“Thyself, perchance!” cried the accused, impetuously, and turning a fiery glance upon the speaker. In this glance it seemed to me that I could discover a far greater degree of bitterness and hate than in any which he had shown to his accuser. “It is thyself that would do this battle? Ha! thou art he, then, equally noble and not less valiant art thou? Be it so! It will rejoice me shouldst thou venture thy body in this quarrel. But I know thee—thou lovest it too well—thou durst not.”
“Choose me for thy champion, old man,” was the further speech of the favorite, with a difficult effort to be calm. “I will do battle for thee, and with God’s mercy, sustain the right in thy behalf.”
“Thou shalt not!” exclaimed the king, vehemently, but feebly, half rising as he spoke, and turning to the favorite. “Thou shalt not! I command thee mix not in this matter.”
More was said, but in such a feeble tone that they failed to reach my senses. When the king grew silent, the favorite bowed with submissive deference, and sunk again behind the throne. A scornful smile passed over the lips of the accused, who looked, with a bitter intelligence of gaze, upon a little group, seemingly his friends and supporters, who had partly grouped themselves around him. Following his glance, a moment after, toward the royal person, I was attracted by a movement, though for a single instant only, of the uplifted hand of the favorite. It was a sign to the accused, the former withdrawing the glove from his right hand, a moment after, and flinging it, with a significant action, to the floor behind him. The accused whispered to a page in waiting, who immediately stole away and disappeared from sight. But a little while elapsed when I beheld him approach the spot where the glove had fallen, recover it adroitly, and convey it, unperceived, into his bosom. All this by-play, though no doubt apparent to many in the assembly, was evidently unseen and unsuspected by the king. I inferred the rank luxuriance of the practice of chivalry in this region, from the nicety with which the affair was conducted, and the forbearance of all those by whom it had been witnessed, to make any report of what they had beheld. The discussion was resumed by the accuser.
“I am aware, your majesty, that by the laws and practice of your realm, the wager of battle is one that may be freely challenged by any one accused of treason, or other crime against the state, against whom there shall be no witness but the accuser. It is not the fear of danger which makes me unwilling to seek this conflict; it is the fear of doing wrong. Though the issues of battle are in the hands of the Lord, yet who shall persuade me that he has decreed the combat to take place. Now I do confess that I regard it as unholy, any invocation of the God of Peace, to be a witness in a strife which his better lessons teach us to abhor—a strife grossly at variance with his most settled and divine ordinances.”
“I am grieved, old man, to hear you speak this language,” was the grave censure of one who, from his garments, seemed to be very high in authority, and the church. “What thou sayest is in direct reproach of holy church, which has frequently called in the assistance of mortal force and human weapons to put down the infidel, to crush the wrong-doer, and to restore that peace which can only owe her continued existence to the presence ever of a just readiness for war. Methinks thou hast scarcely shown thyself enough reverent in this, thy bold opinion.”
“Holy father, I mean not offence! I do not doubt that war, with short-sightedness of human wisdom, has appeared to secure the advantages of peace. I believe that God has endowed us with a strength for the struggle, and with a wisdom that will enable us to pursue it with success. These we are to employ when necessary for the protection of the innocent, and the rescue and safety of those who are themselves unwilling to do harm. But I am unwilling to believe that immortal principles—the truth of man, and the value of his assurances—are to depend upon the weight of his own blows, or the address with which he can ward off the assaults of another. Were this the case, then would the strong-limbed and brutal soldier be always the sole arbiter of truth, and wisdom, and all moral government.”
We need not pursue the argument. It has long since been settled, though with partial results only to humanity, as well by the Pagan as the Christian philosopher. But, however ingenious, true, or eloquent, was the venerable speaker, on this occasion, his arguments were entirely lost upon that assembly. He himself soon perceived that the effect was unfavorable to his cause, and exposed his veracity to question. With a proper wisdom, therefore, he yielded promptly to the current. But first he asked:—
“And what, may it please your majesty, if I decline this ordeal?”
“Death!” was the reply of more than one stern voice in the assembly. “Death by fire, by the burning pincers, by the tortures of the screw and rack.”