CHAPTER XXVI
OF THE FORTUNES OF AMORET
It shall now be told how the fair Amoret was lost. She and Britomart, riding away from the place where Sir Satyrane had held his tournament, chanced in their journey upon a wood. There it seemed good to them to rest awhile. Britomart, being not a little wearied with fighting in the lists, fell fast asleep, but Amoret walked in the wood. As she walked a giant rushed out of a thicket hard by and seized her; she cried aloud; but Britomart heard her not, so deep was she in slumber. A horrible monster to behold he was, feeding on the raw flesh of men and beasts, with a face red as blood, and two great ears, like to the ears of an elephant. He was covered with shaggy hair, and in his hand a young oak with sharp snags that had been hardened in the fire, till they were as steel. He carried her through the wood to his cave, and threw her in. For a while she lay without sense; then, being somewhat recovered, she heard someone sighing and sobbing, and inquired who it was that spoke.
Then that other said: “Listen, unhappy one, and I will tell you my story, from which you may learn in what plight you yourself are. Twenty days have I dwelt in this dreadful place; and in these twenty days have I seen seven women slain and devoured. And now he has for store three only, yourself and me and an old woman yonder; and of these three he will surely devour one to-morrow. And if you ask my history it is this. I am daughter to a lord of high degree, and it happened to me to love a squire of low degree. Of low degree he was, but so comely as to be a fit mate for the proudest lady in the land. Nevertheless, my father, loving me well after his fashion, and seeking my advancement, would have none of him. But I, being steadfast in my mind, made a resolve to flee far from my home, and take with my lover such a lot as fortune might bring. On a certain day, therefore, it was appointed that I should meet him at a certain place. To which place I came, but he, alas! was not there. Then this monster found me, and carried me away as an eagle carries off a dove.”
After they had talked awhile, lo! the monster himself came back to his cave. And Amoret, as soon as she saw him, leapt from her place, which chanced to be near to the mouth of the cave, and fled away on her feet as fast as she could; and the monster, perceiving her flight, pursued her. Fleet of foot was she, but it had fared ill with her but for a happy chance which brought her help beyond all hope, as shall now be told.
There dwelt in those parts a famous huntress, Belphœbe by name; this Belphœbe was own sister to Amoret. That day she was following the chase, pursuing leopards and bears, of which beasts there was a great multitude in those woods. With her were her companions, the forest nymphs, and also a gentle squire, who was her lover. Now the squire chanced to be separated from the rest of his company, and so came to the very place where the monster was in chase of Amoret. By this time he had overtaken her and caught her up in his arms. And when the squire perceived it, and set upon him, seeking to deliver her out of his hands, the villain used this crafty device. When the squire would have thrust at him with the hunting-spear which he carried, then the monster would shield himself with the body of Amoret. And when the squire held back his blow, or when the blow chanced to fall ever so lightly on the dame, then the monster laughed aloud. So they two contended awhile; but at the last the squire dealt his adversary a shrewd blow and wounded him sorely. But this did not abate his rage, for, throwing Amoret on the ground, he set upon the squire so fiercely with his club, that the man had much ado to save himself from being beaten down. Nor can it be known what had been the issue, for now Belphœbe, hearing the sound of the strokes through the wood, and guided by her ear, drew near, holding her bow in her hand, with an arrow upon the string, ready to be despatched. When the monster saw her, he, knowing how deadly was her aim, turned and fled. Nor did she fail to pursue; swift of foot was she, and ere he could reach his cave, she smote him on the back of the neck with an arrow. He fell to the ground with a great crash, and when she came up, thinking to put an end to him, lo! he was already dead. Thereupon she went into the cave, and while she wondered that a place could be so foul, she heard a whispering and a low sort of groaning. Then she said to herself: “Are these spirits that suffer in this place of dread and darkness?” and afterwards aloud, “If there be any here, let them come forth, if only they be free to move.” Thereupon Æmilia stood up from the place where she had been lying, and told her story. “Come forth,” said Belphœbe, when she heard the tale; “haply, I may give you help.” So she led her to the place where she had left the squire and the fair Amoret. And now there befell an evil chance which brought about no small trouble.
Amoret was in a piteous plight, as may easily be believed. For first she had been affrighted almost to death by the monster, and then she had been sorely bruised when he cast her so roughly to the ground. So she lay as one without life, and the gentle squire was full of compassion when he saw her hurts, especially the wound which he himself had made with his hunting-spear, when the monster held her before him as a shield. And now Belphœbe, coming back from the cave, saw him looking at her, as it might be, in lover’s fashion, and a great pang of jealousy and anger moved in her heart. At first she thought to slay them both with the arrow which she held in her hand. But keeping herself back from this, she cried: “Is this, then, the faith you keep?” And, with the word, she turned her face and fled into the wood. The squire, knowing that he was wrongly blamed, made haste to follow her, yet, overtaking her, he did not dare to come near; and when he would have told her the truth, she would not listen, but made as if she would slay him with an arrow. So, after having long followed her in vain, he turned back, and finding a solitary place in the depth of a forest, made there a cabin for himself, where he dwelt in most unhappy sort. His weapons of war he broke, and vowed never to use them again. Also he swore a great oath that he would never more speak to woman; his garments, which were of the seemliest fashion, he cut into the strangest shape, and his hair he suffered to grow as it would and fall untrimmed about his shoulders. So he lived for many days.
It chanced one day that a turtle dove which also had lost its mate came near, and, as if it could understand what was in his heart, behaved in a most friendly and familiar fashion. And this it did again and again. The bird would sit upon the branch of a tree hard by, and sing to him; and he, by way of guerdon for its song, would share with him such slender meals as he had. On a certain day he brought out from a certain place certain gifts which Belphœbe had bestowed upon him in the days when the affection between them was yet unbroken. Among these was a ruby of the finest water, with a gold setting in the shape of a heart and a chain of gold fastened to the setting. This jewel he took, and binding it with a riband of his lady’s colour, tied it round the neck of the dove, and solaced his mind by gazing on it. But no sooner had the bird felt the jewel tied about his neck than he spread out his wings and flew away. Not a little troubled was he at this matter, for he had lost, not the companionship of the bird only, but the jewel also. So was his trouble not a little increased. But the bird flew in a straight line to the abode of Belphœbe, and found her sitting in an arbour, taking rest from the toils of the chase. For she still followed in the ways of a huntress, though, in truth, she was not a little troubled that she had lost her lover. So soon as she saw the bird, she spied the jewel about his neck, and knew it for her own gift, and the riband also wherewith it was bound. Thereupon she rose from her place, and would have caught it in her hand, but the bird flew away. For a short space it flew, and then tarried for a space, and then when Belphœbe came near, flew away once more. So it drew the lady on from place to place, ever seeming ready to be caught, yet ever again escaping, till it brought her to the place where the squire dwelt in his unhappiness. There it perched on his hand, and sang a song, sweet and sad, as if to suit his sorrowful estate. So spent was he with grief and trouble that the lady knew him not, but only saw that he was in great misery, yet judged that he had fallen into it from better things. Thereupon she said: “Unhappy man, what has brought you into this evil plight? If it is Heaven’s will, then we must submit; but if it is of man’s wrongdoing, then may the wrong be set right. But if it is of your own will, know that no man should so neglect the gifts of God, who wills that all should be happy.”
“O lady,” answered the squire, “surely it is no one but yourself that has brought me into this trouble.” And he showed her the whole truth.
So peace was made again between the two.