University of Virginia Library

`THE REVENGE OF THE PRINCESS BEATRIZ, OR THE GRIEVOUS
CRIME OF COUNT ALARCOS.'

`The bride of the false knight,' said the French knight, `by her beauty and
grace, and superior excellence, served to deepen the wound in the breast of
the princess Beatriz. She could not be insensible to the charms either of her
person or mind. Yet, as these were the allurements which had drawn Count
Alarcos away from her, she looking at them through her jealous mind, regarded
them only as so many deformities. If the sweet countess smiled, the Infanta
cursed the smile, because such had robbed her of her betrothed knight.
If she sung, her voice, though sweet as a bulbul's, was discordant to her ears,
and filled her soul with rage and torment. The lovely bride could not but
perceive that the princess, much as she strove to hide it till the time of her revenge
was ripened, was disaffected towards her; and prompted by her gentleness,
and loving nature, she strove to conciliate her; but the more gently she
deported herself, so much the more the princess hated her. She at length told
her husband with great grief, how she feared she had done some evil thing
which had sorely displeased the princess Beatriz, who, though she outwardly
showed her courtesy she knew to be inwardly but ill-content with her.

The cheek of Count Alarcos burned with rising shame, from the consciousness
of the true cause, on hearing these words from his innocent bride, and in
his heart he felt ill at ease; for he now knew that however the princess had
seemed to pass over his defection, she had secretly cherished evil thoughts in
her heart, both towards him and his bride. He, however, laughed, and tapping
her forehead, said playfully,

`'Tis nought, sweet wife, but thy own beauty that hath made the princess

envious. Thou must not heed it; for she is a woman! So, hereafter, keep
thou more by my side, and in thy own bower; for I would have thee and Beatriz
meet seldom.'

Though the husband spoke thus to his unsuspecting wife, he became alarmed
for her safety, not thinking of his own. He therefore resolved to obtain
leave of the king, to return to his castle for a while; on the plea of an approaching
event, on the occurrence of which, as a husband, and an expectant
father, he was desirous of having his wife in her own abode. To this the king
gave his consent, and the same evening the count left the dangerous atmosphere
of the court, for the peaceful retreat of his castle.

When the princess Beatriz learned his sudden departure, she became excited
to such a degree of rage and disappointment, that for several hours she
was nearly distracted. At length she grew calm, and seated alone in her
chamber, thus she spoke to herself.

`It is better it were so; better far! This delay will give me threefold vengeance.
This was the night, and this the hour in which my long-matured revenge
was to have had its consummation; and they have escaped! Now
there will be three bosoms to pierce instead of two! Count Alarcos, thou
false knight and perjured lover! I heed not thy flight, nor will it save thee!
I bide my time?'

Impatiently did the princess wait from day to day, to hear that the Count Alarcos
had been made a father. At length word came that the fair countess
Gertrudis had given birth to a son. This intelligence, strange as it would
seem, filled the princess with joy. She now resolved to lose no time in consummating
her plan of vengeance. She would have carried it out on the first
day she saw the bride after her marriage; but her heart and hand shrunk, day
by day, from the deed, while her hatred grew deeper with the lingering execution
of her purpose. It was by this prolonged indecision, that they had for
the time escaped her, and the wife had become a mother, and the deserted
betrothed still unavenged, But this event, which at first view appeared to her
so unpropitious, gave new inspiration to her crue soul.

At her suggestion the king was prevailed upon to stand sponsor for the boy,
and forthwith to send to Count Alarcos, bidding him bring his wife and heir
to the capital. Gratified with the honor intended him, the Count, so soon as
his lady recovered, and when the child was in his fourth month, left his castle
and brought her up to Court. The christening took place with great pomp
and joy, and none seemed more happy at the event, or more sincere in congratulating
the lovely mother, than the princess Beatriz. `Now comes the pitiful
part of my tale. fair knights,'said the Sieur de Linant in a sad tone, and
sighing as he thought of the woeful history he was about to relate.

The christening was over, and the king and his brave retinue of knights and
nobles, the infanta, with her brilliant train of ladies, pages, gentlemen in velvet
and gold had returned from the cathedral; tke Count Alarcos and his fair
wife, the brightest stars of this royal galaxy. The palace was reached, and
each retired from the pageant; the king to his chamber, the princess to her
bower, the Count, and his wife and child, to their own furnished mansion, in a
plaza not far from the royal palace. It was now evening. The mellow glow
of sunset had given place to the deep blue of night with its stars. The princess
Beatriz sat in her window, looking forth with her eyes, but not with her
mind. Her thoughts were tumultuous and evil. Her bosom heaved restlessly,
beneath her crimson vesture, and her cheek was pale. The expression of her
lips was close and decided, ae if with the concentration of some strong and
single passion. Her eye was dark as the depth of a sunless well, in the noontide;
the lid immovable, and the look steady and fearful. Long, long, she sat
by her casement, in this strange mood and aspect of visage; her lips at times
moving, but giving forth no articulate sound. At length she rose up, and entering
her ante-room, despatched a page for the king.

When he entered her apartment, she received him reclining upon a couch,

with a robe thrown around her. From her face every trace of emotion had
been withdrawn into the recesses of her heart; but still her cheek was white.

`Well, my child,' said the king, seating himself near; `thy page hath
brought me a message, saying you desired to see me. You are pale! Art
thou ill, daughter?'

`Nay, sire,' she said quickly; `I have sent to speak with thee, touching a
matter that lieth very near my heart. How likest thou this fair countess of
Alacros?'

`Passing well,' answered the king; she hath a beauteous face and a heart
full of gentleness and love. Didst observe, to-day, the bright look of her
proud maternal eye, when the cardinal praised the beauty of her noble babe;
and the young father, how proudly he glanced around. I would thou wert
well married girl, and had so brave a boy to bring to the font, and inherit my
throne.'

`And how like you, sire, this Count, my cousin?'

`He is the best knight in Spain! and she the fairest wife. But thou art ill
at ease? What mean those questions you put to me! There is a depth to
them, my child, beyond my plummet's reach. Out with thy mind.'

`Thou hast just said thou didst wish me wed. Listen. I will not hide
longer my dishonor and my grief. Thou shalt know the wrong done thy
daughter, king.'

Thus spoke the injured princess: and then, raising herself from her couch,
she recounted her wrongs:

`Know, king of Castile, that thou art degraded in thy child A knight—'tis
shame for me to speak it, but it is to a father's ears, and my vengeance must
not die for want of words, and ears to hear them! A knight of no mean
degree, whom thou hast loved to honor, hath long since plighted to me his
troth I gave him all my love—all the affection of a woman's bosom poured I
into his! I loved him better than my life, dwelt on his looks and words with
foolish fonduess, and in his footstep's faintest sound heard sweetest music.—
'Twere not maidenly to love unwooed; but love, my father, once awakened in
a woman's heart, knoweth no rest to its wing till it nestle where it would.—
Noble, proud, and gay-lived, he did not so deeply requite my passion as I
would he should do; yet, still I believed he loved me. At length, secretly, we
plighted troth, and our betrothal was registered in heaven. After this, his
love grew cold, while mine became a flame, consuming me. We often met,
and I as oft did chide him for his indifference; but he would swear his love unchanged,
and so, measuring it by my own, I did believe his oath.'

`And I knew nothing of this love-passage within my very household,' said
the king, who had listened with surprise and impatience. `Who was this
bold knight?'

`Nay, let me go on. He was at length sent from court on a message to
France, and in his absence saw a maiden whose beauty lured him from his
love's allegiance; and, forgetful of his oath, his plighted troth and hundred
vows of love betrothed her. On his return he saw me not; but getting thy
consent in the very face of his oath to thy daughter, the traitorous knight hastened
to his father's castle, and there wedded her.'

`By the sword of Cid Ruy he dies!' exclaimed the king, rising up and
stamping the floor with indignation and fnry. `Who was this perjured knight
—nay, thou couldst place thy love on none beneath thee in blood—'t is Count
Alarcos! Speak, daughter? He alone of all the knights is thy peer!'

`Thou hast named him, sire! Gertrudis de Roquebetyn was the maiden for
whom a princess of Castille is dishonored.'

`Santiago!' but this false traitor shall be well punished. His head shall roll
from the scaffold by to-morrow's sun. A king's daughter is not to be lightly
dishonored, nor a knight's vow lightly broken.'

`Nay, father, let me have this retribution in my own hand. Maiden shame
would withhold the confession, but I still love this recreant knight, and if he
redeem his pledge to me, I can still forgive the past.'

`Stands the matter so,' said the king with surprise, `Then, by the rood!—
Don Alarcos—for he is thy peer—shall wed thee! He shall on the morrow divorce

this countess Gertrudia. If he hath bound himself in new vows, old
oaths he may not break. Thou shalt not lose a loyal spouse, for a false lover's
treachery. You have erred daughter, in loving as you did; and this conduct
of Don Alarcos hath brought shame on you as a maiden princess, and on my
gray hairs. While the countess lives she dishonors thee. Would thy royal
mother was living to counsel thee and me, in this new care that hath come upon
me. Speak, thou, my daughter, and give thy counsel in this matter.'

`Nay, father,' said the artful princess, who well knew what counsel she had
long cherished for this occasion, `Nay, I have little wit and wisdom to advise;
but, certes, I think the Count Alarcos may cause this usurping countess to die.'

`The fair countess perish!' exclaimed the king with a look of surprise and
pain.

`She must die. Let it be noised that sudden disease shortened her tender
life; for her health is now delicate and the rumor would be believed. Then let
the Count Alarcos come to me and redeem his broken vow.'

The king sat for a long space confounded, but at length said sorrowfully,

`It were a pity to put out of life so fair a lady, and she so lately a mother. It
were two murders with one stroke! Nay, I cannot command her death. Let
him be divorced.'

`No!' said the princess sternly; `she must die and Count Alarcos shall
come and ask me for his wife.'

`I would rather this false count were slain, for he alone hath done this foul
wrong, and she is innocent.'

`The Count shall live to be my husband! she is not innocent—her peerless
beauty is her guilt. I insist, good king, that she dies.'

The king walked the chamber in great perplexity, for he was much troubled
in mind, having a great desire to spare the sweet and innocent lady; also to
please his daughter, and wipe away her wrong. At length he said;

`Good daughter, if divorce and a convent for the countess will not gratify
thy revenge, thou shalt have thy will, for foully a king's daughter hath been
wronged? I will order her execution privately, and let it be given out that
sudden sickness took her breath. The Count shall then wed you, and so none
shall know your dishonor?' `Command that the Count himself be her executioner!'
said the princess with a look that it would seem only an evil angel
could give the full depth of expression to

`Himself?' repeated king Ferdinand `I will no less revenge—no lighter
punishment.' With his own hand shall he divide the chain that bound him to
another, when he was bounden to me. This is my vengeance and his punishment!
Long have I cherished it—long have I waited for it? I would have
told them my dishonor ere this, and asked her death of thee, but waited till the
father should, in the mother of his child, bind himself to her with new and fresher
bonds of affection, that the task I was to give him to do might weigh heavier
upon his hand, the blow sink deeper into his herat.'

`Thou hast well ripened thy vengeance, Infanta,' said the king, who, although
of a stern and vindictive temper himself, could not listen without surprise
to her plan of finished revenge. `But thou wilt be defeated. The Count
loves her, and will not take her life.'

`Thou must give him the alternative, her life or his own. The block, or redeem
his vow to me,' said the inexorable princess. `Do not hesitate, my father.
Art thou king of this realm, and the head of chivalry, that thou wilt let
pass this wrong to a princess of the realm, or this stain on the honor of knighthood.'

`No. By my own kingly honor and knightly faith, this shall not go unpunished!
The countess, who hath been the means of this dishonor, shall die, and
the count who inflicted it, shall execute thy vengeance upon her, therein suffering
most thy punishment in himself. By my faith, daughter, none but a woman
would have ripened such a plan. It should be done. Early to-morrow I
will have speech in private with the Count of Alarcos. Ere long thou shalt
know the issue. A sweet good night, daughter. As a knight and father, I will
avenge the woman and daughter.

`God speed thee,' answered the Infanta, `and soon bring the Count Alarcos
to my feet.'

The following day the Count Alarcos and his wife were seated in her bower,
playing with their boy, tossing and praising it, he comparing its eyes to the
eyes of its mother, and she proudly likening his dimpled mouth to his. While
they were thus happily engaged, feeling that much as they loved each other
before, they now loved a great deal more, since the birth of their boy, in whom
both saw their loves meeting, there came a king's page with a message, saying,
that the king desired the Count Alarcos to dine with him that day.

`Now, haste thee early from the banquet, love,' said the sweet lady, when
the time came for him to go away: `the hours you pass with me are all sunlight,
while those that keep you absent are alternate clouds and tears.

Count Alarcos smiled fondly at these words, promised, and embracing her,
kissed his boy which she held up to him, and went his way to the king's banquet;
little guessing, I wot, why the king desired his company. The feast was
a sumptuous one, served in a vast hall hung round with tapestry of silk and
cloth of gold. At each guest's chair stood a page holding a golden goblet of
wine oft replenished, and servitors many a one in gay apparel, waited at the
kingly board. The Count Alarcos sat by the king's right hand, and was by him
well entertained with courteous cheer; so well did Ferdinand disguise his
intent.

At length, when the banquet was at an end, and the guests had withdrawn
to listen to the singers, or witnesss the voluptuous motions of the danzarines,
as they danced to the tinkling tabor: the king and the Count of Alarcos being
left alone, the monarch thus began:

`I have heard, Alarcos, strange news since yester e'en. What is this tale,
that you plighted your word and knightly troth to a lady, ere you wedded your
wife?' And the king fixed his glance closely on the face of Count Alarcos.
The knight started and dropped his eyes, fearing to look at the king, who at
once saw by his guilty look that the Infanta had told only what was true of
him. `This is a sad thing I hear, Count, that you did plight yourself to be a
husband to my daughter. If more passed, you yourself know the truth; but
thou hast broke thy vow, and brought shame upon a maiden. Now, by the
cross! there is a lady fair doth lie within my daughter's place! Two wives are
not allowed in Spain; yet certes! thou must wed my child! Let it be noised
that sudden illness seized the countess' breath, and cut short her tender life;
then come and woo my daughter! If ought had passed between you, more than
I know, let nothing be said, so none my dishonor shall know, and you both shall
wed in honor.'

`Most gracious liege,' said the Count Alarcos, `I confess the truth, nor will
deny what I have done. I to the princess did plight my troth, and vowed to
wed her. I have broken my vow in a most unknightly manner, and deserve
punishment. But spare the innocent—let my wife escape the vengeance!
Slay not the sinless, for the sin of the guilty. Avoid that wicked deed!' And
the Count of Alarcos was full of sorrow.

`Be the deed and its guilt fastened upon thine own treachery, false knight,'
said the king. `If guiltless blood must wash out thy stain, be thou answerable
therefor, for thou hast made the blot that asks such atonement. The tarnished
honor of kings, must have innocent blood to restore its purity. Thy
wife dies, Count.'

`Nay, my liege!' and the Count of Alarcos threw himself at the feet of the
king.

`She dies, false and treacherous knight! She must not live to behold another
sun. Ere morning dawn, her life must have its end, and thine own hand
must do the deed.'

`Pardon! grace! your majesty! spare the wife of my bosom!' implored the
Count, bathing his feet with tears.

`There is no remeed! she dies, thou her executioner, or thy own head, shorn
of its locks, shall be brought to the block!' And thus speaking, the king disengaged
himself from his grasp, and left the banquet room.

`Alas! alas!' said the Count of Alarcos, rising to his feet, `how wretched is
my lot. My Gertrudis—my life—my love. I cannot think of thee! Doomed,
adjudged to death, and I to do the deed! Wo is me! I have stained the blood
of a king by my broken troth, and now my poor innocent lamb's blood must flow
to blot out the dishonor! alas! from my own sin springs this cruel fate! my
wife—my Gertrudis—my child! oh Christ Jesu! have pity on me!' He crossed
the hall with a staggering step, he scarce knew whither. He leaned against a
column near the portal, unable to move farther, for blindness came over him,
and his heart weighed like lead in his bosom.

`Put to death my dear wife!' he muttered again, moving forward, talking to
himself in tones most pitiful to hear; `it is the king's command. I dare not
disobey it, for treason would blot my name. It must be done—I must slay her
—God blame me not, but look upon my great strait! Alas! that one so young
and sinless—the life of my life, should bleed for my sin! alas, that my love should
be her death! Henceforth, sorrow, be thou my bride!'

Thus spoke the wretched and guilty Count of Alarcos; and after staying to
gather strength of heart and body, he dejectedly bent his steps homeward. It was
a weary way, and he could wish he ne'er might reach its end. He thought of
his fair countess, how tenderly she loved him; of his sweet babe, and how
fondly she cherished it. He at length came to the portal and paused earing
to enter.

`How, alas!' he said, `shall I meet the cheerful countenance and welcoming
smile of my kind Gertrudis? To see her coming forth with smiles to
meet me, who soon must be her murderer.'

She heard his footstep, for she was up and watching his return and ere
her page could hasten to announce him, she flew and met him in the gate.
Her babe was at her breast, and all the fond hope and love of the wife and
mother beamed in the kind lady's face.

`Thou art come, my husband,' she said, advancing to receive his wonted embrace;
`welcome, my beloved Alarcos—my lord—my life!'

He drops his head and in silent. She arrests her step and gazes on him with
looks of anxiety. `What hath happened, my lord! Your brow looks sad, and
your eyes ars read with weeping. Tell, oh, tell your wife!'

`I'll tell thee, sweet wife,' answered Count Alarcos, with a breaking heart;
`I will tell thee; but not now!' He did not look up while he spoke, for he
could not brook in his the gaze of the sweet eyes which so soon his own deed
would seal in death; he could not look on the fair form which so soon was to
be a corpse. `I'll tell thee,' said he sadly, `when we are in your bower. Let
us sup together, and bring me wine for my heart is sick.'

The Countess, thongh heavy at his sorrow, not knowing how soon she need
weep for herself, set about his repast, and furnished it with her own hands; nor
willing her maids should serve her lord when he was sorrowful, her love telling
her the wife doth the best at such a season. He sat by his board and she
sat beside him. But he could eat nothing for his grief at which the king had
commanded htm to do, and sat by her side pale and sad, nor ate she any thing
for his sorrow. She then gently asked him what ailed him. He did not answer
her, but laid his throbbing head upon the board and the tears flowed fast
from his eyes.

`Gertrudis,' he said at length, `I would retire—come thou with me to our
chamber. I fain would sleep.'

She followed him in silence to her bower, where they were wont to sleep;
but I ween there was little sleep that night in that place. The Countess laid
herself weeping upon her couch, with the babe upon her breast. Never had
she lain down with so heavy a heart. Her husband, whose untold grief---alas,
full soon he made her known its cause---had made her sorrowful, walked the
chamber long and with a troubled step. Her eye followed each step he made
with anxious tenderness. Suddenly he barred the chamber door, and with a
dark and heavy visage came near her as she lay, her baby upon her breast, for
though it had two nurses, it loved best the nourishment its mother gave it.
Poor babe! how should this have plead for thy mother's life with thy cruel

sire! She looked up and smiled as he came near. He heeded not the look of
love, but said,

`Alas, unhappy lady---thou art of all wives the most to be pitied; I of all
men!'

`Nay, my lord and noble husband,' she said, smiling sweetly; `she who is
Count Alarcos's wife can never be unhappy!'

`In that very word, unhappy woman, lies all your misery—is gathered all
your wo. Ere I beheld you I was betrothed to the Princess Beatriz. Shame
and seeking opportunity for revenge hath kept her silent until now. She has
to-day divulged it to my lord the king, and claims me for her own! Alas! the
right is on their side! The king has this day said that since you hold his
daughter's rightful place, you this night must die!' It was with pain and anguish
Count Alarcos spoke these words of shame, and the tears flowed while
he spoke. The Countess rose up in her couch and said bitterly,

`Are these the wages of my long and fond affection, my noble husband?
Have I not been to thee a leal and lowly wife? Reward not my true love with
death!'

`It may not be,' said the count sternly.

`Oh, slay me not! see I kneel at thy feet! spare my life—spare thy sweet
boy's life, which is lodged within my breast! Send me back to my noble father's
from whence you took me not two years ago, a gleeful bride! there will
I live a chaste and secluded life, and rear my noble boy to manhood for thee!
Oh, kill me not, noble Count!'

`My oath is given—I've sworn to the king thy death! Ere dawn of day
you die!'

`Thou wilt not slay me, my husband!'

`I would not—for thou art my life! But else knightly dishonor and disgrace,
and the infamy of the ignominious block await me. I take thy life to
save my honor not my life!'

`Alas!' said the lovely Countess, rising from her knees, her brown hair falling
loosely adown her snowy robe, and the tears flowing from her eyes; `alas!
this is because I am alone, and my father is far distant, and old and frail! Were
my brave brother alive, thou wouldst not do this wicked deed! It is my helplessness
that maketh this coward king to force my death. But 't is not death
that terrifies me. No. I fear it not—for my soul with God's at peace; but I
am at loth to leave my dear babe so!' and she pressed the infant to her bosom,
and kissed it, as if her heart were breaking.

`Now, be thou ready,' said the Count looking away. `Give me the child!'

`One more kiss!' she cried, and clung to it as if she would never separate
from it. But he took it from her and lay it upon the bed. She knelt, and folding
her hands across her bosom, said a prayer. She then rose up and said,
stretching her hands towards her babe, which cried a little at missing her,

`Let me, kind Alarcos, give my poor boy one drink more; one farewell drink
before my breast be cold!'

`Why prolong the bitterness and pain of this hour,' he said, `Prepare, sweet
wife, there is no time to give, for the dawn already is breaking in the east.'

`Be kind, thou wicked Count, yet still-loved husband; be kind, I pray thee,
to my poor dear babe! See, he sleeps!'

`Be ready, Gertrude.'

`Hear me, Count of Alarcos! I give thee my forgiveness for this cruel
deed, for the love's sake wherewith I have loved thee, since first we met.—
Thee, I freely pardon! But the king and cruel princess, here, in God's sight,
I call His curse upon them for their unchristian deed of slaughter! I charge
them with my last dying word, to meet me in the realm of death, and at God's
throne, ere the moon, which now is new, makes her round complete!'

She knelt before him, and gave him her scarf, which had been his birth-day
gift, and saying softly, `shed not my blood, but with this stop my breath,'
awaited her piteous doom.

He looked not in her face; he sought no parting glance from her sweet blue
eyes, upturned to their own azure heaven; but putting the scarf around her
snowy neck, which gently bent to meet the death, he drew it tight and strong,

and held her thus, until the heart which so often had beat against his, ceased;
and stiff and cold she lay extended along upon the floor. He raised her then
upon the couch, and covering her with a white robe, knelt by her side, and
cried in misery and woe to Jesu and Mary mother. But dark and iron were
the heavens above him, and his black and guilty soul found no hope or comfort
from its fell remorse. He rose up to his feet, and unbarring his chamber
door, called loudly for his esquires. When they came in, and looked with dismay
upon her, as she lay before them dead, he said,

`Look on and weep! In her innocence she hath died. Ne'er was sweeter
lady in all Spain, nor one more void of wrong! In her innocence they have
slain her, and God will take heed of their offence!'

Thus died by a cruel king's command, a haughty princess' vengeance, and a
false knight's haughty treachery, a sweet, innocent lady, and sooth, God's
vengeance staid not long!

Ten days thereafter, while the princess Beatriz was seated in her hall, with
her maids and gentlemen around her, thinking in her heart how soon she would
wed the Count Alarcos, there was seen by all present, to enter the hall, a
knight in black armor, with his visor down, who strait approached her. She
looked up, and saw him, and instantly turned pale, and a look of mortal fear
came over her countenance. The knight strode near and silently took her
hand, which she unresisting gave him.

`Thou would'st wed, princess,' he said in a deep tone; `come with me, I
will be thy bridegroom!'

She uttered not a word, made no effort to remain, but with her eyes set in
horror, her cheeks like marble, and a tottering step, she suffered him to lead her
forth through the hall. Without stood two steeds, a black and a white one.—
Placing her upon the white one, he leaped upon the other, and taking her bridle
in his hand, they dashed away from the palace, towards the gates at full
speed; but well, I ween, no horses with such riders passed through the gates
that day, and never was the Princess Beatriz heard of more. She had obeyed
the call of the innocent Countess, and gone to meet her `in the realms of death!'

Ten days after the fearful doom of the hapless princess, the king, who ceased
not to mourn for her, and tremble for himself, was riding at the head of his
knights, on his way to say mass at the cathedral, for the deliverance of the soul
of his unhappy daughter. At the door of the church, a gigantic knight in black
armor, mounted on a black horse, stood in his path. When the king saw him,
his heart trembled, and his spirit failed him.

`If thou would'st say mass, king Ferdinand,' said the black knight, `ride with
me.'

`Whither?' demanded the astonished king.

`Into the realms of death.'

And thus speaking, the black knight took the bridle of the king's steed in
his hand, and the two horsemen, in the sight of all present, galloped away in
the direction of the gates: but. I wot, no porter saw such riders pass forth the
city gates that day.

The moon was waning into her decreasing horn, when the Count of Alarcos,
who had not ceased to weep the deep he had so cruelly done, and had kept his
chamber, was startled by the appearance before him, of the spirit of his slaughtered
wife. Her face was grave, but the look was not angry

`Count Alarcos, the moon has waned, and the guilty king and princess have
been summoned before the awful bar of God. Thou art wanted to bear witness
at their judgment and be thyself adjudged. Come, my husband, thou art summoned
before the judgment-seat of Christ.

Thus ended the tale of the Sieur de Linant, in which all the knights were
deeply interested. After having thanked him for the entertainment he had afforded
them, they began to speak their several opinions of the conduct of the
Count of Alarcos. They all condemned him for breaking his faith to the princess
at the first; but having broken it and married the fair lady Gertrudis, it
became him to keep faith to her. Respecting his duty in obeying the king, and
thereby slaying his own wife, there was a difference of sentiment; the German
and Venetian knights saying that he could do no otherwise; the Roman and

Scottish knights saying that he was guilty of cowardly murder, and should
have withstood the king, and rather been slain; and the Roman knight, with
whom Sieur de Linant sided, averring that if he did kill her, he should have
killed himself also, over her body.

The English knight, however, rising up, said with great warmth,

`From first to last, this Count Alarcos hath proved himself a false knight, and
base knave! He was false in vowing to love the princess, when he loved her
not; but having plighted his troth, he was pledged to redeem it. The beauty,
gentleness, and peerless charms of the lady Gertrudis, whom he saw afterwards,
were no excuse for breach of faith towards one less lovely, or less loved.
By his marriage he was false to both; for while his oath had been given to the
princess, he could not bind himself to the Countess Gertrudis. His old oath
stood, and he could make no new one. When, at length, the king, inspired by
the Infanta, commanded him to slay her, he should rather have held his spurs
to the armorer's axe, bent his head to the block, and suffered the ignominy and
the death. But, instead, he sacrifices innocence, that he may preserve his
knighthood untainted. By the lion heart of Richard Plantagenet! he did bring
upon himself and knighthood greater dishonor, by his cravan and guilty deed,
than the rolling of a hundred knights' heads from the scaffold. He was a
treacherous, base, and craven knight, and unworthy of name or place in the
roll of chivalry. God judge him; for, by the cross, methinks he hath greater
guilt than those who set him on.'

The English knight, Sir Henry Percie, having thus spoken, all the knights,
including the Spanish knight, agreed with him. And so Don Fernando having
failed to prove the precedence of Spanish knighthood, as represented in the
person and prowess of the Count of Alarcos, it fell to the lot of Signor Pier
Farnese, the Venetian knight, to relate a tale of Venetian chivalry, at their
next encampment. The hour then waxing close upon midnight, the knights
begat themselves to their repose.