Too soon you fled from hence to that fair place,
The happy period of a well-run race:
Too late I stay in grief’s eternal night,
To do this penance for my over-sight.
Once let me die, let not my dying life
Prolong my woes, and keep my thoughts at strife:
Let him that did offend your heav’nly eyes,
Now please your anger with self-sacrifice.
Then one of them, reaching him a lance, he began his course against Tyro Prince of Andria, famous for his constant love to the fair Lydia, now married, and Queen of Epire, and ever fortunate in the course of his adventures: but here his fortune gave place to virtue, or rather joined with her to assist the naked knight; for, at the third encounter, he was put beside his saddle, much bruised in body, and no less afflicted in mind.
The next that supplied his place, was Pausanias, a Macedonian, one, who in his late wars had done Euarchus faithful service, and now, thinking to be as successful in this enterprise, had put on armour to do honour to his mistress: but his first course compelled him to acknowledge he was deceived, seeing himself fall so short of his expectation.
To him succeeded Nicanor, a Corinthian knight, advanced by the new king, one extremely confident of himself, because never tried, and now very forward, fearing to be prevented of the honour, for which already, in conceit, he had triumphed at Corinth with the great applause of the people, and the good liking of the king. But the naked knight, at second course, cut off both his life and imagined trophy: for, couching his lance, and allotting it in his course a just descent, rightly levelled by his well-judging experience, it met with Nicanor’s sight, and passing thorough that weak resistance, it pierced his right eye, and with it his brain, so that Nicanor fell down, forgetful both of his forethought fame and following reproach. With this adventure the tilting that day ended; the sun with loose rays, posting to his western home, and the naked knight retired himself to his pavilion, whence he sent his page, who, humbly, for his master, entreated, that his unwillingness to be known should excuse the omission of his duty to the king.
Thus that night drew on, which to them who enjoyed delight, seemed to have put on all her sails to be the speedier in passing over. But far other was the naked knight’s apprehension: he (who made her ugly darkness a pattern of the sorrow his afflicted soul endured) thought she was becalmed in the sea of his misfortune. At length Phoebus, weary of his importunity, made haste to distribute his grateful light to his care-tired senses; and he as soon embracing the smallest show of comfort, put on his armour. About two hours after, the judges being set, and Basilius and Euarchus (with the rest of the court) present, Leonatus, the young King of Pontus (who had been there to acknowledge his beholdingness to them whom he was deservingly bound to) took the field. His armour was of a dark colour, through which many flames seemed to break out, as when the clouds, great in labour with exhalations, at length gave way to their more violent power: his three first courses promised a more happy event than fortune meant he should enjoy, for (having performed them with a well-ordered firmness in his seat, and a moving constancy in the carriage of his lance, to the great delight of the beholders) the fourth time he was dismounted; whose disgrace Pyrocles was ready to revenge, but he was, by a secret look from Philoclea, commanded the contrary. Then Telamon, Phelauceas and Diremus felt, with little advantage in fortune, the like success.
Thus, most part of that morning, the naked knight, with little resistance, had the best against all comers, which most of the lookers-on, with public acclamation, did testify, but he having given over the use of himself to sorrow, sometimes by the careless shaking of his head, did let them know, they burdened his desert with the unpleasing weight of his praise; and staying a while on horseback, he expected the next adventurer, with such a demeanour of himself, that (though it did accuse him of much grief) could not conceal the grace of his stately presence. But when he saw none ready to take the field, with an humble bend taking his leave of the king, he softly trotted towards his tent, not so much to repose his body, as to give a quiet way to the assaults of his mind. At length, when all the beholders’ expectations were almost wearied, there entered the lists a lady, attended only by one page, who having alighted, presently went towards the place where Basilius sat, where first kneeling, then taking away a black scarf (which grief had hired to join with herself, in eclipsing the excellent feature of a most fair face) she began to speak; but Basilius and Gynecia hastily ran to embrace Helen Queen of Corinth, for this was she. Great was the joy of her revived presence, and great the desire to know the means of her safety. But she (accounting these gratulations cumbersome, and the relation of her adventures tedious) fixing her watery eyes on Basilius: “Great king, I am,” said she, “that unfortunate Helen, sometime Queen of Corinth, now both deprived of crown and kingdom by Tenarus. Yet why should I mention this, as fit to be inserted among my greatest misfortunes? The cause why now I come, is my care of Amphialus’s safety, in whom I live, to whose disdain I have vowed the tribute of my constant love. He (alas! why should I live to speak it?) not long since following the course of his adventures, came to Amasia, where he was made prisoner, and carried to Dunalbus prince of that country, whose brother it was Amphialus’s fortune to kill in rescue of a lady, to whom he would have offered dishonourable violence. These news came to mine ears (to add more to many miseries) at that time when I chanced to be at Delphos, pouring forth my heartiest devotions for my most beloved, my most unkind Amphialus: but the pitying God, either to stay my hands from the execution they intended (but to what end might that be? that God knows; for no time can unbend my affection) or, as heaven grant it may be, in commiseration of my case, thus comforted me:
Helen, return; a naked knight shall find
Rest for thy hopes, and quiet to thy mind.
“Thus far have I wandered, led by that divine promise, in pursuit of such a one: But nowhere can I find a happy event to confirm that oracle; yet dare I not despair, having so high a warrant; nor hope, having so bad success.”
“You are fortunately come,” said the King, “This knight, whose skill in arms hath made your well-deserving virtues famous, may be that man pointed out by the finger of heaven, to release Amphialus, who both in name and armour represents a naked knight.” “O no,” said the Queen, “it cannot be expected that Apollo, would leave so plain a way for us to track out the footsteps of his obscure mysteries.” “Madam,” replied Basilius (having first placed her in a chair by him) “the all-seeing providence, with whom the ends of all things are present, is sometimes pleased to cast forth the emblem of our destinies, so strangely hidden in the covert of ambiguous words, that, doubtless, it serves to beget nothing but matters of distrust, and labyrinths of errors, where the imagination a thousand ways may be led astray; of this you have a present proof, confirmed by my experience. And sometimes the same justice unfolds the secret of our fate, and plainly lets us know the mystery of our fortune; yet even that plainness, to the curious search of our still-mistrusting brain, becomes a reason sufficient to enforce us to a contrary belief. This last, I think (if, in the interpretation of an oracle, my opinion may be received) is that mean, whereby Apollo both reveals and hides the author of Amphialus’s freedom.”
This said, he sends presently for the naked knight, who as soon obeying the king’s command, as he was completely armed, came before him; to whom Basilius cheerfully told (as glad to be the reporter of good news to him, whose prowess in arms deservingly gained much of his good opinion) of Helen’s being there, together with her desire to employ him in an action the heavens had also interested him in. “What is it,” replied the naked knight, “that, without such a command, I would not endeavour to accomplish for my most dear Helen?” And then, with excess of comfort and astonishment, his weak limbs were ready to give over the support of his joy-burdened body; but, being upheld by Musidorus, who stood next him, his overcharged spirits had time to recollect themselves.