University of Virginia Library

THE STORY OF THE SIEUR LOUIS DE LINANT.

Old Spanish Ballad.

When Don Fernando de Valor, the Spanish knight, had ended his tale, there
arose a general murmur of approbation, not only from the six knights, but also
from their esquires, who had listened with no little pride and satisfaction to the
account given of the doughty deeds of the faithful and brave Perico, and which
they took most account of, he being of their degree. When the knights had
each of them spoken his opinion of the achievement of Don Alarcos, and greatly
admired his valor and modesty, and his honorable reception of the king and the
princess, and were in their hearts ready to give the palm of honor to Spain for
excellence in knighthood, up rose the French knight, who had not yet spoken,
and said:

`The tale of our knightly brother of Spain hath been listened to with that
attention its entertainment, and the heroic deeds it recounted, demanded; and
all have been full ready to bestow on Don Alarcos the praise due to gallant
deeds. But he, alone, is a true knight, who is one not only in arms but in honor;
who not only can do achievements of renown, but maintain the purity of
his name and fame till death. One blot can deface an escutcheon, though emblazoned
in gold with the deeds of a long life of knightly valor. This Don
Alarcos were well worthy to represent Spanish chivalry, and give it the palm
by this deed of his, over that of other lands, did his life not furnish an act that
should not only set aside what he hath herein done, but blot his name from the
roll of chivalry.'

The knights heard with surprise this address of Sieur Louis de Linant, and
wondered much what dishonor a young knight with so brave a beginning, could
have been guilty of, that should degrade his fair fame; and all eyes were turned
towards Don Fernando. This cavalier was not a little hurt at Sieur de Linant's
words, and looking haughtily around, at length said:

`If the Sieur de Linant can lay aught to the charge of Don Alarcos, whose
deeds I have just narrated, in proof of the superior prowess of the knights of
Spain, disparaging his knighthood, I will withdraw my challenge for the laurels
of chivalry for Spain, and let that country take them, which shall, in the issue,
better prove its title thereto. Let the Sieur de Linant tell this tale of his, that
shall render Don Alarcos's claim unworthy of your countenance.'

After some little debate, it was agreed that Sieur de Linant should, the next
evening, when they were encamped, give them the story, on hearing which,
they were to decide whether Don Ferdinando should or no, give up his claim
in Don Alarcos's behalf. The knights then retired to rest within the tent, for
the story of Don Alarcos, and their subsequent discourse thereupon, had consumed
much of the space between sunset and midnight.

The following evening, after having quartered within the walls of a ruined
and roofless castle, once belonging to the Moors, they seated themselves, after

supper, beneath a broken arch, through which the moonlight streamed in broad
beams of silvery fulgence, bringing into bright light the knights, but leaving
in black shadow the esquires, horses and armor. A dark forest stood around
the castle; and through the arch in the distance could be discerned an oval
lake, lying like a gigantic shield of silver, at the foot of a dark mountain; and
with this fair scene before them, the Sieur de Linant thus began his story,
which he called

`As the tale I have to relate,' said the French knight, courteously looking
around, and speaking in an agreeable voice, `has for its hero this Garci Perez,
Count of Alarcos, I shall take up the story but a few months subsequent to his
achievement with the five Moors; and as the lady of the tale was related to
one of my remote ancestors, I have reason to know the particulars of the incidents
I am about to narrate.

It was a dark and tempestuous night, about five months after the reception
of Count Alarcos by the king and princess, as hath been faithfully related by
Don Ferdinando de Valor, that Gertrude, the fair, blue-eyed daughter of the
Vicompte de Roquebetyn, was awakened from sleep by the bursting in of her
lattice. At first she was greatly alarmed, for fear of mischief; but hearing the
tempest howl about the castle, and seeing the lightning and hearing the thunder
roll, she knew it was the wind which had made such violent entry into her
chamber. She rose, and casting a white dressing robe about her, sat on the
bed-side, too much agitated at the terrific tempest raging without, to sleep. Not
wishing to call her attendant, who slept in the adjoining closet, she sat alone
watching the sublime spectacle of a midnight storm among the passes of the
Pyrennes, for near them was situated the castle of the Count Roquobetyn.
A faint lamp that hung near her bed's head, cast upon her person its soft light.
She was not more than eighteen summers old, a sweet bud just blooming into
flower. Her eyes were blue like the sky in a June afternoon, when no wind is
stirring. Her hair, escaped from her cap, fell upon her ivory shoulders in
abundant tresses, a river of gold flowing over a bank of lilies. Her complexion
was like the snow of the Sierras, when warmed and glowing into life by the
rosy sunshine of a Florentine antumn. Her mouth was the model of Love's
bow, and two dimples on either cheek were filled with his arrows. Her figure
was slight and spirited, reminding the beholder of a gazelle or an antelope,
ready to fly on discovering the hunter. Her hand, as she folded together the
front of her virgin bosom, was like pearl moulded into a hand; and so delicately
veined was it, so rosy the nails, that you would have sworn a master's cunning
pencil had been drawing and tinting the finished workmanship; for ne'er
in woman was ought before seen so sweetly perfect. Her foot, which was now
thrust into a broidered slipper, was the peer to her hand, and both were the
standard of the divine shape which her envious robes hid from mortal eyes.
Such was the outward seeming of the lady Gertrudis de Roquebetyn. Her
mind was finished by the graces of maidenly scholarship, such as befitted her
birth and sex, while her heart was the throne of all that is gentle, and noble,
and good. She was spirited and fearless, like her noble father, and patient, religious,
and full of affection, like her deceased mother. No Arabian bulbul e'er
sang with sweeter strain than she, no troubadour but composed songs in her
praise.

As yet she had appeared neither a court nor tournament; a few weeks only
having clapsed since her sire withdrew her from the convent of Nuestra Senora
de la Pena, where she had been placed from early girlhood. Her heart—nay,
she hardly knew she had one, save for happiness, as the birds have—was free
and untouched by love's sweet and painful emotion. Yes, there was one object
she loved—her singing-bird, Froilan. She was a bright, pure flower of the
mountain cliff, which had budded and blown unseen.'

`Happy the good knight who should be so blessed, as to find it and wear it
on his own bosom,' said Sir Henry Percie, the English knight. `I do know in

England a Grace Plantagenet, who answereth thy description of Gertrudis de
Roquebetyn But I interrupt thy tale, and so crave thy pardon, fair knight.'

`While the maiden sat upon her bed-side, listening to the wild voices of the
sweeping blast, as it went shrieking by, she thought she distinctly heard a
man's shout, mingling with the tempest. She bent her ear, shrinking within
herself the whilst, and again heard it, as if calling for aid from without the gate
that led to the pass of the mountains. Knowing no fear, she left her bed-side,
and hastened to the fallen casement and looked forth. All was dark, and she
waited for a flash of lightning to reveal objects; in the meanwhile the voice
rose distinctly to her ear, and she could hear the words,

`Shelter, for the sake of the Virgin, for a knight and his retinue.'

At the instant, a bright flash revealed to her, standing beyond the draw-bridge,
which her window commanded, a small party of horsemen in armor,
upon which the red glare of the lightning vividly gleamed. Obeying the
generous impulse of her feelings, the fearless maiden waved her hand, and
shouted back that they should be admitted; but finding the wind bore her voice
away ere it reached them, she bethought herself of her lamp, and getting it, she
hung it high in her window, as a token of their having been heard. The signal
was answered by a glad shout from the storm-beset party. Gertrudis, then
waking her maids, bade them call up her father, while she hastened to the porter's
lodge to rouse him to unbar the castle gates and raise the draw-bridge. It
was not long before the party were admitted, and refreshments having been set
before them by order of the hospitable master of the castle, they, being four in
number, a knight, his esquire, and two men-at arms, were lodged as became
their degree.

The lady Gertrudis did not delay, after waking the porter, to see the entrance
of the travellers, but happy at having been instrumental in affording shelter
from such a fearful tempest, amid so wild a country, to those in need of it, she
hastened back to her chamber, and was not long in going to sleep.

It was late the next morning when she awoke, and as she opened her eyes,
she was conscious of having been awakened by a song, which some one was
still singing in a rich but careless voice, upon the terrace below her casement.
A single reflection brought the events of the past night to her recollection, and
with a conscious emotion of she knew not what feeling, she rose and stole, with
a fluttering heart, to the window. The storm had passed away, and the sun
shone with dazzling splendor. Did the maiden hope—did she believe she should
see the strange knight for whom she had obtained shelter? The deep, rich
voice, thrilled to her soul as she listened, arresting her timid steps at a little
distance from the casement, as the singer seemed to be pacing to and fro, directly
beneath it. Thus he sang:

The voice was sweet, and the cancionero was idly sung; but the words told
Gertrudis that the voice was not sweet for her, e'en if he was, as she believed
while she listened, young and handsome. Softly she approached the casement
and leaned over. Beneath her, about twelve feet, stood a young cavalier, without
helm or bonnet, his dark brown hair falling in ringlets over the jewelled
collar of his cuirass, which was of Milan steel. He was tall and elegant in person,

but his face she could not discern, as it was turned from her as well as beneath
her. He was leaning against the casement of his sleeping apartment,
which opened upon the terrace that overlooked the mountain passes, and commanded
a far prospect of a valley dotted with hamlets, and snow-white casae.
He was gazing musingly upon the scene, and watching the foaming torrents
raised by the rains, rushing downward from the hills. The air which he had
just sung was yet lingering on his lips, in a scarce audible humming of the
notes.

The curiosity of the maiden was excited, and she became interested to learn
who was this stranger guest; for she knew full well that he must be the knight
who had been driven to the castle by the storm. In the casement hung a cage
containing a favorite ruisenor, who, at her presence, trilled his voice in a few
glad notes, which drew the attention of the knight, who, looking up, whistled
a gay air, as if inviting the songster to imitate it. He at the same time stepped
back to have a better view of the bird, when he caught sight of the skirt of the
maiden's white robe, who had lingered to throw a few seeds to her favorite.—
He now stepped farther along the terrace to get sight of the wearer, when the
lady Gertrudis looking down, beheld him gazing upward. Blushing at being
discovered, she hastily fled into her room, with the image of the handsomest
youth impressed upon her mind she had ever looked upon or dreamed of. Her
little heart seemed too large for her bosom, it throbbed so, between shame, pleasure,
and the novelty of the new and undefined feelings the sight of a handsome
young knight is likely to awaken in the breast of a susceptible young maiden,
who has been all her life buried in a convent.

She had hardly retreated to her toilet-table to arrange her hair and person,
consciously with greater care than ever before, ere she heard a rushing sound
past her window, and turning with alarm, she saw her bird shrinking terrified
upon the balustrade of her casement, from the swoop of a hawk which had just
swept by. Flying to the relief of the bird, whose door she had just left open in
her hurried retreat from the window, she had nearly placed her hand upon the
little trembler, when the hawk returned, and with an unerring flight pounced
upon him, and seizing him in his talons, bore him screaming through the air
towards the cliffs. In her anxiety and distress she quite forgot herself and her
exposure in her robe du chambre, to the gaze of the knight. He, however, having
been the witness of the scene, and divining that the bird was the pet of the
maiden whom he had discovered, had, after the first swoop of the hawk, begun
to climb the stone abutments of the window, to rescue the bird when it was
borne off. Surprised, as well he might be, at the surpassing beauty of the lady,
as she now appeared at the casement, with her snowy arms outstretched towards
her lost bird, he felt too much sympathy for her distress, and too deep an
interest, on her account, in the fate of the bird, to regard her, at such a moment,
with more than a hasty glance, which was, however, sufficient to inflame his
bosom with love.

`My bird—bird—my poor Froilan!' criod Gertrudis, standing in her balcony
with tears in her eyes, and her hair dishevelled over her bosom.

`Fear not. I will rescue him, unhurt, lady,' said the knight instantly disappearing
within his casement. The poor maiden beheld the hawk soar higher and
higher in wheeling circles, with Froilan in his talons, and then uttering a fierce
cry, shoot off towards the cliff, in the top of a scathed pine, upon which was
visible his eyrie, distant a third of a mile from the castle. In a few moments,
ere the hawk had reached half way to his destination, the distressed Gertrudis
beheld the young knight galloping from beneath the archway of the castle, followed
by two cross-bow-men afoot. He pursued the direction taken by the falcon,
whom his quick eye had discovered making for his lofty perch. Waving
his hand to lady Gertrudis, and lightly bringing it to his lips, he dashed forward
in chase. The eyes of the maiden followed his wild course, with intense interest.
Now he disappeared in a ravine, now his snowy plume waved above the
ridge of a low hill; now he was fording a torrent—her prayers for his safety
following him—now he was climbing the precipe beyond. As she watched him,
her anxiety for Froilan was lost in her fears for his safety.

`The Virgin protect the noble youth,' she cried, clasping her hands together

as she saw his horse twice fall with her rider! `Oh I would rather lose Froilan,
than so brave a knight should come to harm, in his generous efforts to rescue
him! Poor bird! he is dead by this time, from fright, even if the sharp
talons of the halcon have not pierced him. The bird hath nearly reached his
eyrie! The bowman-shoots! The halcon is unharmed, and soars higher.
Now he settles upon his eyrie! Poor Froilan! thy delicate breast will be torn
by his voracious blood! I could die to save thee from thy terrible fate. See!
he dismounts, and ascends the cliff! He is at the summit! now he mounts
the tree! God speed him! He ascends higher and higher, lightly he mounts
from limb to limb, and branch to branch! He is near the top, three score feet
from the earth. He will reach it! Friolan may be saved! Oh how can I be
enough grateful! Holy Virgin, two fierce halcons attack him! He battles
with them! He has struck one with his steel, and he tumbles headlong over
the cliff. The other assails him more fiercely, and he fights him, still ascending.
He pauses—he is wounded or wearied—oh that ruisenor had perished, ere
he should have put such life in jeopardy. Ha! the other bird shrieks, and falls
down to the foot of the tree, the glittering steel flashing in his side as he flutters
and plunges. The bow-men shout! He has reached the nest! He places
something in his bosom, and rapidly descends! He remounts his steed and
returns to the castle on the wings of the wind.'

She fell upon her knees and with a grateful heart, thanked Heaven for his
preservation. She thought not of Froilan—a deeper feeling than ever a favorite
bird could awaken had, in that last half hour of anxiety and peril, taken possession
of her bosom, She rose from her knees, a sense of maidenly propriety
bid her to arrange her person, and not meet the knight in her morning robe,
though she could have worn nothing so becoming. So she delayed to learn if
Froilan was safe, to prepare her toilet to meet the young knight. This was a
great change to be brought about in so short a time in a maiden's heart; but
maidens love singing birds well enough, till young cavaliers come in their
way, and then the poor birds, like Froilan, have a powerful rival.

Ere she had quite completed her toilet, her father entered with her bird safe,
and the compliments of Garci Perez, the Count of Alarcos.

`Was he hurt, dear father?' she said, blushing at her own earnestness.

`Yes, in the wing, with a scratch of the hawk's talons.'

`I—meant the knight, sir.'

`Oh, the knight,' repeated her father, smiling; `ah, poor Froilan, thou mightest
as well have been eaten by the halcon's brood.'

Gertrudis dropped her eyes, while her whole face was suffused with a soft,
rich glow, like sunset mingling with moonlight in the sky. She took
her bird from his hand, and smoothing its plumage, kissed it, and laid it
upon her bosom with many a tender word of endearment, but she could not
disguise from her heart that she had now a deeper emotion in regarding it—that
it had been lying near the heart of the youth who had so gallantly rescued it.

At the breakfast-hour she was presented to the knight by her father, and
thanked him so sweetly for his brave rescue of her bird, that the youth's first
admiration of her beauty was deepened into love, which he did not forbid his
eyes out-speaking; and though she, for modesty, did not let him see the tale
her own eyes would have told about her heart, had she dared to lift the fringed
lids, she could not quiet the agitated undulations of that sea of love beneath her
vesture, which caused the heart to speak for itself its own emotion at his presence.

Day after day the Knight of Alarcos lingered in the castle, unable to tear
himself away from the lady Gertrudis; and, I wot the two met often upon the
terrace, when the mellow moon shone, and the winds whispered, and the stars
watched, and the murmur of waters came fully to the ear; and so Gertrudis
gave her heart to Count Alarcos, and he laid his at her feet in return The
third week of the Count's sojourn, poor Froilan died in his cage—for sadly had
his mistress neglected him of late. The lady Gertrudis sighed once, but shed
not a tear, and, bidding her maid cast him into the moat, gave Count Alarcos
her hand to lift her to the saddle; for, when it was told to her Froilan was dead,
she was preparing to ride a hawking. Thus the young Knight, in the end,
caused the death of the favorite he had risked his life to save; but poor Froilan

was his rival, and he felt no grief that Gertrudis could not soothe; and she for
Froilan had got a loving knight—which she thought far better than a singing-bird.

As the Vicompte de Roquebetyn well knew the rank and family of Count
Alarcos and his relationship to the royal House of Castille, the alliance between
him and his daughter was in every way desirable; and as he was waxing in
years, he was solicitous to have his child well married ere his death should
leave her an orphan. He, therefore, gave his consent to their union, when it
was asked by the devoted knight, and that it should take place on his return
from Paris, whither he was going, on a private embassy from the king, when
the storm and love withal stayed his journey. He then took leave of his betrothed
wife and proceeded on his way towards France.

`So brave a knight as Count Alarcos hath thrice shown himself to be, was
well worthy to pluck the flower of the cliffs and wear it in his bosom,' said the
Roman knight.

`He was, nevertheless, a false and craven knight, as thou shalt hear,' said the
Sieur Linant.

`The day on which he had achieved so gallant a deed against the Moors, the
Princess Beatriz, as Don Fernando in his tale hath well told, witnessing his
bravery and seeing afterwards that it was matched by the beauty and manliless
of his person, became enamored of him. As he was afterwards stationed
near the person of the king, she often saw him; and he being young and having
no ladye-love, whose name could give suitable lustre and incentive to his
achievements, he easily fell into admiration of her in return; though, if left to
himself, there was nothing in her that would have greatly captivated, beyond
mere outward gallantry, a person like the young Count Alarcos. Though
beautiful to look at, with dark expressive eyes and hair like a raven's plumage,
and a queenly figure, she was haughty, and had little softness of manner.
Nevertheless, Count Alarcos, flattered by her attention before the whole court,
and fancying himself in love, when his heart was not touched, it being only his
vanity, he was led, on one unhappy occasion, to make a vow of betrothal to
her; she having artfully brought him to the point to do this, being desirous of
securing him before he should see other maidens; for she knew there was not
in Castille, save her cousin, another knight her equal in lineage—and that,
unless she wedded him, she might never wed.

Thus was Count Alarcos artfully bound to a designing woman, whom he
loved not; but yet, knew not that he was a stranger to true love, until he beheld,
a few weeks afterwards, in her father's castle, the lovely Gertrudis de
Roquebetyn. When he saw her face from the terrace, he, for the first time,
felt that he had a heart! A torrent of novel and tumultuous emotions filled his
soul! It remained for her to break up the deep fountains of his feelings, unlock
the wealth of his affections, and discover to him powers of his being he was
ignorant that he was possessed of. From that day he looked back to his betrothal
with the haughty Princess Beatriz with grief and contempt, felt that in
the presence of Gertrudis, she was nothing to him, and he wondered that she
should ever have succeeded in binding him in such delusive chains. As the
power of his love grew, it swallowed up all other feeling with it; and obeying
its influence, he resolved, after a brief but severe struggle between his vow and
his love for Gertrudis, to commit himself to the current of his deep and irresistible,
but pure and holy passion, and forgetting the Princess Beatriz, offer himself
with all his heart and soul to the shrine of his heart's idolatry.

He spoke not to Gertrudis of his betrothal to the princess, which was known
only to themselves! and he trusted on his return from France, to be able to release
himself with her consent, failing to obtain which, he determined to break his
vow of betrothal, which was drawn from him rather than given, by the insidious
princess, and when he was ignorant of the true state of his own heart.'

Here several of the knights spoke, and delivered their opinions upon the conduct
of Count Alarcos in this instance; the English and German knights, as
well as the Sieur Linant, censuring and condemning it, while the Roman, Venetian
and Spanish knights were for excusing him, on the two-fold ground of the
artfulness of the princess, and his inexperience. The Scottish knight, whose

name was Sir Roy Bruce, being silent, was asked for his opinion, when he replied,
that as he was at that present time in the same dilemma with regard to two
maidens, as Count Alarcos, he could not give his opinion till he himself had decided
how to act, as his love went not with his vow. The English knight therefore
said haughtily, that a gentleman would keep his oath, let what betide—that
a knight's vow is a knight's life.'

Sir Roy Bruce rose angrily at these words, which he took to himself, and a hot
quarrel had well nigh come of it, but for the interference of the other knights;
and Sir Henry Percie having disclaimed allusion in his speech to the Scottish
knight, peace was restored again, and the matter passed. Sieur Linant then
continued his story of Count Alarcos, as follows:

`Not many weeks passed, ere this knight of two bethrothals, having fulfilled
his mission into France, returned, spending a day at the castle of his ladye-love
and fixing upon the day for the bridal, for which ceremony he was to return immediately
after seeing the king and surrendering his mission. On his arrival at
court, king Ferdinand graciously received him. The princess was present, and
instead of receiving from him a smile of love and lealty of troth, he seemed not
to notice her presence, being, as it were, so much absorbed with his business
with the king. After the audience, she privately sent for him, but he excused
himself with the plea of fatigue, and she became alarmed for the fate of her
love.

`This comes of riding to Paris,' she said, with mingled grief and anger.—
`He hath there seen some maiden who hath made him play me false, I fear.'

For three days he came not near her, fearing to see her. The third day he
had private audience of the king, and told him of his love for the lady Gertrudis,
and his wish to take her to wife. The king listened well pleased, and not
suspecting how the matter stood between the Count and his daughter, the princess,
he gave his consent, congratulating him upon his good fortune, and inviting
him and his bride to court. Having obtained the royal permission, Count
Alarcos sent a page, and solicited an interview with the princes, with the design
of asking a release from his engagement. Angry at his marked neglect of
her for three days, the princess refused to see him, thinking that his message
implied repentence and a desire of atonement, and so determining to punish
him. But soon she rued that refusal, for the same evening she was told that
Count Alarcos had left the court for the castle of Vicompte de Roquebetyn.—
The king entered her boudoir, and found her pacing it, her cheeks bathed in
tears of grief and anger.

`How is this, daughter Beatriz?' he asked with surprise.

Too proud to confess her love for one who cared not for it, the princess was
silent.

`Well, whate'er hath made thee weep, I have news will make thee merry,'
said the king. `We are to have a brave bridal.'

`A bridal, sire?'

`A brave knight and a sweet maiden are to be soon mated, and are to grace
our court. I 'faith, when he getteth his fair wife, he will break less Moors'
heads for a twelvemonth, I'll warrant me,' said king Ferdinand, laughing.

`Who meanest thou, father?' gasped the princess, half-suspecting, yet not
daring to believe all her fears suggested.

`Our cousin, the gallant Count of Alarcos, who, it seems, on his way Franceward,
was driven for shelter to the castle of Vicompte de Roquebetyn, whose
lovely daughter, not satisfied with the protection her father's roof gave his person,
took herself charge of his heart, and I 'faith, it seems would not surrender
it when he left, and so he journeyed to France without it. He hath to day
asked my assent to his marriage, and I have—'

`Not given it—by the cross,' exclaimed the princess Beatriz, with eyes of fire.

`I have, and he hath ridden away with a brave company of knights, and a
gallant retinue, to bring his bride.'

The princess was for a few minutes paralyzed with this intelligence of the
false faith of her treacherous cousin. Her first impulse was to confess all to
the king, and despatch a horse in pursuit of the recreant knight. But her
woman's pride came to her aid. The thought of her degradation was madness;

yet she felt she must not make known the dishonor done her, unless she would
experience the scorn of all the ladies of her court. She would not have it known
that the proud princess Beatriz with all her royal rank and beauty, could not
keep the heart she had chosen, but had been deserted from another, inferior in
rank. The idea, too, of having it whispered, that she gave her love where it
was not requited, was acutely mortifying to her.

The considerations, which flashed across her mind in an instant, at once governed
her conduct, and without betraying her feelings further, she complained
of being ill, and desired to be left alone. That night the deserted and slighted
princess slept not for her rage, grief and shame. She had truly loved Count Alarcos,
and to lose even the object of her affection was to her sufficiently painful.
But to lose him under such humiliating circumstances, was not patiently
to be borne. After a night of alternate suffering and plans of vengeance, she
finally calmed herself, for she had come to her determination.

`Yes, let him marry—I will wait—let him marry! Then my revenge will be
double-barbed, and the wound deeper. He shall marry, and then, if he love
her, will I have his punishment in my hands; and, by our lady, he shall be the
instrument of his own misery and of my vengeance!'

Count Alarcos married. But fearing the vengeance of the princess, he delayed
bringing his bride to court; and so for several months kept her close at
her father's castle, where he lived with her perfectly happy. The princess at
length artfully prevailed on the king to command the count to leave his castle
with his wife, and take up his abode for the ensuing winter near the court.
Count Alarcos obeyed. The beauty of his bride was the theme of all tongues.
None gave her so gracious a reception as the princess Beatriz, who, beneath an
outside of forgiveness towards him, and attachment for his bride, concealed
the most dangerous intentions. Wondering at her free forgiveness, the
thoughtless count was, nevertheless, well pleased, and she managed to lull
asleep in his bosom all suspicion. But, my idle romance hath consumed the
evening, gentle knights, without coming to an end,' said the Sieur de Linant;
`if it have sufficient interest, and you would fain learn the issue of the Count
Alarcos's treachery to the princess Beatriz, and her revenge therefor, I will,
with your consent, conclude the tale to-morrow night. I thank you for the
courtesy and grace with which you have listened to me, fair sirs!'

The knights, one and all, expressed themselves greatly entertained with the
story, and unanimously signified to Sieur de Linant their wish that he should,
when next they pitched their camp, go on with it. They then retired within
their spacious tent, the esquires laying themselves down by the outside; and
soon all was still, save the ruisenor singing to his mate on a neighboring tree;
the sighing of the night breezes through the arches of the old Moorish tower,
and the liquid gurgle of a brook that crept among the ruins.