courteous, and brave. Although admired and beloved by his neighbors, he
remained single until late in life, when he fell desperately in love
with a young lady, who did not hesitate long in accepting the offer of
so distinguished a suitor for her hand. They were married, and the bride
returned from her honeymoon to take up her abode in her husband's fine
castle.
For a little while all went well, until the lady discovered that her
husband was regularly absent from home during three days of every week.
Overwhelmed with curiosity to know where he went, and how he was
occupied during this time, she used every means in her power to coax the
secret from him.
"Do not ask me," said her kind lord; "rest assured that I have good
reasons for my conduct. If you know what takes me from you, it will only
be to hate and scorn your husband, and to ruin the happiness of our
life."
The lady persisted, going from coaxings to prayers and tears. At last
the poor baron gave way, and confided to her that, owing to a cruel
spell cast on him at birth, he was during half the week a Bisclaveret,
or Man-Wolf, taking on the body of a wolf, but keeping his own feelings
and intelligence as a man. Upon hearing this dreadful story, the lady
fainted away. Henceforth, although her husband was more loving than
ever, she was filled with horror and loathing of him; and soon she
secretly resolved to destroy the monster and enjoy his wealth.
By watching his movements she ascertained that when the baron became a
wolf he left his clothing in a deserted chapel on the edge of a certain
wood; and she formed a plan to seize and hide the garments. So long as
the Bisclaveret was without his man's clothes, he was condemned to
remain a brute.
Accordingly, when, after his melancholy ramble through the woods, the
Bisclaveret went one night to resume his clothes, they were gone; and,
in agony of spirit, he knew that he was betrayed by his wife. He took
himself off to the forest, and was there lost to human sight.
Meanwhile the wicked wife, announcing that her husband had died while on
a journey to some foreign land, enjoyed his wealth and his castle. A
year later, the king went hunting in the forest, and, after a stout
chase, had nearly run down the unhappy Bisclaveret, when that persecuted
beast, bounding from his thicket, fawned upon the king's feet, shedding
real tears and uttering almost human cries for mercy. The king, struck
with compassion, ordered his dogs to be whipped off, and had the strange
animal conveyed with care to his palace. Bisclaveret soon became the
royal favorite. He slept on a couch of soft furs, ate from a golden
dish, and returned with gratitude the caresses of all who noticed him.
His gentleness and sagacity won for the man-wolf the right to roam
wherever he desired to go, unchained. One day the king gave a splendid
entertainment, to which were invited all the lords and ladies of the
land. Among them, dressed in silks and satins, and sparkling with
jewels, came the false wife. No sooner did Bisclaveret espy her chatting
with the king's guests, than, to the surprise of all present, the
usually mild creature rose up, growling horribly and, springing upon the
lady, bit off her nose. Bisclaveret was seized, and would have been
speedily killed, but that he again fawned upon the king's feet, moaning
and weeping as though he longed to speak. The king ordered him to be put
into a cage, and consulted with the oldest and wisest man in his
kingdom, as to what could be the meaning of the wolf's sudden fury
toward this lady.
"Brittany is a land of wonders, sire," said the aged man. "The lady who
was attacked is as well known for a bad name as your favorite animal is
for a good one. Who knows what became of her late husband, the baron?
Perhaps this poor brute was beloved by that gentleman, and has some
secret wrong to avenge. At any rate, you should at once shut the lady in
prison until she is made to tell all _she_ knows about the matter.
Mayhap it is more than we suspect."
The king followed his counsellor's advice; and, when the lady found
herself likely to be kept a prisoner, she preferred speech to silence.
With tears of professed penitence, she confessed all, and the king lost
no time in sending for the clothes of the late baron, and placing them
in the cage of Bisclaveret. At first the animal seemed indifferent, and
surveyed them listlessly. "Leave him to himself, sire," said the wise
man. "Above all, set him at liberty in a chamber suitable to his rank.
Then we shall see a wonderful change, I promise you."
This was done, and in the morning the king ran impatiently to the
chamber of Bisclaveret. There, on the bed, dressed in his clothes and
sleeping sweetly, lay the baron. When his royal master entered, the
sleeper woke and, bending his knee before his sovereign, poured forth
his joy and gratitude.
As for the wicked wife, her estates were taken from her and restored to
her husband, while she herself was sent into perpetual banishment. Most
people would think she had been sufficiently punished by the loss of her
nose, which never grew again!
ROSWAL AND LILIAN.
(_From a Scottish Romance of the XVIth Century._)
[Illustration: Tournament in honor of the Princess of Bealm.]
There lived once, at Naples, a king and queen whose only son, Roswal,
was a paragon of beauty and of valor. The boy, who was as generous as
the day was long, did not at all resemble his father, for the king was
harsh and cruel, and slow to forgive his enemies.
In the prison of the king's palace were confined three noblemen, who,
having been suspected of plotting against the crown, were doomed to be
imprisoned for life, and had the most cruel treatment lavished upon them
every day. Roswal could not bear to hear their groans and sighs arising
from the dungeon, and one day conceived the bold project of taking the
prison keys from under the king's pillow while he slept, and setting
the three poor sufferers at liberty. This was done, and Roswal restored
the keys to their place without having been detected.
When it was found that the prisoners had escaped, the king grew
furiously angry. In vain the head jailor and his assistants declared
their innocence in the matter. Their lives would have been instantly
sacrificed to the king's wrath, had not Roswal boldly come forward and
confessed that he alone had freed the prisoners.
At first, the king vowed that Roswal should die for having defied him;
but the prayers of the queen, and perhaps the cool bravery of his son in
confronting him, moved him to relent. He decided to change Roswal's
sentence to banishment for life to a distant court, where he was to be
placed at the service of the King of Bealm, with recommendation to make
a soldier of the lad, henceforth a stranger to his home.
Roswal set out on his journey to the court of Bealm, attended only by
the high-steward, an envious and ambitious man, who hated the prince and
would gladly have done him evil.
The king, at parting with his son, had given him a letter of
introduction to the King of Bealm; and the fond mother had come
secretly to press all the gold and jewels she had, a fortune in
themselves, upon her beloved Roswal. Except for parting with his mother,
Roswal did not feel very sorry to set out thus from home. He longed to
see what marvels the wide world contained, and the memory of the three
brave men he had loosed from their vile bondage cheered him in spite of
his father's anger.
The high-steward was full of projects of his own; and one night, when
they had stopped to rest by the side of a rushing torrent, and Roswal
had plunged into the crystal stream, as he loved to do, the wicked
steward seized him unawares, held him under water till he was half
strangled, and spared his life only on condition that Roswal would
pledge himself to give up all the money and jewels, his letter, his
horse and sword, and furthermore swear never to reveal the affair to
mortal man or woman. Roswal, seeing that he could not help himself,
submitted, and the false steward, laughing maliciously, put spurs to his
horse, leading Roswal's steed behind him, and soon disappeared from view
with all the treasures.
Roswal found himself alone at nightfall in the forest, as hungry as a
hawk, and very much at a loss where to find food and shelter. He
wandered along till he saw a little brown hut, under the branches of a
wide-spreading oak-tree. Here, in the door, sat an old woman knitting,
and Roswal's youth and beauty soon won his way into her affections. She
led him into her house, gave him a good meal of brown bread, eggs, honey
and milk, and a bed of clean straw. Roswal slept as sweetly as ever he
had done on his golden bedstead and his pillow of down at home. Next
day, he offered to work for the old woman, and set to cutting up wood
and binding fagots cheerfully. For several months he lived thus, until
the chamberlain of the King of Bealm chanced to pass that way. Taking a
fancy to the handsome youth, he carried him off to court, where Roswal
was appointed cup-bearer to the king's lovely daughter. His duties were
light, and the princess was kind; so Roswal had little to complain of,
until one day he heard it announced that Prince Roswal, of Naples, was
about to wait upon the King of Bealm and demand his daughter's hand in
marriage.
Roswal pricked up his ears at this, and immediately suspected the
supposed Prince of Naples to be none other than his late travelling
companion, the wicked steward; though, when he heard the princess say to
her maidens that this Prince Roswal was remarkably pushing, considering
that he had only recently presented a letter of introduction to them,
and that, for her part, she could not see what her papa found to fancy
in the young man, Roswal rejoiced. He was delighted to find that the
princess did not care for the impostor. Then he remembered his oath,
never to reveal what the steward had done to him, and his spirits fell
again.
In a day or two, the King of Bealm announced to his daughter that he had
accepted the offer of the King of Naples' son, and that preparations for
their marriage would immediately begin. The princess was very unhappy,
for she had taken a great dislike to the pretended prince. Roswal met
his late servant face to face at one of the bridal feasts, and the eyes
of the steward fell before his scornful gaze. But he knew that he was
safe in trusting Roswal's honor not to tell the secret, and so carried
on his impudent pretence.
A tournament, lasting three days, was announced in honor of the wedding,
which was soon to come off. Roswal found the Princess Lilian in tears
about that time and, while endeavoring to console her, let her know,
without intending it, that he, too, had fallen in love with her. This
made the pretty princess so happy, that she confessed to Roswal she had
loved him secretly ever since he was chosen to be her cup-bearer. She
was sure he was of noble birth from his manners and appearance; and she
urged him to admit that he was as worthy of her rank as of her love.
Roswal was never so sorely tempted to reveal himself! He restrained the
impulse to confess by a strong effort, and, alone and melancholy,
wandered out into the forest--longing for an opportunity to enter the
lists of the tournament and prove his knightly skill before the king and
princess; and while he sat musing thus, there approached him a knight
leading a magnificent white war-horse, on whose saddle was suspended a
suit of splendid armor.
"Prince," said the strange knight, bowing low before him, "put on this
armor, and mount this steed. The tournament has begun, and thou wilt be
in time to prove thy prowess. I await here thy return."
Roswal said he had led his hounds to the forest, intending to hunt a
deer; and so the knight offered to hunt in his absence and keep the game
for him. How his heart beat with joy and pride when he found himself
once more mounted on a noble steed, and clad in knightly armor! Thanking
the stranger fervently, he put spurs to his horse, and galloped off.
Entering the barriers, Roswal overset all who opposed him, and then,
with a tremendous rush, charged at full speed upon the false prince, who
was riding up and down with a great show in the presence of his lady.
The steward recoiled in terror; but the unknown knight as suddenly
checked his horse, turned around, saluted the company with the utmost
grace, and vanished, as he had come, like a meteor.
The company applauded, and the old King of Bealm cried out that he would
give an earldom to find out who was the unknown knight.
That evening, while all the palace was ringing with accounts of the
brave stranger, Roswal came home from the forest, laden with venison and
followed by his hounds.
The Princess Lilian called him to her side, and told him of the events
of the day. It was evident that she wished to inspire Roswal with a
desire to break a lance in her behalf; but he appeared to be
indifferent, and she ended in a burst of tears.
Next day, when Roswal went again with his hounds to the forest, a second
knight, leading a silver-gray war-horse laden with armor, appeared and
repeated the kind offer of the day before. Roswal again entered the
lists, and found the steward impudently advancing to meet him. Roswal
unhorsed half a dozen of the bravest riders, then, with all possible
ease, sent the steward to the ground with such a terrible crash, that
the miserable impostor lay as if dead for some time. The unknown knight
glanced up at the Princess Lilian, and saw a look in her face as if she
suspected him. Then, quickly retiring from the ring, Roswal reappeared
as before, at evening, with the spoils of the day of hunting. Lilian,
who was ready to declare that none other than her handsome young lover
could have been the stranger knight, was much perplexed when she found
Roswal quietly at home engaged in his usual occupations.
On the third day, Roswal was mounted and equipped in a similar manner.
He had a bay horse, a red shield, green armor, and a golden helmet. He
cast down all of the other competitors, broke two of the steward's ribs,
threw a gold ring into the lap of his lady-love, and rode away like a
flash. Returning to the wood, he was met by all three of his friends,
the knights who had helped him. They revealed themselves, and Roswal
found to his delight that they were the three noblemen he had released
from his father's dungeon. They told him they were well aware of all he
had suffered for their sakes, and were prepared to befriend him still
farther.
Next day had been fixed upon for the wedding, and all the court was
called together in a magnificent hall, to see their king bestow their
princess' hand upon the Prince of Naples. Pale and tearful, for she had
cried all night, appeared the princess. She was dressed in white satin,
with a silver train, carried by ten little pages in blue, and on her
head she wore a diadem of immense diamonds. The bridegroom, who had been
patched up by the doctors, sat, anything but cheerful, in a golden chair
beside the king. Behind a group of court ladies and gentlemen stood
Roswal, handsomer than any one present, and looking every inch a
prince, though he wore a plain brown velvet suit, with a gold chain
round his neck, the livery of Princess Lilian's household. Suddenly
visitors were announced, and in came three richly clad strangers,
scattering money among the servants, which made it an easy matter for
them to move along.
The king received them courteously, for he recognized three noblemen of
the kingdom of Naples he had known long before.
"You will be glad to salute your prince," the king said, when he had
greeted them, "and to be present at his nuptials."
The noblemen refused to notice the steward, whose knees knocked together
with fear, for he saw he was on the brink of exposure. The three
strangers looked about them and, espying Roswal, ran up to him, fell on
their knees and kissed his hand, hailing him as the true Prince of
Naples. The steward, in terror, dropped upon his knees before Roswal and
confessed all, drawing from his pocket the casket containing the queen's
jewels, which he had been about to present to his bride. Roswal would
have dealt gently with the contemptible wretch, but the angry old King
of Bealm declared that he and his daughter should not be made sport of,
and the offender live to tell it. So the steward was hanged forthwith,
and Roswal, owning his love for Lilian, was made happy by promise of her
hand--he had already won her heart, as you know.
That same day arrived news of the death of the King of Naples, and the
recall of Roswal to the throne. He was married to Lilian; and it is
certain that no one who had befriended him in his days of poverty was
ever forgotten by King Roswal. The good old woman in the forest was
enriched, the three noblemen were restored to their estates and
fortunes, and Roswal's mother was made happy by a speedy reunion with
her son.
"So Roswal and Lilian sheen,
Lived many years in good liking.
I pray to Jesu, heaven's king,
To grant us heaven to our ending.
Of them I have no more to say:
God send them rest until doom's day!"
ELIDUC AND GUILLIADUN.
(_From one of Marie's Lays._)
Eliduc was a knight of Brittany who, through the cabals of enemies, fell
under the displeasure of the king and was banished from his dominions.
Sir Eliduc did not wish to forsake his country, still less did he wish
to part with the fair Lady Guildeluec, to whom he was solemnly
betrothed. But the king's order was law; and, taking a fond leave of his
promised wife, while vowing ever to be faithful, Sir Eliduc called to
him ten of the bravest of his followers, and set sail for the English
coast. They had a short voyage with fair winds, landing at Totness, in
Devonshire, and proceeded at once to Exeter. The King of Exeter was at
that time plunged into a most distressful war with a neighboring
province, to whose prince he had refused to marry his only daughter and
heiress. Sir Eliduc offered his services to the king, which were gladly
accepted. After a few days a battle was fought, in which Eliduc's
knowledge of the art of war and his bravery, as well as that of his ten
followers, helped to decide the fortunes of the King of Exeter, who had
the satisfaction of seeing the foe put to flight. As a reward for his
aid, the king made Eliduc the supreme commander of all his armies.
Eliduc was the idol of the people, and soon the fair Princess Guilliadun
fell in love with him, confiding to the king, her father, that she would
have no other husband than this valiant stranger. The king thought he
could do no better than secure such a noble successor to his throne, and
sent his chamberlain to inform Eliduc of the honor in store for him.
Eliduc was now in a sad plight. He thought of his absent Guildeluec, who
was no doubt, even then, waiting and weeping for his return, and his
heart grew heavy within him. On the other hand, the Princess Guilliadun
was by far the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and her love
for him was strong. To refuse her offered hand would bring down on him
the fierce wrath of a great king, to whom no man said nay.
While Sir Eliduc was in this dilemma, a message came to him from his
former master, the Breton king, ordering his immediate return to protect
their country from invasion. All Sir Eliduc's love for his own land
stirred within him. To defend her borders he was ready to sacrifice his
present rank and wealth, and be a simple knight again. The image of his
promised wife arose clear and bright before him, and he forgot the
lovely Guilliadun, who, for a time, had so dazzled his imagination with
her charms.
Laying down his sword before the sovereign, he resigned command of the
Exeter troops, and, in spite of the king's rich offers and temptations,
hurried to take ship for France. Among his attendants was a youth
muffled in a long mantle, who, when they were fairly out at sea,
revealed to the knight's astonished gaze the face and form of the wilful
Guilliadun.
She had thus disguised herself to follow him, and now vowed that unless
he took her to be his wife, she would die by her own fair hand. There
was no time for discussion, for, at that moment, arose a mighty tempest
which threatened to engulf the ship. In vain were the efforts of the
sailors to manage the vessel, and all prepared for immediate death, as
wind and waves beat furiously upon them. Suddenly, one of the sailors
spoke up for the rest, and, in the hearing of Guilliadun, warned Sir
Eliduc that Heaven was angry with him for carrying off the princess in
disguise, when he was already promised in marriage to another woman.
Guilliadun hearing these words, fell lifeless to the deck. She appeared
so like a dead person that the crew offered to throw her overboard, but
Eliduc, seizing an oar, struck down the sailor who had spoken, and,
himself grasping the helm, drove the ship through foam and boiling waves
safely to port. In a few hours he might hope to reach the court of his
king; but what, meantime, should he do with the body of the unfortunate
princess? In this emergency, he remembered that in a forest near by had
once lived an aged hermit, in whose cell he might possibly leave the
corpse of the princess, until he should be able to dispose of it in a
style suited to her rank. He mounted his palfrey, took the body in his
arms, rode to the hermit's retreat, and, gaining entrance to a little
chapel, laid on a slab in the centre of it the unhappy Guilliadun. She
was beautiful as ever, and looked like a waxen image. The knight,
kneeling beside her, shed many bitter tears, and then, springing to his
saddle, galloped off to place himself at the service of his king.
He found the affairs of his country in a bad way, but the mere mention
of his name sufficed to inspire the Breton soldiers with new courage.
Marching at the head of the king's troops, he led them to battle, and in
a short time had put the foe to confusion and rout. Covered with glory,
Eliduc rode back to receive the king's congratulations and thanks.
There, among the ladies attending the queen, was his faithful
Guildeluec; but when she came forward with open arms to greet him, a
thought of the Lady Guilliadun, who had died for love of him, shot into
his heart like an arrow. Guildeluec quickly saw that something was
amiss; but, hiding the anguish she felt, she resolved to keep close
watch upon her lover, and, if possible, discover the cause of his
coldness.
For some days the court was given up to gaiety and festivals of all
kinds. Guildeluec noticed that every day her knight would steal away to
the forest and remain there for some hours, returning to the palace more
melancholy than before. She set a little page to follow Eliduc, and the
boy traced his master to a retreat all overgrown with trees, where the
knight entered and was lost to sight.
Dismissing the boy with a piece of gold, the lady resolved herself to
unravel the mystery. Wrapped in a long veil, she stole along the green
alleys of the wood, and soon reached the little hermitage. Lifting up a
curtain of closely woven vines which drooped before it, she entered the
chapel door. There, on a bier richly hung with velvet, lay a young and
lovely maiden, apparently dead, save that her cheeks bloomed like a
new-blown rose. Guildeluec gazed for a while upon this sad sight, when a
noise of approaching footsteps startled her, and she hid behind a tomb.
The new-comer was none other than the brave knight Eliduc, who, casting
himself on the ground beside the bier, gave way to bitter grief, calling
the saints above to witness that he had been true to his pledge to
Guildeluec, even to hastening to an untimely end the fair maiden before
him. Guildeluec heard all, and understood what had taken his love from
her. Just then a weasel, running from behind the altar, passed near the
bier, which angered the knight, who, at one blow, struck the little
animal dead upon the ground. When Eliduc had gone, the watching lady
saw another weasel run up to his slaughtered companion, attempt to play
with her, and on finding her without life, go away with every appearance
of grief. Directly the weasel came back again, carrying a beautiful red
flower from the wood, which was carefully inserted in the mouth of his
companion. The effect was magical. Instantly, the dead weasel sprang up,
dropped the flower, and scampered off with her happy little comrade.