love long the chaste love of thy dead Pamela.” Then she would wish to herself that no other woman might ever possess his heart: and yet scarcely the wish was made a wish, when herself would find fault with it, as being too unjust that so excellent a man should be banished from the comfort of life. Then would she fortify her resolution, with bethinking the worst, taking the counsel of virtue, and comfort of love.

So these diamonds of the world, whom nature had made to be preciously set in the eyes of men, to be the chief works of her workmanship, the chief ornaments of the world, and princesses of felicity, by rebellious injury were brought to the uttermost distress that an enemy’s heart could wish, or a woman’s spite invent: Cecropia daily in one or other sort punishing them, still with her evil torments giving them fear of worse, making the fear itself the sorest torment of all, that in the end, weary of their bodies, they should be content to bestow them at her appointment.

But, as in labour, the more one doth exercise it, the more by the doing one is enabled to do, strength growing upon the work; so that what at first would have seemed impossible, after grows easy; so these princesses, second to none, and far from any second, only to be matched by themselves, with the use of suffering, their minds got the habit of suffering so that all fears and terrors were to them but summons to a battle, whereof they knew beforehand they should be victorious, and which in the suffering was painful, being suffered was a trophy to itself; whereby Cecropia found herself still further off: for whereat first she might perchance have persuaded them to have visited her son, and have given him some comfort in his sickness, drawing near to the confines of death’s kingdom, now they protested that they would never otherwise speak to him than as to the enemy of most unjust cruelty towards them, that any time or place could ever make them know.

This made the poison swell in her cankered breast, perceiving that, as in water, the more she grasped the less she held; but yet now having run so long the way of rigour, it was too late in reason, and too contrary to her passion to return to a course of meekness. And therefore, taking counsel of one of her old associates (who so far excelled in wickedness, as that she had not only lost all feeling of conscience, but had gotten a very glory in evil) in the end they determined, that beating, and other such sharp dealing, did not so much pull down a woman’s heart as it bred anger, and that nothing was more enemy to yielding than anger; making their tender hearts take on the armour of obstinacy: for thus did their wicked minds, blind to the light of virtue, and owly-eyed in the night of wickedness, interpret it; and that therefore was no more to be tried. And for fear of death (which no question would do most with them) they had been so often threatened, as they began to be familiarly acquainted with it, and learned to esteem threatening words to be but words. Therefore the last, but the best way now was, that the one seeing indeed the other’s death, should perceive there was no dallying meant: and then there was no doubt, that a woman’s soul would do so much, rather than leave so beautiful a body.

This being concluded, Cecropia went to Philoclea and told her that now she was to come to the last part of the play, for her part though she found her hard-hearted obstinacy such that neither the sweetness of loving means, nor the force of hard means could prevail with her, yet before she would pass to a further degree of extremity, she had sought to win her sister; in hopes that her son might be in time satisfied with the love of so fair a lady; but finding her also rather more than less wilful, she was now minded that one of their deaths should serve for an example to the other, that despising worthy folks, was more hurtful to the despiser than the despised: that yet because her son especially affected her, and that in her own self she was more inclinable to pity her than she had deserved, she would begin with her sister, who that afternoon should have her head cut off before her face; if in the meantime one of them did not pull out their ill-wrought stitches of unkindness, she bade her look for no other, nor longer time than she told her. There was no assault given to the sweet Philoclea’s mind, that entered so far, as this: for where to all pains and dangers of herself, foresight, with his lieutenant resolution, had made ready defence, now with the love she bare her sister, she was driven to a stay, before she determined: but long she stayed not, before this reason did shine unto her, that since in herself she preferred death before such a base servitude, love did teach her to wish the same to her sister. Therefore crossing her arms, and looking sideward upon the ground, “Do what you will,” said she, “with us: for my part heaven shall melt before I be removed. But if you will follow my counsel, for your own sake (for as for prayers for my sake I have felt how little they prevail) let my death first serve for example to win her, who perchance is not so resolved against Amphialus, and so shall you not only justly punish me, who indeed do hate both you and your son, but, if that may move you, you shall do more virtuously in preserving one most worthy of life, and killing another most desirous of death: lastly, in winning her, instead of peevish unhappy creature that I am, you shall bless your son with the most excellent woman in all praiseworthy things, that the world holdeth.” But Cecropia, who had already set down to herself what she would do, both with bitter terms and countenance, told her, that she should not need to woo death over-eagerly: for if her sister going before her did not teach her wit, herself should quickly follow.