“Who is this fellow,” said he, “who talks to me as though he were rating a dog in a kennel? Of a truth, if he is a dog of spirit, he would rather die than lie like a coward in a corner.” So saying, he issued forth, and came to blows with the stranger. And doubtless mischief had been done but that the good Satyrane made peace between them. This done, they agreed together to punish the lord of the castle for his churlishness. So they went back to the gate, and Paridell cried aloud: “Hark, Sir Porter, whoever you are, if you open not this gate, then we will burn this place and all that is therein with fire.”
When Malbecco heard this, perceiving that they were in earnest, he ran with all speed and called to them from the castle walls. “Bear with me, fair sirs,” he cried, “and pardon me, seeing that I am so ill-served. These loutish knaves of mine know not their duty, and fail to attend as they should upon strangers.” When they heard this, the knights consented to let the matter be, though they believed not a word of what the man had said. So they entered the castle. Being within the walls, they rid themselves of their armour, for they were fain to dry their garments at the fire. And lo! when the last come of the three took off his helmet, the hair, which was of golden hue, broke loose from its tie and fell down to her feet, like the sunbeams that fall from a cloud; and when she doffed her coat of mail and let down the pleated frock she had tucked up for convenience’ sake in riding, then it was plain to see that she was a woman, and indeed the very fairest of women; for in sooth this last come of the three knights was Britomart.
Britomart, riding forth on the day following from Malbecco’s Castle, came to a fountain whereby a knight was lying stretched upon the ground. His cuirass and his helmet and his spear lay near him, and his shield, on which was the emblem of love, as a boy with wings, was thrown carelessly on the ground. He lay with his face upon the ground, and it seemed as if he were asleep, so that Britomart of her courtesy held back, lest perchance she should wake him. But as she stood, she heard him groan, and after break forth into bitter complaining: “O God,” he cried, “who rulest in bliss among Thy saints, why sufferest Thou such cruel deeds to be done? Hast Thou no care for the cause of the innocent? Is Thy justice asleep? What doth it profit a man to do righteously if righteousness find no reward? Never was there on earth a creature more gracious than my Amoret; and lo! for seven months the tyrant Busirane holds her in prison, and all, forsooth, because she will not deny her Scudamore. And I, this same Scudamore, am safe and sound, and yet can help her not at all!” Then he burst forth into a storm of sobs. So shaken and disturbed was he with the torment of his grief, that Britomart feared that he might even die. So, stooping down, she touched him lightly on the shoulder. Whereat he, starting up, looked to see what had happened; and finding that it was but a stranger knight, he threw himself again upon the ground.
Then said Britomart: “Sir Knight, whose sorrow seems to overpass your patience, I would counsel you to submit your will to the providence of God. Remember, if you will, that virtue and faith are mightier than the very worst of sorrows. Surely he who cannot bear the burden of this world’s distresses must not think to live, for life is a distressful thing. And now, tell me what this villain of whom you speak has done. Maybe this hand of mine may help you to win relief and redress.”
Then said the knight: “Ah me! it is idle to complain of what may not be cured. I fear me much that there is no remedy for this trouble. How can we deliver my Amoret from the dungeon in which this tyrant holds her, and all because she will not accept his love, nor be false to me? For, indeed, he has fortified the place with such magic charms that no power of man can overcome them.”
“Nevertheless,” said Britomart, “we will make our endeavour.”
“Why should you die for me?” said the knight. “It is enough that I should perish, who deserve it well.”
“Nay,” cried Britomart, “life is not lost if the fame that dies not be bought with it.”
So at last she persuaded him to rise from the ground. His armour she helped him to put on, and his horse, which had strayed away, she brought back to him. Then they set off for the magician’s castle, which was but a bow-shot away. But when they were arrived, lo! there was no gate, no, nor porter, nor watchman, but in the porch there was a flaming fire and a great smoke of sulphur; so fierce was the fire and so thick the smoke that they were compelled to fall back.
“To run into danger without thought, Sir Knight,” said Britomart, “is becoming to a beast, not to a man. Let us think, therefore, how we may most prudently deal with this enemy.”
“Alas!” answered Sir Scudamore, for this was the knight’s name, “here you see the doleful straits in which I stand. This is the trouble of which I complained. By no cleverness or strength or valor may these flames be quenched, for no man can undo the enchantments by which they have been kindled. Leave me to my complaints. Fair Amoret must dwell as before in this evil prison, and Scudamore must die of sorrow.”
“By heaven!” cried Britomart, “it were a shameful thing to give up some noble purpose for fear of danger, without some venture made. Let us make a trial at the least, and see what shall come to pass.”
And as she spoke the bold maiden threw her broad shield before her face, and pointing her sword straight in front of her, threw herself upon the fire; and behold the flames straightway parted asunder, leaving a space in the middle through which she passed, as a flash of lightning passes through the clouds. And when Sir Scudamore saw how she had traversed the fire safe and untouched, he essayed to follow her. But whether it was that there was a certain jealousy in his heart, or some less pure desire, or some lack of faith, to him the flames yielded not one jot. His pride and fierceness availed him nothing; he was constrained to return most piteously burnt. Greatly was he troubled at this defeat, so that he threw himself on the ground and groaned aloud in the bitterness of his heart.
Britomart meanwhile had made her way into the palace of the Enchanter. The first chamber was a wondrous place, all its walls being covered with tapestries picturing the triumphs of love. Many a strange tale of the gods might there be seen, and with the gods was shown a great multitude of men and women, both of high degree and low, kings and queens and knights and ladies, and peasants and women who worked with their hands, for love has no respect of person, and there are none but feel his power. And round about the tapestries was woven a border of broken bows and shivered arrows, and through them flowed as it were a river of blood. At the end of the chamber was an altar, and on the altar was set the image of a boy. Blindfolded was he, and in his hand he held a deadly bow with an arrow set. And on his shoulders he carried a quiver, and some of the shots were tipped with gold and some with lead, and under his foot was a dragon which had been smitten through with a dart. Under his feet was written this inscription: “The Conqueror of the Gods.” All this the maid beheld, and also she saw that over every door in the chamber, and there were many such doors, the words were written: “Be Bold!” But over one door at the very end of the chamber were these words to be seen, “Be not Over-Bold.” Much she marvelled to see no living creature, for the whole place was silent and empty. But the day being now far spent, she lay down to sleep, but was careful to keep her arms close at hand should need arise.
She slept not untroubled. First there was the sound of a great trumpet; but whether it were blown for victory or for warning she knew not. And after the trumpet there was a great storm of wind, with thunder and lightning, and after the lightning an earthquake, and after the earthquake a great stench and smoke of sulphur, yet was not Britomart one whit dismayed. Then, as she wondered what these things might mean, a great whirlwind blew throughout the house, and the door over which the words “Be not Over-Bold” were written, flew open of its own accord. And out of it there issued a marvellous array.
First came Fancy, in likeness of a lovely boy, and after him Desire, and then Doubt, ever looking about him with restless eyes, and Danger, and Fear, who ever kept his eye on Danger, and Hope in the semblance of a happy maiden, and Suspicion, and Grief and Fury, and many more, which it were long to name one by one. Thrice did they march round the chamber, and then returned to that within from which they had come forth. And when the last had passed through, the door shut as it had opened at the first, of its own accord. And when the maid would have passed through it, she found it locked fast against her and beyond all her strength to open. Then, finding that she could do nothing by force, she had recourse to craft, purposing not to depart from the chamber till the next night should come, and with the night the same procession of figures should come forth. And so it fell out, and when the door opened next of its own accord, then Britomart went boldly in. Not one single figure did she see of all that wondrous company. There was no living creature in the chamber, save one lady of woeful aspect, whose hands were bound fast together, while round her waist was a chain which bound her to a pillar. And before her sat the Enchanter, making strange characters, which were among the devices of his art. In blood he drew them, and the blood seemed to be drawn from the woeful lady’s heart by an arrow which was fastened in her side. When the Enchanter saw the maid he cast his magic book in haste to the ground, and drawing from his vest a murderous knife, made as though he would have thrust it into the lady’s side. But the maid caught his hand and mastered him. Not so completely did she quell him but that with a sudden wrench he turned the dagger upon her and struck it into her chest. It was but a shallow wound, but it moved her wrath, and she, drawing forth her sword, dealt him a mighty blow, so that he fell half dead upon the ground. But as she made ready to smite him again, the woeful lady cried: “Slay him not, for if he die then am I here fast bound for ever; for only he that has bound can loosen.”
Full wroth was Britomart to spare so foul a wretch. Nevertheless, for the lady’s sake, she held her hand, and said: “O wicked man, death, or that which is worse than death, if such there be, is the due reward of your crimes. Nevertheless you may live if you will restore this lady to her first estate.” To this the wretch, so reprieved beyond all hope, gave a willing consent, and taking up his book began to reverse his evil charms. Many a dreadful thing did he read which the lady heard with trembling, seeing that they had brought her to this evil plight. And all the while Britomart stood, with her sword drawn over his head, ready to smite him if he should fail of his promise. And now all the house began to shake around them, and the doors to rattle. Yet was not the maid dismayed, but watched the villain as he undid the charm. And now the chain was broken from off the lady’s hands, and that which did bind her to the pillar was severed, and the pillar itself fell into ruins, and the steel by which her life-blood was drained away came forth from the wound, no one drawing it, and the wound itself was closed and the lady herself restored to her first estate.
When she found herself thus whole again, she poured out her heart in thanks to the maid, throwing herself upon the ground before her. “Gentle lady,” said Britomart, “it is reward enough to have done you this service. And now forget your trouble, and take comfort to yourself and comfort also the true knight who has suffered so much for your sake.” Right glad was Amoret to hear such kindly words of the man whom she loved. Then did Britomart take the chain with which Amoret had been bound and bind the Enchanter with it. And this was a fit beginning of the punishment which was to fall upon him. This done, they turned to depart, and as they passed through the Enchanter’s abode, lo! all the grace and glory had departed from it; all the fair picturings were defaced, and when they came to the fiery porch, the flames were vanished, and the place was like to a torch that is half burned.
But as nothing in the world is without trouble, so to their great trouble they found no one awaiting them; neither did Amoret see Sir Scudamore, nor Britomart her squire.
It was, in truth, a great deliverance that Britomart had worked for the Lady Amoret. Nevertheless this same lady was somewhat in doubt how she should bear herself to her deliverer. For, on the one hand, she was well aware that all her love and homage was due to Sir Scudamore, nor was there aught in her heart that hindered her from rendering it. It should be told indeed that she was not only betrothed to this same Scudamore, but verily wedded, only it had come to pass on the very wedding-day, when the guests were somewhat overtaken with wine, that the enchanter Busyrane had entered the palace, and, under cover of a jest, had carried her away into captivity. So now she said to herself:
“This is a very noble knight, and it irks me to show him any discourtesy; yet, on the other hand, I fear me much lest I should seem in any wise disloyal to my own dear lord,” for she knew not that Britomart was a maid. And Britomart, on her part, desiring that the secret should not be known, bore herself with a certain freedom. Nothing unseemly did she say or do; but none had guessed her to be what she was.
As they journeyed together they came to a castle, where a great company of knights and ladies had assembled to hold a tournament. Now it was a custom of tournament that every knight entering the lists bore the colours of some lady, and averred that she was the fairest of all ladies, and that he would prove it with spear and sword. Thus it came to pass that when the knights were gathered together, and the master of the ceremony asked of each his lady’s name, a certain young and lusty knight cried out, “My lady is the fair Amoret, and that I will avow with spear and sword.”
When Britomart heard these words she was not a little wroth; nevertheless she dissembled her anger, and said only, “I am loath to make strife; but this young man must needs make good his words!” So they jousted together, and the knight was easily overthrown, being thus made to suffer for coveting that which was not his. But Britomart, seeing that he was a brave man, and being herself as courteous as she was strong, cast about how she could save his honour. She said, therefore, to the master of the ceremony: “Let me have this knight for my champion.” And as she spoke she doffed her helmet, and her golden hair, which had been cunningly coiled up within, fell down to her very feet. All that stood by, both ladies and knights, were not a little amazed.
Some said, “This is wrought by magic!” others, “This is Bellona’s self that has come among mortal men.” As for the young knight, he worshipped her as though she were divine, and the fair Amoret, all her doubts being removed, was knit to her in the closest bonds of affection and tenderness.
The next morning they departed together from the castle, the one ever cherishing in her heart the thought of Sir Artegall and the other of Sir Scudamore. After a while they were aware of two knights riding towards them, having each a lady at his side; ladies, indeed, they were not, save in outward appearance, for one was the false Duessa, the other was called Até, which name by interpretation is Strife, than whom there is no more baleful creature under the sun, and she has her dwelling hard by the gates of hell. Many ways are there by which a man may go into that place, but none by which he may come forth. And the walls on every side are hung with the rent robes and broken sceptres of kings, shivered spears and shields torn in twain, spoils of Babylon and of Rome, relics of great empires that have been and are no more. Até herself was hideous to behold, if one could see her as she was in truth. But now she was fair to look at, for she had put on, as can all evil things, the semblance of beauty.
The knight who rode by her side was a certain Blandamour, gallant and strong, and most expert in arms, but of a fickle and inconstant heart; and he that was companion to the false Duessa was Sir Paridell. When Sir Blandamour saw from afar Britomart and Amoret, he said to Sir Paridell: “See you, my friend, that knight with a lady by his side? There is a fair adventure for you!” But Sir Paridell, for now they were near enough to discern the fashion of Britomart’s arms, perceived that this knight bore the like scutcheon to one by whom he had of late been worsted in battle; nor was he minded to tempt his fate again.
“I know that knight full well, Sir Blandamour,” he said; “he proved his skill on me, and I count it folly when he who has escaped a danger challenges it again.”
“Then I,” replied Sir Blandamour, “will try my fortune; take you, meanwhile, this dame in charge.” And he laid his spear in rest and charged. Britomart, on her part, made ready to receive him, and gave him an uncouth welcome. Scarce had they met than he found himself lying helpless on the ground. Meanwhile his conquering adversary rode on, not deigning so much as to say a single word.
When his companions saw in what an evil plight he was, they hastened to his help, and put him on his steed, for mount himself he could not, and held him up as he rode. Ill-content he was that he had ventured so much and won so little.
After that they had journeyed awhile, they saw two knights coming towards them across the plain. When Sir Blandamour perceived them, he grieved more than ever for his late mishap, for he saw that one of them was his old enemy Sir Scudamore, knowing him to be such by the device that he wore, to wit, the god of love with his wings spread out on this side and on that. “Here,” he said to himself, “is evil fortune! Yonder is my enemy, and I am so bruised with this late encounter that I cannot do battle with him.” Then he said to Sir Paridell: “My friend, will you, of your affection, do somewhat for me, even as I have done for you? My hurts keep me back from battle, but I have just cause of enmity against yonder knight. Will you, therefore, maintain this my cause against him?”
Sir Paridell answered: “Trouble not yourself. There is a proverb that the left hand rubs the right. As you have fought for me, so will I for you.” Forthwith he laid his spear in rest, and charged, swift as an arrow from a bow. Nor was Sir Scudamore slow to make himself ready. So they met in fierce encounter, and with so great a shock, that both were driven from their saddles, and they lay stretched upon the ground. Sir Scudamore was soon on his feet again, and said to the other: “Laggard, why lie you so long?” But Sir Paridell lay tumbled in a heap, without sense or speech, all unheeding of his adversary’s reproach. Then his companion ran to him, and unlaced his helmet, and loosened his coat of mail, and so brought him back to feeling; but not a word did he speak. Then said Sir Blandamour:
“False knight, you have overcome by craft a better man than yourself. It is well for you that I am not in such good case to-day that I can avenge him.”
To this Sir Scudamore made no answer, though there was great anger in his heart. Then the false Duessa, not seeing how her ends would be served by a quarrel between these two, would have made peace between them. But, on the other hand, Até made up a fresh contention, for she turned Sir Scudamore against Amoret, slandering that true lady with false tales of how she had given her love to a stranger knight, who, indeed, was none other than Britomart. Nor was she content with this, but she made a quarrel also between Paridell and Blandamour. And the contention between these two grew so hot that they were ready to do battle with each other. What had been the end thereof none can say, but by good luck there came that way a certain squire who was well known to both, and not a little beloved by them. No easy thing was it for him to get hearing from the two, so full of fury were they. Yet, at the last, he persuaded them to stay their hands. This done, he said: “Brave knights, you ought to be at peace and not at variance. There are those that seek your harm, and you would do well to ally yourselves against them.” Thus he persuaded them to swear friendship again. So being reconciled, they pursued their journey. After a while they saw two knights and two ladies with them, and they sent on their squire to inquire who these might be. And when the squire came back to his company he said: “These are two famous knights, brave Cambell and stout Triamond; and the ladies are Cambina, who is wife to Cambell, and Canacé, who is wedded to Triamond. But would it please you, gentle sirs, to hear their story, for I know it well, and it is worth the hearing?”
Sir Blandamour answered, “Speak on.” So the squire told this tale that follows.
There was a great lady in Fairyland, Agapé by name, who had three sons, born all of them at one birth; and the names of the three were Priamond, Diamond, and Triamond. Also she had a daughter, Cambina by name. Now the Lady Agapé greatly desired to know how long her sons should live, for they, having a mortal for their father, must needs die some day, whereas she, being of fairy race, was immortal. Having, therefore, this thought in her mind, she made her way to the place where the three Fates sit by the distaff spinning the lines of Life. One sister draws out the thread, and another turns the spindle, and yet another, sitting by with the shears in her hand, cuts the thread when the due time is come. Deep in the hidden places of the earth was the dwelling of the three, and the way thereto was dark and hard to find; but Agapé had in her heart all the wisdom of Fairyland, nor did she fail to accomplish her purpose. When she had come to the place she sat awhile, and watched the sisters at their work. At last, having seen all that they did, she declared why she had come: “I have three sons,” she said, “mortal men, though I myself am immortal; and I greatly desire to know how long they will live.” One of the sisters, she that held the shears, was very angry when she heard these words: “You have done ill,” she said, “in coming here on this errand. These things are not for anyone, mortal or immortal, to know. You deserve to be smitten with the Curse of Jupiter—you and your children with you.”
Agapé approaching the Dwelling of the Fates.
Agapé was greatly frightened at these words. Still she held to her purpose, and with many prayers and entreaties prevailed upon her that held the spindle, for she was less hard of heart than the sister who held the shears, to show her the threads of the three youths. When she saw them she cried, “I pray you draw them out longer and of a stouter thread.”
“Nay,” said the sister, “think you, O foolish one, that the purposes of the Fates may be changed as are the purposes of men? It is not so; what they decree stands fast for ever; the gods may not move it by one hair’s-breadth, no, nor the ruler of the gods himself.”
Then answered Agapé: “If this be so, if you cannot add one jot to the thread of any man’s life, still there is a boon which you can give me. I see the thread of my eldest son, and it is, I perceive, the shortest of the three. Grant that when it is cut with the shears, it may be added to the thread of the second, and that in like manner when the thread of the second is cut, it may be joined to the third. So shall he have a treble portion, and yet the whole shall not have been increased.”
The sisters said, “This shall be so.” Thereupon the Lady Agapé departed to her own home. She told her sons nothing of this journey which she had taken, or of the things which she had seen and heard, or of the boon which had been granted to her in the matter of their lives. But she said to them, not at that time only, but after, whenever she could find occasion: “O my sons, be careful and walk in safe ways; but, above all things, love one another, whatever may befall.” And this they did all their lives. Never was there any strife between them, but only great friendship and concord, of which the most signal proof is now to be told.
There was a fair lady in those parts, Canacé by name, who was wiser than all the women of her day. She knew all the powers of nature, and could see beforehand the things that should come to pass, and knew the speech of beasts and birds. And as she was wise above all others, so also did she excel in goodness. To these things she added also a singular beauty, so that many lords and knights of the land came to woo her. To these she bare herself rightly courteously, but favoured none, no, not so much as by a word or a look. But it came to pass, as is the way in such matters, that the more she held herself aloof, the more eagerly did these lords and knights urge their suit upon her. And not a few quarrels came about on her account, one suitor meeting another in battle. Now this Canacé had a brother, Cambell by name, as brave and stout a knight as ever lived. And he, seeing that great mischief might arise out of these quarrels concerning his sister, caused all her wooers to come together, and made this proclamation among them:
“Ye Lords and Knights that seek my sister Canacé in marriage, choose now from among yourselves the three whom you judge to be the boldest and most skilful in battle among you, and let them meet me in combat, man by man, and it shall be that whosoever of the three shall prevail over me shall have my sister to wife.”
Now this Cambell was, as has been already said, a brave knight and a stout; yet for all his strength and courage he had scarcely dared to stand up in this fashion against so many. For, indeed, it might well come to pass, such are the chances of battle, that one or other might prevail over him, not being the better man, but by reason of some accident. But there was that which encouraged him to dare so much, to wit, a magic ring which his sister had given him. It was a ring of many virtues, but the chief of them all was this, that if he who wore it should be wounded, this ring straightway staunched the bleeding.
Now this matter of the magic ring and its marvellous virtues was known to all, and the suitors of the Lady Canacé were, for the most part, terrified by it, so that they would not venture on the battle. “Fair she is without doubt,” they said, “but it would be a fool’s part to venture life even for her.” Nevertheless there were three among them who were not of this way of thinking, and these three were the brothers Priamond, Diamond, and Triamond. They all loved the Princess, and yet, so brotherly were they in heart and mind, that there was not a thought of anger or jealousy among them. “Let her choose,” said they, “between us, and we will be content with her choice. Or, if the judgment be left to the sword, then let him be preferred who shall overcome this her brother Cambell.”
So the three addressed themselves to the battle in the order of their age. First came Priamond, the eldest, a stout knight to hold his place, but he was not so strong to strike as are some. He loved to fight on foot, and his arms were the spear and the battle-axe. Next to him was Diamond; he was one to deal mighty blows, but he was not so good in holding his ground. Whether he were on horseback or on foot he cared not, so that he had his battle-axe in hand, for with this he loved to fight. Last of all came Triamond. There was no man better than he, whether to stand or to strike; the fight on horseback pleased him best, and his arms were spear and shield.
On a set day the lists were prepared. Barriers were made to keep off the press of the people. At one end sat six judges, who should see that all things were done decently and in order, and that neither this warrior nor that should take undue advantage; and at the other was set the fair Canacé on a stage, that she might see the battle and herself be seen. The first that came into the lists was Sir Cambell. Noble was his mien and assured his look, as of one that knew certainly that he should prevail. After him advanced the three brothers, bravely attired and shining in arms, each with his banner borne before him. Thrice did they bow themselves before the fair Canacé, and then a blast of the trumpet gave the signal for battle.
First of the three to meet Sir Cambell came Priamond; well skilled in arms were the two, and for long they fought without advantage to one or the other. Mighty the blows that they dealt, but both had watchful eyes and ready skill to turn the deadliest stroke aside. The first gain fell to Sir Priamond, for his spear, whether by good fortune or by skill it were hard to say, passed by his adversary’s shield and pierced the shoulder where a joint of the armour gave it access. Deep was the wound, and though no blood flowed therefrom—such was the virtue of the magic ring—it stung the warrior to the quick with keenest pain. There are whose spirit is quelled with pain; but Sir Cambell was not of these. The smart did but rouse his courage to the utmost, and put new strength into his arm. Straightway he drave his spear close underneath Sir Priamond’s shield and smote him on the thigh. The coat of mail did not stay it, but that it made a grisly wound, and the stout knight tottered with the blow, even as an old oak, withered and sapless, rocks with every blast of the wind. Nor did Cambell fail to use the occasion. He smote him yet again upon the side, making another deadly wound, and though the spear brake with the blow, he did not abate his onset, but drave the shaft through the visor of Sir Priamond’s helmet, and laid him low upon the ground. So fell the first of the three brothers; yet did not his soul depart, but by virtue of the gift of the Fates it passed into the bodies of the two that yet remained, making them stronger and more eager for the fray.
Nevertheless, when Sir Diamond addressed himself to the battle, the lists having been cleared afresh, and the trumpet sounded a second time, he fared no better than his brother. For a while the two stood face to face, giving and receiving equal blows, but without advantage either to the one or to the other. But then a great gust of wrath swept through Sir Diamond’s soul, driving away all thought but of how he might most speedily avenge his brother. And, indeed, the very soul of the brother stirred within him. So he lifted high his mighty battle-axe, swinging it over his head, and bringing it down on his adversary with all the force that was in his body. And, surely, had the blow fallen as it was meant, there had been an end of strife. No magic ring had availed to stay so dreadful an onset. It had crushed out Sir Cambell’s life, whether with or without the shedding of blood. But fortune helped him in his need, for judging where the axe would fall, he swerved aside, so that the stroke missed the mark, and the striker’s right foot slid from under him. So we may see a hawk strike at a heron with all his might; so strong is the blow, that it would seem as if nothing could turn it aside; but the heron, a wary bird, sees it come, and lightly avoids it, so that the hawk is well-nigh brought to the ground ere the force of his onset is sped. So fared it with Sir Diamond; not only so, but while he reached forward with his left arm to recover himself, he left his side unguarded by the shield. Which thing Sir Cambell did not fail to perceive, for swinging his axe, he smote him between the topmost rings of the coat of mail and the lowest rings of the helmet, which spot is ever dangerous to the warrior, how well soever he be armed. There did Sir Cambell smite Sir Diamond, with an arm so sure and deadly that he shore his head from his body.
And now ensued the fiercest fight of all, yea, and also the strangest. Well might a man wonder to see how Sir Cambell stood up, neither faint nor weary, for all that he had been changing blows for the space of an hour and more. Yet did he seem even fresher and brighter than at his first taking of arms, just as some great serpent wakes from the long sleep of winter, when the warm breath of spring has touched him, and throws off the ragged skin of his old estate, and raises himself in the sunshine with all the glory of his youth renewed. Such freshness and vigour did the magic ring work in calling out all the strength that he had, for all the magic in the world had not availed to help a coward or a sluggard. Against him stood a worthy foe, with the might of three stout champions in his heart and in his limbs. Once and again, yea, many times, did it seem that this or that warrior had prevailed. Now was Cambell beaten to his knee, till all the company thought he must needs lose the day, and now was Triamond stretched upon the ground, like to one who has received a mortal wound. And once, indeed, the two lay together at full length, as though they had been dead. The judges rose from their place, and the marshals of the lists came forward as to carry the two corpses to the appointed place, and the fair Canacé cried out in her despair, for it seemed as if both brother and lover had been taken from her at once. But lo! in a moment the two were standing on their feet again, and addressing themselves anew to the battle. What had been the end, whether the virtue of the magic ring had overcome the triple might of him in whom dwelt the spirits of three brave men, who can say? For now there was heard such a clamour, such a confusion of voices, such a shouting of men and wailing of women and shrill crying of children, that all turned their faces to look, and the two champions by common consent stayed their hands till they could see what strange things had happened. And, indeed, it was a marvellous sight that they saw. There came speeding along the ground, fast as a thunder-cloud that rides the sky, a chariot richly adorned with gold and purple in the Persian fashion. Two lions from the forest drew it, mighty beasts, such as could not be surpassed for strength and fierceness in any land, but now they had forgotten their savageness to obey the pleasure of their driver. And this was a lady of wonderful beauty, and not less wise than fair, for she had been taught all the arts of wholesome magic by the fairy, her mother. In her right hand she carried a wand with two serpents twined about it, and in her left a cup filled to the brim with nepenthe, the wondrous drink of which he that tastes straightway forgets all grief and anger and care.
This was the Lady Cambina, daughter of Agapé, and sister to Sir Triamond, and she, knowing by her art in what deadly peril her dear brother stood, came to his help. All the people made a way for her to pass, so that she could approach the lists. These first she struck with her wand, and they fell at the stroke. Then she said to the two champions, “Cease now your strife and be at peace.” And when they would not hear, but made as if to renew the battle, she cast herself upon her knees and besought them with many prayers and tears to cease from their anger; and when they still hardened their hearts, she smote them lightly with her wand. So soon as they felt the touch, the swords dropped from their hands. Then, as they stood astonished, not knowing what had befallen them, she gave the cup first to one and then to the other; and they, as being consumed by mighty thirst, drank each a mighty draught. Straightway the magic liquor turned all their strife to love; they clasped hands, and plighted troth to each other, and swore that they would be friends for ever. And such indeed they were to the end of their days; ay, and Cambell took to wife Cambina, and Triamond wedded the fair Canacé.
It has been related before how Sir Guyon and Prince Arthur parted company with Britomart with the purpose of relieving a fair lady in distress. Now the name of this same lady was Florimell. She was courted by many knights of high degree, but her love was given to Sir Marinell, the same that was overthrown by Britomart in the passage by the sea; but he, on his part, had no thought for her, being mindful of his mother’s counsel that he should hold himself aloof from all womankind. So fast did Florimell fly, for she was in grievous fear, that the two knights who followed with intent to give her help, could by no means overtake her. After a while the strength of the white palfrey on which she rode wholly gave out, and she, alighting, made her way on foot, a thing which she had never done in all her life before, so delicately bred was she. But need teaches many lessons, this being chief among them, that Fortune holds the lots of all in equal scales, and has no respect of persons. So travelling, she came to a hillside, from which, looking down, she espied a valley thickly covered with trees, and through the tree-tops a thin vapour of smoke issuing forth. “Here,” she said to herself, “is a dwelling of man, where haply I may find shelter and rest.” So she bent her steps thither, and after a while reached the place, being now sorely spent with trouble and weariness. A dwelling there was, but of the humblest kind, a little cottage, built with reeds and wattled with sods of grass. In this there dwelt a witch woman. Most sparely did she live, careless of all common things, for her mind was wholly given to her art, for the better and more secure practice of which she lived far from all neighbours.
When Florimell came in the witch was sitting on the ground, and was so busied with one of her enchantments that she was taken wholly unawares. At the first she was overcome with fear, for she would not that any should surprise her while she was busy with her art. Then, her fear changing to anger, as, indeed, it is commonly wont to do, she cried in a loud voice: “Stranger, what mischief has brought you hither? Here, of a truth, you will find no welcome.”
Florimell answered: “Mother, be not angry with a simple maid, who has been brought to your dwelling by hard chance, and asks only for leave to rest awhile.” And as she spoke the tears came trickling down her cheeks, and she heaved a sigh, so softly and sweetly, that there could be no creature so hard and savage that would not have pitied her. Even the witch, for all that her soul was given to mischief, was much moved at the sight, and sought to comfort her in such rude fashion as she knew, for even in her the sight of such beauty and virtue moved the hidden sense of womanhood. So, wiping the tears from the damsel’s eyes, she bade her rest awhile. This she was nothing loath to do, and sat down upon the dusty floor, as a bird spent with tempest cowers upon the ground. After a while she began to set aright the garments that she wore, and to put in order her golden hair. All this the witch woman saw with wonder that still waxed greater and greater. “Is this a mortal maid,” she said to herself, “or one of Diana’s train?”
This same witch woman had a son, very dear to her, and in a sort the comfort of her age, but a lazy, evil-minded loon, always idling away his time, and loath to follow any honest trade. He was abroad when Florimell came to the cottage, and when he returned, he was not a little amazed to see so fair a creature sitting by his mother’s hearth. But the maiden bore herself so meekly, fitting herself to the low condition of the place, that she soon ceased to be strange to mother and son. This was a thing to be desired; yet it had in it this discomfort, that the witch’s son began to love her. He would bring gifts for her, such as birds which he taught to speak her name, and squirrels which, he said, were as fellow-slaves with himself, and flowers to make garlands for her head. All these she graciously received. Nevertheless she was not a little troubled in her heart, for she could not but perceive the love which the young man bore her. Therefore she determined in herself to depart.
By this time her palfrey was well rested from its weariness, for, indeed, the young man, the son of the witch, had tended it with all care. Early, therefore, one morning she put its strappings on the beast, and so departed.
Great was the anger of the witch and her son when they knew that Florimell was gone. As for the disappointed lover, his fury passed all bounds. He beat upon his breast and scratched his face, and tore his flesh with his teeth. When his mother saw him in so evil a plight, she did all that she could to comfort him. Tears and prayers she used, and charms and herbs of might; but all were of no avail. When she saw this, fearing lest, in his despair, he should bring himself to a violent end, she said within herself: “I must bring the creature back.” So she called out of the cave a hideous beast that served her. It was a creature likest to a hyena, for its back and sides were covered with spots. But never was seen anything that could be matched with it, so fierce of aspect was it, and so swift. The witch said to him: “Follow this woman, and do not leave following till you overtake.”
So the monster followed Florimell, and, as she rode leisurely, soon overtook her. When she saw him, she set spurs to her palfrey, and he, so long as he was fresh and full of breath, kept her out of the creature’s reach. But when his breath failed him, then the monster drew near. This Florimell perceiving, leapt from her saddle and fled away on her feet. Now it chanced that she was close to the seashore, and she, being minded to be drowned, rather than be overtaken by so foul a beast, ran to the very edge of the waves. There, by good hap, she saw a little shallop lying, in which the fisherman, an old man and poor, lay asleep, the while his nets were drying. Into this she leapt, and pushing off the shallop with an oar, was safe awhile. The monster would not venture on the sea, for it was not to his liking, and so set out to return to his mistress the witch, to tell her how his quest had failed. But first he turned upon the palfrey and rent it.
Scarcely had the beast done this, when there came that way a gallant knight, Sir Satyrane by name, the same that had befriended the Lady Una in her distress. He, seeing the palfrey lie dead upon the ground, knew it for that on which the Lady Florimell had been wont to ride; also he found the golden girdle which she had been wont to wear, for it had fallen from her in the haste of her flight. These things greatly troubled him, and when, looking round, he also saw the monstrous beast which had pursued her, standing by, his fear was changed to anger, and he flew upon it and dealt it many blows with all his might. Many wounds did he give it, causing much blood to pour out of its carcase; but the beast he subdued not, with such spells had the witch woman fortified it against all assault. At the last he threw away his sword, for in truth the steel seemed to avail nothing against the creature’s hide, and caught it in his arms as if he would have crushed the life out of it; also he took the girdle of Florimell and bound the beast with it. Never in truth had it known such constraint, for in a moment all its rage was quelled, and it followed him meek as a lamb which the shepherd has rescued from the lion’s mouth. And this, without doubt, it had continued to do, but for this chance, that Sir Satyrane was called away upon another adventure. He spied a giantess riding on a dappled grey steed, holding before her a squire fast bound with chains of wire, and a knight pursuing her. Therefore he made haste to put himself in her way. She would have passed him by, but he would not suffer it, running at her with his spear. Thereupon she was constrained to deal with him, and would have smitten him with a great mace of iron which she carried in her hand, and with which she had already slain not a few. But ere she could deal the blow, his spear came full upon her shield. So great was the shock, that her horse staggered to and fro; but she was not moved one whit in her place, nor was the shield broken. Rather the shaft of the spear was shivered on it, for all it was big and strong. Nor did she delay to strike him with the mace of iron. Full on his helmet’s crest she smote him, and that so sturdily that he bowed his head upon his breast and reeled to and fro like to a drunken man. Which the giantess perceiving, caught him in her arms, and put him on the saddle before her, for the squire she had already cast to the ground. Then truly had Sir Satyrane been in an evil plight, but for the knight that was pursuing. He, indeed, seeing what had chanced, made the greater haste to overtake her, but she, not desiring another battle, or because she especially feared the other knight, threw Sir Satyrane to the ground, and thus he was delivered. But meanwhile the witch’s monster had departed.