Part 15
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.
Guildeluec stooped to pick up the fallen blossom. For a moment she hesitated, for her love for the knight was very great. Then she bent forward, and laid the stem of the flower between the rosy lips of the entranced Guilliadun. Immediately there were signs of life. The girl stirred, a blush came into her cheeks, and her lips parted. When her eyes opened, Guildeluec sighed and said, "Truly, never was there seen so fair a creature."
Guildeluec soon explained to the awakened princess where she was, and received her fervent thanks for delivery from so strange a spell. With many tears, Guilliadun confessed to her unknown friend her love for the knight Eliduc, and the way she had followed him from her father's court. Guildeluec heard her tale in silence, and when it was at an end, led her away from the hermitage to the palace, where the queen took the princess under her charge, and in the evening presented her with much pomp to the members of her court. When Eliduc saw Guilliadun alive and well, richly clad and lovelier than before, his heart rejoiced, but he turned away from her. Then came forward Guildeluec, who, with the queen's permission, released him from his pledge to her, and gave him back his ring, saying she had determined to retire to a convent and devote her days to holy works.
The queen then placed Guilliadun's hand in that of Eliduc. They were married with great rejoicings; but when the blessing was said over them by the priest, the knight fancied he heard a sigh breathed close in his ear. He looked around; there was no one in sight, save the group of nuns behind a grating, whose voices rose pure and clear in the strains of the bridal hymn.
THE FALCON-KING.
(_From one of Marie's Lays._)
There lived once, in Britain, an old knight who was lord of Caerwent, a city situated on the River Douglas. He was wealthy and avaricious, and the sole heir to his possessions, a lovely daughter, he kept locked up in a high tower, under the care of a cross governess. His one fear was that this daughter would marry, and thus give some one the right to lay claim to the gold that was dearer to him than life itself. To prevent her from getting a husband, the old knight used every method he could think of to keep off visitors; and any stray caller at the castle was set upon by fierce dogs, who would tear one to pieces as soon as gnaw a beef-bone!
Day after day the father rode off to the hunt, the governess told her beads, and the damsel moped within the tower. One morning she was at her wheel, singing a mournful ditty, and sighing from time to time, as she glanced over the tree-tops at the roofs and spires of the distant city, when suddenly the sky above her window was darkened, and she heard a whirring noise, as of mighty wings astir. A falcon of huge size and noble mien flew in at the casement, and lit submissively at her feet. The maiden stroked his proud head, and at once the bird changed to a beautiful young man, who, in a gentle voice, begged her to have no fear of him, as he was not only a devoted lover but the humblest of her slaves.
"Bid me go if you will," said the prince, "and deeply as I should regret your command, you will see how quickly I shall obey it. Long have I watched you from afar, and dearly I love you. For your sake, I have acquired the art of magic, enabling me to assume this shape in order to reach your prison."
"Oh! but I _don't_ want you to go!" cried the poor little mewed-up damsel, who was tired to death of having nobody to talk to.
As she had never seen a man younger than her father, it was a great astonishment to her to find that the prince's hair was dark and his cheek unwrinkled and rosy as a ripe peach.
What he meant by being a lover, she did not in the least understand. Only, it was pleasant to hear him talk in his kind, low voice; and praises were so rare to her, that they sounded sweet as honey dropping from his lips.
As a matter of course, the afternoon passed quickly; but at last, startled by the noise of a key grating in the lock of the door, the prince quickly assumed his bird-shape, and promising to come again upon the morrow, flew out of the window. The governess could not imagine what had put her prisoner in such a silly state of cheerfulness, as she thought it; and, boxing the poor girl's ears for smiling, gave her a long piece of poetry to learn by heart, and allowed her nothing but bread and water for her tea.
Next day the falcon came again, and for many days he continued his visits, until the girl grew to love him as he loved her, and promised to be his wife. Once a month the chaplain was accustomed to come to see her, and to make her say a catechism the longest ever heard of. When next the day came around for his visit, what was her surprise, instead of the stern chaplain, to find a gentle and kind old priest, who, when left alone with her, avowed himself to be a friend of the falcon-prince.
"As your father is a wicked and unworthy son of the church, and the prince a noble and devoted one, I cannot but approve of the marriage between you and your beloved," the old man said. "The ceremony will now be performed, and may heaven's blessing rest upon you both."
The falcon-prince arrived at the same moment, bearing in his beak a wedding-ring of large bright diamonds. The couple were married, and the prince told his wife that, very soon, he would be able to furnish her also with wings to leave the tower.
One day the governess, coming in unexpectedly, found the girl toying with a beautiful ring, which she hurriedly concealed in her mattress. Spite of all the governess' efforts, she could not find the jewel; nor could she succeed in drawing from her captive any explanation of how she had come by it. The governess told the father, who redoubled his precautions and set spies to watch upon the outside of the tower. In a few days, the spies reported to him that they had seen a bird of the largest size fly in at the maiden's window, remain there for some hours, and then fly out again.
"I'll be a match for this carrier-pigeon of hers!" said the old knight with malicious glee. That night a trap was set upon the outside of the window, surrounded by sharp knives, so that anything passing through it would inevitably be caught or wounded grievously. The young wife awaited her husband anxiously, for it was the day fixed for her escape. Soon he arrived; but as he touched the window the trap fell, and although he managed to pass in, a long trail of blood was left behind him.
"Lose no time, my beloved!" he said, in a voice altered by pain. "Our enemies are upon us. Put this bracelet on your arm, and spring into the air after me, without fear."
She obeyed, and found herself upborne by magic wings, which carried her more swiftly than the wind over forest tops, shining river, and city spires and domes. Glorious as was her airy flight, she could see that her companion grew weaker. They arrived in a country adjoining the one in which she had lived, and stopped immediately above a splendid palace--alighting in the marble balcony of a chamber furnished with the utmost magnificence. Here the falcon regained his man's shape, and, with despair, his wife saw that he was deathly pale, while the blood poured from a wound beneath his heart.
"I am dying," he exclaimed. "Help me to my bed yonder, and may heaven grant me strength to tell my people that you are their lawful queen."
The poor wife aided her husband to lie down, but when he would have spoken to her again, his voice was gone--a moment more, and he was dead.
And now in what a mournful plight the pretty new queen found herself! Soon the attendants would, no doubt, come flocking into the room, to discover their sovereign murdered in his bed, and a stranger cowering by his side. Terror lent speed to her feet, and hastening back to the balcony, she ran down a long flight of stairs communicating with the outer court and garden of the palace. Thence she escaped to wander into the forest, and until day broke again she never ceased to walk. For some days she remained concealed in the forest, living upon fruit and berries, until at last hunger drove her to the cottage of a poor laborer. The wife of this man was very ill, and the queen offered to stay and nurse her, which was gratefully accepted. So faithful and devoted an attendant she proved that, when the woman of the house got well, both husband and wife insisted their stranger guest should make her home with them. In this secluded retreat, where only a stray huntsman now and then passed by, the queen remained until a beautiful son was born to her. And now, she felt a burning desire to have her boy educated in a manner worthy of his father's rank; and poverty, that had seemed so light a burden to herself, grew heavy when it weighed on him. When the baby was three years old, a gay hunting-party passed that way, among them a rich and childless lady, who, charmed with the beauty of the boy, offered to adopt him on the spot.
The poor queen wept so bitterly at thought of parting with her treasure, that the lady, who was a kind-hearted person, proposed she should accompany them and serve in the capacity of the boy's governess.
To this plan the queen made no objection; and, bidding an affectionate farewell to her humble friends, she took her place with the boy in a travelling carriage sent to fetch them.
* * * * *
Years rolled on, and the child born in the forest had reached the age of twenty-one. He was a handsome, manly youth, and skilled in all athletic exercises. About this time, the family of his adopted mother was invited to be present at a great religious ceremony in an abbey upon the borders of a neighboring kingdom. Among the many attendants of the nobles summoned for the occasion, was the real mother, who came dressed in deep mourning and wearing a veil over her face; and one of the guests was the wicked old knight, her father. The abbot of the monastery threw open the doors of the chapel, that had long been sealed, and all flocked into it. There, in the centre, stood a bier covered with cloth of gold and surrounded by blazing wax-lights, while about it knelt an hundred priests, at prayer. After a mass had been sung, the abbot announced that in yonder bier lay the remains of the late king, their master, who, as all his faithful subjects knew, was foully murdered twenty-one years before; and that, by the terms of the king's will, found some time after his death, the throne rightfully belonged to a lady who had been married in secret by their sovereign, and was by him commended to their truest love and honor. "For many long years," added the good abbot, "we have sought vainly for the widow of our lamented ruler; not the faintest trace of her has ever been found, and we have resolved to meet here and choose to-day a successor to our king."
"Here is a worthy successor to your king!" cried a voice from the throng; and the unfortunate queen, throwing back her veil, pointed to her astonished son. "Behold the rightful heir! Who dares to say that he is not the image of his father? _I_ am the queen you have so long sought, and this youth is, unknown to himself, my son. In proof of it, here is the marriage ring given me by the king."
"And in proof of it," exclaimed a venerable priest, coming forward, "I attest that _I_ performed the marriage ceremony between our king and this poor lady. Her appearance and her claim remove the seal from my promise of secresy, and I unhesitatingly declare this youth to be our lawful sovereign."
All eyes turned upon the young man, and all tongues proclaimed his marvellous resemblance to the king. The abbot knelt at the young man's feet and offered him a golden crown carried on a velvet cushion. Loud cries of joy and cheers filled the air, when suddenly the unfortunate queen was seen to totter toward the bier of her husband.