But when this message was brought to Basilius, and that this pitiful

preparation was a sufficient letter of credit for him to believe it,

he called unto him his chief counsellors: among which, those he

chiefly trusted were Philanax and Kalander, lately come to the camp at

Basilius’s commandment, and in himself weary of his solitary life,

wanting his son’s presence, and never having heard from his beloved

guests since they departed from him. Now in this doubt what he should

do, he willed Kalander to give him his advice: who spoke much to this

purpose. “You command me, Sir,” said he, “to speak, rather because you

will keep your wonted grave and noble manner, to do nothing of

importance without counsel, than that in this cause, which indeed hath

but one way, your mind needs to have any counsel: so that my speech

shall rather be to confirm what you have already determined, than to

argue against any possibility of other determination. For what

sophistical scholar can find any question in this, whether you will

have your incomparable daughters live or die? whether since you be

here to cause their deliverance, you will make your being here the

cause of their destruction? for nothing can be more insensible than to

think what one doth, and to forget the end why it is done. Do

therefore as I am sure you mean to do, remove the siege, and after

seek by practice, or other gentle means, to recover that which by

force you cannot: and therefore is indeed, when it pleaseth you, more

counsel to be taken. Once, in extremities the winning of time is the

purchase of life, and worse by no means than their deaths can befall

unto you. A man might use more words, if it were to any purpose to

gild gold, or that I had any cause to doubt of your mind: but you are

wise, and are a father.” He said no more, for he durst not attempt to

persuade the marrying of his daughter to Amphialus, but left that to

bring in at another consultation. But Basilius made sign to Philanax,

who standing a while in a maze as inwardly perplexed, at last thus

delivered his opinion.

“If ever I could wish my faith untried, and my counsel untrusted, it

should be at this time, when in truth I must confess I would be {390}

content to purchase silence with discredit. But since you command, I

obey: only let me say thus much, that I obey not to these excellent

ladies’ father, but to my prince: and a prince it is to whom I give

counsel. Therefore as to a prince I say, that the grave, and, I well

know, true-minded counsel of my Lord Kalander had come in good time

when you first took arms, before all your subjects got notice of your

intention, before so much blood was spent, and before they were driven

to seek this shift for their last remedy. But if now, this force you

away, why did you take arms, since you might be sure when ever they

were in extremity they would have recourse to this threatening? and

for a wise man to take in hand that which his enemy may with a word

overthrow, hath in my conceit great incongruity, and as great, not to

forethink what his enemy in reason will do. But they threaten they

will kill your daughters. What if they promised you, if you removed

your siege, they would honourably send home your daughters? would you

be angry at their promises? truly no more ought you to be terrified by

their threatenings. For yet of the two, promise binds faith more than

threatening. But indeed a prince of judgment ought not to consider

what his enemies promise, or threaten, but what the promisers and

threateners in reason will do; and the nearest conjecture thereunto,

is what is best for their own behoof to do. They threaten, if you

remove not, they will kill your daughters: and if you do remove, what

surety have you but that they will kill them? since if the purpose be

to cut off all impediments of Amphialus’s ambition, the same cause

will continue when you are away; and so much the more encouraged, as

the revenging power is absent, and they have the more opportunity to

draw their factious friends about them; but if it be for their

security only, the same cause will bring forth the same effects: and

for their security they will preserve them. But it may be said, no man

knows what desperate folks will do; it is true, and as true that no

reason nor policy can prevent what desperate folks will do: and

therefore they are among those dangers, which wisdom is not to reckon.

Only let it suffice to take away their despair, which may be by

granting pardon for what is past; so that the ladies may be freely

delivered. And let them that are your subjects trust you that are

their prince; do not you subject yourself to trust them, who are so

untrusty as to be manifest traitors. For if they find you so

base-minded, as by their threatening to remove your force, what

indignity is it, that they would not bring you unto still by the same

threatening? since then if love stir them, love will keep them from

murdering what they love: and if ambition provoke them, ambitious they

will be when you are away, as well as while you are here: take not

away your force, which bars not the one, and bridles the {391} other.

For as for their shows and words, they are but fear-babes, not worthy

once to move a worthy man’s conceit, which must still consider what in

reason they are like to do. Their despair, I grant, you shall do well

to prevent: which as it is the last of all resolutions, so no man

falls into it, while so good a way as you may offer, is open unto

them. In sum, you are a prince, and a father of people, who ought with

the eye of wisdom, the hand of fortitude, and the heart of justice, to

set down all private conceits, in comparison of what for the public is

profitable.”

He would have proceeded on, when Gynecia came running in amazed for

her daughter Pamela, but mad for Zelmane: and falling at Basilius’s

feet, besought him to make no delay, using such gestures of compassion

instead of stopped words, that Basilius, otherwise enough

tender-minded, easily granted to raise the siege, which he saw

dangerous to his daughters; but indeed more careful for Zelmane, by

whose besieged person the poor old man was straightly besieged: so as

to rid him of the famine of his mind, he went in speed away,

discharging his soldiers: only leaving the authority, as before, in

Philanax’s hands, he himself went with Gynecia to a strong castle of

his, where he took counsel how first to deliver Zelmane, whom he

called the poor stranger, as though only law of hospitality moved him;

and for that purpose sent divers messengers to traffic with Cecropia.

But she by this means rid of the present danger of the siege, desiring

Zoilus and Lycurgus to take the care, till their brother recovered, of

revictualling and furnishing the city, both with men and what else

wanted, against any new occasion should urge them, she herself

disdaining to hearken to Basilius, without he would grant his daughter

in marriage to her son, which by no means he would be brought unto,

bent all the sharpness of her malicious wit, how to bring a

comfortable grant to her son, whereupon she well found no less than

his life depended. Therefore for a while she attempted all means of

eloquent praying, and flattering persuasions, mingling sometimes

gifts, sometimes threatenings, as she had cause to hope, that either

open force or undermining would best win the castle of their

resolution. And ever as much as she did to Philoclea, so much did she

to Pamela, though in manner sometimes differing, as she found fit to

level at the one’s noble height, and the other’s sweet lowliness. For

though she knew her son’s heart had wholly given itself to Philoclea,

yet seeing the equal gifts in Pamela, she hoped a fair grant would

recover the sorrow of a fair refusal; cruelly intending the present

impoisoning the one, as soon as the other’s affection were purchased.

But in vain were all her vain oratory employed. Pamela’s determination

was built upon so brave a rock that no shot of hers {392} could reach

unto it: and Philoclea, though humbly seated, was so environed with

sweet rivers of clear virtue, as could neither be battered nor

undermined: her witty persuasions had wise answers; her eloquence

recompensed with sweetness; her threatenings repelled with disdain in

the one, and patience in the other; her gifts either not accepted, or

accepted to obey, but not to bind. So as Cecropia in nature violent,

cruel, because ambitious; hateful, for old rooted grudge to their

mother, and now spiteful, because she could not prevail with girls, as

she counted them: lastly, drawn on by her love to her son, and held up

by a tyrannical authority, forthwith followed the bias of her own

crooked disposition, and doubling and redoubling her threatenings,

fell to confirm some of her threatened effects; first withdrawing all

comfort both of servants and service from them. But that these

excellent ladies had been used unto, even at home, and then found in

themselves how much good the hardness of education doth to the

resistance of misery. Then dishonourably using them both in diet and

lodging, by a contempt to pull down their thoughts to yielding. But as

before, the consideration of a prison had disgraced all ornaments, so

now the same consideration made them attend all diseasefulness. Then

still as she found those not prevail, would she go forward with giving

them terrors, sometimes with noise of horror, sometimes with sudden

frightings in the night, when the solitary darkness thereof might

easier astonish the disarmed senses. But as all virtue and love

resisted, strengthened one by the other, when each found itself over

vehemently assaulted; Cecropia still sweetening her fierceness with

fair promises, if they would promise fair, that feeling evil, and

seeing a way far better, their minds might the sooner be mollified.

But they that could not taste her behaviour, when it was pleasing

indeed, could worse now, when they had lost all taste by her injuries.

She resolving all extremities rather than fail of conquest, pursued on

her rugged way; letting no day pass without new and new perplexing the

poor ladies’ minds, and troubling their bodies; and still swelling the

more she was stopped, and growing hot with her own doings; at length

abominable rage carried her to absolute tyrannies; so that taking with

her certain old women, of wicked dispositions, and apt for envy’s sake

to be cruel to youth and beauty, with a countenance impoisoned with

malice, flew to the sweet Philoclea, as if so many kites should come

about a white dove, and matching violent gestures with mischievous

threatenings, she having a rod in her hand, like a fury that should

carry wood to the burning of Diana’s temple, fell to scourge that most

beautiful body: love in vain holding the shield of beauty against her

blind {393} cruelty. The sun drew clouds up to hide his face from so

pitiful a sight, and the very stone wall did yield drops of sweat for

agony of such a mischief: each senseless thing had sense of pity, only

they that had sense were senseless. Virtue rarely found her worldly

weakness more, than by the oppression of that day: and weeping Cupid

told his weeping mother, that he was sorry he was not deaf as well as

blind, that he might never know so lamentable a work. Philoclea, with

tearful eyes and sobbing breast, as soon as her weariness rather than

compassion gave her respite, kneeled down to Cecropia, and making pity

in her face honourable, and torment delightful, besought her since she

hated her, for what cause she took God to witness she knew not, that

she would at once take away her life, and not please herself with the

tormenting of a poor gentlewoman. “If,” said she, “the common course

of humanity cannot move you, nor the having me in your own walls

cannot claim pity, nor womanly mercy, nor near alliance, nor

remembrance, how miserable soever now, that I am a prince’s daughter,

yet let the love, you have often told me, your son bears me, so much

procure, that for his sake one death may be thought enough for me. I

have not lived so many years but that one death may be able to

conclude them. Neither have my faults I hope, been so many, but that

one death may satisfy them. It is no great suit to an enemy, when but

death is desired. I crave but that. As for the granting your request,

know for certain you lose your labours, being every day further off

minded from becoming his wife, who useth me like a slave.”

But that, instead of getting grace, renewed again Cecropia’s fury; so

that, excellent creature, she was newly again tormented by these

hellish monsters: Cecropia using no other words, but that she was a

proud and ungrateful wench, and that she would teach her to know her

own good, since of herself she would not conceive it. So that with

silence and patience (like a fair gorgeous armour, hammered upon by an

ill-favoured smith) she abode her pitiless dealing with her; till

rather reserving her for more, than meaning to end, they left her to

an uncomfortable leisure, to consider with herself her fortune; both

helpless, herself being a prisoner; and hopeless, since Zelmane was a

prisoner; who therein only was short of the bottom of misery, that she

knew not how unworthily her angel, by these devils, were abused: but

wanted, God wot, no stings of grief when those words did but strike

upon her heart, that Philoclea was a captive, and she not able to

succour her. For well she knew the confidence Philoclea had in her,

and well she knew Philoclea had cause to have confidence, and all

trodden under foot by the wheel of senseless fortune. Yet if there be

that imperious power in the soul, that {394} it can deliver knowledge

to another without bodily organs; so vehement were the working of

their spirits, that one met with the other, though themselves

perceived it not, but only thought it to be the doubling of their own

loving fancies. And that was the only worldly thing whereon Philoclea

rested her mind, that she knew she should die beloved of Zelmane, and

would die rather than to be false to Zelmane. And so this most dainty

nymph, easing the pain of her mind with thinking of another’s pain;

and almost forgetting the pain of her body, through the pain of her

mind, she wasted even longing for the conclusion of her tedious

tragedy.

But for a while she was unvisited, Cecropia employing her time in

using the like cruelty upon Pamela, her heart growing not only to

desire the fruit of punishing them, but even to delight in the

punishing them. But if ever the beams of perfection shined through the

clouds of affliction, if ever virtue took a body to show his

(else-unconceivable) beauty, it was in Pamela. For when reason taught

her there was no resistance, for to just resistance first her heart

was inclined, then with so heavenly a quietness, and so graceful a

calmness, did she suffer the divers kinds of torments she used to her,

that while they vexed her fair body, it seemed that she rather

directed than obeyed the vexation. And when Cecropia ended, and asked

whether her heart would yield, she a little smiled, but such a smiling

as showed no love, and yet could not but be lovely. “And then, beastly

woman,” said she, “follow on, do what thou wilt and canst upon me: for

I know thy power is not unlimited. Thou mayest well wreck this silly

body, but thou canst never overthrow. For my part I will not do thee

the pleasure to desire death of thee: but assure thyself, both my life

and death shall triumph with honour, laying shame upon thy detestable

tyranny.”

And so, in effect, conquering their doing with her suffering, while

Cecropia tried as many sorts of pains, that might rather vex them than

spoil them (for that she would not do while she was in any hope to win

either of them for her son) Pamela remained almost as much content

with trial in herself, what virtue could do, as grieved with the

misery wherein she found herself plunged; only sometimes her thoughts

softened in her, when with open wings they flew to Musidorus. For then

she would think with herself, how grievously Musidorus would take this

her misery; and she that wept not for herself, wept yet Musidorus’s

tears which he would weep for her. For gentle love did easier yield to

lamentation, than the constancy of virtue would else admit. Then would

she remember the case wherein she had left her poor shepherd, and she

that wished death for herself, feared death for him; and she that

condemned in herself the feebleness of sorrow, {395} yet thought it

great reason to be sorry for his sorrow: and she that long had prayed

for the virtuous joining themselves together, now thinking to die

herself, heartily prayed that long time their fortunes might be

separated. “Live long, my Musidorus,” would she say, “and let my name

live in thy mouth, in thy heart my memory. Live long, that thou mayest

love long the chaste love of thy dead Pamela.” Then she would wish to

herself that no other woman might ever possess his heart: and yet

scarcely the wish was made a wish, when herself would find fault with

it, as being too unjust that so excellent a man should be banished

from the comfort of life. Then would she fortify her resolution, with

bethinking the worst, taking the counsel of virtue, and comfort of

love.

So these diamonds of the world, whom nature had made to be preciously

set in the eyes of men, to be the chief works of her workmanship, the

chief ornaments of the world, and princesses of felicity, by

rebellious injury were brought to the uttermost distress that an

enemy’s heart could wish, or a woman’s spite invent: Cecropia daily in

one or other sort punishing them, still with her evil torments giving

them fear of worse, making the fear itself the sorest torment of all,

that in the end, weary of their bodies, they should be content to

bestow them at her appointment.

But, as in labour, the more one doth exercise it, the more by the

doing one is enabled to do, strength growing upon the work; so that

what at first would have seemed impossible, after grows easy; so these

princesses, second to none, and far from any second, only to be

matched by themselves, with the use of suffering, their minds got the

habit of suffering so that all fears and terrors were to them but

summons to a battle, whereof they knew beforehand they should be

victorious, and which in the suffering was painful, being suffered was

a trophy to itself; whereby Cecropia found herself still further off:

for whereat first she might perchance have persuaded them to have

visited her son, and have given him some comfort in his sickness,

drawing near to the confines of death’s kingdom, now they protested

that they would never otherwise speak to him than as to the enemy of

most unjust cruelty towards them, that any time or place could ever

make them know.

This made the poison swell in her cankered breast, perceiving that, as

in water, the more she grasped the less she held; but yet now having

run so long the way of rigour, it was too late in reason, and too

contrary to her passion to return to a course of meekness. And

therefore, taking counsel of one of her old associates (who so far

excelled in wickedness, as that she had not only lost all feeling of

conscience, but had gotten a very glory in evil) in the end they

determined, that beating, and other such sharp dealing, did not so

{396} much pull down a woman’s heart as it bred anger, and that

nothing was more enemy to yielding than anger; making their tender

hearts take on the armour of obstinacy: for thus did their wicked

minds, blind to the light of virtue, and owly-eyed in the night of

wickedness, interpret it; and that therefore was no more to be tried.

And for fear of death (which no question would do most with them) they

had been so often threatened, as they began to be familiarly

acquainted with it, and learned to esteem threatening words to be but

words. Therefore the last, but the best way now was, that the one

seeing indeed the other’s death, should perceive there was no dallying

meant: and then there was no doubt, that a woman’s soul would do so

much, rather than leave so beautiful a body.

This being concluded, Cecropia went to Philoclea and told her that now

she was to come to the last part of the play, for her part though she

found her hard-hearted obstinacy such that neither the sweetness of

loving means, nor the force of hard means could prevail with her, yet

before she would pass to a further degree of extremity, she had sought

to win her sister; in hopes that her son might be in time satisfied

with the love of so fair a lady; but finding her also rather more than

less wilful, she was now minded that one of their deaths should serve

for an example to the other, that despising worthy folks, was more

hurtful to the despiser than the despised: that yet because her son

especially affected her, and that in her own self she was more

inclinable to pity her than she had deserved, she would begin with her

sister, who that afternoon should have her head cut off before her

face; if in the meantime one of them did not pull out their

ill-wrought stitches of unkindness, she bade her look for no other,

nor longer time than she told her. There was no assault given to the

sweet Philoclea’s mind, that entered so far, as this: for where to all

pains and dangers of herself, foresight, with his lieutenant

resolution, had made ready defence, now with the love she bare her

sister, she was driven to a stay, before she determined: but long she

stayed not, before this reason did shine unto her, that since in

herself she preferred death before such a base servitude, love did

teach her to wish the same to her sister. Therefore crossing her arms,

and looking sideward upon the ground, “Do what you will,” said she,

“with us: for my part heaven shall melt before I be removed. But if

you will follow my counsel, for your own sake (for as for prayers for

my sake I have felt how little they prevail) let my death first serve

for example to win her, who perchance is not so resolved against

Amphialus, and so shall you not only justly punish me, who indeed do

hate both you and your son, but, if that may move you, you shall do

more virtuously in preserving one most worthy of life, and {397}

killing another most desirous of death: lastly, in winning her,

instead of peevish unhappy creature that I am, you shall bless your

son with the most excellent woman in all praiseworthy things, that the

world holdeth.” But Cecropia, who had already set down to herself what

she would do, both with bitter terms and countenance, told her, that

she should not need to woo death over-eagerly: for if her sister going

before her did not teach her wit, herself should quickly follow.

For since they were not to be gotten, there was no way for her son’s

quiet, but to know that they were past getting. And so since no

entreating, nor threatening might prevail, she bade her prepare her

eyes for a new play, which she should see within a few hours in the

hall of that castle.

A place indeed over-fit for so unfit a matter: for being so stately

made, that the bottom of it being even with the ground, the roof

reached as high as any part of the castle, at either end it had

convenient lodgings. In the one end was, one storey from the ground,

Philoclea’s abode; in the other of even height, Pamela’s, and

Zelmane’s in a chamber above her; but also vaulted of strong and thick

built stone, as one could no way hear the other, each of these

chambers had a little window to look into the hall, but because the

sisters should not have so much comfort, as to look one to the other,

there was, of the outsides, curtains drawn, which they could not reach

with their hands, so barring the reach of their sight. But when the

hour came that the tragedy should begin, and the curtains were

withdrawn from before the windows of Zelmane and Philoclea: a

sufficient challenge to call their eyes to defend themselves in such

an encounter. And by and by came in at one end of the hall, with about

a dozen armed soldiers, a lady, led by a couple, with her hands bound

before her: from above her eyes to her lips muffled with a fair

handkerchief, but from her mouth to her shoulders all bare: and so was

led on to a scaffold raised a good deal from the floor, and all

covered with crimson velvet. But neither Zelmane, nor Philoclea needed

to be told who she was: for the apparel she wore, made them too well

assured that it was the admirable Pamela. Whereunto the rare whiteness

of her naked neck gave sufficient testimony to their astonished

senses. But the fair lady being come to the scaffold, and then made to

kneel down, and so left by her unkind supporters, as it seemed that

she was about to speak somewhat (whereunto Philoclea, poor soul,

earnestly listened, according to her speech, even minding to frame her

mind, her heart never till then almost wavering to save her sister’s

life) before the unfortunate lady could pronounce three words, the

executioner cut off the one’s speech, and the other’s attention, with

making his sword do his cruel office upon that {398} beautiful neck.

Yet the pitiless sword had such pity of so precious an object, that at

first it did but hit flat-long. But that little availed, since the

lady falling down astonished withal, the cruel villain forced the

sword with another blow, to divorce the fair marriage of the head and

body.

And this was done so in an instant, that the very act did over-run

Philoclea’s sorrow (sorrow not being able so quickly to thunderbolt

her heart through her senses, but first only oppressed her with a

storm of amazement) but when her eyes saw that they did see, as

condemning themselves to have seen it, they became weary of their own

power of seeing, and her soul then drinking up woe with great

draughts, she fell down to deadly trances: but her waiting jailors

with cruel pity brought loathed life unto her; which yet many times

took his leave, as though he would indeed depart: but when he was

stayed by force, he kept with him deadly sorrow, which thus exercised

her mourning speech: “Pamela, my sister, my sister, Pamela, woe is me

for thee, I would I had died for thee. Pamela never more shall I see

thee; never more shall I enjoy thy sweet company, and wise counsel.

Alas! thou art gone to a beautiful heaven, and hast left me here, who

have nothing good in me, but that I did ever love thee, and ever will

lament thee. Let this day be noted of all virtuous folks for most

unfortunate: let it never be mentioned but among curses, and cursed be

they that did this mischief, and most cursed be mine eyes that beheld

it. Sweet Pamela, that head is stricken off, where only wisdom might

be spoken withal; that body is destroyed, which was the living book of

virtue. Dear Pamela, how hast thou left me to all wretchedness and

misery? yet while thou livedst, in thee I breathed, of thee I hoped. O

Pamela, how much did I for thy excellency honour thee more than my

mother, and love thee more than myself! never more shall I lie with

thee; never more shall we bathe in the pleasant river together; never

more shall I see thee in thy shepherds’ apparel. But thou art gone,

and where am I? Pamela is dead, and live I? O my God!” And with that

she fell again in a swoon, so that it was a great while before they

could bring her to herself again; but being come to herself. “Alas!”

said she, “unkind woman, since you have given me so many deaths,

torment me not now with life: for God’s sake let me go, and excuse

your hands of more blood. Let me follow my Pamela, whom ever I sought

to follow. Alas! Pamela, they will not let me come to thee. But if

they keep promise I shall tread thine own steps after thee. For to

what am I born, miserable soul! but to be most unhappy in myself, and

yet more unhappy in others? But O that a thousand more miseries had

chanced unto me, so thou hadst not died: Pamela, my sister Pamela.”

And so like a {399} lamentable Philomela, complained she the horrible

wrong done to her sister, which if it stirred not in the wickedly

closed minds of her tormentors, a pity of her sorrow, yet bred it a

weariness of her sorrow: so that only leaving one to prevent any harm

she should do herself, the rest went away, consulting again with

Cecropia, how to make profit of this their late bloody act.

In the end, that woman that used most to keep company with Zelmane,

told Cecropia that she found by many more sensible proofs in Zelmane,

that there was never woman so loved another, as she loved Philoclea:

which was the cause that she, further than the commandment of

Cecropia, had caused Zelmane’s curtains to be also drawn: because

having the same spectacle that Philoclea had, she might stand in the

greater fear for her, whom she loved so well: and that indeed she had

hit the needle in that device: for never saw she creature so

astonished as Zelmane, exceeding sorrow for Pamela, but exceedingly

exceeding that exceedingness in fear for Philoclea. Therefore her

advice was, she should cause Zelmane to come and speak with Philoclea.

For there being such vehemency of friendship between them, it was most

likely both to move Zelmane to persuade, and Philoclea to be

persuaded. Cecropia liked well of the counsel, and gave order to the

same woman to go deal therein with Zelmane, and to assure her with

oath, that Cecropia was determined Philoclea should pass the same way

that Pamela had done, without she did yield to satisfy the extremity

of her son’s affection: which the woman did, adding thereunto many, as

she thought, good reasons to make Zelmane think Amphialus a fit match

for Philoclea.

But Zelmane (who had from time to time understood the cruel dealing

they had used to the sisters, and now had her own eyes wounded with

the sight of one’s death) was so confused withal (her courage still

rebelling against her wit, desiring still with force to do impossible

matters) that as her desire was stopped with power, so her conceit was

darkened with a mist of desire. For blind love, and invincible valour

still would cry out, that it could not be, Philoclea should be in so

miserable estate, and she not relieve her: and so while she hailed her

wit to her courage, she drew it from his own limits. But now

Philoclea’s death, a word able to marshal all his thoughts in order,

being come to so short a point, either with small delay to be

suffered, or by the giving herself to another to be prevented, she was

driven to think and to desire some leisure of thinking, which the

woman granted for that night unto her. A night that was not half so

black, as her mind; nor half so silent, as was fit for her musing

thoughts. At last he that would fain have desperately lost a thousand

lives for her sake, could not find in his heart, that she should lose

any life for her own sake; and he that {400} despised his own death in

respect of honour, yet could well nigh dispense with honour itself in

respect of Philoclea’s death; for once the thought could not enter

into his heart, nor the breath issue out of his mouth, which could

consent to Philoclea’s death for any bargain. Then how to prevent the

next degree to death, which was her being possessed by another, was

the point of his mind’s labour: and in that he found no other way but

that Philoclea should pretend a yielding unto Cecropia’s request; and

so by speaking with Amphialus, and making fair, but delaying,

promises, procure liberty for Zelmane; who only wished but to come by

a sword, not doubting then to destroy them all, and deliver Philoclea:

so little did both the men, and their forces seem in her eyes, looking

down upon them from the high top of affection’s tower.

With that mind therefore, but first well bound, she was brought to

Philoclea, having already plotted out in her conceit how she should

deal with her: and so came she with heart and eyes, which did each

sacrifice other to love upon the altar of sorrow: and there had she

the pleasing displeasing sight of Philoclea: Philoclea, whom already

the extreme sense of sorrow had brought to a dullness therein, her

face not without tokens that beauty had been by many miseries cruelly

battered, and yet showed it most the perfection of that beauty, which

could remain unoverthrown by such enemies. But when Zelmane was set

down by her, and the woman gone away (because she might be the better

persuaded when nobody was by, that had heard her say she would not be

persuaded) then began first the eyes to speak, and the hearts to cry

out: sorrow a while would needs speak his own language, without using

their tongues to be his interpreters. At last Zelmane broke silence,

but spoke with the only eloquence of amazement: for all her long

methodised oration was inherited only by such kind of speeches. “Dear

lady, in extreme necessities we must not. But alas! unfortunate wretch

that I am that I live to see this day. And I take heaven and earth to

witness, that nothing,” and with that her breast swelled so with spite

and grief, that her breath had not leisure to turn itself into words.

But the sweet Philoclea that had already died in Pamela, and of the

other side had the heaviness of her heart something quickened in the

most beloved sight of Zelmane, guessed somewhat at Zelmane’s mind, and

therefore spoke unto her in this sort: “My Pyrocles,” said she, “I

know this exceeding comfort of your presence, is not brought unto me

for any goodwill that is owed unto me: but, as I suppose, to make you

persuade me to save my life with the ransom of mine honour: although

nobody should be so unfit a pleader in that cause as yourself, yet

perchance you would have me live.” “Your honour? {401} God forbid,”

said Zelmane, “that ever, for any cause, I should yield to any touch

of it. But a while to pretend some affection, till time, or my liberty

might work something for your service, this if my astonished senses

would give me leave, I would fain have persuaded you.”

“To what purpose, my Pyrocles?” said Philoclea, “of a miserable time

what gain is there? hath Pamela’s example wrought no more in me? is a

captive life so much worth? can it ever go out of these lips, that I

love any other but Pyrocles? shall my tongue be so false a traitor to

my heart, as to say I love any other but Pyrocles? and why should I do

all this to live? O Pamela, sister Pamela, why should I live? only for

thy sake, Pyrocles, I would live: but to thee I know too well I shall

not live; and if not to thee hath thy love so base allay, my Pyrocles,

as to wish me to live? for dissimulation, my Pyrocles, my simplicity

is such, that I have hardly been able to keep a straight way, what

shall I do in a crooked? But in this case there is no mean of

dissimulation, not for the cunningest: present answer is required, and

present performance upon the answer. Art thou so terrible, O death?

no, my Pyrocles; and for that I do thank thee, and in my soul thank

thee: for I confess the love of thee is herein my chiefest virtue.

Trouble me not therefore, dear Pyrocles, nor double not my death by

tormenting my resolution: since I cannot live with thee, I will die

for thee. Only remember me, dear Pyrocles, and love the remembrance of

me: and if I may crave so much of thee, let me be thy last love; for

though I be not worthy of thee, who indeed art the worthiest creature

living, yet remember that my love was a worthy love.”

But Pyrocles was so overcome with sorrow (which wisdom and virtue made

just in so excellent a lady’s case, full of so excellent kindness)

that words were ashamed to come forth, knowing how weak they were to

express his mind, and her merit: and therefore so stayed in a deadly

silence, forsaken of hope, and forsaking comfort; till the appointed

guardians came in, to see the fruits of Zelmane’s labour: and then

Zelmane warned by their presence, fell again to persuade, though

scarcely herself could tell what; but in sum, desirous of delays. But

Philoclea, sweetly continuing constant, and in the end, punishing her

importunity with silence, Zelmane was fain to end. Yet craving another

time’s conference, she obtained it, and divers others; till at the

last Cecropia found it to no purpose, and therefore determined to

follow her own way. Zelmane yet still desirous to win, by any means,

respite, even wasted with sorrow and uncertain, whether in worse case

in her presence, or absence, being able to do nothing for Philoclea’s

succour, but by submitting the greatest courage of the earth to {402}

fall at the feet of Cecropia, and crave stay of their sentence till

the uttermost was seen what her persuasions might be.

Cecropia seemed much to be moved by her importunity, so as divers days

were won of painful life to the excellent Philoclea; while Zelmane

suffered some hope to cherish her mind, especially trusting upon the

help of Musidorus, who, she knew, would not be idle in this matter;

till one morning a noise awaked Zelmane, from whose over-watchful mind

the tired body had stolen a little sleep: and straight with the first

opening of her eyes, care taking his wonted place, she ran to the

window which looked into the hall (for that way the noise guided her)

and there might she see (the curtain being left open ever since the

last execution) seven or eight persons in a cluster upon the scaffold:

who by and by retiring themselves, nothing was to be seen thereupon,

but a basin of gold pitifully enamelled with blood, and in the midst

of it, the head of the most beautiful Philoclea. The horribleness of

the mischief was such, that Pyrocles could not at first believe his

own senses, but bent his woeful eyes to discern it better; where too

well he might see it was Philoclea’s self, having no veil, but beauty

over her face, which still appeared to be alive, so did these eyes

shine, even as they were wont, and they were wont more than any other:

and sometimes as they moved, it might well make the beholder think,

that death therein had borrowed her beauty, and not they any way

disgraced by death, so sweet and piercing a grace they carried with

them.

It was not a pity, it was not an amazement, it was not a sorrow which

then laid hold on Pyrocles, but a wild fury of desperate agony: so

that he cried out, “O tyrant heaven, traitor earth, blind providence,

no justice, how is this done? how is this suffered? hath this world a

government? if it have, let it pour out all his mischiefs upon me, and

see whether it have power to make me more wretched than I am. Did she

excel for this? have I prayed for this? abominable hand that did it;

detestable devil that commanded it; cursed light that beheld it; and

if the light be cursed, what are then mine eyes that have seen it? and

have I seen Philoclea dead, and do I live? and do I live not to help

her, but to talk of her? and stand I still talking?” and with that,

carried by the madness of anguish, not having a readier way to kill

himself, he ran as hard as ever he could with his head against the

wall, with intention to brain himself; but the haste to do it made the

doing the slower. For as he came to give the blow, his foot tripped,

so that it came not with the full force: yet forcible enough to strike

him down, and withal to deprive him of his senses, so that he lay a

while comforted by the hurt, in that he felt not his discomfort.

{403}

And when he came again to himself, he heard, or he thought he heard a

voice, which cried, “Revenge, Revenge,” unto him: whether indeed it

were his good angel which used that voice to stay him from unnatural

murdering of himself, or that his wandering spirits lighted upon that

conceit, and by their weakness, subject to apprehensions, supposed

they heard it. But that indeed helped with virtue and her valiant

servant anger, stopped him from present destroying of himself;

yielding in reason and manhood, first to destroy man, woman, and

child, that were any way of kin to them that were accessory to this

cruelty; then to raze the castle, and to build a sumptuous monument

for her sister, and a most sumptuous one for herself, and then himself

to die upon her tomb. This determining in himself to do, and to seek

all means how, for that purpose, to get out of prison, he was content

a while to bear the thirst of death: and yet went he again to the

window, to kiss the beloved head with his eyes; but there saw he

nothing but the scaffold, all covered over with scarlet, and nothing

but solitary silence to mourn this mischief. But then, sorrow having

dispersed itself from his heart into his noble parts, it proclaimed

his authority in cries and tears, nor with a more gentle dolefulness

could pour out his inward evil.

“Alas!” said he, “is that head taken away too, so soon from my eyes?

What, mine eyes, perhaps they envy the excellency of your sorrow?

indeed, there is nothing now left to become the eyes of all mankind,

but tears; and woe be to me, if any exceed me in woefulness. I do

conjure you all my senses, to accept no object but of sorrow, be

ashamed, nay abhor to think of comfort. Unhappy eyes, you have seen

too much, that ever the light should be welcome to you: unhappy ears,

you shall never hear the music of music in her voice: unhappy heart

that hast lived to feel these pangs. Thou hast done thy worst, world,

and cursed be thou, and cursed art thou, since to thine ownself thou

hast done the worst thou couldst do. Exiled beauty, let only now thy

beauty be blubbered faces. Widowed music, let now thy tunes be

roarings and lamentations. Orphan virtue, get thee wings, and fly

after her into heaven: here is no dwelling-place for thee. Why lived

I, alas! alas, why loved I? to die wretched, and to be the example of

heaven’s hate? and hate and spare not, for your worst blow is

stricken. Sweet Philoclea, thou art gone, and hast carried with thee

my love; and hast left thy love in me, and I wretched man do live; I

live, to die continually, till thy revenge do give me leave to die,

and then die I will, my Philoclea, my heart willingly makes this

promise to itself. Surely he did not look on thee when he gave the

cruel blow, for no eye could have abidden to see such beauty

overthrown by such mischief. Alas! {404} why should they divide such a

head from such a body? no other body is worthy of that head; no other

head is worthy of that body: O yet if I had taken my last leave, if I

might have taken a holy kiss from that dying mouth! where art thou

hope, which promisest never to leave a man while he liveth? tell me,

what canst thou hope for? nay tell me, what is there that I would

willingly hope after? wishing power which is accounted infinite, what

now is left to wish for; she is gone, and gone with her all my hope,

all my wishing. Love be ashamed to be called love. Cruel hate,

unspeakable hate is victorious over thee. Who is there now left that

can justify thy tyranny, and give reason to thy passion? O cruel

divorce of the sweetest marriage that ever was in nature: Philoclea is

dead, and dead with her is all goodness, all sweetness, all

excellency. Philoclea is dead, and yet life is not ashamed to continue

upon the earth. Philoclea is dead: O deadly word, which containeth in

itself the uttermost of all misfortunes. But happy word when thou

shalt be said of me, and long it shall not be, before it be said.”

Then stopping his words with sighs, drowning his sighs in tears, and

drying again his tears in rage, he would sit a while in a wandering

muse, which represented nothing but vexations unto him; then throwing

himself sometimes upon the floor, and sometimes upon the bed: then up

again, till walking was wearisome, and rest loathsome: and so neither

suffering food, nor sleep to help his afflicted nature, all that day

and night he did nothing but weep Philoclea, sigh Philoclea, and cry

out Philoclea; till as it happened (at that time upon his bed) toward

the dawning of the day he heard one stir in his chamber, by the motion

of garments: and with an angry voice asked who was there. “A poor

gentlewoman, answered the party, that wishes long life unto you.” “And

I soon death to you,” said he, “for the horrible curse you have given

me.” “Certainly,” said she, “an unkind answer, and far unworthy the

excellency of your mind, but not unsuitable to the rest of your

behaviour. For most part of this night I have heard you (being let

into your chamber, you never perceiving it, so was your mind estranged

from your senses) and have heard nothing of Zelmane, in Zelmane,

nothing but weak wailing, fitter for some nurse of a village, than so

famous a creature as you are.” “O God,” cried out Pyrocles, “that thou

wert a man that usest these words unto me. I tell thee I am sorry, I

tell thee I will be sorry, in the despite of thee, and all them that

would have me joyful.” “And yet,” replied she, “perchance Philoclea is

not dead, whom you so much bemoan.” “I would we were both dead on that

condition,” said Pyrocles. “See the folly of your passion,” said she,

“as though you should be nearer to her, you being dead, {405} and she

alive, than she being dead and you alive? and if she be dead, was she

not born to die? what then do you cry out for? not for her, who must

have died one time or other; but for some few years: so as it is time

and this world, that seem so lovely things, and not Philoclea unto

you.” “O noble sisters,” cried Pyrocles, “now you be gone, who were

the only exalters of all womankind, what is left in that sex, but

babbling and business?” “And truly,” said she, “I will yet a little

longer trouble you.” “Nay, I pray you do,” said Pyrocles, “for I wish

for nothing in my short life but mischiefs and cumbers: and I am

content you shall be one of them.” “In truth,” said she, “you would

think yourself a greatly privileged person, if since the strongest

building, and lastingest monarchies are subject to end, only your

Philoclea, because she is yours, should be exempted. But indeed you

bemoan yourself who have lost a friend; you cannot her, who hath in

one act both preserved her honour, and left the miseries of this

world.” “O woman’s philosophy, childish folly,” said Pyrocles, “as

though I do bemoan myself: I have not reason so to do, having lost

more than any monarchy, nay then my life can be worth unto me.”

“Alas!” said she, “comfort yourself; nature did not forget her skill,

when she made them: and you shall find many their superiors, and

perchance such, as when your eyes shall look abroad, yourself will

like better.”

But that speech put all good manners out of the conceit of Pyrocles,

insomuch, that leaping out of his bed, he ran to have stricken her;

but coming near her (the morning then winning the field of darkness)

he saw, or he thought he saw, indeed the very face of Philoclea; the

same sweetness, the same grace, the same beauty: with which carried

into a divine astonishment, he fell down at her feet. “Most blessed

angel,” said he, “well hast thou done to take that shape, since thou

wouldst submit thyself to mortal sense; for a more angelical form

could not have been created for thee. Alas, even by that excellent

beauty, so beloved of me, let it be lawful, for me to ask of thee,

what is the cause that she, that heavenly creature, whose form you

have taken, should by the heavens be destined to so unripe an end? why

should injustice so prevail? why was she seen to the world so soon to

be ravished from us? why was she not suffered to live, to teach the

world perfection?” “Do not deceive thyself,” answered she, “I am no

angel; I am Philoclea, the same Philoclea, so truly loving you, so

truly beloved of you.” “If it be so,” said he, “that you are indeed

the soul of Philoclea, you have done well to keep your own figure, for

no heaven could have given you a better. Then alas! why have you taken

the pains to leave your blissful seat to come to this place most

wretched, to me, who am wretchedness itself, and not {406} rather

obtain for me, that I might come where you are, there eternally to

behold, and eternally to love your beauties? You know, I know, that I

desire nothing but death, which I only stay to be justly revenged of

your unjust murderers.” “Dear Pyrocles,” said she, “I am thy

Philoclea, and as yet living: not murdered as you supposed, and

therefore be comforted.” And with that gave him her hand. But the

sweet touch of that hand seemed to his estrayed powers so heavenly a

thing, that it rather for a while confirmed him in his former belief:

till she with vehement protestations (and desire that it might be so,

helping to persuade that it was so) brought him to yield; yet

doubtfully to yield to this height of all comfort that Philoclea

lived: which witnessing with tears of joy; “Alas!” said he, “how shall

I believe mine eyes any more? or do you yet but appear thus unto me,

to stay me from some desperate end? for alas, I saw the excellent

Pamela beheaded, I saw your head, the head indeed, and chief part

indeed of all nature’s works, standing in a dish of gold, too mean a

shrine, God wot, for such a relic. How can this be, my only dear, and

you live? Or if this be not so, how can I believe mine own senses? And

if I cannot believe them, why should I believe these blessed tidings

they bring me?”

“The truth is,” said she, “my Pyrocles, that neither I, as you find,

nor yet my dear sister is dead: although the mischievously subtle

Cecropia used slights to make either of us think so of other. For,

having in vain attempted the farthest of her wicked eloquence to make

either of us yield to her son: and seeing that neither it, accompanied

with great flatteries and rich presents, could get any ground of us,

nor yet the violent way she fell into, of cruelly tormenting our

bodies, could prevail with us, at last she made either of us think the

other dead, and so hoped to have wrested our minds to the forgetting

of virtue: and first she gave to mine eyes the miserable spectacle of

my sister’s, as I thought, death; but indeed it was not my sister, it

was only Artesia, she who so cunningly brought us to this misery.

Truly I am sorry for the poor gentlewoman, though justly she be

punished for her double falsehood: but Artesia muffled so, that you

could not easily discern her, and in my sister’s apparel, which they

had taken from her under colour of giving her other, did they execute:

and when I, for thy sake especially, dear Pyrocles, could by no force

nor fear be one, they assayed the like with my sister, by bringing me

down under the scaffold, and making me thrust my head up through a

hole they had made therein, they did put about my neck a dish of gold,

whereout they had beaten the bottom, so as having set blood in it, you

saw how I played the part of death, God knows even willing to have

done it in earnest, and so they had set me, that I {407} reached but

on tiptoes to the ground, so as I scarcely could breathe, much less

speak: and truly if they had kept me there any whit longer, they had

strangled me, instead of beheading me: but when they took me away, and

seeking to see their issue of this practice, they found my noble

sister, for the dear love she vouchsafeth to bear me, so grieved

withal, that she willed them to do their uttermost cruelty unto her:

for she vowed never to receive sustenance of them that had been the

causers of my murder: and finding both of us even given over, not

likely to live many hours longer, and my sister Pamela rather worse

than myself, the strength of her heart worse bearing those

indignities, the good woman Cecropia, with the same pity as folks keep

fowls, when they are not fat enough for their eating, made us know her

deceit, and let us come one to another; with what joy you can well

imagine, who I know feel the like, saving that we only thought

ourselves reserved to miseries, and therefore fitter for condoling

than congratulating. For my part I am fully persuaded it is but with a

little respite, to have a more feeling sense of the torment she

prepares for us. True it is, that one of my guardians would have me to

believe that this proceeds from my gentle cousin Amphialus; who having

heard some inkling that we were evil intreated, had called his mother

to his bedside, from whence he never rose since his last combat, and

besought and charged her, upon all the love she bore him, to use us

with all kindness: vowing with all the imprecations he could imagine,

that if ever he understood, for his sake, that I received further hurt

than the want of liberty, he would not live an hour longer. And the

good woman swore to me that he would kill his mother, if he knew how I

had been dealt with, but that Cecropia keeps him from understanding

things how they pass, only having heard a whispering, and myself

named, he had (of abundance, forsooth, of honourable love) given this

charge for us; whereupon this enlargement of mine was grown: for my

part I know too well their cunning, who leave no money unoffered that

may buy mine honour, to believe any word they say, but, my dear

Pyrocles, even look for the worst, and prepare thyself for the same.

Yet I must confess, I was content to rob from death, and borrow of my

misery the sweet comfort of seeing my sweet sister, and most sweet

comfort of thee my Pyrocles. And so having leave, I came stealing into

your chamber: where, O Lord, what a joy it was unto me, to hear you

solemnize the funerals of the poor Philoclea. That I myself might live

to hear my death bewailed? And by whom? By my dear Pyrocles. That I

saw death was not strong enough to divide thy love from me? O my

Pyrocles, I am too well paid for my pains. I have suffered; joyful is

my woe for so noble a cause; and welcome be all my miseries, since to

thee I {408} am so welcome. Alas how I pitied to hear thy pity of me;

and yet a great while I could not find in my heart to interrupt thee,

but often had even pleasure to weep with thee: and so kindly came

forth thy lamentations, that they forced me to lament too, as if

indeed I had been a looker-on, to see poor Philoclea die. Till at last

I spoke with you, to try whether I could remove thee from sorrow, till

I had almost procured myself a beating.”

And with that she prettily smiled; which mingled with her tears; one

could not tell whether it was a mourning pleasure, or a delightful

sorrow: but like when a few April drops are scattered by a gentle

Zephirus among fine coloured flowers. But Pyrocles, who had felt, with

so small distance of time, in himself the overthrow both of hope and

despair, knew not to what key he should frame his mind, either of joy

or sorrow. But finding perfect reason in neither, suffered himself to

be carried by the tide of his imagination, and his imaginations to be

raised even by the sway which hearing or seeing might give unto them:

he saw her alive, he was glad to see her alive; he saw her weep, he

was sorry to see her weep; he heard her comfortable speeches, nothing

more gladsome; he heard her prognosticating her own destruction,

nothing more doleful. But when he had a little taken breath from the

panting motion of such contraries in passions, he fell to consider

with her of her present estate, but comforting her, that certainly the

worst of this storm was past, since already they had done the worst,

which man’s wit could imagine; and that if they had determined to have

killed her, now they would have done it, and also earnestly

counselling her, and enabling his counsels with vehement prayers, that

she would so far second the hopes of Amphialus, as that she might but

procure him liberty; promising then as much to her, as the liberality

of loving courage durst promise to himself.

But who could lively describe the manner of these speeches, should

paint out the lightsome colours of affection, shaded with the deepest

shadows of sorrow, finding them between hope and fear, a kind of

sweetness in tears; till Philoclea content to receive a kiss, and but

a kiss of Pyrocles, sealed up his moving lips, and closed them up in

comfort: and herself, for the passage was left between them open, went

to her sister; with whom she had stayed but a while, fortifying one

another while Philoclea tempered Pamela’s just disdain, and Pamela

ennobled Philoclea’s sweet humbleness, when Amphialus came unto them:

who never since he had heard Philoclea named, could be quiet in

himself, although none of them about him (fearing more his mother’s

violence than his power) would discover what had passed: and many

messengers he sent to know her estate, which brought answer back,

according as it pleased Cecropia to indite them, till his heart full

of unfortunate {409} affection, more and more misgiving him, having

impatiently borne the delay of the night’s unfitness, this morning he

got up, and though full of wounds, which not without danger could

suffer such exercise, he apparelled himself, and with the countenance

that showed strength in nothing but in grief, he came where the

sisters were, and weakly kneeling down, he besought them to pardon

him: if they had not been used in that castle according to their

worthiness, and his duty, beginning to excuse small matters, poor

gentleman, not knowing in what sort they had been handled.

But Pamela’s high heart, having conceived mortal hatred for the injury

offered to her and her sister, could scarcely abide his sight, much

less hear out his excuses, but interrupted him with these words:

“Traitor,” said she, “to thine own blood, and false to the profession

of so much love as thou hast vowed, do not defile our ears with thy

excuses, but pursue on thy cruelty, that thou and thy godly mother

have used towards us: for my part, assure thyself, and so do I answer

for my sister, whose mind I know, I do not more desire mine own safety

than thy destruction.” Amazed with this speech, he turned his eye full

of humble sorrowfulness, to Philoclea: “And is this, most excellent

lady, your doom of me also.” She, sweet lady, sat weeping; for as her

most noble kinsman she had ever favoured him, and loved his love,

though she could not be in love with his person; and now partly

unkindness of his wrong, partly pity of his case, made her sweet mind

yield some tears before she could answer; and her answer was no other,

but that she had the same cause as her sister had. He replied no

further, but delivering from his heart two or three untaught sighs,

rose, and with most low reverence went out of their chamber, and

straight, by threatening torture, learned of one of the women in what

terrible manner these princesses had been used. But when he heard it,

crying out, “O God!” and then not able to say any more, for his speech

went back to rebound woe upon his heart, he needed no judge to go upon

him; for no man could ever think any other worthy of greater

punishment than he thought himself. Full therefore of the horriblest

despair, which a most guilty conscience could breed, with wild looks,

promising some terrible issue, understanding his mother was upon the

top of the leads, he caught one of his servant’s swords from him, and

none of them daring to stay him, he went up, carried by fury instead

of strength, where she was at that time, musing how to go through with

this matter, and resolving to make much of her nieces in show, and

secretly to impoison them; thinking since they were not to be won, her

son’s love would no otherwise be mitigated.

{410}

But when she saw him come in with a sword drawn, and a look more

terrible than the sword, she straight was stricken with the guiltiness

of her own conscience: yet the well-known humbleness of her son

somewhat animated her, till he coming near her, and crying to her,

“Thou damnable creature, only fit to bring forth such a monster of

unhappiness as I am;” she fearing he would have stricken her, though

indeed he meant it not, but only intended to kill himself in her

presence, went back so far, till ere she were aware, she overthrew

herself from over the leads, to receive her death’s kiss at the

ground: and yet was she not so happy as presently to die, but that she

had time with hellish agony to see her son’s mischief, whom she loved

so well, before her end, when she confessed, with most desperate but

not repenting mind, the purpose she had to impoison the princesses,

and would then have had them murdered. But everybody seeing, and glad

to see her end, had left obedience to her tyranny.

And, if it could be, her ruin increased woe in the noble heart of

Amphialus, who when he saw her fall, had his own rage stayed a little

with the suddenness of her destruction: “And was I not miserable

enough before,” said he, “but that before my end I must be the death

of my mother? Who, how wicked soever, yet I would she had received her

punishment by some other: O Amphialus, wretched Amphialus, thou hast

lived to be the death of thy most dear companion and friend

Philoxenus, and of his father, thy most careful foster-father. Thou

hast lived to kill a lady with thine own hands, and so excellent and

virtuous a lady as the fair Parthenia was; thou hast lived to see thy

faithful Ismenus slain in succouring thee, and thou not able to defend

him; thou hast lived to show thyself such a coward, as that one

unknown knight could overcome thee in thy lady’s presence: thou hast

lived to bear arms against thy rightful prince, thine own uncle: thou

hast lived to be accounted, and justly accounted a traitor, by the

most excellent persons that this world holdeth: thou hast lived to be

the death of her that gave thee life. But ah wretched Amphialus, thou

hast lived for thy sake, and by thy authority, to have Philoclea

tormented. O heavens, in Amphialus’s castle, where Amphialus

commanded, tormented, tormented. Torment of my soul, Philoclea

tormented, and thou hast had such comfort in thy life, as to live all

this while. Perchance this hand, used only to mischievous acts, thinks

it were too good a deed to kill me: or else filthy hand, only worthy

to kill women, thou art afraid to strike a man. Fear not cowardly

hand, for thou shalt kill but a cowardly traitor: and do it gladly,

for thou shalt kill him whom Philoclea hateth.” With that furiously he

tore open his doublet, and setting the pommel of the sword to the

ground, and the point to his breast, he fell upon {411} it. But the

sword more merciful than he to himself, with the slipping of the

pommel the point swerved, and razed him but upon the side: yet with

the fall his other wounds opened so that he bled in such extremity,

that Charon’s boat might very well be carried in that flood: which yet

he sought so hasten by this means. As he opened his doublet, and fell,

there fell out Philoclea’s knives which Cecropia at the first had

taken from her, and delivered to her son; and he had ever worn them

next his heart, as the only relic he had of his saint: now seeing them

by him, his sword being so, as weakness could not well draw it out

from his doublet, he took the knives, and pulling one of them out, and

many times kissing it, and then, first with the passions of kindness

and unkindness melting in tears. “O dear knives, you are come in good

time to revenge the wrong I have done you all this while, in keeping

you from her blessed side; and wearing you without your mistress’s

leave. Alas! be witness with me, yet before I die, and well you may,

for you have lain next my heart, that but my consent, your excellent

mistress should have had as much honour as this poor place could have

brought forth for so high an excellency; and now I am condemned to die

by her mouth. Alas! other, far other hope would my desire often have

given me; but other event it hath pleased her to lay upon me. Ah

Philoclea,” with that his tears gushed out as though they would strive

to overflow his blood, “I would yet thou knowest how I love thee.

Unworthy I am, unhappy I am, false I am; but to thee alas! I am not

false. But what a traitor am I, any way to excuse him, whom she

condemneth? since there is nothing left me wherein I may do her

service, but in punishing him who hath so offended her. Dear knife,

then do your noble mistress’s commandment.” With that, he stabbed

himself into divers places of his breast and throat, until these

wounds, with the old, freshly bleeding, brought him to the senseless

gate of death. By which time, his servants, having, with fear of his

fury, abstained a while from coming unto him, one of them, preferring

dutiful affection before fearful duty, came in and there found him

swimming in his own blood, giving a pitiful spectacle, where the

conquest was the conqueror’s overthrow, and self-ruin the only triumph

of a battle, fought between him and himself. The time full of danger,

the person full of worthiness, the manner full of horror, did greatly

astonish all the beholders: so as by and by all the town was full of

it, and they of all ages came running up to see the beloved body;

everybody thinking their safety bled in his wounds, and their honour

died in his destruction.

But when it came, and quickly it came to the ears of his proud friend

Anaxius, who by that time was grown well of his wound, but never had

come abroad, disdaining to abase himself to the {412} company of any

other but of Amphialus, he was exceedingly vexed either with kindness

or, if a proud heart be not capable thereof, with disdain, that he,

who had the honour to be called the friend of Anaxius, should come to

such an unexpected ruin. Therefore then coming abroad, with a face red

in anger, and engrained in pride, with lids raised, and eyes levelled

from top to toe of them that met him, treading as though he thought to

make the earth shake under him, with his hand upon his sword; short

speeches, and disdainful answers, giving straight order to his two

brothers, to go take the oath of obedience, in his name, of all the

soldiers and citizens in the town: and withal to swear them to revenge

the death of Amphialus upon Basilius; he himself went to see him,

calling for all the surgeons and physicians there, spending some time

in viewing the body, and threatening them all to be hanged, if they

did not heal him. But they, taking view of his wounds, and falling

down at Anaxius’s feet, assured him that they were mortal, and no

possible means to keep him above two days alive: and he stood partly

in doubt, to kill, or save them, between his own fury, and their

humbleness. But vowing with his own hands to kill the two sisters, as

causers of his friend’s death: when his brothers came to him, and told

him they had done his commandment, in having received the oath of

allegiance, with no great difficulties, the most part terrified by

their valour, and force of their servants; and many that had been

forward actors in the rebellion, willing to do anything, rather than

come under the subjection of Basilius again; and such few as durst

gainsay, being cut off by present slaughter.

But withal, as the chief matter of their coming to him, they told

Anaxius, that the fair queen Helen was come, with an honourable

retinue, to the town: humbly desiring leave to see Amphialus, whom she

had sought in many places of the world; and lastly, being returned

into her own country, she heard together of the late siege, and of his

combat with the strange knight, who had dangerously hurt him.

Whereupon full of loving care (which she was content even to publish

to the world, how ungratefully soever he dealt with her) she had

gotten leave of Basilius, to come by his frontiers, to carry away

Amphialus with her, to the excellentest surgeon then known, whom she

had in her country, but so old, as not able to travel: but had given

her sovereign anointments, to preserve his body withal, till he might

be brought unto him: and that Basilius had granted leave; either

natural kindness prevailing over all the offences done, or rather glad

to make any passage which might lead him out of his country, and from

his daughters. This discourse Lycurgus understanding of Helen,

delivered to his brother, with her vehement desire to see the {413}

body, and take her last farewell of him. Anaxius, though he were

fallen out with all womankind, in respect of the hate he bore the

sisters, whom he accounted murderers of Amphialus, yet at his

brother’s request, granted her leave. And she, poor lady, with

grievous expectation, and languishing desire, carried her faint legs

to the place where he lay, either not breathing, or in all appearance

breathing nothing but death.

In which piteous plight when she saw him, though sorrow had set before

her mind the pitifullest conceit thereof that it could paint, yet the

present sight went beyond all the former apprehensions: so that

beginning to kneel by the body, her sight ran from her service, rather

than abide such a sight; and she fell in a swoon upon him, as if she

could not choose but die of his wounds. But when her breath, aweary to

be closed up in woe, broke the prison of her fair lips, and brought

memory with his servant senses to his natural office, she made yet the

breath convey these doleful words with it. “Alas!” said she,

“Amphialus, what strange disasters be these, that having sought thee

so long, I should be now sorry to find thee? that these eyes should

look upon Amphialus, and be grieved withal? that I should have thee in

my power without glory, and embrace thee without comfort? how often

have I blest the means that might bring me near thee? now woe worth

the cause that brings me so near thee. Often, alas! often hast thou

disdained my tears: but now, my dear Amphialus, receive them: these

eyes can serve for nothing else but to weep for thee: since thou

wouldst never vouchsafe them thy comfort, yet disdain not them thy

sorrow. I would they had been more dear unto thee; for then hadst thou

lived. Woe is me that thy noble heart could love who hated thee, and

hate who loved thee. Alas why should not my faith to thee cover my

other defects, who only sought to make my crown thy footstool, myself

thy servant, that was all my ambition; and alas thou disdainest it, to

serve them, by whom thy incomparable self wert disdained. Yet, O

Philoclea, wheresoever you are, pardon me if I speak in the bitterness

of my soul, excellent may you be in all other things, and excellent

sure you are since he loved you, your want of pity, where the fault

only was infiniteness of desert, cannot be excused. I would, O God, I

would that you had granted his deserved suit of marrying you, and that

I had been your serving-maid, to have made my estate the foil of your

felicity, so he had lived. How many weary steps have I trodden after

thee, while my only complaint was, that thou wert unkind? alas! I

would now thou wert to be unkind. Alas, why wouldst thou not command

my service, in persuading Philoclea to love thee? who could, or if

everyone could, who would have recounted thy perfection so well {414}

as I? who with such kindly passions could have stirred pity for thee

as I? who should have delivered not only the words, but the tears I

had of thee: and so shouldst thou have exercised thy disdain in me,

and yet used my service for thee.”

With that the body moving somewhat, and giving a groan, full of

death’s music, she fell upon his face, and kissed him, and withal

cried out; “O miserable I, that have only favour by misery;” and then

would she have returned to a fresh career of complaints, when an aged

and wise gentleman came to her, and besought her to remember what was

fit for her greatness, wisdom, and honour: and withal, that it was

fitter to show her love in carrying the body to her excellent surgeon,

first applying such excellent medicines as she had received of him for

that purpose, rather than only show herself a woman-lover in fruitless

lamentations. She was straight warned with the obedience of an

overthrown mind, and therefore leaving some surgeons of her own to

dress the body, went herself to Anaxius, and humbling herself to him,

as low as his own pride could wish, besought him, that since the

surgeons there had utterly given him over, that he would let her carry

him away in her litter with her, since the worst he could have should

be to die, and to die in her arms that loved him above all things; and

where he should have such monuments erected over him, as were fit for

her love, and his worthiness: beseeching him withal, since she was in

a country of enemies, where she trusted more to Anaxius’s valour, than

Basilius’s promise, that he would convey them safely out of these

territories. Her reasons something moved him, but nothing thoroughly

persuaded him, but the last request of his help; which he straight

promised: warranting all security, as long as that sword had his

master alive. She as happy therein as unhappiness could be, having

received as small comfort of her own surgeons as of the others, caused

yet the body to be easily conveyed into the litter: all the people

then beginning to roar and cry, as though never till then they had

lost their lord. And if the terror of Anaxius had not kept them under,

they would have mutinied, rather than suffered his body to be carried

away.

But Anaxius himself riding before the litter, with the choice men of

that place, they were afraid even to cry, though they were ready to

cry for fear; but because that they might do, everybody forced, even

with harming themselves, to do honour to him: some throwing themselves

upon the ground; some tearing their clothes, and casting dust upon

their heads, and some even wounding themselves, and sprinkling their

own blood in the air.

The general consort of whose mourning performed so the natural tunes

of sorrow, that even to them, if any such were, that felt not the

loss, yet others’ grief taught them grief; having before {415} both

their compassionate sense so passionate a spectacle of a young man, of

great beauty, beautified with great honour, honoured by great valour,

made of inestimable value by the noble using of it, to lie there

languishing under the arrest of death, and a death where the manner

could be no comfort to the discomfortableness of the matter. But when

the body was carried through the gate, and the people, saving such as

were appointed, not suffered to go further, then was such an universal

cry, as if they had all had but one life, and all received but one

blow.

Which so moved Anaxius to consider the loss of his friend, that, his

mind apter to revenge than tenderness, he presently giving order to

his brothers to keep the prisoners safe, and unvisited till his return

from conveying Helen, he sent a messenger to the sisters to tell them

this courteous message: that at his return, with his own hands, he

would cut off their heads, and send them for tokens to their father.

This message was brought unto the sisters, as they sat at that time

together with Zelmane, conferring how to carry themselves, having

heard of the death of Amphialus. And as no expectation of death is so

painful, as where the resolution is hindered by the intermixing of

hopes, so did this new alarm, though not remove, yet move somewhat the

constancy of their minds, which were so unconstantly dealt with. But

within a while, the excellent Pamela had brought her mind again to his

old acquaintance: and then as careful for her sister, whom she most

dearly loved, “Sister,” said she, “you see how many acts our tragedy

hath: fortune is not yet aweary of vexing us: but what? a ship is not

counted strong by biding one storm: it is but the same trumpet of

death, which now perhaps gives the last sound: and let us make that

profit of our former miseries, that in them we learned to die

willingly.” “Truly,” said Philoclea, “dear sister, I was so beaten

with the evils of life, that though I had not virtue enough to despise

the sweetness of it, yet my weakness bred that strength to be weary of

the pains of it: only I must confess that little hope, which by these

late accidents was awakened in me, was at the first angry withal. But

even in the darkness of that horror, I see a light of comfort appear;

and how can I tread amiss, that see Pamela’s steps? I would only, O

that my wish might take place, that my school-mistress might live, to

see me say my lesson truly.” “Were that a life, my Philoclea?” said

Pamela. “No, no,” said she, “let it come, and put on his worst face:

for at the worst it is but a bugbear. Joy it is to me to see you so

well resolved, and since the world will not have us, let it lose us.

Only,” with that she stayed a little and sighed, “only my Philoclea,”

then she bowed down, and whispered in her ear, “only Musidorus, my

shepherd, comes between me and death, and {416} makes me think I

should not die, because I know he would not I should die.” With that

Philoclea sighed also, saying no more, but looking upon Zelmane, who

was walking up and down the chamber, having heard this message from

Anaxius, and having in time past heard of his nature, thought him like

enough to perform it, which winded her again into the former maze of

perplexity. Yet debating with herself of the manner how to prevent it,

she continued her musing humour, little saying, or indeed, little

finding in her heart to say, in a case of such extremity, where

peremptorily death was threatened: and so stayed they; having yet that

comfort, that they might tarry together. Pamela nobly, Philoclea

sweetly, and Zelmane sadly and desperately; none of them entertaining

sleep, which they thought should shortly begin never to awake.

But Anaxius came home, having safely conducted Helen; and safely he

might well do it; for though many of Basilius’s knights would have

attempted something upon Anaxius, by that means to deliver the ladies,

yet Philanax having received his master’s commandment, and knowing his

word was given, would not consent unto it. And the black knight, who

by then was able to carry abroad his wounds, did not know thereof; but

was bringing force, by force to deliver his lady. So as Anaxius,

interpreting it rather fear than faith, and making even chance an

argument of his virtue, returned: and as soon as he was returned, with

a felon heart calling his brothers up with him, he went into the

chamber, where they were all three together, with full intention to

kill the sisters with his own hands, and send their heads for tokens

to their father, though his brothers, who were otherwise inclined,

dissuaded him; but his reverence stayed their persuasions. But when he

was come into the chamber, with the very words of choleric threatening

climbing up his throat, his eyes first lighted upon Pamela; who

hearing he was coming, and looking for death, thought she would keep

her own majesty in welcoming it; but the beams thereof so struck his

eyes, with such a counterbuff upon his pride, that if his anger could

not so quickly love, nor his pride so easily honour, yet both were

forced to find a worthiness.

Which while it bred a pause in him, Zelmane, who had already in her

mind both what and how to say, stepped out unto him, and with a

resolute steadiness, void either of anger, kindness, disdain, or

humbleness, spoke in this sort. “Anaxius,” said she, “if fame hath not

been over-partial to thee, thou art a man of exceeding valour.

Therefore I do call thee even before that virtue, and will make it the

judge between us. And now I do affirm, that to the eternal blot of all

the fair acts that thou hast done, thou dost weakly, in seeking

without danger to revenge his death, whose life with danger thou

mightest perhaps have preserved: thou dost cowardly {417} in going

about by the death of these excellent ladies, to prevent the just

punishment that hereafter they by the powers, which they better than

their father, or any other could make, might lay upon thee, and dost

most basely, in once presenting thyself as an executioner, a vile

office upon men, and in a just cause; beyond the degree of any vile

word, in so unjust a cause, and upon ladies, and such ladies. And

therefore, as a hangman, I say, thou art unworthy to be counted a

knight, or to be admitted into the company of knights. Neither for

what I say, will I allege other reasons of wisdom, or justice, to

prove my speech, because I know thou dost disdain to be tied to their

rules, but even in thine own virtue, whereof thou so much gloriest, I

will make my trial: and therefore defy thee, by the death of one of us

two, to prove or disprove these reproaches. Choose thee what arms thou

likest: I only demand that these ladies, whom I defend, may in liberty

see the combat.”

When Zelmane began her speech, the excellency of her beauty and grace

made him a little content to hear. Besides that, a new lesson he had

read in Pamela, had already taught him some regard. But when she

entered into a bravery of speech, he thought at first, a mad and

railing humour possessed her; till finding the speeches hold well

together, and at length come to a flat challenge of combat, he stood

leaning back with his body and head, sometimes with bent brows looking

upon the one side of her, sometimes of the other, beyond marvel

marvelling, that he, who had never heard such speeches from any

knight, should be thus rebuffed by a woman, and that marvel made him

hear out her speech: which ended, he turned his head to his brother

Zoilus, and said nothing, but only lifting up his eyes, smiled. But

Zelmane finding his mind, “Anaxius,” said she, “perchance thou

disdainest to answer me, because, as a woman, thou thinkest me not fit

to be fought withal. But I tell thee that I have been trained up in

martial matters, with so good success, that I have many times overcome

braver knights than thyself: and am well known to be equal in feats of

arms to the famous Pyrocles, who slew thy valiant uncle, the giant

Euardes.” The remembrance of his uncle’s death something nettled him,

so as he answered thus.

“Indeed,” said he, “any woman may be as valiant as that coward and

traitorly boy, who slew my uncle traitorously, and after ran from me

in the plain field. Five thousand such could not have overcome

Euardes, but by falsehood. But I sought him all over Asia, following

him still from one of his coney-holes to another, till coming into

this country, I heard of my friend being besieged, and so came to blow

away the wretches that troubled him. But wheresoever the miserable boy

fly, heaven, nor {418} hell shall keep his heart from being torn by

these hands.” “Thou liest in thy throat,” said Zelmane, “that boy,

wherever he went, did so noble acts, as thy heart, as proud as it is,

dares not think of, much less perform. But to please thee the better

with my presence, I tell thee, no creature can be nearer of kin to him

than myself: and so well we love, that he would not be sorrier for his

own death than for mine: I being begotten by his father, of an Amazon

lady. And therefore, thou canst not devise to revenge thyself more

upon him, than by killing me: which if thou darest do, manfully do it,

otherwise, if thou harm these incomparable ladies, or myself without

daring to fight with me, I protest before these knights, and before

heaven and earth, that will reveal thy shame, that thou art the

beggarliest dastardly villain that dishonoureth the earth with his

steps: and if thou lettest me over-live them, so will I blaze thee.”

But all this could not move Anaxius, but that he only said, “Evil

should it become the terror of the world to fight, much worse to scold

with thee.”

“But,” said he, “for the death of these same,” pointing to the

princesses, “of my grace I give them life.” And withal going to

Pamela, and offering to take her by the chin, “And as for you,

minion,” said he, “yield but gently to my will, and you shall not only

live, but live so happily:” he would have said further, when Pamela,

displeased both with words, matter and manner, putting him away with

her fair hand; “proud beast,” said she, “yet thou playest worse thy

comedy, than thy tragedy. For my part, assure thyself, since my

destiny is such, that each moment my life and death stand in equal

balance, I had rather have thee, and think thee far fitter to be my

hangman, than my husband.” Pride and anger would fain have cruelly

revenged so bitter an answer, but already Cupid had begun to make it

his sport to pull his plumes: so that unused to a way of courtesy, and

put out of his bias of pride, he hastily went away, grumbling to

himself: between threatening and wishing; leaving his brothers with

them: the elder of whom Lycurgus, liked Philoclea, and Zoilus would

needs love Zelmane, or at least entertain themselves with making them

believe so. Lycurgus more bragged, and near his brother’s humour,

began, with setting forth their blood, their deeds, how many they had

despised of most excellent women; how much they were bound to them,

that would seek that of them. In sum, in all his speeches, more like

the bestower than the desirer of felicity. Whom it was an excellent

pastime, to those that would delight in the play of virtue, to see

with what a witty ignorance she would not understand: and how

acknowledging his perfections, she would make that one of his

perfections, not to be injurious to ladies. But when he knew not how

to reply, then {419} would he fall to touching and toying, still

viewing his graces in no glass but self-liking. To which Philoclea’s

shamefacedness and humbleness were as strong resisters as choler and

disdain: for though she yielded not, he thought she was to be

overcome: and that thought a while stayed him from further violence.

But Zelmane had eye to his behaviour, and set it in her memory upon

the score of revenge, while she herself was no less attempted by

Zoilus; who less fond of brags was forwardest in offering, indeed,

dishonourable violence.

But when after their fruitless labours they had gone away, called by

their brother, who began to be perplexed between new conceived

desires, and disdain to be disdained, Zelmane, who with most assured

quietness of judgment looked into their present estate, earnestly

persuaded the two sisters, that to avoid the mischiefs of proud

outrage, they would only so far suit their behaviour to their estates,

as they might win time, which, as it could not bring them to worse

case than they were, so it might bring forth unexpected relief. “And

why,” said Pamela, “shall we any longer flatter adversity? why should

we delight to make ourselves any longer balls to injurious fortune,

since our own parents are content to be tyrants over us, since our own

kin are content traitorously to abuse us? certainly in mishap it may

be some comfort to us that we are lighted in these fellows’ hands, who

yet will keep us from having cause of being miserable by our friend’s

means. Nothing grieves me more than that you, noble lady Zelmane, to

whom the world might have made us able to do honour, should receive

only hurt by the contagion of our misery. As for me and my sister,

undoubtedly it becomes our birth to think of dying nobly, while we

have done or suffered nothing which might make our soul ashamed at the

parture from these bodies. Hope is the fawning traitor of the mind,

while under colour of friendship it robs it of his chief force of

resolution.” “Virtuous and fair lady,” said Zelmane, “What you say is

true, and that truth may well make up a part in the harmony of your

noble thoughts. But yet the time, which ought always to be one, is not

tuned for it, while that may bring forth any good, do not bar yourself

thereof: for then will be the time to die nobly, when you cannot live

nobly.” Then so earnestly she persuaded with them both, to refer

themselves to their father’s consent, in obtaining whereof they knew

some while would be spent, and by that means to temper the minds of

their proud wooers; that in the end Pamela yielded to her, because she

spoke reason, and Philoclea yielded to her reason, because she spoke

it.

And so when they were again solicited in that little pleasing

petition, Pamela forced herself to make answer to Anaxius, that if

{420} her father gave his consent she would make herself believe, that

such was the heavenly determination, since she had no means to avoid

it. Anaxius who was the most frank promiser to himself of success,

nothing doubted of Basilius’s consent, but rather assured himself, he

would be his orator in that matter; and therefore he chose out an

officious servant, whom he esteemed very wise, because he never found

him but just of his opinion, and willed him to be his ambassador to

Basilius, and to make him know, that if he meant to have his daughters

both safe and happy, and desired himself to have such a son-in-law, as

would not only protect him in his quiet course, but, if he listed to

accept it, would give him the monarchy of the world, that then he

should receive Anaxius, who never before knew what it was to pray

anything. That if he did not, he would make him know that the power of

Anaxius was in everything beyond his will, and yet his will not to be

resisted by any other power. His servant, with smiling and cast-up

look, desired God to make his memory able to contain the treasure of

that wise speech: and therefore besought him to repeat it again, that

by the oftener hearing it his mind might be the better acquainted with

the divineness thereof; and that being graciously granted he then

doubted not by carrying with him in his conceit the grace wherewith

Anaxius spoke it, to persuade rocky minds to their own harm; so little

doubted he to win Basilius to that, which he thought would make him

think the heavens opened when he heard but the proffer thereof.

Anaxius gravely allowed the probability of his conjecture; and

therefore sent him away, promising him he should have the bringing up

of his second son by Pamela.

The messenger with speed performed his lord’s commandment to Basilius;

who by nature quiet, and by superstition made doubtful, was loth to

take any matter of arms in hand, wherein already he had found so slow

success; though Philanax vehemently urged him thereunto, making him

see that his retiring back did encourage injuries. But Basilius,

betwixt the fear of Anaxius’s might, the passion of his love, and

jealousy of his estate, was so perplexed, that not able to determine,

he took the common course of men, to fly only then to devotion, when

they want resolution: therefore detaining the messenger with delays,

he deferred the directing of his course to the counsel of Apollo,

which because himself at that time could not go well to require, he

entrusted the matter to his best trusted Philanax; who, as one in whom

obedience was a sufficient reason unto him, went with diligence to

Delphos, where being entered into the secret place of the temple, and

having performed the sacrifices usual, the spirit that possessed the

prophesying woman, with a sacred fury attended not his {421} demand,

but as if it would argue him of incredulity, told him, not in dark

wonted speeches, but plainly to be understood, what he came for, and

that he should return to Basilius, and will him to deny his daughters

to Anaxius and his brothers; for that they were reserved for such as

were better beloved of the Gods, that he should not doubt, for they

should return unto him safely and speedily; and that he should keep on

his solitary course till both Philanax and Basilius fully agreed in

the understanding of the former prophecy: withal commanding Philanax

from thence forward to give tribute, but not oblation to human wisdom.

Philanax then finding that reason cannot show itself more reasonable

than to leave reasoning in things above reason, returns to his lord,

and like one that preferred truth before the maintaining of an

opinion, hid nothing from him, nor from thenceforth durst any more

dissuade him from that which he found by the celestial providence

directed; but he himself looking to repair the government, as much as

in so broken an estate by civil dissention he might, and fortifying

with notable art both the lodges, so that they were almost made

unapproachable, he left Basilius to bemoan the absence of his

daughters, and to bewail the imprisonment of Zelmane: yet wholly given

holily to obey the oracle, he gave a resolute negative unto the

messenger of Anaxius, who all this while had waited for it; yet in

good terms desiring him to show himself in respect of his birth and

profession, so princely a knight, as without forcing him to seek the

way of force, to deliver in noble sort these ladies unto him, and so

should the injury have been by Amphialus, and the benefit in him.

The messenger went back with this answer, yet having ever used to

sugar anything which his master was to receive, he told him, that when

Basilius first understood his desires, it did over-reach so far all

his most hopeful expectations that he thought it were too great a

boldness to hearken to such a man, in whom the heavens had such

interest, without asking the God’s counsel; and therefore had sent his

principal counsellor to Delphos, who although he kept the matter ever

so secret, yet his diligence inspired by Anaxius’s privilege over all

worldly things, had found out the secret, which was, that he should

not presume to marry his daughter to one who already was enrolled

among the demi-gods, and yet much less he should dare the attempting

to take them out of his hands.

Anaxius, who till then had made fortune his creator, and force his

god, now began to find another wisdom to be above, that judged so

rightly of him: and where in this time of his servant’s waiting for

Basilius’s resolution, he and his brothers had courted their ladies,

as whom they vouchsafed to have for their wives; he {422} resolved now

to dally no longer in delays, but to make violence his orator, since

he had found persuasions had gotten nothing but answers. Which

intention he opened to his brothers, who having all this while wanted

nothing to take that away but his authority, gave spurs to his

runnings; and, worthy men, neither feeling virtue in themselves, nor

tendering it in others, they went headlong to make that evil consort

of love and force, when Anaxius had word, that from the tower there

were descried some companies of armed men, marching towards the town,

wherefore he gave present order to his servants and soldiers to go to

the gates and walls, leaving none within but himself and his brothers:

his thoughts then so full of their intended prey, that Mars his

loudest trumpet could scarcely have awaked him.

But while he was directing what he would have done, his youngest

brother Zoilus, glad that he had the commission, went in the name of

Anaxius to tell the sisters, that since he had answer from their

father, that he and his brother Lycurgus should have them in what sort

it pleased them, that they would now grant them no longer time, but

presently to determine whether they thought it more honourable comfort

to be compelled or persuaded. Pamela made him answer, that in a matter

whereon the whole state of her life depended, and wherein she had ever

answered she would not lead, but follow her parents’ pleasure, she

thought it reason she should either by letter, or particular

messenger, understand something from themselves, and not have their

belief bound to the report of their partial servant: and therefore as

to their words, she and her sister had ever a simple and true

resolution, so against their unjust force, God, they hoped, would

either arm their lives, or take away their lives. “Well, ladies,” said

he, “I will leave my brothers, who by and by will come unto you to be

their own ambassadors: for my part I must now do myself service.” And

with that turning up his mustaches, and marching as if he would begin

a paven[b3-07], he went toward Zelmane. But Zelmane having heard all

this while of the messenger’s being with Basilius, had much to do to

keep these excellent ladies from seeking by the passport of death to

escape these base dangers whereunto they found themselves subject,

still hoping that Musidorus would find some means to deliver them; and

therefore had often, both by her own example and comfortable reasons,

persuaded them to overpass many insolent indignities of their proud

suitors, who thought it was a sufficient favour not to do the

uttermost injury, now come again to the strait she most feared for

them, either of death or dishonour, if heroical courage would have let

her, she had been beyond herself amazed: but that yet held up her wit,

to attend {423} the uttermost occasion, which even then brought his

hairy forehead unto her: for Zoilus smacking his lips, as for the

prologue of a kiss, and something advancing himself, “Darling,” said

he, “let thy heart be full of joy, and let thy fair eyes be of counsel

with it, for this day thou shalt have Zoilus, whom many have longed

for, but none shall have him but Zelmane. And oh! how much glory I

have to think what a race will be between us? The world, by the

heavens, the world will be too little for them.” And with that he

would have put his arm about her neck; but she withdrawing herself

from him, “My lord,” said she, “much good may your thoughts do you:

but that I may not dissemble with you, my nativity being cast by one

that never failed in any of his prognostications, I have been assured

that I should never be apt to bear children; but since you will honour

me with so high a favour, I must only desire that I may perform a vow,

which I made among my countrywomen, the famous Amazons, that I would

marry none, but such one as was able to withstand me in arms:

therefore, before I make mine own desire serviceable to yours, you

must vouchsafe to lend me armour and weapons, that at least with a

blow or two of the sword I may not find myself perjured to myself.”

But Zoilus, laughing with a hearty loudness, went by force to embrace

her; making no other answer, but since she had a mind to try his

knighthood, she should quickly know what a man of arms he was; and so

without reverence to the ladies, began to struggle with her.

But in Zelmane then disdain became wisdom, and anger gave occasion.

For abiding no longer abode in the matter, she that had not put off,

though she had disguised Pyrocles, being far fuller of stronger

nimbleness, tripped up his feet so that he fell down at hers. And

withal, meaning to pursue what she had begun, pulled out his sword

which he wore about him: but before she could strike him withal, he

got up, and ran to a fair chamber, where he had left his two brethren,

preparing themselves to come down to their mistresses. But she

followed at his heels, and even as he came to throw himself into their

arms for succour, she hit him with his own sword such a blow upon the

waist that she almost cut him asunder: once she sundered his soul from

his body, sending it to Proserpina, an angry goddess against

ravishers. But Anaxius, seeing before his eyes the miserable end of

his brother, fuller of despite than wrath, and yet fuller of wrath

than sorrow, looking with a woeful eye upon his brother Lycurgus;

“Brother,” said he, “chastise this vile creature, while I go down and

take order lest further mischief arise:” and so went down to the

ladies, whom he visited, doubting there had been some further practice

than yet he conceived. But finding them only {424} strong in patience,

he went and locked a great iron gate, by which only anybody might

mount to that part of the castle; rather to conceal the shame of his

brother, slain by a woman, than for doubt of any other annoyance: and

then went up to receive some comfort of the execution, he was sure his

brother had done of Zelmane. But Zelmane no sooner saw these brothers,

of whom reason assured her she was to expect revenge, but that she

leaped to a target, as one that well knew the first mark of valour to

be defence. And then accepting the opportunity of Anaxius going away,

she waited not the pleasure of Lycurgus, but without any words, which

she ever thought vain, when resolution took the place of persuasion,

gave her own heart the contentment to be the assailer. Lycurgus, who

was in the disposition of his nature hazardous, and by the lucky

passing through many dangers, grown confident in himself, went toward

her, rather as to a spoil than to fight; so far from fear, that his

assuredness disdained to hope. But when her sword made demonstrations

above all flattery of arguments, and that he found she pressed so upon

him, as showed that her courage sprang not from blind despair, but was

guarded both with cunning and strength; self-love then first in him

divided itself from vainglory, and made him find that the world of

worthiness had not his whole globe comprised in his breast, but that

it was necessary to have strong resistance against so strong

assailing. And so between them, for a few blows, Mars himself might

have been delighted to look on. But Zelmane, who knew that in her

case, slowness of victory was little better than ruin, with the

bellows of hate blew the fire of courage; and he striking a main blow

at her head, she warded it with the shield, but so warded, that the

shield was cut in two pieces while it protected her: and withal she

ran in to him, and thrusting at his breast, which he put by with his

target, as he was lifting up his sword to strike again, she let fall

the piece of her shield, and with her left hand catching his sword on

the inside of the pommel, with nimble and strong slight she had gotten

his sword out of his hand, before his sense could convey to his

imagination what was to be doubted. And having now two swords against

one shield, meaning not foolishly to be ungrateful to good fortune,

while he was no more amazed with his being unweaponed, than with the

suddenness thereof, she gave him such a wound upon his head, in

despite of the shield’s over-weak resistance, that withal he fell to

the ground astonished with the pain, and aghast with fear. But seeing

Zelmane ready to conclude her victory in his death, bowing up his head

to her with a countenance that had forgotten all pride, “Enough,

excellent lady,” said he, “the honour is yours; whereof you shall want

the best witness if you kill me. {425} As you have taken from men the

glory of manhood, return so now again to your own sex for mercy. I

will redeem my life of you with no small services; for I will

undertake to make my brother obey all your commandments. Grant life, I

beseech you, for your own honour, and for the person’s sake that you

love best.”

Zelmane repressed a while her great heart, either disdaining to be

cruel or pitiful, and therefore not cruel; and now the image of the

human condition began to be an orator unto her of compassion, when she

saw, as if he lifted up his arms with a suppliant’s grace about one of

them, unhappily tied a garter with a jewel, which, given to Pyrocles

by his aunt of Thessalia, and greatly esteemed by him, he had

presented to Philoclea, and with inward rage promising extreme hatred,

had seen Lycurgus with a proud force, and not without some hurt to

her, pull away from Philoclea, because at entreaty she would not give

it him. But the sight of that was like a cypher, signifying all the

injuries which Philoclea had of him suffered, and that remembrance

feeding upon wrath, trod down all conceits of mercy. And therefore

saying no more, but, “No, villain, die: it is Philoclea that sends

thee this token for thy love.” With that she made her sword drink the

blood of his heart, though he wresting his body, and with a

countenance prepared to excuse, would fain have delayed the receiving

of death’s ambassadors. But neither stayed Zelmane’s hand, nor yet

Anaxius’s cry unto her; who having made fast the iron gate, even then

came to the top of the stairs, when contrary to all his imaginations,

he saw his brother lie at Zelmane’s mercy. Therefore crying,

promising, and threatening to her to hold her hand: the last groan of

his brother was the only answer he could get to his unrespected

eloquence. But then pity would fain have drawn tears, which fury in

their spring dried; and anger would fain have spoken, but that disdain

sealed up his lips; but in his heart he blasphemed heaven, that it

could have such a power over him, no less ashamed of the victory he

should have of her, than of his brother’s overthrow: and no more

spited that it was yet unrevenged, than that the revenge should be no

greater than a woman’s destruction. Therefore with no speech, but such

a groaning cry as often is the language of sorrowful anger, he came

running at Zelmane; use of fighting then serving instead of patient

consideration what to do. Guided wherewith, though he did not with

knowledge, yet he did according to knowledge, pressing upon Zelmane in

such a well-defended manner, that in all the combats that ever she had

fought, she had never more need of quick senses, and ready virtue. For

being one of the greatest men of stature then living; as he did fully

answer that stature in greatness of might; so did he exceed both in

greatness of {426} courage, which with a countenance formed by the

nature both of his mind and body, to an almost horrible fierceness,

was able to have carried fear to any mind that was not privy to itself

of a true and constant worthiness. But Pyrocles, whose soul might well

be separated from his body, but never alienated from the remembering

of what was comely, if at the first he did a little apprehend the

dangerousness of his adversary, whom once before he had something

tried, and now perfectly saw as the very picture of forcible fury; yet

was that apprehension quickly stayed in him, rather strengthening than

weakening his virtue by that wrestling, like wine growing the stronger

by being moved. So that they both prepared in hearts, and able in

hands, did honour solitariness there with such a combat, as might have

demanded, as a right of fortune, whole armies of beholders. But no

beholders needed there, where manhood blew the trumpet, and

satisfaction did whet as much as glory. There was strength against

nimbleness: rage against resolution; fury against virtue; confidence

against courage; pride against nobleness: love in both breeding mutual

hatred, and desire of revenging the injuries of his brother’s

slaughter, to Anaxius, being like Philoclea’s captivity to Pyrocles.

Who had seen the one, would have thought nothing could have resisted:

who had marked the other, would have marvelled that the other had so

long resisted. But like two contrary tides, either of which are able

to carry worlds of ships and men upon them, with such swiftness that

nothing seems able to withstand them, yet meeting one another, with

mingling their watery forces, and struggling together, it is long to

say, whether stream gets the victory; so between these, if Pallas had

been there, she could scarcely have told, whether she had nursed

better in the feats of arms. The Irish greyhound against the English

mastiff; the sword-fish against the whale; the rhinoceros against the

elephant, might be models, and but models of this combat. Anaxius was

better armed defensively: for (besides a strong casque bravely

covered, wherewith he covered his head) he had a huge shield, such

perchance, as Achilles showed to the pale walls of Troy, wherewithal

that great body was covered. But Pyrocles utterly unarmed for defence,

to offend had the advantage, for, in either hand he had a sword, and

with both hands nimbly performed that office. And according as they

were diversely furnished, so they did differ in the manner of

fighting: for Anaxius most by warding, and Pyrocles oftenest by

avoiding, resisted the adversary’s assault. Both hasty to end, yet

both often staying for advantage. Time, distance and motion, custom

made them so perfect in, that as if they had been fellow counsellors,

and not enemies, each knew the other’s mind, and knew how to prevent

it. So as their {427} strength failed them sooner than their skill,

and yet their breath failed them sooner than their strength. And

breathless indeed they grew, before either could complain of any loss

of blood.

So that consenting by the meditation of necessity to a breathing time

of truce, being withdrawn a little one from the other, Anaxius stood

leaning upon his sword with his grim eye so settled upon Zelmane, as

is wont to be the look of an earnest thought. Which Zelmane marking,

and according to the Pyroclean nature, fuller of gay bravery in the

midst than in the beginning of danger: “What is it,” said she,

“Anaxius, that thou so deeply musest on? doth thy brother’s example

make thee think of thy fault past, or of thy coming punishment?” “I

think,” said he, “what spiteful god it should be, who envying my

glory, hath brought me to such a wayward case, that neither thy death

can be a revenge, nor thy overthrow a victory.” “Thou dost well

indeed,” said Zelmane, “to impute thy case to the heavenly providence,

which will have thy pride find itself, even in that whereof thou art

most proud, punished by the weak sex which thou most contemnest.”

But then having sufficiently rested themselves, they renewed again

their combat far more terrible than before: like nimble vaulters, who

at the first and second leap do but stir, and, as it were, awake the

fiery and airy parts, which after in the other leaps they do with more

excellency exercise. For in this pausing, each had brought to his

thoughts the manner of the other’s fighting, and the advantages, which

by that, and by the quality of their weapons they might work

themselves, and so again repeated the lesson they had said before,

more perfectly by the using of it; Anaxius oftener used blows, his

huge force, as it were, more delighting therein, and the large

protection of his shield animating him unto it. Pyrocles, of a more

fine and deliberate strength, watching his time, when to give fit

thrusts, as, with the quick obeying of his body, to his eye’s quick

commandment, he shunned any harm Anaxius could do to him: so would he

soon have made an end of Anaxius, if he had not found him a man of

wonderful and almost matchless excellency in matters of arms. Pyrocles

used divers feignings to bring Anaxius on into some inconvenience, but

Anaxius keeping a sound manner of fighting, never offered but seeing

fair cause, and then followed it with well-governed violence. Thus

spent they a great time, striving to do, and with striving to do,

wearying themselves more than with the very doing. Anaxius finding

Zelmane so near unto him, that with little motion he might reach her,

knitting all his strength together, at that time mainly foiled at her

face. But Zelmane strongly putting it by with her right-hand sword,

coming in with her left foot and hand, would {428} have given a sharp

visitation to his right side, but that he was fain to leap away.

Whereat ashamed, as having never done so much before in his life.

* * *[b3-08]

The fire of rage then burning contempt out of his breast, did burst

forth in flames through his eyes, and in smoke from his mouth; so that

he was returning with a terrible madness (all the strength of his

whole body transferred to the one hand for a singular service) which

the resolute Zelmane did earnestly observe with a providently all

despising courage, whilst the ears of Anaxius were suddenly arrested

by a sound, whereof they were only capable, which, in consort with his

own humour, could only of him with authority have challenged a due

attendance: straight a martial noise (raised by the violence of

invaders; and distractedness of others, dreadfully tumultuous) giving

him intelligence what a bloody scene was acting without in the court

of the castle, where he was expected as a special actor; though his

eye, as harbinger of his blow, had already marked the room, where his

bended arm threatened to lodge it; yet his feet did so suddenly ravish

away the rest of his body, that even his own thoughts, much more

Zelmane’s, were prevented by the suddenness of his flight, a flight

indeed, not from the fighting with one, but to the fighting with many,

where he did not look for an object worthy of the wrath of Anaxius. So

that vanishing away, as carried in a cloud of whirlwind, Zelmane

either could not, or else would not reach him: as disdaining the base

advantage of these dishonourable wounds, which though greatest shame

to the flying receiver, can give no glory to the unresisted giver.

The impetuous storm that transported the spirit of Anaxius, had

quickly blown him down the stairs, and up the door, his sword ushering

his way, till his eyes were encountered with the beams of the

lightning weapons of a small number, which rather seemed surprised

within the castle, than to have surprised the castle. Yet they had

speedily purchased a great room for so small a company, challenging as

their own all the bounds that their swords could compass: and in

effect their enemies proved their fewness many, reckoning the black

knight and his second (as cyphers are esteemed when valued by others,

over which they are raised) not for the number which indeed they were,

but for the number which they were worth. These three were quickly

known by their wonted arms; but more by their wonted valour. The court

had been a fitter list for two, than a field for so many, where the

narrowness of the place, not giving place to sleight, there was no way

but by plain force; so that the greatest cowards were as forward as

the most courageous, fear making them bold, who saw no refuge but

{429} by fighting; which made the conflict exceeding cruel, either of

the parties having more spurs than one to draw blood.

The Amphialians, besides their rage for being abused by an unexpected

stratagem, and their desire to defend the place, being bound both by

private interest and public vows; they had added further, to make up

the accomplishment of a just wrath, the means of revenge, as they

thought, on their master’s murderer; looking no otherwise on the black

knight than as on him who had buried all their hopes in the ruins of

Amphialus, whereof to their further grief, they had been idle

witnesses. All this made them desperately endeavour that the eyes of

Anaxius might be entertained with their victory, before his ears could

be burdened with their error; chiefly at his coming, those of his own

train kindled their courage at the torches of his eyes, prodigious

comets of a deluge of blood. As for the pursued pursuers, like those

who landing to make war in an island burn the ships which brought them

thither, by the impossibility of their return to show the desperate

necessity of their victory; they were assured they could neither

advance nor retire, but over the bellies of their enemies; yet were

they not so desperate of their retreat, as confident of their victory.

The black knight, though all the giants that fought against the gods

had been there, he thought they could not hinder him from going where

his heart was already, nor from prevailing where the prize was the

delivery of his lady, and friend, the double treasures of his soul,

whereof any was valued above his life, yea, both were balanced with

his honour; so that he did show not only the height of valour, but a

ravishing of his soul, and a transportation of magnanimity, far from

the level of ordinary aims, and even scarce within the prospect of

more lofty thoughts. Yet neither love nor courage could blind his

judgment, in seeing his advantage: marching with his company ever the

next wall, to prevent being compassed: though sometimes making brave

sallies. Which Anaxius at his first approach espying, upbraided his

own troop as unworthy of his attendance, and all as traitors in

receiving, or dastards in not expelling that, in his eyes, contemned

crew, oftentimes urging them by their retiring to make way for him,

and he alone would either beat them over the walls, or in the walls:

for the truth is, they seemed all too small a sacrifice to appease his

high indignation. It was superfluous labour for Alecto to inflame his

soul with poisonous inspirations; for his soul might have furnished

all the infernal furies with fury, and yet have continued the most

furious of all itself. Rage and disdain, burning his bosom, made him

utter a roaring voice, as if his breath had been able to have blown

away the world, which for the sound that his sword made, could not

distinctly be understood.

{430}

The first whom he encountered, lifting up his hand to strike, and

withal opening his mouth, as if intending some speech, his proposition

was prevented by an active answer, cutting him from the lips to the

ears, so by opening his mouth, restraining his speech. The knight of

the sheep succeeding in his place, a vindictive heir, was exchanging

blows with Anaxius with no disadvantage, when suddenly a dart, none

knew to whose hand the honour of it was due, did wound him in the

thigh, which he doubtful to whom he stood debtor, did pay back to

many, an extraordinary interest, with the death of someone striving to

defray every drop of his blood.

The black knight, black indeed to all his adversaries, when viewing

the wonderful valour of Anaxius, with whom then rival in fame he

entertained a terrible emulation, what bred terror in others, bred in

him contentment; that his conquest, whereof he never doubted, might be

endeared by the difficulty, and his victory be honoured by so

honourable an enemy, with whom, above all others, he laboured to meet,

by the ruin of many making a room where they might fight.

But in the meantime the torrent of the violence of Anaxius was

interrupted by a sudden tumult; seeming to proceed from an ambushment

broken forth from the houses behind them. And no wonder though all

thought so: the two swords of Zelmane being riotous in their charges,

were so covetous to extend their confines. She following, or rather,

as a falcon in an earnest chase, flying down the stairs after him, did

not overtake Anaxius but with her eyes till he was walled about with

the armed multitude, and then, like a lioness lately enraged, that had

been long famished in prison, she ranged over all for her prey: but

yet like a cunning hound, that out of a whole herd of deer, doth only

single him out with whom she had entered first in hostility (a little

drop of his blood having betrayed all the rest) she disdained to fight

with any other, but would be resisted by none till she might unbend

all her forces on Anaxius, whose sight as soon as her eyes had

greedily swallowed, she burst forth: “Base dastard, who hast abused

the world with shadows of worth, yet art void of all valour, having

doubly forfeited the usurped title of honour, in offering injurious

violence to a woman, and yet flying the just violence of a woman, to

hide thyself (being protected by the shield of some trusted attender)

where the sufficiency of others may conceal thy cowardice: but all

this shall not defraud my wrath, nor prevent thy punishment.”

Anaxius, more troubled with these words, than if all the swords of the

enemies had lighted upon him (whom for the highest of all his wishes,

would have but wished her a man, yea an army of men) {431} looked over

his shoulder with an eye burning with disdain, as if one of his looks

might have served to consume a woman, and at the same instant,

uttering his rage another way, with a blow worthy of his arm, he did

cleave one before him through the helmet to the shoulders, making him

so, by being two headed, headless. But seeing Zelmane press near him,

though he hoped for no honour from her, yet to prevent dishonour from

her (shame kindling rage, and rage quenching reason) he commanded

Armagines his nephew, a youth of great valour, to take these foolish

fellows prisoners who durst adventure within that castle without his

leave, and to shut all the gates, that none of them might escape; and

therewith whirling about, and casting a sideward look on Zelmane, made

an imperious sign with a threatening allurement (a disinviting

inviting of her) to follow, which she performed with a countenance

witnessing as great contentment, as ever Venus did to most with Mars;

Mars and Venus at the same time having met within her mind, to make,

though a less loving, yet a more martial meeting.

The crowds of people in their way were quickly dispersed by the

tempestuous breath of Anaxius, so that they had no hindrance: he being

feared of all, and she hated of none. Neither was their solitary

retiring, in respect of their different seeming sex, suspiciously

censured by any: the disdainfulness of their countenance bearing

witness, that they were led by hate to honour, and not by love to the

contrary.

The place appointed by fortune to be famous by the famousness of this

combat, was a back court, which they found out at that time emptied of

inhabitants; the stronger being gone to pursue others, and the weaker

run to hide themselves: mediocrity being no more a virtue, where all

was at height, to make excellency eminent in extremity.

They two came here alone, for they would have no seconds, or rather

were so far first as they could have no seconds, and every one of them

being confident in his own worth could not mistrust another’s. As if

words had been too weak messengers of their wrath, and swords only

worthy to utter their minds, they began with that wherewith they hoped

to end; none of them now could flatter himself so far against the

proof of his own experienced knowledge, as to contemn his fellow.

Anaxius at the first, rioting in rage, and burning with a voluptuous

appetite of blood, did abandon his hands to their accustomed

prodigality, which contrary to the nature of that vice, was hurtful to

the receiver, and profitable for the spender. But Zelmane, well

weighing with whom she had to deal, was more wary in her charges, and

circumspectly managing the treasure {432} of her strength, would not

idly bestow it, but was liberal when occasion offered. It was hard to

say, whether the one was more frank, or the other more thankful: the

guerdon never deferred, oft preventing the gift, above the desire of

the receiver, yet short of the giver’s mind. Their thought, eye, hand,

and foot seemed chained to one motion, as all being tuned by violence,

to make up a harmony in horror. Never was courage better supported by

skill and strength nor skill and strength better accompanied by

courage; the blows of every one of them seemed not only to strive with

the others, but even among themselves, for singularity; the latter

still (by being more observable) seeking to bury the remembrance of

the former.

It seemed that these two were not retired from the battle, but that

the battle was transferred where they were. The eye might well have

taken them to be two, but the ear would never have been persuaded that

so mighty sounds could be sent but from the weapons of a number; the

environing windows with a sad solitariness seemed to bewail their want

of eyes, which defrauded them the entertainment of that delectable

terror, transporting sports.

Anaxius more angry with himself than with his enemy, that he should be

so long in vanquishing, where, when victorious, he would be but

ashamed of the victory, all his active powers being highly bended,

both by choler and courage, he thus discharged his tongue: “What

spiteful god, jealous of my greatness, or envying my glory, hath sent

this devil in a woman’s shape (as a cloud for Juno to Ixion) to mock

me? but all this is one: though thou be a devil in a woman, or all the

devils in one devil, I swear by this blow, I will beat thee hence to

the hells, to the eternal terror of all the dark region;” and with

that lighted on Zelmane with such a huge force, that all she could

procure by the mediation of one of her swords, was, that what was

intended wholly at her head, by the wrying of her body, did but wound

her a little on the shoulder. This was so far from dismaying her, that

it did confirm, increase it could not, her resolution already at a

height: Yet, though not more courage, she pretended more fury,

compassing him about to espy advantages, and oft giving him feigned

alarms, as bragging to make a breach in his breast, advanced her

right-hand sword, which Anaxius beat down, and withal encroached to

usurp a room in her right side: but Zelmane suddenly inclining to the

left, gave him a flat blow with that hand’s sword, which returned back

clad with the spoils of that part of the body which it had forced.

Both thus being already allied by blood, yet did strive for a more

strict affinity: wounds, in regard of their frequency, being no more

respected than blows were before. Though they met in {433} divers

colours, now both were clad in one livery, as most suitable to their

present estate: being servants to one master, and rivals in

preferment. Neither could showers of blood quench the winds of their

wrath, which did blow it forth in great abundance, till faintness

would have fain persuaded both that they were mortal, and though

neither of them by another, yet both overcomable by death. Then

despair came to reinforce the fight, joining with courage, not as a

companion, but as a servant: for courage never grew desperate, but

despair grew courageous; both being resolved, if not conquering, none

of them should survive the other’s conquest, nor owe trophy but to

death.

The greatest grief of the one was to die by a woman; and of the other,

to die as a woman: both in respect of her apparel, and, as she

thought, action; being matched by one man, who had o’ermatched

multitudes of men. At last the great storm of blows being past, she

rested one of her swords on the earth, either forced by faintness, or

intending art, offering a thrust with the other, which Anaxius

perceiving, did speedily repel: and with that (gathering his

distressed strength together, as ready to remove, but first bent to

give a gallant farewell) ran forward with such a violent violence on

Zelmane (nought being able to resist his unresistable force) that she

presently interposing her reposed sword, though it ran him through the

heart, or rather he his heart upon it, it could not hinder him from

running her through the body, and both to the earth, a brave flash of

a dying light! a mighty thunder of a quenched lightning! Thus did he

overthrow his overthrower: not falling till none was able to stand

before him; whilst though he were vanquished, none could vaunt of the

victory. His breast fell above the hand with the sword, as if he would

needs die embracing it, even after death adoring that idol of his

life, and his dead weight striving with Zelmane’s weak life, whilst

she struggling to rise did break the sword, a part remaining under

him, and the rest within her: thus hard it was to force Anaxius,

though he was dead, and impossible while he lived.

Zelmane, after her rising, did draw the other sword out of him, as

bent to return not interested in anything. She was stepping forward

with a sword in each hand, and a part of one in her breast: a trophy

of victory, yet a badge of ruin; never better weaponed, never more

unfit for fighting; when lo all the followers of Anaxius, discomforted

by his absence, but more by the black knight’s presence, Armagines

having his death honoured by his hand, the rest were quickly

discomfited, and, despairing to save the castle, sought to save

themselves.

The black knight committed the following of their flight to others, as

a dangerless action, and therefore not worthy of him; {434} then

fearing that elsewhere for another which he could no more find there

for himself, he went by the direction of his eyes, and the information

of his ears, to seek out the two retired champions, when suddenly he

encountered his other self, marching like Pallas from the giant’s

overthrow.

As soon as the eyes of Pyrocles, no, his soul was ravished with the

sight of Musidorus, it having infused a fresh vigour in his feeble

members, and that physic applied to his mind, triumphing over the

infirmity of his body; he threw away his swords, only conquerable by

kindness, and pulled out that which was in his body, that nothing

might hinder him from embracing the image of his soul, which reflected

his own thoughts. Their souls by a divine sympathy did first join,

preventing the elemental masses of the bodies: but ah! whilst they

were clasped in each other’s arms (like two grafts grafted in one

stock) the high tide of over-flowing affection restraining their

tongues with astonishment, as unable to express an unexpressible

passion.