University of Virginia Library

An old compagnon found Sir Huon soon—
Sir Ranulph of the Thistle—who at times
The palace visited, and since the twain
Had been in arms together in the past,
Was feasted and made welcome when he came.
Brave was Sir Ranulph, little fearing man,
Not fearing God at all—an envious wight,
And wicked, though his wickedness he hid
Beneath his roistering manner as a cloak.
Frank in his speech, but secret in his deed,
Open in manner, but with envy gnawed,
He felt chagrined Sir Huon should have won
Riches so great and eke a lovely dame
Who loved him dearly, and he strove to find
Some spot of weakness in the life of either
Which he might pierce and thus his malice sate.
And so he peered into the household ways,
And looked where no one saw his envious glance,
And heard where no one thought he used his ears,
Till, bit by bit, from casual words he learned
That from the cock-crow till the sunset hour
On every Friday, Lady Kallimais,
Locked in an inner chamber where no eye,
Save God's, could see her, passed the hours alone.
And marvelled not the household, for it deemed,
The day being one of fast, the lady there
In abstinence and prayer and meditation,
And wholesome mortification of the flesh,
As well became a sinful mortal, strove
To purge the spirit of its earthly dross.
Sir Ranulph smiled at this—some mystery,
He thought, was there beyond what met the senses
Which he would open. Hence he laid his plans.

And so it fell one Friday, ere the noon
Sir Ranulph came, and stayed till fish was served,
And learned the lady was at her devotions,
And could not be disturbed, for so her lord,
Having love and confidence, in truth believed.

Then, full of evil thought, Sir Ranulph said—
“A happy man are you, my dear old friend,
To have so good a wife, so pious too,
Of whom, and of whose ways you are assured.
Ah me! that there are men less blest than you!
Ah me! that there are dames less true than yours!
I knew a noble knight whose wife retired
Weekly as does the Lady Kallimais,
Your pure and virtuous consort. As for her,
A wicked wretch, and he, a man abused.
He knew not as he would not of her ways,
So confident was he; but chance revealed.
There was a smart young page—but that is naught:
The dame is dead—she was a wicked woman;
In truth I know not how the story came
Thus to my memory. Whence had you, pray,
This wine of Cyprus? 'Tis a toothsome drink,
And good for mind and body. Pledge me now
To the old days when both were bachelors,
And wish me some fair dame in whom I'll hold
That quiet trust you have, and should, in yours.”
Then he began to bring again to mind
Their old adventures, when they had the world
All free before them, and their swords were new,
And hearts were eager, and their thoughts were young;
And talking all, and listening none, soon wore
The hours, then took his leave and went away—
A wasp that ere it flew had left a sting.

Strode through the hall Sir Huon all alone,
And out the portals to the garden fair,
And up and down the walks; but neither rose,
Of odorous petals tinged with delicate hues,
Nor stately lily with its snowy bell,
Nor modest violet from its timid lips
Offering its fragrance, had a charm for him.
He thought upon his dame, fair Kallimais—
So sweet, so pure, so true, fair Kallimais—
And yet so strange her ways, fair Kallimais.
Why, if devotion were alone her purpose,
Should she shut out the path to heaven above
She trod in to the loving lord she loved?
She was no wicked dame, fair Kallimais,
As she of whom his friend, Sir Ranulph, spake;
But good and sweet and filled with piety,
And fond of him beside—yea! loved him well.
And yet a wife who was a loving wife
Should have no secrets from her other self,
Not even in her intercourse with heaven;
A whole day in devotion; but one day,
And six which showed no thought of prayer or praise.
He might not spy—'twere mean indeed to spy;
He might not follow her—his promise barred
The way to that; he might not questions ply,
So he was pledged. Sir Huon's lot was hard.
And yet if by some mode outside his vow
He could discover aught, could find him why
Her fast was lone, and what she did within
That inner chamber from the world shut out,
Why then, his mind at ease, and then—and then.
So on another day, she being out,
He furtive sought that inner room, and found
But a mean altar with a crucifix,
A missal, and a vase of holy water,
A praying-stool of wood, and nothing more.
The stool was worn, and bore the marks of knees;
The missal worn, and bore the marks of use.
Never a man so shamed of his suspicions;
And yet when he beheld in the partition
A small round knot that outward fell on pressure,
And struck the floor of the adjoining room,
He let it stay there as it fell—of course.

When Friday next came on, so ill at ease
Sir Huon, that he wandered round the house
Until he came to that same empty chamber
Next where his pious wife was knelt in prayer.
He crept there softly, like a thief he crept,
And would have shrunk away, had not his glance
Fell on the hole from which the knot had dropped.
Then curiosity o'ercame resolve,
And so he stood before the aperture,
And slowly placed his eye thereto, and saw.

And this he saw. At first a tiny mouse
That capered up and down the room—then, horror!
A tigress body, supple, long and strong—
Black stripes and white upon a yellow ground—
Fearfully beautiful, with frightful paws,
And cruel claws, and slender limbs and strong—
A tigress body, with no tigress head,
A tigress body, with a human head,
A tigress body, and the head his wife's—
The head was that of Lady Kallimais,
The golden hair down falling like a mane,
The blue eyes raining floods of earnest tears,
The rosy lips with mental woe contorted—
Enchantress, or enchanted, who might know?
Meanwhile the mouse kept capering up and down,
Frolic and joyous, leaping here and there;
And every time the eyes of Kallimais
Rested upon the tiny creature's form,
A shudder ran through body and through limbs,
A newer shadow on the forehead passed,
A sharper pang of anguish on the face,
While the salt tears fell ever faster, faster;
And the poor creature, whatsoe'er it was,
Monster, or form enchanted, or a vision,
Would rest its fore-paws on the altar there,
And bow its head before the crucifix,
And seem to pray; whereat the mouse would leap,
And jump and frolic as the thing were mad.

Sir Huon had a noble soul and kind,
And knew some doom had fallen on his wife,
A fearful doom and weird and terrible.
Such agony had come not of her will;
'Twas dealt by one who had the mastery,
Or by her fault, or by his greater power;
But he would not believe 'twas through her fault
And so he left, and sought the open air,
And marvelled. When they met that night no word
Dropt from his lips to tell what he had seen;
But when she fell asleep upon his breast
He lay awake all night, and pondered much
How and through whom he might deliver her,
His dear wife Kallimais, from sore distress,
And free her from her bonds, nor break his vow;
For such his love that he believed her wronged,
And such his love he knew her innocent;
But innocent or guilty, nevertheless,
Or wronged or wronger, he would save her yet—
For, innocent or guilty, she was his,
Or wronged, or wronger, he was still her lord:—
For weal or woe he wedded that fair dame;
In weal or woe his love was still the same.