The two emperors proceed and stop not till they reach Ratisbon;

and on one evening they were lodged by the Danube in the meadow.

The Greeks were in their tents in the meadows beside the Black

Forest. The Saxons who were observing them were encamped opposite

them. The duke's nephew was left all alone on a hill to keep a

look-out, and see whether, peradventure, he might gain any

advantage over those yonder or wreak any mischief upon them.

From his post of vantage he saw Cliges riding with three other

striplings who were taking their pleasure, carrying lances and

shields in order to tilt and to disport themselves. Now is the

duke's nephew bent on attacking and injuring them if ever he can.

With five comrades he sets out; and the six have posted

themselves secretly beside the wood in a valley, so that the

Greeks never saw them till they issued from the valley, and till

the duke's nephew rushes upon Cliges and strikes him, so that he

wounds him a little in the region of the spine. Cliges stoops and

bows his head, so that the lance glances off him; nevertheless,

it wounds him a little.

When Cliges perceives that he is wounded he has rushed upon the

stripling, and strikes him straightway with such violence that he

thrusts his lance right through his heart and fells him dead.

Then the Saxons, who fear him mightily, all take to flight and

scatter through the heart of the forest while Cliges, who knows

not of the ambush, commits a reckless and foolish act; for he

separates himself from his comrades, and pursues in that

direction in which the duke's force was. And now all the host

were preparing to make an attack on the Greeks. Cliges, all

alone, without aid, pursues them; and the youths all dismayed

because of their lord whom they have lost, come running into the

duke's presence; and, weeping, recount to him the evil hap of his

nephew. The duke thinks it no light matter; by God and all his

saints, he swears that never in all his life will he have joy or

good luck as long as he shall know that the slayer of his nephew

is alive. He says that he who will bring him Cliges' head shall

verily be deemed his friend, and will give him great comfort.

Then a knight has boasted that the head of Cliges will be offered

to the duke by him; let the duke but rely on him.

Cliges pursues the youths till he swooped down on the Saxons, and

is seen by the knight who has engaged to carry off his head.

Straightway, that knight departs and stays no longer. But Cliges

has retreated in order to elude his enemies; and he returned at

full gallop thither where he had left his comrades. But he has

found none of them there; for they had returned to the tents to

relate their adventure. And the emperor summoned Greeks and

Germans alike to horse. Through all the host the barons speedily

arm themselves and mount. But the Saxon knight, all armed, his

visor laced, has continued to pursue Cliges at a gallop. Cliges,

who never wished to have aught in common with a recreant or

coward, sees him come alone. First of all the knight has assailed

him with words: he stoutly calls him baseborn fellow, for he

could not conceal the mind he had of him. "Fellow," quoth he,

"here wilt thou leave the forfeit for my lord, whom thou hast

slain. If I bear not off thy head with me, then esteem me not

worth a bad Byzantine coin. I will to make the duke a present of

it, for I will not accept any other forfeit in its stead. So much

will I render to him for his nephew; and he will have had a good

exchange for him." Cliges hears that the Saxon is abusing him as

a madman and low-bred fellow. "Man," quoth he, "now defend

yourself; for I defy you to take my head, and you shall not have

it without my leave." Forthwith the one seeks the other. The

Saxon has missed his stroke; and Cliges thrusts so hard that he

made man and steed fall all in a heap. The steed falls backwards

on his rider with such violence that it completely breaks one of

his legs. Cliges dismounts on the green grass and disarms him.

When he had disarmed him, then he dons the arms himself, and has

cut off his head with the victim's own sword. When he had cut off

his head, he has fixed it on to the point of his lance; and says

that he will present it to the duke to whom his enemy had vowed

to present Cliges' own head if he could meet him in the fight. No

sooner had Cliges placed the helmet on his head, taken the shield,

(not his own, but the shield of him who had fought with him),

and no sooner had he mounted on the foeman's horse, leaving his

own rider-less in order to dismay the Greeks, than he saw more

than a hundred banners and battalions, great and fully equipped,

of Greeks and Germans mingled. Now will begin a very fierce and

cruel melee between the Saxons and the Greeks. As soon as Cliges

sees them come, he goes straight towards the Saxons; and the

Greeks exert themselves to pursue him; for on account of his arms

they do not know him; and his uncle, who sees the head that he is

bringing, is marvellously discomforted thereat. No wonder is it

if he fears for his nephew. The whole host musters in his wake;

and Cliges lets them pursue him in order to begin the melee till

the Saxons perceive him coming; but the arms with which he is

clad and furnished mislead them all. He has mocked at them and

scorned them; for the duke and all the others as he advanced with

hoisted lance, say: "Our knight is coming! On the point of the

lance that he holds he is bringing the head of Cliges; and the

Greeks follow after him. Now to horse to succour him!" Then they

all give the rein to their horses; and Cliges spurs towards the

Saxons, covering himself behind his shield and doubling himself

up, his lance upright, the head on its point. Not one whit less

courage than a lion had he, though he was no stronger than

another. On both sides they believe that he is dead--Saxons, and

Greeks and Germans--and the one side are blithe thereat; and the

other side, grieved; but soon will the truth be known. For now

has Cliges no longer held his peace: shouting, he gallops towards

a Saxon, and strikes him with his ashen lance with the head on

it, full in the breast, so that he has lost his stirrups; and he

calls out, "Barons, strike! I am Cliges whom you seek. On now,

bold freeborn knights! Let there be no coward, for ours is the

first shock. Let no craven taste of such a dainty dish."

The emperor greatly rejoiced when he heard his nephew, Cliges,

who thus addresses and exhorts them; right glad and comforted is

he thereof. And the duke is utterly dumfounded, for now he knows

well that he is betrayed unless his force is the greater; he bids

his men close their ranks and keep together. And the Greeks, in

close array, have not gone far from them, for now they are

spurring and pricking. On both sides they couch their lances and

meet and receive each other as it behoved them to do in such a

fight. At the first encounter, they pierce shields and shatter

lances, cut girths, break stirrups; the steeds stand bereft of

those who fall upon the field. But no matter what the others do,

Cliges and the duke meet; they hold their lances couched; and

each strikes the other on his shield with so great valour that

the lances, which were strong and well wrought, break into

splinters. Cliges was a skilful horseman: he remained upright in

his saddle, never stumbling nor wavering. The duke has lost his

saddle, and in spite of himself has voided the saddle-bows.

Cliges thinks to take him and lead him away captive, and mightily

toils and strains; but the strength he needed was not his. For

the Saxons were all around, and they rescue their duke by force.

Nevertheless, Cliges leaves the field without injury; with a

prize; for he leads away the duke's steed which was whiter than

wool and which, for the use of a man of valour, was worth all the

possessions of Octavian of Rome: the steed was an Arab one. Great

joy manifest Greeks and Germans when they see Cliges mounted on

it; for they had seen the worth and the perfection of the Arab;

but they did not suspect an ambush nor will they ever perceive it

till they receive great loss therefrom.

A spy has come to the duke with news at which he has waxed full

joyous. "Duke," quoth the spy, "no man has been left in all the

tents of the Greeks who can defend himself. Now can thy men take

the daughter of the emperor, if thou wilt trust my words, while

thou seest the Greeks desperately bent on the fight and on the

battle. Give me a hundred of thy knights and I will give them thy

lady-love. By an old and lonely path, I will lead them so

prudently that they shall not be seen or met by Saxon or German

till they will be able to take the maiden in her tent, and lead

her away so unhindered that never will she be denied them." The

duke is blithe at this thing. He has sent a hundred and more wise

knights with the spy; and the spy has led them in such wise that

they take the maiden as a prize, nor have they spent great force

thereon, for easily were they able to lead her away. When they

had taken her some distance from the tents, they sent her away

attended by twelve of them, nor did the rest accompany the twelve

far. Twelve of them lead away the maiden; the others have told

the duke the news of their success. Nought else was there that

the duke had desired, and straightway he makes a truce with the

Greeks till the morrow. They have given and accepted a truce. The

duke's men have returned; and the Greeks without any delay return,

each one to his tent. But Cliges remained alone on a hill so

that no one noticed him till he saw the twelve coming, and the

damsel whom they were taking away at full speed and at a gallop.

Cliges, who longs to gain renown, forthwith dashes in their

direction, for he thinks to himself, and his heart tells him that

it is not for nothing they are fleeing. The very moment that he

saw them, he dashes after them; and they see him; but they think

and believe a foolish thing. "The duke is following us," each one

says, "let us wait for him a little; for he has left the host

unattended and is coming after us very swiftly." There is not a

single one who does not believe this. They all desire to go to

meet him; but each desires to go alone. Cliges must needs descend

into a great valley between two mountains. Never would he have

recognised their insignia if they had not come to meet him, or if

they had not awaited him. Six of them advanced to meet him; but

soon will they have had an ill meeting with him. The others stay

with the maiden and lead her on, gently, at a walking pace. And

the six go at full speed, spurring incessantly through the

valley. He who had the swiftest horse outstripped all the rest,

crying aloud: "Duke of Saxony! God preserve thee! Duke! We have

regained thy lady. Now shall the Greeks never carry her off; for

she will now be given and handed over to thee." When Cliges has

heard these words that the other cries out, no smile had he in

his heart; rather is it a marvel that frenzy does not seize him.

Never was any wild beast: leopardess, or tigress, or lioness, who

sees her young taken, so embittered, and furious, and lusting,

for the fight as was Cliges who cares not to live if he fail his

lady. Rather would he die than not have her. Very great wrath has

he for this calamity and exceeding great courage does it give

him. He spurs and pricks the Arab; and goes to deal the blazoned

shield of the Saxon such a blow that--I lie not--he made him feel

the lance at his heart. This has given Cliges confidence. More

than a full acre's measure has he spurred and pricked the Arab

before the second has drawn near, for they came, one by one. The

one has no fear for the other; for he fights with each singly and

meets them one by one, nor has the one aid of the other. He makes

an attack on the second, who thought to tell the supposed duke

news of Cliges' discomfiture, and to rejoice thereat as the first

had done. But Cliges recks little of words or of listening to his

discourse. He proceeds to thrust his lance in his body so that

when he draws it out again the blood gushes out; and he bereaves

his foe of life and speech. After the two, he joins issue with a

third who thinks to find him overjoyed and to gladden him with

news of his own discomfiture. He came spurring against him; but

before he has the chance to say a word, Cliges has thrust his

lance a fathom deep into his body. To the fourth he gives such a

blow on the neck, that he leaves him in a swoon on the field.

After the fourth, he gallops against the fifth, and then after

the fifth, against the sixth. Of these, none stood his ground

against him; rather does Cliges leave them all silent and dumb.

Still less has he feared and more boldly sought the rest of them.

After this has he no concern about these six.

When he was free from care as regards these, he goes to make a

present of shame and of misfortune to the rest who are escorting

the maiden. He has overtaken them, and attacks them like a wolf,

who famished and fasting rushes on his prey. Now seems it to him

that he was born in a good hour, since he can display his

chivalry and courage before her who is all his life. Now is he

dead if he free her not; and she, on the other hand, is likewise

dead; for she is greatly discomforted for him, but does not know

that he is so near her. Cliges, with feutred lance, has made a

charge which pleased her; and he strikes one Saxon and then

another so that with one single charge he has made them both bite

the dust, and splinters his ashen lance. The foemen fall in such

anguish that they have no power to rise again to hurt or molest

him, for they were sore wounded in their bodies. The other four,

in great wrath, go all together to strike Cliges; but he neither

stumbles nor trembles nor have they unhorsed him. Swiftly he

snatches from the scabbard his sword of sharpened Steel; and that

she who awaits his love may be right grateful to him, he

encounters with lightning swiftness a Saxon, and strikes him with

his sharp sword, so that he has severed from his trunk, his head

and half his neck: no tenderer pity had he for him. Fenice, who

watches and beholds, knows not that it is Cliges. Fain would she

that it were he; but because there is danger she says to herself

that she would not wish it. For two reasons is she his good

friend; for she fears his death and desires his honour. And

Cliges receives at the sword's point the three who offer him

fierce combat; they pierce and cleave his shield, but they cannot

get him into their power or cleave the links of his shirt of

mail. And nought that Cliges can reach stands firm before his

blow; for he cleaves and breaks asunder all; he wheels round more

quickly than the top which is urged on and driven by the whip.

Prowess and love entwine him and make him bold and keen in fight.

He has dealt so grievously with the Saxons that he has killed or

conquered them all, wounded some, and killed others; but he let

one of them escape because they were a match, one for the other,

and so that, by him, the duke might know his loss and mourn. But

before this man left him, he prevailed upon Cliges to tell him

his name; and went for his part to tell it to the duke, who had

great wrath thereat. Now the duke hears of his misfortune, and

had great grief and great care thereat. And Cliges leads away

Fenice, who thrills and tortures him with the pangs of love; but

if now he does not hear her confession, long time will love be

adverse to him; and also to her if she, on her side, is silent

and say not her will; for now in the hearing, one of the other,

can they reveal their inmost hearts. But so much do they fear

refusal that they dare not betray their hearts. He fears that she

might reject him; she, on her part, would have betrayed herself

if she had not feared rejection. And, nevertheless, the one

betrays his thoughts to the other with the eyes if they could

only have known it. They speak by glances with their eyes; but

they are so craven with their tongues that in no wise dare they

speak of the love which masters them. If she dare not begin it,

it is no marvel; for a maiden ought to be a simple and shy

creature. But why does he wait; and why does he delay, who is

thoroughly bold in her behalf, and has shown dread of none but

her? God! Whence comes this fear to him that he fears a single

maiden, weak and timid, simple and shy? At this, methinks, I see

dogs fleeing before the hare, and the fish hunting the beaver,

the lamb the wolf, the dove the eagle. So would it be if the

villein were to flee before his hoe by which he gains his

livelihood, and with which he toils. So would it be if the falcon

were to flee from the duck, and the gerfalcon from the heron, and

the great pike from the minnow, and if the stag were to chase the

lion; so do things go topsy-turvy. But a desire comes upon me to

give some reason why it happens to true lovers, that wit and

courage fail them to express what they have in their thoughts

when they have leisure and opportunity and time.

You who are being instructed in Love, who faithfully uphold the

customs and rites of his court, and who never broke his law

whatever might have befallen you for your obedience, tell me if

one can see anything which affords Love's delight but that lovers

shiver and grow pale thereat. Never shall there be a man opposed

to me that I do not convince of this; for he who does not grow

pale and shiver thereat, who does not lose wit and memory like a

thief, pursues and seeks that which is not fittingly his. A

servant who does not fear his lord, ought not to stay in his

retinue or serve him. He who does not esteem his lord, does not

fear him; and he who does not esteem him, does not hold him dear;

but rather seeks to cheat him and to pilfer somewhat of his

property. For fear ought a servant to tremble when his lord calls

him or sends for him. And he who commends himself to Love makes

Love his master and his lord; and it is meet that he have him in

Reverence; and greatly fear and honour him if he wishes to stand

well with his court. Love without fear and without dread is fire

without flame and without heat; daylight without sun; honeycomb

without honey; summer without flowers; winter without frost; sky

without moon; a book without letters. Thus do I wish to refute

such an opponent; for where fear is lacking there is no love

worth mentioning. It behoves him who wishes to love to fear also;

for if he does not he cannot love; but let him fear her only whom

he loves; and in her behoof let him be thoroughly bold.

Therefore, Cliges commits no fault or wrong if he fears his

lady-love. But for this fear he would not have failed forthwith

to have spoken to her of love and sought her love, however the

matter had happed if she had not been his uncle's wife. For this

cause his wound rankles in him; and it pains and grieves him the

more because he dare not say what he yearns to say.

Thus they return towards their company; and if they talk of

anything, there was in their talk nothing about which they cared.

Each sat on a white horse; and they rode quickly towards the army

where there was great lamentation. Throughout the host they are

beside themselves with grief; but they hit upon an untrue saying

when they say that Cliges is dead--thereat is the mourning very

great and loud. And they fear for Fenice; they deem not that they

will ever have her again; and both for her and for him the whole

host is in very great sorrow. But these two will not delay much

longer; and the whole state of matters will take a different

appearance; for already they have returned to the host and have

turned the sorrow into joy. Joy returns and sorrow flies. They

all come to meet them so that the whole host assembles. The two

emperors together, when they heard the news about Cliges and

about the maiden, go to meet them with very great joy; but each

one longs to hear how Cliges had found and rescued the lady.

Cliges tells them the tale; and those who hear it marvel greatly

Thereat; and much do they praise his prowess and valour. But on

the other side the duke, who swears and protests, is furious; and

declares that if Cliges dares there shall be a single combat

between the two of them; and that he will order matters in such

wise, that if Cliges wins the combat, the emperor shall go away

in safety, and take the maiden unhindered; but that if he kills

or conquers Cliges, who has done him many an injury, let there

for this be neither truce nor peace till after each has done his

utmost. This the duke essays; and through an interpreter of his,

who knew Greek and German, gives the two emperors to know that

thus he wishes to have the battle.

The messenger delivers his message in one and the other language

so well that all understood. The whole host resounds and is in an

uproar about it; and men say, that never may it please God, that

Cliges fight the battle; and both the emperors are in a very

great alarm thereat; but Cliges falls at their feet and prays

them let it not grieve them; but that, if ever he has done aught

that has pleased them, he may have this battle as a guerdon and

as a reward. And if it is denied him never will he for a single

day be a blessing and an honour to his uncle. The emperor, who

held his nephew as dear as duty bade him, with his hand raises

him up from his knees and says: "Fair nephew, greatly does it

grieve me that I know you to be so wedded to fighting; for after

joy I expect sorrow therefrom. You have made me glad; I cannot

deny it; but much it grieves me to grant this boon and send you

to the battle; for that I see you yet too young. And I know you

to be of such proud courage that in no wise dare I deny anything

that it please you to ask; for know well that it would be done

but to please you; but if my prayer availed aught, never would

you take on you this burden." "Sire, you are pleading in vain,"

quoth Cliges, "for may God confound me if I would accept the

whole world on condition that I did not fight this battle. I know

not why I should seek from you a long respite or a long delay."

The emperor weeps with pity, and Cliges, on his side, weeps with

joy when he grants him the battle. There had he wept many a

joyful tear, nor had he secured delay, nor limit of time, before

it was the hour of Prime; by his own messenger was the battle

announced to the duke, just as he had demanded it.

The duke, who thinks and believes and imagines that Cliges will

not be able to defend himself against him, but that he will soon

have slain or conquered him, quickly has himself armed. Cliges,

who is longing for the battle, thinks that he need have no care

as to how to defend himself against the duke. He asks the emperor

for arms, and prays him to dub him knight; and, of his grace, the

emperor gives him arms and Cliges takes them; for his heart is

enamoured of the battle and much does he desire and long for it.

He hastens full swiftly to arm himself; when he was armed from

head to foot, the emperor, who was full of anxiety, goes to gird

the sword on his side. Cliges mounts on the white Arab, fully

armed; from his neck he hangs by the straps a shield made of

elephant's bone, such that it will neither break nor split nor

had it blazon or device; the armour was all white, and the steed

and the harness were all whiter than any snow.

Cliges and the duke are armed, and the one has announced to the

other that they will meet half-way, and that, on both sides,

their men shall all be without swords and without lances, bound

by oaths and their word of honour that never, as long as the

combat shall last, will there be any so bold as to dare to move

for any reason, any more than he would dare to pluck out his own

eye. Bound by this covenant they have met, and the delay has

seemed very long to each champion; for each thinks to have the

glory and the joy of victory. But before there was a blow struck,

the maiden, who is much concerned for Cliges, has herself

escorted thither; but on this is she quite resolved: that if he

dies, she will die. Never will any hope of consolation avail to

deter her from dying with him; for without him life has no charm

for her.

When all had come into the field, high and low, young and hoary,

and the guards bad been set there, then have both champions taken

their lances; and they meet in no half-hearted way, so that each

breaks his lance, and both are unhorsed and fail to keep their

saddles. But quickly have they risen to their feet, for they were

not at all wounded, and again they encounter without delay. They

play a merry tune with their swords on the resounding helms, so

that their retinue are amazed; and it seems to those who watch

them that the helmets are on fire and ablaze. And when the swords

rebound, glowing sparks jet forth as from red-hot iron which the

smith hammers on the anvil when he draws it from the furnace.

Very lavish are both the warriors in dealing blows in great

Store; and each has a good will to pay back quickly what he

borrows; neither the one nor the other ceases from paying back

capital and interest immediately, all without count and without

stint. But the duke comes on in great anger, and right wroth and

furious is he because he has not quelled and slain Cliges at the

first encounter. He deals him a great blow, marvellous and

strong, such that at his feet Cliges has fallen on one knee.

At the blow whereby Cliges fell was the emperor much amazed; he

was no whit less bewildered than if he had been behind the shield

himself. Then Fenice, so much was she amazed, can no longer

restrain herself, whatever might come of it, from crying: "God!

Aid!" as loud as ever she could. But she had called out but one

word when, forthwith, her voice failed, and she fell swooning,

and with arms outstretched so that her face was a little wounded.

Two noble barons raised her, and have held her on her feet till

she has returned to her senses. But never did any who saw her,

whatever appearance she presented, know why she swooned. Never

did any man blame her for it; rather they have all praised her;

for there is not a single one who does not believe that she would

have done the same for his sake if he had been in Cliges' place;

but in all this there is no truth. Cliges, when Fenice cried,

heard and marked her right well. The sound restored to him

strength and courage, and be springs swiftly to his feet, and

advanced furiously to meet the duke, and thrusts at him, and

presses him so that the duke was amazed thereat; for he finds him

more greedy for combat, more strong and agile than he had found

him before, it seems to him, when they first encountered. And

because he fears his onset he says to him: "Knight, so may God

save me, I see thee right courageous and valiant. But if it had

not been for my nephew, whom I shall never forget, willingly

would I have made peace with thee, and would have released thee

from the quarrel; for never would I have meddled any more in the

matter." "Duke," says Cliges, "what may be your pleasure? Is it

not meet that he who cannot make good his claim yield it, one of

two evils; when one has to choose, one ought to choose the

lesser. When your nephew picked a quarrel with me, he acted

unwisely. I will serve you in the same way--be assured of it--if

I ever can, if I do not receive submission from you." The duke,

to whom it seems that Cliges was growing in strength every

moment, thinks that it is much better for him to stop short

half-way before he is altogether wearied out. Nevertheless, he

does not confess to him the truth quite openly, but he says:

"Knight, I see thee debonair and agile and of great courage. But

exceeding young art thou: for this reason I reflect, and I know

of a surety, that if I conquer and kill thee, never should I win

praise or esteem thereby, nor should I ever see any man of valour

in whose hearing I should dare to confess that I had fought with

thee, for I should do honour to thee and shame to myself. But if

those knowst what honour means, a great honour will it be to thee

for ever that thou hast stood thy ground against me, even for two

encounters only. Now a wish and desire has come to me, to release

thee from the quarrel and not to fight with thee any longer."

"Duke," quoth Cliges, "you talk idly. You shall say it aloud in

the hearing of all, and never shall it be told or related that

you have done me a kindness, or that you have had mercy on me. In

the hearing of one and all of these who are here, you will have

to declare it if you wish to make peace with me." The duke

declares it in the hearing of all. Thus have they made peace and

agreement; but whatever the issue of the matter, Cliges had the

honour and the renown of it; and the Greeks had very great joy

thereof. But the Saxons could not make light of the matter; for

well had they all seen their lord exhausted and worsted; nor is

there any question but that, if he had been able to do better for

himself, this peace would never have been made; rather would he

have rent the soul out of Cliges' body if he had been able to do

it.

The duke returns to Saxony, grieved and downcast and Ashamed; for

of his men--there are not two who do not hold him a conquered

man, a craven, and a coward. The Saxons, with all their shame,

have returned to Saxony. And the Greeks delay no longer; they

return towards Constantinople with great joy and with great

gladness; for well by his prowess has Cliges assured to them the

way. Now the emperor of Germany no further follows or attends

them. After taking leave of the Greek folk and of his daughter

and of Cliges and of the emperor, he has remained in Germany; and

the emperor of the Greeks goes away right glad and right joyful.

Cliges, the valiant, the well-bred, thinks of his father's

command. If his uncle the emperor will grant him leave, he will

go to request and pray him to let him go to Britain to speak to

his uncle the king; for he craves to know and see him. He sets

out for the presence of the emperor, and begs him if it please

him to let him go to Britain to see his uncle and his friends.

Very gently has he made this request; but his uncle refuses it to

him when he has heard and listened to the whole of his request

and his story. "Fair nephew," quoth he, "it pleases me not that

you should wish to leave me. Never will I give you this leave or

this permission without great grief; for right pleasant and

convenient is it that you should be my partner and co-ruler with

me of all my empire."

Now there is nothing which pleases Cliges, since his uncle denies

him what he asks and requests; and he says: "Fair Sire, it

becomes me not, nor am I brave or wise enough to be given this

partnership with you or with another so as to rule an empire;

very young am I and know but little. For this reason is gold

applied to the touchstone because one wishes to know if it is

real gold. So wish I--that is the end and sum of it--to assay and

prove myself where I think to find the touchstone. In Britain if

I am valiant I shall be able to put myself to the touch with the

Whetstone; and with the true and genuine assay by which I shall

test my prowess. In Britain are those valiant men of whom honour

and prowess boast. And he who wishes to gain honour, ought to

join himself to their company; for there the honour resides and

is won which appertains to the man of valour. Therefore, I ask

you this leave; and know of a surety that if you do not send me

thither and do not grant me the boon, then I shall go without

your leave." "Fair nephew, rather do I give it you freely when I

see you thus minded; for I would not have the heart to detain you

by force or by prayer. Now may God give you heart and will to

return soon since neither prayer nor prohibition nor force could

prevail in the matter. I would have you take with you a talent of

gold and of silver, and horses to delight you will I give you,

all at your choice." No sooner had he said his word than Cliges

has bowed to him. All whatsoever the emperor has devised and

promised was at once set before him. Cliges took as much wealth

and as many comrades as pleased and behoved him; but for his own

private use he takes away four different steeds: one white, one

sorrel, one dun, one black. But I was about to pass over one

thing that must not be omitted. Cliges goes to take leave of

Fenice, his lady-love, and to ask her leave to depart; for he

would fain commend her to God. He comes before her and kneels

down, weeping, so that he moistens with his tears all his tunic

and his ermine, and he bends his eyes to the ground; for he dares

not look straight in front of him, just as if he has committed

some wrong and crime towards her, and now shows by his mien that

he has shame for it. And Fenice, who beholds him timidly and

shyly, knows not what matter brings him; and she has said to him

in some distress: "Friend, fair sir, rise; sit by my side; weep

no more and tell me your pleasure." "Lady! What shall I say? What

conceal? I seek your permission to depart." "Depart? Why?"

"Lady! I must go away to Britain." "Tell me, then, on what quest,

before I give you permission." "Lady, my father, when he died and

departed this life, prayed me on no account to fail to go to

Britain as soon as I should be a knight. For nothing in the world

would I neglect his command. It will behove me not to play the

laggard as I go thither. It is a very long journey from here to

Greece; and if I were to go thither the journey from

Constantinople to Britain would be very long for me. But it is

meet that I take leave of you as being the lady whose I am

wholly." Many hidden and secret sighs and sobs had he made on

setting out; but no one had eyes so wide open or such good

hearing as to be able to perceive for a certainty from hearing or

sight, that there was love between the twain. Cliges, grievous

though it be to him, departs as soon as it is allowed him. He

goes away lost in thought; lost in thought remains the emperor

and many another; but Fenice is the most pensive of all: she

discovers neither bottom nor bound to the thought with which she

is filled, so greatly does it overflow and multiply in her. Full

of thought she has come to Greece: there was she held in great

honour as lady and empress; but her heart and spirit are with

Cliges wherever he turns, nor ever seeks she that her heart may

return to her unless he bring it back to her, he who is dying of

the malady with which he has slain her. And if he recovers, she

will recover; never will he pay dear for it unless she too pay

dear. Her malady appears in her complexion; for much has she

changed and pale has she grown. The fresh, clear, pure hue that

Nature had bestowed has wholly deserted her face. Often she

weeps, often sighs: little recks she of her empire and of the

wealth she has. She has always in her memory the hour that Cliges

departed, the farewell that he took of her, how he changed

countenance, how he blanched, his tears and his mien, for he came

to weep before her, humble, lowly, and on his knees, as if he

must needs worship her. All this is pleasant and sweet for her to

recall and to retrace. Then to provide herself with a luscious

morsel, she takes on her tongue in lieu of spice a sweet word;

and for all Greece she would not wish that he who said that word

should, in the sense in which she took it, have intended deceit;

for she lives on no other dainty nor does aught else please her.

This word alone sustains and feeds her and soothes for her all

her suffering. She seeks not to feed herself or quench her thirst

with any other meat or drink; for when it came to the parting,

Cliges said that he was "wholly hers". This word is so sweet and

good to her, that from the tongue it goes to her heart; and she

stores it in her heart as well as in her mouth, that she may be

the surer of it. She dares not hide this treasure behind any

other lock; and she would never be able to store it elsewhere so

well as in her heart. In no wise will she ever take it thence so

much she fears thieves and robbers; but it is without reason that

this fear comes to her; and without reason that she fears birds

of prey, for this possession is immovable; rather is it like a

building which cannot be destroyed by flood or by fire, and which

will never move from its place. But this she knows not, and hence

she gives herself agony and pain to seek out and learn something

on which she can lay hold; for in divers fashions does she

explain it. She holds debate within herself; and makes such

replies as these: "With what intention did Cliges say to me 'I am

wholly yours' if love did not cause him to say it? With what

power of mine can I sway him, that he should esteem me so highly

as to make me his lady? Is he not fairer than I, of much nobler

birth than I? I see nought but his love that can bestow on me

this gift. From my own case, for I cannot evade the scrutiny, I

will prove, that if he had not loved me he would never have

called himself wholly mine; for just as I could not be wholly

his, nor could in honour say so if love had not drawn me to him,

so Cliges, on his side, could not in any wise have said that he

was wholly mine if love has him not in his bonds. For if he loves

me not, he fears me not. Love, which gives me wholly to him,

perhaps, gives him wholly to me; but this thought quite dismays

me, that the phrase is one in common use and I may easily be

deceived; for many a man there is who in flattery says, even to

strangers: 'I am quite at your service, I, and whatsoever I

have.' And such men are more mocking than jays. So I know not

what to think; for it might well be that thus he spake to flatter

me. But I saw him change colour and weep right piteously. To my

mind his tears, his shamefaced and cast-down countenance, did not

come from deceit; no deceit or trickery was there. The eyes from

which I saw the tears fall did not lie to me. Signs enow could I

see there of love if I know aught of the matter. Yea! I grant

that evil was the hour in which I thought it. Evil was the hour

that I learnt it, and stored it in my heart; for a very great

misfortune has happed to me from it. A misfortune? Truly, by my

faith! I am dead, since I see not him who has flattered and

cajoled me so much that he has robbed me of my heart. Through his

deceit and smooth words, my heart is quitting its lodging and

will not stay with me, so much it hates my dwelling and my manor.

Faith! then, he who has my heart in his keeping has dealt ill

with me. He who robs me and takes away what is mine, loves me

not; I know it well. I know it? Why then did he weep? Why? It was

not for nothing, for he had reason enow. I ought to apply nought

of it to myself because a man's sorrow is very great at parting

from those whom he loves and knows. I marvel not that he had

grief and sorrow, and that he wept when he left his

acquaintances. But he who gave him this counsel to go and stay in

Britain could have found no better means of wounding me to the

heart. One who loses his heart is wounded to the heart. He who

deserves sorrow ought to have it; but I never deserved it. Alas!

Unhappy that I am! Why, then, has Cliges slain me without any

fault of mine? But in vain do I reproach him; for I have no

grounds for this reproach. Cliges would never, never, have

forsaken me--I know this well--if his heart had been in like case

with mine. In like case I think it is not. And if my heart has

joined itself to his heart, never will it leave it, never will

his go whither without mine; for mine follows him in secret so

close is the comradeship that they have formed. But to tell the

truth the two hearts are very different and contrary. How are

they different and contrary? His is lord, and mine is slave; and

the slave, even against his own will, must do what is for his

lord's good and leave out of sight all else. But what matters it

to me? He cares nought for my heart or for my service. This

division grieves me much; for thus the one heart is lord of the

two. Why cannot mine, all alone, avail as much as his with him?

Thus the two would have been of equal strength. My heart is a

prisoner; for it cannot move unless his moves. And if his wanders

or tarries, mine ever prepares to follow and go after him. God!

Why are not our bodies so near that I could in some way have

fetched my heart back? Have fetched it back? Poor fool! If I were

to take it from where it is lodged so comfortably, I might kill

it by so doing. Let it stay there. Never do I seek to remove it;

rather do I will that it stay with its lord until pity for it

come to him; for rather there than here will he be bound to have

mercy on his servant because the two hearts are in a strange

land. If my heart knows how to serve up flattery as one is bound

to serve it up at court, it will be rich before it returns. He

who wishes to be on good terms with his lord and to sit beside

him on his right, as is now the use and custom, must feign to

pluck the feather from his lord's head, even when there is no

feather there. But here we see an evil trait: when he flatters

him to his face, and yet his lord has in his heart either

baseness or villainy, never will he be so courteous as to tell

him the truth; rather he makes him think and believe that no one

could be a match for him in prowess or in knowledge; and the lord

thinks that the courtier is telling the truth. He who believes

another anent some quality which he does not possess knows

himself ill; for even if he is faithless and stubborn, base and

as cowardly as a hare, niggardly and foolish and malformed,

worthless in deeds and in words, yet many a man who mocks at him

behind his back, extols and praises him to his face; thus then

the courtier praises him in his hearing when he speaks of him to

another; and yet he pretends that the lord does not hear what

they are speaking about together, whereas if he really thought

that the lord did not hear, he would never say aught whereat his

master would rejoice. And if his lord wishes to lie, he is quite

ready with his assent; and whatever his lord says, he asserts to

be true; never will he who associates with courts and lords be

tongue-tied; his tongue must serve them with falsehood. My heart

must needs do likewise if it wishes to have grace of its lord;

let it be a flatterer and cajoler. But Cliges is such a brave

knight, so handsome, so noble, and so loyal, that never will my

heart be lying or false, however much it may praise him; for in

him is nothing that can be mended. Therefore, I will that my

heart serve him; for the peasant says in his proverb: 'He who

commends himself to a good man is base if he does not become

better in his service'." Thus Love works on Fenice. But this

torment is delight to her, for she cannot be wearied by it.

And Cliges has crossed the sea and has come to Wallingford. There

he has demeaned himself in lordly fashion in a fine lodging at a

great cost, but he thinks ever of Fenice; never does he forget

her for an hour. In the place where he sojourns and tarries, his

retinue, as he had commanded, have inquired and questioned

persistently till they heard told and related that the barons of

King Arthur and the king, himself, in person, had set on foot a

tournament in the plains before Oxford which is near Wallingford.

In such wise was the joust arranged that it was to last four

days. But Cliges will be able to take time to arm his body if he

lacks anything meanwhile; for there were more than fifteen whole

days to the tournament. He speedily sends three of his squires to

London, and bids them buy three different sets of armour: one

black, another red, the third green; and as they return he bids

that each set of arms be covered with new canvas, so that if

anyone meets them on the way he may not know what will be the hue

of the arms which they will bring. The squires now set out, 90 to

London, and find ready all such equipment as they seek. Soon had

they finished, soon did they return; they have come back as soon

as they could. They show to Cliges the arms that they had

brought; and he praises them much. With these that the emperor

gave him on the Danube when he dubbed him knight, he has them

stored away and hidden. If anyone now were to ask me why he had

them stored away, I would not answer him; for in due time it will

be told and related to you, when all the high barons of the land

who will come there to gain fame will be mounted on their steeds.

On the day that was devised and appointed, the barons of renown

assemble. King Arthur, together with the lords whom he had chosen

from out the good knights, lay before Oxford. Towards Wallingford

went the greater part of his chivalry. Think not that I tell you

in order to spin out my tale: such and such kings were there,

such and such counts, and such and such others. When the barons

were to meet, a knight of great prowess of King Arthur's peers

rode out all alone between the two ranks to begin the tourney, as

was the custom at that time. But none dares ride forward to come

and joust against him. There is none who does not stay where he

is; and yet there are some who ask: "Why do these knights wait?

Why does none ride forth from the ranks? Surely someone will

straightway begin." And on the other side they say: "See ye not

what a champion our adversaries have sent us from their side? Let

him who has not yet known it know that, of the four bravest

known, this is a pillar equal to the rest." "Who is he, then?"

"See ye him not? It is Sagremors the Lawless." "Is it he?"

"Truly, without doubt." Cliges, who hears and hearkens to this,

sat on Morel, and had armour blacker than a ripe mulberry: his

whole armour was black. He separates himself from the others in

the rank and spurs Morel who comes out of the row; not one is

there who sees him but says to his neighbour: "This man rides

well with feutred lance; here have we a very skilful knight; he

bears his arms in the right fashion; well does the shield at his

neck become him. But one cannot but hold him mad as regards the

joust he has undertaken of his own accord against one of the

bravest known in all this land. But who is he? Of what land is he

a native? Who knows him?" "Not I!" "Nor I!" "But no snow has

fallen on him! Rather is his armour blacker than monk's or

priest's cape." Thus they engage in gossip; and the two champions

let their horses go; for no longer do they delay because right

eager and aflame are they for the encounter and the shock. Cliges

strikes so that he presses Sagremors' shield to his arm, and his

arm to his body. Sagremors falls at full length; Cliges acts

irreproachably, and makes him declare himself prisoner: Sagremors

gives his parole. Now the fight begins, and they charge in

rivalry. Cliges has rushed to the combat, and goes seeking joust

and encounter. He encounters no knight whom he does not take or

lay low. On both sides he wins the highest distinction; for where

he rides to joust, he brings the whole tourney to a standstill.

Yet he who gallops up to joust with him is not without great

prowess; but he wins more renown for standing his ground against

Cliges than for taking prisoner another knight; and if Cliges

leads him away captive, yet he enjoys great distinction for

merely daring to withstand him in the joust. Cliges has the

praise and distinction of the whole tournament. And even secretly

he has returned to his lodging so that none of them might accost

him about one thing or another. And in case any one should have

search made for the lodging marked by the black arms, he locks

them up in a room so that they may neither be found nor seen; and

he has the green arms openly displayed at the door, fronting the

road so that the passers by shall see them. And if any asks for

him and seeks him, he will not know where his lodging will be,

since he will see no sign of the black shield that he seeks. Thus

Cliges is in the town and hides himself by such a device. And

those who were his prisoners went from end to end of the town

asking for the black knight; but none could tell them where he

was. And even King Arthur sends up and down to seek him; but all

say: "We did not see him after we left the tourney and know not

what became of him." More than twenty youths whom the king has

sent seek him; but Cliges has so utterly blotted out his tracks

that they find no sign of him. King Arthur crosses himself when

it was recounted and told him, that neither great nor small is

found who can point out his dwelling any more than if he were at

Qesarea, or at Toledo, or in Candia. "Faith!" quoth he, "I know

not what to say in the matter, but I marvel greatly thereat. It

was perhaps a ghost that has moved among us. Many a knight has he

overthrown today; and he bears away the parole of the noblest men

who will not this year see home or land or country; and each of

whom will have broken his oath." Thus the king spake his pleasure

though he might very well have kept silence in the matter.

Much have all the barons spoken that night of the black knight,

for they spoke of nought else. On the morrow they returned to

arms, all without summons and without entreaty. Lancelot of the

Lake has dashed forth to make the first joust; for no coward is

he; with upright lance he awaits the joust. Lo! Cliges, greener

than meadow grass, galloping on a dun, long-maned steed. Where

Cliges pricks on the tawny steed, there is none, whether decked

with youth's luxuriant locks or bald, who does not behold him

with wonder; and they say on both sides: "This man is in all

respects much nobler and more skilful than he of yesterday with

the black arms, just as the pine is fairer than the beech, and

the laurel than the elder. But not yet have we learned who he of

yesterday was; but we will learn this very day who this one is.

If anyone know it, let him tell us." Each said: "I know him not,

never did I see him before to my thinking. But he is fairer than

the knight of yesterday and fairer than Lancelot of the Lake. If

he were arrayed in a sack and Lancelot in silver and gold, yet

this man would still be fairer." Thus all side with Cliges; and

the two prick their steeds as fast as they can spur and encounter

one another. Cliges proceeds to deal such a blow on the golden

shield with the painted lion, that he hurls its bearer from the

saddle and fell on him in order to receive his submission.

Lancelot could not defend himself and has given his parole. Then

the noise and the din and the crash of lances has begun. Those

who were on Cliges' side have all their trust in him; for he whom

he strikes after due challenge given will never be so strong but

that he must needs fall from his horse to the ground. Cliges,

this day, wrought so bravely, and threw down and captured so

many, that he has pleased those on his side twice as much, and

has had twice as much praise from them as he had the day before.

When evening has come he has repaired to his lodging as quickly

as he could; and speedily bids the red shield and the other

armour be brought forth. He orders that the arms which he bore

that day be stowed away; the landlord has carefully done it. Long

have the knights whom he had captured sought him that night

Again; but no news do they hear of him. The greater part of those

who speak of him at the inns laud and praise him.

Next day the knights return to arms, alert and strong. From the

array before Oxford rides out a knight of great renown; Percival

the Welshman, was he called. As soon as Cliges saw him ride forth

and heard the truth as to his name--for he heard him called

Percival--he greatly longs to encounter him. Forthwith has he

ridden forth from the rank on a sorrel, Spanish steed; and his

armour was red. Then they, one and all, regard him with great

wonder, more than they ever did before and say that never before

did they see so comely a knight. And the two prick forward at

once; for there was no delay. And the one and the other spurs on

so that they give and take mighty blows on their shields. The

lances, which were short and thick, bend and curve. In the sight

of all who were looking on, Cliges has struck Percival, so that

he smites him down from his horse, and makes him give parole

without much fighting, and without great ado. When Percival had

submitted, then they have begun the tourney; and they all

encounter together. Cliges encounters no knight but he fells him

to the ground. On this day one could not see him a single hour

absent from the fight. Each for himself strikes a blow at Cliges

as though at a tower: not merely two or three strike, for then

that was not the use or custom. Cliges has made an anvil of his

shield; for all play the smith and hammer upon it and cleave and

quarter it; but none strikes upon it but Cliges pays him back,

and throws him from his stirrups and saddle; and no one, except a

man who wished to lie, could have said on his departure that the

knight with the red shield had not won that whole day. And the

best and most courteous would fain have his acquaintances, but

that cannot be so soon; for he has gone away, secretly, when he

saw that the sun had set; and he has had his red shield and all

his other armour taken away; and he has the white arms brought in

which he had been newly knighted; and the arms and the steed were

placed in front of the door. But now they begin to perceive (for

the greater part who speak of it say so, and perceive it to be

so), that they have all been discomfited, and put to flight by a

single man, who each day changes his outward show, both horse and

armour, and seems another than himself; they have now for the

first time perceived it. And my lord Gawain has said that never

before did he see such a jouster; and because he would fain have

his acquaintance and know his name, he says that he will be first

tomorrow at the encounter of the knights. But he makes no boast;

rather he says that he thinks and believes that Cliges will have

the best of it and will win the renown when they strike with

lances; but with the sword, perhaps, Cliges will not be his

master; for never could Gawain find his master. Now will he prove

himself tomorrow on the strange knight, who every day dons

different armour and changes horse and harness. Soon he will be a

bird of many moltings if thus daily he makes a practice of taking

off his old feathers and putting on new ones. And thus Gawain too

doffed his armour, and put on other, and the morrow he sees

Cliges return, whiter than lily-flower, his shield held by the

straps behind it, on his trusty, white, Arab steed, as he had

devised the night before. Gawain, the valiant, the renowned, has

not gone to sleep on the field; but pricks, and spurs, and

advances, and puts forth all his utmost efforts to joust well if

he finds any with whom to joust. Soon both will be on the field

for Cliges had no wish to delay; for he had heard the murmur of

those who say: "It is Gawain who is no weakling, afoot or on

horseback. It is he with whom none dares to measure himself."

Cliges, who hears the words, charges into the middle of the field

towards him; both advance and encounter with a spring more swift

than that of a stag who hears the baying of dogs barking after

him. The lances strike on the shields; and so mighty is the

crash of the blows, that to their very ends they shatter into

splinters, and split, and go to pieces; and the saddle-bows

behind, break; moreover, the saddle-girth and breast harness

burst. They both alike fall to the ground and have drawn their

naked swords. The folk have pressed round to behold the battle.

King Arthur came in front of all to separate and reconcile them;

but they had broken and hewn in pieces the white hauberks, and

had cleft through and cut up the shields, and had fractured the

helmets before there was any talk of peace.

The king had gazed at them as long a time as it pleased him; and

so did many of the others who said that they esteemed the white

knight no whit less in arms than my lord Gawain; and up till now

they could not say which was the better, which the worse, nor

which would overcome the other if they were allowed to fight till

the battle was fought out. But it does not please or suit the

king that they do more than they have done. He advances to part

them and says to them: "Withdraw! If another blow be struck, it

will be to your harm. But make peace. Be friends. Fair nephew

Gawain, I entreat you; for it does not become a valiant man to

continue a battle or fight where he has no quarrel or hatred. But

if this knight would come to my court to pass his time with us,

it would be no grievance or hurt to him. Pray him to do so,

nephew." "Willingly, Sire." Cliges seeks not to excuse himself

from this; willingly he consents to go thither when the tourney

shall end; for now he has carried out to the uttermost his

father's command. And the king says that he cares not for a

tournament which lasts long; well may they straightway leave it.

The knights have dispersed, for the king wishes and commands it.

Cliges sends for all his armour, for it behoves him to follow the

king. With all speed he may have, he comes to the court; but he

was attired well beforehand and garbed after the French fashion.

As soon as he came to court each hastens to meet him, for neither

one nor the other remains behind; rather they manifest the

greatest possible joy and festivity. And all those whom he had

taken in the jousting acclaim him lord; but it is his wish to

disclaim it to all of them; and he says, that if they think and

believe that it was he who took them, they are all absolved of

their pledge. There is not a single one who did not say: "It was

you, well we know it. We prize highly your acquaintance, and much

ought we to love you, and esteem you, and acclaim you, lord, for

none of us is a match for you. Just as the sun puts out the

little stars, so that their light is not visible in the clouds

where the rays of the sun shine forth, so our deeds pale and wane

before yours; and yet our deeds were wont to be greatly renowned

throughout the world." Cliges knows not what reply to make to

them; for it seems to him that one and all of them praise him

more than they ought. Though it is very pleasant to him yet he is

ashamed of it. The blood rises into his face, so that they see

him all ashamed. They escort him through the hall, and have led

him before the king; but they all cease to address to him the

language of praise and flattery. Now was it the set hour for

eating, and those whose business it was, hastened to set the

tables. They have set the tables in the palace: some have taken

napkins, and others hold basins and give water to those who come.

All have washed; all are seated. The king has taken Cliges by the

hand and set him before him; for fain will he know this very day

who he is, if at all he may. No need is there to speak of the

food, for the dishes were as plentiful as though one could have

purchased an ox for a farthing.

When all had had their meat and drink, then has the king no

longer kept silence. "Friend," quoth he, "I would know if it is

from pride that you forbore and disdained to come to my court as

soon as you entered this land, and why you thus withdraw yourself

from folk and change your arms. Now impart to me your name, and

say of what race you are born." Cliges replies: "Never shall it

be concealed." He has told and related to the king whatsoever he

demands from him; and when the king has learned his name then he

embraces him; then he rejoices over him; there is none who does

not greet him in clue form. And my Lord Gawain knew him, who,

above all, embraces and greets him. All greet him and fall on his

neck; and all those who speak of him say that he is right fair

and valiant. The king loves him and honours him more than any of

all his nephews.

Cliges stays with the king until the beginning of summer; by that

time he has been over all Britain and over France and over

Normandy, and has wrought many a knightly deed, so that he has

well proved himself. But the love with which he is wounded grows

neither lighter nor easier. The wish of his heart keeps him ever

constant to one thought: he remembers Fenice who far from him is

torturing her heart. A longing seizes him to return home; for too

long has he abstained from seeing the lady more yearned for than

any lady, that ever heard of man has yearned for. And he will not

abstain longer from her. He prepares for the journey to Greece;

he has taken leave and returns. Much, I ween, did it grieve my

lord Gawain and the king when they can no longer keep him. But he

longs to reach her whom he loves and desires; and he hastens o'er

sea and land; and the way seems very long to him, so eagerly does

he yearn to see her who takes away and purloins his heart from

him. But she yields him a fair return; and well does she pay and

compensate him for the toll she has extorted from him; for she in

her turn gives her own heart in payment to him, whom she loves no

less. But he is not a whit certain about it; never had he pledge

or promise in the matter; and he grieves cruelly. And she also

laments; for her love of him is tormenting and killing her; and

nothing can give pleasure or joy in her eyes since that hour when

she ceased to see him. She does not even know if he is alive,

whereof great sorrow strikes her to the heart. But Cliges gets

nearer each day, and in his journey he has had good luck; for he

has had a fair wind and calm weather, and has anchored with joy

and delight before Constantinople. The news reached the city; it

was welcome to the emperor and a hundred times more welcome to

the empress. If anyone doubt this it will be to his own sorrow.

Cliges and his company have repaired to Greece, straight to the

port of Constantinople. All the most powerful and noble come to

the port to meet him. And when the emperor who had advanced in

front of all meets him, and the empress who walks by his side,

the emperor, before all, runs to fall on his neck and to greet

him. And when Fenice greets him, the one changes colour because

of the other; and the marvel is how when they come close to each

other they keep from embracing and kissing each other with such

kisses as please Love. But folly would it have been and madness.

The folk run up in all directions and delight to see him. They

all lead him through the midst of the town, some on foot and some

on horseback, as far as the imperial palace. Of the joy that

there was made will never word here be told, nor of the honour,

nor of the homage; but each has striven to do whatever he thinks

and believes will please Cliges and be welcome to him. And his

uncle yields to him all that he has save the crown. He is right

willing that Cliges take at his pleasure whatsoever he shall wish

to obtain from him, be it land or treasure; but Cliges makes no

account of silver or of gold, since he dare not disclose his

thought to her for whom he loses his rest; and yet he has leisure

and opportunity for telling her if only he were not afraid of

being refused; for every day he can see her and sit alone by her

side without anyone gainsaying or forbidding; for nobody imagines

or thinks evil of it.

A space of time after he had returned, one day he came unattended

into the room of her who was not forsooth his enemy, and be well

assured that the door was not shut against the meeting. He was

close by her side and all the rest had gone away, so that no one

was sitting near them who could hear their words. Fenice first of

all questioned him about Britain. She asks him concerning the

disposition and courtesy of my lord Gawain, and at last she

ventures to speak of what she dreaded. She asked him if he loved

dame or maiden in that land. To this Cliges was not unwilling or

slow to reply. Quickly was he able to explain all to her, as soon

as she challenged him on the point. "Lady," quoth he, "I was in

love while yonder; but I loved none who was of yonder land. In

Britain my body was without a heart like bark without timber.

When I left Germany, I knew not what became of my heart, save

that it went away hither after you. Here was my heart and there

my body. I was not absent from Greece, for my heart had gone

thither, and to reclaim it have I come back here; but it neither

comes nor returns to me, and I cannot bring it back to me, and

yet I seek it not and cannot do so. And how have you fared since

you have come into this land? What joy have you had here? Do the

people, does the land please you? I ought to ask you nothing

further save this--whether the land please you." "Formerly it

pleased me not; but now there dawns for me a joy and a pleasure

that I would not lose, be assured, for Pavia or for Placentia;

for I cannot dissever my heart from it, nor shall I ever use

force to do so. In me is there nought save the bark, for without

my heart I live and have my being. Never was I in Britain, and

yet my heart has made I know not what contract in Britain without

me." "Lady, when was your heart there? Tell me when it went, at

what time and at what season, if it is a matter that you can

reasonably tell me or another. Was it there when I was there?"

"Yes, but you knew it not. It was there as long as you were there

and departed with you." "God! and I neither knew nor saw it

there. God! why did I know it not? If I had known it, certainly,

lady, I would have borne it good company." "Much would you have

comforted me and well would it have become you to do so, for I

would have been very gracious to your heart, if it had pleased it

to come there where it might have known me to be." "Of a surety,

lady, it came to you." "To me? Then it came not into exile, for

mine also went to you." "Lady, then are both our hearts here with

us as you say; for mine is wholly yours." "Friend, and you on

your side have mine, and so we are well matched. And know well

that, so may God guard me, never had your uncle share in me, for

neither did it please me nor was it permitted to him. Never yet

did he know me as Adam knew his wife. Wrongly am I called dame;

but I know well that he who calls me dame knows not that I am a

maid. Even your uncle knows it not, for he has drunk of the

sleeping draught and thinks he is awake when he sleeps, and he

deems that he has his joy of me, just as he fain would have it,

and just as though I were lying between his arms; but well have I

shut him out. Yours is my heart, yours is my body, nor indeed

will any one by my example learn to act vilely; for when my heart

set itself on you, it gave and promised you my body, so that

nobody else shall have a share in it. Love for you so wounded me

that never did I think to recover any more than the sea can dry

up. If I love you and you love me, never shall you be called

Tristram, and never shall I be Iseult, for then the love would

not be honourable. But I make you a vow that never shall you have

other solace of me than you now have, if you cannot bethink

yourself how I may be stolen from your uncle and from his bed, so

that he may never find me again, or be able to blame either you

or me or have anything he may lay hold of herein. To-night must

you bend your attention to the matter and to-morrow you will be

able to tell me the best device that you will have thought of,

and I also will ponder on the matter. To-morrow, when I shall

have risen, come early to speak to me, and each will say his

thought, and we will carry out that which we shall consider

best."

When Cliges heard her wish, he has granted her all, and says that

it shall be right well done. He leaves her blithe, and blithe he

goes away, and each lies awake in bed all night and they think

with great delight over what seems best to them. The morrow they

come again together, as soon as they were risen, and they took

counsel in private, as there was need for them to do. First

Cliges says and recounts what he had thought of in the night.

"Lady," quoth he, "I think and believe that we could not do

better than go away to Britain: thither have I devised to take

you away. Now take heed that the matter fall not through on your

side. For never was Helen received at Troy with such great joy,

when Paris had brought her thither, that there will not be yet

greater joy felt throughout the whole land of the king, my uncle,

anent you and me. And if this please you not well, tell me your

thought; for I am ready, whatever come of it, to cleave to your

thought." She replies: "And I shall speak it. Never will I go

with you thus, for then, when we had gone away, we should be

spoken of throughout the world as the blonde Iseult and Tristram

are spoken of; but here and there all women and men would blame

our happiness. No one would believe or could be expected to

believe the actual truth of the matter. Who would believe then as

regards your uncle that I have gone off and escaped from him

still a maid, but a maid to no purpose? Folk would hold me a

light-of-love and a wanton, and you a madman. But it is meet to

keep and observe the command of St. Paul, for St. Paul teaches

him who does not wish to remain continent to act so wisely that

he may never incur outcry nor blame nor reproach. It is well to

stop an evil mouth, and this I think I can fully accomplish, if

it be not too grievous for you; for if I act as my thought

suggests to me, I will pretend to be dead. I will shortly feign

sickness, and do you on your side lavish your pains to provide

for my tomb. Set your attention and care on this, that both tomb

and bier be made in such fashion that I die not there nor

suffocate, and let no one perceive you that night when you will

be ready to take me away. And you will find me a refuge, such

that never any save you may see me; and let no one provide me

with anything of which I have need or requirement, save you to

whom I grant and give myself. Never in all my life do I seek to

be served by any other man. You will be my lord and my servant,

good will be to me whatsoever you will do to me, nor shall I ever

be lady of the empire, if you be not lord of it. A poor, dark,

and sordid place will be to me more splendid than all these

halls, when you shall be together with me. If I have you and see

you, I shall be lady of all the wealth in the world, and the

whole world will be mine. And if the thing is done wisely, never

will it be interpreted ill, and none will ever be able to point

the finger of scorn at me, for through the whole empire folk will

believe that I have rotted in the grave. And Thessala, my nurse,

who has brought me up and in whom I have great trust, will aid me

in good faith, for she is very wise and I have great confidence

in her." And Cliges, when he heard his love, replies: "Lady, if

so it can be, and if you think that your nurse is likely to

counsel you rightly in the matter, all you have to do is to make

preparations and to carry them out speedily; but if we act not

wisely, we are lost beyond recovery. In this town there is a

craftsman who carves and works in wood wondrous well; there is no

land where he is not famed for the works of art that he has made

and carved and shaped. John is his name, and he is my serf. No

handicraft is there, however peculiar it be, in which anyone

could rival him, if John set his mind to it with a will. For

compared with him they are all novices like a child at nurse. It

is by imitating his works that the inhabitants of Antioch and of

Rome have learned to do whatever they can accomplish, and no more

loyal man is known. But now will I put him to the test, and if I

can find loyalty in him, I will free him and all his heirs, and I

will not fail to tell him our plan, if he swears and vows to me

that he will aid me loyally therein and will never betray me in

this matter." She replies: "Now be it so."

By her leave Cliges came forth from the chamber and departed. And

she sends for Thessala, her nurse, whom she had brought from the

land where she was born. And Thessila came forthwith, for she

neither lingers nor delays: but she knows not why her mistress

sends for her. Fenice asks her in private conference what she

counsels and what seems good to her. She neither hides nor

conceals from Thessala even the smallest part of her thought.

"Nurse," says she, "I know well that never a thing that I tell

you will afterwards become known through you, for I have proved

you right well and have found you very wise. You have done so

much for me that I love you. Of all my evils I complain to you,

nor do I take counsel elsewhere. You know well why I lie awake

and what I think and what I wish. My eyes can see nothing to

please me, save one thing, but I shall have from it neither

enjoyment nor comfort, if I do not pay very dearly for it

beforehand. And yet I have found my mate; for if I desire him,

he, on his side, desires me too; if I grieve, he, on his side,

grieves with my sorrow and my anguish. Now I must confess to you

a thought and a parley, in which we two in solitude have resolved

and agreed." Then she has told and related to her that she

intends to feign herself ill, and says that she will complain so

much that finally she will appear dead, and Cliges will steal her

away in the night, and they will be always henceforth together.

In no other way, it seems to her, could she continue firm in her

resolve. But if she were assured that Thessala would help her in

it, the thing could be done according to her wish; "But too long

do joy and good fortune for me delay and tarry." Forthwith her

nurse assures her that she will lend all her aid to the

enterprise, let her now have neither fear nor dread in regard to

aught; and she says she will take so much pains about the matter,

as soon as she shall undertake it, that never will there be any

man who sees her who will not believe quite surely that her soul

is severed from the body, when Thessala shall have given her a

drink that will make her cold and wan and pale and stiff, without

speech and without breath; and yet she will be quite alive and

sound, and will feel neither good nor ill, nor will she suffer

any harm during a day and a whole night in the tomb and in the

bier.

When Fenice had heard it, thus has she spoken and replied:

"Nurse, I put myself in your care, I give you free leave to do

what you will with me. I am at your disposal; think for me, and

bid the folk here that there be none who does not go away. I am

ill and they disturb me." The nurse tells them courteously: "My

lords, my lady is unwell and wishes you all to go away, for you

speak too much and make too much noise, and noise is bad for her.

She will have neither rest nor case as long as you are in this

room. Never heretofore that I remember had she illness of which I

heard her complain so much, so very great and grievous is her

sickness. Depart, and it vex you not." They speedily go, one and

all, as soon as Thessala had commanded it. And Cliges has quickly

sent for John to his lodging, and has said to him privily: "John,

knowest thou what I will say? Thou art my serf, I am thy lord,

and I Can give thee or sell thee and take thy body and thy goods

as a thing that is my own. But if I could trust thee concerning

an affair of mine that I am thinking of, thou wouldst for

evermore be free, and likewise the heirs which shall be born of

thee." John, who much desires freedom, forthwith replies: "Sir,"

says he, "there is no thing that I would not do wholly at your

will, provided that thereby I might see myself free and my wife

and children free. Tell me your will; never will there be

anything so grievous that it will be toil or punishment to me,

nor will it be any burden to me. And were it not so, yet it will

behove me to do it even against my will, and set aside all my own

business." "True, John, but it is such a thing that my mouth dare

not speak it, unless thou warrant me and swear to me, and unless

thou altogether assure me that thou wilt faithfully aid me and

will never betray me." "Willingly, Sir," quoth John, "never be

doubtful of that. For this I swear you and warrant you that as

long as I shall be a living man I will never say aught that I

think will grieve or vex you." "Ah, John! not even on pain of

death is there a man to whom I should dare to say that concerning

which I wish to seek counsel of thee; rather would I let my eyes

be plucked out. Rather would I that thou shouldst kill me than

that thou shouldst say it to any other man. But I find thee so

loyal and prudent, that I will tell thee what is in my heart.

Thou wilt accomplish my pleasure well, as I think, as regards

both thy aid and thy silence." "Truly, Sir! so aid me God!"

Forthwith Cliges relates to him and tells him the enterprise

quite openly. And when he has disclosed to him the truth, as ye

know it who have heard me tell it, then John says that he

promises him to make the tomb well and put therein his best

endeavour, and says that he will take him to see a house of his

own building, and he will show him this that he has made, which

never any man, woman, or child yet saw, if it pleases him to go

with him there where he is working and painting and carving all

by himself without any other folk. He will show him the fairest

and most beautiful place that he ever saw. Cliges replies: "Let

us then go."

Below the town in a sequestered spot had John built a tower, and

he had toiled with great wisdom. Thither has he led Cliges with

him, and leads him over the rooms, which were adorned with images

fair and finely painted. He shows him the rooms and the

fireplaces, and leads him up and down. Cliges sees the house to

be lonely, for no one stays or dwells there. He passes from one

room to another till he thinks to have seen all, and the tower

has pleased him well, and he said that it was very beautiful. The

lady will be safe there all the days that she will live; for no

man will ever know her to be there. "No, truly, lord, she will

never be known to be here. But think you to have seen all my

tower and all my pleasaunce? Still are there lurking-places such

as no man would be able to find. And if it is allowed you to try

your skill in searching as well as you can, never will you be

able to ransack so thoroughly as to find more rooms here, however

subtle and wise you are, if I do not show and point them out to

you. Know that here baths are not lacking, nor anything that I

remember and think of as suitable for a lady. She will be well at

her ease here. This tower has a wider base underground, as you

shall see, and never will you be able to find anywhere door or

entrance. With such craft and such art is the door made of hard

stone that never will you find the join thereof." "Now hear I

marvel," quoth Cliges; "go forward; I shall follow, for I long to

see all this." Then has John started off, and leads Cliges by the

hand to a smooth and polished door, which is all painted and

coloured. At the wall has John stopped, and he held Cliges by the

right hand. "Lord," quoth he, "no man is there who could have

seen door or window in this wall, and think you that one could

pass it in any wise without doing it injury and harm?" Cliges

answers that he does not think he could, nor ever will think it,

unless he sees it with his own eyes. Then says John that his lord

shall see it, for he will open for him the door of the wall.

John, who himself had wrought the work, unlocks and opens to him

the door of the wall, so that he neither hurts it nor injures it,

and the one passes before the other, and they descend by a spiral

staircase to a vaulted room where John wrought at his craft, when

it was his pleasure to construct aught. "Lord," quoth he, "here

where we are was never one of all the men whom God created save

us two; and the place has all that makes for comfort, as you will

see in a trice. I advise that your retreat be here, and that your

lady-love be hidden in it. Such a lodging is meet for such a

guest, for there are rooms and baths and in the baths hot water,

which comes through a pipe below the earth. That man who would

seek a convenient spot to place and hide his lady would have to

go far before he found one so delightful. You will deem it a very

fitting refuge when you have been all over it." Then has John

shown him all, fair chambers and painted vaults, and he has shown

him much of his workmanship, which pleased him mightily. When

they had seen the whole tower, then said Cliges: "John, my

friend, I free you and your heirs one and all, and I am wholly

yours. I desire that my lady be here all alone, and that no one

ever know it save me and you and her, and not another soul." John

replies: "I thank you. Now we have been here long enough, now we

have no more to do, so let us start on the return journey." "You

have said well," Cliges replies, "let us depart." Then they turn

and have issued forth from the tower. On their return they hear

in the town how one tells another in confidence: "You know not

the grave news about my lady the empress. May the Holy Spirit

give health to the wise and noble lady, for she lies in very

great sickness."

When Cliges hears the report, he went to the court at full speed;

but neither joy nor pleasure was there; for all were sad and

dejected on account of the empress, who feigns herself ill;

feigns--for the evil whereof she complains gives her no pain or

hurt; she has said to all that as long as the malady whereby her

heart and head feel pain holds her so strongly, she will have no

man save the emperor or his nephew enter her chamber; for she

will not deny herself to them; though if the emperor, her lord,

come not, little will it irk her. She must needs risk great

suffering and great peril for Cliges' sake, but it weighs on her

heart that he comes not; she desires to see naught save him.

Cliges will soon be in her presence and stay there till he shall

have related to her what he has seen and found. He comes before

her and has told her; but he remained there a short time only,

for Fenice, in order that people may think that what pleases her

annoys her, has said aloud: "Away! Away! You tire me greatly, you

weary me much; for I am so oppressed with sickness that never

shall I be raised from it and restored to health." Cliges, whom

this greatly pleases, goes away, making a doleful

countenance--for never before did you see it so doleful.

Outwardly he appears full sad; but his heart is blithe within,

for it looks to have its joy.

The empress, without having any illness, complains and feigns

herself ill; and the emperor, who believes her, ceases not to

make lamentation, and sends to seek leeches for her; but she will

not let that one see her, nor does she let herself be touched.

This grieves the emperor, for she says that never will she have

leech except one, who will know how to give her health quickly,

when it shall be his will. He will make her die or live; into his

keeping she puts herself for health and for life. They think that

she is speaking of God, but a very different meaning has she, for

she means none other than Cliges. He is her God, who can give her

health and who can make her die.

Thus the empress provides that no leech attend her, and she will

not eat or drink, in order the better to deceive the emperor,

until she is both pale and wan all over. And her nurse stays near

her, who with very wondrous craft sought secretly through all the

town, so that no one knew it, until she found a woman sick of a

mortal sickness without cure. In order the better to carry out

the deception, she went often to visit her and promised her that

she would cure her of her ill, and each day she would bring a

glass to see her water, till she saw that medicine would no

longer be able to aid her and that she would die that very day.

She has brought this water and has kept it straitly until the

emperor rose. Now she goes before him and says to him: "If you

will, sire, send for all your leeches, for my lady, who is

suffering from a sore sickness, has passed water and wishes that

the leeches see it, but that they come not in her presence." The

leeches came into the hall; they see the water very bad and pale,

and each says what seems to him the truth, till they all agree

together that never will she recover, and will not even see the

hour of None, and if she lives so long, then at the latest God

will take her soul to himself. This have they murmured secretly.

Then the emperor has bidden and conjured them that they tell the

truth of the matter. They reply that they have no hope at all of

her recovery, and that she cannot pass the hour of None, for

before that hour she will have given up the ghost. When the

emperor has heard the word, scarcely can he refrain from swooning

to the ground, and likewise many a one of the others who heard

it. Never did any folk make such mourning as then prevailed

through all the palace. I spare you the account of the mourning,

and you shall hear what Thessala is about, who mixes and brews

the draught. She has mixed and stirred it, for long beforehand

she had provided herself with all that she knew was needed for

the draught. A little before the hour of None she gives her the

draught to drink. As soon as she had drunk it, her sight grew

dim, and her face was as pale and white as if she had lost her

blood, nor would she have moved hand or foot even if one had

flayed her alive; she neither stirs nor says a word, and yet she

hearkens to and hears the mourning which the emperor makes, and

the wailing with which the hall is full. And o'er all the city

the folk wail who weep and say: "God! what a sorrow and a

calamity has accursed death dealt us! Greedy death! Covetous

death! Death is worse than any she-wolf, for death cannot be

sated. Never couldst thou give a worse wound to the world. Death,

what hast thou done? May God confound thee who hast extinguished

all beauty. Thou hast slain the choicest creature and the fairest

picture--if she had but remained alive!--that God ever laboured

to fashion. Too patient is God, since He suffers thee to have the

power to ruin His handiwork. Now should God be wroth with thee

and cast thee forth from thy dominion, for thou hast committed

too wanton and great arrogance and great insult." Thus all the

people storm, they wring their hands and beat their palms, and

the clerks read there their psalms, who pray for the good lady

that God may show mercy to her soul.

Amid the tears and the wails, as the writings tell us, have come

three aged physicians from Salerno, where they had been a long

time. They have stopped on account of the great mourning, and ask

and inquire the reason of the wails and tears, why folk are thus

demented and distressed. And they tell them and reply: "God!

Lords, know ye not? At this ought the whole world, each place in

turn, to become frenzied together with us, if it knew the great

mourning and grief and hurt and the great loss which this day has

opened to our ken. God! whence then are you come, since you know

not what has happened but now in the city? We will tell you the

truth, for we wish to join you with us in the mourning wherewith

we mourn. Know you nought of ravenous death, who desires all and

covets all and in all places lies in wait for the best, and how

great an act of folly he hath to-day committed, as he is wont?

God had lit the world with a brilliance, with a light. But Death

cannot choose but do what he is wont to do. Ever with his might

he blots out the best that he can find. Now doth he will to prove

his power, and has taken in one body more worth than he has left

in the world. If he had taken the whole world, he could not have

done one whit worse, provided that he left alive and sound that

prey whom he now leads away. Beauty, courtesy, and knowledge, and

whatsoever appertaining to goodness a lady can have, has Death,

who has destroyed all good in the person of my lady the empress,

snatched from us and cheated us of. Thus hath Death slain us."

"Ah, God!" say the leeches, "thou hatest this city, we know it

well, for that we came not here a little space ago. If we had

come yesterday, Death might have esteemed himself highly, if he

had taken aught from us by force." "Lords, my lady would not for

aught have allowed that you should have seen her or troubled

yourself about her. There were enough and to spare of good

leeches, but never did my lady please that one or other of them

should see her who could meddle with her illness." "No?" "By my

faith, that did she truly not." Then they remembered Solomon, and

that his wife hated him so much that she betrayed him under a

pretence of death. Perhaps this lady has done the same thing; but

if they could by any means succeed in touching her, there is no

man born for whose sake they would have lied or would refrain

from speaking the whole truth about it, if they can see deceit

there. Towards the court they go forthwith, where one would not

have heard God thundering, such noise and wailing there was. The

master of them, who knew the most, has approached the bier. None

says to him: "You touch it at your peril." Nor does any one pull

him back from it. And he puts his hand on her breast and on her

side and feels beyond a doubt that she has her life whole in her

body; well he knows it and well he perceives it. He sees before

him the emperor, who is frenzied and ready to kill himself with

grief. He cries aloud and says to him: "Emperor, comfort thyself.

I know and see for a certainty that this lady is not dead. Leave

thy mourning and console thyself. If I give her not back to thee

alive, either slay me or hang me." Now all the wailing throughout

the palace is calmed and hushed, and the emperor tells the leech

that now it is permitted him to give orders and to speak his will

quite freely. If he brings back the empress to life, he will be

lord and commander over him; but he will be hanged as a robber,

if he has lied to him in aught. And he says to him: "I accept the

condition; never have mercy on me, if I do not make the lady here

speak to you. Without hesitation or delay have the palace cleared

for me. Let not one or another stay here. I must see privately

the evil from which the lady suffers. These two leeches alone,

who are of my company, shall stay here with me, and let all the

others go without." This thing Cliges, John, and Thessala would

have gainsaid: but all those who were there would have

interpreted it to their harm, if they had attempted to prevent

it. Therefore they keep silence and give the counsel that they

hear the others give, and have gone forth from the palace. And

the three leeches have by force ripped up the lady's

winding-sheet, for there was neither knife nor scissors: then

they say: "Lady, have no fear, be not dismayed, but speak in all

safety. We know for a surety that you are quite sound and well.

Now be wise and amenable, and despair of nought; for if you seek

advice from us, we will assure you all three of us, that we will

help you with all our power, where it be concerning good or

concerning evil. We will be right loyal towards you, both in

keeping your secret and in aiding you. Do not compel us to reason

long with you. From the moment that we place our power and

services at your disposal, you ought not to refuse us

compliance." Thus they think to befool and to cheat her, but it

avails nought; for she cares and recks nought of their service,

so that when the physicians see that they will avail nothing with

regard to her by cajolery or by entreaty, then they take her off

the bier and strike her and beat her; but their fury is to no

purpose, since for all this they draw not a word from her. Then

they threaten and frighten her and say that, if she does not

speak, she will that very day find out the folly of her action;

for they will inflict on her such dire treatment that never

before was its like inflicted on any body of caitiff woman. "Well

we know that you are alive and do not deign to speak to us. Well

we know that you are feigning and would have deceived the

emperor. Have no fear of us at all. But if any man has angered

you, disclose your folly, before we have further wounded you, for

you are acting very basely; and we will aid you, alike in wisdom

or in folly." It cannot be, it avails them nought. Then once more

they deal her blows on the back with their straps, and the

stripes that run downwards become visible, and so much do they

beat her tender flesh that they make the blood gush out from it.

When they have beaten her with straps till they have lacerated

her flesh, and till the blood which issues through her wounds

runs down from them, and when for all that they can do nothing

nor extort sigh or word promise her; they are meddling to no

purpose. And from her, and she never moves nor stirs, then they

tell her that they must seek fire and lead, and that they will

melt it and will pour it into her palms rather than fail to make

her speak. They seek and search for fire and lead; they kindle

the fire; they melt the lead. Thus the base villains maltreat and

torture the lady, for they have poured into her palms the lead,

all boiling and hot just as they have taken it from the fire. Nor

yet is it enough for them that the lead has passed through and

through the palms, but the reprobate villains say that, if she

speak not soon, straightway they will roast her till she is all

grilled. She is silent and forbids them not to beat or ill-treat

her flesh. And even now they were about to put her to the fire to

roast and grill, when more than a thousand of the ladies, who

were in front of the palace, come to the door and see through a

tiny chink the torture and the unhappy fate that they were

preparing for the lady, for they were making her suffer martyrdom

from the coal and from the flame. To break in the door and

shatter it they bring hatchets and hammers. Great was the din and

the attack to break and smash the door. If now they can lay hold

on the leeches, without delay all their desert shall be rendered

them. The ladies enter the palace all together with one bound,

and Thessala is among the press, whose one anxiety is to get to

her lady. She finds her all naked at the fire, much injured and

much mishandled. She has laid her back on the bier and covered

her beneath the pall. And the ladies proceed to tender and pay to

the three leeches their deserts; they would not send for or await

emperor or seneschal. They have hurled them down through the

windows full into the court, so that they have broken the necks

and ribs and arms and legs of all three; better never wrought any

ladies. Now the three leeches have received from the ladies right

sorry payment for their deeds; but Cliges is much dismayed and

has great grief, when he hears tell of the great agony and the

torture that his lady has suffered for him. Almost does he lose

his reason; for he fears greatly and indeed with justice--that

she may be killed or maimed by the torture caused her by the

three leeches, who have died in consequence; and he is despairing

and disconsolate. And Thessala comes bringing a very precious

salve with which she has anointed full gently the lady's body and

wounds. The ladies have enshrouded her again in a white Syrian

pall, wherein they had shrouded her before, but they leave her

face uncovered. Never that night do they abate their wailing or

cease or make an end thereof. Through all the town they wail like

folk demented-high and low, and poor and rich-and it seems that

each sets his will on outdoing all the others in making

lamentation, and on never abandoning it of his own will. All

night is the mourning very great. On the morrow John came to

court, and the emperor sends for him and bids him, requests and

commands him: "John! if ever thou madest a good work, now set all

thy wisdom and thy invention to making a tomb, such that one

cannot find one so fair and well decorated." And John, who had

already done it, says that he has prepared a very fair and

well-carved one; but never, when he began to make it, had he

intention that any body should be laid there save a holy one.

"Now, let the empress be enclosed within in lieu of relics; for

she is, I ween, a very holy thing." "Well said," quoth the

emperor, "in the minster of my lord Saint Peter shall she be

buried, there outside where one buries other bodies; for before

she died, she begged and prayed me with all her heart that I

would have her laid there. Now go and busy yourself about it, and

set your tomb, as is right and meet, in the fairest place in the

cemetery." John replies: "Gladly, sire." Forthwith John departs,

prepares well the tomb, and did thereat what a master of his

craft would do. Because the stone was hard, and even more on

account of the cold, he has placed therein a feather bed; and

moreover, that it may smell sweet to her, he has strewn thereon

both flowers and foliage. But he did it even more for this, that

none should spy the mattress that he had placed in the grave. Now

had the whole office been said in chapels and in parish churches,

and they were continually tolling as it is meet to toll for the

dead. They bid the body be brought, and it will be placed in the

tomb, whereat John has worked to such effect that he has made it

very magnificent and splendid. In all Constantinople has been

left neither great nor small who does not follow the corpse

weeping, and they curse and revile Death; knights and squires

swoon, and the dames and the maidens beat their breasts and have

railed against Death. "Death!" quoth each, "why took'st thou not

a ransom for my lady? Forsooth, but a small booty hast thou

gained, and for us the loss is great." And Cliges, of a truth,

mourns so much that he wounds and maltreats himself more than all

the others do, and it is a marvel that he does not kill himself;

but still he postpones suicide till the hour and the time come

for him to disinter her and hold her in his arms, and know

whether she is alive or not. About the grave are the lords, who

lay the body there; but they do not meddle with John in the

setting up of the tomb, and indeed they could see nought of it,

but have all fallen swooning to the earth, and John has had good

leisure to do all he listed. He so set up the tomb that there was

no other creature in it; well does he seal and join and close it.

Then might that man well have boasted himself who, without harm

or injury, would have been able to take away or disjoin aught

that John had put there.

Fenice is in the tomb, until it came to dark night; but thirty

knights guard her, and there are ten tapers burning, and they

made a great light. The knights were sated and weary with

mourning, and have eaten and drunk in the night till they all lay

asleep together. At night Cliges steals forth from the court and

from all the folk. There was not knight or servant who ever knew

what had become of him. He did not rest till he came to John, who

gives him all the counsel that he can. He puts on him a suit of

armour, which he will never need. Both all armed go forth to the

cemetery at post haste; but the cemetery was enclosed all around

by a high wall; and the knights, who were sleeping, and had

closed the door within that none might enter, thought they were

safe. Cliges sees not how he may pass, for he cannot enter by the

door, and yet by hook or by crook he must enter, for love exhorts

and admonishes him. He grips the wall and mounts up, for right

strong and agile was he. Within was an orchard and there were

trees in plenty. Near the wall one had been planted so that it

touched the wall. Now has Cliges what he wished for; he let

himself down by this tree. The first thing that he did was to go

and open the door to John. They see the knights sleeping and they

have extinguished all the tapers, so that no light remains there.

And now John uncovers the grave and opens the tomb, so that he

injures it not at all. Cliges leaps into the grave and has

carried forth his lady, who is very weak and lifeless, and he

falls on her neck and kisses and embraces her. He knows not

whether to rejoice or mourn; for she moves not nor stirs. And

John has closed again the tomb with all the speed he may, so that

it does not in any wise appear that it had been touched. They

have approached the tower as quickly as ever they could. When

they had put her within the tower in the rooms that were

underground, then they took off the grave-clothes, and Cliges,

who knew nothing of the draught that she had within her body,

which makes her dumb and prevents her stirring, thinks in

consequence that she is dead, and he loses hope and comfort

thereat, and sighs deeply and weeps. But soon the hour will have

come that the draught will lose its force. And Fenice, who hears

him lament, tries and strains that she may be able to comfort him

either by word or by look. Her heart nearly breaks because of the

mourning she hears him make. "Ha! Death," quoth he, "how base

thou art, in that thou sparest and passest by worthless and

outcast creatures! Such thou dost allow to last and live. Death!

art thou mad or drunk that thou has killed my love without

killing me? This that I see is a marvel: my love is dead and I am

alive. Ah, sweet love! why does your lover live and see you dead?

Now might one rightly say that you are dead for my sake, and that

I have killed and slain you. Loved lady! then am I the Death who

has killed you; is not that unjust? For I have taken away my life

in you and yet have kept yours in me. For were not your health

and your life mine, sweet friend? And were not mine yours? For I

loved nought but you: we twain were one being. Now have I done

what I ought, for I keep your soul in my body, and mine is gone

forth of yours; and yet the one was bound to bear the other

company, wherever it was, and nothing ought to have parted them."

At this she heaves a sigh and says in a weak, low voice: "Friend!

friend! I am not wholly dead, but well-nigh so. But I hope nought

about my life. I thought to have a jest and to feign: but now

must I needs complain, for Death loves not my jest. A marvel

'twill be if I escape alive, for much have the leeches wounded

me, broken and lacerated my flesh; and nevertheless, if it could

be that my nurse were here with me, she would make me quite

whole, if care could avail aught herein." "Friend! then let it

not distress you," quoth Cliges, "for this very night I will

bring her here for you.....Friend! rather will John go." John

goes thither and has sought till he found her, and he imparts to

her how greatly he desires her to come; never let any excuse

detain her; for Fenice and Cliges summon her to a tower where

they await her; for Fenice is sore mishandled, and she must come

provided with salves and electuaries, and let her know that the

lady will live no longer if she succour her not speedily.

Thessala forthwith runs and takes ointment and plaster and an

electuary that she had made, and has joined company with John.

Then they issue from the town secretly and go till they come

straight to the tower. When Fenice sees her nurse, she thinks she

is quite cured, so much she loves her and believes in her and

trusts her. And Cliges embraces and greets her and says:

"Welcome, nurse! for I love and esteem you greatly. Nurse, in

God's name what think you of this damsel's illness? What is your

opinion? Will she recover?" "Ay, sir! fear not that I cannot cure

her right well. A fortnight will not have passed before I make

her whole, so that never at any time was she more whole and gay."

Thessala sets her mind on curing the lady, and John goes to

provide the tower with whatsoever store is meet. Cliges comes and

goes to the tower boldly, in view of all, for he has left there a

goshawk moulting, and says that he comes to see it, and none can

guess that he goes there for any other reason save only on

account of the hawk. Much does he tarry there both night and day.

He makes John guard the tower, that no one may enter there

against his will. Fenice has no hurt whereof she need grieve, for

well has Thessala cured her. If now Cliges had been duke of

Almeria or of Morocco or of Tudela, he would not have prized such

honour a berry in comparison of the joy he has. Certes, Love

abased himself no whit when he put them together; for it seems to

both when one embraces and kisses the other that the whole world

is made better for their joy and their pleasure. Ask me no more

about it; I will but say that there is nought that one wills that

the other does not welcome. So is their will at one as if they

twain were but one. All this year and some space of the next, two

months and more, I ween, has Fenice been in the tower, until the

spring of the year. When flowers and foliage bud forth, and the

little birds are making merry--for they delight in their

bird-language--it happened that Fenice heard one morning the

nightingale sing. Cliges was holding her gently with one arm

about her waist and the other about her neck, and she him in like

manner, and she has said to him: "Fair, dear friend, much joy

would an orchard afford me, where I could take my pleasure. I

have seen neither moon nor sun shine for more than fifteen whole

months. If it might be, full gladly would I sally forth into the

daylight, for I am pent up in this tower. If near by there were

an orchard where I could go to disport myself, great good would

this do me often." Then Cliges promises that he will seek counsel

of John as soon as he shall see him. And now it has happened that

lo! John has come thither, for he was often wont to come. Cliges

has spoken with him of Fenice's desire. "All is prepared and

already at hand," quoth John, "whatsoever she orders. This tower

is well provided with all that she wishes and asks for." Then is

Fenice right blithe and bids John lead her thither, and John

makes no demur. Then goes John to open a door, such that I have

neither skill nor power to tell or describe the fashion of it.

None save John could have had the skill to make it, nor could any

one ever have told that there was door or window there, as long

as the door was not opened, so hidden and concealed was it.

When Fenice saw the door open and the sun which she had not seen

for a long time shine in, she has all her blood awhirl with joy

and says that now she seeks nothing more, inasmuch as she can

come forth out of the hiding-place, and seeks no refuge

elsewhere. By the door she has entered the orchard, and this

greatly pleases and delights her. In the midst of the orchard

there was a grafted tree loaded with flowers and very leafy, and

it formed a canopy above. The branches were so trained that they

hung towards the ground and bent almost to the earth, all save

the top from which they sprang, for that rose straight upwards.

Fenice desires no other place. And below the grafted tree the

meadow is very delectable and very fair, nor ever will the sun be

so high even at noon, when it is hottest, that ever a ray can

pass that way, so skilled was John to arrange things and to guide

and train the branches. There Fenice goes to disport herself, and

all day she makes her couch there; there they are in joy and

delight. And the orchard is enclosed around with a high wall

which joins the tower, so that no creature could enter it, unless

he had climbed to the top of the tower.

Now is Fenice in great delight: there is nought to displease her,

nor lacks she aught that she could wish, when 'neath the flowers

and leaves it lists her embrace her lover. At the time when folk

go hunting with the sparrow-hawk and with the hound, which seeks

the lark and the stonechat and tracks the quail and the

partridge, it happened that a knight of Thrace, a young and

sprightly noble, esteemed for his prowess, had one day gone

a-hawking quite close beside this tower; Bertrand was the

knight's name. His sparrow-hawk had soared high, for it had

missed the lark that was its aim. Now will Bertrand consider

himself ill served by fate, if he lose his sparrow-hawk. He saw

it descend and settle below the tower in an orchard, and it

pleased him much to see this, for now he reckons that he will not

lose it. Forthwith he goes to scale the wall, and wins to get

over it. Under the grafted tree he saw Fenice and Cliges sleeping

together side by side. "God!" quoth he, "what has befallen me?

What kind of miracle is it that I see? Is it not Cliges? Yea,

faith. Is not that the empress by his side? Nay, but she

resembles her, for no other being ever was so like. Such a nose,

such a mouth, such a brow she has as the empress, my lady, had.

Never did nature better succeed in making two beings of the same

countenance. In this lady see I nought that I should not have

seen in my lady. If she had been alive, truly I should have said

that it was she." At that moment a pear drops and falls just

beside Fenice's ear. She starts, awakes, sees Bertrand and cries

aloud: "Friend, friend, we are lost! Here is Bertrand! If he

escapes you, we have fallen into an evil trap. He will tell folk

that he has seen us." Then has Bertrand perceived that it is the

empress beyond all doubt. Need is there for him to depart, for

Cliges had brought his sword with him into the orchard, and had

laid it beside the couch. He springs up and has taken his sword,

and Bertrand flees swiftly. With all the speed he might he grips

the wall, and now he was all but over it, when Cliges has come

after, raises now his sword, and strikes him, so that beneath the

knee he has cut off his leg as clean as a stalk of fennel.

Nevertheless, Bertrand has escaped ill-handled and crippled, and

on the other side he is received by his men, who are beside

themselves with grief and wrath, when they see him thus maimed;

they have asked and inquired who it is that had done it to him.

"Question me not about it," quoth he, "but raise me on my horse.

Never will this story be recounted till it is told before the

emperor. He who has done this to me ought not forsooth to be

without fear--nor is he, for he is nigh to deadly peril." Then

they have put him on his palfrey, and, mourning, they lead him

away in great dismay through the midst of the town. After them go

more than twenty thousand, who follow him to the court. And all

the people flock there, the one after the other, and the devil

take the hindmost.

Now has Bertrand made his plea and complaint to the emperor in

the hearing of all, but they consider him an idle babbler because

he says that he has seen the empress stark naked. All the town is

stirred thereat; some, when they hear this news, esteem it mere

folly, others advise and counsel the emperor to go to the tower.

Great is the uproar and the tumult of the folk who set out after

him. But they find nothing in the tower, for Fenice and Cliges

are on their way, and have taken Thessala with them, who comforts

and assures them, and says that, even if perchance they see folk

coming after them who come to take them, they need have no fear

for aught, for never to do them harm or injury would they come

within the distance that one could shoot with a strong crossbow

stretched by windlass.

Now the emperor is in the tower and he has John sought out and

fetched: he bids that he be tied and bound, and says that he will

have him hanged or burned and the ashes scattered to the wind.

For the shame that the emperor has suffered, John shall pay the

penalty (but it will be a bootless penalty!) because he has

secreted in his tower the nephew and the wife of the emperor.

"I'faith you speak the truth," quoth John; "I will not lie in the

matter; I will stick to the truth throughout, and if I have done

wrong in any point, right meet is it that I be taken. But on this

score I could well excuse myself, that a serf ought to refuse

nought that his rightful lord commands him. And it is known full

surely that I am his and the tower is his." "Nay, John, rather is

it thine." "Mine, sire? Truly, as his serf I am not even my own,

nor have I anything that is mine, save in so far as he grants it

to me. And if you would say that my lord has done you wrong, I am

ready to defend him from the charge without his bidding me so to

do. But the knowledge that I must die makes me bold to speak out

freely my will and my mind as I have fashioned and moulded it.

Now, be that as it may be, for if I die for my lord, I shall not

die in dishonour. Surely without a doubt is known the oath and

promise that you pledged to your brother, that after you, Cliges,

who is going away into exile, should be emperor. And if it please

God, he will yet be emperor. And you are to be blamed for this,

for you ought not to have taken wife, but all the same you took

one and wronged Cliges, and he has wronged you in nought. And if

I am done to death by you and die for him unjustly, if he lives,

he will avenge my death. Now do your utmost, for if I die, you

will die too."

Beads of wrath break out on the emperor's brow when he has heard

the words and the insult that John has uttered against him.

"John," quoth he, "thou shalt have respite until what time thy

lord be found, for base has he proved himself towards me, who

held him right dear, nor thought to defraud him. But thou shalt

be kept fast in prison. If thou knowest what has become of him,

tell me straightway, I bid thee." "Tell you? And how should I

commit so great a treason? Of a surety, I would not betray to you

my lord, not though you were to rend my life out of my body, if I

knew it. And besides this, so may God be my guard, I cannot say

any more than you in what direction they have gone. But you are

jealous without a cause. Too little do I fear your wrath not to

tell you truly in the hearing of all how you are deceived, and

yet I shall never be believed in this matter. By a potion that

you drank, you were tricked and deceived the night that you

celebrated your wedding. Never at any time, save when you slept

and it happened to you in your dreams, did any joy come to you of

her; but the night made you dream, and the dream pleased you as

much as if it had happened in your waking hours that she held you

in her arms; and no other boon came to you from her. Her heart

clave so straitly to Cliges that for his sake she pretended to be

dead; and he trusted me so much that he told me and placed her in

my house, of which he is lord by right. You ought not to lay the

blame on me for it; I should have merited to be burnt or hanged,

if I had betrayed my lord and refused to do his will."

When the emperor heard tell of the potion which it delighted him

to drink, and by which Thessala deceived him, then first he

perceived that he had never had joy of his wife--well he knew

it--unless it had happened to him in a dream, and that such joy

was illusory. He says that, if he take not vengeance for the

shame and the disgrace brought on him by the traitor who has

carried off from him his wife, never again will he have joy in

his life. "Now, quick!" quoth he, "to Pavia, and from there to

Germany, let neither castle, town, nor city be left where he be

not sought. He who shall bring them both prisoners will be more

cherished by me than any other man. Now, set well to work and

search both up and down and near and far!" Then they start with

great zeal, and they have spent all the day in searching; but

Cliges had such friends among them that, if they found the

lovers, they rather would lead them to a place of refuge than

bring them back. Throughout a whole fortnight with no small pains

they have pursued them, but Thessala, who is guiding them, leads

them so safely by art and by enchantment that they have no fear

or alarm for all the forces of the emperor. In no town or city do

they lie, and yet they have whatsoever they wish and desire, as

good as or better than they are wont to have, for Thessala seeks

and procures and brings for them whatsoever they wish, and no one

follows or pursues them, for all have abandoned the quest. But

Cliges does not delay; he goes to his uncle, King Arthur. He

sought him till he found him, and has made to him a complaint and

an outcry against his uncle the emperor, who, in order to

disinherit him, had taken wife dishonourably, when he should not

have done so, seeing that he had pledged his word to Cliges'

father that never in his life would he have a wife. And the king

says that with a navy will he sail to Constantinople, and fill a

thousand ships with knights and three thousand with infantry,

such that nor city nor borough nor town nor castle, however

strong or high it be, will be able to endure their onset. And

Cliges has not forgotten to thank the king then and there for the

aid which he is granting him. The king sends to seek and to

summon all the high barons of his land, and has ships and boats,

cutters and barques sought out and equipped. With shields, with

lances, with targes, and with knightly armour he has a hundred

ships filled and laden. The king makes so great a preparation to

wage war that never had even Cesar or Alexander the like. He has

caused to be summoned and mustered all England and all Flanders,

Normandy, France, and Brittany, and all tribes, even as far as

the Spanish passes. Now were they about to put to sea when

messengers came from Greece, who stayed the expedition and kept

back the king and his men. With the messengers who came was John,

who was well worthy to be believed, for he was witness and

messenger of nought that was not true and that he did not know

for certain. The messengers were high men of Greece, who were

seeking Cliges. They sought and asked for him until they found

him at the court of the king, and they have said to him: "God

save you, sire. On the part of all the inhabitants of your

empire, Greece is yielded and Constantinople given to you,

because of the right that you have to it. Your uncle--as yet you

know it not--is dead of the grief that he had because he could

not find you. He had such grief that he lost his senses: never

afterwards did he either eat or drink, and he died a madman. Fair

sire, return now hence, for all your barons send for you. Greatly

do they desire and ask for you, for they will to make you

emperor." Many there were who were blithe at this message, but on

the other hand there were man who would gladly have left their

homes, and who would have been mightily pleased if the host had

set out for Greece. But the expedition has fallen through

altogether, for the king sends away his men, and the host

disperses and returns home. But Cliges hastens and prepares

himself, for his will is to return into Greece, no care has he to

tarry longer. He has prepared himself, and has taken leave of the

king and all his friends: he takes Fenice with him, and they

depart and do not rest till they are in Greece, where men receive

him with great joy, as they ought to do their lord, and give him

his lady-love to wife; they crown them both together. He has made

his lady-love his wife, but he calls her lady-love and dame, nor

does she for that cease to be cherished as his lady-love, and she

cherishes him every whit as much as one ought to cherish one's

lover. And each day their love grew; never did he mistrust her

nor chide her for aught. She was never kept in seclusion, as

those who came after her later have been kept (for henceforth

there was no emperor who was not afraid lest his wife might

deceive him, when he heard tell how Fenice deceived Alis, first

by the potion that he drank and then by the other treason). For

which reason the empress, whoever she be, be she of never so

splendid and high degree, is guarded in Constantinople; for the

emperor trusts her not as long as he remembers Fenice.

Here ends the work of Chretien.