University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
SPIRIT-WHISPERINGS. — REMINISCENCE.

The thanks of our little company were frankly given to our
young North-Carolinian, who had delivered himself much more
successfully than we were prepared to expect, from the previous
scenes in which his simplicity had quite failed to suspect the
quizzings of the Alabamian. That satirical worthy joined in the
applause with great good humor and evident sincerity, though
he could not forbear his usual fling at the venerable North State.

“Verily, thou hast done well, my young friend from the empire
of Terebinth; thou hast delivered thyself with a commendable
modesty and simplicity, which merits our best acknowledgements.
Pray, suppose me, among the rest, to be eminently delighted
and grateful accordingly. That a tragedy so grave, and
so symmetrical as the one you have told, could have been conjured
out of any of the historical or the traditional material of
North Carolina, I could scarcely have believed. I have been
pleased to think her genius too saturnine or phlegmatic for
such conceptions. If she lost the phlegm for a moment, it was
to indulge in a spasmodic sort of cacchination. She relishes the
ludicrous at times. Travelling last summer over her railroad
to the east, we came to a place called `Strickland.'

“`Strickland!' cries the conductor: and at the word, an old
woman got out, and a group of smiling country-girls got in.

“`Strickland, indeed!' exclaimed one Jeruthan Dobbs, an
aged person in a brown linen overall, and with a mouth from ear
to ear, defiled at both extremities, with the brownest juices of
the weed — `Strickland, indeed! that's one of them big words
they've got up now, to take in people that don't know. The
people all about here calls the place `Tear-Shirt' and they
kain't be got to l'arn your fine big name for it. Strickland's
quite too big a mouthful for a corn-cracker.'

“Think of the pathetic susceptibilities of any people who call
their village `Tear-Shirt!' I could not well believe it, and
knowing in what sort of ditch water hyperbole our common
sort of people are apt to deal, I turned to the fellow and said —
You don't mean that `Tear-Shirt' is the real name of this place?'

“`Why to be sure I do,' said he `that's what the people calls
it all about; its only the railroad folks that names it `Strickland';—
and he then told a long cock-and-bull story of a famous
fight in these parts, at the first settling of the place, in which
one of the parties, though undergoing a terrible pummelling all
the while continued to tear the shirt wholly from the back of his
assailant; and this imposing event, seizing upon the popular
imagination, caused the naming of the place — the ludicrous
naturally taking much firmer hold with the vulgar than the sublime.

“The most pathetic circumstance that I ever witnessed, or,
indeed, heard of in North Carolina, occurred in this very region,
and on the same occasion. I mentioned that a group of country-girls
came into the cars, at this place of ragged-linen cognomen.
They were pretty girls enough, and several beaux were in attendance;
and such sniggering and smiling, and chirping and
chittering, would have made Cupid himself ache to hear and witness,
even in the arms of Psyche.

“`Ain't you going to take little Churrybusco along with you,
Miss Sallie?' demanded one of the swains, holding up a pet puppy
to the windows of the car.

“`Ef they'd let me,' answered one of the girls; `but they'd
want me to pay for his passage.'

“`He'll be so sorry ef you leave him!' quoth the lover.

“`Well, I reckon,' responded the girl, pertly enough, `he
won't be the only puppy that's sorry.'

“`You're into me, Miss Sallie!' was the answer; `and I shall
feel sore about the ribs for the rest of the day.'

“`I don't think,' answered the girl —`I never gin you credit
for any feeling.'

“`Ah! you're too hard upon a body now.'

“`Well, I don't want to be; for when I think about leaving
Currybusco, I has a sorrowful sort of feeling for all leetle dogs.'

“`Well, take us both along. I'll pay for myself, and I reckon

the conductor won't see Churry, and he won't say nothing
ef he does.'

“`You think so?'

“`I does.'

“`Well, hand him up here. I'll try it.'

“And, with the words, the insignificant little monster, of gray
complexion and curly tail, was handed into the window of the
car, and carefully snuggled up in the shawl of Miss Sallie. Soon
we were under way. Soon the conductor made his appearance
and received his dues. If he saw the dog, he was civil
enough not to seem to see. For a few miles, the puppy and the
damsel went on quietly enough. But Churrybusco became impatient
finally of his wrappings in the mantle, and he scrambled
out, first upon the seat, then upon the floor of the car. Anon,
we stopped for a moment at some depôt, where twenty-two
barrels of turpentine were piled up ready for exportation. Here
Churrybusco made his way to the platform, and, just as the car
was moving off, a clumsy steerage passenger, stepping from one
car to another, tumbled the favorite from the platform upon the
track. Very terrible and tender was the scream of the young
lady—

“`Churrybusco! Churrybusco! He's killed! he's killed!'

“But the whining and yelping puppy soon showed himself
running with all his little legs in pursuit of the train, and bowwowing
with pitiful entreaty as he ran.

“`Stop the car! stop the car!' cried the young lady to the
conductor passing through.

“`Stop h—l!' was the horrid answer of the ruffian.

“The lady sobbed and begged, but the obdurate monster was
not to be moved by her entreaties. The damsel was whirled
away, weeping all the while. If you ask tradition, it will probably
tell you that the pup has kept on running to this day, on
his stumps, as the fellow fought in the old English ballad. The
whole scene was very pathetic — after a fashion. Now, that is
the most tragic adventure that I ever had in North Carolina.”

“You may find others more tragical,” quoth our North-Carolinian,
significantly, “if you travel frequently on that route, and
use your tongue as freely as you do here.”

We soon got back to the traditions of the great deep — its

storms and secrets. Our captain then told the following anecdote
of his own experience:—

“You remember the fate of the Pulaski? Well, when she
arrived from Savannah, full of passengers, and took in almost as
great a number in the port of Charleston, the packet-ship Sutton,
which I then commanded, was up for New York also. The
Pulaski was all the rage, as she had announced that she was to
be only one night at sea. My ship had a large list of her own
passengers, some of whom were prudent enough to prefer our
ancient slow and easy sailer. But two of them were now anxious
to leave me, and take the Pulaski. Of course, I had no objections
to their doing so; I simply objected to giving them back their
money. They were not so anxious to get on as to make them
incur double expense of passage, so they remained with me,
growling and looking sulky all the way. Of course, my resolution
saved their lives, but I do not remember that they ever
thanked me for having done so, or apologized for their sulks
upon the way. But, curious enough, before they left the port,
and while they were clamoring for their discharge, there came
a gentleman from the interior, who had taken passage in the Pulaski,
and paid his money to that vessel. He implored a place in
my ship, giving as his reason that he was afraid to go in the
steamer. He was troubled with a presentiment of danger, and
preferred to forfeit his money, rather than lose his life. His
earnestness to get on board the Sutton, and to escape the Pulaski,
was in amusing contrast with that of my two passengers
who wished to escape from me. I had no berth for the stranger,
but he insisted. He could sleep anywhere — any how —
and desired conveyance only. He was accommodated, and was,
of course, one of those who escaped the danger.

“It so happened that we had on board the Sutton several
members of one of the most distinguished of the South Carolina
families. A portion of this family, in spite of the wishes of the
rest, had gone in the Pulaski. The steamer, of course, soon
showed us her heels, and the Sutton went forward as slowly as
the most philosophical patience could desire. We had light
and baffling winds — nothing to help us forward — but no bad
weather. The long-sided coast of North Carolina stretched
away, never ending in length, for days upon our quarter. At

length, by dint of patience rather than wind, we reached that
latitude in which the Pulaski had blown up four days before.
We must have been very nearly over the very spot, as we discovered
by calculation afterward. Of course we were wholly in
ignorance of the terrible catastrophe.

“That evening, one of the gentlemen of the Carolina family I
have mentioned, came to me, and said that he had heard cries
of distress and moanings, as of some persons upon the water. I
immediately set watches about the vessel, examined as well as
I might myself, but could neither hear nor see any object beyond
the ship. He again heard the noises, and again I watched
and examined. He was excited necessarily, and I greatly anxious.
With the first dawn of morning I was up in the rigging,
and sweeping the seas with my glass. Nothing was to be seen.
We had no special fears, no apprehensions. There seemed no
reason for apprehension. None of us thought of the Pulaski.
She was a good seaboat, and, saving the presentiment of the
one passenger, who did not again speak of the scruples he had
expressed on shore, there were not only no apprehensions entertained
of the steamer's safety, but our passengers, many of
them, were all the while regretting that they had not gone in
her. We never heard of her fate, or suspected it, till we took
our pilot off Sandy Hook. Now, what do you say of the warning
cries which were heard by the one gentlemen, whose kinsmen
in the Pulaski were all lost. Four days before, they were
perishing, without help, in that very spot of sea. The presentiments
of the one passenger, before we started, the signs manifested
to another after the terrible event, are surely somewhat
curious, as occurring in the case of this single ship. I think
that I am as little liable to superstitious fears and fancies as anybody
present, and yet, these things, with a thousand others in
my sea experience, have satisfied me to believe with Hamlet,
that

Once open the way for the supernatural, and it is surprising
what a body of testimony you can procure. Most people are
sensitive to ridicule on this subject, and will rarely deliver the
secrets of their prison-house to other ears, unless the cue has

been first given to the company by one bolder than the rest. Our
captain's anecdote led to a variety of experiences and revelations,
at the close of which, one of the party, being reminded of
his appointment as next raconteur, bestowed the following dark
fancy-piece upon us, which he assured us was woven in the
world of dreams, and was, in most respects, a bona fide report of
a real experience in the domain of sleep: —

THE WAGER OF BATTLE.

A TALE OF THE FEUDAL AGES.

1. CHAPTER I.

The analysis of the dreaming faculty has never yet been
made. The nearest approach to it is in our own time, and by
the doctors of Phrenology. The suggestion of a plurality of
mental attributes, and of their independence, one of the other,
affords a key to some of the difficulties of the subject, without
altogether enabling us to penetrate the mystery. Many difficulties
remain to be overcome, if we rely upon the ordinary
modes of thinking. My own notion is, simply, that the condition
of sleep is one which by no means affects the mental nature. I
think it probable that the mind, accustomed to exercise, thinks
on, however deep may be the sleep of the physical man; that
the highest exercise of the thinking faculty — that which involves
the imagination — is, perhaps, never more acutely free to work
out its problems than when unembarrassed by the cares and
anxieties of the temperament and form; and that dreaming is
neither more nor less than habitual thought, apart from the ordinary
restraints of humanity, of which the memory, at waking,
retains a more or less distinct consciousness. This thought may
or may not have been engendered by the topics which have impressed
or interested us during the day; but this is not necessary
nor is it inevitable. We dream precisely as we think, with suggestions
arising to the mind in sleep, spontaneously, as they do
continually when awake, without any special provocation; and
our dreams, in all probability, did not our memory fail us at
awaking, would possess that coherence, proportion and mutual
relation of parts, which the ordinary use of the ratiocinative

faculties requires. I have no sort of doubt that the sleep of the
physical man may be perfect, even while the mind is at work, in
a high state of activity, and even excitement, in its mighty storehouse.
The eye may be shut, the ear closed, the tongue sealed,
the taste inappreciative, and the nerves of touch locked up in
the fast embrace of unconsciousness, while thought, fancy, imagination,
comparison and causality, are all busy in the most keen
inquiries, and in the most wonderful creations. But my purpose
is not now to insist upon these phenomena, and my speculations
are only meant properly to introduce a vision of my own; one
of those wild, strange, foreign fancies which sometimes so unexpectedly
people and employ our slumbers — coherent, seemingly,
in all its parts, yet as utterly remote as can well be imagined
from the topics of daily experience and customary reflection.

I had probably been asleep a couple of hours, when I was
awakened with some oppressive mental sensation. I was conscious
that I had been dreaming, and that I had seen a crowd
of persons, either in long procession, or engaged in some great
state ceremonial. But of the particulars — the place, the parties
the purpose, or the period, — I had not the most distant recollection.
I was conscious, however, of an excited pulse, and of a
feeling so restless, as made me, for a moment, fancy that I had
fever. Such, however, was not the case. I rose, threw on my
robe de chambre, and went to the window. The moon was in
her meridian; the whole landscape was flickering with the light
silvery haze with which she carpeted her pathway. From the
glossy surface of the orange leaves immediately beneath the
window, glinted a thousand diamond-like points of inexpressible
brightness; while over all the fields was spread a fleecy softness,
that was doubly pure and delicate in contact with the sombre
foliage of the great forest, to the very foot of which it stretched.
There was nothing in the scene before me that was not at once
gentle and beautiful; nothing which, by the most remote connection,
could possibly suggest an idea of darkness or of terror.
I gazed upon the scene only for a few moments. The night was
cold, and a sudden shivering chillness which it sent through all
my frame, counselled me to get back to bed with all possible expedition.
I did so, but was not successful in wooing the return

of those slumbers which had been so unusually banished from
mine eyes. For more than an hour I lay tossing and dissatisfied,
with my thoughts flitting from subject to subject with all the
caprice of an April butterfly. When I again slept, however, I
was again conscious of a crowd. A multitude of objects passed
in prolonged bodies before my sight. Troops of glittering forms
then occupied the canvass, one succeeding to the other regularly,
but without any individuality of object or distinct feature. But
I could catch at intervals a bright flash, as of a plume or jewel,
of particular size and splendor, leading me to the conviction that
what I beheld was the progress of some great state ceremonial,
or the triumphal march of some well-appointed army. But
whether the procession moved under the eagles of the Roman,
the horse-tails of the Ottoman, or the lion banner of England, it
was impossible to ascertain. I could distinguish none of the ensigns
of battle. The movements were all slow and regular.
There was nothing of strife or hurry — none of the clamor of
invasion or exultation of victory. The spectacle passed on with
a measured pomp, as if it belonged to some sad and gloomy rite,
where the splendor rather increased the solemnity to which it
was simply tributary.

2. CHAPTER II.

The scene changed even as I gazed. The crowd had disappeared.
The vast multitude was gone from sight, and mine eye,
which had strained after the last of their retreating shadows,
now dropped its lids on vacancy. Soon, however, instead of the
great waste of space and sky, which left me without place of rest
for sight, I beheld the interior of a vast and magnificent hall,
most like the interior of some lofty cathedral. The style of the
building was arabesque, at once richly and elaborately wrought,
and sombre. The pointed arches, reached by half-moon involutions,
with the complex carvings and decorations of cornice,
column, and ceiling, at once carried me back to those wondrous
specimens which the art of the Saracen has left rather for our
admiration than rivalry. The apartment was surrounded by a
double row of columns; slender shafts, which seemed rather the
antennæ of graceful plants than bulks and bodies of stone and
marble, rising for near fifty feet in height, then gradually

spreading in numerous caryatides, resembling twisted and unfolding
serpents, to the support of the vast roof. All appearance
of bulk, of cumbrousness, even of strength, seemed lost in the
elaborate delicacy with which these antennæ stretched themselves
from side to side, uniting the several arches in spans of
the most airy lightness and beauty. The great roof for which
they furnished the adequate support, rose too high in the but
partial light which filled the hall, to enable me to gather more
than an imperfect idea of its character and workmanship. But
of its great height the very incapacity to define its character afforded
me a sufficient notion. Where the light yielded the desired
opportunity, I found the flowery beauty of the architecture, on
every hand, to be alike inimitable. To describe it would be impossible.
A thousand exquisite points of light, the slenderest
beams, seemed to depend, like so many icicles, from arch and
elevation — to fringe the several entrances and windows — to
hang from every beam and rafter; and to cast over all, an appearance
so perfectly aerial, as to make me doubtful, at moments,
whether the immense interior which I saw them span, with the
massive but dusky ceiling which they were intended to sustain,
were not, in fact, a little world of wood, with the blue sky dimly
overhead, a realm of vines and flowers, with polished woodland
shafts, lavishly and artfully accumulated in the open air, so as
to produce, in an imperfect light, a delusive appearance of architectural
weight, magnificence and majesty. An immense avenue,
formed of columns thus embraced and bound together by the
most elaborate and fantastic carvings, linked vines, boughs,
flowers and serpents, opened before me, conducting the eye
through far vistas of the same description, thus confirming the
impression of cathedral avenues of forest. The eye, beguiled
along these passages, wandered into others quite as interminable,
with frequent glimpses into lateral ranges quite as wonderful and
ample, until the dim perspective was shut, not because of the
termination of the passage, but because of the painful inability
in the sight any further to pursue it. Each of these avenues
had its decorations, similarly elaborate and ornate with the rest
of the interior. Vines and flowers, stars and wreaths, crosses
and circles — with such variety of form and color as the kaleidoscope
only might produce in emulation of the fancy — were all
present, but symmetrically duplicated, so as to produce an equal
correspondence on each side, figure answering to figure. But
these decorations were made tributary to other objects. Numerous
niches opened to the sight, as you penetrated the mighty
avenue, in which stood noble and commanding forms; — statues
of knights in armor; of princes; great men who had swayed
nations; heroes, who had encountered dragons for the safety of
the race; and saintly persons, who had called down blessings
from heaven upon the nation in the hour of its danger and its
fear. The greater number of these stood erect as when in life;
but some sat, some reclined, and others knelt; but all, save for the
hue of the marble in which they were wrought — so exquisite
was the art which they had employed — would have seemed to
be living even then. Around the apartment which I have been
describing, were double aisles, or rather avenues, formed by sister
columns, corresponding in workmanship and style, if not in size,
with those which sustained the roof. These were deep and
sepulchral in shadow, but withal very attractive and lovely
places; retreats of shade, and silence, and solemn beauty;
autumnal walks, where the heart which had been wounded by
the shafts and sorrows of the world, might fly, and be secure,
and where the form, wandering lonely among the long shadows
of grove and pillar, and in the presence of noble and holy images
of past worth and virtue, might still maintain the erect stature
which belongs to elevated fancies, to purest purposes, and great
designs for ever working in the soul.

But it would be idle to attempt to convey, unless by generalities,
any definite idea of the vast and magnificent theatre, or of
that singular and sombre beauty with which I now found myself
surrounded. Enough, that, while I was absorbed, with my whole
imagination deeply excited by the architectural grandeur which
I surveyed, I had grown heedless of the progress of events
among certain human actors — if I may be thus permitted to designate
the creatures of a vision — which had meanwhile taken
their places in little groups in a portion of the ample area.
While mine eyes had been uplifted in the contemplation of things
inanimate, it appears that a human action was in progress on a
portion of the scene below. I was suddenly aroused by a stir
and bustle, followed by a faint murmur, as of applauding voices,

which at length reached my ears, and diverted my gaze from the
remote and lofty, to the rich tesselated pavement of the apartment.
If the mere splendor of the structure had so fastened
upon my imagination, what can I say of the scene which now
commanded my attention! There was the pomp of courts, the
pride of majesty, the glory of armor, the grace and charm of
aristocratic beauty, in all her plumage, to make me forgetful of
all other display. I now beheld groups of noble persons, clad
in courtly dresses, in knightly armor, sable and purple, with a
profusion of gold and jewels, rich scarfs, and plumes of surpassing
splendor. Other groups presented me with a most imposing
vision of that gorgeous church, whose mitred prelates could place
their feet upon the necks of mightiest princes, and sway, for good
or evil, the destinies of conflicting nations. There were priests
clad in flowing garments, courtiers in silks, and noblest dames,
who had swayed in courts from immemorial time. Their long
and rustling trains were upborne by damsels and pages, lovely
enough, and richly enough arrayed, to be apt ministers in the
very courts of Love himself. A chair of state, massive, and
richly draped in purple and gold, with golden insignia, over which
hung the jeweled tiara of sovereignty, was raised upon a dais
some five feet above the level of the crowd. This was filled by
a tall and slender person, to whom all made obeisance as to an
imperial master. He was habited in sable, a single jewel upon
his brow, bearing up a massive shock of feathers as black and
glossy as if wrought out of sparkling coal. The air of majesty
in his action, the habitual command upon his brow, left me in no
doubt of his sovereign state, even had the obeisance of the multitude
been wanting. But he looked not as if long destined to
hold sway in mortal provinces. His person was meagre, as if
wasted by disease. His cheeks were pale and hollow; while a
peculiar brightness of the eyes shone in painful contrast with the
pale and ghastly color of his face. Behind his chair stood one
who evidently held the position of a favorite and trusted counsellor.
He was magnificently habited, with a profusion of jewels,
which nevertheless added but little to the noble air and exquisite
symmetry of his person. At intervals he could be seen to bend
over to the ear of the prince, as if whispering him in secret.
This show of intimacy, if pleasing to his superior, was yet
evidently of different effect upon many others in the assembly.
The costume of the place was that of the Norman sway in England,
before the Saxons had quite succeeded, — through the
jealousy entertained by the kings, of their nobles, — in obtaining
a share of those indulgences which finally paved the way to
their recognition by the conquerors. Yet, even in this respect
of costume, I was conscious of some discrepancies. Some of the
habits worn were decidedly Spanish; but as these were mingled
with others which bore conclusive proof of the presence of the
wearers in the wars of the Crusades, it was not improbable that
they had been adopted as things of fancy, from a free communion
of the parties with knights of Spain whom they had
encountered in the Holy Land.

But I was not long permitted to bestow my regards on a subject
so subordinate as dress. The scene was evidently no mere
spectacle. Important and adverse interests were depending —
wild passions were at work, and the action of a very vivid drama
was about to open upon me. A sudden blast of a trumpet penetrated
the hall. I say blast, though the sounds were faint as if
subdued by distance. But the note itself, and the instrument
could not have been mistaken. A stir ensued among the spectators.
The crowd divided before an outer door, and those more
distant bent forward, looking in this direction with an eager anxiety
which none seemed disposed to conceal. They were not
long kept in suspense. A sudden unfolding of the great valves
of the entrance followed, when a rush was made from without.
The tread of heavy footsteps, the waving of tall plumes, and a
murmur from the multitude, announced the presence of other
parties for whom the action of the drama was kept in abeyance.
The crowd opened from right to left, and one of the company
stood alone, with every eye of the vast assemblage fixed curiously
upon his person.

3. CHAPTER III.

And well, apart from every consideration yet to be developed,
might they gaze upon the princely form that now stood erect,
and with something approaching to defiance in his air and manner,
in the centre of the vast assemblage. He was habited in

chain armor, the admirable work, in all probability, of the shops
of Milan. This, though painted or stained thoroughly black, yet
threw out a glossy lustre of incredible brightness. Upon his
breast, as if the love token of some noble damsel, a broad scarf
of the most delicate blue was seen to float. A cap of velvet,
with a double loop in front, bearing a very large brilliant from
which rose a bunch of sable plumes, was discarded from his
brows the moment that he stood within the royal presence. He
stood for a brief space, seeming to survey the scene, then advanced
with a bold and somewhat rapid step, as if a natural spirit
of fearlessness had been stimulated into eagerness by a consciousness
of wrong and a just feeling of indignation. His face
was scarcely less noble than his form and manner, but it was
marked by angry passions — was red and swollen — and as he
passed onward to the foot of the throne, he glanced fiercely on
either hand, as if seeking for an enemy. In spite of the fearlessness
of his progress, I could now perceive that he was under
constraint and in duresse. A strong body of halberdiers closed
upon his course, and evidently stood prepared and watchful of
his every movement. As he approached the throne, the several
groups gave way before him, and he stood, with unobstructed
vision, in the immediate presence of the monarch. For an instant
he remained erect, with a mien unsubdued and almost
haughty, while a low murmur — as I fancied, of indignation —
rose in various portions of the hall. The face of the king himself
seemed suddenly flushed, and a lively play of the muscles
of his countenance led me to believe that he was about to give
utterance to his anger; but, at this moment, the stranger sunk
gracefully but proudly upon his knee, and, bending his forehead,
with a studied humility in his prostration, disarmed, if it had been
felt, the indignation of his sovereign. This done, he rose to his
feet with a manly ease, and stood silent, in an attitude of expectation,
but with a calm, martial erectness, as rigid as if cut from
the inflexible rock.

The king spoke, but the words were inaudible to my ears.
There was a murmur from various parts of the assembly. Several
voices followed that of the monarch, but of these I could
not comprehend the purport. I could only judge of the character
of what was said by its startling effect upon the stranger. If

excited before, he seemed to be almost maddened now. His
eyes followed the murmuring voices from side to side of the assembly,
with a fearful flashing energy, which made them dilate,
as if endangering the limits of their reddened sockets. A like
feverish and impatient fury threw his form into spasmodic action.
His figure seemed to rise and swell, towering above the rest.
His arms were stretched in the direction of the assailing voices.
His clenched fist seemed to threaten the speakers with instant
violence. Unintimidated by the presence in which he
stood, his appearance was that of a subject, not only too strong
for his superior, but too confident and presumptuous for his own
self-subjection, even in the moment of greatest peril to himself.

He resumed his composure at last, and the murmur ceased
around him. There was deep silence, and the eyes of the stranger
were fixed rigidly upon those of his prince. The latter was
evidently moved. His hand was extended — something he spoke
which I again lost; but, strange to say, the reply of the stranger
came sharply and distinctly to my ear.

“Swear! Why should I swear? Should I call upon the
Holy Evangel as my witness, when I see not my accuser? Let
him appear. Let him look me in the face, if there be lord or
knight in this assembly so bold, and tell me that I am guilty of
this treason. Sire! I challenge my accuser. I have no other
answer to the charge!”

4. CHAPTER IV.

The lips of the king moved. The nobleman who stood behind
his throne, and whom I conceived to be his favorite, bent
down and received his orders; then disappeared behind one of
the columns whose richly-decorated, but slender shafts, rose up
directly behind him, like some graceful stems of the forest, over
which the wildering vine, and the gaudy parasite clambers with
an embrace that kills. But a few moments elapsed when the
favorite reappeared. He was accompanied by a person, whose
peculiar form and aspect will deserve especial description.

In that hall, in the presence of princes, surrounded by knights
and nobles of the proudest in the land, the person newly come—
though seemingly neither knight nor noble—was one of the most

lofty in his carriage, and most imposing and impressive in his
look and manner. He was not only taller than the race of men
in general, but he was obviously taller than any in that select
circle by which he was surrounded. Nor did his features misbeseem
his person. These were singularly noble, and of Italian
cast and character. His face was large, and of the most perfect
oval. Though that of a man who had probably seen and suffered
under sixty winters, it still bore the proofs of a beauty once
remarkable. It still retained a youthful freshness, which spoke
for a conscience free from remorse and self-reproach. His eyes
were of a mild, but holily expressive blue; and beneath their
rather thin white brows, were declarative of more than human
benevolence. His forehead was very large and lofty, of great
breadth and compass, in the regions of ideality and sublimity,
as well as causality; while his hair, thick still, and depending
from behind his head in numerous waving curls, was, like his
beard, of the most silvery whiteness. This was spread, massively,
upon his breast, which it covered almost to the waist. His
complexion was very pale, but of a clear whiteness, and harmonized
sweetly with the antique beauty and power of his head.
His costume differed in style, texture and stuff, entirely from
that which prevailed in the assembly. A loose white robe, which
extended from his shoulders to the ground, was bound about his
body by a belt of plain Spanish leather, and worn with a grace
and nobleness perfectly majestical. His feet were clothed in
Jewish sandals. But there was nothing proud or haughty in his
majesty. On the contrary, it was in contrast with the evident
humility in his eye and gesture, that his dignity of bearing betrayed
itself. This seemed to be as much the fruit of pure and
elevated thoughts, calm and resigned, as of that superior physical
organization which made this aged man tower as greatly above
the rest, in person, as he certainly did in air and manner.

He advanced, as he appeared, to the foot of the throne, gracefully
sunk before it, then rising, stood in quiet, as awaiting the
royal command to speak. His appearance seemed to fill the
assembly with eager curiosity. A sudden hush prevailed as he
approached, the natural result of that awe which great superiority
usually inspires in the breast of ignorance. There was but
one face among the spectators that seemed to betray no curiosity

as he came in sight. This was that of the accused. With the
first coming of the ancient man, I had instinctively fixed my
gaze upon the countenance of the nobleman. I could easily
discern that his lips were compressed as if by sudden effort,
while his usually florid features were covered with a momentary
paleness. This emotion, with the utter absence of that air of
curiosity which marked every other visage, struck me, at once,
as somewhat significant of guilt.

“Behold thy accuser!” exclaimed the sovereign.

“He! the bookworm! — the dreamer! — the madman! — sorcerer
to the vulgar, but less than dotard to the wise! Does your
majesty look to a star-gazer for such evidence as will degrade
with shame the nobles of your realm? Sire! — if no sorcerer,
this old man is verily distraught! He is lunatic or vile — a
madman, or a bought servitor of Satan!”

The venerable man thus scornfully denounced, stood, meanwhile,
looking sorrowful and subdued, but calm and unruffled, at
the foot of the dais. His eye rested a moment upon the speaker,
then turned, as if to listen to that speech, with which the favorite,
behind the throne of the monarch, appeared to reply to the
language of the accused. This I did not hear, nor yet that
which the sovereign addressed to the same person. But the
import might be divined by the answer of the accused.

“And I say, your majesty, that what he hath alleged is false
— all a false and bitter falsehood, devised by cunning and malice
to work out the purposes of hate. My word against his — my
gauntlet against the world. I defy him to the proof! I defy all
my accusers!”

“And he shall have the truth, your majesty,” was the firm,
clear answer with which the venerable man responded to this
defiance. His tones rang through the assembly like those of a
sweet bell in the wilderness.—“My life, sire, is sworn to the
truth! I can speak no other language. That I have said
nothing falsely of this lord, I invoke the attestation of the Lord
of all. I have had his sacred volume brought into this presence.
You shall know, sire, what I believe, by what I swear!”

He made a step aside, even while he spoke, to a little girl whom
I had not before seen, but who had evidently followed him into
the assembly. She now approached, bearing in her hands one

of those finely illuminated manuscripts of an early day of Christian
history in Europe, which are now worth their weight in
gold. I could just perceive, as he opened the massive volume,
by its heavy metallic clasps, that the characters were strange,
and readily conjectured them to be Hebrew. The work, from
what he said, and the use to which he applied it, I assumed to
be the Holy Scriptures. He received it reverently from the
child, placed it deliberately upon one of the steps of the dais,
then knelt before it, his venerable head for a moment, being
bowed to the very floor. Then raising his eyes, but without
rising from his position, he placed one hand upon this volume,
raised the other to heaven, and, with a deep and solemn voice,
called upon God and the Holy Evangelists, to witness that what
he had spoken, and was about to speak, was “the truth, and the
truth only — spoken with no malice — no wicked or evil intent
— and rather to defeat and prevent the evil designs of the person
he accused.” In this posture, and thus affirming, he proceeded
to declare that “the accused had applied to him for a
potent poison which should have the power of usurping life
slowly, and without producing any of those striking effects upon
the outward man, as would induce suspicion of criminal practice.”
He added, with other particulars, that “the accused had invited
him, under certain temptations, which had been succeeded by
threats, to become one of a party to his designs, the victim of
which was to be his majesty then sitting upon the throne.”

5. CHAPTER V.

Such was the tenor of the asseverations which he made, fortified
by numerous details, all tending strongly to confirm the
truth of his accusations, his own testimony once being relied on.
There was something so noble in this man's action, so delicate,
so impressive, so simple, yet so grand; and the particulars which
he gave were all so probably arrayed, so well put together, and
so seemingly in confirmation of other circumstances drawn from
the testimony of other parties, that all around appeared fully
impressed with the most perfect conviction that his accusation
was justly made. A short but painful silence followed his narration,
which seemed, for an instant, to confound the guilty noble.

The sad countenance of the monarch deepened to severity,
while a smile of triumph and exultation rose to that of the favorite
behind his throne. At this sight the accused person recovered
all his audacity. With half-choking utterance, and features
kindling with fury rather than faltering with fear, he demanded,

“Am I to be heard, your majesty?”

A wave of the monarch's hand gave him the desired permission,
and his reply burst forth like a torrent. He gave the lie
to his accuser, whom he denounced as an impostor, as one who
was the creature of his and the king's enemies, and tampering,
himself, with the sovereign's life while pretending to minister to
his ailments. He ridiculed, with bitterness and scorn, the notion
that any faith should be given to the statements, though even
offered on oath, of one whom he affirmed to be an unbeliever
and a Jew; and, as if to crown his defence with a seal no less
impressive than that of his accuser, he advanced to the foot of
the throne, grasped the sacred volume from the hands by which
it was upheld, and kneeling, with his lips pressed upon the
opened pages, he imprecated upon himself, if his denial were
not the truth, all the treasured wrath and thunder in the stores
of Heaven!

The accuser heard, with uplifted hands and looks of holy horror,
the wild and terrible invocation. Almost unconsciously his
lips parted with the comment:—

“God have mercy upon your soul, my lord, for you have
spoken a most awful perjury!”

The king looked bewildered, the favorite behind him dissatisfied,
and the whole audience apparently stunned by equal incertitude
and excitement. The eyes of all parties fluctuated between
the accused and the accuser. They stood but a few paces
asunder. The former looked like a man who only with a great
struggle succeeded in controlling his fury. The latter stood sorrowful,
but calm. The little girl who had brought in the holy
volume stood before him, with one of his hands resting upon her
head. Her features greatly resembled his own. She looked
terrified; her eyes fastened ever upon the face of her father's
enemy with a countenance of equal curiosity and suspicion.
Some conversation, the sense of which did not reach me, now
ensued between the king and two of his counsellors, to which

his favorite was a party. The former again addressed the accuser.

“Have you any other testimony but that which you yourself
offer of the truth of your accusation.

“None, your majesty. I have no witness of my truth but
God, and it is not for vain man to prescribe to him at what seasons
his testimony should be given. In bringing this accusation,
my purpose was not the destruction of the criminal, but the
safety of my sovereign; and I am the more happy that no conviction
can now follow from my charge, as from the dreadful
oath which he has just taken, he places it out of the power of
human tribunal to resolve between us. For the same reasons,
sire, he is in no condition to suffer death! Let him live! It is
enough for me that your majesty is safe from the present, and
has been warned against all future danger at his hands.”

“But not enough for me!” cried the accused, breaking in impetuously.
“I have been charged with a foul crime; I must
free my scutcheon from the shame. I will not rest beneath it.
If this Jewish sorcerer hath no better proof than his own false
tongue, I demand from your majesty the wager of battle! I, too,
invoke God and the blessed Jesu, in testimony of my innocence.
This enemy hath slandered me; I will wash out the slander
with his blood! I demand the trial, sire, his arm against mine,
according to the laws and custom of this realm.”

“It can not be denied!” was the cry from many voices. The
favorite looked grave and troubled. The eyes of the king were
fixed sadly upon the venerable accuser. The latter seemed to
understand the expression.

“I am not a man of blood, your majesty. Strife hath long
been banished from this bosom; carnal weapons have long been
discarded from these hands.”

“Let him find a champion!” was the fierce answer of the
accused.

“And of what avail to me,” returned the accuser, “the brute
valor of the hireling who sells for wages the strength of his manhood,
and perils for gain the safety of his life. Little should I
hope from the skill of such as he, opposed in combat to one of
the greatest warriors of the realm.”

“Ah, sorcerer! thou fearest!” was the exulting cry of the

accused; “but, if thy cause be that of truth, as thou hast challenged
the Most High to witness, what hast thou to fear? The
stars which thou searchest nightly, will they not do battle in
thy behalf?”

“Methinks,” said the favorite, who now advanced from behind
the throne, “methinks, old man, thou hast but too little reliance
on the will and power of God to assist thee in this matter. It is
for him to strengthen the feeblest, where he is innocent, and in
the ranks of war to do successful battle with the best and
bravest. Is it not written, `The race is not always to the swift,
nor the triumph to the strong!'”

“Ah! do I not know this, my lord? Do not think that I question
the power of the Lord to do marvels, whenever it becomes his
will to do so; but who is it, believing in God's might and mercy,
that flings himself idly from the steep, with the hope that an angel's
wings shall be sent to bear him up. I have been taught by
the faith which I profess, to honor the Lord our God, and not to
tempt him; and I do not readily believe that we may command
the extraordinary manifestations of his power by any such vain
and uncertain issue as that which you would now institute. I
believe not that the truth is inevitably sure to follow the wager
and trial of battle, nor will I lean on the succor of any hireling
weapon to avouch for mine.”

“It need be no hireling sword, old man. The brave and the
noble love adventure, for its own sake, in the paths of danger;
and it may be that thou shalt find some one, even in this assembly,
noble as him thou accusest, and not less valiant with his
weapon, who, believing in thy truth, shall be willing to do battle
in thy behalf.”

“Thyself, perchance!” cried the accused, impetuously, and
turning a fiery glance upon the speaker. In this glance it
seemed to me that I could discover a far greater degree of bitterness
and hate than in any which he had shown to his accuser.
“It is thyself that would do this battle? Ha! thou art he, then,
equally noble and not less valiant, art thou? Be it so! It will
rejoice me shouldst thou venture thy body in this quarrel. But
I know thee — thou lovest it too well — thou durst not.”

“Choose me for thy champion, old man,” was the further
speech of the favorite, with a difficult effort to be calm. “I will

do battle for thee, and with God's mercy, sustain the right in
thy behalf.”

“Thou shalt not!” exclaimed the king, vehemently, but feebly,
half rising as he spoke, and turning to the favorite. “Thou
shalt not! I command thee mix not in this matter.”

More was said, but in such a feeble tone that it failed to
reach my senses. When the king grew silent, the favorite
bowed with submissive deference, and sunk again behind the
throne. A scornful smile passed over the lips of the accused,
who looked, with a bitter intelligence of gaze, upon a little group
seemingly his friends and supporters, who had partly grouped
themselves around him. Following his glance, a moment after
toward the royal person, I was attracted by a movement, though
for a single instant only, of the uplifted hand of the favorite. It
was a sign to the accused, the former withdrawing the glove
from his right hand, a moment after, and flinging it, with a significant
action, to the floor behind him. The accused, whispered
a page in waiting, who immediately stole away and disappeared
from sight. But a little while elapsed when I beheld him approach
the spot where the glove had fallen, recover it adroitly,
and convey it, unperceived, into his bosom. All this by-play,
though no doubt apparent to many in the assembly, was evidently
unseen and unsuspected by the king. I inferred the rank
luxuriance of the practice of chivalry in this region, from the
nicety with which the affair was conducted, and the forbearance
of all those by whom it had been witnessed, to make any report
of what they had beheld. The discussion was resumed by the
accuser.

“I am aware, your majesty, that by the laws and practice of
your realm, the wager of battle is one that may be freely challenged
by any one accused of treason, or other crime against the
state, against whom there shall be no witness but the accuser.
It is not the fear of danger which makes me unwilling to seek
this conflict; it is the fear of doing wrong. Though the issues
of battle are in the hands of the Lord, yet who shall persuade
me that he has decreed the combat to take place. Now I do
confess that I regard it as unholy, any invocation of the God of
Peace, to be a witness in a strife which his better lessons teach
us to abhor — a strife grossly at variance with his most settled
and divine ordinances.”

“I am grieved, old man, to hear you speak this language,”
was the grave censure of one who, from his garments, seemed
to be very high in authority and the church. “What thou sayest
is in direct reproach of holy church, which has frequently
called in the assistance of mortal force and human weapons to
put down the infidel, to crush the wrong-doer, and to restore
that peace which can only owe her continued existence to the
presence ever of a just readiness for war. Methinks thou
hast scarcely shown thyself enough reverent in this thy bold
opinion.”

“Holy father, I mean not offence! I do not doubt that war,
with short-sightedness of human wisdom, has appeared to secure
the advantages of peace. I believe that God has endowed us
with a strength for the struggle, and with a wisdom that will
enable us to pursue it with success. These we are to employ
when necessary for the protection of the innocent, and the rescue
and safety of those who are themselves unwilling to do
harm. But I am unwilling to believe that immortal principles
— the truth of man, and the value of his assurances — are
to depend upon the weight of his own blows, or the address with
which he can ward off the assaults of another. Were this the
case, then would the strong-limbed and brutal soldier be always
the sole arbiter of truth, and wisdom, and all moral government.”

We need not pursue the argument. It has long since been
settled, though with partial results only to humanity, as well by
the pagan as the Christian philosopher. But, however ingenious,
true, or eloquent, was the venerable speaker on this occasion,
his arguments were entirely lost upon that assembly. He
himself soon perceived that the effect was unfavorable to his
cause, and exposed his veracity to question. With a proper
wisdom, therefore, he yielded promptly to the current. But
first he asked: —

“And what, may it please your majesty, if I decline this
ordeal?”

“Death!” was the reply of more than one stern voice in the
assembly. “Death by fire, by the burning pincers, by the
tortures of the screw and rack.”

The venerable man replied calmly.

“Life is a duty! Life is precious!” He spoke musingly,

looking down, as he spoke, upon the little girl who stood beside
him, while the big tears gathered in his eyes as he gazed.

“Do you demand a champion?” was the inquiry of the king.

“No, sire! If, in behalf of my truth, this battle must be
fought, its dangers must be mine only.”

“Thine!” exclaimed the favorite.

“Ay, my lord — mine. None other than myself must encounter
this peril.”

A murmur of ridicule passed through the assembly. The
accused laughed outright, as the exulting warrior laughs, with
his captive naked beneath his weapon. A brief pause followed,
and a visible anxiety prevailed among the audience. Their
ridicule afforded to the accuser sufficient occasion for reply: —

“This murmur of surprise and ridicule that I hear on every
hand, is of itself a sufficient commentary upon this trial of truth
by the wager of battle. It seems to all little less than madness,
that a feeble old man like myself, even though in the cause of
right, should oppose himself to the most valiant warrior in the
kingdom. Yet, if it be true that God will make himself manifest
in the issue, what matters it whether I be old or young,
strong or weak, well-skilled or ignorant in arms? If there be a
just wisdom in this mode of trial, the feeblest rush, in maintenance
of the truth, were mighty against the steel-clad bosom
of the bravest. I take the peril. I will meet this bold criminal,
nothing fearing, and will, in my own person, engage in the battle
which is thus forced upon me. But I know not the use of
lance, or sword, or battle-axe. These weapons are foreign to
my hands. Is it permitted me to use such implements of
defence as my own skill and understanding may invent, and I
may think proper to employ?”

“Thou shalt use no evil arts, old man,” exclaimed the churchman
who had before spoken, anticipating the answer of the
monarch. “No sorcery, no charms, no spells, no accursed devices
of Satan. I warn thee, if thou art found guilty of arts
like these, thou shalt surely perish by fire.”

“None of these, holy father, shall I employ. My arts shall
be those only, the principles of which I shall proclaim to thyself,
or to any noble gentleman of the king's household. My
weapons shall be those only which a human intelligence may

prepare. They belong to the studies which I pursue — to the
same studies which have enabled me to arrive at truths, some
of which thou thyself hast been pleased to acknowledge, and
which, until I had discovered them, had been hidden from the
experience of men. It can not be held unreasonable and unrighteous
that I employ the weapons the virtues of which I
know, when my enemy uses those for which he is renowned?”

Some discussion followed, the demand of the accuser being
strenuously resisted by the friends of the accused.

“The weapons for knightly encounter,” said they, “have
long since been acknowledged. These are sword, and battle-axe,
and spear.”

“But I am no knight,” was the reply; “and as it is permitted
to the citizen to do battle with staff and cudgel, which are
his wonted weapons, so may it be permitted to me to make use
of those which are agreeable to my strength, experience, and
the genius of my profession.”

Some demur followed from the churchman.

“Holy father,” replied the accuser, “the sacred volume should
be your guide as it is mine. My claim is such as seems already,
in one famous instance, to have met the most decisive sanction
of God himself.”

Here he unfolded the pages of the Holy Scriptures.

“Goliah,” said he, “was a Philistine knight, who came into
battle with the panoply of his order. David appeared with
staff, and sling, and stone, as was proper to the shepherd. He
rejected the armor with which Saul would have arrayed him for
the combat. The reproach of the Philistine knight comprises
the objection which is offered here — `Am I a dog,' said Goliah,
`that thou comest to me with staves?' The answer of David,
O king! shall be mine: `And all this assembly shall know that
the Lord saveth not with sword and spear; for the battle is the
Lord's, and he will give you into our hands.' Such were his
words — they are mine. God will deliver me from the rage of
mine enemy. I will smite him through all his panoply, and in
spite of shield and spear.”

He spoke with a momentary kindling of his eyes, which was
soon succeeded by an expression of sadness.

“And yet, O king! I would be spared this trial. My heart

loves not strife. My soul shrinks in horror from the shedding
of human blood. Require not this last proof at my hands.
Suffer me to keep my conscience white, and clear of this sacrifice.
Let this unhappy man live; for as surely as we strive
together, so surely must he perish.”

“Now this passeth all belief, as it passeth all human endurance!”
exclaimed the accused with irrepressible indignation.
“I claim the combat, O king, on any condition. Let him come
as he will, with what weapons he may, though forged in the
very armory of Satan. My talisman is in the holy cross, and
the good sword buckled at my thigh by the holiest prince in
Christendom, will not fail me against the devil and all his works.
I demand the combat!”

“Be ye both ready within three days!” said the king.

“I submit,” replied the aged man. “I trust in the mercy of
God to sustain me against this trial, and to acquit me of its
awful consequences.”

“Ready, ay, ready!” was the answer of the accused, as with
his hand he clutched fiercely the handle of his sword, until the
steel rang again in the iron scabbard.

7. CHAPTER VII.

The scene underwent a sudden change, and I now found
myself in a small and dimly-lighted apartment, which seemed
designed equally for a studio and a laboratory of art. The
walls were surrounded by enormous cases, on the shelves of
which were massive scrolls of vellum, huge parchment manuscripts,
and volumes fastened with clasps of brass and silver.
Some of these lay open. Charts hung wide marked with strange
characters. Frames of ebony were thus suspended also bearing
the signs of the zodiac. Other furniture, of quaint and strange
fashion, seemed to show conclusively that the possessor pursued
the seductive science of astrology. He had other pursuits — a
small furnace, the coals of which were ignited, occupied one corner
of the chamber, near which stood a table covered with
retorts and receivers, cylinders and gauging-glasses, and all the
other paraphernalia which usually belong to the analytic worker
in chemistry. The old man, and the young girl described in

the previous scene, were, at first, the only occupants of the
apartment. But a few moments elapsed, however, when an
inner door was thrown open, and a third party appeared, closely
enveloped in a cloak of sable. This he threw aside, and I discovered
him to be the same person who had been the chief counsellor
of the king, and whom I supposed to be his favorite. At
his entrance the damsel disappeared. The stranger then, somewhat
abruptly, began in the following manner: —

“Why, O why did you not choose me for your champion?”

“And why, my lord, expose you to a conflict with one of the
bravest warriors in all the realm?”

“He is brave, but I fear him not; besides, he who fights
against guilt hath a strength of arm which supplies all deficiencies.
But it is not too late. I may still supply your place.”

“Forgive me, dear lord, but I have made my election.”

“Alas, old man, why are you thus obstinate? He will slay
you at the first encounter.”

“And if he does, what matter! I have but a brief space to
live, according to the common allotment. He hath more, which
were well employed devoted to repentance. It were terrible,
indeed, that he should be hurried before the awful tribunal of
Heaven with all the blackness in his soul, with all his sins
unpurged, upon his conscience.”

“Why, this is veriest madness. Think you what will follow
your submission and defeat? He will pursue his conspiracy.
Others will do what you have refused. He will drag other
and bitter spirits into his scheme. He will bring murder into
our palaces, and desolation into our cities. Know you not the
man as I know him? Shall he be suffered to escape, when the
hand of God has clearly shown you that his purposes are to be
overthrown, and his crime to be punished through your agency.”

“And it shall be so, my dear lord. It is not my purpose to
submit. The traitor shall be met in battle.”

“But by thyself? Why not a champion? I am ready.”

“Greatly indeed do I thank and honor thee, my lord; but it
can not be.”

“Methinks there is some touch of insanity about thee, old
man, in spite of all thy wisdom. Thou canst not hope to contend,
in sooth, against this powerful warrior. He will hurl thee

to the earth with the first thrust of his heavy lance; or smite
thee down to death with a single blow of battle axe or dagger.”

“Hear me, my lord, and have no fear. Thou knowest not
the terrible powers which I possess, nor should any know, but
that this necessity compels me to employ them. I will slay my
enemy and thine. He can not harm me. He will perish helplessly
ere his weapon shall be twice lifted to affront me.”

“Thou meanest not to employ sorcery?”

“Be assured, my lord, I shall use a carnal agent only. The
instrument which I shall take with me to battle, though of terrible
and destructive power, shall be as fully blessed of Heaven
as any in your mortal armory.”

“Be it so! I am glad that thou art so confident; and yet,
let me entreat thee to trust thy battle to my hands.”

“No, my dear lord, no! To thee there would be danger —
to me, none. I thank thee for thy goodness, and will name thee
in my prayers to Heaven.”

We need not pursue their dialogue, which was greatly prolonged,
and included much other matter which did not concern
the event before us. When the nobleman took his departure,
the damsel reappeared. The old man took her in his embrace,
and while the tears glistened upon his snowy beard, he thus
addressed her: —

“But for thee — for thee, chiefly — daughter of the beloved
and sainted child in heaven, I had spared myself this trial. This
wretched man should live wert thou not present, making it
needful that I should still prolong to the last possible moment,
the remnant of my days. Were I to perish, where wert
thou? What would be the safety of the sweet one and the desolate?
The insect would descend upon the bud, and it would
lose scent and freshness. The worm would fasten upon the
flower, and a poison worse than death would prey upon its core.
No! my poor Lucilla, I must live for thee, though I live not for
myself. I must shed the blood of mine enemy, and spare mine
own, that thou mayest not be desolate.”

8. CHAPTER VIII.

While the tears of the two were yet mingling, the scene underwent
a change corresponding with my anxiety for the denouement.
A vast area opened before me, surrounded by the seats
and scaffolding as if for a tournay, and the space was filling fast
with spectators. I will not attempt to describe the splendor of
the scene. Lords and ladies, in their most gorgeous attire, occupied
the high places; princes were conspicuous; the people
were assembled in thousands. At the sound of trumpets the
king made his appearance. A grand burst of music announced
that he was on his throne. Among the knights and nobles by
whom he was attended, I readily distinguished “the favorite.”
He was in armor, but it was of an exceedingly simple pattern,
and seemed designed for service rather than display. He looked
grave and apprehensive, and his eyes were frequently turned
upon the barriers, as if in anxious waiting for the champions.

The accused was the first to appear. He was soon followed,
however, by the accuser, and both made their way through the
crown to the foot of the throne. As the old man approached,
the favorite drew nigh, and addressed him in subdued, but earnest
accents.

“It is not yet too late! Call upon me as thy champion. The
king dare not refuse thee, and as I live, I will avenge mine own
and thy wrongs together.”

“It can not be, my lord,” was the reply, with a sad shake of
the head. “Besides,” he continued, “I have no wrongs to
avenge. I seek for safety only. It is only as my life is pledged
equally to the living and the dead, that I care to struggle for it,
and to save.”

The face of the favorite was clouded with chagrin. He led
the way in silence to the foot of the throne, followed by the
venerable man. There, the latter made obeisance, and encountered
the hostile and fierce glance of his enemy, whom he regarded
only with looks of sorrow and commiseration. A breathless
silence pervaded the vast assembly as they beheld the
white locks, the simple majesty of his face and air, and the costume
— singular for such an occasion — which he wore. This did

not in any degree differ from that in which he had always appeared
habited before. It consisted of a loose, flowing robe of
the purest white, most like, but more copious than the priestly
cassock. His opponent, in complete steel, shining like the sun,
with helmeted head and gauntleted hand, afforded to the spectators
a most astonishing difference between the combatants.
The wonder increased with their speculations. The surprise
extended itself to the king, who proffered, as Saul had done to
David, the proper armor of a warrior to the defenceless man.
But this he steadily refused. The king, himself, condescended
to remonstrate.

“This is sheer madness, old man. Wouldst thau run upon
thy death with uncovered head and bosom?”

“Oh! sire, I fear not death, and feel that I am not now to
die. Yet would I still implore that I may be spared this trial.
Once more I lay myself at the foot of the throne, to supplicate
its mercy.”

“For thyself!” cried his enemy, with a scornful taunt.

“For myself and for thee!” was the firm reply, “that I may
be spared the pang of sending thee before the Eternal Judge,
with all thy unatoned crimes upon thy head.”

The voice and words of the venerable speaker, deep and solemn,
thrilled, with a sensible effect, throughout the assembly.
Whence should he derive this confidence? From heaven or
from hell. The conclusion to which they came, more than ever
confirmed their belief in his reputed sorceries; and his words
inspired a deep and silent terror among the crowd. But the accused,
strong in his skill, courage, and panoply of steel, if not in
the justice of his cause, mocked scornfully, and defied the doom
which was threatened. Some of his friends, however, shared
strongly in the apprehensions of the vulgar.

“He hath no visible armor,” was their cry; “with what
would he defend himself? How know we that he hath not
magic arts, and devices of hell, with which he secretly arms
himself?”

“Thou hast weapons — visible weapons, as I hear” — remarked
the king.

“They are at hand, sire — they are here.”

“Thou hast dealt in no forbidden practice?”

“None, sire, as I stand uncovered in the sight of heaven.
The reverend father in God, to whom thou didst give in charge
this inquiry, is here, and will answer to your majesty. He hath
heard and seen the secret of my strength — that strength which
I know and declare is powerful to destroy my foe. He knows
it to be a secret of mortal wisdom only, as patiently wrought out
by human art and labor, as were the sword and axe of him who
now seeks my destruction. I have warned him already of the
fearful power which they impart. I would still have him live,
unharmed by me.”

“Peace, insolent!” cried the accused. “I am here, your
majesty, to fight, not to prate! — to chastise, not to hearken to
the speeches of this pagan sorcerer. Let his power be what he
esteems it: I trust to my good sword and to the favor of the
Mother of God; and I doubt not of this good steel, which hath
been crowned with a threefold conquest, on the plains of the
Saracen. I entreat that your majesty will give command for
the combat.”

9. CHAPTER IX.

The eye of the venerable accuser, regarded the face of the
speaker with a sad and touching solemnity; but at this moment,
the little girl who had before accompanied him, was conducted
into the foreground by the archbishop. She bore in her hand a
sarbacane — seemingly of brass, long and narrow like a wand, and
crowned, at the extremity, by a small globe or bulb of the same
material. The length of this instrument was fully six feet or
more. The old man took it into his hands, and having unscrewed
a part of the bulb — which seemed a mere sheathing of brass, he
discovered beneath it another globe, similar, in shape and size,
to that which had been removed; but the inner bulb was manufactured
of glass, of a whiteness equally crystalline and beautiful.
He then took from beneath his robes a little box of ebony,
which he unlocked, and from which he produced a headpiece,
the face of which, instead of being hard steel or iron, was of glass
also, very thin, and quite transparent, through which every
muscle and motion of the features might be seen with the greatest
distinctness. To the thoughtless vulgar, such a shield
seemed only a mockery of that more solid furniture of metal,

which, in those days, thoroughly encased the warrior for battle.
The inference, accordingly, was very general, that if by any
possibility, the accuser succeeded in the combat, he would be indebted
solely to supernatural agency for his good fortune. His
wand of brass, with its crystal bulb — his glassy vizor and helmet
— were only regarded as designed to divert the scrutiny
from the more secret agency which he employed.

“I am ready,” said the accuser.

“Hast thou prayed?” demanded his enemy, in a mocking
fashion. “If thou hast not, get thee to thy knees quickly, and
renounce the devil whom thou servest. Verily, but little time
is left thee.”

“I have prayed, and confessed to the Holy Father. Do
thou likewise, and make thyself humble and contrite. Repent
thee — for, of a truth, my lord, if the king forbid not this combat,
thou art doomed this day to go to judgment.”

The heart of the accused was hardened within him. He replied
with a hiss of defiance and contempt to this last appeal;
at the same moment he declared himself in readiness also. They
were then withdrawn from the presence for a brief space, and
were severally approached by their friends and attendants. The
archbishop, and the king's favorite went aside with the accuser,
and when the latter returned to the arena, in order to the combat,
the archbishop led away with him the little girl, upon whom, at
parting, the old man bestowed many caresses, accompanied by many
tears. The spectators were all very much moved by this tenderness,
and now began to regard him as one set apart for sacrifice
— doomed to be separated for ever, and by a violent death,
from the object of his affections. And when the opponents
stood, at length, confronting each other — with none to go between
— awaiting only the word for the combat à l'outrance; —
when they regarded the strong soldier-like frame, and the warlike
bearing of the accused — beheld the ease with which he
strode the lists, and displayed his weapon; — and contrasted this
image of dire necessity and war, with the feeble, though erect
form of his venerable accuser, — habited in vestments like a
priest or woman — with the simple unmeaning wand within his
grasp, and the frail mask of brittle crystal upon his face — a
loud murmur of regret and commiseration prevailed among the

multitude. But this murmur was soon quieted by the cry of the
master of the tournay —

“Laissez aller!”

Then followed a painful silence.

“Now, sorcerer,” cried the knight, raising his glittering sword,
and advancing deliberately and with the confident manner of
the executioner. The aged accuser simply presented the bulbous
extremity of his wand, and before the accused could smite,
the frail glass was shivered against the bars of his enemy's
mouth-piece. At this moment the knight was seen slightly to
recoil; but it was for a moment only, in the next instant he darted
forward, and with a fierce cry, seemed about to strike. The
old man, in the meantime, had suffered his wand to fall upon the
ground. He made no further effort — offered no show of fear
or flight, but with arms folded, seemed in resignation to await the
death-stroke of his enemy. But while the weapon of the man
of war was in air, and seemingly about to descend, he was seen
to pause, while his form suddenly became rigid. A quick and
awful shudder seemed to pass through his whole frame. Thus,
for a second, he stood paralyzed, and then a thin, mist-like vapor,
which might be called smoke, was seen to creep out from various
parts of his frame, followed by a thin but oily liquor, that now
appeared oozing through all the crevices of his armor. His arm
dropped nervelessly by his side; the sword fell from the incapable
grasp of his gauntleted hands, and in an inconceivable
fraction of time, he himself, with all his bulk, sunk down upon
the earth — falling, not at length, prostrate, either backward or
forward, but in a heap, even upon the spot which he had occupied
when standing; and as if every bone had suddenly been
withdrawn which had sustained them, the several parts of his
armor became detached, and rolled away — his helmet, his gorget,
his cuiras, his greaves, his gauntlets — disclosing beneath a dark,
discolored mass — a mere jellied substance, in which bones and
muscles were already decomposed and resolved into something
less than flesh. Above this heap might be seen a still bright
and shining eye, which, for a single second, seemed to retain
consciousness and life, as if the soul of the immortal being had
lingered in this beautiful and perfect orb, reluctant to depart.
But in a moment it, too, had disappeared — all the brightness

swallowed up and stifled in the little cloud of vapor which now
trembled, heaving up from the mass which but a moment before
had been a breathing, a burning, an exulting spirit. A cold
horror overspread the field, followed by a husky and convulsive
cry, as from a drowning multitude. The people gazed upon each
other, and upon the awful, heap in unspeakable terror. It was
annihilation which had taken place before them. Dead was the
silence that prevailed for several minutes; a vacant consternation
freezing up the very souls of the spectators. But the reaction
was tremendous.

“Seize upon the sorcerer! Tear him in pieces!” was the cry
from a thousand voices. This was followed by a wild rush, like
that of an incoming sea struggling to overwhelm the headlands.
The barriers were broken down, the cries swelled into a very
tempest, and the mammoth multitude rolled onward, with souls
on fire, eyes glaring with tiger fury, and hands outstretched,
clutching spasmodically at their victim. Their course had but
one centre, where the old man calmly stood. There he kept
his immovable station, calm, firm, subdued, but stately. How
will he avert his fate — how stay this ocean of souls, resolute to
overwhelm him? I trembled — I gasped with doubt and apprehension.
But I was spared the further contemplation of horrors
which I could no longer bear to witness, by the very intensity
of the interest which my imagination had conceived in the subject.
There is a point beyond which the mortal nature can not
endure. I had reached that point, and was relieved. I awakened,
and started into living consciousness, my face covered with
clammy dews, my hair upright and wet, my whole frame agitated
with the terrors which were due wholly to the imagination.

It would be easy, perhaps, to account for such a dream, assuming,
as we did at the outset, that the mental faculties never
know abeyance — that the thought never sleeps. Any speculation,
in regard to the transition periods in English history, would
give the requisite material. From a survey of the powers of
physical manhood to those rival and superior powers which follow
from the birth of art and science, the step is natural enough;
and the imagination might well delight itself by putting them in
contrast and opposition. But we have no space left for further
discussion.