She would have spoken further, to have enlarged and confirmed her

discourse, when Pamela, whose cheeks were dyed in the beautifullest

grain of virtuous anger, with eyes which glistered {342} forth beams

of disdain, thus interrupted her. “Peace, wicked woman, peace,

unworthy to breathe, that dost not acknowledge the breath giver; most

unworthy to have a tongue which speaketh against him, through whom

thou speakest: keep your affection to yourself, which like a bemired

dog, would defile with fawning. You say yesterday was as to-day. O

foolish woman, and most miserably foolish, since wit makes you

foolish; what doth that argue but that there is a constancy in the

everlasting governor? Would you have an inconstant God, since we count

a man foolish that is inconstant? He is not seen, you say, and would

you think him a God who might be seen by so wicked eyes as yours?

Which yet might see enough if they were not like such, who for sport’s

sake, willingly hoodwink themselves to receive blows the easier. But

though I speak to you without any hope of fruit in so rotten a heart,

and there be nobody else here to judge of my speeches, yet be thou my

witness, O captivity, that my ears shall not be willingly guilty of my

creator’s blasphemy. You say because we know not the causes of things,

therefore fear was the mother of superstition; nay, because we know

that each effect hath a cause that hath engendered a true and lively

devotion. For this goodly work of which we are, and in which we live,

hath not his being by chance; on which opinion it is beyond marvel, by

what chance any brain could stumble. For if it be eternal, as you

would seem to conceive of it, eternity and chance are things

unsufferable together. For that is chanceable which happeneth; and if

it happen, there was a time before it happened when it might not have

happened; or else it did not happen, and, if so chanceable, not

eternal. And as absurd it is to think, that if it had a beginning, his

beginning was derived from chance: for chance could never make all

things of nothing; and there were substances before, which by chance

should meet to make up this work; thereon follows another bottomless

pit of absurdities. For then those substances must needs have been

from ever, and so eternal: and that eternal causes should bring forth

chanceable effects, is as sensible as that the sun should be the

author of darkness. Again, if it were chanceable, then was it not

necessary; whereby you take away all consequence. But we see in all

things, in some respect or other, necessity of consequence: therefore

in reason we must needs know that the causes were necessary. Lastly,

chance is variable, or else it is not to be called chance: but we see

this work is steady and permanent. If nothing but chance had glued

those pieces of this All, the heavy parts would have gone infinitely

downward, the light infinitely upward, and so never have met to have

made up this goodly body. For before there was a heaven, or earth,

there was neither a heaven to stay the height of the ring, or an

earth, {343} which (in respect of the round walls of heaven) should

become a centre. Lastly, perfect order, perfect beauty, perfect

constancy, if these be the children of chance, let wisdom be counted

the root of wickedness. But, you will say, it is so by nature; as much

as if you said, it is so, because it is so. If you mean of many

natures conspiring together, as in a popular government to establish

this fair estate; as if the elementish and ethereal parts should in

their town-house set down the bounds of each one’s office: then

consider what follows, that there must needs have been a wisdom which

made them concur: for their natures being absolutely contrary, in

nature rather would have sought each others’ ruin, than have served as

well-consorted parts to such an unexpressible harmony. For that

contrary things should meet to make up a perfection without force and

wisdom above their powers, is absolutely impossible unless that you

will fly to that hissed-out opinion of chance again. But you may,

perhaps, affirm that one universal nature, which hath been for ever,

is the knitting together of these many parts to such an excellent

unity. If you mean a nature of wisdom, goodness and providence, which

knows what it doth; then say you that which I seek of you, and cannot

conclude those blasphemies with which you defiled your mouth, and mine

ears: but if you mean a nature, as we speak of the fire, which goeth

upward, it knows not why; and of the nature of the sea, which in

ebbing and flowing seems to observe so just a dance, and yet

understands no music, it is but still the same absurdity superscribed

with another title. For this word, One, being attributed to that which

is All, is but one mingling of many, and many ones; as in a less

matter, when we say one kingdom which contains many cities, or one

city which contains many persons, wherein the under-ones, if there be

not a superior power and wisdom, cannot by nature have regard to any

preservation but of themselves: no more we see they do, since the

water willingly quenches the fire, and drowns the earth, so far as

they from a conspired unity; but that a right heavenly nature indeed,

as it were unnaturing them, doth so bridle them. Again, it is as

absurd in nature, that from an unity many contraries should proceed

still kept in an unity; as that from the number of contrarieties an

unity should arise. I say still, if you banish both a singularity and

plurality of judgment from among them, then (if so earthly a mind can

lift itself up so high) do but conceive how a thing whereto you give

the highest and most excellent kind of being, which is eternity, can

be of a base and vilest degree of being, and next to a not being:

which is so to be, as not to enjoy his own being? I will not here call

all your senses to witness, which can hear nor see nothing, which

yields not most evident evidence of {344} the unspeakableness of that

wisdom: each thing being directed to an end, and an end of

preservation, so proper effects of judgment, as speaking and laughing,

are of mankind. But what mad fury can ever so inveigle any conceit, as

to see our mortal and corruptible selves to have a reason, and that

this universality, whereof we are but the least pieces, should be

utterly devoid thereof: as if one should say, that one’s foot might be

wise, and himself foolish: this heard I once alleged against such a

godless mind as yours, who being driven to acknowledge this beastly

absurdity that our bodies should be better than the whole world, if it

had the knowledge whereof the other were void; he sought, not able to

answer directly, to sift it off in this sort; and if that reason were

true, then must it follow also that the world must have in it a

spirit, that could write and read too, and be learned, since that was

in us commendable. Wretched fool, not considering that books be but

supplies of defects, and so are praised because they help our want,

and therefore cannot be incident to the eternal intelligence, which

need no recording of opinions to confirm his knowledge, no more than

the sun wants wax to be the fuel of his glorious lightfulness. This

world therefore cannot otherwise consist but by a mind of wisdom,

which governs it; which whether you will allow to be the creator

thereof, as undoubtedly he is, or the soul and governor thereof, most

certain it is, that whether he govern all, or make all, his power is

above either his creatures, or his government. And if his power be

above all things, then consequently it must needs be infinite, since

there is nothing above it to limit it. For beyond which there is

nothing, must needs be boundless and infinite: if his power be

infinite, then likewise must his knowledge be infinite: for else there

should be an infinite proportion of power which he should not know how

to use, the unsensibleness whereof I think even you can conceive: and

if infinite, then must nothing, no not the estate of flies, which you

with so unsavoury scorn did jest at, be known unto him. For if there

were, then there were his knowledge bounded, and so not infinite: if

his knowledge and power be infinite, then must needs his goodness and

justness march in the same rank: for infiniteness of power and

knowledge, without like measure of goodness must necessarily bring

forth destruction and ruin, and not ornament and preservation. Since

then there is a God, and an all-knowing God, so as he seeth into the

darkness of all natural secrets, which is the heart of man; and sees

therein the deepest dissembled thoughts, nay sees the thought before

they be thought: since he is just to exercise his might, and mighty to

perform his justice, assure thyself, most wicked woman, that has so

plaguily a corrupted mind that thou canst not keep thy sickness to

thyself, but must {345} most wickedly infect others; assure thyself, I

say, for what I say depends on everlasting and unremovable causes,

that the time will come when thou shalt know that power by feeling it;

when thou shalt see His wisdom in the manifesting thy ugly

shamefulness, and shalt only perceive him to have been a creator in

thy destruction.”

Thus she said, thus she ended, with so fair a majesty of unconquered

virtue, that captivity might seem to have authority over tyranny: so

foully was the filthiness of impiety discovered by the shining of her

unstained goodness, so far as either Cecropia saw indeed, or else the

guilty amazement of a self-excusing conscience made her eyes untrue

judges of their natural object, that there was a light more than

human, which gave a lustre to her perfections. But Cecropia, like a

bat, which though it have eyes to discern that there is a sun, yet

hath so evil eyes that it cannot delight in the sun, found a truth but

could not love it. But as great persons are wont to make the wrong

they have done, to be a cause to do the more wrong, her knowledge rose

to no higher point, but to envy a worthier; and her will was no

otherwise bent, but the more to hate, the more she found her enemy

provided against her. Yet all the while she spoke, though with eyes

cast like a horse that would strike at the stirrup, and with colour

which blushed through yellowness, she sat rather still than quiet, and

after her speech rather muttered than replied: for the war of

wickedness in herself, brought forth disdainful pride to resist

cunning dissimulation; so that, saying little more unto her, but that

she should have leisure enough better to bethink herself, she went

away repining, but not repenting, condemning greatly, as she thought,

her son’s over-feeble humbleness, and purposing to egg him forward to

a course of violence. For herself, determining to deal with neither of

them both any more in manner of a suitor: for what majesty of virtue

did in the one, that did silent humbleness in the other. But finding

her son over-apt to lay both condemnation, and execution of sorrow

upon himself, she sought to mitigate his mind with feigned delays of

comfort, who (having this inward overthrow in himself) was the more

vexed that he could not utter the rage thereof upon his outward

enemies.

But Basilius, taught by the last day’s trial, what dangerous effects

chosen courages can bring forth, rather used the spade than the sword;

or the sword, but to defend the spade, girding about the whole town

with trenches; which beginning a good way off from the town, with a

number of well-directed pioneers, he still carried before him, till

they came to a near distance, where he built forts, one answering the

other, in such sort, as it was a pretty consideration in the

discipline of war, to see building used for the {346} instrument of

ruin, and the assailer intrenched as if he was besieged. But many

sallies did Amphialus make to hinder their working. But they

(exercising more melancholy than choler in their resolution) made him

find, that if by the advantage of the place, few are able to defend

themselves from many, that many must needs have power (making

themselves strong in seat) to repel few, referring the revenge rather

to the end, than to a present requital. Yet oftentimes they dealt some

blows in light skirmishes, each side having a strong retiring place,

and rather fighting with many alarms to vex the enemy, than for any

hope of great success.

Which every way was a tedious cumber to the impatient courage of

Amphialus; till the fame of this war, bringing thither diverse, both

strangers and subjects, as well of princely, as noble houses, the

gallant Phalantus, who refrained his sportful delights as then, to

serve Basilius (whom he honoured for received honours) when he had

spent some time in considering the Arcadian manner in marching,

encamping and fighting, and had learned in what points of government

and obedience their discipline differed from others, and so had

satisfied his mind in the knowledges, both for the cutting off the

enemy’s helps, and furnishing one’s self, which Basilius’s orders

could deliver unto him, his young spirits (weary of wanting cause to

be weary) desired to keep his valour in knowledge by some private act,

since the public policy restrained him; the rather, because his old

mistress Artesia might see whom she had so lightly forsaken: and

therefore demanding and obtaining leave of Basilius, he caused a

herald to be furnished with apparel of his office, and tokens of a

peaceable message, and so sent him to the gate of the town to demand

audience of Amphialus: who, understanding thereof, caused him both

safely and courteously to be brought into his presence: who, making

lowly reverence unto him, presented his letters, desiring Amphialus,

that whatsoever they contained, he would consider he was only the

bearer, and not the inditer. Amphialus with noble gentleness assured

him both by honourable speeches, and a demeanour which answered for

him, that his revenge, whensoever, should sort unto itself a higher

subject. But opening the letters, he found them to speak in this

manner:

Phalantus of Corinth, to Amphialus of Arcadia, sendeth the greeting

of a hateless enemy. The liking of martial matter without any dislike

of your person hath brought me rather to the company than to the mind

of your besiegers: where languishing in idleness, I desire to refresh

my mind with some exercise of arms, which might make known the doers,

with delight of the beholders. Therefore if there be any gentleman in

your town that either for the love of honour, or honour of his love,

well armed on horseback, with lance {347} and sword, win another, or

lose himself, to be prisoner at discretion of the conqueror, I will

to-morrow morning by sunrising, with a trumpet and a squire only,

attend him in like order furnished. The place I think fittest, the

island within the lake, because it stands so well in the view of your

castle, as that the ladies may have the pleasure of seeing the combat:

which, though it be within the commandment of your castle, I desire no

better security than the promise I make to myself of your virtue. I

attend your answer, and wish you success as may be to your honour,

rather in yielding to that which is just than in maintaining wrong by

violence.

Amphialus read it with cheerful countenance, and thinking but a little

with himself, called for pen and paper, and wrote this answer:

Amphialus of Arcadia, to Phalantus of Corinth, wisheth all his own

wishes, saving those which may be hurtful to another. The matter of

your letters to fit for a worthy mind, and the manner so suitable to

the nobleness of the matter, give me cause to think how happy I might

account myself, if I could get such a friend; who esteem it no small

happiness to have met with so noble an enemy. Your challenge shall be

answered, and both time, place, and weapon accepted. For your security

from any treachery (having no hostage worthy to countervail you) take

my word, which I esteem above all respects. Prepare therefore your

arms to fight, but not your heart to malice, since true valour needs

no other whetstone than desire of honour.

Having written and sealed his letter, he delivered it to the herald,

and withal took a fair chain from off his own neck and gave it him.

And so with safe convoy sent him away from out his city: and he being

gone, Amphialus showed unto his mother, and some other of his chief

counsellors what he had received, and how he had answered, telling

them withal, that he was determined to answer the challenge in his own

person. His mother, with prayers authorized by motherly commandment;

his old governor, with persuasions mingled with reprehension (that he

would rather affect the glory of a private fighter than of a wise

general) Clinias with falling down at his feet, and beseeching him to

remember that all their lives depended upon his safety, sought all to

dissuade him. But Amphialus (whose heart was inflamed with courage,

and courage inflamed with affection) made an imperious resolution, cut

off the tediousness of replies, giving them a charge what they should

do upon all occasions, and particularly to deliver the ladies, if

otherwise than well happened unto him: only desiring his mother that

she would bring Philoclea to a window, whence she might with ease

perfectly discern the combat. And so soon as the morning began to draw

dew from the fairest greens to wash her {348} face withal against the

approach of the burning sun, he went to his stable, where himself

chose out a horse, whom (though he was near twenty years old) he

preferred for a piece of sure service, before a great number of

younger. His colour was of a brown bay, dappled thick with black

spots; his forehead marked with a white star; to which, in all his

body there was no part suitable, but the left foot before; his mane

and tail black and thick, of goodly and well-proportioned greatness.

He caused him to be trimmed with a sumptuous saddle of tawny and gold

enamel, enriched with precious stones: his furniture was made into the

fashion of branches of a tree, from which the leaves were falling, and

so artificially were the leaves made, that, as the horse moved, it

seemed indeed that the leaves wagged as when the wind plays with them;

and being made of a pale cloth of gold, they did bear the

straw-coloured livery of ruin. His armour was also of tawny and gold,

but formed into the figures of flames darkened, as when they newly

break the prison of a smoky furnace. In his shield he had painted the

Torpedo fish. And so appointed, he caused himself with his trumpet and

squire (whom he had taken since the death of Ismenus) to be ferried

over into the island, a place well chosen for such a purpose. For it

was so plain that there was scarcely any bush, or hillock, either to

unlevel or shadow it: of length and breadth enough, to try the

uttermost both of lance and sword; and the one end of it facing the

castle, the other extending itself toward the camp, and no access to

it, but by water, there could on secret treachery be wrought; and for

manifest violence, either side might have time enough to succour their

party.

But there he found Phalantus, already waiting for him upon a horse

milk white, but that upon his shoulders and withers he was freckled

with red stain, as when a few strawberries are scattered into a dish

of cream. He had caused his mane and tail to be dyed in carnation, his

reins were vine branches, which engendering one with the other, at the

end, when he came to the bit, there for the boss brought forth a

cluster of grapes by the workman made so lively that it seemed, as the

horse champed on his bit, he chopped for them, and that it did make

his mouth water to see the grapes so near him. His furniture behind

was of vines, so artificially made that it seemed the horse stood in

the shadow of the vine, so prettily were clusters of ruby grapes

dispersed among the trappings which embraced his sides. His armour was

blue like the heaven, which a sun did with his rays (proportionably

delivered) gild in most places. His shield was beautified with this

device: a greyhound which over-running his fellow, and taking the

hare, yet hurts it not when it takes it. The words were, “The glory,

not the prey.”

{349}

But as soon as Amphialus landed, he sent his squire to Phalantus to

tell him that there was the knight ready to know whether he had

anything to say to him. Phalantus answered that his answer now must be

in the language of lances; and so each attended the warning of the

trumpets, which were to sound at the appointment of four judges, who

with consideration of the same had divided the ground. Phalantus’s

horse young, and feeling the youth of his master, stood curveting,

which being well governed by Phalantus, gave such a glittering grace

as when the sun in a clear day shines upon a waving water. Amphialus’s

horse stood pawing upon the ground, with his further hoof before, as

if he would for his master’s cause begin to make himself angry: till

the trumpets sounding together, together they set spurs to their

horses, together took their lances from their thighs, conveyed them up

into the rest together, together let them sink downward, so as it was

a delectable sight in a dangerous effect; and a pleasant consideration

that there was so perfect agreement in so mortal disagreement; like a

music made of cunning discords. But their horses keeping an even line

their masters had skilfully allotted unto them, passed one by another

without encountering, although either might feel the angry breath of

the other. But the staves being come to a just descent, even when the

mark was ready to meet them, Amphialus was run through the vamplate,

and under the arm, so that the staff appearing behind him, it seemed

to the beholders, he had been in danger. But he struck Phalantus just

upon the gorget, so that he battered the lames thereof, and made his

head almost touch the back of his horse. But either side having stayed

the spur, and used the bit to stop their horse’s fury, casting away

the truncheons of their staves, and drawing their swords, they

attended the second summons of the death-threatening trumpet which

quickly followed; and they as soon making their horses answer their

hands, with a gentle gallop, set one toward the other, till they being

come to the nearness of a little more than a stave’s length. Amphialus

trusting more to the strength, than to the nimbleness of his horse,

put him forth with speedy violence, and making his head join to the

other’s flank, guided his blow with discretion, and strengthening it

with the course of his horse, struck Phalantus upon the head in such

sort that his feeling sense did both dazzle his sight, and astonish

his hearing. But Phalantus (not accustomed to be ungrateful to such

benefits) struck him upon the side of his face, with such force that

he thought his jaw had been cut asunder; though the faithfulness of

his armour indeed guarded him from further damage. And so remained

they awhile, rather angry with fighting, than fighting for anger, till

Amphialus’s horse leaning hard upon the other, and winning ground, the

other horse feeling himself pressed, began to {350} rise a little

before, as he was wont to do in his curvet, which advantage Amphialus

taking, set forward his own horse with the further spur, so that

Phalantus’s horse came over with his master under him. Which Amphialus

seeing, lighted with the intention to help Phalantus. But his horse

that had faulted, rather with untimely art than want of force, got up

from burdening his burden, so that Phalantus, in the fall having

gotten his feet free off the stirrup, could, though something bruised,

arise, and seeing Amphialus near him, he asked him whether he had

given him any help in removing his horse. Amphialus said “No.”

“Truly,” said Phalantus, “I asked it, because I would not willingly

have fought with him that had had my life in his mercy. But now,” said

Phalantus, “before we proceed further, let me know who you are,

because never did any man bring me to the like fortune.” Amphialus,

listing to keep himself unknown, told him he was a gentleman to whom

Amphialus that day had given armour and horse to try his valour,

having never before been in any combat worthy remembrance. “Ah,” said

Phalantus in a rage, “and must I be the exercise of your prentice

age?” and with that, choler took away either the bruise, or the

feeling of the bruise, so that he entered afresh into the combat, and

boiling into his arms the disdain of his heart, struck so thick upon

Amphialus, as if every blow would fain have been foremost. But

Amphialus, that many like trials had taught, great spending to leave

small remnants, let pass the storm with strong wards, and nimble

avoidings, till his time fit, both for distance and nakedness, he

struck him so cruel a blow on the knee that the poor gentleman fell

down withal in a swoon.

But Amphialus, pitying approved valour, made precious by natural

courtesy, went to him, and taking off his headpiece to give him air,

the young knight (disdaining to buy life with yielding, bade him use

his fortune, for he was resolved never to yield. “No more you shall,”

said Amphialus, “if it be not to my request that you will account

yourself to have great interest in me.” Phalantus more overcome by his

kindness, than by his fortune, desired yet once again to know his

name, who in his first beginning had shown such fury in his face, and

yet such stay in his fury. Amphialus then named himself, telling him

withal he would think his name much bettered if it might be honoured

by the title of his friend. But no balm could be more comfortable to

his wound than the knowledge thereof was to his mind, when he knew his

mishap should be excused by the renowned valour of the other. And so

promising each to other assuredness of goodwill, Phalantus, of whom

Amphialus would have no other ransom but his word of friendship, was

conveyed into the camp, where he {351} would but little remain among

the enemies of Amphialus, but went to seek his adventures other-where.

As for Amphialus, he was received with triumph into the castle,

although one might see by his eyes (humbly lifted up to the window

where Philoclea stood) that he was rather suppliant than victorious:

which occasion Cecropia taking, who as then stood by Philoclea, and

had lately left Pamela in another room, whence also she might see the

combat. “Sweet lady,” said she, “now you may see whether you have

cause to love my son, who then lies under your feet, when he stands

upon the neck of his bravest enemies.” “Alas!” said Philoclea, “a

simple service to me, methinks it is, to have those who come to

succour me destroyed: if it be my duty to call it love, be it so: but

the effects it bring forth, I confess I account hateful.” Cecropia

grew so angry with this unkind answer that she could not abstain from

telling her that she was like them that could not sleep, when they

were softly laid: but that if her son would follow her counsel, he

should take another course with her: and so flung away from her.

Yet, knowing the desperate melancholy of Amphialus in like cases,

framed to him a very thankful message, powdering it with some

hope-giving phrases, which were of such joy to Amphialus that he,

though against public respect and importunity of dissuaders, presently

caused it to be made known to the camp that whatsoever knight would

try the like fortune as Phalantus did, he should in like sort be

answered: so that divers of the valiantest, partly of themselves,

partly at the instigation of Basilius, attempted the combat with him;

and according to everyone’s humour, so were the causes of the

challenge grounded: one laying treason to his charge; another

preferring himself in the worthiness to serve Philoclea; a third

exalting some lady’s beauty beyond either of the sisters; a fourth

laying disgrace to love itself naming it the bewitcher of the wit, the

rebel to reason, the betrayer of resolution, the defiler of thoughts,

the underminer of magnanimity, the flatterer of vice, the slave of

weakness, the infection of youth, the madness of age, the curse of

life, and reproach of death; a fifth disdaining to cast at less than

at all, would make the cause of his quarrel the causers of love, and

proclaim his blasphemies against womankind; that namely, that sex was

the oversight of nature, the disgrace of reasonableness, the obstinate

cowards, the slave born tyrants, the shops of vanities, the gilded

weather cocks, in whom conscience is but peevishness, chastity,

waywardness, and gratefulness a miracle. But all these challenges, how

well soever indited, were so well answered, that some by death taught

others, though past learning themselves, and some by yielding gave

themselves the lie for having blasphemed; to the great grief of

Basilius to see his rebel {352} prevail, and in his own sight, to

crown himself with deserved honour.

Whereupon thirsting for revenge, and else not hoping to prevail, the

best of his camp being already overthrown, he sent a messenger to

Argalus, in whose approved courage and force he had, and had cause, to

have great confidence, with a letter, requiring him to take his

quarrel in hand, from which he had hitherto spared him in respect of

his late marriage. But now his honour, and (as he esteemed it)

felicity standing upon it, he could no longer forbear to challenge of

him his faithful service.

The messenger made speed, and found Argalus at a castle of his own,

sitting in a parlour with the fair Parthenia, he reading in a book the

stories of Hercules, she by him, as to hear him read: but while his

eyes looked on the book, she looked on his eyes, and sometimes staying

him with some pretty question, not so much to be resolved of the

doubt, as to give him occasion to look upon her: a happy couple, he

joying in her, she joying in herself, but in herself, because she

enjoyed him: both increased their riches by giving to each other; each

making one life double, because they made a double life one; where

desire never wanted satisfaction, nor satisfaction ever bred satiety;

he ruling, because she would obey, or rather because she would obey,

he therein ruling.

But when the messenger came in with letters in his hand, and haste in

his countenance, though she knew not what to fear, yet she feared

because she knew not; but she rose, and went aside, while he delivered

his letters and message: yet afar off she looked, now at the

messenger, and then at her husband: the same fear, which made her loth

to have cause of fear, yet making her seek cause to nourish her fear.

And well she found there was some serious matter: for her husband’s

countenance figured some resolution between lothness and necessity:

and once his eye cast upon her, and finding hers upon him, he blushed,

and she blushed, because he blushed, and yet straight grew pale

because she knew not why he had blushed. But when he had read, and

heard, and dispatched away the messenger, like a man in whom honour

could not be rocked asleep by affection, with promise quickly to

follow; he came to Parthenia, and as sorry as might be for parting,

and yet more sorry for her sorrow, he gave her the letter to read. She

with fearful slowness took it, and with fearful quickness read it, and

having read it. “Ah my Argalus,” said she, “and have you made such

haste to answer? and are you so soon resolved to leave me?” but he

discoursing unto her how much it imported his honour, which since it

was dear to him, he knew it would be dear unto her, her reason

overclouded with sorrow, suffered her not presently to reply, but left

the charge thereof to tears, and sighs, {353} which he not able to

bear, left her alone, and went to give order for his present

departure.

But by that time he was armed, and ready to go, she had recovered a

little strength of spirit again, and coming out, and seeing him armed,

and wanting nothing for his departure but her farewell, she ran to

him, took him by the arm, and kneeling down without regard who either

heard her speech, or saw her demeanour. “My Argalus, my Argalus,” said

she, “do not thus forsake me. Remember, alas remember that I have

interest in you, which I will never yield shall be thus adventured.

Your valour is already sufficiently known: sufficiently have you

already done for your country: enough, enough there are beside you to

lose less worthy lives. Woe is me, what shall become of me if you thus

abandon me? then was it time for you to follow those adventures, when

you adventured nobody but yourself, and were nobody’s but your own.

But now pardon me, that now, or never, I claim mine own; mine you are,

and without me you can undertake no danger: and will you endanger

Parthenia? Parthenia shall be in the battle of your fight: Parthenia

shall smart in your pain, and your blood must be bled by Parthenia.”

“Dear Parthenia,” said he, “this is the first time that ever you

resisted my will: I thank you for it, but persevere not in it; and let

not the tears of these most beloved eyes be a presage unto me of that

which you would not should happen, I shall live, doubt not: for so

great a blessing as you are was not given unto me so soon to be

deprived of it. Look for me, therefore, shortly, and victorious; and

prepare a joyful welcome, and I will wish for no other triumph.” She

answered not, but stood as it were thunder-stricken with amazement;

for true love made obedience stand up against all other passions. But

when he took her in his arms, and sought to print his heart in her

sweet lips, she fell in a swoon, so that he was fain to leave her to

her gentlewomen, and carried away by the tyranny of honour, though

with many a back cast look and hearty groan, went to the camp. Where

understanding the notable victories of Amphialus, he thought to give

him some days respite of rest, because he would not have his victory

disgraced by the other’s weariness. In which days, he sought by all

means (having leave to parley with him) to dissuade him from his

enterprise: and then imparting his mind to Basilius, because he found

Amphialus was inflexible, wrote his defy unto him in this manner.

Right famous Amphialus, if my persuasion in reason, or prayer in

goodwill, might prevail with you, you should by better means be like

to obtain your desire. You should make many brave enemies become your

faithful servants, and make your honour fly up to heaven, being

carried up by both wings of valour and justice; {354} whereof now it

wants the latter. But since my suit nor counsel can get no place in

you, disdain not to receive a mortal challenge, from a man so inferior

unto you in virtue, that I do not so much mislike of the deed, as I

have the doer in admiration. Prepare therefore yourself, according to

the noble manner you have used, and think not lightly of never so weak

an arm, which strikes with the sword of justice.

To this he quickly received this answer.

Much more famous Argalus, I whom never threatenings could make

afraid, am now terrified by your noble courtesy. For well I know, from

what height of virtue it doth proceed, and what cause I have to doubt

such virtue bent to my ruin: but love, which justifieth the injustice

you lay unto me, doth also animate me against all dangers, since I

come full of him by whom yourself have been (if I be not deceived)

sometimes conquered. I will therefore attend your appearance in the

isle, carrying this advantage with me, that as it shall be a singular

honour, if I get the victory, so there can be no dishonour in being

overcome by Argalus.

The challenge thus denounced and accepted, Argalus was armed in white

armour, which was all gilded over with knots of women’s hair, which

came down from the crest of his head-piece and spread itself in rich

quantity over all his armour; his furniture was cut out in the fashion

of an eagle, whereof the beak (made into a rich jewel) was fastened to

the saddle, the tail covered the crupper of the horse, and the wings

served for trappings; which falling off each side, as the horse

stirred, the bird seemed to fly. His poitrel and reins were

embroidered with feathers suitable unto it: upon his right arm he wore

a sleeve which his dear Parthenia had made for him, to be worn in a

joust, in the time that success was ungrateful to their well-deserved

love: it was full of bleeding hearts, though never intended to any

bloody enterprise. In his shield (as his own device) he had two

palm-trees near one another, with a word signifying, “In that sort

flourishing.” His horse was of fiery sorrel, with black feet, and

black list on his back, who with open nostrils breathed war, before he

could see an enemy: and now up with one leg, and then with another,

seemed to complain of nature that she had made him any whit earthy.

But he had scarcely viewed the ground of the island, and considered

the advantages, if any were, thereof, before the castle boat had

delivered Amphialus, in all points provided to give a hard

entertainment. And then sending each to other their squires in

honourable manner, to know whether they should attend any further

ceremony, the trumpets sounding, the horses with smooth {355} running,

the staves with unshaken motion, obediently performed their choleric

commandments. But when they drew near, Argalus’s horse being hot,

pressed in with his head, which Amphialus perceiving, knowing if he

gave him his side it should be to his disadvantage, pressed in also

with him, so that both the horses and men met shoulder to shoulder, so

that the horses (hurt as much with the striking as being stricken)

tumbled down to the earth, dangerously to their masters, but that

they, by strength nimble, and by use skilful in the falling, shunned

the harm of the fall, and without more respite drew out their swords

with a gallant bravery, each striving to show himself the less

endamaged, and to make known that they were glad they had now nothing

else to trust to but their own virtue. True it is that Amphialus was

the sooner up, but Argalus had his sword out the sooner; and then fell

they to the cruellest combat, that any present eye had seen. Their

swords first, like canons, battering down the walls of their armour,

making breaches almost in every place for troops of wounds to enter.

Among the rest, Argalus gave a great wound to Amphialus’s disarmed

face, though part of the force of it Amphialus warded upon his shield,

and withal, first casting his eye up to Philoclea’s window, as if he

had fetched his courage thence, feigning to extend the same sort of

blow, turned his sword, and, with a mighty reverse, gave a cruel wound

to the right arm of Argalus, the unfaithful armour yielding to the

sword’s strong-guided sharpness. But though the blood accused the hurt

of Argalus, yet would he in no action of his confess it: but keeping

himself in a lower ward, stood watching with timely thrusts to repair

his loss, which quickly he did. For Amphialus, following his fawning

fortune, laid on so thick upon Argalus that his shield had almost

fallen piecemeal to the earth, when Argalus, coming in with his right

foot, and something stooping to come under his armour, thrust him into

the belly dangerously; and mortally it would have been, but that with

the blow before, Amphialus had over-stricken himself so, that he fell

sideward down, and with falling saved himself from ruin, the sword by

that means slipping aside and not piercing more deeply. Argalus seeing

him fall, threatening with voice and sword, bade him yield. But he

striving without answer to rise, Argalus struck him with all his might

upon his head. But his hurt arm not able to master so sound a force,

let the sword fall so that Amphialus, though astonished with the blow,

could arise: which Argalus considering, ran in to grasp with him, and

so closed together; falling so to the ground, now one getting above,

and then the other; at length, both weary of so unlovely embracements,

with a dissenting consent got up, and went to their swords but

happened, each on his enemies; where Argalus finding his foe’s {356}

sword garnished in blood, his heart rose with the same sword to

revenge it, and on that blade to ally their bloods together. But his

mind was evil waited on by his lamed force, so that he received still

more and more wounds, which made all his armour seem to blush, that it

had defended his master no better. But Amphialus perceiving it, and

weighing the small hatefulness of their quarrel with the worthiness of

the knight, desired him to take pity of himself. But Argalus, the more

repining, the more he found himself in disadvantage, filling his veins

with spite instead of blood, and making courage arise against

faintness (like a candle, which a little before it goes out, gives

then the greatest blaze) so did he unite all his force, that casting

away the little remnant of his shield, and taking his sword in both

hands, he struck such a notable blow, that he cleft his shield,

armour, and arm almost to the bone.

But then Amphialus forgot all ceremonies, and with cruel blows made

more of his best blood succeed the rest: till his hand being stayed by

his ear, his ear filled with a pitiful cry, the cry guided his sight

to an excellent fair lady, who came running as fast as she could, and

yet because she could not so fast as she would, she sent her

lamentable voice before her: and being come, and being known to them

both to be the beautiful Parthenia, who had that night dreamed she saw

her husband in such estate as she then found him, which made her make

such haste thither, they both marvelled. But Parthenia ran between

them, fear of love making her forget the fear of nature, and then fell

down at their feet, determining so to part them, till she could get

breath to sigh out her doleful speeches: and when her breath, which

running had spent, and dismayedness made slow to return, had by sobs

gotten into her sorrow-closed breast, for a while she could say

nothing, but, “O wretched eyes of mine, O wailful sight, O day of

darkness!” At length turning her eyes, wherein sorrow swam, to

Amphialus, “My Lord,” said she, “it is said you love; in the power of

that love, I beseech you to leave off this combat, as ever your heart

may find comfort in his affection, even for her sake, I crave it: or

if you be mortally determined, be so pitiful unto me, as first to kill

me, that I might not see the death of Argalus.” Amphialus was about to

have answered, when Argalus, vexed with his fortune, but most vexed

that she should see him in that fortune; “Ah Parthenia,” said he,

“never until now unwelcome unto me, do you come to get my life by

request? and cannot Argalus live but by request? is that a life?” With

that he went aside, for fear of hurting her, and would have began the

combat afresh. But Amphialus not only conjured by that which held the

monarchy of his mind, but even in his noble heart melting with

compassion at {357} so passionate a sight, desired him to withhold his

hands, for that he should strike one who sought his favour, and would

not make resistance. A notable example of the wonderful effects of

virtue, where the conqueror sought for friendship of the conquered,

and the conquered would not pardon the conqueror: both indeed being of

that mind to love each other for accepting, but not for giving mercy,

and neither affected to outlive a dishonour: so that Argalus, not so

much striving with Amphialus, for if he had him in the like sort, in

like sort he would have dealt with him, as labouring against his own

power, which he chiefly despised, set himself forward, stretching his

strength to the uttermost. But the fire of that strife, blown with his

inward rage, boiled out his blood in such abundance that he was driven

to rest himself upon the pommel of his sword: and then each thing

beginning to turn round in the dance of death before his eyes, his

sight both dazzled and dimmed, till, thinking to sit down, he fell in

a swoon. Parthenia and Amphialus both hastily went unto him: Amphialus

took off his helmet, and Parthenia laid his head in her lap, tearing

off her linen sleeves and partlet to serve about his wounds: to bind

which she took off her hair-lace, and would have cut off her fair hair

herself, but that the squires and judges came in with fitter things

for that purpose: while she bewailed herself with so lamentable

sweetness, as was enough to have taught sorrow to the gladdest

thoughts, and have engraved it in the minds of hardest metal.

“O Parthenia, no more Parthenia,” said she, “what art thou? what seest

thou? how is thy bliss in a moment fallen? how wert thou even now

before all ladies the example of perfect happiness, and now the gazing

stock of endless misery? O God, what hath been my desert, to be thus

punished? Or if such had been my desert, why was I not myself

punished? O wandering life, to what wilderness wouldst thou lead me.

But sorrow, I hope thou art sharp enough to save my labour from other

remedies. Argalus, Argalus, I will follow thee, I will follow thee.”

But with that Argalus came out of his swoon, and lifting up his

languishing eyes, which a painful rest and iron sleep did seek to lock

up, seeing her in whom, even dying, he lived, and himself seated in so

beloved a place, it seemed a little cheerful blood came up to his

cheeks, like a burning coal, almost dead, if some breath a little

revive it: and forcing up, the best he could, his feeble voice, “My

dear, my better half,” said he, “I find I must now leave thee: and by

that sweet hand, and fair eyes of thine I swear that death brings

nothing with it to grieve me but that I must leave thee, and cannot

remain to answer part of thy infinite deserts with being some comfort

unto thee. But since so it pleaseth Him, {358} whose wisdom and

goodness guideth all, put thy confidence in Him, and one day we shall

blessedly meet again, never to depart: meanwhile live happily, dear

Parthenia, and I persuade myself, it will increase the blessedness of

my soul so to see thee. Love well the remembrance of thy loving, and

truly loving Argalus: and let not,” with that word he sighed, “this

disgrace of mine make thee one day think thou hadst an unworthy

husband.” They could scarcely understand the last words: for death

began to seize himself of his heart, neither could Parthenia make

answer, so full was her breast of anguish. But while the other sought

to stanch his remediless wounds, she with her kisses made him happy:

for his last breath was delivered into her mouth.

But when indeed she found his ghost was gone, then sorrow lost the wit

of utterance, and grew rageful, and mad, so that she tore her

beautiful face, and rent her hair, as though they could serve for

nothing, since Argalus was gone; till Amphialus (so moved with pity of

that sight as that he honoured his adversary’s death with tears)

caused her, with the help of her women that came with her, partly by

force to be conveyed into the boat, with the dead body of Argalus,

from which she would not depart. And being come on the other side,

there she was received by Basilius himself, with all the funeral pomp

of military discipline, trailing all their ensigns upon the ground,

making their warlike instruments sound doleful notes, and Basilius

with comfort in his mouth and woe in his face, sought to persuade some

ease into Parthenia’s mind: but all was as easeful to her, as the

handling of sore wounds: all the honour done, being to her but the

triumph of her ruin, she finding no comfort but in desperate yielding

to sorrow: and rather determined to hate herself if ever she would

find ease thereof. And well might she hear as she passed through the

camp the great praises spoken of her husband, which were all records

of her loss. But the more excellent he was, being indeed counted

second to none in all Greece, the more did the breath of those praises

bear up the wings of Amphialus’s fame: to whom yet such was his case,

that trophy upon trophy, still did but build up the monument of his

thraldom; he ever finding himself in such favour of Philoclea that she

was most absent when he was present with her; and ever sorriest when

he had best success: which would have made him renounce all comfort,

but that his mother with diversity of devices kept up his heart.

But while he allayed thus his outward glory with inward discomfort, he

was like to have been overtaken with a notable treason, the beginning

whereof (though merely ridiculous) had like to have brought forth to

him a weeping effect.

Among other that attended Basilius in this expedition, Dametas {359}

was one; whether to be present with him, or absent from Miso, once,

certain it was without any mind to make his sword cursed by any widow.

Now being in the camp, while each talk seemed injurious, which did not

acknowledge some duty to the fame of Amphialus, it fell out sometimes

in communication, that as the speech of heaven doth often beget the

mention of hell, so the admirable prowess of Amphialus (by a contrary)

brought forth the remembrance of the cowardice of Clinias: insomuch,

as it grew almost to a proverb, “As very a coward as Clinias;”

describing him in such sort, that in the end Dametas began to think

with himself that if he made a challenge unto him he would never

answer it; and that then he should greatly increase the favourable

conceit of Basilius. This fancy of his he uttered to a young gentleman

that waited upon Philanax, in whose friendship he had especial

confidence, because he haunted his company, laughing often merrily at

his speeches, and not a little extolling the goodly dotes of Mopsa.

The young gentleman as glad as if he had found a hare sitting, egged

him on, breaking the matter with Philanax, and then, for fear the

humour should quail in him, wrote a challenge himself for Dametas, and

brought it to him. But when Dametas read it, putting his head on his

shoulder, and somewhat smiling, he said, it was pretty indeed, but

that it had not a lofty style enough; and so, would needs indite it in

this sort.

O Clinias, thou Clinias, the wickedest worm that ever went upon two

legs; the very fritter of fraud, and seething pot of iniquity: I

Dametas, chief governor of all the royal cattle, and also of Pamela

(whom thy master most perniciously hath suggested out of my dominion)

do defy thee in a mortal affray from the bodkin to the pike upward:

Which if thou dost presume to take in hand, I will, out of that

superfluous body of thine, make thy soul to be evacuated.

The young gentleman seemed dumb-stricken with admiration, and

presently took upon him to be the bearer thereof, while the heat of

the fit lasted; and having gotten leave of Basilius (everybody helping

on to ease his mind, overcharged with melancholy) he went into the

town, according to the manner before time used, and, in the presence

of Amphialus, delivered this letter to Clinias; desiring to have an

answer, which might be fit for his reputation. Clinias opened it, read

it, and, in the reading, his blood, not daring to be in so dangerous a

place, went out of his face, and hid itself more inwardly: and his

very words, as if they were afraid of blows, came very slowly out of

his mouth: but, as well as his panting breath would utter it, he bade

him tell the lout that sent him, that he disdained to have anything to

do with him. But Amphialus, perceiving the matter, took him aside, and

very {360} earnestly dealt with him, not to shame himself; Amphialus

only desirous to bring it to pass, to make some sport to Philoclea:

but, not being able to persuade him, Amphialus licensed the gentleman,

telling him that by next morning he should have an answer.

The young gentleman, sorry he had sped no better, returned to Dametas,

who had fetched many a sower-breathed sigh, for fear Clinias would

accept the challenge. But when he perceived, by his trusty messenger,

that this delay was in effect a denial, there being no disposition in

him to accept it, then lo, Dametas began to speak his loud voice, to

look big, to march up and down, and, in his march, to lift his legs

higher than he was wont, swearing, by no mean devotions, that the

walls should not keep the coward from him, but he would fetch him out

of his coney-burrow: and then was hotter than ever to provide himself

of horse and armour, saying he would go to the island bravely addubed,

and show himself to his charge Pamela. To this purpose many willing

hands were about him, letting him have reins, poitrel, with the rest

of the furniture, and very brave bases; but all coming from divers

houses, neither colour nor fashion, showed any kindred one with

another. But that liked Dametas the better, for that he thought would

argue, that he was master of many brave furnitures. Then gave he order

to a painter for his device; which was a plough with the oxen loosed

from it, a sword, with a great number of arms and legs cut off: and

lastly, a great army of pen and ink-horns, and books. Neither did he

stick to tell the secret of his intent; which was that he had left off

the plough to do such bloody deeds with his sword, as many ink-horns

and books should be employed about the historifying of them: and being

asked, why he set no word unto it, he said, that was indeed like the

painter, that saith in his picture, “here is the dog, and there is the

hare:” and with that he laughed so perfectly, as was great consolation

to the beholders. Yet remembering that Miso would not take it well at

his return, if he forgot his duty to her, he caused in a border about

to be written, “Miso, mine own pigsnie, thou shalt hear news of

Dametas.”

Thus all things being condignly ordered, with an ill-favoured

impatience he waited until the next morning, that he might make a

muster of himself in the island, often asking them that very

diligently waited upon them, whether it were not pity that such a

coward as Clinias should set his run-away feet upon the face of the

earth.

But as he was, by divers principal young gentlemen, to his no small

glory, lifted up on horseback, comes a page of Amphialus, who with

humble smiling reverence, delivered a letter unto him from Clinias,

whom Amphialus had brought to this; first with {361} persuasions (that

for certain, if he did accept the combat, Dametas would never dare to

appear, and that then the honour should be his) but principally

threatening him that if he refused it, he would turn him out of the

town to be put to death for a traitor by Basilius: so as the present

fear (ever to a coward most terrible) of being turned out of the town,

made him, though full unwillingly, undertake the other fear, wherein

he had some show of hope, that Dametas might hap either to be sick, or

not to have the courage to perform the matter. But when Dametas heard

the name of Clinias, very aptly suspecting what the matter might be,

he bade the page carry back his letter, like a naughty boy as he was;

for he was in no humour, he told him, of reading letters. But Dametas

his friend, first persuading him, that for certain it was some

submission, took upon him so much boldness as to open the letter, and

to read it aloud, in this sort.

Filthy drivel, unworthy to have thy name set in any letter by a

soldier’s handwriting, could thy wretched heart think it was

timorousness that made Clinias suspend awhile his answer? no, caitiff,

no: it was but as a ram, which goes back to return with the greater

force: Know therefore, that thou shalt no sooner appear (appear now if

thou darest) I say thou shalt no sooner appear in the island (O happy

thou if thou dost not appear) but that I will come upon thee with all

my force, and cut thee in pieces (mark what I say) joint after joint,

to the eternal terror of all presumptuous villains. Therefore look

what thou dost; for I tell thee, horrible smart and pains shall be thy

lot, if thou wilt needs be so foolish, I having given thee no such

cause as to meet with me.

These terrible words Clinias used, hoping they would give a cooling to

the heat of Dametas’s courage: and so indeed they did, that he did

groan to hear the thundering of those threatenings. And when the

gentlemen had ended the reading of them, Dametas told them, that in

his opinion he thought this answer came too late, and that therefore

he might very well go and disarm himself, especially considering the

other had in courteous manner warned him not to come: but they having

him now on horseback, led him into the ferry, and so into the island;

the clashing of his own armour striking miserable fear into him, and

in his mind, thinking great unkindness in his friend that he had

brought him to a matter so contrary to his complexion. There stayed he

but a little (the gentleman that came with him teaching him how to use

his sword and lance, while he cast his eye about, to see which way he

might run away, cursing all islands for being evil situated) when

Clinias with a brave sound of trumpets landed at the other end: who

came all the way debating with himself, what he had deserved of

Amphialus to drive him to those inconveniences. Sometimes his wit

{362} made him bethink himself what was best to be done: but fear did

so corrupt his wit, that whatsoever he thought was best, he still

found danger therein; fearfulness (contrary to all other vices) making

him think the better of another, the worse he found himself, rather

imagining in himself what words he would use (if he were overcome) to

get his life of Dametas, than how to overcome, whereof he could think

with no patience. But oftentimes looking to the earth, pitifully

complaining, that a man of such sufficiency, as he thought himself,

should in his best years be swallowed up by so base an element: fain

he would have prayed, but he had not heart enough to have confidence

in prayer; the glittering of the armour, and sounding of trumpets

giving such an assault to the weak breach of his false senses, that he

grew from the degree of fear to an amazement, not almost to know what

he did, till two judges (chosen for the purpose) making the trumpet

cease, and taking the oath of these champions, that they came without

guile or witchcraft, set them at wonted distance, one from the other.

Then the trumpets sounding, Dametas’s horse (used to such causes) when

he thought least of the matter, started out so lustily, that Dametas

was jogged back with head and body, and pulling withal his

bridle-hand, the horse, that was tender of mouth, made half a stop,

and fell to bounding, so that Dametas threw away his lance, and with

both his hands held by the pommel, the horse half running, half

leaping, till he met with Clinias; who fearing he should miss his

rest, had put his staff therein before he began his career: neither

would he then have begun, but that at the trumpets warning, one (that

stood behind) struck on his horse, who running swiftly, the wind took

such hold of his staff, that it crossed quite over his breast, in that

sort gave a flat bastinado to Dametas: who half out of his saddle,

went near to his old occupation of digging the earth, but with the

crest of his helmet. Clinias when he was past him, not knowing what he

had done, but fearing lest Dametas were at his back, turned with a

wide turn; and seeing him on the ground, he thought then was his time,

or never, to tread him under his horse’s feet; and withal, if he

could, hurt him with his lance, which had not broken, the encounter

was so easy. But putting forth his horse, what with the falling of the

staff too low before the legs of the horse, and the coming upon

Dametas, who was then scrambling up, the horse fell over and over, and

lay upon Clinias. Which Dametas, who was gotten up, perceiving, drew

out his sword, prying which way he might best come to kill Clinias

behind. But the horse that lay upon him, kept such a pawing with his

feet, that Dametas durst not approach, but very leisurely, so as the

horse, being lusty, got up, and withal began {363} to strike, and

leap, that Dametas started back a good way, and gave Clinias time to

rise, but so bruised in body, and broken in heart, that he meant to

yield himself to mercy; and with that intent drew out his sword,

intending when he came nearer to present the pommel of it to Dametas.

But Dametas, when he saw him coming with his sword drawn, not

conceiving any such intent, went back as fast as his back and heels

would lead him. But as Clinias found that he began to think a

possibility in the victory, and therefore followed him with the cruel

haste of a prevailing coward; laying upon Dametas, who did nothing but

cry out to him to hold his hand, sometimes that he was dead, sometimes

that he would complain to Basilius; but still bore the blows

ungratefully, going back, till at length he came into the water with

one of his feet.

But then a new fear of drowning took him, so that daring not to go

back, nor to deliberate (the blows still so lighted on him) nor to

yield, because of the cruel threatenings of Clinias, fear being come

to the extremity, fell to a madness of despair; so that (winking as

hard as ever he could) he began to deal some blows, and his arm (being

used to the flail in his youth) laid them on so thick that Clinias now

began with lamentable eyes to see his own blood come out in many

places: and before he had lost half an ounce, finding in himself that

he fainted, cried out aloud to Dametas that he yielded. “Throw away

thy sword then,” said Dametas, “and I will save thee;” but still

laying on as fast as he could. Clinias straight obeyed, and humbly

craved mercy, telling him his sword was gone. Then Dametas first

opened his eyes, and seeing him indeed unweaponed, made him stand a

good way off from it; and then willed him to lie down upon the earth

as flat as he could; Clinias obeyed; and Dametas (who never could

think himself safe, till Clinias were dead) began to think with

himself, that if he struck at him with his sword, if he did not kill

him at the first blow, that then Clinias might hap to rise, and

revenge himself. Therefore he thought best to kneel down upon him, and

with a great whittle he had (having disarmed his head) to cut his

throat, which he had used so with calves, as he had no small dexterity

in it. But while he sought for his knife, which under his armour he

could not well find out, and that Clinias lay with so sheepish a

quietness, as if he would have been glad to have his throat cut for

fear of more pain, the judges came in, and took Dametas from off him,

telling him he did against the law of arms, having promised life if he

threw away his sword. Dametas was loath to consent, till they swore,

they would not suffer him to fight any more, when he was up; and then

more forced, then persuaded, he let him rise, crowing over him, and

warning him to take heed {364} how he dealt any more with any that

came of his father’s kindred. But thus this combat of cowards being

finished, Dametas was with much mirth and melody received into the

camp as victorious, never a page there failing to wait upon his

triumph.

But Clinias, though he wanted heart to prevent shame, yet he wanted

not wit to feel shame; not so much repining at it for the abhorring of

shame, as for the discommodities, that to them that are ashamed,

ensue. For well he deemed, it would be a great bar to his practice,

and a pulling on of injuries, when men needed not care how they used

him. Insomuch, that Clinias (finding himself the scorning-stock of

every company) fell with repining, to hate the cause thereof; and hate

in a coward’s heart, could set itself no other limits, but death.

Which purpose was well egged on by representing unto himself, what

danger he lately was in; which still kept no less ugly figure in his

mind than when it was present; and quickly (even in his dissembling

countenance) might be discerned a concealed grudge. For though he

forced himself to a far more diligent officiousness toward Amphialus

than ever before, yet a leering eye upon the one side at him, a

countenance still framed to smiling before him (how little cause

soever there was of smiling) and grumbling behind him at any of his

commandments, with an uncertain manner of behaviour: his words coming

out, though full of flattery, yet slowly, and hoarsely pronounced,

might well have blazed what arms his false heart bore. But despised,

because of his cowardliness, and not marked because despised, he had

the freer scope of practice. Which he did the more desperately enter

into, because the daily dangers Amphialus did submit himself unto,

made Clinias assuredly look for his overthrow, and for his own

consequently, if he did not redeem his former treason to Basilius,

with a more treasonable falsehood toward Amphialus. His chief care

therefore was, to find out among all sorts of the Amphialians, whom

either like fear, tediousness of the siege, or discontent of some

unsatisfied ambition would make apt to dig in the same mine that he

did: and some already of wealthy weary folks, and unconstant youths

(who had not found such sudden success as they had promised

themselves) he had made stoop to his lure. But of none he made so good

account as of Artesia, sister to the late slain Ismenus, and the chief

of the six maids, who had trained out the princesses to their banquet

of misery: so much did the sharpness of her wit countervail, as he

thought, any other defects of her sex: for she had undertaken that

dangerous practice by the persuasion of Cecropia, who assured her that

the two princesses should be made away, and then Amphialus would marry

her, which she was the apter to believe, by some false persuasion her

glass had given her of her own incomparable {365} excellencies, and by

the great favour she knew he bare to her brother Ismenus, which, like

a self-flattering woman, she conceived was done for her sake. But when

she had achieved her attempt, and that she found the princesses were

so far from their intended death, as that one of them was like to be

her sovereign; and that neither her service won of Amphialus much more

than an ordinary favour, nor her over-large offering herself to a mind

otherwise owed, had obtained a looked for acceptation: disdain to be

disdained, spite of a frustrate hope, and perchance unquenched

lust-grown rage, made her unquiet thoughts find no other rest, but

malice; which was increased by the death of her brother, whom she

judged neither succoured against Philanax, nor revenged upon Philanax.

But all these coals were well blown by the company she especially kept

with Zelmane all this time of her imprisonment. For finding her

presence uncheerful to the mourning Philoclea, and condemned of the

high-hearted Pamela, she spent her time most with Zelmane: Who though

at the first hardly brooking the instrument of their misery, learning

cunning in the school of adversity, in time framed herself to yield

her acceptable entertainment. For Zelmane, when she had by that

unexpected mischief her body imprisoned, her valour over-mastered, her

wit beguiled, her desires barred, her love eclipsed; assured of evil,

fearing worse, able to know Philoclea’s misfortune, and not able to

succour her, she was a great while before the greatness of her heart

could descend to sorrow, but rather rose boiling up in spite and

disdain, reason hardly making courage believe that it was distressed:

but as if the walls would be afraid of her, so would her looks shoot

out threatenings upon them. But the fetters of servitude, growing

heavier with wearing, made her feel her case, and the little

prevailing of repining: and then grief got a seat in her softened

mind, making sweetness of past comforts, by due title, claim tears of

present discomforts: and since her fortune made her able to help as

little as anybody, yet to be able to wail as much as anybody; solitary

sorrow, with a continual circle in herself, going out at her own

mouth, to come in again at her own ears. Then was the name of

Philoclea graved in the glass windows, and by the foolish idolatry of

affection, no sooner written, than adored; and no sooner adored, than

pitied: all the wonted praises (she was wont to give unto her) being

now but figures of rhetoric to amplify the injuries of misfortune;

against which being alone, she would often make invective

declamations, methodised only by raging sorrow.

But when Artesia did insinuate herself into her acquaintance, she gave

the government of her courage to wit, and was content to familiarize

herself with her: so much the rather, as that she {366} perceived in

her certain flaws of ill-concealed discontentment: insomuch that when

Zelmane would sweeten her mouth with the praise of the sisters,

especially setting forth their noble gratefulness in never forgetting

well-intended services, and invoking the justice of the gods not to

suffer such treasures to be wrongfully hidden, and sometimes with a

kind of unkindness charging Artesia that she had been abused to abuse

so worthy persons: Artesia, though falsely, would protest that she had

been beguiled in it, never meaning other matter than recreation; and

yet withal by alleging how ungratefully she was dealt with, it was

easy to be seen it was the unrewarding, and not the evil employing her

service, which grieved her. But Zelmane, using her own bias to bowl

near the mistress of her own thoughts, was content to lend her belief,

and withal to magnify her desert, if willingly she would deliver, whom

unwillingly she had imprisoned; leaving no argument which might tickle

ambition, or flatter revenge. So that Artesia, pushed forward by

Clinias, and drawn onward by Zelmane, bound herself to that practice;

wherein Zelmane, for her part, desired no more but to have armour and

weapons brought into her chamber, not doubting therewith to perform

anything, how impossible soever, which longing love can persuade, and

invincible valour dare promise.

But Clinias, whose faith could never comprehend the mysteries of

courage, persuaded Artesia, while he by corruption had drawn the guard

of one gate, to open it, when he would appoint the time to the enemy,

that she should impoison Amphialus, which she might the easier do,

because she herself had used to make the broths, when Amphialus,

either wearied or wounded, did use such diet. And all things already

were ready to be put in execution, when they thought best to break

this matter with the two excellent sisters, not doubting of their

consent in a thing so behoveful to themselves: their reasons being

that the princesses knowing their service, might be sure to preserve

them from the fury of the entering soldiers: whereof Clinias, even so,

could scarcely be sufficiently certain: and withal, making them privy

to their action, to bind them afterwards to a promised gratefulness

towards them. They went therefore at one time, when they knew them to

be alone, Clinias to Philoclea, and Artesia to Pamela; and Clinias,

with no few words, did set forth what an exploit was intended for her

service. But Philoclea, in whose clear mind, treason could find no

hiding-place, told him that she would be glad if he could persuade her

cousin to deliver her, and that she would never forget his service

therein; but that she desired him to lay down any such way of

mischief, for, that for her part, she would rather yield to perpetual

imprisonment than consent to the destroying her cousin, who, she knew,

loved her, though wronged her. This unlooked-for {367} answer amazed

Clinias, so that he had no other remedy in his mind but to kneel down

to Philoclea, and beseech her to keep it secret, considering that the

intention was for her service, and vowing, since she misliked it, to

proceed no further therein, she comforted him with promise of silence,

which she performed.

But that little availed; for Artesia having in like sort opened this

device to Pamela, she, in whose mind virtue governed with the sceptre

of knowledge, hating so horrible a wickedness, and straight judging

what was fit to do: “Wicked woman,” said she, “whose unrepenting heart

can find no way to amend treason, but by treason, now the time is come

that thy wretched wiles have caught thyself in thine own net: as for

me, let the gods dispose of me as shall please them; but sure it shall

be no such way, nor way-leader, by which I will come to liberty.” This

she spoke something with a louder voice than she was wont to use, so

that Cecropia heard the noise, who was, sooner than Artesia imagined

she would, come up, to bring Pamela to a window where she might see a

notable skirmish happened in the camp, as she thought among

themselves: and being a cunning fisher in troubled waters, straight

found by their voices and gestures there was some matter of

consequence, which she desired Pamela to tell her. “Ask of her,” said

Pamela, “and learn to know, that who do falsehood to their superiors,

teach falsehood to their inferiors.” More she would not say. But

Cecropia taking away the each-way guilty Artesia, with fear of

torture, got of her the whole practice: so that Zelmane was the more

closely imprisoned, and Clinias, with the rest of his corrupted mates,

according to their merits, executed: for as for Artesia, she was but

locked up in her chamber, Amphialus not consenting, for the love he

bore to Ismenus, that further punishment should be laid upon her.

But the noise they heard in the camp was by occasion of the famous

prince Anaxius, nephew to the giant Euardes, whom Pyrocles slew; a

prince of body exceedingly strong, in arms so skilful and fortunate,

as no man was thought to excel him; of courage that knew not how to

fear; of parts worthy praise, if they had not been guided by pride,

and followed by injustice. For by a strange composition of mind, there

was no man more tenderly sensible in anything offered to himself,

which in the farthest-fetched construction might be wrested to the

name of wrong; no man that in his own actions could worse distinguish

between valour and violence: so proud, that he could not abstain from

a Thraso-like boasting, and yet, so unlucky a lodging his virtues had

gotten, he would never boast more than he would accomplish, falsely

accounting an inflexible anger a courageous constancy; esteeming fear

and astonishment righter causes of admiration, {368} than love and

honour. This man had four sundry times fought with Amphialus, but Mars

had been so impartial an arbiter, that neither side got advantage of

the other. But in the end, it happened that Anaxius found Amphialus,

unknown in great danger, and saved his life: whereupon, loving his own

benefit, began to favour him, so much the more, as thinking so well of

himself, he could not choose but like him, whom he found a match for

himself: which at last grew to as much friendship towards him, as

could by a proud heart be conceived. So as in this travel (seeking

Pyrocles to be revenged of his uncle’s death) hearing of this siege,

never taking pains to examine the quarrel, like a man whose will was

his god, and his hand his law, taking with him his two brothers, men

accounted little inferior to himself in martial matters, and two

hundred chosen horsemen, with whom he thought himself able to conquer

the world, yet commanding the rest of his forces to follow, he himself

upon such an unexpected suddenness entered in upon the back of

Basilius, that many with great unkindness took their death, not

knowing why, nor how they were so murdered. There, if ever, did he

make known the wonderfulness of his force. But the valiant and

faithful Philanax, with well-governed speed, made such head against

him as would have showed how soon courage falls in the ditch which

hath not the eye of wisdom; but that Amphialus at the same time issued

out and winning with abundance of courage one of the sconces which

Basilius had builded, made way for his friend Anaxius, with great loss

of both sides, but especially of the Basilians, such notable monuments

had those two swords especially left of their master’s redoubted

worthiness.

There, with the respect fit to his estate, the honour due to his

worthiness, and the kindness which accompanies friendship, made fast

by interchanged benefits, did Amphialus enforce himself, as much as in

a besieged town he could, to make Anaxius know that his succour was

not so needful as his presence grateful. For causing the streets and

houses of the town to witness his welcome, making both soldiers and

magistrates in their countenances to show their gladness of him, he

led him to his mother, whom he besought to entertain him with no less

love and kindness, than as one who once had saved her son’s life, and

now came to save both life and honour. “Tush,” said Anaxius, speaking

aloud, looking upon his brothers, “I am only sorry there are not

half-a-dozen kings more about you, than what Anaxius can do might be

the better manifested.” His brothers smiled, as though he had

over-modestly spoken, far underneath the pitch of his power. Then was

he disarmed at the earnest request of Amphialus: for Anaxius boiled

with desire to issue out upon the {369} enemies, persuading himself

that the sun should not be set before he had overthrown them. And

having reposed himself, Amphialus asked him whether he would visit the

young princesses. But Anaxius whispered him in the ear, “In truth,”

said he, “dear friend Amphialus, though I am none of those that love

to speak for themselves, I never came yet in company of ladies but

that they fell in love with me. And that I in my heart scorn them as

a peevish paltry sex, nor worthy to communicate with my virtues, would

not do you the wrong: since, as I hear, you do debase yourself so much

as to affect them.” The courteous Amphialus could have been angry with

him for those words; but knowing his humour, suffered him to dance to

his own music: and gave himself to entertain both him and his

brothers, with as cheerful a manner as could issue from a mind whom

unlucky love had filled with melancholy. For to Anaxius he yielded the

direction of all. He gave the watch-word, and if any grace were

granted, the means were to be made to Anaxius. And that night when

supper was ended wherein Amphialus would needs himself wait upon him,

he caused in boats upon the lake an excellent music to be ordered;

which, though Anaxius might conceive was for his honour, yet indeed he

was but the brick wall to convey it to the ears of the beloved

Philoclea.

The music was of cornets, whereof one answering the other, with a

sweet emulation striving for the glory of music, and striking upon the

smooth face of the quiet lake, was then delivered up to the castle

walls, which with a proud reverberation, spreading it into the air, it

seemed before the harmony came to the ear, that it had enriched itself

in travel, the nature of those places adding melody to that melodious

instrument. And when a while that instrument had made a brave

proclamation to all possessed minds of attention, an excellent concert

straight followed, of five viols, and as many voices; which all being

but orators of their master’s passions, bestowed this song upon her

that thought upon another matter.

The fire to see my wrongs for anger burneth;

The air in rain for my affection weepeth:

The sea to ebb for grief his flowing turneth:

The earth with pity dull his centre keepeth.

Fame is with wonder blazed;

Time runs away for sorrow:

Place standeth still amazed,

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

Alas all only she no pity taketh

To know my miseries, but chaste and cruel,

My fall her glory maketh;

{370}

Yet still her eyes give to my flame their fuel.

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

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

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

Earth, take this Earth wherein my spirits languish.

Fame, say I was not born:

Time, haste my dying hour.

Place, see my grave uptorn:

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

Alas from all their help I am exiled:

For hers am I, and death fears her displeasure.

Fie death thou art beguiled:

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

But Anaxius, seeming a-weary before it was ended, told Amphialus, that

for his part he liked no music but the neighing of horses, the sound

of trumpets, and the cries of yielding persons: and therefore desired,

that the next morning they should issue upon the same place where they

had entered that day, not doubting to make them quickly a-weary of

being the besiegers of Anaxius. Amphialus, who had no whit less

courage, though nothing blown up with pride, willingly condescended:

and so the next morning, giving false alarm to the other side of the

camp, Amphialus at Anaxius’s earnest request, staying within the town

to see it guarded, Anaxius and his brethren, Lycurgus and Zoilus

sallied out with the best chosen men. But Basilius, having been the

last day somewhat unprovided, now had better fortified the overthrown

sconce; and so well had prepared everything for defence, that it was

impossible for any valour from within to prevail. Yet things were

performed by Anaxius beyond the credit of the credulous: for thrice,

valiantly followed by his brothers, did he set up his banner upon the

rampire of the enemy; though thrice again by the multitude, and

advantage of the place, but especially by the coming of three valiant

knights, he was driven down again. Numbers there were that day, whose

deaths and overthrows were excused by the well known sword of Anaxius:

but the rest by the length of time and injury of historians have been

wrapped up in dark forgetfulness; only Tressenius is spoken of,

because when all abandoned the place, he only made head to Anaxius;

till having lost one of his legs, yet not lost the heart of fighting,

Lycurgus, second brother to Anaxius, cruelly murdered him; Anaxius

himself disdaining any further to deal with them.

But so far had Anaxius at the third time prevailed, that now the

Basilians began to let their courage descend to their feet; Basilius

and Philanax in vain striving with reverence of authority to bridle

the flight of astonishment, and to teach fear, discretion: so that

{371} Amphialus, seeing victory show such a flattering countenance to

him, came out with all his force, hoping that day to end the siege.

But that fancy altered quickly, by the sudden coming to the other side

of the three knights, whereof the one was in white armour, the other

in green, and the third by his black armour and device, straight known

to be the notable knight who the first day had given fortune so short

a stop with his notable deeds, fighting hand to hand with the deemed

invincible Amphialus. For the very cowards no sooner saw him, but as

borrowing some of his spirit, they went like young eagles to the prey,

under the wing of their dam. For the three adventurers, not content to

keep them from their rampire, leapt down among them, and entered into

a brave combat with the three valiant brothers. But to whether side

fortune would have been partial, could not be determined. For the

Basilians, lightened with the beams of their strangers’ valour,

followed so thick, that the Amphialians were glad with some haste to

retire to the wall-ward: though Anaxius neither reason, fear, nor

example, could make him assuage the fury of his fight: until one of

the Basilians (unworthy to have his name registered, since he did it

cowardly, sideward, when he least looked that way) almost cut off one

of his legs, so that he fell down, blaspheming heaven, that all the

influences thereof had power to overthrow him: and there death would

have seized on his proud heart, but that Amphialus took in hand the

black knight, while some of his soldiers conveyed away Anaxius, so

requiting life for life unto him.

And for the love and example of Amphialus, the fight began to enter

into a new fit of heat: when Basilius, that thought enough to be done

for that day, caused retreat to be sounded; fearing lest his men

following over-earnestly, might be the loss of those excellent knights

whom he desired to know. The knights as soon as they heard the

retreat, though they were eagerly set, knowing that courage without

discipline, is nearer beastliness than manhood, drew back their

swords, though hungry of more blood: especially the black knight, who

knowing of Amphialus, could not refrain to tell him, that this was the

second time he escaped out of his hands, but that he would shortly

bring him a bill of all the former accounts. Amphialus seeing it fit

to retire also, most of his people being hurt, both in bodies and

hearts, withdrew himself with so well-seated a resolution, that it was

as far from anger, as from dismayedness, answering no other to the

black knight’s threats, but that when he brought him his account, he

should find a good paymaster.

The fight being ceased, and each side withdrawn within their

strengths, Basilius sent Philanax to entertain the strange knights,

{372} and to bring them unto him that he might acknowledge what honour

was due to their virtue. But they excused themselves, desiring to be

known first by their deeds, before their names should accuse their

unworthiness: and though the other replied according as they deserved,

yet (finding that unwelcome courtesy is a degree of injury) he

suffered them to retire themselves to a tent of their own without the

camp, where they kept themselves secret: Philanax himself being called

away to another strange knight; strange not only by the

unlooked-for-ness of his coming, but by the strange manner of his

coming.

For he had before him four damsels, and so many behind him, all upon

palfreys, and all apparelled in mourning weeds; each of them a servant

on each side, with like liveries of sorrow. Himself in an armour, all

painted over with such a cunning of shadow, that it represented a

gaping sepulchre; the furniture of his horse was all of cypress

branches: wherewith in old time they were wont to dress graves. His

bases, which he wore so long, as they came almost to his ankle, were

embroidered only with black worms, which seemed to crawl up and down,

as ready to devour him. In his shield, for impresa, he had a beautiful

child, but having two heads, whereon the one showed that it was

already dead; the other alive, but in that case, necessarily looking

for death. The word was: “No way to be rid from death, but by death.”

This knight of the tomb, for so the soldiers termed him, sent to

Basilius to demand leave to send a damsel into the town, to call out

Amphialus, according as before time some others had done. Which being

granted, as glad any would undertake the charge, which nobody else in

that camp was known willing to do, the damsel went in, and having with

tears sobbed out a brave challenge to Amphialus, from the knight of

the tomb, Amphialus honourably entertaining the gentlewoman, and

desiring to know the knight’s name, which the doleful gentlewoman

would not discover, accepted the challenge, only desiring the

gentlewoman to say thus much to the strange knight from him, that if

his mind were like to his title, there were more cause of affinity

than enmity between them. And therefore presently, accordingly as he

was wont, as soon as he perceived the knight of the tomb, with his

damsels and judge, was come into the island, he also went over in

accustomed manner; and yet for the courtesy of his nature, desired to

speak with him.

But the knight of the tomb, with silence and drawing his horse back,

showed no will to hear, nor speak: but with lance on thigh, made him

know, it was fit for him to go to the other end of the career, whence

waiting the start of the unknown knight, he likewise made his spurs

claim haste of his horse. But when his staff was in his rest, coming

down to meet with the knight, now very near {373} him, he perceived

the knight had missed his rest: wherefore the courteous Amphialus

would not let his lance descend: but with a gallant grace, ran over

the head of his therein friended enemy: and having stopped his horse,

and with the turning of him, blessed his sight with the window where

he thought Philoclea might stand, he perceived the knight had lighted

from his horse, and thrown away his staff, angry with his misfortune,

as of having missed his rest, and drawn his sword, to make that supply

his fellow’s fault; he also alighted, and drew his sword, esteeming

victory with advantage, rather robbed than purchased: and so the other

coming eagerly toward him, he with his shield out; and sword aloft,

with more bravery than anger drew unto him, and straight made their

swords speak for them a pretty while with equal fierceness. But

Amphialus, to whom the earth brought forth few matches, having both

much more skill to choose the places, and more force to work upon the

chosen, had already made many windows in his armour for death to come

in at, when in the nobleness of his nature abhorring to make the

punishment overgo the offence, he stepped a little back, and withal,

“Sir knight,” said he, “you may easily see that it pleaseth God to

favour my cause; employ your valour against them that wish you hurt,

for my part I have not deserved hate of you.” “Thou liest, false

traitor,” said the other, with an angry, but weak voice; but

Amphialus, in whom abused kindness became spiteful rage. “Ah barbarous

wretch,” said he, “only courageous in discourtesy, thou shalt soon see

whether thy tongue hath betrayed thy heart, or no:” and with that

redoubled his blows, gave him a great wound upon his neck, and closing

with him, overthrew him, and with the fall thrust him mortally into

the body, and with that went to pull off his helmet, with intention to

make him give himself the lie, for having so said, or to cut off his

head.

But the headpiece was no sooner off, but that there fell about the

shoulders of the overcome knight the treasure of fair golden hair,

which with the face, soon known by the badge of excellency, witnessed

that it was Parthenia, the unfortunately virtuous wife of Argalus; her

beauty then, even in the despite of the past sorrow, or coming death,

assuring all beholders that it was nothing short of perfection. For

her exceeding fair eyes, having with continual weeping gotten a little

redness about them, her round sweetly swelling lips a little

trembling, as though they kissed their neighbour death; in her cheeks

the whiteness striving by little and little to get upon the rosiness

of them; her neck, a neck indeed of alabaster, displaying the wound,

which with most dainty blood laboured to drown his own beauties; so

that here was a river of purest red, there an island of perfectest

white, each giving {374} lustre to the other, with the sweet

countenance, God knows, full of an unaffected languishing: though

these things to a grossly conceiving sense might seem disgraces, yet

indeed were they but apparelling beauty in a new fashion, which all

looked upon through the spectacles of pity, did even increase the

lines of her natural fairness; so that Amphialus was astonished with

grief, compassion and shame, detesting his fortune that made him

unfortunate in victory.

Therefore putting off his headpiece and gauntlet, kneeling down unto

her, and with tears testifying his sorrow, he offered his, by himself

accursed, hands to help her, protesting his life and power to be ready

to do her honour. But Parthenia, who had inward messengers of the

desired death’s approach, looking upon him, and straight turning away

her feeble sight, as from a delightless object, drawing out her words,

which her breath, loth to depart from so sweet a body, did faintly

deliver: “Sir,” said she, “I pray you, if prayers have place in

enemies, to let my maids take my body untouched by you: the only

honour I now desire by your means, is, that I have no honour of you.

Argalus made no such bargain with you, that the hands which killed

him, should help me. I have of them, and I do not only pardon you, but

thank you for it, the service which I desired. There rests nothing

now, but that I go live with him, since whose death I have done

nothing but die.” Then pausing, and a little fainting, and again

coming to herself; “O sweet life, welcome,” said she, “now feel I the

bands united of the cruel death, which so long hath held me. And O

life, O death, answer for me, that my thoughts have not so much as in

a dream tasted any comfort, since they were deprived of Argalus. I

come, my Argalus, I come: and, O God, hide my faults in thy mercies,

and grant, as I feel thou dost grant, that in thy eternal love, we may

love each other eternally. And this, O Lord:”----but there

Atropos[b3-05] cut off her sentence: for with that, casting up both

eyes and hands to the skies, the noble soul departed (one might well

assure himself) to heaven, which left the body in so heavenly a

demeanour.

But Amphialus, with a heart oppressed with grief, because of her

request, withdrew himself: but the judges, as full of pity, had been

all this while disarming her, and her gentlewomen with lamentable

cries labouring to staunch the remediless wounds: and a while she was

dead before they perceived it, death being able to divide the soul,

but not the beauty from that body. But when the infallible tokens of

death assured them of their loss, one of the women would have killed

herself, but that the squire of Amphialus perceiving, by force held

her. Others that had as {375} strong passion, though weaker

resolution, fell to cast dust upon their heads, to tear their

garments; all falling upon the earth, and crying upon their sweet

mistress, as if their cries could persuade the soul to leave the

celestial happiness, to come again into the elements of sorrow: one

time calling to remembrance her virtue, chasteness, sweetness, and

goodness to them; another time accursing themselves that they had

obeyed her; being deceived by her words, who assured them that it was

revealed unto her that she should have her heart’s desire in the

battle against Amphialus, which they wrongly understood. Then kissing

her cold hands and feet, weary of the world, since she was gone who

was their world, the very heavens seemed with a cloudy countenance to

lour at the loss, and fame itself (though by nature glad to tell such

rare accidents) yet could not choose but deliver it in lamentable

accents, and in such sort went it quickly all over the camp: and as if

the air had been infected with sorrow, no heart was so hard, but was

as subject to that contagion; the rareness of the accident, matching

together, the rarely matched together, pity with admiration. Basilius

himself came forth, and brought the fair Gynecia with him, who was

come into the camp under colour of visiting her husband, and hearing

of her daughters: but indeed Zelmane was the saint to which her

pilgrimage was intended, cursing, envying, blessing, and in her heart

kissing the walls which imprisoned her. But both they, with Philanax,

and the rest of the principal nobility, went out to make honour

triumph over death, conveying that excellent body (whereto Basilius

himself would needs lend his shoulder) to a church a mile from the

camp, where the valiant Argalus lay entombed; recommending to that

sepulchre the blessed relics of a faithful and virtuous love, giving

order for the making of two marble images to represent them, and each

way enriching the tomb: upon which Basilius himself caused this

epitaph to be written,

His Being was in her alone.

And he not Being she was none.

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

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

The hand was One, One was the sword

That did his death, her death afford.

As all the rest; so now the stone

That tombs the Two is justly One.

ARGALUS and PARTHENIA.

{376}

Then with eyes full of tears, and mouths full of her praises, returned

they to the camp, with more and more hate against Amphialus, who, poor

gentleman, had therefore greater portion of woe than any of them. For

that courteous heart, which would have grieved but to have heard the

like adventure, was rent with remembering himself to be the author; so

that his wisdom could not so far temper his passion, but that he took

his sword, counted the best in the world (which with much blood he had

once conquered of a mighty giant) and broke it into many pieces, which

afterwards he had good cause to repent, saying, that neither it was

worthy to serve the noble exercise of chivalry, nor any other worthy

to feel that sword, which had stricken so excellent a lady; and

withal, banishing all cheerfulness of his countenance he returned

home: where he got him to his bed, not so much to rest his restless

mind, as to avoid all company; the sight whereof was tedious unto him.

And then melancholy, only rich in unfortunate remembrances, brought

before him all the mishaps with which his life had wrestled: taking

this, not only as a confirming of the former, but a presage of

following misery, and to his heart, already overcome by sorrowfulness,

even trifling misfortunes came, to fill up the roll of a grieved

memory, labouring only his wits to pierce further and further into his

own wretchedness. So as all that night, in despite of darkness, he

held his eyes open; and in the morning, when the light began to

restore to each body his colour, then with curtains barred he himself

from the enjoying of it; neither willing to feel the comfort of the

day, nor the ease of the night, until his mother (who never knew what

love meant, but only to him-ward) came to his bedside, and beginning

with loving earnestness to lay a kind chiding upon him, because he

would suffer the weakness of sorrow to conquer the strength of his

virtues; he did with a broken piecemeal speech, as if the tempest of

passion unorderly blew out his words, remember the mishaps of his

youth, the evils he had been the cause of, his rebelling with shame,

and that shame increased with shameful accidents, the deaths of

Philoxenus and Parthenia, wherein he found himself hated of the

ever-ruling powers, but especially (and so especially, as the rest

seemed nothing when he came to that) his fatal love to Philoclea: to

whom he had so governed himself as one that could neither conquer, nor

yield; being of the one side a slave, and of the other a jailor: and

withal almost upbraiding unto his mother the little success of her

large hoping promises, he in effect finding Philoclea nothing

mollified, and now himself, so cast down as he thought himself

unworthy of better. But his mother, as she had plentiful cause, making

him see that of his other griefs there was little or no fault in {377}

himself, and therefore there ought to be little or no grief in him;

when she came to the head of the sore, indeed seeing that she could no

longer patch up her former promises (he taking a desperate deafness to

all delaying hopes) she confessed plainly that she could prevail

nothing: but the fault was his own, who had marred the young girl by

seeking to have that by prayer, which he should have taken by

authority. That it were an absurd cunning to make high ladders to go

in a plain way; so was it an untimely and foolish flattery, there to

beseech, where one might command, puffing them up by being besought,

with such a self-pride of superiority, that it was not, forsooth, to

be held out but by denial. “O God,” said Amphialus, “how well I

thought my fortune would bring forth this end of your labours? assure

yourself, mother, I will sooner pull out these eyes, than they should

look upon the heavenly Philoclea, but as upon a heaven whence they

have their light, and to which they are subject. If they will pour

down any influences of comfort: O happy I: but if by the sacrifice of

a faithful heart, they will not be called unto me, let me languish and

wither with languishing, and grieve with withering, but never so much

as repine with never so much grieving. Mother, O Mother, lust may well

be a tyrant, but true love where it is indeed, it is a servant.

Accursed more than I am, may I be, if ever I did approach her, but

that I freezed as much in a fearful reverence, as I burned in a

vehement desire. Did ever man’s eye look through love upon the majesty

of virtue, shining through beauty, but that he became, as it well

became him, a captive? and it is the style of the captive to write,

‘Our will and pleasure?’”

“Tush, tush, son,” said Cecropia, “if you say you love, but withal you

fear, you fear lest you should offend. Offend? and how know you that

you should offend? because she doth deny. Deny? now by my truth, if

your sadness would let me laugh, I could laugh heartily to see that

you are ignorant, that ‘No’ is no Negative in a woman’s mouth. My son,

believe me, a woman speaking of women; a lover’s modesty among us is

much more praised, than liked: or if we like it, so well we like it,

that for marring of his modesty, he shall never proceed further. Each

virtue hath his time: if you command your soldier to march foremost,

and he for courtesy put others before him, would you praise his

modesty? love is your general, he bids you dare, and will Amphialus be

a dastard? let example serve: do you think Theseus should ever have

gotten Antiope with sighing and crossing his arms? he ravished her,

and ravished her that was an Amazon, and therefore had gotten a habit

of stoutness above the nature of a woman: but having ravished her, he

got a child of her. And I say no {378} more, but that, they say, is

not gotten without consent on both sides. Iole had her own father

killed by Hercules, and herself ravished, by force ravished, and yet

ere long this ravished and unfathered lady could sportfully put on the

lion’s skin upon her own fair shoulders, and play with the club with

her own delicate hands: so easily had she pardoned the ravisher, that

she could not but delight in those weapons of ravishing. But above all

mark Helen, daughter to Jupiter, who could never brook her

mannerly-wooing Menelaus, but disdained his humbleness, and loathed

his softness. But so well she could like the force of enforcing Paris,

that for him she could abide what might be abidden. But what? Menelaus

takes heart, he recovers her by force, by force carries her home, by

force enjoys her; and she who would never like him for

serviceableness, ever after loved him for violence. For what can be

more agreeable than upon force to lay the fault of desire, and in one

instant to join a dear delight with a just excuse? or rather the true

cause is (pardon me, O woman-kind, for revealing to mine own son the

truth of this mystery) we think there wants fire, where we find no

sparkles, at least of fury. Truly I have known a great lady, long

sought by most great, most wise, most beautiful, and most valiant

persons, never won, because they did over-superstitiously solicit her:

the same lady brought under by another, inferior to all them in all

those qualities, only because he could use that imperious

masterfulness which nature gives to men above women. For indeed, son,

I confess unto you, in our very creation we are servants: and who

prayeth his servants, shall never be well obeyed: but as a ready horse

straight yields when he finds one that will make him yield, the same

falls to bounds when feels a fearful horseman. Awake thy spirits, good

Amphialus, and assure thyself, that though she refuseth, she refuseth

but to endear the obtaining. If she weep, and chide, and protest

before it be gotten, she can but weep, and chide, and protest, when it

is gotten. Think, she would not strive, but that she means to try thy

force; and my Amphialus, know thyself a man, and show thyself a man;

and, believe me upon my word, a woman is a woman.”

Amphialus was about to answer her, when a gentleman of his made him

understand that there was a messenger come, who had brought a letter

unto him from out of the camp: whom he presently calling for, took,

opened, and read the letter, importing this.

To thee Amphialus of Arcadia, the forsaken knight wisheth health and

courage, that by my hand thou mayest receive punishment for thy

treason, according to thine own offer, which wickedly occasioned, thou

hast proudly begun, and accursedly maintained. I will {379} presently

(if thy mind faint thee not for his own guiltiness) meet thee in thy

island, in such order, as hath by the former been used: or if thou

likest not the time, place, or weapon, I am ready to take thy own

reasonable choice in any of them, so as thou do perform the substance.

Make me such answer as may show that thou hast some taste of honour:

and so I leave thee, to live till I meet thee.

Amphialus read it, and with a deep sigh (according to the humour of

inward affliction) seemed even to condemn himself, as though indeed

his reproaches were true. But howsoever the dullness of melancholy

would have languishingly yielded thereunto, his courage, unused to

such injuries, desired help of anger to make him this answer.

Forsaken knight, though your nameless challenge might carry in

itself excuse for a man of my birth and estate, yet herein set your

heart at rest, you shall not be forsaken. I will, without stay, answer

you in the wonted manner, and come both armed in your foolish

threatenings, and yet the more fearless, expecting weak blows, where I

find so strong words. You shall not therefore long attend me in the

island, before proof teach you, that of my life you have made yourself

too large a promise. In the meantime, farewell.

This being written, and delivered, the messenger told him that his

lord would, if he liked the same, bring two knights with him to be his

patrons. Which Amphialus accepted, and withal shaking off, with

resolution, his mother’s importunate persuasions, he furnished himself

for the fight, but not in his wonted furniture. For now, as if he

would turn his inside outward, he would needs appear all in black; his

decking both for himself, and horse, being cut out into the fashion of

very rags: yet all so daintily joined together with precious stones,

as it was a brave raggedness, and a rich poverty: and so cunningly had

the workman followed his humour in his armour, that he had given it a

rusty show, and yet so that any man might perceive was by art, and not

negligence; carrying at one instant a disgraced handsomeness, and a

new oldness. In his shield he bare for his device, a Night, by an

excellent painter, excellently painted, with a sun with a shadow, and

upon the shadow a speech signifying, that it only was barred from

enjoying that, whereof it had his life? or “From whose I am,

banished.” In his crest he carried Philoclea’s knives, the only token

of her forced favour.

So passed he over into the island, taking with him the two brothers of

Anaxius, where he found the forsaken knight attired in his own livery,

as black as sorrow itself could see itself in the blackest glass: his

ornaments of the same hue, but formed into the figures of ravens,

which seemed to gape for carrion: only his {380} reins were snakes,

which finely wrapping themselves one within the other, their heads

came together to the cheeks and bosses of the bit, where they might

seem to bite at the horse, and the horse, as he champed the bit, to

bite at them, and that the white foam was engendered by the poisonous

fury of the combat. His impresa was a Catoblepa[b3-06], which so long

lies dead, as the moon, whereto it hath so natural a sympathy, wants

her light. The word signified, that the moon wanted not the light, but

the poor beast wanted the moon’s light. He had in his headpiece, a

whip to witness a self-punishing repentance. Their very horses were

coal black too, not having so much as one star to give light to their

night of blackness: so as one would have thought they had been the two

sons of sorrow and were come hither to fight for their birthright in

that sorry inheritance.

Which alliance of passions so moved Amphialus, already tender minded

by the afflictions of love, that without staff or sword drawn, he

trotted fairly to the forsaken knight, willing to have put off this

combat, to which his melancholy heart did, more than ever in like

occasion, misgive him: and therefore saluting him, “Good knight,” said

he, “because we are men, and should know reason why we do things, tell

me the cause, that makes you thus eager to fight with me.” “Because I

affirm,” answered the forsaken knight, “that thou dost most rebellious

injury to these ladies to whom all men owe service.” “You shall not

fight with me,” said Amphialus, “upon the quarrel: for I confess the

same too: but it proceeds from their own beauty, to enforce love to

offer this force.” “I maintain then,” said the forsaken knight, “that

thou art not worthy so to love.” “And that I confess too,” said

Amphialus, “since the world is not so richly blessed, as to bring

forth anything worthy thereof. But no more unworthy than any other,

since in none can be a more worthy love.” “Yes, more unworthy than

myself,” said the forsaken knight, “for though I deserve contempt,

thou deservest both contempt and hatred.”

But Amphialus by that thinking, though wrongly, each indeed mistaking

other, that he was his rival, forgot all mind of reconciliation, and

having all his thoughts bound up in choler, never staying either

judge, trumpet, or his own lance, drew out his sword, and saying,

“Thou liest, false villain,” unto him, his words and blows came so

quick together, as the one seemed a lightning of the other’s thunder.

But he found no barren ground of such seed: for it yielded him his own

with such increase, that though reason and amazement go rarely

together, yet the most reasonable eyes that saw it, found reason to be

amazed at the fury of their combat. Never game of death better played;

never fury set itself forth in {381} greater bravery. The courteous

Vulcan, when he wrought at his more courteous wife’s request Aeneas an

armour, made not his hammer beget a greater sound than the swords of

these noble knights did: they needed no fire to their forge, for they

made the fire to shine at the meeting of their swords and armours,

each side fetching still new spirit from the castle window, and

careful of keeping their sight that way as a matter of greater

consideration in their combat, than either the advantage of sun or

wind; which sun and wind, if the astonished eyes of the beholders were

not by the astonishment deceived, did both stand still to be beholders

of this rare match. For neither could their amazed eyes discern motion

of the sun, and no breath of wind stirred, as if either for fear it

would not come among such blows, or with delight had eyes so busy, as

it had forgot to open his mouth. This fight being the more cruel,

since both love and hatred conspired to sharpen their humours, that

hard it was to say whether love with one trumpet, or hatred with

another, gave the louder alarm to their courages. Spite, rage,

disdain, shame, revenge, came waiting upon hatred: of the other side

came with love, longing desire, both invincible hope, and fearless

despair, with rival-like jealousy, which, although brought up within

doors in the school of Cupid, should show themselves no less forward

than the other dusty band of Mars, to make themselves notable in the

notableness of this combat. Of either side confidence, unacquainted

with loss, but assuring trust to overcome, and good experience how to

overcome: now seconding their terrible blows with cunning labouring

the horses to win ground of the enemy; now unlooked-for parting one

from the other to win advantages by an advantageous return. But force

against force, skill against skill, so interchangeably encountered

that it was not easy to determine whether enterprising, or preventing

came former: both sometimes at one instant, doing and suffering wrong,

and choler no less rising of the doing than of the suffering. But as

the fire, the more fuel is put to it, the more hungry still it is to

devour more, so the more they struck, the more unsatisfied they were

with striking. Their very armour by piecemeal fell away from them; and

yet their flesh abode the wounds constantly, as though it were less

sensible of smart, than the senseless armour: their blood in most

places staining their black colour, as if it would give a more lively

colour of mourning than black can do. And so long a space they fought,

while neither virtue nor fortune seemed partial of either side: which

so tormented the unquiet heart of Amphialus, that he resolved to see a

quick end: and therefore with the violence of courage, adding strength

to his blow, he struck in such wise upon the side of the other’s head

that his remembrance left that battered lodging, so that he was quite

from himself, casting his {382} arms abroad, and ready to fall down;

his sword likewise went out of his hand, but that being fast by a

chain to his arm, he could not lose. And Amphialus used the favour of

occasion, redoubling his blows: but the horse, weary to be beaten, as

well as the master, carried his master away, till he came unto

himself. But then who could have seen him, might well have discerned

shame in his cheeks, and revenge in his eyes: so that setting his

teeth together with rage, he came running upon Amphialus, reaching out

his arm, which had gathered up his sword, meaning with that blow to

have cleaved Amphialus in two. But Amphialus, seeing the blow coming,

shunned it with nimble turning his horse aside; wherewith the forsaken

knight overstrake himself, so as almost he came down with his own

strength: but the more hungry of his purpose, the more he was barred

the food of it: disdaining the resistance, both of force and fortune,

he returned upon the spur again, and ran with such violence upon

Amphialus that his horse with the force of the shock rose up before,

almost overturned: which Amphialus perceiving, with rein and spur put

forth his horse, and withal gave a mighty blow in the descent of his

horse, upon the shoulder of the forsaken knight, from whence sliding,

it fell upon the neck of his horse, so as horse and man fell to the

ground: but he was scarce down before he was upon his feet again, with

brave gesture showing rising of courage, in the falling of fortune.

But the courteous Amphialus excused himself, for having, against his

will, killed his horse. “Excuse thyself for viler faults,” answered

the forsaken knight, “and use this poor advantage the best thou canst,

for thou shalt quickly find thou hast need of more.” “Thy folly,” said

Amphialus, “shall not make me forget myself:” and therefore, trotting

a little aside, alighted from his horse, because he would not have

fortune come to claim any part of the victory. Which courteous act

would have mollified the noble heart of the forsaken knight, if any

other had done it besides the jailor of his mistress; but that was a

sufficient defeasance of the firmest bond of good nature; and

therefore he was no sooner alighted but that he ran unto him,

re-entering into as cruel a fight as eye did ever see, or thought

could reasonably imagine; far beyond the reach of weak words to be

able to express it. For what they had done on horseback, was but a

morsel to keep their stomachs in appetite in comparison of that which

now (being themselves) they did. Nor ever glutton by the change of

dainty diet could be brought to fresh feeding, when he might have been

satisfied before, with more earnestness, than those, by the change of

their manner of fight, fell clean to a new fight, though any else

would have thought they had their fill already. Amphialus being the

taller man, for the most part stood with his right leg before, his

shield at the uttermost {383} length of his arm; his sword high, but

with the point towards his enemy. But when he struck, which came so

thick, as if every blow would strive to be foremost, his arm seemed

still a postilion of death. The forsaken knight showed with like

skill, unlike gesture, keeping himself in continual motion,

proportioning the distance between them to anything that Amphialus

attempted; his eye guided his foot, and his foot conveyed his hand;

and since nature had made him something the lower of the two, he made

art follow, and not strive with nature; shunning rather than warding

his blows; like a cunning mastiff who knows the sharpness of the horn

and strength of the bull, fights low to get his proper advantage;

answering mightiness with nimbleness, and yet at times employing his

wonderful force, wherein he was second to none. In sum, the blows were

strong, the thrusts thick, and the avoidings cunning. But the forsaken

knight, that thought it a degree of being conquered to be long in

conquering, struck him so mighty a blow, that he made Amphialus put

knee to the ground, without any humbleness. But when he felt himself

stricken down, and saw himself stricken down by his rival, then shame

seemed one arm, and disdain another; fury in his eyes, and revenge in

his heart; skill and force gave place and they took the place of skill

and force, with so unweariable a manner that the forsaken knight was

driven also to leave the stern of cunning, and gave himself wholly to

be guided by the storm of fury: there being in both, because hate

would not suffer admiration, extreme disdain to find themselves so

matched.

“What,” said Amphialus to himself, “am I Amphialus, before whom so

many monsters and giants have fallen dead, when I only sought

causeless adventures? and can one knight now withstand me in the

presence of Philoclea, and fighting for Philoclea, or since I lost my

liberty, have I lost my courage, have I gotten the heart of a slave as

well as the fortune? If an army were against me in the sight of

Philoclea, could it resist me? O beast, one man resists thee: thy

rival resists thee: or am I indeed Amphialus? have not passions killed

him, and wretched I, I know not how, succeeded into his place?” Of the

other side the forsaken knight with no less spite fell out with

himself; “Hast thou broken,” said he to himself, “the commandment of

thy only princess, to come now into her presence, and in her presence

to prove thyself a coward? Doth Asia and Egypt set up trophies unto

thee to be matched here by a traitor? O noble Barsanes, how shamed

will thy soul be, that he that slew thee, should be resisted by this

one man? O incomparable Pyrocles, more grieved wilt thou be with thy

friend’s shame, than with thine own imprisonment, when thou shalt know

how little I have been able to do for the delivery of thee, and these

{384} heavenly princesses. Am I worthy to be friend to the most

valorous prince that ever was entitled valorous, and show myself so

weak a wretch? No, shamed Musidorus, worthy for nothing but to keep

sheep, get thee a sheep-hook again, since thou canst use a sword no

better.”

Thus at times did they, now with one thought, then with another,

sharpen their over-sharp humours; like the lion that beats himself

with his own tail, to make himself the more angry. These thoughts

indeed not staying, but whetting their angry swords, which now had put

on the apparel of cruelty: they bleeding so abundantly, that everybody

that saw them, fainted for them, and yet they fainted not in

themselves: their smart being more sensible to other eyes than to

their own feeling. Wrath and courage barring the common sense from

bringing any message of their case to the mind: pain, weariness, and

weakness, not daring to make known their case, though already in the

limits of death, in the presence of so violent fury: which filling the

veins with rage instead of blood, and making the mind minister spirits

to the body, a great while held out their fight, like an arrow shot

upward by the force of the bow, though by his own nature he would go

downward. The forsaken knight had the more wounds, but Amphialus had

the sorer; which the other, watching time and place, had cunningly

given unto him: who ever saw a well-manned galley fight with a tall

ship, might make unto himself some kind of comparison of the

difference of these two knights; a better couple than which the world

could not brag of. Amphialus seemed to excel in strength, the forsaken

knight in nimbleness; and yet did the one’s strength excel in

nimbleness, and the other’s nimbleness excel in strength; but now

strength and nimbleness were both gone, and excess of courage only

maintained the fight. Three times had Amphialus, with his mighty blows

driven the forsaken knight to go staggering backward, but every one of

these times he requited pain with smart, and shame with repulse. And

now whether he had cause, or that over-much confidence, an

over-forward scholar of unconquered courage, made him think he had

cause, he began to persuade himself he had the advantage of the combat

though the advantage he took himself to have was only that he should

be the later to die: which hope, hate, as unsecret as love, could not

conceal, but drawing himself a little back from him, broke out in

these manner of words.

“Ah Amphialus,” said the forsaken knight, “this third time thou shalt

not escape me, but thy death shall satisfy thy injury and my malice,

and pay for the cruelty thou showedst in killing the noble Argalus,

and the fair Parthenia.” “In troth,” said Amphialus, “thou art the

best knight that ever I fought withal, which would {385} make me

willing to grant thee thy life, if thy wit were as good as thy

courage; that, besides other follies, layest that to my charge, which

most against my will was committed. But whether my death be in thy

power, or no, let this tell thee;” and upon the word waited a blow,

which parted his shield in two pieces; and despising the weak

resistance of his already broken armour, made a great breach into his

heart side, as if he would make a passage for his love to get out at.

But pain rather seemed to increase life, than to weaken life in these

champions. For the forsaken knight coming in with his right leg, and

making it guide the force of the blow, struck Amphialus upon the belly

so horrible a wound, that his guts came out withal. Which Amphialus

perceiving (fearing death, only because it should come with overthrow)

he seemed to conjure all his strength for one moment’s service; and so

lifting up his sword with both hands, hit the forsaken knight upon the

head, a blow, wherewith his sword broke. But, as if it would do a

notable service before it died, it prevailed so, even in the instant

of breaking, that the forsaken knight fell to the ground, quite for

that instant forgetting both love and hatred: and Amphialus (finding

himself also in such weakness, as he looked for speedy death) glad of

the victory, though little hoping to enjoy it, pulled up his vizor,

meaning with his dagger to give him death; but instead of death, he

gave him life: for the air so revived his spirits, that coming to

himself, and seeing his present danger, with a life conquering death,

he took Amphialus by the thigh, and together rose himself, and

overturned him. But Amphialus scrambled up again, both now so weak

indeed, as their motions rather seemed the after-drops of a storm,

than any matter of great fury.

But Amphialus might repent himself of his wilful breaking his sword:

for the forsaken knight (having with the extremity of justly-conceived

hate, and the unpitifulness of his own near-threatening death, blotted

out all compliments of courtesy) let fly at him so cruelly, that

though the blows were weak, yet weakness upon a weakened subject,

proved such strength, that Amphialus having attempted in vain once or

twice to close with him, receiving wound upon wound, sent his whole

burden to strike the earth with falling, since he could strike his foe

no better in standing: giving no other tokens of himself, than as of a

man even ready to take his oath to be death’s true servant.

Which when the hardy brothers of Anaxius perceived, not reckoning law

of arms, nor use of chivalry, they flew in to defend their friend, or

revenge their loss of him. But they were forthwith encountered with

the two brave companions of the forsaken knight, whereof the one being

all in green, both armour and furniture, it {386} seemed a pleasant

garden, wherein grew orange trees; which with their golden fruits,

cunningly beaten in and embroidered, greatly enriched the eye-pleasing

colour of green. In his shield was a sheep feeding in a pleasant

field, with this word, “Without fear or envy.” And therefore was

called the knight of the sheep. The other knight was all in milk

white, his attiring else all cut in stars, which made of cloth of

silver, and silver spangles, each way seemed to cast many aspects. His

device was the very pole itself, about which many stars stirring, but

the place itself left void. The word was, “The best place yet

reserved.” But these four knights inheriting the hate of their

friends, began a most fierce combat: the forsaken knight himself not

able to help his side, but was driven to sit him down, with the

extreme faintness of his more and more fainting body. But these

valiant couples seeking honour by dishonouring, and to build safety

upon ruin, gave new appetites to the almost glutted eyes of the

beholders; and now blood began to put sweat from the full possession

of their outsides, no advantage being yet to be seen, only the knight

of the sheep seeming most inclined to deliver, and effecting most of

all that viewed him, when a company of soldiers sent by Cecropia, came

out in boats to the island, and all came running to the destruction of

the three knights, whereof one was utterly unable to defend himself.

But then did the other two knights show their wonderful courage and

fidelity, for turning back to back, and both bestriding the black

forsaken knight (who had fainted so long till he had lost the feeling

of faintness) they held play against the rest, though the two brothers

unknightly helped them; till Philanax, who watchfully attended such

traitorous practices, sent likewise over, both by boat and swimming,

so choice a number, as did put most of the others to the sword. Only

the two brothers, with some of the bravest of them, carrying away the

body of Amphialus, which they would rather have died, than have left

behind them.

So was the forsaken knight, laid upon cloaks, carried home to the

camp. But his two friends knowing his earnest desire not to be known,

covering him from anybody’s eyes, conveyed him to their own tent:

Basilius himself conquering his earnest desire to see him, with fear

to displease him, who had fought so notably in his quarrel. But fame

set the honour upon his back, which he would not suffer to shine in

his face: no man’s mouth being barren of praises to the noble knight

that had battered the most esteemed knight in the world; everybody

praying for his life, and thinking that therein they prayed for

themselves. But he himself, when by the diligent care of friends, and

well-applied cunning of surgeons, he came to renew again the league

between his mind and body; then fell he to a fresh war with his own

thoughts, wrongfully {387} condemning his manhood, laying cowardice to

himself, whom the impudentest backbiter would not have so wronged. For

his courage (used to use victory as an inheritance) could brook no

resistance at any time: but now that he had promised himself not only

the conquest of him, but the scaling of the walls, and delivery of

Pamela, though he had done beyond all others’ expectation, yet so

short was he of his own, that he hated to look upon the sun that had

seen him do so weakly: and so much abhorred all visitation or honour,

whereof he thought himself unworthy, that he besought his two noble

friends to carry him away to a castle not far off, where he might cure

his wounds, and never be known till he made success excuse this, as he

thought, want in him. They lovingly obeyed him, leaving Basilius and

all the camp very sorry for the parting of these three unknown

knights, in whose prowess they had reposed the greatest trust of

victory.

But they being gone, Basilius and Philanax gave good order to the

strengthening of the siege, fortifying themselves, so that they feared

no more any such sudden onset, as that of Anaxius. And they within (by

reason of Anaxius’s hurt, but especially of Amphialus’s) gave

themselves only to a diligent watch and ward, making no sallies out,

but committing the principal trust to Zoilus and Lycurgus. For Anaxius

was yet forced to keep his chamber. And as for Amphialus, his body had

such wounds, and he gave such wounds to his mind, as easily it could

not be determined whether death or he made the greater haste one to

the other: for when the diligent care of cunning surgeons had brought

life to the possession of his own right, sorrow and shame, like two

corrupted servants, came waiting of it, persuading nothing but the

giving over of itself to destruction. They laid before his eyes his

present case, painting every piece of it in most ugly colours: they

showed him his love wrapped in despair, his fame blotted by overthrow;

so that if before he languished, because he could not obtain his

desiring, he now lamented, because he durst not desire the obtaining.

“Recreant Amphialus,” would he say to himself, “how darest thou

entitle thyself the lover of Philoclea, that hath neither showed

thyself a faithful coward, or a valiant rebel, but both rebellious and

cowardly, which no law can quit, nor grace have pity of? alas! life!

what little pleasure thou dost me, to give me nothing but sense of

reproach, and exercise of ruin? I would, sweet Philoclea, I had died,

before thy eyes had seen my weakness: and then perchance with some

sigh thou wouldst have confessed, thou hadst lost a worthy servant.

But now, caitiff that I am, whatever I have done, serves but to build

up my rival’s glory.”

To these speeches he would couple such gestures of vexation, and would

fortify the gestures with such effects of fury, as sometimes {388}

offering to tear up his wounds, sometimes to refuse the sustenance of

meat, and council of physicians, that his perplexed mother was driven

to make him by force to be tended, with extreme courtesy to herself,

and annoyance to him: till in the end he was contented to promise her

he would attempt no violence upon himself, upon condition he might be

troubled by nobody but only his physicians: his melancholy detesting

all company, so that the very surgeons nor servants durst speak unto

him in doing him service; only he had prayed his mother, as she

tendered his life, she would procure him grace, and that without that

she would never come at him more.

His mother, who had confined all her love only unto him, set only such

about him as were absolutely at her commandment, whom she forbade to

let him know anything that passed in the castle, till his wounds were

cured, but as she from time to time should instruct them: she, for

herself, being resolved, now she had the government of all things in

her own hands, to satisfy her son’s love by their yielding, or satisfy

her own revenge in their punishment. Yet first, because she would be

the freer from outward force, she sent a messenger to the camp to

denounce unto Basilius, that if he did not presently raise his siege,

she would cause the heads of the three ladies, prisoners, to be cut

off before his eyes. And to make him the more fear a present

performance, she caused his two daughters and Zelmane to be led unto

the walls, where she had made a scaffold, easy to be seen by Basilius:

and there caused them to be kept, as ready for the slaughter, till

answer came from Basilius. A sight full of pity it was, to see these

three (all excelling in all those excellencies, wherewith nature can

beautify anybody: Pamela giving sweetness to majesty; Philoclea

enriching nobleness with humbleness, Zelmane setting in womanly beauty

manlike valour) to be thus subjected to the basest injury of unjust

fortune. One might see in Pamela a willingness to die, rather than to

have life at other’s discretion; though sometimes a princely disdain

would sparkle out of her princely eyes, that it should be in other’s

power to force her to die. In Philoclea a pretty fear came up, to

endamask her rosy cheeks: but it was such a fear, as rather seemed a

kindly child to her innate humbleness, than any other dismayedness: or

if she were dismayed, it was more for Zelmane, than for herself; or if

more for herself, it was because Zelmane should lose her. As for

Zelmane, as she went with her hands bound (for they durst not

adventure on her well-known valour, especially among a people, which

perchance might be moved by such a spectacle to some revolt) she was

the true image of overmastered courage, and of spite, that sees no

remedy. For her breast swelled withal, the blood burst out at her

{389} nose, and she looked paler than accustomed, with her eyes cast

upon the ground, with such a grace, as if she were fallen out with the

heavens, for suffering such an injury. The lookers on were so moved

withal, as they misliked what themselves did, and yet still did what

themselves misliked. For some glad to rid themselves of the dangerous

annoyances of this siege, some willing to shorten the way to

Amphialus’s succession, whereon they were dependants, some, and the

greatest some, doing because others did, and suffering because none

durst begin to hinder, did in this sort set their hands to this, in

their own conscience, wicked enterprise.