CHAPTER XIX.
How the Knights feasted in the Castle of Sir Folko de Montfaucon.
In Sir Folko’s castle were now seated at the banquet table many brave champions from different nations, also various other guests,--painters, minstrels, musicians, and poets, among whom Theobaldo soon discovered some of his lively countrymen. Especially there was one named the Count Alessandro Vinciguerra, with whom he began to converse in a manner so witty and cheerful that their discourse afforded amusement to the whole company. Sir Otto meanwhile remained thoughtful and silent, so that, after the first admiration excited by his noble form and graceful demeanour had subsided, he was scarcely noticed by the party. As the wine-cups, mantling with the richest juice of Medoc and Burgundy, circled round the festive board, it occurred to the warriors, that, for better pastime, every one should relate, from the experiences of his life, some remarkable story. Among so many valiant knights, and other distinguished characters as were here assembled, materials could not be wanting for such narratives. All, however, insisted that their noble host should set an example to his guests,--to which he replied, “I am aware that the excuses which I would gladly offer would not relieve me from the duties which I owe to the noble friends who are now around me. What I have to relate is indeed but of little importance; but I am like a gardener, from whom a festal wreath is demanded, and who, if he possesses not roses and jasmine, must be content with daisies and _forget-me-not_.
“It must be known,” continued he, “to several who are here present, that our family of Montfaucon derives its origin from Norwegian ancestors, and that in the mountains of that wild country we have at this day many noble relations. From thence my predecessors came, as conquering invaders into France,--arrived with great forces within that district which is now called Normandy, and with them brought, among other strange stories, the legend which I am now to repeat to you. In Norway there dwelt an ancient and far-famed hero, who had an amiable daughter, well known by the name of the beautiful Sigrid. She was talked of and praised all over that northern country, and therefore had many loving suitors. Besides her beauty, she was also distinguished for her superiority in all female accomplishments, having a deep knowledge of magic and necromancy, to which pursuits the young ladies of that land are particularly addicted. Especially she had found means to prepare a certain drink, which, if used in moderation, inspired the warrior with unheard-of strength and courage; nay, it was said, that he was thereby rendered even impenetrable by the weapons of his adversary. Many other women of Norway have been in possession of the same charm, and one of our relations at this day is in the habit of exercising that wonderful art.
“So it happened, that once on a time the old hero said to his daughter, ‘Pretty Sigrid, leave your household cares for one day and go forth into the woods,--pluck there the red berries and green leaves that you wot of, for to-morrow I shall need your aid. I have a hard battle before me.’ ‘With whom then, father, do you mean to fight?’ said the fair Sigrid. ‘With the young Hakon Swendson,’ answered the old warrior, ‘who in his ambition will wing his flight above me through all the regions of the north, if I do not take care in time to clip his wings. Besides, you know that he is sprung from a race, betwixt whom and us there is an old and deadly feud.’ So the beautiful Sigrid went out towards sunset into the dusky woods, alone and unprotected, according to the laws of her mysterious science.
“Up and down the rocky cliffs, along the banks of the woodland river, through many a dim valley, and on the brink of many a fearful precipice, the fair damsel pursued her way, and by the time she had collected all her roots, leaves, and berries, she found that the night-shadows had already gathered around her, and that she was alone in a district of the forest which she had till now never beheld. Her whole attention had been fixed on her plants and flowers, and she had never thought of the stars, that had shone out one by one above her, and now, though they glittered so brightly, yet she was quite unable by their light to discover her road homewards. While she thus stood meditative, and doubtful what course to pursue, she heard a great crashing and rustling through the woods, and, behold! a frightful black bear, rearing himself on his hind-legs, broke out as if to devour her, or strangle her in his horrid embraces. Just as she had given herself up for lost, a javelin came hissing through the air over her head, and in the next moment she saw the bear struck through the heart, fall writhing on the ground, so that, in the next moment, he rolled over a neighbouring precipice.
“Thereafter a handsome young warrior made his appearance from the recesses of the forest, and respectfully offered to attend to her own home the damsel, whom his interference had thus rescued. The fair Sigrid, however, wept bitterly; for in her terror she had lost all her roots, berries, and leaves; so that, according to the laws of magic, she must begin the labour of collecting them anew,--though the evening was far advanced, and the country around her wholly new and mysterious. ‘Search then, and pluck as many more as it pleases you,’ said the young knight. ‘I know, moreover, that at such times one must be alone and undisturbed. Therefore I shall walk round thee, fair stranger, making a wide circle, so that no one shall speak with thee, nor approach too nearly,--and ere the dawn of day I shall lead you home to your father’s castle. Search then, pretty maid, and fear not aught that can befall you in these woods.’ With these words the young knight vanished again amid the forest thickets; the fair Sigrid continued her employment as he had enjoined, and if, in that lonely unknown place, terror now and then assailed her, she felt herself immediately refreshed and encouraged, when she heard the rattling of the knight’s golden armour through the distant green coppice.
“At length she had collected another store like that which had been lost; and thereupon it occurred to her how much better it would be to boil them immediately in a golden vessel which she had with her, so that she might at once carry home with her the precious drink which the old knight had desired her to prepare. Directly after her first and slightest signal, her protector was close at hand, and scarcely had she made her wishes known to him, ere he began to gather dry branches and brushwood, from which in a moment arose bright flames, casting their light far amid the darkness of the night. But the boiling of her magical plants required a long time, and when it was nearly ended, the damsel began to weep bitterly; for she was now so wearied that she was quite unable to undertake her long journey homewards. Hereupon the knight said, ‘Fairest of maidens, you may here rest securely. I shall watch over you while you sleep, and awake you at the proper hour.’--Then he spread out his mantle on the ground,--collected also a great quantity of soft moss, making for her a warm and pleasant couch, and while she looked at it shyly and timidly, he had already vanished away into the deepest shades.
“The morning red was already bright in the east, when she was awoke, terrified by the distant sounds of martial horns and trumpets; but the young hero again stood near her, and said, ‘You must now make all possible haste to reach your home, for the horns that sound yonder from a distance are the signals of Hakon Swendson, that now summon your father to the battle-field. Take up your golden cup then and follow me.’
“Thereafter, he led the maiden through many winding and secret paths of the forest, till she arrived at her father’s castle. Before taking leave of him there she wished to know the champion’s name to whom she had been so much indebted. ‘I am Hakon Swendson,’ answered he, ‘and I know right well that you are named the beautiful Sigrida, daughter of the renowned old hero who resides in this castle. I know too, that the drink which you have this morning prepared is intended to work my destruction. But I have long been your ardent lover, beautiful Sigrid, and that ancient and deadly feud between our houses has killed all my hopes. Therefore I shall now gladly die by your father’s sword, and wish that the drink which you have brewed from these magical herbs may render him, as you designed, invincible!’
“Although Hakon Swendson intended after these words instantly to return to the forest, the fair Sigrid insisted that he should accompany her into the castle. There she related to her father all that had happened to her in the foregoing night, and with such eloquence, that the two warriors forgot all their former wrath against each other. They mutually threw aside their battle-array, and thereafter Hakon Swendson and the fair Sigrid were happily united in marriage.”
The company were well pleased with this story. The contrast, afforded by the noble and generous affections which it exemplified, to the wild and fierce characters of the northern knights, were compared, by a great master in the art of painting, (who was among the guests,) to the effect of a rainbow stretched across a dark threatening thundercloud; while the Italian Count preferred the similitude of a rose, which, though not valued amid the blooming gardens of his native country, would yet, amid the chill mountains of the north, be prized as a great treasure.
Meanwhile several of the party had turned their attention on a man of very tall stature, with a dark sunburnt visage; he was a Spaniard, by name Don Hernandez; and they earnestly requested that he would relate to them some legend from his own romantic and wonderful country, especially somewhat of the long and fearful conflicts between the Christians and Moors. Thereupon he took up a lute, and began to sing a wild Spanish ballad, unfolding the tragical fortunes of the beautiful Donna Clara, and her lover, Don Gayferos. The first stanzas began in a gay tone, describing how he had persuaded her to leave her father’s palace, and take a moonlight walk with him through the lonely forest.
I.
“Don Gayferos,--Don Gayferos, though the stars are bright on high, And the nightingale exalts her voice in sweetest melody; Yet longer in the darksome wood, I will not,--may not stay!” “Then, dearest Lady, but command,--thy servant shall obey.”
II.
“’Tis well! then guide me homeward straight; but mark, in yonder vale, The cross that glimmers silently amid the moonlight pale. That silent form is eloquent;--I must the voice attend, That warns me by the holy fane my homeward course to wend.
III.
“Nay, wherefore by the chapel, dearest lady, should we go? The path, methinks, is rough.” “Dares a servant answer so? Thou should’st my will obey.” “Well, well, it shall be done;” So down the mountain, arm in arm, the lovers now have gone.
IV.
“Don Gayferos, Don Gayferos, by the crucifix we stood, And wherefore was thy head not bow’d in meek humilitude?” “Donna Clara, Donna Clara, on thy beauteous hands I gazed, Wherein, just then, that wreath of flowers was gracefully upraised.”
V.
“Don Gayferos, Don Gayferos, but when the grey-hair’d priest So piously from heaven invoked a blessing on his guest, Say wherefore wert thou silent?”--“Dearest lady, on mine ear, Thy silvery voice alone did sound; no other could I hear.”
VI.
“Don Gayferos, Don Gayferos, would’st thou leave the chapel now, Nor with water from the holy font sign the cross upon thy brow?” “I had not mark’d the holy font; for from thine eyes so bright, A dazzling radiance fell on mine, that blinded me with light.”
VII.
“Nay, nay, thou art my servant still; then hear what I command! As I have done, so in the font, dip reverently thy hand; And therewith sign thy forehead.”--With a shudder and a frown The silent knight has turned away, and through the forest flown!
Thus began the Spaniard’s story. Then he changed the music and measure to a strain somewhat sad and solemn, describing how, on the following night, Don Gayferos once more brought the Lady Clara, by the notes of a well-known serenade, to the window, and how she conjured him to say who he was; above all, whether he were a Spaniard or Moor, an Infidel or Christian. To this at length he answers, that he is no Christian, but a Moorish king, who loves her ardently; who has great treasures and numberless soldiers; who would place her with him on his throne, and entertain her in all regal magnificence, at his palace of Alhambra, and in the flower-gardens of Grenada. She leaves her room, and comes angrily forward on a terrace-walk of the castle, intending to reproach him; but he joins her there, and scarcely has she pronounced a few harsh words ere she falls fainting into his arms. Thereafter he places her before him on his horse, and rides rapidly away through the dark shades of the forest.
The Spaniard now changed his music once more into slow melancholy notes, like those of a church anthem or dirge. He described how, at the dawn of day, when the ruddy gleams of the east were on the landscape, the beautiful Donna Clara knelt on the turf beside the lifeless frame of her Moorish lover, who had been attacked in the forest, and killed by two of her own brothers. With dishevelled hair, and no longer disguising her attachment, she weeps over his pale remains. Looking up to the bright sky, she acknowledges, that even as the stars rise and set, and as the eagle hovers up and down, all in this world is variable and inconstant, only her affections are unchangeable. Therefore her brothers built for her, in after times, a lonely hermitage, with a chapel and an altar, where she spends her life in weeping and in prayers for the soul of her departed lover.
The sound of the harp died away in slow vibrations, and the listeners gazed on each other in silent melancholy.
Don Hernandez himself was the first to break the silence. With graceful and courteous demeanour, “No doubt,” said he, “I should both accuse and condemn myself, noble champions and gentlemen, for having thus with my mournful songs disturbed your merriment, had it not been that you desired to hear a legend from my native land. In my country, it is true, the people are serious and solemn of mood; for where there are such contentions between Moors and Christians, one’s thoughts must often turn on melancholy events,--often, for example, on death.”
“Your story, (song rather I should say,) requires no such apology,” said the Knight of Montfaucon. “Can you believe that we also do not entwine dark-coloured flowers in our festal garlands? God be praised, Frenchmen are not yet depraved into such levity, that we should despise the solemn character of the Castilian heroes: besides, who is there among the present company, who would not gladly drink from those deep fountains of warlike energy and poetic imagination, which have their source in the rich warm peninsula of the Pyrenean mountains?”
“You are pleased to speak kindly of us,” said Don Hernandez; “nor, in some respects, are we unworthy of your praise. However, be that as it may, too many dark flowers must spoil the beauty of the wreath. A bright lily, or rose, must now and then be intwined therein; and to such a flower, if I mistake not, may be compared the story which now seems hovering on the lips of the Count de Vinciguerra.”
“Spaniards and Italians should doubtless assist each other,” replied the Count; “and, since you desire it, I shall willingly commence my story:--
“In the fine town of Naples, which, both on account of its situation and magnificent buildings, cannot be too much praised, there lived, some time since, a brave, far-famed, but already grey-headed warrior, named Signor Dimetri. After a life spent in toil and tumult, he wished to enjoy his old age in luxurious tranquillity, and therefore collected from different countries all possible rarities and treasures, his house being filled with the finest paintings, statues, and tapestry; nor was a cellar of the most costly wines neglected; but the rarest of all his possessions was a most beautiful young wife, descended from one of the most noble and wealthy families in Italy. With her, no doubt, he brought a good share of disquiet and anxiety into his palace; for, notwithstanding the modesty, the mild and correct demeanour of the Signora, yet the old hero was but too conscious of his grey hairs and want of personal attractions; so that he had but little respite from the jealous fantasies by which he was tormented.
“If, in consequence of his marriage, he was thus disquieted, another inhabitant of Naples was yet more so. This was the handsome and accomplished Signor Donatello, a young nobleman universally admired in the Neapolitan circles, who had chanced to behold Signora Portia at early mass, (at which time alone she was allowed to go abroad), and whose whole thoughts, and even dreams, had, since that meeting, been engrossed by her graceful and enchanting figure. Thenceforward he endeavoured by every means in his power to draw her attention to himself, resolving, if he failed in this object, that he would die for her sake. He did not proceed, however, like those foolish young men, who send love-embassies by tattling messengers; who ride or walk up and down daily before their mistress’s windows, or send her costly presents; thus endangering her domestic peace by rousing the attention of a jealous husband. Such lovers have themselves to blame, if they lose all share in those affections which they are so anxious to gain; but Signor Donatello, on the contrary, behaved with the utmost prudence and foresight, taking care, no doubt, that Madonna Portia should notice his passion, which even a single look was sufficient to convey; but in such manner, that she might be convinced her security and peace were to him infinitely more dear than the gratification of his own wishes.
“So it happened at last, that she herself contrived the means of expressing her mutual affection, and the gratitude she felt for his prudence and consideration. She found a trusty messenger to convey several letters; and all that Donatello had next to arrange was but to obtain free entrance as a friend into the house of his beautiful inamorata. For the future, then, he took advantage of every occasion to shew the utmost attention and politeness to the old Signor Dimetri; and yet so wisely did he behave, that it was impossible to suspect him of any particular motives. All seemed but the effect of accident; yet he had one attribute, which, though it had aided him more than all the rest with the fair Portia, yet proved the greatest possible hindrance to his designs on her husband. This was his extraordinary grace and beauty of person, without which, being so lively and agreeable a companion, he would doubtless have been invited long since into Dimetri’s house; but though he had given scores of magnificent banquets, to which the old gentleman was invited, yet the latter, being determined to avoid all risks, kept his doors closed, with the utmost obstinacy, against his courteous entertainer. In such banquets the young lover had already spent a considerable share of his fortune, yet never arrived a single step nearer the object of his wishes. At length he fixed his attention on a plan, which he had before often thought of, though it was then more like a dream than reality. This was, that he should contrive to rescue Signor Dimetri from some great apparent danger, by which exploit he might infallibly secure his future confidence and favour. Accordingly he made an agreement with some hired bravoes, who were to attack the old hero unawares in a retired place. As soon, therefore, as Dimetri fell into the snare, Signor Donatello was to rush out against the assassins, who, after a short pretended resistance, would give over, and take to flight. The plot was admirably carried through. Dimetri was fully persuaded that his life had been saved by Donatello, and expressed his gratitude with an air of the utmost gravity and earnestness. But then, his doors remained just as firmly locked as ever; nay, since that adventure, his temper seemed more peevish and capricious than it had been before.
“In truth, the old warrior was unable to disguise from himself, that in regard to his own person, years, disposition, and manners, he was by no means fitted to gain or retain the affections of a young beauty like Madonna Portia. On the other hand, he strove to encourage himself by reflecting on his own heroic achievements, and all that poets have written on the love and respect cherished by ladies for warlike valour and renown. Therefore he did not fail to relate often the history of his own exploits in the most brilliant colours to his young wife; and, moreover, to place books in her way, in which the same adventures were fairly recorded. It seemed to him, however, as if she read these volumes without any more lively interest than she would have felt for the wonders told of Hannibal, Scipio, or any other hero, who had been mouldering for centuries in the dust. Consequently he would, notwithstanding the weakness of his health, have tried to refresh his withering laurels by some new campaign, had it not been that his excessive jealousy would by no means permit him to remain long absent from his own house. Sometimes, indeed, he made young spirited horses be paraded at his castle, and mounted them in his wife’s presence, or shot at marks with a cross-bow, which no one but himself could have bent. Yet he could not help feeling, that he no longer shone in such exercises as he had done in his youthful days; while, as to the anxiety which Madonna Portia expressed for him, it was much more like that of a daughter for the safety of a weak old father, than of a wife dreading the loss of a beloved and too venturous husband. How much then must that inglorious combat with the assassins, and his rescue out of their hands by the interference of a handsome youth like Donatello, have wounded the old warrior’s pride! From that day he gradually endeavoured to break off the acquaintance; and as to inviting the young man to his house, that was now wholly out of the question.
“After so many disappointments, Donatello at length lost all patience. With Signor Dimetri he still kept up an appearance of civility and friendship; but towards every one else his temper and behaviour became quite intolerable, as if, being miserable himself, he was resolved that all the world should be so in order to bear him company. Thus it came to pass, that he, who had been universally admired and sought after in Naples, was now shunned and hated even by his most intimate friends; so that two or three young men, whom he had provoked by his scornful manners, and also crossed in some favourite scheme, resolved to waylay him in the night, and if not to commit murder, yet at least to wound and beat him in such manner, that he would be forced to conduct himself differently for the future. Accordingly he fell one evening into the snare that was laid for him; for, as he could not refrain from walking always after dark near the house of his beloved Madonna Portia, it was easy for them to find means of putting their plans into execution. Notwithstanding that he made a brave defence, yet, having been taken unawares, he was unable to stand against the number of his assailants, and soon received two severe wounds.
“Meanwhile the old warrior heard the clashing of arms and loud voices on the street; and being determined not to lose such an opportunity of playing the part of an Orlando before his beautiful lady, he girded on his belt, and brandishing his great battle-sword, rushed out of the house. Perhaps, being thus prepared and resolute, he proved a powerful assailant, or perhaps mere terror at such a frightful figure got the better of Donatello’s youthful adversaries. Suffice it to say, they fled immediately, and he was set at liberty. Thereupon the triumphant victor forgot all at once his former doubts and fears. He directly brought in his rescued friend as a trophy into the presence of Signora Portia, insisting, moreover, that a room should be provided for him, and that she should herself undertake the cure of his wounds. As Donatello was far too prudent, in Signor Dimetri’s presence, to speak on any other subject but the wonderful prowess and courage of his deliverer, describing how he had by his single arm put to flight a whole troop of banditti, all suspicions were lulled to sleep. Moreover, he continued to talk with such eloquence of the old hero’s former exploits, and numberless adventures by sea and land, that, after his recovery, he lived still as an intimate and chosen friend in Dimetri’s palace. The latter found him oftentimes alone with his wife; but then he was always speaking or reading of the same heroic achievements, to which the lady now seemed to listen with the greatest attention.
“From this story we may learn, that all our best-laid plans to gain the confidence of another may prove unsuccessful, and that it is not always by conferring favours that one can excite his good-will. On the other hand, as soon as his own vanity is inlisted on our side, we have no farther trouble, but the game of itself will be won.”