It was in vain that the Count d'Auvergne gazed down into the ravine,
endeavouring to gain a sight of his rash friend. A mass of shrubs
overhung the shelving edge of the rock and totally intercepted his
view. In the meanwhile, however, Hugo de Barre, the squire who had led
the cavalcade, had sprung to the ground, and was already half-way over
the brink, attempting to descend to his lord's assistance, when a deep
voice from the bottom of the dell exclaimed, "Hold! hold above! Try
not to come down there. You will bring the rocks and loose stones upon
our heads, and kill us all."
"Who is it speaks?" cried the Count d'Auvergne.
"One of the hermits of Our Lady's chapel of the Mont d'Or," replied
the voice. "If ye be this knight's friends, go back for a thousand
paces, and ye will find a path down to the left, which leads to the
road by the stream. But if ye be his enemies, who have driven him to
the dreadful leap he has taken, get ye hence, for he is even now at
the foot of the cross."
The Count d'Auvergne, without staying to reply, rode back as the
hermit directed, and easily found the path which they had before
passed, but which, as it apparently led in a direction different from
that in which they wished to proceed, they had hardly noticed at the
time. Following this path, they soon reached the bottom of the ravine,
where they found a good road, jammed in, as it were, between the rocks
over which they had passed, and the small mountain-stream they had
observed from above. For some way the windings of the dell and the
various projections of the crags, prevented them from seeing for any
distance in advance; but at length they came suddenly upon a group of
several persons, mounted and dismounted, both male and female,
gathered round De Coucy's beautiful Arabian, Zerbilin, who stood in
the midst soiled and scratched indeed, and trembling with the fright
and exertion of his fall, but almost totally uninjured, and filling
the air with his long wild neighings. The group by which he was
surrounded consisted entirely of the attendants of some persons not
present, squires and varlets in very gay attire; and female servants
and waiting women, not a bit behind hand in flutter and finery. A
beautiful brown Spanish jennet, such as any fair lady might love to
ride, stood near, held by one of those old squires who, in that age,
cruelly monopolised the privilege of assisting their lady to mount and
dismount, much to the disappointment of many a young page and gallant
gentleman, who would willing have relieved them of the task,
especially when the lady in question was young and fair. Not far off
was placed a strong but ancient horse, waiting for some other person,
who was absent with the lady of the jennet.
Above the heads of this group, half-way up the face of the rock, stood
a large cross elevated on a projecting mass of stone, and behind it
appeared the mouth of a cavern, or rather of an excavation, from which
the blocks of lava had been drawn, in order to form the bridge we have
mentioned, now fallen from its "high estate," and encumbering the bed
of the river. It was easy to perceive the figures of several persons
moving to and fro in the cave, and concluding at once that it was
thither his unfortunate friend had been borne, the Count d'Auvergne
sprang to the ground, and passing through the group of pages and
waiting-women, who gazed upon him and his archers with some alarm, he
made his way up the little path that led to the mouth of the cave.
Here he found De Coucy stretched upon a bed of dry rushes, while a
tall, emaciated old man, covered with a brown frock, and ornamented
with a long white beard, stood by his side, holding his hand. Between
his fingers the hermit held a lancet; and from the strong muscular arm
of the knight, a stream of blood was just beginning to flow into a
small wooden bowl held by a page.
Several other persons, however, filled the hermit's cave, of whom two
are worthy of more particular notice. The first was a short, stout,
old man, with a complexion that argued florid health and vigour, and a
small, keen, grey eye, the quick movement of which, with a sudden curl
of the lip and contraction of the brow on every slight occasion of
contradiction, might well bespeak a quick and impatient disposition.
The second was a young lady of perhaps nineteen or twenty, slight in
figure, but yet with every limb rounded in the full and swelling
contour of woman's most lovely age. Her features were small, delicate,
and nowhere sharp, yet cut with that square exactness of outline so
beautiful in the efforts of the Grecian chisel. Her eyes were long,
and full, and dark; and the black lashes that fringed them, as she
gazed earnestly on the figure of De Coucy, swept downward and lay upon
her cheek. The hair, that fell in a profusion of thick curls round her
face, was as black as jet; and yet her skin, though of that peculiar
tint almost inseparable from dark hair and eyes, was strikingly fair,
and as smooth as alabaster; while a faint but very beautiful colour
spread over each cheek, and died away into the clear pure white of her
temples.
In days when love was a duty, and coldness a dishonour, on the part of
all who enjoyed or aspired to chivalry, no false delicacies, no fear
of compromising herself, none of the mighty considerations of small
proprieties that now-a-days hamper all the feelings, and enchain all
the frankness, of the female heart, weighed on the lady of the
thirteenth century. It was her duty to feel and to express an interest
in every good knight in danger and misfortune; and the fair being we
have just described, before the eyes of her father, who looked upon
her with honourable pride, knelt by the side of De Coucy; and while
the hermit held the arm from which the blood was just beginning to
flow, she kept the small fingers of her soft white hand upon the other
sinewy wrist of the insensible knight, and anxiously watched the
returning animation.
While the Count d'Auvergne entered the cave in silence, and placed
himself beside the hermit, De Coucy's squire, Hugo de Barre, with one
of the pages, both devotedly attached to their young lord, had climbed
up also, and stood at the mouth of the cavern.
"God's life! Hugo," cried the page, "let them not take my lord's
blood. We have got amongst traitors. They are killing him."
"Peace, fool!" answered Hugo; "'tis a part of leech-craft. Did you
never see Fulk, the barber, bleed the old baron? Why, he had it done
every week. The De Coucys have more blood than other men."
The page was silent for a moment, and then replied in an under-tone,
for there was a sort of contagious stillness round the hurt knight.
"You had better look to it, Hugo. They are bleeding my lord too much.
That hermit means him harm. See, how he stares at the great carbuncle
in Sir Guy's thumb-ring! He's murdering my lord to steal it. Shall I
put my dagger in him?"
"Hold thy silly prate, Ermold de Marcy!" replied the squire: "think
you, the good count would stand by and see his sworn brother in arms
bled, without it was for his good? See you now, Sir Guy wakes!--God's
benison on you, Sir Hermit!"
De Coucy did indeed open his eyes, and looked round, though but
faintly. "D'Auvergne," said he, the moment after, while the playful
smile fluttered again round his lips, "by the rood! I had nearly
leaped farther than I intended, and taken Zerbilin with me into
Paradise. Thanks, hermit!--thanks, gentle lady!--I can rise now. Ho!
Hugo, lend me thine arm."
But the hermit gently put his hand upon the knight's breast, saying,
in a tone more resembling cynical bitterness than Christian mildness,
"Hold, my son! This world is not the sweetest of dwelling-places; but
if thou wouldst not change it for a small, cold, comfortable grave,
lie still. You shall be carried up to the chapel of Our Lady, by the
lake, where there is more space than in this cave; and there I will
find means to heal your bruises in two days, if your quick spirit may
be quiet for so long."
As he spoke, he stopped the bleeding, and bound up the arm of the
knight, who, finding probably even by the slight exertion he had made
that he was in no fit state to act for himself, submitted quietly,
merely giving a glance to the Count d'Auvergne, half rueful, half
smiling, as if he would fain have laughed at himself and his own
helplessness, if the pain of his bruises would have let him.
"I prithee, holy father hermit, tell me," said the Count d'Auvergne,
"is the hurt of this good knight dangerous? for if it be, we will send
to Mont Ferrand for some skilful leech from my uncle's castle--and
instantly."
"His body is sufficiently bruised, my son," replied the hermit, "to
give him, I hope, a sounder mind for the future, than to leap his
horse down a precipice: and as for the leech, let him stay at Mont
Ferrand. The knight is bad enough without his help, if he come to make
him worse; and if he come to cure him, I can do that without his aid.
Leech-craft is as much worse than ignorance, as killing is worse than
letting die."
"By my faith and my knighthood," cried the old gentleman, who stood at
De Coucy's feet, and who, during the count's question and the hermit's
somewhat ungracious reply, had been gazing at d'Auvergne with various
looks of recognition--"by my faith and my knighthood! I believe it is
the Count Thibalt--though my eyes are none of the clearest, and it is
long since--but, yes! it is surely--Count Thibalt d'Auvergne."
"The same, _Beau Sire_," replied D'Auvergne; "my memory is less true
than yours, or I see my father's old arm's fellow, Count Julian of the
Mount."
"E'en so, fair sir!--e'en so!" replied the old man: "I and my daughter
Isadore are even now upon our way to Vic le Comte to pass some short
space with the good count, your father. A long and weary journey have
we had hither, all the way from Flanders; and for our safe arrival we
go to offer at the chapel of Our Lady of St. Pavin of the Mount D'Or,
ere we proceed to taste your castle's hospitality. Good faith! you may
well judge 'tis matter of deep import brings me so far. Affairs of
policy, young sir--affairs of policy," he added in a low and
consequential voice. "Doubtless your father may have hinted--"
"For five long years, fair sir, I have not seen my father's face,"
replied D'Auvergne. "By the cross I bear, you may see where I have
sojourned; and De Coucy and myself were but now going to lay our palms
upon the altar of Our Lady of St. Pavin (according to a holy vow we
made at Rome), prior to turning our steps towards our castle also. Let
us all on together then--I see the holy hermit has commanded the
varlets to make a litter for my hurt friend; and after having paid our
vows, we will back to Vic le Comte, and honour your arrival with wine
and music."
While this conversation passed between D'Auvergne and the old knight,
De Coucy's eyes had sought out more particularly the fair girl who had
been kneeling by his side, and he addressed to her much and manifold
thanks for her gentle tending--in so low a tone, however, that it
obliged her to stoop over him in order to hear what he said. De Coucy,
as he had before professed to the Count d'Auvergne, had often tasted
love, such as it was; and had ever been a bold wooer; but in the
present instance, though he felt very sure and intimately convinced,
that the eyes which now looked upon him were brighter than ever he had
seen, and the lips that spoke to him were fuller, and softer, and
sweeter, than ever had moved in his eyesight before, yet his stock of
gallant speeches failed him strangely, and he found some difficulty
even in thanking the lady as he could have wished. At all events, so
lame he thought the expression of those thanks, that he endeavoured to
make up for it by reiteration--and repeated them so often, that at
length the lady gently imposed silence upon him, lest his much
speaking might retard his cure.
The secrets of a lady's breast are a sort of forbidden fruit, which we
shall not be bold enough to touch; and therefore, whatever the fair
Isadore might think of De Coucy--whatever touch of tenderness might
mingle with her pity--whatever noble and knightly qualities she might
see, or fancy, on his broad, clear brow, and bland, full lip--we shall
not even stretch our hand towards the tree of knowledge, far less
offer the fruit thereof to any one else. Overt acts, however, of all
kinds are common property; and therefore it is no violation of
confidence, or of any thing else, to say that something in the tone
and manner of the young knight made the soft crimson grow a shade
deeper in the cheek of Isadore of the Mount; and, when the litter was
prepared, and De Coucy placed thereon, though she proceeded with every
appearance of indifference to mount her light jennet, and follow the
cavalcade, she twice turned round to give a quick and anxious look
towards the litter, as it was borne down the narrow and slippery path
from the cave.
Although that alone which passed between De Coucy and the lady has
been particularly mentioned here, it is not to be thence inferred that
all the other personages who were present stood idly looking on--that
the Count d'Auvergne took no heed of his hurt friend--that Sir Julian
of the Mount forgot his daughter, or that the attendants of the young
knight were unmindful of their master. Some busied themselves in
preparing the litter of boughs and bucklers--some spread cloaks and
furred aumuces upon it to make it soft--and some took care that the
haubert, head-piece, and sword, of which De Coucy had been divested,
should not be left behind in the cave.
In the mean while. Sir Julian of the Mount pointed out his daughter to
the Count Thibalt d'Auvergne, boasted her skill in leech-craft, and
her many other estimable qualities, and assured him that he might
safely intrust the care of De Coucy's recovery to her.
The Count d'Auvergne's eye fell coldly upon her, and ran over every
exquisite line of loveliness, as she stood by the young knight,
unconscious of his gaze, without evincing one spark of that gallant
enthusiasm which the sight of beauty generally called up in the
chivalrous bosoms of the thirteenth century. It was a cold, steady,
melancholy look--and yet it ended with a sigh. The only compliment he
could force his lips to form, went to express that his friend was
happy in having fallen into such fair and skilful hands; and, this
said, he proceeded to the side of the litter, which, borne by six of
the attendants, was now carried down to the bank of the stream, and
thence along the road that, winding onward through the narrow gorge,
passed under the broken bridge, and gradually climbed to the higher
parts of the mountain.
The general cavalcade followed as they might; for the scantiness of
the path, which grew less and less as it proceeded, prevented the
possibility of any regularity in their march. At length, however, the
gorge widened out into a small basin of about five hundred yards in
diameter, round which the hills sloped up on every side, taking the
shape of a funnel. Over one edge thereof poured a small but beautiful
cascade, starting from mass to mass of volcanic rock, whose
decomposition offered a thousand bright and singular hues, amidst
which the white and flashing waters of the stream agitated themselves
with a strange but picturesque effect.
At the bottom of the cascade was a group of shepherds' huts; and as it
was impossible for the horses to proceed farther, it was determined to
leave the principal part of the attendants also there, to wait the
return of the party from the chapel, which was, of course, to take
place as soon as De Coucy had recovered from his bruises.
Some difficulty occurred in carrying the litter over the steeper part
of the mountain, but at length it was accomplished; and, skirting
round part of a large ancient forest, the pilgrims came suddenly on
the banks of that most beautiful and extraordinary effort of nature,
the _Lac Pavin_. Before their eyes extended a vast sheet of water, the
crystal pureness of which mocks all description, enclosed within a
basin of verdure, whose sides, nearly a hundred and fifty feet in
height, rise from the banks of the lake with so precipitous an
elevation, that no footing, however firm, can there keep its hold. For
the space of a league and a half, which the lake occupies, this
beautiful green border, with very little variation in its height, may
still be seen following the limpid line of the water, into which it
dips itself, clear, and at once, without rush or ooze, or water plant
of any description, to break the union of the soft turf and the pure
wave.
Towards the south and east, however, extends, even now, an immense
mass of dark and sombre wood, which, skirting down the precipitous
bank, seems to contemplate its own majesty in the clear mirror of the
lake. At the same time, all around, rise up a giant family of mountain
peaks, which, each standing out abrupt and single in the sunny air,
seem frowning on the traveller that invades their solitude.
Here, in the days of Philip Augustus, stood a small chapel dedicated
to the Virgin, called Our Lady of St. Pavin; and many a miraculous
cure is said to have been operated by the holy relics of the shrine,
which caused Our Lady of St. Pavin to be the favourite saint of many
of the chief families in France. By the side of the chapel was placed
a congregation of small huts or cells, both for the accommodation of
the various pilgrims who came to visit the shrine, and for the
dwelling of three holy hermits, one of whom served the altar as a
priest, while the other two retained the more amphibious character of
_simple recluse_, bound by no vows but such as they chose to impose
upon themselves.
At these huts the travellers now paused; and after De Coucy had been
carried into one of them, the hermit, who had guided the travellers
thither, demanded of the Count d'Auvergne, whether any of his train
could draw a good bow, and wing a shaft well home.
"They are all archers, good hermit," replied D'Auvergne; "see you not
their bows and quivers?"
"Many a man wears a sword that cannot use it," replied the hermit in
the cynical tone which seemed natural to him. "Here, your very friend,
whom God himself has armed with eyes and ears, and even understanding,
such as it is, does he make use of any when he gallops down a
precipice, where he would surely have been killed, had it not been for
the aid and protection of a merciful Heaven, and a few stunted hazels?
Your archers may make as good use of their bows as he does of his
brains--and then what serves their archery? But, however, choose out
the best marksman; bid him go up to yonder peak, and take two
well-feathered arrows with him: he will shoot no more! Then send all
the rest to beat the valley to the right, with loud cries; the izzards
will instantly take to the heights. Let your archer choose as they
pass, and deliver me his arrows into the two fattest; (though God
knows! 'tis a crying sin to slay two wise beasts to save one foolish
man;) but let your vassal stay to make no _curée_, but bring the
beasts down here while the life-heat is still in them. Your friend,
wrapped in the fresh-flayed hides, shall be to-morrow as whole as if
he had never played the fool!"
"I have seen it done at Byzantium," replied D'Auvergne, "when a good
knight of Flanders was hurled down from the south tower. It had a
marvellous effect:--we will about it instantly."
Accordingly, two of the izzards, which were then common in Auvergne,
were soon slain in the manner the hermit directed; and De Coucy,
notwithstanding no small dislike to the remedy, was stripped, and
wrapped in the reeking hides[6]; after which, stretched upon a bed of
dry moss belonging to one of the hermits, he endeavoured to amuse
himself with thoughts of love and battles, while the rest went to pay
their vows at the shrine of Our Lady of St. Pavin.
--------------------
[Footnote 6: This is no fantastic remedy, but one of the most
effectual the author of this work has ever seen employed. The skin of
a sheep, however, is not a whit less potent in its effects than the
skin of an izzard.]
--------------------
De Coucy's mind soon wandered through all the battles, and
tournaments, and passes of arms that could possibly be fought; and
then his fancy, by what was in those days a very natural digression,
turned to love--and he thought of all the thousand ladies he had loved
in his life; and, upon recollecting all the separate charms of each,
he found that they were all very beautiful: he could not deny it. But
yet certainly, beyond all doubt, the fair Isadore of the Mount, with
her dark, dark eyes, and her clear, bland brow, and her mouth such as
angels smile with, was far more beautiful than any of them.
But still De Coucy asked himself, why he could not tell her so? He had
never found it difficult to tell any one they were beautiful before;
or to declare that he loved them; or to ask them for a glove, or a
bracelet, or a token to fix on his helm, and be his second in the
battle: but now, he felt sure that he had stammered like a schoolboy,
and spoken below his voice, like a young squire to an old knight. So
De Coucy concluded, from all these symptoms, that he could not be in
love; and fully convinced thereof, he very naturally fell asleep.