My only friend! violence of love leads me into such a course, whereof your knowledge may much more vex you, than help me. Therefore pardon my concealing it from you, since, if I wrong you, it is in the respect I bear you. Return into Thessalia, I pray you, as full of good fortune as I am of desire; and if I live, I will in a short time follow you; if I die, love my memory.
This was all, and this Palladius read twice or thrice over. “Ah,” said he, “Pyrocles what means this alteration? what have I deserved of thee to be thus banished of thy counsels? Heretofore I have accused the sea, condemned the pirates, and hated my evil fortune that deprived me of thee; but now thyself is the sea which drowns my comfort; thyself is the pirate that robs thyself from me; thy own will becomes thy evil fortune.” Then turned he his thoughts to all forms of guesses that might light upon the purpose and course of Pyrocles, for he was not so sure by his words that it was love, as he was doubtful where the love was. One time he thought some beauty in Laconia had laid hold of his eyes; another time he feared that it might be Parthenia’s excellency which had broken the bands of all former resolution; but the more he thought the more he knew not what to think, armies of objections rising against any accepted opinion.
Then as careful he was what to do himself: at length determined never to leave seeking him till his search should be either by meeting accomplished, or by death ended. Therefore (for all the unkindness bearing tender respect that his friend’s secret determination should be kept from any suspicion in others) he went to Kalander, and told him that he had received a message from his friend, by which he understood he was gone back again into Laconia about some matters greatly importing the poor men, whose protection he had undertaken, and that it was in any sort fit for him to follow him, but in such private wise, as not to be known, and that therefore he would as then bid him farewell; arming himself in a black armour, as either a badge, or prognostication of his mind, and taking only with him a good store of money and a few choice jewels, leaving the greatest number of them, and most of his apparel with Kalander, which he did partly to give the more cause to Kalander to expect their return, and so to be the less curiously inquisitive after them—and partly to leave those honourable thanks unto him for his charge and kindness, which he knew he would not other way receive. The good old man having neither reason to dissuade nor hope to persuade, received the things with mind of a keeper, not of an owner; but, before he went, desired he might have the happiness fully to know what they were, which, he said, he had ever till then delayed, fearing to be importune: but now he would not be so much an enemy to his desires as any longer to imprison them in silence. Palladius told him that the matter was not so secret but that so worthy a friend deserved the knowledge, and should have it as soon as he might speak with his friend, without whose consent (because their promise bound him otherwise) he could not reveal it; but bade him hold for most assured that if they lived but a while he should find that they which bore the names of Diaphantus and Palladius would give him and his cause to think his noble courtesy well employed. Kalander would press him no further, but desiring that he might have leave to go, or at least to send his son and servants with him: Palladius brake off all ceremonies by telling him his case stood so that his greatest favour should be in making least ado of his parting. Wherewith Kalander knowing it to be more cumber than courtesy to strive, abstained from further urging him, but not from hearty mourning the loss of so sweet a conversation.
Only Clitophon by vehement importunity obtained to go with him to come again to Diaphantus, whom he named and accounted his lord. And in such private guise departed Palladius, though having a companion to talk withal, yet talking much more with unkindness. And first they went to Mantinea; whereof because Parthenia was, he suspected there might be some cause of his abode. But, finding there no news of him, he went to Tegea, Ripa, Enispae, Stimphalus, and Phineus, famous for the poisonous Stygian water, and through all the rest of Arcadia, making their eyes, their ears, and their tongues serve almost for nothing but that inquiry. But they could know nothing but that in none of those places he was known. And so went they, making one place succeed to another in like uncertainty to their search, many times encountering strange adventures worthy to be registered in the rolls of fame: but this may not be omitted. As they passed in a pleasant valley (on either side of which high hills lifted up their beetle-brows, as if they would overlook the pleasantness of their under-prospect) they were by the daintiness of the place, and the weariness of themselves, invited to light from their horses, and pulled off their bits that they might something refresh their mouths upon the grass (which plentifully grew, brought up under the care of those well-shading trees), they themselves laid them down hard by the murmuring music of certain waters which spouted out of the side of the hills, and in the bottom of the valley made of many springs a pretty brook, like a commonwealth of many families; but when they had a while hearkened to the persuasion of sleep, they rose and walked onward in that shady place till Clitophon espied a piece of armour, and not far off another piece; and so the sight of one piece teaching him to look for more, he at length found all, with head-piece and shield, by the device whereof he straight knew it to be the armour of his cousin, the noble Amphialus. Whereupon (fearing some inconvenience happened unto him) he told both his doubt and cause of doubt to Palladius, who, considering thereof, thought best to make no longer stay, but to follow on, lest perchance some violence were offered to so worthy a knight, whom the fame of the world seemed to set in balance with any knight living. Yet with a sudden conceit, having long borne great honour to the name of Amphialus, Palladius thought best to take that armour, thinking thereby to learn by them that should know that armour some news of Amphialus, and yet not hinder him in the search of Diaphantus too. So he, by the help of Clitophon, quickly put on that armour, whereof there was no one piece wanting, though hacked in some places, betraying some fighting not long since passed. It was something too great, but yet served well enough. And so, getting on their horses, they travelled but a little way when in the opening of the mouth of the valley into a fair field they met with a coach drawn with four milk-white horses, furnished all in black with a black-a-moor boy upon every horse, they all apparelled in white, the coach itself very richly furnished in black and white. But before they could come so near as to discern what was within, there came running upon them above a dozen horsemen, who cried to them to yield themselves prisoners or else they should die. But Palladius, not accustomed to grant over the possession of himself upon so unjust titles, with sword drawn gave them so rude an answer that divers of them never had breath to reply again: for, being well backed by Clitophon, and having an excellent horse under him, when he was overpressed by some he avoided them, and ere the other thought of it, punished in him his fellow’s faults, and so either with cunning or with force, or rather with a cunning force, left none of them either living or able to make his life serve to others’ hurt. Which being done, he approached the coach, assuring the black boys they should have no hurt, who were else ready to have run away; and looking in the coach, he found in the one end a lady of great beauty, and such a beauty as showed forth the beams both of wisdom and good nature, but all as much darkened as might be, with sorrow. In the other, two ladies (who by their demeanour showed well they were but her servants) holding before them a picture in which was a goodly gentleman whom he knew not, painted, having in their faces a certain waiting sorrow, their eyes being infected with their mistress’s weeping. But the chief lady having not so much as once heard the noise of this conflict (so had sorrow closed up all the entries of her mind, and love tied her senses to that beloved picture), now the shadow of him falling upon the picture made her cast up her eye, and seeing the armour which too well she knew, thinking him to be Amphialus, the lord of her desires (blood coming more freely into her cheeks, as though it would be bold, and yet there growing new again pale for fear) with a pitiful look, like one unjustly condemned. “My Lord Amphialus,” said she, “you have enough punished me; it is time for cruelty to leave you, and evil fortune me; if not, I pray you (and to grant my prayer fitter time nor place you cannot have) accomplish the one even now, and finish the other.” With that, sorrow impatient to be slowly uttered in her often staying speeches, poured itself so fast into tears, that Palladius could not hold her longer in error, but pulling off his helmet, “Madam,” said he, “I perceive you mistake me; I am a stranger in these parts, set upon without any cause given by me by some of your servants, whom, because I have in my just defence evil intreated, I came to make my excuse to you, whom seeing such as I do, I find greater cause why I should crave pardon of you.” When she saw his face and heard his speech she looked out of the coach, and seeing her men, some slain, some lying under their dead horses and striving to get from under them, without making more account of the matter; “Truly,” said she, “they are well served that durst lift up their arms against that armour. But, Sir Knight,” said she, “I pray you tell me, how came you by this armour? for if it be by the death of him that owned it, then have I more to say unto you.” Palladius assured her it was not so, telling her the true manner how he found it. “It is like enough,” said she, “for that agrees with the manner he hath lately used. But I beseech you, Sir,” said she, “since your prowess hath bereft me of my company, let it yet so far heal the wounds itself hath given as to guard me to the next town.” “How great soever my business be, fair lady,” said he, “it shall willingly yield to so noble a cause: but first, even by the favour you bear to the lord of this noble armour, I conjure you to tell me the story of your fortune herein, lest, hereafter, when the image of so excellent a lady in so strange a plight come before mine eyes, I condemn myself of want of consideration in not having demanded thus much. Neither ask I it without protestation that wherein my sword and faith may avail you they shall bind themselves to your service.” “Your conjuration, fair knight,” said she, “is too strong for my poor spirit to disobey, and that shall make me (without any other hope, my ruin being but by one unrelievable) to grant your will herein, and to say the truth, a strange niceness were it in me to refrain that from the ears of a person representing so much worthiness, which I am glad even to rocks and woods to utter. Know you then that my name is Helen, queen by birth, and hitherto possessed of the fair city and territory of Corinth. I can say no more of myself but that I am beloved of my people, and may justly say beloved, since they are content to bear with my absence and folly. But I being left by my father’s death, and accepted by my people in the highest degree that country could receive; as soon, or rather, before that my age was ripe for it, my court quickly swarmed full of suitors: some, perchance, loving my estate, others my person; but once, I know all of them, however my possessions were in their heart, my beauty, such as it is, was in their mouths, many strangers of princely and noble blood, and all of mine own country, to whom either birth or virtue gave courage to avow so high a desire.
“Among the rest, or rather, before the rest, was the lord Philoxenus, son and heir to the virtuous nobleman, Timotheus, which Timotheus was a man both in power, riches, parentage, and, which passed all these, goodness; and, which followed all these, love of the people, beyond any of the great men of my country. Now, this son of his, I must say truly, not unworthy of such a father, bending himself by all means of serviceableness to me, and setting forth of himself to win my favour, won thus far of me that in truth I less misliked him than any of the rest, which, in some proportion, my countenance delivered unto him. Though, I must confess, it was a very false ambassador if it delivered at all any affection whereof my heart was utterly void, I as then esteeming myself born to rule, and thinking foul scorn willingly to submit myself to be ruled.
“But while Philoxenus in good sort pursued my favour, and perchance nourished himself with overmuch hope, because he found I did in some sort acknowledge his virtue; one time among the rest he brought with him a dear friend of his.” With that she looked upon the picture before her, and straight sighed, and straight tears flowed, as if the idol of duty ought to be honoured with such oblations; and then her speech stayed the tale, having brought her to that look, but that look having quite put her out of her tale.
But Palladius greatly pitying so sweet a sorrow in a lady, whom by fame he had already known and honoured, besought for her promise sake to put silence so long unto her moaning till she had recounted the rest of this story. “Why,” said she, “this is the picture of Amphialus: what need I say more unto you? What ear is so barbarous but hath heard of Amphialus? Who follows deeds of arms, but everywhere finds monuments of Amphialus? Who is courteous, noble, liberal, but he hath the example before his eyes of Amphialus? Where are all heroical parts but in Amphialus? O Amphialus, I would thou wert not so excellent, or I would I thought thee not so excellent, and yet would I not that I would so.” With that she wept again; till he again soliciting the conclusion of her story: “Then you must,” said she, “know the story of Amphialus, for his will is my life, his life my history: and indeed in what can I better employ my lips than in speaking of Amphialus.
“This knight, then, whose figure you see, but whose mind can be painted by nothing but by their true shape of virtue, is brother’s son to Basilius, King of Arcadia, and in his childhood esteemed his heir, till Basilius, in his old years, marrying a young and fair lady, had of her those two daughters, so famous for their perfection in beauty, which put by their young cousin from that expectation. Whereupon his mother (a woman of an haughty heart, being daughter to the King of Argos) either disdaining or fearing that her son should live under the power of Basilius, sent him to that lord Timotheus (between whom and her dead husband there had passed straight bands of mutual hospitality) to be brought up in company with his son Philoxenus.
“A happy resolution for Amphialus, whose excellent nature was by this means trained on with as good education as any prince’s son in the world could have, which otherwise it is thought his mother, far unworthy of such a son, would not have given him: the good Timotheus no less loving him than his own son. Well, they grew in years, and shortly occasions fell aptly to try Amphialus, and all occasions were but steps for him to climb fame by. Nothing was so hard but his valour overcame; which yet still he so guided with true virtue that although no man was in our parts spoken of but he for his manhood, yet, as though therein he excelled himself, he was commonly called the courteous Amphialus. An endless thing it were for me to tell how many adventures, terrible to be spoken of, he achieved, what monsters, what giants, what conquests of countries, sometimes using policy, sometimes force, but always virtue well followed, and but followed by Philoxenus, between whom and him so fast a friendship by education was knit that at last Philoxenus having no greater matter to employ his friendship in than to win me, therein desired, and had his uttermost furtherance: to that purpose brought he him to my court, where truly I may justly witness with him that what his wit could conceive (and his wit can conceive as far as the limits of reason stretch) was all directed to the setting forward the suit of his friend Philoxenus: mine ears could hear nothing from him but touching the worthiness of Philoxenus, and of the great happiness it would be unto me to have such a husband; with many arguments, which God knows I cannot well remember, because I did not much believe. For why should I use many circumstances to come to that where already I am, and ever while I live must continue? in few words, while he pleaded for another, he won me for himself: if at least,” with that she sighed, “he would account it a winning, for his fame had so framed the way to my mind that his presence, so full of beauty, sweetness and noble conversation, had entered there before he vouchsafed to call for the keys. O lord, how did my soul hang at his lips while he spake! O when he in feeling manner would describe the love of his friend, how well, thought I, doth love between those lips! when he would with daintiest eloquence stir pity in me toward Philoxenus, ‘Why sure,’ said I to myself, ‘Helen, be not afraid, this heart cannot want pity:’ and when he would extol the deeds of Philoxenus, who indeed had but waited of him therein, alas, thought I, good Philoxenus, how evil doth it become thy name to be subscribed to his letter? what should I say? nay, what should I not say (noble knight! who am not ashamed, nay am delighted, thus to express my own passions?
“Days passed, his eagerness for his friend never decreased, my affection to him ever increased. At length, in way of ordinary courtesy, I obtained of him, who suspected no such matter, this his picture, the only Amphialus, I fear, that I shall ever enjoy; and grown bolder, or madder, or bold with madness, I discovered my affection unto him. But lord, I shall never forget how anger and courtesy at one instant appeared in his eyes when he heard that motion; how with his blush he taught me shame. In sum, he left nothing unassayed which might disgrace himself to grace his friend, in sweet terms making me receive a most resolute refusal of himself. But when he found that his presence did far more persuade for himself than his speech could do for his friend, he left my court, hoping that forgetfulness, which commonly waits upon absence, would make room for his friend, to whom he would not utter thus much, I think, for a kind fear not to grieve him, or perchance, though he cares little for me, of a certain honourable gratefulness, not yet to discover so much of my secrets: but, as it should seem, meant to travel into far countries, until his friend’s affection either ceased or prevailed. But within a while, Philoxenus came to see how onward the fruits were of his friend’s labour, when (as in truth I cared not much how he took it) he found me sitting, beholding this picture, I know not with how affectionate countenance, but I am sure with a most affectionate mind. I straight found jealousy and disdain took hold of him, and yet the froward pain of mine own heart made me so delight to punish him whom I esteemed to be the chiefest let in my way; that when he with humble gesture, and vehement speeches sued for my favour, I told him that I would hear him more willingly if he would speak for Amphialus as well as Amphialus had done for him: he never answered me, but pale and quaking, went straight away; and straight my heart misgave me some evil success: and yet, though I had authority enough to have stayed him (as in these fatal things it falls out that the high-working powers make second causes unwittingly accessory to their determinations) I did no further, but sent a footman of mine (whose faithfulness to me I well knew) from place to place to follow him and bring me word of his proceedings, which (alas!) have brought forth that which I fear I must ever rue.