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I. PART I.

It fell upon a merry day,
When hawthorn boughs were white,
Two brothers met in green Broadwood,
Betwixt the noon and night.
The one was called Sir Ralph Duguay,
A stately knight and tall:
The other was the young Walter,
Beloved of great and small.
They state them down beneath an oak,
All on the grassy ground,
Young Walter with his gay viol,
Sir Ralph with his great hound.
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Young Walter took his viol up,
And tunéd every string,
Then gaily 'gan he play thereon,
And gaily 'gan he sing.
He sang a song of chivalry,
Made long ago in France,
Which set Sir Ralph his heart astir,
With deeds of sword and lance.
“A brave old song is that, Walter,
And bravely sung to boot:
The bird on the tree may fly for me,
So thou sing at the root.”
Young Walter took his viol up,
And tunéd it again;
And again he sang till Broadwood rang,
But in another strain.
A roundel of a sweet lady,
That witty was and fair,
The daughter of a puissant prince,
His only child and heir.
Sir Ralph uprose before the close,
And loudly laughed he:
“Now be she fair as the fair moon,
May'st have her thyself, for me.
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“She may be witty as thou wilt,
Right royal of degree:
She may have castles, and counties eke,
And thou may'st have all, for me.
“Let him who will go seek for care,
And carry home a wife:
If she have wealth, he payeth for that
Full dearly in his life.
“If she be great, his scutcheon therefor
May all the braver be;
But the higher name, the higher dame,
And the lower falleth he.
“If she be fair, her beauty fleeth
Like any summer's day;
But the monstrous vain conceit of it
No time will do away.
“If she have wit, she turneth it
To mischief every hour:
Her spouse may scarce abide in peace,
Nor he never will in power.
“Be what she may, let him give her straight
(Or he shall fare the worse)
A jangling pack of mincing maids,
And gold to stuff her purse.
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“She must have trinkets quaint and rare,
And gowns both rich and trim:
Of such, I wot, she wearieth not,
But she wearieth soon of him.”
“Now nay, now nay,” quoth his young brother:
“Now put these gibes away:
His heart is cold which weddeth for gold,
And rue it well he may.
“For gold were vain, and also wit,
Nobility, and beauty,
To him who therewithal should lack
His lady's loving duty.
“But a hard life, with a loving wife,
Were pleasanter to me
Than the King his throne, and I thereon
A lonely man to be.”
“O hold thy peace, thou simple Walter!
Hold thou thy peace, and list:
The bachelor he hath trouble enow,
But much more hath he missed.
“Thou hast read in thy brave books, Walter,
Of things which never were:
May'st look till thou art blind, Walter,
For damsels limnéd there.
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“This thing I credit not a whit,
For all the minstrels say,
That ever a lady held one mind
For twelve months and a day.
“On such if I should ever light
(As never I look to do),
Methinks I will cry mercy then
All womankind unto.
“Fast heart were better than fair face,
Wit, wealth, or high degree:
Till such I find, it is my mind
A bachelor to be.
“And for that he who doth not seek,
The slower is to gain,
Therefore I think until my death
A bachelor to remain.”
He has taken to him his strong cross-bow,
He has whistled to him his hound;
And away again through green Broadwood
Sir Ralph Duguay is bound.
Of all the paths in green Broadwood
The nighest taketh he;
And that is a path doth lead him out
Over against the sea.
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“I'll thread the woods no more to-day,
But on the Heights I'll go;
For I fain would see what ship doth ride
At anchor there below.”
The ship lay moored without the bay
The rocky reef beside:
A royal ship all outward bound,
A waiting for the tide.
“Now hie thee home, hound Forester,
Now hie thee home, I say!
Bid them be ware of a hungry man,
Would sup with small delay.”
The hound leapt up with one short note,
Then bounded off amain,
Around the skirts of fair Broadwood,
Nor ever turned again.
Sir Ralph looked out along the cliff
To see what might be seen,
And so he saw Earl Peregrine
Come riding over the green,
Who had been thorough two shires
All on the King's behests,
And now rode homeward merrily,
With a score of gallant guests.
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And ever as he ambled on
He looked across the bay,
Where stood so strong his castle walls—
The walls of Warenstay.
The walls rise up above the rock,
The rock from out of the sea,
From the water's edge to the postern-gate
Full fourscore steps there be.
And looking o'er to Warenstay,
He spied upon the stair
His daughter, Lady Margaret,
That was so young and fair.
She waved her white scarf o'er her head,
But stepping forward so,
Down from the stair that lady fell,
Into the waves below.
Then sprang the Earl upon the ground
Like one of wit bereft:
And “If ye leave my child to drown
I have never another left!
“O I have never another child
Save her in the surging sea,
And I'll give him a king's ransom
Who bringeth her safe to me!
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“Across the bay is a little way,
A bowshot and no more,
And I'll give him a king's ransom
Who bringeth her ashore!”
Across the bay is a little way,
Though it runneth far inland;
But fearful high above the sea
The Heights of Whindon stand.
On Whindon Heights the old shepherd
Hath sat full many a day;
But never swimmer saw he yet
Leap down into the bay.
And all the Earl's brave company,
So sound of neck and limb,
Deemed he who that great leap should try
Might never live to swim.
Then loud and louder cried the Earl,
“Will any save her life,
So he be come of gentle kin,
My daughter is his wife!”
Sir Ralph could hear no word of that:
A furlong off was he,
But presently he turned and spied
A woman in the sea.
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He dropped his cross-bow then and there
With never a but nor if,
Stripped off his coat of Lincoln green,
And flung him from the cliff.
He flung him down into the waves,
And the waves went over his head,
But lightly rose he up again,
And lightly forth he sped.
Right forward steering swift and true
He stoutly cleft his way
Up to the goal he started for,
Beneath dark Warenstay.
He caught her by the silken sleeve,
And by the long, long hair,
And safe and sound he landed her
Upon the castle stair.
“I marvel,” quoth Earl Peregrine,
“What stranger this may be
Hath won, without the knowing it,
Mine only child from me?”
Out and spoke a saucy squire,
As they to ride began:
“And what if this same gentle wight
Do prove a married man?”
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“Nay,” said the Earl, “I give him then
This jewel in my hat:
The King himself were fain I trow
To bid broad lands for that.”
They found the coat of Lincoln green,
And eke the rare cross-bow:
“Ho,” quoth the Earl, “methinks no churl
Such gear as this doth owe.”
They rode round by the head of the bay,
And up to the castle gate:
The gray-haired porter at his post
Their coming doth await.
“Now hither, hither, Hilary,
And say who this may be
Hath saved the Lady Margaret
From drowning in the sea?”
“Fair fall him ay by sea and land!”
Replied the porter old:
“Sir Ralph Duguay it was, my lord,
That knight renowned and bold.”
“A bold knight!” cried the company:
“Long live he with his bride!”
“A bold knight!” said Earl Peregrine,
And nought said he beside.
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The saucy squire he laughed apart:
“The stone may stick by the hat;
For Ralph Duguay is a bachelor,
And there's an end of that.
“But yet, I doubt, an he were asked
Herein to choose his own,
The bauble he were fain to take,
The bride to leave alone:
“Because of all blythe bachelors
I wot of east or west,
Methinks this very Ralph Duguay
Doth love his freedom best.”
So rode they all into the court,
And lighted by the door:
The Earl he walked into his hall
With gallant guests a score.
In there came the gay Countess,
Arrayed in scarlet pall:
“Now welcome home, mine own dear lord,
And welcome, gentles all!”
And in there came sweet Margaret,
All freshly clad and fair;
But still the damp of the salt sea waves
Lay on her yellow hair.
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“O Elinor, my dear lady,
Great news there be to-day:
How to a knight of high renown
I have given our child away.”
“Great news are these indeed, my lord,”
The Countess said, and smiled:
“Now where is the knight hath won the right
To marry our only child?”
“An if thou ask me where, Madame,
I cannot surely say:
But here or there or anywhere
His name is Ralph Duguay.”
The smile went off that lady's face
Then when she heard the name:
The smile went off her face thereat,
And the colour went and came.
Up and spoke a prattling page,
The youngest and the least:
“Were't not well done to seek this knight,
And bid him to the feast?
“For yonder in the Hollow Way,
As I came through but now,
I saw one sleeping on the bank,
And he it was, I trow.”
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“It were well done,” replied the Earl,
“And best methinks by me.”
With that he turned him on his heel,
And went forth suddenly.
Down from the wold into the vale
There runs the Hollow Way,
Wherein he looked to find Sir Ralph;
As, certes, there he lay.
But him a-sleeping on the bank
The Earl had scarce espied,
When he was ware of his own lady
A stepping at his side.
Out and spoke the Countess then,
And roundly speaketh she:
“For all that's come and gone, my lord,
This match shall never be.
“I had liefer this same bold swimmer
Lay a fathom under water:
His father was my father's foe:
He never shall wed my daughter.”
The Earl he stood and knit his brow,
As one perplexéd sore:
“O, Elinor, their hearts which beat
In anger, beat no more.
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“No challenge from the chantry comes,
No answer from the nave:
Leave them alone: their swords, Madame,
Are sheathéd in the grave.
“What boots it now to stir again
The reliques of their strife?
I have given herein my knightly word,
To keep it with my life.”
Lightly laughed the lady then,
Took up the Earl his hand:
“Stout fist was here, upon a time,
For battle-axe or brand.
“To break a lance with any man
Earl Peregrine would dare;
And is he now afeared to break
A rash word made of air?”
“For honour I would break a lance,”
He sadly made reply;
“But if I break my plighted word,
I honour lose thereby.”
“Ah, mockery!” then the Countess cried,
“For as stout as stout men be,
Will honour bind them hand and foot,
In bonds one cannot see!
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“Hey, go thy ways, my lord,” she said:
“Leave me to work alone;
And trust thou ay to woman's wit
What things do pass thine own.
“Go home to thy brave company,
That loiter by the gate;
And bid them in to meat and drink,
For idle tongues will prate.
“Put off these dumpish looks, and say,
In merry speech and free,
‘Thou art ever best with the old friends,
And the new are best with me.’
“But send me four men secretly,
And a rope to every man;
And warn them that they make no noise
But all the speed they can.”
“A parlous dame thou art, truly,
And ready of thy wit!
But mark me, if he come to harm,
'Tis thou must answer it.
“The case is so, that friend or foe,
His debtors much are we.”
“O for his safety never fear!
I'll care for that,” quoth she.
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The Earl he gnawed his nether lip,
Like one who boded ill;
Then turned him homeward grudgingly
To work his lady's will.
The Countess stood and watched Sir Ralph:
No mischief boded he:
In sooth he was a wearied man,
And so slept heavily.
O, comely was that lady's face,
But crafty was her thought;
And dainty fair her fingers were,
But a sorry deed they wrought.
She crept beside him where he lay,
With his arm thrown over a stone:
She drew the ring from off his hand,
And slipped it on her own.
Sir Ralph he dreamed a troublous dream,
There lying on the ground:
He thought that he was set upon
At unawares, and bound.
He tossed and muttered in his sleep,
But waking up ere long,
He found himself made fast in sooth
With cords both new and strong.
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“How now, how now, ye false varlets!
Speak out, ye knaves, for shame!
Where learnt ye this new-fangled trick?
How call ye yonder dame?”
She turned upon him suddenly,
With rancour in her face:
“Thou hast known me ere to-day,” she said,
“My name, and eke my race.”
“I've known you ere to-day, Madame,
And I should know you still;
And I would the most I knew of you
Were good, as it is ill.”
“Take up, take up this bold fardel,”
Cry'd she, “this valiant load!
An he will needs discourse to us,
E'en be it on the road.”
They carried him to a high tower,
And the Countess went before:
She drew a key from her gay girdle,
And so unmade the door.
They passed in at the narrow doorway,
And up by the narrow stair:
Then when his shoulder struck the wall,
She never said “Have a care!”
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They carried him into a little chamber,
With roof and floor of stone:
For hempen bands they did on iron,
And left him there alone.
Then laughed the Countess to herself,
And to herself said she,
“Now I have laid him by the heels,
I'll do what liketh me!”
The purse hung heavy at her side
With pieces broad and bright;
But ere she parted from those men,
The purse hung very light.
She bribed them all to hold them dumb
And her intent fulfil;
And if her gold was strong enow
Her threats were stronger still.
So hied she to the banquet-hall
Where all the folk were set;
But never spoke until she came
Beside fair Margaret.
Then drew she off Sir Ralph his ring:
“A token, child, for thee!
The knight who gave it me in charge
Sails yonder on the sea.
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“No word of mine would bring him back,
Nor he never will claim his wife,
Till he have won a wider name,
At peril of his life.
“‘I'm not my lady's peer,’ said he,
‘In having, nor in birth:
The more 's the need that every man
Should hold me so in worth:
“‘And therefore I'll to France, Madame,
To seek what fame I may!’
Look out, for yonder goes the ship
Wherein he sails away!”
Then rushed forth all that company,
And mounted on the wall:
The Countess, laughing to herself,
Was foremost of them all.
They watched the ship which sailed away,
And shouted o'er and o'er
Farewell to bold Sir Ralph Duguay,
Who yet remained ashore.
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