University of Virginia Library

Sybella, young and debonair,
The orphan Baroness of Ware,
Heiress of many manors, ward
Of Richard, England's sovereign lord,
Was close pursued by suitors three,
Nobles and knights of high degree—
Arthur, the Earl of Anderville,
Sir Calvert Beauchamp, Lord of Brill,
And Michael, Baron of Ambray,
Who warmly wooed her, day by day;
But vain both courtly word and deed—
To love the lady was not stirred.
Such feeling 'twixt the three arose,
That, lest the wooing come to blows,
The king, who did not care to see
Black feuds arise through rivalry,
Declared the tourney should decide
What knight or lord should gain the bride,
Her title and possessions wide.
The lists were straightway opened, free
To all brave knights, at Enderby,
And proclamation widely made
That who, in armor there arrayed,
Should hold the field at close of day,
Would bear this fairest prize away.

No braver knight all England through,
More known for deeds of derring-do;
None wiser spake at council board
When sage opinion need implored;
None courtlier in time of peace
Than he from Cornwall, Guy Trelease.
But, penniless knight, his ruined hall
And barren acres were his all;
And, though he felt his bosom stir
With tenderness at sight of her,
And noted, when his step drew nigh,
The lady's color mounted high,
He knew his lack of wealth, and hence
Ne'er to her favor made pretence.
Now when the news he heard, said he—
“'Tis either life or death to me.
Lords Beauchamp, Anderville, Cambray—
I've ridden with them in the fray;
In England, Germany or France
There are none braver: he whose lance
Shall worst such foes as these shall be
Accounted flower of chivalry.”
So, summoning his old esquire,
Alan, who well had served his sire,
Bade him prepare at break of day
To make toward Enderby their way,
Which they might reach, though passing far,
By noon, should naught their purpose bar.

And so it chanced, when morning glowed,
Blithely Sir Guy to tourney rode,
The twain on roadsters country-bred,
His war-steed by old Alan led,
And reached at length where, in the way,
A robbed and wounded pilgrim lay.
Pitying his case, the gentle knight
Dismounted straight to help the wight.
Quoth Alan: “If you stay to aid,
Small chance, Sir Guy, to win the maid;
We scarce can gain the lists in time;
The morning now has passed its prime.”
“Foul shame,” replied his lord, “to me,
And foul reproach to chivalry,
If, even to win a gentle fere,
I left this wretch unaided here.”
He dressed the wounds with skilful hand,
And bound them with his scarf for band,
Did all he might to serve the need,
Then placed the pilgrim on his steed,
And, by his arm supported well,
Led on until they found a cell
Where, two miles farther on the road,
A holy hermit made abode,
To whom, with caution sage and grave,
The wounded man in charge he gave.
Some hours were lost ere this was done;
'Twas now long past the noonday sun.
“This comes of beggars,” Alan said;
“All hope to reach in time is dead.
We may not gain ere close of day
The lists, ride quickly as we may.”
“If so, so be it,” said Sir Guy;
“At least the pilgrim will not die.”
Yet, strange to say, as on they pressed,
The sun slow lingered in the west,
And when at last the lists they gained,
An hour of daylight yet remained.
A joyous passage it had been
For those who glory sought to win.
He found o'erthrown the Lord of Brill,
Dead in his armor, Anderville,
Four others carried from the field;
Ambray alone retained his shield;
And, seated calmly in his tent,
Waited the close of tournament.
Sir Guy, a leech, ere he essayed,
Sent for the pilgrim's farther aid,
Then riding armed across the field,
Struck with his lance the champion's shield.
Quickly responded then Ambray—
“This course,” he said, “shall end the day.”
Sir Guy but threw a glance above
Where sat the lady of his love,
Whose cheeks, so pale with dread the while,
Now reddened at her lover's smile.
That tell-tale blush! Why, what to him
Was proud Ambray, so stout and grim?
A trumpet's blare! With whirlwind force
The warring knights met in their course;
Their lances shivered; from his selle
Borne by the shock, each champion fell.
Rose first Ambray; but quick Sir Guy
Sprang to his feet to do or die;
And speedily a rain of blows
Showed the stout courage of the foes.
At first it seemed the slender form
Of Guy could not resist the storm
Of terrible strokes Ambray bestowed;
The lady's heart felt sad forbode,
And quaked beneath her samite vest,
To see Sir Guy so sorely pressed.
The combat's current changed at length;
Ambray wore out his giant's strength,
And now defended where before
With strong assault he struck so sore.
Still fought the twain with eager blow,
Until the sun sank red and low;
And, as its glowing couch it found,
Ambray, spent, bleeding, fell to ground.

The fight was done; the king decreed
Sir Guy was worthy highest meed;
Worthy before the world to bear
The noble title of Lord Ware;
And worthy of the fair whose eyes
Betrayed her heart was willing prize.
But, as they sat at board that night,
With jocund words and spirits light,
The leech returned, and made report
Before the king and gathered court
That, when the hermit's cell he sought,
Cell, hermit, pilgrim, all were naught;
But stood instead a chapel, where
The wandering pilgrim might repair
To purge his sins by shrift and prayer,
And o'er its gate this sentence bore—
“Our Lady of Pity”—nothing more.