4. IV.
But we must not linger. The excitement of our troubadour
increased with the voyage. It was hardly restrainable within
the bounds of sanity as the ship approached her port of destination.
Rudel was beloved by all on board. His grace, talent,
gallantry, and enthusiasm, had touched all hearts. The curious
history of his passion had lifted him in their admiration and
wonder. They saw, with many misgivings, that it was growing
momently at the peril of his life and reason. But it was vain to
expostulate with one so completely lifted by his fervor beyond
the reach of ordinary argument. He ate but little and had no
appetite. His ailments, derived wholly from the strange flame
by which he was possessed, were yet stimulating influences
which gave him strength in the absence of mortal nutriment.
Very thin, indeed, were the cheeks which yet brightened with
the liveliest intelligence. The skin of his face had become so
delicately white and transparent, that the blue veins stood out
prominent upon his forehead, and you might trace everywhere
the progress of the fiery blood through his face and hands. His
eye wore a wild, unnatural intensity that seemed to dart through
the beholder. And yet it was apparent, even then, that the
glance which seemed to penetrate your soul, was full of intelligence
to which you were not a party. The soul of that glance
was elsewhere, far in advance of the slowly-sailing ship, in
search of the mistress of his desires.
Fearful was the fever that preyed upon his enfeebled frame.
Yet, while momently sinking in the sight of all, his heart was
full of hope and courage. There was a cheering and surprising
elasticity in his tones — an exulting consciousness of assured
success in voice and aspect — which made him superior to
all human anxieties. While no one even supposed he could
ever reach the shore alive, he himself had no doubts that he
would certainly do so. His confidence in this destiny raised
strange supernatural convictions in his brother knights, the companions
of his voyage. Their interest in his fate increased
as they beheld and listened. He spoke to them freely, and
poured forth, at frequent moments, the sentiments which were
inspired by his passion. The exquisite sonnets which were thus
delivered, seemed to them the utterance of a being already released
from human bonds; they were so tender, so hopeful, and
withal so pure. The extravagance of his flame was forgotten in
its purity. The wildness of his delirium was sweet, because of
its grace and delicacy. They spread their fruits before him,
and poured forth their beakers of Greek wine, to persuade him
to partake of more nourishing food than any which his passion
could provide; and he smiled as he tasted of their fruits, and
lifting the goblet to his lips, he chanted: —
“Ay, bring me wine of Cyprus,
The sweetest of the grove,
And we will drink, while passing,
A brimful draught of love, —
The laughing wine of Cyprus,
A brimful draught for me;
And I will yield while passing
The goblet to the sea!
Yes! Bring me wine of Cyprus!”
And, without quaffing, he flung the beaker into the deep. He
needed not the stimulus of wine. As he had no longer a relish
for earthly nourishment, so it had no power upon his blood
or spirit.
They were cheered at length with the sight of the shores of
Palestine, — the Promised Land, indeed, to him. But such an
enthusiasm as that which had possessed his soul could not have
been entertained by any mortal, except at vital hazard. His
joy became convulsion. Lifted from the vessel and placed with
his feet upon the earth, he sank down in a swoon, to all appearance
dead. But the faith which he had in the promise of his
dream, was sufficient to reanimate his strength. Borne on a litter
to the nearest dwelling, the wonderful story of his passion,
and of his voyage in pursuit of its object, was soon borne through
Tripoli. It reached, among others, the ears of the noble lady
who had been so innocently the cause of his misfortunes. Then
it was that he realized the vision that blessed him while he slept
at Blaye. The princess of Tripoli was sensible to all his sorrows.
She was touched by the devotion of the troubadour, and,
even as he lay in a state of swoon that looked the image of
death itself, his ears caught once more the endearing summons,
and the accents of that melodious voice, which had aroused him
from his despondency and dreams. Once more it whispered to
his exulting soul the happy invitation: “Hither to me, Rudel,
hither to me; and the love that thou seekest — and the peace —
shall they not both be thine?”
