Now there dwelt in those parts a savage tribe which was wont to live by robbery. They did not till the ground, nor breed cattle, nor deal in merchandise, but they lived by spoiling of their neighbours’ goods. And they had this evil custom also, that they lived on the flesh of men, devouring all strangers whom they might chance to find within their borders. Some of these savages, as they wandered in the forest, chanced to see Serena, as she lay asleep. Great was their joy to see her, not for her beauty, but because she would make, they thought, so goodly a meal. First they debated whether they should wake her or let her sleep. And it seemed to them better that she should sleep her fill. “She will be the better,” they said, “for her sleep.” Also they agreed together that she should be offered in sacrifice to their god. “He,” said they, “shall have her blood, and we, after the sacrifice, will have a goodly feast on her flesh.” This they set about to do, and having built an altar, they stripped her of her ornaments and robes and laid her upon it; and the priest stood ready to slay her with a knife of stone in his hand, when their evil purpose was baulked.
Sir Calepine, by some happy chance, had come to this same grove, which they had fixed for the place of the sacrifice, and for the feast which was to come after. He was still searching for Serena, and having travelled far that day, had laid himself down to sleep. And now, there being a great noise of bagpipes and horns, for with these they celebrated the solemnity, he started up; and, looking through the branches that were about him, saw the altar set, and the woman lying on it, and the priest, stretching out his hand to slay her. Who she was he knew not, but ran to her help, as was a knight’s duty, and the priest he slew, and not a few of the savages that were gathered round, and the rest fled like to doves that fly before a hawk. So did Sir Calepine recover the lady of his love.
Now must be told what befell Sir Calidore in his quest. For many days he pursued unceasingly the Blatant Beast. Over hills and through valleys, through forests and across plains, he made his way, and wearied not. The monster he suffered not to rest, nor did he rest himself, save only when Nature commanded; for he feared disgrace, if haply should he, for reason of sloth, forego his task, and the monster should escape. Therefore he went from Court to city, and from city to country, and in the country nothing would content him but he must search in every farm. On a day while he thus urged the pursuit, he came on a company of shepherds who were playing on pipes and singing country ballads, the while their flocks fed near them among the broom bushes with their flowers of gold. When he came near to them he inquired of them whether they had chanced to see such a beast as he sought.
They answered him: “We have seen none such in this country, nor have we anything that threatens harm to us or to our flocks. And we pray to the good God that He will keep such creatures far from us.” And one of them, perceiving that the knight was hot and weary, offered him drink, and if he chanced to be hungry, something that he might eat. This courteous offer he gladly accepted, and sat him down, well content with such simple fare as suits the dweller in the country. When he had ended his meal he saw a fair damsel who wore a crown of flowers tied with ribbons of silk, being clad in a gown of home-made green which she had worked with her own hands. She sat on a little hillock in the middle of the company, with company of lovely maids about her, and round these again was a ring of shepherds, piping and singing the praises of their queen, for indeed she did shine as a queen in the midst of her subjects. Fair of face she was and of just proportions, and commended her beauty to all beholders by the modesty of her carriage. There was not one in the place but honoured, and not a few sighed for her in love: but she had no liking for anyone.
Greatly did Sir Calidore admire both her beauty and her carriage, for they seemed to him to far excel the shepherd’s estate. “Surely,” he said to himself, “this may be a princess who thus disguises her high condition.” And even while he thought the thought in his heart, Love took him unawares. So he sat musing, and, for a while, so taken was his heart with this new thought, forgot the chase.
And now the evening was come and it behoved the shepherds to fold their flocks. So there came an aged sire, Melibæus by name, who was commonly reputed to be the father of the fair maiden—Pastorella was her name. So indeed it was believed, but, in very truth, he had found her as an infant lying in an open field, and taking her home, had brought her up as his child, for child of his very own he had none. The old man said, “Night falls, and we must fold the flocks.” Nor was there any want of helpers to the fair Pastorella. Many were eager to manage her sheep, and none more eager than Corydon.
Then Melibæus, seeing how Sir Calidore sat alone, seeming to have no place of abode, and that night was now near at hand, said to him: “Fair sir, I have but a humble cottage; yet is this a better lodging than the bare field; I pray you to take up your abode with me this night.” To which Sir Calidore gladly agreed, for indeed there was nothing that he more desired.
A hearty welcome did the old man and his wife accord to the knight. Shortly after, the fair Pastorella came back from folding her flock, and they all sat down to sup in high content, and had much pleasant talk concerning the shepherd’s life, the delights of which old Melibæus set forth. “Let those who will seek after honour and wealth and the good things of this world: I am content with what I have. My nights I spend in quiet sleep, my days in honest toil. I take good care that the fox shall not harm my lambs; I catch birds in snares, and fishes with hook and net. When I am weary, I rest my limbs under the green tree; when I am thirsty, I drink of the brook. Time was when I was not content with these simple things, but must raise myself above my fellows, and seek fortune elsewhere. So I left my home and betook myself to the King’s Court, and worked for hire. But I perceived that in this life there was vanity and discontent; after ten years, therefore, had passed, I came back to my home and to peace, and I have learnt to love it daily more and more.” While the good man talked, the knight was well content to listen. Much he liked to hear such speech, but more to look at the fair Pastorella.
After a while he said to the old man, “Good father, I would gladly rest a while in this peaceful place. The ship of my life has of late been greatly tossed by tempestuous winds and in stormy seas. Let it therefore find haven here, and I meanwhile will meditate what course I shall follow for the time to come. But I would not that my entertainment should be a burden to you. Your simple fare and such lodging as you can give content me well; but for these you should have fair guerdon.” So saying he drew from his pouch a great store of gold, and would have the old man take it. But Melibæus pushed it from him.
“I desire it not,” he said; “this is the thing that breeds such mischief in the world. But if you are content to abide here and lead our shepherd’s life, be it so; I am well content.”
So Sir Calidore abode in the old man’s house, delighting himself with the daily sight of the fair Pastorella, and bearing her company whenever he could find excuse. Very high courtesy did he show to the maid; but she, having been used to more lowly things, held it in but light esteem. This the knight did not fail to perceive. So he doffed his knightly attire, and clad himself in shepherd’s dress, and laid aside his spear for a shepherd’s crook. One had thought him another Paris when for Œnone’s sake he fed her flocks on the Phrygian Ida. So did the shepherd Calidore go day by day to the fields with Pastorella’s flock. He kept watch against the wolf while the maid sported and played, and at even—such is the might of love—he would essay to help in the milking of the ewes.
These things were little to the liking of Corydon, who had long courted the maid. He wore a scowling face and would complain that old service was forgotten, and bore himself in most injurious fashion. Calidore, on the other hand, never abated one jot of his usual courtesy, showing no sign of rancour or offence, but rather seeking, as it seemed, to commend his rival to the good opinion of the maid. So when they danced to the piping of Colin Clout, and the others would have Calidore lead the ring, the knight took Corydon and set him in his place. And when Pastorella took the garland of flowers from her head and set it on Calidore’s, he again put it on the head of Corydon, much to the youth’s content. Another time, when the shepherds had games and contests of skill and strength, the prize being a garland which the fair Pastorella had twined with her own hands, Corydon stepped into the ring and challenged the knight to a bout of wrestling. He was himself well skilled in the art, and being supple and strong sought to put his rival to open shame. But he was much mistaken in his man, for the knight far excelled him both in strength and in skill, and gave him such a fall as well-nigh broke his neck. Nevertheless, when Pastorella bestowed on him the crown, he passed it to Corydon, saying that he in truth deserved it more, and that he had prevailed by fortune rather than by skill. Thus did the knight, so courteous was he and large of heart, win the fair maiden’s favour. But there was nothing which advanced him more than that which is now to be told.
On a certain day when these three, to wit, Pastorella and Sir Calidore and the shepherd Corydon, went out into the wood to gather strawberries, a tiger suddenly rushed out from a thicket, and with wide gaping mouth ran at the maid. She, seeing herself alone, for her companions chanced to be divided from her, cried aloud for succour. And when Corydon, who was the nearer of the two, heard the cry, he ran to help her. But when he saw how fierce a beast it was that was attacking her, his courage failed him, and he fled, putting his life before his love. But Calidore, who also had heard the crying, coming not far behind, when he saw the tiger and the maiden held in his claws, ran at the beast with all his strength, and first striking him to the ground with such a blow that the creature could not stand under it, then cut off its head and laid it at the maiden’s feet. Small wonder is it that she gave her love to a knight so courteous and so bold. So for a while they abode in great content, save that Sir Calidore had put out of his mind the quest on which he was bound, concerning which quest he had sworn to the great Queen Gloriana that nothing should hinder him from it.
It chanced one day that while Sir Calidore was hunting in the woods—it pleased him more to be hunter than to be shepherd—a company of lawless men who never used the spade or plough, but lived by the spoiling of their neighbours, fell upon the shepherds’ village, and spoiled their houses and drove away their flocks. Many of the men they slew, and many they led away captives. Among these was old Melibæus and the fair Pastorella and also Corydon. These the brigands carried away to an island where they dwelt, a close place, hidden with great woods round about, meaning, when occasion offered, to sell them to merchants who dealt in such wares.
When they had remained in ward for a while the captain of the brigands, seeing Pastorella how fair she was, conceived a great love for her, and when she spake him fair, would have had her marry him. This she was ill-content to do, but could not devise any other means to stay his importunities than to feign a sudden sickness. While she was making this pretence there came to the island a company of slave merchants, who, inquiring whether there were any of the wares in which they dealt, were brought to the captain.
“Sir,” said the brigands to the captain, “here be the merchants; ’twould be well that all the captives whom we have should be brought out and sold for such a price as may be agreed upon, and the money divided in equal shares.”
To this the captain could not but consent. The captives, therefore, were brought forward, Melibæus and Corydon and the others, and the merchants set a price upon them. This being finished, said one of the brigands, “There is yet another captive, a very fair maid, for whom, without doubt, you would pay much money, so beautiful is she to look upon.”
“Nay,” cried the captain, “that maid is not for selling. She is my wife, nor has anyone any concern with her. She, too, is now so wasted and worn with sickness that no one would be willing to pay for her a price, however small.”
So he took them to the chamber where she abode. A poor place it was, gloomy and dark, and the maiden was wasted and wan. Nevertheless the merchants were astonished at her beauty. “The others,” said their spokesman, “are but common wares. We will buy them, if you will, but on this condition only, that we may buy this maiden also.” And he named for her a price of a thousand pieces of gold.
The captain’s wrath was much moved at these words. “My love,” he cried, “shall not be sold. With the others you may do as you will, but to her I hold.”
“Nay,” said the one who was chief among the brigands, “you do us great wrong. We have our equal share in her, and we demand that she be sold with the rest.”
When he heard this, the captain drew his sword from its sheath, and shouted that anyone who should dare lay hands on her should straightway die. On this there followed a great battle. But first they slew the prisoners, lest haply they should turn against the weaker side. Thus did old Melibæus die and with him many others, but Corydon escaped. This being done, the thieves fought among themselves; and soon the captain, who was ever more careful of Pastorella than of his own life, was slain, and she, being wounded with the same stroke by which he was bereft of life, fell upon the ground, being hidden under a pile of dead bodies. The captain being dead, the strife of which he was the beginning and the chief cause soon came to an end. The brigands, searching among the dead, found the maid still lived, though sorely wounded; they gave her, therefore, such care as could be found in so rude a place.
In the meanwhile Corydon had made his way to the village where he dwelt, and there he encountered the knight, who, seeing the house in which he dwelt utterly spoiled and void of all inhabitants, was overwhelmed with trouble and fear. To him he told the story of how he, with the rest, had been led into captivity, and how the brigands had fallen out among themselves, and how the captain had fought with the others, and had been slain, and with him Pastorella, for so the shepherd believed.
For a while Sir Calidore was wholly mastered by his grief. Yet coming to himself, he considered that Corydon had not seen with his own eyes all that he had told, because he had fled away before the strife had so much as begun; and so hope, which is ever hard to kill in the hearts of men, sprang up within him, and he made a great resolve that he would find her if she yet lived, or avenge her if she had died. He therefore said to Corydon: “Come now, and show me the place where these brigands dwell,” which thing Corydon was at the first unwilling to do; for he was not minded to run again into the danger from which he had escaped. Nevertheless Sir Calidore so wrought upon him that he consented to go.
The two therefore set out together clad in shepherd’s clothing, and carrying each a shepherd’s crook; but Sir Calidore had donned his armour. After a while they saw on a hill which was not far away some flocks and shepherds tending them, and approached them, hoping to learn something about the matter with which they were concerned. Then they perceived that these flocks were indeed the same as the brigands had driven away, for Corydon knew his own sheep when he saw them, and wept for pity, being in grievous fear because he perceived that they who kept them were none other than the brigands themselves. These, however, were but ill shepherds, for they lay fast asleep. Corydon would have had Sir Calidore slay them as they slept. But the knight hoped that he might gain from them some tidings of her whom he was seeking. So, waking them gently, he gave them courteous greeting. And when the brigands would know who he was, he answered that he and his companion were used to the keeping of cattle and the like, and now, having run away from their masters, sought to find service elsewhere.
“Take service then with us,” said the brigands, “for this work is not to our liking.” To this the two agreed, and took charge accordingly.
When night fell the brigands took them to the cave where they dwelt. There Sir Calidore learnt many things which he desired to know, and chief of all that Pastorella was yet alive. At midnight, when all were sleeping sound, Sir Calidore, fully armed, for he had found a sword, though but of the meanest sort, went to the cave wherein dwelt the new captain of the band. It was indeed barred, but the knight soon broke down the bars, and when the captain, roused by the noise, came running to the entrance, slew him. Pastorella, being within, was at the first not a little alarmed at this new intruder, yet was greatly comforted to see again her own lover, and he also was overcome with joy, and catching her in his arms, kissed her most tenderly. Meanwhile the thieves had gathered together, perceiving that some new danger threatened them. But Sir Calidore, standing in the opening, slew them as they approached. In the end he utterly vanquished the whole company, and spoiled their goods. As for the sheep, he gave them as a gift to Corydon. The fair Pastorella he bestowed in the house of a certain Sir Bellamour and the lady Claribell his wife.
Now must be told the true name and lineage of this same maiden Pastorella. Sir Bellamour in former time had served a very great lord of those parts who had one daughter, Claribell by name. This same lord had promised her in marriage to the lord of Pictland, which was the neighbouring dominion, thinking that the two domains might thus be conveniently joined together. Claribell meanwhile loved Sir Bellamour, who was a very gallant knight. So fondly did she love him that she consented to a secret wedlock, having good hopes that her father might relent. But when he continued to be hard of heart, she having borne a maiden babe, was constrained to commit the child to a woman who waited upon her. This same woman, taking the babe into the field, laid it under a bush, and having hidden herself hard by, waited to see what should happen, for she trusted that someone, hearing its cry, would take it up. But first she noted that it had on its breast a little spot of purple colour, like to a rosebud. After a while the shepherd Melibæus passing by, heard the voice of the babe, and taking it from its place, carried it home to his wife, who, being herself childless, gladly took it in charge, and reared it for her own. No long time after the Lady Claribell’s father died and left to her all that he had, and she having now no cause why she should conceal her marriage, took Sir Bellamour openly for her husband, and had lived with him in great content until the coming of Sir Calidore into those parts.
And now Sir Calidore bethought him of his quest, that he must not delay its accomplishment any longer, and, indeed, he feared lest he should suffer in fame because he had put it aside in thinking of other things. Now, therefore, he departed, leaving Pastorella in the charge of the Lady Claribell, the same undertaking this care most willingly, for the maid was fair and gracious, and was altogether one to be loved. Sir Bellamour also, having a friendship for Sir Calidore, with whom he had served the Queen Gloriana in time past, was glad to help him in this fashion.
It chanced on a day that the Lady Claribell’s waiting woman, Melissa by name, being the same that in time past had served her in the matter of the new-born babe, was doing service to the fair Pastorella in the matter of her attire. Being so engaged, she spied the mark on her bosom and said to herself, “Surely this is the very mark of a rosebud that I saw on the Lady Claribell’s maiden babe, and the years of her age, as far as may be guessed, agree thereto.” Having this in her mind, she ran straightway to the lady, her mistress, and unfolded the whole matter, how she had noted the mark, and how the old shepherd had taken the babe from the ground. That this shepherd and his wife had been as father and mother to the maiden was of common knowledge. Nor did the Lady Claribell delay to search out the matter with her own eyes, and, being satisfied that this was indeed her very child, took her to herself with great joy, as did also her husband, Sir Bellamour.
Meanwhile Sir Calidore pursued the Blatant Beast, and at the last overtook him. The monster, having spoiled all the other places in the realm, was wasting the church, robbing the chancel and fouling the altar, and casting down all the goodly ornaments. When he saw the knight he fled, knowing that he was in peril, yet could he not escape. In a narrow place Sir Calidore overtook him and compelled him to turn. Sore was the conflict between these two, for the beast ran at the knight with open mouth, set with a double range of iron teeth, between which were a thousand tongues giving out dreadful cries as of all manner of beasts, tongues of serpents also spitting out poison, and of all other venomous things that are upon the earth. Not one whit dismayed, the knight ran in upon him, and when the monster lifted himself up on his hind legs, and would have rent him with his claws, he threw his shield between and held him down. Vainly did the beast rage and strive to lift himself from the ground; the more he strove, the more hardly and heavily did the knight press upon him. At the last, when the creature’s strength now failed him, the knight put a great muzzle of iron with many links in his mouth, so that he should no more send forth those evil voices. And to the muzzle he fastened a long chain with which he led him, he following as a dog, so utterly was he subdued. Through all Fairyland he led him, the people thronging out of their towns to see him, and much admiring the knight who, by his great strength and valour, had subdued so foul and fierce a creature.
’Tis true that in after days, whether by some evil chance or by the folly of those who had charge of the monster, these bonds were broken; for even now the creature wanders about the world doing great harm to all estates of men. For it must be known that his name is Slander.
But in the good times of old it was not so. So did Sir Calidore fulfil his quest. And afterwards he lived in all happiness, as became so brave and loyal a knight, with his wedded wife, the fair Pastorella.
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