CHAPTER XII.

How Sir Folko de Montfaucon returned from Spain, and brought with him the Moorish prince Mutza.

While these events were passing in Sweden, it chanced one day, in a blooming forest of Gascony, that three young damsels were riding, followed by a train of squires and other attendants. One could well perceive, by the whole appearance of the party, that they did not intend any long journey, but were intent only on a pleasure-excursion through the shady woods, to enjoy the cool breezes of the sea, whose shores were not far distant. Now and then one could hear their voices joining in a pleasant choral song, while the birds of the forest answered them, and vied with their music.

Then said the damsel who rode in the middle to her neighbour on the right hand,--“Ah, Blanchefleur, how much happier are we now, and how changed is all for the better, since we have given over those wearisome contentions for the ring!”--“I could have beheld it always,” said the other, “as I do at this moment, suspended by the gold chain on your bosom, Gabrielle, nor ever felt disquiet or envy at the sight. Had it depended on me alone, you might have always retained it; nor would my brother’s silver-grey charger, on which you now ride, ever have become lame in consequence of such a combat.”--“Are you sorry then for the gallant grey?” answered Gabrielle; “methinks this were indeed without reason; for is it not better for him to be left thus under our kind and tender care, than to encounter all the hardships and accidents of your brother’s campaign against the Moors?”--“Nay,” said the damsel who rode upon the left, “who knows whether the tenderest care and indulgence can compensate to him for his absence from that path of danger and glory which is thus closed against him?” “How strangely you speak!” answered Gabrielle; “were it not that your words and looks are at other times so mild and gentle, I could almost think that you were a knight in disguise, and feel afraid to live with you.”--“Nay, say not so,” answered Bertha; “am I not thankful then for your kind hospitality and protection?--Are you not the betrothed bride of my cousin Otto, and for whom, in all the world, ought I to cherish more respect and love?”--Gabrielle sighed deeply at these words, and in thoughtful silence pressed the hand that Bertha had offered her.

Then, lo! there came out of the thickets a squire, well mounted and handsomely attired. His velvet doublet shone with golden embroidery; his saddle and horse’s head-gear were hung with golden bells. Perceiving the ladies, he pulled up the reins, dismounted, and, kneeling before Gabrielle, said respectfully,--“Lady, my master, the Chevalier Folko de Montfaucon, begs permission to present himself before you, also to introduce here a noble captive, whom he has brought with him from Spain.”--A beautiful blush came over the damsel’s cheeks as she answered, waving her hand,--“Good squire, bid your master and his guest, in my name, heartily welcome. Tell them, moreover, that I am thankful for this bright weather, inasmuch as it has invited me abroad; and I am thus far on my way to meet them.”--Then the squire, after a courteous salutation, remounted his horse, and disappeared among the thickets of the forest.

“Who can this guest be whom your brother is thus bringing to visit us?” said Gabrielle, turning to Blanchefleur.--“If, perchance, it were a minstrel,”--said the latter,--“but, no,” added she, “that were impossible;” and, with deep blushes, and eyes dim with tears, she looked down on the blue flowers,--emblems of hope and constancy, with which the turf was thickly interwoven.

In a few moments the blue and gold armour of Sir Folko was seen gleaming through the woods, and, mounted on a light-chesnut horse with a black mane, which he had rode since his grey steed was wounded, he galloped forward. On his approach he made a respectful salutation,--then sprang from the saddle,--threw his lance to the attendant squire, from whom in exchange he received his favourite falcon, which perched on his hand, and thereafter gayly and courteously he came to meet the three noble ladies. As for the stranger who accompanied Sir Folko, he was in truth no minstrel, but a tall and graceful warrior, dressed magnificently in rich embroidered garments of the Moorish fashion, with a silk gauze turban on his head, which was held together by a rich diamond brooch, and surmounted by a large plume of grey feathers.

“Noble lady,” said Sir Folko to Gabrielle, “allow me thus to present to you Prince Mutza, the best and bravest of all the Moorish knights with whom we encountered on the plains of Grenada.”

The prince bowed to Gabrielle and the other ladies with knightly grace and courtesy; but then said, somewhat discontentedly, “If I were such a distinguished champion as the chevalier is pleased to describe me, methinks he could not have spoken as he has now done. In the presence of three ladies, who are indeed the most beautiful that my eyes ever beheld, he has wholly forgotten to announce, that I am brought hither as his prisoner; but, in truth, there is no reason why he should boast of such a victory. Know then, fairest of damsels, that were not the Prince Mutza one of the least worthy and least powerful of Moorish knights, he never would have experienced the mingled pain and pleasure of this meeting. As a prisoner, he now begs that you will with your fair hands take from him those arms which the generosity of his conqueror has too long left in his possession.”

With these words, he had loosened from the silver chains, by which it hung at his waist-belt, his crooked sabre, ornamented with a golden hilt, and studded with diamonds. Kneeling respectfully, he now offered it to Gabrielle, who took it from his hands; but, at the same time, made a movement, as if she wished to dismount from her silver-grey charger; whereupon he started up, and lifted her gracefully from her saddle to the ground. Then the damsel said to him, “Prince, you have condescended for once to become the servant of Gabrielle de Portamour. But, methinks, it were unfitting that a damsel of noble birth should have a squire who wears not a sword for her protection.” With these words, she again hung the sabre at his side, allowed him to lift her on horseback; and under his escort and that of Sir Folko, who, meanwhile, had spoken kindly with his sister and the Lady Bertha, she set out on her way home to the castle.

On a high balcony, illumined by the last rays of the setting sun reflected from the wide ocean, behold, the three ladies were now seated, along with the knights and the Moorish prince, enjoying the sweet fragrance of the flowers, that were steeped in the dews of evening, and passing the time with songs and harp-music, or in telling pleasant stories. Sir Folko and his Moorish captive, even as they had before contended on the bloody field, now vied no less with each other, in these courteous arts by which noble ladies are best to be entertained, and if the wreath of victory had before hung for a long space doubtfully betwixt them, so it was yet more difficult to say which of the two was the more accomplished and polite. Gabrielle, on whom the prince continued to bestow all his attention, contrived by many ingenious devices to withdraw herself from the fixed gaze which he so often directed towards her, and seemed more disposed to speak kindly and confidentially with the Knight of Montfaucon. Blanchefleur, who had so long been wont to hang down her head in sadness and deep thought, now became, in the presence of her dearly-beloved and honoured brother, so cheerful, and in beauty so resplendent, that to the white rose, her former emblem, she could scarcely afford any fitting comparison. Only the Lady Bertha von Lichtenried sat lost in deep, silent, and, it might have been said, stern reflection; nor could the flattery of Sir Folko or the prince, nor the kind raillery of Gabrielle, induce her on this evening to tell one romantic story, or to play one note upon the harp. At last she became almost forgotten among them, or looked on merely, without being spoken to; so that she seemed in the society of these four mirthful companions more like a beautiful statue than a living being.

After a while, and when the stars were already bright in heaven, the Moorish prince took up a guitar, and awakening its notes with a skilful hand, he sang thereto some stanzas, describing how he had been taken prisoner; and how, in his captivity, his anger at his own defeat had rendered it painful and intolerable to look on the happiness of others. Now, however, all was changed; and since he had beheld the matchless beauty of Gabrielle, his only grief was to reflect that he was here but as a transitory guest, and must soon take his departure; so that he would perhaps never behold that enchantress again. Hereupon, Sir Folko took another guitarre from the hands of the Lady Blanchefleur, and sang an answer to the Moorish champion, wishing, forsooth, that the morning might never dawn on them; but that the present hour,--the placid calm evening, with its bright stars and fragrant air, might be prolonged, and they might sit for ever as they were at that moment; but, alas! as this might not be, as their beautiful hostess, whose charms attracted them to stay, would of course command them to depart; so, like Darius and Alexander, the far-famed heroes of ancient times, they would go hence quietly, and in friendship with each other.

“Nay,” said Gabrielle smiling, “if you desire that the words of your song should be taken in earnest, then you must know that I would willingly keep Darius here till his friend returns, trusting that Alexander, otherwise the Knight of Montfaucon, will also remain for at least one week in the society of his amiable sister.”

“Good Heaven!” said Sir Folko, bowing gracefully to Gabrielle, “what a week of happiness have you now offered to me! And what a month to the Moorish prince! For in less time than a month it is impossible that I can return out of Normandy, whither I am now called by my duties as a baron and bannerett of the kingdom. Prince,” added he, turning to the Moor, “you are now the prisoner of this lady; but remember, that I depend no less on your adherence to the conditions which were made betwixt us when you came hither, not merely as a prisoner but a hostage.”

The prince now seated himself at Gabrielle’s feet, saying, “This is the right place for a humble captive. But one word I must yet speak with you, Knight of Montfaucon:--you have laid on my shoulders the chains of an enchantress; and this is against the conditions of our contract. Know you not, that by this means you place it in my power to retract my word of honour, and to make my escape as soon as I am able?”

“Let the enchantress look to that,” answered Sir Folko; “but if the place you have now chosen be that of a prisoner, then let others boast of their freedom. I for one would rather be the captive.” Hereupon he also took his place on the ground beside Gabrielle; and Blanchefleur sang to her guitarre a sportive ballad, in which she likened her beautiful hostess to a fairy queen; and the two warriors beside her to a lion and an eagle, between whom she was to decide who should wear the palm of victory. Blanchefleur was but in jest, and thought of her music only, not of the words that she had sung; yet what she had said failed not to make a deep impression on her hearers. The lion and the eagle looked up anxiously, and with watchful eyes for the judgment to be pronounced on them; while the fairy queen (as she had been named by Blanchefleur) sat between them, blushing and confused, till at last a green branch, which she happened to hold in her right hand, inclined itself, as if drawn by magnetic attraction, towards the head of the Chevalier de Montfaucon. At that moment the Lady Bertha had taken up a guitarre, and for the first time began to join in the music of that evening; but in tones so mournful and unexpected, that she soon put to flight the pleasant dreams with which her companions had entertained themselves. Every one looked on her with as much astonishment as if a statue or a portrait had begun to speak. In her melancholy chaunt, she sang only of her cousin Sir Otto of Trautwangen. “Where,” said she, “is now the young knight, with his black and silver mail, and his light-brown charger? He is, alas! vanished from our sight; his light-brown steed has galloped away, and his good battle-sword is broken.” Thereafter she sang two stanzas, addressed to Gabrielle as the betrothed bride of her cousin Sir Otto, which peradventure the damsel would rather not have heard; but, at length, Sir Folko started up suddenly, so that his armour rang and rattled. In all haste he fastened on his sword and sash, and bade his beautiful hostess farewell. “On my return,” said he, “I shall blow my hunting-horn for a signal, and the Moorish prince will then join me in the neighbouring forest.” Gabrielle did not venture to make any objection, though perchance, had it not been for the dusk of the evening, tears might have been seen both in her eyes and those of Sir Folko. The knight embraced his sister Blanchefleur with melancholy emotion, and whispered softly to Bertha as he passed her bye, “Thanks, noble Lady, for your kind and virtuous counsel!” He would not listen when the Moorish prince, now confounded by his behaviour, inquired why he departed so suddenly, and added thereto, half as it seemed in earnest, half in jest, that he now looked on the conditions of his captivity as being wholly broken. The noble Chevalier de Montfaucon did not stay to answer him, but ran hastily down stairs from the balcony into the court; whence, in a few minutes more, they saw him come forth followed by his train, and ride rapidly away towards the forest. Blanchefleur marked the gleam of the starlight reflected on his golden helmet as he waved it for a last adieu.