Seven hundred years ago, the same bright summer sun was shining in his
glory, that now rolls past before my eyes in all the beneficent
majesty of light. It was the month of May, and every thing in nature
seemed to breathe of the fresh buoyancy of youth. There was a light
breeze in the sky, that carried many a swift shadow over mountain,
plain, and wood. There was a springy vigour in the atmosphere, as if
the wind itself were young. The earth was full of flowers, and the
woods full of voice; and song and perfume shared the air between them.
Such was the morning when a party of travellers took their way slowly
up the south-eastern side of the famous Monts d'Or in Auvergne. The
road, winding in and out through the immense forest which covered
the base of the hills, now showed, now concealed, the abrupt
mountain-peaks starting out from their thick vesture of wood, and
opposing their cold blue summits to the full blaze of the morning sun.
Sometimes, turning round a sharp angle of the rock, the trees would
break away and leave the eye full room to roam, past the forest
hanging thick upon the edge of the slope, over valleys and hills, and
plains beyond, to the far wanderings of the Allier through the distant
country. Nor did the view end here; for the plains themselves, lying
like a map spread out below, stretched away to the very sky: and even
there, a few faint blue shadows, piled up in the form of peaks and
cones, left the mind uncertain whether the Alps themselves did not
there bound the view, or whether some fantastic clouds did not combine
with that bright deceiver, fancy, to cheat the eye.
At other times, the road seemed to plunge into the deepest recesses of
the mountains, passing through the midst of black detached rocks and
tall columns of grey basalt, broken fragments of which lay scattered
on either side; while a thousand shrubs and flowers twined, as in
mockery, over them; and the protruding roots of the large ancient
trees grasped the fallen prisms of the volcanic pillars, as if
vaunting the pride of even vegetable life over the cold, dull,
inanimate stone.
Here and there, too, would often rise up on each side high masses of
the mountain, casting all in shadow between them; while the bright
yellow lights which streamed amidst the trees above, spangling the
foliage as if with liquid gold, and the shining of the clear blue sky
overhead, were the only signs of summer that reached the bottom of
the ravine. Then again, breaking out upon a wide green slope, the path
would emerge into the sunshine, or, passing even through the very dew
of the cataract, would partake of the thousand colours of the sunbow
that hung above its fall.
It was a scene and a morning like one of those days of unmixed
happiness that sometimes shine in upon the path of youth--so few, and
yet so beautiful. Its very wildness was lovely; and the party of
travellers who wound up the path added to the interest of the scene by
redeeming it from perfect solitude, and linking it to social
existence.
The manner of their advance, too, which partook of the forms of a
military procession, made the group in itself picturesque. A single
squire, mounted on a strong bony horse, led the way at about fifty
yards' distance from the rest of the party. He was a tall, powerful
man, of a dark complexion and high features; and from beneath his
thick, arched eyebrow gazed out a full, brilliant, black eye, which
roved incessantly over the scene, and seemed to notice the smallest
object around. He was armed with cuirass and steel cap, sword and
dagger; and yet the different form and rude finishing of his arms did
not admit of their being confounded with those of a knight. The two
who next followed were evidently of a different grade; and, though
both young men, both wore a large cross pendant from their neck, and a
small branch of palm in the bonnet. The one who rode on the right hand
was armed at all points, except his head and arms, in plate armour,
curiously inlaid with gold in a thousand elegant and fanciful
arabesques, the art of perfecting which is said to have been first
discovered at Damascus. The want of his gauntlets and brassards showed
his arms covered with a quilted jacket of crimson silk, called a
gambesoon, and large gloves of thick buff leather. The place of his
casque was supplied by a large brown hood, cut into a long peak
behind, which fell almost to his horse's back; while the folds in
front were drawn round a face which, without being strikingly
handsome, was nevertheless noble and dignified in its expression,
though clouded by a shade of melancholy which had channelled his cheek
with many a deep line, and drawn his brow into a fixed but not a
bitter frown.
In form he was, to all appearance, broad made and powerful; but the
steel plates in which he was clothed, of course greatly concealed the
exact proportions of his figure; though withal there was a sort of
easy grace in his carriage, which, almost approaching to negligence,
was but the more conspicuous from the very stiffness of his armour.
His features were aquiline, and had something in them that seemed to
betoken quick and violent passions; and yet such a supposition was at
once contradicted by the calm, still, melancholy of his large dark
eyes.
The horse on which the knight rode was a tall, powerful German
stallion, jet black in colour; and though not near so strong as one
which a squire led at a little distance behind, yet, being
unencumbered with panoply itself, it was fully equal to the weight of
its rider, armed as he was.
The crusader's companion--for the palm and cross betokened that they
both returned from the Holy Land--formed as strong a contrast as can
well be conceived to the horseman we have just described. He was a
fair, handsome man, round whose broad, high forehead curled a
profusion of rich chestnut hair, which behind, having been suffered to
grow to an extraordinary length, fell down in thick masses upon his
shoulders. His eye was one of those long, full, grey eyes, which, when
fringed with very dark lashes, give a more thoughtful expression to
the countenance than even those of a deeper hue; and such would have
been the case with his, had not its clear powerful glance been
continually at variance with a light, playful turn of his lip, that
seemed full of sportive mockery.
His age might be four or five and twenty--perhaps more; for he was of
that complexion that retains long the look of youth, and on which even
cares and toils seem for years to spend themselves in vain:--and yet
it was evident, from the bronzed ruddiness of what was originally a
very fair complexion, that he had suffered long exposure to a burning
sun; while a deep scar on one of his cheeks, though it did not
disfigure him, told that he did not spare his person in the
battle-field.
No age or land is, of course, without its foppery; and however
inconsistent such a thing may appear, joined with the ideas of cold
steel and mortal conflicts, no small touch of it was visible in the
apparel of the younger horseman. His person, from the shoulders down
to the middle of his thigh, was covered with a bright haubert, or
shirt of steel rings, which, polished like glass, and lying flat upon
each other, glittered and flashed in the sunshine as if they were
formed of diamonds. On his head he wore a green velvet cap, which
corresponded in colour with the border of his gambesoon, the puckered
silk of which rose above the edge of the shirt of mail, and prevented
the rings from chafing upon his neck. Over this hung a long mantle of
fine cloth of a deep green hue, on the shoulder of which was
embroidered a broad red cross, distinguishing the French crusader. The
hood, which was long and pointed, like his companion's, was thrown
back from his face, and exposed a lining of miniver.
The horse he rode was a slight, beautiful Arabian, as white as snow in
every part of his body, except where round his nostrils, and on the
tendons of his pastern and hoof, the white mellowed into a fine pale
pink. To look at his slender limbs, and the bending pliancy of every
step, one would have judged him scarcely able to bear so tall and
powerful a man as his rider, loaded with a covering of steel; but the
proud toss of his head, the snort of his wide nostril, and the
flashing fire of his clear crystal eye, spoke worlds of unexhausted
strength and spirit; though the thick dust, with which the whole party
were covered, evinced that their day's journey had already been long.
Behind each knight, except where the narrowness of the road obliged
them to change the order of their march, one of their squires led a
battle-horse in his right hand; and several others followed, bearing
the various pieces of their offensive and defensive armour.
This, however, was to be remarked, that the arms of the
first-mentioned horseman were distributed amongst a great many
persons; one carrying the casque upright on the pommel of the saddle,
another bearing his shield and lance, another his brassards and
gauntlets; while the servants of the second knight, more scanty in
number, were fain to take each upon himself a heavier load.
To these immediate attendants succeeded a party of simple grooms
leading various other horses, amongst which were one or two Arabians,
and the whole cavalcade was terminated by a small body of archers.
For long, the two knights proceeded silently on their way, sometimes
side by side, sometimes one preceding the other, as the road widened
or diminished in its long tortuous way up the acclivity of the
mountains, but still without exchanging a single word. The one
whom--though there was probably little difference of age--we shall
call the elder, seemed, indeed, too deeply absorbed in his own
thoughts, to desire, or even permit of conversation, and kept his eyes
bent pensively forward on the road before, without even giving a
glance to his companion, whose gaze roamed enchanted over all the
exquisite scenery around, and whose mind seemed fully occupied in
noting all the lovely objects he beheld. From time to time, indeed,
his eye glanced to his brother knight, and a sort of sympathetic shade
came over his brow, as he saw the deep gloom in which he was involved.
Occasionally, too, a sort of movement of impatience seemed to agitate
him, as if there was something that he fain would speak. But then
again the cold unexpecting fixedness of his companion's features
appeared to repel it, and, returning to the view, he more than once
apparently suppressed what was rising to his lips, or only gave it
vent in humming a few lines of some lay, or some sirvente, the words
of which, however, were inaudible. At length what was labouring within
seemed to break through all restraint, and, drawing his rein, he made
his horse pause for an instant, while he exclaimed--
"Is it possible. _Beau Sire_ d'Auvergne, that the sight of your own
fair land cannot draw from you a word or a glance?" while, as he
spoke, he made his horse bound forward again, and throwing his left
hand over the whole splendid scene that the opening of the trees
exposed to the sight, he seemed to bid it appeal to the heart of his
companion, and upbraid him with his indifference.
The Count d'Auvergne raised his eyes, and let them rest for an instant
on the view to which his companion pointed; then dropped them to his
friend's face, and replied calmly--
"Had any one told me, five years ago, that such would be the case, Guy
de Coucy, I would have given him the lie."
Guy de Coucy answered nothing directly, but took up his song again,
saying--
"He who tells his sorrow, may find
That he sows but the seed of the empty wind;
But he who keeps it within his breast,
Nurses a serpent to gnaw his rest."
"You sing truly, De Coucy, as I have proved too bitterly," replied the
Count d'Auvergne; "but since we have kept companionship together, I
have ever found you gay and happy. Why should I trouble your repose
with sorrows not your own?"
"Good faith! fair count, I understand you well," replied the other,
laughing. "You would say that you have ever held me more merry than
wise; more fit to enliven a dull table than listen to a sad tale; a
better companion in brawls or merrymaking than in sorrows or
solemnities; and 'faith you are right, I love them not; and,
therefore, is it not the greatest proof of my friendship, when hating
sorrows as much as man well may, I ask you to impart me yours?"
"In truth, it is," answered the Count d'Auvergne; "but yet I will not
load your friendship so, De Coucy. Mine are heavy sorrows, which I
would put upon no man's light heart. However, I have this day given
way to them more than I should do; but it is the very sight of my
native land, beautiful and beloved as it is, which, waking in my
breast the memory of hopes and joys passed away for ever, has made me
less master of myself than I am wont."
"Fie now, fie!" cried his friend; "Thibalt d'Auvergne, wouldst thou
make me think the heart of a bold knight as fragile as the egg of a
chaffinch, on which if but a cat sets her paw, it is broken never to
be mended again? Nay, nay! there is consolation even in the heart of
all evils; like the honey that the good knight, Sir Samson, found in
the jaws of the lion which he killed when he was out hunting with the
king of the Saracens."
"You mean, when he was going down to the Philistines," said his friend
with a slight smile; though such mistakes were no way rare in those
days; and De Coucy spoke it in somewhat of a jesting tone, as if
laughing himself at the ignorance he assumed.
"Be it so, be it so!" proceeded the other. "'Tis all the same. But, as
I said, there is consolation in every evil. Hast thou lost thy dearest
friend in the battle-field? Thank God! that he died knightly in his
harness! Hast thou pawned thy estate to the Jew? Thank God! that thou
may'st curse him to thy heart's content in this world, and feel sure
of his damnation hereafter!" The count smiled; and his friend
proceeded, glad to see that he had won him even for a time from
himself:--"Has thy falcon strayed? Say, 'twas a vile bird and a foul
feeder, and call it a good loss. Has thy lady proved cold? Has thy
mistress betrayed thee. Seek a warmer or a truer, and be happily
deceived again."
The colour came and went in the cheek of the Count d'Auvergne; and for
an instant his eyes flashed fire; but reading perfect unconsciousness
of all offence in the clear open countenance of De Coucy, he bit his
lip till his teeth left a deep white dent therein, but remained
silent.
"Fie, fie! D'Auvergne!" continued De Coucy, not noticing the emotion
his words had produced. "Thou, a knight who hast laid more Saracen
heads low than there are bells on your horse's poitral, not able to
unhorse so black a miscreant as Melancholy! Thou, who hast knelt at
the holy sepulchre," he added in a more dignified tone, "not to find
hope in faith, and comfort in the blessed Saviour, for whose cross
you've fought!"
The count turned round, in some surprise at the unwonted vein which
the last part of his companion's speech indicated; but De Coucy kept
to it but for a moment, and then, darting off, he proceeded in the
same light way with which he had begun the conversation. "Melancholy!"
he cried in a loud voice, at the same time taking off his glove, as if
he would have cast it down as a gage of battle--"Melancholy and all
that do abet him. Love, Jealousy, Hatred, Fear, Poverty, and the like,
I do pronounce ye false miscreants, and defy you all! There lays my
glove!" and he made a show of throwing it on the ground.
"Ah, De Coucy!" said D'Auvergne, with a melancholy smile, "your light
heart never knew what love is; and may it never know!"
"By the rood! you do me wrong," cried De Coucy--"bitter wrong,
D'Auvergne! I defy you, in the whole lists of Europe's chivalry, to
find a man who has been so often in love as I have--ay, and though you
smile--with all the signs of true and profound love to boot. When I
was in love with the Princess of Suabia, did not I sigh three times
every morning, and sometimes sneeze as often? for it was winter
weather, and I used to pass half my nights under her window. When I
was in love with the daughter of Tancred of Sicily, did I not run
seven courses for her with all the best champions of England and
France, in my silk gambesoon, with no arms but my lance in my hand,
and my buckler on my arm? When I was in love with the pretty
Marchioness of Syracuse, did not I ride a mare one whole day,[4]
without ever knowing it, from pure absence of mind and profound
love?--and when I was in love with all the ladies of Cyprus, did not I
sing lays and write sirventes for them all?"
--------------------
[Footnote 4: To ride a mare was reckoned in those days unworthy of
anyone but a juggler, a charlatan, or a serf.]
--------------------
"Your fighting in your hoqueton," replied D'Auvergne, "showed that you
were utterly fearless; and your riding on a mare showed that you were
utterly whimsical; but neither one nor the other showed you were in
love, my dear De Coucy. But look, De Coucy! the road bends downwards
into that valley. Either I have strangely forgotten my native land, or
your surly squire has led us wrong, and we are turning away from the
Puy to the valleys of Dome.--Ho, sirrah!" he continued, elevating his
voice and addressing the squire, who rode first, "Are you sure you are
right?"
"Neither Cotereaux, nor Brabançois, nor Routiers, nor living creatures
of any kind, see I, to the right or left, _Beau Sire_," replied the
squire, in a measured man-at-arms-like tone, without either turning
his head or slackening his pace in the least degree.
"But art thou leading us on the right road? I ask thee," repeated the
count.
"I know not. Beau Sire," replied the squire. "I was thrown out, to
guard against danger,--I had no commands to seek the right road." And
he continued to ride on the wrong way as calmly as if no question
existed in respect to its direction.
"Halt!" cried De Coucy. The man-at-arms stood still; and a short
council was held between the two knights in regard to their farther
proceedings, when it was determined that, although they were evidently
wrong, they should still continue for some way on the same road,
rather than turn back after so long a journey. "We must come to some
château or some habitation soon," said De Coucy; "or, at the worst,
find some of your country shepherds to guide us on towards the chapel.
But, methinks, Hugo de Barre, you might have told us sooner, that you
did not know the way!"
"Now, good sir knight," replied the squire, speaking more freely when
addressed by his own lord, "none knew better than yourself, that I had
never been in Auvergne in all my days before. Did you ever hear of my
quitting my cot and my glebe, except to follow my good lord the baron,
your late father, for a forty days' _chevauchée_ against the enemy,
before I took the blessed cross, and went a fool's errand to the Holy
Land?"
"How now, sir!" cried De Coucy. "Do you call the holy crusade a fool's
errand? Be silent, Hugo, and lead on. Thou art a good scout and a good
soldier, and that is all thou art fit for."
The squire replied nothing; but rode on in silence, instantly resuming
his habit of glancing his eye rapidly over every object that
surrounded him, with a scrupulous accuracy that left scarce a
possibility of ambuscade. The knights and their train followed; and
turning round a projecting part of the mountain, they found that the
road, instead of descending, as they had imagined, continued to climb
the steep, which at every step gained some new feature of grandeur and
singularity, till the sublime became almost the terrific. The verdure
gradually ceased, and the rocks approached so close on each side as to
leave no more space than just sufficient for the road, and a narrow
deep ravine by its side, at the bottom of which, wherever the thick
bushes permitted the eye to reach it, the mountain torrent was seen
dashing and roaring over enormous blocks of black lava, which it had
channelled into all strange shapes and appearances. High above the
heads of the travellers, also, rose on either hand a range of enormous
basaltic columns, fringed at the top by some dark old pines that,
hanging seventy or eighty feet in the air, seemed to form a frieze to
the gigantic colonnade through which they passed.
De Coucy looked up with a smile, not unmixed with awe. "Could you not
fancy, D'Auvergne," he said, "that we were entering the portico of a
temple built by some bad enchanter to the Evil Spirit? By the holy
rood! it is a grand and awful scene! I did not think thy Auvergne was
so magnificent."
As he spoke, the squire, who preceded them, suddenly stopped, and,
turning round--
"The road ends here. _Beau Sire_," he cried. "The bridge is broken,
and there is no farther passage."
"Light of my eyes!" cried De Coucy; "this is unfortunate! But let us
see, at all events, before we turn back:" and, riding forward, he
approached the spot where his squire stood.
It was even as he had said, however. All farther progress in a direct
line was stopped by an immense mass of lava, which had probably lain
there for immemorial centuries. Certainly when the road was made,
which was probably in the days of the Romans, the same obstruction had
existed; for, instead of attempting to continue the way along the side
of the hill any farther in that direction, a single arch had been
thrown over the narrow ravine, and the road carried on through a wide
breach in the rocks on the other side. This opening, however, offered
nothing to the eye of De Coucy and his companions but a vacant space,
backed by the clear blue sky. The travellers paused, and gazed upon
the broken bridge and the road beyond for a minute or two, before
turning back, with that sort of silent pause which generally
precedes the act of yielding to some disagreeable necessity. However,
after a moment, the younger knight beckoned to one of his squires,
crying--"Give me my casque and sword!"
"Now, in the name of Heaven! what Orlando trick are you going to put
in practice, De Coucy?" cried the Count d'Auvergne, watching his
companion take his helmet from the squire, and buckle on his long,
straight sword by his side. "Are you going to cleave that rock of
lava, or bridge over the ravine, with your shield?"
"Neither," replied the knight, with a smile; "but I hear voices,
brought by the wind through that cleft on the other side, and I am
going over to ask the way."
"De Coucy, you are mad!" cried the count. "Your courage is insanity.
Neither man nor horse can take that leap!"
"Pshaw! you know not what Zerbilin can do!" said De Coucy, calmly
patting the arching neck of his slight Arabian horse: "and yet you
have yourself seen him take greater leaps than that!"
"But see you not the road slopes upwards," urged the count. "There is
no hold for his feet. The horse is weary."
"Weary!" exclaimed De Coucy: "nonsense! Give me space--give me space!"
And, in spite of all remonstrance, he reined his horse back, and then
spurred him on to the leap. The obedient animal galloped onward to the
brink, shot forward like an arrow, and reached the other side.[5] But
what the Count d'Auvergne had said was just. The road beyond sloped
upwards from the very edge, and was composed of loose volcanic scoria,
which afforded no firm footing; so that the horse, though he
accomplished the leap, slipped backwards the moment he had reached the
opposite side, and rolled with his rider down into the ravine below!
--------------------
[Footnote 5: Although this act of rashness certainly breathes the
spirit of romance, yet such things have been done, and even in our own
day.]
--------------------
"Jesu Maria!" cried the count, springing to the ground, and advancing
to the edge of the ravine. "De Coucy, De Coucy!" cried he, "are you in
life?"
"Yes, yes!" answered a faint voice from below: "and Zerbilin is not
hurt!"
"But yourself, De Coucy!" cried his friend,--"speak of yourself!"
A groan was the only reply.