By-and-bye, as she gazed into the mirror, there appeared before her the image of a knight, completely armed. His countenance was a right manly one; a countenance to awe his foes, but to endear him to his friends. His frame was large and strong, its natural strength increased by deeds of chivalry which he continually practised. His armour was massive, and seemed of some antique mould, as indeed it was, for in golden letters there was written on it these words—
"Achilles' arms which Artegal did win."
Artegal's crest was a hound couchant, and on his shield he bore the figure of a crowned ermine on an azure field.
As Britomart looked on the image, she liked it, and having looked at it well, she went her way, and little thought that Cupid, the false archer, had shot an arrow into her heart. After a time, the stately Britomart began to droop. She no longer moved about with her customary princely bearing, but became sad, low-spirited, and full of foolish fears; nor could she discover the cause of her discomfiture. At night when she lay down to sleep, Glaucé, the old nurse who still attended her, wondered at her wakefulness, and at the tears which Britomart tried in vain to conceal. And when sleep visited her weary eyes, it was only for a few minutes at a time, and she started in her sleep as if some ghastly dream had affrighted her. She did not know that she loved, but her thoughts ever returned to the fair image she had seen.
One night when Britomart seemed more uneasy than usual, Glaucé determined to inquire into the cause of her unrest. With loving words she besought the princess to tell her how it was that her former cheerfulness had changed into this sad melancholy.
"Ah me," said the old nurse, "how much I fear lest love it be;" and added—
"But be it worthy of thy race and royal seed,
Then I avow by this most sacred head
Of my dear foster-child to ease thy grief
And win thy will."
The nurse was a powerful personage in the king's household, and praying Britomart to put away this melancholy humour, she promised that neither death nor danger should prevent her from relieving her sorrow. Then she took her dear foster-child in her arms and fondled her tenderly, and chafed her cold limbs, and kissed and bathed her fair eyes, praying her all the time to take courage and disclose the secret trouble of her heart.
Britomart did not answer at once; but at length she spoke, and begged Glaucé to inquire no further, since there was no remedy for her distress.
"Dear daughter," said the nurse, "despair not; there never yet was a wound which something could not soothe."