BALLAD ROMANCE TOUCHING THE DAYS OF CHARLEMAGNE AND OF THE CID CAMPEADOR WITH THE BALLAD OF COUNT ALARCOS

FROM THE SPANISH BALLADS TRANSLATED BY JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.



CONTENTS.

PART I.

THE MOOR CALAYNOS 57 THE ESCAPE OF GAYFEROS 61 MELISENDRA 63 THE MARCH OF BERNARDO DEL CARPIO 67 LADY ALDA'S DREAM 69 THE ADMIRAL GUARINOS 71 THE COMPLAINT OF THE COUNT OF SALDENHA 75 THE FUNERAL OF THE COUNT OF SALDENHA 76 BERNARDO AND ALPHONSO 78

PART II.

THE YOUNG CID 81 XIMENA DEMANDS VENGEANCE 83 THE CID AND THE FIVE MOORISH KINGS 84 THE CID'S COURTSHIP 85 THE CID'S WEDDING 87 THE CID AND THE LEPER 88 BAVIECA 90 THE EXCOMMUNICATION OF THE CID 92

PART III.

COUNT ALARCOS AND THE INFANTA SOLIS 94



PART I.

THE MOOR CALAYNOS.

In the following version I have taken liberty to omit a good many of the introductory stanzas of the famous Coplas de Calainos. The reader will remember that this ballad is alluded to in Don Quixote, where the Knight's nocturnal visit to Toboso is described.

It is generally believed to be among the most ancient, and certainly was among the most popular, of all the ballads in the Cancionero.

I. "I had six Moorish nurses, but the seventh was not a Moor, The Moors they gave me milk enow, but the Christian gave me lore; And she told me ne'er to listen, though sweet the words might be, Till he that spake had proved his troth, and pledged a gallant fee."—

II. "Fair damsel," quoth Calaynos, "if thou wilt go with me, Say what may win thy favour, and thine that gift shall be. Fair stands the castle on the rock, the city in the vale, And bonny is the red red gold, and rich the silver pale."—

III. "Fair sir," quoth she, "virginity I never will lay down For gold, nor yet for silver, for castle, nor for town; But I will be your leman for the heads of certain peers— And I ask but three—Rinaldo's—Roland's—and Olivier's."—

IV. He kissed her hand where she did stand, he kissed her lips also, And "Bring forth," he cries, "my pennon, for to Paris I must go."— I wot ye saw them rearing his banner broad right soon, Whereon revealed his bloody field its pale and crescent moon.

V. That broad bannere the Moore did rear, ere many days were gone, In foul disdain of Charlemagne, by the church of good Saint John; In the midst of merry Paris, on the bonny banks of Seine, Shall never scornful Paynim that pennon rear again.

VI. His banner he hath planted high, and loud his trumpet blown, That all the twelve might hear it well around King Charles's throne; The note he blew right well they knew; both Paladin and Peer Had the trumpet heard of that stern lord in many a fierce career.

VII. It chanced the King, that fair morning, to the chace had made him bowne, With many a knight of warlike might, and prince of high renown; Sir Reynold of Montalban, and Claros' Lord, Gaston, Behind him rode, and Bertram good, that reverend old Baron.

VIII. Black D'Ardennes' eye of mastery in that proud troop was seen, And there was Urgel's giant force, and Guarinos' princely mien; Gallant and gay upon that day was Baldwin's youthful cheer, But first did ride, by Charles's side, Roland and Olivier.

IX. Now in a ring around the King, not far in the greenwood, Awaiting all the huntsman's call, it chanced the nobles stood; "Now list, mine earls, now list!" quoth Charles, "yon breeze will come again, Some trumpet-note methinks doth float from the bonny banks of Seine."—

X. He scarce had heard the trumpet, the word he scarce had said, When among the trees he near him sees a dark and turbaned head; "Now stand, now stand at my command, bold Moor," quoth Charlemagne, "That turban green, how dare it be seen among the woods of Seine."—

XI. "My turban green must needs be seen among the woods of Seine," The Moor replied, "since here I ride in quest of Charlemagne— For I serve the Moor Calaynos, and I his defiance bring To every lord that sits at the board of Charlemagne your King.

XII. "Now lordlings fair, if anywhere in the wood ye've seen him riding, O tell me plain the path he has ta'en—there is no cause for chiding; For my lord hath blown his trumpet by every gate of Paris— Long hours in vain, by the bank of Seine, upon his steed he tarries."—

XIII. When the Emperor had heard the Moor, full red was his old cheek, "Go back, base cur, upon the spur, for I am he you seek— Go back, and tell your master to commend him to Mahoun, For his soul shall dwell with him in hell, or ere yon sun go down.

XIV. "Mine arm is weak, my hairs are grey," (thus spake King Charlemagne,) "Would for one hour I had the power of my young days again, As when I plucked the Saxon from out his mountain den— O soon should cease the vaunting of this proud Saracen!

XV. "Though now mine arm be weakened, though now my hairs be grey, The hard-won praise of other days cannot be swept away— If shame there be, my liegemen, that shame on you must lie— Go forth, go forth, good Roland; to-night this Moor must die."—

XVI. Then out and spake rough Roland—"Ofttimes I've thinned the ranks Of the hot Moor, and when all was o'er have won me little thanks; Some carpet knight will take delight to do this doughty feat, Whom damsels gay shall well repay with their smiles and whispers sweet!"—

XVII. Then out and spake Sir Baldwin—the youngest peer was he, The youngest and the comeliest—"Let none go forth but me; Sir Roland is mine uncle, and he may in safety jeer, But I will show the youngest may be Sir Roland's peer."—

XVIII. "Nay, go not thou," quoth Charlemagne, "thou art my gallant youth, And braver none I look upon; but thy cheek it is too smooth; And the curls upon thy forehead they are too glossy bright;— Some elder peer must couch his spear against this crafty knight."—

XIX. But away, away goes Baldwin, no words can stop him now, Behind him lies the greenwood, he hath gained the mountain's brow, He reineth first his charger, within the churchyard green, Where, striding slow the elms below, the haughty Moor is seen.

XX. Then out and spake Calaynos—"Fair youth, I greet thee well; Thou art a comely stripling, and if thou with me wilt dwell, All for the grace of thy sweet face, thou shalt not lack thy fee, Within my lady's chamber a pretty page thou'lt be."—

XXI. An angry man was Baldwin, when thus he heard him speak, "Proud knight," quoth he, "I come with thee a bloody spear to break."— O, sternly smiled Calaynos, when thus he heard him say,— O loudly as he mounted his mailed barb did neigh.

XXII. One shout, one thrust, and in the dust young Baldwin lies full low— No youthful knight could bear the might of that fierce warrior's blow; Calaynos draws his falchion, and waves it to and fro, "Thy name now say, and for mercy pray, or to hell thy soul must go."—

XXIII. The helpless youth revealed the truth. Then said the conqueror— "I spare thee for thy tender years, and for thy great valour; But thou must rest thee captive here, and serve me on thy knee, For fain I'd tempt some doughtier peer to come and rescue thee."

XXIV. Sir Roland heard that haughty word, (he stood behind the wall,) His heart, I trow, was heavy enow, when he saw his kinsman fall; But now his heart was burning, and never a word he said, But clasped his buckler on his arm, his helmet on his head.

XXV. Another sight saw the Moorish knight, when Roland blew his horn, To call him to the combat in anger and in scorn; All cased in steel from head to heel, in the stirrup high he stood, The long spear quivered in his hand, as if athirst for blood.

XXVI. Then out and spake Calaynos—"Thy name I fain would hear; A coronet on thy helm is set; I guess thou art a Peer."— Sir Roland lifted up his horn, and blew another blast, "No words, base Moor," quoth Roland, "this hour shall be thy last."—

XXVII. I wot they met full swiftly, I wot the shock was rude; Down fell the misbeliever, and o'er him Roland stood; Close to his throat the steel he brought, and plucked his beard full sore— "What devil brought thee hither?—speak out or die, false Moor!"—

XXVIII. "O! I serve a noble damsel, a haughty maid of Spain, And in evil day I took my way, that I her grace might gain; For every gift I offered, my lady did disdain, And craved the ears of certain Peers that ride with Charlemagne."—

XXIX. Then loudly laughed rough Roland—"Full few will be her tears, It was not love her soul did move, when she bade thee beard THE PEERS."— With that he smote upon his throat, and spurned his crest in twain, "No more," he cries, "this moon will rise above the woods of Seine."



THE ESCAPE OF GAYFEROS.

The story of Gayfer de Bourdeaux is to be found at great length in the Romantic Chronicle of Charlemagne; and it has supplied the Spanish minstrels with subjects for a long series of ballads.

In that which follows, Gayferos, yet a boy, is represented as hearing from his mother the circumstances of his father's death; and as narrowly escaping with his own life, in consequence of his stepfather's cruelty.

I. Before her knee the boy did stand, within the dais so fair, The golden shears were in her hand, to clip his curled hair; And ever as she clipped the curls, such doleful words she spake, That tears ran from Gayferos' eyes, for his sad mother's sake.

II. "God grant a beard were on thy face, and strength thine arm within, To fling a spear, or swing a mace, like Roland Paladin! For then, I think, thou wouldst avenge thy father that is dead, Whom envious traitors slaughtered within thy mother's bed.

III. "Their bridal-gifts were rich and rare, that hate might not be seen; They cut me garments broad and fair—none fairer hath the Queen."— Then out and spake the little boy—"Each night to God I call, And to his blessed Mother, to make me strong and tall!"—

IV. The Count he heard Gayferos, in the palace where he lay;— "Now silence, silence, Countess! it is falsehood that you say; I neither slew the man, nor hired another's sword to slay;— But, for that the mother hath desired, be sure the son shall pay!"

V. The Count called to his esquires, (old followers were they, Whom the dead Lord had nurtured for many a merry day)— He bade them take their old Lord's heir, and stop his tender breath— Alas! 'twas piteous but to hear the manner of that death.

VI. "List, esquires, list, for my command is offspring of mine oath— The stirrup-foot and the hilt-hand see that ye sunder both;— That ye cut out his eyes 'twere best—the safer he will go— And bring a finger and the heart, that I his end may know."—

VII. The esquires took the little boy aside with them to go; Yet, as they went, they did repent—"O God! must this be so? How shall we think to look for grace, if this poor child we slay, When ranged before Christ Jesu's face at the great judgment day?"—

VIII. While they, not knowing what to do, were standing in such talk, The Countess' little lap-dog bitch by chance did cross their walk; Then out and spake one of the 'squires, (you may hear the words he said,) "I think the coming of this bitch may serve us in good stead—

IX. "Let us take out the bitch's heart, and give it to Galvan; The boy may with a finger part, and be no worser man."— With that they cut the joint away, and whispered in his ear, That he must wander many a day, nor once those parts come near.

X. "Your uncle grace and love will show; he is a bounteous man;"— And so they let Gayferos go, and turned them to Galvan. The heart and the small finger upon the board they laid, And of Gayferos' slaughter a cunning story made.

XI. The Countess, when she hears them, in great grief loudly cries: Meantime the stripling safely unto his uncle hies:— "Now welcome, my fair boy," he said, "what good news may they be Come with thee to thine uncle's hall?"—"Sad tidings come with me—

XII. "The false Galvan had laid his plan to have me in my grave; But I've escaped him, and am here, my boon from thee to crave: Rise up, rise up, mine uncle, thy brother's blood they've shed; Rise up—they've slain my father within my mother's bed."[2]



MELISENDRA.

The following is a version of another of the ballads concerning Gayferos. It is the same that is quoted in the chapter of the Puppet-show in Don Quixote.

"'Child, child,' said Don Quixote, 'go on directly with your story, and don't keep us here with your excursions and ramblings out of the road. I tell you there must be a formal process, and legal trial, to prove matters of fact.'—'Boy,' said the master from behind the show, 'do as the gentleman bids you. Don't run so much upon flourishes, but follow your plain song, without venturing on counterpoints, for fear of spoiling all'—'I will, sir,' quoth the boy, and so proceeding: 'Now, sirs, he that you see there a-horseback, wrapt up in the Gascoign-cloak, is Don Gayferos himself, whom his wife, now revenged on the Moor for his impudence, seeing from the battlements of the tower, takes him for a stranger, and talks with him as such, according to the ballad,

'Quoth Melisendra, if perchance, Sir Traveller, you go for France, For pity's sake, ask when you're there, For Gayferos, my husband dear.'

"'I omit the rest, not to tire you with a long story. It is sufficient that he makes himself known to her, as you may guess by the joy she shows; and, accordingly, now see how she lets herself down from the balcony, to come at her loving husband, and get behind him; but, unhappily, alas! one of the skirts of her gown is caught upon one of the spikes of the balcony, and there she hangs and hovers in the air miserably, without being able to get down. But see how Heaven is merciful, and sends relief in the greatest distress! Now Don Gayferos rides up to her, and, not fearing to tear her rich gown, lays hold on it, and at one pull brings her down; and then at one lift sets her astride upon his horse's crupper, bidding her to sit fast, and clap her arms about him, that she might not fall; for the lady Melisendra was not used to that kind of riding.

"'Observe now, gallants, how the horse neighs, and shows how proud he is of the burden of his brave master and fair mistress. Look, now, how they turn their backs, and leave the city, and gallop it merrily away towards Paris. Peace be with you, for a peerless couple of true lovers! may ye get safe and sound into your own country, without any lett or ill chance in your journey, and live as long as Nestor, in peace and quietness among your friends and relations.'—'Plainness, boy!' cried Master Peter, 'none of your flights, I beseech you, for affectation is the devil.'—The boy answered nothing, but going on: 'Now, sirs,' quoth he, 'some of those idle people, that love to pry into everything, happened to spy Melisendra as she was making her escape, and ran presently and gave Marsilius notice of it; whereupon he straight commanded to sound an alarm; and now mind what a din and hurly-burly there is, and how the city shakes with the ring of the bells backwards in all the mosques!'—'There you are out, boy,' said Don Quixote; 'the Moors have no bells, they only use kettle-drums, and a kind of shaulms like our waits or hautboys; so that your ringing of bells in Sansuena is a mere absurdity, good Master Peter.'—'Nay, sir,' said Master Peter, giving over ringing, 'if you stand upon these trifles with us, we shall never please you. Don't be so severe a critic. Are there not a thousand plays that pass with great success and applause, though they have many greater absurdities, and nonsense in abundance? On, boy, on, let there be as many impertinences as motes in the sun; no matter, so I get the money.'—'Well said,' answered Don Quixote.—'And now, sirs,' quoth the boy, 'observe what a vast company of glittering horse comes pouring out of the city, in pursuit of the Christian lovers; what a dreadful sound of trumpets, and clarions, and drums, and kettle-drums there is in the air. I fear they will overtake them, and then will the poor wretches be dragged along most barbarously at the tails of their horses, which would be sad indeed.'

"Don Quixote, seeing such a number of Moors, and hearing such an alarm, thought it high time to assist the flying lovers; and starting up, 'It shall never be said while I live,' cried he aloud, 'that I suffered such a wrong to be done to so famous a knight and so daring a lover as Don Gayferos. Forbear, then, your unjust pursuit, ye base-born rascals! Stop, or prepare to meet my furious resentment!' Then drawing out his sword, to make good his threats, at one spring he gets to the show, and with a violent fury lays at the Moorish puppets, cutting and slashing in a most terrible manner: some he overthrows, and beheads others; maims this, and cleaves that in pieces. Among the rest of his merciless strokes, he thundered one down with such a mighty force, that had not Master Peter luckily ducked and squatted down, it had certainly chopped off his head as easily as one might cut an apple."

I. At Sansuena,[3] in the tower, fair Melisendra lies, Her heart is far away in France, and tears are in her eyes; The twilight shade is thickening laid on Sansuena's plain, Yet wistfully the lady her weary eyes doth strain.

II. She gazes from the dungeon strong, forth on the road to Paris, Weeping, and wondering why so long her Lord Gayferos tarries, When lo! a knight appears in view—a knight of Christian mien, Upon a milk-white charger he rides the elms between.

III. She from her window reaches forth her hand a sign to make, "O, if you be a knight of worth, draw near for mercy's sake; For mercy and sweet charity, draw near, Sir Knight to me, And tell me if ye ride to France, or whither bowne ye be.

IV. "O, if ye be a Christian knight, and if to France you go, I pr'ythee tell Gayferos that you have seen my woe; That you have seen me weeping, here in the Moorish tower, While he is gay by night and day, in hall and lady's bower.

V. "Seven summers have I waited, seven winters long are spent, Yet word of comfort none he speaks, nor token hath he sent; And if he is weary of my love, and would have me wed a stranger, Still say his love is true to him—nor time nor wrong can change her."—

VI. The knight on stirrup rising, bids her wipe her tears away,— "My love, no time for weeping, no peril save delay— Come, boldly spring, and lightly leap—no listening Moor is near us, And by dawn of day we'll be far away,"—so spake the Knight Gayferos.

VII. She has made the sign of the Cross divine, and an Ave she hath said, And she dares the leap both wide and deep—that damsel without dread; And he hath kissed her pale pale cheek, and lifted her behind, Saint Denis speed the milk-white steed—no Moor their path shall find.



THE MARCH OF BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.

Of Bernardo del Carpio, we find little or nothing in the French romances of Charlemagne. He belongs exclusively to Spanish History, or rather perhaps to Spanish Romance; in which the honour is claimed for him of slaying the famous Orlando, or Roland, the nephew of Charlemagne, in the fatal field of Roncesvalles.

The continence which procured for Alonzo, who succeeded to the precarious throne of the Christians, in the Asturias, about 795, the epithet of the Chaste, was not universal in his family. By an intrigue with Sancho Diaz, Count of Saldana, or Saldenha, Donna Ximena, sister of this virtuous prince, bore a son. Some historians attempt to gloss over this incident, by alleging that a private marriage had taken place between the lovers: but King Alphonso, who was well-nigh sainted for living only in platonic union with his wife Bertha, took the scandal greatly to heart. He shut up the peccant princess in a cloister, and imprisoned her gallant in the castle of Luna, where he caused him to be deprived of sight. Fortunately, his wrath did not extend to the offspring of their stolen affections, the famous Bernardo del Carpio. When the youth had grown up to manhood, Alphonso, according to the Spanish chroniclers, invited the Emperor Charlemagne into Spain, and having neglected to raise up heirs for the kingdom of the Goths in the ordinary manner, he proposed the inheritance of his throne as the price of the alliance of Charles. But the nobility, headed by Bernardo del Carpio, remonstrated against the king's choice of a successor, and would on no account consent to receive a Frenchman as heir of their crown. Alphonso himself repented of the invitation he had given Charlemagne, and when that champion of Christendom came to expel the Moors from Spain, he found the conscientious and chaste Alphonso had united with the infidels against him. An engagement took place in the renowned pass of Roncesvalles, in which the French were defeated, and the celebrated Roland, or Orlando, was slain. The victory was ascribed chiefly to the prowess of Bernardo del Carpio.

The following ballad describes the enthusiasm excited among the Leonese, when Bernard first raised his standard to oppose the progress of Charlemagne's army.

I. With three thousand Men of Leon, from the city Bernard goes, To protect the soil Hispanian from the spear of Frankish foes From the city which is planted in the midst between the seas, To preserve the name and glory of old Pelayo's victories.

II. The peasant hears upon his field the trumpet of the knight, He quits his team for spear and shield, and garniture of might, The shepherd hears it 'mid the mist—he flingeth down his crook, And rushes from the mountain like a tempest-troubled brook.

III. The youth who shows a maiden's chin, whose brows have ne'er been bound The helmet's heavy ring within, gains manhood from the sound; The hoary sire beside the fire forgets his feebleness, Once more to feel the cap of steel a warrior's ringlets press.

IV. As through the glen his spears did gleam, these soldiers from the hills, They swelled his host, as mountain-stream receives the roaring rills; They round his banner flocked, in scorn of haughty Charlemagne, And thus upon their swords are sworn the faithful sons of Spain.

V. "Free were we born," 'tis thus they cry, "though to our King we owe The homage and the fealty behind his crest to go; By God's behest our aid he shares, but God did ne'er command, That we should leave our children heirs of an enslaved land.

VI. "Our breasts are not so timorous, nor are our arms so weak, Nor are our veins so bloodless, that we our vow should break, To sell our freedom for the fear of Prince or Paladin,— At least we'll sell our birthright dear, no bloodless prize they'll win.

VII. "At least King Charles, if God decrees he must be lord of Spain, Shall witness that the Leonese were not aroused in vain; He shall bear witness that we died, as lived our sires of old, Nor only of Numantium's pride shall minstrel tales be told.

VIII. "THE LION[4] that hath bathed his paws in seas of Libyan gore, Shall he not battle for the laws and liberties of yore? Anointed cravens may give gold to whom it likes them well, But steadfast heart and spirit bold Alphonso ne'er shall sell."



LADY ALDA'S DREAM.

The following is an attempt to render one of the most admired of all the Spanish ballads.

En Paris esta Dona Alda, la esposa de Don Roldan, Trecientas damas con ella, para la accompanar, Todas visten un vestido, todas calcan un calcar, &c.

In its whole structure and strain it bears a very remarkable resemblance to several of our own old ballads—both English and Scottish.

I. In Paris sits the lady that shall be Sir Roland's bride, Three hundred damsels with her, her bidding to abide; All clothed in the same fashion, both the mantle and the shoon, All eating at one table, within her hall at noon: All, save the Lady Alda, she is lady of them all, She keeps her place upon the dais, and they serve her in her hall; The thread of gold a hundred spin, the lawn a hundred weave, And a hundred play sweet melody within Alda's bower at eve.

II. With the sound of their sweet playing, the lady falls asleep, And she dreams a doleful dream, and her damsels hear her weep; There is sorrow in her slumber, and she waketh with a cry, And she calleth for her damsels, and swiftly they come nigh. "Now, what is it, Lady Alda," (you may hear the words they say,) "Bringeth sorrow to thy pillow, and chaseth sleep away?"— "O, my maidens!" quoth the lady, "my heart it is full sore! I have dreamt a dream of evil, and can slumber never more.

III. "For I was upon a mountain, in a bare and desert place, And I saw a mighty eagle, and a falcon he did chase; And to me the falcon came, and I hid it in my breast, But the mighty bird, pursuing, came and rent away my vest; And he scattered all the feathers, and blood was on his beak, And ever, as he tore and tore, I heard the falcon shriek;— Now read my vision, damsels, now read my dream to me, For my heart may well be heavy that doleful sight to see."—

IV. Out spake the foremost damsel was in her chamber there— (You may hear the words she says), "O! my lady's dream is fair— The mountain is St. Denis' choir; and thou the falcon art, And the eagle strong that teareth the garment from thy heart, And scattereth the feathers, he is the Paladin— That, when again he comes from Spain, must sleep thy bower within;— Then be blithe of cheer, my lady, for the dream thou must not grieve, It means but that thy bridegroom shall come to thee at eve."—

V. "If thou hast read my vision, and read it cunningly,"— Thus said the Lady Alda, "thou shalt not lack thy fee." But woe is me for Alda! there was heard, at morning hour, A voice of lamentation within that lady's bower, For there had come to Paris a messenger by night, And his horse it was a-weary, and his visage it was white; And there's weeping in the chamber and there's silence in the hall, For Sir Roland had been slaughtered in the chase of Roncesval.



THE ADMIRAL GUARINOS.

This is a translation of the ballad which Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, when at Toboso, overheard a peasant singing, as he was going to his work at daybreak.—"Iba cantando," says Cervantes, "aquel romance que dice, Mala la vistes Franceses la caca de Roncesvalles."

I. The day of Roncesvalles was a dismal day for you, Ye men of France, for there the lance of King Charles was broke in two. Ye well may curse that rueful field, for many a noble peer, In fray or fight, the dust did bite, beneath Bernardo's spear.

II. There captured was Guarinos, King Charles's admiral; Seven Moorish kings surrounded him, and seized him for their thrall; Seven times, when all the chase was o'er, for Guarinos lots they cast; Seven times Marlotes won the throw, and the knight was his at last.

III. Much joy had then Marlotes, and his captive much did prize, Above all the wealth of Araby, he was precious in his eyes. Within his tent at evening he made the best of cheer, And thus, the banquet done, he spake unto his prisoner.

IV. "Now, for the sake of Alla, Lord Admiral Guarinos Be thou a Moslem, and much love shall ever rest between us. Two daughters have I—all the day thy handmaid one shall be, The other (and the fairer far) by night shall cherish thee.

V. "The one shall be thy waiting-maid, thy weary feet to lave, To scatter perfumes on thy head, and fetch thee garments brave; The other—she the pretty—shall deck her bridal bower, And my field and my city they both shall be her dower.

VI. "If more thou wishest, more I'll give—speak boldly what thy thought is."— Thus earnestly and kindly to Guarinos said Marlotes;— But not a moment did he take to ponder or to pause, Thus clear and quick the answer of the Christian Captain was:

VII. "Now, God forbid! Marlotes, and Mary, his dear mother, That I should leave the faith of Christ, and bind me to another. For women—I've one wife in France, and I'll wed no more in Spain; I change not faith, I break not vow, for courtesy or gain."—

VIII. Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when thus he heard him say, And all for ire commanded, he should be led away; Away unto the dungeon keep, beneath its vault to lie, With fetters bound in darkness deep, far off from sun and sky.

IX. With iron bands they bound his hands. That sore unworthy plight Might well express his helplessness, doomed never more to fight. Again, from cincture down to knee, long bolts of iron he bore, Which signified the knight should ride on charger never more.

X. Three times alone, in all the year, it is the captive's doom, To see God's daylight bright and clear, instead of dungeon-gloom; Three times alone they bring him out, like Samson long ago, Before the Moorish rabble-rout to be a sport and show.

XI. On three high feasts they bring him forth, a spectacle to be, The feast of Pasque, and the great day of the Nativity, And on that morn, more solemn yet, when the maidens strip the bowers, And gladden mosque and minaret with the first fruits of the flowers.

XII. Days come and go of gloom and show. Seven years are come and gone, And now doth fall the festival of the holy Baptist John; Christian and Moslem tilts and jousts, to give it homage due; And rushes on the paths to spread they force the sulky Jew.

XIII. Marlotes, in his joy and pride, a target high doth rear, Below the Moorish knights must ride and pierce it with the spear; But 'tis so high up in the sky, albeit much they strain, No Moorish lance so far may fly, Marlotes' prize to gain.

XIV. Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when he beheld them fail, The whisker trembled on his lip, and his cheek for ire was pale; And heralds proclamation made, with trumpets, through the town,— "Nor child shall suck, nor man shall eat, till the mark be tumbled down."

XV. The cry of proclamation, and the trumpet's haughty sound, Did send an echo to the vault where the admiral was bound. "Now, help me God!" the captive cries, "what means this din so loud? Oh, Queen of Heaven! be vengeance given on these thy haters proud!

XVI. "O! is it that some Pagan gay doth Marlotes' daughter wed, And that they bear my scorned fair in triumph to his bed? Or is it that the day is come—one of the hateful three, When they, with trumpet, fife, and drum, make heathen game of me?"—

XVII. These words the jailer chanced to hear, and thus to him he said, "These tabors, Lord, and trumpets clear, conduct no bride to bed; Nor has the feast come round again, when he that has the right, Commands thee forth, thou foe of Spain, to glad the people's sight.

XVIII. "This is the joyful morning of John the Baptist's day, When Moor and Christian feasts at home, each in his nation's way; But now our King commands that none his banquet shall begin, Until some knight, by strength or sleight, the spearman's prize do win."—

XIX. Then out and spake Guarinos, "O! soon each man should feed, Were I but mounted once again on my own gallant steed. O! were I mounted as of old, and harnessed cap-a-pee, Full soon Marlotes' prize I'd hold, whate'er its price may be.

XX. "Give me my horse, mine old grey horse, so be he is not dead, All gallantly caparisoned, with plate on breast and head, And give the lance I brought from France, and if I win it not, My life shall be the forfeiture—I'll yield it on the spot."—

XXI. The jailer wondered at his words. Thus to the knight said he, "Seven weary years of chains and gloom have little humbled thee; There's never a man in Spain, I trow, the like so well might bear; An' if thou wilt, I with thy vow will to the King repair."—

XXII. The jailer put his mantle on, and came unto the King, He found him sitting on the throne, within his listed ring; Close to his ear he planted him, and the story did begin, How bold Guarinos vaunted him the spearman's prize to win.

XXIII. That, were he mounted but once more on his own gallant grey, And armed with the lance he bore on the Roncesvalles' day, What never Moorish knight could pierce, he would pierce it at a blow, Or give with joy his life-blood fierce, at Marlotes' feet to flow.

XXIV. Much marvelling, then said the King, "Bring Sir Guarinos forth, And in the Grange go seek ye for his grey steed of worth; His arms are rusty on the wall—seven years have gone, I judge, Since that strong horse has bent his force to be a carrion drudge.

XXV. "Now this will be a sight indeed, to see the enfeebled lord Essay to mount that ragged steed, and draw that rusty sword; And for the vaunting of his phrase he well deserves to die, So, jailer, gird his harness on, and bring your champion nigh."—

XXVI. They have girded on his shirt of mail, his cuisses well they've clasped, And they've barred the helm on his visage pale, and his hand the lance hath clasped, And they have caught the old grey horse, the horse he loved of yore, And he stands pawing at the gate—caparisoned once more.

XXVII. When the knight came out the Moors did shout, and loudly laughed the King, For the horse he pranced and capered, and furiously did fling; But Guarinos whispered in his ear, and looked into his face, Then stood the old charger like a lamb, with a calm and gentle grace.

XXVIII. O! Lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle-tree, And slowly riding down made halt before Marlotes' knee; Again the heathen laughed aloud—"All hail, Sir Knight," quoth he, "Now do thy best, thou champion proud. Thy blood I look to see."—

XXIX. With that Guarinos, lance in rest, against the scoffer rode, Pierced at one thrust his envious breast, and down his turban trode. Now ride, now ride, Guarinos—nor lance nor rowel spare— Slay, slay, and gallop for thy life.—The land of France lies there!



THE COMPLAINT OF THE COUNT OF SALDENHA.

This ballad is intended to represent the feelings of Don Sancho, Count of Saldenha or Saldana, while imprisoned by King Alphonso, and, as he supposed, neglected and forgotten, both by his wife, or rather mistress, Donna Ximena, and by his son, the famous Bernardo del Carpio.

I. The Count Don Sancho Diaz, the Signior of Saldane, Lies weeping in his prison, for he cannot refrain:— King Alphonso and his sister, of both doth he complain, But most of bold Bernardo, the champion of Spain.

II. "The weary years I durance brook, how many they have been, When on these hoary hairs I look, may easily be seen; When they brought me to this castle, my curls were black, I ween, Woe worth the day! they have grown grey these rueful walls between.

III. "They tell me my Bernardo is the doughtiest lance in Spain, But if he were my loyal heir, there's blood in every vein Whereof the voice his heart would hear—his hand would not gainsay;— Though the blood of kings be mixed with mine, it would not have all the sway.

IV. "Now all the three have scorn of me—unhappy man am I! They leave me without pity—they leave me here to die. A stranger's feud, albeit rude, were little dole or care, But he's my own, both flesh and bone; his scorn is ill to bear.

V. "From Jailer and from Castellain I hear of hardiment And chivalry in listed plain on joust and tourney spent;— I hear of many a battle, in which thy spear is red, But help from thee comes none to me where I am ill bested.

VI. "Some villain spot is in thy blood to mar its gentle strain, Else would it show forth hardihood for him from whom 'twas ta'en; Thy hope is young, thy heart is strong, but yet a day may be, When thou shalt weep in dungeon deep, and none thy weeping see."



THE FUNERAL OF THE COUNT OF SALDENHA.

The ballads concerning Bernardo del Carpio are, upon the whole, in accordance with his history as given in the Coronica General. According to the Chronicle, Bernardo being at last wearied out of all patience by the cruelty of which his father was the victim, determined to quit the Court of his King, and seek an alliance among the Moors. Having fortified himself in the Castle of Carpio, he made continual incursions into the territory of Leon, pillaging and plundering wherever he came. The King at length besieged him in his stronghold, but the defence was so gallant, that there appeared no prospect of success; whereupon many of the gentlemen in Alphonso's camp entreated the King to offer Bernardo immediate possession of his father's person, if he would surrender his castle.

Bernardo at once consented; but the King gave orders to have Count Sancho Diaz taken off instantly in his prison. "When he was dead they clothed him in splendid attire, mounted him on horseback, and so led him towards Salamanca, where his son was expecting his arrival. As they drew nigh the city, the King and Bernardo rode out to meet them; and when Bernardo saw his father approaching, he exclaimed,—'O God! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming?'—'Look where he is,' replied the cruel King; 'and now go and greet him whom you have so long desired to see.' Bernardo went forward and took his father's hand to kiss it; but when he felt the dead weight of the hand, and saw the livid face of the corpse, he cried aloud, and said,—'Ah, Don Sandiaz, in an evil hour didst thou beget me!—Thou art dead, and I have given my stronghold for thee, and now I have lost all.'"

I. All in the centre of the choir Bernardo's knees are bent, Before him for his murdered sire yawns the old monument.

II. His kinsmen of the Carpio blood are kneeling at his back, With knightly friends and vassals good, all garbed in weeds of black.

III. He comes to make the obsequies of a basely slaughtered man, And tears are running down from eyes whence ne'er before they ran.

IV. His head is bowed upon the stone; his heart, albeit full sore, Is strong as when in days bygone he rode o'er Frank and Moor;

V. And now between his teeth he mutters, that none his words can hear; And now the voice of wrath he utters, in curses loud and clear.

VI. He stoops him o'er his father's shroud, his lips salute the bier; He communes with the corse aloud, as if none else were near.

VII. His right hand doth his sword unsheath, his left doth pluck his beard;— And while his liegemen held their breath, these were the words they heard:—

VIII. "Go up, go up, thou blessed ghost, into the arms of God; Go, fear not lest revenge be lost, when Carpio's blood hath flowed;

IX. "The steel that drank the blood of France, the arm thy foe that shielded, Still, Father, thirsts that burning lance, and still thy son can wield it."



BERNARDO AND ALPHONSO.

The incident recorded in this ballad may be supposed to have occurred immediately after the funeral of the Count of Saldenha. As to what was the end of the knight's history, we are left almost entirely in the dark, both by the Chronicle and by the Romancero. It appears to be intimated, that after his father's death, he once more "took service" among the Moors, who are represented in several of the ballads as accustomed to exchange offices of courtesy with Bernardo.

I. With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath appeared Before them all in the palace hall, the lying King to beard; With cap in hand and eye on ground, he came in reverend guise, But ever and anon he frowned, and flame broke from his eyes.

II. "A curse upon thee," cries the King, "who comest unbid to me; But what from traitor's blood should spring, save traitors like to thee? His sire, Lords, had a traitor's heart; perchance our Champion brave Made think it were a pious part to share Don Sancho's grave."

III. "Whoever told this tale the King hath rashness to repeat," Cries Bernard, "here my gage I fling before THE LIAR'S feet! No treason was in Sancho's blood, no stain in mine doth lie— Below the throne what knight will own the coward calumny?

IV. "The blood that I like water shed, when Roland did advance, By secret traitors hired and led, to make us slaves of France;— The life of King Alphonso I saved at Roncesval,— Your words, Lord King, are recompense abundant for it all.

V. "Your horse was down—your hope was flown—I saw the falchion shine, That soon had drunk your royal blood, had not I ventured mine; But memory soon of service done deserteth the ingrate, And ye've thanked the son for life and crown by the father's bloody fate.

VI. "Ye swore upon your kingly faith, to set Don Sancho free, But curse upon your paltering breath, the light he ne'er did see; He died in dungeon cold and dim, by Alphonso's base decree, And visage blind, and stiffened limb, were all they gave to me.

VII. "The King that swerveth from his word hath stained his purple black, No Spanish Lord will draw the sword behind a Liar's back; But noble vengeance shall be mine, an open hate I'll show— The King hath injured Carpio's line, and Bernard is his foe."

VIII. "Seize—seize him!"—loud the King doth scream—"There are a thousand here— Let his foul blood this instant stream—What! Caitiffs, do ye fear? Seize—seize the traitor!"—But not one to move a finger dareth,— Bernardo standeth by the throne, and calm his sword he bareth.

IX. He drew the falchion from the sheath, and held it up on high, And all the hall was still as death:—cries Bernard, "Here am I, And here is the sword that owns no lord, excepting heaven and me; Fain would I know who dares his point—King, Conde, or Grandee."

X. Then to his mouth the horn he drew—(it hung below his cloak) His ten true men the signal knew, and through the ring they broke; With helm on head, and blade in hand, the knights the circle brake, And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, and the false king to quake.

XI. "Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, "what means this warlike guise? Ye know full well I jested—ye know your worth I prize."— But Bernard turned upon his heel, and smiling passed away— Long rued Alphonso and his realm the jesting of that day.



PART II.

THE YOUNG CID.

The Ballads in the Collection of Escobar, entitled "Romancero e Historia del muy valeroso Cavallero El Cid Ruy Diaz de Bivar," are said by Mr. Southey to be in general possessed of but little merit. Notwithstanding the opinion of that great scholar and poet, I have had much pleasure in reading them; and have translated a very few, which may serve, perhaps, as a sufficient specimen.

The following is a version of that which stands fifth in Escobar:—

Cavalga Diego Laynez al buen Rey besar la mano, &c.

I. Now rides Diego Laynez, to kiss the good King's hand, Three hundred men of gentry go with him from his land, Among them, young Rodrigo, the proud Knight of Bivar; The rest on mules are mounted, he on his horse of war.

II. They ride in glittering gowns of soye,—He harnessed like a lord; There is no gold about the boy, but the crosslet of his sword; The rest have gloves of sweet perfume,—He gauntlets strong of mail; They broidered caps and flaunting plume,—He crest untaught to quail.

III. All talking with each other thus along their way they passed, But now they've come to Burgos, and met the King at last; When they came near his nobles, a whisper through them ran,— "He rides amidst the gentry that slew the Count Lozan."—

IV. With very haughty gesture Rodrigo reined his horse, Right scornfully he shouted, when he heard them so discourse,— "If any of his kinsmen or vassals dare appear, The man to give them answer, on horse or foot, is here."—

V. "The devil ask the question!" thus muttered all the band;— With that they all alighted, to kiss the good King's hand,— All but the proud Rodrigo, he in his saddle stayed,— Then turned to him his father (you may hear the words he said).

VI. "Now, light, my son, I pray thee, and kiss the good King's hand, He is our lord, Rodrigo; we hold of him our land."— But when Rodrigo heard him, he looked in sulky sort,— I wot the words he answered they were both cold and short.

VII. "Had any other said it, his pains had well been paid, But thou, sir, art my father, thy word must be obeyed."— With that he sprung down lightly, before the King to kneel, But as the knee was bending, out leapt his blade of steel.

VIII. The King drew back in terror, when he saw the sword was bare; "Stand back, stand back, Rodrigo, in the devil's name beware, Your looks bespeak a creature of father Adam's mould, But in your wild behaviour you're like some lion bold."

IX. When Rodrigo heard him say so, he leapt into his seat, And thence he made his answer, with visage nothing sweet,— "I'd think it little honour to kiss a kingly palm, And if my fathers kissed it, thereof ashamed I am."—

X. When he these words had uttered, he turned him from the gate, His true three hundred gentles behind him followed straight; If with good gowns they came that day, with better arms they went; And if their mules behind did stay, with horses they're content.



XIMENA DEMANDS VENGEANCE.

This ballad, the sixth in Escobar, represents Ximena Gomez as, in person, demanding of the King vengeance for the death of her father, whom the young Rodrigo de Bivar had fought and slain.

I. Within the court at Burgos a clamour doth arise, Of arms on armour clashing, and screams, and shouts, and cries; The good men of the King, that sit his hall around, All suddenly upspring, astonished at the sound.

II. The King leans from his chamber, from the balcony on high— "What means this furious clamour my palace-porch so nigh?" But when he looked below him, there were horsemen at the gate, And the fair Ximena Gomez, kneeling in woeful state.

III. Upon her neck, disordered, hung down the lady's hair, And floods of tears were streaming upon her bosom fair. Sore wept she for her father, the Count that had been slain; Loud cursed she Rodrigo, whose sword his blood did stain.

IV. They turned to bold Rodrigo, I wot his cheek was red;— With haughty wrath he listened to the words Ximena said— "Good King, I cry for justice. Now, as my voice thou hearest, So God befriend the children, that in thy land thou rearest.

V. "The King that doth not justice hath forfeited his claim, Both to his kingly station, and to his kingly name; He should not sit at banquet, clad in the royal pall, Nor should the nobles serve him on knee within the hall.

VI. "Good King, I am descended from barons bright of old, That with Castilian pennons, Pelayo did uphold; But if my strain were lowly, as it is high and clear, Thou still shouldst prop the feeble, and the afflicted hear.

VII. "For thee, fierce homicide, draw, draw thy sword once more, And pierce the breast which wide I spread thy stroke before; Because I am a woman, my life thou needst not spare,— I am Ximena Gomez, my slaughtered father's heir.

VIII. "Since thou hast slain the Knight that did our faith defend, And still to shameful flight all the Almanzors send, 'Tis but a little matter that I confront thee so, Come, champion, slay his daughter, she needs must be thy foe."—

IX. Ximena gazed upon him, but no reply could meet; His fingers held the bridle; he vaulted to his seat. She turned her to the nobles, I wot her cry was loud, But not a man durst follow; slow rode he through the crowd.



THE CID AND THE FIVE MOORISH KINGS.

The reader will find the story of this ballad in Mr. Southey's "Chronicle of the Cid." "And the Moors entered Castile in great power, for there came with them five kings," &c. Book I. Sect. 4.

I. With fire and desolation the Moors are in Castile, Five Moorish kings together, and all their vassals leal; They've passed in front of Burgos, through the Oca-Hills they've run, They've plundered Belforado, San Domingo's harm is done.

II. In Najara and Lograno there's waste and disarray:— And now with Christian captives, a very heavy prey, With many men and women, and boys and girls beside, In joy and exultation to their own realms they ride.

III. For neither king nor noble would dare their path to cross, Until the good Rodrigo heard of this skaith and loss; In old Bivar the castle he heard the tidings told, (He was as yet a stripling, not twenty summers old.)

IV. He mounted Bavieca, his friends he with him took, He raised the country round him, no more such scorn to brook; He rode to the hills of Oca, where then the Moormen lay, He conquered all the Moormen, and took from them their prey.

V. To every man had mounted he gave his part of gain, Dispersing the much treasure the Saracens had ta'en; The Kings were all the booty himself had from the war, Them led he to the castle, his stronghold of Bivar.

VI. He brought them to his mother, proud dame that day was she:— They owned him for their Signior, and then he set them free: Home went they, much commending Rodrigo of Bivar, And sent him lordly tribute, from their Moorish realms afar.



THE CID'S COURTSHIP.

See Mr. Southey's "Chronicle of the Cid" (Book I. Sect. V) for this part of the Cid's story, as given in the General Chronicle of Spain.

I. Now, of Rodrigo de Bivar great was the fame that run, How he five Kings had vanquished, proud Moormen every one; And how, when they consented to hold of him their ground, He freed them from the prison wherein they had been bound.

II. To the good King Fernando, in Burgos where he lay, Came then Ximena Gomez, and thus to him did say:— "I am Don Gomez' daughter, in Gormaz Count was he; Him slew Rodrigo of Bivar in battle valiantly.

III. "Now am I come before you, this day a boon to crave, And it is that I to husband may this Rodrigo have; Grant this, and I shall hold me a happy damosell, Much honoured shall I hold me, I shall be married well.

IV. "I know he's born for thriving, none like him in the land; I know that none in battle against his spear may stand; Forgiveness is well pleasing in God our Saviour's view. And I forgive him freely, for that my sire he slew."—

V. Right pleasing to Fernando was the thing she did propose; He writes his letter swiftly, and forth his foot-page goes; I wot, when young Rodrigo saw how the King did write, He leapt on Bavieca—I wot his leap was light.

VI. With his own troop of true men forthwith he took the way, Three hundred friends and kinsmen, all gently born were they; All in one colour mantled, in armour gleaming gay, New were both scarf and scabbard, when they went forth that day.

VII. The King came out to meet him, with words of hearty cheer; Quoth he, "My good Rodrigo, you are right welcome here; This girl Ximena Gomez would have ye for her lord, Already for the slaughter her grace she doth accord.

VIII. "I pray you be consenting, my gladness will be great; You shall have lands in plenty, to strengthen your estate."— "Lord King," Rodrigo answers, "in this and all beside Command, and I'll obey you. The girl shall be my bride."—

IX. But when the fair Ximena came forth to plight her hand, Rodrigo, gazing on her, his face could not command: He stood and blushed before her;—thus at the last said he— "I slew thy sire, Ximena, but not in villany:—

X. "In no disguise I slew him, man against man I stood; There was some wrong between us, and I did shed his blood. I slew a man, I owe a man; fair lady, by God's grace, An honoured husband thou shalt have in thy dead father's place."



THE CID'S WEDDING.

The following ballad, which contains some curious traits of rough and antique manners, is not included in Escobar's Collection. There is one there descriptive of the same event, but apparently executed by a much more modern hand.

I. Within his hall of Burgos the King prepares the feast: He makes his preparation for many a noble guest. It is a joyful city, it is a gallant day, 'Tis the Campeador's wedding, and who will bide away?

II. Layn Calvo, the Lord Bishop, he first comes forth the gate, Behind him comes Ruy Diaz, in all his bridal state; The crowd makes way before them as up the street they go;— For the multitude of people their steps must needs be slow.

III. The King had taken order that they should rear an arch, From house to house all over, in the way where they must march; They have hung it all with lances, and shields, and glittering helms, Brought by the Campeador from out the Moorish realms.

IV. They have scattered olive branches and rushes on the street, And the ladies fling down garlands at the Campeador's feet; With tapestry and broidery their balconies between, To do his bridal honour, their walls the burghers screen.

V. They lead the bulls before them all covered o'er with trappings; The little boys pursue them with hootings and with clappings; The fool, with cap and bladder, upon his ass goes prancing, Amidst troops of captive maidens with bells and cymbals dancing.

VI. With antics and with fooleries, with shouting and with laughter, They fill the streets of Burgos—and The Devil he comes after, For the King has hired the horned fiend for sixteen maravedis, And there he goes, with hoofs for toes, to terrify the ladies.

VII. Then comes the bride Ximena—the King he holds her hand; And the Queen, and, all in fur and pall, the nobles of the land; All down the street the ears of wheat are round Ximena flying, But the King lifts off her bosom sweet whatever there is lying.

VIII. Quoth Suero, when he saw it, (his thought you understand,) "'Tis a fine thing to be a King; but Heaven make me a Hand!" The King was very merry, when he was told of this, And swore the bride ere eventide, must give the boy a kiss.

IX. The King went always talking, but she held down her head, And seldom gave an answer to anything he said; It was better to be silent, among such a crowd of folk, Than utter words so meaningless as she did when she spoke.



THE CID AND THE LEPER.

Like our own Robert the Bruce, the great Spanish hero is represented as exhibiting, on many occasions, great gentleness of disposition and compassion. But while old Barbour is contented with such simple anecdotes as that of a poor laundress being suddenly taken ill with the pains of childbirth, and the king stopping the march of his army rather than leave her unprotected, the minstrels of Spain, never losing an opportunity of gratifying the superstitious propensities of their audience, are sure to let no similar incident in their champion's history pass without a miracle.

I. He has ta'en some twenty gentlemen, along with him to go, For he will pay that ancient vow he to Saint James doth owe; To Compostella, where the shrine doth by the altar stand, The good Rodrigo de Bivar is riding through the land.

II. Where'er he goes, much alms he throws, to feeble folk and poor; Beside the way for him they pray, him blessings to procure; For, God and Mary Mother, their heavenly grace to win, His hand was ever bountiful: great was his joy therein.

III. And there, in middle of the path, a leper did appear; In a deep slough the leper lay, none would to help come near. With a loud voice he thence did cry, "For God our Saviour's sake, From out this fearful jeopardy a Christian brother take."—

IV. When Roderick heard that piteous word, he from his horse came down; For all they said, no stay he made, that noble champion; He reached his hand to pluck him forth, of fear was no account, Then mounted on his steed of worth, and made the leper mount.

V. Behind him rode the leprous man; when to their hostelrie They came, he made him eat with him at table cheerfully; While all the rest from that poor guest with loathing shrunk away, To his own bed the wretch he led, beside him there he lay.

VI. All at the mid-hour of the night, while good Rodrigo slept, A breath came from the leprous man, it through his shoulders crept; Right through the body, at the breast, passed forth that breathing cold; I wot he leaped up with a start, in terrors manifold.

VII. He groped for him in the bed, but him he could not find, Through the dark chamber groped he, with very anxious mind; Loudly he lifted up his voice, with speed a lamp was brought, Yet nowhere was the leper seen, though far and near they sought.

VIII. He turned him to his chamber, God wot, perplexed sore With that which had befallen—when lo! his face before, There stood a man, all clothed in vesture shining white: Thus said the vision, "Sleepest thou, or wakest thou, Sir Knight?"—

IX. "I sleep not," quoth Rodrigo; "but tell me who art thou, For, in the midst of darkness, much light is on thy brow?"— "I am the holy Lazarus, I come to speak with thee; I am the same poor leper thou savedst for charity.

X. "Not vain the trial, nor in vain thy victory hath been; God favours thee, for that my pain thou didst relieve yestreen. There shall be honour with thee, in battle and in peace, Success in all thy doings, and plentiful increase.

XI. "Strong enemies shall not prevail, thy greatness to undo; Thy name shall make men's cheeks full pale—Christians and Moslem too; A death of honour shalt thou die, such grace to thee is given, Thy soul shall part victoriously, and be received in heaven."—

XII. When he these gracious words had said, the spirit vanished quite, Rodrigo rose and knelt him down—he knelt till morning light; Unto the Heavenly Father, and Mary Mother dear, He made his prayer right humbly, till dawned the morning clear.



BAVIECA.

Montaigne, in his curious Essay, entitled "Des Destriers," says that all the world knows everything about Bucephalus. The name of the favourite charger of the Cid Ruy Diaz, is scarcely less celebrated. Notice is taken of him in almost every one of the hundred ballads concerning the history of his master,—and there are two or three of these, of which the horse is more truly the hero than his rider. In one of these ballads, the Cid is giving directions about his funeral; he desires that they shall place his body "in full armour upon Bavieca," and so conduct him to the church of San Pedro de Cardena. This was done accordingly; and, says another ballad—

Truxeron pues a Babieca; Y en mirandole se puso Tan triste como si fuera Mas rasonable que bruto.

In the Cid's last will, mention is also made of this noble charger. "When ye bury Bavieca, dig deep," says Ruy Diaz; "for shameful thing were it, that he should be eat by curs, who hath trampled down so much currish flesh of Moors."

I. The King looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true; Then to the King Ruy Diaz spake after reverence due,— "O King, the thing is shameful, that any man beside The liege lord of Castile himself should Bavieca ride:

II. "For neither Spain nor Araby could another charger bring So good as he, and certes, the best befits my King. But that you may behold him, and know him to the core, I'll make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the Moor."—

III. With that, the Cid, clad as he was in mantle furred and wide, On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side; And up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career, Streamed like a pennon on the wind Ruy Diaz' minivere.

IV. And all that saw them praised them—they lauded man and horse, As matched well, and rivalless for gallantry and force; Ne'er had they looked on horseman might to this knight come near, Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier.

V. Thus, to and fro a-rushing the fierce and furious steed, He snapt in twain his hither rein:—"God pity now the Cid." "God pity Diaz," cried the Lords,—but when they looked again, They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him, with the fragment of his rein; They saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm and calm, Like a true lord commanding—and obeyed as by a lamb.

VI. And so he led him foaming and panting to the King, But "No," said Don Alphonso, "it were a shameful thing That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid By any mortal but Bivar—Mount, mount again, my Cid."



THE EXCOMMUNICATION OF THE CID.

The last specimen I shall give of the Cid-ballad, is one the subject of which is evidently of the most apocryphal cast. It is, however, so far as I recollect, the only one of all that immense collection that is quoted or alluded to in Don Quixote. "Sancho," cried Don Quixote, "I am afraid of being excommunicated for having laid violent hands upon a man in holy orders, Juxta illud; si quis suadente diabolo, &c. But yet, now I think on it, I never touched him with my hands, but only with my lance; besides, I did not in the least suspect I had to do with priests, whom I honour and revere as every good Catholic and faithful Christian ought to do, but rather took them to be evil spirits. Well, let the worst come to the worst, I remember what befel the Cid Ruy Diaz, when he broke to pieces the chair of a king's ambassador in the Pope's presence, for which he was excommunicated; which did not hinder the worthy Rodrigo de Bivar from behaving himself that day like a valorous knight, and a man of honour."

I. It was when from Spain across the main the Cid had come to Rome, He chanced to see chairs four and three beneath Saint Peter's dome. "Now tell, I pray, what chairs be they;"—"Seven kings do sit thereon, As well doth suit, all at the foot of the holy Father's throne."

II. "The Pope he sitteth above them all, that they may kiss his toe, Below the keys the Flower-de-lys doth make a gallant show: For his great puissance, the King of France next to the Pope may sit, The rest more low, all in a row, as doth their station fit."—

III. "Ha!" quoth the Cid, "now God forbid! it is a shame, I wiss, To see the Castle[5] planted beneath the Flower-de-lys.[6] No harm, I hope, good Father Pope—although I move thy chair." —In pieces small he kicked it all, ('twas of the ivory fair).

IV. The Pope's own seat he from his feet did kick it far away, And the Spanish chair he planted upon its place that day; Above them all he planted it, and laughed right bitterly; Looks sour and bad I trow he had, as grim as grim might be.

V. Now when the Pope was aware of this, he was an angry man, His lips that night, with solemn rite, pronounced the awful ban; The curse of God, who died on rood, was on that sinner's head— To hell and woe man's soul must go if once that curse be said.

VI. I wot, when the Cid was aware of this, a woful man was he, At dawn of day he came to pray at the blessed Father's knee: "Absolve me, blessed Father, have pity upon me, Absolve my soul, and penance I for my sin will dree."—

VII. "Who is this sinner," quoth the Pope, "that at my foot doth kneel?" —"I am Rodrigo Diaz—a poor Baron of Castile."— Much marvelled all were in the hall, when that name they heard him say, —"Rise up, rise up," the Pope he said, "I do thy guilt away;—

VIII. "I do thy guilt away," he said—"and my curse I blot it out— God save Rodrigo Diaz, my Christian champion stout;— I trow, if I had known thee, my grief it had been sore, To curse Ruy Diaz de Bivar, God's scourge upon the Moor."



PART III.

COUNT ALARCOS AND THE INFANTA SOLISA.

Mr. Bouterweck has analyzed this ballad, and commented upon it at some length, in his History of Spanish Literature. See Book I, Section 1.

He bestows particular praise upon a passage, which the reader will find attempted in the fourth line of stanza xxxi. of the following version—

Dedes me aca este hijo amamare por despedida.

"What modern poet," says he, "would have dared to imagine that trait, at once so natural and touching?"

Mr. Bouterweck seems to be of opinion that the story of the ballad had been taken from some prose romance of chivalry; but I have not been able to find any trace of it.

I. Alone, as was her wont, she sate,—within her bower alone;— Alone, and very desolate, Solisa made her moan, Lamenting for her flower of life, that it should pass away, And she be never wooed to wife, nor see a bridal day.

II. Thus said the sad Infanta—"I will not hide my grief, I'll tell my father of my wrong, and he will yield relief."— The King, when he beheld her near, "Alas! my child," said he, "What means this melancholy cheer?—reveal thy grief to me."—

III. "Good King," she said, "my mother was buried long ago, She left me to thy keeping, none else my griefs shall know; I fain would have a husband, 'tis time that I should wed,— Forgive the words I utter, with mickle shame they're said."—

IV. 'Twas thus the King made answer,—"This fault is none of mine, You to the Prince of Hungary your ear would not incline; Yet round us here where lives your peer?—nay, name him if you can,— Except the Count Alarcos, and he's a married man."—

V. "Ask Count Alarcos, if of yore his word he did not plight To be my husband evermore, and love me day and night? If he has bound him in new vows, old oaths he cannot break— Alas! I've lost a loyal spouse, for a false lover's sake."—

VI. The good King sat confounded in silence for some space, At length he made this answer, with very troubled face,— "It was not thus your mother gave counsel you should do; You've done much wrong, my daughter; we're shamed, both I and you.

VII. "If it be true that you have said, our honour's lost and gone; And while the Countess is in life, remeed for us is none. Though justice were upon our side, ill-talkers would not spare— Speak, daughter, for your mother's dead, whose counsel eased my care."

VIII. "How can I give you counsel?—but little wit have I; But certes, Count Alarcos may make this Countess die; Let it be noised that sickness cut short her tender life, And then let Count Alarcos come and ask me for his wife. What passed between us long ago, of that be nothing said; Thus none shall our dishonour know, in honour I shall wed."—

IX. The Count was standing with his friends, thus in the midst he spake— "What fools we be! what pains men dree for a fair woman's sake! I loved a fair one long ago;—though I'm a married man, Sad memory I can ne'er forego, how life and love began."—

X. While yet the Count was speaking, the good King came full near; He made his salutation with very courteous cheer. "Come hither, Count Alarcos, and dine with me this day, For I have something secret I in your ear must say."—

XI. The King came from the chapel, when he had heard the mass; With him the Count Alarcos did to his chamber pass; Full nobly were they served there, by pages many a one; When all were gone, and they alone, 'twas thus the King begun.—

XII. "What news be these, Alarcos, that you your word did plight, To be a husband to my child, and love her day and night? If more between you there did pass, yourself may know the truth, But shamed is my grey-head—alas!—and scorned Solisa's youth.

XIII. "I have a heavy word to speak—a lady fair doth lie Within my daughter's rightful place, and certes! she must die— Let it be noised that sickness cut short her tender life, Then come and woo my daughter, and she shall be your wife:— What passed between you long ago, of that be nothing said, Thus, none shall my dishonour know—in honour you shall wed."

XIV. Thus spake the Count Alarcos—"The truth I'll not deny, I to the Infanta gave my troth, and broke it shamefully; I feared my King would ne'er consent to give me his fair daughter; But, oh! spare her that's innocent—avoid that sinful slaughter."—

XV. "She dies, she dies," the King replies; "from thine own sin it springs, If guiltless blood must wash the blot which stains the blood of kings: Ere morning dawn her life must end, and thine must be the deed, Else thou on shameful block must bend: thereof is no remeed."

XVI. "Good King, my hand thou mayst command, else treason blots my name! I'll take the life of my dear wife—(God! mine be not the blame!) Alas! that young and sinless heart for others' sin should bleed! Good King, in sorrow I depart."——"May God your errand speed!"—

XVII. In sorrow he departed, dejectedly he rode The weary journey from that place, unto his own abode; He grieved for his fair Countess, dear as his life was she; Sore grieved he for that lady, and for his children three.

XVIII. The one was yet an infant upon its mother's breast, For though it had three nurses, it liked her milk the best; The others were young children, that had but little wit, Hanging about their mother's knee while nursing she did sit.

XIX. "Alas!" he said, when he had come within a little space, "How shall I brook the cheerful look of my kind lady's face? To see her coming forth in glee to meet me in my hall, When she so soon a corpse must be, and I the cause of all!"

XX. Just then he saw her at the door with all her babes appear— (The little page had run before to tell his lord was near) "Now welcome home, my lord, my life!—Alas! you droop your head Tell, Count Alarcos, tell your wife, what makes your eyes so red?"—

XXI. "I'll tell you all—I'll tell you all: It is not yet the hour; We'll sup together in the hall—I'll tell you in your bower." The lady brought forth what she had, and down beside him sate; He sat beside her pale and sad, but neither drank nor ate.

XXII. The children to his side were led (he loved to have them so), Then on the board he laid his head, and out his tears did flow:— "I fain would sleep—I fain would sleep,"—the Count Alarcos said:— Alas! be sure, that sleep was none that night within their bed.

XXIII. They came together to the bower where they were used to rest, None with them but the little babe that was upon the breast: The Count had barred the chamber doors, they ne'er were barred till then; "Unhappy lady," he began, "and I most lost of men!"

XXIV. "Now, speak not so, my noble lord, my husband and my life, Unhappy never can she be, that is Alarcos' wife."— "Alas! unhappy lady, 'tis but little that you know, For in that very word you've said is gathered all your woe.

XXV. "Long since I loved a lady,—long since I oaths did plight, To be that lady's husband, to love her day and night; Her father is our lord the King, to him the thing is known, And now, that I the news should bring! she claims me for her own.

XXVI. "Alas! my love, alas! my life, the right is on their side; Ere I had seen your face, sweet wife, she was betrothed my bride; But, oh! that I should speak the word—since in her place you lie, It is the bidding of our Lord, that you this night must die."—

XXVII. "Are these the wages of my love, so lowly and so leal?— O, kill me not, thou noble Count, when at thy foot I kneel!— But send me to my father's house, where once I dwelt in glee, There will I live a lone chaste life, and rear my children three."—

XXVIII. "It may not be—mine oath is strong—ere dawn of day you die!"— "O! well 'tis seen how all alone upon the earth am I— My father is an old frail man,—my mother's in her grave,— And dead is stout Don Garcia—Alas! my brother brave!

XXIX. "'Twas at this coward King's command they slew my brother dear, And now I'm helpless in the land:—It is not death I fear, But loth, loth am I to depart, and leave my children so— Now let me lay them to my heart, and kiss them ere I go."—

XXX. "Kiss him that lies upon thy breast—the rest thou mayst not see."— "I fain would say an Ave."—"Then say it speedily."— She knelt her down upon her knee: "O Lord! behold my case— Judge not my deeds, but look on me in pity and great grace."—

XXXI. When she had made her orison, up from her knees she rose— "Be kind, Alarcos, to our babes, and pray for my repose— And now give me my boy once more upon my breast to hold, That he may drink one farewell drink, before my breast be cold."—

XXXII. "Why would you waken the poor child? you see he is asleep— Prepare, dear wife, there is no time, the dawn begins to peep."— "Now hear me, Count Alarcos! I give thee pardon free— I pardon thee for the love's sake wherewith I've loved thee.

XXXIII. "But they have not my pardon, the King and his proud daughter— The curse of God be on them, for this unchristian slaughter!— I charge them with my dying breath, ere thirty days be gone, To meet me in the realm of death, and at God's awful throne!"—

XXXIV. He drew a kerchief round her neck, he drew it tight and strong, Until she lay quite stiff and cold her chamber floor along; He laid her then within the sheets, and, kneeling by her side, To God and Mary Mother in misery he cried.

XXXV. Then called he for his esquires:—oh! deep was their dismay, When they into the chamber came, and saw her how she lay;— Thus died she in her innocence, a lady void of wrong, But God took heed of their offence—his vengeance stayed not long.

XXXVI. Within twelve days, in pain and dole, the Infanta passed away, The cruel King gave up his soul upon the twentieth day; Alarcos followed ere the Moon had made her round complete.— Three guilty spirits stood right soon before God's judgment-seat.



TALES FROM THE GESTA ROMANORUM.

CONTENTS.

I.—THE EIGHT PENNIES 103 II.—THE THREE TRUTHS 105 III.—THE HUSBAND OF AGLAES 106 IV.—THE THREE CASKETS 111 V.—THE THREE CAKES 116 VI.—THE HERMIT 118 VII.—THE LOST FOOT 121 VIII.—PLACIDUS 122 IX.—DEAD ALEXANDER 131 X.—THE TREE OF PALETINUS 132 XI.—HUNGRY FLIES 132 XII.—THE HUMBLING OF JOVINIAN 133 XIII.—THE TWO PHYSICIANS 139 XIV.—THE FALCON 141 XV.—LET THE LAZIEST BE KING 142 XVI.—THE THREE MAXIMS 143 XVII.—A LOAF FOR A DREAM 146 XVIII.—LOWER THAN THE BEASTS 148 XIX.—OF REAL FRIENDSHIP 151 XX.—ROYAL BOUNTY 152 XXI.—WILY BEGUILED 153 XXII.—THE BASILISK 155 XXIII.—THE TRUMP OF DEATH 155 XXIV.—ALEXANDER AND THE PIRATE 157 XXV.—A TALE OF A PENNY 158 XXVI.—OF AVOIDING IMPRECATIONS 159 XXVII.—A VERSE EXERCISE 161 XXVIII.—BRED IN THE BONE 164 XXIX.—FULGENTIUS 167 XXX.—VENGEANCE DEFERRED 173



I.—THE EIGHT PENNIES.

When Titus was Emperor of Rome, he made a decree that the natal day of his first-born son should be held sacred, and that whosoever violated it by any kind of labour should be put to death. Then he called Virgil to him, and said, "Good friend, I have made a certain law; we desire you to frame some curious piece of art which may reveal to us every transgressor of the law." Virgil constructed a magic statue, and caused it to be set up in the midst of the city. By virtue of the secret powers with which it was invested, it told the emperor whatever was done amiss. And thus by the accusation of the statue, an infinite number of persons were convicted and punished.

Now there was a certain carpenter, called Focus, who pursued his occupation every day alike. Once, as he lay in bed, his thoughts turned upon the accusations of the statue, and the multitudes which it had caused to perish. In the morning he clothed himself, and proceeded to the statue, which he addressed in the following manner: "O statue! statue! because of thy informations, many of our citizens have been taken and slain. I vow to my God, that if thou accusest me, I will break thy head." Having so said, he returned home.

About the first hour, the emperor, as he was wont, despatched sundry messengers to the statue, to inquire if the edict had been strictly complied with. After they had arrived, and delivered the emperors pleasure, the statue exclaimed: "Friends, look up; what see ye written upon my forehead?" They looked, and beheld three sentences which ran thus: "TIMES ARE ALTERED. MEN GROW WORSE. HE WHO SPEAKS TRUTH HAS HIS HEAD BROKEN." "Go," said the statue, "declare to his majesty what you have seen and read." The messengers obeyed, and detailed the circumstances as they had happened.

The emperor therefore commanded his guard to arm, and march to the place on which the statue was erected; and he further ordered, that if any one presumed to molest it, they should bind him hand and foot, and drag him into his presence.

The soldiers approached the statue and said, "Our emperor wills you to declare the name of the scoundrel who threatens you."

The statue made answer, "It is Focus the carpenter. Every day he violates the law, and, moreover, menaces me with a broken head, if I expose him."

Immediately Focus was apprehended, and conducted to the emperor, who said, "Friend, what do I hear of thee? Why hast thou broken my law?"

"My lord," answered Focus, "I cannot keep it; for I am obliged to obtain every day eight pennies, which, without incessant work, I have not the means of getting."

"And why eight pennies?" said the emperor.

"Every day through the year," returned the carpenter, "I am bound to repay two pennies which I borrowed in my youth; two I lend; two I lose; and two I spend."

"For what reason do you this?" asked the emperor.

"My lord," he replied, "listen to me. I am bound each day to repay two pennies to my father; for, when I was a boy, my father expended upon me daily the like sum. Now he is poor, and needs my assistance, and therefore I return what I borrowed formerly. Two other pennies I lend to my son, who is pursuing his studies; in order, that if by any chance I should fall into poverty, he may restore the loan, just as I have done to his grandfather. Again, I lose two pennies every day on my wife; for she is contradictious, wilful, and passionate. Now, because of this disposition, I account whatsoever is given to her entirely lost. Lastly, two other pennies I expend upon myself in meat and drink. I cannot do with less, nor can I earn them without unremitting labour. You now know the truth; and, I pray you, judge dispassionately and truly."

"Friend," said the emperor, "thou hast answered well. Go, and labour earnestly in thy calling."

Soon after this the emperor died, and Focus the carpenter, on account of his singular wisdom, was elected in his stead by the unanimous choice of the whole nation. He governed as wisely as he had lived; and at his death, his picture, bearing on the head eight pennies, was reposited among the effigies of the deceased emperors.



II.—THE THREE TRUTHS.

A certain king, named Asmodeus, established an ordinance, by which every malefactor taken and brought before the judge, should distinctly declare three truths, against which no exception could be taken, or else be hanged. If, however, he did this, his life and property should be safe. It chanced that a certain soldier transgressed the law and fled. He hid himself in a forest, and there committed many atrocities, despoiling and slaying whomsoever he could lay his hands upon. When the judge of the district ascertained his haunt, he ordered the forest to be surrounded, and the soldier to be seized, and brought bound to the seat of judgment.

"You know the law," said the judge.

"I do," returned the other. "If I declare three unquestionable truths I shall be free; but if not, I must die."

"True," replied the judge; "take then advantage of the law's clemency, or undergo the punishment it awards without delay."

"Cause silence to be kept," said the soldier undauntedly.

His wish being complied with, he proceeded in the following manner: "The first truth is this. I protest before ye all, that from my youth up, I have been a bad man."

The judge, hearing this, said to the bystanders, "He says true?" They answered: "Else he had not now been in this situation." "Go on, then," said the judge. "What is the second truth?"

"I like not," exclaimed he, "the dangerous situation in which I stand."

"Certainly," said the judge, "we may credit thee. Now then for the third truth, and thou hast saved thy life."

"Why," he replied, "if I once get out of this confounded place, I will never willingly re-enter it."

"Amen," said the judge, "thy wit hath preserved thee; go in peace." And thus he was saved.



III.—THE HUSBAND OF AGLAES.

In Rome some time dwelt a mighty emperor named Philominus, who had one only daughter, who was fair and gracious in the sight of every man, who had to name Aglaes. There was also in the emperor's palace a gentle knight that loved dearly this lady. It befell after on a day, that this knight talked with this lady, and secretly uttered his desire to her. Then she said courteously, "Seeing you have uttered to me the secrets of your heart, I will likewise for your love utter to you the secrets of my heart: and truly I say, that above all other I love you best." Then said the knight, "I purpose to visit the Holy Land, and therefore give me your troth, that this seven years you shall take no other man, but only for my love to tarry for me so long, and if I come not again by this day seven years, then take what man you like best. And likewise I promise you that within this seven years I will take no wife." Then said she, "This covenant pleaseth me well." When this was said, each of them was betrothed to other, and then this knight took his leave of the lady, and went to the Holy Land.

Shortly after the emperor treated with the king of Hungary for the marriage of his daughter. Then came the king of Hungary to the emperor's palace, and when he had seen his daughter, he liked marvellous well her beauty and her behaviour, so that the emperor and the king were accorded in all things as touching the marriage, upon the condition that the damsel would consent. Then called the emperor the young lady to him, and said, "O, my fair daughter, I have provided for thee, that a king shall be thy husband, if thou list consent; therefore tell me what answer thou wilt give to this." Then said she to her father, "It pleaseth me well; but one thing, dear father, I entreat of you, if it might please you to grant me: I have vowed to keep my virginity, and not to marry these seven years; therefore, dear father, I beseech you for all the love that is between your gracious fatherhood and me, that you name no man to be my husband till these seven years be ended, and then I shall be ready in all things to fulfil your will." Then said the emperor, "Sith it is so that thou hast thus vowed, I will not break thy vow; but when these seven years be expired, thou shalt have the king of Hungary to thy husband."

Then the emperor sent forth his letters to the king of Hungary, praying him if it might please him to stay seven years for the love of his daughter, and then he should speed without fail. Herewith the king was pleased and content to stay the prefixed day.

And when the seven years were ended, save a day, the young lady stood in her chamber window, and wept sore, saying, "Woe and alas, as to-morrow my love promised to be with me again from the Holy Land; and also the king of Hungary to-morrow will be here to marry me, according to my father's promise; and if my love comes not at a certain hour, then am I utterly deceived of the inward love I bear to him."

When the day came, the king hasted toward the emperor, to marry his daughter, and was royally arrayed in purple. And while the king was riding on his way, there came a knight riding on his way, who said, "I am of the empire of Rome, and now am lately come from the Holy Land, and I am ready to do you the best service I can." And as they rode talking by the way, it began to rain so fast that all the king's apparel was sore wet. Then said the knight, "My lord, ye have done foolishly, for as much as ye brought not with you your house." Then said the king: "Why speakest thou so? My house is large and broad, and made of stones and mortar, how should I bring then with me my house? Thou speakest like a fool." When this was said, they rode on till they came to a great deep water, and the king smote his horse with his spurs, and leapt into the water, so that he was almost drowned. When the knight saw this, and was over on the other side of the water without peril, he said to the king, "Ye were in peril, and therefore ye did foolishly, because ye brought not with you your bridge." Then said the king, "Thou speakest strangely: my bridge is made of lime and stone, and containeth in quality more than half a mile; how should I then bear with me my bridge? therefore thou speakest foolishly." "Well," said the knight, "my foolishness may turn you to wisdom." When the king had ridden a little further, he asked the knight what time of day it was. Then said the knight, "If any man hath list to eat, it is time of the day to eat. Wherefore, my lord, pray take a modicum with me, for that is no dishonour to you, but great honour to me before the states of this empire." Then said the king, "I will gladly eat with thee." They sat both down in a fair vine garden, and there dined together, both the king and the knight. And when dinner was done, and that the king had washed, the knight said unto the king, "My lord, ye have done foolishly, for that ye brought not with you your father and mother." Then said the king, "What sayest thou? My father is dead, and my mother is old, and may not travel; how should I then bring them with me? Therefore, to say the truth, a foolisher man than thou art did I never hear." Then said the knight, "Every work is praised at the end."

When the knight had ridden a little further, and nigh to the emperor's palace, he asked leave to go from him; for he knew a nearer way to the palace, to the young lady, that he might come first, and carry her away with him. Then said the king, "I pray thee tell me by what place thou purposest to ride?" Then said the knight, "I shall tell you the truth. This day seven years I left a net in a place, and now I purpose to visit it, and draw it to me, and if it be whole, then will I take it to me, and keep it as a precious jewel; if it be broken, then will I leave it." And when he had thus said, he took his leave of the king, and rode forth; but the king kept the broad highway.

When the emperor heard of the king's coming, he went towards him with a great company, and royally received him, causing him to shift his wet clothes, and to put on fresh apparel. And when the emperor and the king were set at meat, the emperor welcomed him with all the cheer and solace that he could. And when he had eaten, the emperor asked tidings of the king. "My lord," said he, "I shall tell you what I have heard this day by the way: there came a knight to me, and reverently saluted me; and anon after there fell a great rain, and greatly spoiled my apparel. And anon the knight said, 'Sir, ye have done foolishly, for that ye brought not with you your house.'" Then said the emperor, "What clothing had the knight on?" "A cloak," quoth the king. Then said the emperor, "Sure that was a wise man, for the house whereof he spake was a cloak, and therefore he said to you that you did foolishly, because had you come with your cloak, then your clothes had not been spoiled with rain." Then said the king, "When he had ridden a little further, we came to a deep water, and I smote my horse with my spurs, and I was almost drowned, but he rid through the water without any peril. Then said he to me, 'You did foolishly, for that you brought not with you your bridge.'" "Verily," said the emperor, "he said truth, for he called the squires the bridge, that should have ridden before you, and assayed the deepness of the water." Then said the king, "We rode further, and at the last he prayed me to dine with him. And when he had dined, he said, I did unwisely, because I brought not with me my father and mother." "Truly," said the emperor, "he was a wise man, and saith wisely: for he called your father and mother, bread and wine, and other victual." Then said the king, "We rode further, and anon after he asked me leave to go from me, and I asked earnestly whither he went; and he answered again, and said, 'This day seven years I left a net in a private place, and now I will ride to see it; and if it be broken and torn, then will I leave it, but if it be as I left it, then shall it be unto me right precious.'"