Being come home to her owne house, away shee sent the olde Pandresse

about other businesse, which might hold her time long enough of

employment, and hinder her returning to _Andrea_ according to promise,

purposing, not to trust her in this serious piece of service. Calling

a young crafty Girle to her, whom she had well tutoured in the like

ambassages, when evening drew on, she sent her to _Andreas_ lodging,

where (by good fortune) she found him sitting alone at the dore, and

demanding of him, if he knew an honest Gentleman lodging there, whose

name was _Signior Andrea de Piero_; he made her answere, that himselfe

was the man. Then taking him aside, shee said. Sir, there is a worthy

Gentlewoman of this Citie, that would gladly speake with you, if you

pleased to vouchsafe her so much favour.

_Andrea_, hearing such a kinde of salutation, and from a Gentlewoman,

named of worth; began to grow proud in his owne imaginations, and to

make no meane estimation of himselfe: As (undoubtedly) that he was

an hansome proper man, and of such cariage and perfections, as had

attracted the amorous eye of this Gentlewoman, and induced her to like

and love him beyond all other, _Naples_ not contayning a man of better

merit. Whereupon he answered the Mayde, that he was ready to attend

her Mistresse, desiring to know, when it should be, and where the

Gentlewoman would speake with him? So soone as you please Sir, replied

the Damosell, for she tarieth your comming in her owne house.

Instantly _Andrea_ (without leaving any direction of his departure

in his lodging, or when he intended to returne againe) said to the

Girle: Goe before, and I will follow. This little Chamber-commodity,

conducted him to her Mistresses dwelling, which was in a streete

named _Malpertuis_, a title manifesting sufficiently the streetes

honesty: but hee, having no such knowledge thereof, neither suspecting

any harme at all, but that he went to a most honest house, and to a

Gentlewoman of good respect; entred boldly, the Mayde going in before,

and guiding him up a faire payre of stayres, which he having more then

halfe ascended, the cunning young Queane gave a call to her Mistresse,

saying; _Signior Andrea_ is come already, whereupon, she appeared at

the stayres-head, as if she had stayed there purposely to entertaine

him. She was young, very beautifull, comely of person, and rich in

adornements, which _Andrea_ well observing, & seeing her descend two

or three steps, with open armes to embrace him, catching fast hold

about his neck; he stood as a man confounded with admiration, and she

contained a cunning kinde of silence, even as if she were unable to

utter one word, seeming hindered by extremity of joy at his presence,

and to make him effectually admire her extraordinary kindnesse, having

teares plenteously at commaund, intermixed with sighes and broken

speeches, at last, thus she spake.

_Signior Andrea_, you are the most welcom friend to me in all the

world; sealing this salutation with infinite sweet kisses and embraces:

whereat (in wonderfull amazement) he being strangely transported,

replied; Madame, you honour me beyond all compasse of merit. Then,

taking him by the hand, shee guided him thorow a goodly Hall, into her

owne Chamber, which was delicately embalmed with Roses, Orenge-flowres,

and all other pleasing smelles, and a costly bed in the middest,

curtained round about, very artificiall Pictures beautifying the

walles, with many other embellishments, such as those Countries are

liberally stored withall. He being meerely a novice in these kinds of

wanton carriages of the World, and free from any base or degenerate

conceit; firmely perswaded himselfe, that (questionlesse) shee was a

Lady of no meane esteeme, and he more then happy, to be thus respected

and honoured by her. They both being seated on a curious Chest at the

Beds feete, teares cunningly trickling downe her cheekes, and sighes

intermedled with inward sobbings, breathed forth in sad, but very

seemely manner; thus shee beganne.

I am sure _Andrea_, that you greatly marvell at me, in gracing you

with this solemne and kinde entertainment, and why I should so melt

my selfe in sighes and teares, at a man that hath no knowledge of me,

or (perhaps) sildome or never heard any Speeches of me: but you shall

instantly receive from mee matter to augment your greater marvell,

meeting heere with your owne sister, beyond all hope or expectation in

either of us both. But seeing that Heaven hath beene so gracious to me,

to let mee see one of my brethren before I die (though gladly I would

have seene them all) which is some addition of comfort to me, and that

which (happily) thou hast never heard before, in plaine and truest

manner, I will reveale unto thee.

_Piero_, my Father and thine, dwelt long time (as thou canst not chuse

but to have understood) in _Palermo_, where, through the bounty, and

other gracious good parts remaining in him, he was much renowned; and

(to this day) is no doubt remembred, by many of his loving friends

and well-willers. Among them that most intimately affected _Piero_,

my mother (who was a Gentlewoman, and at that time a widow) did

dearest of all other love him; so that forgetting the feare of her

Father, brethren, yea, and her owne honour, they became so privately

acquainted, that I was begotten, and am here now such as thou seest me.

Afterward, occasions so befalling our Father, to abandon _Palermo_, and

returne to _Perouse_, he left my mother and me his little daughter,

never after (for ought that I could learne) once remembring either

her or me: so that (if he had not beene my Father) I could have much

condemned him, in regard of his ingratitude to my Mother, and love

which hee ought to have shewne me as his childe, being borne of no

Chamber-maide, neither of a City sinner; albeit I must needes say, that

shee was blame-worthy, without any further knowledge of him (moved

onely thereto by most loyal affection) to commit both her selfe, and

all the wealth shee had, into his hands: but things ill done, and so

long time since, are more easily controled, then amended.

Being left so young at _Palermo_, and growing (well neere) to the

stature as now you see me; my mother, being wealthy, gave mee in

marriage to one of the _Gergentes_ Family, a Gentleman, and of great

revenewes, who in his love to me and my mother, went and dwelt at

_Palermo_: where falling into the _Guelphes_ faction, and making one

in the enterprize with _Charles_ our King; it came to passe, that they

were discovered to _Fredericke_ King of _Arragon_, before their intent

could be put in execution, whereupon, we were enforced to flie from

_Sicilie_, even when my hope stood fairely to have beene the greatest

Lady in all the Iland. Packing up then such few things as wee could

take with us, few I may well call them, in regard of our wealthy

possessions, both in Pallaces, Houses, and Lands, all which we were

constrained to forgoe: we made our recourse to this City, where wee

found King _Charles_ so benigne and gracious to us, that recompencing

the greater part of our losses, he bestowed Lands and Houses on us

here, beside a continuall large pension to my husband your brother in

Law, as hereafter himselfe shall better acquaint you withall. Thus came

I hither, and thus remaine here, where I am able to welcome my brother

_Andrea_, thankes more to Fortune, then any friendlinesse in him: with

which words she embraced and kissed him many times, sighing and weeping

as shee did before.

_Andrea_ hearing this fable so artificially delivered, composed from

point to point, with such likely protestations, without faltring or

failing in any one words utterance; and remembring perfectly for truth,

that his Father had formerly dwelt at _Palermo_; knowing also (by some

sensible feeling in himselfe) the custome of young people, who are

easily conquered by affection in their youthfull heate; seeing beside

the teares, trembling speeches, and earnest embracings of this cunning

commodity: he tooke all to be faithfully true by her thus spoken, and

upon her silence, thus he replied. Lady, let it not seeme strange to

you, that your words have raised marvell in me, because (indeede) I

had no knowledge of you, even no more then as if I had never seene

you, never also having heard my Father to speake either of you or your

Mother (for some considerations best knowne to himselfe) or if at any

time he used such language, either my youth then, or defective memory

since, hath utterly lost it. But truly, it is no little joy and comfort

to me, to finde a sister here, where I had no such hope or expectation,

and where also my selfe am a meere stranger. For to speake my mind

freely of you, and the perfections gracefully appearing in you, I know

not any man, of how great repute or quality soever, but you may well

beseeme his acceptance, much rather then mine, that am but a meane

Merchant. But faire sister, I desire to be resolved in one thing, to

wit, by what meanes you had understanding of my being in this City?

whereto readily shee returned him this answer.

Brother, a poore woman of this City, whom I employ sometimes in

houshold occasions, came to me this morning, and (having seene you)

tolde me, that shee dwelt a long while with our Father, both at

_Palermo_, and _Perouse_. And because I held it much better beseeming

my condition, to have you visit me in mine owne dwelling, then I to

come see you at a common Inne; I made the bolder to send for you

hither. After which words, in very orderly manner, shee enquired

of his chiefest kindred and friends, calling them readily by their

proper names, according to her former instructions. Whereto _Andrea_

still made her answer, confirming thereby his beliefe of her the more

strongly, and crediting whatsoever shee saide, farre better then before.

Their conference having long time continued, and the heate of the

day being somewhat extraordinary, shee called for _Greeke_ wine, and

banquetting stuffe, drinking to _Andrea_; and he pledging her very

contentedly. After which, he would have returned to his lodging,

because it drew neere supper time; which by no meanes shee would

permit, but seeming more then halfe displeased, shee saide. Now

I plainely perceive brother, how little account you make of me,

considering, you are with your owne Sister, who (you say) you never saw

before, and in her owne House, whether you should alwayes resort when

you come to this City; and would you now refuse her, to goe and sup at

a common Inne. Beleeve me brother, you shall sup with me, for although

my Husband is now from home, to my no little discontentment: yet you

shall find brother, that his wife can bid you welcome, and make you

good cheere beside.

Now was _Andrea_ so confounded with this extremity of courtesie, that

he knew not what to say, but onely thus replied. I love you as a Sister

ought to be loved, and accept of your exceeding kindnesse: but if I

returne not to my lodging, I shall wrong mine Host and his guests too

much, because they will not sup untill I come. For that (quoth shee) we

have a present remedy, one of my servants shal goe and give warning,

whereby they shall not tarry your comming. Albeit, you might doe me a

great kindnesse, to send for your friends to sup with us here, where I

assure ye they shall finde that your Sister (for your sake) will bid

them welcome, and after supper, you may all walke together to your

Inne. _Andrea_ answered, that he had no such friends there, as should

be so burthenous to her: but seeing shee urged him so farre, he would

stay to sup with her, and referred himselfe solely to her disposition.

Ceremonious shew was made, of sending a servant to the Inne, for not

expecting _Andreas_ presence at Supper, though no such matter was

performed; but, after divers other discoursings, the table being

covered, and variety of costly viands placed thereon, downe they sate

to feeding, with plenty of curious Wines liberally walking about, so

that it was darke night before they arose from the table. _Andrea_

then offring to take his leave, she would (by no meanes) suffer it,

but tolde him that _Naples_ was a Citie of such strict Lawes and

Ordinances, as admitted no night-walkers, although they were Natives,

much lesse strangers, but punished them with great severity. And

therefore, as she had formerly sent word to his Inne, that they should

not expect his comming to supper, the like had she done concerning his

bed, intending to give her Brother _Andrea_ one nights lodging, which

as easily she could affoord him, as she hadde done a Supper. All which

this new-caught Woodcocke verily crediting, and that he was in company

of his owne Sister _Fiordeliza_ (for so did she cunningly stile her

selfe, and in which beleefe hee was meerely deluded) he accepted the

more gladly her gentle offer, and concluded to stay there all that

night.

After supper, their conference lasted very long, purposely dilated out

in length, that a great part of the night might therein be wasted:

when, leaving _Andrea_ to his Chamber, and a Lad to attend, that he

shold lacke nothing; she with her women went to their lodgings, and

thus our brother and supposed Sister were parted. The season then being

somewhat hot and soultry, _Andrea_ put off his hose and doublet, and

beeing in his shirt alone, layed them underneath the beds boulster, as

seeming carefull of his money. But finding a provocation to the house

of Office, he demanded of the Lad, where hee might find it; who shewed

him a little doore in a corner of the Chamber, appointing him to enter

there. Safely enough he went in, but chanced to tread upon a board,

which was fastened at neither ende to the joynts whereon it lay, being

a pit-fall made of purpose, to entrap any such coxecombe, as would be

trained to so base a place of lodging, so that both he and the board

fell downe together into the draught; yet such being his good fortune,

to receive no harme in the fall (although it was of extraordinary

height) onely the filth of the place, (it being over full) had fowly

myred him.

Now for your better understanding the quality of the place, and what

ensued thereupon, it is not unnecessary to describe it, according to

a common use observed in those parts. There was a narrow passage or

entrie, as often we see reserved betweene two houses, for eithers

benefit to such a needfull place; and boards loosely lay upon the

joynts, which such as were acquainted withall, could easily avoide any

perill, in passing to or from the stoole. But our so newly created

brother, not dreaming to find a queane to his Sister, receiving so

foule a fall into the vaulte, and knowing not how to helpe himselfe,

being sorrowfull beyond measure; cryed out to the boy for light and

aide, who intended not to give him any. For the crafty wag, (a meete

attendant for so honest a Mistresse) no sooner heard him to be fallen,

but presently he ranne to enforme her thereof, and shee as speedily

returned to the Chamber, where finding his cloathes under the beds

head, shee needed no instruction for search in his pockets. But having

found the gold, which _Andrea_ indiscreetely carried alwayes about him,

as thinking it could no where else be so safe: This was all shee aymed

at, and for which shee had ensnared him, faigning her selfe to be of

_Palermo_, and Daughter to _Piero_ of _Perouse_, so that not regarding

him any longer, but making fast the house of Office doore, there shee

left him in that miserable taking.

Poore _Andrea_ perceiving, that his calles could get no answer from the

Lad; cryed out louder, but all to no purpose: when seeing into his owne

simplicity, and understanding his error, though somewhat too late, hee

made such meanes constrainedly, that he got over a wall, which severed

that foule sinke from the Worlds eye; and being in the open streete,

went to the doore of the House, which then he knew too well to his

cost, making loude exclaimes with rapping and knocking, but all as

fruitlesse as before. Sorrowing exceedingly, and manifestly beholding

his misfortune; Alas (quoth he) how soone have I lost a Sister, and

five hundred Crownes besides? with many other words, loude calles, and

beatings upon the doore without intermission, the neighbours finding

themselves diseased, and unable to endure such ceaselesse vexation,

rose from their beds, and called to him, desiring him to be gone and

let them rest. A maide also of the same House, looking forth at the

window, and seeming as newly raised from sleepe, called to him, saying;

What noyse is that beneath? Why Virgin (answered _Andrea_) know you not

me? I am _Andrea de Piero_, Brother to your Mistresse _Fiordeliza_.

Thou art a drunken knave, replied the Maide, more full of drinke then

wit, goe sleepe, goe sleepe, and come againe to morrow: for I know no

_Andrea de Piero_, neither hath my Mistresse any such Brother, get thee

gone good man, and suffer us to sleepe I pray thee. How now (quoth

_Andrea_) doest thou not understand what I say? Thou knowest that I

supt with thy Mistresse this night; but if our _Sicilian_ kindred be

so soone forgot, I pray thee give me my cloathes which I left in my

Chamber, and then very gladly will I get mee gone. Hereat the Maide

laughing out aloude, saide; Surely the man is mad, or walketh the

streetes in a dreame; and so clasping fast the window, away shee went

and left him.

Now could _Andrea_ assure himselfe, that his gold and cloathes were

past recovery, which moving him to the more impatience, his former

intercessions became converted into fury, and what hee could not

compasse by faire entreats, he entended to winne by outrage and

violence, so that taking up a great stone in his hand, hee layed

upon the doore very powerfull strokes. The neighbours hearing this

molestation still, admitting them not the least respite of rest,

reputing him for a troublesome fellow, and that he used those

counterfeit words, onely to disturbe the Mistresse of the House, and all

that dwelled neere about her; looking againe out at their windowes,

they altogether began to rate and reprove him, even like so many

bawling Curres, barking at a strange dog passing thorow the streete.

This is shamefull villany (quoth one) and not to be suffered, that

honest women should be thus molested in their houses, with foolish idle

words, and at such an unseasonable time of the night. For Gods sake

(good man) be gone, and let us sleepe; if thou have any thing to say to

the Gentlewoman of the House, come to morrow in the day time, and no

doubt but shee will make thee sufficient answer.

_Andrea_ being somewhat pacified with these speeches, a shag-hairde

swash-buckler, a grim-visagde Ruffian (as sildome bawdy houses are

without such swaggering Champions) not seene or heard by _Andrea_,

all the while of his being in the house rapping out two or three

terrible oathes, opened a casement, and with a stearne dreadfull voyce,

demaunded who durst keepe that noyse beneath? _Andrea_ fearefully

looking up, and (by a little glimmering of the Moone) seeing such a

rough fellow, with a blacke beard, strowting like the quilles of a

Porcupine, and patches on his face, for hurts received in no honest

quarels, yawning also and stretching, as angry to have his sleepe

disturbed: trembling and quaking, answered; I am the Gentlewomans

brother of the house. The Ruffian interrupting him, and speaking more

fiercely then before; sealing his words with horrible oathes, said.

Sirra, Rascall, I know not of whence or what thou art, but if I come

downe to thee, I will so bombast thy prating coxcombe, as thou was

never better beaten in all thy life, like a drunken slave and beast as

thou art, that all this night wilt not let us sleepe; and so hee clapt

to the window againe.

The neighbours, well acquainted with this Ruffians rude conditions,

speaking in gentle manner to _Andrea_, said. Shift for thy selfe (good

man) in time, and tarrie not for his comming downe to thee; except thou

art wearie of thy life, be gone therefore, and say thou hast a friendly

warning. These words dismaying _Andrea_, but much more the stearne

oathes and ugly sight of the Ruffian, incited also by the neighbours

counsell, whom he imagined to advise him in charitable manner: it

caused him to depart thence, taking the way homeward to his Inne, in no

meane affliction and torment of minde, for the monstrous abuse offered

him, and losse of his money. Well he remembred the passages, whereby

(the day before) the young Girle had guided him, but the loathsome

smell about him, was so extreamely offensive to himselfe: that,

desiring to wash him at the Sea side, he strayed too farre wide on the

contrary hand, wandring up the streete called _Ruga Gatellana_.

Proceeding on still, even to the highest part of the Citie, hee espied

a Lanthorne and light, as also a man carrying it, and another man with

him in company, both of them comming towards him. Now, because he

suspected them two of the watch, or some persons that would apprehend

him: he stept aside to shunne them, and entred into an olde house hard

by at hand. The other mens intention was to the very same place, and

going in, without any knowledge of _Andreaes_ being there, one of them

layd downe divers instruments of yron, which he had brought thither on

his backe, and had much talke with his fellow concerning those engines.

At last one of them said, I smell the most abhominable stinke, that

ever I felt in all my life. So, lifting up his Lanthorne, he espied

poore pittifull _Andrea_, closely couched behinde the wall. Which sight

somewhat affrighting him, he yet boldly demaunded, what and who hee

was: whereto _Andrea_ aunswered nothing, but lay still and held his

peace. Neerer they drew towards him with their light, demaunding how

hee came thither, and in that filthy manner.

Constraint having now no other evasion, but that (of necessity) all

must out: hee related to them the whole adventure, in the same sort as

it had befalne him. They greatly pittying his misfortune, one of them

said to the other. Questionlesse, this villanie was done in the house

of _Scarabone Buttafuoco_; And then turning to _Andrea_, proceeded

thus. In good faith poore man, albeit thou hast lost thy money, yet

art thou highly beholding to Fortune, for falling (though in a foule

place) yet in succesfull manner, and entring no more backe into the

house. For, beleeve mee friend, if thou hadst not falne, but quietly

gone to sleepe in the house; that sleepe had beene thy last in this

world, and with thy money, thou hadst lost thy life likewise. But

teares and lamentations are now helplesse, because, as easily mayest

thou plucke the Starres from the firmament, as get againe the least

doyt of thy losse. And for that shag-haird Slave in the house, he will

be thy deaths-man, if he but understand, that thou makest any enquiry

after thy money. When he had thus admonished him, he began also in this

manner to comfort him. Honest fellow, we cannot but pitty thy present

condition, wherefore, if thou wilt friendly associate us, in a businesse

which wee are instantly going to effect: thy losse hath not beene so

great, but on our words wee will warrant thee, that thine immediate

gaine shall farre exceede it. What will not a man (in desperate

extremity) both well like and allow of, especially, when it carrieth

apparance of present comfort? So fared it with _Andrea_, hee perswaded

himselfe, worse then had already happened, could not befall him; and

therefore he would gladly adventure with them.

The selfe same day preceding this disastrous night to _Andrea_, in

the chiefe Church of the Citie, had beene buried the Archbishop of

_Naples_, named _Signior Philippo Minutolo_, in his richest pontificall

roabes and ornaments, and a Ruby on his finger, valued to be worth five

hundred duckets of gold: this dead body they purposed to rob and rifle,

acquainting _Andrea_ with their whole intent, whose necessity (coupled

with a covetous desire) made him more forward then well advised, to

joyne with them in this sacriligious enterprise. On they went towards

the great Church, _Andreaes_ unsavourie perfume much displeasing them,

whereupon the one said to his fellow. Can we devise no ease for this

foule and noysome inconvenience? the very smell of him will be a meanes

to betray us. There is a Well-pit hard by, answered the other, with a

pulley and bucket descending downe into it, and there we may wash him

from this filthinesse. To the Well-pit they came, where they found the

rope and pulley hanging ready, but the bucket (for safety) was taken

away: whereon they concluded, to fasten the rope about him, and so

let him downe into the Well-pit, and when he had washed himselfe, hee

should wagge the rope, and then they would draw him up againe, which

accordingly they forth-with performed.

Now it came to passe, that while hee was thus washing himselfe in the

Well-pit, the watch of the Citie walking the round, and finding it to

be a very hote and sweltring night; they grew dry and thirsty, and

therefore went to the Well to drinke. The other two men, perceiving

the Watch so neere upon them: left _Andrea_ in the Pit to shift for

himselfe, running away to shelter themselves. Their flight was not

discovered by the Watch, but they comming to the Well-pit, _Andrea_

remained still in the bottome, and having cleansed himselfe so well as

hee could, sate wagging the rope, expecting when hee should be haled

up. This dumbe signe the Watch discerned not, but sitting downe by the

Wells side, they layde downe their Billes and other weapons, tugging

to draw up the rope, thinking the Bucket was fastened thereto, and

full of water. _Andrea_ being haled up to the Pits brim, left holding

the rope any longer, catching fast hold with his hands for his better

safety: and the Watch at the sight heereof being greatly affrighted,

as thinking that they had dragd up a Spirit; not daring to speake one

word, ranne away with all the hast they could make.

_Andrea_ hereat was not a little amazed, so that if he had not taken

very good hold on the brim: he might have falne to the bottome, and

doubtlesse there his life had perished. Being come forth of the Well,

and treading on Billes and Halbards, which he well knew that his

companions had not brought thither with them; his mervaile so much the

more encreased, ignorance and feare still seizing on him, with silent

bemoaning his many misfortunes, away thence he wandred, but hee wist

not whither. As he went on, he met his two fellowes, who purposely

returned to drag him out of the Well, and seeing their intent already

performed, desired to know who had done it: wherein _Andrea_ could not

resolve them, rehearsing what hee could, and what weapons hee found

lying about the Well. Whereat they smiled, as knowing, that the Watch

had haled him up, for feare of whom they left him, and so declared to

him the reason of their returne.

Leaving off all further talke, because now it was about midnight, they

went to the great Church, where finding their entrance to be easie:

they approached neere the Tombe, which was very great, being all of

Marble, and the cover-stone weighty, yet with crowes of yron and other

helps, they raised it so high, that a man might without perill passe

into it. Now began they to question one another, which of the three

should enter into the Tombe. Not I, said the first; so said the second:

No, nor I, answered _Andrea_. Which when the other two heard, they

caught fast hold of him, saying. Wilt not thou goe into the Tombe? Be

advised what thou sayest, for, if thou wilt not goe in: we will so beat

thee with one of these yron crowes, that thou shalt never goe out of

this Church alive.

Thus poore _Andrea_ is still made a property, and Fortune (this fatall

night) will have no other foole but he, as delighting in his hourly

disasters. Feare of their fury makes him obedient, into the grave he

goes, and being within, thus consults with himselfe. These cunning

companions suppose me to be simple, & make me enter the Tombe, having

an absolute intention to deceive me. For, when I have given them all

the riches that I finde here, and am ready to come forth for mine

equall portion: away will they runne for their owne safety, and leaving

me here, not onely shall I loose my right among them, but must remaine

to what danger may follow after. Having thus meditated, he resolved

to make sure of his owne share first, and remembring the rich Ring,

whereof they had tolde him: forthwith hee tooke it from the Archbishops

finger, finding it indifferently fitte for his owne. Afterward, hee

tooke the Crosse, Miter, rich garments, Gloves and all, leaving him

nothing but his shirt, giving them all these severall parcels;

protesting, that there was nothing else. Still they pressed upon him,

affirming that there was a Ring beside, urging him to search diligently

for it; yet still he answered, that hee could not finde it, and for

their longer tarying with him, seemed as if he serched very carefully,

but all appeared to no purpose.

The other two fellowes, as cunning in craft as the third could be,

still willed him to search, and watching their aptest opportunity:

tooke away the props that supported the Tombe-stone, and running thence

with their got booty, left poore _Andrea_ mewed up in the grave. Which

when he perceived, and saw this misery to exceede all the rest, it is

farre easier for you to guesse at his greefe, then I am any way able

to expresse it. His head, shoulders, yea all his utmost strength he

employeth, to remove that over-heavy hinderer of his liberty: but all

his labour beeing spent in vaine, sorrow threw him in a swoond upon

the Byshoppes dead body, where if both of them might at that instant

have bene observed, the Arch-byshops dead body, and _Andrea_ in greefe

dying, very hardly had bene distinguished. But his senses regaining

their former offices, among his silent complaints, consideration

presented him with choyse of these two unavoydable extremities. Dye

starving must he in the tombe, with putrifaction of the dead body; or

if any man came to open the Grave, then must he be apprehended as a

sacrilegious Theefe, and so be hanged, according to the lawes in that

case provided.

As he continued in these strange afflictions of minde, sodainely hee

heard a noise in the Church of divers men, who (as he imagined) came

about the like businesse, as hee and his fellowes had undertaken

before; wherein he was not a jot deceived, albeit his feare the more

augmented. Having opened the Tombe, and supported the stone, they

varied also among themselves for entrance, and an indiffrent while

contended about it. At length, a Priest being one in the company,

boldly said. Why how now you white-liver'd Rascals? What are you

affraid of? Do you thinke he will eate you? Dead men cannot bite,

and therefore I my selfe will go in. Having thus spoken, he prepared

his entrance to the Tombe in such order, that he thrust in his feete

before, for his easier descending downe into it.

_Andrea_ sitting upright in the Tombe, and desiring to make use of this

happy opportunity, caught the Priest fast by one of his legges, making

shew as if he meant to dragge him downe. Which when the Priest felt, he

cryed out aloud, getting out with all the hast he could make, and all

his companions, being well neere frighted out of their wits, ranne away

amaine, as if they had bene followed by a thousand divels. _Andrea_

little dreaming on such fortunate successe, made meanes to get out of

the grave, and afterward forth of the Church, at the very same place

where he entred.

Now began day-light to appeare, when hee, having the rich Ring on his

finger, wandred on hee knew not whether: till comming to the Sea-side,

he found the way directing to his Inne, where all his company were

with his Host, who had bene very carefull for him. Having related his

manifold mischances, his Hoste friendly advised him with speede to get

him out of _Naples_. As instantly he did, returning home to _Perouse_,

having adventured his five hundred Crownes on a Ring, where-with hee

purposed to have bought Horses, according to the intent of his journey

thither.

_Madame Beritola Caracalla, was found in an Island with two Goates,

having lost her two Sonnes, and thence travailed into Lunigiana: where

one of her Sonnes became servant to the Lord thereof, and was found

somewhat over-familiar with his Masters daughter, who therefore caused

him to bee imprisoned. Afterward, when the Country of Sicily rebelled

against K. Charles, the aforesaid Sonne chanced to be knowne by his

Mother, and was married to his Masters daughter. And his Brother being

found likewise; they both returned to great estate and credit._

The sixt Novell.

_Heerein all men are admonished, never to distrust the powerfull hand

of Heaven, when Fortune seemeth to be most adverse against them._

The Ladies and Gentlemen also, having smiled sufficiently at the

severall accidents which did befall the poore Traveller _Andrea_,

reported at large by Madame _Fiammetta_, the Lady _Æmillia_, seeing her

tale to be fully concluded, began (by commandement of the Queene) to

speake in this manner.

The diversitie of changes and alterations in Fortune as they are great,

so must they needs be greevous; and as often as we take occasion to

talk of them, as often do they awake and quicken our understandings,

avouching, that it is no easie matter to depend upon her flatteries.

And I am of opinion, that to heare them recounted, ought not any way

to offend us, be it of men wretched or fortunate; because, as they

enstruct the one with good advise, so they animate the other with

comfort. And therefore, although great occasions have beene already

related, yet I purpose to tell a Tale, no lesse true then lamentable;

which albeit it sorted to a successefull ending, yet notwithstanding,

such and so many were the bitter thwartings, as hardly can I beleeve,

that ever any sorrow was more joyfully sweetened.

You must understand then (most gracious Ladies) that after the death

of _Fredericke_ the second Emperour, one named _Manfred_, was crowned

King of _Sicilie_, about whom lived in great account and authority, a

_Neapolitane_ Gentleman, called _Henriet Capece_, who had to Wife a

beautifull Gentlewoman, and a _Neapolitane_ also, named Madam _Beritola

Caracalla_. This _Henriet_ held the government of the Kingdome of

_Sicilie_, and understanding, that King _Charles_ the first, had wonne

the battle of _Beneventum_, and slaine King _Manfred_; the whole

Kingdome revolting also to his devotion, and little trust to be reposed

in the _Sicillians_, or he willing to subject himselfe to his Lords

enemy; provided for his secret flight from thence. But this being

discovered to the _Sicillians_, he and many more, who had beene loyall

servants to King _Manfred_, were suddenly taken and imprisoned by King

_Charles_, and the sole possession of the Iland confirmed to him.

Madam _Beritola_ not knowing (in so sudden and strange an alteration of

State affaires) what was become of her Husband, fearing also greatly

before, those inconveniences which afterward followed; being overcome

with many passionate considerations, having left and forsaken all her

goods, going aboard a small Barke with a Sonne of hers, aged about

some eight yeeres, named _Geoffrey_, and growne great with childe with

another; shee fled thence to _Lipary_, where shee was brought to bed

of another Sonne, whom shee named (answerable both to his and her hard

fortune) _The poore expelled_.

Having provided her selfe of a Nurse, they altogether went aboard

againe, setting sayle for _Naples_ to visit her Parents; but it chanced

quite contrary to her expectation, because by stormie windes and

weather, the vessell being bound for _Naples_, was hurried to the Ile

of _Ponzo_, where entring into a small Port of the Sea, they concluded

to make their aboade, till a time more furtherous should favour their

voyage.

As the rest, so did Madam _Beritola_ goe on shore in the Iland, where

having found a separate and solitary place, fit for her silent and sad

meditations, secretly by her selfe, shee sorrowed for the absence of

her husband. Resorting daily to this her sad exercise, and continuing

there her complaints, unseene by any of the Marriners, or whosoever

else: there arrived suddenly a Galley of Pyrates, who seazing on the

small Barke, carried it and all the rest in it away with them. When

_Beritola_ had finished her wofull complaints, as daily shee was

accustomed to doe, shee returned backe to her children againe; but

finding no person there remaining, whereat she wondered not a little:

immediately (suspecting what had happened indeede) she lent her lookes

on the Sea, and saw the Galley, which as yet had not gone farre,

drawing the smaller vessell after her. Heereby plainly she perceyved,

that now she had lost her children, as formerly shee had done her

husband; being left there poore, forsaken, and miserable, not knowing

when, where, or how to finde any of them againe, and calling for her

husband and children, shee fell downe in a swound uppon the shore.

Now was not any body neere, with coole water or any other remedy, to

helpe the recovery of her lost powers; wherefore her spirites might the

more freely wander at their own pleasure: but after they were returned

backe againe, and had won their wonted offices in her body, drowned

in teares, and wringing her hands, shee did nothing but call for her

children and husband, straying all about, in hope to finde them,

seeking in Caves, Dennes, and every where else, that presented the

verie least glimpse of comfort. But when she saw all her paines sort to

no purpose, and darke night drawing swiftly on, hope and dismay raising

infinit perturbations, made her yet to be somewhat respective of her

selfe, & therefore departing from the sea-shore, she returned to the

solitary place, where she used to sigh and mourne alone by her selfe.

The night being over-past with infinite feares and affrights, & bright

day saluting the world againe, with the expence of nine hours and more,

she fell to her former fruitlesse travailes. Being somewhat sharply

bitten with hunger, because the former day and night shee hadde not

tasted any food: she made therefore a benefit of necessity, and fed

on the green hearbes so well as she could, not without many piercing

afflictions, what should become of her in this extraordinary misery. As

shee walked in these pensive meditations, she saw a Goate enter into

a Cave, and (within a while after) come forth againe, wandering along

thorow the woods. Whereupon she stayed, and entred where she saw the

beast issue forth, where she found two yong Kids, yeaned (as it seemed)

the selfesame day, which sight was very pleasing to her, and nothing

(in that distresse) could more content her.

As yet she had milke freshly running in both her brests, by reason of

her so late delivery in child-bed; wherefore shee lay downe unto the

two yong Kids, and taking them tenderly in her armes, suffered each of

them to sucke a teate, whereof they made not any refusall, but tooke

them as lovingly as their dammes, and from that time forward, they made

no distinguishing betweene their damme and her. Thus this unfortunate

Lady, having found some company in this solitary desert, fed on hearbes

& roots, drinking faire running water, and weeping silently to her

selfe, so often as she remembred her husband, children, and former

dayes past in much better manner. Here shee resolved now to live and

dye, being at last deprived both of the damme and yonger Kids also, by

theyr wandering further into the neere adjoining Woods, according to

their Naturall inclinations; whereby the poore distressed Lady became

more savage and wilde in her daily conditions, then otherwise shee

would have bene.

After many monthes were over-passed, at the very same place where

she tooke landing; by chance, there arrived another small vessell of

certaine _Pisans_, which remained there divers dayes. In this Bark

was a Gentleman, named _Conrado de Marchesi Malespini_, with his

holy and vertuous wife, who were returned backe from a Pilgrimage,

having visited all the sanctified places, that then were in the

Kingdome of _Apulia_, & now were bound homeward to their owne abiding.

This Gentleman, for the expelling of melancholy perturbations, one

especiall day amongst other, with his wife, servants, and waiting

hounds, wandered up into the Iland, not far from the place of Madam

_Beritolaes_ desert dwelling. The hounds questing after game, at last

happened on the two Kiddes where they were feeding, and (by this time)

had attained to indifferent growth: and finding themselves thus pursued

by the hounds, fled to no other part of the wood, then to the Cave

where _Beritola_ remained, and seeming as if they sought to be rescued

only by her, she sodainly caught up a staffe, and forced the hounds

thence to flight.

By this time, _Conrado_ and his wife, who had followed closely after

the hounds, was come thither, and seeing what had hapned, looking on

the Lady, who was become blacke, swarthy, meager, and hairy, they

wondered not a little at her, and she a great deale more at them. When

(upon her request) _Conrado_ had checkt back his hounds, they prevailed

so much by earnest intreaties, to know what she was, and the reason of

her living there; that she intirely related her quality, unfortunate

accidents, and strange determination for living there. Which when the

Gentleman had heard, who very well knew her husband, compassion forced

teares from his eyes, and earnestly he laboured by kinde perswasions,

to alter so cruel a deliberation; making an honourable offer, for

conducting her home to his owne dwelling, where shee should remaine

with him in noble respect, as if she were his owne sister, without

parting from him, till Fortune should smile as fairely on her, as ever

she had done before.

When these gentle offers could not prevaile with her, the Gentleman

left his wife in her company, saying, that he would go fetch some foode

for her; and because her garments were all rent and torne, hee woulde

bring her other of his wives, not doubting but to winne her thence

with them. His wife abode there with _Beritola_, very much bemoaning

her great disasters, and when both viands and garments were brought:

by extremity of intercession, they caused her to put them on, and also

to feede with them, albeit she protested, that shee would not part

thence into any place, where any knowledge should be taken of her. In

the end, they perswaded her, to go with them into _Lunigiana_, carrying

also with her the two yong Goats and their damme, which were then in

the Cave altogether, prettily playing before _Beritola_, to the great

admiration of _Conrado_ and his wife, as also the servants attending on

them.

When the windes and weather grew favourable for them, Madam _Beritola_

went aboard with _Conrado_ and his wife, being followed by the two

young Goates and their Damme; and because her name should bee knowne

to none but _Conrado_, and his wife onely, shee would be stiled no

otherwise, but the Goatherdesse. Merrily, yet gently blew the gale,

which brought them to enter the River of _Macra_, where going on shore,

and into their owne Castell, _Beritola_ kept company with the wife

of _Conrado_, but in a mourning habite, and a wayting Gentlewoman of

hers, honest, humble, and very dutifull, the Goates alwayes familiarly

keeping them company.

Returne wee now to the Pyrates, which at _Ponzo_ seized on the small

Barke, wherein Madam _Beritola_ was brought thither, and carried thence

away, without any sight or knowledge of her. With such other spoiles

as they had taken, they shaped their course for _Geneway_, and there

(by consent of the Patrones of the Galley) made a division of their

booties. It came to passe, that (among other things) the Nurse that

attended on _Beritola_, and the two Children with her, fell to the

share of one _Messer Gasparino d'Oria_, who sent them together to his

owne House, there to be employed in service as servants. The Nurse

weeping beyond measure for the losse of her Lady, and bemoaning her

owne miserable fortune, whereinto shee was now fallen with the two

young Laddes; after long lamenting, which shee found utterly fruitlesse

and to none effect, though she was used as a servant with them, and

being but a very poore woman, yet was shee wise and discreetly advised.

Wherefore, comforting both her selfe, and them so well as she could,

and considering the depth of their disaster; shee conceited thus, that

if the Children should be knowne, it might redounde to their greater

danger, and shee be no way advantaged thereby.

Hereupon, hoping that Fortune (early or late) would alter her stearne

malice, and that they might (if they lived) regaine once more their

former condition: shee would not disclose them to any one whatsoever,

till shee should see the time aptly disposed for it. Being thus

determined, to all such as questioned her concerning them, she answered

that they were her owne Children, naming the eldest not _Geoffrey_,

but _Jehannot de Procida_. [Sidenote: Or Grannotto da Prochyta.] As

for the youngest, shee cared not greatly for changing his name, and

therefore wisely enformed _Geoffrey_, upon what reason shee had altered

his name, and what danger he might fall into, if he should otherwise

be discovered; being not satisfied with thus telling him once, but

remembring him thereof very often, which the gentle youth (being so

well instructed by the wise and carefull Nurse) did very warily observe.

The two young Laddes, very poorely garmented, but much worse hosed

and shodde, continued thus in the house of _Gasparino_, where both

they and the Nurse were long time imployed, about very base and

drudging Offices, which yet they endured with admirable patience.

But _Jehannot_, aged already about sixteene yeeres, having a loftier

spirit, then belonged to a slavish servant, despising the basenesse

of his servile condition; departed from the drudgery of _Messer

Gasparino_, and going aboard the Gallies, which were bound for

_Alexandria_, fortuned into many places, yet none of them affoording

him any advancement. In the ende, about three or foure yeares after

his departure from _Gasparino_, being now a brave young man, and of

very goodly forme: he understood, that his Father (whom he supposed

to be dead) was as yet living; but in captivity, and prisoner to King

_Charles_. Wherefore, despairing of any successefull fortune, hee

wandred here and there, till he came to _Lunigiana_, and there (by

strange accident) he became servant to _Messer Conrado Malespina_,

where the service proved well liking to them both.

Very sildome times hee had a sight of his Mother, because shee alwayes

kept company with _Conradoes_ wife; and yet when they came within

view of each other, shee knew not him, nor he her, so much yeeres

had altered them both, from what they were wont to be, and when they

saw each other last. _Jehannot_ being thus in the service of _Messer

Conrado_, it fortuned that a daughter of his, named _Spina_, being the

Widdow of one _Messer Nicolas Grignan_, returned home to her Fathers

House. Very beautifull and amiable shee was, young likewise, aged but

little above sixteene; growing wonderously amorous of _Jehannot_, and

he of her, in extraordinary and most fervent manner; which love was not

long without full effect, continuing many moneths before any person

could perceive it: which making them to build on the more assurance,

they began to carrie their meanes with lesse discretion, then is

required in such nice cases, and which cannot be too providently

managed.

Upon a day, he and shee walking to a goodly wood, plentifully furnished

with spreading Trees, having out-gone the rest of their company; they

made choise of a pleasant place, very daintily shaded, and beautified

with all sorts of floures. There they spent sometime in amorous

discourse, beside some other sweete embraces, which though it seemed

over-short to them, yet was it so unadvisedly prolonged; that they

were on a sudden surprized, first by the Mother, and next by _Messer

Conrado_ himselfe: who greeving beyond measure, to be thus trecherously

dealt withall, caused them to be apprehended by three of his servants,

and (without telling them any reason why) ledde bound to another Castle

of his, and fretting with extremity of rage, concluded in his minde,

that they should both shamefully be put to death.

The Mother to this regardlesse Daughter, having heard the angry words

of her Husband, and how hee would be revenged on the faultie; could

not endure that he should be so severe: wherefore, although shee was

likewise much afflicted in minde, and reputed her Daughter worthy (for

so great an offence) of all cruell punishment: yet shee hasted to her

displeased husband, and began to entreate, that he would not runne on

in such a furious spleene, now in his aged yeares, to be the murtherer

of his owne childe, and soile his hands in the blood of his servant.

Rather he might finde out some milde course for the satisfaction of

his Anger, by committing them to close imprisonment, there to remaine

& mourne for their follie committed. The vertuous and religious

Lady alledged so many commendable examples, and used such plenty of

mooving perswasions; that she quite altred his minde, from putting

them to death, and he commanded onely, that they should separately bee

imprisoned, with little store of foode, and lodging of the uneasiest,

untill hee should otherwise determine of them, and so it was done. What

their life now was in captivity and continuall teares, with stricter

abstinence then was needefull for them; all this I must commit to your

consideration.

_Jehannot_ and _Spina_ remaining in this comfortlesse condition, and an

whole yeere being now out-worne, yet _Conrado_ keeping them thus still

imprisoned: it came to passe, that _Don Pedro_ King of _Arragon_, by

the meanes of _Messer John de Procida_, caused the Isle of _Sicily_ to

revolt, and tooke it away from King _Charles_, whereat _Conrado_ (he

being of the _Ghibbiline_ faction) not a little rejoyced. _Jehannot_

having intelligence thereof, by some of them that had him in custody,

breathing foorth a vehement sigh, spake in this manner. Alas poore

miserable wretch as I am! that have already gone begging through the

world above fourteene yeares, in expectation of nothing else but this

opportunity; and now it is come, must I be in prison, to the end, that

I should never more hope for any future happinesse? And how can I get

forth of this prison, except it be by death onely? How now, replied the

Officer of the Guard? What doth this businesse of great Kings concerne

thee? What affaires hast thou in _Sicily_?

Once more _Jehannot_ sighed extreamly, and returned him this answer.

Me thinkes my heart (quoth hee) doth cleave in sunder, when I call to

minde the charge which my Father had there, for although I was but a

little boy when I fled thence: yet I can well remember, that I sawe

him Governour there, at such time as King _Manfred_ lived. The Guard,

pursuing on still his purpose, demanded of him, what, and who his

Father was? My Father (replyed _Jehannot_) I may now securely speake of

him, being out of the perill which neerely concerned me if I had beene

discovered. He was the named (and so still if he be living) _Henriet

Capece_, and my name is _Geoffrey_, not _Jehannot_; and I make no

doubt, but if I were free from hence, and might be returned home to

_Sicily_, I should (for his sake) be placed in some authority.

The honest man of the Guard, without seeking after any further

information; so soone as he could compasse the leysure, reported all to

_Messer Conrado_, who having heard these newes (albeit he made no shew

thereof to the revealer) went to Madam _Beritola_, graciously demaunding

of her, if she had any sonne by her husband, who was called _Geoffrey_.

The Lady replyed in teares, that if her eldest sonne were as yet

living, hee was so named, and now aged about two and twenty yeares.

_Conrado_ hearing this, imagined this same to be the man, considering

further withall, that if it fell out to prove so: he might have the

better meanes of mercie, and closely concealing his daughters shame,

joyfully joyne them in marriage together.

Hereupon he secretly caused _Jehannot_ to be brought before him,

examining him particularly of all his passed life, and finding (by

most manifest arguments) that his name was truly _Geoffrey_, & he the

eldest son of _Henriet Capece_, he spake to him alone in this manner.

_Jehannot_, thou knowest how great the injuries are which thou hast

done me, & my deare daughter, gently entreating thee (as became a good

& honest servant) that thou shouldest alwayes have bin respective of

mine honour, and all that do appertain unto me. There are many noble

Gentlemen, who sustaining the wrong which thou hast offred me, they

would have procured thy shameful death, which pitty & compassion will

not suffer in me. Wherefore seeing (as thou informest me) that thou art

honourably derived both by father & mother; I will give end to all thine

anguishes, even when thy self art so pleased, releasing thee from the

misery & captivity, wherein I have so long time kept thee, and in one

instant, reduce thine honour & mine into compleat perfection. As thou

knowest, my Daughter _Spina_, whom thou hast embraced in kindnesse as

a friend (although farre unfitting for thee or her) is a widow, and

her mariage is both great and good; what her manners and conditions

are, thou indifferently knowest, and art not ignorant of her Father and

Mother: concerning thine owne estate, as now I purpose not to speake

any thing. Therefore, when thou wilt, I am so determined, that whereas

thou hast immodestly affected her, she shall become thy honest wife,

and accepting thee as my Son, to remain with me so long as you both

please.

Imprisonment had somewhat misshapen _Jehannot_ in his outward forme,

but not impaired a jot of that noble spirit, really derived from his

famous progenitors, much lesse the true love he bare to his faire

friend. And although most earnestly he desired that, which _Conrado_

now so franckly offered him, and was in his power onely to bestow on

him; yet could he not cloude any part of his greatnesse, but with a

resolved judgement, thus replied. My Lord, affectation of rule, desire

of wealthy possessions, or any other matter whatsoever, could never

make me a traytor to you or yours; but that I have loved, do love & for

ever shal love your beautious daughter; if that be treason, I freely

confesse it, & will die a thousand deaths, before you or any else shal

enforce me to denie it; for I hold her highly worthy of my love. If I

have bin more unmannerly with her, then became me, according to the

opinion of vulgar judgment, I have committed but that error, which

evermore is so attendant upon youth; that to denie it, is to denie

youth also. And if reverend age would but remember, that once he was

young, & measure others offences by his own; they would not be thought

so great or greevous, as you (& many more) account them to be, mine

being committed as a friend, & not as an enemy: what you make offer

of so willingly to do, I have alwayes desired, & if I had thought it

would have bin granted, long since I had most humbly requested it; and

so much the more acceptable would it have bin to me, by how much the

further off it stood from my hopes. But if you be so forward as your

words doe witnesse, then feede mee not with any further fruitlesse

expectation: but rather send me backe to prison, and lay as many

afflictions on mee as you please: for my endeared love to your Daughter

_Spina_, maketh mee to love you the more for her sake; how hardly

soever you entreate me, & bindeth me in the greater reverence to you,

as being the father of my fairest friend.

_Messer Conrado_ hearing these words, stood as one confounded with

admiration, reputing him to be a man of lofty spirit, and his affection

most fervent to his Daughter, which was not a little to his liking.

Wherefore, embracing him, and kissing his cheeke, without any longer

dallying, hee sent in like manner for his Daughter. Her restraint in

prison had made her lookes meager, pale and wanne, and very weake was

shee also of her person, farre differing from the woman shee was wont

to be, before her affection to _Jehannot_; there in presence of her

Father, and with free consent of either, they were contracted as man

and wife, and the espousals agreed on according to custome. Some few

dayes after, (without any ones knowledge of that which was done) having

furnished them with all things fit for the purpose, and time aptly

serving, that the Mothers should be partakers in this joy; he called

his wife, and Madam _Beritola_, to whom first he spake in this manner.

What will you say Madam, if I cause you to see your eldest Son, not

long since married to one of my Daughters? whereunto _Beritola_ thus

replied. My Lord, I can say nothing else unto you, but that I shall be

much more obliged to you, then already I am, and so much the rather,

because you will let me see the thing which is dearer to me then mine

owne life; and rendring it unto mee in such manner as you speake of,

you will recall backe some part of my former lost hopes: and with these

words the teares streamed aboundantly from her eyes. Then turning to

his wife, he saide; And you deare Love, if I shew you such a Sonne in

Law, what will you thinke of it? Sir (quoth shee) what pleaseth you,

must and shall satisfie me, be he Gentleman, or a beggar. Well said

Madam, answered _Messer Conrado_, I hope (within few dayes) to make you

both joyfull. So when the amorous couple had recovered their former

feature, and honourable garments were prepared for them, privately thus

he said to _Geoffrey_; Beyond the joy which already thou art inriched

withall, how would it please thee to meet with thine owne Mother here?

I cannot beleeve Sir, replied _Geoffrey_, that her greevous misfortunes

have suffered her to live so long: yet notwithstanding, if Heaven

hath beene so merciful to her, my joyes were incomparable, for by her

gracious counsell, I might well hope to recover no meane happinesse in

_Sicilie_. Within a while after, both the Mothers were sent for, who

were transported with unspeakable joyes, when they beheld the so lately

maried couple; being also much amazed, when they could not guesse what

inspiration had guided _Conrado_ to this extraordinary benignity,

joyning _Jehannot_ in mariage with _Spina_. Hereupon Madam _Beritola_,

remembring the speeches between her and _Conrado_, began to observe

him very advisedly, and by a hidden vertue, which long had silently

slept in her, and now with joy of spirit awaked, calling to minde

the lineatures of her Sonnes Infancy, without awaiting for any other

demonstrations, shee folded him in her armes with earnest affection.

Motherly joy and pitty now contended so violently together, that shee

was not able to utter one word, the sensitive vertues being so closely

combined, that (even as dead) shee fell downe in the armes of her

Sonne. And he wondering greatly thereat, making a better recollection

of his thoughts, did well remember, that he had often before seene her

in the Castell, without any other knowledge of her. Neverthelesse,

by meere instinct of Nature, whose power (in such actions) declares

it selfe to be highly predominant; his very soule assured him, that

shee was his Mother, and blaming his understanding, that he had not

before beene better advised, he threw his armes about her, and wept

exceedingly.

Afterward, by the loving paines of _Conradoes_ wife, as also her

daughter _Spina_, Madam _Beritola_ (being recovered from her passionate

trance, and her vitall spirits executing their Offices againe;) fell

once more to the embracing of her Sonne, kissing him infinite times,

with teares and speeches of motherly kindnesse, he likewise expressing

the same dutifull humanity to her. Which ceremonious courtesies being

passed over and over, to no little joy in all the beholders, beside

repetition of their severall misfortunes. _Messer Conrado_ made all

knowne to his friends, who were very glad of this new alliance made

by him, which was honoured with many solemn & magnificent feastings.

Which being all concluded, _Geoffrey_ having found out fit place and

opportunity, for conference with his new created Father, without any

sinister opposition; began as followeth.

Honourable Father, you have raised my contentment to the highest

degree, and have heaped also many gracious favours on my noble Mother;

but now in the finall conclusion, that nothing may remaine uneffected,

which consisteth in your power to performe: I would humbly entreate

you, to honour my Mother with your company, at a Feast of my making,

where I would gladly also have my Brother present. _Messer Gasparino

d'Oria_ (as I have once heretofore told you) questing as a common

Pyrate on the Seas, tooke us, and sent us home to his house as slaves,

where (as yet he detaineth him.) I would have you likewise send one

into _Sicilie_, who informing himselfe more amply in the state of

the Country; may understand what is become of _Henriet_ my Father,

and whether he be living or no. If he remaine alive, to know in what

condition he is; and being secretly instructed in all things, then to

returne backe againe to you.

This motion made by _Geoffrey_, was so pleasing to _Conrado_, that

without any reference to further leysure, hee dispatched thence two

discreete persons, the one to _Genewaye_, and the other to _Sicilie_:

he which went for _Geneway_, having met with _Gasparino_, earnestly

entreated him, (on the behalfe of _Conrado_) to send him the _Poore

expelled_; and his Nurse recounting every thing in order, which

_Conrado_ had tolde him, concerning _Geoffrey_ and his Mother: when

_Gasparino_ had heard the whole discourse, he marvelled greatly

thereat, and saide; True it is, that I will doe any thing for _Messer

Conrado_, which may be to his love and liking, provided, that it lie

in my power to performe; and (about some foureteene yeeres since) I

brought such a Lad as you seeke for, with his Mother home to my house;

whom I will gladly send unto him. But you may tell him from me, that I

advise him from over-rash crediting the fables of _Jehannot_, that now

tearms himselfe by the name of _Geoffrey_, because hee is a more wicked

boy, then he taketh him to be, and so did I find him.

Having thus spoken, and giving kinde welcome to the Messenger,

secretly he called the Nurse unto him, whom he heedfully examined

concerning this case. Shee having heard the rebellion in the Kingdome

of _Sicilie_, and understanding withall, that _Henriet_ was yet living;

joyfully threw off all her former feare, relating every thing to him

orderly, and the reasons moving her, to conceale the whole businesse

in such manner as shee had done. _Gasparino_ well perceiving, that the

report of the Nurse, and the message received from _Conrado_, varied

not in any one circumstance, beganne the better to credit her wordes.

And being a man most ingenious, making further inquisition into the

businesse, by all the possible meanes he could devise, and finding

every thing to yeeld undoubted assurance; ashamed of the vile and base

usage, wherein hee had so long time kept the Ladde, and desiring (by

his best meanes) to make him amends; he had a faire Daughter, aged

about thirteene yeeres, and knowing what manner of man he was, his

father _Henriet_ also yet living, he gave her to him in marriage, with

a very bountifull and honourable dowry.

The joviall dayes of feasting being past, he went aboard a Galley,

with the _Poore expelled_; his Daughter, the Ambassadour, and the

Nurse, departing thence to _Lericy_, where they were nobly welcommed

by _Messer Conrado_, and his Castle being not farre from thence, with

an honourable traine they were conducted thither, and entertained with

all possible kindnesse. Now concerning the comfort of the Mother,

meeting so happily with both her Sonnes, the joy of the Brethren and

Mother together, having also found the faithfull Nurse, _Gasparino_

and his Daughter, in company now with _Conrado_ and his Wife, friends,

familiars, and all generally in a Jubilee of rejoycing: it exceedeth

capacity in me to expresse it, and therefore I referre it to your more

able imagination.

In the time of this mutuall contentment, to the ende that nothing might

be wanting, to compleat and perfect this universall joy; our Lord, a

most aboundant bestower where he beginneth, added long wished tydings,

concerning the life and good estate of _Henriet Capece_. For, even as

they were feasting, and the concourse great of worthy guests, both of

Lords and Ladies: the first service was scarcely set on the Tables, but

the Ambassador which was sent to _Sicilie_, arrived there before them.

Among many other important matters, he spake of _Henriet_, who being so

long a time detained in prison by King _Charles_, when the commotion

arose in the City against the King; the people (grudging at _Henriets_

long imprisonment) slew the Guards, and let him at liberty. Then as

capitall enemy to King _Charles_, he was created Captaine generall,

following the chase, and killing the French.

By meanes whereof, he grew great in the grace of King _Pedro_, who

replanted him in all the goods and honours which he had before, with

very high and eminent authority. Hereunto the Ambassadour added, that

he was entertained with extraordinary grace, and delivery of publike

joy and exaltation, when his Wife and Sonne were knowne to be living,

of whom no tydings had at any time beene heard, since the houre of his

surprizall. Moreover, that a swift winged Barke was now sent thither

(upon the happy hearing of this newes) well furnished with noble

Gentlemen, to attend till their returning backe. We neede to make no

doubt concerning the tydings brought by this Ambassadour, nor of the

Gentlemens welcome, thus sent to Madam _Beritola_ and _Geoffrey_; who

before they would sit downe at the Table, saluted _Messer Conrado_ and

his kinde Lady (on the behalfe of _Henriet_) for all the great graces

extended to her and her Sonne, with promise of any thing, lying in the

power of _Henriet_, to rest continually at their command. The like they

did to _Signior Gasparino_, (whose liberall favours came unlooked for)

with certaine assurance, that when _Henriet_ should understand what hee

had done for his other Sonne, the _Poore expelled_; there would be no

defailance of riciprocall courtesies.

As the longest joyes have no perpetuity of lasting, so all these

gracefull ceremonies had their conclusion, with as many sighes and

teares at parting, as joyes abounded at their first encountring.

Imagine then, that you see such aboard, as were to have here no longer

abiding, Madam _Beritola_ and _Geoffrey_, with the rest, as the _Poore

expelled_, the so late married Wives, and the faithfull Nurse bearing

them company. With prosperous windes they arrived in _Sicilie_, where

the Wife, Sonnes, and Daughters, were joyfully met by _Henriet_ at

_Palermo_, and with such honourable pompe, as a case so important

equally deserved. The Histories make further mention, that there they

lived (a long while after) in much felicity, with thankfull hearts (no

doubt) to Heaven, in acknowledgement of so many great mercies received.

_The Soldan of Babylon sent one of his Daughters, to be joyned in

marriage with the King of_ Cholcos; _who by divers accidents (in the

space of foure yeeres) happened into the custody of nine men, and in

sundry places. At length being restored backe to her Father, shee went

to the saide King of_ Cholcos, _as a Maide, and as at first shee was

intended to be his wife._

The seaventh Novell.

_A lively demonstration, that the beauty of a Woman, (oftentimes) is

very hurtfull to her selfe, and the occasion of many evils, yea, and of

death, to divers men._

Peradventure the Novell related by Madam _Æmilia_, did not extend it

selfe so farre in length, as it moved compassion in the Ladies mindes,

hearing the hard fortunes of _Beritola_ and her Children, which had

incited them to weeping: but that it pleased the Queene (upon the Tales

conclusion) to command _Pamphilus_, to follow (next in order) with his

discourse, and hee being thereto very obedient, beganne in this manner.

It is a matter of no meane difficulty (vertuous Ladies) for us to take

intire knowledge of every thing we doe, because (as oftentimes hath

beene observed) many men, imagining if they were rich, they should

live securely, and without any cares. And therefore, not onely have

their prayers and intercessions aimed at that end, but also their

studies and daily endeavours, without refusall of any paines or perils

have not meanely expressed their hourely solicitude. And although it

hath happened accordingly to them, and their covetous desires fully

accomplished; yet at length they have met with such kinde of people,

who likewise thirsting after their wealthy possessions, have bereft

them of life, being their kinde and intimate friends, before they

attained to such riches. Some other, being of low and base condition,

by adventuring in many skirmishes and foughten battels, trampling in

the bloud of their brethren and friends, have beene mounted to the

soveraigne dignity of Kingdomes, (beleeving that therein consisted the

truest happinesse) but bought with the dearest price of their lives.

For, beside their infinite cares and feares, wherewith such greatnesse

is continually attended, at their royall Tables, they have drunke

poyson in a golden pot. Many other in like manner (with most earnest

appetite) have coveted beauty and bodily strength, not foreseeing with

any judgement, that these wishes were not without perill; when being

endued with them, they either have beene the occasion of their death,

or such a lingering lamentable estate of life, as death were a thousand

times more welcome to them.

But because I would not speake particularly of all our fraile and

humane affections, I dare assure ye, that there is not any one of these

desires, to be elected among us mortals, with entire foresight or

providence, warrantable against their ominous issue. Wherefore, if we

would walke directly, wee should dispose our willes and affections, to

be ordered and guided onely by him, who best knoweth what is needfull

for us, and will bestow them at his good pleasure. Nor let me lay this

blamefull imputation upon men onely, for offending in many things

through over lavish desires: because you your selves (gracious Ladies)

sinne highly in one, as namely, in coveting to be beautifull. So that

it is not sufficient for you, to enjoy those beauties bestowne on you

by Nature: but you practise to encrease them, by the rarities of Art.

Wherefore, let it not offend you, that I tell you the hard fortune of

a faire Sarrazines, to whom it happened (by strange adventures) within

the compasse of foure yeares, nine severall times to be maried, and

onely for her beauty.

It is now a long time since, that there lived a Soldane in _Babylon_,

named _Beminidab_, to whom (while he lived) many things happened,

answerable to his owne desires. Among divers other children both male

and female, he had a daughter, called _Alathiella_, and shee (according

to the common voyce of every one that saw her) was the fayrest Lady

then living in all the world. And because the King of _Cholcos_ had

wonderfully assisted him, in a valiant foughten battaile, against a

mighty Armie of _Arabes_, who on a suddaine had assailed him: hee

demaunded his faire daughter in marriage, which likewise was kindly

granted to him. A goodly and well armed Ship was prepared for her,

with full furnishment of all necessary provision, and accompanied with

an honourable traine, both Lords and Ladies, as also most costly and

sumptuous accoustrements; commending her to the mercy of heaven, in

this manner was shee sent away.

The time being propitious for their parting thence, the Mariners

hoised their sayles, leaving the part of _Alexandria_, and sayling

prosperously many dayes together. When they had past the Country of

_Sardignia_, and (as they imagined) were well neere to their journeyes

end: suddainly arose boisterous and contrary windes, which were so

impetuous beyond all measure, and so tormented the Ship wherein the

Lady was; that the Mariners, seeing no signe of comfort, gave over

all hope of escaping with life. Neverthelesse, as men most expert

in implacable dangers, they laboured to their uttermost power, and

contended with infinite blustring tempests, for the space of two dayes

and nights together, hoping the third day would prove more favourable.

But therein they saw themselves deceived, for the violence continued

still, encreasing in the night time more and more, being no way able to

comprehend, either where they were, or what course they tooke, neither

by marivall judgement, or any apprehension else whatsoever, the heavens

were so clouded, and the nights darknesse so extreame.

Being (unknowne to them) neere the Isle of _Majorica_, they felt the

Ship to split in the bottome, by meanes whereof, perceiving now no hope

of escaping (every one caring for himselfe, and not any other) they

threw forth a Squiffe on the troubled waves, reposing more confidence

of safety that way, then abiding any longer in the broken Ship.

Howbeit, such as were first descended downe, made stout resistance

against all other followers, with their drawne weapons: but safety of

life so farre prevailed, that what with the tempests violence, and

over-lading of the Squiffe, it sunke to the bottome, and all perished

that were therein. The Ship being thus split, and more then halfe full

of water, tossed and tormented by the blustring windes, first one

way, and then another: was at last driven into a strand of the Isle

_Majorica_, no other persons remaining therein; but onely the Lady

and her women, all of them (through the rude tempest, and their owne

conceived feare) lying still, as if they were more then halfe dead. And

there, within a stones cast of the neighbouring shore, the Ship (by the

rough surging billowes) was fixed fast in the sands, and so continued

all the rest of the night, without any further molestation of the

windes.

When day appeared, and the violent stormes were more mildly appeased,

the Lady, who seemed well-neere dead, lifted up her head, and began

(weake as she was) to call first one, and then another: but she called

in vaine, for such as she named were farre enough from her. Wherefore,

hearing no answere, nor seeing any one, she wondered greatly, her

feares encreasing then more and more. Raysing her selfe so well as

shee could, she beheld the Ladies that were of her company, and some

other of her women, lying still without any stirring: whereupon,

first jogging one, and then another, and calling them severally by

their names; shee found them bereft of understanding, and even as

if they were dead, their hearts were so quailed, and their feare so

over-ruling, which was no meane dismay to the poore Lady her selfe.

Neverthelesse, necessity now being her best counsallour, seeing her

selfe thus all alone, and not knowing in what place she was, she used

such meanes to them that were living, that (at the last) they came

better to knowledge of themselves. And being unable to guesse, what

was become of the men and Mariners, seeing the Ship also driven on the

sands, and filled with water: she began (with them) to lament most

grievously, and now it was about the houre of mid-day, before they

could descry any person on the shore, or any else to pitty them in so

urgent a necessity.

At length, noone being past, a Gentleman, named _Bajazeth_, attended

by divers of his followers on horseback, and returning from a Country

house belonging to him, chanced to ride by on the sands. Upon sight

of the Ship lying in that case, he imagined truely what had happened,

and commanded one of his men to enter aboord it, which (with some

difficulty) hee did, to resolve his Lord what remayned therein. There

hee found the faire young Lady, with such small store of company as

was left her, fearefully hidden under the prow of the Ship. So soone

as they saw him, they held up their hands, wofully desiring mercy

of him: but he perceiving their lamentable condition, and that hee

understoode not what they said to them; their affliction grew the

greater, labouring by signes and gestures, to give him knowledge of

their misfortune.

The servant, gathering what he could by their outward behaviour,

declared to his Lord, what hee had seene in the Ship: who caused the

women to be brought on shore, and all the precious things remaining

with them, conducting them with him to a place not farre off, where,

with foode and warmth he gave them comfort. By the rich garments which

the Lady was cloathed withall, hee reputed her to be a Gentlewoman

well derived, as the great reverence done to her by the rest, gave him

good reason to conceive. And although her lookes were pale and wan, as

also her person mightily altered, by the tempestuous violence of the

Sea: yet notwithstanding, she appeared faire and lovely in the eye of

_Bajazeth_, whereupon forthwith he determined, that if she were not

maried, he would enjoy her as his owne in mariage, or if he could not

winne her to be his wife, yet (at the least) shee should be his friend,

because shee remained now in his power.

_Bajazeth_ was a man of sterne lookes, rough and harsh both in speech

and behaviour: yet causing the Lady to be honourably used divers dayes

together, she became thereby well comforted and recovered. And seeing

her beauty to exceede all comparison, he was afflicted beyond measure,

that he could not understand her, nor she him, whereby hee could not

know, of whence or what she was. His amorous flames encreasing more

and more; by kinde, courteous, and affable actions, hee laboured to

compasse what he aymed at. But all his endeavour proved to no purpose,

for shee refused all familiar privacie with him, which so much the

more kindled the fury of his desire. This being well observed by the

Lady, having now remayned there a moneth & more, and collecting by the

customes of the Countrey, that she was among Turkes, and in such a

place, where although she were knowne, yet it would little advantage

her, beside, that long protraction of time would provoke _Bajazeth_, by

faire meanes or force to obtaine his will: she propounded to her selfe

(with magnanimity of spirit) to tread all misfortunes under her feete,

commaunding her women (whereof she had but three now remaining alive)

that they should not disclose what she was; except it were in some

such place, where manifest signes might yeeld hope of regaining their

liberty. Moreover, shee admonished them, stoutly to defend their honour

and chastity, affirming, that shee had absolutely resolved with her

selfe, that never any other should enjoy her, but her intended husband;

wherein her women did much commend her, promising to preserve their

reputation, according as she had commanded.

Day by day were the torments of _Bajazeth_ wonderfully augmented, yet

still his kinde offers scornefully refused, and he as farre off from

compassing his desires, as when hee first began to moove the matter:

wherefore, perceiving that all faire courses served to no effect, hee

resolved to compasse his purpose by craft and subtilty, reserving

rigorous extremity for his finall conclusion. And having once observed,

that wine was very pleasing to the Lady, she being never used to drinke

any at all, because (by her Countries law) it was forbidden her, and no

meane store having beene lately brought to _Bajazeth_ in a Barke of

_Geneway_: hee resolved to surprize her by meanes thereof, as a chiefe

Minister of _Venus_, to heate the coolest blood. And seeming now in his

outward behaviour, as if he had given over his amorous pursuite, and

which she strove by all her best endeavours to withstand: one night,

after a very majestick and solemne manner, he prepared a delicate and

sumptuous supper, whereto the Lady was invited: and hee had given

order, that hee who attended on her Cup, should serve her with many

wines compounded and mingled together, which hee accordingly performed,

as being cunning enough in such occasions.

_Alathiella_, mistrusting no such trecherie intended against her, and

liking the wines pleasing taste extraordinarily; dranke more then

stoode with with her precedent modest resolution, and forgetting all

her passed adversities, became very frollick and merry: so that seeing

some women daunce after the manner observed therein _Majorica_, she

also fell to dauncing, according to the _Alexandrian_ custome. Which

when _Bajazeth_ beheld, he imagined the victory to be more then halfe

wone, and his hearts desire very neere the obtaining: plying her still

with wine upon wine, and continuing this revelling the most part of

the night. At the length, the invited guests being all gone, the

Lady retired then to her chamber, attended on by none but _Bajazeth_

himselfe, and as familiarly, as if hee had beene one of her women, shee

no way contradicting his bold intrusion, so faire had wine over-gone

her sences, and prevailed against all modest bashfulnesse. These

wanton embracings, strange to her that had never tasted them before,

yet pleasing beyond measure, by reason of his trecherous advantage:

afterward drew on many more of the like carowsing meetings, without so

much as a thought of her passed miseries, or those more honourable and

chaste respects, that ever ought to attend on Ladies.

Now, Fortune envying these their stolne pleasures, and that she,

being the purposed wife of a potent King, should thus become the

wanton friend of a much meaner man, whose onely glory was her shame:

altered the course of their too common pastimes, by preparing a

farre greater infelicity for them. This _Bajazeth_ had a Brother,

aged about five and twenty yeares, of most compleate person, in the

very beauty of his time, and fresh as the sweetest smelling Rose, he

being named _Amurath_. After he had once seene this Lady (whose faire

feature pleased him beyond all womens else) she seemed in his suddaine

apprehension, both by her outward behaviour and civill apparancie,

highly to deserve his very best opinion, for she was not meanely entred

into his favour. Now he found nothing to his hinderance, in obtayning

the height of his hearts desire, but onely the strict custody and

guard, wherein his brother _Bajazeth_ kept her: which raised a cruell

conceit in his minde, whereon followed (not long after) as cruell an

effect.

It came to passe, that at the same time, in the Port of the Citie,

called _Caffa_, there lay then a Ship laden with Merchandize, being

bound thence for _Smirna_, of which Ship two _Geneway_ Merchants

(being brethren) were the Patrones and owners, who had given direction

for hoysing the sayles, to depart thence when the winde should serve.

With these two _Genewayes Amurath_ had covenanted, for himselfe to goe

abord the Ship the night ensuing, and the Lady in his company. When

night was come, having resolved with himselfe what was to be done:

in a disguised habite hee went to the house of _Bajazeth_, who stood

not any way doubtfull of him, and with certaine of his most faithfull

confederates (whom he had sworne to the intended action) they hid

themselves closely in the house. After some part of the night was

over-past, hee knowing the severall lodgings both of _Bajazeth_ and

_Alathiella_: slew his brother soundly sleeping, and seizing on the

Lady, whom hee found awake and weeping, threatned to kill her also,

if shee made any noyse. So, being well furnished, with the greater

part of costly Jewels belonging to _Bajazeth_, unheard or undescried

by anybody, they went presently to the Port, and there, without any

further delay, _Amurath_ and the Lady were received into the Ship, but

his companions returned backe againe; when the Mariners, having their

sayles ready set, and the winde aptly fitting for them, launched forth

merrily into the maine.

You may well imagine, that the Lady was extraordinarily afflicted

with griefe for her first misfortune, and now this second chancing so

suddainly, must needes offend her in greater manner: but _Amurath_

did so kindly comfort her, with milde, modest, and manly perswasions;

that all remembrance of _Bajazeth_ was quickly forgotten, and shee

became converted to lovely demeanour, even when Fortune prepared a

fresh misery for her, as not satisfied with those whereof shee had

tasted already. The Lady being enriched with unequalled beauty (as wee

have often related before) her behaviour also in such exquisite and

commendable kinde expressed: the two brethren, owners of the Ship,

became so deepely enamoured of her, that forgetting all their more

serious affaires, they studied by all possible meanes, to be pleasing

and gracious in her eye, yet with such a carefull cariage, that

_Amurath_ should neither see or suspect it.

When the brethren had imparted their loves extremity each to the

other, and plainely perceived, that though they were equally in their

fiery torments, yet their desires were utterly contrary: they began

severally to consider, that gaine gotten by Merchandize, admitted

an equall and honest division, but this purchase was of a different

quality, pleading the title of a sole possession, without any partner

or intruder. Fearefull and jealous were they both, least either should

ayme at the others intention, yet willing enough to shake hands, in

ridding _Amurath_ out of the way, who onely was the hinderer of their

hopes. Whereupon they concluded together, that on a day, when the

Ship sayled on very swiftly, and _Amurath_ was sitting upon the deck,

studiously observing, how the billowes combatted each with other, and

not suspecting any such treason in them towards him: stealing softly

behinde him, suddainly they threw him into the Sea, the Ship fleeting

on above halfe a leagues distance, before any perceived his fall into

the Sea.

When the Lady heard thereof, and saw no likely meanes of recovering

him againe, she fell to her wonted teares and lamentations: but the

two Lovers came quickly to comfort her, using kinde words and pithie

perswasions (albeit shee understood them not, or at the most very

little) to appease the violence of her passions; and, to speake

uprightly, shee did not so much bemoane the loss of _Amurath_, as

the multiplying of her owne misfortunes, still one succeeding in the

necke of another. After divers long and well delivered Orations,

as also very faire and courteous behaviour, they had indifferently

pacified her complaynings: they began to discourse and commune with

themselves, which of them had most right and title to _Alathiella_, and

(consequently) ought to enjoy her. Now that _Amurath_ was gone, each

pleaded his priviledge to be as good as the others, both in the Ship,

goods, and all advantages else whatsoever happening: which the elder

brother absolutely denied, alleadging first his propriety of birth,

a reason sufficient, whereby his younger ought to give him place;

likewise his right and interest both in ship and goods, to be more then

the others, as being heire to his Father, and therefore in justice

to be highest preferred. Last of all, that his strength onely threw

_Amurath_ into the Sea, and therefore gave him the full possession of

his prize, no right at all remaining to his brother.

From temperate and calme speeches, they fell to frownes and ruder

language, which heated their blood in such violent manner, that

forgetting brotherly affection, and all respect of Parents or friends,

they drew forth their Poniards, stabbing each other so often and

desperately, that before any in the shippe had the power or meanes to

part them, both of them being very dangerously wounded, the younger

brother fell downe dead, the elder being in little better case, by

receiving so many perilous hurts, remained (neverthelesse) living. This

unhappy accident displeased the Lady very highly, seeing her selfe

thus left alone, without the help or counsell of any body, and fearing

greatly, least the anger of the two Brethrens Parents and Friends,

should now be laide to her charge, and thereon follow severity of

punishment. But the earnest entreaties of the wounded surviver, and

their arrivall at _Smirna_ soone after, delivered him from the danger

of death, gave some ease to her sorrow, and there with him shee went on

shore.

Remaining there with him in a common Inne, while he continued in the

Chirurgians cure, the fame of her singular and much admired beauty was

soone spread abroade throughout all the City; and amongst the rest, to

the hearing of the Prince of _Ionia_, who lately before (on very urgent

occasions) was come to _Smirna_. This rare rumour, made him desirous

to see her, and after he had seene her, shee seemed farre fairer in

his eye, then common report had noysed her to be, and suddenly grew

so enamored of her, that shee was the onely Idea of his best desires.

Afterward, understanding in what manner shee was brought thither, he

devised how to make her his owne; practising all possible meanes to

accomplish it: which when the wounded brothers Parents heard of,

they not onely made tender of their willingnesse therein, but also

immediately sent her to him: a matter most highly pleasing to the

Prince, and likewise to the Lady her selfe; because shee thought now to

be freed from no meane perill, which (otherwise) the wounded Merchants

friends might have inflicted on her.

The Prince perceiving, that beside her matchlesse beauty, shee had

the true character of royall behaviour; greeved the more, that he

could not be further informed of what Countrey shee was. His opinion

being so stedfastly grounded, that (lesse then Noble) shee could not

be, was a motive to set a keener edge on his affection towards her,

yet not to enjoy her as in honourable and loving complement onely,

but as his espoused Lady and Wife. Which appearing to her by apparant

demonstrations, though entercourse of speech wanted to confirme it;

remembrance of her so many sad disasters, and being now in a most noble

and respected condition, her comfort enlarged it selfe with a setled

hope, her feares grew free from any more molestations, and her beauties

became the onely theame and argument of private and publike conference

in all _Natolia_, that (welneere) there was no other discourse, in any

Assembly whatsoever.

Hereupon the Duke of _Athens_, being young, goodly, and valiant of

person, as also a neere Kinsman to the Prince, had a desire to see

her; and under colour of visiting his noble Kinsman, (as oftentimes

before he had done) attended with an honourable traine, to _Smirna_

he came, being there most royally welcommed, and bounteously feasted.

Within some few dayes of his there being, conference passed betweene

them, concerning the rare beauty of the Lady; the Duke questioning the

Prince, whether shee was of such wonder, as fame had acquainted the

World withall? Whereto the Prince replied; Much more (noble Kinsman)

then can be spoken of, as your owne eyes shall witnesse, without

crediting any words of mine. The Prince solliciting the Duke thereto

very earnestly, they both went together to see her; and shee having

before heard of their comming, adorned her selfe the more majestically,

entertaining them with ceremonious demeanour (after her Countries

custome) which gave most gracious and unspeakable acceptation.

At the Princes affable motion, shee sate downe betweene them, their

delight being beyond expression, to behold her, but abridged of much

more felicity, because they understood not any part of her language:

so that they could have no other conference, but by lookes and outward

signes onely; and the more they beheld her, the more they marvelled at

her rare perfections, especially the Duke, who hardly credited that

shee was a mortall creature. Thus not perceiving, what deepe carowses

of amorous poyson, his eyes dranke downe by the meere sight of her, yet

thinking thereby onely to be satisfied; he lost both himselfe and his

best sences, growing in love (beyond all measure) with her. When the

Prince and he were parted from her, and hee was at his owne private

amorous meditations in his Chamber; he reputed the Prince far happier

then any man else whatsoever, by the enjoying of such a peerelesse

beauty.

After many intricate and distracted cogitations, which molested his

braines incessantly, regarding more his loves wanton heate, then

reason, kindred, and honourable hospitality; he resolutely determined

(whatsoever ensued thereupon) to bereave the Prince of his faire

felicity, that none but himselfe might possesse such a treasure,

which he esteemed to be the height of all happinesse. His courage

being conformable to his bad intent, with all hast it must be put in

execution; so that equity, justice, and honesty, being quite abandoned,

nothing but subtill stratagems were now his meditations. On a day,

according to a fore compacted treachery, which he had ordered with a

Gentleman of the Princes Chamber, who was named _Churiacy_; he prepared

his horses to be in readinesse, and dispatched all his affaires else

for a sudden departure. The night following, he was secretly conveyed

by the said _Churiacy_, and a friend of his with him (being both

armed) into the Princes Chamber, where he (while the Lady was soundly

sleeping) stood at a gazing window towards the Sea, naked in his shirt,

to take the coole ayre, because the season was exceeding hot. Having

formerly enstructed his friend what was to be done, verie softly they

stept to the Prince, and running their weapons quite thorow his body,

immediately they threw him forth of the window.

Here you are to observe, that the Pallace was seated on the Sea shore,

and very high, and the window whereat the Prince then stood looking

foorth, was directly over divers houses, which the long continuance

of time, and incessant beating on by the surges of the Sea, had so

defaced and ruined them, as sildome they were visited by any person;

whereof the Duke having knowledge before, was the easier perswaded,

that the falling of the Princes body in so vaste a place, could neither

be heard, or descried by any. The Duke and his companion having thus

executed what they came for, proceeded yet in their cunning a little

further; casting a strangling coard about the necke of _Churiacy_,

seeming as if they hugged and embraced him: but drew it with so maine

strength, that he never spake one word after, and so threw him downe

after the Prince.

This done, and plainely perceiving that they were not heard or seene,

either by the Lady, or any other: the Duke tooke a light in his hand,

going on to the bed, where the Lady lay most sweetely sleeping; whom

the more he beheld, the more he admired and commended: but if in her

garments shee appeared so pleasing, what did shee now in a bed of

such state and Majesty? Being no way daunted by his so late committed

sinne, but swimming rather in surfet of joy, his hands all bloody,

and his soule much more uglie; he laide him downe on the bed by her,

bestowing infinite kisses and embraces on her, she supposing him to

be the Prince all this while, nor opening her eyes to be otherwise

resolved. But this was not the delight he aimed at, neither did he

thinke it safe for him, to delay time with any longer tarying there:

wherefore having his agents at hand fit and convenient for the purpose,

they surprized her in such sort, that she could not make any noise

or outcry, and carrying her thorough the same false posterne, whereat

themselves had entred, laying her in a Princely litter; away they went

with all possible speede, not tarrying in any place, untill they were

arrived neere _Athens_. But thither hee would not bring her, because

himselfe was a married man, but rather to a goodly Castle of his owne,

not distant farre off from the City; where he caused her to be kept

very secretly (to her no little greefe and sorrow) yet attended on and

served in most honourable manner.

The Gentlemen usually attending on the Prince, having waited all the

next morning till noone, in expectation of his rising, and hearing no

stirring in the Chamber: did thrust at the doore, which was but onely

closed together, & finding no body there, they presently imagined,

that he was privately gone to some other place, where (with the Lady,

whom he so deerely affected) hee might remaine some few dayes for

his more contentment, and so they relied verily perswaded. Within

some fewe dayes following, while no other doubt came in question, the

Princes Foole, entering by chance among the ruined houses, where lay

the dead bodies of the Prince and _Churiacy_: tooke hold of the corde

about _Churiacyes_ necke, and so went along dragging it after him. The

bodye being knowne to many, with no meane mervaile, how hee should bee

murthered in so vile manner: by giftes and faire perswasions they wonne

him, to bring them to the place where hee found it. And there (to the

no little greefe of all the Cittie) they found the Princes body also,

which they caused to bee interred with all the most majesticke pomp

that might bee.

Upon further inquisition, who should commit so horrid a deed,

perceyving likewise, that the Duke of _Athens_ was not to be found, but

was closely gone: they judged (according to the truth) that he had his

hand in this bloody businesse, and had carried away the Lady with him.

Immediately, they elected the Princes brother to bee their Lord and

Soveraigne, inciting him to revenge so horrid a wrong, and promising to

assist him with their utmost power. The new chosen Prince being assured

afterward, by other more apparant and remarkeable proofes, that his

people informed him with nothing but truth: sodainly, and according as

they had concluded, with the helpe of neighbours, kindred, and friends,

collected from divers places; he mustred a goodly and powerful army,

marching on towards _Athens_, to make war against the Duke.

No sooner heard he of this warlike preparation made against him, but he

likewise levied forces for his owne defence, and to his succour came

many great States: among whom, the Emperor of _Constantinople_ sent his

Sonne _Constantine_, attended on by his Nephew _Emanuell_, with troopes

of faire and towardly force, who were most honourably welcommed and

entertained by the Duke, but much more by the Dutchesse, because she

was their sister in law.

Military provision thus proceeding on daily more and more, the Dutches

making choise of a fit and convenient houre, took these two Princes

with her to a with-drawing Chamber; and there in flouds of teares

flowing from her eyes, wringing her hands, and sighing incessantly,

shee recounted the whole History, occasion of the warre, and how

dishonourably the Duke had dealt with her about this strange woman,

whom he purposed to keepe in despight of her, as thinking that she knew

nothing thereof, and complaining very earnestly unto them, entreated

that for the Dukes honour, and her comfort, they would give their best

assistance in this case.

The two young Lords knew all this matter, before shee thus reported

it to them; and therefore, without staying to listen her any longer,

but comforting her so wel as they could, with promise of their best

employed paines: being informed by her, in what place the Lady was

so closely kept, they tooke their leave, and parted from her. Often

they had heard the Lady much commended, and her incomparable beauty

highly extolled, yea, even by the Duke himselfe; which made them the

more desirous to see her: wherefore earnestly they solicited him, to

let them have a sight of her, and he (forgetting what happened to the

Prince, by shewing her so unadvisedly to him) made them promise to

grant their request. Causing a magnificent dinner to be prepared, & in

a goodly garden, at the Castle where the Lady was kept: on the morrow

morning, attended on by a small train, away they rode to dine with her.

_Constantine_ being seated at the Table, he began (as one confounded

with admiration) to observe her judiciously, affirming secretly to his

soule that he had never seene so compleat a woman before; and allowing

it for justice, that the Duke, or any other whosoever, if (to enjoy

so rare a beauty) they had committed treason, or any mischiefe else

beside, yet in reason they ought to be held excused. Nor did he bestow

so many lookes upon her, but his prayses infinitely surpassed them,

as thinking that he could not sufficiently commend her, following the

Duke step by step in affection: for being now growne amorous of her,

and remembrance of the intended warre utterly abandoned; no other

thoughts could come neerer him, but how to bereave the Duke of her, yet

concealing his love, and not imparting it to any one.

While his fancies were thus amorously set on fire, the time came, that

they must make head against the Prince, who already was marching within

the Dukes Dominions: wherefore the Duke _Constantine_ and all the rest,

according to a counsell held among them, went to defend certaine of the

frontiers, to the end that the Prince might passe no further. Remaining

there divers dayes together, _Constantine_, who could thinke on nothing

else, but the beautifull Lady, considered with himselfe, that while the

Duke was now so far off from her, it was an easie matter to compasse

his intent: hereupon, the better to colour his present returne to

_Athens_, he seemed to be surprized with a sudden extreame sicknesse,

in regard whereof (by the Dukes free lisence, and leaving all his power

to his Cousen _Emanuel_) forthwith he journeyed backe to _Athens_.

After some conference had with his sister, concerning her dishonourable

wrongs endured at his hands only by the Lady: he solemnly protested,

that if shee were so pleased, he would aide her powerfully in the

matter, by taking her from the place where she was, and never more

afterward, to be seene in that Countrey any more.

The Dutchesse being faithfully perswaded, that he would doe this

onely for her sake, and not in any affection he bare to the Lady,

made answer that it highly pleased her; alwayes provided, that it

might be performed in such sort, as the Duke her Husband should

never understand, that ever shee gave any consent thereto, which

_Constantine_ sware unto her by many deep oathes, whereby she referred

all to his owne disposition. _Constantine_ hereupon secretly prepared

in readinesse a subtill Barke, sending it (in an evening) neere to the

garden where the Lady resorted; having first informed the people which

were in it, fully in the businesse that was to be done. Afterward,

accompanied with some other of his attendants, hee went to the Palace

to the Lady, where he was gladly entertained, not only by such as

waited on her, but also by the Lady her selfe.

Leading her along by the arme towards the Garden, attended on by two of

her servants, and two of his owne, seeming as if he was sent from the

Duke, to conferre with her: they walked alone to a Port opening on the

Sea, which standing ready open, upon a signe given by him to one of his

complices, the Barke was brought close to the shore, and the Lady being

suddenly seized on, was immediately conveyed into it; and he returning

backe to her people, with his sword drawne in his hand, saide: Let no

man stirre, or speake a word, except he be willing to loose his life:

for I intend not to rob the Duke of his faire friend, but to expel the

shame and dishonour which he hath offered to my Sister, no one being

so hardy as to returne him any answer. Aboard went _Constantine_ with

his consorts, and sitting neer to the Lady, who wrung her hands, and

wept bitterly; he commanded the Marriners to launch forth, flying away

on the wings of the wind, till about the breake of day following, they

arrived at _Melasso_. There they tooke landing, and reposed on shore

for some few dayes, _Constantine_ labouring to comfort the Lady, even

as if shee had been his owne Sister, shee having good cause to curse

her infortunate beauty.

Going aboard the Barke againe, within few dayes they came to _Setalia_,

and there fearing the reprehension of his Father, and least the Ladie

should be taken from him; it pleased _Constantine_ to make his stay,

as in a place of no meane security. And (as before) after much kinde

behaviour used towards the Lady, without any meanes in her selfe to

redresse the least of all these great extremities: shee became more

milde and affable, for discontentment did not a jot quaile her.

While occurrences passed on in this manner, it fortuned, that _Osbech_

the King of _Turky_ (who was in continuall war with the Emperour)

came by accident to _Laiazzo_: and hearing there how lasciviously

_Constantine_ spent his time in _Setalia_, with a Lady which he

had stolne, being but weake and slenderly guarded; in the night

with certaine well provided ships, his men & he entred the Towne, &

surprized many people in their beds, before they knew of their enemies

comming, killing such as stood upon their defence against them, (among

whom was _Constantine_) and burning the whole Towne, brought their

booty and prisoners aboard their ships, wherewith they returned backe

to _Laiazzo_. Being thus come to _Laiazzo, Osbech_, who was a brave and

gallant young man, upon a review of the pillage; found the faire Lady,

whom hee knew to be the beloved of _Constantine_, because shee was

found lying on his bed. Without any further delay, he made choyse of

her to be his Wife; causing his nuptials to be honourably sollemnized,

and many moneths hee lived there in great joy with her.

But before occasions grew to this effect, the Emperour made a

confederacy with _Bassano_, King of _Cappadocia_, that hee should

descend with his forces; one way upon _Osbech_, and hee would assault

him with his power on the other. But he could not so conveniently bring

this to passe, because the Emperour would not yeeld to _Bassano_, in

any unreasonable matter he demanded. Neverthelesse, when he understood

what had happened to his Son (for whom his griefe was beyond all

measure) he granted the King of _Cappadociaes_ request, solliciting

him with all instancy, to be the more speedy in assailing _Osbech_.

It was not long, before hee heard of this conjuration made against

him; and therefore speedily mustered up all his forces, ere he would

be encompassed by two such potent Kings, and marched on to meete the

King of _Cappadocia_, leaving his Lady and Wife, (for her safety) at

_Laiazzo_, in the custodie of a true and loyall servant of his.

Within a short while after, he drew neere the Campe belonging to the

King of _Cappadocia_, where boldly he gave him battell; chancing

therein to be slaine, his Army broken and discomfited, by meanes

whereof the King of _Cappadocia_ remaining Conquerour, marched on

towards _Laiazzo_, every one yeelding him obeysance all the way as

he went. In the meane space, the servant to _Osbech_, who was named

_Antiochus_, and with whom the faire Lady was left in guard; although

hee was aged, yet seeing shee was so extraordinarily beautifull, he

fell in love with her, forgetting the sollemne vowes he had made to

his Master. One happinesse hee had in this case to helpe him, namely,

that he understood and could speake her language, a matter of no meane

comfort to her; who constrainedly had lived divers yeeres together,

in the state of a deafe or dumbe woman, because every where else they

understood her not, nor shee them, but by shewes and signes.

This benefit of familiar conference, beganne to embolden his hopes,

elevate his courage, and make him seeme more youthfull in his owne

opinion, then any ability of body could speake unto him, or promise him

in the possession of her, who was so farre beyond him, and so unequall

to be enjoyed by him; yet to advance his hopes a great deale higher,

newes came, that _Osbech_ was vanquished and slaine, and that _Bassano_

made everie where havocke of all: whereon they concluded together, not

to tarrie there any longer, but storing themselves with the goods of

_Osbech_, secretly they departed thence to _Rhodes_. Being seated there

in some indifferent abiding, it came to passe, that _Antiochus_ fell

into a deadly sicknesse, to whom came a _Cyprian_ Merchant, one much

esteemed by him, as being an intimate friend and kinde acquaintance,

and in whom hee reposed no small confidence. Feeling his sicknesse

to encrease more and more upon him dayly, hee determined, not onely

to leave such wealth as hee had to this Merchant, but the faire Lady

likewise; and calling them both to his beds side, he brake his minde

unto them in this manner.

Deare Love, and my most worthily respected friend, I perceive plainly

and infallibly, that I am drawing neere unto my end, which much

discontenteth me; because my hope was, to have lived longer in this

world, for the enjoying of your kinde and most esteemed company. Yet

one thing maketh my death very pleasing and welcome to me, namely,

that lying thus in my bed of latest comfort in this life: I shall

expire and finish my course, in the armes of those two persons, whom

I most affected in all this world, as you my ever dearest friend, and

you faire Lady, whom (since the very first sight of you) I loved and

honoured in my soule. Irksome and very grievous it is to me, that (if I

dye) I shall leave you here a stranger, without the counsaile and helpe

of any body: and yet much more offensive would it become, if I had not

such a friend as you here present, who I am faithfully perswaded, will

have the like care and respect of her (even for my sake) as of myselfe,

if time had allotted my longer tarying here. And therefore (worthy

friend) most earnestly I desire you, that if I dye, all mine affaires

and she may remaine to your trusty care, as being (by my selfe)

absolutely commended to your providence, and so to dispose both of the

one and other, as may best agree with the comfort of my soule. As for

you (choise beauty) I humbly entreate, that after my death you would

not forget mee, to the end, I may make my vaunt in another world, that

I was affected here, by the onely fairest Lady that ever Nature framed.

If of these two things you will give me assurance; I shall depart from

you with no meane comfort.

The friendly Merchant, and likewise the Lady, hearing these words,

wept both bitterly, and after hee had given over speaking: kindly

they comforted him, with promise and solemne vowes, that if hee dyed,

all should be performed which he had requested. Within a short while

after, he departed out of this life, and they gave him very honourable

buriall, according to that Country custome. Which being done, the

Merchant dispatching all his affaires at _Rhodes_, was desirous to

returne home to _Cyprus_, in a Carrack of the Catelans then there

being: moving the Lady in the matter, to understand how shee stood

enclined, because urgent occasions called him thence to _Cyprus_. The

Lady made answere, that she was willing to passe thither with him,

hoping for the love hee bare to deceased _Antiochus_, that he would

respect her as his Sister. The Merchant was willing to give her any

contentment, but yet resolved her, that under the title of being his

Sister, it would be no warrant of security to them both; wherefore

hee rather advised her, to stile him as her husband, and hee would

terme her his wife, and so hee should be sure to defend her from all

injuries whatsoever.

Being abord the Carrack, they had a Cabine and small bed conveniently

allowed them, where they slept together, that they might the better

be reputed as man and wife; for, to passe otherwise, would have beene

very dangerous to them both. And questionlesse, their faithfull promise

made at _Rhodes_ to _Antiochus_, sicknesse on the Sea, and mutuall

respect they had of each others credit, was a constant restraint to all

wanton desires, and a motive rather to incite chastity, then otherwise,

and so (I hope) you are perswaded of them. But howsoever, the windes

blewe merrily, the Carrack sayled lustily, and (by this time) they are

arrived at _Baffa_, where the _Cyprian_ Merchant dwelt, and where shee

continued a long while with him, no one knowing otherwise, but that

shee was his wife indeede.

Now it fortuned, that there arrived also at the same _Baffa_ (about

some especiall occasions of his) a Gentleman, whose name was

_Antigonus_, well stept into yeares, and better stored with wisedome

then wealth: because by medling in many matters, while hee followed the

service of the King of _Cyprus_, Fortune had beene very adverse to him.

This ancient Gentleman, passing (on a day) by the house where the Lady

lay, and the Merchant being gone about his businesse into _Armenia_:

hee chanced to see the Lady at a window of the house, and because shee

was very beautifull, he observed her the more advisedly, recollecting

his sences together, that doubtlesse he had seene her before, but in

what place hee could not remember. The Lady her selfe likewise, who

had so long time beene Fortunes tennis ball, and the terme of her

many miseries drawing now neere ending: began to conceive (upon the

very first sight of _Antigonus_) that she had formerly seene him in

_Alexandria_, serving her Father in place of great degree. Hereupon,

a suddaine hope perswaded her, that by the advice and furtherance of

this Gentleman, she should recover her wonted Royall condition: and

opportunity now aptly fitting her, by the absence of her pretended

Merchant husband, she sent for him, requesting to have a few words with

him.

When he was come into the house, she bashfully demanded of him, if he

was not named _Antigonus_ of _Famagosta_, because shee knew one (like

him) so called? Hee answered, that he was so named, saying moreover:

Madame, me thinkes that I should know you, but I cannot remember

where I have seene you, wherefore I would entreate (if it might stand

with your good liking) that my memory might be quickned with better

knowledge of you. The Lady perceiving him to be the man indeede,

weeping incessantly, she threw her armes about his necke, and soone

after asked _Antigonus_ (who stood as one confounded with mervaile) if

hee had never seene her in _Alexandria_? Upon these words, _Antigonus_

knew her immediatly to be _Alathiella_, daughter to the great Soldane,

who was supposed (long since) to be drowned in the Sea: and offering

to doe her such reverence as became him, she would not permit him, but

desired, that he would be assistant to her, and willed him also to sit

downe a while by her.

A goodly Chaire being brought him, in very humble manner he demanded of

her, what had become of her in so long a time: because it was verily

beleeved throughout all Egypt, that shee was drowned in the Sea. I

would it had bin so, answered the Lady, rather then to leade such a

life as I have done; and I thinke my Father himselfe would wish it so,

if ever he should come to the knowledge thereof. With these words the

teares rained downe her faire cheekes: wherefore _Antigonus_ thus spake

unto her. Madame, discomfort not your selfe before you have occasion,

but (if you be so pleased) relate your passed accidents to mee, and

what the course of your life hath bene: perhaps, I shall give you such

friendly advice as may stand you in sted, and no way be injurious to

you.