trumpet. After the trumpet blast, there arose a hideous storm of wind,
with thunder, lightning, and an earthquake, followed by a horrible
stench of sulphur and smoke, which lasted from four in the morning until
six--yet Britomart remained steadfast in her watch. Then suddenly arose
a whirlwind throwing open the heavy iron door, and from an inner room
there entered a grave personage bearing a branch of laurel, and clad as
if for the tragic stage. Before Britomart had time to recover from the
surprise of this apparition, a band of minstrels, followed by a troop of
masquers, issued also from the chamber. Sweet music and strange and gay
figures now filled the hitherto empty room. There were Fancy and Desire,
dressed in silk and embroidery; Doubt and Danger in more sober garb;
Fear, armed from head to foot; Hope, with golden locks and samite robes;
Suspicion and Deceit, Grief and Fury, Pleasure and Displeasure--six
couples in all. Behind these came a fair lady, led by Cruelty and
Despight, who goaded and tormented her as she walked. After these rode
the winged god, mounted on a lion, and closely followed by Reproach,
Shame, and Repentance, while a confused rabble brought up the rear.
The procession marched three times round the chamber, and disappeared
into the inner room. As soon as it had passed through, the iron door was
violently closed by the same whirlwind which had opened it. Then
Britomart came forth from the shady corner in which she had stood
unnoticed, and tried to follow; but she could by no means pass the door,
and was obliged to wait patiently for any opportunity that might arise.
All day the maiden waited, and when the next night came with its garment
of darkness her hopes rose, and not in vain. About the second watch, the
door flew open, and afraid neither of masques nor enchantments,
Britomart walked boldly in. As soon as she entered, she looked round for
those persons whom she had seen the previous night. But of all the
motley crew only one was visible, and this was the fair lady who had
been led by the cruel villains, and who indeed was Amoret. Her hands
were fast bound, and round her waist was an iron band that fastened her
to a brass pillar. Before her was the wicked enchanter, drawing strange
characters with Amoret's own heart's blood, which he drew from her by
means of a cruel transfixed dart. By such strange spells, he sought to
charm her into loving him. But he had already tried a thousand charms,
and had utterly failed to touch her love and loyalty to Scudamour, and
indeed she was little likely to love one who wrought such cruel
imprisonment.
The moment the enchanter saw Britomart in her knightly attire, he cast
away his books of wicked magic, and drawing a murderous knife from his
pocket ran fiercely at poor Amoret, whom for very spite he was ready to
kill rather than see her escape. Britomart leapt forward, seized his
arm, and stayed his murderous intent. In a moment the enchanter's rage
turned upon her, and his sword inflicted a wound upon her snowy throat.
Then Britomart drew forth her deadly spear, and struck him so dire a
blow, that he fell on the ground half dead. Another stroke must have
killed him, and she was on the point of dealing it when Amoret made sign
to her to hold her hand, telling Britomart that only he who had
enchained could set her free.
Hearing this the noble maiden paused, and very unwilling to spare her
wicked captive, addressed him thus, "Thou wretched man, for whom no
punishment can be too severe, be sure that nothing shall save thee from
death, unless thou immediately restore this lady to health and freedom."
Glad to secure his life on any terms, the enchanter at once yielded, and
rising up, began to look over the leaves of his accursed books, that he
might learn how to reverse the charms he had wrought. Britomart stood
over him with her sword drawn, and so dreadful were the things he read,
that her hair stood on end with horror. By and bye she perceived that
the house shook and the door rattled, but not for a moment did she
slacken the grasp of her weapon. With steadfast eye and stout courage
she waited to see what these strange omens meant. At length she saw the
chain that wound round the waist of Amoret fall slowly to the ground,
and the brazen pillar to which she was bound break in pieces. The dart
that pierced her bosom fell out as of its own accord. The wound it had
made closed up as though it had never existed, and all the hurts and
bruises caused by her long imprisonment were forthwith healed.
When the fair dame found herself free, she fell on the ground before
Britomart, thanking her out of the fulness of her heart, and begging to
be permitted to render her deliverer some service or reward.
Britomart raised her, and replied courteously that her labour received
more than sufficient reward in seeing Amoret thus free and safe.
She then besought the lady to take comfort, and putting away the
remembrance of her past cruel sufferings, think rather of what
Scudamour, her loving husband, had lately endured on her account. It
cheered and comforted Amoret to hear Scudamour, whom of all living
wights she loved best, thus spoken of by her deliverer.
But Britomart's work was not yet done. She turned to Busyran, the wicked
enchanter, bound him firmly by the chain which had held Amoret captive,
and thus secured, led him forth from his own stronghold.
Then Britomart was amazed to find that the rooms which had so lately
astonished her by their beauty and richness had completely vanished.
Still more surprised was she to find the flames which had guarded the
porch quenched, and the porch itself gone.
But now a sore disappointment befel both Britomart and the lady Amoret,
for when they reached the spot where Scudamour had been left, neither he
nor old Glauce, the squire, were anywhere to be seen. Britomart's brave
heart was sorely astonished, and poor Amoret, in whom hope had sprung
up, was filled with alarm and misgiving lest she had been betrayed.
Scudamour's faint-heartedness was the cause of their grief and
disappointment.
For a time after the war-like maiden's disappearance within the castle,
he lay eagerly expecting her return. But she did not come back all that
day, and Scudamour, who was not a very great and therefore not a very
patient knight, gave way to despair, and made up his mind that Britomart
had been consumed by the flames. He took counsel with old Glauce, and
together they resolved to leave their post, and go in search of further
help; thus it was that Britomart and Amoret came forth to find
themselves deserted.
And so Scudamour and Glauce and Britomart and Amoret sought each other
for many a long day in vain; how they met at last another tale must
tell.
THE STORY OF MARINELL AND FLORIMELL.
Faerie Queene. Book III., Cantos IV., VII., VIII.; Book IV., Canto XII.;
Book V., Canto III.
In the days of Britomart there lived a famous knight named Marinell.
Now this Marinell was a sea-nymph's son, and dwelt in a rocky cave by
the sea-shore. His mother had trained him to deeds of daring and a life
of hardihood. Along the strand on which he dwelt no man durst pass
without first doing battle with Marinell. He had subdued and made
vassals of a hundred brave knights, and his renown had reached the Court
of Gloriana, Queen of Faeryland.
Yet Cymoent, his mother, was not satisfied, but prayed the sea-god
to make her son richer than the son of any of the mortals.
The sea-god granted her prayer, and bade the waves yield him their
treasure--treasure gained by the wreck of many a gallant craft.
So there were heaped upon his shores great riches--gold, amber, ivory,
pearls, jewels, rings, and all else that was precious, until Marinell
became as great a lord as any that dwelt in the land. So powerful did he
grow that his mother began to fear lest his boldness and haughtiness
might cost him his life, and she counselled him to forbear further
warfare and be at rest.
That she might be the more secure of his welfare, Cymoent inquired of
Proteus, the sea-god, concerning her son's future. Proteus replied that
Marinell must beware of all womankind, as one day a strange maiden would
cause him much dismay, if not destroy his life. Now Cymoent supposed
this to mean that Marinell must not love any woman; she counselled her
son accordingly, and he listened to her words and followed her advice.
One day as Marinell rode on the rich strand dressed in gay arms, looking
here and there, he descried a rider on the forbidden ground.
This was no other than Britomart, journeying in disguise. Marinell rode
fiercely up to her, and haughtily bade her retire before he made retreat
impossible. She was filled with disdain at his proud threat, and
replying, "Fly they that need to fly," thrust at him with her magic
spear. Thereupon Marinell struck her on the breast; for a moment her
head bent low upon her horse's neck; then she raised herself and smote
him so hard a blow that her spear pierced his shield and hauberk, and
glancing off, wounded his side.
Thus Britomart bore him down until he fell helpless on the sand. She did
not stay to lament his fall, but went on her way, passing by his
treasure, and caring nothing for it.
This then was the woman of whom Proteus, the sea-god, had given warning.
Now, the sad tidings of Marinell's overthrow reached Cymoent as she and
her sister-nymphs were disporting themselves by a pond gathering
daffodils to make garlands wherewith to shade their foreheads from the
sun. When Cymoent heard the melancholy news, she flung away her flowers,
and rending her hair, threw herself speechless on the ground. The nymphs
likewise tore off their garlands, and loudly lamented Marinell's fate.
At length Cymoent arose out of her swoon. She at once called for her
chariot, while the sea-nymphs called for theirs, and set out with her on
their mournful errand. The waves ceased to rage, and helped them on
their way, while the dolphins which drew the chariots sped swiftly
through the water, and brought Cymoent and her sisters to where Marinell
lay.
They found him in a deadly faint. When his mother saw him lying thus,
she fell from one swoon into another, and when she at length recovered,
made such piteous moanings that the very rocks could scarce refrain from
tears. She bewailed her son's fall, and wished that she too had been
mortal to have shared his fate.
At length, after long sorrowing and great wailing, the sea-nymphs took
Marinell's armour off, spread their silver-fringed garments on the
strand, and laid him upon them. They then examined his wound, washed the
blood away, and poured in balm and nectar. Then Liagore, the
lily-handed, trained by Apollo in the surgeon's lore, felt his pulse,
and discovered that life still lingered in his frame. Whereupon his
mother no longer despaired, but, aided by the sea-nymphs, bore him to
her chariot. At her command the dolphin-team remained still while
flowers were strewn over him as if he were already dead. The
sister-nymphs then climbed into their chariots, and Marinell was borne
swiftly to Cymoent's sea cave. It was far down at the bottom of the sea,
and built up of hollow billows heaped high on all sides. Here, on the
softest of couches, they laid him, while Cymoent sent for Tryphon, the
best esteemed among the sea-gods in the art of healing, and the nymphs
sat round bemoaning his sad plight.
Now, the news of Marinell's sad overthrow reached the court of Gloriana,
Queen of Faeryland, where was the lady Florimell, who was famed for her
rare goodness and great beauty, and was held in high repute throughout
all Elfin-land. She was loved of many knights, but she herself loved
only Marinell, and when the news of his fall reached her, Florimell
resolved to leave the court of Gloriana, and vowed that she would not
return until she had found her love, alive or dead. She mounted a
snow-white palfrey, and attended by a trusty dwarf, set forth: she was
clad in a dress of cloth of gold, and her fair locks were bound in a
jewelled circlet.
Some days after, it happened that Prince Arthur, accompanied by Timias,
his squire, and one or two others whom they had encountered on their
way, were riding leisurely through the woods that led to Marinell's
abode, when the fair Florimell dashed suddenly across their path. She
had burst out from the brushwood, and rode as if for her life. Her hair
streamed behind her, and she constantly looked back as if fearing
pursuit. And sure enough, there appeared a rough forester, riding a
jaded steed, which he was urging over bush and bank until the blood
flowed from its sides.
Now, when the Prince saw this, he and a knight named Guyon hastened to
Florimell's rescue, while Timias, the Prince's squire, followed the
forester. Through thick and thin, over hill and plain, the Prince and
the knight followed, but the poor damsel feared them as much as she
feared the forester, and fled from them so swiftly, that when they
reached a double way she was out of sight, and they could not tell which
path to take. Each took a separate one, and that chosen by the Prince
proved right. At length he came in sight of Florimell. Urging afresh his
foaming steed, he approached the terrified damsel, and called on her to
have no fear. She looked back, but, not recognizing Prince Arthur's arms
or shield, paid no attention to his call. And so it fell that darkness
came on, and the Prince was reluctantly obliged to give up all hope of
helping her. Little did she think from how great and good a deliverer
she fled, or into what miseries this flight would lead her.
Thus Florimell sped on, fearing every shadow and every sound, until when
darkness fell, she grew so weary that her palfrey wrested the reins from
her slack hold, and went where he would. At length even he could go no
farther, and to her dismay, lay down. Florimell was now forced to alight
and lead him.
After travelling slowly for some time, she came to a hill-side, and here
she saw below her a little valley thickly clothed with wood. From
amongst its high trees there arose a wreath of thin blue smoke, and
encouraged by this sign of habitation, the maiden went on her way more
hopefully. But she was very weary and worn when she reached the place
from which the smoke proceeded. It was a cottage built of sticks and
reeds, walled round with sods, where dwelt a witch, dressed in poor and
dirty rags, and living wilfully in want. She dwelt in these dark woods
because her deeds were evil.
Here poor Florimell entered, and found the hag seated on the ground,
apparently busied in magic arts; she started up when she saw Florimell,
stared at her, but said nothing. Very soon her fear, for such it seemed,
turned to anger, and she asked the damsel who she was, and what ill
fortune had sent her there, unwelcome and uninvited.
Florimell replied that she had lost her way, and prayed her not to be
angry with one who was unwilling to intrude on her, and only begged
shelter and rest for a little space. As she spoke, tears dropped from
her eyes, and she sighed so gently and sadly that the wicked old woman
could not help being sorry for her, and began in her rude way to show
some kindly feeling; wiping the tears from Florimell's eyes, she bade
her sit down and rest. Florimell gladly obeyed; she sat down on the
dusty ground, put her torn garments into better order, smoothed her fair
hair, and fastened it into its golden circlet. When the hag saw the rich
ornaments in Florimell's hair, and beheld how beautiful she was, she
wondered greatly, and feared lest a goddess had found her way to the
hut.
This old witch had a son who was as wicked as herself. He was also lazy
and good-for-nothing, loving to lounge in the sunshine, and sleep away
his time. When he returned home, and found a fair lady sitting by his
mother, he was so astonished at the sight of beauty in such a place,
that he stood quite still, staring at Florimell, and saying never a
word. At length he went up to his mother, and asked her in a whisper by
what strange chance this vision had appeared. His mother only replied by
a scared look, as if her wits were gone, and the two gazed first at
Florimell, and then at one another.
By-and-bye, however, they grew accustomed to her presence. Her ways were
so gentle that the witch's son became enamoured of her beauty, and
brought her young birds and garlands of flowers, and a wild squirrel
which he tamed. Florimell received his gifts courteously, but she feared
him, and so, when an opportunity came, she saddled and bridled her
palfrey, and early one morning made her escape. She went in great
trepidation, for she was afraid that she might be followed and
overtaken.
Now when the witch and her son awoke and found her gone, their grief was
very great. Indeed, the son became almost frantic, and nothing his
mother could do would pacify him. So she bethought herself of her wicked
arts, and retiring to her secret cave, called up a hideous beast,
monstrous and misshapen;--its back speckled with a thousand spots, and
so swift that it could overtake the fleetest steed. Nothing like it had
ever been seen, yet it more resembled a hyena than any other creature.
This monster the hag sent after Florimell, charging it not to pause
until it found her, and either to bring her back or slay and devour her.
The moment she ceased speaking, it set off, and by the help of its keen
sense, surely and swiftly traced the maiden. When Florimell saw the
cruel monster, and perceived that it began to overtake her, her heart
quaked with fear. Terror also seized her palfrey, who, as long as breath
supplied him with strength, fled onwards. At length his pace began to
slacken fatally, and then indeed, Florimell believed herself at the last
extremity. But just as her horse's strength gave way, she reached the
shore, and slipping hastily to the ground, sped towards the water,
thinking to drown herself rather than have the monster seize her. All
unexpectedly she found a little boat, with an old fisherman asleep in
it, drawn up at the water's edge. Leaping into the boat, she seized an
oar, and pushed it out from the land.
Her escape was none too soon, for the monster was close upon her, and
ready to spring just as her boat left the shore. It gaped greedily at
her, but durst not venture into the water, and turning back avenged its
wicked spite upon the noble palfrey.
By-and-bye the good Sir Satyrane, who had delivered Una from the Satyrs,
rode that way, and seeing the dead body of the horse, recognized it as
belonging to Florimell. He feared some ill must have befallen the
maiden, and his fears were confirmed when he found a golden girdle she
was wont to wear lying on the sand. Full of grief and rage, he fell upon
the speckled beast, and wounded it severely; but it managed to escape
from him, and returned to the old hag, while Sir Satyrane was forced to
go on his way. When the old woman saw the beast return, she believed
that Florimell was dead, and rejoiced in her heart, but her son became
more wretched than ever, and to comfort him, his mother made an image,
and calling a wicked spirit into it, gave it such a likeness to
Florimell that her son mistook it for her, and was comforted.
Meanwhile the true Florimell was in fresh straits. For a long time the
fisherman slept on, so that she had to steer the boat as best she could,
but this was an easy task, for the wind was light and the sky clear. But
when the old man awoke, she discovered that he was rude and cruel, and
would have made a slave of her if he could. It chanced, however, that
Proteus, god of the seas, was abroad that day, and was roving over the
foamy waves, drawn by his finny steeds. He came upon the little boat,
and when he saw that the fisherman behaved roughly to the damsel, he
beat the old man and took Florimell into his own chariot.
Now Proteus was an aged god, whose hoary hair was frozen, and on whose
long beard icicles hung. He told the still affrighted Florimell who he
was, and bade her no longer fear, and spoke so kindly to her that she
was comforted and cheered. The sea-god bore her to his own dwelling, a
hollow cave eaten out by the angry waves from under a mighty rock at the
bottom of the sea. Here Proteus dwelt with no living being save an old
nymph whose name was Panope, and whose care it was to keep the cavern
clean. He was very pleased to have Florimell, and thought to keep her
there. But he soon discovered that she thought much more of Marinell
than of anyone else, and that nothing he could do would make her forget
the knight, or be content to remain in the ocean cave. At this he became
very angry, and at last let her down into a deep dungeon, where he
threatened to keep her until she died. And for seven long months the
poor damsel was imprisoned there bound in chains, guarded by raging
waves and grizzly ocean monsters.
Meantime Marinell still lingered in his mother's bower. By the aid of
Tryphon, the sea-god's surgeon, he had been cured of the wound inflicted
by Britomart. But so fearful was his mother lest further ill should
befall her son, that sorely against his will she kept him in her cave
almost as closely confined as if he had been a prisoner.
It happened at this time that all the sea-gods met to celebrate the
wedding of the Thames and the Medway. A solemn feast in honour of the
event was held at the abode of Proteus, and there Cymoent, with many
others, was summoned. With her went Marinell, but, as his father was
only a mortal, Marinell was not accounted a god, and might not banquet
with immortals or eat of their food. Therefore, while his mother was
within, he wandered about examining the strange abode, and, as he did
so, there befel to him a strange adventure. From under a hideous
overhanging cliff he heard a sad voice uttering such piteous
lamentations that the cruel rocks and raging billows seemed moved in
sympathy. It was Florimell, who, believing herself alone, bewailed her
fate aloud. Though none could hear, she nevertheless spoke out her grief
in the hope that the very recital might yield her some comfort, for
Heaven, that unto all lends equal ear,
Is far from hearing of my heavy plight,
And lowest hell, to which I lie most near,
Cares not what evils hap to wretched wight,
And greedy seas do in the spoil of life delight.
She mourned that while the beating of the waves pierced the hardest
rocks, her piteous plaints only hardened the tyrant's heart against her.
Then she prayed all the sea-gods to release her, or else to let her die
at once, and ended by the words, "Know, Marinell, that all this is for
thee." After this followed such an outburst of grief and weeping that it
seemed as if poor Florimell's heart must break.
On hearing her sad complaint, Marinell, who had never yet been touched
by pity for the misfortune of any, was filled with remorse and grief at
the thought of Florimell's condition.
In his sorrow began the dawning of his love, and he set himself to
devise the fair damsel's escape. He thought of suing Proteus for her
release, but this he could not do without his mother's aid, and he
remembered her charge against the love of women. For a moment he
contemplated rescuing her by force of arms, but Proteus was a god, while
he had only mortal's might. Then he bethought himself of carrying her
off by stealth, but the damsel was surrounded by water, and he possessed
no means of getting her to land. So he wandered sadly about the rock,
blaming himself severely for not having acknowledged her goodness and
beauty long ago.
At length the feast was over, and Marinell was obliged to accompany his
mother home, and, sore against his will, leave Florimell in her
sea-walled dungeon. Thinking of nothing but her sad fate, he was silent
and disinclined for companionship, and so brooded over his secret sorrow
that he could neither eat nor sleep. He pined and languished and wept
until he grew so weak and ill that he could not stand upright, but was
forced to lie upon his couch.
When his mother saw his miserable state, she was greatly troubled, and
knew not what to think, for she could not discover the source of his
malady. She fancied his old wound was the cause, and repaired to
Tryphon, whom she chid sharply because of her son's distress. He
returned with her and examined the wound, but said that Marinell's
present discomfiture must have some other source, perhaps an unknown
grief. At this Cymoent was more troubled than before, and went to her
son, beseeching him to reveal to her what lay hidden in his heart, but
he would not. Then forsaking the sea-gods as of no avail, she hastened
to the heavens, and thence brought Apollo, god of healing, to see her
son. He declared the disease to be love.