Scarcely had she spoken the words, when she fain would have called them back. But Sir Guyon, taking them up with no small heat, made answer: “Fair warrior, surely you do ill to accuse so true and loyal a knight as is Sir Artegall with ill-behaviour. Truly of all who have ever taken part in tilt or tourney, there is not one that stands in better repute than he. It were indeed the greatest of marvels that he should do an unworthy act, or even think in his heart an unworthy thought. And if you have come with such a purpose in your heart, then I say that you have journeyed far on a false errand.”

Now Britomart, in her secret heart, was glad to hear such praises of Sir Artegall. For, indeed, as will be seen, she loved him, and it was her woman’s craft, by speaking ill of him to his friends, so to call forth his praises. And when, with this thought in her heart, she had again uttered some injurious words concerning him, Sir Guyon answered: “It would be well, lady, that you should listen to reason in this matter. Truly he is not one whom you can compel by force to do this thing or that, for there is not, I take it, a knight upon earth that can match him in equal fight. And, indeed, for what you ask me, where is Sir Artegall to be found, I cannot tell you. He is not one who will remain for long time in any certain place; rather he wanders round the world, seeking occasion for great deeds, by which he can help to right such as suffer wrong.”

Britomart was greatly pleased to hear such praises of the knight. Still she dissembled the matter and said: “Whether it be easy or hard to find the man I know not; but at least I would know how I may profitably seek him. Tell me some mark by which I may know him, the manner of his shield, the fashion of his arms, the bearing of his steed, and other things by which I may certainly know the man should I chance to encounter him.” Then Sir Guyon told her all that she would know, and she, listening to all that he said, found it most welcome to her heart.

CHAPTER XVI
OF MERLIN’S MAGIC MIRROR

There was a certain king of old time in the land of Deheubarth, which men now call South Wales. His name was Ryence, and he had for his principal counsellor one Merlin, who was a great magician. This Merlin made by his art a wonderful mirror, which was so contrived that he who looked in it could see anything from the lowest parts of the earth to the highest part of the heavens, if only it concerned him. If a foe contrived any evil against him, if a friend had used any falsehood in respect of him, there he could see it plainly set forth. This mirror Merlin gave to the king for a protection, that if at any time an enemy should invade his dominions, he should know of his design before tidings could come to him from without, and so should be able to be beforehand with him. Never had prince a more noble present, nor one more worthy of reward, for there could be no treason within the realm or enmity without but that it came straightway to the king’s knowledge.

Now Britomart was the daughter of King Ryence, and it chanced on a certain day that she came into his closet, for he kept nothing secret from her, seeing that she was his only child and the heir of his kingdom, and there saw Merlin’s mirror. She had seen it indeed not once or twice only, and knew its virtues. There came into her head the thought that she might see therein the image of the man who should be her husband. Such a thought maidens are wont to entertain, and Britomart, being her father’s only child, and knowing that she would one day come to the kingdom, was the more curious in this regard, nor had she had to that time any thought of one man more than of another. So looking into the mirror she saw a very comely knight, armed cap-à-pie. He had the visor of his helmet up, showing a face that would strike fear into an enemy and be loving to a friend. He was tall of stature, and bore himself with a manly grace. For his crest he had a hound couchant, and his armour seemed of ancient fashion, massive and strong to look at; on it was written in old letters these words, “The Arms of Achilles which Artegall did win.” The shield was of seven folds, and it bore an ermilin crowned, white on a field of blue. The maiden looked and liked well what she saw, and went her way, not knowing—such was the simplicity of her age—that she had seen with her eyes the fate that should rule the fortunes of her life. That keen archer Love had wounded her with his arrow, but she knew it not. Yet from that day she began to droop. No longer did she carry herself with princely pride. Sad and solemn was she, and full of fancies, yet knew not why. That she ailed somewhat she was well aware, but thought it was not love, but some passing mood of melancholy. Such was she by day, and at night, when she laid herself down to rest, sleep fled far from her eyes. She kept a sorrowful watch as the hours of the night went by, and she watered her couch with her tears; and if, when nature was worn out with these long watchings, she fell into some brief slumber, then some fearful dreams would come and bring with them a worse unrest.

One night her nurse, Glaucé by name, caught her in her arms as she was leaping from her bed, and held her down by force. “Ah, my child,” she cried, “how is it that you are in this evil plight? What is it that has changed your cheerful mood to this sadness? Surely there is some cause for these troubles that haunt you by night, and drive away sleep from your eyes. And in the days when your equals in age disport themselves, you mope in solitary corners, and have no enjoyment of your princely life. I doubt much whether the cause be not love; yet if the love be worthy of your race and royal birth—and that it is I seem to myself to read by many signs and tokens—then I do swear most solemnly to help you. Away, dear child, with your fears! Neither danger or death shall keep me from bringing you due relief.” Then she caught the maid in her arms, and embraced her in all tenderness, and chafed her limbs to drive away the cold, and kissed her eyes, still entreating that she should show the secret of her heart. For a while the maid was silent; then she said, “Dear nurse, why should you grieve for me? Is it not enough that I must die? Must you die also?”

“Talk not of dying,” cried the nurse; “never was wound yet for which no salve could be found. The god who has wounded you has, I doubt not, in his quiver another arrow for your lover’s heart.”

So they talked together; the maid would have it that there was no remedy for her trouble; the old nurse still steadfastly affirmed that the cure could easily be found. At last the damsel told the secret of her grief, as it seemed to her: “Alas, dear mother,” she said, “it is no living man whose image dwells in my heart and makes this pain; it is but the shadow and semblance of a knight; I saw him one day in the magic mirror of the king my father; this is the baited hook which, as some foolish fish, I swallowed; it is this thought that brings me to my death.”

“Is this all, my daughter?” cried the nurse; “then is nothing strange or against nature here. Why should you not set your heart on one who seemed so worthy of your love?”