University of Virginia Library

I.— WHAT MOVED FERGANT TO WRITE.

I, Fergant, living now my latest days,
Gerbert's disciple once, but long a monk
Of Sant Evreult, for that in many ways
I have beheld God's strokes upon the trunk
Of rotten trees: and seen the cedars tall
Fall on the hills, because the earth has shrunk
From nourishing, herself washed down by fall
Of pelting rains, and crumbled by the sun,
So that no state may be perpetual:
And knowing how things dwindle one by one
To him who clings to this world's misery
Some longer while, ere to the grave he run:
I, looking soon for that; and since that I
Have seen some things that shall not happen twice,
And days return not that be once gone by:
And for the cause that many calumnies
Concerning my great Master now be spread,
Gerbert the Pope, that doctor high and wise;
And of the fate which took him from our head,
And of his arts, his magic spells and songs,
Because that many things be lewdly said:
And likewise of Sir Mano and his wrongs,
(Who was the friend of Gerbert at the first)
Because that many move their evil tongues;
For this,—well knowing how they long conversed
In love, till anger rose betwixt them twain,
And by what angry cause their love was cursed:
I, Fergant, now begin this work of pain,
To vindicate their glory from all foes,
And set the truth in order clear and plain.
Nor less in duteous memory of those
Who loved my famous master or his friend
Tell I that history, which I marked so close.
All things shall be recounted, if God send
Strength to this heart, and still with life upstay
The hand that writes, until it reach the end.
And partly I my master's mind obey,
Who charged me still to hold his memory dear:
Which I refuse not, though, the truth to say,
Some acts in him of doubtful praise appear;
Nor could my dark mind apprehend the fate
Which cast him suddenly from throne to bier.—
I, then, if God give aid, shall celebrate
The prodigies, the portents, and events
Of fifty years agone, beginning late:
Yea, great are my concernments and intents
Touching that time, when bursting seemed the earth
With dissolution's sighs and throes and rents
About the millenary of the Lord's birth:
For we believed that at the thousandth year
The thing would cease in blood and pest and dearth:
And, as the fatal hour prefixed drew near,
We saw creation cracking, and the signs
Of Antichrist multiplied in our fear.
For from above depended still the lines
Of God, which heavily the nations beat,
And underneath were laid His secret mines.
But Gerbert, bold when Nature's shaking seat
The pride of man began to check and quell,
On honour's ladder placed his venturous feet.
He to the topmost round mounted full well,
And with him to have carried did intend
Sir Mano, who clomb high, but deeply fell.
For Gerbert, though he counted him his friend,
So soon as once he marked in him defect,
Or thought it, of their friendship made an end:
He was a man who could a man reject,
And oft required beyond what man could owe:
They who climb honour's hill the sky suspect.
They who suspect the sky, look not below:
And Gerbert, gazing his high purpose, stood,
Nor pity upon failure would bestow:
While Mano, who had fierceness in his blood,
At the first question drew himself away;
Woe, for the quarrels of the brave and good!
This was that Mano who was Thurold's stay,
And in the Italian field the man of note,
Where Thurold had the Normans in his sway.
Mightily played he in those realms remote,
And was in all men's sight uplifted high,
Until dark destiny his voyage smote,
And rent his sail sinful calamity.
But I believe, whatever Gerbert did
Concerning him, when they brake amity,
Was done with pain, albeit the pain was hid.

II.— HOW MANO CAME FROM ITALY.

I do remember, being in Rouen then
With Gerbert, my grave master in those days,
How Mano came from Italy with men
And letters from Count Thurold; so to raise
For the Count's service succours fresh from home,
And render back to him his warlike praise.
The Normans had been wont at large to roam
Boldly in Italy; but now were pent,
Behind Count Thurold's banner, in their nome.
Thurold had struggled vainly, and was spent:
And now came Mano, his most valiant knight,
To Richard, our young duke, with this intent.
Gerbert received Sir Mano with delight,
And question made, to know how all things were,
And would have had him tarry there the night.
But when Sir Mano doth in terms declare
How quick the post that public need requires,
He bids him on his journey forth to fare:
And I was summoned, at his brief desires,
To be his guide for the remainder way.
Therefore we left behind his knights and squires
And took the road, whither Duke Richard lay
In Lion forest, bent on royal sport:
Thus forth we fared, and made no more delay.
He seemed a strong young man, of gracious port,
But wondrous pale; not so full fleshed as those
Whom we had left in hasting to the court—
The twenty southern knights whom Thurold chose,
Now sitting weary in their armour all
In Rouen; his features hung together close,
Making a look most grave; a heavy fall
Of dark uncurling hair flowed either side:
Upon his horse he sat erect and tall,
And onward held throughout the toilsome ride
With little speech, though in the thick-set wood
His weary horse oft stumbled in his stride.
Yet noted I, observing what I could,
Sometimes a fierceness mounted in his eyes,
Or sullen glaze, like to that blinking hood
Which in the perched owl's orbs by daylight lies:
And oftentimes he sang some little song
Which at the moment in his heart might rise:
And strangely sent it he the road along,
Though seeming only muttered in his beard:
These things I noted in that warrior strong.
Moreover, when the way with words we cheered,
Which was not oft, conversing socially,
His laughter like a hurricane I heard.
Kindly upon me sometimes looked his eye,
But silently amid the solitude
For the more part journeyed the knight and I.
Alert was he to help me in the wood,
And comfort felt I in his mightiness,
And well I deemed of him, as wise and good.
And when his curving thigh the sell did press,
And his high breast answered his shoulders flat,
Ah, then my lowliness did I confess!
For doubt rose in me, were I like to that,
So mighty and so swift, so sinewy made,
Whether I should to Christ be dedicate.
And other thoughts did my sad heart invade,
Of which I make not speech.—Such was this knight,
Who sought from Italy the Norman aid.
Upon a filly rode a damsel light
Not from his rein a rood, whom he had brought
From Italy: Diantha was she hight;
Sweet to behold, but yet a thing of naught,
As from this history shall be allowed,
Tyrannous, false, and full of evil thought.
Thurold's young daughter she, who little showed
Of maidenness, though but of years fifteen,
But with her wildness vexed us on the road.
For I remember, in the clearings green
Of the thick forest, when we chanced to pass,
If peasant youths standing to gaze were seen,
Or exercising games upon the grass,
Ready was she to talk with them and jest,
Or drove amidst, as if by chance it was,
To mock them flying, while the wind abreast
Ruffled her gown, and showed her little shoe.
Often she turned on me, and me distressed,
So cold her look, her eyes so hard and blue,
Her voice so bitter, and her face so clear.
At times from Mano some rebuke she drew
Which in a scornful silence she would hear.

III.— HOW SIR MANO DELIVERED HIS LETTERS TO THE DUKE.

Riding we saw about the Lion Wood
Many pavilions of the following:
And some we passed: then right before us stood
Another of white silk wide fluttering.
Giroie the Count de Montreuil there pight,
Whose praised name about the court did ring.
He was so gentle and so fair a knight,
Who loved with Blanche, the fairest damozel
Of all who waited on our duchess bright.
More shall ye learn of both: but now right well
That young and courteous knight remembered me,
And bore us company a little spell,
And led us onward, gently talking he
To wild Diantha, till we gained the port
Of the fair lodging, decked with sylvan glee,
Where young duke Richard held his summer court:
Who then with certain knights was set at board,
After the public hall, and all the sport.
Never before saw I a mighty lord
Hold pleasant converse with his own compeers:
The doors were closed; the table was well-stored:
No servitor appeared, but on three chairs
Sat by the duke the County of Ponthieu,
The Count of Brionne, the Count of Ferrières,
Their banners over each: as in we drew,
More merry words heard we than wont to wag
Between high princes, so far as I knew.
Ponthieu bade Brionne swallow his own flag,
And all began with laughing like to fall.
But I, who still about the door did lag,
Beheld Sir Mano join those princes all;
Who made him right good cheer: then Mano gave
To the Duke's hand his letters special:
And therewithal began discourse more grave,
And long time was maintained this interview.
These letters I with care collected have:
And needful in this history to show
The evidence of what their scope and aim:
Since many of the things which here ensue,
And Mano's expedition rose from them.

IV.— THE LETTERS OF COUNT THUROLDUS: OTHER LETTERS AND TIDINGS OF THE STATE OF THE WORLD.

“Pope Gregory our arms sanctificates:
By virtue of which grace we have prevailed
As far as Bari and the Grecian gates.
From Capua have we banished those who haled
Their cruel tribute to the apostate East,
And had destroyed them, but our forces failed:
And now they gather strength again, increased
From Africa, Cyprus, and Sicily,
Whilst our late found advantage all is ceased.
Much therefore it behoves that speedily
Succour ride forth from home: on thee it rests
To be our good in this necessity.
Assist thou therefore unto these requests,
Most dread and sovereign lord, Gonnorides,
Despatching worthy aids: urge thy behests,
And move thy peaceful realm, as well agrees
Both with thy greatness and our exigence;
That future glory spring from present ease.”
—Of this epistle Mano made the sense
Ampler by various tidings that he brought,
And to our lords rehearsed in conference.
From him we learned what evils had been wrought
To Italy about that wretched time
By warring nations, which within her fought:
When Saracens held the whole Alps maritime,
And rode the seas beneath: Lombard and Greek
In combat ranged through fair Apulia's clime:
Nor yet the Norman power was main to wreak
Vengeance on those outrageous enemies,
The Norman power, now strong, that then was weak.
—Moreover he to the East the Norman eyes
Was first to turn, and toward Jerusalem,
Where then our pilgrims met with injuries:
What time ruled there the negro Zacharem,
Who ravaged all the Holy Sepulchre,
Doing obedience to the race of Shem:—
He quenched the sacred light, which, all aver,
At Easter burns: and strove to obliterate
The cave where Joseph did the Lord inter.
Whereat a palmer, with high zeal elate
Smote with his fist the temples of a Jew,
Which deed for heinous crime the judge did rate;
And the Fatimite in raging fury slew
The man, and those who with him dared to stand,
Albeit to Italy escaped some few.
—All which our princes thought to take in hand,
And gathered closely in remembering mind,
Of the holy city and the eastern land.
—But there were letters of more heavy kind,
Which rose beyond our mortal scope and bent,
Telling how wretched earth of heaven was pined.
In them 'twas read how that poor land was rent
With troubles which no mortal might resist,
About that date when all the world seemed spent.
Which revelation seemed of Antichrist,
Then sitting in God's temple, like to God;
Nor any sign of horror was there missed.
“We feel,” they wrote, “the sore avenging rod;
The famine and the unknown pest increase,
The secret fever which consumes the blood.
“Men weakly wait, till death their pain bid cease,
The end their fellows little noticing,
Who for themselves desire the like release.
“Their voices through the wasted fields of spring
Sound querulous, like to the dying birds
Which on the hard soil beat their helpless wing.
“This plague invaded hath the flocks and herds,
The crops remained unsown this year; and now
What sustenance the naked field affords
“They fight for till they die: it were as though
Confounded were the elements, and nature
Followed new laws: such anger clouds heaven's brow,
“With tribulation of the whole creature:
For thrice the moon is marked with blood: the sun
Trembles to quit this circle of dark feature:
“A mighty comet through the heavens doth run
Three months: discoloured are the stars by it:
Wherefore the last days seem to be begun.
“—This sign moreover doth St. John transmit,
That in the latter days we shall be tricked
By Satan's legates, men of subtle wit.
“And this last plague that holy men depict
Is added now: one such is hither borne,
Whose glozing style lies temper and inflict.
“Full many thousands have their faith forsworn
Through him, Vilgardus, named Grammaticus,
Who makes the Holy Church his mark of scorn;
“Fabling that on a summit mountainous
The demons of the poets came to him,
Juvenalis, Maro, and Horatius,
“Who hailed him their disciple, with no dim
Renown with them in realms beyond the grave,
And crowned him with a laurel garland trim.
“Then he of doctrine strange began to rave,
Uttering, 'twas thought, their oracles abhorred
Through the pretensed commission which they gave.”
These were the tidings that were spread abroad
By writings, or the converse held in court
Betwixt Sir Mano and our gentle lord:
And deeply wrought they in the nobler sort.

V.— OF THE GREATNESS OF THE NORMANS.

The Normans bear away the praise of might
From other nations in this age of war,
And raise their glorious name from height to height.
None other nation traverses so far;
And it might seem that numerous as the Dane,
Or Greek, or Saracen, the Normans are.
For never battle joins on any plain
Without some band of Normans in the brunt,
Whose sovereign arms the victory ordain:
And through the seas the hidden isles they hunt
In shielded vessels, which those fleets of state,
That walk the orient waters, fear to affront.
Nor only in the field they arbitrate
Between the nations: they as pilgrims go
To every shrine on earth by faith made great,
Casino, Compostella, or the show
Of Tours, where all the relics may be found
That have been gathered in this age of woe.
Yea, in the Holy Places they abound
Above all others: neither infidel,
Nor sea, nor desert, shuts the sacred ground:
So that before their zeal invincible
The prospect of the world is open laid,
And they their lesson thence have learned full well.
—But if 'tis questioned, Whence be Normans made
Active above the others, who remain
Unmoving, darkened in ignoble shade,
I answer, that religion breaks the chain
That sordid custom forges, and sets free
To nobler works from daily toil and pain.
For other nations, chained upon the lea
In ceaseless labour, little guess or know
Beyond the feuds where they allotted be.
In other nations the high seigneurs show
Seldom a spark, except in private war,
Of active conduct, or toward friend or foe:
Each baron in his fort peculiar
Makes of his lands and people wasteful dearth,
And doth from common enterprise debar,
Maintaining bloody bands that drain the earth,
Like packs, their neighbours to devour and bite,
Not join with them in any deed of worth.
Thus France from blood and pillage hath respite
No single day: while all in peace abide
Through Normandy from duke to poorest knight.
No private war, no constant homicide
Distracts them; but as if one family
They live in their domain from side to side.
So much in truth it profits them to be
The soldiers of the Church; which is their boast:
And the high liegemen of the Holy See.
They go forth at her bidding as one host,
Plant where she wills their hardy colonies,
And when she leads the way, achieve the most.
But woe is me, that in this brave land lies
A cankerworm beneath the glorious show;
Peace rests on pain, renown on miseries.
The peasants groan and wail in ceaseless woe,
Weighed down by tolls, by services and dues,
Which to their mighty lords they ever owe.
No task of them required may they refuse,
But, for themselves, to fish, or hunt, or snare,
Or fell the forest trees, they may not use:
Neither to spend upon themselves they dare;
For all the Normans hold themselves to be
Equal as masters, having common care:
And hold the land by their confederacy,
Crushing the Frank and Breton, whom they found,
What time in ships they first came over sea.
Which rigour wrought those children of the ground
To that mad rising, whose most sure defeat
Fell, ere the millenary year went round.
—Well is it known, ere Richard took his seat
About that time, how under shade of night
The desperate foresters would ofttimes meet:
Until the Count of Evreux, Robert hight,
The Archbishop of Rouen, upon them fell
With a great following, by force and might.
That cruel lord broke their conventicle,
And pined them with torments in strange wise,
That dire examples might their courage quell.
Some he impaled, of some put out the eyes,
Of some he burned the members in quick lime,
And other nameless things did he devise.
The recollection of that hideous crime
I hold as parcel of the misery
Which I in convent suffered at the time.—
The bones that had been broken came to me
And to my piteous brethren, aching still
When all the fame thereof had ceased to be.
And slowly some we mended of their ill,
And pitied all; while question inly rose
Why some had right others to hold at will.—
“These poor men feel,” methought, “as keen as those
Who so bestride them, nobles lithe and strong:
And yet bear those the whip, and these the blows.
“These have no place the lawgivers among,
But in their masters' eyes their statutes read
And must obey, smarting with bitter wrong.—
“Yet if to government they should succeed,
With wrongs would they redub the wrongs they felt,
Shake down the state, and furiously be freed.
“A bloody retribution would be dealt;
Mean vice would reign: then lands and holdings all
Into poor common portions they would melt.
“Then where were greatness, where were glory's call,
The arts, and whatsoever makes it good
That man exist beneath the fire-bright ball?”
And as to the abstract right, whether it stood
That few or many ruled, I could not tell;
But with the few still went the likelihood.
—Thus with our minds discoursed we, at one spell
Tending poor wounds, and building up anon
By nobles' gifts our convent citadel:
And not much moved by us the world went on.

VI.— HOW DUKE RICHARD CAME TO FÉCHAMP.

The leaves of the oak were falling on the ground
When Richard read these letters: he decreed
That presently such succours should be found
As Mano thought to meet the present need:
Who straight began his levies to collect.
Then his brave following back did Richard lead,
And crossed the forest, that he might effect
A mournful penance at his father's tomb
At Féchamp, and a canonry erect:
Richard, surnamed Gonnorides: than whom
No man more pious on the sun did look:
Sad piety constrained him thus to come.
Nor shall I now omit to praise this duke,
Who was a prince of mild and gracious thought,
Holding his lofty state without rebuke.
At Féchamp therefore passed we through the port
Into a pleasance fair and wide, wherein
Grew many trees around the sanded court:
There fountains sprang, and runnels wandered clean:
And winding walks along rose-borders led:
And midst there was a goodly chantry seen,
By the old duke before established,
And chambers, where with all her royal train
The duchess of young Richard had her sted:
The sister of Duke Geoffrey of Bretagne
Was she, nor less in rank than beauty rare:
But fairest among all were ladies twain,
And they were sisters; namely, Blanche the Fair,
To whom Giroie was sworn, whom lately we
In Lyon forest found, when we passed there,
And sweet Joanna, scarce less fair than she,
Joanna, for whose soul I bid you pray,
Sith ye shall sorrow for her history.
And there I saw amid the others gay
That evil child Diantha also set,
Who wrought us all that trouble in the way.
Now all the riders with sloped lances let
Their horses slowly pace these dames before:
And still the prayer-bell rang with clamour great:
Then the duke entered by the chapel door,
And as he went, each footstep of the way,
The beadles strewed fresh rushes on the floor:
Then down their staircase came those ladies gay.
On this side sat the duke, and upon that
Duke Geoffrey of Bretagne in like array.
The ladies in their place appointed sat,
And all the knights came trailing two and two,
And ranged themselves on stool and bench and mat,
Mano, Brionne, Ferrieres, and Ponthieu.

VII.— HOW MANO CAST HIS LOVE AT BLANCHE: AND HER SISTER AT HIM.

Now in the chapel, ye shall understand,
When sat those knights and ladies, gazing all
On one another, ranged on either hand,
Ere that the chants began, it did befall
That Mano cast his eyes on Blanche the Fair;
And of a bitter love became the thrall;
Oh, bitterly love's thrall, Oh, then and there.
So that, although erewhile to Italy
He had been purposed swiftly to repair,
His mind was changed, and he gan secretly
Devise to tarry longer in that place:
Which was his first fall from integrity.
Nor less Joanna to her fate did race,
Who that same hour went into love as deep
With him, as he with Blanche. O cruel case!
I, to whom mortal love is sin, can weep
At the most fatal stroke of love, which still
Of ordered joys makes but a tangled heap:
When I consider all the bitter ill
Which came thereof: how Mano his life's peace
Lost in the mournful frenzy of his will:
And how Joanna, till her soul's release,
Never knew joy, but hungrily did watch
The love which all so nigh her did increase:
But, though so nigh, no glimmer could she catch,
Nor any ray of warmth: ah fate unkind,
That love's designs and deeds so ill should match!
I say that I, though with a zealous mind
Devoted to the Benedictine rule,
Which blessed Odo on his monks did bind,
And all my life instructed so to school
My senses to exclude love's very thought,
And turn from him who is love's slave and fool;
Yet in my secret'st heart I never sought
To shut out pity for such misery;
So blessed Maiolus and Aylmer taught:
They pitied too that human woe: and I
Who learned of them in youth, and still observed
Of those great men the grave austerity,
Deem that in age I shall not thence have swerved,
If with full heart I write of what befell
Through love's great force: nay, thereto am I nerved,
And in the thought of them think I do well:
Their reverend zeal and aspect so benign,
And their old age of toil within me dwell.
When I and other youths, compeers of mine,
To evil thoughts gave way, and restless grew
Under the burden of our vows divine,
Then Maiolus and Aylmer ever threw
Themselves between us and the gates of sin
With lifted hands and eyes of lovely hue:
And their sweet counsel probed so deeply in
Our stormy hearts with loving words and wise,
That we with penitence would soon begin;
Yea, break in tears, and strong tempestuous sighs,
And soon our feeble zeal was re-illumed
From their bright torch, with clearer flame to rise.
For they victorious emblems had assumed
Over the flesh, while we were fighting still:
They fly not fast whose souls for heaven be plumed:
But by God's law on earth they tarry till
Others grow strong who feebler pennons wave:
Nor did they this command austerely fill.
Oft in their dehortation mild they gave
Strange knowledge how in youth themselves were tried
By wiles from which themselves they could not save:
But if they stood, through grace it did betide:
And many a wondrous miracle they told
In which heaven's grace in them was magnified:
And many a penance undergone of old,
Through which their evil nature was subdued:
That we against the flesh might wax more bold.
Then we ourselves in labours stern and rude,
Fasts, vigils, chantings, stripes, by slow degrees
Arose above each passion wild and lewd;
And as life passed, grew more and more at ease.
But life was well-nigh passed ere that, as now,
My mind her thoughts was able to appease,
And live by memory in times gone through,
And so collected as to gaze upon
The joys of others without present woe,
Their griefs without malignity thereon:
And even now at times I feel the wrong
Of having lived my woful life alone.
Why should I serve this toil? though I belong
Through this, I trust, to heaven's elected bands?
So feels the priest, when comes the nuptial throng,
Which day by day approaches where he stands
White-robed, awaiting, that they may partake
The holy marriage blessing from his hands.
No joy is stored for him, although he make
The joys of others holy, last of all
To be remembered, let him smile or ache.
Yet in this sadness it is usual
To find great peace: and only pity grows
In me beholding how men's woes befall.
But I will say, if ever aught arose
In me akin to thoughts which women move,
Joanna sweetest, sacred through her woes
To me—but what has that to do with love?

VIII.— OF THE CROSSES OF LOVE.

Thou poppy, that of Lethe art the flower,
Why hangest thou down ere ripeness be begun,
Ere yet be come thy seasonable hour,
That thou art lifted upward to the sun,
And bloomest high on thy erected stem,
Gazing the sky which late thou seemedst to shun?
Thou wearest still thy scarlet anadem
While life remains: then downward fallest again,
More lifeless than when first thou wast a gem:
And, ruined more and more by wintry rain,
Art gathered to thy root beneath the ground.—
So with man's heart, that shall of love be fain.
It waits in rest ere yet it may be crowned
With love's fledge flower: then in maturity
With waving splendours fires the air around:
Then enters on the day of misery,
The fickleness of time, the strokes of fate:
Love's stricken banners hover miserably,
Life's rotting root in sadness lingers late,
Ere frozen age seal the sad residue,
And pottering death e'en that obliterate.
Of Mano I say this, that ne'er I knew
Aught like his love of Blanche: and this I say
Who have seen much that mighty love can do.
All that befell I know: for in that day
He told me much, being familiar
To my society, while there we lay.
For I had grown to love that knight of war,
So gracious was he to me, so would he
To me his fiery nature check and bar:
And give me those kind looks which live in me,
Those lightsome words that warm like summer days,
But never rob the mind of dignity.
And I to him was dear: nought shall efface
The recollection of those better hours,
Amid the deadly ills that I must trace:
Which now began. His manner in those towers
Already feared me much: a reckless star
Seemed shaking over him malific powers.
For friendship's sake I may not all declare,
Nor more than fits the story shall be shown:
But this in sum: he shunned the Italian war,
And turning all his thoughts to Blanche alone,
Lost docile peace, and never more achieved
A quiet hour, but in love's net lay prone.
The joy of Giroie him of joy bereaved,
Nor willed he to call home his chafed heart,
Ere all was lost too far to be retrieved.
Thus saw he fortune from his life depart:
But sadder still was poor Joanna's case,
Who bore in innocence love's bitter smart.
For, many a day, as went the months apace,
They met, when he for Blanche her sister sought,
And she her own love banished from her face:
So love herein contrariously wrought,
And this way fell it: Mano mightily
Loved Blanche, and of Joanna took no thought,
But hoped himself to be loved answerably:
Which was not so, seeing that to Giroie,
That merry and good knight, betrothed was she:
So that long time he fed upon false joy,
Deeming her easiness and happy cheer
Favour of him: so was he Fortune's toy.
For all that time Sir Giroie came not near,
And Mano of Sir Giroie little knew,
Nor heard from others with a knowledge clear.
But ye who shall this history pursue,
Shall find what strange adventure then befell
Giroie, which from the court his face withdrew,
Whom we in Lyon forest deemed to dwell
In fair pavilion, as love's forester,
When he lay crouching close in horror's well.
And touching Blanche, Mano no blame of her
Would ever grant, albeit she wrought him woe,
And cast him from her with disdainful cheer.
He blamed himself, nor would he deign to owe
Comfort to blame of her: but still denied
That any friend on her reproach should throw;
In truth, of love she never signified,
But long was he abused by everything
Which to the truth might best have been his guide:
And most Diantha imped his foolish wing:
For when that wicked one his case divined
She fed his hopes with vain imagining:
For to do harm best pleased her evil mind:
So that the wise was fooled. But at the last
Joanna, pitying his darkness blind,
Occasion took a light on him to cast,
And told him all the truth, how all things lay,
That Blanche the Fair and Giroie were trothfast.
All that between them fell needs not to say;
But poor Joanna vainly hoped that he
Might shift his love to her from that same day;
Alas not so: for in mild courtesy
He gathered what she of her sister said,
And, answered little, though moved verily.
Nor she her sacred secret aught betrayed;
Nor guessed it he, even while his eyes were set
Upon the sweet face of that gentle maid.
Why failed his thoughts to pierce the wan regret
Of love within that look?—'twas enough fair
To have touched one less enwrapped in other's net.
Full lovely was the falling of her hair,
Sweet was her carriage, sweet the little folds
Of her fair dress close drawn with meekest care.
Light as a bird she seemed in these dark holds
Of sin and woe, soft-footed as a dove:
No fairer soul the Mother's glance beholds,
Since that she joined the virgin choir above,
And woe is ceased with her, and tears and sighs,
Which was the most she gained of earthly love.
For Mano, hearing what she did avise,
Designed to go to Blanche, and there receive
The answer of these ambiguities,
And otherwise no whit of all believe:
Which purpose was prevented many days;
In the which time this chanson did he weave.
“Now my exalted heart plays with delays,
But soon may I wear victory's fair crown,
And better celebrate my lady's praise,
“When at her lovely feet my head goes down,
To lay one myrtle leaf on laurer wood.
Ah love! My heart beats; fiery sorrows drown
“My eyes with dews of love, and in my blood
Is ice of shuddering mixed: my heart beats thick:
A din is in my ears: the pulses thud
“Loud in my breast. Oh, gentle Love, come quick
Thy learning lay in every lingering line.
Teach, teach me all thy precious rhetoric,
In praising her to praise thy power divine.”

IX.— HOW BY BLANCHE SIR MANO WAS REFUSED AND MADE FOOLISH.

So was this strong man madly temperate,
Until at last the evil day was come
For which so long cold Fortune bade him wait.
And now that he and Blanche in closed room
Are met in converse, now 'twere not unmeet
That I should of the painter's skill presume.
If ye would see that lady fair and sweet
In her first youth, she had wide flashing eyes,
And she was prompt of speech, and of some heat,
Which ever to the proud gains enemies:
But, whom she had offended, she would be
Quick with some sudden kindness to surprise:
And her great beauty made the amends as free
And acceptable as the smile of the air,
When from a cloud it looks more graciously.
Well coloured was she, tall and debonair,
And light and very swift: and energy
And grace in all her actions mingled were.
Her hair was long, her face made delicately,
Her lips and eyes were in a form so rare,
Which way she turned her neck, they did agree.
And so she was surnamed Blanche the Fair,
And Rouen's Maid: seeing so fair she was
That not another might with her compare.
To this fair creature Mano told his case
From the first day whereon his heart grew weak,
Beseeching her for gentleness and grace.
But she anon bade him no more to speak,
Sith to Giroie her troth was given away
Long since, as all men knew. Red was her cheek;
Like a fool looked he: nought could he gainsay
But that of all the very truth he knew,
As sad Joanna told him ere that day.
But now, he said, “Thou biddest me to rue:
Wisdom too late is folly's penalty:
Yet answer, for this one request I sue,
“Thou who thus dealest forth my destiny,
That, knowing all, my fate the easier prove:
Goes this thing with thy mind?”—“Yea,” answered she.
“Then,” answered he, “since love is born of love,
And thou returnest not my love for thee,
That which I brought must I again remove,
And in my breast must poor love buried be.”—
“And even so, since never I thee bade
To vex me with thy love, I well agree:”
That answered Blanche: then without word he made
His passage from her presence fair and fierce;
And coming whence he was so evilly paid,
His beard was all to-rent beneath his ears.
But in a while he gan to smile, and sing
This little song, which in this place appears.
“I cry your mercy for my misdeeming:
An end of all my songs I make hereby:
For love hath made an end of his playing,
“And in love's joys no more a share have I.
And if of joy an end to me thou bring,
And thoughts of love within my mind must die,
Then of my songs there is no more to sing.”

X.— HOW BOTH JOANNA AND MANO WOULD VISIT GERBERT: AND HOW JOANNA MET AN OLD PEASANT IN THE FOREST LAMENTING, WHO TOLD HER HIS STORY.

Now when Joanna saw what mien he wore,
And that of her no thought was in his mind,
Love's trouble in her bosom wrought so sore
That she lord Gerbert straight resolved to find
For counsel in her cause: and it befell
That Mano on his part the same designed.
The mighty Gerbert at that time did dwell
In Rouen not far off: thus sought they two,
Each unknown of the other, the same cell.
And first to say what things her journey through
Joanna met, who through the long woods went
Riding by glades and paths she little knew,
Till the night fell, and she was somewhat spent
And terrified: then in a valley drear
She heard the voice of one who made lament:
Which woful sound soon caused to disappear
From her mild bosom dreariness and dread:
And to the place she turned and drew anear.
There in the darkness at the valley's head,
An aged peasant sat and made his moan:
Who to her asking thus the occasion said:
“I to my neighbour give this mournful groan,
And to his wife, and the great wickedness
Of my own daughter, which shall now be known.
My neighbour, to his own unhappiness,
Above all things desired his son to be
Married to her whom mine I must confess,
And to the same full well did I agree:
For our two farms were in this valley lone,
Where they were nurtured in their infancy,
In childhood played together, and being grown
Were in each other ordered to confide.
But from the first froward my child was known;
True love might never in her soul abide:
And in the place of gentle intimacy
They did but ever wrangle, scoff, and chide.
So that if love at first moved actively
Within my neighbour's son, yet soon it died.
But now, the more it seemed unlike to be
That he should take my daughter for a bride,
The more his father would that so he should,
And fixed his mind upon no thought beside.
And one day walking in this mountain wood,
Casting this case full sadly in his mind,
He met the evil wight in the peaked hood,
Who told him how by art he had divined
His trouble, and that he should yet ere long
His son in marriage with my daughter bind.
This comfort made his hope again wax strong:
But time went on, and love increased no whit
In that injurious pair, but pride and wrong.
They would not in one room together sit,
Nor lead their flocks nor cattle the same way,
Nor space for thought of peace did they permit.
For if upon the hill her flock did stray,
He in the valley kept: if she the vale,
He held the hill through all the summer day.
So that our hopes again began to pale.
And therewithal did damage great ensue
To our poor stock: both houses like to fail:
For we instead of one were now made two
By this perversity: and at the last
I sought my neighbour's wishes to subdue,
And thus I urged him. ‘Neighbour, now is past,’
Said I, ‘the term these follies to allow:
Give up the thought on which thy mind is placed.
‘For neither of them to our wishes bow,
And we are sundered by their enmities.
Therefore thy son away from this send thou,
‘And we in both our houses shall have peace.
[Nay, otherwise we cannot live, nor draw
Subsistence from these miserable leas:]
‘Persuaded be thou therefore.’ But I saw
Great sorrow take him at my words, and so
I did the matter for the time withdraw:
And he spake of the things he wished the mo.”

XI.— THE PEASANT CONTINUES HIS STORY.

When that poor peasant to this point was come,
He stayed and sighed: “Ah, wherefore wishes vain
Make in the breast of wretched men their home,
And most concerning children: who with pain
Being born, and nurtured in their infancy,
Still, after nonage past, a care remain;
Nor can we parents, to our misery,
The former manage of their state forbear,
Or free our hearts from old anxiety.
For how to shape their course is still a care,
Neither may we reject and cast away
Our fullgrown offspring anyhow to fare,
As do the beasts, their hearts to disarray
Of tenderness, when infant cries are o'er;
Alas, we toil and spin till we be grey!
—My hapless neighbour, who still hoped the more
That every day he saw his hopes decline,
Ended them all in sudden trouble sore,
When went his son one day to herd the swine
In yon oak forests whence the vale is sought,
And ne'er again returned, and left no sign.
In vain his parents Heaven for him besought,
They never knew what I too well can say—
That in the woods, far from his father's cot,
He met the evil wight who doth waylay
The dwellers hereabout; and being prone
To mischief, did his evil hests obey:
And so on him by art a charm was thrown
To make him seem another: by which spell
Disordered, in the woods he journeyed on,
Till in the company of thieves he fell,
As it was like to be: he met a band
Of pillers, and agreed with them to dwell,
And soon was known chief robber in the land,
By name of Riculf: and, to crown this height,
That gang so bold their practice took in hand,
That they assailed the castle of a knight,
And slew him, and in prison cast his son.
And thence, so dealt the evil valley-wight,
This knave a guise so like the son put on,
That he usurped his name, (his own real state,
Save to his comrades, being known to none):
And him he pined, whom he did personate,
With pining sore, and kept in prison strong,
And in foul living wasted his estate.
“Some time being passed these wicked deeds among,
There fell on this foul cheat a sickly blight:
He took to bed, he wasted, and ere long
The spreading pain deprived his eyes of sight.
Whereat he bade proclaim a great reward
To any who should bring him back to light.
Then many famous surgeons, when they heard,
And many other wanderers, him to please,
The journey to the dangerous manor dared:
They brought strange drugs to give him sight and ease,
But when each failed, the most remorseless brute,
Who lay in bed, wrung dreadful penalties:
For from their heads the living eyes he cut,
And sent them groaning o'er the drawbridge steep:
So perished they who dared this vain pursuit.
Thenceforth none ventured to approach his keep:
And with the fell disease which racked his frame
The wretch was left alone, to wake or sleep.
“At length, after some days, a young man came,
Asking to put a medicine to the test,
That he might do the cure and win a name.
Then e'en those thieves to whom he made request,
So brave he seemed, were sorry in good sooth
To see him run on danger manifest:
And fain would have withheld him, but the youth
Prevailed to have his way; and so was brought
Unto the bed of that blind man uncouth:
Who warned him of the torment to be wrought,
If his nigh hopeless hope were unfulfilled;
But the youth smiled, as not regarding aught,
And presently upon his eyes distilled
A wondrous liquid, which at once made clear
Their glaring round, which rage with blood had filled.
Their light returned to them, and from their drear
And horrid stare moving, they first beheld
The keen smile of that youth so close and near:
Who with his phial, bent like one impelled
By waking first to scan his bed-fellow
Still sleeping; nor long time his smile withheld:
But, as he gazed, broke into laughter low
To see him seeing, and himself be seen:
And tossing down his phial said, ‘Lo, lo!
What wonders I can work, if that I mean!’
The other leaped from bed: ‘Brave youth,’ said he,
‘Ask anything thou wilt; command me e'en
To the thousandth of my little territory.’
But the youth laughed again: said he, ‘I crave
Not to command thee for my doctor's fee,
But rather to obey thee as thy slave.’
And therewithal her bosom bare she laid,
Drawing her robe apart; then stared the knave,
For he was talking with a lovely maid.
Wherewith full soon o'erjoyed to her he ran,
But she with graceful hand did him evade:
‘Nay, fear,’ said she, ‘thine own physician!
Full oft of old have I thy form admired,
Begirt with many a gallant serving-man,
When in our vale thy glittering hunts have fired
The forest woods: full often have I prayed
That heaven would raise me to thy height desired;
For I was lowly born, by fate betrayed,
And by my parents kindlessly designed
To marry one whom fate my equal made;
One, as in station low, so base in mind,
A wretched swineherd's son, a sordid pest,
A hideous and miserable hind:
But my disgust with hate soon filled his breast,
And some few months ago he disappeared,
And left the valleys and the hills at rest.’
—“‘Well,’ quoth the knave, when this account he heard,
And knew my daughter, whom he hated erst,
As now he loved with fury, being assured
She knew him not in his disguise accursed,
‘Go on, thou lovely stranger, tell to me
What blessing told thee of my sickness first?’
—“‘I saw the hunt one daybreak,’ answered she,
‘In joyous summer riding round the wood,
And thou wast not among their company.
Then mournful in my flock long time I stood,
Ere at my side I saw an aged wight,
Who told me thou wast playing blind-man's hood
Against thy will; then pensive with the night
Homeward I fared; and sat full sad and still,
Until my angry mother gan me smite,
And chide me for high thoughts and wayward will;
And bade me next our supper to prepare:
And when I scorned to mix the wretched swill,
She called the swineherd, him whose noble heir
I was to wed, to force me to obey:
The ready refuge of her sordid care.
To him she raced, my father being away,
And he came quickly with his fingers spread,
And dragged me to his hut, which thereby lay:
Where to his wife me he delivered,
“Upon this wicked disobedient trull
Revenge thou thy son's loss,” to her he said.
The eyes of that old wife, of fury full,
Sparkled when she beheld me; and full soon
My long hair loose with curses did she pull,
And beat me sore, and haled me up and down;
Nor from her cruelties desisted she,
Till to the ground I staggered in a swoon.
“This story mixed of spiteful falsity
My wicked daughter gave, as I received
From one who in the place happened to be.
But now the knave who heard, and well believed
What his own thoughts desired, bellowed on high,
‘By Satan, they who thy fair head mischieved
Of such a deed the cost shall well aby,
Though they my father and my mother were.’
Then she, ‘Let me tell on their cruelty.
‘Next morning did these swineherds reappear,
Leaving the wretched chamber where they lay,
And offered me to share their meagre cheer.
‘Then, when their summons I would not obey,
Shut in the house was I till eventide,
And slept that night upon the floor of clay.
‘The next day was the same on either side:
But on the third, when the man took his road,
Against the watchful wife my strength I tried,
‘And quickly left that villainous abode.
Nor hied I home; but up the valley went,
Where soon I marked that one before me strode:
‘Who, keeping still before, his footsteps bent
Into the glades of the wide-spreading wood,
Then turned and waited me:—“Oh, excellent,”
‘Said he; “thou pupil spirited and good,
Save that thou long hast kept me waiting here.”
Him then the same old carle I understood,
‘Who haunteth ever in the valley drear,
Who told me of thine ill; he told me now
How all thy surgeons thou hadst quitted dear:
‘But bade me, armed with this strong philtre, go,
Fearless, and pour the liquor in thine eyes.
Thou knowest the rest; deserve I thanks or no?’
“Then the knave kissed her; and to win his prize
That very night he sent a numerous band
Of his own servitors in sure disguise
To my poor neighbour's cot with this command,
Him and his aged wife to bring away:
That is, his parents, thou mayst understand.
Alas for them! for in the night heard they
A fiendish yelling round their little place;
And looking out saw it as light as day,
With torches burning in their garden space,
And the False Faces in disorderly
And frightful dresses, with great headpieces.
Then, in their dreadful misery, to fly
In darkness to the woods that wretched pair
Thought first; and might have saved themselves thereby.
But at that moment from the outer air
Sounded a solemn voice, ‘Go, fearing nought,
If ye would see your son married to her,
The woman whom to be his bride ye sought.’—
And the poor father knew the valley-wight,
Who erewhile to his ears that promise brought.
And they surrendered to his evil might,
And with that company they went along,
Suffering hard usage through the weary night;
And saw so many spectacles of wrong
Upon the way, that they were well-nigh dead
Ere they arrived before the castle strong.
There, lifting up with pain each aged head,
They saw indeed their son, that felon high,
And my vile child, by him dishonoured.
And on them in that house of villainy
The voices thick of fiends began to shower
Insult and taunt and all impiety.
And thus these parents gained a child the more;
Thus their life's fondest wishes did they gain,
Thus they their son recovered in that hour.
The magic hid him not; they saw him plain,
And speechless fell in death in that ill place.
And this is that with sorrow I complain:
My wicked daughter, and their evil case.”

XII.— HOW JOANNA FARED ONWARD WITH THE PEASANT: AND HOW SIR MANO MET WITH A WOUNDED MAN.

Now when Joanna heard that doleful tale,
Soft pity filled her: and she minded then
To be in misery of some avail.
Therefore she bade the cottage denizen
To lead her to that home of cruelty,
Nor feared alone to visit such foul den.
Right glad the peasant was: forth did they hie,
And sought it through the woods a weary stage;
So in the long woods leave we them thereby.
For now, too, love in quest of Gerbert sage
Hath sent Sir Mano forth: and straight rode he
Along the river in such pilgrimage.
When casting round his eye he chanced to see
A man, who lay as dead in the green shaw:
To whom speaking, groans him answered grievously.
Then riding near, the wretch's eyes he saw
Wrapped in a bandage poor, bedrenched with gore;
And bitter torments seemed his limbs to draw;
For his white face turned toward the heaven he bore,
Shuddering and moaning still. “What man art thou,”
Said Mano, “dying in this weather frore,
“That mid the battering leaves dost mope and mow?”
—“Cold is this place, and bitter is the ache
Of ceaseless pain,” the other answered slow,
“But well it is, if thou darest vengeance take
On evil doer, that I nursed my breath
To speak the wrongs which me thus wretched make.”
Then Mano raised the man, who seemed nigh death,
And comforted him all that there he could:
And presently with pain the other saith:
“Behold this napkin stiff with oozing blood:
It hides the sightless circles of mine eyes,
Which never more shall look on ill or good:
They only feel, not see, their miseries,
Themselves a sight most piteous, seeing nought,
Though of my sorrows faithful witnesses.
I was a surgeon once, and wisely taught,
Save that I trusted in my art too well:
For too much confidence me hither brought.
Southward from hence a castellan doth dwell,
And many miles is spread his wide domain:
On whom erewhile a foul disease there fell,
Which in dark scales his eyelids still doth chain;
As thou art knight of gentle courtesy,
On him, beseech thee, wreak my wrongs amain.
For from that caitiff's heart of cruelty
This custom vile against them was begun
Who should their art to him in vain apply,
That they should for ill surgery atone
By loss of their own eyes:—full many tried
The dangerous venture: and I, wretched one,
Who on a mighty medicine relied,
Likewise in turn to do him good essayed,
Alas, in vain: me did that fiend deride,
Gladder that I was vanquished in my trade
Than sorry for his eyesight unrestored:
And thence he bade me be to doom conveyed.
His ministers with point of piercing sword
Put out my light for ever, and so left
To grope my dark way from their felon lord.
The loss of eyes of living me bereft:
Cold, darkness, wandering, and weariness
And hunger unappeased my being cleft:
Cast was death's shuttle through my mind's distress;
Down, down, I fell; and dying here I lie.”
Then said Sir Mano, “By death's holiness,
“These wrongs upon that felon wreak will I,
If he be named.”—“Giroie de Montreuil,”
The other said, and Mano made reply,
“To hear that name a double spur I feel,
Since scarcely he my friend: yet is he told
A better knight than thou dost him reveal,
“And in his actions gentle, just, and bold.”
Then said the other, “Death is here; I give
To thee a guerdon in this ring of gold,
“And bid thee keep it safe while thou shalt live:
It bears a poison of such quality,
That whoso in his mouth the same receive,
“In that same moment of earth's ills is free:
To use it on myself was in my mind;
Think I am grateful if I give it thee.”
Then that man's soul with pain did death unbind,
And Mano felt great pity to behold,
And in its garments did the poor corpse wind,
Composed it decently, and in the mould
Dug, as he could, a grave, the same to hide
From wolf or lynx, and great logs thither rolled,
And beat them in with earth on every side,
And set a brushwood fence both thick and high
All round, the which atop with twigs he tied,
Using a fallen tree that lay thereby;
And over all he laid great boughs across;
And after labour long, he forth did hie,
To find the man who caused this harm and loss.

XIII.— HOW MANO MET WITH GIROIE.

Long held he onward till he reached the ground
Whereon that manor stood, which stood full high,
And was on every part inclosed around.
So that he lingered in the wood hard by,
Thinking to mark the passages, ere yet
Unto the gate itself he came anigh.
When in an alley thick with trees inset
Presently he beheld riding a knight,
Whom above all 'twas welcome to have met.
For from his shield, which bare device full bright
He seemed to be Giroie: then Mano cried,
“Thou wicked caitiff, if thou have thy sight,
“Which to restore full many a man hath died,
To keep thee from me thou shalt have ado,
And need to use thy eyes on every side.”
And therewithal full fiercely they fell to:
But Mano, when he found what way came on
That feigning semblance, to great wonder grew:
For scarcely gave he stroke, and stood to none,
Nor bore his shield on high in knightly sort,
When the strait place gave sore occasion:
But twisted in his seat, with knees drawn short:
And uttered gibes when strokes went nigh his head;
So that with wrath his very horse gan snort.
But not for ever could such game be played,
And in short time Sir Mano with great might
Upon the ground that senseless felon laid.
Whom minding to have slain for felon knight,
And rashing off his helm thereto, he found
Another man in Giroie's armour dight.
Then, as he thought thereon, the windy round
Of the forest seemed to whisper: and behold,
Joanna, and the peasant in that sound!
Full soon that fallen man the peasant old
Knew for the knave who owed so much of blame,
And therewith bade the knight his hand withhold,
Since better he deserved a death of shame
Than to be nobly slain by gentle hand.
—Then well Sir Mano greeted that fair dame,
Who for his sake was journeying through the land,
Albeit he knew it not: but now anon
The peasant's tale they made him understand:
And forward to the castle set they on,
Which that false knave usurped, who now was tied
Securely in the midst, his horse upon.
But when his lusty quean their coming spied,
She made the gates all fast, and on the wall
Lay watching: unto whom her father cried,
“Thou wicked offspring of hell's bitter gall,
Know thy ill deeds discovered, and thy knave
Taken, and now at hand thy fatal fall.
“If there within be any good and brave,
Open the gates, I say! and help to wreak
On her of many men the bloody grave;
“And on this quaking wretch, who cannot speak,
Revenge the heir, who is in prison pined
By this false caitiff here for many a week.”
When thus he spoke, like to a rising wind
There rose a noise within: and presently
Shouts, blows, and groans, a hubbub fell and blind.
Against the thieves who there did occupy
Many now sided, who liked not that sin,
And had been murmuring long in secrecy.
Then, when grew loud the fighting and the din,
Sir Mano blew his horn with mighty sound,
Whereat the gates flew open from within;
And in he hurled, and dealt such strokes around,
That in short time the victory was won,
And all the robbers who yet lived were bound.
Then went they to the prison, where the son
Of the old lord was laid in bondage strong,
Whom out they drew with famine all foredone.
Thin was his body, and his hair grown long,
Enwrapped was he in rags, shaking with cold;
But round his neck her arms Joanna flung.
Which when Sir Mano saw, and gan behold
The lover of the lady whom he loved,
Namely the true Giroie, that knight full bold,
A little smiled he, and himself removed,
And stood apart a little at the sight.
Then to him came Giroie, as him behoved,
And gave him thanks for rescue done in fight:
For well he knew what should to worth belong,
Nor lived a kinder man in earthly light:
He then, unknowing of love's bitter wrong,
To Mano rendered thanks with countenance bright,
And him Sir Mano answered with this song:—
“Doing myself wrong, fought I for the right,
I with no quarrel drew my heavy blade,
And in advantage placed my opposite.
“Out of a foe a deadlier friend I made,
A castle took I for the castellan,
Restoring him who yet therein was laid.
“For my own love freed I another man,
And 'gainst myself to fit him paid my blood;
By my own victory my defeat began.
“And by this sequel it is understood
Wherefore these many weeks before this day
This knight before my lady hath not stood.
“For he in prison strong forpined lay,
The while that I from her dismission gained:
But now may Christ hearken to that I say—
“Albeit I by her am thus disdained,
No force nor might of any man shall stay,
And against all it is by me maintained,
“That she be lady of my thoughts alway,
Both day and night to rule within my breast,
And that I do her service if I may.”
Then sighed Joanna, hearing him protest
To have what fate was settled to deny:
For in her hopes that storm was laid at rest.
But now Giroie to Mano made reply
With eyes surprised, but yet of courteous cheer,
Saying, “If thou love her whom no less I,
“There lies no cause of wrath or hate or fear;
For, if I might all things declare to thee,
Thou shouldst not deem my part so poor in her,
“Nor think that envy so should work in me,
That I should grudge thy thoughts their happiness.”
Then Mano briefly answered, “It may be.”
But now to punishment they gan address
Their thoughts for those ill doers who remained,
The knave and his fair leman in distress,
Who still their former countenance maintained,
And in the midst being brought, the knave all pale
And streaked with blood, and both of them enchained;
Of whose fell crimes when witness did not fail,
Sir Mano said, “To mercy is my mind,
And, as my sword to win them did prevail,
“So to their father be my right resigned,
And be that sentence given that he avise.”
For to his own he deemed he would be kind.
But that old man arose with heavy sighs,
And in the midst his sentence gave anon,
Which came on all who heard with full surprise.
“Daughter,” said he, “and by ill chance my son,
Full deeply have ye sinned, and trespass tried
Which few that are worst sinners would not shun;
“Slaying your parents: but if now beside
Your murdered parents none for vengeance call,
Then I forgive you, speaking on the side
“Of those poor parents; yea, forgive you all
That their grave covers, well assured that they
Would bid no spot of harm on you to fall.
“But others were there in your evil day
Whom one of you with cruel torment slew,
And for false deeds besides your lives must pay.
“O children, I your father pass on you
This righteous judgment, That upon yon wall,
Within whose bound ye earned your evil due,
“Ye both be hanged on high, and so end all—
This only is it that I may decree,
Nor from just mouth may other sentence fall.
“Though anguish weigh me down and misery,
Yet know I, and yourselves must own, the right,
Nor part from me in anger—woe is me!”
Thus saying went he to the youthful wight,
And spake with him full long; and at the last
The young man wept, and owned the sentence light,
To die but once for all his vileness past.
Then to his daughter likewise did he go;
But she, like a caught adder, stood aghast,
Stiffened with rage, and would not once allow
That he should touch her; so in anguish drear
That father turned away to hide his woe.
Anon the ministers of death drew near,
And to the rampart high took they the road,
And met their death in sight of all men there.
But first of all from out that ill abode
With stricken heart the peasant father fled:
And from the rampart each to other showed
Long time his low-bent form, and hanging head.

XIV.— HOW MANO AND JOANNA CONTINUED THEIR JOURNEY.

If thou canst tell why the root downward grows
And the stalk upward, thou mayst also say
Why one is born to joys and one to woes,
One sinks, one rises, in the self-same day:
And above all why fickle love doth rate
Fortune against man's merit in his play:
To one man rendering joy and solace great,
To others like worth cause to sigh and groan,
Life's lure to this, to that the fist of fate.
Lo now the case of Mano and of Joan.
They both of worth deserved love's bliss to mede,
And yet of him had only dule alone.
Forth from that evil house gin they proceed,
And none are very nigh them on the road:
Now is love's hour, methinks, for some kind deed.
Now upon Mano love should lay his load,
Sith well that lord of all, that destiny,
Knew that her thoughts to Mano only flowed.
Ah, none deserved love's answer more than she:
A scarlet hood with darker crossings held
Her tender face, that looked but wan of ble,
As if she must have wept, but still withheld:
For in her mind what Mano lately said
Still tired her thoughts, and her sweet hopes dispelled;
And though on Blanche his love was wholly laid,
Yet certainly, when Mano saw her now
Riding beside him in the forest shade,
To her fair beauty all his mind did bow;
As the other deemed he her almost as fair,
And saw the other in her lovely brow;
For much her face did that resemblance wear,
And in her voice her sister's voice awoke.
Neither could he his longing oft forbear,
But touched her gentle forehead, or would stroke
Her hand that kept the rein; which she allowed.
Ah, could he but have rent shame's unfast cloak,
And seen her heart, which love left little proud,
Her heart, which scarcely lay from him concealed,
And trembled still within its trembling shroud.
But at the last upon the banked field
They sat together down: there did they kiss:
And much they trembled both; but unrevealed
Joanna kept herself in troubled bliss.
She trembled unto shuddering: he the same:
But neither of them said one word, I wis.
Yet kissed they one another without shame.
Lips travelled over cheek and mouth by turn
For a long hour: at least this blessing came
On their unhappiness: this sweet sojourn:
Thus at the first at least did they embrace:
But what their last embracement ye shall learn.
Ah, had he been content with that sweet face!
But even in the midst of that delight
Thought of the other in his mind had place,
And made him feel ashamed and void of right
To hold a virgin soul so freely given:
Disturbed was he by love's tyrannic might,
Nor kept the haven whither he was driven:
For words should have succeeded, and sweet vows,
Bearing them witness in the sight of heaven.
She would have answered underneath the boughs,
And whispered him of love with sweetest breath:
Instead of that he must her mind arouse,
And call himself to life almost through death,
And e'en for love love's perfect taste forego.
“The skies grow dark, the hour is late,” he saith:
And by a shamed smile to her doth shew
That all was nought. Alas! what case was this?
To kiss and not be loved—with her 'twas so.
To kiss and not to love—that lot was his.
Thence shamefast, no more hand in hand they ride:
And, knowing now the more their miseries,
End their dark journey in night's midmost tide.

XV.— CONCERNING GERBERT.

But now concerning Gerbert I shall write,
To whom came these unhappy, seeking aid,
As men in darkness move toward the light,
Each knowing not the other so arrayed.
Of Gerbert then I speak: he was the man
Who rose the highest in that age of dread.
First in Aurillac he a monk began:
Whence being expelled, he to Cordova went,
And thence reputed a magician:
For many years among the Moors he spent,
Learning astrology and alchemy,
Ere that to Rome his wandering feet were bent:
Where, having made a wondrous clockwork, he
Gained commendation to the Emperor,
And tutor to his son advanced to be.
Then to king Robert was he preceptor:
Master in Rheims of the cathedral school,
And then archbishop there, what time they bore
The good archbishop Arnulph from his rule
By unjust might, till Rome stopped Gerbert's reign,
Sending a legate with peremptory bull:
Whereon good Arnulph took his seat again,
And Gerbert wandered up and down the land
Full of fierce wrath, and burning with disdain:
The pope contemned he, and held no command
In the Lord's army, till within a while
Again great Otho took him by the hand.
Then was he lifted to his former style,
Archbishop of Ravenna he became,
And in new covert found new force and guile.
Forth from Ravenna's fort he levelled aim
Against the popedom, boasting to maintain
The freedom Gallican against that claim.
But here to my intent it is not main
In that concern to show him right or wrong,
But only his strange story to explain:
Which was divided thus: to be for long
The enemy of Rome; then, being made pope,
Beyond all former Fathers stout and strong;
The same that spread the Roman name and scope
Furthest abroad, was he at first who dared
The boldest pull against the Roman rope.
But he the same in all things still appeared,
Great, crafty, haughty.—Many men of fame
Unto God's service in his school were reared:
As Remi of Auxerre, whom others name
Haimon the Wise, who wrote upon the Mass;
Hubold, who did the blessed office frame
Which has the title Sancta Trinitas,
And many hymns: the good Leotheric
Of Sens archbishop: and of such I was:
I, who beheld how grave and politic
Was Gerbert with them, who yet honoured me
With singular care and apprehension quick.
Perchance in me he thought with certainty
To find a vessel of obedience;
And, but for fate, this had been verily.
But Mano's case in me made difference,
And love of Mano in those days began
To put down Gerbert from chief eminence.
They call lord Gerbert a magician;
But if some stories I shall here repeat—
Part of the attendant fame that round him ran—
They prove but only that the man was great,
And held high powers around him by his skill,
Not that they came through diabolic feat.
Howso these stories, if incredible,
Or admirable only, I set down
Concerning him: accept them whoso will.
For it is said that in the Roman town
A brazen statue stood with outstretched arm
Bearing the word “Dig here:” great this renown,
And many they who dug and came to harm,
Not finding aught, nor guessing what was meant,
Till Gerbert reached it by a magic charm.
He marked what way the hand its shadow bent
Upon the equinox and at the noon,
Then dug, and found much gold, but sore was shent:
For a brass demon, keeper of the boon,
Leaped on him, and he scarce departed thence,
Leaving the riches o'er the cavern strewn.
Again 'tis rumoured that in conference
The devil told him that Jerusalem
Should see his death: whereas he parted hence
In the Church of Holy Cross, a stratagem
Being played on him, that church being oft so named:—
But that in death the fiend he did contemn:
For ere his death his corpse was torn and maimed
By the Evil One, but yet with his last breath
He gave advice how Satan might be shamed:
For in a cart to lay him after death,
And bury where the horses stopped, he bade:
And they unchecked, e'en as the story saith,
Stopped at the Lateran, where he is laid:
And from the clatter of his bones, the sweat
And moisture of his marble, it is said,
Omens and warnings to this day they get
When any pope may be about to die:
These and more doubtful things they tell; which yet
'Tis better to relate than to deny.

XVI.— HOW BOTH JOANNA AND MANO CAME TO GERBERT: AND WHAT FOLLOWED.

At that time Gerbert was upon the track
Of his advancement to Ravenna's see;
And much he sought for instruments to back
In every way his widespread policy:
For he abroad capacious nets had laid,
And held in thought e'en now the papacy.
But they who seek from others to have aid
The higher that they rise, the scarcer find
Men to fulfil their great requirements made.
He therefore, having Otho well inclined
(Who had upraised him) for his furtherance,
Had fixed on Mano in his secret mind,
Knowing the valour of the Norman lance,
And the knight's fame in war, deeming that he
Above all else his projects might advance.
Wherefore to his return to Italy
He looked with hope, that he might be the plough
To break the rigid powers from sea to sea,
That Greek and Saracen to him might bow,
Spreading his even power along the land,
And rival counts and dukes his head allow.
These arts lord Gerbert well might understand,
Who held the whole world under scrutiny,
And upon every engine laid his hand.
He now in Rouen in much privacy
With Robert the archbishop there conversed
Concerning matters of necessity;
That Robert 'twas, whom Robert the accursed
I name; for to the heart in sordid greed,
To the lips was he in luxury immersed,
And overhead in blood and cruel deed,
Though Richard's brother; whom in truth to be
The better churchman nature had decreed.
Much marvelled Gerbert, when his face to see
A damsel craved, and asked his ear alone;
And lo! Joanna entered presently:
Who told him of her love to Mano flown,
Of her great sorrow, of her travel sore,
And that her love was to the knight unknown.
Then Mano's love to Blanche she set before
His questioning gaze; and how the more to gain
Her mind he strove, he was but mocked the more:
And told him (but the telling was in vain
Since this he knew) that Blanche loved but Giroie,
And trothfast being to him, would so remain.
—“Receive thou then what bitterest annoy,
What bitterest annoy and ceaseless pain
Hath ravaged and made boot on peace and joy.
“Mark what compulsion doth my soul constrain,
Against the modesty which maidens owe,
To break reserve, and unto thee complain.”
Then Gerbert said, “Sweet daughter, even so
As a sick dove flies from her pined nest,
And nestles to her master in her woe,
“So comest thou to me, by love distressed:—
But that same dove, being hurt unto the death,
Would never seek to any human breast;
“She in her cote would breathe her failing breath,
And in like manner, if thou seek to me,
Bitter, but yet not mortal is thy scaith.
“I think, if I shall thy physician be,
That scorn to have been scorned, as I divine,
In man's proud mind with love doth ill agree:
“And this with Mano worketh to decline
New proffered love, though sweet and gentle thou:
He for his foredone love will rather pine.”
But she returned, “Nay, thou mayst tell him now
That for Giroie if Blanche have him denied,
Love of Giroie I once did disallow,
“And sent him filled with anger from my side,
When first on me his thoughts were rather turned,
Than on the fairer one, when both he eyed.”—
“Then equal stand ye,” said he, “spurned for spurned:”
He smiled, “and that may comfort Mano's heart.
Daughter, thy tender shrift success hath earned.
“For if with him be wanting but my part,
With him shall I deal gravely in this case,
Sith worthy of my careful mind thou art.
“But now I bid thee hence to speed thy chase,
Unto a house which well is known to me,
Yclept Beyond Four Rivers: a fair place:
“There for the nonce shalt thou in safety be,
And I shall give thee letters unto those
Who there abide in closest nunnery:
“And likewise this, which thou shalt not unclose
(So secret is the thing) before the day
That thou shalt hear me done with mortal woes,
“Or that I bid thee break the seal away.
Which whensoe'er it happen, thou shalt know
That I of kindness made no vain delay.”
This said he: and Joanna thanks to owe
Not doubting, and in mind much comforted,
Forth from the palace on new quest did go.
But scarcely thence her timid steps were sped,
When Mano in his turn to Gerbert came,
And told the love that he still cherished,
And all of Blanche, that fair denying dame.
Which Gerbert hearing was in doubtful mind
To show or hide Joanna's trembling flame.
But, casting much about, at last did find
That it were better now the same to hide,
Because of those great deeds which he designed:
Lest Mano should from fame be turned aside.
Wherefore he kept the thing in secrecy,
And with Sir Mano now began to chide:
Why on one woman still his mind should be,
When there were many in the world as fair:
And with long speech he gave love's history:—
How many hopeful men had known despair,
And wasted all for love: how waymenting
Came in joy's place, and sorrow and dark care,
When Love on wretches made his harrying.
All which moved Mano nought, and from his heart
Lightened the inner raging not a thing.
“Whereat the other, “Of love's poisoned dart
I see the deadly working, O my son;
Yea, fatal love possesseth every part:
“The dreadful power that mortal natures own,
The infection of the world! Yet not the less
Shall I expel the tyrant from his throne,
“If not by reason, then by strange distress.
For know thou that the hour which now is night
(As each day's orb doth twelve twin hours compress),
“This hour, weeks gone, beheld in sunny light
Blanche and Giroie before the altar stand,
And I was priest to do the marriage rite:
“I joined the knight and lady hand in hand.
Wherefore behold, too late I find thee here
Entangled thus in love's constraining band.”
Then Mano said, “To whom for counsel clear
I looked midst all, that man to me hath shown
The thirling point of Fortune's fatal spear,
And by her hand upon it lays his own.”

XVII.— GERBERT TELLS SOMETHING OF MANO'S BEGINNINGS.

Thou only bird that singest as thou flyest,
Heaven-mounting lark, that measurest with thy wing
The airy zones, till thou art lost in highest!
Upon the branch the laughing thrushes cling,
About her home the humble linnet wheels,
Around the tower the gathered starlings swing;
These mix their songs and weave their figured reels:
Thou risest in thy lonely joy away,
From the first rapturous note that from thee steals,
Quick, quick, and quicker, till the exalted lay
Is steadied in the golden breadths of light,
'Mid mildest clouds that bid thy pinions stay.
The heavens that give would yet sustain thy flight,
And o'er the earth for ever cast thy voice,
If but to gain were still to keep the height.
But soon thou sinkest on the fluttering poise
Of the same wings that soared: soon ceasest thou
The song that grew invisible with joys.
Love bids thy fall begin; and thou art now
Dropped back to earth, and of the earth again,
Because that love hath made thy heart to bow.
Thou hast thy mate, thy nest on lowly plain,
Thy timid heart by law ineffable
Is drawn from the high heavens where thou shouldst reign
Earth summons thee by her most tender spell;
For thee there is a silence and a song:
Thy silence in the shadowy earth must dwell,
Thy song in the bright heavens cannot be long.
—And best to thee those fates may I compare
Where weakness strives to answer bidding strong.
Lord Gerbert thought in Mano to prepare
An instrument for service high and great,
And for that end to unfold the truth did spare.
Joanna's secret would he not repeat
In Mano's ear: the which great pity proved,
And therewithal he practised some deceit,
Hoping, ere Mano knew that he was loved,
That in them both unnourished love would die—
All which fell otherwise than it behoved.
Sir Mano being passed forth, the next was I,
The writer of these things that here are told,
Who unto Gerbert entered and stood nigh.
Truly most noble was he to behold:
His face was large and mild, his forehead wide,
His long robe fastened close with studs of gold.
His piercing eyes o'erran with mighty pride:
At prime he was: strong-limbed, of stature high:
Nor yet to his head had Time his hand applied.
Such was his presence, who now wondrously
Is carried round the world with dark renown,
And fears all men by his strange history.
With him was set the archbishop of the town,
Of whom I spake above: whose life of sin
On his high order brought reproaches down.
And their discourse, whenas I entered in,
Was turned on Mano: whom I heard anon
The vile one to calumniate begin,
And wax in choler, Mano being one
Whom Thurold loved, whom this man deemed his foe
For deeds that in the long past had been done.
Then gan in Gerbert's eyes the flame to glow;
And on the other a strange look he bent,
“Better this good knight mayst thou one day know,”
Said he, “And elsewhere be thy malice spent.”
The other answered, “Wherefore now, I pray,
From thee to me is such a saying sent?”
And Gerbert answered, “Only this I say,
That least of all it fitteth thee to rail:
Nor all I know tell I to thee this day:
But what I may I will: mark thou the tale.
A knight named Mannus, of the Lombards, who
Against the Saracen oft rode in mail,
One day, being weary with long travel, drew
Nigh to a gentle river, where was seen
A cottage small, and a low raft thereto.
There close beside the bank of grassy green
Lived a brave miller, who his babes maintained
By plying in the barge those banks between:
His course he took wherever might be gained
Grist for his wheel, or would return the same.
And by his cottage this bold knight upreined;
The little children there were at their game:
To whom he called with cheery voice and kind,
Bidding them hold his warhorse mild and tame,
Whilst in the cot he might refreshment find.
Yet of them was there none that undertook
The mighty beast in their weak hold to bind:
Till one from out the timid crowd forth broke,
A little boy, and on the bridle laid
His dauntless hand, that with no terror shook;
And drew the great horse forward, nought dismayed
When his full breathing in his face he felt,
And saw his trampling feet: the knight then said,
Well pleased, to the miller, that 'twere but ill dealt
That child so noble should no better be
Than they who in that humble dwelling dwelt.
‘Sir,’ said the miller, ‘he comes not of me
Albeit he among my children fare:
For 'tis seven years since I my barge set free,
‘And, floating homeward, found this tender care
Laid underneath the sacks that hold the corn;
But never knew what hand had left him there.
‘Not very long the infant had been born,
And him I reared for pity and for ruth.’
Then said the knight, ‘Upon that babe forlorn
‘As thou hadst pity, this I say in sooth,
Thy pity shall repent thee not; for I,
As best I can, will recompense thy truth.’
Then offered he much gold the child to buy
Whereto the miller presently agreed,
And bade his wife equip him thence to hie;
Who brought him forth anon, and bade God speed,
Making some tears to come: and lastly when
The boy was lifted on the mighty steed,
‘From evil women keep him,’ said she then;
And as with gathered bridle forth they rode,
The miller said, ‘Keep him from evil men.’
—“Then with that worthy knight the child abode,
For fifteen years, bearing his foster name,
When the knight died: then forth he took his road
To Count Thuroldus, to whose camp he came
With many, whom the Italian venture brought
From other parts, and love of martial fame.
He is a knight of courage high and haught,
But mild and courteous, just and temperate:
Right worthy are the deeds that he has wrought.”
—“But yet his birth, his rank and race relate,”
The other coldly answered: and return
Received from Gerbert, “For that knowledge wait,
Because the tale may nearly thee concern
When I shall tell it: but another thing
Concerning Mano thou this day shalt learn:
That to Saint Benedict an offering
Him from a child the good knight Mannus gave,
Wrapping within the altar's covering
His little hand: to keep which contract grave
'Tis mine to draw him from the worldly throng
By fatherly persuasion, and to save.”
This said, his eyes on the archbishop long
He bent with firmness and austerity,
The while to me his words he did prolong:
And this the sum—that I should instantly
For Mano seek, and bid him be of heart
From Gerbert, and not muse on fantasy:
And that to Gerbert's ear I should impart
Whate'er he did, still urging his return
Across the Alps by friendship's winning art.
—This lesson then from Gerbert did I learn:
And further, that with Mano I should go
To Italy, and still with him sojourn:
Right glad was I that it was ordered so.