At last, him turning to his charge behight,1
With trembling hand his troubled pulse gan try;
Where finding life not yet dislodged quite,
He much rejoic'd and courd2 it tenderly,
As chicken newly hatch'd, from dreaded destiny.
At last he spied where towards him did pace
Two Paynim knights all arm'd as bright as sky,
And them beside an aged sire3 did trace,
And far before a light-foot page did fly
That breathed strife and troublous enmity.
Those were the two sons of Acrates old,
Who, meeting erst 5 with Archimago sly
Foreby that Idle Strand, of him were told.
That he, which erst them combated, was Guyon bold.
Which to avenge on him they dearly vow'd,
Wherever that on ground they might him find:
False Archimage provok'd their courage proud,
And stryful Atin in their stubborn mind
Coals of contention and hot vengeance tind.8
Now been they come whereas the Palmer sate,
Keeping that slumber'd corse to him assign'd:
Well knew they both his person, sith9 of late
With him in bloody arms they rashly did debate.
Whom when Pyrochles saw, inflam'd with rage
That sire he foul bespake; Thou dotard vile,
That with thy bruteness shendst 10 thy comely age,
Abandon soon, I read,11 the caytive 12 spoil
Of that same outcast carcass, that erewhile
Made itself famous through false treachery,
And crown'd his coward crest with knightly style;
10 Disgracest. 11 Advise.
12 Captive.
Lo! where he now inglorious doth lie,
prove he lived ill, that did thus foully die.'
To whom the palmer fearless answered;
'Certes,1 Sir Knight, ye been too much to blame,
Thus for to blot the honour of the dead,
And with foul cowardice his carcass shame
Whose living hands immortalis'd his name.
Vile is the vengeance on the ashes cold;
And envy base to bark at sleeping fame:
Was never wight that treason of him told: [bold.'
Yourself his prowess prov'd, and found him fierce and
Then said Cymochles; Palmer, thou dost dote,
Ne2 canst of prowess ne of knighthood deem,
Save as thou seest or hear'st: but well I wote,
That of his puissance trial made extreme:
Yet gold all is not that doth golden seem;
Ne all good knights that shake well spear and
shield:
The worth of all men by their end esteem;
And then due praise or due reproach them yield: Bad therefore I him deem that thus lies dead on field.'
'Good or bad,' gan his brother fierce reply,
'What do I reck, sith 3 that he died entire? 4
Or what doth his bad death now satisfy
The greedy hunger of revenging ire,
Sith wrathful hand wrought not her own desire?
Yet, since no way is left to wreak my spite,
I will him reave5 of arms, the victor's hire,
And of that shield, more worthy of good knight;
For why should a dead dog be deck'd in armour
bright?'
'Fair Sir,' said then the palmer suppliant,
'For knighthood's love do not so foul a deed,
Ne blame1 your honour with so shameful vaunt
Of vile revenge: to spoil the dead of weed 2
Is sacrilege, and doth all sins exceed:
But leave these relics of his living might
To deck his hearse, and trap3 his tomb-black steed.' Adorn. 'What hearse or steed,' said he, 'should he have But be entombed in the raven or the kite?' [dight, Prepared.
With that, rude hand upon his shield he laid,
And th' other brother gan his helm unlace;
Both fiercely bent to have him disarray'd;
Till that they spied where towards them did pace
An armed knight, of bold and bounteous grace,
Whose squire bore after him an heben 5 lance
And cover'd shield: well kend 6 him so far space
Th' Enchanter by his arms and amenance,7
When under him he saw his Lybian steed to prance;
And to those brethren said; 'Rise, rise bylive,8
And unto battle do yourselves address;
For yonder comes the prowest knight alive,
Prince Arthur, flower of grace and nobilesse,
That hath to Paynim knights wrought great dis-
And thousand Sar'zins foully done to die.' [tress,
That word so deep did in their hearts impress,
That both eftsoons upstarted furiously,
And gan themselves prepare to battle greedily.
But fierce Pyrochles, lacking his own sword,
The want thereof now greatly gan to plaine,10
1 To give him that sword.
And Archimage besought, him that afford 1
Which he had brought for Braggadochio vain.
'So would I,' said th' enchanter, 'glad and fain
Beteeme2 to you this sword, you to defend,
Or ought that else your honour might maintain;
But that this weapon's power I well have kend3
To be contráry to the work which ye intend:
For that same knight's own sword this is, of yore
Which Merlin made by his almighty art
For that his nursling, when he knighthood swore,
Therewith to doen his foes eternal smart.
The metal first he mixt with medewart,4
That no enchantment from his dint might save;
Then it in flames of Etna wrought apart,
And seven times dipped in the bitter wave
Of hellish Styx, which hidden virtue to it gave.
'The virtue is, that neither steel nor stone
The stroke thereof from entrance may defend;
Ne5 ever may be used by his fone;6
Ne forc'd his rightful owner to offend;
Ne ever will it break, ne ever bend;
Wherefore Morddure" it rightfully is hight.8
In vain therefore, Pyrochles, should I lend
The same to thee, against his lord to fight;
For sure it would deceive thy labour and thy might.'
'Foolish old man,' said then the Pagan wroth,
"That weenest words or charms may force with-
Soon shalt thou see, and then believe for troth,
That I can carve with this enchanted brond
His lord's own flesh.' Therewith out of his hond
That virtuous steel he rudely snatch'd away;
And Guyon's shield about his wrist he bond:
So ready dight,1 fierce battle to assay,
And match his brother proud in battailous array.
By this, that stranger knight in presence came,
And goodly salved 2 them; who nought again
Him answered, as courtesy became;
But with stern looks, and stomachous3 disdain,
Gave signs of grudge and discontentment vain:
Then, turning to the palmer, he gan spy
Where at his feet, with sorrowful demayne1
And deadly hue, an armed corse did lie,
In whose dead face he read great magnanimity.
Said he then to the palmer; Reverend sire,
'What great misfortune hath betidd5 this knight? Befallen.
Or did his life her fatal date expire,
Or did he fall by treason, or by fight?
However, sure I rue his piteous plight.'
'Not one, nor other,' said the palmer grave,
'Hath him befall'n; but clouds of deadly night
Awhile his heavy eyelids cover'd have,
And all his senses drowned in deep senseless wave:
'Which those his cruel foes, that stand hereby,
Making advantage, to revenge their spite,
Would him disarm and treaten shamefully;
Unworthy usage of redoubted knight!
But you, fair sir, whose honourable sight
Doth promise hope of help and timely grace,
Might I beseech to succour his sad plight,
|