Count Robert of Paris 9780748628360

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THE EDINBURGH EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS - -  Professor David Hewitt

 His Grace the Duke of Buccleuch The Royal Society of Edinburgh : The University of Edinburgh    Bank of Scotland   Lord Sutherland of Houndwood, Chairman Sir Eric Anderson : Professor Andrew Hook Professor R. D. S. Jack : Professor Sir Neil MacCormick Professor Douglas Mack : Professor Susan Manning Allan Massie : Professor Jane Millgate Professor David Nordloh : Sir Lewis Robertson   Dr J. H. Alexander, University of Aberdeen Professor P. D. Garside, University of Edinburgh Professor Claire Lamont, University of Newcastle Dr Alison Lumsden, University of Aberdeen G. A. M. Wood, University of Stirling Typographical Adviser The late Ruari McLean

            -     [  ] COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS

EDINBURGH EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS

to be complete in thirty volumes Each volume will be published separately but original conjoint publication of certain works is indicated in the     volume numbering [4a, b; 7a, b, etc.]. Where     editors have been appointed, their names are listed 1 2 3 4a 4b 5 6 7a 7b 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18a 18b 19 20 21 22 23a 23b 24 25a 25b

Waverley [1814] P. D. Garside Guy Mannering [1815] P. D. Garside The Antiquary [1816] David Hewitt The Black Dwarf [1816] P. D. Garside The Tale of Old Mortality [1816] Douglas Mack Rob Roy [1818] David Hewitt The Heart of Mid-Lothian [1818] David Hewitt & Alison Lumsden The Bride of Lammermoor [1819] J. H. Alexander A Legend of the Wars of Montrose [1819] J. H. Alexander Ivanhoe [1820] Graham Tulloch The Monastery [1820] Penny Fielding The Abbot [1820] Christopher Johnson Kenilworth [1821] J. H. Alexander The Pirate [1822] Mark Weinstein and Alison Lumsden The Fortunes of Nigel [1822] Frank Jordan Peveril of the Peak [1822] Alison Lumsden Quentin Durward [1823] J. H. Alexander and G. A. M. Wood Saint Ronan’s Well [1824] Mark Weinstein Redgauntlet [1824] G. A. M. Wood with David Hewitt The Betrothed [1825] J. B. Ellis The Talisman [1825] J. B. Ellis Woodstock [1826] Tony Inglis Chronicles of the Canongate [1827] Claire Lamont The Fair Maid of Perth [1828] A. Hook and D. Mackenzie Anne of Geierstein [1829] J. H. Alexander Count Robert of Paris [1831] J. H. Alexander Castle Dangerous [1831] J. H. Alexander The Shorter Fiction [1828] Graham Tulloch Introductions and Notes from the Magnum Opus edition of 1829–33 Introductions and Notes from the Magnum Opus edition of 1829–33

WALTER SCOTT

COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS

Edited by J. H. Alexander

 University Press

© The University Court of the University of Edinburgh 2006 Edinburgh University Press 22 George Square, Edinburgh Typeset in Linotronic Ehrhardt by Speedspools, Edinburgh and printed and bound in Great Britain on acid-free paper at the Cromwell Press, Trowbridge, Wilts  10 0 7486 0587 8  13 978 0 7486 0587 3 A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior permission in writing from the publisher.

FOREWORD

T  P           of Waverley in 1814 marked the emergence of the modern novel in the western world. It is difficult now to recapture the impact of this and the following novels of Scott on a readership accustomed to prose fiction either as picturesque romance, ‘Gothic’ quaintness, or presentation of contemporary manners. For Scott not only invented the historical novel, but gave it a dimension and a relevance that made it available for a great variety of new kinds of writing. Balzac in France, Manzoni in Italy, Gogol and Tolstoy in Russia, were among the many writers of fiction influenced by the man Stendhal called ‘notre père, Walter Scott’. What Scott did was to show history and society in motion: old ways of life being challenged by new; traditions being assailed by counter-statements; loyalties, habits, prejudices clashing with the needs of new social and economic developments. The attraction of tradition and its ability to arouse passionate defence, and simultaneously the challenge of progress and ‘improvement’, produce a pattern that Scott saw as the living fabric of history. And this history was rooted in place; events happened in localities still recognisable after the disappearance of the original actors and the establishment of new patterns of belief and behaviour. Scott explored and presented all this by means of stories, entertainments, which were read and enjoyed as such. At the same time his passionate interest in history led him increasingly to see these stories as illustrations of historical truths, so that when he produced his final Magnum Opus edition of the novels he surrounded them with historical notes and illustrations, and in this almost suffocating guise they have been reprinted in edition after edition ever since. The time has now come to restore these novels to the form in which they were presented to their first readers, so that today’s readers can once again capture their original power and freshness. At the same time, serious errors of transcription, omission, and interpretation, resulting from the haste of their transmission from manuscript to print can now be corrected. D D  University Press

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

viii

General Introduction

xi

COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS Volume I

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1

Volume II

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133

Volume III .

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259

Appendix to the Text . . . .

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366

Essay on the Text . .

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genesis . .

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composition

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the chief textual witnesses

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the collected editions . . . . .

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the present text

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Emendation List

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440

End-of-line Hyphens .

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Historical Note .

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550

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Explanatory Notes . .

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Glossary . .

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The Scott Advisory Board and the editors of the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels wish to express their gratitude to The University Court of the University of Edinburgh for its vision in initiating and supporting the preparation of the first critical edition of Walter Scott’s fiction. Those Universities which employ or once employed the editors have also contributed greatly in paying the editors’ salaries, and awarding research leave and grants for travel and materials. In addition to the universities, the project could not have prospered without the help of the sponsors cited below. Their generosity has met the direct costs of the initial research and of the preparation of the text of the novels appearing in this edition.    The collapse of the great Edinburgh publisher Archibald Constable in January 1826 entailed the ruin of Sir Walter Scott who found himself responsible for his own private debts, for the debts of the printing business of James Ballantyne and Co. in which he was co-partner, and for the bank advances to Archibald Constable which had been guaranteed by the printing business. Scott’s largest creditors were Sir William Forbes and Co., bankers, and the Bank of Scotland. On the advice of Sir William Forbes himself, the creditors did not sequester his property, but agreed to the creation of a trust to which he committed his future literary earnings, and which ultimately repaid the debts of over £120,000 for which he was legally liable. In the same year the Government proposed to curtail the rights of the Scottish banks to issue their own notes; Scott wrote the ‘Letters of Malachi Malagrowther’ in their defence, arguing that the measure was neither in the interests of the banks nor of Scotland. The ‘Letters’ were so successful that the Government was forced to withdraw its proposal and to this day the Scottish Banks issue their own notes. A portrait of Sir Walter appears on all current bank notes of the Bank of Scotland because Scott was a champion of Scottish banking, and because he was an illustrious and honourable customer not just of the Bank of Scotland itself, but also of three other banks now incorporated within it—the British Linen Bank, Sir William Forbes and Co., and Ramsays, Bonars and Company. Bank of Scotland’s support of the EEWN continues its long and fruitful involvement with the affairs of Walter Scott. viii

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          Between 1992 and 1998 the EEWN was greatly assisted by the British Academy through the award of a series of research grants which provided most of the support required for employing a research fellow, without whom steady progress could not have been maintained. In 2000 the AHRB awarded the EEWN a major grant which ensured the completion of the Edition. To both of these bodies, the British Academy and the Arts and Humanities Research Board, the Advisory Board and the editors express their thanks.   The Advisory Board and the editors also wish to acknowledge with gratitude the generous grants and gifts to the EEWN from the P. F. Charitable Trust, the main charitable trust of the Fleming family which founded the City firm which bears their name; the Edinburgh University General Council Trust, now incorporated within the Edinburgh University Development Trust; Sir Gerald Elliott; the Carnegie Trust for the Universities of Scotland; the Modern Humanities Research Association; and the Robertson Trust whose help has been particularly important in the preparation of this volume.     The fragmentary manuscript of Count Robert of Paris is in the Walpole Collection of the King’s School, Canterbury. Thanks are due to the school and to the Walpole Librarian, Peter Henderson, for generously making the manuscript available to the editor, and to the Librarian and staff at the Canterbury Cathedral Library for providing facilities for its consultation. The support of the National Library of Scotland for the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels has throughout been generous as well as essential. The proofs of Count Robert of Paris and related papers are in the National Library, and the editor wishes to record his own indebtedness to the Library, and his gratitude to its professional staff on all the visits it required to make sense of the complex puzzle posed by the many proofs and fragments of proof. Thanks are due also to the following institutions and their staff: Aberdeen University Library; the Bodleian Library, Oxford; the British Library; Edinburgh Public Library; the Houghton Library, Harvard University; and Stirling University Library. The following individuals have kindly assisted in various ways: Professor Ian Duncan, Martin Fritzen, Tony Inglis, Dr Judith King, Professor Caroline McCracken-Flesher, Dr Kenneth McNeil, Professor Douglas Mack, Professor Jane Millgate, and Professor Graham Tulloch. The Edinburgh Edition has a number of consultants who advise on matters which affect both the text and the notes, and this editor is especially grateful to Professor Thomas Craik (Shakespeare) and Roy Pinkerton (Classical Literature). He owes much to Dr Alison Lumsden who was undaunted by the complexity of the

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material, to Rev. Dr Ian Clark whose criticism always enhances the editorial matter, to Dr Sheena Sutherland who was responsible for checking quotations and references, and much proof-reading, and to G. A. M. Wood who did the second collation of the manuscript in Canterbury. Professor David Hewitt has, as always, performed his duties as a general editor with great acumen and good humour. The General Editor for this volume was Professor David Hewitt.

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

What has the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels achieved? The original version of this General Introduction said that many hundreds of readings were being recovered from the manuscripts, and commented that although the individual differences were often minor, they were ‘cumulatively telling’. Such an assessment now looks tentative and tepid, for the textual strategy pursued by the editors has been justified by spectacular results. In each novel up to 2000 readings never before printed are being recovered from the manuscripts. Some of these are major changes although they are not always verbally extensive. The restoration of the pen-portraits of the Edinburgh literati in Guy Mannering, the reconstruction of the way in which Amy Robsart was murdered in Kenilworth, the recovery of the description of Clara Mowbray’s previous relationship with Tyrrel in Saint Ronan’s Well—each of these fills out what was incomplete, or corrects what was obscure. A surprising amount of what was once thought loose or unidiomatic has turned out to be textual corruption. Many words which were changed as the holograph texts were converted into print have been recognised as dialectal, period or technical terms wholly appropriate to their literary context. The mistakes in foreign languages, in Latin, and in Gaelic found in the early printed texts are usually not in the manuscripts, and so clear is this manuscript evidence that one may safely conclude that Friar Tuck’s Latin in Ivanhoe is deliberately full of errors. The restoration of Scott’s own shaping and punctuating of speech has often enhanced the rhetorical effectiveness of dialogue. Furthermore, the detailed examination of the text and supporting documents such as notes and letters has revealed that however quickly his novels were penned they mostly evolved over long periods; that although he claimed not to plan his work yet the shape of his narratives seems to have been established before he committed his ideas to paper; and that each of the novels edited to date has a precise time-scheme which implies formidable control of his stories. The Historical and Explanatory Notes reveal an intellectual command of enormously diverse materials, and an equal imaginative capacity to synthesise them. Editing the texts has revolutionised the editors’ understanding and appreciation of Scott, and will ultimately generate a much wider recognition of his quite extraordinary achievement. The text of the novels in the Edinburgh Edition is normally based on the first editions, but incorporates all those manuscript readings which were lost through accident, error, or misunderstanding in the process of xi

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converting holograph manuscripts into printed books. The Edition is the first to investigate all Scott’s manuscripts and proofs, and all the printed editions to have appeared in his lifetime, and it has adopted the textual strategy which best makes sense of the textual problems. It is clear from the systematic investigation of all the different states of Scott’s texts that the author was fully engaged only in the early stages (manuscripts and proofs, culminating in the first edition), and when preparing the last edition to be published in his lifetime, familiarly known as the Magnum Opus (1829–33). There may be authorial readings in some of the many intermediate editions, and there certainly are in the third edition of Waverley, but not a single intermediate edition of any of the nineteen novels so far investigated shows evidence of sustained authorial involvement. There are thus only two stages in the textual development of the Waverley Novels which might provide a sound basis for a critical edition. Scott’s holograph manuscripts constitute the only purely authorial state of the texts of his novels, for they alone proceed wholly from the author. They are for the most part remarkably coherent, although a close examination shows countless minor revisions made in the process of writing, and usually at least one layer of later revising. But the heaviest revising was usually done by Scott when correcting his proofs, and thus the manuscripts could not constitute the textual basis of a new edition; despite their coherence they are drafts. Furthermore, the holograph does not constitute a public form of the text: Scott’s manuscript punctuation is light (in later novels there are only dashes, full-stops, and speech marks), and his spelling system though generally consistent is personal and idiosyncratic. Scott’s novels were, in theory, anonymous publications—no title page ever carried his name. To maintain the pretence of secrecy, the original manuscripts were copied so that his handwriting should not be seen in the printing house, a practice which prevailed until 1827, when Scott acknowledged his authorship. Until 1827 it was these copies, not Scott’s original manuscripts, which were used by the printers. Not a single leaf of these copies is known to survive but the copyists probably began the tidying and regularising. As with Dickens and Thackeray in a later era, copy was sent to the printers in batches, as Scott wrote and as it was transcribed; the batches were set in type, proof-read, and ultimately printed, while later parts of the novel were still being written. When typesetting, the compositors did not just follow what was before them, but supplied punctuation, normalised spelling, and corrected minor errors. Proofs were first read in-house against the transcripts, and, in addition to the normal checking for mistakes, these proofs were used to improve the punctuation and the spelling. When the initial corrections had been made, a new set of proofs went to James Ballantyne, Scott’s friend and partner in the printing firm

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which bore his name. He acted as editor, not just as proof-reader. He drew Scott’s attention to gaps in the text and pointed out inconsistencies in detail; he asked Scott to standardise names; he substituted nouns for pronouns when they occurred in the first sentence of a paragraph, and inserted the names of speakers in dialogue; he changed incorrect punctuation, and added punctuation he thought desirable; he corrected grammatical errors; he removed close verbal repetitions; and in a cryptic correspondence in the margins of the proofs he told Scott when he could not follow what was happening, or when he particularly enjoyed something. These annotated proofs were sent to the author. Scott usually accepted Ballantyne’s suggestions, but sometimes rejected them. He made many more changes; he cut out redundant words, and substituted the vivid for the pedestrian; he refined the punctuation; he sometimes reworked and revised passages extensively, and in so doing made the proofs a stage in the creative composition of the novels. When Ballantyne received Scott’s corrections and revisions, he transcribed all the changes on to a clean set of proofs so that the author’s hand would not be seen by the compositors. Further revises were prepared. Some of these were seen and read by Scott, but he usually seems to have trusted Ballantyne to make sure that the earlier corrections and revisions had been executed. When doing this Ballantyne did not just read for typesetting errors, but continued the process of punctuating and tidying the text. A final proof allowed the corrections to be inspected and the imposition of the type to be checked prior to printing. Scott expected his novels to be printed; he expected that the printers would correct minor errors, would remove words repeated in close proximity to each other, would normalise spelling, and would insert a printed-book style of punctuation, amplifying or replacing the marks he had provided in manuscript. There are no written instructions to the printers to this effect, but in the proofs he was sent he saw what Ballantyne and his staff had done and were doing, and by and large he accepted it. This assumption of authorial approval is better founded for Scott than for any other writer, for Scott was the dominant partner in the business which printed his work, and no doubt could have changed the practices of his printers had he so desired. It is this history of the initial creation of Scott’s novels that led the editors of the Edinburgh Edition to propose the first editions as base texts. That such a textual policy has been persuasively theorised by Jerome J. McGann in his A Critique of Modern Textual Criticism (1983) is a bonus: he argues that an authoritative work is usually found not in the artist’s manuscript, but in the printed book, and that there is a collective responsibility in converting an author’s manuscript into print, exercised by author, printer and publisher, and governed by the nature of the understanding between the author and the other parties. In Scott’s case

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the exercise of such a collective responsibility produced the first editions of the Waverley Novels. On the whole Scott’s printers fulfilled his expectations. There are normally in excess of 50,000 variants in the first edition of a three-volume novel when compared with the manuscript, and the great majority are in accordance with Scott’s general wishes as described above. But the intermediaries, as the copyist, compositors, proof-readers, and James Ballantyne are collectively described, made mistakes; from time to time they misread the manuscripts, and they did not always understand what Scott had written. This would not have mattered had there not also been procedural failures: the transcripts were not thoroughly checked against the original manuscripts; Scott himself does not seem to have read the proofs against the manuscripts and thus did not notice transcription errors which made sense in their context; Ballantyne continued his editing in post-authorial proofs. Furthermore, it has become increasingly evident that, although in theory Scott as partner in the printing firm could get what he wanted, he also succumbed to the pressure of printer and publisher. He often had to accept mistakes both in names and the spelling of names because they were enshrined in print before he realised what had happened. He was obliged to accept the movement of chapters between volumes, or the deletion or addition of material, in the interests of equalising the size of volumes. His work was subject to bowdlerisation, and to a persistent attempt to have him show a ‘high example’ even in the words put in the mouths of his characters; he regularly objected, but conformed nonetheless. From time to time he inserted, under protest, explanations of what was happening in the narrative because the literal-minded Ballantyne required them. The editors of modern texts have a basic working assumption that what is written by the author is more valuable than what is generated by compositors and proof-readers. Even McGann accepts such a position, and argues that while the changes made in the course of translating the manuscript text into print are a feature of the acceptable ‘socialisation’ of the authorial text, they have authority only to the extent that they fulfil the author’s expectations about the public form of the text. The editors of the Edinburgh Edition normally choose the first edition of a novel as base-text, for the first edition usually represents the culmination of the initial creative process, and usually seems closest to the form of his work Scott wished his public to have. But they also recognise the failings of the first editions, and thus after the careful collation of all pre-publication materials, and in the light of their investigation into the factors governing the writing and printing of the Waverley Novels, they incorporate into the base-text those manuscript readings which were lost in the production process through accident, error, misunderstanding, or a misguided attempt to ‘improve’. In certain cases they also introduce into the base-texts revisions found in editions published almost immediately

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after the first, which they believe to be Scott’s, or which complete the intermediaries’ preparation of the text. In addition, the editors correct various kinds of error, such as typographical and copy-editing mistakes including the misnumbering of chapters, inconsistencies in the naming of characters, egregious errors of fact that are not part of the fiction, and failures of sense which a simple emendation can restore. In doing all this the editors follow the model for editing the Waverley Novels which was provided by Claire Lamont in her edition of Waverley (Oxford, 1981): her base-text is the first edition emended in the light of the manuscript. But they have also developed that model because working on the Waverley Novels as a whole has greatly increased knowledge of the practices and procedures followed by Scott, his printers and his publishers in translating holograph manuscripts into printed books. The result is an ‘ideal’ text, such as his first readers might have read had the production process been less pressurised and more considered. The Magnum Opus could have provided an alternative basis for a new edition. In the Advertisement to the Magnum Scott wrote that his insolvency in 1826 and the public admission of authorship in 1827 restored to him ‘a sort of parental control’, which enabled him to reissue his novels ‘in a corrected and . . . an improved form’. His assertion of authority in word and deed gives the Magnum a status which no editor can ignore. His introductions are fascinating autobiographical essays which write the life of the Author of Waverley. In addition, the Magnum has a considerable significance in the history of culture. This was the first time all Scott’s works of fiction had been gathered together, published in a single uniform edition, and given an official general title, in the process converting diverse narratives into a literary monument, the Waverley Novels. There were, however, two objections to the use of the Magnum as the base-text for the new edition. Firstly, this has been the form of Scott’s work which has been generally available for most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; a Magnum-based text is readily accessible to anyone who wishes to read it. Secondly, a proper recognition of the Magnum does not extend to approving its text. When Scott corrected his novels for the Magnum, he marked up printed books (specially prepared by the binder with interleaves, hence the title the ‘Interleaved Set’), but did not perceive the extent to which these had slipped from the text of the first editions. He had no means of recognising that, for example, over 2000 differences had accumulated between the first edition of Guy Mannering and the text which he corrected, in the 1822 octavo edition of the Novels and Tales of the Author of Waverley. The printed text of Redgauntlet which he corrected, in the octavo Tales and Romances of the Author of Waverley (1827), has about 900 divergences from the first edition, none of which was authorially sanctioned. He himself made about 750 corrections to the text of Guy Mannering and

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200 to Redgauntlet in the Interleaved Set, but those who assisted in the production of the Magnum were probably responsible for a further 1600 changes to Guy Mannering, and 1200 to Redgauntlet. Scott marked up a corrupt text, and his assistants generated a systematically cleanedup version of the Waverley Novels. The Magnum constitutes the author’s final version of his novels and thus has its own value, and as the version read by the great Victorians has its own significance and influence. To produce a new edition based on the Magnum would be an entirely legitimate project, but for the reasons given above the Edinburgh editors have chosen the other valid option. What is certain, however, is that any compromise edition, that drew upon both the first and the last editions published in Scott’s lifetime, would be a mistake. In the past editors, following the example of W. W. Greg and Fredson Bowers, would have incorporated into the firstedition text the introductions, notes, revisions and corrections Scott wrote for the Magnum Opus. This would no longer be considered acceptable editorial practice, as it would confound versions of the text produced at different stages of the author’s career. To fuse the two would be to confuse them. Instead, Scott’s own material in the Interleaved Set is so interesting and important that it will be published separately, and in full, in the two parts of Volume 25 of the Edinburgh Edition. For the first time in print the new matter written by Scott for the Magnum Opus will be wholly visible. The Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels aims to provide the first reliable text of Scott’s fiction. It aims to recover the lost Scott, the Scott which was misunderstood as the printers struggled to set and print novels at high speed in often difficult circumstances. It aims in the Historical and Explanatory Notes and in the Glossaries to illuminate the extraordinary range of materials that Scott weaves together in creating his stories. All engaged in fulfilling these aims have found their enquiries fundamentally changing their appreciation of Scott. They hope that readers will continue to be equally excited and astonished, and to have their understanding of these remarkable novels transformed by reading them in their new guise.   January 1999

WALTER SCOTT

COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS

COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS  

Chapter One Leontius. ——— That power that kindly spreads The clouds, a signal of impending showers, To warn the wandering linnet to the shade, Beheld without concern expiring Greece, And not one prodigy foretold our fate. Demetrius. A thousand horrid prodigies foretold it. A feeble government, eluded laws, A factious populace, luxurious nobles, And all the maladies of sinking states. When public villainy, too strong for justice, Shows his bold front, the harbinger of ruin, Can brave Leontius call for airy wonders, Which cheats interpret, and which fools regard? Irene, Act I

T   observers of vegetable nature have remarked, that when a new graft is taken from an old tree, it possesses indeed in exterior form the appearance of a youthful shoot, but has in fact attained to the same state of maturity, or even decay, which has been reached by the parent stem. Hence, it is said, the general decline, and death, that about the same season is often observed to spread itself through individual trees of some particular species, all of which, deriving their vital powers from the parent stock, are therefore incapable of protracting their existence longer than it does. In the same manner, efforts have been made by the mighty of the earth to transplant large cities, states, and communities, by one great and sudden exertion, attempting to secure to the new capital the wealth, the dignity, the magnificent decorations and unlimited extent of the ancient city, which they desire to renovate; while, at the same time, they begin a new succession of ages from the date of the new building, to last, they may suppose, as long, and with as much fame, as 3

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its predecessor, which the founder hopes his new metropolis may replace in all its youthful glories. But nature has her laws, which seem to apply to the social system, as well as the vegetable. It appears a general rule, that what is to last long should be slowly matured and gradually improved, while every short-hand effort, however gigantic, at speedy execution of a plan calculated to endure for ages, exhibits symptoms of premature decay from its very commencement. Thus, in a beautiful Oriental tale, a dervise explains to a sultan how he had reared the magnificent trees among which they walked, by nursing their shoots from the seed; and it damps the prince’s pride to reflect that those plantations were gathering new vigour from each returning sun, while his exhausted cedars, which had been transplanted by one violent effort, were drooping their majestic heads in the Valley of Orez.* It has been allowed, I believe, by all men of taste, many of whom have been late visitants of Constantinople, that if it were possible to survey the whole globe with a view to fixing a seat of universal empire, all who are capable of making such a choice, would give their preference to the city of Constantine, as including the great recommendations of beauty, wealth, security, and eminence. Yet with all these advantages, of situation and climate, the architectural splendour of its churches and halls, its quarries of marble, and its mines of gold, the imperial founder must himself have learned, that although he could employ all these rich materials in obedience to his own wish, it was the mind of man itself, those intellectual faculties refined by the ancients to the highest degree, which had produced the specimens of talent, at which men paused and wondered, whether as subjects of art or of moral labour. The power of the Emperor might indeed strip other cities of their statues and their shrines, in order to decorate that which he had fixed upon as his new capital; but the men who did great actions, and those, almost equally esteemed, by whom such deeds were celebrated, in poetry, in painting, and in music, had ceased to exist. The nation, though still the most civilized in the world, had passed beyond that period of society, when the desire of fair fame is of itself the sole or chief motive for the labour of the historian or the poet, the painter or the statuary, while in their turn they confer upon those whom they consider as meriting it, a species of immortality. The slavish and despotic constitution introduced into the empire, had long since entirely destroyed that public spirit which animated the free history of Rome, leaving nothing but feeble recollections, which produced no emulation. To speak as of an animated substance, if Constantine could have * Tale of Mirglip the Persian, in the Tales of the Genii.

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regenerated his new metropolis, by transfusing into it the vital and vivifying principles of old Rome, the national energy by which she had been for ages led on from victory to victory might have secured for a long period the existence of a great and powerful empire, but that brilliant spark no longer remained for Constantinople to borrow, or Rome to lend. In one most important circumstance Constantine had totally changed the custom of his country, and unspeakably to its advantage. The world was now Christian, and, with the Pagan code, had got rid of its load of disgraceful superstition. Nor is there the least doubt, that the better faith produced its natural and desirable fruits in society, and gradually ameliorated the hearts, and tamed the passions, of the human race. But while many of the converts were turning themselves meekly towards their new creed, some, in the arrogance of their understanding, were limiting the Scriptures by their own devices, and others failed not to make religious character or spiritual rank the means of rising to temporal power. Thus it happened at this critical period, that the effects of this great change in the religion of the country, although producing an immediate harvest, as well as sowing much good seed which was to grow hereafter, did not, in the fourth century, flourish so as to shed at once that predominating influence which its principles might have taught men to expect. Even the borrowed splendour, in which Constantine decked his city, bore in it something which seemed to mark premature decay. The imperial founder, in seizing upon the ancient statues, pictures, obelisks, and works of art, acknowledged his own incapacity to supply their absence with the productions of later genius; and when the world, and particularly Rome, was plundered to adorn Constantinople, the Emperor’s usage of these two cities might be compared to the conduct of a prodigal youth, who strips an aged parent of her youthful ornaments, in order to decorate a flaunting paramour, on whose brow all must consider them as misplaced or misemployed. Constantinople, therefore, when in 324 it first arose in imperial majesty out of the humble Byzantium, showed even in its birth, and amid its adventitious splendour, some intimations of that speedy decay to which the whole civilized world, then limited within the Roman empire, was secretly and internally liable. Nor was it many ages ere these prognostications were fully verified. In the year 1080, Alexius Comnenus ascended the throne of the Empire; that is, he was declared sovereign of Constantinople, and its precincts and dependencies; nor, if he was disposed to lead a life of relaxation, would the savage incursions of the Scythians or the Hungarians often disturb the imperial slumbers, if limited to his own

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capital. It may be supposed that this safety did not extend much farther; for it is said that the Empress Pulcheria had built a church to the Virgin Mary, as remote as possible from the gate of the city, to save her devotions from the risk of being interrupted by the hostile yell of the barbarians, and the reigning Emperor had constructed a palace near the same spot, and for the same reason. Alexius Comnenus was in the condition of a monarch who rather derives consequence from the wealth and importance of his predecessors, and the great extent of their original dominion, than from that portion of it which has descended to the present generation. This Emperor, except nominally, no more ruled over his dismembered provinces, than a half-dead horse can exercise power over those limbs, on which the hooded crow and the vulture have already begun to settle and select their prey. In different parts of his territory, different enemies arose, who waged successful or dubious war against Alexius Comnenus; and, of the numerous nations with whom he was engaged, whether the Franks from the west, the Turks advancing from the east, the Cumans and Scythians pouring their barbarous numbers and unceasing storm of arrows from the north, and the Saracens, or the tribes into which they were divided, pressing from the south, not one was there to whom the Grecian empire did not spread a feast of repast. Each of these various enemies had their own particular habits of war, and a way of manœuvring in battle peculiar to themselves. But the Roman, as the unfortunate subject of the Greek empire was still called, was by far the weakest, most ignorant, and most timid, who could be dragged into the field; and the Emperor was happy in his own good luck, when he found it possible to conduct a defensive war on a counterbalancing principle, making use of the Scythian to repel the Turk, or of both these savage people to drive back the fiery-footed Frank, whom Peter the Hermit had, in the time of Alexius, waked to double the national fury, by the influence of the crusades. If, therefore, Alexius Comnenus was, during his anxious seat upon the throne of the East, reduced to abide by a base and truckling kind of policy,—if he was sometimes reluctant to fight when he was afraid to advance without receiving any support,—if he commonly employed cunning and dissimulation instead of wisdom, and perfidy instead of courage—his expedients were the disgrace of the age, rather than his own. Again, the Emperor Alexius may be blamed for affecting a degree of state which was closely allied to imbecility. He was proud of assuming himself, and bestowing upon others, the painted show of various orders of nobility, not devised until now, when the rank within the

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prince’s gift was become an additional reason for the free barbarian despising the imperial noble. That the court was encumbered with unmeaning ceremonies, in order to make amends for the want of that veneration which could not be called forth by a respect for real worth, and a sensation of the presence of actual power, was not the particular fault of that prince, but had belonged to the system of the government of Constantinople for ages. Indeed, in its trumpery etiquette, which provided rules for the most trivial points of a man’s behaviour during the day, the Greek empire resembled no existing power in its minute follies, except that of Pekin, and both, doubtless, from the same reason, the wish to add seriousness and an appearance of importance to objects, which, in their trivial nature, can admit no such distinction. Yet thus far we must justify Alexius, that, humble as were the expedients he had recourse to, they were more useful to his empire than those to which a more proud and high-spirited prince would have resorted. He was no champion to break a lance against the breastplate of his Frankish rival, the famous Bohemond of Antioch, but there were many occasions on which he hazarded his life freely; and, so far as we can see, from a minute perusal of his achievements, the Emperor of Greece was never so dangerous “under shield,” as when any foeman desired to stop him while in the retreat from a conflict in which he was worsted. But, besides that he did not hesitate, according to the custom of the time, at least occasionally to commit his person to the perils of close combat, Alexius also possessed the knowledge of a general’s profession which is required in our modern days. He knew how to occupy ground in the wisest manner, and often recovered defeats, or improved dubious conflicts to his own advantage, in a manner highly to the disappointment of those who deemed that the work of war was only done on the field of battle. If Alexius Comnenus thus understood the evolutions of war, he was still better skilled in those of politics, where, soaring far above the express purpose of his immediate negotiation, he was sure to gain some important and permanent advantage; though very often he was ultimately defeated by the unblushing fickleness, or avowed treachery, of the barbarians, as the Greeks generally called all other nations, and particularly those nations by which their own empire was surrounded. We may conclude our brief character of Comnenus, by declaring, that, had he not been called on to fill the station of a monarch who was under the necessity of making himself dreaded, as one who was exposed to all manner of conspiracies, both in and out of his own family, he might have laid claim to be regarded, in all probability, as an

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honest and humane prince. Certainly he showed himself a goodnatured man, and dealt less in cutting off heads and extinguishing eyes, being the manner which his predecessors took to mortify ambition in competitors, than it had been their practice to do. It remains to be mentioned, that Alexius had his full share of the superstition of the age, and lacquered it over with a species of hypocrisy, which was meant to give it the appearance of pure religion. His wife, Irene, who of course was best acquainted with his artificial character, taxed her dying husband with practising, in his last moments, the dissimulation which had been his companion during life. He took also a deep interest in all matters respecting the church, where heresy, which the Emperor held, or affected to hold, in great horror, appeared to him to lurk. Nor do we discover in his treatment of the Manichæans, or Paulicians, that pity for their speculative errors, which modern times might think had been well purchased by the extent of the temporal services of these unfortunate sectaries. Alexius knew no indulgence for those who misinterpreted the mysteries of the church, or of its doctrines; and the duty of defending religion against schismatics was, in his opinion, as peremptorily demanded from him, as that of protecting the empire against the numberless tribes of barbarians who were encroaching on its boundaries upon every side. Such a mixture of sense and weakness, of meanness and dignity, of prudent discretion and a poverty of spirit, which, in the European mode of viewing things, approached to cowardice, formed the leading traits of Alexius Comnenus, at a period when the fate of Greece, and all that was left in it of art and civilisation, was trembling in the balance, and likely to be saved or lost, according to the abilities of the Emperor for playing the extraordinarily difficult game which was put into his hands. These few leading circumstances will recall, to any one who is tolerably well read in history, the peculiarities of the period at which we have found a resting place for the foundation of our story. Like an expert architect, if we cannot find a favourable point of rock, which is always to be sought for as the most stable foundation of an arch, we can supply its place with one of piles, in which it is hoped the reader will find little difference.

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Chapter Two Othus.———This superb successor Of the earth’s mistress, as thou vainly speakest, Stands midst these ages as, on the wide ocean, The last spared fragment of a spacious land, That in some grand and awful ministration Of mighty nature has engulfed been, Doth lift aloft its dark and rocky cliffs O’er the wild waste around, and sadly frowns In lonely majesty. Constantine Paleologus, Scene I

O   in the capital of the Eastern Empire opens at what is termed the Golden Gate of Constantinople; and it may be said in passing, that this splendid epithet is not so lightly bestowed as may be expected from the inflated language of the Greeks, which throws such an appearance of exaggeration about them, their buildings, and monuments. The massive, and seemingly impregnable walls with which Constantine surrounded the city, were greatly improved and added to by Theodosius, called the Great. A triumphal arch, decorated with the architecture of a better, though already a degenerate age, and serving, at the same time, as an useful entrance, introduced the stranger into the city. On the top, a statue of bronze represented Victory, being her who had inclined the scales of battle in favour of Theodosius; and, as the Founder determined to be wealthy if he could not be tasteful, the gilded ornaments with which the inscriptions were set off, readily led to the popular name of the gate. Figures carved in a distant and happier period of the art, glanced from the walls, without assorting fortunately with the taste in which they were built. The more modern ornaments of the Golden Gate bore, at the period of our story, an aspect very different from those indicating the “conquest brought back to the city,” and “the eternal peace” which the flattering inscriptions assured their readers had been extorted by the sword of Theodosius. Four or five military engines, for throwing darts of the largest size, were placed upon the summit of the arch; and what had been originally calculated as a specimen of architectural embellishment, was now applied to the purposes of defence. It was the hour of evening, and the cool and refreshing breeze from the sea inclined each passenger, whose business was not of an express nature, to loiter on his way, and cast a glance at the romantic gateway, and the various interesting objects of nature and art which the city of Constantinople presented, as well to inmates as to strangers.

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One individual, however, seemed to indulge more wonder and curiosity than could have been expected from a native of the city, and looked upon the rarities around with a quick and startled eye, that marked an imagination awakened by sights that were new and strange. The appearance of this person bespoke a foreigner of military habits, who seemed, from his complexion, to have his birthplace far from the Grecian metropolis, whatever chance had at present brought him to the Golden Gate, or whatever rank he filled in the Emperor’s service. This young man was about two-and-twenty years old, remarkably finely-formed and athletic—qualities well understood by the citizens of Constantinople, whom their habits of frequenting the public games had taught at least an acquaintance with thewes and sinews, and where, in the select of their own countrymen, they saw the handsomest specimens of the human race. These were, however, not generally so tall as the stranger at the Golden Gate, while his piercing blue eyes, and the fair hair which descended from under a light helmet gaily ornamented with silver, and bearing on its summit a crest resembling a dragon in the act of expanding its terrible jaws, intimated a northern descent, to which the extreme purity of his complexion also bore witness. His beauty, however, though he was really a handsome young man in features and in person, was not liable to the charge of effeminacy. From this it was rescued, both by his size, and by the confident and self-possessed air with which the youth seemed to regard the wonders around him, not indicating the stupid and helpless gaze of a mind equally inexperienced and incapable of receiving instruction, but expressing the bold intellect which at once understands the information which it receives, and commands the spirit to toil in search of the meaning of that which it has not comprehended, or may fear it has misinterpreted. This look of awakened attention and intelligence gave interest to the young barbarian; and while the bystanders were amazed that a savage from some unknown or remote corner of the universe should possess a noble countenance bespeaking a mind so elevated, they respected him for the composure with which he witnessed so many things, the fashion, the splendour, nay, the very use of which, must be new to him. The young man’s personal equipments exhibited a singular mixture of splendour and effeminacy, and enabled the experienced spectators to ascertain his nation, and the capacity in which he served. We have already mentioned the fanciful and crested helmet, which was a distinction of the foreigner, to which the reader must add in his imagination a small cuirass, or breastplate of silver, so sparingly fashioned as obviously to afford little security to the broad chest, on which it rather hung like an ornament than covered it as a buckler; nor, if a

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well-thrown dart, or strongly-shod arrow, should alight full on this rich piece of armour, was there much hope that it could protect the bosom which it partially shielded. From the shoulders betwixt the armour hung down upon the back what seemed to be a bearskin; but, more closely examined, it was only a very skilful imitation of the spoils of the chase, being in reality composed of strong shaggy silk, so woven as to form, at a little distance, no inaccurate representation of a bear’s hide. A light crooked sword, or scimitar, sheathed in a scabbard of gold and ivory, hung by the left side of the stranger, the ornamented hilt of which appeared much too small for the large-jointed hand of the young Hercules who was thus gaily attired. A dress, purple in colour, and sitting close to the limbs, covered the body of the soldier to a little above the knee; from thence the knees and legs were bare to the calf, to which the reticulated strings of the sandals rose from the instep, the ligatures being there fixed by a golden coin of the reigning Emperor, converted into a species of clasp for the purpose. But a weapon which seemed actually adapted to the young barbarian’s size, and unfit to be used by a man of less formidable limbs and sinews than his own, was a battle-axe, the firm iron-guarded staff of which was formed of tough elm, strongly inlaid and defended with brass, while many a plate and ring was indented in the handle, to hold the wood and the steel parts together. The axe itself was composed of two blades, turning different ways, with a sharp steel spike projecting from between them. The steel part was burnished as bright as a mirror; and though its ponderous size must have been burdensome to one weaker than himself, yet the young soldier carried it as carelessly along with him, as if it were but a feather’s weight. It was, indeed, a skilfully constructed weapon, so well balanced, that it was much lighter in striking and in recovery, than he who saw it in the hands of another could easily have believed. The carrying arms of itself showed that the individual was a stranger. The native Greeks had that mark of a civilized people, that they never bore weapons during the time of peace, unless the wearer chanced to be numbered among those whose military profession and employment required them to be always in arms. Such soldiers by profession were easily distinguished from the peaceful citizens; and it was with some evident show of fear as well as dislike, that the passengers observed to each other that the stranger was a Varangian, an expression which intimated a barbarian of the imperial body-guard. To supply the deficiency of valour among his own subjects, and to find soldiers who should be personally dependent on the Emperor, the Greek sovereigns had been, for a great many years, in the use of

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maintaining in their pay, as near their person as they could, the steady services of a select number of mercenaries in the capacity of bodyguards, which were numerous enough, when their steady discipline and inflexible loyalty were taken in conjunction with their personal strength and indomitable courage, to defeat, not only any traitorous attempt on the imperial person, but open rebellions, unless such as were supported by a great proportion of the military force. Their pay was therefore liberal; their rank and established character for prowess gave them a degree of consideration among the people, whose reputation for valour had not for some ages stood high; and if, as foreigners, and the members of a privileged body, the Varangians were sometimes employed in arbitrary and unpopular actions, the natives were so apt to fear, while they disliked them, that the hardy strangers disturbed themselves but little about the light in which they were regarded by the inhabitants of Constantinople. Their dress and accoutrements, while within the city, partook of the rich, or rather gaudy costume, which we have described, having only a sort of affected resemblance to that which the Varangians wore in their native forests. But the individuals of this select corps were, when their services were required beyond the city, furnished with armour and weapons more resembling those which they were accustomed to wield in their own country, possessing much less of the splendour of war, and a far greater portion of its effective terrors. This body of Varangians (which term is, according to one interpretation, merely a general expression for barbarians) was, in an early age of the empire, formed out of roving and piratical inhabitants of the north, whom a love of adventure, the greatest that ever was indulged, and a contempt of danger, which never had a parallel in the history of human nature, drove forth upon the pathless ocean. “Piracy,” says Gibbon, with his usual spirit, “was the exercise, the trade, the glory, and the virtue of the Scandinavian youth. Impatient of a bleak climate and narrow limits, they started from the banquet, grasped their arms, sounded their horn, ascended their ships, and explored every coast that promised either spoil or settlement.”* The conquests made in France and Britain by these wild sea-kings, as they were called, have obscured the remembrance of other northern champions, who, long before the time of Comnenus, made excursions as far as Constantinople, and witnessed with their own eyes the wealth and the weakness of the Grecian empire itself. Numbers found their way thither through the pathless wastes of Russia; others navigated the Mediterranean in their sea-serpents, as they termed their piratical vessels. The Emperors, terrified at the appearance of these daring * Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Chapter LV. Vol. X. p. 221, 8vo edition.

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inhabitants of the frozen zone, had recourse to the usual policy of a rich and unwarlike people, bought with gold the service of their swords, and thus formed a corps of satellites more distinguished for valour than the famed Prætorian Bands of Rome, and, perhaps because fewer in number, unalterably loyal to their new princes. But, at a later period of the empire, it began to be more difficult to obtain recruits for this favourite and selected corps, the northern nations having now in a great measure laid aside the piratical and roving habits, which had driven their ancestors from the straits of Elsinore to those of Sestos and Abydos. The corps of the Varangians must have died out, or have been filled up with less worthy materials, had not the conquests obtained by the Normans in the far distant west, sent to the aid of Alexius Comnenus a large body of the dispossessed inhabitants of the islands of Britain, and particularly of England. These were, in fact, Anglo-Saxons; but, in the confused idea of geography received at the court of Constantinople, they were naturally enough called Anglo-Danes, as their native country was confounded with the Thule of the ancients, by which expression the archipelago of Zetland and Orkney is properly to be understood, though, in the ideas of the Greeks, it comprised either Denmark or Britain. The emigrants, however, spoke a language not very dissimilar to the original Varangians, and adopted the name more readily, that it seemed to remind them of their unhappy fate, being in one sense capable of being interpreted as exiles. Excepting one or two chief commanders, whom the Emperor judged worthy of such high trust, the Varangians were officered by men of their own nation; and with so many privileges, being joined by many of their countrymen from time to time, whom the crusades, pilgrimages, or discontent at home, drove to the east, the Varangians subsisted in strength to the last days of the Greek empire, retaining their native language, along with the unblemished loyalty, and the martial spirit, which characterised their fathers. This account of the Varangian guard is strictly true, and might be proved by reference to the Byzantine historians; most of whom, and also Villehardouin’s account of the taking of the city of Constantinople by the Franks and Venetians, make repeated mention of this celebrated and singular body of Englishmen, forming a mercenary guard attendant on the person of the Greek Emperors.* Having said enough to explain why an individual Varangian should be strolling about the Golden Gate, we may proceed in the story which we have commenced. * Ducange has poured forth a tide of learning on this curious subject, which will be found in his Notes on Villehardouin’s Constantinople under the French Emperors.—Paris, 1657, folio, p. 296. G     ’ History may also be consulted, Vol. X. p. 221.

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Let it not be thought extraordinary, that this soldier of the lifeguard should be looked upon with some degree of curiosity by the passing citizens. It must be supposed, that, from their peculiar duties, they were not encouraged to hold frequent intercourse or communication with the inhabitants, and, besides, that they had duties of police occasionally to exercise amongst them, which made them generally more dreaded than beloved, while they were at the same time conscious, that their high pay, splendid appointments, and immediate dependence on the Emperor, were subjects of envy with the other forces. They, therefore, kept much in the neighbourhood of their own barracks, and seldom were seen straggling remote from them, unless they had a commission of government to execute. This being the case, it was natural that a people so curious as the Greeks should busy themselves in eyeing the stranger as he loitered in one spot, or wandered to and fro, like a man who either could not find some place which he was seeking, or failed to meet some person with whom he had an appointment, for which the ingenuity of the passengers found a thousand different and inconsistent reasons. “A Varangian,” said one citizen to another, “and set there, I presume to say in your ear——” “What do you imagine is his object?” enquired the party to whom this information was addressed. “Gods and goddesses! do you think I can tell you? but suppose that he is lurking here to hear what folks say of the Emperor,” answered the quidnunc of Constantinople. “That is not likely,” said the querist; “these Varangians do not speak our language, and are not extremely well fitted for spies, since few of them pretend to any intelligible notion of the Grecian tongue. It is not likely, I think, that the Emperor would employ as a spy a man who did not understand it.” “But if there are, as all men fancy,” answered the politician, “persons among these barbarian soldiers who can speak the language itself, you will admit they are excellently qualified for seeing clearly around them, since they possess the talent of beholding and reporting, while no one has the slightest idea of suspecting them.” “It may well be,” replied his companion; “but since we see so clearly the fox’s foot and paws protruding from beneath the seeming sheep’s fleece, or rather, by your leave, the bear’s hide yonder, had we not better be jogging homeward, ere it be pretended we have insulted the Varangian guards?” This surmise of danger insinuated by the last speaker, who was a much older and a more experienced politician than his friend, alarmed his companion. They adjusted their cloaks, caught hold of each other’s

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arm, and, speaking fast and thick as they started new subjects of suspicion, they sped, close coupled together, towards their habitations, in a different and distant quarter of the town. In the meantime, the sunset was nigh over; and the long shadows of the walls, bulwarks, and arches, were projecting from the westward in deeper and blacker shade. The Varangian seemed tired of the short and lingering circle in which he had trodden for more than an hour, and in which he still loitered like an unliberated spirit, which cannot leave the haunted spot till licensed by the spell which has brought it thither. Even so the barbarian, casting an impatient glance to the sun, which was setting in a blaze of light amid a rich grove of cypress-trees, looked for some accommodation on the benches of stone which were placed under shadow of the triumphal arch of Theodosius, drew the axe, which was his principal weapon, close to his side, wrapped his cloak about him, and, though his dress was not in other respects a fit attire for slumber, yet in less than three minutes he was fast asleep. The irresistible impulse which induced him to seek for repose in a place very indifferently fitted for the purpose, might be weariness consequent upon the military vigils, which had proved a part of his duty on the preceding evening. At the same time, his spirit was so awakened within him, even while he gave way to this transient fit of oblivion, that he remained watchful even with shut eyes, and no hound ever seemed to sleep more lightly than our Anglo-Saxon at the Golden Gate of Constantinople. The slumberer now, however, as the loiterer before, was the subject of observation to the accidental passengers. Two men entered the porch in company. One was a little slight-made, but alert-looking man, by name Lysimachus, and by profession a designer. A roll of paper in his hand, with a satchel containing a few chalks, or pencils, completed his stock in trade; and his acquaintance with the remains of ancient art gave him a power of talking on the subject, which unfortunately bore very little proportion to his talents of execution. His companion, a magnificent-looking man in form, and so far resembling the young barbarian, but more clownish and peasant-like in expression of countenance, was Stephanos the wrestler, well known in the Palestra. “Stop here, my friend,” said the artist, producing his pencils, “till I make a sketch for my youthful Hercules.” “I thought Hercules had been a Greek,” said the wrestler. “This sleeping animal is a barbarian.” The tone intimated some offence, and the designer hastened to soothe his companion’s personal vanity. Stephanos, known by the surname of Castor, who was in the first reputation for gymnastic exercises, was a sort of patron to Lysimachus, and not unlikely by his

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own reputation to bring credit to the sculptor, if the model of him which he had planned was happily executed. “Beauty and strength,” said the adroit artist, “are of no particular nation; and may our Muse never deign me her prize, but it is my greatest pleasure to compare them, when they exist in the uncultivated savage of the north, and when they are found in the darling of an enlightened people, who has added the height of gymnastic skill to the most distinguished natural qualities, such as we can now only see in the works of Phidias and Praxiteles—or in our living model of the gymnastic champions of antiquity.” “Nay, I acknowledge that the Varangian is a proper man,” said Stephanos, with more self-complacence; “but the poor savage hath not, perhaps in his lifetime, had a single drop of oil on his bosom! Hercules instituted the Isthmian Games”—— “But, hold! what sleeps he with, wrapt so close in his bear-skin?” said the artist. “Is it a club?” “Away, away, my friend!” cried Stephanos, as they looked closer on the sleeper. “Do you not know that is the instrument of their barbarous office? They do not war with swords or lances, as if destined to attack men of flesh and blood; but with maces and axes, as if they were to hack limbs of stone, and sinews of oak. I will wager my crown [of withered parsley] that he lies here to arrest some distinguished warrior who has offended the government! He would not have been thus formidably armed otherwise—Away, away, good Lysimachus; let us respect the slumbers of the bear.” So saying, the champion of the Palestra made off with less confidence than his size and strength might have inspired. Others, now thinly straggling, passed onward as the evening closed, and the shadows of the cypress-trees fell darker around. Two females of the lower rank cast their eyes on the sleeper. “Holy Maria!” said one, “if he does not put me in mind of the Eastern slave’s tale, how the Genie brought a gallant young prince from his nuptial chamber in Egypt, and left him sleeping at the gate of Damascus. I will awake the poor lamb, lest he catch harm from the night dew.” “Harm?” answered the older and crosser-looking woman. “Ay, such harm as the cold water of the Cydnus does to the wild swan. A lamb?—ay, forsooth! Why he’s a wolf or a bear, at least a Varangian, and no modest matron would exchange a word with such an unmannered barbarian. I’ll tell you what one of these English Danes did to me——” So saying, she drew on her companion, who followed with some reluctance, seeming to listen to her gabble, while she looked back upon the sleeper.

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The total disappearance of the sun, and nearly at the same time the departure of the twilight, which lasts so short time in that region—one of the few advantages which a more temperate climate possesses over it—gave signal to the warders of the city to shut the folding leaves of the Golden Gate, leaving a wicket lightly bolted for the passage of those whom business might have detained too late without the walls, and indeed for all who chose to pay a small coin. The position and apparent insensibility of the Varangian did not escape those who had charge of the gate, of whom there was a strong guard which belonged to the ordinary Greek forces. “By Castor and by Pollux,” said the centurion,—for the Greeks swore by the ancient deities, although they no longer worshipped them, and preserved those military distinctions with which “the steady Romans shook the world,” although they were altogether degenerated from their original manners,—“By Castor and Pollux, comrades, we cannot gather gold in this gate, according to its name; yet it will be our fault if we gather not in a goodly crop of silver; and though the golden age be the most ancient and honourable, yet in this degenerate time it is much if we see a glimpse of the inferior metal.” “Unworthy are we to follow the noble centurion Harpax,” answered one of the soldiers of the watch, who showed the shaven head and the single tuft of a Mussulman, “if we do not hold silver a sufficient cause to bestir ourselves, when there is no gold to be had—as, by the faith of an honest man, I think we can hardly tell its colour,—whether out of the imperial treasury, or obtained at the expense of individuals, for many long moons.” “But this silver,” said the centurion, “thou shalt see with thine own eye, and hear it ring a knell in the purse which holds our common stock.” “Which did hold it, as thou wouldst say, most valiant commander,” replied the inferior warder; “but what that purse holds now, save a few miserable oboli for purchasing certain pickled potherbs and salt fish, to relish our allowance of stummed wine, I cannot tell, but willingly give my share of the contents to the devil, if either purse or platter exhibits any age richer than the age of copper.” “I will replenish our treasury,” said the centurion, “were our stocks yet lower than they are. Stand up close by the wicket, my masters. Bethink you, we are the imperial guards, or the guards of the Imperial City, it is all one, and let us have no man rush past us on a sudden;— and now that we are on our guard, I will unfold to you——But stop— are we all here true brothers? Do all well understand the ancient and laudable customs of our watch,—keeping all things secret which concern the profit and advantage of this our vigil, and aiding and abetting

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the common cause, without information or treachery?” “You are strangely suspicious to-night,” answered the sentinel. “Methinks we have stood by you without tale-telling in matters which were more weighty. Have you forgot the passage of the jeweller—that this was neither the gold nor silver age; but if there were a diamond one”—— “Peace, good Ismail the Infidel,” said the centurion,—“for, I thank Heaven, we are of all religions, so it is to be hoped we must have the true one amongst us,—Peace, I say; it is unnecessary to prove thou canst keep new secrets, by ripping up old ones. Come hither—look through the wicket to the stone bench, on the shady side of the grand porch—tell me, old lad, what dost thou see there?” “A man asleep,” said Ismail. “By Heaven, I think from what I can see by the moonlight, that it is one of those barbarians, one of those island dogs, whom the Emperor sets such store by!” “And can thy fertile brain,” said the centurion, “spin nothing out of his present situation, tending towards our advantage?” “Why, ay,” said Ismail; “they have large pay, though they are not only barbarians, but pagan dogs, in comparison with us Moslems and Nazarenes. That fellow hath besotted himself with liquor, and hath not found his way home to his barracks in good time. He will be severely punished, unless we consent to admit him; and to prevail on us to do so, he must empty the contents of his girdle.” “That, at least—that, at least,” answered the soldiers of the city watch, but carefully suppressing their voices, though they spoke in an eager tone. “And is that all that you would make of such an opportunity?” said Harpax, scornfully. “No, no, comrades. If this outlandish animal should indeed escape us, he must at least leave his fleece behind. See you not the gleams from his head-piece and his cuirass? I presume these betoken substantial silver, though it may be of the thinnest. There lies the silver mine I spoke of, open for enriching the dexterous hands who shall labour it.” “But,” said timidly a young Greek, a companion of their watch lately enlisted in the corps, and unacquainted with their habits, “still this barbarian, as you call him, is a soldier of the Emperor; and if we are convicted of depriving him of his arms, we shall be justly punished for a great crime.” “Hear to a new Lycurgus come to teach us our duty! Learn first,” said the centurion, “learn, young man, that the metropolitan cohort never can commit a crime, and learn next, of course, that they can never be convicted of one. Suppose we found a straggling barbarian, a Varangian, like this slumberer, perhaps a Frank, or some other of

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these foreigners bearing unpronounceable names, while they dishonour us by putting on the arms and apparel of the real Roman soldier, are we, all night placed to defend an important post, to admit a man so suspicious into our postern, when the event may probably be to betray both the Golden Gate and the hearts of steel who guard it,—to have the one seized, and the throats of the others handsomely cut?” “Keep him without side the gate then,” replied the novice, “if you think him so dangerous. For my part, I should not mind, were he deprived of that huge double-edged axe, which gleams from under his cloak, having a more deadly glare than the comet which astrologers prophesy such things of.” “Nay, then we agree together,” answered Harpax, “and you speak like a youth of modesty and sense; and I promise you the state will lose nothing in the despoiling of this same barbarian. Each of these savages hath a double set of accoutrements, the one wrought with gold, silver, inlaid work, and ivory, as becomes their duties in the prince’s household; the other formed of triple steel, strong, weighty, and irresistible. Now, in taking from this suspicious character his silver helmet and cuirass, we do but secure them against their being used for treasonable purposes; while, if the barbarian be honestly minded, he has weapons and armour at his quarters far meeter to be used in defence of the Emperor.” “Yes,” said the novice; “but I do not see that this reasoning will do more than warrant us stripping the Varangian of his armour, to be afterwards heedfully returned to him on the morrow, if he proves a true man. Now, I know not, but I had adopted some idea that it was to be confiscated for our joint behoof.” “Unquestionably,” said Harpax; “for such has been the rule of our watch ever since the days of the excellent centurion Sisyphus, in whose time it was first determined, that all contraband commodities, or suspicious weapons, or the like, which were brought into the city during the night-watch, should be uniformly forfeited to the use of the soldiery upon guard; and where the Emperor finds the goods or arms unjustly seized, I hope he is rich enough to make it up to the sufferer.” “But still—but still,” said Sebastes of Mitylene, the young Greek aforesaid, “were the Emperor to discover”—— “Ass!” replied Harpax, “he cannot discover if he had all the eyes of Argus’s tail.—Here are twelve of us, sworn according to the rules of the watch to abide in the same story. Here is a barbarian, who, if he remembers any thing of the matter—which I greatly doubt—his choice of a lodging argues his familiarity with the wine-pot—tells but a wild tale of losing his armour, which we, my masters,” (looking round to his companions,) “deny stoutly—I hope we have courage

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enough for that—and which party will be believed? The companions of the watch, surely.” “Quite the contrary,” said Sebastes. “I was born at a distance from hence; yet, even in the island of Mitylene, the renown had reached me that the cavaliers of the city-guard of Constantinople were so accomplished at falsehood, that the oath of a single barbarian would outweigh the Christian oath of the whole body.” “And if it were so,” said the centurion, with a gloomy and sinister look, “there is another way of making the transaction a safe one.” Sebastes, fixing his eye on his commander, moved his hand to the hilt of an Eastern poniard which he wore, as if to penetrate his exact meaning. The centurion nodded in acquiescence. “Young as I am,” said Sebastes, “I have been a pirate five years at sea, and a robber three years now in the hills, and it is the first time I have seen or heard a man hesitate, in such a case, to take the only part which is worth a brave man’s while to resort to in a pressing affair.” Harpax struck his hand into that of the soldier, as sharing his uncompromising sentiments; but when he spoke, it was in a tremulous voice. “How shall we deal with him?” said he to Sebastes, who, from the lowest in the corps, had now risen to the highest place in his estimation. “Any how,” returned the islander; “I see bows here and shafts, and if no other person can use them——” “They are not,” said the centurion, “the regular arms of our corps.” “The fitter you to guard the gates of a city,” said the young soldier with a horse-laugh, which had something insulting in it. “Well—be it so. I can shoot like a Scythian,” he proceeded; “nod but with your head, one shaft shall crash among the splinters of his skull and his brains; the second shall quiver in his heart.” “Bravo, my noble comrade!” said Harpax, in a tone of affected rapture, always lowering his voice, however, as respecting the slumbers of the Varangian. “Such were the robbers of ancient days, the Diomedes, Corynetes, Synnes, Scyron, Procrustes, whom it required demigods to bring to what was miscalled justice, and whose undaunted fellows shall remain masters of the continent and the isles, until Hercules and Theseus shall again appear upon earth. Nevertheless, shoot not, my valiant Sebastes—draw not the bow, my invaluable Mitylenian; you may wound and not kill.” “I am little wont to do so,” said Sebastes, again repeating the hoarse, chuckling, discordant laugh, which grated upon the ears of the centurion, though he could hardly tell the reason why it was so uncommonly unpleasant.

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“If I look not about me,” was his internal reflection, “we shall have two centurions of the watch, instead of one. This Mitylenian, or be he who the devil will, is a bow’s length beyond me. I must keep my eye on him.” He then spoke aloud, in a tone of authority. “But come, young man, it is hard to discourage a young beginner. If you have been such a rover of wood and river as you tell us of, you know how to play the Sicarius: there lies your object, drunk or asleep, we know not which; —you will deal with him in either case.” “Will you give me no odds to stab a stupified or drunken man, most noble centurion?” answered the Greek. “You would perhaps love the commission yourself.” “Do as you are directed, friend,” said Harpax, pointing to the turret staircase which led down from the battlement to the arched entrance underneath the porch. “He has the true cat-like stealthy pace,” half muttered the centurion, as his sentinel descended to do such a crime as he was posted there to prevent. “This cockerel’s comb must be cut, or he will become king of the roost. But let us see if his hand be as resolute as his tongue; then we will consider what turn to give to the conclusion.” As Harpax spoke between his teeth, and rather to himself than any of his companions, the Mitylenian emerged under the archway, treading on tiptoe, yet swiftly, with an admirable mixture of silence and celerity. His poniard, drawn as he descended, gleamed in his hand, which was held a little behind the rest of his person, so as to conceal it. The assassin hovered less than an instant over the sleeper, as if to mark the interval between the ill-fated silver corslet, and the body which it was designed to protect, when, the instant the blow was rushing to its descent, the Varangian started up at once, arrested the armed hand of the assassin, by striking it upwards with the head of his battle-axe; and while he thus parried the intended stab, struck the Greek a blow heavier than Sebastes had ever learned at the Pancration, which left him scarce the power to cry help to his comrades on the battlements. They saw what had happened, however, and beheld the barbarian set his foot on their companion, and brandish high his formidable weapon, the whistling sound of which made the old arch ring ominously, while he paused an instant, with his weapon upheaved, ere he gave the finishing blow to his enemy. The warders made a bustle, as if some of them would descend to the assistance of Sebastes, without, however, appearing very eager to do so, when Harpax, in a rapid whisper, commanded them to stand fast. “Each man to his place,” he said, “happen what may. Yonder comes a captain of the guard—the secret is our own, if the savage has killed the Mitylenian, as I well trust, for he stirs neither hand nor foot. But if

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he lives, my comrades, make hard your faces as flint—he is but one man, we are twelve. We know nothing of his purpose, save that he went to see wherefore the barbarian slept so near the post.” While the centurion thus bruited his purpose in busy insinuation to the companions of his watch, the stately figure of a tall soldier, richly armed, and presenting a lofty crest, which glistened as he stept from the open moonlight into the shade of the vault, became visible beneath. A whisper passed among the warders on the top of the gate. “Draw bolt, shut gate, come of the Mitylenian what will,” said the centurion; “we are lost men if we own him.—Here comes the chief of the Varangian axes, the Follower himself.” “Well, Hereward,” said the officer who came last upon the scene, in a sort of lingua Franca, generally used by the barbarians of the guard, “hast thou caught a night-hawk?” “Ay, by Saint George!” answered the soldier; “and yet, in my country, we would call him but a kite.” “What is he?” said the leader. “He will tell you that himself,” replied the Varangian, “when I take my grasp from his windpipe.” “Let him go, then,” said the officer. The Englishman did as he was commanded; but, escaping as soon as he felt himself at liberty, with an alertness which could scarce have been anticipated, the Mitylenian rushed out at the arch, and, availing himself of the complicated ornaments which had originally graced the exterior of the gateway, he fled around buttress and projection, closely pursued by the Varangian, who, cumbered with his armour, was hardly a match in the course for the light-footed Grecian, as he dodged his pursuer from one skulking place to another. The officer laughed heartily, as the two figures, like shadows appearing, and disappearing as suddenly, held rapid flight and chase around the Arch of Theodosius. “By Hercules! it is Hector pursued round the walls of Ilion by Achilles,” said the officer; “but my Pelides will scarce overtake the son of Priam.—What, ho! goddess-born—son of the white-footed Thetis!—But the allusion is lost on the poor savage—Hollo, Hereward! I say, stop—know thine own most barbarous name.” These last words were muttered; then raising his voice, “Do not out-run thy wind, good Hereward. Thou mayst have more occasion for breath tonight.” “If it had been my leader’s will,” answered the Varangian, coming back in sulky mood, and breathing like one who had been at the top of his speed, “I would have had him as fast as ever greyhound held hare ere I left off the chase. Were it not for this foolish armour, which

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encumbers without defending one, I would not have made two bounds without taking him by the throat.” “As well as it is,” said the officer, who was, in fact, the Acoulouthos, or Follower, so called because it was the duty of this highly-trusted officer of the Varangian guards constantly to attend on the person of the Emperor. “But let us now see by what means we are to regain our entrance through the gate: for if, as I suspect, it was one of those warders who was willing to have played thee a trick, his companions may not let us enter willingly.” “And is it not,” said the Varangian, “your Valour’s duty to probe this want of discipline to the bottom?” “Hush thee here, my simple-minded savage! I have often told you, most ignorant Hereward, that the skulls of those who come from your cold and muddy Bœotia of the North, are fitter to bear out twenty blows with a sledge-hammer, than turn off one witty or ingenious idea. But follow me, Hereward, and although I am aware that showing the fine meshes of Grecian policy to the coarse eye of an unpractised barbarian like thee, is much like casting pearls before swine, a thing forbidden in the Blessed Gospel, yet, as thou hast so good a heart, and so trusty, as is scarce to be met with among my Varangians themselves, I care not if, while thou art in attendance on my person, I endeavour to indoctrinate thee in some of that policy by which I myself—the Follower—the Chief of the Varangians, and therefore erected by their axes into the most valiant of the valiant, am content to guide myself, although every way qualified to bear me through the cross currents of the court by main pull of oar and press of sail—a condescension in me, to do that by policy, which no man in this imperial court, the chosen sphere of superior wits, could so well accomplish by open force as myself. What think’st thou, good savage?” “I know,” answered the Varangian, who walked about a step and a half behind his leader, like an orderly of the present day behind his officer’s shoulder, “I would be sorry to trouble my head with what I could do by my hands at once.” “Did I not say so?” said the Follower, who had now for some minutes led the way from the Golden Gate, and was seen gliding along the outside of the moonlight walls, as if seeking an entrance elsewhere. “Lo, such is the stuff of which what you call your head is made! Your hands and arms are perfect Achitophels, compared to it. Hearken to me, thou most ignorant of all animals,—but, for that very reason, thou stoutest of confidents, and bravest of soldiers,—I will tell thee the very riddle of this night-work, and yet, even then, I doubt if thou canst understand me.” “It is my present duty to try to comprehend your Valour,” said the

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Varangian—“I would say your policy, since you condescend to expound it to me. As for your valour,” he added, “I should be unlucky if I did not think I understand its length and breadth already.” The Greek general coloured a little, but replied, with unaltered voice, “True, good Hereward. We have seen each other in battle.” Hereward here could not suppress a short cough, which, to those grammarians of the day who were skilful in applying the use of accents, would have implied no peculiar eulogium on this officer’s military bravery. Indeed, during their whole intercourse, the conversation of the general, in spite of his tone of affected importance and superiority, displayed an obvious respect for his companion, as one who, in many points of action, might, if brought to the test, prove a more effective soldier than himself. On the other hand, when the powerful Northern warrior replied, although it was with all observance of discipline and duty, yet the discussion might sometimes resemble that between an ignorant macaroni officer, before the Duke of York’s reformation of the British army, and a steady sergeant of the regiment in which they both served. There was a consciousness of superiority, disguised by external respect, and half admitted by the leader. “You will grant me, my simple friend,” continued the chief, in the same tone as before, “in order to lead thee by a short passage into the deepest principle of policy which pervades this same court of Constantinople, that the favour of the Emperor”—(here the officer raised his casque, and the soldier made a semblance of doing so also)—“who (be the place where he puts his foot sacred!) is the vivifying principle of the sphere in which we live, as the sun itself is that of humanity”——— “I have heard something like this said by our tribunes,” said the Varangian. “It is their duty so to instruct you,” answered the leader; “and I trust that the priests also, in their sphere, forget not to teach my Varangians their constant service to their Emperor.” “They do not omit it,” replied the soldier, “though we of the exiles know our duty.” “God forbid I should doubt it,” said the commander of the Battleaxes. “All I mean is to make thee understand, my dear Hereward, that as there are, though perhaps such do not exist in thy dark and gloomy climate, a race of insects which are born in the first rays of the morning, and expire with those of sunset, (thence called by us ephemeræ, as enduring one day only,) such is the case of a favourite at court, while enjoying the smiles of the most sacred Emperor. And happy is he whose favour, rising as the person of the sovereign emerges from the level space which extends around the throne, displays itself in the first

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imperial blaze of glory, and who, keeping his post during the meridian splendour of the crown, has only the fate to disappear and die with the last beam of imperial brightness.” “Your Valour,” said the islander, “speaks higher language than my northern wits are able to comprehend. Only, methinks, rather than part with life at the sunset, I would, since insect I must needs be, become a moth for two or three dark hours.” “Such is the sordid desire of the vulgar, Hereward,” answered the Follower, with assumed superiority, “who are contented to enjoy life, lacking distinction; whereas we, on the other hand, we of choicer quality, who form the nearest and innermost circle around the Imperial Alexius, in which he himself forms the central point, are watchful, to woman’s jealousy, of the distribution of his favours, and omit no opportunity, whether by leaguing with or against each other, to recommend ourselves individually to the peculiar light of his countenance.” “I think I comprehend what you mean,” said the guardsman; “although, as for living such a life of intrigue—but that matters not.” “It does indeed matter not, my good Hereward,” said his officer, “and thou art lucky in having no appetite for the life I have described. Yet have I seen barbarians rise high in the empire, and if they have not altogether the flexibility, the malleability, as it is called—that happy ductility which can give way to circumstances, I have yet known those of barbaric tribes, especially if bred up at court from their youth, who joined to a limited portion of this flexile quality enough of a certain tough durability of temper, which, if it does not excel in availing itself of opportunity, has no contemptible talent at creating it. But letting comparisons pass, it follows, from this emulation of glory, that is, of royal favour, amongst the servants of the imperial and most sacred court, that each is desirous of distinguishing himself by showing to the Emperor, not only that he fully understands the duties of his own employments, but that he is capable, in case of necessity, of discharging those of others.” “I understand,” said the Saxon; “and thence it happens that the under ministers, soldiers, and assistants of the great crown-officers, are perpetually engaged, not in aiding each other, but in acting as spies on their neighbours’ actions?” “Even so,” answered the commander; “it is but few days since I had a disagreeable instance of it. Every one, however dull in the intellect, hath understood this much, that the great Protospathaire, which title thou knowest signifies the general-in-chief of the forces of the empire, hath me at hatred, because I am the leader of those redoubtable Varangians, who enjoy, and well deserve, privileges exempting them from the absolute command which he possesses over all other corps of

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the army—an authority which becomes Nicanor, notwithstanding the victorious sound of his name, nearly as well as a war-saddle would become a bullock.” “How!” said the Varangian, “does the Protospathaire pretend to any authority over the noble exiles?—By the red dragon, under which we will live and die, we will obey no man alive but Alexius Comnenus himself, and our own officers!” “Rightly and bravely resolved,” said the leader; “but, my good Hereward, let not your just indignation hurry you so far as to name the most sacred Emperor, without raising your hand to your casque, and adding the epithets of his lofty rank.” “I will raise my hand often enough and high enough,” said the Norseman, “when the Emperor’s service requires it.” “I dare be sworn thou wilt,” said Achilles Tatius, the commander of the Varangian Imperial Body Guard, who thought the time was unfavourable for distinguishing himself by insisting on that exact observance of etiquette, which was one of his great pretensions to the name of a soldier. “Yet, were it not for the constant vigilance of your leader, my child, the noble Varangians would be trod down, in the common mass of the army, with the heathen cohorts of Huns, Scythians, or those turban’d infidels the renegade Turks; and even for this is your commander here in peril, because he vindicates his axe-men as worthy of being prized above the paltry shafts of the Eastern tribes, and the javelins of the Moors, which are only fit to be playthings for children.” “You are exposed to no danger,” said the soldier, closing up to Achilles in a confidential manner, “from which these axes cannot protect you.” “Do I not know it?” said Achilles. “But it is to your arm alone that the Follower of his most sacred Majesty now intrusts his safety.” “In aught that a soldier may do,” answered Hereward; “make your own computation, and then reckon this single arm worth two against any man the Emperor has, not being of our own corps.” “Listen, my brave friend,” continued Achilles. “This Nicanor was daring enough to throw a reproach on our noble corps, accusing them —gods and goddesses!—of plundering in the field, and, yet more sacrilegious, of drinking the precious wine which was prepared for his most sacred Majesty’s own blessed consumption. I, the sacred person of the Emperor being present, proceeded, as thou mayst well believe”—— “To give him the lie in his audacious throat!” burst in the Varangian—“named a place of meeting somewhere in the vicinity, and called the attendance of your poor follower, Hereward of Hamp-

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ton, who is your life-long bond-slave, for such an honour! I wish only you had told me to get my work-day arms; but, however, I have my battle-axe, and”—— Here his companion seized a moment to break in, for he was somewhat abashed at the lively tone of the young soldier. “Hush thee, my son,” said Achilles Tatius; “speak low, my excellent Hereward. Thou mistakest this thing. With thee by my side, I would not, indeed, hesitate to meet five such as Nicanor; but such is not the law of this most hallowed empire, nor the sentiments of the three times illustrious Prince who now rules it. Thou art debauched, my soldier, with the swaggering stories of the Franks, of whom we hear more and more every day.” “I would not willingly borrow any thing from those whom you call Franks, and we Normans,” answered the Varangian, in a disappointed, dogged tone. “Why, listen, then,” said the officer, as they proceeded on their walk, “listen to the reason of the thing, and consider whether such a custom can obtain, as that which they term the duello, in any country of civilisation and common sense, to say nothing of one which is blessed with the domination of the most rare Alexius Comnenus. Two great lords, or high officers, quarrel in the court, and before the reverend person of the Emperor. They dispute about a point of fact. Now, instead of each maintaining his own opinion, by argument or evidence, suppose they had adopted the custom of these barbarous Franks, ‘Why, thou liest in thy throat,’ says the one; ‘and thou liest in thy very lungs,’ says another; and they measure forth the lists of battle in the next meadow. Each swears to the truth of his quarrel, though probably neither well knows precisely how the fact stands. One, perhaps the hardier, truer, and better man of the two, the Follower of the Emperor, and father of the Varangians, (for death, my faithful follower, spares no man,) lies dead on the ground, and the other comes back to predominate in the court, where, had the matter been enquired into by the rules of common sense and reason, the victor, as he is termed, would have been sent to the gallows. And yet this is the law of arms, as your fancy pleases to call it, friend Hereward!” “May it please your Valour,” answered the barbarian, “there is a show of sense in what you say; but you will sooner convince me that this blessed moonlight is the blackness of a wolf’s mouth, than that I ought to hear myself called liar, without cramming the epithet down the speaker’s throat with the spike of my battle-axe. The lie is to a man the same as a blow, and a blow degrades him into a slave and a beast of burden, if endured without retaliation.” “Ay, there it is!” said Achilles; “could I but get you to lay aside that inborn barbarism, which leads you, otherwise the most disciplined

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soldiers who serve the sacred Emperor, into such deadly quarrels and feuds——” “Sir Captain,” said the Varangian, in a sullen tone, “take my advice, and take the Varangians as you have them; for, believe my word, that if you could teach them to endure reproaches, bear the lie, or tolerate stripes, you would hardly find them, when their discipline is completed, worth the single day’s salt which they cost to his holiness, if that be his title. I must tell you, moreover, valorous sir, that the Varangians will little thank their leader who heard them called marauders, drunkards, and what not, and repelled not the charge on the spot.” “Now, if I knew not the humours of my barbarians,” thought Tatius, in his own mind, “I should bring on myself a quarrel with these untamed islanders, who the Emperor thinks can be so easily kept in discipline. But I will settle this sport presently.” Accordingly, he addressed the Saxon in a soothing tone. “My faithful soldier,” he proceeded aloud, “we Romans, according to the custom of our ancestors, set as much glory on actually telling the truth, as you do in resenting the imputation of falsehood; and I could not with honour return a charge of falsehood upon Nicanor, since what he said was substantially true.” “What! that we Varangians were plunderers, drunkards, and the like?” said Hereward, more impatient than before. “No, surely, not in that broad sense,” said Achilles; “but there was too much foundation for the legend.” “When and where?” asked the Anglo-Saxon. “You remember,” replied his leader, “the long march near Laodicea, where the Varangians beat off a cloud of Turks, and retook a train of the imperial baggage? You know what was done that day—how you quenched your thirst, I mean?” “I have some reason to remember it,” said Hereward of Hampton; “for we were half choked with dust, fatigue, and, which was worst of all, constantly fighting with our faces to the rear, when we found some firkins of wine in certain carriages which were broken down—down our throats it went, as if it had been the best ale in Southampton.” “Ah, unhappy!” said the Follower; “saw you not that the firkins were stamped with the thrice excellent Grand Butler’s own inviolable seal, and set apart for the private use of his Imperial Majesty’s most sacred lips?” “By good Saint George of merry England, worth a dozen of your Saint George of Cappadocia, I neither thought nor cared about the matter,” answered Hereward. “And I know your Valour drank a mighty draught yourself out of my head-piece; not this silver bauble, but my steel-cap, which is twice as ample. By the same token, that

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whereas before you were giving orders to fall back, you were a changed man when you had cleared your throat of the dust, and cried, ‘Bide the other brunt, my brave and stout boys of Britain!’” “Ay,” said Achilles, “I know I am but too apt to be venturous in action. But you mistake, good Hereward; the wine I tasted in the extremity of martial fatigue, was not that set apart for his sacred Majesty’s own peculiar mouth, but a secondary sort, preserved for the Grand Butler himself, of which, as one of the great officers of the household, I might right lawfully partake—the chance was nevertheless sinfully unhappy.” “On my life,” replied Hereward, “I cannot see the infelicity of drinking, when we are dying of thirst.” “But, cheer up, my noble comrade,” said Achilles, after he had hurried over his own exculpation, and without noticing the Varangian’s light estimation of the crime, “his Imperial Majesty, in his ineffable graciousness, imputes these ill-advised draughts as a crime to no one who partook of them. He rebuked the Protospathaire for fishing up this accusation, and said, when he had recalled the bustle and confusion of that toilsome day, ‘I thought myself well off amid that seven times heated furnace, when we obtained a draught of the barleywine drank by my poor Varangians; and I drank their health, as well I might, since, had it not been for their services, I had drunk my last, and well fare their hearts, though they quaffed my wine in return!’ And with that he turned off, as one who said, ‘I have too much of this, being a finding of matter and ripping up of stories against Achilles Tatius and his gallant Varangians.’” “Now, may God bless his honest heart for it!” said Hereward, with more downright heartiness than formal respect. “I’ll drink to his health in what I put next to my lips that quenches thirst, whether it may be ale, wine, or ditch-water.” “Why, well said, but speak not above thy breath! and remember to put thy hand to thy forehead, when naming, or even thinking of the Emperor!—Well; thou knowest, Hereward, that having thus obtained the advantage, I knew that the moment of a repulsed attack is always that of a successful charge; and so I brought against the Protospathaire, Nicanor, the robberies which have been committed at the Golden Gate, and other entrances of the city, where a merchant was but of late kidnapped and murdered, having on him certain jewels, the property of the Patriarch.” “Ay! indeed?” said the Varangian; “and what said Alex——I mean the most sacred Emperor, when he heard such things said of the city warders?—though he had himself given, as we say in our land, the fox the geese to keep.”

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“It may be he did,” replied Achilles; “but he is a sovereign of deep policy, and was resolved not to proceed against these treacherous warders, or their general, the Protospathaire, without decisive proof. His sacred Majesty, therefore, charged me to obtain specific circumstantial proof by thy means.” “And that I would have managed in two minutes, had you not called me off the chase of yon cut-throat vagabond. But his grace knows the word of a Varangian, and I can assure him that either lucre of my silver gaberdine, which they nickname a cuirass, or the hatred of my corps, would be sufficient to incite any of these knaves to cut the throat of a Varangian, who appeared to be asleep.—So we go, I suppose, captain, to bear evidence before the Emperor to this night’s work?” “No, my active soldier, hadst thou taken the runaway villain, my first act must have been to set him free again; and my present charge to you is, to forget that such an adventure has ever taken place.” “Ha!” said the Varangian; “this is a change of policy indeed!” “Why, yes, brave Hereward; ere I left the palace this night, the Patriarch made overtures of reconciliation betwixt me and the Protospathaire, which, as our agreement is of much consequence to the state, I could not very well reject, either as a good soldier or a good Christian. All offences to my honour are to be in the fullest degree repaid, for which the Patriarch interposes his warrant. The Emperor, who will rather wink hard than see disagreements, loves better the matter should be slurred over thus.” “And the reproaches upon the Varangians,” said Hereward—— “Shall be fully retracted and atoned for,” answered Achilles; “and a weighty donative in gold dealt among the corps of the Anglo-Danish axe-men. Thou, my Hereward, mayst be distributor; and thus, if well-managed, mayst plate thy battle-axe with gold.” “I love my axe better as it is,” said the Varangian. “My father bore it against the robber Normans at Hastings. Steel instead of gold for my money.” “Thou mayst make thy choice, Hereward,” answered his officer; “only, if thou art poor, say the fault was thine own.” But here, in the course of their circuit round Constantinople, the officer and his soldier came to a very small wicket or sallyport, opening on the interior of a large and massive advanced work, which terminated an entrance to the city itself. Here the officer halted, and made his obeisance, as a devotee who is about to enter a chapel of peculiar sanctity.

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Chapter Three Here, youth, thy foot unbrace, Here, youth, thy brow unbraid, Each tribute that may grace The threshold here be paid. Walk with the stealthy pace Which Nature teaches deer, When, echoing in the chase, The hunter’s horn they hear. The Court

B  , Achilles Tatius made various gesticulations, which were imitated roughly and awkwardly by the unpractised Varangian, whose service with his corps had been almost entirely in the field, his routine of duty not having, till very lately, called him to serve as one of the garrison of Constantinople. He was not, therefore, acquainted with the minute observances which the Greeks, who were the most formal and ceremonious soldiers and courtiers in the world, rendered not merely to the Greek Emperor in person, but throughout the sphere which peculiarly partook of his influence. Achilles, having gesticulated after his own fashion, at length touched the door with a rap, distinct at once and modest. This was thrice repeated, when the captain whispered to his attendant, “The interior!—for thy life, do as thou seest me do.” At the same moment he started back, and, stooping his head on his breast, with his hands over his eyes, as if to save them from being dazzled by an expected burst of light, awaited the answer to his summons. The Anglo-Dane, desirous to obey his leader, imitating him as near as he could, stood side by side in the posture of Oriental humiliation. The little portal opened inwards, when no burst of light was seen, but four of the Varangians were made visible in the entrance, holding each his battleaxe, as if about to strike down the intruders who had disturbed the silence of their watch. “Acoulouthos,” said the leader, by way of password. “Tatius and Acoulouthos,” murmured the warders, as a countersign. Each sentinel sunk his weapon. Achilles then reared his stately crest, with a conscious dignity at making this display of court influence in the eyes of his soldiers. Hereward observed an undisturbed gravity, to the surprise of his officer, who marvelled in his own mind how he could be such a barbarian as to regard with apathy a scene, which had in his eyes the most impressive and peculiar awe. This indifference he imputed

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to the stupid insensibility of his companion. They passed on between the sentinels, who wheeled backward in file, on each side of the portal, and gave the strangers entrance to a long narrow plank, stretched across the city-moat, which was here drawn within the enclosure of an external rampart projecting beyond the principal wall of the city. “This,” he whispered to Hereward, “is called the Bridge of Peril, and it is said that it has been occasionally smeared with oil, or strewed with dried peas, and that the bodies of men, known to have been in company with the Emperor’s most sacred person, have been taken out of the Golden Horn,* into which the moat empties itself.” “I would not have thought,” said the islander, raising his voice to its usual rough tone, “that Alexius Comnenus”—— “Hush, rash and regardless of your life!” said Achilles Tatius; “to awaken the daughter of the imperial arch,† is to incur deep penalty at all times; but when a rash delinquent has disturbed her with reflections on his most sacred Highness the Emperor, death is a punishment far too light for the effrontery which has interrupted her blessed slumber!—Ill hath been my fate, to have positive commands laid on me, enjoining me to bring into the sacred precincts a creature who hath no more of the salt of civilization in him than to keep his mortal frame from corruption, since of all mental culture he is totally incapable. Consider thyself, Hereward, and bethink thee what thou art. By nature a poor barbarian—thy best boast that thou hast slain certain Mussulmans in thy sacred master’s quarrel; and here art thou admitted into the inviolable enclosure of the Blaquernal, and in the hearing not only of the royal daughter of the imperial arch, which means,” said the eloquent leader, “the echo of the sublime vaults; but—Heaven be our guide,—for what I know, within the natural hearing of the Sacred Ear itself!” “Well, my captain,” replied the Varangian, “I cannot presume to speak my mind after the fashion of this place; but I can easily suppose I am but ill qualified to converse in the presence of the court, nor do I mean therefore to say a word till I am spoken to, unless when I shall see no better company than ourselves. To be plain, I find difficulty in modelling my voice to a smoother tone than nature has given it. So, henceforth, my brave captain, I will be mute, unless when you give me a sign to speak.” “You will act wisely,” said the captain. “Here be certain persons of high rank, nay, some that have been born in the purple itself, that will, * The harbour of Constantinople. † The daughter of the arch was a courtly expression for the echo, as we find explained by the courtly commander himself.

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Hereward, (alas, for thee!) prepare to sound with the line of their courtly understanding the depths of thy barbarous and shallow conceit. Do not, therefore, then, join their graceful smiles with thy inhuman bursts of cachinnation, with which thou art wont to thunder forth when opening in chorus with thy messmates.” “I tell thee I will be silent,” said the Varangian, moved somewhat beyond his mood. “If you trust my word, so; if you think I am a jackdaw that must be speaking, whether in or out of place and purpose, I am contented to go back again, and therein we can end the matter.” Achilles, conscious perhaps that it was his best policy not to drive his subaltern to extremity, lowered his tone somewhat in reply to the uncourtly note of the soldier, as if allowing something for the rude manners of one whom he considered as not easily matched among the Varangians themselves, for strength and valour; qualities which, in despite of Hereward’s discourtesy, Achilles suspected in his heart were fully more valuable than all those nameless graces which a more courtly and accomplished soldier might possess. The expert navigator of the intricacies of the imperial residence, carried the Varangian through two or three small complicated courts, forming a part of the extensive Palace of the Blaquernal, and entered the building itself by a side-door—watched in like manner by a sentinel of the Varangian guard, whom they passed on being recognized. In the next apartment was stationed the court of guard, where were certain soldiers of the same corps amusing themselves at games somewhat resembling the modern draughts and dice, while they seasoned their pastime with frequent applications to deep flagons of ale, which were furnished to them while passing away their hours of duty. Some glances passed between Hereward and his comrades, and he would have joined them, or at least spoke to them; for, since the adventure of the Mitylenian, Hereward had rather thought himself annoyed than distinguished by his moonlight ramble in the company of his commander, excepting always the short and interesting period during which he conceived they were on the way to fight a duel. Still, however negligent in the strict observance of the ceremonies of the sacred palace, the Varangians had, in their own way, rigid notions of calculating their military duty; in consequence of which Hereward, without speaking to his companions, followed his leader through the guardroom, and one or two ante-chambers adjacent, the splendid and luxurious furniture of which convinced him that he could be nowhere else save in the sacred residence of his master the Emperor. At length, having traversed passages and apartments with which the captain seemed familiar, and which he threaded with a stealthy, silent, and apparently a reverential pace, as if, in his own inflated phrase,

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afraid to awaken the sounding echoes of those lofty and monumental halls, another species of inhabitants began to be visible. In different entrances, and in different apartments, the northern soldier beheld those unfortunate slaves, chiefly of African descent, raised occasionally under the Emperors of Greece to great power and honours, who, in that respect, imitated one of the most barbarous points of Oriental despotism. These slaves were differently occupied; some standing, as if on guard, at gates or in passages, with their drawn sabres in their hands; some were sitting in the Oriental fashion, on carpets, reposing themselves, or playing at various games, all of a character profoundly silent. Not a word passed between the guide of Hereward and the withered and deformed beings, whom they thus encountered. The exchange of a glance with the principal soldier seemed all that was necessary to ensure both an uninterrupted passage. After making their way through several apartments, empty or thus occupied, they at length entered one of black marble, or some other dark-coloured stone, much loftier and longer than the rest. Side passages opened into it, so far as the islander could discern, descending from several portals in the wall; but as the oils and gums with which the lamps in these passages were fed diffused a dim vapour around, it was difficult to ascertain, from the imperfect light, either the shape of the hall, or the style of its architecture. At the upper and lower ends of the chamber, there was a stronger and clearer light. It was when they were in the middle of this huge and long apartment, that Achilles said to the soldier, in the sort of cautionary whisper which he appeared to have substituted in place of his natural voice since he had crossed the Bridge of Peril— “Remain here till I return, and stir from this hall on no account.” “To hear is to obey,” answered the Varangian, an expression of obedience, which, like many other phrases and fashions, the empire, which still affected the name of Roman, had borrowed from the barbarians of the East. Achilles Tatius then hastened up the steps which led to one of the side-doors of the hall, which being slightly pressed, its noiseless hinge gave way and admitted him. Left alone to amuse himself as he best could, within the limits permitted to him, the Varangian visited in succession both ends of the hall, where the objects were more visible than elsewhere. The lower end had in its centre a small low-browed door of iron. Over it was displayed the Greek crucifix in bronze, and around and on every side, the representation of shackles, fetter-bolts, and the like, were also executed in bronze, and disposed as appropriate ornaments over the entrance. The door of the dark archway was half open, and Hereward naturally looked in, the orders of his chief not prohibiting his satisfying

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his curiosity thus far. A dense red light, more like a distant spark than a lamp, affixed to the wall of what seemed a very narrow and winding stair, resembling in shape and size a draw-well, the verge of which opened on the threshold of the iron door, showed a descent which seemed to conduct to the infernal regions. The Varangian, however obtuse he might be considered by the quick-witted Greeks, had no difficulty in comprehending that a staircase having such a gloomy appearance, and the access to which was by a portal decorated in such a melancholy style of architecture, could only lead to the dungeons of the imperial palace, the size and complicated number of which were neither the least remarkable, nor the least awe-imposing portion of the sacred edifice. Listening profoundly, he even thought he caught such accents as befit those graves of living men, the faint echoing of groans and sighs, sounding as it were from the deep abyss beneath. But in this respect his fancy probably filled up the sketch which his conjectures bodied out. “I have done nothing,” he thought, “to merit being immured in one of these subterranean dens. Surely, though my captain, Achilles Tatius, is, under favour, little better than an ass, he cannot be so false of word as to train me to prison under false pretexts? I trow he shall first see for the last time how the English axe plays, if such is to be the sport of the evening. But let us see the upper end of this enormous vault; it may bear a better omen.” Thus thinking, and not quite ruling the tramp of his armed footstep according to the ceremonies of the place, the large-limbed Saxon strode to the upper end of the black marble hall. The ornament of the portal here was a small altar, like those in the temples of the heathen deities, which projected above the centre of the arch. On this altar smoked incense of some sort, the fumes of which rose curling in a thin cloud to the roof, and thence extending through the hall, enveloped in its column of smoke a singular emblem, of which the Varangian could make nothing. It was the representation of two human arms and hands, seeming to issue from the wall, having the palms extended and open, as about to confer some boon on those who approached the altar. These arms were formed of bronze, and being placed farther back than the altar with its incense, were seen through the curling smoke by lamps so disposed as to illuminate the whole arch-way. “The meaning of this,” thought the simple barbarian, “I should well know how to explain, were these fists clenched, and were the hall dedicated to the pancration, which we call boxing; but as even these helpless Greeks use not their hands without their fingers being closed, by Saint George, I can make out nothing of their meaning.” At this instant Achilles entered the black marble hall at the same

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door by which he had left it, and came up to his neophyte, as the Varangian might be termed. “Come with me now, Hereward, for here approaches the thick of the onset. Now display the utmost courage that thou canst summon up, for believe me, thy credit and name also depend on it.” “Fear nothing for either,” said Hereward, “if the heart or hand of one man can bear him through the adventure by the help of a toy like this.” “Keep thy voice low and submissive, I have told thee a score of times,” said the leader, “and lower thine axe, which, as I bethink me, thou hadst better leave in the outer apartment.” “With your leave, noble captain,” replied Hereward, “I am unwilling to lay aside my breadwinner. I am one of those awkward clowns who cannot behave seemly unless I have something to occupy my hands, and my faithful battle-axe comes most natural to me.” “Keep it then; but remember thou dash it not about according to thy custom, nor bellow, nor shout, nor cry as in a battle-field; think of the sacred character of the place, which exaggerates riot into blasphemy, and remember the persons whom thou mayst chance to see, an offence to some of whom, it may be, ranks in the same sense with blasphemy against Heaven itself.” This lecture carried the tutor and the pupil so far as to the sidedoor, and thence inducted them into a species of ante-room, from which Achilles led his Varangian forward, until a pair of foldingdoors, opening into what proved to be a principal apartment of the palace, exhibited to the rough-hewn native of the north a sight equally new and surprising. It was an apartment of the Palace of the Blaquernal, dedicated to the special service of the beloved daughter of the Emperor Alexius, the Princess Anna Comnena, known to our times by her literary talents, which record the history of her father’s reign. She was seated, the queen and sovereign of a literary circle, such as an imperial Princess, porphyrogenita, or born in the sacred purple chamber itself, could assemble in those days, and a glance around will enable us to form an idea of her guests, or companions. The literary Princess herself had the bright eyes, straight features, and comely and pleasing manners, which all would have allowed to the Emperor’s daughter, even if she could not have been, with severe truth, said to have possessed them. She was placed upon a small bench, or sofa, the fair sex here not being permitted to recline, as was the fashion of the Roman ladies. A table before her was loaded with books, plants, herbs, and drawings. She sat on a slight elevation, and those who enjoyed the intimacy of the Princess, or to whom she

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wished to speak in particular, were allowed, during such sublime colloquy, to rest their knees on the little dais, or elevated place where her chair found its station, in a posture half standing, half kneeling. Three other seats, of different heights, were placed on the dais, and under the same canopy of state which overshadowed that of the Princess Anna. The first, which strictly resembled her own chair in size and convenience, was one designed for her husband, Nicephorus Briennius. He was said to entertain or affect the greatest respect for his wife’s erudition, though the courtiers were of opinion he would have liked to absent himself from her evening parties more frequently than was particularly agreeable to the Princess Anna and her imperial parents. This was partly explained by the private tattle of the court, which averred that the Princess Anna Comnena had been more beautiful when she was less learned; and that, though still a fine woman, she had somewhat lost the charms of her person, as she became enriched in her mind. To atone for the lowly fashion of the seat of Nicephorus Briennius, it was placed as near to his princess as it could possibly be edged by the ushers, so that she might not lose one look of her handsome spouse, nor he the least particle of wisdom which might drop from the lips of his erudite consort. Two other seats of honour, or rather thrones,—for they had stools placed for the support of the feet, rests for the arms, and embroidered pillows for the comfort of the back, not to mention the glories of the outspreading canopy,—were destined for the imperial couple, who frequently attended their daughter’s studies, which she prosecuted in public in the way we have intimated. On such occasions, the Empress Irene enjoyed the triumph peculiar to the mother of an accomplished daughter, while Alexius, as it might happen, sometimes listened with complacence to the rehearsal of his own exploits in the inflated language of the princess, and sometimes mildly nodded over her dialogues upon the mysteries of philosophy, with the Patriarch Zosimus, and other sages. All these four distinguished seats, for the persons of the Imperial family, were occupied at the moment which we have described, excepting that which ought to have been filled by Nicephorus Briennius, the husband of the fair Anna Comnena. To his negligence and absence was perhaps owing the angry spot on the brow of his fair bride. Beside her on the platform were two white-robed nymphs of her household; female slaves, in a word, who reposed themselves on their knees on cushions, when their assistance was not wanted as a species of living book-desks, to support and extend the parchment

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rolls, in which the princess recorded her own wisdom, or from which she quoted that of others. One of these young maidens, called Astarte, was so distinguished as a calligrapher, or beautiful writer of various alphabets and languages, that she narrowly escaped being sent as a present to the Caliph, (who could neither read nor write,) at a time when it was necessary to bribe him into peace. Violante, usually called the Muse, the other attendant of the Princess, and a mistress of the vocal and instrumental art of music, was actually sent in a compliment to soothe the temper of Robert Guiscard, the Archduke of Apulia, who, being aged and stone-deaf, and the girl under ten years old at the time, returned the valued present to the imperial donor, and, with the selfishness which was one of that wily Norman’s characteristics, desired to have some one sent him who could contribute to his pleasure, instead of a twangling squalling infant. Beneath these elevated seats there sate, or reposed on the floor of the hall, such favourites as were admitted. The Patriarch Zosimus, and one or two old men, were permitted the use of certain lowly stools, which were the only seats prepared for the learned members of the Princess’s evening parties, as they would have been called in our days. As for the younger magnates, the honour of being permitted to join the imperial conversation was expected to render them far superior to the paltry accommodation of a joint stool. Five or six courtiers, of different dress and ages, might compose the party, who either stood, or relieved their posture by kneeling, along the verge of an adorned fountain, which shed a mist of such very small rain as to dispel almost insensibly, cooling the fragrant breeze which breathed from the flowers and shrubs, that were so disposed as to send a waste of sweets around. One goodly old man, named Michael Agelastes, big, burly, and dressed like an ancient Cynic philosopher, was distinguished by assuming, in a great measure, the ragged garb and mad bearing of that sect, and by his inflexible practice of the strictest ceremonies exigible by the Imperial family. He was known by an affectation of cynical principle and language, and of republican philosophy, strangely contradicted by his practical deference to the great. It was wonderful how long this man, now sixty years old and upwards, disdained to avail himself of the accustomed privilege of leaning, or supporting his limbs, and with what regularity he maintained either the standing posture or that of absolute kneeling; but the first was so much his usual attitude, that he acquired among his court friends the name of Elephas, or the Elephant, because the ancients had an idea that the half-reasoning animal, as it is called, has joints incapable of kneeling down. “Yet I have seen them kneel when I was in the country of the

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Gymnosophists,” said a person present on the evening of Hereward’s introduction. “To take up his master on his shoulders? so will ours,” said the Patriarch Zosimus, with the slight sneer which was the nearest advance to a sarcasm that the etiquette of the Greek court permitted; for on all ordinary occasions, it would not have offended the Presence more surely, literally to have drawn a poniard, than to exchange a repartee in the imperial circle. Even the sarcasm, such as it was, would have been thought censurable by that ceremonious court in any but the Patriarch, to whose high rank some license was allowed. Just as he had thus far offended decorum, Achilles Tatius, and his soldier Hereward, entered the apartment. The former bore him with even more than a usual degree of courtliness, as if to set his own good breeding off by a comparison with the inexpert bearing of his follower; while, nevertheless, he had a secret pride in exhibiting, as one under his own immediate and distinct command, a man whom he was accustomed to consider as one of the finest soldiers in the army of Alexius, whether appearance or reality were to be considered. Some astonishment followed the abrupt entrance of the new comers. Achilles indeed glided into the presence with the easy and quiet extremity of respect which intimated his habitude in these regions. But Hereward started on his entrance, and perceiving himself in company of the court, hastily strove to remedy his disorder. His commander, throwing round a scarce visible shrug of apology, made then a confidential and monitory sign to Hereward to mind his conduct. What he meant was, that he should doff his helmet and fall prostrate on the ground. But the Anglo-Saxon, unaccustomed to interpret obscure inferences, naturally thought of his military duties, and advanced in front of the Emperor, as when he rendered his military homage. He made reverence with his knee, half touched his cap, and then, recovering and shouldering his axe, stood in advance of the imperial chair, as if on duty as a sentinel. A gentle smile of surprise went round the circle as they gazed on the manly appearance, and somewhat unceremonious, but martial deportment of the northern soldier. The various spectators around consulted the Emperor’s face, not knowing whether they were to take the intrusive manner of the Varangian’s entrance as matter of ill-breeding, and manifest their horror, or whether they ought rather to consider the bearing of the life-guardsman as indicating blunt and manly zeal, and therefore to be received with applause. It was some little time ere the Emperor recovered himself sufficiently to strike a key-note, as was usual upon such occasions. Alexius Comnenus had been wrapt for a moment into some species of

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slumber, or at least absence of mind. Out of this he had been startled by the sudden appearance of the Varangian; for though he was accustomed to commit the outer guards of the palace to this trusty corps, yet the deformed blacks whom we have mentioned, and who sometimes rose to be ministers of state and commanders of armies, were, on all ordinary occasions, intrusted with the guard of the interior of the palace. The Emperor, therefore, awakened from his slumber, and the military phrase of his daughter still ringing in his ears as she was reading a description of her great historical work, in which she had detailed the conflicts of his reign, felt somewhat unprepared for the entrance and military deport of one of the Saxon guard, with whom he was accustomed to associate, in general, scenes of blows, danger, and death. After a troubled glance around, his look rested on Achilles Tatius. “Ha,” he said, “trusty Follower? Why this soldier here at this time of night?” Here, of course, was the cue for modelling the visages regis ad exemplum; but, ere the Patriarch could frame his countenance into devout apprehension of danger, Achilles Tatius had spoke a word or two, which reminded Alexius’ memory that the soldier had been brought there by his own special orders. “Oh, ay! true, good Follower,” said he, smoothing his troubled brow; “we had forgot among the cares of state.” He then spoke to the Varangian with a countenance more frank, and a heartier accent, than he used to his courtiers; for, to a despotic monarch, a faithful life-guardsman is a subject of confidence, while an officer of high rank is always in some degree a subject of distrust. “Ha!” said he, “our worthy Anglo-Dane, how fares he?” This unceremonious salutation surprised all but him to whom it was addressed. Hereward answered, accompanying his words with a military obeisance which partook of heartiness rather than reverence, with a loud unsubdued voice, which startled the presence still more that the language was Saxon, which these foreigners occasionally used, “Waes hael, Kaisar mirrig und machtigh!”—that is, Be of good health, stout and mighty Emperor. The Emperor, with a smile of intelligence, to show he could speak to his guards in their own foreign language, replied, by the well-known counter-signal—“Drink hael!” Immediately a page brought a silver goblet of wine. The Emperor put his lips to it, though he scarce tasted the liquor, then commanded it to be handed to Hereward, and bade the soldier drink. The Saxon did not wait till he was desired a second time, but took off the contents without hesitation. A gentle smile, decorous as the presence required, passed over the assembly, at a feat which, though by no means wonderful in a hyperborean, seemed enormous in the estimation of the moderate Greeks. Alexius himself laughed more broadly than his courtiers

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thought was becoming on their part, and mustering what few words of Varangian he possessed, which he eked out with Greek, demanded of his life-guardsman—“Well, my bold Briton, or Edward, as men call thee, doest thou know the flavour of that wine?” “Yes,” answered the Varangian, without change of countenance, “I tasted it at Laodicea”—— Here his officer, Achilles Tatius, became sensible that his soldier approached delicate ground, and in vain endeavoured to gain his attention, so as furtively to convey to him a hint to be silent, or at least take heed what he said in such a presence. But the soldier, who, with proper military observance, continued to have his eye and attention fixed on the Emperor, as the prince whom he was bound to answer or to serve, saw none of the hints, which Achilles at length suffered to become so broad, that Zosimus and the Protospathaire exchanged expressive glances, as calling on each other to observe the by-play of the leader of the Varangians. In the meanwhile, the dialogue between the Emperor and his soldier continued:—“How did this draught savour, compared to the former?” pursued Alexius. “There is fairer company here, my liege, than that of the Arabian archers,” answered Hereward, with a look and bow of instinctive good breeding; “nevertheless, there lacks the flavour which the heat of the sun, the dust of the combat, the fatigue of wielding such a weapon as this” (advancing his axe) “for eight hours together, give to a cup of wine.” “Another failure,” said Agelastes the Elephant, “provided I am pardoned hinting at it,” he added, with a look to the throne, “was perhaps the size of the cup at Laodicea.” “By Taranis, you say true,” answered the life-guardsman; “at Laodicea I used my helmet.” “Let us see them together, good friend,” said Agelastes, continuing his raillery, “that is, if thou hast not swallowed the goblet; for I thought there was a chance of its going down with its contents.” “There are some things which I do not easily swallow,” answered the Varangian, in a calm and indifferent tone; “but they must come from a younger and more active man than you.” The company again smiled to each other, as if to hint that the philosopher, though also parcel wit by profession, had the worst of the encounter. The Emperor at the same time interfered— “Nor did I send for thee hither, good fellow, to be baited by idle taunts.” Here Agelastes shrunk back in the circle, as a hound which has been rebuked by the huntsman for babbling—and the Princess Anna

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Comnena, who had indicated by her fair features a certain degree of impatience, at length spoke—“Will it then please you, my imperial and much-beloved father, to say for what you have ordered this soldier to be this night admitted to a place so far above his rank in life? Permit me to say, we ought not to waste, in frivolous and silly taunts, the time which is sacred to the welfare of the empire, as every moment of your leisure must be.” “Our daughter speaks wisely,” said the Empress Irene, who, like most mothers who do not possess much talent themselves, and are not very capable of estimating it in others, was, nevertheless, a great admirer of her favourite daughter’s accomplishments, and ready to draw them out on all occasions. “Permit me to remark, that in this desirable and selected palace of the Muses, dedicated to the studies of our well-beloved and highly-gifted daughter, whose pen will preserve your reputation, our most imperial husband, till the desolation of the universe, and which enlivens and delights this society, the very flower of the wits of our sublime court;—permit me to say, that we have, merely by admitting a single life-guardsman, given our conversation the character of that which distinguishes a barrack.” Now the Emperor Alexius Comnenus had the same feeling with many an honest man in ordinary life when his wife begins a long oration, especially as the Empress Irene did not always retain the observance consistent with his awful rule and right supremacy, although very rigid in exacting it from others. Therefore, though he had felt some pleasure in gaining a short release from the monotonous recitation of the Princess’s history, he now saw the necessity of resuming it, or of listening to the matrimonial eloquence of the Empress. He sighed, therefore, as he said, “I crave your pardon, good our imperial spouse, and our daughter born in the purple chamber. I remember me, our most amiable and accomplished daughter, that last night you wished to know the particulars of the battle of Laodicea, with the heathenish Arabs, whom Heaven confound. And for certain considerations which moved ourselves to add other enquiries to our own recollection, Achilles Tatius, our most trusty Follower, was commissioned to introduce into this place one of those soldiers under his command, whose courage and presence of mind could best enable him to remark what passed around him on that remarkable and bloody day. And this I presume to be the man brought us for that purpose.” “If I am permitted to speak, and live,” answered the Follower, “your Imperial Highness, with those divine Princesses, whose name is to us as those of blessed saints, have in your presence the flower of my Anglo-Danes, or whatsoever unbaptised name is given to my soldiers. He is, as I may say, a barbarian of barbarians; for although in birth and

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breeding unfit to soil with his feet the carpet of this precinct of accomplishment and eloquence, he is so brave—so trusty—so devotedly attached—and so unhesitatingly zealous, that”—— “Enough, good Follower,” said the Emperor; “let us only know that he is cool and observant, not confused and fluttered, as we have sometimes observed in you and other great commanders—and, to speak truth, have even felt in our imperial self on extraordinary occasions. Which difference in men’s constitutions is not owing to any inferiority of courage, but, in us, to a certain consciousness of the importance of our own safety to the welfare of the whole, and to a feeling of the number of duties which at once devolve on us. Speak then, and speak quickly, Tatius; for I discern that our dearest consort, and our thrice fortunate daughter born in the imperial chamber of purple, begin to wax somewhat impatient.” “Hereward,” answered Tatius, “is as composed and observant in battle, as another in a dance. Its dust is the breath of his nostrils; and he will prove his worth in combat against any four others, (Varangians excepted,) who shall term themselves your Imperial Highness’s bravest servants.” “Follower,” said the Emperor, with a displeased look and tone, “instead of instructing these poor, ignorant barbarians in the rules and civilisation of our enlightened empire, you foster, by such boastful words, the idle pride and fury of their temper, which hurries them into brawls with the legions of other foreign countries, and even breeds quarrels among themselves.” “If my mouth may be opened in the way of most humble excuse,” said the Follower, “I would presume to reply, that I but an hour hence talked with this poor ignorant Anglo-Dane, on the paternal care with which the Imperial Majesty of Greece regards the preservation of that concord which unites the followers of his standard, and how desirous he is to promote that harmony, more especially amongst the various nations who have the happiness to serve you, in spite of the bloodthirsty quarrels of the Franks, and other western men, who are never clear from civil broil. I think the poor youth’s understanding can bear witness to this much in my behalf.” He then looked towards Hereward, who gravely inclined his head in token of assent to what his captain said. His excuse thus ratified, Achilles proceeded in his apology more firmly. “What I said just now was spoken without due consideration; for, instead of pretending that this Hereward would face four of your Imperial Highness’s servants, I ought to have said, that he was willing to defy six of your Imperial Majesty’s most deadly enemies, and permit them to choose every circumstance of the time, arms, and place of combat.”

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“That hath a better sound,” said the Emperor; “and in truth, for the information of my dearest daughter, who piously has undertaken to record the things which I have been the blessed means of doing for the empire, I earnestly wish that she should remember, that though the sword of Alexius hath not slept in its sheath, yet he hath never sought his own aggrandisement at the price of bloodshed among his subjects.” “I trust,” said Anna Comnena, “that in my humble sketch of the life of the noble fountain from whom I derive my existence, I have not forgot to notice his love of peace, and care for the lives of his soldiery, and abhorrence of the bloody manners of the heretic Franks, as one of his most distinguishing characteristics.” Assuming then an attitude more commanding, as one who was about to claim the attention of the company, the Princess inclined her head gently around, and taking a roll of parchment from the fair amanuensis, which she had, in a most beautiful handwriting, engrossed to her mistress’s dictation, Anna Comnena prepared to read its contents. At this moment, the eyes of the Princess rested for an instant on the barbarian Hereward, to whom she deigned this greeting—“Valiant barbarian, of whom my fancy recalls some memory, as if in a dream, thou art now to hear a work, which, if the author be put into comparison with the subject, might be likened to a portrait of Alexander, in executing which, some inferior dauber has usurped the pencil of Apelles; but which essay, however it may appear unworthy of the subject in the eyes of many, must yet command some envy in those who candidly consider its contents, and the difficulty of pourtraying the great personage concerning whom it is written. Still, I pray thee, give thine attention to what I have now to read, since this account of the battle of Laodicea, the details thereof being principally derived from his Imperial Highness, my excellent father, from the altogether valiant Protospathaire, his invincible general, together with Achilles Tatius, the faithful Follower of our victorious Emperor, may nevertheless be in some circumstances inaccurate. For it is to be thought, that the high offices of those great commanders retained them at a distance from some particularly active parts of the fray, in order that they might have more cool and accurate opportunity to form a judgment upon the whole, and transmit their orders, without being disturbed by any thoughts of personal safety. Even so, brave barbarian, in the art of embroidery, (marvel not that we are a proficient in that mechanical process, since it is patronized by Minerva, whose studies we affect to follow,) we reserve to ourselves the superintendence of the entire web, and commit to our maidens and others the execution

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of particular parts. Thus, in the same manner, thou, valiant Varangian, being engaged in the very thickest of the affray before Laodicea, mayest point out to us, the unworthy historian of so renowned a war, those chances which befell where men fought hand to hand, and where the fate of war was decided by the edge of the sword. Therefore, dread not, thou bravest of the axe-men to whom we owe that victory, and so many others, to correct any mistake or misapprehension which we may have been led into concerning the details of that glorious event.” “Madam,” said the Varangian, “I shall attend with diligence to what your Highness may be pleased to read to me; although, as to presuming to blame the history of a Princess born in the purple, far be such a presumption from me; still less would it become a barbaric Varangian to pass a judgment on the military conduct of the Emperor, by whom he is liberally paid, or of the commander, by whom he is well treated. Before an action, if our advice is required, it is ever faithfully tendered; but according to my rough wit, our censure after the field is fought would be more invidious than useful. Touching the Protospathaire, if it be the duty of a general to absent himself from close action, I can safely say, or swear, were it necessary, that the invincible commander was never seen by me within a javelin’s cast of aught that looked like danger.” This speech, boldly and bluntly delivered, had its general effect on the company present. The Emperor himself, and Achilles Tatius, looked something like men who had got off from a danger better than they expected. The Protospathaire laboured to conceal a movement of resentment. Agelastes whispered to the Patriarch, near whom he was placed, “The northern battle-axe lacks neither point nor edge.” “Hush!” said Zosimus, “let us hear how this is to end; the Princess is about to speak.”

Chapter Four We heard the Tecbir, so these Arabs call Their shout of onset, when with loud acclaim They challenged Heaven, as if demanding conquest. The battle join’d, and, through the barb’rous herd, Fight, fight! and Paradise! was all their cry. The Siege of Damascus

T   of the northern soldier, although modified by feelings of respect to the Emperor, and even attachment for his captain, had more of a tone of sincerity, nevertheless, than was usually heard by the sacred echoes of the imperial palace; and though the Princess Anna

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Comnena began to think that she had invoked the opinion of a severe judge, she was sensible, at the same time, by the deference of his manner, that his respect was of a character more real, and his applause, should she gain it, would prove more truly flattering, than the gilded assent of the whole Grecian audience. She gazed with some surprise and attention on Hereward, already described as a very handsome young man, and felt the natural desire to please, which is easily created in the mind towards a fine person of the other sex. His attitude was easy and bold, but neither clownish nor uncourtly. His title of a barbarian, placed him at once free from the forms of civilized life, and the rules of artificial politeness. But his character for valour, and the noble self-confidence of his bearing, gave him a deeper interest than would have been acquired by a more studied and anxious address, or an excess of reverential awe. In short, the Princess Anna Comnena, high in rank as she was, and born in the imperial purple, which she herself deemed the first of all attributes, felt herself, nevertheless, in preparing to resume the recitation of her history, more anxious to obtain the approbation of this rude soldier, than that of all the rest of the courteous audience. She knew them well, it is true, and felt nowise solicitous about the applause which the daughter of the Emperor was sure to receive with full hands from those of her father’s courtiers to whom she might choose to communicate the productions of her father’s daughter. But she had now a judge of a new character, whose applause, if given, must have something in it intrinsically real, since it could only be obtained by affecting his head or heart. It was perhaps under the influence of these sentiments, that the Princess Anna was somewhat longer than usual in finding out the passage in the roll of history at which she purposed to commence— and that she began her recitation with a diffidence and embarrassment surprising to the noble hearers, who had often seen her in full possession of her presence of mind before what they conceived a more distinguished, and even more critical audience. Neither were the circumstances of the Varangian such as rendered the scene indifferent to him. Anna Comnena had indeed attained her fifth lustre, and that is a period after which Grecian beauty is understood to commence its decline. How long she had passed that critical period, was a secret to all but the trusted ward-women of the purple chamber. Enough, that it was affirmed by the popular tongue, and seemed to be attested by that bent towards philosophy and literature which is not supposed to be congenial to beauty in its earlier buds, to amount to one or two years more. She might be seven-and-twenty. Still Anna Comnena was, or had very lately been, a beauty of the very

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first rank, and must be still supposed to have retained charms to captivate a barbarian of the north; if, indeed, he himself was not careful to maintain an heedful recollection of the immeasurable distance between them. Indeed, even this might hardly have saved Hereward from the charms of this enchantress, bold, free-born, and fearless as he was; for, during that time of strange revolutions, there were many instances of successful generals sharing the couch of imperial princesses, whom perhaps they had themselves rendered widows, in order to make way for their own pretensions. But besides the influence of other recollections, which the reader may learn hereafter, Hereward, though flattered by the unusual degree of attention which the Princess bestowed upon him, saw in her only the daughter of his Emperor and adopted liege lord, and the wife of a noble prince, whom reason and duty alike forbade him to think of in any other capacity. It was after one or two preliminary efforts that the Princess Anna Comnena began her reading, with an incertain voice, which gained strength and fortitude as she proceeded with the following passage from a well-known part of her history of her father Alexius, but which has unfortunately not been republished in the Byzantine historians. It cannot, therefore, be otherwise than acceptable to the antiquarian reader; and the author hopes to receive the thanks of the learned world for the recovery of a curious fragment, which, without his exertions, must probably have passed to the gulf of oblivion.

The Retreat of Laodicea          ’    

“T   sun had betaken himself to his bed in the ocean, ashamed, it would seem, to see the immortal army of our most sacred Emperor Alexius surrounded by those barbarous hordes of unbelieving barbarians, who, as described in our last chapter, had occupied the various passes both in front and rear of the Romans.* Although, therefore, a triumphant course had brought us to this point, it now became a serious and doubtful question whether our victorious eagles should be able to advance any further into the country of the enemy, or even to retreat into their own. “The extensive acquaintance of the Emperor with military affairs, in which he exceeds most living princes, had induced him, on the preceding evening, with marvellous exactitude and foresight, to * More properly termed the Greeks; but we follow the phraseology of the fair authoress.

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ascertain the precise position of the enemy. In this most necessary service he employed certain light-armed barbarians, whose habits and discipline had been originally derived from the wilds of Syria; and, if I am required to speak according to the dictation of Truth, seeing she ought always to sit upon the pen of a historian, I must needs say they were infidels like their enemies; faithfully attached, however, to the Roman service, and, as I believe, true slaves of the Emperor, to whom they communicated the information required by him respecting the position of his dreaded opponent Jezdegerd. These men did not bring in their information till long after the hour when the Emperor usually betook himself to rest. “Notwithstanding this derangement of his most sacred time, our imperial father, who had postponed the ceremony of disrobing, so important were the necessities of the moment, continued, until deep in the night, to hold a council of his wisest chiefs, men whose depth of judgment might have saved a sinking world, and who now consulted what was to be done under the pressure of the circumstances in which they were placed. And so great was the urgency, that all ordinary observances were set aside, since I have heard from those who witnessed the fact, that the royal bed was displayed in the very room where the council assembled, and that the sacred lamp, called the Light of the Council, and which always burns when the Emperor presides there in person, was for that night—a thing unknown in our annals—fed with unperfumed oil!!” The fair speaker here threw her fine form into an attitude which expressed holy horror, and the hearers intimated their sympathy in the exciting cause by corresponding signs of interest; as to which we need only say, that the sigh of Achilles Tatius was the most pathetic; while the groan of Agelastes the Elephant was deepest and most tremendously bestial. Hereward seemed little moved, except by surprise at the wonder expressed by the others. The Princess, having left due time for the sympathy of her hearers to exhibit itself, proceeded as follows: “In this melancholy situation, when even the best-established and most sacred rites of the imperial household gave way to the necessity of a hasty provision for the morrow, the opinions of the counsellors were different, according to their tempers and habits; a thing, by the way, which may be remarked as likely to happen among the best and wisest upon such occasions of doubt and danger. “I do not in this place put down the names and opinions of those whose counsels were proposed and rejected, respecting in this the secrecy and freedom of debate justly attached to the imperial cabinet. Enough it is to say, that some there were who advised a speedy attack upon the enemy, in the direction of our original advance. Others

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thought it was safer, and might be easier, to force our way to the rear, and retreat by the same course which had brought us hither; nor must it be concealed, that there were persons of unsuspected fidelity, who proposed a third course, safer indeed than the others, but totally alien to the mind of our most magnanimous father. They recommended that a slave of the chamber, in company with a minister of the interior, should be sent to the tent of Jezdegerd, in order to ascertain upon what terms the barbarian would permit our triumphant father to retreat in safety at the head of his victorious army. On this, our imperial father was heard to exclaim, ‘Sancta Sophia!’ being the nearest approach to an adjuration which he has been known to permit himself, and was apparently about to say something violent both concerning the dishonour of the advice, and the cowardice of those by whom it was preferred, when, recollecting the mutability of human things, and the misfortune of several of his majesty’s gracious predecessors, some of whom had been compelled to surrender their sacred persons to the infidel in the same region, his imperial majesty repressed his generous feelings, and only suffered his army counsellors to understand his sentiments by a speech, in which he declared so desperate and so dishonourable a course would be the last which he would adopt even in the extremity of danger. Thus did the judgment of this mighty Prince at once reject counsel that seemed shameful to his arms, and thereby encourage the zeal of his troops, while privately he kept this postern in reserve, which in utmost need might serve for a safe, though not altogether, in less urgent circumstances, an honourable retreat. “When the discussion had reached this melancholy crisis, the renowned Achilles Tatius arrived with the joyful intelligence, that he himself and some soldiers of his corps had discovered an opening on the left flank of our present encampment, by which, making indeed a considerable circuit, but reaching, if we marched with vigour, the town of Laodicea, we might, by falling back on our resources, be in some measure in surety from the enemy. “So soon as this ray of hope had darted on the troubled mind of our gracious father, he proceeded to make such arrangements as might secure the full benefit of the advantage. His Imperial Highness would not permit the brave Varangians, whose battle-axes he accounted the flower of his imperial army, to take the advanced post of assailants on the present occasion. He repressed the love of battle by which these generous foreigners have been at all times distinguished, and directed that the Syrian forces in the army, who have been before mentioned, should be assembled with as little noise as possible in the vicinity of the deserted pass. The good genius of the empire suggested that, as

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their speech, arms, and appearance resembled those of the enemy, they might be permitted unopposed to take post in the defile with their light-armed forces, and thus secure it for the passage of the rest of the army, of which he proposed that the Varangians, as immediately attached to his own sacred person, should form the vanguard. The well-known battalions, termed the Immortals, came next, comprising the gross of the army, and forming the centre and rear. Achilles Tatius, the faithful Follower of his royal Master, although mortified that he was not permitted to assume the front of battle, which he proposed for himself and his valiant troops, cheerfully acquiesced, nevertheless, in the arrangement proposed by the Emperor, as most fit to effect his own safety, and that of the army. “The imperial orders, as they were sent instantly abroad, were in like manner executed with the readiest punctuality, the rather that they indicated a course of safety which had been almost despaired of. After the dead period of time, during which, as the divine Homer tells us, gods and men are alike asleep, it was found that the vigilance and prudence of a single individual had provided safety for the whole Roman army. The pinnacles of the mountain passes were scarcely touched by the earliest beams of the dawn, when these beams were also reflected from the steel caps and spears of the Syrians, under command of a captain named Monastras, who, with his tribe, had attached himself to the empire. The Emperor, at the head of his faithful Varangians, defiled through the passes, in order to gain that degree of advance on the road to the city of Laodicea which was desired, so as to avoid coming into collision with the barbarians. “It was a goodly sight to see the dark mass of northern warriors, moving slow and steady through the defiles of the mountains, around the insulated rocks, and breasting and surmounting the gentler acclivities, like the course of a strong and mighty river; while the loose bands of archers and javelin-men, armed after the eastern manner, were dispersed on the steep sides of the passes, and might be compared to light foam upon the edge of the torrent. In the midst of the squadrons of the life-guard might be seen the proud war-horse of his Imperial Majesty, which pawed the earth indignantly, as if impatient at the delay which separated him from his august burthen. The Emperor Alexius himself reposed in a litter, borne by eight strong African slaves, that he might rise perfectly refreshed if they should be overtaken by the enemy. The valiant Achilles Tatius rode near the couch of his master, that none of those luminous ideas, by which our august sire so often decided the fate of battle, might be lost for want of instant communication to those whose duty lay in the execution. I may also say, that there were close to the litter of the Emperor, three or

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four carriages of the same kind, one prepared for the Moon, as she may be termed, of the universe, the gracious Empress Irene. Among the others which might be mentioned, was that which contained the authoress of this history, unworthy as she may be of distinction, save as the daughter of the eminent and sacred persons whom the narrative chiefly concerns. In this manner the imperial army pressed on through the dangerous defiles, where their march was exposed to insults from the barbarians. They were happily cleared without any opposition. When we came to the descent of the pass which looks down on the city of Laodicea, the sagacity of the Emperor commanded the van—which had hitherto marched extremely fast—to make a halt, as well that they themselves might take some repose and refreshment, as to give the rearward forces time to come up, and close various gaps which the rapid movement of those in front had occasioned in the line of march. “The place chosen for this purpose was eminently beautiful, being that part of the country in which the small and insignificant ridge of hills melts irregularly down into the flat and irregular country stretching between the station and Laodicea. The town was about one hundred stadia distant, and some of our more sanguine warriors pretended that they could already discover its towers and pinnacles, glittering in the early beams of the sun, which had not as yet risen high into the horizon. A mountain torrent, which found its source at the foot of a huge rock, that yawned to give it birth as if struck by the rod of the prophet Moses, poured its liquid treasure down to the more level country, nourishing herbage, and even large trees, in its descent, until, at the distance of some four or five miles, the stream, at least in dry seasons, was lost amid heaps of sand and stones, which in the rainy season marked the strength and fury of its current. “It was pleasant to see the attention of the Emperor to the comforts of the companions and guardians of his march. The trumpets from time to time gave license to various parties of the Varangians to lay down their arms, eat the food which was distributed to them, and quench their thirst at the pure stream, which poured its bounties down the hill, or extend their bulky forms upon the turf around them. The Emperor, his most serene spouse, and the princesses and ladies, were also served with breakfast, at the fountain formed by the small brook in its very birth, and which the reverent feelings of the soldiery had left unpolluted by the vulgar touch, for use of that family, emphatically said to be born in the purple. Our beloved husband was also present on this occasion, and was among the first to detect one of the disasters of the day. For, although all the rest of the repast had been, by the dexterity of the officers of the imperial mouth, so arranged, even on so awful an occasion, as to exhibit little difference from the

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ordinary provisions of the household, yet, when his Imperial Highness called for wine, behold, not only was the sacred liquor dedicated to his own peculiar imperial use wholly exhausted or left behind, but, to use the language of Horace, not the vilest Sabine vintage could be procured; so that his Imperial Highness was glad to accept the offer of a rude Varangian, who proffered his modicum of decocted barley, which these barbarians prefer to the juice of the grape. The Emperor, nevertheless, accepted of this coarse tribute.” “Interpolate,” said the Emperor, who had been hitherto either plunged in deep contemplation, or in an incipient slumber, “interpose, I say, these very words: ‘And with the heat of the morning, and anxiety of so rapid a march, with a numerous enemy in his rear, the Emperor was so thirsty, as never in his life to think beverage more delicious.’” In obedience to her imperial father’s orders, the Princess resigned the manuscript to the beautiful slave by whom it was written, repeating to the fair scribe the commanded addition, requiring her to note it, as made by the express sacred command of the Emperor, and then proceeded thus:—“More I had said here respecting the favourite liquor of your Imperial Highness’s faithful Varangians; but your Highness having once graced it with a word of commendation, this ail, as they call it, doubtless because removing all disorders, which they term ‘ailments,’ becomes a theme too lofty for the discussion of any inferior person. Suffice it to say, that thus were we all pleasantly engaged, the ladies and slaves trying to find some amusement for the imperial ears; the soldiers, in a long line down the ravine, seen in different postures, some straggling to the watercourse, some keeping guard over the arms of their comrades, in which duty they relieved each other, while body after body of the remaining troops, under command of the Protospathaire, and particularly those called Immortals, joined the main army as they came up. Those who were already exhausted, were allowed to take a short repose, after which they were sent forward, with directions to advance steadily on the road to Laodicea; while their commander was instructed, so soon as he should open a free communication with that city, to send thither a demand for reinforcements and refreshments, not forgetting fitting provision of the sacred wine for the imperial mouth. Accordingly, the Roman bands of Immortals and others had resumed their march, and held some way on their journey, it being the imperial pleasure that the Varangians should now form the rear of the whole army, bringing off safely the Syrian light troops, by whom the hilly pass had been occupied, when we heard upon the other side of this defile, which we had traversed with so much safety, the awful sound of the Lelies, as the Arabs name their shout of onset, though in what language it is

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expressed, it would be hard to say. Perchance some in this audience may enlighten my ignorance.” “May I speak and live?” said the Acoulouthos Achilles, proud of his military knowledge, “the words are, Alla illa alla, Mohamed resoul alla. These, or something like them, contain the Arabs’ profession of faith, which they always call out when they join battle; I have heard it many times.” “And so have I,” said the Emperor; “and as thou didst, I warrant me, I have sometimes wished myself anywhere else than within hearing.” All the circle were alive to hear the answer of Achilles Tatius. He was too good a courtier, however, to make an imprudent reply. “It was my duty,” he replied, “to desire to be as near your Imperial Highness, as your faithful Follower ought, wherever you might wish yourself for the time.” Agelastes and Zosimus exchanged looks, and the Princess Anna Comnena proceeded in her recitation. “The cause of these ill-boding sounds, which came in wild confusion up the rocky pass, were soon explained to us by a dozen cavaliers, to whom the task of bringing intelligence had been assigned. “These informed us, that the barbarians, whose host had been considerately dispersed around the position in which we had encamped the preceding day, had not been enabled to get their forces together until our light troops were evacuating the post they had occupied for securing the retreat of our army. They were then drawing off from the tops of the hills into the pass itself, when, in despite of the rocky ground, they were charged furiously by Jezdegerd, at the head of a large body of his followers, which, after repeated exertions, he had at length brought to operate on the rear of the Syrians. Notwithstanding that the pass was unfavourable for cavalry, the personal exertions of the infidel chief made his followers advance with a degree of resolution unknown to the Syrians of the Roman army, who, finding themselves at a distance from their companions, formed the injurious idea that they were left to be sacrificed, and thought of flight in various directions, rather than a combined and resolute resistance. The state of affairs, therefore, at the further end of the pass, was less favourable than we could wish, and those whose curiosity desired to see something which might be termed the rout of the rear of an army, beheld the Syrians pursued from the hill tops, overwhelmed, and individually cut down and made prisoners by the bands of caitiff Mussulmen. “His Imperial Highness looked upon the scene of battle for a few minutes, and, much commoved at what he saw, was somewhat hasty in his directions to the Varangians to resume their arms, and precipitate

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their march towards Laodicea; whereupon one of those northern soldiers said boldly, though in opposition to the imperial commands, ‘If we attempt to go hastily down this hill, our rearguard will be confused, not only by our own hurry, but by these runaway scoundrels of Syrians, who will mix themselves among us. Let two hundred Varangians, who will live and die for the honour of England, abide in the very throat of this pass with me, while the rest escort the Emperor to this Laodicea, or whatever it is called. We may perish in our defence, but we shall die in our duty; and I have little doubt but that we will furnish such a meal as will stay the stomach of these yelping hounds from seeking any farther banquet this day.’ “My imperial father at once discovered the importance of this advice, though it made him wellnigh weep to see with what unshrinking fidelity these poor barbarians pressed to fill the ranks of those who remained on this desperate duty—with what kindness they took leave of their comrades, and with what jovial shouts they accompanied their sovereign, as he proceeded on his march down the hill. The imperial eyes were filled with tears; and I am not ashamed to confess, that amid the terror of the moment, the Empress, and I myself, forgot our rank, in paying a similar tribute to these bold and self-devoted men. “We left their leader carefully arraying his handful of comrades in defence of the pass, where the path was occupied by their centre, while their wings, on either side, were so disposed as to act upon the flanks of the enemy, should he rashly press upon such as appeared opposed to them in the road. We had not proceeded half way towards the plain, when a dreadful shout arose, in which the yells of the Arabs were mingled with the deep and more regular cry which these strangers usually repeat thrice, as well when bidding hail to their commanders and princes, as when in the act of engaging in battle. Many a look was turned back by their comrades, and many a form was seen in the ranks which might have claimed the chisel of a sculptor, while the soldier hesitated whether to follow the line of his duty, which called him to march forward with his Emperor, or the impulse of courage, which prompted him to rush back to join his companions. Discipline, however, prevailed, and the main body marched on. “An hour had elapsed, during which we heard, from time to time, the noise of battle, when a mounted Varangian presented himself at the side of the Emperor’s litter. The horse was covered with foam, and had obviously, from his trappings, the fineness of his limbs, and the smallness of his joints, been the charger of some chief of the desert, which had fallen by the chance of battle into possession of the northern warrior. The broad axe which the Varangian bore was also stained with blood, and the paleness of death itself was upon his countenance.

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These marks of recent battle were held sufficient to excuse the irregularity of his salutation, while he exclaimed,—‘Noble Prince, the Arabs are defeated, and you may pursue your march at more leisure.’ “ ‘Where is Jezdegerd?’ said the Emperor, who had many reasons for dreading this celebrated chief. “ ‘Jezdegerd,’ continued the Varangian, ‘is where brave men are who fall in their duty.’ “ ‘And that is—’ said the Emperor, impatient to know distinctly the fate of so formidable an adversary—— “ ‘Where I am now going,’ answered the faithful soldier, who dropped from his horse as he spoke, and expired at the feet of the litter-bearers. “The Emperor called to his attendants to see that the body of that faithful retainer, to whom he destined an honourable sepulchre, was not left to the jackall or vulture; and some of his brethren, among whom he was a man of no mean repute, raised him on their shoulders, and resumed their march with this additional encumbrance, prepared to fight for their burthen, like the valiant Menelaus for the body of Patroclus.” The Princess Anna Comnena here naturally paused, having attained what she probably considered as the rounding of a period, and being willing to gather an idea of the feelings of her audience: but that she had been intent upon the manuscript before her, those of the foreign soldier must have more early attracted her attention. In the beginning of her recitation, indeed, he had retained the same attitude which he had at first assumed, stiff and rigid as a sentinel upon duty, and apparently remembering nothing, save that he was performing that duty in presence of the imperial court. As the narrative advanced, however, he appeared to take more interest in what was read. The anxious fears expressed by the various leaders in the midnight council, he listened to with a smile of suppressed contempt, and he almost laughed at the praises bestowed upon the leader of his own corps, Achilles Tatius. Nor did even the name of the Emperor, though listened to respectfully, gain that applause for which his daughter fought so hard, and used so much exaggeration. Hitherto the Varangian’s countenance indicated very slightly any internal emotions; but they appeared to take a deeper hold on his mind as she came to the description of the halt upon the top of the pass; the unexpected advance of the Arabs; the retreat of the column which escorted the Emperor; and the account of the distant noise of the engagement. He lost the rigid and constrained look of a soldier, who listened to the history of his Emperor with the same feelings with which he would have mounted guard at his palace. His colour began to

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come and go; his eyes to fill and to sparkle; his limbs to become more agitated than their owner seemed to assent to; and his whole appearance was changed into that of a listener, highly interested by the recitation which he hears, and insensible, or forgetful, of whatever else is passing before him, or of the quality of those who are present. As the historian proceeded, Hereward became less able to conceal his agitation; and at the moment the Princess looked round, his feelings became so acute, that, forgetting where he was, he dropped his ponderous axe upon the floor, and, clasping his hands together, exclaimed,—“My unfortunate brother!” All were startled by the clang of the falling weapon, and several persons at once attempted to interfere, as called upon to explain a circumstance so unusual. Achilles Tatius made some small progress in a speech designed to apologise for the rough mode of venting his sorrows to which Hereward had given way, by assuring the eminent persons present, that the poor uncultivated barbarian was actually younger brother to him who had commanded and fallen at the memorable defile. The Princess said nothing, but was evidently struck and affected, and not ill-pleased, perhaps, at having given rise to feelings of interest so flattering to her as an authoress. The others, each in their character, uttered incoherent words of what was meant to be consolation; for distress which flows from a natural cause, generally attracts sympathy even from the most artificial characters. The voice of Alexius silenced all these imperfect speakers: “Hah, my brave soldier, Edward!” said the Emperor, “I must have been blind that I did not sooner recognise thee, as I think there is a memorandum entered, respecting five hundred pieces of gold due from us to Edward the Varangian; we have it in our secret scroll of such liberalities for which we stand indebted to our servitors, nor shall the payment be longer deferred.” “Not to me, if it please you, my liege,” said the Anglo-Dane, hastily composing his countenance into its rough gravity of lineament, “lest it should be to one who can claim no interest in your imperial munificence. My name is Hereward; that of Edward is borne by three of my companions, all of them as likely as I to have deserved your Highness’s reward for faithful performance of their duty.” Many a sign was made by Tatius in order to guard his soldier against the folly of declining the liberality of the Emperor. Agelastes spoke more plainly: “Young man,” he said, “rejoice in an honour so unexpected, and answer henceforth to no other name saving that of Edward, by which it hath pleased the light of the world, as it poured a ray upon thee, to distinguish thee from other barbarians. What is to thee the font-stone, or the priest officiating thereat, shouldst thou

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have derived from either any epithet different from that by which it hath pleased the Emperor to distinguish thee from the common mass of humanity, and by which proud distinction thou hast now a right to be known ever afterwards?” “Hereward was the name given me by my father,” said the soldier, who had now altogether recovered his composure. “I cannot abandon it while I honour his memory in death. Edward is the title of my comrade—I must not run the risk of usurping his interest.” “Peace!” interrupted the Emperor. “If we have made a mistake, we are rich enough to right it; nor shall Hereward be the poorer, if Edward shall be found to merit this gratuity.” “Your Highness may trust that to your affectionate consort,” answered the Empress Irene. “His most sacred Highness,” said the Princess Anna Comnena, “is so avariciously desirous to do whatever is good and gracious, that he leaves no room even for his nearest connexions to display generosity or munificence. Nevertheless, I, in my degree, will testify my gratitude to this brave man; for where his exploits are mentioned in this history, I will cause to be recorded,—‘This was done by Hereward the AngloDane, whom it hath pleased his Imperial Majesty to call Edward.’ Keep this, good youth,” she continued, bestowing at the same time a ring of price, “in token that we will not forget our engagement.” Hereward accepted the token with a profound obeisance, and a discomposure which his youth rendered not unbecoming. It was obvious to most persons present, that the gratitude of the beautiful Princess was expressed in a manner more acceptable to the youthful life-guardsman, than that of Alexius Comnenus. He took the ring with great demonstration of thankfulness: “We may not,” he said, as he saluted this pledge of esteem by pressing it to his lips, “remain long together, but be assured that death alone shall part us.” “Proceed, our princely daughter,” said the Empress Irene; “you have done enough to show that valour is precious to her who can confer fame, whether it be found in a Roman or a barbarian.” The Princess resumed her narrative with some slight appearance of embarrassment. “Our movement upon Laodicea was now resumed, and continued with good hopes on the part of those engaged in that march. Yet instinctively we could not help casting our eyes to the rear, which had been so long the direction in which we feared attack. At length, to our surprise, a thick cloud of dust was visible on the descent of the hill, half way betwixt us and the place at which we had halted. Some of the troops who composed our retreating body, particularly those in the rear, began to exclaim, ‘The Arabs! the Arabs!’ and their march

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assumed a more precipitate character when they believed themselves pursued by the enemy. But the Varangian guards affirmed with one voice, that the dust was raised by the remains of their own comrades, who, left in the defence of the pass, had marched off after having so valiantly maintained the station intrusted to them. They fortified their opinion by practical remarks, that the dust was more concentrated together than if raised by the Arab horse, and they even pretended to assert, from their knowledge of such cases, that the number of their comrades had been much diminished in the action. Some Syrian horsemen, dispatched to reconnoitre the approaching body, brought intelligence corresponding with the opinion of the Varangians in every particular. The portion of the body-guard had beaten back the Arabs, and slain their leader Jezdegerd, in which service their own gallant leader was mortally wounded, as this history hath already mentioned. The survivors of the detachment, diminished by one half, were now on their march to join the Emperor, as fast as the encumbrance of bearing their wounded to a place of safety would permit. “The Emperor Alexius, with one of those brilliant and benevolent ideas which mark his paternal character towards his soldiers, ordered all the litters, even that for his own most sacred use, to be instantly sent back to relieve the bold Varangians of the task of bearing the wounded. The shouts of the Varangians’ gratitude may be more easily conceived than described, when they beheld the Emperor, descending from his litter, assume his war-horse, at the same time that the most sacred Empress, and the authoress of this history, with other princesses born in the purple, mounted upon mules, in order to proceed upon the march, while the litters were unhesitatingly adopted for the accommodation of the wounded men. This was indeed a mark, as well of military sagacity as of humanity; for the relief afforded to the bearers of the wounded, enabled the survivors of those who had defended the pass, to join us sooner than would otherwise have been possible, with about a hundred guardsmen who had come off, the relicts of those who had defended the defile at the fountain. “It was an awful thing to see those men who had left us in the full splendour which military equipment gives to youth and strength, and who now again appeared diminished in numbers—their armour shattered—their shields full of arrows—their offensive weapons marked with blood, and they themselves exhibiting all the signs of desperate and recent battle. Nor was it less interesting to remark the meeting of the soldiers who had been engaged, with the comrades whom they had rejoined. The Emperor, at the suggestion of the trusty Acoulouthos, permitted them a few moments to leave their ranks, and learn from each other the fate of the battle.

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“As the two bands mingled, it seemed a meeting where grief and joy had a contract together. The most rugged of these barbarians,—and I who saw it can bear witness to the fact,—as he welcomed with a grasp of his strong hand some comrade whom he had given up for lost, had his large blue eyes filled with tears at hearing the loss of some one who he had hoped might have survived. Other veterans reviewed the standards which had been in the conflict, satisfied themselves that they had all been brought back in honour and safety, and counted the fresh arrow-shots with which they had been pierced, in addition to similar marks of former battles. All were loud in the praises of the brave young leader they had lost, nor were the acclamations less general in laud of him who had succeeded to the command, who brought up the party of his deceased brother—and whom,” said the Princess, in a few words which seemed apparently interpolated for the occasion, “I now assure of the high honour and estimation in which he is held by the author of this history—that is, I would say, by every member of the imperial family—for his gallant services in such an important crisis.” Having hurried over her tribute to her friend the Varangian, in which emotions mingled that are not willingly expressed before so many hearers, Anna Comnena proceeded with composure in the part of her history which was less personal. “We had not much time to observe the emotions of these gallant soldiers, for having allowed a few minutes to their feelings, the trumpet sounded the advance towards Laodicea, and we soon beheld the town, now about four miles from us, in fields which were chiefly covered with trees. Apparently the garrison had already some notice of our approach, for carts and wains were seen advancing from the gates with refreshments, which the heat of the day, the length of the march, and columns of dust, as well as the want of water, had rendered of the last necessity to us. The soldiers joyfully mended their pace in order to meet the sooner with the supplies of which they stood so much in need. But as the cup doth not carry in all cases the liquid treasure to the lips for which it was intended, however much it may be longed for, what was our mortification to behold a cloud of Arabs issue at full gallop from the wooded plain, and throw themselves upon the waggons, slaying the drivers, and making havoc and spoil of the contents! This, we afterwards learned, was a body of the enemy, headed by Varanes, equal in military fame, among those infidels, to Jezdegerd, his slain brother. When this chieftain saw that it was probable that the Varangians would succeed in their desperate defence of the pass of the fountain, he put himself at the head of a large portion of the cavalry; and as these infidels are possessed of horses unmatched either in speed or wind, performed a long circuit, traversed the stony

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ridge of hills at a more northerly defile, and placed himself in ambuscade in the wooded plain I have mentioned, with the hope of making an unexpected assault upon the Emperor and his army, at the very time when they might be supposed to reckon upon an undisputed retreat. This surprise would certainly have taken place, and it is not easy to say what might have been the consequence, had not the unexpected appearance of the train of waggons awakened the unbridled rapacity of the Arabs, in spite of their commander’s prudence, and attempts to restrain them. In this manner their proposed ambuscade was discovered. “But Varanes, willing still to gain some advantage from the rapidity of his movements, assembled as many of his horsemen as could be collected from the spoil, and pushed forward towards the Romans, who had stopt short on their march at so unlooked for an apparition. There was an uncertainty and wavering in our first ranks which made their hesitation known even to so poor a judge of military demeanour as myself. On the contrary, the Varangians joined in a unanimous cry of ‘Bills’ (that is, in their language, battle-axes) ‘to the van!’ and the Emperor’s most gracious will acceding to their valorous desire, they pressed forwards from the rear to the front of the column. I can hardly say how this manœuvre was executed, but it was doubtless by the wise directions of my most serene father, distinguished for his presence of mind upon such difficult occasions. It was, no doubt, much facilitated by the good-will of the troops themselves; the Roman bands, called the Immortals, showing, as it seemed to me, no less desire to fall back into the rear, than did the Varangians to occupy the places which the Immortals left vacant in front. The manœuvre was so happily executed, that before Varanes and his Arabs had arrived at the van of our troops, they found it occupied by the inflexible guard of northern soldiers. I might have seen with my own eyes, and called upon them as sure evidences of that which chanced upon the occasion. But, to confess the truth, my eyes were little used to look upon such sights; for of Varanes’s charge I only beheld a thick cloud of dust rapidly driven forward, through which were seen the glittering points of lances, and the waving plumes of turbaned cavaliers imperfectly visible. The tecbir was so loudly uttered, that I was scarcely aware that kettledrums and brazen cymbals were sounding in concert with it. But this wild and outrageous storm was met as effectually as if encountered by a rock. “The Varangians, unshaken by the furious charge of the Arabs, received horse and rider with a shower of blows from their massive battle-axes, which the bravest of the enemy could not face, nor the strongest endure. The guards strengthened their ranks also, by the

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hindmost pressing so close upon those that went before, after the manner of the ancient Macedonians, that the fine-limbed, though slight steeds of these Idumeans could not make the least way amid the northern phalanx. The bravest men, the most furious horses, fell in the first rank. The weighty, though short, horse javelins, flung from the rear of the phalanx with good aim and sturdy arm, completed the confusion of the assailants, who turned their back in affright, and fled over the field in total confusion. “We proceeded on our march, and only halted when we recovered our half-plundered waggons. Here, also, some invidious remarks were made by certain officers of the interior, who had been on duty over the stores, and having fled from their post on the assault of the infidels, had only returned upon their being repulsed. These men, quick in malice, though slow in dangerous service, reported that, on this occasion, the Varangians so far forgot their duty as to consume a part of the sacred wine reserved for the imperial mouth alone. It would be criminal to deny that this was a great and culpable oversight; nevertheless, our imperial hero passed it over as a pardonable offence; remarking, in a jesting manner, that since he had drank the ail, as they termed it, of his trusty guard, the Varangians had thereby acquired a right to quench the thirst, and to relieve the fatigue, which they had undergone that day in his defence, though they used for these purposes the sacred contents of the imperial cellar. “In the meantime, the cavalry of the army were dispatched in pursuit of the fugitive Arabs; and having succeeded in driving them behind the chain of hills which had so recently divided them from the Romans, the imperial arms might justly be considered as having obtained a complete and glorious victory. “We are now to mention the rejoicings of the citizens of Laodicea, who, having witnessed from their ramparts, with alternate fear and hope, the fluctuations of the battle, now descended to congratulate the imperial conqueror.” Here the fair narrator was interrupted. The principal entrance of the apartment flew open, noiselessly indeed, but with both folding leaves at once, not as if to accommodate the entrance of an ordinary courtier, studying to create as little disturbance as possible, but as if there was entering a person, who ranked so high as to make it indifferent how much, or whose, attention was drawn upon his motions. It could only be one born in the purple, or nearly allied to it, to whom such freedom was lawful; and most of the guests, knowing who were likely to appear in that Temple of the Muses, anticipated, from the degree of bustle, the arrival of Nicephorus Briennius, the son-in-law of Alexius Comnenus, the husband to the fair historian, and in the

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rank of Cæsar, which however did not at that period imply, as in early ages, the dignity of second person in the empire. The policy of Alexius had interposed more than one person of condition between the Cæsar, and his original rights and rank, which had once been inferior to those only of the Emperor himself.

Chapter Five The storm increases—’tis no sunny shower, Foster’d in the moist breast of March or April, Or such as parched Summer cools his lip with: Heaven’s windows are flung wide; the inmost deeps Call in hoarse greeting one upon another; On comes the flood in all its foaming horrors, And where’s the dike shall stop it? The Deluge, a Poem

T                individual who entered was a noble Grecian, of stately presence, whose habit was adorned with every mark of dignity, saving those which Alexius had declared sacred to the Emperor’s own person, and that of the Sebastocrator, whom he had established as next in rank to the head of the empire. Nicephorus Briennius, who was in the bloom of youth, retained all the marks of that manly beauty which had made the match acceptable to Anna Comnena; while political considerations, and the desire of attaching a powerful house as friendly adherents of the throne, recommended the union to Alexius. We have already hinted the royal bride had, though in no great degree, the very doubtful advantage of years. Of her literary talents we have seen tokens. Yet it was not believed by those who best knew, that, with the aid of those claims to respect, Anna Comnena was successful in possessing the unlimited attachment of her handsome husband. To treat her with apparent neglect, her connexion with the crown rendered impossible; while, on the other hand, the power of Nicephorus’s family was too great to permit his being dictated to even by the Emperor himself. He was possessed of talents, as it was believed, calculated both for war and peace. His advice was, therefore, listened to, and his assistance required, so that he claimed complete liberty with respect to his own time, which he sometimes used with less regular attendance upon the Temple of the Muses, than the goddess of the place thought herself entitled to, or than the Empress Irene was disposed to exact on the part of her daughter. The good-humoured Alexius observed a sort of neutrality in this matter, and kept it as much as possible from becoming visible to the public, conscious that it

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required the whole united strength of his family to maintain his place in the agitated empire. He pressed his son-in-law’s hand, as Nicephorus, crossing his father-in-law’s seat, bent his knee in token of homage. The constrained manner of the Empress indicated a more cold reception of her son-in-law, while the fair muse herself scarcely deigned to signify her attention to his arrival, when her handsome mate assumed the vacant seat by her side, which we have already made mention of. There was an awkward pause, during which the imperial son-inlaw, repulsed, it would appear, when he expected to be welcomed, attempted to enter into some light conversation with the fair slave Astarte, who knelt behind her mistress. This was interrupted by the Princess commanding her attendant to enclose the manuscript within its appropriate casket, and convey it with her own hands to the cabinet of Apollo, the usual scene of the Princess’s studies, as the Temple of the Muses was that commonly dedicated to her recitations. The Emperor himself was the first to break an unpleasant silence. “Fair son-in-law,” he said, “though it now wears something late in the night, you will do yourself wrong if you permit our Anna to send away that volume, with which this company have been so delectably entertained that they may well say, that the desert hath produced roses, and the barren rocks have poured forth milk and honey, so agreeable is the narrative of a toilsome and dangerous campaign, in the language of our daughter.” “The Cæsar,” said the Empress, “seems to have little taste for such dainties as this family can produce. He hath of late repeatedly absented himself from this Temple of the Muses, and found doubtless more agreeable conversation and amusement elsewhere.” “I trust, madam,” said Nicephorus, “that my taste may vindicate me from the charge implied. But it is natural that our sacred father should be most delighted with the milk and honey which is produced for his own special use.” The Princess spoke in the tone of a handsome woman offended by her lover, and feeling the offence, yet not unwilling to a reconciliation. “If,” she said, “the deeds of Nicephorus Briennius are less frequently celebrated in that poor roll of parchment than those of my illustrious father, he must do me the justice to remember that such was his own special request; either proceeding from that modesty which is justly ascribed to him, as serving to soften and adorn his other attributes, or because he with justice distrusts his wife’s power to compose their eulogium.” “We will then summon back Astarte,” said the Empress, “who cannot yet have carried her offering to the cabinet of Apollo.”

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“With your imperial pleasure,” said Nicephorus, “it might incense the Pythian god were a deposit to be recalled of which he alone can fitly estimate the value. I came hither to speak with the Emperor upon pressing affairs of state, and not to hold a literary conversation with a company which I must needs say is something of a miscellaneous description, since I behold a common lifeguardsman in the imperial circle.” “By the rood, son-in-law,” said Alexius, “you do this gallant man wrong. He is the brother of that brave Anglo-Dane who secured the victory at Laodicea by his valiant combat and death, and he himself is that Edmund—or Edward—or Hereward—to whom we are ever bound for securing the success of that victorious day. He was called into our presence, son-in-law, since it imports that you should know so much, to refresh the memory of my Follower, Achilles Tatius, as well as mine own, concerning some transactions of the day of which we had become in some degree oblivious.” “Truly, imperial sir,” answered Briennius, “I grieve that, by having intruded on such important researches, I may have, in some degree, intercepted a portion of that light which is to illuminate future ages, yet may I be pardoned in hoping that when examining barbarians of this class, my spouse will be so kind as to consult me beforehand. Methinks that in a battle-field, fought under your imperial guidance, and that of your great captains, your evidence might well supersede the testimony of such a man as this.—Let me know,” he added, turning haughtily to the Varangian, “what particular thou canst add unnoticed in the Princess’s narrative?” The Varangian replied instantly, “Only that when we made a halt at the fountain at the top of the pass, the music that was there made by the ladies of the Emperor’s household, and particularly by those two whom I now behold, was the most exquisite which ever reached my ears.” “Hah! darest thou to speak so audacious an opinion?” exclaimed Nicephorus; “is it for such as thee to suppose for a moment that the music which the wife and daughter of the Emperor might condescend to make, was intended to afford either matter of pleasure or subject of criticism to every plebeian barbarian who might hear them? Begone from this place! nor dare, on any pretext, again to appear before mine eyes—under allowance always of our imperial father’s pleasure.” The Varangian bent his looks upon Achilles Tatius, as the person from whom he was to take his orders to stay or withdraw. But the Emperor himself took up the subject with considerable dignity. “Son,” he said, “we cannot permit this. On account of some love quarrel, as it would seem, betwixt you and our daughter, you allow

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yourself strangely to forget our own rank, and order from our presence those whom we have pleased to call to attend us. This is neither right nor seemly, nor is it our pleasure that this same Hereward—or Edward—or whatever be his name—either leave us at this present moment, or at any time hereafter regulate himself by any commands save our own, or those of our Follower, Achilles Tatius. And now, allowing this foolish affair, which I think was blown among us by the wind, to part without further notice as it came, we crave to know the grave matters of state which brought you to our presence at so late an hour.—You look again at this Varangian.—Withhold not your words, I pray you, on account of his presence; for he stands as high in our trust, and we are convinced with as good reason, as any councillor who has been sworn our domestic servant.” “To hear is to obey,” returned the Emperor’s son-in-law, who saw that Alexius was somewhat moved, and knew that in such cases it was neither safe nor expedient to drive him to extremity. “What I have to say,” continued he, “must so soon be public news, that it little recks who hears them; and yet the West, so full of strange changes, never sent to the Eastern half of the globe tidings so alarming as those I now come to tell your imperial highness. Europe, to borrow an expression from this lady, who honours me by calling me husband, seems loosened from its foundations and about to precipitate itself upon Asia——” “So I did express myself,” said the Princess Anna Comnena, “and, as I trust, not altogether unforcibly, when we first heard that the wild impulse of these restless barbarians of Europe had driven a tempest as of a thousand nations upon our western frontier, with the extravagant purpose, as they pretended, of possessing themselves of Syria, and the holy places there marked as the sepulchres of prophets, the martyrdom of saints, and the great events detailed in the blessed gospel. But that storm, by all accounts, hath burst and passed away, and we well hoped that the danger had gone with it. Devoutly shall we sorrow to find it otherwise.” “And otherwise we must expect to find it,” said her husband. “It is very true, as reported to us, that a huge body of men of low rank, and little understanding, assumed arms at the instigation of a mad hermit, and took the road from Germany to Hungary, expecting miracles to be wrought in their favour, as when Israel was guided by a pillar of flame and a cloud. No showers of manna or of quails relieved their necessities, or proclaimed them the chosen people of God. No waters gushed from the rock for their refreshment. They were enraged at their sufferings, and endeavoured to alleviate them by pillaging the country. The Hungarians, and other nations on our western frontiers,

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Christians, like themselves, did not hesitate to fall upon this disorderly rabble; and immense piles of bones, in wild passes and unfrequented deserts, attest the calamities which extirpated these unholy pilgrims.” “All this,” said the Emperor, “we knew before;—but what new evil now threatens, since we have escaped so important a one?” “Knew?” said the Prince Nicephorus. “We knew nothing of our real danger before, save that a wild herd of animals, as brutal and as furious as wild bulls, threatened to bend their shortest way to a pasture for which they had formed a fancy, and deluging the Grecian empire in their passage, expecting that Palestine, with its streams of milk and honey, once more awaited them, as God’s predestined people. But so wild and disordered an invasion had no terrors for a civilized nation like the Romans. The brute herd was terrified by our Greek fire; it was snared and shot down by the wild nations who cover our frontier, in their own despite, as with a protecting fortification. The vile multitude has been consumed even by the very quality of provisions thrown in their way;—those wise means of resistance which were at once suggested by the paternal care of the Emperor, and by his unfailing policy. Thus wisdom has played its part, and the bark over which the tempest had poured its thunder, has escaped, notwithstanding all its violence. But the second storm, by which the former is so closely followed, is of a new descent of these Western nations, more formidable than any which we or our fathers have yet seen. This consists not of the ignorant or of the fanatical—not of the base, the needy, and the improvident. All that wide Europe possesses of what is wise and worthy, brave and noble, are joined by the most religious vows, in the same purpose.” “And what is that purpose? Speak plainly,” said Alexius. “The destruction of our whole Roman empire, and the blotting out the very name of its chief from among the princes of the earth, among which it has long been predominant, can alone be an adequate motive for a confederacy such as thy speech infers.” “No such design is avowed,” said Nicephorus; “and so many princes, wise men, and statesmen of eminence, aim, it is pretended, at nothing else than the same extravagant purpose announced by the brute multitude who first appeared in these regions. Here, most gracious Emperor, is a scroll, in which you will find marked down a list of the various armies which, by different routes, are approaching the vicinity of the empire. See, Hugh of Vermandois, called from his dignity Hugh the Great, has set sail from the shores of Italy. Twenty knights have already announced their coming, sheathed in armour of steel, inlaid with gold, bearing this proud greeting:—‘Let the Emperor of Greece, and his lieutenants, understand that Hugo, Earl

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of Vermandois, is approaching his territories. He is brother to the king of kings, and man of men—the King of France, namely—and is attended by the flower of the French nobility. He bears the blessed banner of Saint Peter, intrusted to his victorious care by the holy successor of the apostle, and warns thee of all this, that thou mayest provide a reception suitable to his rank.’” “Here are loud words,” said the Emperor; “but the wind which whistles loudest is not always most dangerous to the vessel. We know something of this nation of France, and have heard more. They are as petulant at least as they are valiant; we will flatter their vanity till we get time and opportunity for more effectual defence. Tush! if words can pay debt, there is no fear of our exchequer becoming insolvent.— What follows here, Nicephorus? A list, I suppose, of the followers of this great count?” “Alas, no!” answered Nicephorus Briennius; “so many chiefs, as your Imperial Highness sees in that memorial, so many independent chiefs there are of European armies advancing by different routes towards the East, and announcing the conquest of Palestine from the infidels as their common object.” “A dreadful enumeration,” said the Emperor, as he perused the list; “yet so far happy, that its very length assures us of the impossibility that so many princes can be seriously and consistently united in so wild a project. Thus already my eyes catch the well-known name of an old friend, our enemy—for such the alternate chances of peace and war—Bohemond of Antioch. Is not he the son of the celebrated Robert of Apulia, so renowned among his countrymen, who raised himself to the rank of grand duke from a simple cavalier, and became sovereign of those of his warlike nation, both in Sicily and Italy? Did not the standards of the German Emperor, of the Roman Pontiff, nay, our own imperial banners, give way before him; until, equally a wily statesman and a brave warrior, he became the terror of Europe, from being a knight whose Norman castle would have been easily garrisoned by six crossbows, and as many lances? It is a dreadful family, a race of craft as well as power. But Bohemond, the son of old Robert, will follow his father’s politics. He may talk of Palestine and of the interests of Christendom, but if I can make his interests the same with mine, he will be hardly guided by any other object. So, then, with the knowledge I already possess of his wishes, Heaven sends us an ally in the guise of an enemy.—Who have we next? Godfrey Duke of Bouillon—leading, I see, a most formidable troop from the banks of a huge river called the Rhine. What is this person’s character?” “As we hear,” replied Nicephorus, “this Godfrey is one of the wisest, noblest, and bravest of the leaders who have thus strangely put

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themselves in motion; and among a list of independent princes, as many in number as those who assembled for the siege of Troy, and followed, most of them, by subjects ten times more numerous, this Godfrey may be regarded as the Agamemnon. The princes and counts esteem him, because he is the foremost in the ranks of those whom they fantastically call Knights, and also on account of the good faith and generosity which he practises in all his transactions. The clergy give him credit for the highest zeal for the doctrines of religion, and a corresponding respect for the church and its dignitaries. Justice, liberality, and frankness, have equally attached to him the lower class of the people. His general attention to moral obligations is a pledge to them that his religion is real; and, gifted with so much that is excellent, he is already, although inferior in rank, birth, and power, to many chiefs of the crusade, justly regarded as one of its principal heads.” “Pity,” said the Emperor, “that a character such as you describe this Prince to be, should be under the dominion of a fanaticism scarce worthy of Peter the Hermit, or the clownish multitude which he led, or of the very ass which he rode upon! which I am apt to think the wisest of the first multitude whom we beheld, seeing that it ran away towards Europe so soon as water and barley became scarce.” “May I be permitted here to speak, and yet live,” said Agelastes, “I would remark, that the Patriarch himself made a similar retreat so soon as blows became plenty and food scarce.” “Thou hast hit it, Agelastes,” said the Emperor; “but the question now is, whether an honourable and important principality could not be formed out of part of the provinces of the Lesser Asia, now laid waste by the Turks. Such a principality, methinks, with its various advantages of soil, climate, industrious people, and a healthy atmosphere, were well worth the morasses of Bouillon. It might be held as a dependance upon the sacred Roman empire, and garrisoned, as it were, by Godfrey and his victorious Franks, would be a bulwark on that point to our just and sacred person. Ha! most holy Patriarch, would not such a prospect shake the most devout Crusader’s attachment to the burning sands of Palestine?” “Especially,” answered the Patriarch, “if the prince for whom such a rich theme* was changed into a feudal appanage, should be previously converted to the only true faith, as your Imperial Highness undoubtedly means.” “Certainly—most unquestionably”—answered the Emperor, with a due affectation of gravity, notwithstanding he was conscious how often he had been compelled, by necessities of state, to admit, not only Latin Christians, but Manicheans, and other heretics, nay Mahome* The provinces were called T     .

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dan barbarians, into the number of his subjects, and that without experiencing opposition from the scruples of the Patriarch. “Here I find,” continued the Emperor, “such a numerous list of princes and principalities in the act of approaching our boundaries, as might well rival the armies of old, who were said to have drunk up rivers, exhausted realms, and trod down forests, in their wasteful advance.” As he pronounced these words, a shade of paleness came over the imperial brow, similar to that which had already clothed in sadness most of his counsellors. “This war of nations,” said Nicephorus, “has also circumstances distinguishing it from every other, save that which his Imperial Highness hath waged in former times against those whom we are accustomed to call Franks. We must go forth against a people to whom the strife of combat is as the breath of their nostrils; who, rather than not be engaged in war, will do battle with their nearest friends, and slay each other, as much in sport as we would defy a comrade to a chariot race. They are covered also with an impenetrable armour of steel, which defends them from blows of the lance and sword, and which the uncommon strength of their horses renders them able to support, though one of ours could as well bear Mount Olympus upon his loins. Their foot-ranks carry a missile weapon unknown to us, termed an arblast, or cross-bow. It is not drawn with the right hand, like the bow of other nations, but by placing the feet upon the weapon itself, and pulling with the whole force of the body; and it dispatches arrows, called Bolts, of hard-wood pointed with iron, which the strength of the bow can send through the strongest breastplates, and even through stone walls, where not of uncommon thickness.” “Enough,” said the Emperor; “we have seen with our own eyes the Frankish knights, and the cross-bows of their infantry. If Heaven has allotted them a degree of bravery, which to other nations seems well nigh preternatural, she has given to the Greek councils that wisdom which she has refused to barbarians;—the art of obtaining conquest by wisdom rather than brute-force,—obtaining by our skill in treaty advantages which victory itself could not have procured. If we have not the use of that dreadful weapon, which our son-in-law terms the cross-bow, Heaven, in its favour, has concealed from these western barbarians the composition and use of the Greek fire,—well so called, since by Grecian hands alone it is prepared, and by such only can its lightnings be darted upon the astonished foe.” The Emperor paused, and looked around him; and although the faces of his councillors still looked blank, he boldly proceeded:—“But to return yet again to this black scroll, containing the names of those nations who approach our frontier, here occur more than one with which, methinks, old history

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should make us familiar, though our recollections are distant and confused. It becomes us to know who these men are, that we may avail ourselves of those feuds and quarrels among them, which, being blown into life, may happily divert them from the prosecution of this extraordinary attempt in which they are now united. Here is, for example, one Robert, styled Duke of Normandy, who commands a goodly band of counts, with which title we are but too well acquainted; of earls, a word totally strange to us, but apparently some barbaric title of honour;—and of knights, whose names are compounded, as we think, chiefly out of the French language, but also out of another jargon, which we are not ourselves competent to understand. To you, most reverend and most learned Patriarch, we may fittest apply for information on this subject.” “The duties of my station,” replied the patriarch Zosimus, “have withheld my riper years from studying the history of distant realms; but the wise Agelastes, who hath read as many volumes as would fill the shelves of the famous Alexandrian library, can no doubt satisfy your Imperial Majesty’s enquiries.” Agelastes erected himself stoutly on those enduring legs which had procured him the surname of Elephant, and began a reply to the enquiries of the Emperor, rather remarkable for readiness than accuracy. “I have read,” said he, “in that brilliant mirror which reflects the time of our fathers, the volumes of the learned Procopius, that the people separately called Normans and Angles are in truth the same race, and that Normandy, sometimes so called, is in fact a part of a district of Gaul, more properly termed Britain. Beyond, and nearly opposite to it, but separated by an arm of the sea, lies a ghastly region, on which clouds and tempests for ever rest, and which is well known to its continental neighbours as the abode to which departed spirits are sent after this life. A few fishermen, men possessed of a strange character, and enjoying singular privileges, in consideration of their being the living ferrymen who perform the office of the heathen Charon, carry the spirits of the departed to the island which is their residence after death. At the dead of night, these fishermen are, in rotation, summoned to perform the duty by which they seem to hold the permission to reside upon this strange coast. A knock is heard at the door of his cottage, sounded by no mortal hand. A whispering, as of a decaying breeze, summons the ferryman to his duty—he hastens to his bark on the sea-shore, and has no sooner launched it than he perceives it sensibly express the weight of the dead with whom it is filled. No one is seen, and though half-formed voices are heard, yet the accents are undistinguishable, as of one who speaks in his sleep. Thus he traverses the strait between the continent and the island,

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impressed with the mysterious awe which affects the living when they are conscious of the presence of the dead. They arrive upon the opposite coast, where the cliffs of white chalk form a strange contrast with the eternal darkness of the atmosphere. They stop at a landingplace appointed, which is never trodden by earthly feet. Here the passage-boat is gradually lightened of its unearthly inmates, who wander forth on the way appointed to them, while the mariners slowly return to their own side of the strait, having performed for the time this singular service, by which they hold their fishing-huts and their possessions.” Here he ceased, and the Emperor replied,— “If this legend be actually told us by Procopius, most learned Agelastes, it shows that that celebrated historian came more near the heathen than the Christian belief respecting the future state. Why, this is little more than the old fable of the infernal Styx. Procopius, we believe, lived before the decay of heathenism, and, as we would gladly disbelieve much which he hath told us respecting our ancestor and predecessor Justinian, so we will not pay him much credit in future in point of geographical knowledge.—Meanwhile, what ails thee, Achilles Tatius, and why dost thou whisper with that soldier?” “My neck,” answered Achilles Tatius, “is at your imperial command, prompt to pay for the unbecoming trespass of my tongue. I did but ask of this Hereward here what he knew of this matter; for I have heard my Varangians repeatedly call themselves Anglo-Danes, Normans, Britons, or some such barbaric epithet, and I am sure that one or other, or it may be all, of these barbarous sounds, at different times serve to designate the birth-place of these exiles, too happy in being banished from the darkness of barbarism, to the luminous vicinity of your imperial presence.” “Speak, then, Varangian, in the name of Heaven,” said the Emperor, “and let us know whether we are to look for friends or enemies in those men of Normandy who are now approaching our frontier. Speak with courage, man; and if thou apprehendest danger, remember thou servest a prince well qualified to protect thee.” “Since I am at liberty to speak,” answered the life-guardsman, “although my knowledge of the Greek language, which you term the Roman, is but slight, I trust it is enough to demand of his Imperial Highness, in place of all pay, donative, or gift whatsoever, since he has been pleased to talk of designing such for me, that he would place me in the first line of battle which shall be formed against these same Normans, and their Duke Robert; and if he pleases to allow me the aid of such Varangians as, for love of me, or hatred of their ancient tyrants, may be disposed to join their arms with mine, I have little doubt so to settle our long accounts with these men, that the Grecian

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eagles and wolves shall do them the last office, by tearing the flesh from their bones.” “What dreadful feud is this, my soldier,” said the Emperor, “that after so many years still drives thee to such extremities when the very name of Normandy is mentioned?” “Your Imperial Highness shall be judge,” said the Varangian. “My fathers, and those of most, though not all of the corps to whom I belong, are descended from a valiant race situated in the north of Germany, called Anglo-Saxons. Nobody, save a priest possessed of the art of consulting ancient chronicles, can even guess how long it is since they came to the island of Britain, then distracted with civil war. They came, however, on the petition of the natives of the island, for the aid of the Angles was requested by the southern inhabitants. Provinces were granted in recompense of the aid thus liberally afforded, and the greater proportion of the island became, by degrees, the property of the Anglo-Saxons, who occupied it at first as several principalities, and latterly as one kingdom, speaking the language, and observing the laws, of most of those who now form your imperial body-guard of Varangians, or exiles. In process of time, the Northmen became known to the people of the more southern climates. They were so called from their coming from the distant regions of the Baltic sea—an immense ocean, sometimes frozen with ice as hard as the cliffs of Mount Caucasus. They came seeking milder regions than nature had assigned them at home; and the climate of France being delightful, and its people slow in battle, they extorted from them the grant of a large province, which was, from the name of the new settlers, called Normandy, though I have heard my father say that was not its proper name. They settled there under a duke, who acknowledged the superior authority of the King of France, that is to say, obeying him when it suited his convenience so to do. “Now, it chanced many years since, while these two nations of Normans and Anglo-Saxons were quietly residing upon different sides of the salt-water channel which divides France from England, that William, Duke of Normandy, suddenly levied a large army, came over to Kent, which is on the opposite side of the channel, and there defeated, in a great battle, Harold, who was at that time King of the Anglo-Saxons. It is but grief to tell what followed. Other battles have been fought, and had dreadful results, which years, nevertheless, could wash away; but at Hastings—woes me!—the banner of my country fell, never again to be raised up. Oppression has driven her wheel over us. All that was valiant amongst us have left the land; and of Englishmen—for such is our proper designation—no one remains in England save as the thrall of the invaders. Many men of Danish

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descent, who had found their way on different occasions to England, were blended in the common calamity. All was laid desolate by the command of the victors. My father’s home lies now an undistinguished ruin, amid an extensive forest, composed out of what were formerly fair fields and domestic pastures, where a manly race derived nourishment by cultivating a friendly soil. The fire has destroyed the church where sleep the fathers of my race; and I, the last of their line, am a wanderer in other climates—a fighter of the battles of others— the servant of a foreign, though a kind master; in a word, one of the banished—a Varangian.” “Happier in that station,” said Achilles Tatius, “than in all the barbaric simplicity which your forefathers prized so highly, since you are now under the cheering influence of that smile which is the life of the world.” “It avails not talking of this,” said the Varangian, with a cold gesture. “These Normans,” said the Emperor, “are then the people by whom the celebrated island of Britain is now conquered and governed?” “It is but too true,” answered the Varangian. “They are, then, a brave and warlike people?”—said Alexius. “It would be base and false to say otherwise of an enemy,” said Hereward. “Wrong have they done me, and a wrong never to be atoned; but to speak falsehood of them were but woman’s vengeance. Mortal enemies as they are to me, and mingling with all my recollections as that which is hateful and odious, yet were the troops of Europe mustered, as it seems they are likely to be, no nation or tribe dared in gallantry claim the advance of the haughty Norman.” “And this Duke Robert, who is he?” “That,” answered the Varangian, “I cannot so well explain. He is the son—the eldest son, as men say, of the tyrant William, who subdued England when I was a child in the cradle. That William, the victor of Hastings, is now dead, we are assured by concurring testimony; but while it seems his eldest son Duke Robert has become his heir to the duchy of Normandy, some other of his children have been so fortunate as to acquire the throne of England,—unless, indeed, like the petty farm of some obscure yeoman, the fair kingdom has been divided among the tyrant’s issue.” “Concerning this,” said the Emperor, “we have heard something, which we shall try to reconcile at leisure, holding the words of this honest Varangian as positive proof, if he avers any thing from his own knowledge.—And now, my grave and worthy councillors, we must close this evening’s service in the Temple of the Muses, this distressing news, brought us by our dearest son-in-law the Cæsar, having

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induced us to prolong our worship deeper into the night than is consistent with the health of our beloved wife and daughter; while, to ourselves, this intelligence brings subject for grave deliberation.” The courtiers exhausted their ingenuity in forming the most ingenious prayers, that all evil consequences should be averted which could attend this excessive vigilance. Nicephorus and his fair bride spoke together as a pair desirous alike to close an accidental breach between them. “Some things hast thou said, my Cæsar,” observed the lady, “in detailing this dreadful intelligence, as elegantly turned as if the nine goddesses, to whom this temple is dedicated, had lent each her aid to the sense and expression.” “I need none of their assistance,” answered Nicephorus, “since I possess a muse of my own, in whose genius are included all those attributes which the heathens vainly ascribed to the nine deities of Parnassus!” “It is well,” said the fair historian, retiring by assistance of her husband’s arm; “but if you will load your wife with praises far beyond her merits, you must lend her your arm to support her under the weighty burthen you have been pleased to impose.” The council parted when the imperial persons had retired, and most of them sought to indemnify themselves in more free, though less dignified circles, for the constraint which they had practised in the Temple of the Muses.

Chapter Six Vain man! thou may’st esteem thy love as fair As fond hyperboles suffice to raise. She may be all that’s matchless in her person, And all-divine in soul to match her body; But take this from me—thou shalt never call her Superior to her sex, while one survives, And I am her true votary. Old Play

A  T , with his faithful Varangian close by his shoulder, melted from the dispersing assembly silently and almost invisibly, as snow is dissolved from its Alpine abodes as the days become more genial. No lordly step, or clash of armour, betokened the retreat of military persons. The very idea of guards was not ostentatiously brought forwards, because, so near the presence of the Emperor, the emanation supposed to flit around that divinity of earthly sovereigns, had credit for rendering it impassive and unassailable. Thus the oldest

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and most skilful courtiers, among whom our friend Agelastes was not to be forgotten, were of opinion, that although the Emperor employed the ministry of the Varangians and other guards, it was rather for form’s sake, than from any danger of the commission of a crime of a kind so heinous, that it was the fashion to account it almost impossible. And this doctrine, of the rare occurrence of such a crime, was repeated from mouth to mouth in those very chambers, where it had oftener than once been perpetrated, and sometimes by the very persons who monthly laid schemes for carrying some dark conspiracy against the reigning Emperor into positive execution. At length the captain of the life-guardsmen, and his faithful attendant, found them on the outside of the Blacquernal Palace. The passage which Achilles found for their exit, was closed by a postern which a single Varangian shut behind them, drawing, at the same time, bolt and bar with an ill-omened and jarring sound. Looking back at the mass of turrets, battlements, and spires, out of which they had at length emerged, Hereward could not but feel his heart lighten to find himself once more under the deep blue of a Grecian heaven, where the planets were burning with unusual lustre. He sighed and rubbed his hands with pleasure, like a man newly restored to liberty. He even spoke to his leader, contrary to his custom unless addressed: —“Methinks the air of yonder vaults, valorous Captain, carries with it a perfume, which, though it may be well termed sweet, is so suffocating, as to be more suitable to sepulchrous chambers, than to the dwellings of men. Happy I am that I am free, as I trust, from its influences.” “Be happy, then,” said Achilles Tatius, “since thy vile, cloddish spirit feels suffocation rather than refreshment in gales, which, instead of causing death, might recall the dead themselves to life. Yet this I will say for thee, Hereward, that, born a barbarian within the narrow circle of a savage’s desires and pleasures, and having no idea of life save what thou derivest from such vile and base connexions, thou art, nevertheless, designed by nature for better things, and hast this day sustained a trial, in which, I fear me, not even one of mine own noble corps, frozen as they are into lumps of unfashioned barbarity, could have equalled thy bearing. And speak now in true faith, hast not thou been rewarded?” “That will I never deny,” said the Varangian. “The pleasure of knowing, twenty-four hours perhaps before my comrades, that the Normans are come hither to afford us a full revenge of the bloody day of Hastings, is a lordly recompense, for the task of spending some hours in hearing the prolix chat of a lady, who has written about she knows not what, and the flattering commentaries of the bystanders,

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who pretended to give her an account of what they did not themselves stop to witness.” “Hereward, my good youth,” said Achilles Tatius, “thou ravest, and I think I should do well to place thee under custody of some person of skill. Too much hardihood, my valiant soldier, is in soberness allied to overdaring. Reason it was that thou shouldst feel a becoming pride in thy late position; yet, let it but taint thee with vanity, and the effect will be but scarce short of madness. Why, thou hast looked boldly in the face of a Princess born in the purple, before whom my own eyes, though well used to such spectacles, are never raised beyond the foldings of her veil.” “So be it, in the name of Heaven!” replied Hereward. “Handsome faces were made to look upon, and the eyes of young men to see with.” “And never did thine, I will freely suppose, find a richer apology for the somewhat overbold licence which thou tookest in thy gaze upon the Princess this evening.” “Good leader, or Follower, whichever is your favourite title,” said the Anglo-Saxon, “drive not to extremity a plain man, who desires to hold his duty in all honour to the imperial family. The Princess, wife of the Cæsar, and born, you tell me, of a purple colour, has now at least inherited the features of a most lovely woman. She hath composed a history, of which I presume not to form a judgment, since I cannot understand it; she sings like an angel; and to conclude, after the fashion of the knights of this day—though I deal not for ordinary with their language—I would say cheerfully, that I am ready to place myself in lists against any one whomsoever, who dares detract from the beauty of the imperial Anna Comnena’s person, or from the virtues of her mind. Having said this, my noble captain, we have said all that it is competent for you to enquire into, or for me to answer. That there are handsomer women than the Princess, is unquestionable; and I question it the less, that I have myself seen a person whom I think far her superior; and with that let us close the dialogue.” “Thy beauty, thou unparalleled fool,” said Achilles, “must, I ween, be the daughter of the large-bodied northern boor, living next door to him upon whose farm was brought up the person of an ass, curst with such intolerable want of judgment.” “You may say your pleasure, captain,” replied Hereward; “because it is the safer for us both that thou canst not on such a topic either offend me, who hold thy judgment as light as thou canst esteem mine, or speak any derogation of a person whom you never saw, and whom, if you had seen, perchance I might not so patiently have brooked any reflections upon, even at the hands of a military superior.”

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Achilles Tatius had a good deal of the observation necessary for one in his situation. He never pushed the daring spirits whom he commanded, and never used any freedom with them beyond the extent that he knew their patience could bear. Hereward was a favourite soldier, and had, in that respect at least, a sincere liking and regard for his commander: when, therefore, the Follower, instead of resenting his petulance, good-humouredly apologized for having hurt his feelings, the momentary displeasure between them was at an end; the officer at once reassumed his superiority, and the soldier sunk back with a deep sigh, given to some period which was long past, into his wonted silence and reserve. Indeed the Follower had another and further design upon Hereward, of which he was as yet unwilling to do more than give a distant hint. After a long pause, during which they approached the barracks, a gloomy fortified building constructed for the residence of their corps, the captain motioned his soldier to draw close up to his side, and proceeded to ask him, in a confidential tone—“Hereward, my friend, although it is scarce to be supposed that in the presence of the imperial family thou shouldst mark any one who did not partake of their blood, or rather, as Homer has it, of the divine ichor, which, in their sacred persons, supplies the place of that vulgar liquid; yet, during so long an audience, thou mightest possibly, from his uncourtly person and attire, have distinguished Agelastes, whom the courtiers call the Elephant, from his strict observation of the rule which forbids any one to sit down or rest in the Imperial presence.” “I think,” replied the soldier, “I marked the man you mean; his age was some seventy and upwards,—a big burley person;—and the baldness which reached to the top of his head was well atoned for by a white beard of prodigious size, which descended in waving curls over his breast, and reached to the towel with which his loins were girded, instead of the silken sash used by other persons of rank.” “Most accurately marked, my Varangian,” said the officer. “What else didst thou note about this person?” “His cloak was in its texture as coarse as that of the meanest of the people, but it was strictly clean, as if it had been the intention of the wearer to exhibit poverty, or carelessness and contempt of dress, without the least particular which implied any thing negligent, sordid, or disgusting.” “By Saint Sophia!” said the officer, “thou astonishest me! The Prophet Balaam was not more surprised when his ass turned round her head and spoke to him!—And what else didst thou note concerning this man? I see men who meet thee must beware of thy observation, as well as thy battle-axe.”

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“If it please your Valour,” answered the soldier, “we English have eyes as well as hands; but it is only when discharging our duty that we permit our tongues to dwell on what we have observed. I noted but little of this man’s conversation, but from what I heard, it seemed he was not unwilling to play what we call the jester, or jack-pudding, in the conversation, a character which, considering the man’s age and physiognomy, is not, I should be tempted to say, natural, but assumed for some purpose of deeper import.” “Hereward,” answered his officer, “thou hast spoken like an angel sent down to examine men’s bosoms: that man, Agelastes, is a contradiction, such as earth has seldom witnessed. Possessing all that wisdom which in former times united the sages of this nation with the gods themselves, Agelastes has the same cunning as the elder Brutus, who disguised his talents under the semblance of an idle jester. He appears to seek no office—he desires no consideration—he pays suit at court only when positively required to do so; yet what shall I say, my soldier, concerning the cause of an influence gained without apparent effort, and extending almost into the very thoughts of men, who appear to act as he would desire, without his soliciting them to that purpose? Men say strange things concerning the extent of his communications with other beings, whom our fathers worshipped with prayer and sacrifice. I am determined, however, to know the road by which he climbeth so high and so easily towards the point to which all men aspire, and it will go hard but he shall either share his ladder with me, or I will knock its support from under him. Thee, Hereward, I have chosen to assist me in this matter, as the knights among these Frankish infidels select, when going upon an adventure, a sturdy squire, or inferior attendant, to share the danger and the recompence; and this I am moved to, as much by the shrewdness thou hast this night manifested, as by the courage which thou mayst boast, in common with, or rather beyond, thy companions.” “I am obliged, and I thank your Valour,” replied the Varangian, more coldly perhaps than his officer expected; “I am ready, as is my duty, to serve you in any thing consistent with God and the Emperor’s claims upon my service. I would only say, that, as a sworn inferior soldier, I will do nothing contrary to the laws of the empire, and, as a sincere though ignorant Christian, I will have nothing to do with the gods of the heathens, save to defy them in the name and strength of the holy saints.” “Idiot!” said Achilles Tatius, “dost thou think that I, already possessed of one of the first dignities of the empire, could meditate any thing contrary to the interests of Alexius Comnenus? or, what would be scarce more atrocious, that I, the chosen friend and ally of the

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reverend Patriarch Zosimus, should meddle with any thing bearing a relation, however remote, to heresy or idolatry?” “Truly,” answered the Varangian, “no one would be more surprised or grieved than I should; but when we walk in a labyrinth, we must assume and announce that we have a steady and forward purpose, which is one mode at least of keeping a straight path. The people of this country have so many ways of saying the same thing, that one can hardly know at last what is the real meaning. We English, on the other hand, can only express ourselves in one set of words, but it is one out of which all the ingenuity of the world could not extract a double meaning.” “ ’Tis well,” said his officer; “to-morrow we will talk more of this, for which purpose thou wilt come to my quarters a little after sunset. And hark thee, to-morrow, while the sun is in heaven, shall be thine own, either to sport thyself or to repose. Employ the time in the latter, by my advice, since to-morrow night, like the present, may find us both watchers.” So saying, they entered the barracks, where they parted company— the commander of the lifeguards taking his way to a splendid set of apartments which belonged to him in that capacity, and the AngloSaxon seeking his more humble accommodations as a subaltern officer of the same corps.

Chapter Seven Such forces met not, nor so vast a camp, When Agrican, with all his Northern powers, Besieged Albracca, as romances tell, The city of Gallaphron, from thence to win The fairest of her sex, Angelica, His daughter, sought by many prowess’d knights, Both Paynim, and the Peers of Charlemagne. Paradise Regained

E                 of the day following that which we have commemorated, the Imperial Council of War assembled, where the number of general officers with sounding titles, disguised under a thin veil the real weakness of the Grecian empire. The commanders were numerous, and the distinctions of their rank minute, but the soldiers were very few in comparison. The offices formerly filled by prefects, prætors, and questors, were now held by persons who had gradually risen into the authority of those officers, and who, though designated from their domestic duties about the Emperor, yet, from that very circumstance, possessed what,

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in that despotic court, was the most effectual source of power. A long train of officers entered the great hall of the Castle of Blacquernal, and proceeded so far together as their different grades admitted, while in each chamber through which they passed in succession, a certain number of the train whose rank permitted them to advance no farther, remained behind the others. Thus, when the interior cabinet of audience was gained, which was not until their passage through ten anterooms, five persons only found themselves in the presence of the Emperor in this innermost and most sacred recess of royalty, decorated by all the splendour of the period. The Emperor Alexius sat upon a stately throne, rich with barbaric gems and gold, and flanked on either hand, in imitation probably of Solomon’s magnificence, with the form of a couchant lion in the same precious metal. Not to dwell upon other marks of splendour, a tree, whose trunk seemed also of gold, shot up behind the throne, which it overcanopied with its branches. Amid the boughs were birds of various kinds, curiously wrought and enamelled, and fruit composed of precious stones seemed to glisten among the leaves. Five officers alone, the highest in the state, had the privilege of entering this sacred recess when the Emperor held council. These were—the Grand Domestic, who might be termed equivalent to a modern prime minister—the Logothete, or chancellor—the Protospathaire, already mentioned— the Acolyte, or Follower—and the Patriarch. The door of this secret apartment, and the adjacent antechamber, was guarded by six deformed Nubian slaves, whose writhen and withered countenances formed a hideous contrast with their snowwhite dresses and splendid equipment. They were mutes, a species of wretches borrowed from the despotism of the East, that they might be unable to proclaim the deeds of tyranny of which they were the unscrupulous agents. They were generally held in a kind of horror, rather than compassion, for men esteemed that slaves of this sort had a malignant pleasure in avenging upon others the irreparable wrongs which had severed themselves from humanity. It was a general custom, though, like many other usages of the Greeks, it would be held childish in modern times, that by means of machinery easily conceived, the lions, at the entrance of a stranger, were apparently made to rouse themselves and roar, after which a wind seemed to rustle the foliage of the tree, the birds hopped from branch to branch, pecked the fruit, and appeared to fill the chamber with their carolling. This display had alarmed many an ignorant foreign ambassador, and even the Grecian councillors themselves were expected to display the same sensations of fear, succeeded by surprise, when they heard the roar of the lions, followed by the concert of the

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birds, although perhaps it was for the fiftieth time. On this occasion, giving a proof of the urgency of the present meeting of the council, these ceremonies were entirely omitted. The speech of the Emperor himself seemed to supply by its commencement the bellowing of the lions, while it ended in a strain more resembling the warbling of the birds. In his first sentences, he treated of the audacity and unheard-of boldness of the millions of Franks, who, under the pretence of wresting Palestine from the infidels, had ventured to invade the sacred territories of the empire. He threatened them with such chastisement as his innumerable forces and officers would, he affirmed, find it easy to inflict. To all this the audience, and especially the military officers, gave symptoms of ready assent. Alexius, however, persisted not long in the warlike intentions which he at first avowed. The Franks, he at last seemed to reflect, were, in profession, Christians. They might possibly be serious in their pretext of a crusade, in which case their motives claimed a degree of indulgence, and, although erring, a certain portion of respect. Their numbers also were great, and their valour could not be despised by those who had seen them fight at Durazzo, and elsewhere. They might also, by the permission of Supreme Providence, be the instruments of advantage to the most sacred empire, in the long run, though they approached it with so little ceremony. He had, therefore, mingling the virtues of prudence, humanity, and generosity, with that valour which must always burn in the heart of an Emperor, formed a plan, which he was about to submit to their consideration, for present execution; and, in the first place, he requested of the Grand Domestic, to let him know how many forces he might count upon on the western side of the Bosphorus. “Innumerable are the forces of the empire as the stars in heaven, or the sand on the sea-shore,” answered the Grand Domestic. “That is a goodly answer,” said the Emperor, “providing there were strangers present at this conference; but since we hold consultation in private, it is necessary that I know precisely to what number that army amounts which I have to rely upon. Reserve your eloquence till some fitter time, and let me know what you mean by the word innumerable?” The Grand Domestic paused, and hesitated for a short space; but as he became aware that the moment was one in which the Emperor could not be trifled with, (for Alexius Comnenus was at times dangerous,) he answered thus, not without hesitation. “Imperial master and lord, none better knows that such an answer cannot be hastily made, if it is at the same time to be correct in its results. The number of the imperial host betwixt this city and the western frontier of the empire,

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deducing those absent upon furlough, cannot be counted upon as amounting to more than twenty-five thousand men, or thirty thousand at most.” Alexius struck his forehead with his hand; and the councillors, seeing him give way to such violent expression of grief and surprise, began to enter into discussions, which they would otherwise have reserved for a fitter place and time. “By the trust your Highness reposes in me,” said the Logothete, “there has been drawn from your Highness’s coffers during the last year, gold enough to pay double the number of the armed warriors whom the Grand Domestic now mentions.” “Your Imperial Highness,” retorted the impeached minister, with no small animation, “will at once remember the stationary garrisons, additional to the moveable troops, for which this figure-caster makes no allowance.” “Peace, both of you!” said Alexius, composing himself hastily; “our actual numbers are in truth less than we counted on, but let us not augment by wrangling the difficulties of the time. Let those troops be dispersed in valleys, in passes, behind ridges of hills, and in difficult ground, where a little art being used in the position, can make few men supply the appearance of numbers. While this disposal is made, we will continue to adjust with these crusaders, as they call themselves, the terms on which we will consent to let them pass through our dominions; nor are we without hope of negotiating with them, so as to gain great advantage of the empire. We will insist that they pass through our country only by armies of perhaps fifty thousand at once, whom we will successively transport into Asia, so that no greater number shall ever endanger the walls of the metropolis of the world. “On their way towards the banks of the Bosphorus, we will supply them with provisions, if they march peaceably, and in order; and if any straggle from their standards, or insult the country by marauding, we suppose our valiant peasants will not hesitate to repress their excesses, and that without our giving positive orders, since we would not willingly be charged with any thing like a breach of engagement. We suppose, also, that the Scythians, Arabs, Syrians, and other mercenaries in our service, will not suffer our subjects to be overpowered in their own just defence; as, besides that there is no justice in stripping our own country of their provisions in order to feed strangers, we will not be surprised, nor unpardonably displeased to learn, that of the ostensible quantity of flour, some sacks should be found filled with chalk, or lime, or some such substance. It is, indeed, truly wonderful, what the stomach of a Frank will digest comfortably. Their guides, also, whom you shall choose with reference to such duty, will take care

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to conduct them by difficult and circuitous routes; which will be doing them a real service, by inuring them to the hardships of country and climate, which they would otherwise have to face without seasoning. “In the mean time, in the intercourses with their chiefs, whom they call counts, each of whom thinks himself as great as an emperor, you will take care to give no offence to their natural presumption, and omit no opportunity of informing them of the wealth and bounty of our government. Sums of money may be even given to important persons, and largesses of less avail to the inferior. You, our Logothete, will take good order for this, and you, our Grand Domestic, will take care that such soldiers as may cut off detached parties of the Franks shall be presented, if possible, in savage dress, and under the show of infidels. In commending these injunctions to your care, I purpose that, the crusaders having found the value of our friendship, and also in some sort the danger of our enmity, those whom we shall safely transport to Asia, will be, however unwieldy, still a smaller and more compact body. We will deal with them in all Christian practice, and by using fair words to one, threats to another, gold to the avaricious, power to the ambitious, and reasons to those that are capable of listening, we doubt not but to prevail upon those Franks, met as they are from a thousand points, and enemies of each other, to acknowledge us as their common superior, rather than choose a leader among themselves, when they are made aware of the great fact, that every village in Palestine, from Dan to Beersheba, is the original possession of the sacred Roman empire, and that whatever Christian goes to war for their recovery, must go as our subject, and hold any conquest which he may make, as our vassal. Vice and virtue, sense and folly, ambition and disinterested devotion, will alike recommend to the survivors of these singular-minded men, to become the feudatories of the empire, and the shield, not the enemy, of your paternal Emperor.” There was a general inclination of the head among the courtiers, with the eastern exclamation of,—“Long live the Emperor!” When the murmur of this applausive exclamation had subsided, Alexius proceeded:—“Once more, I say, that my faithful Grand Domestic, and those who act under him, will take care to commit the execution of such part of these orders as may seem aggressive, to troops of foreign appearance and language, which, I grieve to say, are more numerous in our imperial army than our natural born and orthodox subjects.” The Patriarch here interposed his opinion.—“There is a consolation,” he said, “in the thought, that the genuine Romans in the imperial army are but few, since a trade so bloody as war, is most fitly prosecuted by those whose doctrines, as well as their doings, on earth,

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merit eternal condemnation in the next world.” “Reverend Patriarch,” said the Emperor, “we would not willingly hold, with the wild infidels, that Paradise is to be gained by the sabre; nevertheless, we would hope that a Roman dying in battle for his religion and his Emperor, may find as good hope of acceptation, after the mortal pang is over, as a man who dies in peace, and with unblooded hand.” “It is enough for me to say,” resumed the Patriarch, “that the Church’s doctrine is not so indulgent: she is herself peaceful, and her promises of favour are for those who have been men of peace. Yet think not I bar the gates of heaven against a soldier, as such, if believing all the doctrines of our church, and complying with all our observances; far less would I condemn your Imperial Majesty’s wise precautions, both for diminishing the power and thinning the ranks of those Latin heretics, who come hither to despoil us, and plunder perhaps both church and temple, under the vain pretext that Heaven would permit them, stained with so many heresies, to regain that Holy Land, which true orthodox Christians, your Majesty’s sacred predecessors, have not been enabled to retain from the infidel. And well I trust that no settlement made under the Latins will be permitted by your Majesty to establish itself, in which the Cross shall not be elevated with limbs of the same length, instead of that irregular and most damnable error which prolongs the nether limb of that most holy emblem.” “Reverend Patriarch,” answered the Emperor, “do not deem that we think lightly of your weighty scruples; but the question is now, not in what manner we may convert these Latin heretics, but how we may avoid being overrun by their myriads, which resemble those of the locusts by which their approach was preceded and intimated.” “Your Majesty,” said the Patriarch, “will act with your usual wisdom; for my part, I have only stated my doubts, that I may save my own soul alive.” “Our construction,” said the Emperor, “does your sentiments no wrong, most reverend Patriarch. And you,” addressing himself to the other councillors, “will attend to these separate charges given out for directing the execution of the commands which have been generally intimated to you. They are written out in the sacred ink, and our sacred subscription is duly marked with the tinge of green and of purple. Let them, therefore, be strictly obeyed. Ourselves will assume the command of such of the Immortal Bands as remain in the city, and join to them the cohorts of our faithful Varangians. At the head of these troops, we will await the arrival of these strangers under the walls of the city, and, avoiding combat while our policy can postpone it, we will be ready, in case of the worst, to take whatsoever chance it

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shall please the Almighty to send us.” Here the council broke up, and the different chiefs began to exert themselves in the execution of their various instructions, civil and military, secret or public, favourable or hostile to the crusaders. The genius of the Grecian people was seen upon this occasion. Their loud and boastful mode of talking corresponded with the ideas which the Emperor wished to enforce upon the crusaders concerning the extent of his power and resources. Nor is it to be disguised, that the wily selfishness of most endeavoured to find some indirect way of applying the imperial instructions, so as might best suit their own private purposes. Meantime, the news had gone abroad in Constantinople of the arrival of the huge miscellaneous army of the west upon the limits of the Grecian empire, and of their purpose to pass to Palestine. A thousand reports magnified, if that was possible, an event so wonderful. Some said, that their ultimate view was the conquest of Arabia, the destruction of the Prophet’s tomb, and the conversion of his green banner into a horse-cloth for the King of France’s brother. Others supposed the ruin and sack of Constantinople was the real object of the war. Others thought it was in order to compel the Patriarch to submit himself to the Pope, adopt the Latin form of the cross, and put an end to the schism. The Varangians enjoyed an addition to this wonderful news, seasoned as it everywhere was with something peculiarly suited to the prejudices of the hearers. It was gathered originally from what our friend Hereward, who was one of their inferior officers, called sergeants or constables, had suffered to transpire of what he had heard the preceding evening. Considering that the fact must be soon matter of notoriety, he had no hesitation to give his comrades to understand that a Norman army was coming hither, under Duke Robert, the son of the far-famed William the Conqueror, and with hostile intentions. Like all other men in such circumstances, the Varangians adopted an explanation applicable to their own condition. These Normans, who hated the Saxon nation, and had done so much to dishonour and oppress them, were now following them, they supposed, to a foreign capital, with the purpose of making war on the bountiful prince who protected their sad remnant. Under this belief, many a deep oath was sworn in Norse and Anglo-Saxon, that their keen battle-axes should avenge the slaughter of Hastings, and many a pledge, both in wine and ale, was quaffed, who should most deeply resent, and most effectually revenge, the wrongs which the Anglo-Saxons had received at the hand of their oppressors. Hereward, the author of this intelligence, began soon to be sorry

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that he had ever suffered it to escape him, so closely was he crossexamined concerning its precise import, by the enquiries of his comrades, from whom he thought himself obliged to keep concealed the adventures of the preceding evening, and the place in which he had gained his information. About noon, when he was effectually tired with returning the same answer to similar questions, and evading others which were repeatedly put to him, the sound of trumpets announced the presence of the Acolyte Achilles Tatius, who came immediately, it was industriously whispered, from the sacred Interior, with news of war instantly approaching. The Varangians, and the Roman bands called Immortal, it was said, were to form camp under the city, in order to be prompt to defend it at the shortest notice. This put the whole barracks into commotion, each man making the necessary provisions for the approaching campaign. The noise was chiefly that of joyful bustle and acclamation; and it was so general, that Hereward, whose rank permitted him to commit the task of preparing his equipments to a page or esquire, took the opportunity to leave the barracks, and seek some distant place apart from his comrades, and enjoy some solitary reflection upon the singular connexion into which he had been drawn, and his communication with the royal family. Passing through the narrow streets, then deserted on account of the heat of the sun, he reached at length one of those broad terraces, which, descending, as it were by steps, upon the margin of the Bosphorus, formed one of the most splendid walks in the universe, and still, it is believed, preserved as a public promenade for the pleasure of the Turks, as formerly for that of the Christians. It was planted with many trees, among which the cypress, as usual, was most generally cultivated. Here bands of the inhabitants were to be seen: some going and coming, with business and anxiety in their faces; some standing still in groups, as if discussing the strange and weighty tidings of the day; and some, with the indolent carelessness of an eastern climate, eating their noontide refreshment in the shade, and spending their time as if to make much of the day as it passed, and let the woes of tomorrow answer for themselves. While the Varangian, afraid of meeting some acquaintance in this concourse, which would have been inconsistent with the desire of solitude which had brought him thither, descended or passed from one terrace to another, all marked him with looks of curiosity and enquiry, as conjecturing him to be a person, who, from his arms and connexion with the court, must necessarily know more than others concerning that singular invasion, which was the news of the day.

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None, however, had the hardihood to address the strange soldier, though all looked at him with uncommon interest. He went from the lighter to the darker alleys, from the more closed to the more open terraces, without interruption from any one, yet not without a feeling that he must not consider himself as alone. The desire that he felt to be solitary rendered him at last somewhat watchful, so that he became sensible that he was dogged at a distance by a black slave, a personage too common in the streets of Constantinople to excite any particular notice. His attention, however, being at length fixed on this individual, he began to be desirous to escape his observation; and the change of place which he had at first adopted to avoid society in general, he had now recourse to, in order to rid himself of this sable attendant. Still, however, though he by change of place lost sight of the negro for a few minutes, it was not long ere he again discovered him, at a distance too far for a companion, but near enough to serve all the purposes of a spy. Displeased at this, the Varangian turned short in his walk, and choosing a spot where none was in sight but the object of his resentment, walked suddenly up to him, and demanded wherefore, and by whose orders, he presumed to dog his footsteps. The negro answered in a jargon as bad as that in which he was addressed, though of a different kind, “that he had orders to know whither he went.” “Orders from whom?” said the Varangian. “From my master and yours,” answered the negro, boldly. “Thou infidel villain!” exclaimed the angry soldier, “when was it that we became fellow-servants, and who is it that thou darest to call my master?” “One who is master of the world,” said the slave, “since he commands his own passions.” “I shall scarce command mine,” said the Varangian, “if thou repliest to my earnest questions with thine affected quirks of philosophy. Once more, why dost thou want me? and wherefore hast thou the boldness to watch me?” “I have told thee already,” said the slave, “that I do my master’s commands.” “But I must know who thy master is,” said Hereward. “He must tell thee that himself,” replied the negro; “he trusts not a poor slave like me with the purpose of the errands on which he sends me.” “He has left thee a tongue, however,” said the Varangian, “which some of thy countrymen would, I think, be glad to have. Do not provoke me to abridge it by refusing me information which I have a right to exact.”

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The black meditated, as it seemed from the grin on his face, further evasions, when Hereward cut them short by raising the staff of his battle-axe. “Put me not,” he said, “to dishonour myself by striking thee with this weapon, calculated for a use so much more noble.” “I may not do so, valiant sir,” said the negro, laying aside an impudent, half-gibing tone which he had hitherto made use of, and betraying personal fear in his manner. “If you beat the poor slave to death, you cannot learn what his master hath forbid him to tell. A short walk will save your honour the stain, and yourself the trouble, of beating what cannot resist, and me the pain of enduring what I can neither retaliate nor avoid.” “Lead on then,” said the Varangian. “Be assured thou shalt not fool me by thy fair words, and I will know the person who is impudent enough to assume the right of watching my motions.” The black walked on with a species of leer peculiar to his physiognomy, which might be construed as expressive either of malice or of mere humour. The Varangian followed him with some suspicion, for it happened that he had had little intercourse with the unhappy race of Africa, and had not totally overcome the feeling of surprise with which he at first regarded them, when he arrived a stranger from the north. So often did this man look back upon him during their walk, and with so penetrating and observing a cast of countenance, that Hereward was irresistibly reminded of the English prejudices, which assigned to the demons the sable colour and distorted cast of visage of his conductor. The scene into which he was guided, strengthened an association which was not of itself unlikely to occur to the ignorant and martial islander. The negro led the way from the splendid terraced walks which we have described, to a path descending to the sea-shore, when a place appeared, which, far from being trimmed, like other parts of the coast, into walks or embankments, seemed, on the contrary, abandoned to neglect, and was covered with the mouldering ruins of antiquity, where these had not been overgrown by the luxuriant vegetation of the climate. These ruins, forming a sort of recess of the bay, were hidden by steep banks on each side, and although in fact they formed part of the city, yet they were not seen from any other point of it, and, embosomed in the manner we have described, did not in turn command any view of the churches, palaces, towers, and fortifications, amongst which they lay. The site of this solitary, and apparently deserted spot, encumbered with ruins, and overgrown with cypress and other trees, situated as it was in the midst of a populous city, had something in it impressive and awful to the imagination. The ruins were of an ancient date, and in the style of a foreign people. The

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gigantic remains of a portico, the mutilated fragments of statues of great size, but executed in a taste so narrow and barbaric as to be perfectly the reverse of the Grecian, and the half-defaced hieroglyphics which could be traced on some part of the decayed sculpture, corroborated the popular account of their origin. According to tradition, this had been a temple to the Egyptian goddess Cybele, built while the empire was yet heathen, and while Constantinople was still only known by the name of Byzantium. It is well known that the superstition of the Egyptians—particularly gross in itself, and as peculiarly the foundation of many wild doctrines represented as its mystic or secret meaning—was contrary to the principles of general toleration and the polytheism received by Rome, and was excluded by repeated laws from the respect paid by the empire to almost every other religion, however extravagant or absurd. Nevertheless these rites had charms for the curious and the superstitious, and, although denounced repeatedly, yet obtained a footing in spite of the opposition of reason to a superstition which was the most contemptible and abject in a literal point of view, and the wildest and most extravagant when explained by mystical allegories. The secret rites were practised in these temples, and although they were demolished by order of the senate, they were finally restored with increased splendour, and their fantastic and gloomy rites were admitted to become part of classical devotion. Still, though tolerated, the Egyptian priests were rather considered as sorcerers than as pontiffs, and their whole ritual had a nearer relation to magic, in popular estimation, than to any regular system of devotion. Stained with these accusations, even among the heathen themselves, the worship of Egypt was held in more mortal abhorrence by the Christians, than the other and more rational kinds of heathen devotion; that is, if any at all had a right to be termed so. The brutal worship of Apis and Cybele was regarded, not only as a pretext for obscene and profligate pleasures, but as having a direct tendency to open and encourage a dangerous commerce with evil spirits, who were supposed to take upon themselves, at these unhallowed altars, the names and characters of these foul deities. Not only, therefore, the temple of Cybele, with its gigantic portico, its huge and inelegant statues, and its fantastic hieroglyphics, was thrown down and defaced when the empire was converted to the Christian faith, but the very ground on which it stood was considered as polluted and unhallowed; and no Emperor having yet occupied the site with a church, the place still remained neglected and deserted, as we have described it. The Varangian Hereward was perfectly acquainted with the evil

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reputation of the place; and when the negro seemed disposed to advance into the interior of the ruins, he hesitated, and addressed his guide thus:—“Hark thee, my sable friend, these huge fantastic images, some having dogs’ heads, some cows’ heads, and some no heads at all, are not reverently held in popular estimation. Your own colour, also, my comrade, is greatly too like that of Satan himself, to render you an unsuspicious companion amid ruins, in which the false spirit daily walks his round. Midnight and Noon are the times, it is said, of his appearance. I will go no further with you, unless you assign me a fit reason for so doing.” “In making so childish a proposal,” said the negro, “you take from me, in effect, all desire to guide you to my master. I thought I spoke to a man of invincible courage, and of that good sense upon which courage is best founded. But your valour only emboldens you to beat a black slave, who has neither strength nor title to resist you; and your courage is not enough to enable you to look on the dark side of a wall, even when the sun is in the heaven.” “Thou art insolent,” said Hereward, raising his axe. “And thou foolish,” said the negro, “to attempt to prove thy manhood and thy wisdom by the very mode which gives reason for calling them both in question. I have already said there is little valour in beating a wretch like me; and no man, surely, who wishes to discover his way, would begin by chasing away his guide.” “I follow thee,—” said Hereward, stung with the insinuation of cowardice; “but if thou leadest me into a snare, thy fine talk shall not save thy ribs, if a thousand of thy complexion, from earth or hell, were standing ready to back thee.” “Thou objectest sorely to my complexion,” said the negro; “how knowest thou that it is, in fact, a thing to be counted and acted upon as matter of reality? Thy eyes daily apprise thee, that the colour of the sky nightly changes from bright to black, yet thou knowest that this is by no means owing to any habitual colour of the heavens themselves. The same change that takes place in the hue of the heavens, has existence in the tinge of the deep sea—How canst thou tell, but what the difference of my colour from thine own may be owing to some circumstance of a similar nature—not real in itself, but only creating an apparent reality?” “Thou mayest have painted thyself, no doubt,” answered the Varangian, upon reflection, “and the blackness, therefore, may be only apparent; but I think thy old friend himself could hardly have presented these grinning lips, with the white teeth and flattened nose, so much to the life, unless that peculiarity of Nubian physiognomy, as they call it, had accurately and really an existence; and, to save thee

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some trouble, my dark friend, I will tell thee, that though thou speakest to an uneducated Varangian, I am not entirely unskilled in the Grecian art of making words pass instead of reason.” “Ay?” said the negro, doubtfully, and somewhat surprised; “and may the slave Diogenes—for so my master has christened me— enquire into the means by which you reached knowledge so unusual?” “It is soon told,” replied Hereward. “My countryman, Witikind, being a constable of our bands, retired from active service, and spent the end of a long life in this city of Constantinople. Being past all toils of battle, either those of reality, as you word it, or the pomp and fatigue of the exercising ground, the poor old man, in despair of something to pass his time, attended the lectures of the philosophers.” “And what did he learn there?” said the negro; “for a barbarian, grown grey under the helmet, was not, as I think, a very hopeful student in our schools.” “As much though, I should think, as a menial slave, which I understand to be thy condition,” replied the soldier. “But I have understood from him, that the masters of this idle science make it their business to substitute, in their argumentations, mere words instead of ideas; and as they never agree upon the precise meaning of the former, their disputes can never arrive at a fair or settled conclusion, since they do not agree in the language in which they express them. Their theories, as they call them, are built on the sand, and the wind and tide shall prevail against them.” “Say so to my master,” answered the black, in a serious tone. “I will,” said the Varangian; “and he shall know me as an ignorant soldier, having but few ideas, and those only concerning his religion and his military duty. But out of these he will neither be beaten by a battery of sophisms, nor cheated by the arts or the terrors of the friends of heathenism, either in this world or the next.” “You may speak your mind to him yourself,” said Diogenes. He stepped to a side, as if to make way for the Varangian, to whom he motioned to go forwards. Hereward advanced accordingly, by an almost imperceptible path leading through the long rough grass, and, turning round a half demolished shrine, which exhibited the remains of Apis, the bovine deity, he came immediately in front of Agelastes, who, sitting among the ruins, reposed his limbs on the grass.

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Chapter Eight Through the vain webs which puzzle sophists’ skill, Plain sense and honest meaning work their way; So sink the varying clouds upon the hill, When the clear dawning brightens into day. D  W 

T         rose from the ground with alacrity, as Hereward approached. “My bold Varangian,” he said, “thou who valuest men and things not according to the false estimate ascribed to them in this world, but to their real importance and actual value, thou art welcome, whatever has brought thee hither—thou art welcome to a place, where it is the best business of philosophy to strip man of his borrowed ornaments, and reduce him to the just value of his own attributes of body and mind, singly considered.” “You are a courtier, sir,” said the Saxon, “and, as a permitted companion of the Emperor’s Highness, you must be aware, that there are twenty times more ceremonies than such a man as I can be acquainted with, for regulating the different ranks in society; while a plain man like myself may be well excused from pushing himself into the company of those above him, where he does not exactly know how he should comport himself.” “True,” said the philosopher; “but a man like yourself, noble Hereward, merits more consideration in the eyes of a real philosopher, than a thousand of these mere insects, whom the smile of a court calls into life, and whom its frown reduces to annihilation.” “You are yourself, grave sir, a follower of the court,” said Hereward. “And a most punctilious one,” said Agelastes. “There is not, I trust, a subject in the empire who knows better the ten thousand ceremonies exigible from different ranks, and due to different authorities. The man is yet to be born who has seen me take advantage of any more commodious posture than that of standing, in presence of the royal family. But though I use these false scales in society, and so far conform to its errors, my real judgment is of a more judicious character, and more worthy of man, as said to be formed in the image of his Creator.” “There can be small occasion,” said the Varangian, “to exercise your judgment in any respect upon me, nor am I desirous that any one should think of me otherwise than I am;—a poor exile, namely, who endeavours to fix his faith upon Heaven, and to perform his duty to the prince in whose service he is engaged.—And now, grave sir, permit me to ask, whether this meeting is by your desire, and for what is its

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purpose? An African slave, whom I met in the public walks, and who calls himself Diogenes, tells me that you desired to speak with me; he hath somewhat the humour of the old scoffer, and he may have lied. If so, I will even forgive him the beating which I owe his assurance, and make my excuse at the same time for having broken in upon your retirement, which I am totally unfit to share.” “Diogenes has not played you false,” answered Agelastes; “he has his humours, as you remark even now, and hath some qualities also that put him upon a level with those of fairer complexion and better features.” “And for what,” said the Varangian, “can your wisdom possibly entertain a wish to converse with me?” “I am an observer of nature and of humanity,” answered the philosopher; “is it not natural that I should tire of those beings who are formed entirely upon artifice, and long to see something more fresh from the hand of nature?” “You see not that in me,” said the Varangian; “the rigour of military discipline, the camp—the centurion—the armour—frame a man’s sentiments and limbs to them, as the crab is framed to its shell. See one of us, and you see us all.” “Permit me to doubt that,” said Agelastes; “and to suppose that, in Hereward, the son of Waltheoff, I see an extraordinary man, although he himself may be ignorant, through his modesty, of the rarity of his own good qualities.” “The son of Waltheoff!” answered the Varangian, somewhat startled.—“Do you know my father’s name?” “Be not surprised,” answered the philosopher, “at my possessing so simple a piece of information. It has cost me but little trouble to attain it, yet I would gladly hope that the labour I have taken in that matter may convince you of my real desire to call you friend.” “It was indeed an unusual compliment,” said Hereward, “that a man of your knowledge and station should be at the trouble to inquire, among the Varangian cohorts, concerning the descent of one of their constables. I scarcely think that my commander, the Acolyte himself, would think such knowledge worthy of collecting or preserving.” “Greater men than he,” said Agelastes, “certainly would not—— You know one in high office, who thinks the names of his most faithful soldiers of less moment than those of his hunting dogs or his hawks, and would willingly save himself the trouble of calling them otherwise than by a whistle.” “I may not hear this,” answered the Varangian. “I would not shock you;” said the philosopher, “I would not shock

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your opinion, yet it surprises me that it should be entertained by one of your great qualities.” “A truce with this, grave sir, which is in fact trifling in a person of your character and appearance,” answered the Anglo-Saxon. “I am like the rocks of my country; the fierce winds cannot shake me, the soft rains cannot melt me; flattery and loud words are alike lost upon me.” “And it is even for that inflexibility of mind,” replied Agelastes, “that steady contempt of every thing that approaches thee, save in the light of a duty, that I demand, almost like a beggar, that personal acquaintance, which thou refusest like a churl.” “Pardon me,” said Hereward, “if I doubt this. Whatever stories you may have picked up concerning me, not unexaggerated probably— since the Greeks do not keep the privilege of boasting entirely to themselves—you can have learned nothing which can authorise your using your present language, excepting in jest.” “You mistake, my son,” said Agelastes; “believe me not a person to mix in the idle talk respecting you, with your comrades at the ale-cup. Such as I am strike on this broken image of Anubis”—(here he touched a gigantic fragment of a statue by his side)—“and bid the spirit who long prompted the oracle, descend, and once more reanimate the trembling mass. We stamp upon those ruined vaults, and the echo which dwells there answers to our demand. Do not think, that although I crave thy friendship, I need therefore supplicate thee for information either respecting thyself or otherwise.” “Your words are wonderful,” said the Anglo-Saxon; “but by such promising words I have heard that many souls have been seduced from the path of heaven. My grandsire, Kenelm, was wont to say, that the fair words of philosophy were more hurtful to the Christian faith than the menaces of the heathen tyrants.” “I knew him,” said Agelastes. “What avails it whether it was in the body or in the spirit?—He was converted from the faith of Woden by a noble monk, and died a priest at the shrine of Saint Augustin.” “True—” said Hereward; “all this is certain—and I must the rather remember his words now that he is dead and gone. When I hardly knew his meaning, he bid me beware of the doctrine which causeth to err, which is taught by false prophets, who attest their doctrine by unreal miracles.” “This,” said Agelastes, “is mere superstition. Thy grandsire was a good and excellent man, but like other priests; and, deceived by their example, he wished only to open a small wicket in the gate of truth, and admit the world only on that limited scale. Seest thou, Hereward, thy grandsire and all men of religion would fain narrow our intellect to

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the consideration of such parts of the immaterial world as are essential for our moral guidance here, and our final salvation hereafter; but it is not the less true, that man has liberty, providing he has wisdom and courage, to form intimacies with beings more powerful than himself, who can defy the bounds of space by which he is circumscribed, and overcome, by their metaphysical powers, difficulties which, to the timid and unlearned, may appear wild and impossible.” “You talk of a folly,” answered Hereward, “at which childhood gapes and manhood smiles.” “On the contrary,” said the sage, “I talk of a longing wish which every man feels at the bottom of his heart, to hold a communication with beings more powerful than ourselves, and who are not naturally accessible to our organs. Believe me, Hereward, so wild a wish had not existed in our bosoms, had there not also been means, if steadily and wisely sought, of attaining its accomplishment. I will appeal to thine own heart, and prove to thee, even by a single word, that what I say is truth. Thy thoughts are even now upon a being long absent or dead, and with the name of B , a thousand emotions rush to thy heart, which in thy ignorance thou hadst esteemed furled up for ever, like spoils of the dead hung above a tombstone!—Thou startest and changest thy colour—I joy to see by these signs, that the firmness and indomitable courage which men ascribe to thee, have left the avenues of the heart as free as ever to kindly and to generous affections, while they have barred them against those of fear, uncertainty, and all the caitiff tribes of meaner sensations. I have professed to esteem thee, and I have no hesitation in proving it. I will tell thee, if thou desirest to know, the fate of that very Bertha, whose memory thou hast cherished in thy breast in spite of thee, amidst the toil of the day and the repose of the night, in the battle and in the truce, when sporting with thy companions in fields of exercise, or attempting to prosecute the study of Greek learning, in which if thou wouldst advance, I can teach it by a short road.” While Agelastes thus spoke, the Varangian in some degree recovered his composure, and made answer, though his voice was somewhat tremulous,— “Who thou art, I know not—what thou wouldst with me, I cannot tell—by what means thou hast gathered intelligence of such consequence to me, and of so little to another, I have no conception—But this I know, that by intention or accident, thou hast pronounced a name which agitates my heart from its deepest recesses; yet am I Christian and Varangian, and neither to my God nor to my adopted prince will I willingly stagger in my faith. What is to be wrought by idols or by false deities, must be a treason to the real divinity. Nor is it

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less certain that thou hast let glance some arrows, though the rules of thy allegiance strictly forbid, at the Emperor himself. Henceforward, therefore, I refuse to communicate with thee, be it for weal or woe. I am the Emperor’s waged soldier, and although I affect not the nice precisions of respect and obedience, which are exacted in so many various cases, and by so many various rules, yet I am his defence, and my battle-axe is his body guard.” “No one doubts it,” said the philosopher. “But art not thou also bound to a nearer dependence upon the great Acolyte, Achilles Tatius?” “He is my general, according to the rules of our service,” answered the Varangian; “to me he has always shown himself a kind and goodnatured man, and, his dues of rank apart, I may say a friend rather than a commander. He is, however, my master’s servant as well as I am; nor do I hold the difference of great amount, which the word of a man can give or take away at pleasure.” “It is nobly spoken,” said Agelastes; “and you yourself are surely entitled to stand erect before one whom you supersede in courage and in the art of war.” “Pardon me,” returned the Briton, “if I decline the attributed compliment, as what in no respect belongs to me. The Emperor chooses his own officers, in respect of their power of serving him as he desires to be served. In this it is likely I might fail; I have said already I owe my Emperor my obedience, my duty, and my service, nor does it seem to me necessary to carry our explanation further.” “Singular man!” said Agelastes; “is there nothing that can move thee? The name of thy Emperor and thy commander are no spell upon thee, and even that of the object thou hast loved”—— Here the Varangian interrupted him. “I have thought,” he said, “upon the words thou hast spoken—thou has found the means to shake my heart-strings, but not to unsettle my principles. I will hold no converse with thee on a matter in which thou canst not have interest. Necromancers, it is said, perform their spells by means of the epithets of the Holiest; no marvel, then, that they use the names of the purest of his creation to serve their unhallowed purposes. I will none of such truckling, disgraceful to the dead perhaps as to the living. Whatever has been thy purpose, old man—for, think not thy strange words have passed unnoticed—be thou assured I bear that in my heart which defies alike the seduction of men and of fiends.” With this the soldier turned, and left the ruined temple, after a slight inclination of his head to the philosopher. Agelastes, after the departure of the soldier, remained alone, appar-

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ently absorbed in meditation, until he was suddenly disturbed by the entrance, into the ruins, of Achilles Tatius. The leader of the Varangians spoke not until he had time to form some result from the philosopher’s features. He then said, “Thou remainest, sage Agelastes, confident in the purpose of which we have lately spoke together?” “I do,” said Agelastes, with gravity and firmness. “But,” replied Achilles Tatius, “thou hast not gained to our side that proselyte, whose coolness and courage would serve us better in an hour of need than the service of a thousand cold-hearted slaves?” “I have not succeeded,” answered the philosopher. “And thou dost not blush to own it?” said the imperial officer in reply. “Thou, the wisest of those who yet pretend to Grecian wisdom, the most powerful of those who still pretend a degree of skill by words, signs, names, periapts, and spells, to exceed the sphere to which thy faculties belong, hast been foiled in thy trade of persuasion, like an infant worsted in debate with its domestic tutor? Out upon thee, that thou canst not sustain in argument the character which thou wouldst so fain assume to thyself!” “Peace!” said the Grecian. “I have as yet gained nothing, it is true, over this obstinate and inflexible man; but, Achilles Tatius, neither have I lost. We both stand where yesterday we did, with this advantage on my side, that I have suggested to him such an object of interest as he shall never be able to expel from his mind, until he hath had recourse to me to obtain further knowledge concerning it.—And now let this singular person remain for a time unmentioned; and trust me, though flattery, avarice, and ambition may fail to gain him, a bait nevertheless remains, that shall make him as completely our own as any that is bound within our mystic and inviolable contract. Tell me then, how go on the affairs of the empire? Does this tide of Latin warriors, so strangely set aflowing, still rush on to the banks of the Bosphorus? and does Alexius still entertain hopes to diminish and divide the strength of numbers, which he could in vain hope to defy?” “Something further of intelligence has been gained, even within a very few hours,” answered Achilles Tatius. “Bohemond came to the city with half a dozen of light horse, and in a species of disguise. Considering how often he had been the Emperor’s enemy, his project was a perilous one. But when is it that these Franks draw back on account of danger? The Emperor perceived at once that the Count was come to see what he might obtain, by presenting himself as the very first object of his liberality, and by offering his assistance as mediator with Godfrey of Bouillon and the other princes of the crusade.” “It is a species of policy,” answered the sage, “for which he would

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receive full credit from the Emperor.” Achilles Tatius proceeded:—“Count Bohemond was discovered to the imperial court as if it were by mere accident, and he was welcomed with marks of favour and splendour which had never been shewn to any of the Frankish race. There was no word of ancient enmity or of former wars, no mention of Bohemond as the usurper of Antioch, and the encroacher upon the empire. Only thanks to Heaven were returned on all sides, which had sent a faithful ally to the imperial assistance at a moment of such eminent peril.” “And what said Bohemond?” enquired the philosopher. “Little or nothing,” said the captain of the Varangians, “until, as I learned from the domestic slave Narses, a large sum of gold had been abandoned to him. Considerable districts were afterwards agreed to be ceded to him, and other advantages granted, on condition he would stand on this occasion the steady friend of the empire and its master. Such was the Emperor’s munificence towards the greedy barbarian, that a chamber in the palace was, by chance as it were, left exposed to his view, containing large quantities of manufactured silks, of jewellers’ work, of gold and silver, and other articles of great value. When the rapacious Frank could not forbear some expressions of admiration, the Count was assured, that the contents of the treasure-chamber were his own, providing he valued them as showing forth the warmth and sincerity of his imperial ally towards his friends;—and these precious articles were accordingly conveyed to the tent of the Norman leader. By such measures, the Emperor must make himself master of Bohemond, both body and soul, for the Franks themselves say it is strange to see a man of undaunted bravery, and towering ambition, so infected, nevertheless, with avarice, which they term a mean and unnatural vice.” “Bohemond,” said Agelastes, “is then the Emperor’s for life and death—always, that is, till the recollection of his munificence be effaced by a greater gratuity. Alexius, proud as he naturally is of his management with this important chieftain, has no doubt to bring in by his counsels the other crusaders, and even Godfrey of Bouillon himself, to take an oath of submission and fidelity to the Emperor, which, was it not for the pious arguments arising from the sacred nature of their warfare, the meanest gentleman among them would not submit to, were it to be lord of a province. There, then, we rest. A few days must determine what we have to do. An earlier discovery would be destruction.” “We meet not then to-night?” said the Acolyte. “No,” replied the sage; “unless we are summoned to that foolish stage-play or recitation; and there we meet as toys in the hand of a silly

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woman, the spoiled child of a weak-minded parent.” Tatius then took his leave of the philosopher, and, as if fearful of being seen in each other’s company, they left their solitary place of meeting by different routes. The Varangian, Hereward, received, shortly after, a summons from his superior, who acquainted him that he should not, as formerly intimated, require his attendance that evening. Achilles then paused, and added,—“Thou hast something on thy lips thou wouldst say to me, which, nevertheless, hesitates to break forth.” “It is only this,” answered the soldier: “I have had an interview with the man called Agelastes, and he seems something so different from what he appeared when we last spoke of him, that I cannot forbear mentioning to you what I have seen. He is not an insignificant trifler, whose object it is to raise a laugh at his own expense, or that of any other. He is a deep-thinking and far-reaching man, who, for some reason or other, is desirous of forming friends, and drawing a party to himself. Your own wisdom will teach you to beware of him.” “Thou art an honest fellow, my poor Hereward,” said Achilles Tatius, with an affectation of good-natured contempt. “No, but such men as Agelastes do often frame their severest jests in the shape of formal gravity—they will pretend to possess the most unbounded power over elements and elemental spirits—they will make themselves masters of the names and anecdotes best known to those whom they make their sport; and any one who shall listen to them, shall, in the words of the divine Homer, only expose himself to a flood of inextinguishable laughter. I have known him often select a subject out of the rawest and most ignorant in presence, and to him, for the amusement of the rest, he has pretended to cause the absent to appear, the distant to draw near, and the dead themselves to burst the cerements of the grave. Take care, Hereward, that his arts make not a stain on the credit of one of my bravest Varangians.” “There is no danger,” answered Hereward. “I shall not be fond of being often with this man. If he jests upon one subject which he hath mentioned to me, I shall be but too likely to teach him seriousness after a rough manner. And if he is serious, we should, according to the faith of my grandfather, Kenelm, do insult to the deceased, whose name is taken in the mouth of a soothsayer, or impious enchanter. I will not, therefore, again go near this Agelastes, be he wizard, or be he impostor.” “You mistake me,” said the Acolyte; “you mistake my meaning. He is a man from whom, if he pleases to converse with such as you, you may derive much knowledge; keeping out of the reach of those pretended

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secret arts, which he will only use to turn thee into ridicule.” With these words the leader and his follower parted.

Chapter Nine Between the foaming jaws of the white torrent, The skilful artist draws a sudden mound; By level long he subdivides their strength, Stealing the waters from their rocky bed, First to diminish what he means to conquer; Then, for the residue he forms a road, Easy to keep, and painful to desert, And guiding to the end the planner aim’d at. The Engineer

I           been easy for Alexius, by a course of avowed suspicion, or any false step in the manner of receiving this tumultuary invasion of the European nations, to have blown into a flame the numerous, but smothered grievances, under which they laboured; and a similar catastrophe would not have been less certain, had he at once abandoned all thoughts of resistance, and placed his hope of safety in surrendering to the multitudes of the west whatsoever they accounted worth taking. The Emperor chose a middle course; and, unquestionably, in the weakness of the Greek empire, it was the only one which would have given him at once safety, and a great degree of consequence in the eyes of the Frank invaders, and those of his own subjects. The means with which he acted were of various kinds, and, rather from policy than inclination, were often stained with falsehood or meanness; therefore it follows, that the measures of the Emperor resembled those of the snake, who twines himself through the grass, with the purpose of stinging insidiously those whom he fears to approach with the step of the bold and generous lion. We are not, however, writing the History of the Crusades, and what we have already said of the Emperor’s precautions on the first appearance of Godfrey of Bouillon, and his associates, may suffice for the elucidation of our story. About four weeks had now passed over, marked by quarrels and reconcilements between the crusaders and the Grecians of the empire. The former were, as Alexius’s policy dictated, occasionally and individually received with extreme honour, and their leaders loaded with respect and favour; while, from time to time, such bodies of them as sought distant or circuitous routes to the capital, were intercepted and cut to pieces by light-armed troops, who easily passed upon their ignorant opponents for Turks, Scythians, or other infidels, and sometimes were actually such, but in the service of the Grecian

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monarch. Often, too, it happened, that while the more powerful chiefs of the crusade were feasted by the Emperor and his ministers with the richest delicacies, and their thirst slaked with iced wines, their followers were left at a distance, where, intentionally supplied with adulterated flour, tainted provisions, and bad water, they contracted diseases, and died in great numbers, without having once seen a foot of the Holy Land, for the recovery of which they had abandoned their peace, their competence, and their native country. These aggressions did not pass without complaint. Many of the crusading chiefs impugned the fidelity of their allies, exposing the losses sustained by their armies as evils voluntarily inflicted on them by the Greeks, and on more than one occasion, the two nations stood opposed on such terms that a general war seemed to be the necessary consequence. Alexius, however, though obliged to have recourse to every finesse, still kept his ground, and made peace with the most powerful chiefs, under one pretence or other. The actual losses of the crusaders by the sword he imputed to their own aggressions—their misguidance to accident and to wilfulness—the effects produced on them by the adulterated provisions to the vehemence of their own appetite for raw fruits and unripened wines. In short, there was no disaster of any kind whatsoever which could possibly befall the unhappy pilgrims, but the Emperor stood prepared to prove that it was the natural consequence of their own violence, wilfulness of conduct, or hostile precipitancy. The chiefs, who were not ignorant of their own power, would not, it was likely, have suffered injuries tamely from a strength inferior to their own, were it not that they had formed extravagant ideas of the wealth of the Eastern empire, which Alexius seemed willing to share with them with an excess of bounty as new to the leaders as the rich productions of the East were tempting to their followers. The French nobles would perhaps have been the most difficult to be brought into order when differences arose, but an accident, which the Emperor might have termed providential, reduced the high-spirited Count of Vermandois to the situation of a suppliant, when he expected to hold that of a dictator. A fierce tempest surprised his fleet as he set sail from Italy, and he was finally driven on the coast of Greece. Many ships were destroyed, and those troops who got ashore were so much distressed, that they were obliged to render themselves, and the Count of Vermandois, after his lofty message, was sent to the court of Constantinople, not as a prince, but as a prisoner. In this case, the Emperor instantly set the soldiers at liberty, and loaded them with presents. Grateful for the attentions in which Alexius was unremitting, Count Hugh was, by gratitude as well as interest, inclined to join the opinion

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of those who, for other reasons, desired the subsistence of peace betwixt the crusaders and the empire of Greece. A better principle determined the celebrated Godfrey, Raymond of Tholouse, and some others, in whom devotion was something more than a mere burst of fanaticism. These considered with what scandal their whole journey must be stained if the first of their exploits should be a war upon the Grecian empire, which might be justly called the barrier of Christendom. If it was weak, and at the same time rich—if at the same time it invited rapine, and was unable to protect itself against it—it was the more their interest and duty, as Christian soldiers, to protect a Christian state, whose existence was of so much consequence to the common cause, even when it could not defend itself. It was the wish of these frank-hearted men to receive the Emperor’s professions of friendship with such sincere returns of amity—to return his kindness with so much usury, as to convince him that their purpose towards him was in every respect fair and honourable, and that it would be his interest to abstain from every injurious treatment which might induce or compel them to alter their measures towards him. It was with this accommodating spirit towards Alexius, which, for many different and complicated reasons, had now animated most of the crusaders, that the chiefs consented to a measure which, in other circumstances, they would probably have refused, as undue to the Greeks, and dishonourable to themselves. This was the famous resolution, that, before crossing the Bosphorus to go in quest of that Palestine which they had vowed to regain, they would acknowledge individually the Grecian Emperor, originally lord paramount of all these regions, as their liege lord and suzerain. The Emperor Alexius, with trembling joy, beheld the crusaders approach a conclusion to which he had hoped to bribe them rather by interested means than by reasoning, although much might be said why provinces reconquered from the Turks or Saracens should, if recovered from the infidel, become again a part of the Grecian empire, from which they had been rent without any pretence, save that of violence. Though fearful, and almost despairing of being able to manage the rude and discordant army of haughty chiefs independent of each other, Alexius failed not, with eagerness and dexterity, to seize upon the admission of Godfrey and his compeers, that the Emperor was entitled to the allegiance of all who should war on Palestine, and natural lord paramount of all the conquests which should be made in course of the expedition. He was resolved to make this ceremony so public, and to interest men’s minds in it by such a display of the imperial pomp and munificence, that it should not either pass unknown, or be readily forgotten.

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An extensive terrace, one of numerous spaces which extend alongst the coast of the Propontis, was adopted for the site of the magnificent ceremony. Here was placed an elevated and august throne, calculated for the use of the Emperor alone. On this occasion, by suffering no seats in the neighbourhood, the Greeks endeavoured to secure a point of ceremony peculiarly dear to their vanity, namely, that none of that presence, save the Emperor himself, should be seated. Around the throne of Alexius Comnenus were placed in order the various dignitaries of his splendid court, in their different ranks, from the Protosebastos and the Cæsar, to the Patriarch, splendid in his ecclesiastic robes, and to Agelastes, who, in his simple habit, gave also the necessary attendance. Behind and around the splendid display of the imperial court, were drawn many dark circles of the exiled Anglo-Saxons. These, by their own desire, were not, on that memorable day, accoutered in the silver corslets which were the fashion of an idle court, but sheathed in mail and plate. They desired, they said, to be known as warriors to warriors. This was the more readily granted, as there was no knowing what trifle might infringe a truce between parties so inflammable as were now assembled. Beyond the Varangians extended, in much greater numbers, the bands of Grecians, or Romans, then known by the title of Immortals, which had been borrowed by the Romans originally from the empire of Persia. The stately forms, lofty crests, and splendid apparel of these guards, would have given the foreign princes present a higher idea of their military prowess, had there not occurred in their ranks a frequent indication of loquacity and of motion, forming a strong contrast to the steady composure and death-like silence with which the well-trained Varangians stood in the parade, like statues made of iron. The reader must then conceive this throne in all the pomp of Oriental greatness, surrounded by the foreign and Roman troops of the empire, and closed on the rear by clouds of light-horse, who shifted their place repeatedly, so as to convey an idea of their multitude, without affording an exact means of estimating it. Through the dust which they raised by these evolutions, might be seen banners and standards, among which could be discovered, by glances, the celebrated L , the pledge of conquest to the imperial banners, but whose sacred efficacy had somewhat failed of late days. The rude soldiers of the West, who viewed the Grecian army, maintained that the standards which were exhibited in front of their line, were at least sufficient for the array of ten times the number of soldiers. Far on the right, the appearance of a very large body of European cavalry drawn up on the sea-shore, intimated the presence of the crusaders. So great was the desire to follow the example of the chief

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Princes, Dukes, and Counts, in making the proposed fealty, that the number of independent knights and nobles, who were to perform this service, seemed very great when collected together for that purpose; for every crusader who possessed a tower, and led six lances, would have thought himself abridged of his dignity if he had not been called to acknowledge the Emperor, and hold the lands he should conquer of his throne, as well as Godfrey of Bouillon, or Hugh the Great, Count of Vermandois. Yet, with strange inconsistency, though they pressed to fulfil the homage as that which was paid by greater persons than themselves, they seemed, at the very same time, desirous to find some mode of intimating that the homage which they rendered they felt as an idle degradation, and in fact held the whole show as a mere piece of mockery. The order of the procession had been thus settled:—the Crusaders, or, as the Grecians called them, the Counts,—that being the most common title among them,—were to advance from the left of their body, and, passing the Emperor one by one, should, in passing, render to him the homage agreed upon, in as few words as possible. Godfrey of Bouillon, his brother Baldwin, Bohemond of Antioch, and several other crusaders of eminence, were the first to perform the ceremony, alighting when their own part was performed, and remaining in attendance on the Emperor’s chair, to prevent, by the awe of their presence, any of their numerous associates being guilty of petulance or presumption during the solemnity. Other crusaders of less degree retained their station near the Emperor, when they had once gained it, out of mere curiosity, or to show that they were as much at liberty to do so as the greater commanders who assumed that privilege. Thus the two great bodies of troops paused at some distance from each other on the banks of the Bosphorus coast, and differing in language, arms, and appearance. The small troops of horse which from time to time spurred forth from the one of these bodies to join the other, like flashes of lightning passing from cloud to cloud, communicated by such emissaries their overcharged contents. After some halt on the margin of the Bosphorus, the Franks who had performed homage, straggled irregularly forwards to a quay on the shore, where innumerable galleys and smaller vessels, provided for the purpose, lay with sails and oars prepared to waft the warlike pilgrims across the passage, and place them on that Asia which they longed so passionately to visit, and from which but few of them were likely to return. The gay appearance of the vessels which were to receive them, the readiness with which they were supplied with refreshments, the narrowness of the strait they had to cross, the near approach of that active service which they had vowed and longed to discharge, put the warriors into

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gay spirits, and songs and music bore chorus to the departing oars. While such was the temper of the crusaders, the Grecian Emperor did his best through the whole ceremonial to impress on the armed multitude the highest ideas of his own grandeur, and the importance of the occasion which had brought them together. This was readily admitted by the higher chiefs; some because their vanity had been propitiated,—some because their avarice had been gratified,—some because their ambition had been inflamed,—and a few, a very few, because to remain friends with Alexius was the most probable means of advancing the purposes of their expedition. Accordingly, these great lords practised a humility which perhaps they were far from feeling, and carefully abstained from all which might appear flouting at the solemn festival of the Grecians. The main body of the counts, lords, and knights, under whose variety of banners the crusaders were led to the walls of Constantinople, were, many of them, too insignificant to be bribed to this distasteful measure of homage; and though they felt it dangerous to oppose resistance, they yet mixed their submission with taunts, ridicule, and such contraventions of decorum, as plainly intimated that they entertained resentment and scorn at the very step they were about to take, and esteemed it as proclaiming themselves vassals to a prince, heretic in his faith, timid in the exercise of his boasted power, their enemy where he dared show himself such, and the friend of those only among their number who were able to compel him to be so, and to them an obsequious ally while he was to the others an insidious and murderous enemy. The nobles of Frankish origin and descent were chiefly remarkable for their presumptuous contempt of every other nation engaged in the crusade, for their dauntless bravery, and for the scorn with which they regarded the power and authority of the Greek empire. It was a common saying among them, that if the skies should fall, the French devotees alone were able to hold them up with their lances. The same bold and arrogant disposition showed itself in occasional quarrels with their unwilling hosts, in which the Greeks sometimes, notwithstanding all their arts, were put decidedly to the worst, so that Alexius was determined, at all events, to get rid of these intractable and fiery soldiers, by ferrying them over the Bosphorus with all manner of diligence. To do this with safety, he availed himself of the presence of the Count of Vermandois, Godfrey of Bouillon, and other chiefs of great influence, to keep in order the lesser Frankish knights, who were so numerous and unruly. Struggling with his feelings of offended pride, tempered by a prudent degree of apprehension, the Emperor endeavoured to receive

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with complacence a homage tendered in mockery. An incident shortly took place of a character highly descriptive of the nations brought together in so extraordinary a manner, and with such different feelings and sentiments. Several bands of French had passed, in a sort of procession, the throne of the Emperor, and rendered, with some appearance of gravity, the usual homage, on which occasion they bent their knees to Alexius, placed their hands within his, and in that posture paid the ceremonies of feudal fealty. But when it came to Bohemond of Antioch’s turn to render this fealty, the Emperor arose on the Norman adventurer’s retiring, and, desirous to show every species of honour to this wily person, his former enemy, and now apparently his ally, advanced two or three paces towards the sea-side, where the boats lay as if in readiness for his use. The distance to which the Emperor moved was very small, and it was assumed as a piece of deference, but it became the means of exposing him to a cutting affront, in which his guards and subjects felt deeply an intentional humiliation. A half-score of horse-men, attendants of the Frankish Count who was next to perform the homage, with their lord at their head, set off upon full gallop from the right flank of the French squadrons, and arriving before the throne, which was yet empty, they halted at once. The rider at the head of the band was a strong herculean figure, with a decided and stern countenance, though extremely handsome, looking out from thick black curls. His head was surmounted with a barret cap, while his hands, limbs, and feet were covered with chamois leather, over which he generally wore the ponderous and complete armour of his country, which he had laid aside for personal convenience, though in doing so he evinced a total neglect of the ceremonial which marked the importance of the meeting. He waited not a moment for the Emperor’s return, nor regarded the impropriety of obliging Alexius to hurry him back to his throne. But having sprung from his gigantic horse, and thrown the reins loose, which were instantly seized by one of the attendant pages, without a moment’s hesitation he seated himself in the empty throne of the Emperor, and extending his half-armed and robust figure on the golden cushions which were destined for Alexius, he indolently caressed a large wolf-hound which reposed itself on the carpets of silk and gold damask, which tapestried the imperial footstool. The very hound stretched itself with a bold, ferocious insolence, and seemed to regard no one with respect, save the stern knight whom it called master. The Emperor, turning back from the short walk on which, as a special mark of favour, he had accompanied Bohemond, beheld with astonishment his seat occupied by this insolent baron. The bands of

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the half savage Varangians who were stationed around, would not have hesitated an instant in avenging the insult, by prostrating the violator of their master’s throne even in this act of his contempt, had they not been restrained by Achilles Tatius and other officers, who were uncertain what the Emperor intended to do. Meanwhile, the unceremonious knight spoke aloud, in a speech which might be understood by all to whom the French language was known, while even those who understood it not, gathered its interpretation from the tone and manner. “What churl is this,” said he, “who remains sitting stationary like a block of stone in a nich, when so many noble knights, the flower of chivalry and muster of gallantry, stand uncovered around?” A deep, clear accent replied, as if from the bottom of the earth, so like it was to some being from the other world,—“If the Normans desire battle of the Varangians, they will meet them in the lists man to man, without the poor boast of insulting the Emperor of Greece, who is well known to fight only by the hands of his guard.” The astonishment was so great when this answer was heard, as to affect even the knight, whose insult upon the Emperor had commenced the disorder of the day; and amid the efforts of Achilles to retain his soldiers within the bounds of subordination and silence, a loud murmur seemed to intimate that they would not long remain so. Bohemond returned through the press with a celerity which did not so well suit the dignity of Alexius, and catching the crusader by the arm, he, something between fair means and foul, obliged him to leave the chair of the Emperor in which he had placed himself so boldly. “How is it,” said Bohemond, “noble Count? Is there one in this great assembly who can see with patience, that your name, so widely renowned for valour, is now to be quoted in an idle brawl with hirelings, whose utmost boast it is to bear a mercenary battle-axe in the ranks of the Emperor’s guards? For shame—for shame—do not, for the discredit of Norman chivalry, let it be so!” “I know,” said the Crusader, rising reluctantly, “I am not nice of choosing the degree of my adversary, when he bears himself like one who is willing and forward in battle. I am good-natured, I tell thee, Count Bohemond; and Turk or Tartar, or wandering Anglo-Saxon, who only escapes from the chain of the Normans to become the slave of the Greek, is equally welcome to whet his blade clean against my armour, if he desires to achieve such an honourable office.” The Emperor had heard what passed—had heard it with indignation, mixed with fear; for he conceived the whole scheme of his policy was going to be overturned at once by a premeditated plan of personal affront. With calmness which his internal feelings rendered singular,

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he cast his eyes on the right flank of the crusaders, where all remained quiet after the Frank Baron had transferred himself from thence. He instantly resolved to let the insult pass, as one of the rough pleasantries of the Latins, since the advance of more troops did not give any symptom of an actual onset. Resolving on his line of conduct with the quickness of thought, he glided back to his canopy, and stood beside his throne, of which, however, he chose not instantly to take possession, lest he should give the insolent stranger some ground for renewing and persisting in a competition for it. “What bold Vavasour is this,” said he to Count Baldwin, “whom, as is apparent from his dignity, I ought to have received seated upon my throne?” “He is reckoned one of the bravest men in our host,” answered Baldwin, “though numerous as the sands of the sea. He will tell you his name and rank himself.” Alexius looked at the Vavasour. He saw nothing in his large, wellformed features, lighted by a wild touch of enthusiasm which spoke in his quick eye, that intimated premeditated insult, and was induced to suppose that what had occurred, so contrary to the form and ceremonial of the Grecian court, was neither an intentional affront, nor designed as the means of introducing a quarrel. He therefore spoke with comparative ease, when he addressed the stranger thus:—“We know not by what dignified name to salute you; but we are aware, from Count Baldwin’s information, that we are honoured in having in our presence one of the bravest knights whom a sense of the wrongs done to the Holy Land has brought thus far on his way to Palestine, to free it from its bondage.” “If you mean to ask my name,” answered the European knight, “any one of these pilgrims can readily satisfy you, and more gracefully than I can myself; since we use to say in our country that many a fair quarrel is prevented from being fought out by an untimely disclosure of names, when men, who might have fought with the fear of God before their eyes, must, when their names are manifested, recognise themselves as spiritual allies, by baptism, gossipred, or some such irresistible bond of friendship; whereas, had they fought first, and told their names afterwards, they could have had some assurances of each other’s valour, and have been able to view their relationship as an honour to both.” “Still,” said the Emperor, “methinks I would know if you, who, in this extraordinary press of knights, seem to assert a precedence to yourself, claim the dignity due to a king or prince?” “How speak you that?” said the Frank, with a brow somewhat

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overclouded; “do you feel that I leave you not unjostled by my advance to these squadrons of yours?” Alexius hastened to answer, that he felt no particular desire to connect the Count with an affront or offence; observing, that in the extreme necessity of the Empire, it was no time for him, who was at the helm, to engage in idle or unnecessary quarrels. The Latin knight heard him, and answered drily—“Since such are your sentiments, I wonder you have ever resided long enough within the hearing of the French language to learn to speak it as you do. I would have thought some of the sentiments of the chivalry of the nation, since you are neither a monk nor a woman, would have at the same time found their way into your heart.” “Hush, Sir Count,” said Bohemond, who remained by the Emperor to avert the threatening quarrel. “It is surely requisite to answer the Emperor with civility; and those who are impatient for warfare, will have infidels enough to wage it with. He only demanded your name and lineage, which you of all men can have least objection to disclose.” “I know not if it will interest this Prince, or Emperor as you term him,” answered the Latin Count; “but all the account I can give of myself is this: In the midst of one of the vast forests which occupy the centre of France, my native country, there stands a chapel, sunk so low into the ground, that it seems as if it was bent by its own great age. The image of the Holy Virgin who presides over its altar, is called by all men our Lady of the Broken Lances, and is accounted through the whole kingdom the most celebrated for military adventures. Four beaten roads, each leading from an opposite point in the compass, meet before the principal door of the chapel; and ever and anon, as a good knight arrives at this place, he passes in to the performance of his devotions, having first sounded his horn three times, till ash and oak quiver and ring. Having then kneeled down to his devotions, he seldom arises from the mass of Her of the Broken Lances, but there is attending on his leisure some adventurous knight ready to satisfy the stranger’s desire of battle. This station have I held for a month and more against all comers, and all gave me fair thanks for the knightly manner of quitting myself towards them, except one, who had the evil hap to fall from his horse and break his neck; and another, who was struck through the body, so that the lance came out behind his back about a cloth-yard, all dripping with blood. Allowing for such accidents, which cannot be easily avoided, my opponents parted with me with fair acknowledgment of the grace I had done them.” “I conceive, Sir Knight,” said the Emperor, “that a form like yours, animated by the courage you display, is likely to find few equals even among your adventurous countrymen; far less among men who are

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taught that to cast away their lives in a senseless quarrel among themselves, is to throw away, like a boy, the gift of Providence.” “You are welcome to your opinion,” said the Frank, somewhat contemptuously; “yet I assure you, sir, if you doubt, that our gallant strife was unmixed with sullenness and anger, and that we not hunt the hart or the boar with merrier hearts in the evening, than we discharged our task of chivalry by the noontide hour, before the portal of the old chapel.” “With the Turks you will not enjoy this amiable exchange of courtesies,” answered Alexius. “Wherefore I would advise you neither to stray far into the van or into the rear, but to abide by the standard where the best infidels make their efforts, and the best knights are required to repel them.” “By our Lady of the Broken Lances,” said the Crusader, “I would not that the Turks were more courteous than they are Christians, and am well pleased that unbeliever and heathen hound are a proper description for the best of them, as being traitor alike to their God and to the laws of chivalry; and devoutly do I trust that I will meet with them in the front centre of our army, and having an open field to do my devoir against them, both as the enemies of Our Lady and the holy saints, and as more expressly my own. If you have time to seat yourself and receive my homage, I will be bound to you for dispatching this foolish ceremony with as little waste and delay of time as the occasion will permit.” The Emperor hastily seated himself, and received into his the sinewy hands of the crusader, who made the acknowledgment of his homage, and was then guided off by Count Baldwin, who walked with the stranger to the ships, and then, apparently well pleased at seeing him safe on board, returned back to the side of the Emperor. “What is the name,” said the Emperor, “of that singular and assuming man?” “It is Robert, Count of Paris,” answered Baldwin, “accounted one of the bravest peers who stands around the throne of France.” After a moment’s recollection, Alexius Comnenus issued orders, that the ceremonial of the day should be discontinued, afraid, perhaps, lest the rough and careless humour of the strangers should produce some new quarrel. The crusaders were led, nothing loath, back to palaces in which they had already been hospitably received, and readily resumed the interrupted feast, from which they had been called to pay their homage. The trumpets of the various leaders blew the recall of the few troops of an ordinary character who were attendant, together with the host of knights and leaders, who, pleased with the indulgences provided for them, and obscurely foreseeing that the

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passage of the Bosphorus would be the commencement of their actual suffering, rejoiced in being called to the hither side. It was not probably intended; but the hero, as he might be styled, of the tumultuous day, Count Robert of Paris, who was already on his road to embarkation on the strait, was disturbed in his purpose by the sound of recall which was echoed around; nor could Bohemond, Godfrey, or any who took upon him to explain the signal, alter his resolution of returning to Constantinople. He laughed to scorn the threatened displeasure of the Emperor, and seemed to think there would be a peculiar pleasure in flouting Alexius at his own board, or, at least, that nothing could be more indifferent than whether he gave offence or not. To Godfrey of Bouillon, to whom he showed some respect, he was still far from paying deference; and that sagacious prince, having used every argument which might shake his purpose of returning to the imperial city, to the very point of making it a quarrel with him in person, at length abandoned him to his own discretion, and pointed him out to the Count of Tholouse, as he passed, as a wild knighterrant, incapable of being influenced by any thing save his own wayward fancy. “He brings not five hundred men to the crusade,” said Godfrey; “and I dare be sworn, that even in this, the very outset of the undertaking, he knows not where these five hundred men are, and how their wants are provided for. There is an eternal trumpet in his ear sounding to assault, nor has he room or time to hear a milder or more rational signal. See how he strolls along yonder, the very emblem of an idle schoolboy, broke out of bounds upon a holyday, half animated by curiosity and half by love of mischief.” “And,” said Raymond, Count of Tholouse, “with resolution sufficient to support the desperate purpose of the whole army of devoted crusaders. And yet so passionate a Rodomont is Count Robert, that he would rather risk the success of the whole expedition, than omit an opportunity of meeting a worthy antagonist en champ clos, or lose, as he terms it, a chance of worshipping our Lady of the Broken Lances. Who are yon with whom he has now met, and who are apparently walking, or rather strolling, in the same way with him, back to Constantinople?” “An armed knight, brilliantly equipped—yet of something less than knightly stature,” answered Godfrey. “It is, I suppose, the celebrated lady who won Robert’s heart in the lists of battle, by bravery and valour equal to his own; and the pilgrim form in the long vestments may be their daughter or niece.” “A singular spectacle, worthy Count, do our days present to us, to which we have had nothing similar, since Gaita, wife of Robert

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Guiscard, first took upon her to distinguish herself by manly deeds of emprise, and rivalled her husband, as well in the front of battle as in the dancing-room or banquet.” “Such is the custom of this pair, most noble knight,” answered another Crusader, who had joined them, “and Heaven pity the poor man who has no power to keep domestic peace by an appeal to the stronger hand!” “Well,” replied Raymond, “if it be rather a mortifying reflection, that the lady of our love is far past the bloom of youth, it is a consolation that she is too old-fashioned to beat us, when we return back with no more of youth or manhood than a long crusade has left. But come, follow on the road to Constantinople, and in the rear of this most doughty knight.”

Chapter Ten These were wild times—the antipodes of ours: Ladies there were, who oftener saw themselves In the broad lustre of a foeman’s shield Than in a mirror, and who rather sought To match themselves in battle, than in dalliance To meet a lover’s onset.—But though Nature Was outraged thus, she was not overcome. Feudal Times

B , Countess of Paris, was one of those stalwart dames who willingly hazarded themselves in front of battle, which, during the first crusade, was as common as it was possible for a very unnatural custom to be, and, in fact, gave the real instances of the Marphisas and Bradamantes, whom the writers of romance delighted to paint, assigning them sometimes the advantage of invulnerable armour, or a spear whose thrust did not admit of being resisted, in order to soften the improbability of their weaker sex being frequently victorious over the male part of the creation. But the spell of Brenhilda was of a more simple nature, and rested chiefly in her great beauty. From a little girl, she despised the pursuits of her sex; and they who ventured to become suitors for the hand of the young Lady of Aspramonte, to which warlike fief she had succeeded, and which perhaps encouraged her in her fancy, received for answer, that they must first merit it by their good behaviour in the lists. The father of Brenhilda was dead; her mother was of a gentle temper, and easily kept under management by the young lady herself. Brenhilda’s numerous suitors readily agreed to terms which were

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too much according to the manners of the age to be disputed. A tournament was held at the Castle of Aspramonte, in which one half of the gallant assembly rolled headlong before their successful rivals, and withdrew from the lists mortified. The men successful in the encounter were now made acquainted with the lady’s further will. She aspired herself to wear armour, to wield a lance, and back a steed, and prayed the knights that they would permit a lady, whom they professed to honour so highly, to mingle in their games of chivalry. The young knights courteously received their young Lady in the lists, and smiled at the idea of her holding them triumphantly against so many gallant champions of the other sex. But the vassals and old servants of the Count, her father, smiled one on another. The gallants who encountered the fair Brenhilda were one by one stretched on the sand; nor was it to be denied, that the situation of tilting with one of the handsomest women of the time, was an extremely embarrassing one. Each youth was bent to withhold his charge in full volley, to cause his steed to swerve at the full shock, or in some other way to flinch from doing the utmost which was necessary to gain the victory, lest, in so gaining it, he might do irreparable damage to the beautiful opponent he tilted with. But the Lady of Aspramonte was not one who could be conquered by less than the exertion of the whole strength and talents of the victor. The defeated suitors departed from the lists the more mortified at their discomfiture, because Robert of Paris arrived at sunset, and, understanding what was going forward, sent his name to the barriers, as that of a knight who sought to do battle, but would willingly forego the lady’s hand in case of his success, provided he was left at liberty in case of himself sharing the fate of his predecessors. Brenhilda, piqued and mortified, chose a new lance, mounted her best steed, and came into the lists as one determined to avenge upon the new assailant’s brow the slight of her charms which he seemed to express. But whether her displeasure had somewhat interfered with her usual skill, or whether she had, like others of her sex, felt a partiality towards one whose heart was not particularly set upon gaining hers—or whether, as is often said on such occasions, her fated hour was come, so it was that Count Robert ran with his usual address and good fortune. Brenhilda of Aspramonte was unhelmed and unhorsed, and stretched on the earth, and the beautiful face, which faded from very red to deadly pale before the eyes of the victor, produced its effect in raising the value of his conquest. He would, in conformity with his resolution, have left the castle, after having mortified the vanity of the young lady. But her mother opportunely interposed; and when she had satisfied herself that no serious injury had been sustained, she returned her thanks to the stranger knight who

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had taught her daughter a lesson, which, she trusted, she would not easily forget. Thus tempted to do what he secretly wished, Count Robert gave ear to those sentiments, which naturally whispered to him to be in no hurry to withdraw. He was of the blood of Charlemagne, and, what was still more of consequence in the young lady’s eyes, one of the most renowned jousters in that jousting day. After a residence of ten days in the castle of Aspramonte, the bride and bridegroom set out, for such was Count Robert’s will, with a competent train, to Our Lady of the Broken Lances, where it pleased him to be wedded. Two knights, who were waiting to do battle, as was the custom of the place, were rather disappointed at the nature of the cavalcade, which seemed to interrupt their purpose. But greatly were they surprised when they received a cartel from the betrothed couple, offering to substitute their own persons in the room of other antagonists, and congratulating themselves on commencing their married life in a manner so consistent with that which they had hitherto led. They were victorious as usual; and the only persons having occasion to rue the complaisance of the Count and his bride, were the two strangers, one of whom broke a leg in the rencounter, and the other dislocated a collar-bone. Count Robert’s course of knight-errantry did not seem to be in the least intermitted by his marriage; on the contrary, when he was called upon to support his renown, his wife was often seen also, nor was she inferior to him in thirst after military fame. She was now above sixand-twenty years old, with as much beauty as can well fall to the share of an Amazon. A figure, of the largest feminine size, was surmounted by a noble countenance, to which even repeated warlike toils had not given more than a sunny hue, relieved by the dazzling whiteness of such parts of her face as were not usually displayed. ——————— As Alexius gave orders that his retinue should return to Constantinople, he spoke in private to the Follower, Achilles Tatius. The Satrap answered with a submissive bend of the head, and separated with a few attendants from the main body of the Emperor’s train. The principal road to the city was, of course, filled with the troops, and with the numerous crowd of spectators, all of whom were inconvenienced in some degree by the dust and heat of the weather. Count Robert of Paris, who felt his walk more incommoded than he desired, especially as his wife shared it with him, began to look among the scattered trees which fringed the shores down almost to the tidemark, to see if he could discern any bypath which might carry them more circuitously, but more pleasantly, to the city, and afford them at

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the same time, what was their principal object in the East, strange adventures of chivalry. A broad and beaten path seemed to promise them all the enjoyment which shade could give in a warm climate. The ground through which it wound its way was beautifully broken by the appearance of temples, churches, and kiosks, and here and there a fountain distributed its silver produce, like a benevolent individual, who, self-denying to himself, is liberal to all others who are in necessity. The distant sound of the martial music still regaled their way; and, at the same time, as it detained the populace on the high road, prevented the strangers from becoming incommoded with fellowtravellers. Rejoicing in the abated heat of the day—wondering, at the same time, at the various kinds of architecture, the strange features of the landscape, or accidental touches of manners exhibited by those who met or past them upon their journey, they strolled easily onwards. One figure particularly caught the attention of the Countess Brenhilda. This was an old man of great stature, engaged, apparently, so deeply with the roll of parchment which he held in his hand, that he paid no attention to the objects which were passing around him. Deep thought appeared to reign on his brow, and his eye was of that piercing kind which seems designed to search and winnow the frivolous from the edifying part of human investigation. Raising his eyes slowly from the parchment on which he had been gazing, the look of Agelastes—for it was the sage himself—encountered those of Count Robert and his lady, and, addressing them with the kindly epithet of “my children,” he asked if they had missed their road, or whether there was any thing else in which he could do them any pleasure. “We are strangers, father,” was the answer, “from a distant country, and belonging to the army which has passed hither upon pilgrimage; one object brings us here in common, we hope, with all that host. We desire to pay our devotions for the great ransom that was paid for us, and to free, by our good swords, enslaved Palestine, from the usurpation and tyranny of the infidel. When we have said this, we have announced the highest human motive. Yet Robert of Paris and his Countess would not willingly set their foot on a land, save what should resound its echo. They have not been accustomed to move in silence upon the face of the earth, and they would purchase an eternal life of fame, though it were at the price of mortal existence.” “You seek then to barter safety for fame,” said Agelastes, “though you throw death into the scale by which you hope to gain it?” “Assuredly,” said Count Robert; “nor is there one wearing such a belt as this, to whom such a thought is stranger.” “And as I understand,” said Agelastes, “your lady shares with your

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honourable self in these valorous resolutions?—Can this be?” “You may undervalue my female courage, father, if such is your will,” said the Countess; “but I speak in presence of a witness who can attest the truth, when I say, that a man of half your years had not doubted the truth with impunity.” “Nay, Heaven protect me from the lightning of your eyes,” said Agelastes, “whether in anger or in scorn. I bear an ægis about myself against what I should else have feared. But age, with its incapacities, brings also its apologies. Perhaps, indeed, it is one like me whom you seek to find, and in that case I should be happy to render to you such services as it is my duty to offer to all worthy knights.” “I have already said,” replied Count Robert, “that after the accomplishment of my vow,”—he looked upwards and crossed himself,— “there is nothing on earth to which I am more bound, than to celebrate my name in arms as becomes a valiant cavalier. When men die obscurely, they die for ever. Had my ancestor Charles never left the paltry banks of the Saale, he had not now been better known than any vine-dresser who wielded his pruning-hook in the same territories. But he bore him like a brave man, and his name is deathless in the memory of the worthy.” “Young man,” said the old Grecian, “although it is but seldom that such as you, whom I was made to serve and to value, visit this country, it is not the less true that I am well qualified to serve you in the matter which you have so much at heart. My acquaintance with nature has been so perfect and so long, that, during its continuance, she has disappeared, and another world has been spread before me, in which she has but little to do. Thus the curious stores which I have assembled, are beyond the researches of other men, and not to be laid before those whose deeds of valour are to be bounded by the ordinary probabilities of every-day nature. No romancer of your romantic country, ever devised such extraordinary adventures out of his own imagination, and to feed the idle wonder of those who sat listening around, as those which I know, not of idle invention, but of real positive existence, with the means of achieving and accomplishing the conditions of each adventure.” “If such be your real profession,” said the French Count, “you have met one of those whom you chiefly search for; nor will my Countess and I stir farther upon our road until you have pointed out to us some one of those adventures which it is the business of errant-knights to seek.” So saying, he sat down by the side of the old man; and his wife, with a degree of reverence which had something in it almost diverting, followed his example.

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“We have fallen right, Brenhilda,” said Count Robert; “our guardian angel has watched his charge carefully. Here have we come among an ignorant set of pedants, chattering their absurd language, and holding more important the least look that a cowardly Emperor can give, than the best blow that a good knight can deal. Believe me, I was wellnigh thinking that we had done ill to take the cross—God forgive such an impious doubt! Yet here, when we were even despairing to find the road to fame, we have met with one of those excellent men whom the knights of yore were wont to find sitting by springs, by crosses, and by altars, ready to direct the wandering knight where fame was to be found. Disturb him not, my Brenhilda,” said the Count, “but let him recall to himself his stories of the ancient time, and thou shalt see he will enrich us with the treasures of his information.” “If,” replied Agelastes, after some pause, “I have waited for a longer term than human life is granted to most men, I will still be overpaid by dedicating what remains of existence to the service of a pair so devoted to chivalry. What first occurs to me is a story of our Greek sea, so famous in adventures, and which I shall briefly detail to you:— “Afar hence, amid storms and whirlpools, rocks which, changing their character, appear to precipitate themselves against each other, and billows which are never in a pacific state, lies the rich island of Zulichium, inhabited, notwithstanding its wealth, by a very few natives, who live only upon the sea coast. The middle part of the island is one immense mountain, or pile of mountains, amongst which, those who dare approach near enough, may, we are assured, discern the moss-grown and antiquated towers and pinnacles of a stately, but ruinous castle, the habitation of the sovereign of the island, in which she has been enchanted for a great many years. “A bold knight, who came upon a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, made a vow to deliver this unhappy victim of pain and sorcery; feeling, with justice, vehemently offended, that the fiends of darkness should exercise any authority near the country which might be termed the very fountain of light. Two of the oldest inhabitants of the island undertook to guide him as near the main gate as they durst, nor did they approach it more closely than a bow-shot. Here, then, abandoned to himself, the brave Frank set forth upon his emprise, with a stout heart, and Heaven alone to friend. The fabric which he approached showed, by its gigantic size, and splendour of outline, the power and wealth of the potentate who had erected it. The brazen gates unfolded themselves as if with hope and pleasure; and aerial voices swept around the spires and turrets, congratulating the genius of the place, it might be, upon the approach of its deliverance.

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“The knight passed on, not unmoved with wonder, though untainted by fear; and the Gothic splendours which he saw were of a kind highly to exalt his idea of the beauty of the mistress for whom such a prison-house had been so richly decorated. Guards there were in Eastern dress and arms, upon bulwark and buttress, in readiness, it appeared, to bend their bows; but the warriors were motionless and silent, and took no more notice of the armed step of the knight than if a monk or hermit had approached their guarded post. They were living, and yet, as to all power and sense, they might be considered among the dead. If there was truth in the old tradition, the sun had shone and the rain had fallen upon them for more than four hundred changing seasons, without their being sensible of the genial warmth of the one or the coldness of the other. Like the Israelites in the desert, their shoes had not decayed, nor their vestments waxed old. As Time left them, so and without alteration was he again to find them.” The philosopher began now to recall what he had heard of the cause of their enchantment. “The sage, to whom this potent charm is imputed, was one of the Magi who followed the tenets of Zoroaster. He had come to the court of this youthful Princess, who received him with every attention which gratified vanity could dictate, so that in a short time her awe of this grave personage was lost in the sense of ascendancy which her beauty gave her over him. It was no difficult matter—in fact it happens every day—for the beautiful woman to lull the wise man into what is not inaptly called a fool’s paradise. The sage was induced to attempt feats of youth which his years rendered ridiculous; he could command the elements, but the common course of nature was beyond his power. When, therefore, he exerted his magic strength, the mountains bent and the seas receded; but when the philosopher attempted to lead forth the Princess of Zulichium in the dance, youths and maidens turned their heads aside lest they should make too manifest the ludicrous ideas with which they were impressed. “Unhappily, as the aged, even the wisest of them, will forget themselves, so the young naturally enter into an alliance to spy out and ridicule their foibles. Many were the glances which the Princess sent among her retinue, intimating the nature of the amusement which she received from the attentions of her formidable lover. In process of time, she lost her caution, and a glance was detected, expressing to the old man the ridicule and contempt in which he had been all along held by the object of his affections. Earth has no passion so bitter as love converted to hatred; and while the sage bitterly regretted his own folly, he did not the less resent the light-hearted silliness with which he had been duped.

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“If, however, he was angry, he possessed the art to conceal it. Not a word, not a look expressed the bitter disappointment which he had received. A shade of melancholy, or rather gloom, upon his brow, alone intimated the coming storm. The Princess became somewhat alarmed; she was besides extremely good-natured, nor had her intentions of leading the old man into ridicule, been so accurately planned, as they were the effect of accident and chance. She saw the pain which he suffered, and thought to end it by going up to him, when about to retire, and kindly wishing him good-night. “ ‘You say well, daughter,’ said the sage, ‘good-night—but who, of the numbers who hear me, shall say good-morning?’ “The speech drew little attention, although two or three persons to whom the character of the sage was known, fled from the island that very night, and by their report made known the circumstances attending the first infliction of this extraordinary spell on those who remained within the castle. A sleep like that of death fell upon them, and was not removed. Most of the inhabitants left the island; the few who remained were cautious how they approached the castle, and watched until some bold adventurer should bring that happy awakening which the speech of the sorcerer seemed in some degree to intimate. “Never seemed there a fairer opportunity for that awakening to take place than when the proud step of Artavan de Hautlieu was placed upon these enchanted courts. On the left, lay palace and donjonkeep; but the right, more attractive, seemed to beckon to the apartment of the women. At a side door, reclined on a couch, two guards of the haram, with their naked swords grasped in their hands, and features fiendishly contorted between sleep and dissolution, seemed to menace death to any who should venture to approach. This threat deterred not Artavan de Hautlieu. He approached the entrance, when the doors, like those of the great entrance to the Castle, made themselves instantly accessible to him. A guard-room of the same effeminate soldiers received him, nor could the strictest degree of examination have discovered to him whether it was sleep or death which arrested the eyes that seemed to look upon and prohibit his advance. Unheeding the presence of these ghastly sentinels, Artavan pressed forwards into an inner apartment, where female slaves of the most distinguished beauty were visible in the attitude of those who had already assumed their dress for the night. There was much in this scene which might have arrested so young a pilgrim as Artavan of Hautlieu; but his heart was fixed upon achieving the freedom of the beautiful Princess, nor did he suffer himself to be withdrawn from that object by any inferior consideration. He past on, therefore, to a little ivory door, which, after a moment’s pause, as if in maidenly hesitation, gave way like the rest,

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and yielded access to the sleeping apartment of the Princess herself. A soft light, resembling that of evening, penetrated into a chamber where everything seemed contrived to exalt the luxury of slumber. The heaps of cushions, which formed a stately bed, seemed rather to be touched than impressed by the form of a nymph of fifteen, the renowned Princess of Zulichium.” “Without interrupting you, good father,” said the Countess Brenhilda, “it seems to me that we can comprehend the picture of a woman asleep without much dilating upon it, and that such a subject is little recommended either by our age or by yours.” “Pardon me, noble lady,” answered Agelastes, “the most approved part of my story has been ever this passage, and while I now suppress it in obedience to your command, bear notice, I pray you, that I sacrifice the most beautiful part of the tale.” “Brenhilda,” added the Count, “I am surprised you think of interrupting a story which has hitherto proceeded with so much fire; the telling of a few words more or less will surely have a much greater influence upon the sense of the narrative, than such an addition can possibly possess over our sentiments of action.” “As you will,” said his lady, throwing herself carelessly back upon the seat; “but methinks the worthy father protracts this discourse, till it becomes of a nature more trifling than interesting.” “Brenhilda,” said the Count, “this is the first time I have remarked in you a woman’s weakness.” “I may as well say, Count Robert, that it is the first time,” answered Brenhilda, “that you have shewn to me the inconstancy of your sex.” “Gods and goddesses,” said the philosopher, “was ever known a quarrel more absurdly founded! The Countess is jealous of one whom her husband probably never will see, nor is there any prospect that the Princess of Zulichium will be hereafter better known to the modern world, than if the curtain hung before her tomb.” “Proceed,” said Count Robert of Paris; “if Sir Artavan of Hautlieu has not accomplished the enfranchisement of the Princess of Zulichium, I make a vow to our Lady of the Broken Lances”—— “Remember,” said his lady, interfering, “that you are already under a vow to free the Sepulchre of God; and to that, methinks, all lighter engagements might give place.” “Well, lady—well,” said Count Robert, but half satisfied with this interference, “I will not engage myself, you may be assured, in any adventure which may claim precedence of the emprise of the Holy Sepulchre, to which we are all bound.” “Alas!” said Agelastes, “the distance of Zulichium from the speediest route to the Sepulchre is so small, that”——

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“Worthy father,” said the Countess, “we will, if it pleases you, hear your tale to an end, and then determine what we will do. We descendants of the old Germans claim a voice with our lords in the council which precedes the battle; nor has our assistance in the conflict been deemed altogether useless.” The tone in which this was spoken conveyed an awkward innuendo to the philosopher, who began to foresee that the guidance of the Norman knight would be more difficult than he had foreseen, while his consort remained by his side. He took up, therefore, his oratory on somewhat a lower key than before, and avoided those warm descriptions which had given such offence to the Countess Brenhilda. “Sir Artavan de Hautlieu,” says the story, “considered in what way he should accost the sleeping damsel, when it occurred to him in what manner the charm would be best reversed. I am in your judgment, fair lady, if he judged wrong in resolving that the method of his address should be a kiss upon the lips.” The colour of Brenhilda was somewhat heightened, but she did not deem the observation worthy of notice. “Never had so innocent an action,” continued the philosopher, “an effect more horrible. The delightful light of a summer evening was instantly changed into a strange lurid hue, which, infected with sulphur, seemed to breathe suffocation through the apartment. The rich hangings, and splendid furniture of the chamber, the very walls themselves, were changed into huge stones tossed together at random, like the inside of a wild beast’s den; nor was the den without an inhabitant. The beautiful and innocent lips to which Artavan de Hautlieu had approached his own, were now changed into the hideous and bizarre form, and bestial aspect of a fiery dragon. A moment she hovered upon the wing, and it is said, had Sir Artavan found courage to repeat his salute three times, he would then have been master of all the wealth, and of the disenchanted princess. But the opportunity was lost, and the dragon, or the creature who seemed such, sailed out at a side window upon its broad pennons, uttering loud wails of disappointment.” Here ended the story of Agelastes. “The Princess,” he said, “is still supposed to abide her doom in the Island of Zulichium, and several knights have undertaken the adventure; but I know not whether it was the fear of the sleeping maiden, or that of the dragon into which she was transformed, but so it is, the spell remains unachieved. I know the way, and if you say the word, you may be to-morrow on the road to the castle of enchantment.” The Countess heard this proposal with the deepest anxiety, for she knew that she might, by opposition, determine her husband irrevocably upon taking the adventure in hand. She stood therefore with a

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timid and bashful look, strange in a person whose bearing was generally so dauntless, and prudently left it to the uninfluenced mind of Count Robert to form the resolution which should best please him. “Brenhilda,” he said, taking her hand, “fame and honour are dear to thy husband as ever they were to knight who buckled a brand upon his side. Thou hast done, perhaps, I may say, for me, what I might in vain have looked for from ladies of thy condition; and therefore thou mayest well expect a casting voice in such points of deliberation. Why dost thou wander by the side of a foreign and unhealthy shore, instead of the banks of the lovely Seine?—Why dost thou wear a dress unbefitting thy sex?—Why dost thou seek death, and think it little, in comparison of shame?—Why? but that the Count of Paris may have a bride worthy of him.—Dost thou think that this affection is thrown away? No, by the saints! Thy knight repays it as he best ought, and sacrifices to thee every thought which thy affection may less than entirely approve!” Poor Brenhilda, confused as she was by the various emotions with which she was agitated, in vain endeavoured to maintain the heroic deportment which her character as an Amazon required from her. She attempted to assume the proud and lofty look which was properly her own, but failing in the effort, she threw herself into the Count’s arms, hung round his neck, and wept like a village maiden, whose true love is pressed for the wars. Her husband, a little ashamed, while he was much moved by this burst of affection in one to whose character it seemed an unusual attribute, was, at the same time, pleased and proud that he could have awakened an affection so genuine and so gentle in a soul so high-spirited and so unbending. “Not thus,” he said, “my Brenhilda! I would not have it thus, either for thine own sake or for mine. Do not let this wise old man suppose that thy heart is made of the malleable stuff which forms that of other maidens; and apologize to him, as may well become thee, for having prevented my undertaking the adventure of Zulichium, which he recommends.” It was not easy for Brenhilda to recover herself, after having afforded so notable an instance how nature can vindicate her rights, with whatever rigour she may have been disciplined and tyrannized over. With a look of ineffable affection, she disjoined herself from her husband, still keeping hold of his hand, and turning to the old man with a countenance in which the half-effaced tears were succeeded by smiles of pleasure and of modesty, she spoke to Agelastes as she would to a person whom she respected, and towards whom she had some offence to atone for. “Father,” said she, respectfully, “be not angry with me that I should have been an obstacle to one of the best knights

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that ever spurred steed, undertaking the emprise of thy enchanted Princess; but the truth is, that in our land, where knighthood and religion agree in permitting only one lady love, and one lady wife, we do not quite so willingly see our husbands run into danger—especially of that kind where lovely ladies are the parties relieved, and kisses are the ransom paid. I have as much confidence in my Robert’s fidelity, as a lady can have in a living knight, but still——” “Lovely lady,” said Agelastes, who, notwithstanding his very artificial character, could not help being moved by the simple and sincere affection of the handsome young couple, “you have done no evil. The state of the Princess is no worse than it was, and there cannot be doubt that the knight destined to relieve her, will appear at the due period.” The Countess smiled sadly, and shook her head. “You do not know,” she said, “how powerful is the aid of which I have unhappily deprived this unfortunate lady, by a jealousy which I now feel to have been alike paltry and unworthy; and I could find in my heart to retract my opposition to Count Robert undertaking this adventure.” She looked at her husband with some anxiety, and did not recover her courage until he said, decidedly, “Brenhilda, that may not be.” “And why, then, may not Brenhilda herself take the adventure,” continued the Countess, “since she can neither fear the charms of the Princess, nor the terrors of the dragon?” “Lady,” said Agelastes, “the Princess must be awakened by the kiss of love, and not by that of friendship.” “A sufficient reason,” said the Countess, smiling, “why a lady may not wish her lord to go upon an adventure of which the conditions are so regulated.” “Noble minstrel, or herald, or by whatever name this country calls you,” said Count Robert, “accept a small remuneration for an hour pleasantly spent, though spent unhappily in vain. I should make some apology for the meanness of my offering, but French knights, you know, are more full of fame than of wealth.” “Not for that, noble sir,” replied Agelastes, “would I refuse your munificence; a besant from your worthy hand, or that of your nobleminded lady, were centupled in its value, by the hands from whence it came. I would hang it round my neck by a string of pearls, and when I came into press of knights and of ladies, I would proclaim that this addition to my achievement was bestowed by the renowned Count Robert of Paris, and his unequalled lady.” The Knight and the Countess looked on each other, and the lady, taking from her finger a ring of price, bid the old man to accept of that, as a mark of her favour and her husband’s. “With one other condition,” said the philosopher, “which I trust you will not find altogether unsatisfactory. I have, on the way to

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the city by the most pleasant road, a small kiosk—a hermitage, that is, or place of retirement—where I sometimes receive my friends, who, I venture to say, are among the most respectable personages of this empire. Two or three of these will probably honour my residence today, and partake of the provision it affords. Could I add to these the company of the noble Count and Countess of Paris, I should deem my poor habitation honoured for ever.” “How say you, my noble wife?” said the Count. “The company of a minstrel befits the highest birth, honours the highest rank, and adds to the greatest achievements; and the invitation does us too much credit to be rejected.” “It grows somewhat late,” said the Countess; “but we came not here to shun a sinking sun or a darkening sky, and I feel it my duty, as well as my satisfaction, to place at the command of the good father every pleasure which it is in my power to offer to him, for having been the means of your neglecting his advice.” “The path is so short,” said Agelastes, “that we had better keep our present mode of travelling, if the lady should not want the assistance of horses.” “No horses on my account,” said the Lady Brenhilda. “My waitingwoman, Agatha, has what necessaries I may require; and, for the rest, no knight ever travelled so easily.” Agelastes, therefore, led the way through the deepening wood, which was freshened by the cooler breath of evening, and his guests accompanied him.

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T   C     and Countess of Paris attended the old man, whose advanced age, his excellence in the use of the French language, which he spoke to admiration,—above all, his skill in applying it to poetical and romantic subjects, which was essential to what was then termed history and belles lettres,—drew from the noble hearers a degree of applause, which, as Agelastes had seldom been vain enough to consider as his due, so, on the part of the Knight of Paris and his lady, had it been but rarely conferred. They had walked about an hour by a path which sometimes seemed

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to hide itself in the woods which rushed down upon the shore of the Propontis, sometimes came out of concealment, and skirted the open margin of the strait, while, at every turn, it seemed guided by the desire to select a choice and contrast of beauty. Various scenes and manners enlivened, from their novelty, the landscape to the pilgrims. By the sea-shore, nymphs were seen dancing, and shepherds piping, or beating the tambourine to their steps, as in some of the ancient statuary. The very faces had a singular resemblance to the antique. If old, their long robes, their attitudes, and magnificent heads, presented the ideas which distinguish prophets and saints; while, on the other hand, the features of the young recalled the expressive countenances of the heroes of antiquity, and the charms of those lovely females by whom their deeds were inspired. But the race of the Greeks was no longer to be seen, even in its native country, unmixed, or in absolute purity; on the contrary, there were features which argued a different descent. In a retiring bosom of the shore, which was traversed by the path, the rocks, receding from the beach, rounded off a spacious portion of level sand, and, in some degree, enclosed it. A party of heathen Scythians, presented the deformed features of the dæmons whom they were said to worship—that is, having flat noses with expanded nostrils, which seemed to admit the sight to their very brain; faces which extended rather in breadth than length, with strange unintellectual eyes placed in the extremity; figures short and dwarfish, yet garnished with legs and arms of astonishing sinewy strength, disproportioned to their body. As the travellers passed, the savages held a species of tournament, as the Count termed it. In this they exercised themselves by darting at each other long reeds, or canes, balanced for the purpose, which, in this rude sport, they threw with such force, as not unfrequently to strike each other from their horses, and otherwise to cause serious damage. Some of the combatants being, for the time, out of the play, devoured with greedy looks the beauty of the Countess, and eyed her in such a manner, that she said to Count Robert,—“I have never known fear, my husband, nor is it for me to acknowledge it now; but if disgust be an ingredient of it, these misformed brutes are qualified to inspire it.” “What, ho, Sir Knight!” exclaimed one of the infidels, “your wife, or your lady love, has committed a fault against the privileges of the Imperial Scythians, and not small will be the penalty she has incurred. You may go your way as fast as you will out of this place, which is, for the present, our hippodrome, or atmeidan, call it which you will, as you prize the Roman or the Saracen language; but for your wife, if the

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sacrament has united you, believe my word, that she parts not so soon nor so easy.” “Scoundrel heathen,” said the Christian Knight, “dost thou hold that language to a Peer of France?” Agelastes here interposed, and using the sounding language of a Grecian courtier, reminded the Scythians, (mercenary soldiers, it is like, of the empire,) that all violence against the European pilgrims was, by the Imperial orders, strictly prohibited under pain of death. “I know better,” said the exulting savage, shaking one or two javelins with broad steel heads, and wings of the eagle’s feather, which last were dabbled in blood. “Ask the wings of my javelin,” he said, “in whose heart’s blood their feathers have been died. They shall reply to you, that if Alexius Comnenus be the friend of the European pilgrims, it is only while he looks upon them; and we are too exemplary soldiers to serve our Emperor otherwise than he wishes to be served.” “Toxartes,” said the philosopher, “thou beliest thine Emperor.” “Peace thou!” said Toxartes, “or I will do a deed that misbecomes a soldier, and rid the world of a prating old man.” So saying, he put forth his hand to take hold of the Countess’s veil. With the readiness which frequent use had given to the warlike lady, she withdrew herself from the heathen’s grasp, and with her trenchant sword she dealt him so sufficient a blow, that Toxartes lay lifeless on the plain. The Count leapt on the fallen leader’s steed, and crying his war-cry, “Son of Charlemagne, to the rescue!” he rode amid the rout of heathen cavaliers with a battle-axe, which he found at the saddlebow of the deceased chieftain, and wielding it with remorseless dexterity, he soon slew or wounded, or compelled to flight, the objects of his resentment; nor was there any of them who abode an instant to support the boast which they had made. “The despicable churls!” said the Countess to Agelastes; “it irks me that a drop of such coward blood should stain the hands of a noble knight. They call their exercises a tournament, although in their whole exertions every blow is aimed behind the back, and not one has the courage to throw his windlestraw while he perceives that of another pointed against himself.” “Such is their custom,” said Agelastes; “not perhaps so much from cowardice as from habit, in exercising before his Imperial Majesty. I have seen that Toxartes literally turn his back upon the mark when he bent his bow in full career, and when at the farthest from the object, he pierced it through the very centre with a broad arrow.” “A force of such soldiers,” said Count Robert, as one who understood his trade, (and who had now rejoined his friends,) “could not,

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methinks, be very formidable, where there was but an ounce of genuine courage in the assailants.” “Meantime, let us pass on to my kiosk,” said Agelastes, “lest the fugitives find friends to encourage them in thoughts of revenge.” “Such friends,” said Count Robert, “methinks, the insolent heathens ought not to find in any land which calls itself Christian; and if I survive the conquest of the Holy Sepulchre, I shall make it my first business to enquire by what right your Emperor retains in his service a band of Paynim and unmannerly cut-throats, who dare offer injury upon the highway, which ought to be sacred to the peace of God and the king, and to noble ladies and inoffensive pilgrims. It is one of a list of many questions which, my vow accomplished, I will not fail to put to him; ay, and to expect an answer, as they say, categorical.” “You shall gain no answer from me though,” said Agelastes to himself. “Your demands, Sir Knight, are over peremptory, and imposed under too rigid conditions, to be replied to by those who can evade them.” He changed the conversation, accordingly, with easy dexterity; and they had not proceeded much further, before they reached a spot, the natural beauties of which called for the admiration of his foreign companions. A copious brook, gushing out of the woodland, descended to the sea with no small noise and tumult; and as if disdaining a quieter course, which it might have gained by a little circuit to the right, it took the readiest road to the ocean, plunging over the face of a bare rock which overhung the sea-shore, and from thence led its little tribute, with as much noise as if it had much to boast of, to the waters of the Hellespont. The rock, we have said, was bare, unless in so far as it was clothed with the foaming waters of the cataract; but the banks on each side were covered with plane-trees, walnut-trees, cypresses, and other kinds of large timber proper to the East. The fall of water, always agreeable in a warm climate, and generally produced by artificial means, was here natural, and had been chosen, something like the Sibyl’s temple at Tivoli, for the seat of a goddess to whom the invention of Polytheism had assigned a sovereignty over the department around. The shrine was small and circular, like many of the lesser temples of the rustic deities, and enclosed by the wall of an outer court. After its desecration, it had probably been converted into a luxurious summer retreat by Agelastes, or some Epicurean philosopher. As the building, itself of a light, airy, and fantastic character, was dimly seen through the branches and foliage on the edge of the rock, so the mode by which it was accessible was not at first apparent amongst the mist of the cascade. A pathway, a good deal hidden by vegetation, by which the

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brook seemed as if it might itself have descended to the lower ground, had it not chosen the more noisy and ostentatious road of forming a cascade over the rock, ascended by a gentle acclivity, and, prolonged by the architect by means of a few broad and easy marble steps, making part of the original approach, conducted the passenger to a small, but exquisitely lovely velvet lawn, in front of the turret or temple we have described, the back part of which building overhung the cataract.

Chapter Twelve The parties met. The wily, wordy Greek, Weighing each word, and canvassing each syllable ; Evading, arguing, equivocating. And the stern Frank came with his two-hand sword, Watching to see which way the balance sways, That he may throw it in, and turn the scales. Palestine

A    made by Agelastes, the door of his romantic retreat was opened by Diogenes, the negro slave, to whom our readers have been already introduced; nor did it escape the wily Greek, that the Count and Countess testified some wonder at his form and lineaments, being the first African perhaps whom they had ever seen so closely. He lost not the opportunity of making an impression upon their minds, by the superiority of his knowledge. “This poor being,” he observed, “is of the race of Ham, the undutiful son of Noah; for his transgressions against his parent, he was banished to the sands of Africa, and was condemned to be the father of a race who are doomed to be slaves of the issue of his more dutiful brethren.” The knight and his lady gazed on the wonderful appearance before them, and did not, it may be believed, think of doubting the information, which was so much of a piece with their prejudices, while their opinion of their host was greatly augmented by the supposed extent of his knowledge. “It gives pleasure to a man of humanity,” continued Agelastes, “that when, in old age or indisposition, we must employ the services of others, he chooses his assistants out of a race of beings, hewers of wood and drawers of water—from their birth upwards destined to slavery; and to whom, therefore, by employing them as slaves, we render no injury, but further, in a slight degree, the intentions of the Great Being who made us all.” “Are there many of a race,” said the Countess, “so singularly

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unhappy in their destination? I have hitherto thought the stories of black men as idle as those which minstrels tell of fairies and of ghosts.” “Do not believe so,” said the philosopher; “the race is numerous as the sand of the sea, neither are they altogether unhappy in discharging the duty which their fate has allotted them. Those who are of worse character suffer even in this life the penance due to their guilt; they become the slaves of the cruel and tyrannical, are beat, starved, and mutilated. To those whose pretentions are better, better masters are provided, who share with their slaves, as with their children, food and raiment, and the other good things which they themselves enjoy. To some, Heaven allots the favour of kings and of conquerors, and to few, but those the chief favourites of the species, hath He assigned a place in the mansions of philosophy, where, by availing themselves of the lights which their masters can afford, they gain a prospect into that world which is the residence of true happiness.” “Methinks I understand you,” replied the Countess; “ and if so, I ought rather to envy our sable friend here than to pity him, for having been allotted in the partition of his kind to the possession of his present master, from whom, doubtless, he has acquired the desirable knowledge which your lordship mentions.” “He learns, at least,” said Agelastes, modestly, “what I can teach, and, above all, to be contented with his situation.—Diogenes, my good child,” said he, changing his address to the slave, “thou seest I have company—What does the poor hermit’s larder afford, with which he may regale his honoured guests?” Hitherto they had spoke in a sort of outer room, or hall of entrance, fitted up with no more expense than might have suited one who desired at some outlay, and more taste, to avail himself of the ancient building for a sequestered and private retirement. The chairs and couches were covered with Eastern wove mats, and were of the simplest and most primitive form. But on touching a spring, an interior apartment was displayed, which had considerable pretension to splendour and magnificence. The furniture and hangings of this apartment were of straw-coloured silk, wrought on the looms of Persia, and crossed with embroidery, which produced a rich, yet simple effect. The ceiling was carved in arabesque, and the four corners of the apartment were formed into recesses for statuary, which had been produced in a better age of the art than that which existed at present. In one nook, a shepherd seemed to withdraw himself, as if ashamed to produce his undraped person, while he was willing to afford the audience the music of the reed which he held in his hand. Three damsels, resembling the Graces in the beautiful proportions of their limbs, and the slender clothing

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which they wore, lurked in different attitudes, each in her own niche, and seemed but to await the first sound of the music, to bound forth from thence and join in the frolic dance. The subject was beautiful, yet somewhat light for the study of such a sage as Agelastes represented himself. He seemed to be sensible that this might attract observation.— “These figures,” he said, “executed at the period of the highest excellence of Grecian art, were considered of old as the choral nymphs assembled to adore the goddess of the place, waiting but the music to join in the worship of the temple. And, in truth, the wisest may be interested in seeing how near to animation the genius of these wonderful men could bring the inflexible marble. Allow but for the absence of the divine afflatus, or breath of animation, and an unenlightened heathen might suppose the miracle of Prometheus was about to be realized. But we,” said he, looking upwards, “are taught to form a better judgment between what men can do and the productions of the Deity.” A distant strain was here heard, as if of music in the woods, penetrating by fits through the hoarse roar of the cascade, which, as it sunk immediately below the windows, filled the apartment with its deep voice. “Apparently,” said Agelastes, “the friends whom I expect are approaching us, and bring with them the means of enchanting another sense. It is well they do so, since wisdom tells us that we best honour the Deity by enjoying the gifts he has provided us.” These words called the attention of the philosopher’s Frankish guests to the preparations exhibited in this tasteful saloon. These were made for an entertainment in the manner of the ancient Romans, and couches, which were laid beside a table ready decked, announced that the male guests, at least, were to assist at the banquet in the usual recumbent posture of the ancients; while seats, placed among them, seemed to say that females were expected, who would observe the Grecian customs, in eating seated. The preparations for good cheer were such as, though limited in extent, could scarce be excelled in quality, either by the splendid dishes which decked Trimalchio’s banquet of former days, or the succulent and highly-spiced messes indulged in by the nations of the East, to whichever they happened to give the preference; and it was with an air of some vanity that Agelastes asked his guests to share a poor pilgrim’s meal. “We care little for dainties,” said the Count; “nor does our present course of life as pilgrims, bound by a vow, allow us much choice. Whatever is food for soldiers, suffices the Countess and myself; for, with our will, we would at every hour be ready for battle, and the less

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time we use in preparing for the field, it is even so much better. Sit then, Brenhilda, since the good man will have it so, and let us lose no time in refreshment, lest we waste that which should be otherwise employed.” “A moment’s forgiveness,” said Agelastes, “until the arrival of my other friends, whose music you may now hear is close at hand, and who will not long, I may safely promise, divide you from your meal.” “For that,” said the Count, “there is no haste; and since you seem to account it a part of civil manners, Brenhilda and I can with ease postpone our repast, unless you will permit us, what I own would be more pleasing, to take a morsel of bread and a cup of water; and, thus refreshed, to leave the space clear for your more curious and more familiar guests.” “The saints above forbid!” said Agelastes; “guests so honoured never before pressed these cushions, nor could do so, if the sacred family of the imperial Alexius himself even now stood at the gate.” He had hardly uttered these words, when the full-blown peal of a trumpet, louder in a tenfold degree than the strains of music they had before heard, was now sounded in the front of the temple, piercing through the noise of the waterfall, as a Damascus blade penetrates an armour, and assailing the ears of the hearers, as the sword pierces the flesh of him who wears the harness. “You seem surprised or alarmed, father,” said Count Robert. “Is there danger near, and do you distrust our protection?” “No,” said Agelastes, “that would give me confidence in any extremity; but these sounds excite awe, not fear. They tell me that some of the imperial family are about to be my guests. Yet fear nothing, my noble friends—they, whose look is life, are ready to shower their favours with profusion upon strangers so worthy of honour as they will see here. Meantime, my brow must touch my threshold, in order duly to welcome them.” So saying, he hurried to the outer door of the building. “Each land hath its customs,” said the Count, as he followed his host, with his wife hanging on his arm; “but, Brenhilda, as they are so various, it is little wonder that they appear unseemly to each other. Here, however, in deference to my entertainer, I stoop my crest, in the manner which seems to be required.” So saying, he followed Agelastes into the anteroom, where a new scene awaited them.    

COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS  

Chapter One A         gained his threshold before Count Robert of Paris and his lady. He had, therefore, time to make his prostrations before a huge animal, then unknown to the western world, but now universally distinguished as the elephant. On its back was a pavilion, or palanquin, within which were enclosed the august persons of the Empress Irene, and her daughter Anna Comnena. Nicephorus Briennius attended the Princesses in the command of a gallant body of light horse, whose splendid armour would have given more pleasure to the crusader, if it had possessed less an air of useless wealth and effeminate magnificence. But the effect which it produced in its appearance was as brilliant as could well be conceived. The officers alone of this corps de garde followed Nicephorus to the platform, prostrated themselves while the ladies of the Imperial house descended, and rose up again under a cloud of waving plumes and flashing lances, when they stood secure upon the platform in front of the building. Here the somewhat aged, but commanding, form of the Empress, and the still juvenile beauties of the fair historian, were seen to great advantage. In the front of a deep background of spears and waving crests, stood the sounder of the sacred trumpet, conspicuous by his size and the richness of his apparel; he kept his post on a rock above the stone staircase, and, by an occasional note of his instrument, intimated to the squadrons beneath that they should stay their progress, and attend the motions of the Empress and the wife of the Cæsar. The fair form of the Countess Brenhilda, and the fantastic appearance of her half-masculine garb, attracted the attention of the ladies of Alexius’ family, but was too extraordinary to command their admiration. Agelastes became sensible there was a necessity that he should introduce his guests to each other, if he desired they should meet on 133

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satisfactory terms. “May I speak,” he said, “and live? The armed strangers whom you find now with me are worthy companions of those myriads, whom zeal for the suffering inhabitants of Palestine has brought from the western extremity of Europe, at once to enjoy the countenance of Alexius Comnenus, and to aid him, since it pleases him to accept their assistance, in expelling the Paynims from the bounds of the sacred empire, and garrison those regions in their stead, as vassals of his Imperial Majesty.” “We are pleased,” said the Empress, “worthy Agelastes, that you should be kind to those who are disposed to be so reverent to the Emperor. And we are rather disposed to talk with them ourselves, that our daughter (whom Apollo hath gifted with the choice talent of recording what she sees) may become acquainted with one of those female warriors of the West, of whom we have heard so much by common fame, and yet know so little with certainty.” “Madam,” said the Count, “I can but rudely express to you what I have to find fault with in the explanation which this old man hath given of our purpose in coming hither. Certain it is, we neither owe Alexius fealty, nor had we the purpose of paying him any, when we took the vow upon ourselves which brought us against Asia. We came, because we understood that the Holy Land had been torn from the Greek Emperor by the Pagans, Saracens, Turks, and other infidels, from whom we are come to win it back. The wisest and most prudent among us have judged it necessary to acknowledge the Emperor’s authority, since there was no such safe way of passing to the discharge of our vow, as that of acknowledging fealty to him, as the best mode of preventing quarrels among Christian states. We, though independent of any earthly king, do not pretend to be greater men than they, and therefore have condescended to pay the same homage.” The Empress coloured several times with indignation in the course of this speech, which, in more passages than one, was at variance with those imperial maxims of the Grecian court, which held its dignity so high, and plainly intimated a tone of opinion which was depreciating to the Emperor’s power. But the Empress Irene had received instructions from her imperial spouse to beware how she gave, or even took, any ground of quarrel with the crusaders, who, though coming in the appearance of subjects, were, nevertheless, too punctilious and ready to take fire, to render them safe discussers of delicate differences. She made a graceful reverence accordingly, as if she had scarce understood what the Count of Paris had explained so bluntly. At this moment the appearance of the principal persons on either hand attracted, in a wonderful degree, the attention of the other party, and there seemed to exist among them a general desire of further

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acquaintance, and, at the same time, a manifest difficulty in expressing such a wish. Agelastes—to begin with the master of the house—had risen from the ground indeed, but without venturing to assume an upright posture; he remained before the Imperial ladies with his body and head still bent, his hand interposed between his eyes and their faces, like a man that would shade his eyesight from the level sun, and awaited in silence the commands of those to whom he seemed to think it disrespectful to propose the slightest action, save by testifying in general, that his house and his slaves were at their unlimited command. The Countess of Paris, on the other hand, and her warlike husband, were the peculiar objects of curiosity to Irene, and her accomplished daughter, Anna Comnena; and it occurred to both these Imperial ladies, that they had never seen finer specimens of human strength and beauty; but, by a natural instinct, they preferred the manly bearing of the husband to that of the wife, which seemed to her own sex rather too haughty and too masculine to be altogether pleasing. Count Robert and his lady had also their own object of attention in the newly arrived group, and, to speak truth, it was nothing else than the peculiarities of the monstrous animal which they now saw, for the first time, employed as a beast of burden in the service of the fair Irene and her daughter. The dignity and splendour of the elder Princess, the grace and vivacity of the younger, were alike lost in Brenhilda’s earnest enquiries into the history of the elephant, and the use which it made of its trunk, tusks, and huge ears, upon different occasions. Another person who took a less direct opportunity to gaze on Brenhilda with a deep degree of interest, was the Cæsar, Nicephorus. This Prince kept his eye as steadily upon the Frankish Countess as he could well do, without attracting the attention, and exciting perhaps the suspicions, of his wife and mother-in-law; he therefore endeavoured to restore speech to an interview which would have been awkward without it. “It is possible,” he said, “beautiful Countess, that this being your first visit to the Queen of the World, you have never hitherto seen the singularly curious animal called the elephant.” “Pardon me,” said the Countess, “I have been treated by this learned gentleman to a sight, and some account, of that wonderful creature.” By all who heard this observation, the Lady Brenhilda was supposed to have made a satirical thrust at the philosopher himself, who, in the imperial court, usually went by the name of the Elephant. “No one could describe the beast more accurately than Agelastes,” said the Princess, with a smile of intelligence, which went round her attendants.

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“He knows its docility, its sensibility, and its fidelity,” said the philosopher in a subdued tone. “True, good Agelastes,” said the Princess; “we should not criticise the animal which kneels to take us up.—Come, lady of a foreign land,” she continued, turning to the Frank Count, and especially his Countess—“and you her gallant lord! When you return to your native country, you shall say you have seen the Imperial family partake of their food, and in so far acknowledge themselves to be of the same clay with other mortals, sharing their poorest wants, and relieving them in the same manner.” “That, gentle lady, I can well believe,” said Count Robert; “my curiosity would be more indulged by seeing this strange animal at his food.” “You will see the elephant more conveniently at his mess within doors,” answered the Princess, looking at Agelastes. “Lady,” said Brenhilda, “I would not willingly refuse an invitation given in courtesy, but the sun has waxed low unnoticed, and we must return to the city.” “Be not afraid,” said the fair historian; “you shall have the advantage of our Imperial escort to protect you in your return.” “Fear?—afraid?—escort?—protect?—These are words I know not. Know, lady, that my husband, the noble Count of Paris, is my sufficient escort; and even were he not with me, Brenhilda de Aspramonte fears nothing, and can defend herself.” “Fair daughter,” said Agelastes, “if I may be permitted to speak, you mistake the gracious intentions of the Princess, who expresses herself as to a lady of her own land. What she desires is to learn from you some of the most marked habits and manners of the Franks, of which you are so beautiful an example, and in return for such information, the illustrious Princess would be glad to procure your entrance to those spacious collections, where animals from all corners of the habitable world have been assembled at the command of our Emperor Alexius, as if to satisfy the wisdom of those sages to whom all creation is known, from the deer so small in size that it is exceeded by an ordinary rat, to that huge and singular inhabitant of Africa that can browse on the tops of trees that are forty feet high, while the length of its hind legs does not exceed the half of that wondrous height.” “It is enough,” said the Countess, with some eagerness; but Agelastes had got a point of discussion after his own mind. “There is also,” he said, “that huge lizard, which, resembling in shape the harmless inhabitant of the moors of other countries, is in Egypt a monster thirty feet in length, clothed in impenetrable scales, and moaning over his prey when he catches it, with the hope and

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purpose of drawing others within his danger, by mimicking the lamentations of humanity.” “Say no more, father!” exclaimed the lady. “My Robert, we will go —will we not, where such objects are to be seen?” “There is also,” said Agelastes, who saw that he would gain his point by addressing himself to the curiosity of the strangers, “the huge animal, wearing on its back an invulnerable vestment, having on its nose a horn, and sometimes two, the folds of whose hide are of the most immense thickness, and which never knight was able to wound.” “We will go, Robert—will we not?” reiterated the Countess. “Ay,” replied the Count, “and teach these Easterns how to judge of a knight’s sword, by a single blow of my trusty Tranchefer.” “And who knows,” said Brenhilda, “since this is a land of enchantment, but what some person, who is languishing in a foreign shape, may have their enchantment unexpectedly dissolved by a stroke of the good weapon?” “Say no more, father!” exclaimed the Count. “We will attend this Princess, since such she is, were her whole escort bent to oppose our passage, instead of being by her command to be our guard. For know, all who hear me, thus much of the nature of the Franks, that when you tell us of danger and difficulties, you give us the same desire to travel the road where they lie, as other men have in seeking either pleasure or profit in the paths in which such are to be found.” As the Count pronounced these words, he struck his hand upon his Tranchefer, as an illustration of the manner in which he purposed upon occasion to make good his way. The courtly circle startled somewhat at the clash of steel, and the fiery look of the chivalrous Count Robert. The Empress indulged her alarm by retreating into the inner apartment of the pavilion. With a grace, which was rarely deigned to any but those in close alliance with the Imperial family, Anna Comnena took the arm of the noble Count. “I see,” she said, “that the Imperial Mother has honoured the house of the learned Agelastes, by leading the way; therefore, to teach you Grecian breeding must fall to my share.” Saying this, she conducted him to the inner apartment. “Fear not for your wife,” she said, as she noticed the Frank look round; “our husband, like ourselves, has pleasure in showing attention to the stranger, and will lead the Countess to our board. It is not the custom of the Imperial family to eat in company with strangers; but we thank Heaven for having instructed us in that civility, which can know no degradation in dispensing with ordinary rules to do honour to strangers of such merit as yours. I know it will be my mother’s request, that you will take your places without ceremony;

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and also, although the grace be somewhat particular, I am sure that it will have my Imperial father’s approbation.” “Be it as your ladyship lists,” said Count Robert. “There are few men to whom I would yield place at the board, if they had not gone before me in the battle-field. To a lady, especially so fair a one, I willingly yield my place, and bend my knee, whenever I have the good hap to meet her.” The Princess Anna, instead of feeling herself awkward in the discharge of the extraordinary, and, as she might have thought it, degrading office of ushering a barbarian chief to the banquet, felt, on the contrary, flattered, at having bent to her purpose a heart so obstinate as that of Count Robert, and elated, perhaps, with a certain degree of satisfied pride while under his momentary protection. The Empress Irene had already seated herself at the head of the table. She looked with some astonishment, when her daughter and son-in-law, taking their seats at her right and left hand, invited the Count and Countess of Paris, the former to recline, the latter to sit at the board, in the places next to themselves; but she had received the strictest orders from her husband to be deferential in every respect to the strangers, and did not think it right, therefore, to interpose any ceremonious scruples. The Countess took her seat, as indicated, beside the Cæsar; and the Count, instead of reclining in the mode of the Grecian men, also seated himself in the European fashion by the princess. “I will not lie prostrate,” said he, laughing, “except in consideration of a blow weighty enough to compel me to do so; nor then either, if I am able to start up and return it.” The service of the table then began, and, to say truth, it appeared to be an important part of the business of the day. The officers who attended to perform their several duties of deckers of the table, sewers of the banquet, removers and tasters to the Imperial family, thronged into the banqueting room, and seemed to vie with each other in calling upon Agelastes for spices, condiments, sauces, and wines of various kinds, the variety and multiplicity of their demands being apparently devised, ex preposito, for stirring the patience of the philosopher. But Agelastes, who had anticipated most of their requests, however unusual, supplied them completely, or in the greatest part, by the ready agency of his active slave Diogenes, to whom, at the same time, he contrived to transfer all blame for the absence of such articles as he was unable to provide. “Be Homer my witness, the accomplished Virgil, and the curious felicity of Horace, that, trifling and unworthy as this banquet was, my note of directions to this thrice-unhappy slave gave the instructions to

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procure every ingredient necessary to convey to each dish its proper gusto.—Ill-omened carrion that thou art, wherefore placedst thou the pickled cucumber so far apart from the boar’s head? and why are these superb congers unprovided with a requisite quantity of fennel? The divorce betwixt the shell-fish and the Chian wine, in a presence like this, is worthy of the divorce of thine own soul from thy body; or, to say the least, of a life-long’s residence in the pistrinum.” While thus the philosopher proceeded with threats, curses, and menaces against his slave, the stranger might have an opportunity of comparing the little torrent of his domestic eloquence, which the manners of the times did not consider as ill-bred, with the louder and deeper share of adulation towards his guests. They mingled like the oil with the vinegar and pickles which Diogenes mixed for the sauce. Thus the Count and Countess had an opportunity to estimate the happiness and the felicity reserved for those slaves, whom the omnipotent Jupiter, in the plenitude of compassion for their state, and in guerdon of their good morals, had dedicated to the service of a philosopher. The share they themselves took in the banquet, was finished with a degree of speed which gave surprise not only to their host, but also to the Imperial guests. The Count helped himself carelessly out of a dish which stood near him, and partaking of a draft of wine, without enquiring whether it was of the vintage which the Greeks held it matter of conscience to mingle with that species of food, he declared himself satisfied; nor could the obliging entreaties of his neighbour, Anna Comnena, induce him to partake of other messes represented as being either delicacies or curiosities. His spouse eat still more moderately of the food which seemed most simply cooked, and stood nearest her at the board, and partook of a cup of crystal water, which she slightly tinged with wine, at the persevering entreaty of the Cæsar. They then relinquished the farther business of the banquet, and, leaning back upon their seats, occupied themselves in watching the liberal credit done to the feast by the rest of the guests present. A modern synod of gourmands would hardly have equalled the Imperial family of Greece seated at a philosophical banquet, whether in the critical knowledge displayed of the science of eating in all its branches, or in the practical zest and patience with which they exercised it. The ladies, indeed, did not eat much of any one dish, but they tasted of almost all that were presented to them, and their name was Legion. Yet, after a short time, in Homeric phrase, the rage of thirst and hunger was assuaged, or, more probably, the Princess Anna Comnena was tired of being an object of some inattention to the guest who sat next her, and who, joining his high military character to his very handsome presence, was a person by whom few ladies would willingly

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be neglected. There is no new guise, says our father Chaucer, but what resembles an old one; and the address of Anna Comnena to the Frankish Count might resemble that of a modern lady of fashion, in her attempts to engage in conversation the exquisite who sits by her side in an apparently absent fit. “We have piped unto you,” said the Princess, “and you have not danced! We have sung to you the jovial chorus of Evoe, evoe, and you will neither worship Comus nor Bacchus! Are we then to judge you a follower of the Muses, in whose service, as well as in that of Phœbus, we ourselves pretend to be enlisted?” “Fair lady,” replied the Frank, “be not offended at my stating once for all, in plain terms, that I am a Christian man, spitting at, and bidding defiance to, Apollo, Bacchus, Comus, and all other heathen deities whatsoever.” “O! cruel interpretation of my unwary words!” said the Princess; “I did but mention the gods of music, poetry, and eloquence, worshipped by our divine philosophers, and whose names are still used to distinguish the arts and sciences over which they presided—and the Count interprets it seriously into a breach of the second commandment! Our Lady preserve me, we must take care how we speak, when our words are so sharply interpreted.” The Count laughed as the Princess spoke. “I had no offensive meaning, madam,” he said, “nor would I wish to interpret your words otherwise than as being most innocent and praiseworthy. I shall suppose that your speech contained all that was fair and blameless. You are, I have understood, one of those who, like our worthy host, express in composition the history and feats of the warlike time in which you live, and give to the posterity which shall succeed us, the knowledge of the brave deeds which have been achieved in our day. I respect the task to which you have dedicated yourself, and know not how a lady could lay after ages under an obligation to her in the same degree, unless, like my wife, Brenhilda, she were herself to be the actress of deeds which she recorded. And, by the way, she now looks towards her neighbour at the table, as if she were about to rise and leave him; her inclinations are towards Constantinople, and, with your ladyship’s permission, I cannot allow her to go thither alone.” “That you shall neither of you do,” said Anna Comnena; “since we all go to the capital directly, and for the purpose of seeing those wonders of nature, of which numerous examples have been collected by the splendour of my Imperial father.—If my husband seems to have given offence to the Countess, do not suppose that it was intentionally dealt to her; on the contrary, you will find the good man, when you are better acquainted with him, to be one of those simple persons who manage so unhappily what they mean for civilities, that those to whom

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they are addressed receive them frequently in another sense.” The Countess of Paris, however, refused again to sit down to the table from which she had risen, so that Agelastes and his Imperial guests saw themselves under the necessity either to permit the strangers to depart, which they seemed unwilling to do, or to detain them by force, to attempt which might not perhaps have been either safe or pleasant; or, lastly, to have waved the etiquette of rank, and set out along with them, at the same time managing their dignity, so as to take the initiatory step, though the departure took place upon the motion of their wilful guests. Much tumult there was—bustling, disputing, and shouting—among the troops and officers who were thus moved from their repast, two hours at least sooner than had been experienced upon similar occasions in the memory of the oldest among them. A different arrangement of the Imperial party likewise seemed to take place by mutual consent. Nicephorus Briennius ascended the seat upon the elephant, and remained there placed beside his august mother-in-law. Agelastes, on a sober-minded palfrey, which permitted him to prolong his philosophical harangues at this own pleasure, rode beside the Countess Brenhilda, whom he made the principal object of his oratory. The fair historian, though she usually travelled in a litter, preferred upon this occasion a spirited horse, which enabled her to keep pace with Count Robert of Paris, on whose imagination, if not his feelings, she seemed to have it in view to work a marked impression. The conversation of the Empress with her son-in-law requires no special detail. It was a tissue of criticisms upon the manners and behaviour of the Franks, and a hearty wish that they might be soon transported from the realms of Greece, never more to return. Such was at least the tone of the Empress, nor did the Cæsar find it convenient to express any more tolerant opinion of the strangers. On the other hand, Agelastes made a long circuit ere he ventured to approach the subject which he wished to introduce. He spoke of the menagerie of the Emperor as a most superb collection of natural history; he extolled different persons at court for having encouraged Alexius Comnenus in this wise and philosophical amusement. But, finally, the praise of all others was abandoned that the philosopher might dwell upon that of Nicephorus Briennius, to whom the cabinet or collection of Constantinople was indebted, he said, for the principal treasures it contained. “I am glad it is so,” said the haughty Countess, without lowering her voice or affecting any change of manner; “I am glad that he understands some things better worth understanding than whispering with stranger young women. Credit me, if he gives much license to his tongue among such women of my country as these stirring times may

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bring hither, some one or other of them will fling him into the cataract which dashes below.” “Pardon me, fair lady,” said Agelastes; “no female heart could meditate an action so atrocious against so fine a form as that of the Cæsar Nicephorus Briennius.” “Put it not on that issue, father,” said the offended Countess; “for, by my patroness Saint, our Lady of the Broken Lances, had it not been for regard to these two ladies, who seemed to intend some respect to my husband and myself, that same Nicephorus should have been as perfectly a Lord of the Broken Bones as any Cæsar who has borne the title since the great Julius!” The philosopher, upon this explicit information, began to entertain some personal fear for himself, and hastened, by diverting the conversation, which he did with great dexterity, to the story of Hero and Leander, to put the affront received out of the head of this unscrupulous Amazon. Meantime, Count Robert of Paris was engrossed, as it may be termed, by the fair Anna Comnena. She spoke on all subjects, on some better, doubtless, others worse, but on none did she suspect herself of any deficiency; while the good Count wished heartily within himself that his companion had been safely in bed with the enchanted Princess of Zulichium. She performed, right or wrong, the part of a panegyrist of the Normans, until at length the Count, tired of hearing her prate of she knew not exactly what, broke in as follows:— “Lady,” he said, “notwithstanding I and my followers are sometimes so named, yet we are not Normans, who come hither as a numerous and separate body of pilgrims, under the command of their Duke Robert, a valiant, though extravagant, thoughtless, and weak man. I say nothing against the fame of these Normans. They conquered, in our fathers’ days, a kingdom far stronger than their own, which men call England; I see that you entertain some of the natives of which country in your pay, under the name of Varangians. Although defeated, as I said, by the Normans, they are, nevertheless, a brave race; nor would we think ourselves much dishonoured by mixing in battle with them. Still we are the valiant Franks, who had their dwelling on the eastern banks of the Rhine and of the Saale, who were converted to the Christian faith by the celebrated Clovis, and are sufficient, by our numbers and courage, to reconquer the Holy Land, should all Europe besides stand neutral in the contest.” There are few things more painful to the vanity of a person like the Princess, than the being detected in an egregious error, at the moment she is taking credit to herself for being peculiarly accurately informed. “A false slave, who knew not what he was saying, I suppose,” said

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the Princess, “imposed upon me the belief that the Varangians were the natural enemies of the Normans. I see him marching there by the side of Achilles Tatius, the leader of his corps.—Call him hither, you officers!—Yonder tall man, I mean, with the battle-axe upon his shoulder.” Hereward, distinguished by his post at the head of the squadron, was summoned from thence to the presence of the Princess, where he made his military obeisance with a cast of sternness in his aspect, as his glance lighted upon the proud look of the Frenchman who rode beside Anna Comnena. “Did I not understand thee, fellow,” said Anna Comnena, “to have informed me, nearly a month ago, that the Normans and the Franks were the same people, and enemies to the race from which you spring?” “The Normans are our mortal enemies, Lady,” answered Hereward, “by whom we were driven from our native land. The Franks are subjects of the same Lord-Paramount with the Normans, and therefore they neither love the Varangians, nor are beloved by them.” “Good fellow,” said the French Count, “you do the Franks wrong, and ascribe to the Varangians, although not unnaturally, an undue degree of importance, when you suppose that a race which has ceased to exist as an independent nation for more than a generation, can be either an object of interest or resentment to such as we are.” “I am no stranger,” said the Varangian, “to the pride of your heart, or the precedence which you assume over those who have been less fortunate in war than yourselves. It is God who casteth down and who buildeth up, nor is there in the world a prospect to which the Varangians would look forward with more pleasure than that a hundred of their number should meet in a fair field, either with the oppressive Normans, or their modern compatriots, the vain Frenchmen, and let God be the judge which is most worthy of victory.” “You take an insolent advantage of the chance,” said the Count of Paris, “which gives you an unlooked-for opportunity to brave a nobleman.” “It is my sorrow and shame,” said the Varangian, “that that opportunity is not complete; and that there is a chain around me which forbids me to say, Slay me, or I’ll kill thee before we part from this spot!” “Why, thou foolish and hot-brained churl,” replied the Count, “what right hast thou to the honour of dying by my blade? Thou art mad, or hast drained the ale-cup so deeply that thou knowest not what thou thinkest or sayest.” “Thou liest!” said the Varangian; “though such a reproach be the utmost scandal of thy race.”

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The Frenchman motioned his hand quicker than light to his sword, but instantly withdrew it, and said with dignity, “Thou canst not offend me.” “But thou,” said the exile, “hast offended me in a matter which can only be atoned by thy manhood.” “Where and how?” answered the Count: “although it is needless to ask the question, which thou canst not answer rationally.” “Thou hast this day,” answered the Varangian, “put a mortal affront upon a great prince, whom thy master calls his ally, and by whom thou hast been received with every rite of hospitality. Him thou hast affronted as one peasant at a merry-making would do shame to another, and this dishonour thou hast done to him in the very face of his own chiefs and princes, and the nobles from every court of Europe.” “It was thy master’s part to resent my conduct,” said the Frenchman, “if in reality he so much felt it as an affront.” “But that,” said Hereward, “did not consist with the manners of his country to do. Besides that, we trusty Varangians esteem ourselves bound by our oath as much to defend our Emperor, while the service lasts, on every inch of his honour as on every foot of his territory; I therefore tell thee, Sir Knight, Sir Count, or whatever thou callest thyself, there is mortal quarrel between thee and the Varangian guard, ever and until thou hast fought it out in fair and manly battle, body to body, with one of the said Imperial Varangians, when duty and opportunity shall permit:—and so God schaw the right!” As this passed in the French language, the meaning escaped the understanding of such Imperialists as were within hearing at the time; and the Princess, who waited with some astonishment till the Crusader and the Varangian had finished their conference, when it was over, said to him with interest, “I trust you feel that poor man’s situation to be too much at a distance from your own, to admit of your meeting him in what is termed knightly battle?” “On such a question,” said the knight, “I have but one answer to any lady who does not, like my Brenhilda, cover herself with a shield, and bear a sword by her side, and the heart of a knight in her bosom.” “And suppose for once,” said the Princess Anna Comnena, “that I possessed such titles to your confidence, what would your answer be to me?” “There can be little reason for concealing it,” said the Count. “The Varangian is a brave man, and a strong one; it is contrary to my vow to shun his challenge, and perhaps I shall derogate from my rank by accepting it; but the world is wide, and he is yet to be born who has seen Robert of Paris shun the face of mortal man. By means of some

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gallant officer among the Emperor’s guards, this poor fellow, who nourishes so strange an ambition, shall learn that he shall have his wish gratified.” “And then?”——said Anna Comnena. “Why, then,” said the Count, “in the poor man’s own language, God schaw the right!” “Which is to say,” said the Princess, “that if my father has an officer of his guards honourable enough to forward so pious and reasonable a purpose, the Emperor must lose an ally, in whose faith he puts confidence, or a most trusty and faithful soldier of his personal guard, who has distinguished himself upon many occasions?” “I am happy to hear,” said the Count, “that the man bears such a character. In truth, his ambition ought to have some foundation. The more I think of it, the rather am I of opinion that there is something generous, rather than derogatory, in giving to the poor exile, whose thoughts are so high and noble, those privileges of a man of rank, which some who were born in such lofty station are too cowardly to avail themselves of. Yet despond not, noble Princess; the challenge is not yet accepted of, and if it was, the issue is in the hand of God. As for me, whose trade is war, the sense that I have something so serious to transact with this resolute man, will keep me from other less honourable quarrels, in which a lack of occupation might be apt to involve me.” The Princess made no farther observation, being resolved, by private remonstrance to Achilles Tatius, to engage him to prevent a meeting which might be fatal to the one or the other of two brave men. The town now darkened before them, sparkling, at the same time, through its obscurity, by the many lights which illuminated the houses of the citizens. The royal cavalcade held their way to the Golden Gate, where the trusty centurion put his guard under arms to receive them. “We must now break off, fair ladies,” said the Count, as the party, having now dismounted, were standing together at the private gate of the Blacquernal Palace, “and find, as we can, the lodgings which we occupied last night.” “Under your favour, no,” said the Empress. “You must be content to take your supper and repose in quarters more fitting your rank; and,” added Irene, “with no worse quartermaster than one of the Imperial family who has been your travelling companion.” This the Count heard, with considerable inclination to accept the hospitality which was so readily offered. Although as devoted as a man could well be to the charms of his Brenhilda, the very idea never having entered his head of preferring another’s beauty to hers, yet, nevertheless, he had naturally felt himself flattered by the attentions of

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a woman of eminent beauty and very high rank; and the praises with which the Princess had loaded him, had not entirely fallen to the ground. He was no longer in the humour in which the morning had found him, disposed to outrage the feelings of the Emperor, and to insult his dignity; but, flattered by the adroit sycophancy which the old philosopher had learned from the schools, and the beautiful Princess had been gifted with by nature, he assented to the Empress’s proposal; the more readily, perhaps, that the darkness did not permit him to see that there was distinctly a shade of displeasure on the brow of Brenhilda. Whatever the cause, she cared not to express it, and the married pair had just entered that labyrinth of passages through which Hereward had formerly wandered, when a chamberlain, and a female attendant, richly dressed, bent the knee before them, and offered them the means and place to adjust their attire, ere they entered the Imperial presence. Brenhilda looked upon her apparel and arms, spotted with the blood of the insolent Scythian, and, Amazon as she was, felt the shame of being carelessly and improperly dressed. The arms of the knight were also bloody, and in disarrangement. “Tell my female squire, Agatha, to give her attendance,” said the Countess. “She alone is in the habit of assisting to unarm and to attire me.” “Now, God be praised,” thought the Grecian lady of the bedchamber, “that I am not called to a toilette where smiths’ hammers and tongs are like to be the instruments most in request!” “Tell Marcian, my armourer,” said the Count, “ to attend with the silver and blue suit of plate and mail which I won in a wager from the Count of Tholouse.” “Might I not have the honour of adjusting your armour,” said a splendidly drest courtier, with some marks of the armourer’s profession, “since I have put on that of the Emperor himself?—may his name be sacred!” “And how many rivets hast thou clenched upon the occasion with this hand,” said the Count, catching hold of it, “which looks as if it had never been washed, save with milk of roses,—and with this childish toy?” pointing to a hammer, with ivory haft and silver head, which, stuck into a milk-white kidskin apron, the official wore as badges of his duty. The armourer fell back in some confusion. “His grasp,” he said to another domestic, “is like the seizure of a vice!” While this little scene past apart, the Empress Irene, her daughter, and her son-in-law, left the company, under pretence of making a necessary change in their apparel. Immediately after, Agelastes was required to attend the Emperor, and the strangers were conducted to two adjacent chambers of retirement, splendidly fitted up, and placed

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for the present at their disposal, and that of their attendants. There we shall for a time leave them, assuming, with the assistance of their own attendants, a dress which their ideas regarded as most fit for a great occasion; those of the Grecian court willingly keeping apart from a task which they held nearly as formidable as assisting at the lair of a royal tiger or his bride. Agelastes found the Emperor sedulously arranging his most splendid court-dress; for, as in the court of Pekin, the change of ceremonial attire was a great part of the ritual observed at Constantinople. “Thou hast done well, wise Agelastes,” said Alexius to the philosopher, as he approached with abundance of prostrations and genuflexions—“Thou hast done well, and we are content with thee. Less than thy wit and address must have failed in separating from their company this tameless bull, and unyoked heifer, over whom, if we obtain influence, we shall command, by every account, no small interest among those who esteem them the bravest in the host.” “My humble understanding,” said Agelastes, “had been infinitely inferior to the management of so prudent and sagacious a scheme, had it not been shaped forth and suggested by the inimitable wisdom of your most sacred Imperial Highness.” “We are aware,” said Alexius, “that we had the merit of blocking forth the scheme of detaining these persons, either by their choice as allies, or by main force as hostages. Their friends, ere yet they have missed them, will be engaged in war with the Turks, and at no liberty, if the devil should suggest such an undertaking, to take arms against the sacred empire. Thus, Agelastes, we shall obtain hostages at least as important and as valuable as that Count of Vermandois, whose liberty the tremendous Godfrey of Bouillon extorted from us by threats of instant war.” “Pardon,” said Agelastes, “if I add another reason to those which of themselves so happily support your august resolution. It is possible that we may, by observing the greatest caution and courtesy towards these strangers, win them in good earnest to our side.” “I conceive you, I conceive you—” said the Emperor; “and this very night I will exhibit myself to this Count and his lady in the royal presence chamber, in the richest robes which our wardrobe can furnish. The lions of Solomon shall roar, the golden tree of Comnenus shall display its wonders, and the feeble eyes of these Franks shall be altogether dazzled by the splendour of the empire. These spectacles cannot but sink into their minds, and dispose them to become the allies and servants of a nation so much more powerful, skilful, and wealthy than their own.—Thou hast something to say, Agelastes. Years and long study have made thee wise; though we have given our

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opinion, thou mayest speak thine own, and live.” Thrice three times did Agelastes press his brow against the hem of the Emperor’s garment, and great seemed his anxiety to find such words as might intimate his dissent from his sovereign, yet save him from the informality of contradicting him expressly. “These sacred words, in which your sacred Highness has uttered your most just and accurate opinions, are undeniable, and incapable of contradiction, were any vain enough to attempt to impugn them. Nevertheless, be it lawful to say, that men show the wisest arguments in vain to those who do not understand reason, just as you would in vain exhibit a curious piece of limning to the blind, or endeavour to bribe, as Scripture saith, a sow by the offer of a precious stone. The fault is not, in such case, in the accuracy of your sacred reasoning, but in the obtuseness and perverseness of the barbarians to whom it is applied.” “Speak more plainly,” said the Emperor; “how often must we tell thee, that in cases in which we really want counsel, we know we must be contented to sacrifice ceremony?” “Then, in plain words,” said Agelastes, “these European barbarians are like no others under the cope of the universe, either in the things on which they look with desire, or in those which they consider as discouraging. The treasures of this noble empire, so far as they affected their wishes, would merely inspire them with the desire to go to war with a nation possessed of so much wealth, and who, in their selfconceited estimation, were less able to defend, than they themselves are powerful to assail. Of such a description, for instance, is Bohemond of Antioch,—and such a one is many a crusader less able and sagacious than he;—for, I think, I need not tell your Imperial Divinity, that he holds his own self-interest to be the devoted guide of his whole conduct through this extraordinary war; and that, therefore, you can justly calculate his course, when once you are aware from which point of the compass the wind of avarice and self-interest breathes with respect to him. But there are spirits among the Franks of a very different nature, and who must be acted upon by very different motives, if we would make ourselves masters of their actions, and the principles by which they are governed. If it were lawful to do so, I would request your Majesty to look at the manner by which an artful juggler of your court achieves his imposition upon the eyes of spectators, yet heedfully disguises the means by which he attains his object. This people—I mean the more lofty-minded of these crusaders, who act up to the pretences of the doctrine which they call chivalry— despise the thirst of gold, and gold itself, unless to hilt their swords, or to furnish forth some necessary expenses, as alike useless and con-

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temptible. The man who can be moved by the thirst of gain, they contemn, scorn, and despise, and liken him, in the meanness of his objects, to the most paltry serf that ever followed the plough, or wielded the spade. On the other hand, if it happens that they actually need gold, they are sufficiently unceremonious in taking it where they can most easily find it. Thus, they are neither easily to be bribed by giving them sums of gold, nor to be starved into compliance by withholding what chance may render necessary for them. In the one case, they set no value upon the gift of a little paltry yellow dross; on the other, they are accustomed to take what they want.” “Yellow dross!” interrupted Alexius. “Do they call that noble metal, equally respected by Roman and barbarian, by rich and poor, by great and mean, by churchmen and laymen, which all mankind are fighting for, plotting for, planning for, intriguing for, and damning themselves for, both soul and body—by the opprobrious name of yellow dross! They are mad, Agelastes, utterly mad. Perils and dangers, penalties and scourges, are the only arguments to which men who are above the universal influence which moves all others, can possibly be accessible.” “Nor are they,” said Agelastes, “more accessible to fear than they are to self-interest. They are indeed, from their boyhood, brought up to scorn those passions which influence ordinary minds, whether by means of avarice to impel, or of fear to hold back. So much is this the case, that what is enticing to other men, must, to interest them, have the piquant sauce of extreme danger. I told, for instance, to this very hero, a legend of a Princess of Zulichium, who lay on an enchanted couch, beautiful as an angel, awaiting the chosen knight who should, by dispelling her enchanted slumbers, become master of her person, of her kingdom of Zulichium, and of her countless treasures; and, would your Imperial Majesty believe me, I could scarce get the gallant to attend to my legend, or take any interest in the adventure, till I assured him he would have to encounter a winged dragon, compared to which the largest of those in the Frank romances was but like a mere dragon-fly!” “And did this move the gallant?” said the Emperor. “So much so,” replied the philosopher, “that had I not unfortunately, by the earnestness of my description, awakened the jealousy of his Penthesilea of a Countess, he had forgotten the crusade and all belonging to it, to go in quest of Zulichium and its slumbering sovereign.” “Nay, then,” said the Emperor, “we have in our empire (make us sensible of the advantage!) innumerable tale-tellers who are not possessed in the slightest degree of that noble scorn of gold which is

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proper to the Franks, but shall, for a brace of besants, lie with the devil, and beat him to boot, if in that manner we can gain, as mariners say, the weathergage of the Franks.” “Discretion,” said Agelastes, “is in the highest degree necessary. Simply to lie is no very great matter; it is merely a departure from the truth, which is little different from missing a mark at archery, where the whole horizon, one point alone excepted, will alike serve the shooter’s purpose; but to move the Frank as is desired, requires a perfect knowledge of his temper and disposition, great caution and presence of mind, and the most versatile readiness in changing from one subject to another. Had I not myself been somewhat alert, I might have paid the penalty of a false step in your Majesty’s service, by being flung into my own cascade by the virago whom I offended.” “A perfect Thalestris!” said the Emperor; “I shall take care what offence I give her.” “If I might speak and live,” said Agelastes, “the Cæsar Nicephorus Briennius had best adopt the same precaution.” “Nicephorus,” said the Emperor, “must settle that with our daughter. I have ever told her that she gives him too much of that history, of which a page or two is sufficiently refreshing; but by our own self we must swear it, Agelastes, that, night after night, hearing nothing else, would subdue the patience of a saint!—Forget, good Agelastes, that thou hast heard me say such a thing—more especially, remember it not when thou art in presence of our Imperial wife and daughter.” “Nor were the freedoms taken by the Cæsar beyond the bounds of an innocent gallantry,” said Agelastes; “but the Countess, I must needs say, is dangerous. She killed this day the Scythian Toxartes, by what seemed a mere fillip on the head.” “Hah!” said the Emperor; “I knew that Toxartes, and he was like enough to deserve his death, being a bold unscrupulous marauder. Take notes, however—how it happened, the names of witnesses, &c. —that, if necessary, we may exhibit the fact as a deed of aggression on the part of the Count and Countess of Paris, to the assembly of the crusaders.” “I trust,” said Agelastes, “your Imperial Majesty will not easily resign the golden opportunity of gaining to your standard persons whose character stands so very high in chivalry. It would cost you but little to bestow upon them a Grecian island, worth a hundred of their own paltry lordship of Paris; and if it were given under the condition of their expelling the infidels or the disaffected who may have obtained the temporary possession, it would be so much the more likely to be an acceptable offer. I need not say that the whole knowledge, wisdom, and skill of the poor Agelastes is at your Imperial Majesty’s disposal.”

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The Emperor paused for a moment, and then said, as if on full consideration, “Worthy Agelastes, I dare trust thee in this difficult and somewhat dangerous matter; but I will keep my purpose of exhibiting to them the lions of Solomon, and the golden tree of our Imperial house.” “To that there can be no objection,” returned the philosopher; “only remember to exhibit few guards, for these Franks are like a fiery horse; when in temper he may be ridden with a silk thread, but, when he has taken umbrage or suspicion, as they would likely do if they saw many armed men, a steel bridle would not restrain him.” “I will be cautious,” said the Emperor, “in that particular, as well as others.—Sound the silver bell, Agelastes, that the officers of our wardrobe may attend.” “One single word, while your Highness is alone,” said Agelastes. “Will your Imperial Majesty transfer to me the direction of your menagerie, or collection of extraordinary creatures?” “You make me wonder,” said the Emperor, taking a signet, bearing upon it a lion, with the legend, Vicit Leo ex tribu Judæ. “This,” he said, “will give thee the command of our dens. And now, be candid for once with thy master—for deception is thy nature even with me—By what charm wilt thou subdue these untamed savages?” “By the power of falsehood,” replied Agelastes, with deep reverence. “I believe thee an adept in it,” said the Emperor. “And to which of their foibles wilt thou address it?” “To their love of fame,” said the philosopher; and retreated backwards out of the royal apartment, as the officers of the wardrobe entered to complete the investment of the Emperor in his Imperial habiliments.

Chapter Two I will converse with iron-witted fools, And unrespective boys; none are for me, That look into me with considerate eyes;— High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect. Richard III

A    from each other, the Emperor and philosopher had each their own anxious thoughts on the interview which had past between them; thoughts which they expressed in broken sentences and ejaculations, though for the better understanding of the degree of estimation in which they held each other, we will give them a more regular and intelligible form.

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“Thus, then,” half muttered half said Alexius, but so low as to hide his meaning from the officers of the wardrobe, who entered to do their office,—“thus then this bookworm—this remnant of old heathen philosophy, who hardly believes, so God save me, the truth of the Christian creed, has topp’d his part so well that he forces his Emperor to dissemble in his presence. Beginning by being the buffoon of the court, he has wormed himself into all its secrets, made himself master of all its intrigues, conspired with my own son-in-law against me, debauched my guards,—indeed so woven his web of deceit, that my life is safe no longer than he believes me the Imperial dolt which I have affected to seem, in order to deceive him; fortunate that even so I can escape his cautionary anticipation of my displeasure, by avoiding to precipitate his measures of violence. But were this sudden storm of the crusade fairly passed over, the ungrateful Cæsar, the boastful coward Achilles Tatius, and the bosom serpent Agelastes, shall know whether Alexius Comnenus has been born their dupe. When Greek meets Greek, comes the strife of subtlety, as well as the tug of war.” Thus saying, he resigned himself to the officers of his wardrobe, who proceeded to ornament him as the solemnity required. “I trust him not,” said Agelastes, the meaning of whose gestures and exclamations, we, in like manner, render into a connected meaning. “I cannot, and do not trust him—he somewhat overacts his part. He has borne himself upon other occasions with the shrewd wit of his family the Comneni; yet he now trusts to the effect of his trumpery lions upon such a shrewd people as the Franks and Normans, and seems to rely upon me for the character of men with whom he has been engaged in peace and war for many years. This can be but to gain my confidence; for there were imperfect looks, and broken sentences, which seemed to say, ‘Agelastes, the Emperor knows thee, and confides not in thee.’ Yet the plot is successful and undiscovered, as far as can be judged; and were I to attempt to recede now, I were lost for ever. A little time to carry on this intrigue with the Frank, when possibly, by the assistance of this gallant, Alexius shall exchange the crown for a cloister, or a still narrower abode; and then, Agelastes, thou deservest to be blotted from the roll of philosophers, if thou canst not push out of the throne the conceited and luxurious Cæsar, and reign in his stead, a second Marcus Antoninus, when the wisdom of thy rule, long unfelt in a world which has been guided by tyrants and voluptuaries, shall soon obliterate recollection of the manner in which thy power was acquired. To work then—be active, and be cautious. The time requires it, and the prize deserves it.” While these thoughts past through his mind, he arrayed himself, by the assistance of Diogenes, in a clean suit of that simple apparel in

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which he always frequented the court; a garb as unlike that of a candidate for royalty, as it was a contrast to the magnificent robes with which Alexius was now investing himself. In their separate apartments, or dressing-rooms, the Count of Paris and his lady put on the best apparel which they had prepared to meet such a chance upon their journey. Even in France, Robert was seldom seen in the cap and sweeping mantle, whose high plumes and flowing folds were the garb of knights in times of peace. He was now arrayed in a splendid suit of armour, all except the head, which was bare otherwise than as covered by his curled locks. The rest of his person was sheathed in the complete mail of the time, richly inlaid with silver, which contrasted with the azure in which the steel was damasked. His spurs were upon his heels—his sword was by his side, and his triangular shield was suspended round his neck, bearing, painted upon it, a number of fleurs-de-lis semées, as it is called, upon the field, being the origin of those lily flowers which after times reduced to three only; and which were the terror of Europe, until they suffered so many reverses in our own time. The extreme height of Count Robert’s person adapted him for a garb, which had a tendency to make persons of a lower stature appear rather dwarfish and thick when arrayed cap-a-pie. The features, with their self-collected composure, and noble contempt of whatever could have astounded or shaken an ordinary mind, formed a well-fitted capital to the excellently proportioned and vigorous frame which they terminated. The Countess was in more peaceful attire; but her robes were short and succinct, like those of one who might be called to hasty exercise. The upper part of her dress consisted of more than one tunic, sitting close to the body, while a skirt, descending from the girdle, and reaching to the ankles, embroidered elegantly but richly, completed an attire which a lady might have worn in much more modern times. Her tresses were covered with a light steel head-piece, though some of them, escaping, played round her face, and gave relief to those handsome features which might otherwise have seemed too formal, if closed entirely within the verge of steel. Over these undergarments was flung a rich velvet cloak of a deep green colour, descending from the head, where a species of hood was loosely adjusted over the helmet, deeply laced upon its verges and seams, and so long as to sweep the ground behind. A dagger of rich materials ornamented a girdle of curious goldsmith’s work, and was the only offensive weapon which, notwithstanding her military occupation, she bore upon this occasion. The toilette—as modern times would say—of the Countess, was not nearly so soon ended as that of Count Robert, who occupied his

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time, as husbands of every period are apt to do, in little subacid complaints between jest and earnest, upon the dilatory nature of ladies, and the time which they lose in doffing and donning their garments. But when the Countess Brenhilda came forth, in the pride of loveliness, from the inner chamber where she had attired herself, her husband, who was still her lover, clasped her to his breast, and expressed his privilege by the kiss which he took as of right from a creature so beautiful. Chiding him for his folly, yet almost returning the kiss which she received, Brenhilda began now to wonder how they were to find their way to the presence of the Emperor. The query was soon solved, for a gentle knock at the door announced Agelastes, to whom, as best acquainted with the Frankish manners, had been committed, by the Emperor, the charge of introducing the noble strangers. A distant sound, like that of the roaring of a lion, or not unsimilar to a large and deep gong of modern times, intimated the commencement of the ceremonial. The black slaves upon guard, who, as hath been observed, were in small numbers, stood ranged in their state dresses of white and gold, bearing in one hand a naked sabre, and in the other a torch of white wax, which served to guide the Count and Countess through the passages that led to the interior of the palace, and to the most secret hall of audience. The door of this sanctum sanctorum was lower than usual, a simple stratagem devised by some superstitious officer of the Imperial household, to compel the lofty-crested Frank to lower his body, as he presented himself in the Imperial presence. Robert, when the door flew open, and he discovered in the background the Emperor seated on his throne amidst a glare of light, which was broken and reflected in ten thousand folds by the jewels with which his vestments were covered, stopt short, and demanded the meaning of introducing him through so low an arch? Agelastes pointed to the Emperor, by way of shifting from himself a question which he could not have answered. The mute, to apologize for his silence, yawned, and showed the loss of his tongue. “Holy Virgin!” said the Countess, “what can these unhappy Africans have done, to have deserved a condemnation which involves so cruel a fate?” “The hour of retribution is perhaps come,” said the Count, in a displeased tone, while Agelastes, with such hurry as time and place permitted, entered, making his prostrations and genuflexions, little doubting that the Frank must follow him, and to do so, must lower his body to the Emperor. The Count, however, in the height of displeasure at the trick which he conceived had been intended him, turned himself round, and entered the presence-chamber with his back pur-

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posely turned to the sovereign, and did not face Alexius until he reached the middle of the apartment, when he was joined by the Countess, who had made her approach in a more seemly manner. The Emperor, who had prepared to acknowledge the Count’s expected homage in the most gracious manner, found himself now even more unpleasantly circumstanced than when this uncompromising Frank had usurped the royal throne in the course of the day. The officers and nobles who stood around, though a very select number, were more numerous than usual, as the meeting was not held for counsel, but merely for state. These assumed such an appearance of mingled displeasure and confusion as might best suit with the perplexity of Alexius, while the wily features of the Norman-Italian, Bohemond of Antioch, who was also present, had a singular mixture of fantastical glee and derision. It is the misfortune of the weaker on such occasions, or at least the more timid, to be obliged to take the petty part of winking hard, as if not able to see what they cannot avenge. Alexius made the signal that the ceremonial of the grand reception should immediately commence. Instantly the lions of Solomon, which had been newly furbished, raised their heads, erected their manes, brandished their tails, until they excited the imagination of Count Robert, who, being already on fire at the circumstances of his reception, conceived the bellowing of these automata to be the actual annunciation of immediate assault. Whether the lions, whose forms he beheld, were actually lords of the forest,—whether they were mortals who had suffered transformation,—whether they were productions of the skill of an artful juggler, or profound naturalist, the Count neither knew nor cared. All that he thought of the danger was, that it was worthy of his courage; nor did his heart permit him a moment’s irresolution. He strode to the nearest lion, which seemed in the act of springing up, and said, in a tone loud and formidable as its own, “How now, dog!” At the same time he struck the figure with his clenched fist and steel gauntlet with so much force, that its head burst, and the steps and carpet of the throne were covered with wheels, springs, and other machinery, which had been the means of producing its mimic terrors. On this display of the real nature of the cause of his anger, Count Robert could not but feel a little ashamed of having given way to passion on such an occasion. He was still more confused when Bohemond, descending from his station near the Emperor, addressed him in the Frank language;—“You have done a gallant deed, truly, Count Robert, in freeing the court of Byzantium from an object of fear which has long been used to frighten peevish children and unruly barbarians!”

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Enthusiasm has no greater enemy than ridicule. “Why, then,” said Count Robert, blushing deeply at the same time, “did they exhibit its fantastic terrors to me? I am neither child nor barbarian.” “Address yourself to the Emperor, then, as an intelligent man,” answered Bohemond. “Say something to him in excuse of your conduct, and show that our bravery has not entirely run away with our common sense. And hark you also, while I have a moment’s speech of you,—do you and your wife heedfully follow my example at supper!” These words were spoken with a significant tone and corresponding look. The opinion of Bohemond, from his long intercourse, both in peace and war, with the Grecian Emperor, gave him great influence with the other Crusaders, and Count Robert yielded to his advice. He turned towards the Emperor with something liker an obeisance than he had hitherto paid. “I crave your pardon,” he said, “for breaking that gilded piece of pageantry; but, in sooth, the wonders of sorcery, and the portents of accomplished and skilful jugglers, are so numerous in this country, that one does not clearly distinguish what is true from what is false, or what is real from what is illusory.” The Emperor, notwithstanding the presence of mind for which he was remarkable, and the courage in which he was not held by his countrymen to be deficient, received this apology somewhat awkwardly. Perhaps the rueful complaisance with which he accepted the Count’s apology, might be best compared to that of a lady of the present day when an awkward guest has broken a valuable piece of china. He muttered something about the machines having been long preserved in the Imperial family, as being made on the model of those which guarded the throne of the wise King of Israel; to which the blunt plain-spoken Count expressed his doubt in reply, whether the wisest prince in the world ever condescended to frighten his subjects or guests by the mimic roarings of a wooden lion. “If,” said he, “I too hastily took it for a living creature, I have had the worst, by damaging my excellent gauntlet in dashing to pieces its timber skull.” The Emperor, after a little more had been said, chiefly on the same subject, proposed that they should pass to the banquet-room. Marshalled, accordingly, by the grand sewer of the Imperial table, and attended by all present, excepting the Emperor and the immediate members of his family, the Frankish guests were guided through a labyrinth of apartments, each of which was filled with wonders of nature and art, calculated to enhance their opinion of the wealth and grandeur which had assembled together so much that was wonderful. Their passage being necessarily slow and interrupted, gave the Emperor time to change his dress, according to the ritual of his court,

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which did not permit his appearing twice in the same vesture before the same spectators. He took the opportunity to summon Agelastes into his presence, and, that their conference might be secret, he used, in assisting his toilette, the agency of some of the mutes destined for the service of the interior. The temper of Alexius Comnenus was considerably moved, although it was one of the peculiarities of his situation to be ever under the necessity of disguising the emotions of his mind, and of affecting, in presence of his subjects, a superiority to human passion, which he was far from feeling. It was therefore with gravity, and even reprehension, that he asked, “By whose error it was that the wily Bohemond, half-Italian, and half-Norman, was present at this interview? Surely, if there be one in the crusading army likely to conduct that foolish youth and his wife behind the scenes of the exhibition by which we hoped to impose upon them, the Prince of Antioch, as he entitles himself, is that person.” “It was that old man,” said Agelastes, “(if I may reply and live,) Michael Cantacuzene, who deemed that his presence was peculiarly desired; but he returns to the camp this very night.” “Yes,” said Alexius, “to inform Godfrey, and the rest of the crusaders, that one of the boldest and most highly esteemed of their number is left, with his wife, a hostage in our Imperial city, and to bring back, perhaps, an alternative of instant war, unless they are delivered up!” “If it is your Imperial Highness’s will to think so,” said Agelastes,“you can suffer Count Robert and his wife to return to the camp with the Italian-Norman.” “What?” answered the Emperor, “and so lose all the fruits of an enterprise, the preparations for which have already cost us so much in actual expense; and, were our heart made of the same stuff with that of ordinary mortals, would have cost us so much more in vexation and anxiety? No, no; issue warning to the crusaders, who are still on the hither side, that farther rendering of homage is dispensed with, and that they repair to the quays on the banks of the Bosphorus, by peep of light to-morrow. Let our admiral, as he values his head, pass every man of them over to the farther side before noon. Let there be largesses, a princely banquet on the farther bank—all that may increase their anxiety to pass. Then, Agelastes, we will trust to ourselves to meet this additional danger, either by bribing the venality of Bohemond, or by bidding defiance to the crusaders. Their forces are scattered, and the chief of them, with the leaders themselves, are all now —or by far the greater part—on the east side of the Bosphorus.—And now to the banquet! seeing that the change of dress has been made

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sufficient to answer the statutes of the household; since our ancestors chose to make rules for exhibiting us to our subjects, as priests exhibit their images at their shrines!” “Under grant of life,” said Agelastes, “it was not done inconsiderately, but in order that the Emperor, ruled ever by the same laws from father to son, might ever be regarded as something beyond the common laws of humanity—the divine image of a saint, therefore, rather than a human being.” “We know it, good Agelastes,” answered the Emperor, with a smile, “and we are also aware, that many of our subjects, like the worshippers of Bel in holy writ, treat us so far as an image, as to assist us in devouring the revenues of our provinces, which are gathered in our name, and for our use. These things we now only touch lightly, the time not suiting them.” Alexius left the secret council accordingly, after the order for the passage of the crusaders had been written out and subscribed in due form, and in the sacred ink of the Imperial chancery. Meantime, the rest of the company had arrived in a hall, which, like the other apartments in the palace, was most tastefully as well as gorgeously fitted up, except that a table, which presented a princely banquet, might have been deemed faulty in this respect, that the dishes, which were most splendid, both in the materials of which they were composed, and in the viands which they held, were elevated by means of feet, so as to be upon a level with female guests as they sat, and with men as they lay recumbent at the banquet which it offered. Around stood a number of black slaves richly attired, while the grand sewer, Michael Cantacuzene, arranged the strangers with his golden wand, and conveyed orders to them, by signs, that all should remain standing around the table, until a signal should be given. The upper end of the board, thus furnished, and thus surrounded, was hidden by a curtain of muslin and silver, which fell from the top of the arch under which the upper part seemed to pass. On this curtain the sewer kept a wary eye; and when he observed it slightly shake, he waved his wand of office, and all expected the result. As if self-moved, the mystic curtain arose, and discovered behind it a throne eight steps higher than the end of the table, decorated in the most magnificent manner, and having placed before it a small table of ivory inlaid with silver, behind which was seated Alexius Comnenus, in a dress entirely different from what he had worn in the course of the day, and so much more gorgeous than his former vestments, that it seemed not unnatural that his subjects should prostrate themselves before a figure so splendid. His wife, his daughter, and his son-in-law

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the Cæsar, stood behind him with faces bent to the ground, and it was with deep humility, that, descending from the throne at the Emperor’s command, they mingled with the guests of the lower table, and, exalted as they were, proceeded to the festive board at the signal of the grand sewer, so that they could not be said to partake of the repast with the Emperor, nor to be placed at the Imperial table, although they supped in his presence, and were encouraged by his repeated request to them to make good cheer. No dishes presented at the lower table were offered at the higher; but wines, and more delicate sorts of food, which arose before the Emperor as if by magic, and seemed designed for his own proper use, were repeatedly sent, by his special directions, to one or other of the guests whom Alexius delighted to honour— among these the Franks being particularly distinguished. The behaviour of Bohemond was on this occasion particularly remarkable. Count Robert, who kept an eye upon him, both from his recent words, and owing to an expressive look which he once or twice darted towards him, observed, that in no liquors or food, not even those sent from the Emperor’s own table, did this astucious prince choose to indulge. A piece of bread, taken from the canister at random, and a glass of pure water, was the only refreshment of which he was pleased to partake. His alleged excuse was, the veneration due to the Holy Festival of the Advent, which chanced to occur that very night, and which both the Greek and Latin rule agreed to hold sacred. “I had not expected this of you, Sir Bohemond,” said the Emperor, “that you should have refused my personal hospitality at my own board, on the very day on which you honoured me by entering into my service as vassal for the principality of Antioch.” “Antioch is not yet conquered,” said Sir Bohemond; “and conscience, dread sovereign, must always have its exceptions, in whatever temporal contracts we may engage.” “Come, gentle Count,” said the Emperor, who obviously regarded Bohemond’s inhospitable humour as something arising more from suspicion than devotion, “we invite, though it is not our custom, our children, our noble guests, and our principal officers here present, to a general carouse. Fill the cups, called the Nine Muses! let them be brimful of the wine which is said to be sacred to the Imperial lips!” At the Emperor’s command the cups were filled; they were of pure gold, and there was richly engraved upon each the effigy of the Muse to whom it was dedicated. “You, at least,” said the Emperor, “my gentle Count Robert, you and your lovely lady, will not have any scruple to pledge your Imperial host?”

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“If that scruple is to imply suspicion of the provisions with which we are here served, I disdain to nourish such,” said Count Robert. “If it is a sin which I commit by tasting wine to-night, it is a venial one; nor shall I greatly augment my load by carrying it, with the rest of my trespasses, to the next confessional.” “Will you then, Prince Bohemond, not be ruled by the conduct of your friend?” said the Emperor. “Methinks,” replied the Norman-Italian, “my friend might have done better to have been ruled by mine; but be it as his wisdom pleases. The flavour of such exquisite wine is sufficient for me.” So saying, he emptied the wine into another goblet, and seemed alternately to admire the carving of the cup, and the flavour of what it had lately contained. “You are right, Sir Bohemond,” said the Emperor; “the fabric of that cup is beautiful; it was done by one of the ancient gravers of Greece. The boasted cup of Nestor, which Homer has handed down to us, was a good deal larger perhaps, but neither equalled these in the value of the material, nor the exquisite beauty of the workmanship. Let each one, therefore, of my stranger guests, accept of the cup which he either has or might have drunk out of, as a recollection of me; and may the expedition against the infidels be as propitious as their confidence and courage deserve!” “If I accept your gift, mighty Emperor,” said Bohemond, “it is only to atone for the apparent discourtesy, when my devotion compels me to decline your Imperial pledge, and to show you that we part on the most intimate terms of friendship.” So saying, he bowed deeply to the Emperor, who answered him with a smile, into which was thrown a considerable portion of sarcastic expression. “And I,” said the Count of Paris, “having taken upon my conscience the fault of meeting your Imperial pledge, may stand excused from incurring the blame of aiding to dismantle your table of these curious drinking cups. We empty them to your health, and we cannot in any other respect profit by them.” “But Prince Bohemond can,” said the Emperor; “to whose quarters they shall be carried, sanctioned by your generous use. And we have still a set for you, and for your lovely Countess, equal to that of the Graces, though no longer matching in number the nymphs of Parnassus.—The evening bell rings, and calls us to remember the hour of rest, that we may be ready to meet the labours of to-morrow.” The party then broke up for the evening. Bohemond left the palace that night, not forgetting the Muses, of whom he was not in general a devotee. The result was, as the wily Greek had intended, that he had

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established between Bohemond and the Count, not indeed a quarrel, but a kind of difference of opinion; Bohemond feeling that the fiery Count of Paris must think his conduct sordid and avaricious, while Count Robert was far less inclined than before to rely on him as a counsellor.

Chapter Three T   C     of Paris and his lady were that night lodged in the Imperial Palace of Blacquernal. Their apartments were contiguous, but the communication between them was cut off for the night by the mutual door being locked and barred. They marvelled somewhat at this precaution. The observance, however, of the festival of the church, was pleaded as an admissible, and not unnatural excuse for this extraordinary circumstance. Neither the Count nor his lady entertained, it may be believed, the slightest personal fear for any thing which could happen to them. Their attendants, Marcian and Agatha, having assisted their master and mistress in the performance of their usual offices, left them, in order to seek the places of repose assigned to them among persons of their degree. The preceding day had been one of excitation, and of much bustle and interest; perhaps, also, the wine, sacred to the Imperial lips, of which Count Robert had taken a single, indeed, but a deep draught, was more potent than the delicate and high-flavoured juice of the Gascogne grape, to which he was accustomed; at any rate, it seemed to him that, from the time he felt that he had slept, daylight ought to have been broad in his chamber when he awaked, and yet it was still darkness almost palpable. Somewhat surprised, he gazed eagerly around, but could discern nothing, except two balls of red light which shone from among the darkness with a self-emitted brilliancy, like the eyes of a wild animal while it glares upon its prey. The Count started from bed to put on his armour, a necessary precaution if what he saw should really be a wild creature and at liberty; but the instant he stirred, a deep growl was uttered, such as the Count had never heard, but which might be compared to the sound of a thousand monsters at once; and, as the symphony, was heard the clash of iron chains, and the springing of a monstrous creature towards the bedside, which appeared, however, to be withheld by some fastening from attaining the end of its bound. The roars which it uttered now ran thick on each other. They were most tremendous, and must have been heard throughout the whole palace. The creature seemed to gather itself many yards nearer to the bed than by its glaring eye-balls it

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appeared at first to be stationed, and how much nearer, or what degree of motion, might place him within the monster’s reach, the Count was totally uncertain. Its breathing was even heard, and Count Robert thought he felt the heat of its respiration, while his defenceless limbs might not be two yards distant from the fangs which he heard grinding against each other, and the claws which tore up fragments of wood from the oaken floor. The Count of Paris was one of the bravest men who lived in a time when bravery was the universal property of all who claimed a drop of noble blood, and the knight was a descendant of Charlemagne. He was, however, a man, and therefore cannot be said to have endured unappalled a sense of danger so unexpected and so extraordinary. But his was not a sudden alarm or panic, it was a calm sense of extreme peril, qualified by a resolution to exert his faculties to the uttermost, to save his life if it were possible. He withdrew himself within the bed, no longer a place of rest, being thus a few feet further from the two glaring eyeballs which remained so closely fixed upon him, that, in spite of his courage, nature painfully suggested the bitter imagination of his limbs being mangled, torn, and churned with their life-blood, in the jaws of some monstrous beast of prey. One saving thought alone presented itself—this might be a trial, an experiment of the philosopher Agelastes, or of the Emperor his master, for the purpose of proving the courage of which the Christians vaunted so highly, and punishing the thoughtless insult which the Count had been unadvised enough to put upon the Emperor the preceding day. “Well is it said,” he reflected in his agony, “beard not the lion in his den! Perhaps even now some base slave deliberates whether I have yet tasted enough of the preliminary agonies of death, and whether he shall yet slip the chain which keeps the savage from doing his work. But come death when it will, it shall never be said that Count Robert was heard to receive it with prayers for compassion, or with cries of pain or terror.” He turned his face to the wall, and waited, with a strong mental exertion, the death which he conceived to be fast approaching. His first feelings had been unavoidably of a selfish nature. The danger was too instant, and of a nature too horrible, to admit of any which involved a more comprehensive view of his calamity; and other reflections of a more distant kind, were at first swallowed up in the allengrossing thought of immediate death. But as his ideas became clearer, the safety of his Countess rushed upon his mind—what might she now be suffering! and, while he was subjected to a trial so extraordinary, for what were her weaker frame and female courage reserved? Was she still within a few yards of him, as when he lay down the last night? or had the barbarians, who had devised for him a scene

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so cruel, availed themselves of his and his lady’s incautious confidence, to inflict upon her some villainy of the same kind, or even yet more perfidious? Did she sleep or wake, or could she sleep within the close hearing of that horrible cry, which shook all around? He resolved to utter her name, warning her, if possible, to be upon her guard, and to answer without venturing rashly into the apartment which contained a guest so horribly perilous. He uttered, therefore, his wife’s name, but in trembling accents, as if he had been afraid of the savage beast overhearing him. “Brenhilda! Brenhilda!—there is danger—awake, and speak to me, but do not arise.” There was no answer.—“What am I become,” he said to himself, “that I call upon Brenhilda of Aspramonte, like a child on its sleeping nurse, and all because there is a wild cat in the same room with me? Shame on thee, Count of Paris! Let thy arms be rent, and thy spurs be hacked from thy heels!—What, ho!” he cried aloud, but still with a tremulous voice, “Brenhilda, we are beset, the foe are upon us!—Answer me, but stir not.” A deep growl from the monster which garrisoned his apartment was the only answer. The sound seemed to say, “Thou hast no hope!” and it ran to the knight’s bosom as the genuine expression of despair. “Perhaps, however, I am still too cold in making my misery known. What, ho! my love! Brenhilda!” A voice, hollow and disconsolate as that which might have served an inhabitant of the grave, answered as if from a distance. “What disconsolate wretch art thou, who expectest that the living can answer thee from the habitations of the dead?” “I am a Christian man, a free noble of the kingdom of France,” answered the Count. “Yesterday the captain of five hundred men, the bravest in France—the bravest, that is, who breathe mortal air,—and I am here without a glimpse of light, to direct me how to avoid the corner in which lies a wild tiger-cat, prompt to spring upon and to devour me.” “Thou art an example,” replied the voice, “and wilt not long be the last, of the changes of fortune. I, who am now suffering in my third year, was that mighty Ursel, who rivalled Alexius Comnenus for the crown of Greece, was betrayed by my confederates, and being deprived of that eyesight which is the chief blessing of humanity, I inhabit these vaults, no distant neighbour of the wild animals by whom they are sometimes occupied, and whose cries of joy I hear when unfortunate victims like thyself are delivered up to their fury.” “Didst thou not then hear,” said Count Robert, in return, “a warlike guest and his bride conducted hither last night, with sounds as it might seem of bridal music?—O, Brenhilda! hast thou, so young—so

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beautiful—been so treacherously done to death by means so unutterably horrible!” “Think not,” answered Ursel, as the voice had called its owner, “that the Greeks pamper their wild beasts on such lordly fare. For their enemies, which term includes not only all that are really such, but all those whom they fear or hate, they have dungeons whose locks never revolve; hot instruments of steel, to sear the eye-balls in the head; lions and tigers, when it pleases them to make a speedy end of their captives—but these are only for the male prisoners. While for the women—if they be young and beautiful, the princes of the land have places in their bed and bower; nor are they employed, like the captives of Agamemnon’s host, to draw water from an Argive spring, but are admired and adored by those whom fate has made the lords of their destiny.” “Such shall never be the doom of Brenhilda!” exclaimed Count Robert; “her husband still lives to assist her, and should he die, she knows well how to follow him without leaving a blot in the epitaph of either.” The captive did not immediately reply, and a short pause ensued, which was broken by Ursel’s voice. “Stranger,” he said, “what noise is that I hear?” “Nay, I hear nothing,” said Count Robert. “But I do,” said Ursel. “The cruel deprivation of my eyesight renders my other senses more acute.” “Disquiet not thyself about the matter, fellow-prisoner,” answered the Count, “but wait the event in silence.” Suddenly a light arose in the apartment, lurid, red, and smoky. The knight had bethought him of a flint and match which he usually carried about him, and with as little noise as possible had lighted the torch by the bedside; this he instantly applied to the curtains of the bed, which, being of thin muslin, were in a moment in flames. The knight sprung, at the same instant, from his bed. The tiger, for such it was, terrified at the flame, leaped backwards as far as his chain would permit, heedless of any thing save this new object of terror. Count Robert upon this seized on a massive wooden stool, which was the only offensive weapon on which he could lay his hand, and, marking at those eyes which now reflected the blaze of fire, and which had a little ago seemed so appalling, he discharged against them this fragment of ponderous oak, with a force which less resembled human strength than the impetus with which an engine hurls a stone. He had employed his instant of time so well, and his aim was so true, that the missile went right to the mark, and with incredible force. The skull of the tiger, which might be, perhaps, somewhat exaggerated if described

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as being of the very largest size, was fractured by the blow, and with the assistance of his dagger, which had fortunately been left with him, the French Count dispatched the monster, and had the satisfaction to see him grin his last, and roll, in the agony of death, those eyes which were lately so formidable. Looking around him, he discovered, by the light of the fire which he had raised, that the apartment in which he now lay was different from that in which he had gone to bed overnight; nor could there be a stronger contrast between the furniture of both, than the flickering half-burnt remains of the thin muslin curtains, and the strong, bare, dungeon-looking walls of the room itself, or the very serviceable wooden stool, of which he had made such good use. The knight had no leisure to form conclusions upon such a subject. He hastily extinguished the fire, which had, indeed, nothing that it could lay hold of, and proceeded, by the light of the flambeau, to examine the apartment, and its means of entrance. It is scarce necessary to say, that he saw no communication with the room of Brenhilda, which convinced him that they had been separated the evening before under pretence of devotional scruples, in order to accomplish some most villainous design upon one or both of them. His own part of the night’s adventure we have already seen; and success so far, over so formidable a danger, gave him a trembling hope that Brenhilda, by her own worth and valour, would be able to defend herself against all attacks of fraud or force, until he could find his way to her rescue. “I should have paid more regard,” he said, “to Bohemond’s caution last night, who, I think, intimated to me as plainly as if he had spoke it in direct terms, that that same cup of wine was a drugged potion. But then, fie upon him for an avaricious hound! how was it possible I should think he suspected any such thing, when he spoke not out like a man, but, for sheer coldness of heart, or base self-interest, suffered me to run the risk of being poisoned by the wily despot?” Here he heard a voice from the same quarter as before. “Ho, there! Ho, stranger! Do you live, or have you been murdered? What means this stifling smell of smoke? For God’s sake, answer him who can receive no information from eyes closed, alas, for ever!” “I am at liberty,” said the Count, “and the monster destined to devour me has groaned its last. I would, my friend Ursel, since such is thy name, thou hadst the advantage of thine eyes, to have borne witness to yonder combat; it had been worth thy while, though thou shouldst have lost them a minute afterwards, and it would have greatly advantaged whoever shall have the task of compiling my history.” While he gave a thought to that vanity which strongly ruled him, he lost no time in seeking some mode of escape from the dungeon, for by

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that means only might he hope to recover his Countess. At last he found an entrance in the wall, but it was strongly locked and bolted. “I have found the passage,” he called out; “and its direction is the same in which thy voice is heard—But how shall I undo the door?” “I’ll teach thee that secret,” said Ursel. “I would I could as easily unlock each bolt that withholds us from the open air; but, as for thy seclusion within the dungeon, heave up the door by main strength, and thou shalt lift the locks to a place where, pushing then the door from thee, the fastenings will find a grooved passage in the wall, and the door itself will open. Would that I could indeed see thee, not only because, being a gallant man, thou must be a goodly sight, but also because I should thereby know that I was not caverned in darkness for ever.” While he spoke thus, the Count made a bundle of his armour, from which he missed nothing except his sword, Tranchefer, and then proceeded to try what efforts he could make, according to the blind man’s instructions, to open the door of his prison-house. Pushing in a direct line was, he soon found, attended with no effect; but when he applied his gigantic strength, and raised the door as high as it would go, he had the satisfaction to find that the bolts yielded, though reluctantly. A space had been cut so as to allow them to move out of the socket into which they had been forced; and without the turn of a key, but by a powerful thrust forwards, a small passage was left open. The knight entered, bearing his armour in his hand. “I hear thee,” said Ursel, “O stranger! and am aware thou art come into my place of captivity. For three years have I been employed in cutting these grooves, corresponding to the sockets which hold these iron bolts, and preserving the knowledge of the secret from the prisonkeepers. Twenty such bolts, perhaps, must be sawn through, ere my steps shall approach the upper air. What prospect is there that I shall have strength of mind sufficient to continue the task? Yet, credit me, noble stranger, I rejoice in having been thus far aiding to thy deliverance; for if Heaven blesses not, in any farther degree, our aspirations after freedom, we may still be a comfort to each other, while tyranny permits our mutual life.” Count Robert looked around, and shuddered that a human being should talk of any thing approaching to comfort, connected with his residence in what seemed a living tomb. Ursel’s dungeon was not above twelve feet square, vaulted in the roof, and strongly built in the walls by stones which the chisel had morticed closely together. A bed, a coarse footstool, like that which Robert had just launched at the head of the tiger, and a table of equally massive materials, were its only articles of furniture. On a long stone, above the bed, were these few,

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but terrible words:—“Zedekias Ursel, imprisoned here on the Ides of March, .. ——. Died and interred on the spot”—A blank was left for filling up the period. The figure of the captive could hardly be discerned amid the wildness of his dress and dishabille. The hair of his head, uncut and uncombed, descended in elf-locks, and mingled with a beard of extravagant length. “Look on me,” said the captive, “and rejoice that thou canst yet see the wretched condition to which iron-hearted tyranny can reduce a fellow-creature, both in mortal existence and in future hope.” “Was it thou,” said Count Robert, whose blood ran cold in his veins, “that hadst the heart to spend thy time in sawing through the blocks of stone by which these bolts are secured?” “Alas!” said Ursel, “what could a blind man do? Busy I must be, if I would preserve my senses. Great as the labour was, it was to me the task of three years; nor can you wonder that I should have devoted to it my whole time, when I had no other means of occupying it. Perhaps, and most likely, my dungeon does not admit the distinction of day and night; but a distant cathedral clock told me how hour after hour fled away, and found me expending them in rubbing one stone against another. But when the door gave way, I found I had only cut an access into a prison more strong than that which held me. I rejoice, nevertheless, since it has brought us together, given thee an entrance to my dungeon, and me a companion in my misery.” “Think better than that,” said Count Robert, “think of liberty— think of revenge! I cannot believe such unjust treachery will end successfully, else needs must I say, the heavens are less just than priests tell us of. How art thou supplied with food in this dungeon of thine?” “A warder,” said Ursel, “and who, I think, understands not the Greek language—at least he never either answers or addresses me— brings a loaf and a pitcher of water, enough to supply my miserable life till two days are past. I must, therefore, pray that you will retire for a space into the next prison, so that the warder may have no means of knowing that we can hold correspondence together.” “I see not,” said Count Robert, “by what access the barbarian, if he is one, can enter my dungeon without passing through yours; but no matter, I will retire into the inner or outer room, whichever it happens to be, and be thou then well aware that the warder will have some one to grapple with ere he leaves his prison-work to-day. Meantime, think thyself dumb as thou art blind, and be assured that the offer of freedom itself would not induce me to desert the cause of a companion in adversity.” “Alas,” said the old man, “I listen to thy promises as I should to

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those of the morning gale, which tells me that the sun is about to arise, although I know that I at least shall never behold it. Thou art one of those wild and undespairing knights, whom for so many years the west of Europe hath sent forth to attempt impossibilities, and from thee, therefore, I can only hope for such a fabric of relief as an idle boy would blow out of soap bubbles.” “Think better of us, old man,” said Count Robert, retiring; “at least let me die with my blood warm, and believing it possible for me to be once more united to my beloved Brenhilda.” So saying, he retired into his own cell, and replaced the door, so that the operations of Ursel, which indeed were only such as three years solitude could have achieved, should escape observation when again visited by the warder. “It is ill luck,” said he, when once more within his own prison—for that in which the tiger had been secured, he instinctively concluded to be destined for him—“It is ill luck that I had not found a young and able fellow-captive, instead of one decrepit by imprisonment, blind, and broken down past exertion. But God’s will be done! I will not leave behind me the poor wretch whom I have found in such a condition, though he is perfectly unable to assist me in accomplishing my escape, and is rather more likely to retard it. Meantime, before we put out the torch, let us see, if, by close examination, we can discover any door in the wall save that to the blind man’s dungeon. If not, I much suspect that my descent has been made through the roof. That cup of wine—that Muse, as they called it, had a taste more like medicine than merry companion’s pledge.” He began accordingly a strict survey of the walls, which he resolved to conclude by extinguishing the torch, that he might take the person who should enter his dungeon darkling and by surprise. For a similar reason, he dragged into the darkest corner the carcass of the tiger, and covered it with the remains of the bed-clothes, swearing, at the same time, that a half tiger should be his crest in future, if he had the fortune, which his bold heart would not suffer him to doubt, of getting through the present danger. “But,” he added, “if these necromantic vassals of hell shall raise the devil upon me, what shall I do then? And so great is the chance, that methinks I would fain dispense with extinguishing the flambeau. Yet it is childish for one dubbed in the chapel of Our Lady of the Broken Lances, to make much difference between a light room and a dark one. Let them come, as many fiends as the cell can hold, and we shall see if we receive them not as becomes a Christian knight; and surely, Our Lady, to whom I was ever a true votary, will hold it an acceptable sacrifice that I tore myself from my Brenhilda, even for a single moment, in honour of her advent, and thus led the way for our woful separation. Fiends! I defy ye in the body

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as in the spirit, and I retain the remains of this flambeau until some more convenient opportunity.” He dashed it against the wall as he spoke, and then quietly sat down in a corner, to watch what should next happen. Thought after thought chased each other through his mind. His confidence in his wife’s fidelity, and his trust in her uncommon strength and activity, were the greatest comforts which he had; nor could her danger present itself to him in any shape so terrible, but that he found consolation in these reflections: “She is pure,” he said, “as the dew of heaven, and heaven will not abandon its own.”

Chapter Four Strange ape of man! who loathes thee while he scorns thee; Half a reproach to us and half a jest. What fancies can be ours ere we have pleasure In viewing our own form, our pride and passions, Reflected in a shape grotesque as thine! A

C     R  P     having ensconced himself behind the ruins of the bed, so that he could not well be observed, unless a strong light was at once flung upon the place of his retreat, waited with anxiety how and in what manner the warder of the dungeon, charged with the task of bringing food to the prisoners, should make himself visible; nor was it long ere symptoms of his approach began to be heard and observed. A light was partially seen, as from a trap-door opening in the roof, and a voice was heard to utter these words in Anglo-Saxon, “Leap, sirrah; come, no delay; leap, my good Sylvan, show your honour’s activity.” A strange chuckling hoarse voice, in a language totally unintelligible to Count Robert, was heard to respond, as if disputing the orders which were received. “What, sir,” said his companion, “you must contest the point, must you? Nay, if thou art so lazy, I must give your honour a ladder, and perhaps a kick to hasten your journey.” Something then, of very great size, in the form of a human being, jumped down from the trap-door, though the height might be above fourteen feet. This figure was gigantic, being upwards of seven feet high. In its left hand it held a torch, and in its right a skein of fine silk, which unwinding itself as it descended, remained unbroken, though it was easy to conceive it could not have afforded a creature so large any support in his descent from the roof. He alighted with perfect safety and activity upon his feet, and, as if rebounding from the floor, he sprung upwards again, so

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as almost to touch the roof. In this last gambaud the torch which he bore was extinguished; but this extraordinary warder whirled it round his head with infinite velocity, so that it again ignited. The bearer, who appeared to intend the accomplishment of this object, endeavoured to satisfy himself that it was really attained, by approaching, as if cautiously, its left hand to the flame of the torch. This practical experiment seemed attended with consequences which the creature had not expected, for it howled with pain, shaking the burnt hand, and chattering as if bemoaning itself. “Take heed there, Sylvanus!” said the same voice in Anglo-Saxon, and in a tone of rebuke. “Ho, there! mind thy duty, Sylvan! Carry food to the blind man, and stand not there to play thyself, lest I trust thee not again alone on such an errand!” The creature—for it would have been rash to have termed it a man —turning its eye upwards to the place from whence the voice came, answered with a dreadful grin and shaking of its fist, yet presently began to undo a parcel, and rummage in the pockets of a sort of jerkin and pantaloons which it wore, seeking, it appeared, a bunch of keys, which at length it produced, while it took from the pocket a loaf of bread. Heating the stone of the wall, it affixed the torch to it by a piece of wax, and then cautiously looked out for the entrance to the old man’s dungeon, which it opened with a key selected from the bunch. Within the passage it seemed to look for and discover the handle of a pump, at which it filled a pitcher that it bore, and bringing back the fragments of the former loaf, and remains of the pitcher of water, it eat a little, as if it were in sport, and very soon making a frightful grimace, flung the fragments away. The Count of Paris, in the meanwhile, watched anxiously the proceedings of this unknown animal. His first thought was, that the creature, whose limbs were so much larger than humanity, whose grimaces were so frightful, and whose activity seemed supernatural, could be no other than the Devil himself, or some of his imps, whose situation and office in those gloomy regions seemed by no means hard to conjecture. The human voice, however, which he had heard, was less that of a necromancer conjuring a fiend, than that of a person giving commands to a wild animal, over whom he had, by training, obtained a great superiority. “A shame on it,” said the Count, “if I suffer a common jackanapes, —for such I take this devil-seeming beast to be, although twice as large as any of its fellows whom I have ever seen,—to throw an obstacle in the way of my obtaining daylight and freedom! Let us but watch, and the chance is that we make that furry gentleman our guide to the upper regions.” Meantime the creature, which rummaged about everywhere, at

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length discovered the body of the tiger,—touched it, stirred it, with many strange motions, and seemed to lament and wonder at its death. At once it seemed struck with the idea that some one must have slain it, and Count Robert had the mortification to see it once more select the key, and spring towards the door of Ursel’s prison with such alacrity, that had its intention been to strangle him, it would have accomplished its purpose before the interference of Count Robert could have prevented its revenge taking place. Apparently, however, it reflected, that for reasons which seemed satisfactory, the death of the tiger could not be caused by the unfortunate Ursel, but had been accomplished by some one concealed within the outer prison. Slowly grumbling, therefore, and chattering to itself, and peeping anxiously into every corner, the tremendous creature, so like, yet so very unlike to the human form, came stealing along the walls, moving whatever he thought could seclude a man from his observation. Its extended legs and arms were protruded forward with great strides, and its sharp eyes, on the watch to discover the object of its search, kept prying, with the assistance of the torch, into every corner. Considering the vicinity of Alexius’s collection of animals, the reader, by this time, can have little doubt that the creature in question, whose appearance seemed to the Count of Paris so very problematical, was a specimen of that gigantic species of ape—if it is not indeed some animal more nearly allied to ourselves—to which, I believe, naturalists have given the name of the Ourang Outang. This creature differs from the rest of its fraternity, in being comparatively more docile and serviceable; and though possessing the power of imitation which is common to the whole race, yet making use of it less in mere mockery, than in a desire of improvement and instruction perfectly unknown to its brethren. The aptitude which it possesses of acquiring information, is surprisingly great, and probably, if placed in a favourable situation, it might admit of being domesticated in a considerable degree; but such advantages the ardour of scientific curiosity has never afforded this creature. The last we have heard of was seen, we believe, in the Island of Sumatra—it was of great size and strength, and upwards of seven feet high. It died defending desperately its innocent life against a party of Europeans, who we cannot help thinking might have better employed the superiority which their knowledge gave them over the poor native of the forest. It was probably this creature, seldom seen, but when once seen never forgotten, which occasioned the ancient belief in the god Pan, with his sylvans and satyrs. Nay, but for the gift of speech, which we cannot suppose any of the family to have attained, we should have believed the satyr seen by Saint Anthony in the desert to have belonged to this tribe.

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We can, therefore, the more easily credit the annals which attest that the collection of natural history belonging to Alexius Comnenus, preserved an animal of this kind, which had been domesticated and reclaimed to a surprising extent, and showed a degree of intelligence never perhaps to be attained in any other case. These explanations being premised, we return to the thread of our story. The animal advanced with long noiseless steps; its shadow on the wall, when it held the torch so as to make it visible to the Frank, forming another fiend-resembling mimicry of its own large figure and extravagant-looking members. Count Robert remained in his lurkinghole, in no hurry to begin a strife, of which it was impossible to foretell the end. In the mean time, the man of the woods came nigh, and every step by which he approached, caused the Count’s heart to vibrate almost audibly, at the idea of meeting danger of a nature so strange and new. At length the creature approached the bed—his hideous eyes were fixed on those of the Count; and, as much surprised at seeing him as Robert was at the meeting, he skipped about fifteen paces backwards at one spring, with a cry of instinctive terror, and then advanced on tiptoe, holding his torch as far forward as he could, between him and the object of his fears, as if to examine him at the safest possible distance. Count Robert caught up a fragment of the bedstead, large enough to form a sort of club, with which he menaced the native of the wilds. Apparently this poor creature’s education, like education of most kinds, had not been acquired without blows, of which the recollection was as fresh as that of the lessons which they enforced. Sir Robert of Paris was a man at once to discover and to avail himself of the advantage obtained by finding that he possessed a degree of ascendency over his enemy, which he had not suspected. He erected his warlike figure, assumed a step as if triumphant in the lists, and advanced threatening his enemy with his club, as he would have menaced his antagonist with the redoubtable Tranchefer. The man of the woods, on the other hand, obviously gave way, and converted his cautious advance into a retreat no less cautious. Yet apparently the creature had not renounced some plan of resistance; he chattered in an angry and hostile tone, held out his torch in opposition, and seemed about to strike the crusader with it. Count Robert, however, determined to take his opponent at advantage, while his fears influenced him, and for this purpose resolved, if possible, to deprive him of his natural superiority in strength and agility, which his singular form showed he could not but possess over the human species. A master of his weapon, therefore, the Count menaced his savage antagonist with a stroke on the right side of his head, but suddenly averting the blow, struck him

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with his whole force on the left temple, and in an instant was kneeling above him, when, drawing his dagger, he was about to deprive him of life. The Ourang Outang, ignorant of the nature of this new weapon with which he was threatened, attempted, at one and the same moment, to rise from the ground, overthrow his antagonist, and wrench the dagger from his grasp. In the first attempt, he would probably have succeeded; and as it was, he gained his knees, and seemed likely to prevail in the struggle, when he became sensible that the knight, drawing his poniard sharply through his grasp, had cut his paw severely, and seeing him aim the trenchant weapon at his throat, became probably aware that his enemy had his life at command. He suffered himself to be borne backwards without further resistance, with a deep wailing and melancholy cry, having in it something human, which excited compassion. He covered his eyes with the unwounded hand, as if he would have hid from his own sight the death which seemed approaching him. Count Robert, notwithstanding his military frenzy, was, in ordinary matters, a calm-tempered and mild man, and particularly benevolent to the lower classes of creation. The thought rushed through his mind, “Why take from this unfortunate monster the breath which is in its nostrils, after which it cannot know another existence? And then, may it not be some prince or knight changed to this grotesque shape, that it may help to guard these vaults, and the wonderful adventures that attach to them? Should I not, then, be guilty of a crime by slaying him, when he has rendered himself rescue or no rescue, which he has done as completely as his transformed figure permits; and if he be actually a bestial creature, may he not have some touch of gratitude? I have heard the minstrels sing the lay of Androcles and the Lion. I will be on my guard with him.” So saying, he rose from above the man of the woods, and permitted him also to arise. The creature seemed sensible of the clemency, for he muttered, in a low and supplicating tone, which seemed at once to crave for mercy, and to return thanks for what he had already experienced. He wept too, as he saw the blood dropping from his wound, and with an anxious countenance, which had more of the human now that it was composed into an expression of pain and melancholy, seemed to await in terror the doom of a being more powerful than himself. The pocket which the knight wore under his armour, capable of containing but few things, had, however, some vulnerary balsam, for which its owner had often occasion, a little lint, and a small roll of linen; these the knight took out, and motioned to the animal to hold

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forth his wounded hand. The man of the woods obeyed with hesitation and reluctance, and Count Robert applied the balsam and the dressings, acquainting his patient, at the same time, in a severe tone of voice, that perhaps he did wrong in putting to his use a balsam compounded for the service of the noblest knights; but that, if he saw the least sign of his making an ungrateful use of the benefit he had conferred, he would bury the dagger, of which he had felt the efficacy, to the very handle in his body. The Sylvan looked fixedly upon Count Robert, almost as if he understood the language used to him, and, making one of its native murmurs, it stooped to the earth, kissed the feet of the knight, and, embracing his knees, seemed to swear to him eternal gratitude and fidelity. Accordingly, when the Count retired to the bed and assumed his armour, to await the re-opening of the trap-door, the animal sat down by his side, directing its eyes in the line with his, and seemed quietly to wait till the door should open. After waiting about an hour, a slight noise was heard in the upper chamber, and the wild man plucked the Frank by the cloak, as if to call his attention to what was about to happen. The same voice which had before spoken, was, after a whistle or two, heard to call, “Sylvan, Sylvan! where loiterest thou? Come instantly, or, by the rood, thou shalt abye thy sloth!” The poor monster, as Trinculo might have called him, seemed perfectly aware of the meaning of this threat, and showed his sense of it by pressing close to the side of Count Robert, making at the same time a kind of whining, entreating, it would seem, the knight’s protection. Forgetting the great improbability there was, even in his own opinion, that the creature could understand him, Count Robert said, “Why, my friend, thou hast already learned the principal court prayer of this country, by which men entreat permission to speak and live. Fear nothing, poor creature—I am thy protector.” “Sylvan! what, ho!” said the voice again; “whom hast thou got for a companion?—some of the fiends, or ghosts of murdered men, who they say are frequent in these dungeons? or dost thou converse with the old blind rebel Grecian?—or, finally, is it true that men say of thee, that thou canst talk intelligibly when thou wilt, and only gibberest and chatterest for fear thou art sent to work? Come, thou lazy rascal! thou shalt have the advantage of the ladder to ascend by, though thou needst it no more than a daw to ascend the steeple of the Cathedral of Saint Sophia. Come along then,” he said, putting a ladder down the trapdoor, “and put me not to the trouble of descending to fetch thee, else, by Saint Swithin, it shall be the worse for thee. Come along, therefore, like a good fellow, and for once I shall spare the whip.”

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The animal, apparently, was moved by this rhetoric, for, with a doleful look, which Count Robert saw by means of the nearly extinguished torch, he seemed to bid him farewell, and to creep away towards the ladder with the same excellent good-will wherewith a condemned criminal performs the like evolution. But no sooner did the Count look angry, and shake the formidable dagger, than the intelligent animal seemed at once to take his resolution, and clenching his hands firmly together in the fashion of one who has made up his mind, he returned from the ladder’s foot, and drew up behind Count Robert,—with the air, however, of a deserter, who feels himself but little at home when called into the field against his ancient commander. In a short time the warder’s patience was exhausted, and despairing of the sylvan’s voluntary return, he resolved to descend in quest of him. Down the ladder he came, a bundle of keys in one hand, the other assisting his descent, and a sort of dark lantern, whose bottom was so fashioned that he could wear it upon his head like a hat. He had scarce stept on the floor, when he was surrounded by the nervous arms of the Count of Paris. At first the warder’s idea was, that he was seized by the recusant Sylvan. “How now, villain!” he said; “let me go, or thou shalt die the death.” “Thou diest thyself,” said the Count, who, between the surprise and his own skill in wrestling, felt fully his advantage in the struggle. “Treason! treason!” cried the warder, hearing by the voice that a stranger had mingled in the contest; “help, ho! above there! help, Hereward—Varangian!—Anglo-Saxon, or whatever accursed name thou callest thyself!” While he spoke thus, the irresistible grasp of Count Robert seized his throat, and choked his utterance. They fell heavily, the jailer undermost, upon the floor of the dungeon, and Robert of Paris, the necessity of whose case excused the action, plunged his dagger in the throat of the unfortunate. Just as he did so, a noise of armour was heard, and, rattling down the ladder, our acquaintance Hereward stood on the floor of the dungeon. The light, which had rolled from the head of the warder, continued to show him streaming with blood, and in the death-grasp of a stranger. Hereward hesitated not to fly to his assistance, and, seizing upon the Count of Paris at the same advantage which that knight had gained over his own adversary a moment before, held him forcibly down with his face to the earth. Count Robert was one of the strongest men of that military age; but then so was the Varangian; and save that the latter had obtained a decided advantage by having his antagonist beneath him, it could not

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certainly have been conjectured which way the combat was to go. “Yield! as your own jargon goes, rescue or no rescue,” said the Varangian, “or die on the point of my dagger!” “A French Count never yields,” answered Robert, who began to conjecture with what sort of person he was engaged, “above all, to a vagabond slave like thee!” With this he made an effort to rise, so sudden, so strong, so powerful, that he had almost freed himself from the Varangian’s grasp, had not Hereward, by a violent exertion of his great strength, preserved the advantage he had gained, and raised his poniard to end the strife for ever; but a loud chuckling laugh of an unearthly sound was at this instant heard. The Varangian’s extended arm was seized with vigour, while a rough arm, embracing his throat, turned him over on his back, and gave the French Count an opportunity of springing up. “Death to thee, wretch!” said the Varangian, scarce knowing whom he threatened; but the man of the woods apparently had an awful recollection of the prowess of human beings. He fled, therefore, swiftly up the ladder, and left Hereward and his deliverer to fight it out with what success chance might determine between them. The circumstances seemed to argue a desperate combat; both were tall, strong, and courageous, both had defensive armour, and the fatal and desperate poniard was their only offensive weapon. They paused facing each other, and examined eagerly into their respective means of defence before hazarding a blow, which, if it missed, its attaint would certainly be fatally requited. During this deadly pause, a gleam shone from the trap-door above, as the wild and alarmed visage of the man of the woods was seen peering down by the light of a newly kindled torch which he held as low into the dungeon as he well could. “Fight bravely, comrade,” said Count Robert of Paris, “for we no longer battle in private; this respectable person having chosen to constitute himself judge of the field.” Hazardous as his situation was, the Varangian looked up, and was so struck with the wild and terrified expression which the creature had assumed, and the strife between curiosity and terror which its grotesque features exhibited, that he could not help bursting into a fit of laughter. “Sylvan is among those,” said Hereward, “who would rather hold the candle to a dance so formidable than join in it himself.” “Is there then,” said Count Robert, “any absolute necessity that thou and I perform this dance at all?” “None but our own pleasure,” answered Hereward, “for I suspect there is not between us any legitimate cause of quarrel demanding to be fought out in such a place, and before such a spectator. Thou art, if

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I mistake not, the bold Frank, who was yesternight imprisoned in this place with a tiger, chained within no distant spring of his bed?” “I am,” answered the Count. “And where is the animal who was opposed to thee?” “He lies yonder,” answered the Count, “never again to be the object of more terror than the deer whom he may have preyed on in his day.” He pointed to the body of the tiger, which Hereward examined by the light of the dark-lantern already mentioned. “And this, then, was thy handiwork?” said the wondering AngloSaxon. “Sooth to say it was—” answered the Count, with indifference. “And thou hast slain my comrade of this strange watch?” said the Varangian. “Mortally wounded him at the least,” said Count Robert. “With your patience, I will be beholden to you for a moment’s truce, while I examine his wound,” said Hereward. “Assuredly,” answered the Count; “blighted be the arm which strikes a foul blow at an open antagonist!” Without demanding further security, the Varangian quitted his posture of defence and precaution, and set himself, by the assistance of the dark lantern, to examine the wound of the first warder who appeared on the field, who seemed, by his Roman military dress, to be a soldier of the bands called Immortals. He found him in the death agony, but still able to speak. “So, Varangian, thou art come at last,—and it is to thy sloth or treachery that I am to impute my fate?—Nay, answer me not!—The stranger struck me over the collar-bone—had we lived long together, or met often, I had done the like by thee, to wipe out the memory of certain transactions at the Golden Gate.—I know the use of the knife too well to doubt the effect of a blow aimed over the collar-bone by so strong a hand—I feel it coming. The Immortal, so called, becomes now, if priests say true, an immortal indeed, and Sebastes of Mytilene’s bow is broken ere his quiver is half emptied.” The robber Greek sunk back in Hereward’s arms, and closed his life with a groan, which was the last sound he uttered. The Varangian laid the body at length on the dungeon floor. “This is a perplexed matter”—he said; “I am certainly not called upon to put to death a brave man, although my national enemy, because he hath killed a miscreant who was privately meditating my own murder. Neither is this a place or a light by which to fight as becomes the champions of two nations. Let that quarrel be still for the present.—How say you then, noble sir, if we adjourn the present dispute till we effect your deliverance from the dungeons of the Blacquernal,

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and your restoration to your own friends and followers? If a poor Varangian should be of service to you in this matter, would you, when it was settled, refuse to meet him in fair fight, with your national weapons or his own?” “If,” said Count Robert, “whether friend or enemy, thou wilt extend thy assistance to my wife, who is also imprisoned somewhere in this inhospitable palace, be assured, that whatever be thy rank, whatever be thy country, whatever be thy condition, Robert of Paris will, at thy choice, proffer thee his right hand in friendship, or raise it against thee in fair and manly battle—a strife not of hatred, but of honour and esteem; and this I vow by the soul of Charlemagne, my ancestor, and by the shrine of my patroness, Our Lady of the Broken Lances.” “Enough said,” replied Hereward. “I am as much bound to the assistance of your Lady Countess, being a poor exile, as if I were the first in the ranks of chivalry; for if any thing can make the cause of worth and bravery yet more obligatory, it must be its being united with that of a helpless and suffering female.” “I ought,” said Count Robert, “to be here silent, without loading thy generosity with farther requests; yet thou art a man, whom, if fortune has not smiled at thy birth, by ordaining thee to be born within the ranks of noblesse and knighthood, yet Providence hath done thee more justice by giving thee a more gallant heart than is always possessed, I fear, by those who are inwoven in the gayest wreath of chivalry. There lingers here in these dungeons, for I cannot say he lives—a blind old man, to whom for three years every thing beyond his prison has been a universal blot. His food is bread and water, his intercourse limited to the conversation of a sullen warder, and if death can ever come as a deliverer, it must be to this dark old man. What sayst thou? Shall he, so unutterably miserable, not profit by perhaps the only opportunity of freedom that may ever occur to him?” “By Saint Dunstan,” answered the Varangian, “thou keepest over truly the oath thou hast taken as a redresser of wrongs! Thine own case is wellnigh desperate, and thou art willing to make it utterly so by uniting with it that of every unhappy person whom fate throws in thy way!” “The more of human misery we attempt to relieve,” said Robert of Paris, “the more we shall carry with us the blessing of our merciful saints, and Our Lady of the Broken Lances, who views with so much pain every species of human suffering or misfortune, save that which occurs within the inclosure of the lists. But come, valiant AngloSaxon, resolve me on my request as speedily as thou canst. There is something in thy face of candour as well as sense, and it is with no small confidence that I desire to see us set forth in quest of my beloved

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Countess, who, when her deliverance is once achieved, will be a powerful aid to us in recovering that of others.” “So be it, then,” said the Varangian; “we will proceed in quest of the Countess Brenhilda; and if, on recovering her, we find ourselves strong enough to procure the freedom of the dark old man, my cowardice, or want of compassion, shall never stop the attempt.”

Chapter Five ’Tis strange that, in the dark sulphureous mine, Where wild ambition piles its ripening stores Of slumbering thunder, Love will interpose His tiny torch, and cause the stern explosion To burst, when the deviser’s least aware. A

A   of the same day, Agelastes met with Achilles Tatius, the commander of the Varangian guard, in those ruins of the Egyptian temple in which we formerly mentioned Hereward having had an interview with the philosopher. They met, as it seemed, in a very different humour. Tatius was gloomy, melancholy, and downcast; while the philosopher maintained the calm indifference which procured for him, and in some sort deserved, the title of the Elephant. “Thou blenchest, Achilles Tatius,” said the philosopher, “now that thou hast frankly opposed thyself to all the dangers which stood between thee and greatness. Thou art like the idle boy who turned the mill-stream upon the machine, and that done, instead of making the proper use of it, was terrified at seeing it in motion.” “Thou dost me wrong, Agelastes,” answered the Acolyte, “foul wrong; I am but like the mariner, who, although determined upon his voyage, yet cannot forbear a sorrowing glance at the shore, before he parts with it, it may be for ever.” “It may have been right to think of this, but pardon me, valiant Tatius, when I tell you the account should have been made up before; and the grandson of Alguric the Hun ought to have computed chances and consequences ere he stretched his hand to his master’s diadem.” “Hush! for Heaven’s sake,” said Tatius, looking round; “that, thou knowest, is a secret between our two selves; for if Nicephorus, the Cæsar, should learn it, where were we and our conspiracy?” “Our bodies on the gibbet, probably,” answered Agelastes, “and our souls divorced from them, and in the way of discovering the secrets which thou hast hitherto taken upon trust.” “Well,” said Achilles, “and should not the consciousness of the possibility of this fate render us cautious?”

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“Cautious men if you will,” answered Agelastes, “but not timid children.” “Stone walls can hear—” said the Follower, lowering his voice. “Dionysius the tyrant, I have read, had an Ear which conveyed to him the secrets spoken within his state-prison at Syracuse.” “And that Ear is still stationary at Syracuse,” said the philosopher. “Tell me, my most simple friend, art thou afraid it has been transported hither in one night, as the Latins believe of Our Lady’s house at Loretto?” “No,” answered Achilles, “but in an affair so important too much caution cannot be used.” “Well, thou most cautious of candidates for empire, and most cold of military leaders, know that the Cæsar, deeming, I think, that there is no chance of the empire falling to any one but himself, hath taken in his head to consider his succession to Alexius as a matter of course, whenever the election takes place. In consequence, as matters of course are usually matters of indifference, he has left all thoughts of securing his interest upon this material occasion to thee and to me, while the foolish voluptuary hath himself run mad—for what think you? Something between man and woman—female in her lineaments, her limbs, and a part at least of her garments; but, so help me Saint George, most masculine in the rest of her attire, in her propensities, and in her exercises.” “The Amazonian wife, thou meanest,” said Achilles, “of that ironhanded Frank, who dashed to pieces last night the golden lion of Solomon with a blow of his fist? By Saint George, the least which can come of such an amour is broken bones!” “That,” said Agelastes, “is not quite so improbable as that Dionysius’s Ear should fly hither from Syracuse in a single night; but he is presumptuous in respect of the influence which his supposed good looks have gained him among the Grecian dames.” “He was too presumptuous, I suppose,” said Achilles Tatius, “to make a proper allowance for his situation as Cæsar, and the prospect of his being Emperor.” “Meantime,” said Agelastes, “I have promised him an interview with his Bradamante, who may perhaps reward his tender epithets of Zoé kai psyche, by divorcing his amorous soul from his unrivalled person.” “Meantime,” said the Follower, “thou obtainest, I conclude, such orders and warrants as the Cæsar can give for the furtherance of our plot?” “Assuredly,” said Agelastes; “it is an opportunity not to be lost. This love fit, or mad fit, has blinded him; and without exciting too

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much attention to the progress of the plot, we can thus in safety conduct matters our own way, without causing malevolent remarks; and though I am conscious that, in doing so, I act somewhat at variance with my age and character, yet the end being to convert a worthy Follower into an Imperial Leader, I shame me not in procuring that interview with the lady, of which the Cæsar, as they term him, is so desirous.—What progress, meanwhile, hast thou made with the Varangians, who are, in respect of execution, the very arm of our design?” “Scarce so good as I could wish,” said Achilles Tatius; “yet I have made sure of some two or three score of those whom I found most accessible; nor have I any doubt, that, when the Cæsar is set aside, their cry will be for Achilles Tatius.” “And what of the gallant who assisted at our prelections?” said Agelastes; “your Edward, as Alexius termed him?” “I have made no impression upon him,” said the Follower; “and I am sorry for it, for he is one whom his comrades think well of, and would gladly follow. Meantime I have placed him as an additional sentinel upon the iron-witted Count of Paris, whom, both having an inveterate love of battle, he is very likely to put to death; and if it is afterwards challenged by the crusaders as a cause of war, it is only delivering up the Varangian, whose personal hatred will needs be represented as having occasioned the catastrophe. All this being prepared beforehand, how and when shall we deal with the Emperor?” “For that,” said Agelastes, “we must consult the Cæsar, who, although his expected happiness of to-day is not more certain than the state preferment that he expects to-morrow, and although his ideas are much more anxiously fixed upon his success with this said Countess than his succession to the empire, will, nevertheless, expect to be treated as the head of the enterprise for accelerating the latter. But, to speak my opinion, valiant Tatius, to-morrow will be the last day that Alexius shall hold the reins of empire.” “Let me know for certain,” said the Follower, “as soon as thou canst, that I may warn our brethren, who are to have in readiness the insurgent citizens, and those of the Immortals who are combined with us, in the neighbourhood of the court, and in readiness to act—And, above all, that I may disperse upon distant guards such Varangians as I cannot trust.” “Rely upon me,” said Agelastes, “for the most accurate information and instructions, so soon as I have seen Nicephorus Briennius. One word permit me to ask—In what manner is the wife of the Cæsar to be disposed of?” “Somewhere,” said the Follower, “where I can never be compelled

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to hear more of her history. Were it not for that nightly pest of her lectures, I could be good-natured enough to take care of her destiny myself, and teach her the difference betwixt a real emperor and this Briennius, who thinks so much of himself.” So saying, they separated; the Follower elated in look and manner considerably above what he had been when they met. Agelastes looked after his companion with a scornful laugh. “There,” he said, “goes a fool, whose lack of sense prevents his eyes from being dazzled by the torch which cannot fail to consume him. A half-bred, half-acting, half-thinking, half-daring caitiff, whose poorest thoughts—and those which deserve that name must be poor indeed—are not the produce of his own understanding. He expects to circumvent the fiery, haughty, and proud Nicephorus Briennius! If he does so, it will not be by his own policy, and still less by his valour. Nor shall Anna Comnena, the soul of wit and genius, be chained to such an unimaginative log as yonder half barbarian. No—she shall have a husband of pure Grecian extraction, and well stored with that learning which was studied when Rome was great, and Greece illustrious. Nor will it be the least charm of the Imperial throne, that it is partaken by a partner whose personal studies have taught her to esteem and value those of the Emperor.” He took a step or two with conscious elevation, and then, as conscience-checked, he added, in a suppressed voice, “But then, if Anna were destined for Empress, it follows of course that Alexius must die—no consent could be trusted to.—And what then?— the death of an ordinary man is indifferent, when it plants on the throne a philosopher and a historian; and at what time were the possessors of the empire curious to enquire when or by whose agency their predecessors died?—Diogenes! Ho, Diogenes!” The slave did not immediately come, so that Agelastes, wrapt in the anticipation of his greatness, had time to add a few more words —“Tush—I must reckon with Heaven, say the priests, for many things, so I will throw this also into the account. The death of the Emperor may be twenty ways achieved without my having the blame of it. The blood which we have shed may spot our hand, if closely regarded, but it shall scarce stain our forehead.” Diogenes here entered—“Has the Frank lady been removed?” said the philosopher. The slave signified his assent. “How did she bear her removal?” “As authorized by your lordship, indifferently well. She had resented her separation from her husband, and her being detained in the palace, and committed some violence upon the slaves of the Household, several of whom were said to be slain, although we perhaps ought only to read sorely frightened. She recognised me at once,

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and when I told her that I came to offer her a day’s retirement in your own lodgings, until it should be in your power to achieve the liberation of her husband, she at once consented, and I deposited her in the secret Cytherean garden-house.” “Admirably done, my faithful Diogenes,” said the philosopher; “thou art like the genii who attended on the eastern talismans; I have but to intimate my will to thee, and it is accomplished.” Diogenes bowed deeply, and withdrew. “Yet remember, slave!” said Agelastes, speaking to himself; “there is danger in knowing too much—and should my character ever become questioned, too many of my secrets are in the power of Diogenes.” At this moment a blow thrice repeated, and struck upon one of the images without, which had been so framed as to return a tingling sound, and in so far deserved the praise of being vocal, interrupted his soliloquy. “There knocks,” said he, “one of our allies; who can it be that comes so late?” He touched the figure of Isis with his staff, and the Cæsar Nicephorus Briennius entered in the full Grecian habit, and that graceful dress anxiously arranged to the best advantage. “Let me hope, my lord,” said Agelastes, receiving the Cæsar with an apparently grave and reserved face, “your Highness comes to tell me that your sentiments are changed on reflection, and that whatever you had to confer about with this Frankish lady, may be at least deferred until the principal part of our conspiracy has been successfully executed.” “Philosopher,” answered the Cæsar, “no. My resolution, once taken, is not the sport of circumstances. Believe me, that I have not finished so many labours without being ready to undertake others. The favour of Venus is the reward of the labours of Mars, nor would I think it worth while to worship the god armipotent with the toil and risk attending his service, unless I had previously attained some decided proofs that I was wreathed with the myrtle, intimating the favour of his beautiful mistress.” “I beg pardon for my boldness,” said Agelastes; “but has your Imperial Highness reflected, that you were wagering, with the wildest rashness, an empire, including thine own life, mine, and all who are joined with us in a hardy scheme? And against what were they waged? Against the very precarious favour of a woman, who is altogether divided betwixt fiend and female, and in either capacity is most likely to be fatal to our present scheme, either by her good will, or by the offence which she may take. If she prove such as you wish, she will desire to keep her lover by her side, and to spare him the danger of engaging in a perilous conspiracy; and if she remains, as the world

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believe her, constant to her husband, and to the sentiments she vowed to him at the altar, you may guess what cause of offence you are likely to give, by urging a suit which she has already received so very ill.” “Pshaw, old man! Thou turnest a dotard, and in the great knowledge thou possessest of other things, hast forgotten the knowledge best worth knowing—that of the beautiful part of the creation. Think of the impression likely to be made by a gallant neither ignoble in situation, nor unacceptable in presence, upon a lady who must fear the consequences of refusal! Come, Agelastes, let me have no more of thy croaking, auguring bad fortune like the raven from the blasted oak on the left hand; but declaim, as well thou canst, how faint heart never won fair lady, and how those best deserve empire who can wreathe the myrtles of Venus with the laurels of Mars. Come, man, undo me the secret entrance which combines these magical ruins with groves that are fashioned rather like those of Cytherea or Naxos.” “It must be as you will!” said the philosopher, with a deep and somewhat affected sigh. “Here, Diogenes!” called aloud the Cæsar; “when thou art summoned, mischief is not far distant. Come, undo the secret entrance. Mischief, my trusty negro, is not so distant but she will answer the first clatter of the stones.” The negro looked at his master, who returned him a glance acquiescing in the Cæsar’s proposal. Diogenes then went to a part of the ruined wall which was covered by some climbing shrubs, all of which he carefully removed. This showed a little postern door, closed irregularly, and filled up, from the threshold to the top, with large square stones, all of which the slave took out and piled aside, as if for the purpose of replacing them. “I leave thee,” said Agelastes to the negro, “to guard this door, and let no one enter, except he has the sign, upon the peril of thy life. It were dangerous it should be left open at this period of the day.” The obsequious Diogenes put his hand to his sabre and to his head, as if to signify the usual promise of fidelity or death, by which those of his condition generally expressed their answer to their master’s commands. Diogenes then lighted a small lantern, and pulling out a key, opened an inner door of wood, and prepared to step forward. “Hold, friend Diogenes,” said the Cæsar; “thou wantest not thy lantern to discern an honest man, whom, if thou didst seek, I must needs say thou hast come to the wrong place to find one. Nail thou up these creeping shrubs before the entrance of the place, and abide thou there, as already directed, till our return, to parry the curiosity of any who may be attracted by the sight of the private passage.” The black slave drew back as he gave the lamp to the Cæsar, and

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Agelastes followed the light through a long, but narrow, arched passage, well supplied with air from space to space, and not neglected in the inside to the degree which its exterior would have implied. “I will not enter with you into the gardens,” said Agelastes, “or to the bower of Cytherea, where I am too old to be a worshipper. Thou thyself, I think, Imperial Cæsar art well aware of the road, having travelled it divers times; and, if I mistake not, for the fairest reasons.” “The more thanks,” said the Cæsar, “are due to mine excellent friend Agelastes, who forgets his own age to accommodate the youth of his friends.”

Chapter Six W         return to the dungeons of the Blacquernal, where circumstances had formed at least a temporary union between the stout Varangian and Count Robert of Paris, who had a stronger resemblance to each other in their dispositions, than probably either of them would have been willing to admit. The virtues of the Varangian were all of that natural and unrefined kind which nature herself dictates to a gallant man, to whom a total want of fear, and the most prompt alacrity to meet danger, had been attributes of a life-long standing. The Count, on the other hand, had all that bravery, generosity, and love of adventure, which was possessed by the rude soldier, with the virtues, partly real, partly fantastic, which those of his rank and country acquired from the spirit of chivalry. The one might be compared to the diamond as it came from the mine, before it had yet received the advantages of cutting and setting; the other was the ornamented gem, which, cut into facets and richly set, had lost perhaps a little of its original substance, yet still, at the same time, to the eye of an inspector, had something more showy and splendid than when it was, according to the phrase of lapidaries, en brut. In the one case, the value was more artificial; in the other, it was the more natural and real of the two. Chance, therefore, had made a temporary alliance between two men, the foundation of whose characters bore such strong resemblance to each other, that they were only separated by a course of education, which had left rigid prejudices on both sides, and which prejudices were not unlikely to run counter to each other. The Varangian commenced his conversation with the Count in a tone of familiarity, approaching nearer to rudeness than the speaker was aware of, and much of which, though most innocently intended by Hereward, might be taken amiss by his new brother in arms. The most offensive part of his deportment, however, was a blunt, bold disregard to the

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title of those whom he addressed, adhering thereby to the manners of the Saxons, from whom he drew his descent, and which was likely to be at least unpleasing to the Franks as well as Normans, who had already received and become very tenacious of the privileges of the feudal system, the mummery of heraldry, and the warlike claims assumed by knights, as belonging only to their own order. Hereward was apt, it must be owned, to think too little of these distinctions; while he had at least a sufficient tendency to think enough of the power and wealth of the Greek empire which he served,—of the dignity inherent in Alexius Comnenus, and which he was also disposed to grant to the Grecian officers, who, under the Emperor, commanded his own corps, and particularly to Achilles Tatius. This man Hereward knew to be a coward, and half-suspected to be a villain. Still, however, the Follower was always the direct channel through which the Imperial graces were conferred on the Varangians in general, as well as upon Hereward himself; and he had always the policy to represent such favours as being more or less indirectly the consequence of his own intercession. He was supposed vigorously to espouse the quarrel of the Varangians, in all the disputes between them and the other corps; he was liberal and open-handed; gave every soldier his due; and, bating the trifling circumstance of valour, which was not particularly his forte, it would have been difficult for these strangers to have demanded a leader more precisely to their wishes. Besides this, our friend Hereward was admitted by him into his society, attended him, as we have seen, upon secret expeditions, and shared, therefore, deeply in what may be termed, by an expressive, though vulgar phrase, the sneaking kindness entertained for this new Achilles by the greater part of his myrmidons. Their attachment might be explained, perhaps, as a liking to their commander, as strong as could well exist with a marvellous lack of honour and esteem. The scheme, therefore, formed by Hereward to effect the deliverance of the Count of Paris, comprehended as much faith to the Emperor, and his representative, the Acolyte or Follower, as was consistent with rendering justice to the injured Frank. In furtherance of this plan, he conducted Count Robert from the subterranean vaults of the Blacquernal, of the intricacies of which he was master, having been repeatedly, of late, stationed sentinel there, for the purpose of acquiring that knowledge of which Tatius promised himself the advantage in the ensuing conspiracy. When they were in the open air, and at some distance from the gloomy towers of the Palace, he bluntly asked the Count of Paris whether he knew Agelastes the Philosopher. The other answered in the negative. “Look you now, Sir Knight, you hurt yourself in attempting to

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impose upon me,” said Hereward. “You must know him; for I saw you dined with him yesterday.” “O! with that learned old man?” said the Count. “I know nothing of him worth owning or disguising to thee or any one. A wily person he is, half herald and half minstrel.” “Half procurer and whole knave,” subjoined the Varangian. “With the mask of apparent good-humour, he conceals his pandering to the vices of others; with the specious jargon of philosophy, he has argued himself out of religious belief and moral principle; and, with the appearance of the most devoted loyalty, he will, if he is not checked in time, either argue his too confiding master out of life and empire, or, if he fails in this, reason his simple associates into death and misery.” “And do you know all this,” said Count Robert, “and permit this man to go unimpeached?” “O, content you, sir,” replied the Varangian; “I cannot yet form any plot which Agelastes may not countermine; but the time will come, nay, it is already approaching, when the Emperor’s attention shall be irresistibly turned to the conduct of this man, and then let the philosopher sit fast, or by Saint Dunstan the barbarian overthrows him! I would only fain, methinks, save from his clutches a foolish friend, who has listened to his delusions.” “But what have I to do,” said the Count, “with this man, or with his plots?” “Much,” said Hereward, “although you know it not. The main supporter of this plot is no other than the Cæsar, who ought to be the most faithful of men; but ever since Alexius has named a Sebastocrator, an officer that is higher in rank, and nearer to the throne than the Cæsar himself, so long has Nicephorus Briennius been displeased and dissatisfied, though for what length of time he has joined the schemes of the astucious Agelastes, it is more difficult to say. This I know, that for many months Agelastes has fed liberally, as his riches enable him to do, the vices and prodigality of the Cæsar. He has encouraged him to show disrespect to his wife, although the Emperor’s daughter; has put ill-will betwixt him and the royal family. And if Briennius bears no longer the fame of a rational man, and the renown of a good leader, he is deprived of both by following the advice of this artful sycophant.” “And what is all this to me?” said the Frank. “Agelastes may be a true man, or a time-serving slave; his master, Alexius Comnenus, is not so much allied to me or mine, that I should meddle in the intrigues of his court?” “You may be mistaken in that,” said the blunt Varangian; “if these intrigues involve the happiness and virtue”——

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“Death of a thousand martyrs!” said the Frank, “doth paltry intrigues and quarrels of slaves involve a single thought of suspicion of the noble Countess of Paris? The oaths of thy whole generation were ineffectual to prove but that one of her hairs had changed its colour to silver!” “Well imagined, gallant knight,” said the Anglo-Saxon; “thou art a husband fitted for the atmosphere of Constantinople, which calls for little vigilance and a strong belief. Thou wilt find many followers and fellows in this court of ours.” “Hark thee, friend,” replied the Frank, “let us have no more words, nor walk farther together than just to the most solitary nook of this bewildered city, and let us there set to that work which we left even now unfinished.” “If thou wert a Duke, Sir Count,” replied the Varangian, “thou couldst not invite to a combat one who is more ready for it. Yet, consider the odds on which we fight. If I fall, my moan is soon made; but will my death set thy wife at liberty if she is under restraint, or restore her honour if it is tarnished?—Will it do any thing more than remove from the world the only person who is willing to give thee aid, at his own risk and danger, and who hopes to unite thee to thy wife, and replace thee at the head of thy forces?” “I was wrong,” said the Count of Paris; “I was entirely wrong; but beware, my good friend, how thou couplest the name of Brenhilda of Aspramonte with the word of dishonour, and tell me, instead of this irritating discourse, whither go we now?” “To the Cytherean gardens of Agelastes, from which we are not far distant,” said the Anglo-Saxon; “yet he hath a nearer way to it than that by which we now travel, else I should be at a loss to account for the short space in which he could exchange the charms of his garden for the gloomy ruins of the Temple of Isis, and the Imperial palace of the Blacquernal.” “And wherefore, and how long,” said Count Robert, “dost thou conclude that my Countess is detained in these gardens?” “Ever since yesterday,” replied Hereward. “When during the banquet both I, and several of my companions at my request, kept close watch upon the Cæsar and your lady, we did plainly perceive passages of fiery admiration on his part, and anger, as it seemed, on hers, which Agelastes, being Nicephorus’s friend, was likely, as usual, to bring to an end, by a separation of you both from the army of the crusaders, that your wife, like many a matron before, might have the pleasure of taking up her residence in the gardens of that worthy sage; while you, my lord, might occupy your own permanently in the castle of Blacquernal.”

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“Villain! why didst thou not apprise me of this yesterday?” “A likely thing,” said Hereward, “that I should feel myself at liberty to leave the ranks, and make such a communication to a man, whom, far from a friend, I then considered in the light of a personal enemy! Methinks, that instead of such language as this, you should be thankful that so many chance circumstances have at length brought me to befriend and assist you.” Count Robert felt the truth of what was said, though at the same time his fiery temper longed to avenge itself, according to its wont, upon the party which was nearest at hand. But now they had arrived at what the citizens of Constantinople called the Philosopher’s Gardens. Here Hereward hoped to obtain entrance, for he had gained a knowledge of some part, at least, of the private signals of Achilles and Agelastes, since he had been introduced to the last at the ruins of the Temple of Isis. They had not indeed admitted him to their entire secret; yet, confident in his connexion with the Follower, they had no hesitation in communicating to him snatches of knowledge, such as, committed to a man of shrewd natural sense like the Anglo-Saxon, could scarce fail, in time and by degrees, to make him master of the whole. Count Robert and his companion stood before an arched door, the only opening in a high wall, and the Anglo-Saxon was about to knock, when, as if the idea had suddenly struck him,— “What if the wretch Diogenes opens the gate? We must kill him, ere he can fly back and betray us. Well, it is a matter of necessity, and the villain has deserved his death by a hundred horrid crimes.” “Kill him, then, thyself,” retorted Count Robert; “he is nearer thy degree, and assuredly I will not defile the name of Charlemagne with the blood of a black slave.” “Nay, God-a-mercy!” answered the Anglo-Saxon; “but you must bestir yourself in the action, supposing there come rescue, and that I be overborne by odds.” “Such odds,” said the knight, “will render the action more like a melée, or general battle; and assure yourself, I will not be slack when I may, with my honour, be active.” “I doubt it not,” said the Varangian; “but the distinction seems a strange one, that, before permitting a man to defend himself, or annoy his enemy, requires him to demand the pedigree of his ancestor.” “Fear you not, sir,” said Count Robert. “The strict rule of chivalry indeed bears what I tell thee; but when the question is, Fight, or not? there is great allowance to be made for a decision in the affirmative.” “Let me give then the exorciser’s rap,” replied Hereward, “and see what fiend will appear.”

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So saying, he knocked in a particular manner, and the door opened inwards; a dwarfish negress stood in the gap—her white hair contrasted singularly with her dark complexion, and with the broad laughing look peculiar to these slaves. She had something in her physiognomy which, severely construed, might argue malice, and a delight in human misery. “Is Agelastes”—— said the Varangian; but he had not completed the sentence, when she answered him, by pointing down a shadowed walk. The Anglo-Saxon and Frank turned in that direction, when the hag rather muttered, than said distinctly, “You are one of the initiated, Varangian; take heed whom you take with you, when you may hardly, peradventure, be welcomed even going alone.” Hereward made a sign that he understood her, and they were instantly out of her sight. The path winded beautifully through the shades of an eastern garden, where clumps of flowers and labyrinths of flowering shrubs, and the tall boughs of the forest trees, rendered even the breath of noon cool and acceptable. “Here we must use our utmost caution,” said Hereward, speaking in a low tone of voice; “for here it is most likely the deer that we seek has found its refuge. Better allow me to pass before, since you are too deeply agitated to possess the coolness necessary for a scout. Keep concealed beneath yon oak, and let no vain scruples of honour deter you from creeping beneath the underwood, or beneath the earth itself, if you should hear a footfall. If the lovers have agreed, Agelastes, it is probable, walks his round, to prevent intrusion.” “Death and furies! it cannot be,” exclaimed the fiery Frank.— “Lady of the Broken Lances, take thy votary’s life, ere thou torment him with this agony!” He saw, however, the necessity of keeping a strong force upon himself, and permitted, without further remonstrance, the Varangian to pursue his way, looking, however, earnestly after him. By advancing forward a little, he could observe Hereward draw near to a pavilion which arose at no great distance from the place where they had parted. Here he observed him apply, first his eye, and then his ear, to one of the casements, which were in a great measure grown over, and excluded from the light, by various flowering shrubs. He almost thought he saw a grave interest take place in the countenance of the Varangian, and he longed to have his share of the information which he had doubtless obtained. He crept, therefore, with noiseless steps, through the same labyrinth of foliage which had covered the approaches of Hereward; and so silent were his movements, that he touched the Anglo-Saxon, in order

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to make him aware of his presence, before he observed his approach. Hereward, not aware at first by whom he was approached, turned on the intruder with a countenance like a burning coal. Seeing, however, that it was the Frank, he shrugged his shoulders, as if pitying the impatience which could not be kept under prudent restraint, and drawing himself back, allowed the Count the privilege of a peeping place through plinths of the casement, which could not be discerned by the sharpest eye from the inner side. The sombre character of the light which penetrated into this abode of pleasure, was suited to that species of thought to which a Temple of Cytherea was supposed to be dedicated. Portraits and groups of statuary were also to be seen, in the taste of those which they had beheld at the Kiosk of the waterfall, yet something more free in the ideas which they conveyed than were to be found at their first resting-place. Shortly after, the door of the pavilion opened, and the Countess entered, followed by her attendant Agatha. The lady threw herself on a couch as she came in, while her attendant, who was a young and very handsome woman, kept herself modestly in the background, so much so as hardly to be distinguished. “What dost thou think,” said the Countess, “of so suspicious a friend as Agelastes? so gallant an enemy as this Cæsar, as he is called?” “What should I think,” returned the damsel, “except that what the old man calls friendship is hatred, and what the Cæsar terms a patriotic love for his country, which will not permit him to set its enemies at liberty, is in fact too strong an affection for his fair captive?” “For such an affection,” said the Countess, “he shall have the same requital as if it were indeed the hostility of which he would give it the colour.—My true and noble lord! hadst thou an idea of the calamities to which they have subjected me, how soon wouldst thou break through every restraint to hasten to my relief!” “Art thou a man,” said Count Robert to his companion; “and canst thou advise me to remain still and hear this?” “I am one man,” said the Anglo-Saxon; “you, sir, are another; but all our arithmetic will not make us more than two; and in this place, it is probable that a whistle from the Cæsar, or a scream from Agelastes, would bring a thousand to match us, if we were as bold as Bevis of Hampton.—Stand still and keep quiet. I counsel this, less as respecting my own life, which, by embarking upon a wild-goose chase with so strange a partner, I have shown I put at little value, than for thy safety, and that of the lady thy Countess, who shows herself as virtuous as beautiful.” “I was imposed on at first,” said the Lady Brenhilda to her attendant. “Affectation of severe morals, of deep learning, and of rigid

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rectitude, assumed by this wicked old man, made me believe in part the character which he pretended; but the gloss is rubbed off since he let me see into his alliance with the unworthy Cæsar, and the ugly picture remains in its native loathsomeness. Nevertheless, if I can, by address or subtlety, deceive this arch-deceiver,—as he has taken from me, in a great measure, every other kind of assistance,—I will not refuse that of craft, which he may find perhaps equal to his own?” “Hear you that?” said the Varangian to the Count of Paris. “Do not let your impatience mar the web of your lady’s prudence. I will weigh a woman’s wit against a man’s valour, where there is aught to do! Let us not come in with our assistance until time shall show us that it is necessary for her safety and our success.” “Amen,” said the Count of Paris; “but hope not, Sir Saxon, that thy prudence shall persuade me to leave this garden without taking full vengeance on that unworthy Cæsar, and the pretended philosopher, if indeed he turns out to have assumed a character”——The Count was here beginning to raise his voice, when the Saxon, without ceremony, placed his hand on his mouth. “Thou takest a liberty,” said Count Robert, lowering however his tones. “Ay, truly,” said Hereward; “when the house is on fire, I do not stop to ask whether the water which I pour on it be perfumed or no.” This recalled the Frank to a sense of his situation; and if not contented with the Saxon’s mode of making an apology, he was at least silenced. A distant noise was now heard—the Countess listened, and changed colour. “Agatha,” she said, “we are like champions in the lists, and here comes the adversary. Let us retreat into this side apartment, and so for a while put off an encounter thus alarming.” So saying, the two females withdrew into a sort of ante-room, which opened from the principal apartment behind the seat which Brenhilda had occupied. They had scarcely disappeared, when, as the stage direction has it, enter from the other side the Cæsar and Agelastes. They had perhaps heard the last words of Brenhilda, for the Cæsar repeated in a low tone— “Militat omnis amans, habet et sua castra Cupido.

What, has our fair opponent withdrawn her forces? No matter, it shows she thinks of the warfare, though the enemy be not in sight. Well, thou shalt not have to upbraid me this time, Agelastes, with precipitating my amours, and depriving myself of the pleasure of pursuit. By Heavens, I will be as regular in my progress as if in reality I bore on my shoulders the whole load of years which make the difference between us; for I shrewdly suspect that with thee, old man, it is

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that envious churl Time that hath plucked the wings of Cupid.” “Say not so, mighty Cæsar,” said the old man; “it is the hand of Prudence, which, depriving Cupid’s wing of some wild feathers, leaves him still enough to fly with an equal and steady flight.” “Thy flight, however, was less measured, Agelastes, when thou didst collect that armoury—that magazine of Cupid’s panoply, out of which thy kindness permitted me but now to arm myself, or rather to repair my accoutrements.” So saying, he glanced his eye over his own person, blazing with gems, and adorned with a chain of gold, bracelets, rings, and other ornaments, which, with a new and splendid habit, assumed since his arrival at these Cytherean gardens, tended to set off his very handsome figure. “I am glad,” said Agelastes, “if you have found among toys, which I now never wear, and seldom made use of even when life was young with me, any thing which may set off your natural advantages. Remember only this slight condition, that such of these trifles as have made part of your wearing apparel on this distinguished day, cannot return to a meaner owner, but must of necessity remain the property of that greatness of which they had once formed an ornament.” “I cannot consent to this, my worthy friend,” said the Cæsar; “I know thou valuest these jewels only in so far as a philosopher may value them; that is, for nothing save the remembrances which attach to them. This large seal-ring, for instance, was—I have heard you say —the property of Socrates; if so, you cannot view it save with devout thankfulness, that your own philosophy has never been tried with the exercise of a Xantippe. These clasps released, in older times, the lovely bosom of Phryne; and they now belong to one who could do better homage to the beauties they concealed or discovered than could the cynic Diogenes. These buckles, too”—— “I will spare thy ingenuity, good youth,” said Agelastes, somewhat nettled; “or rather, noble Cæsar. Keep thy wit—thou wilt have ample occasion for it.” “Fear not me,” said the Cæsar. “Let us proceed, since you will, to exercise the gifts which we possess, such as they are, either natural or bequeathed to us by our dear and respected friend. Hah!” he said, the door opening suddenly, and the Countess almost meeting him, “our wishes are here anticipated.” He bowed accordingly with the deepest deference to the Lady Brenhilda, who, having made some alterations to enhance the splendour of her attire, now moved forward from the withdrawing-room into which she had retreated.

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“Hail, noble lady,” said the Cæsar, “whom I have visited with the intention of apologising for detaining you, in some degree against your will, in those strange regions in which you unexpectedly find yourself.” “Not in some degree,” answered the lady, “but entirely contrary to my inclinations, which are, to be with my husband the Count of Paris, and the followers who have taken the cross under his banner.” “Such, doubtless, were your thoughts when you left the land of the west,” said Agelastes; “but, fair Countess, have they experienced no change? You have left a shore streaming with human blood when the slightest provocation occurred, and thou hast come to one whose principal maxim is to increase the sum of human happiness by every mode which can be invented. In the west yonder, he or she is respected most who can best exercise their tyrannical strength in making others miserable, while in these more placid realms, we reserve our garlands for the ingenious youth, or lovely lady, who can best make happy the person whose affection is fixed upon her.” “But, reverend philosopher,” said the Countess, “who labourest so artificially in recommending the yoke of pleasure, know that you contradict every notion which I have been taught from my infancy. In the land where my nurture lay, so far are we from acknowledging your doctrines, that we match not, except like the lion and the lioness, when the male has compelled the female to acknowledge his superior worth and valour. Such is our rule, that a damsel, even of mean degree, would think herself heinously undermatched, if wedded to a gallant whose fame in arms was yet unknown.” “But, noble lady,” said the Cæsar, “a dying man may then find room for some faint hope. Were there but a chance that distinction in arms could gain those affections which have been stolen, rather than fairly conferred, how many are there who would willingly enter into the competition where the prize is so fair! What is the enterprise too bold to be undertaken on such a condition! And where is the individual whose heart would not feel, that in baring his sword for the prize, he made vow never to return it to the scabbard without the proud boast, What I have not yet won, I have deserved!” “You see, lady,” said Agelastes, who, apprehending that the last speech of the Cæsar had made some impression, hastened to follow it up with a suitable observation—“You see that the fire of chivalry burns as gallantly in the bosom of the Grecians as in that of the western nations.” “Yes,” answered Brenhilda, “and I have heard of the celebrated siege of Troy, on which occasion a dastardly coward carried off the wife of a brave man, shunned every proffer of encounter with the

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husband whom he had wronged, and finally caused the death of his numerous brothers, the destruction of his native city, with all the wealth which it contained, and died himself the death of a pitiful poltroon, lamented only by his worthless leman, to show how well the rules of chivalry were understood by your predecessors.” “Lady, you mistake,” said the Cæsar; “the offences of Paris were those of a dissolute Asiatic; the courage which avenged them was that of the Greek Empire.” “You are learned, sir,” said the lady; “but think not that I will trust your words until you produce before me a Grecian knight gallant enough to look upon the armed crest of my husband without quaking.” “That, methinks, were not extremely difficult,” returned the Cæsar; “if they have not flattered me, I have myself been thought equal in battle to more dangerous men than him who has been strangely mated with the Lady Brenhilda.” “That is soon tried,” answered the Countess. “You will hardly, I think, deny, that my husband, separated from me by some unworthy trick, is still at thy command, and could be produced at thy pleasure. I will ask no armour for him save what he wears, no weapon but his good sword Tranchefer; then place him in this chamber, or any other lists equally narrow, and if he flinch, or cry craven, or remain dead under shield, let Brenhilda be the prize of the conqueror.—Merciful Heaven!” she concluded, as she sank back upon her seat, “forgive me for the crime of even imagining such a termination, which is equal almost to doubting thine unerring judgment!” “Let me, however,” said the Cæsar, “catch up these precious words before they fall to the ground.—Let me hope that he, to whom the heavens shall give power and strength to conquer this highly-esteemed Count of Paris, shall succeed him in the affections of Brenhilda; and believe me, the sun plunges not through the sky to his resting-place, with the same celerity that I shall hasten to the encounter.” “Now, by Heaven!” said Count Robert, in an anxious whisper to Hereward, “it is too much to expect me to stand by and hear a contemptible Greek, who durst not stand even the rattling farewell which Tranchefer takes of his scabbard, brave me in my absence, and affect to make love to my lady par amours! And she, too—methinks Brenhilda allows more license than she is wont to do to yonder chattering popinjay. By the rood! I will spring into the apartment, front them with my personal appearance, and confute yonder braggart in a manner he is like to remember.” “Under favour,” said the Varangian, who was the only auditor of

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this violent speech, “you shall be ruled by calm reason while I am with you. When we are separated, let the devil of knight errantry, which has such possession of thee, take thee upon his shoulders, and carry thee full tilt wheresoever he lists.” “Thou art a brute that would have this,” said the Count, looking at him with a contempt corresponding to the expression he made use of; “not only without humanity, but without the sense of natural honour or natural shame. The most despicable of animals stands not by tamely and sees another assail his mate. The bull offers his horns to a rival— the mastiff uses his jaws—and even the timid stag becomes furious, and gores.” “Because they are beasts,” said the Varangian, “and their mistresses also creatures without shame or reason, who are not aware of the sanctity of a choice. But thou, too, Count, canst thou not see the obvious purpose of this poor lady, forsaken by all the world, to keep her faith towards thee, by eluding the snares with which wicked men have beset her? By the souls of my fathers! my heart is so much moved by her ingenuity, mingled as I see it is with the most perfect candour and faith, that I myself, in fault of a better champion, would willingly raise the axe in her behalf!” “I thank thee, my good friend,” said the Count; “I thank thee as heartily as if it were possible thou shouldst be left to do that good office for Brenhilda, the beloved of many a noble lord, the mistress of many a powerful vassal; and, what is more, much more than thanks, I crave thy pardon for the wrong I did thee but now.” “My pardon you cannot need,” said the Varangian; “for I take no offence that is not seriously meant.—Stay, they speak again.” “It is strange it should be so,” said the Cæsar, as he paced the apartment; “but methinks, nay, I am almost certain, Agelastes, that I hear voices in the vicinity of this apartment of thy privacy.” “It is impossible,” said Agelastes; “but I will go and see.” Perceiving him to leave the pavilion, the Varangian made the Frank sensible that they must crouch down among a little thicket of evergreens where they lay completely obscured. The philosopher made his rounds with a heavy step, but a watchful eye; and the two listeners were obliged to observe the strictest silence, without motion of any kind, until he had completed an ineffectual search, and returned into the pavilion. “By my faith, brave man,” said the Count, “ere we return to our skulking-place, I must tell thee in thine ear, that never, in my life, was temptation so strong upon me, as that which prompted me to beat out that old hypocrite’s brains, provided I could have reconciled it with my honour; and heartily do I wish that thou, whose honour no way with-

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held thee, had experienced and given way to some impulse of a similar nature.” “Such fancies have passed through my head,” said the Varangian; “but I will not follow them till they are consistent both with our own safety, and more particularly with that of the Countess.” “I thank thee again for thy good-will to her,” said Count Robert; “and, by Heaven! if fight we must at length, as it seems likely, I will neither grudge thee an honourable antagonist, nor fair quarter if the combat goes against thee.” “Thou hast my thanks,” was the reply of Hereward; “only, for Heaven’s sake, be silent in this conjuncture, and do what thou wilt afterwards.” Before the Varangian and the Count had again resumed their posture of listeners, the parties within the pavilion, conceiving themselves unwatched, had resumed their conversation, speaking low, yet with considerable animation: “It is in vain you would persuade me,” said the Countess, “that you know not where my husband is, or that you have not the most absolute influence over his captivity. Who else could have an interest in banishing or putting to death the husband, but he that affects to admire the wife?” “You do me wrong, beautiful lady,” answered the Cæsar, “and forget that I can in no shape be termed the moving-spring of this empire; that my father-in-law, Alexius, is the Emperor; and that the woman who terms herself my wife, is jealous as a fiend can be of my slightest motion.—What possibility was there that I should work the captivity of your husband and your own? The open affront which the Count of Paris put upon the Emperor, was one which he was likely to avenge, either by secret guile or by open force. Me it no way touched, save as the humble vassal of thy charms; and it was by the wisdom and the art of the sage Agelastes, that I was able to extricate thee from the gulf in which thou hadst else certainly perished. Nay, weep not, lady, for as yet we know not the fate of Count Robert; but credit me, it is wisdom to choose a better protector, and consider him as no more.” “A better than him,” said Brenhilda, “I can never have, were I to choose out of the knighthood of all the world!” “This hand,” said the Cæsar, drawing himself into a martial attitude, “should decide that question, were the man of whom thou thinkest so much yet moving on the face of this earth, and at liberty.” “Thou art,” said Brenhilda, looking fixedly at him with the fire of indignation flashing from every feature—“thou art—but it avails not telling thee what is thy real name: believe me, the world shall one day ring with it, and be justly sensible of its value. Observe what I am about

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to say—Robert of Paris is gone—or captive, I know not where. He cannot fight the match of which thou seemest so desirous—but here stands Brenhilda, born heiress of Aspramonte, by marriage the wedded wife of the good Count of Paris. She was never matched in the lists by mortal man, except the valiant Count, and since thou art so grieved that thou canst not meet her husband in battle, thou canst not surely object, if she is willing to meet thee in his stead?” “How, madam?” said the Cæsar, astonished; “do you propose yourself to hold the lists against me?” “Against you!” said the Countess; “against all the Grecian empire, if they shall affirm that Robert of Paris is justly used and lawfully confined.” “And are the conditions,” said the Cæsar, “the same as if Count Robert himself held the lists? The vanquished must then be at the pleasure of the conqueror for good or evil.” “It would seem so,” said the Countess, “nor do I refuse the hazard; only, that if the other champion shall bite the dust, the noble Count Robert shall be set at liberty, and permitted to depart with all suitable honours.” “This I refuse not,” said the Cæsar, “provided it is in my power.” A deep growling sound, like that of a modern gong, here interrupted the conference.

Chapter Seven T   V  and Count Robert, at every risk of discovery, had remained so near as fully to conjecture, though they could not expressly overhear, the purport of the conversation. “He has accepted her challenge?” said the Count of Paris. “And with apparent willingness,” said Hereward. “O, doubtless, doubtless—” answered the Crusader; “but he knows not the skill in war which a woman may attain; for my part, God knows I have enough depending upon the issue of this contest, yet such is my confidence, that I would to God I had more. I vow to our Lady of the Broken Lances, that I desire every furrow of land I possess —every honour which I can call my own, from the Countship of Paris, down to the leather that binds my spur, were dependent and at issue upon this fair field, between your Cæsar, as men term him, and Brenhilda of Aspramonte.” “It is a noble confidence,” said the Varangian, “nor durst I say it is a rash one; only I cannot but remember that the Cæsar is a strong man as well as a handsome, expert in the use of arms, and, above all, less

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strictly bound than you esteem yourself by the rules of honour. There are many ways in which advantage may be given and taken, which will not, in the Cæsar’s estimation, alter the character of the field from an equal one, although it might do so in the opinion of the chivalrous Count of Paris, or even in that of the poor Varangian. But first let me conduct you to some place of safety, for your escape must be soon, if it is not already detected. The sounds which we heard intimate that some of his confederate plotters have visited the garden on other than love affairs. I will guide thee to another avenue than that by which we entered. But you would hardly, I suppose, be pleased to adopt the wisest alternative?” “And what may that be?” said the Count. “To give thy purse, though it were thine all, to some poor ferryman to waft thee over the Hellespont, then hasten to carry thy complaint to Godfrey of Bouillon, and what friends thou mayst have among thy brethren crusaders, and determine, as thou easily canst, on a sufficient number of them to come back and menace the city with instant war, unless the Emperor should deliver up thy lady, most unfairly made prisoner, and prevent, by his authority, this absurd and unnatural combat.” “And would you have me then,” said Count Robert, “move the crusaders to break a fairly appointed field of battle? Do you think that Godfrey of Bouillon would turn back upon his pilgrimage for such an unworthy purpose; or that the Countess of Paris would accept as a service, means of safety which would stain her honour for ever, by breaking an appointment solemnly made on her own challenge?— Never!” “My judgment is then at fault,” said the Varangian, “for I see I can hammer out no expedient which is not, in some extravagant manner or another, controlled by your foolish notions. Here is a man who has been trapped into the power of his enemy, that he might not interfere to prevent a base stratagem upon his lady, involving both her life and honour; yet he thinks it a matter of necessity that he keeps faith as precisely with these midnight poisoners, as he would had it been pledged to the most honourable men!” “Thou say’st a painful truth,” said Count Robert; “but my word is the emblem of my faith; and if I pass it to a dishonourable or faithless foe, it is imprudently done on my part: but if I break it, being once pledged, it is a dishonourable action, and the disgrace can never be washed from my shield.” “Do you mean, then,” said the Varangian, “to suffer your wife’s honour to remain pledged as it at present is, on the event of an unequal combat?”

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“God and the saints pardon thee such a thought!” said the Count of Paris. “I will go to see this combat with a heart as firm, if not as light, as any time I ever saw spears splintered. If by the influence of any accident or treachery, (for fairly, and with such an antagonist, Brenhilda of Aspramonte cannot be overthrown,) I step into the lists, proclaim the Cæsar as he is—a villain—show the falsehood of his conduct from beginning to end, appeal to every noble heart that hears me, and then—God show the right!” Hereward paused, and shook his head. “All this,” he said, “might be feasible enough, provided the combat were to be fought in the presence of your own countrymen, or even, by the mass! if the Varangians were to be guards of the lists. But treachery of every kind is so familiar to the Greeks, that I question if they would view the conduct of their Cæsar as any thing else than a pardonable and natural stratagem of Dan Cupid, to be smiled at, rather than subjected to disgrace or punishment.” “A nation,” said Count Robert, “who could smile at such a jest, may Heaven refuse them sympathy at their utmost need, when their sword is broken in their hand, and their wives and daughters shrieking in the relentless grasp of a barbarous enemy!” Hereward looked upon his companion, whose flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes bore witness to his enthusiasm. “I see,” he said to himself, “you are resolved, and I know that your resolution can in justice be called by no other name than an act of heroic folly—What then? life has long been bitter to the Varangian exile. Morn has raised him from a joyless bed, which night has seen him lie down upon, wearied with wielding a mercenary weapon in the wars of strangers. He has longed to lay down his life in an honourable cause, and this is one in which the extremity and very essence of honour is implicated. It tallies also with my scheme of saving the Emperor, which will be greatly facilitated by the downfall of his ungrateful son-in-law.” Then addressing himself to the Count, he continued, “Well, Sir Count, as thou art the person principally concerned, I am willing to yield to thy reasoning in this affair; but I hope you will permit me to mingle with your resolution some advices of a more every-day and less fantastic nature. For example, thy escape from the dungeons of the Blacquernal must soon be generally known. In prudence, indeed, I myself must be the first to communicate it, since otherwise the suspicion will fall on me—Where do you think of concealing yourself? for assuredly the search will be close and general.” “For that,” said the Count of Paris, “I must be indebted to thy suggestion, with thanks for every lie which thou findest thyself obliged

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to make, to contrive, and produce in my behalf, entreating thee only to render them as few as possible, they being a coin which I myself never fabricate.” “Sir Knight,” answered Hereward, “let me begin first by saying, that no knight that ever belted sword is more a slave to truth, when truth is observed towards him, than the poor soldier who talks to thee; but when the game depends not upon fair play, but upon lulling men’s cautiousness asleep by falsehood, and drugging their senses by opiate draughts, they who would scruple at no means of deceiving me, can hardly expect that I, who am paid in such base money, should pass nothing on my part but what is lawful and genuine. For the present thou must remain concealed within my poor apartment, in the barracks of the Varangians, which is the last place where they will think of seeking for thee. Take this, my upper cloak, and follow me; and now that we are about to leave these gardens, thou mayest follow me unsuspected as a sentinel attending his officer; for, take it along with you, noble Count, that we Varangians are a sort of persons upon whom the Greeks care not to look very long or fixedly.” They now reached the gate where they had been admitted by the negress, and Hereward, who was intrusted with the power, it seems, of letting himself out of the philosopher’s premises, though not of entering without assistance from the portress, took out a key which turned the lock on the garden side, so that they soon found themselves at liberty. They then proceeded by by-paths through the city, Hereward leading the way, and the Count following, without speech or remonstrance, until they stood before the portal of the barracks of the Varangians. “Make haste,” said the sentinel who was on duty, “dinner is already begun.” The communication sounded joyfully in the ears of Hereward, who was much afraid that his companion might have been stopt and examined. By a side passage he reached his own quarters, and introduced the Count into a small room, the sleeping chamber of his squire, where he apologized for leaving him for some time; and, going out, locked the door, for fear, as he said, of intrusion. The demon of suspicion was not very likely to molest a mind so frankly constituted as that of Count Robert, and yet the last action of Hereward did not fail to occasion some painful reflections. “This man,” he said, “had needs be true, for I have reposed in him a mighty trust, which few hirelings in his situation would honourably discharge. What is to prevent him to report to the principal officer of his watch, that the Frank prisoner, Robert Count of Paris, whose wife stands engaged for so desperate a combat with the Cæsar, has escaped, indeed, this morning, from the prisons of the Blacquernal,

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but has suffered himself to be trepanned at noon, and is again a captive in the barracks of the Varangian Guard?—what means of defence are mine, were I discovered to these mercenaries?—What man could do, by the favour of our Lady of the Broken Lances, I have not failed to achieve. I have slain a tiger in single combat—I have killed one warder, and conquered the desperate and gigantic creature by whom he was supported. I have had terms enough at command to bring over this Varangian to my side, in appearance at least; yet all this does not encourage me to hope that I could long keep at bay ten or a dozen such men as these beef-fed knaves appear to be, led in upon me by a fellow of thews and sinews such as those of my late companion.—Yet, for shame, Robert! such thoughts are unworthy a descendant of Charlemagne. When wert thou wont so curiously to count thine enemies, and when wert thou wont to be suspicious, since he, whose bosom may truly boast itself incapable of fraud, ought in honesty to be the last to expect it in another? The Varangian’s look is open, his coolness in danger is striking, his speech is more frank and ready than ever was that of a traitor. If he is false, there is no faith in the hand of nature, for truth, sincerity, and courage are written upon his forehead.” While Count Robert was thus reflecting upon his condition, and combating the thick-coming doubts and suspicions which its uncertainties gave rise to, he began to be sensible that he had not eaten for many hours; and amidst many doubts and fears of a more heroic nature, he half entertained a lurking suspicion, that they meant to let hunger undermine his strength before they adventured into the apartment to deal with him. We shall best see how far these doubts were deserved by Hereward, or how far they were unjust, by following his course after he left his barrack-room. Snatching a morsel of dinner, which he eat with an affectation of great hunger, but, in fact, that his attention to his food might be a pretence for dispensing with disagreeable questions, or with conversation of any kind, he pleaded duty, and immediately leaving his comrades, directed his course to the lodgings of Achilles Tatius, which were a part of the same building. A Syrian slave, who opened the door, after a deep reverence to Hereward, whom he knew as a favourite attendant of the Acolyte, said to him that his master was gone forth, but had desired him to say, that if he wished to see him, he would find him at the Philosopher’s Gardens, so called, as belonging to the sage Agelastes. Hereward turned about instantly, and availing himself of his knowledge of Constantinople to thread its streets in the shortest time possible, at length stood alone before the door in the garden-wall, at which he and the Count of Paris had previously been admitted in the earlier

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part of the day. The same negress appeared at the same private signal, and when he asked for Achilles Tatius, she replied, with some sharpness, “Since you were here this morning, I marvel you did not meet him, or that, having business with him, you did not stay till he arrived. Sure I am, that not long after you entered the garden the Acolyte was enquiring for you.” “It skills not, old woman,” said the Varangian; “I communicate the reason of my motions to my commander, but not to thee.” He entered the garden accordingly, and, avoiding the twilight-path that led to the Bower of Love,—so was the pavilion named in which he had overheard the dialogue between the Cæsar and the Countess of Paris,— he arrived before a simple garden-house, whose humble and modest front seemed to announce that it was the abode of philosophy and learning. Here, passing before the windows, he made some little noise, expecting to attract the attention either of Achilles Tatius, or his accomplice Agelastes, as chance should determine. It was the first who heard, and who replied. The door opened; a lofty plume stooped itself, that its owner might cross the threshold, and the stately form of Achilles Tatius entered the gardens. “What now,” he said, “our trusty sentinel? what hast thou, at this time of day, come to report to us? Thou art our good friend, and highly-esteemed soldier, and well we wot thine errand must be of importance, since thou hast brought it thyself, and at an hour so unusual.” “Pray Heaven,” said Hereward, “that the news I have brought deserve a welcome.” “Speak them instantly,” said the Acolyte, “good or bad; thou speakest to a man to whom fear is unknown.” But his eye, which quailed as he looked on the soldier—his colour, which went and came—his hands, which busied themselves in an uncertain manner in adjusting the belt of his sword,—all argued a state of mind very different from that which his tone of defiance would fain have implied. “Courage,” he said, “my trusty soldier! speak the news to me. I can bear the worst thou hast to tell.” “In a word, then,” said the Varangian, “your Valour directed me this morning to play the office of master of the rounds upon those dungeons of the Blacquernal palace, where last night the boisterous Count Robert of Paris was incarcerated.” “I remember well,” said Achilles Tatius.—“What then?” “As I reposed me,” said Hereward, “in an apartment above the vaults, I heard cries from beneath, of a kind which attracted my attention. I hastened to examine, and my surprise was extreme, when, looking down into the dungeon, though I could see nothing distinctly, yet, by the wailing and whimpering sounds, I conceived that the Man

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of the Forest, the animal called Sylvan, whom our soldiers have so far indoctrinated in our Saxon tongue as to make him useful in the wards of the prison, was bemoaning himself on account of some violent injury. Descending with a torch, I found the bed on which the prisoner had been let down burnt to cinders; the tiger which had been chained within a spring of it, with its skull broken to pieces; the creature called Sylvan, prostrate and writhing under great pain and terror, and no prisoner whatever in the dungeon. There were marks that all the fastenings had been withdrawn by a Mytilenian soldier, companion of my watch, when he visited the dungeon at the usual hour; and as, in my anxious search, I at length found his dead body, slain apparently by a stab in the throat, I was obliged to believe that while I was examining the cell, he, this Count Robert, with whose daring life the adventure is well consistent, had escaped to the upper air, by means, doubtless, of the ladder and trap-door by which I had descended.” “And wherefore didst thou not instantly call treason, and raise the hue and cry?” demanded the Acolyte. “I dared not venture to do so,” replied the Varangian, “till I had instructions from your Valour. The alarming cry of treason, and the various rumours likely at this moment to ensue, might have involved a search so close, as perchance would have discovered matters in which the Acolyte himself would have been rendered subject to suspicion.” “Thou art right,” said Achilles Tatius, in a whisper; “and yet it will be necessary that we do not pretend any longer to conceal the flight of this important prisoner, if we would not pass for being his accomplices. Where thinkest thou this unhappy fugitive can have taken refuge?” “That I was in hopes of learning from your Valour’s greater wisdom,” said Hereward. “Thinkest thou not,” said Achilles, “that he may have crossed the Hellespont, in order to rejoin his own countrymen and adherents?” “It is much to be dreaded,” said Hereward. “Undoubtedly, if the Count listened to the advice of any one who knew the face of the country, such would be the very counsel he would receive.” “The danger, then, of his return, at the head of a vengeful body of Franks,” said the Acolyte, “is not so immediate as I apprehended at first, for the Emperor gave positive orders that the boats and galleys which yesterday transported the crusaders to the shores of Asia should recross the strait, and bring back no single one of them from the step upon their journey on which he had so far furthered them.—Besides, they all,—their leaders, that is to say,—made their vows before crossing, that they would not turn back so much as a foot’s pace, now that they had set actually forth on the road to Palestine.” “So therefore,” said Hereward, “one of two propositions is unques-

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tionable; either Count Robert is on the eastern side of the strait, having no means of returning with his brethren to avenge the usage he has received, and may therefore be securely set at defiance,—or else he lurks somewhere in Constantinople, without a friend or ally to take his part, or encourage him openly to state his supposed wrongs;—in either case, there can, I think, be no tact in conveying to the palace the news that he has freed himself, since it would only alarm the Court, and afford the Emperor ground for many supicions.—But it is not for an ignorant barbarian like me to prescribe a course of conduct to your valour and wisdom, and methinks the sage Agelastes were a fitter counsellor than such as I am.” “No, no, no,” said the Acolyte, in a hurried whisper; “the philosopher and I are right good friends, sworn good friends, very especially bound together; but should it come to this, that one of us must needs throw before the footstool of the Emperor the head of the other, I think thou wouldst not advise that I, whose hairs have not a trace of silver, should be the last in making the offering; wherefore, we will say nothing of this mishap, but give thee full power and the highest charge to seek for Count Robert of Paris, be he dead or alive, to secure him within the dungeons set apart for the discipline of our own corps, and when thou hast done so, to bring me notice. I may make him my friend in many ways, by extricating his wife from danger by the axes of my Varangians. What is there in this metropolis that they have to oppose them?” “When raised in a just cause,” answered Hereward, “nothing.” “Hah!—sayest thou?” said the Acolyte; “how meanest thou by that?—but I know—Thou art scrupulous about having the just and lawful command of thy officer in every action in which thou art engaged, and, thinking in that dutiful and soldierlike manner, it is my duty as thine Acolyte to see thy scruples satisfied. A warrant shalt thou have, with full powers, to seek for and imprison this foreign Count of whom we have been speaking—And, hark thee, my excellent friend,” he continued, with some hesitation, “I think thou hadst better begone, and begin, or rather continue thy search. It is unnecessary to inform our friend Agelastes of what has happened, until his advice be more needful than as yet it is on the occasion. Home—home to the barracks; I will account to him for thy appearance here, if he be curious on the subject, which, as a suspicious old man, he is likely to be. Go to the barracks, and act as if thou hadst a warrant in every respect full and ample. I will provide thee with one when I come back to my quarters.” The Varangian turned hastily homewards. “Now, is it not,” he said, “a strange thing, and enough to make a man a rogue for life—to observe how the devil encourages young

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beginners in falsehood! I have told a greater lie—at least I have suppressed more truth—than on any occasion before in my whole life —and what is the consequence? Why, my commander throws almost at my head a warrant sufficient to guarantee and protect me in all I have done, or propose to do! If the foul fiend were thus regular in protecting his votaries, methinks they would have little reason to complain of him, or better men to be astonished at their number. But a time comes, they say, when he seldom fails to desert them. Therefore, get thee behind me, Satan! If I have seemed to be thy servant for a short time, it is but with an honest and Christian purpose.” As he entertained these thoughts, he looked back upon the path, and was startled at an apparition of a creature of a much greater size, and a stranger shape than human, covered, all but the face, with a reddish-dun fur; his expression an ugly, and yet a sad melancholy; a cloth was wrapt round one hand, and an air of pain and languor bespoke suffering from a wound. So much was Hereward pre-occupied with his own reflections, that at first he thought his imagination had actually raised the devil; but after a sudden start of surprise, he recognized his acquaintance Sylvan. “Hah! old friend,” he said, “I am happy thou hast made thy escape to a place where thou wilt find plenty of fruit to support thee. Take my advice—keep out of the way of discovery—Keep thy friend’s counsel.” The Man of the Wood uttered a chattering noise in return to this address. “I understand thee,” said Hereward, “thou wilt tell no tales, thou sayest; and faith I will trust thee rather than the better part of my own two-legged race, who are eternally circumventing or murdering each other.” A minute after the creature was out of sight, Hereward heard the shriek of a female, and a voice which cried for help. The accents must have been uncommonly interesting to the Varangian, since, forgetting his own dangerous situation, he immediately turned and flew to the suppliant’s assistance.

Chapter Eight She comes! she comes! in all the charms of youth, Unequall’d love, and unsuspected truth!

H   was not long in tracing the cry through the wooded walks, when a female rushed into his arms; alarmed, as it appeared, by Sylvan, who was pursuing her closely. The figure of Hereward, with his axe uplifted, put an instant stop to his career, and with a terrified

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note of his native cries, he withdrew into the thickest of the adjoining foliage. Relieved from his presence, Hereward had time to look at the female whom he had succoured: She was arrayed in a dress which consisted of several colours, that which predominated being a pale yellow; her tunic was of this colour, and, like a modern gown, was closely fitted to the body, which, in the present case, was that of a tall, but very well-formed person. The mantle, or upper garment, in which the whole figure was wrapped, was of fine cloth; and the kind of hood which was attached to it having flown back with the rapidity of her motion, gave to view the hair, beautifully adorned and twisted into a natural head-dress. Beneath this natural head-gear appeared a face pale as death, from a sense of the supposed danger, but which preserved, even amidst its terror, an exquisite degree of beauty. Hereward was thunderstruck at this apparition. The dress was neither Grecian, Italian, nor of the costume of the Franks;—it was Saxon! —connected by a thousand tender remembrances with Hereward’s childhood and youth. The circumstance was most extraordinary. Saxon women, indeed, there were in Constantinople, who had united their fortunes with those of the Varangians; and those often chose to wear their national dress in the city, because the character and conduct of their husbands secured them a degree of respect, which they might not have met with either as Grecian or as stranger females of a similar rank. But almost all these were personally known to Hereward. It was no time, however, for reverie—he was himself in danger—the situation of the young female might be no safe one. In every case, it was judicious to quit the more public part of the gardens; he therefore lost not a moment in conveying the fainting Saxon to a retreat he fortunately was acquainted with. A covered path, obscured by vegetation, led through a species of labyrinth to an artificial cave, at the bottom of which, half-paved with shells, moss, and spar, lay the gigantic and half-recumbent statue of a river deity, with its usual attributes—that is, its front crowned with water-lilies and sedges, and its ample hand half-resting upon an empty urn. The attitude of the whole figure corresponded with the motto,—“I —  .” “Accursed relic of paganism,” said Hereward, who was, in proportion to his light, a zealous Christian—“brutish stock or stone that thou art! I will wake thee with a vengeance.” So saying, he struck the head of the slumbering deity with his battle-axe, and deranged the play of the fountain so much that the water began to pour into the basin. “Thou art a good block nevertheless,” said the Varangian, “to send succour so needful to the aid of my poor countrywoman. Thou shalt

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give her also, with thy leave, a portion of thy couch.” So saying, he arranged his fair burden, who was as yet insensible, upon the pedestal where the figure of the River God reclined. In doing this, his attention was recalled to her face, and again and again he was thrilled with an emotion of hope, but so excessively like fear, that it could only be compared to the flickering of a torch, uncertain whether it is to light up or be instantly extinguished. With a sort of mechanical attention, he continued to make such efforts as he could to recall the intellect of the beautiful creature before him. His feelings were those of the astronomical sage, to whom the rise of the moon slowly restores the contemplation of that heaven, which is at once, as a Christian, his hope of felicity, and, as a philosopher, the source of his knowledge. The blood returned to her cheek, and reanimation, and even recollection, took place in her earlier than in the astonished Varangian. “Blessed Mary!” she said, “have I indeed tasted the last bitter cup, and is it here where thou reunitest thy votaries after death!—Speak, Hereward! if thou art aught but an empty creature of the imagination! —speak, and tell me, if I have but dreamed of that monstrous ogre?” “Collect thyself, my beloved Bertha,” said the Anglo-Saxon, recalled by the sound of her voice, “and prepare to endure what thou livest to witness, and thy Hereward survives to tell. That hideous thing exists—nay, do not start, and look for a hiding-place—thy own gentle hand with a riding rod is sufficient to tame its courage. Am I not here, Bertha? Wouldst thou wish another safeguard?” “No—no,”—exclaimed she, seizing on the arm of her recovered lover. “Do I not know you now?” “And is it but now you know me, Bertha?” said Hereward. “I suspected before,” she said, casting down her eyes; “but I know with certainty that mark of the boar’s tusk.” Hereward suffered her imagination to clear itself from the shock it had received so suddenly, before he ventured to enter upon present events, in which there was so much both to doubt and to fear. He permitted her, therefore, to recall to her memory all the circumstances of the rousing the hideous animal, assisted by the tribes of both their fathers. She mentioned in broken words the flight of arrows discharged against the boar by young and old, male and female, and how her own well-aimed, but feeble shaft, wounded him sharply; she forgot not how, incensed at the pain, the creature rushed upon her as the cause, laid her palfrey dead upon the spot, and would soon have slain her, had not Hereward, when every attempt failed to bring his horse up to the monster, thrown himself from his seat, and interposed personally between the boar and Bertha. The battle was not decided without a desperate struggle; the boar was slain, but Hereward

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received the deep gash upon his brow, which she whom he had saved now recalled to her memory. “Alas!” she said, “what have we been to each other since that period? and what are we now, in this foreign land?” “Answer for thyself, my Bertha,” said the Varangian, “if thou canst; —and if thou canst with truth say that thou art the same Bertha who vowed affection to Hereward, believe me, it were sinful to suppose that the saints have brought us together with a view of our being afterwards separated.” “Hereward,” said Bertha, “you have not preserved the bird in your bosom safer than I have; at home or abroad, in servitude or in freedom, amidst sorrow or joy, plenty or want, my thought was always on the troth I had plighted to Hereward at the stone of Odin.” “Say no more of that,” said Hereward; “it was an impious rite, and good could not come of it.” “Was it then so impious?” she said, the unbidden tear rushing into her large blue eye.—“Alas! it was a pleasure to reflect that Hereward was mine by that solemn engagement!” “Listen to me, my Bertha,” said Hereward, taking her hand: “We were then almost children; and though our vow was in itself innocent, yet it was so far wrong, as being sworn in the presence of a dumb idol, representing one who was, while alive, a bloody and cruel magician. But we will, the instant an opportunity offers itself, renew our vow before a shrine of real sanctity, and promise suitable penance for our ignorant acknowledgment of Odin, to propitiate the real Deity, who can bear us through those storms of adversity which are like to surround us.” Leaving them for the time to their love-discourse, of a nature pure, simple, and interesting, we shall give, in few words, all that the reader needs to know of their separate history between the boar’s hunt and the time of their meeting in the gardens of Agelastes. In that doubtful state experienced by outlaws, Waltheoff, the father of Hereward, and Engelred, the parent of Bertha, used to assemble their unsubdued tribes, sometimes in the fertile regions of Devonshire, sometimes in the dark-wooded solitudes of Hampshire, but as much as possible within the call of the bugle of the famous Ederic the Forester, so long leader of the insurgent Saxons. The chiefs we have mentioned were among the last bold men who asserted the independence of the Saxon race of England; and like their captain, Ederic, they were generally known by the name of Foresters, as men who lived by hunting, when their power of making excursions was checked and repelled. Hence they made a step backwards in civilisation, and became more like to their remote ancestors of German descent, than

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they were to their more immediate and civilized predecessors, who, before the battle of Hastings, had advanced considerably in the arts of civilized life. Old superstitions had begun to revive among them, and hence the practice of youths and maidens plighting their troth at the stone circles dedicated, as it was supposed, to Odin, in whom, however, they had long ceased to nourish any of the sincere belief which was entertained by their heathen ancestors. In another respect, these outlaws were fast re-assuming a striking peculiarity of the ancient Germans. Their circumstances naturally brought the youth of both sexes much together, and by early marriage, or less permanent connexions, the population would have increased far beyond the means which the outlaws had to maintain, or even to protect themselves. The laws of the Foresters, therefore, strictly enjoined that marriages should be prohibited until the bridegroom was twenty-one years complete. Future alliances were indeed often formed by the young people, nor was this discountenanced by their parents, provided that the lovers waited until the period when the majority of the bridegroom should permit them to marry. Such youths as infringed this rule, incurred the dishonourable epithet of niddering, or worthless,—an epithet of a nature so insulting, that men were known to have slain themselves, rather than endure life under such opprobrium. But the offenders were very few amidst a race trained in moderation and self-denial; and hence it was that woman, worshipped for so many years like something sacred, was received, when she became the head of a family, into the arms and heart of a husband who had so long expected her, was treated as something more elevated than the mere idol of the moment; and feeling the rate at which she was valued, endeavoured by her actions to make her life correspond with it. It was by the whole population of these tribes, as well as their parents, that after the adventure of the boar hunt, Hereward and Bertha were considered as lovers whose alliance was pointed out by Heaven, and they were encouraged to approximate as much as their mutual inclinations prompted them. The youths of the tribe avoided asking Bertha’s hand at the dance, and the maidens used no maidenly entreaty or artifice to detain Hereward beside them, if Bertha was present at the feast. They clasped each other’s hands through the perforated stone, which they called the altar of Odin, though later ages have ascribed it to the Druids, and they implored that if they broke their faith to each other, their fault might be avenged by the twelve swords which were now drawn around them during the ceremony by as many youths, and that their misfortunes might be so many as twelve

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maidens, who stood around with their hair loosened, should be unable to recount, either in prose or verse. The torch of the Saxon Cupid shone for some years as brilliant as when it was first lighted. The time, however, came when they were to be tried by adversity, though undeserved by the perfidy of either. Years had gone past, and Hereward had to count with anxiety how many months and weeks were to separate him from the bride, who was beginning already by degrees to shrink less shyly from the expressions and caresses of one who was soon to term her all his own. William Rufus, however, had formed a plan of totally extirpating the Foresters, whose implacable hatred, and restless love of freedom, had so often disturbed the quiet of his kingdom, and despised his forest laws. He assembled his Norman forces, and united to them a body of Saxons who had submitted to his rule. He thus brought an overpowering force upon the bands of Waltheoff and Engelred, who found no resource but to throw the females of their tribe, and such as could not bear arms, into a convent dedicated to Saint Augustin, of which Kenelm their relation was prior, and then turning to the battle, vindicated their ancient valour by fighting it to the last. Both the unfortunate chiefs remained dead on the field, and Hereward and his brother had wellnigh shared their fate; but some Saxon inhabitants of the neighbourhood, who adventured on the field of battle, which the victors had left bare of every thing save the booty of the kites and the ravens, found the bodies of the youths still retaining life. As they were generally well known and much beloved by these people, Hereward and his brother were taken care of till their wounds began to close, and their strength returned. Hereward then heard the doleful news of the death of his father and Engelred. His next enquiry was concerning his betrothed bride and her mother. The poor inhabitants could give him little information. Some of the females who had taken refuge in the convent, the Norman knights and nobles had seized upon as their slaves, and the rest, with the monks who had harboured them, were turned adrift, and their place of retreat was completely sacked and burnt to the ground. Half-dead himself at hearing these tidings, Hereward sallied out, and at every risk of death, for the Saxon Foresters were treated as outlaws, commenced enquiries after those so dear to him. He asked concerning the particular fate of Bertha and her mother, among the miserable creatures who yet hovered about the neighbourhood of the convent, like a few half-scorched bees about their smothered hive. But, in the magnitude of their own terrors, none had retained eyes for their neighbours, and all that they could say was, that the wife and daughter of Engelred were certainly lost; and their imaginations

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suggested so many heart-rending details to this conclusion, that Hereward gave up all thoughts of further researches, likely to terminate so uselessly and so horribly. The young Saxon had been all his life bred up in a patriotic hatred to the Normans, who did not, it was likely, become dearer to his thoughts in consequence of this victory. He dreamed at first of crossing the Strait, to make war against the hated enemy in their own country; but an idea so extravagant did not long retain possession of his mind. His fate was decided by his encountering an aged palmer, who knew, or pretended to have known, his father, and to be a native of England. This man was a disguised Varangian, selected for the purpose, possessed of art and dexterity, and well provided with money. He had little difficulty in persuading Hereward, in the hopeless desolation of his condition, to join the Varangian Guard, at this moment at war with the Normans, under which name it suited Hereward’s prepossessions to represent the Emperor’s wars with Robert Guiscard, his son Bohemond, and other adventurers, in Italy, Greece, or Sicily. A journey to the East also inferred a pilgrimage, and gave the unfortunate Hereward the chance of purchasing pardon for his sins by visiting the Holy Land. In gaining Hereward, the recruiter also secured the services of his elder brother, who had vowed not to separate from him. The high character of both brothers for courage, induced this wily agent to consider them as a great prize, and it was from the memoranda respecting the history and character of those whom he recruited, in which the elder had been unreservedly communicative, that Agelastes picked up the information respecting Hereward’s family and circumstances, which, at their first secret interview, he made use of to impress upon the Varangian the idea of his supernatural knowledge. Several of his companions in arms were thus gained over; for it will easily be guessed, that these memorials were intrusted to the keeping of Achilles Tatius, and he, to further their joint purposes, imparted them to Agelastes, who thus obtained a general credit for supernatural knowledge among these ignorant men. But Hereward’s blunt faith and honesty enabled him to shun the snare. Such being the fortunes of Hereward, those of Bertha formed the subject of a broken and passionate communication between the lovers, broken like an April day, and mingled with many a tender caress, such as modesty permits to lovers when they meet again unexpectedly after a separation, which threatened to be eternal. But the story may be comprehended in few words. Amid the general sack of the monastery, an old Norman knight seized upon Bertha as his prize. Struck with her beauty, he designed her as an attendant upon his daughter, just then

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come out of the years of childhood, and the very apple of her father’s eye, being the only child of his beloved countess, and sent late in life to bless their marriage bed. It was in the order of things that the lady of Aspramonte, who was considerably younger than the knight, should govern her husband, and that Brenhilda, their daughter, should govern both her parents. The Knight of Aspramonte, however, it may be observed, entertained some desire to direct his young offspring to more feminine amusements than those which began already to put her life frequently in danger. Contradiction was not to be thought of, as the good old knight knew by experience. The influence and example of a companion a little older than herself might be of some avail, and it was with this view that, in the confusion of the sack, Aspramonte seized upon the youthful Bertha. Terrified to the utmost degree, she clung to her mother, and the Knight of Aspramonte, who had a softer heart than was then usually found under a steel cuirass, moved by the affliction of the mother and daughter, and recollecting that the former might also be a useful attendant upon his lady, extended his protection to both, and conveying them out of the press, paid the soldiers who ventured to dispute the spoil with him, partly in some small pieces of money, and partly in dry blows with the reverse of his lance. The well-natured knight soon after returned to his own castle, and being a man of an orderly life and virtuous habits, the charming beauties of the Saxon virgin, and the more ripened charms of her mother, did not prevent their travelling in all honour as well as safety to his family fortress, the castle of Aspramonte. Here such masters as could be procured were got together to teach the young Bertha every sort of female accomplishment, in the hope that her mistress, Brenhilda, might be inspired with a desire to partake in her education; but although this so far succeeded, that the Saxon captive became highly skilled in such music, needle-work, and other female accomplishments as were known to the time, yet her young mistress, Brenhilda, retained the taste for those martial amusements which had so sensibly grieved her father, but to which her mother, who herself had nourished such fancies in her youth, readily gave sanction. The captives, however, were kindly treated. Brenhilda became infinitely attached to the young Anglo-Saxon, whom she loved less for her ingenuity in arts, than for her activity in field sports, to which her early state of independence had trained her. The Lady of Aspramonte was also kind to both the captives; but, in one particular, she exercised a piece of petty tyranny over them. She had imbibed an idea, strengthened by an old doting father-confessor, that the Saxons were heathens at that time, or at least heretics, and

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made a positive point with her husband that the bondswoman and girl who were to attend on her person and that of her daughter, should be qualified for the office by being anew admitted into the Christian church by baptism. Though feeling the falsehood and injustice of the accusation, the mother had sense enough to submit to necessity, and received the name of Martha, in all form at the altar, to which she answered during the rest of her life. But Bertha showed a character upon this occasion inconsistent with the general docility and gentleness of her temper. She boldly refused to be admitted anew into the pale of the church, of which her conscience told her she was already a member, or to exchange for another the name originally given her at the font. It was in vain that the old knight commanded, that the lady threatened, and that her mother advised and entreated. More closely pressed in private by her mother, she let her motive be known, which had not before been suspected. “I know,” she said, with a flood of tears, “that my father would have died ere I was subjected to this insult; and then—who shall assure me that vows which were made to the Saxon Bertha, will be binding if a French Agatha be substituted in her stead? They may banish me,” she said, “or kill me if they will, but if the son of Waltheoff should again meet with the daughter of Engelred, he shall meet that Bertha whom he knew in the forests of Hampshire.” All argument was in vain; the Saxon maiden remained obstinate, and, to try to break her resolution, the Lady of Aspramonte at length spoke of dismissing her from the service of her young mistress, and banishing her from the castle. To this also she had made up her mind, and she answered firmly, though respectfully, that she would sorrow bitterly at parting with her young lady; but as to the rest, she would rather beg under her own name, than be recreant to the faith of her fathers, and condemn it as heresy, by assuming one of Frank origin. The Lady Brenhilda, in the meantime, entered the chamber, where her mother was just about to pass the threatened doom of banishment —“Do not stop for my entrance, madam,” said the dauntless young lady; “I am as much concerned in the doom which you are about to pass as is Bertha; if she crosses the draw-bridge of Aspramonte as an exile, so will I, when she has dried her tears, of which even my petulance could never wring one from her eyes. She shall be my squire and body attendant, and Launcelot, the bard, shall follow with my spear and shield.” “And you will return, mistress,” said her mother, “from so foolish an expedition, before the sun sets?” “So Heaven further me in my purpose, lady,” answered the young

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heiress, “the sun shall neither rise nor set that sees us return, till this name of Bertha, and of her mistress, Brenhilda, are wafted as far as the trumpet of fame can sound them.—Cheer up, my sweetest Bertha!” she said, taking her attendant by the hand, “if Heaven hath torn thee from thy country and thy plighted troth, it hath given thee a sister and a friend, with whom thy fame shall be for ever blended.” The Lady of Aspramonte was confounded: She knew that her daughter was perfectly capable of the wild course which she had announced, and that she herself, even with her husband’s assistance, would be unable to prevent her following it. She passively listened, therefore, while the Saxon matron, formerly Ulrica, but now Martha, addressed her daughter. “My child,” she said, “as you value honour, virtue, safety, and gratitude, soften your heart towards your master and mistress, and follow the advice of a parent, who has more years and more judgment than you. And you, my dearest young lady, let not your lady-mother think that an attachment to the exercises you excel in, has destroyed in your bosom filial affection, and a regard to the delicacy of your sex!—As they seem both obstinate, madam,” continued the matron, after watching the influence of this advice upon the young women, “perhaps, if it may be permitted me, I could state an alternative, which might, in the meanwhile, satisfy your ladyship’s wishes, accommodate itself to the wilfulness of my obstinate daughter, and answer the kind purpose of her generous mistress.” The Lady of Aspramonte signed to the Saxon matron to proceed. She went on accordingly: “The Saxons, dearest lady, of the present day, are neither pagans nor heretics; they are, in the time of keeping Easter, as well as in all other disputable doctrine, humbly obedient to the Pope of Rome; and this our good Bishop well knows, since he upbraided some of the domestics for calling me an old heathen. Yet our names are uncouth in the ears of the Franks, and bear, perhaps, a heathenish sound. If it be not exacted that my daughter submit to a new rite of baptism, she will lay aside her Saxon name of Bertha upon all occasions while in your honourable household. This will cut short a debate which, with forgiveness, I think is scarce of importance enough to break the peace of this castle. I will engage that, in gratitude for this indulgence of a trifling scruple, my daughter, if possible, shall double the zeal and assiduity of her service to her young lady.” The Lady of Aspramonte was glad to embrace the means which this offer presented, of extricating herself from the dispute with as little compromise of dignity as could well be. “If the good Lord Bishop approved of such a compromise,” she said, “she would for herself withdraw her opposition.” The prelate approved accordingly, the more readily that he was informed that the young heiress desired

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earnestly such an agreement. The peace of the castle was restored, and Bertha recognised her new name of Agatha as a name of service, but not a name of baptism. One effect the dispute certainly produced, and that was, increasing in an enthusiastic degree the love of Bertha for her young mistress. With that amiable failing of attached domestics and humble friends, she endeavoured to serve her as she knew she loved to be served; and therefore indulged her mistress in those chivalrous fancies which distinguished her even in her own age, and in ours would have rendered her a female Quixote. Bertha, indeed, never caught the frenzy of her mistress; but, strong, willing, and able-bodied, she readily qualified herself to act upon occasion as a squire of the body to a Lady Adventuress; and, accustomed from her childhood to see blows dealt, blood flowing, and men dying, she could look with an undazzled eye upon the dangers which her mistress encountered, and seldom teazed her with remonstrances, unless when those were unusually great. This compliance on most occasions, gave Bertha a right of advice upon some, which, always given with the best intentions and at fitting times, strengthened her influence with her mistress, which a course of conduct savouring of diametrical opposition would certainly have destroyed. A few more words serve to announce the death of the Knight of Aspramonte—the romantic marriage of the young lady with the Count of Paris—their engagement in the crusade—and the detail of events with which the reader is acquainted. Hereward did not exactly comprehend some of the later incidents of the story, owing to a slight strife which arose between Bertha and him during the course of her narrative. When she avowed the girlish simplicity with which she obstinately refused to change her name, because, in her apprehension, the troth-plight betwixt her and her lover might be thereby prejudiced, it was impossible for Hereward not to acknowledge her tenderness, by snatching her to his bosom, and impressing his grateful thanks upon her lips. She extricated herself immediately from his grasp, however, with cheeks more crimsoned in modesty than in anger, and gravely addressed her lover thus: “Enough, enough, Hereward! this may be pardoned to so unexpected a meeting; but we must in future remember, that we are probably the last of our race, and let it not be said, that the manners of their ancestors were forgotten by Hereward and by Bertha; think, that though we are alone, the shades of our fathers are not far off, and watch to see what use we make of the meeting, which, perhaps, their intercession has procured us.” “You wrong me, Bertha,” said Hereward, “if you think me capable

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of forgetting my own duty and yours, at a moment when our thanks are due to Heaven, to be testified very differently than by infringing on its behests, or the commands of our parents. The question is now, How we shall rejoin each other when we separate? since separate, I fear, we must.” “O! do not say so!” exclaimed the unfortunate Bertha. “It must be so,” said Hereward, “for a time; but I swear to thee by the hilt of my sword, and the handle of my battle-axe, that blade was never so true to shaft as I will be to thee!” “But wherefore, then, leave me, Hereward?” said the maiden; “and, oh! wherefore not assist me in the release of my mistress?” “Of thy mistress!” said Hereward. “Shame! that thou canst give that name to mortal woman!” “But she is my mistress,” answered Bertha, “and by a thousand kind ties, which cannot be separated so long as gratitude is the reward of kindness.” “And what is her danger,” said Hereward; “what is it she wants, this accomplished lady whom thou callest mistress?” “Her honour, her life, are alike in danger,” said Bertha. “She has agreed to meet the Cæsar in the field, and he will not hesitate, like a base-born miscreant, to take every advantage in the encounter, which, I grieve to say, must be fatal to my mistress.” “What authorizes thee to say that?” answered Hereward. “This lady, this Countess of Paris, has won many single combats, unless she is belied, against adversaries more formidable than the Cæsar.” “But there is a cause,” said the Saxon maiden; “a cause which thou canst not guess, nor can I tell thee, which sends me out in this disguise of my country dress, which, they say, finds respect at Constantinople, to let the chiefs of the Crusade know the peril in which the noble lady stands, and trust to their humanity, to their religion, to their love of honour, and fear of disgrace, for assistance in this hour of need; and now that I have had the blessing of meeting with thee, all besides will go well—all will go well—and I will back to my mistress and report whom I have seen.” “Tarry yet another moment, my recovered treasure!” said Hereward, “and let me balance this matter carefully. This lady Countess is a Frank, and holds the Saxons like the very dust that thou brushest from the hem of her garment. She treats—she regards—the Saxons as pagans and heretics. She has dared to impose slavish tasks upon thee, born in freedom. Her father’s sword has been embrued to the hilt with Anglo-Saxon blood—perhaps that of Waltheoff and Engelred has added depth to the stain! She is, besides, a presumptuous fool, who would, though a female, usurp for herself the trophies and warlike

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character which belong to the other sex. Lastly, it will be hard to find a champion to fight in her stead, since all the crusaders have passed over to Asia, which is the land, they say, in which they have come to war; and by orders of the Emperor, no means of return to the hither shore will be permitted to any of them.” “Alas! alas!” said Bertha, “how does this world change us! The son of Waltheoff I once knew brave, ready to assist distress, bold and generous. Such was what I pictured him to myself during his absence. I have met him again, and he is calculating, cold, and selfish!” “Hush, damsel,” said the Varangian, “and know him of whom thou speakest, ere thou judgest him. The Countess of Paris is such as I have said; yet let her appear boldly in the lists, and when the trumpet shall sound thrice, another shall reply, which shall announce the arrival of her noble lord Count Robert to do battle in her stead; or should he fail to appear—I will requite her kindness to thee, Bertha, and be ready in his place.” “Wilt thou? wilt thou indeed?” said the damsel; “that was spoken like the son of Waltheoff—like the genuine stock! I will home, and comfort my mistress; for surely if the judgment of God ever directed the issue of a judicial combat, its influence will descend upon the present. But you hint that the Count is here—that he is at liberty—she will enquire about that.” “She must be satisfied,” replied Hereward, “to know that her husband is under the guidance of a friend, who will endeavour to protect him from his own extravagancies and follies; or one who, if he cannot properly be called a friend, has certainly not acted, and will not act, towards him the part of an enemy.—And now, farewell, long lost— long loved!”——Before he could say more, the Saxon maiden, after two or three vain attempts to express her gratitude, threw herself into her lover’s arms, and, despite the coyness which she had recently shown, impressed upon his lips the thanks which she could not speak. They parted, Bertha returning to her mistress at the lodge, which she had left both with trouble and danger, and Hereward by the portal kept by the negro-portress, who, complimenting the handsome Varangian on his success among the fair, intimated, that she had been in some sort a witness of his meeting with the Saxon damsel, although, she added, such rendezvous in that place were not altogether unusual, nor was Judith a severe censurer. A piece of gold, part of a late largesse, amply served to bribe her tongue; and the soldier, clear of the gardens of the philosopher, sped back as he might to the barrrack —judging that it was full time to carry some supply to Count Robert, who had been left without food the whole day. It is a common popular saying, that as the sensation of hunger is not

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connected with any pleasing or gentle emotion, so it is particularly remarkable for irritating those of anger and spleen. It is not, therefore, very surprising that Count Robert, who had been so unusually long without sustenance, should receive Hereward with a degree of impatience beyond what the occasion merited, and injurious certainly to the honest Varangian, who had repeatedly exposed his life that day for the interest of the Countess and the Count himself. “Soh, sir!” he said, in that accent of affected restraint by which a superior modifies his displeasure against his inferior into a cold and scornful expression—“You have played a liberal host to us!—Not that it is of consequence; but methinks a Count of the most Christian kingdom dines not every day with a mercenary soldier, and might expect, if not the ostentatious, at least the needful part of hospitality.” “And methinks,” replied the Varangian, “O most Christian Count, that such of your high rank as, by choice or fate, become the guests of such as I, may think themselves pleased, and blame not their host’s niggardliness, but the difficulty of his circumstances, if dinner should not present itself oftener than once in four-and-twenty hours.” So saying, he clapt his hands together, and his domestic Edric entered. His guest looked astonished at the entrance of this third party into their retirement. “I will answer for this man,” said Hereward, and addressed him in the following words: “What food hast thou, Edric, to place before the honourable Count?” “Nothing but the cold pasty,” replied the attendant, “marvellously damaged by your honour’s encounter at breakfast.” The military domestic, as intimated, brought forward a large pasty, but which had already that morning sustained a furious attack, insomuch, that Count Robert of Paris, who, like all noble Normans, was somewhat nice and delicate in his eating, was in some doubt whether his scrupulousness should not prevail over his hunger; but on looking more closely, sight, smell, and a fast of twenty hours, joined to convince him that the pasty was an excellent one, and that the charger on which it was presented possessed corners yet untouched. At length, having suppressed his scruples, and made bold inroad upon the remains of the dish, he paused to partake of a flask of strong red wine which stood invitingly beside him, and a lusty draught increased the good humour which had begun to take place towards Hereward, in exchange for the displeasure with which he had received him. “Now, by Heaven!” he said, “I myself ought to be ashamed to lack the courtesy which I recommend to others! Here have I, with the manners of a Flemish boor, been devouring the provisions of my gallant host, without even asking him to sit down at his own table, and to partake of his own good cheer!”

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“I will not strain courtesies with you for that,” said Hereward; and thrusting his hand into the pasty, he proceeded with great speed and dexterity to devour the miscellaneous contents, a handful of which was inclosed in his grasp. The Count now withdrew from the table, partly in disgust at the rustic proceedings of Hereward, who, however, by calling Edric to join him in his attack upon the pasty, showed that he had, in fact, according to his manner, subjected himself to some observance of respect towards his guest; while the assistance of his attendant enabled him to make a clear cacabulum of what was left. Count Robert at length summoned up courage sufficient to put a question, which had been trembling upon his lips ever since Hereward had returned. “Have thine enquiries, my gallant friend, learned more concerning my unfortunate wife, my faithful Brenhilda?” “Tidings I have,” said the Anglo-Saxon, “but whether pleasing or not, yourself must be the judge. This much I have learned;—she hath, as you know, come under an engagement to meet the Cæsar in arms in the lists, but under conditions which you may perhaps think strange; these, however, she hath entertained without scruple.” “Let me know these terms,” said the Count of Paris; “they will, I think, appear less strange in my eyes than in thine.” But while he affected to speak with the utmost coolness, the husband’s sparkling eye and crimsoned cheek betrayed the alteration which had taken place in his feelings. “The lady and the Cæsar,” said Hereward, “as you partly heard yourself, are to meet in fight; if the Countess wins, of course she remains the wife of the noble Count of Paris; if she loses, she becomes the paramour of the Cæsar Nicephorus Briennius.” “Saints and angels forbid!” said Count Robert; “were they to permit such treason to triumph, we might be pardoned for doubting their divinity.” “What is yet worse,” said Hereward, “and what I tell you with regret is, that if some champion take not the field in this lady’s behalf, the battle is lost, and that such treason will triumph, if she couch the lance in her own person.” “Varangian, thou knowest not our women of France,” said the Count; “there are not two knights in the Emperor of Greece’s service who, if their strength and valour were joined together, durst brave the Countess of Paris in single fight. I who know her, and have often met her in the lists, can bear witness to this. I would account it a doubt both of her valour and virtue, were I to take arms in her stead in a quarrel so fairly appointed.” “Yet methinks,” said the Anglo-Saxon, “it were no disgraceful

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precaution that both you and I, with other friends, if we can obtain such, should be seen under shield in the lists on the morning of the conflict. We may witness the Countess’s triumph—we may witness, I grieve to say, her defeat; but what we cannot fail to witness is, whether or not she receives that fair play which is the due of an honourable combatant, and which, as you have yourself seen, can be sometimes basely transgressed in this Grecian empire.” “On that condition,” said the Count, “and protesting, that not even the extreme danger of my lady shall make me break through the rule of a fair fight, I will surely attend the lists, if thou, brave Saxon, can find me any means of doing so.—Yet stay,” he continued, after reflecting for a moment, “thou shalt promise not to let her know that her Count is on the field, far less to point him out to her eye among the press of warriors. O, thou dost not know that the sight of the beloved will sometimes steal from us our courage, even when it has most to achieve!” “We will endeavour,” said the Varangian, “to arrange matters according to thy pleasure, so that thou findest out no more fantastical difficulties; for, by my word, an affair so complicated in itself, requires not to be confused by the fine-spun whims of thy national gallantry. Meantime, much must be done this night; and while I go about it, thou, Sir Knight, hadst best remain here, with such disguise of garments, and such food, as Edric may be able to procure for thee. Fear nothing from intrusion on the part of thy neighbours. We Varangians respect each other’s secrets, of whatever nature they may chance to be.”

Chapter Nine But for our trusty brother-in-law—and the Abbot, With all the rest of that consorted crew,— Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels:— Good uncle, help to order several powers To Oxford, or where’er these traitors are: They shall not live within this world, I swear. Richard II

A  H  spoke the last words narrated in the foregoing chapter, he left the Count in his apartment, and proceeded to the Blacquernal Palace. We traced his first entrance into the court, but since then he had frequently been summoned, not only by order of the Princess Anna Comnena, who delighted in asking him questions concerning the customs of his native country, and marking down the replies in her own inflated language; but also by the direct command of the Emperor

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himself, who had the humour of many princes, that of desiring to obtain direct information from persons in a very inferior station in their Court. The ring which the Princess had given to the Varangian, served as a pass-token more than once, and was now so generally known by the slaves of the palace, that Hereward had only to slip it into the hand of a principal person among them, and was introduced into a small chamber, not distant from the saloon already mentioned, dedicated to the Muses. In this small apartment, the Emperor, his spouse Irene, and their accomplished daughter Anna Comnena, were seated together, clad in very ordinary apparel, as indeed the furniture of the room itself was of the kind used by respectable citizens, saving that matrasses, composed of eider-down, hung before each door to prevent the risk of eaves-dropping. “Our trusty Varangian,” said the Empress. “My guide and tutor respecting the manners of those steel-clad men,” said the Princess Anna Comnena, “of whom it is so necessary that I should form an accurate idea.” “Your Imperial Majesty,” said the Empress, “will not, I trust, think your consort and your muse-inspired daughter, are too many to share with you the intelligence brought by this brave and loyal man?” “Dearest wife and daughter,” returned the Emperor, “I have hitherto spared you the burden of a painful secret, which I have locked in my own bosom, at whatever expense of solitary sorrow and unimparted anxiety. Noble daughter, you in particular will feel this calamity, learning, as you must learn, to think odiously of one, of whom it has hitherto been your duty to hold a very different opinion.” “Holy Mary!” exclaimed the Princess. “Rally yourself,” said the Emperor; “remember you are a child of the purple chamber, born, not to weep for your father’s wrongs, but to avenge them,—not to regard even him who has lain by your side as half so important as the sacred Imperial grandeur, of which you are yourself a partaker.” “What can such words preface?” said Anna Comnena, in great agitation. “They say,” answered the Emperor, “that the Cæsar is an ungrateful man to all my bounties, and even to that which annexed him to my own house, and made him by adoption my own son. He hath consorted himself with a knot of traitors, whose very names are enough to raise the foul fiend, as if to snatch his assured prey!” “Could Nicephorus do this?” said the astonished and forlorn Princess; “Nicephorus, who has so often called my eyes the lights by which he steered his path? Could he do this to my father, to whose exploits he has listened hour after hour, protesting that he knew not

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whether it was the beauty of the language, or the heroism of the action, which most enchanted him? Thinking with the same thought, seeing with the same eye, loving with the same heart,—O, my father! it is impossible that he could be so false. Think of the neighbouring Temple of the Muses!” “If I did,” murmured Alexius in his heart, “I should think of the only apology which could be proposed for the traitor. A little is well enough, but the full soul loatheth the honey-comb.” Then speaking aloud, “My daughter,” he said, “be comforted; we ourselves were unwilling to believe the shameful truth; but our guards have been debauched; their commander, that ungrateful Achilles Tatius, with the equal traitor, Agelastes, have been seduced to favour our imprisonment or murder; and, alas for Greece! in the very moment when she required the fostering care of a parent, she was to be deprived of him by a sudden and merciless blow!” Here the Emperor wept, whether for the loss to be sustained by his subjects, or of his own life, it is hard to say. “Methinks,” said Irene, “your Imperial Highness is slow in taking measures against the danger.” “Under your gracious permission, mother,” answered the Princess, “I would rather say he was hasty in giving belief to it. Methinks the evidence of a Varangian, granting him to be ever so stout a man-atarms, is but a frail guarantee against the honour of your son-in-law— the approved bravery and fidelity of the captain of your guards—the deep sense, virtue, and profound wisdom, of the greatest of your philosophers”—— “And the conceit of an over-educated daughter,” said the Emperor, “who will not allow her parent to judge in what most concerns him. I will tell thee, Anna, I know every one of them, and the trust which may be reposed in them; the honour of your Nicephorus—the bravery and fidelity of the Acolyte—and the virtue and wisdom of Agelastes— Have I not had them all in my purse? and had my purse continued well filled, and my arm strong as it was of late, there they would still have remained. But the butterflies went off as the weather became cold, and I must meet the tempest without their assistance. You talk of want of proof? I have proof sufficient when I see danger; this honest soldier brought me indications which corresponded with my own private remarks, made on purpose. Varangian he shall be of Varangians; Acolyte he shall be named, in place of the present traitor; and who knows, when the doom of Nicephorus has been pronounced, to what height his master’s bounty and his own merits may raise him?” “May it please your Highness,” said the Varangian, who had been hitherto silent, “many men in this empire rise to dignity by the fall of

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their original patrons, but it is a road to greatness to which I cannot reconcile my conscience; moreover, having recovered a friend from whom I was long ago separated, I shall require, in short space, your Imperial license for going hence, where I shall leave thousands of enemies behind me, and, spending my life, like many of my countrymen, under the banner of King William of Scotland”—— “Part with thee, most inimitable man!” cried the Emperor, with emphasis; “where shall I get a friend—where a son, so faithful?” “Noble sir,” replied the Anglo-Saxon, “I am every way sensible to your goodness and munificence; but let me entreat you to call me by my own name, and to promise me nothing but your forgiveness, for my having been the agent of such confusion among your Imperial servants. Not only is the threatened fate of Achilles Tatius, my benefactor; of the Cæsar, whom I think my well-wisher; and even of Agelastes himself, painful, so far as it is of my bringing round; but also I have known it somehow happen, that those on whom your Imperial Majesty has lavished the most valuable expressions of your favour one day, were the next day food to fatten the chough and crow. And this, I acknowledge, is a purpose, for which I would not willingly have it said I had brought my English limbs on these Grecian shores.” “Call thee by thine own name, my Edward,” said the Emperor, (while he muttered aside—“by Heaven, I have again forgot the name of the barbarian!”)—“by thine own name certainly for the present, but only until we shall devise one more fitted for the trust we repose in thee. Meantime, look at this scroll, which contains, I think, all the particulars which we have been able to learn of this plot, and give it to these unbelieving women, who will not credit that an Emperor is in danger, till the blades of the conspirators’ poniards are clashing within his ribs.” Hereward did as he was commanded, and having looked at the scroll, and signified, by bending his head, his acquiescence in its contents, he presented it to Irene, who had not read long, ere, with a countenance so embittered that she had difficulty in pointing out the cause of her displeasure to her daughter, she bade her, with animation, “Read that—read that, and judge of the gratitude and affection of thy Cæsar!” The Princess Anna Comnena awoke from a state of profound and overpowering melancholy, and looked at the passage pointed out to her, at first with an air of languid curiosity, which presently deepened into the most intense interest. She clutched the scroll as a falcon does his prey, her eye lightened with indignation; and it was with the cry of the bird when in fury that she exclaimed, “Bloody-minded, doublehearted traitor! what wouldst thou have? Yes, father,” she said, rising

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in fury, “it is no longer the voice of a deceived princess that shall intercede to avert from the traitor Nicephorus the doom he has deserved! Did he think that one born in the purple chamber could be divorced—murdered perhaps—with the petty formula of the Romans, ‘Restore the keys—be no longer my domestic drudge?’* Was a daughter of the blood of Comnenus liable to such insults as the meanest of Quirites might bestow on a family housekeeper, whom he wished to exchange from a brutal desire of novelty?” So saying, she dashed the tears from her eyes, and her countenance, naturally that of beauty and gentleness, became animated with the expression of a fury. Hereward looked at her with a mixture of fear, dislike, and compassion. She again burst forth, for nature having given her considerable abilities, had lent her at the same time an energy of passion, far superior in power to the cold ambition of Irene, or the wily, ambidexter, shuffling policy of the Emperor himself. “He shall abye it,” said the Princess; “he shall dearly abye it! What! to lavish upon me such showers of caresses—to bestow so many kind words, while all the time he was thinking of that unfeminine Amazon! Something of this I guessed even at that old fool’s banqueting-house; and yet if this unworthy Cæsar submits his body to the chance of arms, he is less prudent than I have some reason to believe. Think you he will have the madness to brand us with such open neglect, my father? and will you not invent some mode of insuring our revenge?” “Soh!” thought the Emperor, “this difficulty is over; she will run down hill to her revenge, and will need the snaffle and curb more than the lash. If every wife in Constantinople, who is conscious of such an injury on the part of her husband, were to pursue her fury as unrelentingly, our laws for divorce should be written, like Draco’s, not in ink, but in blood.—Attend to me now,” he said aloud, “my wife, my daughter, and thou, Edward, or, as I may rather term thee, my beloved son, and you shall learn, and you three only, my mode of navigating the vessel of the state through these shoals. “Let us see distinctly,” continued Alexius, “the means by which they propose to act, and these shall instruct us how to meet them. A certain number of the Varangians are unhappily seduced, under pretence of wrongs, artfully stirred up by their villainous general. A part of them are studiously to be arranged nigh our person—the traitor Ursel, some of them suppose, is dead, but if it were so, his name is sufficient to draw together his old factionaries—I have a means of satisfying them on that point, on which I shall remain silent for the present.—A considerable body of the Immortal guards have also given * The Laconic form of the Roman divorce.

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way to seduction; they are to be placed to support the handful of treacherous Varangians, who are in the plot to attack our person.— Now, a slight change in the stations of the soldiery, which thou, my faithful Edward—or—a—a—whatever thou art named, for which thou, I say, shalt have full authority, will derange the plans of the traitors, and place the true men in such position around them as to cut them to pieces with little trouble.” “And the combat, my lord?” said the Saxon. “Thou hadst been no true Varangian hadst thou not enquired after that,” said the Emperor, nodding good-humouredly towards him. “As to the combat, the Cæsar has devised it, and it shall be my care that he shall not retreat from the dangerous part of it. He cannot in honour avoid fighting with this woman, strange as the combat is; and however it ends, the conspiracy will break forth, and as assuredly as it comes against persons prepared, and in arms, shall it be stifled in the blood of the conspirators!” “My revenge does not require this,” said the Princess; “and your Imperial honour is also interested that this Countess shall be protected.” “It is little business of mine,” said the Emperor. “She comes here with her husband altogether uninvited. He behaves with insolence in my presence, and deserves whatever may be the issue to himself or his lady of their mad adventure. In sooth, I desired little more than to give him a fright with those animals whom their ignorance judged enchanted, and to give his wife a slight alarm about the impetuosity of a Grecian lover, and there my vengeance should have ended. But it may be that his wife may be taken under my protection, now that little revenge is over.” “And a paltry revenge it was,” said the Empress, “that you, a man past middle life, and with a wife who might command some attention, should constitute yourself the object of alarm to such a handsome man as Count Robert, and the Amazon his wife.” “By your favour, dame Irene, no,” said the Emperor. “I left that part of the proposed comedy to my son-in-law the Cæsar.” But when the poor Emperor had in some measure stopt one floodgate, he effectually opened another, and one which was more formidable. “The more shame to your Imperial wisdom, my father!” exclaimed the Princess Anna Comnena; “it is a shame, that with wisdom and a beard like yours, you should be meddling in such indecent follies as admit disturbance into private families, and that family your own daughter’s! Who can say that the Cæsar Nicephorus Briennius ever looked astray towards another woman than his wife, till the Emperor taught him to do so, and involved him in a web of intrigue

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and treachery, in which he has endangered the life of his father-inlaw?” “Daughter! daughter! daughter!”—said the Empress; “daughter of a she-wolf, I think, to goad her parent at such an unhappy time, when all the leisure he has is too little to defend his life!” “Peace, I pray you, women both, with your senseless clamours,” answered Alexius, “and let me at least swim for my life undisturbed with your folly. God knows if I am a man to encourage, I will not say the reality of wrong, but even its mere appearance.” These words he uttered, crossing himself, with a devout groan. His wife Irene, in the meantime, stept before him, and said, with a bitterness in her looks and accent, which only long-concealed nuptial hatred breaking forth at once could convey,—“Alexius, terminate this affair how it will, you have lived a hypocrite, and thou wilt not fail to die one.” So saying, with an air of noble indignation, and carrying her daughter along with her, she swept out of the apartment. The Emperor looked after her in some confusion. He soon, however, recovered his self-possession, and turning to Hereward, with a look of injured majesty, said, “Ah! my dear Edward,”—for the word had become rooted in his mind, instead of the less euphonic name of Hereward, —“thou seest how it is even with the greatest, and that the Emperor, in moments of difficulty, is a subject of misconstruction, as well as the meanest burgess of Constantinople; nevertheless, my trust is so great in thee, Edward, that I would have thee believe, that my daughter, Anna Comnena, is not of the temper of her mother, but rather of my own; honouring, thou mayst see, with religious fidelity, the unworthy ties which I hope soon to break, and assort her with other fetters of Cupid, which shall be borne more lightly. Thou understandest me, my hero; for to thee chiefly I would intrust the glories of the day succeeding to-morrow, when we shall take care that all those traitors appear on a fair field before us.” “And I shall have little fear of meeting them,” said the Varangian, “if the order be observed which it has been your Imperial wisdom to point out.” “Nay, my Edward,” said the Emperor, “it is thou thyself hast pointed out what thy courage alone shall have the glory of executing. Throw doubt from thee, and meet the occasion as fairly as it is willing to be met. Think, as the Franks say at their tournaments, that fair eyes behold thee. Thou canst not devise a gift within my power, but I will gladly load thee with it.” “It needs not,” said the Varangian, somewhat coldly; “my highest ambition is to merit the epithet upon my tomb, ‘Hereward was faithful.’ I am about, however, to demand a proof of your imperial

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confidence, which, perhaps, you may think a startling one.” “It is impossible,” said the Emperor. “You are not sure, my lord,” replied the Varangian. “Count Robert of Paris is at liberty.” “I would as soon hear that the devil was unchained!” said the Emperor. “Unchained, however, he is, and I alone know where he is concealed.” “And thou wilt tell me,” said the Emperor, taking him by the hand —“thou, my other self, in whom I repose my full trust?” “I must hold myself excused,” said the Varangian, “and reserve for myself the management of your prisoner, to whom I have plighted my faith, that I would stand between him and his enemies. The Cæsar grudges me not the privilege of having the keeping of this dangerous man. I trust that your Imperial Highness will not entertain more scrupulous fears of a faithful subject, than are received by the chief of your rebels.” “Surely not, surely not,” reiterated Alexius, but with a shade of anxiety which he could not disguise. “If such be your Imperial pleasure,” said Hereward, “you will not then refuse to countersign the mandate which places the person of the Count of Paris at my disposal? And I must have yet a farther license from your majesty.” “Indeed!” said the Emperor; “thy demands are numerous; yet, having trusted thee so far, it were in vain to stop here. What, in one word, is the extent of thy demands?” “Permission,” replied Hereward, “to go to the Duke of Bouillon’s encampment, and entreat his presence in the lists, to witness this extraordinary combat.” “That he may return with his crusading madmen,” said the Emperor, “and sack Constantinople, under pretence of doing justice to his confederates? This, Varangian, is at least speaking thy mind openly.” “No, by Heavens!” said Hereward suddenly; “the Duke of Bouillon shall come with no more knights than may be a reasonable guard, should treachery be offered to the Countess of Paris.” “Well, even in this,” said the Emperor, “will I be conformable; and if thou, Edward, betrayest my trust, think that thou forfeitest all that my friendship has promised, and dost incur, besides, the damnation that is due to the traitor who betrays with a kiss.” “For thy reward, noble sir,” answered the Varangian, “I hereby renounce all claim to it. When the diadem is once more firmly fixed upon thy brow, and the sceptre in thy hand, if I am then alive, if my

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poor services should deserve so much, I will petition to thee for the means of leaving this court, and returning to the distant island in which I was born. Meanwhile, think me not unfaithful, because I have for a time the means of being so with effect. Your Imperial Highness shall learn that Hereward is as true as is your right hand to your left.” —So saying, he took his leave with a profound obeisance. The Emperor gazed after him with a countenance in which doubt was mingled with admiration. “I have trusted him,” he said, “with all he asked, and with the power of ruining me entirely, if such be his purpose. He has but to breathe a whisper, and the whole mad crew of crusaders, kept in humour at the expense of so much current falsehood, and so much more gold, will return with fire and sword to burn down Constantinople, and sow with salt the place where it stood. I have done what I had resolved never to do,—I have ventured kingdom and life on the faith of a man born of a woman. How often have I said, nay, sworn, that I would not hazard myself on such peril, and yet, step by step, I have done so! I cannot tell —there is in that man’s looks and words a good faith which overwhelms me; and, what I think is incredible, my belief in him has increased in proportion to his showing me how slight my power was over him. I threw, like the wily angler, every bait I could devise, and some of them such as scarce a king would have disdained; to none of these would he rise; but yet he gorges, I may say, the bare hook, and enters upon my service without shadow of self-interest.—Can this be double-distilled treachery?—or can it be what men call disinterestedness?—If I thought him false, the moment is not yet past—he has not yet crossed the bridge—he has not past the guards of the palace, who have no hesitation, and know no disobedience—But no—I were then alone in the land, and without a friend or confident.—I hear the sound of the outer gate unclose, the sense of danger certainly renders my ears more acute than usual.—It shuts again—the die is cast. He is at liberty—and Alexius Comnenus must stand or fall, according to the uncertain faith of a mercenary Varangian.” He clapt his hands; a slave appeared, of whom he demanded wine. He drank, and his heart was cheered within him. “I am decided,” he said, “and will abide with resolution the cast of the throw, for good or for evil.” So saying, he retired to his apartment, and was not again seen during that night.

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Chapter Ten And aye, as if for death, some lonely trumpet peal’d. C

T   V  , his head agitated with the matters of weight which were imposed on him, and upon finding himself the depositary of the fate of a great empire, stopt from time to time as he journeyed through the moonlight streets, to arrest passing ideas as they shot through his mind, and consider them with accuracy in all their bearings. His thoughts were such as animated or alarmed him alternately, each followed by a confused throng of accompaniments which it suggested, and banished again in its turn by reflections of another description. It was one of those conjunctures when the minds of ordinary men feel themselves unable to support a burthen which is suddenly flung upon them, and when, on the contrary, those of uncommon fortitude, and that best of Heaven’s gifts, good sense, founded on presence of mind, feel their talents awakened and regulated for the occasion, like a good steed under the management of a rider of courage and experience. As he stood in one of those fits of reverie, which repeatedly during that night arrested his stern military march, Hereward thought that his ear caught the note of a distant trumpet. This surprised him; a trumpet blown at that late hour, and in the streets of Constantinople, argued something extraordinary; for as all military movements were the subject of special ordinance, the etiquette of the night could hardly have been transgressed without some great cause. The question was, what that cause could be? Had the insurrection broken out unexpectedly, and in a different manner from what the conspirators proposed to themselves?—If so, his meeting with his plighted bride, after so many years’ absence, was but a delusive preface to their separating for ever. Or had the crusaders, a race of men upon whose motions it was difficult to calculate, suddenly taken arms and returned from the opposite shore to surprise the city? This might very possibly be the case; so numerous had been the different causes of complaint afforded to the crusaders, that when they were now for the first time assembled into one body, and had heard the stories which they could reciprocally tell concerning the perfidy of the Greeks, nothing was so likely, so natural, even perhaps so justifiable, as that they should study revenge. But the sound rather resembled a point of war regularly blown, than the tumultuous blare of bugle-horns and trumpets, the accompani-

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ments at once, and the annunciation, of a taken town, in which the horrid circumstances of storm had not yet given place to such stern peace as the victor’s weariness of slaughter and rapine allows at length to the wretched inhabitants. Whatever it was, it was necessary that Hereward should learn its purport, and therefore he made his way into a broad street near the barracks, from which the sound seemed to come, to which point, indeed, his way was directed for other reasons. The inhabitants of that quarter of the town did not appear violently startled by this military signal. The moonlight slept on the street, crossed by the gigantic shadowy towers of Sancta Sophia, which the infidels, since their occupation of the city, have turned into their principal mosque. No human being appeared in the streets, and such as for an instant looked from their doors or from their lattices, seemed to have their curiosity quickly satisfied, for they drew in their heads, and secured the opening which they had peeped through. Hereward could not help remembering the traditions which were recounted by the fathers of his tribe, in the deep woods of Hampshire, and which spoke of invisible huntsmen, who were heard to follow with viewless horses and hounds the unseen chase through the depths of the forests of Germany. Such it seemed were the sounds with which these haunted woods were wont to ring while the wild chase was up; and with such apparent terror did the hearers listen to their clamour. “Fie!” he said, as he suppressed within him a tendency to the same superstitious fears; “do such childish fancies belong to a man trusted with so much, and from whom so much is expected?” He paced down the street, therefore, with his battle-axe over his shoulder, and the first person whom he saw venturing to look out of his door, he questioned concerning the cause of this military music at such an unaccustomed hour. “I cannot tell, so please you, my lord,” said the citizen, unwilling, it appeared, to remain in the open air, or to enter into conversation, and greatly disposed to decline further questioning. This was the political citizen of Constantinople whom we met with at the beginning of this history, and who, hastily stepping into his habitation, eschewed all further conversation. The wrestler Stephanos showed himself at the next door, which was garlanded with oak and ivy leaves, in honour of some recent victory. He stood unshrinking, partly encouraged by the consciousness of personal strength, and partly by a rugged surliness of temper, which is often mistaken among persons of this kind for real courage. His admirer and flatterer, Lysimachus, kept himself ensconced behind his ample shoulders. As Hereward passed, he put the same question as he did to the

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former citizen,—“Know you the meaning of these trumpets sounding so late?” “You should know best yourself,” answered Stephanos doggedly; “for, to judge by your axe and helmet, they are your trumpets, and not ours, which disturb honest men in their first sleep.” “Varlet!” answered the Varangian, with an emphasis which made the prizer start,—“but—when that trumpet sounds, it is no time for a soldier to punish insolence as it deserves.” The Greek started back and bolted into his house, nearly overthrowing in the speed of his retreat the artist Lysimachus, who was listening to what passed. Hereward passed on to the barracks, where the military music had seemed to halt; but on the Varangian crossing the threshold of the ample court-yard, it broke forth again with a tremendous burst, whose clangour almost stunned him, though well accustomed to the sounds. “What is the meaning of this, Engelbrecht?” said he to the sentinel, who paced axe-in-hand before the entrance. “The proclamation of a challenge and combat,” answered Engelbrecht. “Strange things toward, comrade; the frantic crusaders have bit the Grecians, and infected them with their humour of tilting, as they say dogs do each other with madness.” Hereward made no reply to the sentinel’s speech, but pressed forward into a knot of his fellow-soldiers who were assembled in the court, half-armed, or, more properly, in total disarray, as just arisen from their beds, and were huddled around the trumpets of the corps, which were drawn out in full pomp. He of the gigantic instrument, whose duty it was to intimate the express commands of the Emperor, was not wanting in his place, and the musicians were supported by a band of the Varangians in arms, headed by Achilles Tatius himself. Hereward could also notice, on approaching nearer, as his comrades made way for him, that six of the Imperial heralds were on duty on this occasion; four of these (two acting at the same time) had already made proclamation, which was to be repeated for the third time by the two last, as was the usual fashion in Constantinople with Imperial mandates of great consequence. Achilles Tatius, the moment he saw his confidant, made him a sign, which Hereward understood as conveying a desire to speak with him after the proclamation was over. The herald, after the flourish of trumpets had finished, commenced in these words: “By the authority of the resplendent and divine Prince Alexius Comnenus, Emperor of the most holy Roman empire, his Imperial Majesty desires it to be made known to all and sundry the subjects of his empire, whatever their race of blood may be, or at whatever shrine

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of divinity they happen to bend—Know ye, therefore, that upon the second day after this is dated, our beloved son-in-law, the muchesteemed Cæsar, hath taken upon him to do battle with our sworn enemy, Robert, Count of Paris, on account of his insolent conduct, by presuming publicly to occupy our royal seat, and no less by breaking, in our Imperial presence, those curious specimens of art, ornamenting our throne, called by tradition the Lions of Solomon. And that there may not remain a man in Europe who shall dare to say that the Grecians are behind other parts of the world in any of the manly exercises which Christian nations use, the said noble enemies, renouncing all assistance from falsehood, from spells, or from magic, shall debate this quarrel in three courses with grinded spears, and three passages of arms with sharpened swords; the field to be at the judgment of the honourable Emperor, and to be decided at his most gracious and unerring pleasure. And so God show the right!” Another formidable flourish of the trumpets concluded the ceremony. Achilles then dismissed the attendant troops, as well as the heralds and musicians, to their respective quarters; and having got Hereward close to his side, enquired at him whether he had learned any thing of the prisoner, Robert, Count of Paris, whom he had reported to be enlarged. “Nothing,” said the Varangian, “save the tidings your proclamation contains.” “You think, then,” said Achilles, “that the Count has been a party to it?” “Surely,” answered the Varangian. “I know no one but himself that can take burthen for his own appearance in the lists.” “Why, look you,” said the Acolyte, “my most excellent, though blunt-witted Hereward, this Cæsar of ours hath had the extravagance to venture his tender wit in comparison to that of Achilles Tatius. He stands upon his honour too, this ineffable fool, and is displeased with the idea of being supposed either to challenge a woman, or to receive a challenge at her hand. He has substituted, therefore, the name of the lord instead of the lady. If the Count fail in appearance, the Cæsar walks forward challenger and successful combatant at a cheap rate, since no one has encountered him, and claims that the lady should be delivered up to him as captive of his dreaded bow and spear. This will be the signal for a general tumult, in which, if the Emperor be not slain on the spot, he will be conveyed to the dungeon of his own Blacquernal, there to endure the doom which his cruelty has inflicted upon so many others.” “Still this departure from the original plan seems useless to me,” said Hereward, “and fraught with danger of its own particular kind.

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How, if Robert of Paris should appear himself in the lists, as ye know he is at liberty? he will most probably break the challenger’s neck.” “That will be no loss to our enterprise,” said Achilles, “of whose success the Cæsar’s existence is no essential part, and which will go only the straighter forwards that his neck is, as you express it, broken.” “But”— said the Varangian. “But—but—but,” said his officer; “but thou art a fool. Canst thou not see that this gallant Cæsar is willing to avoid the risk of encountering with this lady, while he earnestly desires to be supposed willing to meet her husband? It is our business to fix the combat in such a shape as to bring all who are prepared for insurrection together in arms to play their parts. Do thou only see that our trusty friends are placed near to the Emperor’s person, and in such a manner as to keep from him the officious and meddling portion of guards, who may be disposed to assist him; and whether the Cæsar fights a combat with lord or lady, or whether there be any combat at all or not, the revolution shall be accomplished, and the Tatii shall replace the Comneni upon the Imperial throne of Constantinople. Go, my trusty Hereward. Thou wilt not forget that the signal word of the insurrection is Ursel, who lives in the affections of the people, although his body, it is said, has long lain a corpse in the dungeons of the Blacquernal.” “What was this Ursel,” said Hereward, “of whom I hear men talk so variously?” “A competitor for the crown with Alexius Comnenus—good, brave, and honest; but overpowered by the cunning, rather than the skill or bravery of his foe. He died, as I believe, in the Blacquernal; though when, or how, there are few that can say. But, up and be doing, my Hereward! Speak encouragement to the Varangians—Interest whomsoever thou canst to join us. Of the Immortals, as they are called, and of the discontented citizens, enough are prepared to fill up the cry, and follow in the wake of those on whom we must rely as the beginners of the enterprise. No longer shall Alexius’s cunning, in avoiding popular assemblies, avail to protect him; he cannot, with regard to his honour, avoid being present at a combat to be fought beneath his own eye; and Mercury be praised for the eloquence which inspired him, after some hesitation, to determine for the proclamation!” “You have seen him, then, this evening?” said the Varangian. “Seen him! Unquestionably,” answered the Acolyte. “Had I ordered these trumpets to be sounded without his knowledge, the blast had blown the head from my shoulders.” “I had wellnigh met you at the palace,” said Hereward; while his heart throbbed almost as high as if he had actually had such a dangerous encounter.

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“I heard something of it,” said Achilles; “that you came to take the parting orders of him who now acts the sovereign. Surely, had I seen you there, with that steadfast, open, seemingly honest countenance, cheating the wily Greek by very dint of bluntness, I had not forborne laughing at the contrast between that and the thoughts of thy heart.” “God alone,” said Hereward, “knows the thoughts of our heart; but I take Him to witness, that I am faithful to my promise, and will discharge the task intrusted to me.” “Bravo! mine honest Anglo-Saxon,” said Achilles. “I pray thee to call my slaves to unarm me; and when thou thyself doffest those weapons of an ordinary lifeguard’s-man, tell them they never shall above twice more enclose the limbs of one for whom fate has much more fitting garments in store.” Hereward dared not intrust his voice with an answer to so critical a speech; he bowed profoundly, and retired to his own quarters in the building. Upon entering the apartment, he was immediately saluted by the voice of Count Robert, in joyful accents, not suppressed by the fear of making himself heard, though prudence should have made that uppermost in his mind. “Hast thou heard it, my dear Hereward,” he said—“hast thou heard the proclamation, by which this Greek antelope hath defied me to tilting with grinded spears, and fighting three passages of arms with sharpened swords? Yet there is something strange, too, that he should not think it safer to hold my lady to the encounter? He may think, perhaps, that the crusaders would not permit such a battle to be fought. But, by our Lady of the Broken Lances! he little knows that the men of the west hold their ladies’ character for courage as jealously as they do their own. This whole night have I been considering in what armour I shall clothe me; what shift I shall make for a steed; and whether I shall not honour him sufficiently by using Tranchefer, as my only weapon, against his whole armour, offensive and defensive.” “But, Sir Count,” said Hereward, “you cannot have been musing for a night on the substance of a proclamation which you have only heard half an hour ago.” “You remind me,” said the Count, “of an express who brought me the first tidings, though I think more for your own sake than mine.” He then passed into the inner apartment, and, after some whispering, led out into the larger room our acquaintance Bertha. Hereward’s countenance fell. The French have always been as famous for gallantry as for bravery; and, though general report avouched the Count of Paris to be as true a husband as he was a brave knight, yet the Varangian began the conversation in rather a doubtful tone.

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“Ere I receive such a present from your hand, my lord, methinks I would willingly know how this young person came to be engaged as a messenger on this occasion?” “Jealous pated fool,” said Bertha, “was I to stand upon ceremonies, whilst such danger overhung my lord and lady? and did not old Vexhelia guide me to these your quarters, and engage to remain with me till my errand was discharged to thee, thou fool, in whose ill-ordered lodgings I found my Lord Count, very much to my surprise?” Vexhelia entered, the wife of an old Anglo-Saxon soldier, with such a visage as might have been a good warrant for the correctness of a whole convent. The Count laughed loudly; and Hereward, though somewhat nettled, as a man usually is when he finds himself in the wrong upon such an occasion, at length turned his anger into an awkward species of laughter, which Bertha rewarded with a slight tap of the old woman’s staff. “We have small time to laugh,” said she; “and since some fiend has brought this wise man into our counsels, it is fitting he should know, my Lord Count, the message that I brought from your lady. That the Lady Brenhilda, educated as she had been in arms, and distinguished by so many feats of chivalrous valour, should defy the Cæsar to battle, was only natural; that the Cæsar, who expected only that kind of resistance which might be offered from a coy maiden, should accept the challenge, was also to be anticipated;— but while my lady was in the full joy of an awarded combat, and a certain victory, she became sensible of—of what Vexhelia will tell you.” So saying, she withdrew into the inner apartment. “This Lady Countess,” said Vexhelia, “suffers under the curse laid on our sex at the fall of man. She cannot expose herself to combat, without putting Count Robert’s heir, as well as his wife, in mortal danger.” “Gracious Heaven!” said Hereward. “What was to be done?” continued Vexhelia. “After some thought, for the circumstances did not admit of much, Brenhilda sent Bertha to apprise the Cæsar, that her present condition would prevent her keeping the engagement for battle. The Grecian lord is not ungenerous—he readily released the lady from her engagement, but required that her husband should supply her place.” “In that, too,” said Count Robert, “he was generous, most generous; and I will thank him with Tranchefer, as men thank a noble foe.” “I would hold him more noble,” said Hereward, “if I were certain that the Cæsar knew that Count Robert was living at large, and would be certainly forthcoming at the day of appointment.” “It is unworthy of you, Hereward,” said the Count, “to intimate the possibility of a dishonourable cause for an honourable action.”

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“I am likewise of opinion,” said Hereward, “that the Cæsar is none of those who delight so much in blows and bruises, that he should desire to engage himself in combat, unless he was desirous of having the troops and people on foot on that day, for some purpose of his own.” “Nevertheless,” said Vexhelia, “I still say the Cæsar is generous, for he sent for me to attend on the noble Countess, and promised me such a recompence, as if I were to attend a Princess undergoing her weird, from which this lady is distant many a long day, in the Chamber of Purple itself.” “There, I say, he did well,” said the Anglo-Saxon, “when he fetched thee to assist with thy advice a woman in her condition, in a foreign land—thee, the very Lucina-fer-opem, as the Latins express it, of the whole females attached to the Varangian guard—the intelligent and faithful closet-keeper of an hundred mysteries.” “Cease your jibing,” said the old matron; “it is enough you know me skilful and trusty; and the poor lady, so young, so thoughtless, and so ignorant, I will not stir from her side, were I drawn by cords, till I see this agitating matter of the combat safely over.” “Hush, old trusty,” said Hereward, “for I was about to propose to engage thee differently. The crusaders cannot be far distant; they were to collect their troops on the Asiatic shore, as near Scutari as possible. Without extending the knowledge of our secret, we must make Duke Godfrey, Count Tancred, or some other important leader of the host, aware that this great danger is impending over their brother in arms, and the companion of their vow, Count Robert of Paris: fifty lances is the amount to which their assistance is absolutely necessary; indeed, more would do us prejudice, and peril the safety of the Emperor’s throne, which I am sworn to defend. But whom shall we send to claim this assistance, for to write, or trust a common messenger, were to bring evident destruction upon ourselves?” “I see that plainly,” said the Count of Paris; “but the necessary attention of my wife’s health detains this good lady beside her; and for me, I can hardly undertake to find my way to the camp of Duke Godfrey, explain my errand, obtain the succours, and be in the lists by sun-rise the day after to-morrow. Besides, the crusaders are bound by a solemn and general vow, that having set their hands to the plough— begun their march, that is, towards Palestine—they will for no purpose turn back, were it a step. That obstacle will not be got over without time and deliberation.” “I, too,” said Hereward, “would gladly offer myself to the task of carrying your greeting to the camp of the Duke of Bouillon, but I have an important and indispensable part to play here, and my

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disappearance from the scene runs the risk of ruining all.” “What, then, is to be done,” said the Count, “save to trust to Our Lady of the Broken Lances? I doubt not the combat will be easily gained; nor is it likely that such a gallant chivalry as will be there assembled, will see the conqueror in a fair combat oppressed by treachery or by odds.” “You little know what the Greeks are capable of,” said Hereward, mournfully; and his apprehensions seemed to communicate themselves to those around, who looked despondingly in each other’s faces. Suddenly Bertha stepped forth—“I see,” said she, “that the peril of this part of the adventure must rest with me; and wherefore should it not? My mistress, in the bosom of prosperity, offered herself to go forth into the wide world for my sake; I will for hers go to the camp of this Frankish lord. He is an honourable man, and a pious Christian, and his followers are faithful pilgrims. A woman can have nothing to fear who goes to such men upon such an errand.” “Thanks a thousand times,” said Count Robert; but he had hardly uttered the words ere his career of gratitude was interrupted by Hereward. “Under favour, my lord, this maiden exposes herself to a danger greater than she can judge of, and other consents than her’s are necessary to be had ere she goes on an expedition that may be every way fatal to her. Duke Godfrey is a godly man, and a man of honour; but he can hardly be said to command in full authority yon swarm of various nations assembled under his nominal guidance. His men are pilgrims; but having carried the merit of that pilgrimage to their account with heaven, they have shown no reluctance to add a few items to the score of their sins, especially when women and the winepot are the matters in concern. Sooner than she shall go alone, I will myself accompany her, and on this you may please rest as a certainty.” “Now, by heavens, young man,” said the Count, “thou beliest the followers of the Holy Crusade!” “I will, at any rate,” said Hereward, “on no account repose a confidence in their virtue, which, if misplaced, might cost me so fatal a loss.” The Count was about to answer, with similar indignation, when the old woman interposed. “For heaven’s sake, be still, my lord; I cannot be suspected of wishing ill to my noble patient, nor to this comely maiden here, her attendant, whose marriage it were little my part to spoil, seeing that if she is wedded to the goodly centurion, she will in all likelihood in due time become my customer. Let me arrange, then, for her safety. My husband, old Osmund, a trusty Varangian, as faithful as his beard, might go on this message himself; were it not that his

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brain is apt to overflow with the wine-pot, and wash the dearest secrets out of his head, he were indeed an inimitable messenger; but if he has lost, in a manner, the tenacity of his memory, he has retained that of his gripe, and be assured he will fight for the bride of his comrade like a woman for her first-born. A letter from Count Robert to any of the principal lords, will be a secure safeguard against any one but such paltry hedge ruffians as might insult her; men whom my old Osmund wants nothing to subdue save his trusty battle-axe.” “I am so convinced of the truth of what she says,” said Hereward, “that I yield to her making the experiment, if Count Robert will write such a letter to the Counts of the Crusaders.” “Brave man, I have wronged thee,” said the Count; “so true it is, that we see the perils which concern others with less interest than those which relate to ourselves. Pity and sorrow it were, that I should desire even the safety of my wife and my unborn infant, at the risk of the slightest injury to this generous and faithful maiden. Most gladly would I write a letter of credence to the Lords of the Crusade, assuring them that the slightest insult to Bertha would be encountered by ready defiance and revenge. But—but—but——It skills not talking, I had my hands during my boyhood so fully occupied in learning more important matters, that they were never taught to frame written characters.” “A known token, my lord,” said Bertha, “will as well answer the purpose of accrediting me for what I am to say; trust to woman’s wit, and her love to her mistress.” “And for old Osmund,” said Vexhelia, “use him like thy groom if thou wilt have good of him, and bring him back sober, as I shall deliver him to thee.” “And by what means shall I manage that?” said Bertha. “By thy tongue, girl,” said Vexhelia; “he has known the sound for many a day of a woman’s tongue, and obeys its crack with the same readiness that a cart-horse does its driver. For thy terms, talk not of choosing; thou mayst use the same stormy language to old Osmund, which I will warrant thou expendest on our ruffling young centurion here.” “Peace, old limb of the devil!” said Hereward; “read not thy lectures to the innocent, or I will”—— “What wilt thou do?” said the lady, half in jest and half in anger; “let us know what revenge thou canst take of me.” “Marry, I will,” said Hereward, “so soon as thine old Osmund has discharged his message, and is returned to his duty, find him time and means by my intervention to get him drunk for a week without asking your leave.”

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This species of dialogue sounded much as that between a sergeant of the present day and a woman of the camp; that is, the Count of Paris thought it vulgar and intrusive, and reminding them that time pressed, and that they had much to prepare against the day after to-morrow, he brought them to abandon this unprofitable conversation. Vexhelia readily consented that Bertha should share her habitation that night, and depart early the next morning for the town of Scutari, on the eastern side of the strait, where they were sure to obtain a direction for the camp of Godfrey, which could not have yet moved to any distance. It was further agreed that when Osmund and his charge were gone, that is to say, as soon as the dawn had reddened, Hereward, together with Count Robert, should repair to Vexhelia’s habitation in a separate house, where her own profession and her husband’s length of service had obtained her license to reside, although the indulgence given to the Varangians permitted her to come and go to the barracks at all hours; lastly, at their final parting, Count Robert put into Bertha’s hand his signet ring, of which the field was sowed, as heralds now call it, with splinters of lances, bearing the proud motto,—“Mine is yet unscathed.” “Under the warrant of this ring,” he said, “thou mayest say what thou wilt in my name; thou art wiser than I, and canst best frame what is fitting to be said. Most of the chiefs know the token, for it has been to them the signal of peace and of war. Whatever thou sayest in my name, I will perform as if I had sworn it on the true cross; and believe it, my dear Bertha, that in the discharge of this trust, thou hast gained a brother in Robert of Paris.” He affectionately embraced the damsel, and dismissed her with Vexhelia, who was well accustomed to thread the streets of Constantinople by night, and in departing, reminded the Count to be with her exactly at sunrise, by which time she undertook to have the house clear of old Osmund, whose excellence was not supposed to lie in keeping secrets, and who was seldom therefore consulted in any of those belonging to his wife, which were a pretty numerous collection. Having thus taken leave of the two females, the Count addressed Hereward, who still looked grave upon what had passed. “Thou art not offended, my excellent friend,” he said, “at my taking a tender farewell of Bertha? my heart overflowed to that excellent young woman, who loves her mistress so truly, and thou knowest that the interest I claim in her is only that of a brother.” “It is no doubt true, my lord,” said Hereward; “I was only wondering which of her gallant brothers, if fate gives her many such, she is

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likely to prefer to the poor Forester, who was her companion in the woods of Hampshire.” “I would,” said the Count, “I were as sure of a safe return to my land, crowned with glory, as I am strong respecting the faith and loyalty of Bertha. The man whom she selects will gain her heart neither by his rank nor his station, but by his true faith and unstained fidelity in act and deed.” “In troth, I believe so,” said Hereward; “and now, my lord, having tasted such refreshment as I have to offer, let us to our hard pillows. Such they may seem to your lordship, though to me use hath made them like driven down. We will need repose, for the next twenty-four hours must be hours of successive and constant action.” “Amen!” said the Count, “and may God protect my lady.” Thus closed the night in the barracks of the Varangians.

Chapter Eleven Such duty as the subject owes the Prince, Even such a woman oweth to her husband; And when she’s froward, peevish, sullen, sour, And not obedient to his honest will, What is she, but a foul contending rebel, And graceless traitor to her loving lord? Taming of the Shrew

A        the east began to dawn, the Count started up, and called out, “Hereward! Hereward! we have forgot the essential circumstance.” “What can that be, my lord?” answered Hereward. “A suit of armour,” replied the Count; “I should like ill to expose my body without a trustier breastplate to the point of a Spanish glaive. Can thy true love’s cunning purchase that, thinkest thou?” “No fear,” said Hereward; “but we must hence to Vexhelia upon the instant, else Bertha and Osmund will be set forth on their journey; and hark you, my lord, you must not produce yourself too openly, lest you attract old Osmund’s attention, whose curiosity is more easily raised than satisfied.—Here, Edric,” calling his follower, who immediately entered, “forget, in speaking to every living soul, that thou hast seen this noble gentleman in our barracks; keep my doors shut, and let no one pry about my chamber; if the Acolyte enquire for me, I shall return in an hour. And now, Lord Count, I take my cloak and axe, and remain yours at command.” The Count of Paris resumed, at the same time, his Varangian disguise, and observing the same position respecting each other as

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formerly, they were soon in the streets of Constantinople, measuring their way towards the kind of lane in which Vexhelia resided. They might easily distinguish her house by the warlike figure of old Osmund, who was attending upon Bertha in her Varangian habit, while his wife was inculcating upon him every precept of which she conceived his wasted faculty could have the least occasion. “Remember,” she said, “good Osmund, that thou forget not a single atom of thine instructions. This Varangian damsel being our countrywoman, whom thou art to have the task of conducting to the camp of the crusaders, that lies somewhere beyond Scutari——” “Ay, ay, dame,” retorted the old man—“trust me for that.” “Thou wilt show the ferryman this mandate, on which he will instantly pass thee over, without farther debate.” “That is well,” said the old man; “I will let him know that the passport is forged by our friend Hereward, the Saxon.” “For the Almighty sake of Heaven, no!” said his meek moiety, shaking her head; “not a word of our friend. Indeed, the less thou sayest of any thing, the better. If thou art asked, for instance, if thou knowest what errand this young maiden bears to the Duke of Bouillon —canst thou say, no?” “I can,” said Osmund, repeating the negative between his teeth, as if to make sure of it, “No, no, no.” “If thou art asked, who protects her on the journey—what wilt thou do?” “Up with my axe,” answered the old man, “and break the head of the interrogator.” So saying, he suited the action to the word, heaving up his battle-axe, and splitting the stone on which it descended, which, by accident or malice, lay within half a yard of his wife’s foot. “Ass,” said she, “how long will it be ere thou learn common sense? Tell me now, once for all, if any one at the door of a wine-shop say, Welcome, Osmund, wilt thou crush a cup this fresh morning?—what would’st thou reply?” “With all my heart,” answered Osmund. His meek helpmate was now disposed actually to fly at him, and complained loudly of his inefficacy. “Would you think it, gentlemen,” she said, “I am obliged to provide for this drunken sot; and if once in the month I must be obliged to him for the most simple lie, you would think that the besotted monster becomes all of a sudden a pattern of truth, such difficulty he finds in making himself intelligible, though if the peril be to tell any secret on which my life depended, you would hear him bring it out as glibly as the priest does his lesson. But fare ye well, gentlemen; and you, Sir Count, keep close in my house yonder, you will be safer there than in remaining abroad in this nipping morn-

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ing air. Soldiers have last night been introduced to my neighbour Agelastes’s gardens, and though his portress Judith be somewhat a gossip of mine, if a Christian woman may say so of a black pagan, yet she is sly and cunning, and makes mysteries about the cause.” “We will take care,” said Hereward. “Thou thyself, if thou returnest to attend the Countess, mayst find the reason for stationing such men in such a place.” “And if I find it not,” replied Vexhelia, “I warrant me I will be diligent in searching it out, according to the Scripture. Meanwhile, I will but embark this young pullet for Scutari, trusting, that in so short a distance, she can hardly sustain any evil, since she hath my old gander beside her for defence.” Hereward, thinking that the Count of Paris, left to himself, might be guilty of some breach of trust, as well as old Osmund, craved of him to know how he purposed to dispose of the day. “Why,” said Count Robert, “I was thinking with myself that it would read ill hereafter in my history, that a foot or two of lime and stone should be sufficient to divide me from my dearest lady, in want of comfort as she presently is.” “May I ask of your Excellence,” said Hereward, “if your valour spurs you to encounter the band of swordsmen who, by our hostess’s report, were last night introduced into these gardens? You may be probably aware that these slaves have no nice punctilios of chivalry, and that the number of those who attack you will be as great as that of the sabres which can find room to hew at you.” “That is a consideration far beneath my thoughts,” said Count Robert. “But yet, let me pray you, honourable sir,” said the Varangian, “to remember the state of your Countess. She hears, or probably sees, if you bend your way to the Lodge, that you are assailed by odds; she seizes her sword and buckler—leaps from the window into the garden —fights desperately—and to-morrow finds the Count of Paris without a child, and perhaps without a wife.” “Thou art right, Anglo-Saxon; and through my own folly should I sustain such a deprivation. I will make a vow, and keep it true, that I will permit nothing to withdraw me from Vexhelia’s house, nor allow any temptation to induce me to attempt the sight of my dearest lady, until we shall meet in the lists for the final decision of this strange affair.” With joy the Varangian heard this protestation, and as he knew the Count was a slave to his word, he concluded, that instead of keeping watch over this rash man, he might with perfect safety produce himself in public, in order to remain unsuspected by the Emperor, by the

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Acolyte, and by the Cæsar; all of whom had different views upon him, and all of whom, from time to time, entertained doubts of his fidelity, which his unaffected appearance, as if making preparations for the important transactions of next day, was most likely to alter or diminish. Meantime, the active Vexhelia saw her husband and his companion safely on board of a ferry-boat lying in the harbour; the master of which readily admitted them, after some examination of their license to pass to Scutari, which was forged in the name of the Acolyte, and which agreed with the appearance of old Osmund and his young charge. The ferryman asked no questions in Vexhelia’s hearing; for he was too near a neighbour not to be aware, that any chance of his getting an inch of gratification to his curiosity, was to wait till he had the travellers alone in his vessel. “It must be pressing business, neighbour Osmund,” he said, “that sends you, and this young woman, an Anglo-Saxon, as I think, across the strait at such an early hour, since the orders have been so precise.” Osmond recollected that his cue was silence; he therefore shook his head mysteriously, and uttered something like a groan. “Heaven defend us,” said the rais, or master of the ferry-boat, “no misfortune I hope in my neighbour Vexhelia’s way of business?” “None, neighbour, none,” said Osmund; “my wife, by the grace of Sancta Sophia, is as fortunate as she is skilful, and as skilful as she is fortunate; were anything ailing her, Heaven alone knows the loss it would be to this poor empire and myself. In one thing alone she is, though I say it, to blame,—somewhat close,—you understand?— somewhat niggardly.” “Ah!” said the rais, “she keeps the purse?—does she not?” “In troth, does she,” said the old soldier; “and what a little vexes me, the said purse contains not only all which she makes by her profession, but my poor military pension, which methinks is hardly so fair.” “It is usurpation entirely,” said the rais; “were my wife to pretend to such airs, a rope’s end should teach her the difference.” “Ay, my friend,” returned the old soldier, “you sailors are happy men. You live half your time separated from your wives, and the other half you have your sceptre, the rope’s end, within arms-length of you.” “Come,” said the rais, “I warrant me you have not had your morning’s draught—the very mention of it makes water come in thy mouth; well, that shall soon be remedied.” So saying, he tripped down what modern times call the companion-ladder, and was returning again with a skinful of wine, but Bertha, who had heard the conversation, resolved to fortify the staggering sobriety of her fellow-traveller. “As you live by bread, rais,” she said, “do not let this poor old man

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have the means of departing from sobriety. We are upon a most important commission, on account of a great lady among these crusading lords, who is in the way of needing Vexhelia’s assistance. In the meantime, she hath sent me, a young person brought up by her, in her stead; and if you suffer this old man to get intoxicated, he will become incapable of protecting me, and Heaven only knows how many evil consequences may arrive. Nevertheless, I would not have you, good rais, suffer by the loss of selling your commodity;” and therewith she slid into the hand of the shipmaster a piece of gold which was in value equal to all the ordinary wine which he could have disposed of, at least in one day. Osmund had therefore the mortification of seeing the rais retrace his steps with the promised draught, and hearing him tell long stories (which were little compensation) of Hero and Leander, whose loves have rendered the strait of the Hellespont famous throughout the world. The morning was lovely; and erelong the town of Scutari offered its splendid view to the travellers, glittering, as now, with a variety of architecture, which, while it might be termed fantastical, could not be denied the praise of beauty. These buildings rose boldly out of a thick grove of cypresses, and other huge trees, the larger, probably, as they were respected for filling the cemeteries, and being guardians of the dead. At the period we mention, another circumstance, no less striking than beautiful, rendered doubly interesting what must have been at all times greatly so. A large part of that miscellaneous army, which came to regain the holy places of Palestine, and the blessed Sepulchre itself, from the infidels, had established themselves in a camp within a mile, or thereabouts, of Scutari. Although, therefore, the crusaders were destitute in a great measure of the use of tents, the army (excepting the pavilions of some leaders of high rank) had constructed for themselves temporary huts, not unpleasing to the eye, being decorated with leaves and flowers, while the tall pennons and banners that floated over them with various devices, showed that the flower of Europe were assembled at that place. A loud and varied murmur, resembling that of a thronged hive, floated from the camp of the crusaders to the neighbouring town of Scutari, and every now and then the deep tone was broken by some shriller sound, the note of some musical instrument, or the treble scream of some child or female, in fear or in gayety. “I pray thee, good rais,” said Bertha, who was not without some alarm, “walk with us a short space, till I deliver my message, and am under guard.” “Indeed, maiden,” answered the rais, “this is a strange and a lawless host, and having seen them yourself, the less you can blame our

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master the Emperor, that could not receive such miscellaneous pilgrims with open arms. But fear nothing, I will walk with you to the tent of any leader you name among the Counts; and be of good courage, the sun is high in heaven, and under his light Duke Godfrey’s authority keeps these holy pilgrims in good discipline. If night had spread her sable curtain, in truth I would not warrant their steel-clad reverences to be safe companions for gold trinkets and blue eyes like yours, maiden.” “Carry me to the tent of the noble Duke Godfrey of Bouillon,” said Bertha, “and God send my mistress and myself safe out of his frightful vicinity.” Osmund here awoke from one of his doating reveries. “Take care of yourself, damsel, and pray for yourself. I shall warrant my Vexhelia, her wrinkles and her age considered, against any dozen of these Franks that dare approach her.” “And for thyself, young woman,” said the rais, “have no apprehension, since thou hast named a man whom the crusaders hold to be a saint. Though I shall know better what to think in future, when they call him the pious, the holy, and so forth. Holy lady!” continued he, speaking to himself, “I well deserve my nickname of the Mouth-piece of the ferry, if I can tell the gallants whom I waft across, that I, the Rais Gayferos of Scutari, have ferried over an attendant and pupil of that well-known wise-woman Vexhelia, in haste to the pious and continent Duke Godfrey, whose paramour is doubtless in the most extreme need of assistance. I will attend her closely, and discover if I can something of the lady. Agelastes, nay, the Cæsar, or the Emperor himself, would fill my cap with broad bezants, to bring them tidings of this Godfrey’s ruling folly. This damsel seems a sly one, cautious as becomes her trade, though she has commenced it but young.” As they approached one of the gates of the camp, there sallied forth a brisk array of gallant cavaliers, pages, and squires, exercising their masters’ horses or their own. From the noise they made, conversing at the very top of their voices, galloping, curveting, and prancing their palfreys, it seemed as if their early discipline had called them to exercise ere the fumes of last night’s revel were thoroughly dissipated by repose. So soon as they saw Bertha and her party, they approached them with cries which marked their country was Italy—“Al’-erta! al’erta!—Roba de guadagno, cameradi!”* They gathered around the Anglo-Saxon maiden and her companions, repeating their cries in a manner which made Bertha tremble. Their general demand was, “What was her business in their camp?” “I would to the general-in-chief, cavaliers,” answered Bertha, * That is—“Take heed! take heed!—there is booty, comrades!”

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“having a secret message to his ear.” “For whose ear?” said a leader of the party, a handsome youth of about eighteen years of age, who seemed either to have a sounder brain than his fellows, or to have overflowed it with less wine. “Which of our leaders do you come hither to see?” he demanded. “Godfrey of Bouillon.” “Indeed!” said the page who had spoken first; “can nothing of less consequence serve thy turn? Take a look amongst us; young are we all, and reasonably wealthy. My Lord of Bouillon is old, and if he has any sequins, he is not like to lavish them in this way.” “Still I have a token to Godfrey of Bouillon,” answered Bertha, “an assured token; and he will little thank any who obstruct my free passage to him;” and therewithal showing a little case, in which the signet of the Count of Paris was enclosed, “I will trust it in your hands,” she said, “if you promise not to open it, but to give me free access to the noble leader of the crusaders.” “I will,” said the youth, “and if such be the Duke’s pleasure, thou shalt be admitted to him.” “Ernest the Apulian, thy dainty Italian wit is caught in a trap,” said one of his companions. “Thou art an ultramontane fool, Polydore,” returned Ernest; “there may be more in this than either thy wit or mine is able to fathom. This maiden and one of her attendants wear a dress belonging to the Varangian Imperial guard. They have perhaps been intrusted with a message from the Emperor, and it is not irreconcilable with Alexius’s politics to send it in the semblance of a pageant. Let us, therefore, convey them in all honour to the General’s tent.” “With all my heart,” said Polydore. “A blue-eyed wench is a pretty thing, but I like not the sauce of the camp-marshal, nor his taste in attiring men who give way to temptation.* Yet, ere I prove a fool like my companion, I would ask the grey-bearded old man, who, I think, calls himself the Charon of Scutari, who or what this pretty maiden is, who comes to put noble princes and holy pilgrims in memory that they have in their time had the passions of men.” “The maiden, my lord Count,” said the rais, “is pupil and messenger of Vexhelia, the old midwife, who has assisted into the world half the children of the Varangian guard, and gets a bezant for each future defender of the Emperor whom she brings into the world.” “My wife is just as he says, gentlemen,”—answered Osmund; “as honest and pains-taking a woman as is in Constantinople.” “The damsel,” continued the rais, speaking, like persons of his * Persons among the Crusaders found guilty of incontinence, did penance in a dress of tar and feathers, though it is supposed a punishment of modern invention.

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occupation, a good deal more than he knew, “is a daughter, niece, or some such commodity,—a connexion of Vexhelia, and comes hither to render a cast of her office.” “A midwife in the camp of the Crusaders!” cried Polydore. “She is,” said another, “more likely to learn the art of increasing the number of children here, than to find practice for her mystery of bringing them into the world.” There was a loud and general laugh; and Bertha, whose courage was somewhat shaken, began to entreat: “As you have mothers, gentlemen—as you have fair sisters, whom you would protect from dishonour with your best blood—as you love and honour those holy places which you are sworn to free from the infidel enemy, have compassion on me, that you may merit success in your undertaking!” “Fear nothing, maiden,” said Ernest, “I will be your protector; and you, my comrades, be ruled by me. I have, during your brawling, taken a view, though somewhat against my promise, of the pledge which she bears, and if she who presents it is affronted or maltreated, be she nun or midwife, be assured Godfrey of Bouillon will severely avenge the wrong done her.” “Nay, comrade, if thou canst warrant us so much,” said Polydore, “I will myself be most anxious to conduct the young woman in honour and safety to Sir Godfrey’s tent.” “The princes,” said Ernest, “must be nigh meeting there at council. What I have said I will warrant and uphold with hand and life. More I might guess, but I conclude this sensible young maiden can speak for herself.” “Now, Heaven bless thee, gallant squire,” said Bertha, “and make thee alike brave and fortunate! Embarrass yourself no farther about me, than to deliver me safe to your leader, Godfrey.” “I will assist at this cavalcade,” said Polydore, “to take a chance of learning the rest of this strange story. Godfrey, the gallant, the just, the holy, and the brave, who led Europe upon Asia,—in the beginning of his expedition, can he have occasion for the services of a midwife! Why, this realises the story of Pope Joan!” Vext and frightened at her situation, Bertha could not help muttering a wish to Heaven, that Godfrey of Bouillon was the only apparent man-at-arms who felt occasion for such a person’s assistance. “We spend time,” said Ernest, springing from his horse. “Gentlewomen of your occupation are generally in haste, and I presume you will find yourself under no difficulty in managing a quiet horse?” “Not the least,” said Bertha, as, wrapping herself in her cassock, she sprung from the ground, and alighted upon the spirited palfrey, as a linnet stoops upon a rose-bush. “And now, sir, as my business really

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brooks no delay, I will be indebted to you to show me instantly to the tent of Duke Godfrey of Bouillon.” The young Apulian conducted her through the huts to the pavilion of the celebrated General-in-chief of the Crusade. “Here,” he said, “you must tarry for a space, under the guardianship of my companions,” (for two or three of the pages had accompanied them, out of curiosity to see the issue,) “and I will take the commands of the Duke of Bouillon upon the subject.” To this nothing could be objected, and Bertha had nothing better to do, than to admire the outside of the tent, which, in one of Alexius’s fits of generosity and munificence, had been presented by the Greek Emperor to the Chief of the Franks. It was raised upon tall spearshaped poles, which had the semblance of gold; its curtains were of a thick stuff, manufactured of silk, cotton, and gold thread. The warders who stood round, were (at least during the time that the council was held) old grave men, the personal squires of the body, most of them, of the sovereigns who had taken the Cross, and who could, therefore, be trusted as a guard over the assembly, without danger of their blabbing what they might overhear. Their appearance was serious and considerate, and they looked like men who had taken upon them the Cross, not as an idle adventure of arms, but as a purpose of the most solemn and serious nature. One of these stopt the Italian, and demanded what business authorized him to press forwards into the council of the crusaders, who were already taking their seats. The page answered by giving his name, “Ernest of Otranto, page of Prince Tancred;” and stated that he announced a young woman, who bore a token to the Duke of Bouillon, adding that it was accompanied by a message to his own ear. They also keenly questioned old Osmund; but as it occurred to none of them to offer him a morning’s draught, they did not find the key to the garrulity which would probably soon have made them masters of all he knew or imagined of the subject of his charge, Bertha’s commission. During this discussion, Bertha laid aside her mantle, or upper garment, and disposed the rest of her dress according to the AngloSaxon costume. She had hardly completed this task, before the page of Prince Tancred returned, to conduct her into the presence of the council of the Crusade. She followed his signal; while the other young men who had accompanied her, wondering at the apparent ease with which she gained admittance, drew back to a respectful distance from the tent, and there canvassed the singularity of their morning’s adventure. “Hath she no name or description?” said Godfrey, when this message was conveyed to him. “Answer, Sir Page.”

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“A very strange one,” answered the young man—“she is announced as the deputy of one Vexhelia, the most noted midwife in Constantinople.” Grave as were most of the crusading chiefs, the description excited a smile; and even the chief, Godfrey himself, though one who rarely felt, at least of late times, a ludicrous idea, seemed also moved by the oddity of such a messenger to such a quarter. In a moment, however, he checked his disposition to mirth. “My lords,” said he, “in this country, and in undertaking the adventures which it contains, we must not suffer ourselves to be carried away by the ideas which we may entertain of that which is merely laughable; for many a serious danger comes involved in an idle form. I will see this maiden, and learn her errand, in so far as she may have one more than the preamble implies.” In the meanwhile, the ambassadress herself entered the council chamber, exhibiting an agreeable mixture of shamefacedness and reserve, together with a bold determination to do her duty at all events. There were about fifteen of the principal crusaders assembled in council, with their chieftain Godfrey. He himself was a tall strong man, arrived at that period of life in which men are supposed to have lost none of their resolution, while they have acquired a wisdom and circumspection unknown to their earlier years. The countenance of Godfrey bespoke both prudence and boldness, and resembled his hair, where a few threads of silver were already mingled with his raven locks. Tancred sat at no great distance from him, the noblest knight of the Christian chivalry.—“Tancred,” says Mr James, “whose valour, generosity, enthusiasm, and courtesy, have been the theme of so many a song—of whom Tasso, in seeking to describe him in the language of poetry, could say nothing more than truth.”* The same council-room contained Hugh, Earl of Vermandois, generally called the Great Count, the selfish and wily Bohemond, the powerful Raymond of Provence, and others of the principal crusaders, all more or less completely sheathed in armour. Bertha did not allow her courage to be broken down, but advancing with a timid grace towards Godfrey, she placed in his hands the signet which had been restored to her by the young page, and after a deep obeisance, spoke these words: “Godfrey, Count of Bouillon, Count of Lorraine the Lower, Chief of the Holy Enterprise called the Crusade, and you, his gallant comrades, peers, and companions, by whatever titles you may be honoured, I, a humble maiden of England, daughter of Engelred, originally a franklin of Hampshire, and since Chieftain of * History of Chivalry.

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the Foresters, or free Anglo-Saxons, under the command of the celebrated Edric, do claim what credence is due to the bearer of the true pledge which I put into your hand, on the part of one not the least considerable of your own body, Count Robert of Paris——” “Our most honourable confederate,” said Godfrey, looking at the ring. “Most of you, my lords, must, I think, know this signet—a field sown with the fragments of many splintered lances.” The signet was handed from one of the assembly to another, and generally recognised. When Godfrey had signified so much, the maiden resumed her message. “To all true crusaders, therefore, comrades of Godfrey of Bouillon, and especially to the Duke himself,—to all, I say, excepting Bohemond of Antioch, whom he counts unworthy of his notice”—— “Ha! me unworthy of his notice,” said Bohemond. “What mean you by that, damsel?—But the Count of Paris shall answer it to me.” “Under your favour, Sir Bohemond,” said Godfrey, “no. Our articles renounce the sending of challenges among ourselves, and the matter, if not dropt betwixt the parties, must be referred to the voice of this honourable council.” “I think I guess the business now, my lord,” said Bohemond. “The Count of Paris is disposed to turn and tear me, because I offered him good counsel on the evening before we left Constantinople, when he neglected to accept or be guided by it”—— “It will be the more easily explained, when we have heard his message,” said Godfrey.—“Speak forth Lord Robert of Paris’s charge, damsel, that we may take some order with that which now seems a perplexed business.” Bertha resumed her message. “Count Robert of Paris, with his honourable mate, Brenhilda of Aspramonte, let you know by me, that they have been both seized and thrown into prison at the instigation of the Greek prince called Cæsar, and by connivance of the Emperor Alexius Comnenus. Challenges have passed, first between the said Cæsar and the chaste and chivalrous Lady Brenhilda of Aspramonte; but for certain causes, the good knight, although his lady’s valour is as well known as her faith and honour, chooses himself to fight as her proxy, and the Cæsar, by a proclamation, of which this is a copy, has accepted of this exchange. The battle is to be done to-morrow, about two hours after day-break, and the Count entreats of the noble Duke of Bouillon that he will permit some fifty of the lances of France to attend the deed of arms, and secure that fair and honourable conduct, which he has otherwise some doubts of receiving at the hands of his adversary. Or if any young and gallant knight should, of his own free will, wish to view the said combat, the Count will feel his presence as an honour; always he desires that the name of such knight be

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numbered carefully with the armed crusaders who shall attend in the lists, and that the whole shall be limited, by Duke Godfrey’s own inspection, to fifty lances only, which are enough to obtain the protection required, while more would be considered as a preparation for aggression upon the Grecians, and occasion the revival of disputes which are now happily at rest. This message from the Count of Paris is delivered, word for word as received from him, by the Anglo-Saxon Bertha, bower maiden for the time to Brenhilda of Aspramonte.” Bertha had no sooner finished delivering her manifesto, and made with great grace her obeisance to the council, than a sort of whisper took place in the assembly, which soon assumed a more lively tone. Their solemn vow not to turn their back upon Palestine, now that they had set their hands to the plough, was strongly urged by some of the elder knights of the council, and two or three high prelates, who had by this time entered to take share in the deliberations. The young knights, on the other hand, were fired with indignation on hearing the manner in which their comrade had been trepanned; and few of them could think of missing a combat in the lists in a country in which such sights were so rare, and where one was to be fought so near them. Godfrey rested his brow on his hand, and seemed in great perplexity. To break with the Greeks, after having suffered so many injuries in order to maintain the advantage of keeping the peace with them, seemed very impolitic, and a sacrifice of all he had obtained by a long course of painful forbearance towards Alexius Comnenus. On the other hand, he was bound as a man of honour to resent the injury offered to Count Robert of Paris, whose reckless spirit of chivalry made him the darling of the army. It was the cause, too, of a beautiful lady, and a brave one: Every knight in the host would think himself bound, by his vow, to hasten to her defence. When Godfrey spoke, it was to complain of the difficulty of the determination, and the short time there was to consider the case. “With submission to my Lord Duke of Bouillon,” said Tancred, “I was a knight ere I was a crusader, and took on me the vows of chivalry, ere I placed this blessed sign upon my shoulder; the vow first made must be first discharged. I will therefore do penance for neglecting, for a space, the obligations of the second vow, while I observe that which recalls me to the first duty of knighthood,—the relief of a distressed lady in the hands of men whose conduct towards her, and towards this host, in every respect entitles me to call them treacherous faitours.” “If my kinsman Tancred,” said Bohemond, “will check his impetuosity, and you, my lord, will listen, as you have sometimes deigned to do, to my advice, I think I can direct you how to keep clear of any

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breach of your oath, and yet fully to relieve our distressed fellowpilgrims.—I see some suspicious looks are cast towards me, which are caused perhaps by the churlish manner in which this violent, and, in this case, almost insane young warrior, has protested against receiving my assistance. My great offence is the having given him warning, by precept and example, of the treachery which was about to be practised against him, and instructed him to use forbearance and temperance. My warning he altogether contemned—my example he neglected to follow, and fell into the snare which was spread, as it were, before his very eyes. Yet the Count of Paris, in rashly contemning me, has acted only from a temper which misfortune and disappointment renders irrational and frantic. I am so far from bearing him ill-will, that, with your lordship’s permission, and that of the present council, I will haste to the place of rendezvous with fifty lances, making up the retinue which attends upon each to at least ten men, which will make the stipulated auxiliary force equal to at least five hundred; and with these I can have little doubt of rescuing the Count and his lady.” “Nobly proposed,” said the Duke of Bouillon; “and with a charitable forgiveness of injuries which becomes our Christian expedition. But thou hast forgot the main difficulty, brother Bohemond, that we are sworn never to turn back upon the sacred journey.” “If we can elude that oath upon the present occasion,” said Bohemond, “it becomes our duty to do so. Are we such bad horsemen, or are our steeds so awkward, that we cannot rein them back from this to the landing-place at Scutari? We can get them on shipboard in the same retrograde manner, and when we arrive in Europe, where our vow binds us no longer, the Count and Countess of Paris are rescued, and our vow remains entire in the Chancery of Heaven.” A general shout arose—“Long life to the gallant Bohemond!— Shame to us if we do not fly to the assistance of so valiant a knight, and a lady so lovely, since we can do so without breach of our vow.” “The question,” said Godfrey, “appears to me to be eluded rather than solved; yet such evasions have been admitted by the most learned and scrupulous clerks; nor do I hesitate to admit of Bohemond’s expedient, any more than if the enemy had attacked our rear, which might have occasioned our countermarching to be a case of absolute necessity.” Some there were in the assembly, particularly the churchmen, inclined to think that the oath by which the crusaders had solemnly bound themselves, ought to be as literally obeyed. But Peter the Hermit, who had a place in the council, and possessed great weight, declared it as his opinion, “That since the precise observance of their vow would tend to diminish the forces of the crusade, it was in fact

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unlawful, and should not be kept according to the literal meaning, if, by a fair construction, it could be eluded.” He offered himself to back the animal which he bestrode—that is, his ass; and though he was diverted from showing this example by the remonstrances of Godfrey of Bouillon, who was afraid of his becoming a scandal in the eyes of the heathen, yet he so prevailed by his arguments, that the knights, far from scrupling to countermarch, eagerly contended which should have the honour of making one of the party which should retrograde to Constantinople, see the combat, and bring back to the host in safety the valorous Count of Paris, of whose victory no one doubted, and his Amazonian Countess. This emulation was also put an end to by the authority of Godfrey, who himself selected the fifty knights who were to compose the party. They were chosen from different nations, and the command of the whole was given to young Tancred of Otranto. Notwithstanding the claim of Bohemond, Godfrey detained the latter, under the pretext that his knowledge of the country and people was absolutely necessary to enable the council to form the plan of the campaign in Syria; but in reality he dreaded the selfishness of a man of great ingenuity as well as talent, who, finding himself in a separate command, was liable to be tempted, by various opportunities which might arise, to enlarge his own power and dominion, at the expense of the pious purposes of the crusade in general. The younger men of the expedition were chiefly anxious to procure such horses as had been thoroughly trained, and could go through with ease and temper the manœuvre of equitation, by which it was designed to render legitimate the movement which they had recourse to. The selection was at length made, and the detachment ordered to draw up in the rear, or upon the eastward line of the Christian encampment. In the meanwhile, Godfrey charged Bertha with a message for the Count of Paris, in which, slightly censuring him for not observing more caution in his intercourse with the Greeks, he informed him that he had sent a detachment of fifty lances, with the corresponding squires, pages, men-at-arms, and crossbows, five hundred in number, commanded by the valiant Tancred, to his assistance. The Duke also informed him, that he had added a suit of armour of the best temper Milan could afford, together with a trusty war-horse, which he entreated him to use upon the field of battle; for Bertha had more privately intimated his want of the means of knightly equipment. The horse was brought before the pavilion accordingly, completely barbed or armed in steel, and laden with armour for the knight’s body. Godfrey himself delivered the bridle to Bertha’s hand. “Thou need’st not fear to trust thyself with this steed, he is as gentle and docile as he is brave. Place thyself on his back, and take heed thou

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stir not from the side of the noble Prince Tancred of Otranto, who will be the faithful defender of a maiden that has this day shown dexterity, courage, and fidelity.” Bertha bowed low, as her cheeks glowed at praise from one whose talents and worth were in such general esteem, as to have raised him to the distinguished situation of leader of a host which numbered the bravest and most distinguished captains of Christendom. “Who are yon two persons?” continued Godfrey, speaking of the companions of Bertha, whom he saw in the distance before the tent. “The one,” answered the damsel, “is the master of the ferry-boat which brought me over; and the other, an old Varangian who came hither as my protector.” “As they may come to employ their eyes here, and their tongues on the opposite side,” returned the General of the crusaders, “I do not think it prudent to let them accompany you. They shall remain here for some short time. The citizens of Scutari will not comprehend for some space what our intention is, and I could wish Prince Tancred and his attendants to be the first to announce their own arrival.” Bertha intimated the pleasure of the French general, without naming his motives, when the rais began to exclaim on the hardship of intercepting him in his trade, and Osmund to complain of being detained from his wife and family. But Bertha, by the orders of Godfrey, left them, with the assurance that they would be soon at liberty. Finding themselves thus abandoned, each applied himself to his favourite amusement. The rais occupied himself in staring about at all that was new; and Osmund, having in the meantime accepted an offer of breakfast from some of the domestics, was presently engaged with a flask of such red wine as would have reconciled him to a worse lot than that which he at present experienced. The detachment of Tancred, fifty spears and their armed retinue, which amounted fully to five hundred men, after having made a short and hasty refreshment, were in arms and mounted before the sultry hour of noon. After some manœuvres, of which the Greeks of Scutari, whose curiosity was awakened by the preparation of the detachment, were at loss to comprehend the purpose, they formed into a single column, having four men in front. When the horses were in this position, the whole riders at once began to rein back. The action was one to which both the cavaliers and their horses were well accustomed, nor did it at first afford much surprise to the spectators; but when the same retrograde evolution was continued, and the body of crusaders seemed about to enter the town of Scutari in so extraordinary a fashion, some idea of the truth began to occupy the citizens. The cry at length was general, when Tancred and a few others, whose horses

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were unusually well trained, arrived at the port, and possessed themselves of a galley, into which they led their horses, and, disregarding all opposition from the Imperial officers of the haven, pushed the vessel off from the shore. Other cavaliers did not accomplish their purpose so easily; the riders, or the horses, were less accustomed to continue in the constrained pace for such a considerable length of time, so that many of the knights, having retrograded for one or two hundred yards, thought their vow was sufficiently observed by having so far deferred to it, and riding in the ordinary manner into the town, seized without further ceremony on some vessels, which, notwithstanding the orders of the Greek Emperor, had been allowed to remain on the Asiatic side of the strait. Some less able horsemen met with various accidents; for though it was a proverb of the time, that nothing was so bold as a blind horse, yet from this mode of equitation, where neither horse nor rider saw the way he was going, some steeds were overthrown, others backed upon dangerous obstacles; and the bones of the cavaliers themselves suffered much more than would have been the case in an ordinary march. Those horsemen, also, who met with falls, incurred the danger of being slain by the Greeks, had not Godfrey, surmounting his religious scruples, dispatched a squadron to extricate them—a task which they performed with great ease. The greater part of Tancred’s followers got on shipboard, as was intended, nor was there more than a score or two finally amissing. To accomplish their voyage, however, even the Prince of Otranto himself, and most of his followers, were obliged to betake themselves to the unknightly labours of the oar. This they found extremely difficult, as well from the state both of the tide and the wind, as from the want of practice at the exercise. Godfrey himself viewed their progress anxiously from a height upon the shore, and perceived with regret the difficulty which they found in making their way, which was still more increased by the necessity for their keeping in a body, and waiting for the slowest and worst manned vessels, which considerably detained those that were more expeditious. They made some progress, however; nor had the commander-in-chief the least doubt, that before sunset they would safely reach the opposite side of the straits. He retired at length from his post of observation, having placed a careful sentinel in his stead, with directions to bring him word the instant that the detachment reached the opposite shore. This the soldier could easily discern by his eye, if it was daylight at the time; if, on the contrary, it was night before they could arrive, the Prince of Otranto had order to show certain lights, which, in case of their

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meeting resistance from the Greeks, should be arranged in a peculiar manner, so as to indicate danger. Godfrey then explained to the Greek authorities of Scutari, whom he summoned before him, the necessity there was that he should keep in readiness such vessels as the port contained, with which, in case of need, he was determined to transport a strong division from his army to support those who had gone before. He then rode back to his camp, the confused murmurs of which, rendered more noisy by the various discussions concerning the events of the day, rolled off from the numerous host of the crusaders, and mingled with the hoarse sound of the many-billowed Hellespont.    

COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS  

Chapter One All is prepared—the chambers of the mine Are cramm’d with the combustible, which, harmless, While yet unkindled, as the sable sand, Needs but a spark of fire to change its nature Into a power so generally destructive, That he who wakes it from its slumbrous mood Dreads scarce the explosion less than he who knows That ’tis his towers are doom’d to meet its fury. A

W          is darkened suddenly, and the atmosphere grows thick and stifling, the lower ranks of creation entertain the ominous sense of a coming storm. The birds fly to the thickets, the wild creatures retreat to the closest covers which they are in the habit of frequenting, and domestic animals show their apprehension of the approaching convulsion, by singular actions and movements inferring fear and disquietude. It can scarcely be doubted that the human nature also possesses something of that prescient foreboding which announces the coming tempest to the inferior orders of creation. The cultivation of our intellectual powers goes perhaps too far, when it teaches us entirely to suppress and disregard those natural feelings, which were originally designed as sentinels by which nature warned us of impending danger. Something of the kind, however, still remains, and that species of feeling which announces to us sorrowful or alarming tidings, may be said, like the prophecies of the weird sisters, to overshadow us like a sudden cloud. During the fatal day which was to precede the combat of the Cæsar with the Count of Paris, there were current through the city of Constantinople the most contradictory, and at the same time the most 259

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terrific reports. An extensive conspiracy, it was alleged, was on the very eve of breaking out; open war, it was reported by others, was about to shake her banners over the devoted city; though the precise cause was not agreed upon, any more than the name or nature of the enemy. Some said that the barbarians from the borders of Thracia, the Hungarians, as they were termed, and the Comani, were on their march from their frontiers to surprise the city; another report stated that the Turks, who, during this period, were established in Asia, had resolved to prevent the threatened attack of the crusaders upon Palestine, by surprising not only the Western Pilgrims, but the Christians of the East, by one of their devastating invasions, executed with their characteristic rapidity. Another report, approaching nearer to the truth, declared that the crusaders themselves, having debated over their various causes of complaint against Alexius Comnenus, had resolved to march back their united forces to the capital, with a view of dethroning or chastising him; and the citizens were dreadfully alarmed for the consequences of the resentment of men so fierce in their habits, and so strange in their manners. In short, although they could not be supposed to agree on the precise cause of danger, it was yet generally allowed that something of a dreadful kind was impending, which appeared to be in a certain degree confirmed by the movements that were taking place among the troops. The Varangians, as well as the Immortals, assembled gradually, and were placed in occupation of the strongest parts of the city, until at length the fleet of galleys, rowboats, and transports, occupied by Tancred and his party, were observed to put themselves in motion from Scutari, and attempt to gain such a height in the narrow sea, as upon the turn of the tide should transport them to the port of the capital. Alexius Comnenus was himself struck at this unexpected movement on the part of the crusaders. Yet, after some conversation with Hereward, in whom he had determined to repose his confidence, and had now gone too far to retreat, he became reassured, the more especially by the limited size of the detachment which had seemed to meditate so bold a measure as an attack upon his capital. To those around him he said with carelessness, that it was hardly to be supposed that a trumpet could blow to the charge, within hearing of the crusaders’ camp, without some out of so many knights coming forth to see the cause and the issue of the conflict. The conspirators also had their secret fears when the little armament of Tancred was seen on the Straits. Agelastes mounted a mule, and, carefully disguised, rode to the shore, at the place now called Galata. He met the rais, or ferryman, whom Godfrey had at length set

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at liberty, partly at the earnest entreaty of the rais himself, but more perhaps that his farther detention was no longer of importance. Closely examined by Agelastes, he confessed that the present detachment, so far as he understood, was dispatched at the instance of Bohemond, and was under the command of his kinsman Tancred, whose well-known banner was floating from the headmost vessel. This gave courage to Agelastes, who, in the course of his intrigues, had opened a communication with the wily Prince of Antioch; and as Bohemond never refused a negotiation, especially if attended by immediate advantage, he had accepted certain sums of money, with which Agelastes’s intrigue had been prefaced. The object of the philosopher had been to obtain from Bohemond a body of his followers to co-operate in the intended conspiracy, and fortify the party of insurgents. It is true, that Bohemond had returned no answer, but the account now given by the rais, and the sight of Tancred the kinsman of Bohemond’s banner, displayed on the straits, satisfied the philosopher that his offers, his presents, and his promises, had gained to his side the mercenary Italian, and that this band, selected, as he conceived, by Bohemond, were come to act in his favour. As Agelastes turned to go off, he almost jostled a person, as much muffled up, and apparently as unwilling to be known, as the philosopher himself. Alexius Comnenus, however—for it was the Emperor himself—knew Agelastes, though rather from his appearance and manner, than his countenance; and could not forbear whispering in his ear, as he passed, the well-known lines, to which the pretended sage’s various acquisitions gave some degree of point:— “Grammaticus, rhetor, geometres, pictor, aliptes, Augur, schœnobates, medicus, magus; omnia novit Græculus esuriens in cælum, jusseris, ibit.”

Agelastes started at the unexpected sound of the Emperor’s voice, yet immediately recovered his presence of mind, the want of which had for a moment led him to fear he was betrayed; and, without taking notice of the rank of the person to whom he spoke, he answered by a quotation which should return the alarm he had received. The speech that suggested itself was said to be that which the Phantom of Cleonice dinned into the ears of the tyrant who murdered her— “Tu cole justitiam; teque atque alios manet ultor.”

The sentence, and the recollections which accompanied it, thrilled through the heart of the Emperor, who rode on, however, without any notice or reply. “The vile conspirator,” he said, “had his associates around him, otherwise he had not hazarded that threat. Or it may have been worse—Agelastes himself, on the very brink of this world, may have obtained that singular glance into futurity proper to that situation,

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and perhaps speaks less from his own reflection than from a strange spirit of prescience, which dictates his words. Have I then indeed sinned so far in my imperial duty, as to make it just to apply to me the warning used by the injured Cleonice to her ravisher and murderer? Methinks I have not. Methinks, that at less expense than that of a just severity, I could ill have kept my seat in the high place where Heaven has been pleased to station me, and where, as a ruler, I am bound to maintain my rank. Methinks the sum of those who have experienced my clemency may be well numbered with that of such as have sustained the deserved punishments of their guilt.—But has that vengeance, however deserved in itself, been always taken in a legal or justifiable manner? My conscience, I doubt, will hardly answer so home a question; and where is the man, had he the virtues of Antoninus himself, that can hold so high and responsible a place, yet sustain such an interrogation as is implied in that sort of warning which I have received from this traitor? Tu cole justitiam —we all need to use justice to others —Teque atque alios manet ultor—we are all amenable to an avenging being—I will see the Patriarch—instantly will I see him; and by confessing my transgressions to the church, I will, by her plenary indulgence, acquire the right of spending the last day of my reign in a consciousness of innocence, or at least of pardon, —a state of mind rarely the lot of those whose lines have fallen in lofty places.” So saying, he passed to the palace of Zosimus the Patriarch, to whom he could unbosom himself with more safety, because he had long considered Agelastes as a private enemy to the church, and a man attached to the ancient doctrines of heathenism. In the councils of the state they were also opposed to each other, nor did the Emperor doubt, that in communicating the secret of the conspiracy to the Patriarch, he was sure to attain a loyal and firm supporter in the course which he proposed to himself. He therefore gave a signal by a low whistle, and a confidential officer, well mounted, approached him, though unostentatiously, and at some distance. In this manner, therefore, Alexius Comnenus proceeded to the palace of the Patriarch, with as much speed as was consistent with his purpose of avoiding to attract any particular notice as he passed through the street. While on his way, the warning of Agelastes repeatedly occurred to him, and his conscience reminded him of too many actions of his reign which could only be justified by necessity, emphatically said to be the tyrant’s plea, and which were of themselves deserving the dire vengeance so long delayed. When he came in sight of the splendid towers which adorned the front of the patriarchal palace, he turned aside from the lofty gates,

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repaired to a narrow court, and giving his mule to his attendant, he stopt before a postern, whose low arch and humble architrave seemed to exclude the possibility of its leading to any place of importance. On knocking, however, a priest of an inferior order opened the door, who, with a deep reverence, received the Emperor so soon as he had made himself known, and conducted him into the interior of the palace. Demanding a secret interview with the Patriarch, Alexius was then ushered into his private library, where he was received by the aged priest with the most profound respect, which the nature of his communication soon changed into horror and astonishment.

Chapter Two “What troubles you thus, my good friend?” says the priest; “You have murder’d, are sorry, and have been confest?”— “Ah, father, my sorrow will scarce save my bacon, For it is not that I murder’d, but that I was taken.” “But what will folks say if they see you afraid? It reflects upon me as I knew not my trade; If the money you promised be brought to the chest, You have only to die; let the church do the rest.”

P   

A        A    was supposed by many of his court, and particularly by some members of his own family, to be little better than a hypocrite in his religious professions, yet such severe observers were unjust in branding him with a name so odious. He was indeed aware of the great support which he received from the good opinion of the clergy, and to them he was willing to make sacrifices for the advantage of the church, or of individual prelates who manifested fidelity to the crown; but though, on the one hand, such sacrifices were rarely made by Alexius without a view to temporal policy, yet, on the other, he regarded them as recommended by his devotional feelings, and took credit to himself for various grants and benefactions, as dictated by sincere piety, which, in another aspect, were the fruits of political expediency. His mode of looking on these measures was that of a person with oblique vision, who sees an object in a different manner, according to the point from which he chances to contemplate it. The Emperor placed his own errors of government before the Patriarch in his confession, giving due weight to every breach of morality as it occurred, and stripping from them the lineaments and palliative circumstances which had in his own imagination lessened their guilt. The Patriarch heard, to his astonishment, the real thread of many a court intrigue, which had borne a very different appearance,

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till the Emperor’s narrative either justified his conduct upon the occasion, or left it totally without excuse. Upon the whole, the balance was certainly more in favour of Alexius than the Patriarch had supposed likely in the more distant view he had taken of the intrigues of the court, when, as usual, the ministers and courtiers endeavoured to indemnify themselves for the applause which, in council, they had given to the most blameable actions of the absolute monarch, by imputing, in private, a greater degree of guilt to his motives than they were deserving of. Many men who had fallen sacrifices, it was supposed, to the personal enmity or vengeance of the Emperor, appeared to have been in fact removed from life, or from liberty, because their enjoying either was inconsistent with the quiet of the state and the safety of the monarch. Zosimus also learned, what he perhaps already suspected, that amidst the profound silence of despotism which seemed to pervade the Grecian empire, it heaved frequently with convulsive throes, which ever and anon made obvious the existence of a volcano under the surface. Thus, while smaller delinquencies, or avowed discontent with the Imperial government, seldom occurred, and were severely punished when they did, the deepest and most mortal conspiracies against the life and the authority of the Emperor were cherished by those nearest to his person; and, though he was often himself aware of them, it was not until they approached an explosion that he dared act upon his knowledge, and punish the conspirators. The whole treason of the Cæsar, with his associates, Agelastes and Achilles Tatius, was heard by the Patriarch with wonder and astonishment, and he was particularly surprised at the dexterity with which the Emperor, knowing the existence of so dangerous a conspiracy at home, had been able to parry the danger from the crusaders occurring at the same moment. “In that respect,” said the Emperor, to whom indeed the churchman hinted his surprise, “I have been singularly unfortunate. Had I been secure of the forces of my own empire, I might have taken one out of two manly and open courses with these frantic warriors of the west—I might, my reverend father, have devoted the sums paid as a bribe to Bohemond and other of the more selfish among the crusaders, to the honest and open support of the army of western Christians, and safely transported them to Palestine, without exposing them to the great loss which they are likely to sustain by the opposition of the Infidels; their success would have been in fact my own, and a Latin kingdom in Palestine, defended by its steel-clad warriors, would have been a safe and unexpugnable barrier of the empire against the Saracens. Or, if it was thought more expedient for the protection of the

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sacred empire and our holy church, over which you are ruler, we might at once, and by open force, have defended the frontiers of our states against a host commanded by so many different and discording chiefs, and advancing upon us with such equivocal intentions. If the first swarm of these locusts, under him whom they called Walter the Pennyless, was thinned by the Hungarians, and totally destroyed by the Turks, as the pyramid of bones on the frontiers of the country still keep in memory, surely the innumerable forces of the Grecian empire would have had no difficulty in overcoming this second flight, though commanded by this Godfrey, Bohemond, Tancred, and the rest of them.” The Patriarch was silent, for though he disliked, or rather detested the crusaders, as members of the Latin church, he yet thought it highly doubtful that in feats of battle they could have been met and overcome by the Grecian forces. “At any rate,” said Alexius, rightly interpreting his silence, “if vanquished, I had fallen under my shield as a Greek emperor should, nor had I been forced into these mean measures of attacking men by stealth, and with forces disguised as infidels; while the lives of the faithful soldiers of the empire, who have fallen in obscure skirmishes, had better, both for them and me, been lost bravely in the ranks, avowedly fighting for their native emperor and their native country. Now, and as the matter stands, I shall be handed down to posterity as a wily tyrant, who engaged his subjects in fatal feuds for the safety of his own obscure life. Patriarch! these crimes rest not with me, but with the rebels whose intrigues compelled me into such courses—What, reverend father, will be my fate hereafter?— and in what light shall I descend to posterity, the author of so many disasters?” “For futurity,” said the Patriarch, “your grace hath referred yourself to the holy church, which hath power to bind and to loose; your means of propitiating her are ample, and I have already indicated such as she may reasonably expect, in consequence of your repentance and forgiveness.” “They shall be granted,” replied the Emperor, “in their fullest extent; nor will I injure you by doubting their effect in the next world. In this state of existence, however, the favourable opinion of the church may do much for me during the present important crisis. If we understand each other, good Zosimus, her doctors and bishops are to thunder in my behalf, nor is my benefit from her pardon to be deferred till the funeral monument closes upon me?” “Certainly not,” said Zosimus; “the conditions which I have already stipulated being strictly attended to.”

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“And my memory in history,” said Alexius, “in what manner is that to be preserved?” “For that,” answered the Patriarch, “your Imperial Majesty must trust to the filial piety and literary talents of your accomplished daughter, Anna Comnena.” The Emperor shook his head. “This unhappy Cæsar,” he said, “is like to make a quarrel between us; for I cannot be expected to pardon so ungrateful a rebel as he is, because my daughter clings to him with a woman’s fondness. Besides, good Zosimus, it is not, I believe, the histories of persons like my daughter which are received without challenge by impartial posterity. Some Procopius, some philosophical slave, starving in a garret, aspires to write the life of an Emperor whom he durst not approach; and although the principal merit of his production be, that it contains particulars upon the subject which no man durst have promulgated while the prince was living, yet no man hesitates to admit them as true when he has passed from the scene.” “On that subject,” said Zosimus, “I can neither afford your Imperial Majesty relief or protection. If, however, your memory is unjustly slandered upon earth, it will be a matter of indifference to your Highness, who will be then, I trust, enjoying a state of beatitude which idle slander cannot assail. The only way, indeed, to avoid detraction, while on this side of time, would be for your Majesty to write your own memoirs while you are yet in the body; so convinced am I that it is in your power to assign legitimate excuses for those actions of your life, which, without your doing so, would seem most worthy of censure.” “Change we the subject,” said the Emperor; “and since the danger is imminent, let us take care for the present, and leave future ages to judge for themselves.—What circumstance is it, reverend father, in your opinion, which encourages these conspirators to make so audacious an appeal to the populace and the Grecian soldiers?” “Certainly,” answered the Patriarch, “the most irritating incident of your highness’s reign was the fate of Ursel, who, submitting, it is said, upon capitulation, for life, limb, and liberty, was starved to death by your orders, in the dungeons of the Blacquernal, and whose courage, liberality, and other popular virtues, are still fondly remembered by the citizens of this metropolis, and by the soldiers of the guard, called Immortal.” “And this,” said the Emperor, fixing his eye upon his confessor, “your reverence esteems actually the most dangerous point of the popular discontent?” “I cannot doubt,” said the Patriarch, “that his very name, boldly pronounced, and artfully repeated, will be the cause, as has been plotted, of a horrible tumult.”

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“I thank Heaven!” said the Emperor; “on that particular I will be on my guard. Goodnight to your reverence! and, believe me, that all in this scroll, to which I have set my hand, shall be with the utmost fidelity accomplished. Be not, however, over impatient in this business;—such a shower of benefits falling at once upon the church, would make men suspicious that the prelates and ministers proceeded rather as acting upon a bargain between the Emperor and Patriarch, than as paying and receiving an atonement offered by a sinner in excuse of his crimes. This would be injurious, father, both to yourself and me.” “All regular delay,” said the Patriarch, “shall be interposed at your highness’s pleasure; and we shall trust to you for recollection that the bargain, if it could be termed one, was of your own seeking, and that the benefit to the church was contingent upon the pardon and the support which she has afforded to your majesty.” “True,” said the Emperor—“most true—nor shall I forget it. Once more, adieu! and forget not what I have told thee. This is a night, Zosimus, in which the Emperor must toil like a slave, if he means not to return to the humble Alexius Comnenus, and even then there is no resting-place.” So saying, he took leave of the Patriarch, who was highly gratified with the advantages he had obtained for the church, which many of his predecessors had struggled for in vain. He resolved, therefore, to support the staggering Alexius.

Chapter Three Heaven knows its time; the bullet has its billet, Arrow and javelin each its destined purpose; The fated beasts of nature’s lower strain Have each their separate task—sometimes a bloody one. Predestination—A        

A , after crossing the Emperor in the manner we have already described, and after having taken such measures as occurred to him to ensure the success of the conspiracy, returned to the lodge of his garden, where the lady of the Count of Paris was still lodged, sufficiently secured, it was thought, against insult of any kind, by the constant attendance of Vexhelia, who never stirred from her. The philosopher found them in the same apartment, when, returning from his rounds in the city, he chose to hold some communication with the unfortunate Countess. He had been all day playing the part of the ambitious politician, the selfish time-server, the dark and subtle conspirator; and now it seemed, as if to exhaust the catalogue of his

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various parts in the human drama, he chose to exhibit himself in the character of the wily sophist, and justify, or seem to justify, the arts by which he had risen to wealth and eminence, and hoped even now to arise to royalty itself. “Fair Countess,” he said, “what occasion is there for your wearing this veil of sadness over a countenance so lovely?” “Do you suppose me,” said Brenhilda, “a stock, a stone, or a creature without the feelings of a sensitive being, that I should endure mortification, imprisonment, danger, and distress, without expressing the natural feelings of humanity? Do you imagine that to a lady like me, as free as the unreclaimed falcon, you can offer the insult of captivity, without my being sensible to the disgrace, or incensed against the authors of it? And dost thou think that I will receive consolation at thy hands—at thine—one of the most active artificers in this web of treachery in which I am so basely entangled?” “Not entangled certainly by my means,” answered Agelastes; “clap your hands, call for what you wish, and the slave who refuses instant obedience had better been unborn. Had I not, with reference to your safety and your honour, agreed for a short time to be your keeper, that office would have been usurped by the Cæsar, whose object you know, and may partly guess the modes by which it would be pursued. Why then dost thou childishly weep at being held for a short space in an honourable restraint, which the renowned arms of your husband will probably put an end to long ere to-morrow at noon?” “Canst thou not comprehend,” said the Countess, “thou man of many words, but of few honourable thoughts, that a heart like mine, which has been trained in the feelings of reliance upon my own worth and valour, must be necessarily affected with shame at being obliged to accept, even from the sword of a husband, that safety which I would gladly have owed only to my own?” “Thou art misled, Countess,” answered the philosopher, “by thy pride, a failing predominant in woman. Thinkest thou there has been no offensive assumption in laying aside the character of a mother and a wife, and adopting that of one of those brain-sick female fools, who, like the bravoes of the male sex, sacrifice every thing that is honourable or useful to a frantic and insane affectation of courage? Believe me, fair lady, that the true system of virtue consists in filling thine own place gracefully in society, breeding up thy children, and delighting those of the other sex; and any thing beyond this, may well render thee hateful or terrible, but can add nothing to thy amiable qualities.” “Thou pretendest,” said the Countess, “to be a philosopher; methinks thou shouldst know, that the fame which hangs its chaplet on the tomb of a brave hero or heroine, is worth all the petty engage-

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ments in which ordinary persons spend the current of their time. One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum, in which men steal through existence, like sluggish waters through a marsh, without either honour or observation. Such as I have been, are honoured while they live, universally mourned when they die, and their memory survives them to future generations. Am I therefore to blame, because I mourn my fall from a palmy state like this, or regret, with bitter tears, that the weakness of my sex hath laid me under the necessity of abandoning the glorious field of chivalrous strife? Know, philosopher, that if my own danger only were concerned, I would willingly incur the certainty of death; but the unborn,—sprung of our union,—the distress of the noble Count for my sake, are checks upon my purpose which cannot be less than sacred, though the necessity which they infer is of the most heartrending kind. That I should take combat is impossible.” “Daughter,” said Agelastes, approaching nearer to the lady, “it is with pain I see you bewildered in errors which a little calm reflection might remove. We may flatter ourselves, and human vanity usually does so, that beings infinitely more powerful than those belonging to mere humanity, are employed daily in measuring out the good and evil of this world, the termination of combats, or the fate of empires, according to their own ideas of what is right or wrong, or, more properly, according to what we ourselves conceive to be such. The Greek heathens, renowned for their wisdom, and glorious for their actions, explained to men of ordinary minds the supposed existence of Jupiter and his Pantheon, where various deities presided over various virtues and vices, and regulated the temporal fortune and future happiness of such as practised them. The more learned and wise of the ancients rejected the vulgar interpretation, and wisely, although affecting a deference to the public faith, denied before their disciples in private, the gross fallacies of Tartarus and Olympus, the vain doctrines concerning the gods themselves, and the extravagant expectations which the vulgar entertained of an immortality, supposed to be possessed by creatures who were in every respect mortal, both in the conformation of their bodies, and in the internal belief of their souls. Of these wise and good men some granted the existence of the supposed deities, but denied that they cared about the actions of mankind any more than those of the inferior animals. A merry, jovial, careless life, such as the followers of Epicurus would choose for themselves, was what they assigned for those gods whose being they admitted. Others, more bold or more consistent, entirely denied the existence of deities who apparently had no proper object or purpose, and believed

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that such of them, whose being and attributes were proved to us by no supernatural appearances, had in reality no existence whatever.” “Stop, wretch!” said the Countess, “and know that thou speakest not to one of those blinded heathens of whose abominable doctrines you are detailing the result. Know, that if an erring, I am nevertheless a sincere daughter of the church, and this cross displayed on my shoulder, is a sufficient emblem of the vows I have undertaken in its cause. Be therefore wary, as thou art wily; for, believe me, if thou scoffest or utterest reproach against my holy religion, what I am unable to answer in language, I will reply to, without hesitation, with the point of my dagger.” “To that argument,” said Agelastes, drawing back considerably from the neighbourhood of Brenhilda, “believe me, fair lady, I am very unwilling to urge your gentleness. But although I shall not venture to say any thing of those superior and benevolent powers to whom you ascribe the management of the world, you will surely not take offence at my noticing those base superstitions which have been adopted in explanation of what is called by the Magi, the Evil Principle. Was there ever received into a human creed, a being so mean—almost so ridiculous—as the Christian Satan? A goatish figure and limbs, with grotesque features, formed to express the most execrable passions; a degree of power scarce inferior to that of the Deity; and a talent at the same time scarce equal to that of the stupidest of the lower order! What is he, this being, who is at least the second arbiter of the human race, save an immortal spirit, with the petty spleen and spite of a vindictive old man or old woman?” Agelastes made a singular pause in this part of his discourse. A mirror of considerable size hung in the apartment, so that the philosopher could see in its reflection the figure of Brenhilda, and remark the change of her countenance, though she had averted her face from him in hatred of the doctrines which he promulgated. On this glass the philosopher had his eyes naturally fixed, and he was confounded at perceiving a figure glide from behind the shadow of a curtain, and glare at him with the supposed mien and expression of the Satan of Christian mythology, or a satyr of the heathen age. “Man!” said Brenhilda, whose attention was attracted by this extraordinary apparition, as it seemed, of the fiend, “have thy wicked words, and still more wicked thoughts, brought the devil amongst us? If so, dismiss him instantly, else, by Our Lady of the Broken Lances! thou shalt know better than at present what is the temper of the descendent of a Frankish knight, when in presence of the fiend himself, and those who pretend skill to raise him! I wish not to enter into a contest unless compelled; but if I am obliged to join battle with an

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enemy so horrible, believe me, no one shall say that Brenhilda feared him.” Agelastes, after looking with surprise and horror at the figure as reflected in the glass, turned back his head to examine the substance, of which the reflection was so strange. The object, however, had disappeared behind the curtain, under which it probably lay hid, and it was after a minute or two that the half-gibing, half-scowling countenance showed itself again in the same position in the mirror. “By the gods!” said Agelastes—— “In whom but now,” said the Countess, “you professed unbelief.” “By the gods!” repeated Agelastes, in part recovering himself, “it is Sylvan! that singular mockery of humanity, who was said to have been brought from Taprobana. I warrant he also believes in his jolly god Pan, or the veteran Sylvanus. He is to the uninitiated a creature whose appearance is full of terrors, but he shrinks before the philosopher like ignorance before knowledge.” So saying, he with one hand pulled down the curtain, under which the animal had nestled itself when it entered from the garden-window of the pavilion, and with the other, in which he had a staff uplifted, threatened to chastise the creature, with the words—“How now, Sylvanus! what insolence is this?—To your place!” As, in uttering these words, he struck the animal, the blow unluckily lighted upon his wounded hand, and recalled its bitter smart. The wild temper of the creature returned, unsubdued for the moment by any awe of man; uttering a fierce, and, at the same time, stifled cry, it flew on the philosopher, and clasped its strong and sinewy arms about his throat with the utmost fury. The old man twisted and struggled to deliver himself from the creature’s grasp, but in vain. Sylvan kept hold of his prize, compressed his sinewy arms, and abode by his purpose of not quitting his hold of the philosopher’s throat until he had breathed his last. Two more bitter yells, accompanied each with a desperate contortion of the countenance, and squeeze of the hands, concluded, in less than five minutes, the dreadful strife. Agelastes lay dead upon the ground, and his assassin Sylvan, springing from the body as if terrified and alarmed at what he had done, made his escape by the window. The Countess stood in astonishment, not knowing exactly whether she had witnessed a supernatural display of the judgment of Heaven, or an instance of its vengeance by mere mortal means. Vexhelia was no less astonished, though her acquaintance with the animal was, by hearsay at least, considerably more intimate. “Lady,” she said, “that gigantic creature is an animal of great strength, resembling mankind in form, but huge in its size, and,

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encouraged by its immense power, sometimes malevolent in its intercourse with mortals. I have heard the Varangians often talk of it as belonging to the Imperial museum. It is fitting we remove the body of this unhappy man, and hide it in a plot of shrubbery in the garden. It is not likely that he will be missed to-night, and to-morrow there will be other matter astir, which will probably prevent much enquiry about him.” The Countess Brenhilda assented, for she was none of those numerous females to whom the countenances of the dead are objects of terror. Trusting to the parole which she had given, Agelastes had permitted the Countess and her attendant the freedom of his gardens, of that part at least adjacent to the pavilion. They therefore were in little risk of interruption as they bore forth the dead body between them, and without much trouble disposed of it in the thickest part of one of the bosquets with which the garden was studded. As they returned to their place of abode or confinement, the Countess, half speaking to herself, half addressing Vexhelia, said, “I am sorry for this; not that the infamous wretch did not deserve the full punishment of Heaven coming upon him in the very moment of blasphemy and infidelity, but because the courage and truth of the unfortunate Brenhilda may be brought into suspicion, as his slaughter took place when he was alone with her and her attendant, and as no one was witness of the singular manner in which the old blasphemer met his end.—Thou knowest,” she added, addressing herself to Heaven—“thou! blessed Lady of the Broken Lances, the protectress both of Brenhilda and her husband, well knowest, that whatever faults may be mine, I am free from the slightest suspicion of treachery; and into thy hands I put my cause, with a perfect reliance upon thy wisdom and bounty to bear evidence in my favour.” So saying, they returned to the lodge unseen, and with pious and submissive prayers, the Countess closed that eventful evening.

Chapter Four Will you hear of a Spanish lady, How she wooed an Englishman? Garments gay, as rich as may be, Deck’d with jewels she had on. Of a comely countenance and grace was she, And by birth and parentage of high degree. Old Ballad

W   Alexius Comnenus after he had unloaded his conscience in the ears of the Patriarch, and received from him a faithful assurance

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of the pardon and patronage of the national church. He took leave of the dignitary with some exulting exclamations, so inexplicitly expressed, however, that it was by no means easy to conceive the meaning of what he said. His first enquiry, when he reached the Blacquernal, being for his daughter, he was directed to the room encrusted with beautifully carved marble, from which she herself, and many of her race, derived the proud appellation of Porphyrogenita, or born in the purple. Her countenance was clouded with anxiety, which, at the sight of her father, broke out into open and uncontrollable grief. “Daughter,” said the Emperor, with a harshness little common to his manner, and a seriousness which he sternly maintained, instead of sympathizing with his daughter’s affliction, “as you would prevent the silly fool with whom you are connected, from displaying himself to the public both as an ungrateful monster and a traitor, you will not fail to exhort him, by due submission, to make his petition for pardon, accompanied with a full confession of his crimes, or, by my sceptre and my crown, he shall die the death! Nor will I pardon any who rushes upon his doom in an open tone of defiance, under such a standard of rebellion as my ungrateful son-in-law has hoisted.” “What do you require of me, father?” said the Princess. “Can you expect that I am to dip my own hands in the blood of this unfortunate man; or wilt thou seek a revenge yet more bloody than that which was exacted by the deities of antiquity, upon those criminals who offended against their divine power?” “Think not so, my daughter!” said the Emperor; “but rather believe that thou hast the last opportunity afforded by my filial affection, of rescuing, perhaps from death, that silly fool, thy husband, who has so richly deserved it.” “My father,” said the Princess, “God knows it is not at your risk that I would wish to purchase the life of Nicephorus; but he has been the father of my children, though they are now no more, and women cannot forget that such a tie has existed, even though it has been broken by fate. Permit me only to hope that the unfortunate culprit shall have an opportunity of retrieving his errors; nor shall it, believe me, be my fault, if he resumes those practices, treasonable at once, and unnatural, by which his life is at present endangered.” “Follow me, then, daughter,” said the Emperor, “and know, that to thee alone I am about to intrust a secret, upon which the safety of my life and crown, as well as the pardon of my son-in-law’s life, will be found eventually to depend.” He then assumed in haste the garment of a slave of the seraglio, and commanded his daughter to arrange her dress in a more succinct form, and to take in her hand a lighted lamp.

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“Whither are we going, my father?” said Anna Comnena. “It matters not,” replied her father, “since my destiny calls me, and since thine ordains thee to be my torch-bearer. Believe it, and record it, if thou darest, in thy book, that Alexius Comnenus does not, without alarm, descend into those awful dungeons which his predecessors built for men, even when his intentions are innocent, and free from harm. Be silent, and should we meet any inhabitant of those inferior regions, speak not a word, nor make any observation upon his appearance.” Passing through the intricate apartments of the palace, they now came to that large hall through which Hereward had passed on the first night of his introduction to the place of Anna’s recitation, called the Temple of the Muses. It was constructed, as we have said, of black marble, dimly illuminated. At the upper end of the apartment was a small altar, on which was laid some incense, while over the smoke was suspended, as if projecting from the wall, two imitations of human hands and arms, which were but imperfectly seen. At the bottom of this hall, a small iron door led to a narrow and winding staircase, representing a draw-well in shape and size, the steps of which were excessively steep, and which the Emperor, after a solemn gesture to his daughter commanding her attendance, began to descend with the imperfect light, and by the narrow and difficult steps by which those who visited the under regions of the Blacquernal seemed to bid adieu to the light of day. Door after door they passed in their descent, leading, it was probable, to different ranges of dungeons, from which was obscurely heard the stifled voice of groans and sighs, such as attracted Hereward’s attention on a former occasion. The Emperor took no notice of these signs of human misery, and three stories, or ranges of dungeons, had been already passed, ere the father and daughter arrived at the lowest story of the building, the base of which was the solid rock, roughly carved, upon which were erected the side-walls and arches of solid but unpolished marble. “Here,” said Alexius Comnenus, “all hope, all expectation takes farewell, at the turn of a hinge or the grating of a lock. Yet shall not this be always the case—the dead shall revive and resume their right, and the disinherited of these regions shall again prefer their claim to inhabit the upper world. If I cannot entreat Heaven to my assistance, be assured, my daughter, that rather than be the poor animal which I have stooped to be thought, and even to be painted in thy history, I would sooner brave every danger of the multitude which now erect themselves betwixt me and safety. Nothing is resolved save that I will live and die an emperor; and thou, Anna, be assured, that if there is power in the beauty or in the talents, of which so much has been

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boasted, that power shall be this evening exercised to the advantage of thy parent, from whom it is derived.” “What is it that you mean, Imperial father?—Holy Virgin! is this the promise you made me to save the life of the unfortunate Nicephorus?” “And so I will,” said the Emperor; “and I am now about that action of benevolence. But think not I will once more warm in my bosom the household snake which had so nearly stung me to death. No, daughter, I have provided for thee a fitting husband, in one who is able to maintain and defend the rights of the Emperor thy father;—and beware how thou opposest an obstacle to what is my pleasure! for behold these walls of marble, though unpolished, and recollect it is as possible to die within the marble as to be born there.” The Princess Anna Comnena was frightened at seeing her father in a state of mind entirely different from any which she had before witnessed. “O, Heaven! that my mother was here!” she ejaculated, in the terror of something she hardly knew what. “Anna,” said the Emperor, “your fears and your screams are alike in vain. I am one of those, who, on ordinary occasions, hardly nourish a wish of my own, and account myself obliged to those who, like my wife and daughter, take care to save me all the trouble of free judgment. But when the vessel is among the breakers, and the master is called to the helm, believe that no meaner hand shall be permitted to interfere with him, nor will the wife and daughter, whom he indulged in prosperity, be allowed to thwart his will while he can yet call it his own. Thou couldst scarcely fail to understand that I was almost prepared to have given thee, as a mark of my sincerity, to yonder obscure Varangian, without asking question of either birth or blood. Thou mayst hear when I next promise thee to a three years’ inhabitant of these vaults, who shall be Cæsar in Briennius’s stead, if I can move him to accept a princess for his bedfellow, and an imperial crown for his inheritance, in place of a starving dungeon.” “I tremble at your words, father,” said Anna Comnena; “how canst thou trust a man who has felt thy cruelty?—How canst thou dream that aught can ever in sincerity reconcile thee to one whom thou hast deprived of his eyesight?” “Care not for that,” said Alexius; “he becomes mine, or he shall never know what it is to be again his own.—And thou, girl, mayst rest assured, that, if I will it, thou art next day the bride of my present captive, or thou retirest to the most severe nunnery, never again to mix with society. Be silent, therefore, and await thy doom, as it shall come, and hope not that thy utmost endeavours will avert the current of thy destiny.”

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As he concluded this singular dialogue, in which he had assumed a tone to which his daughter was a stranger, and before which she trembled, he passed on through more than one strictly fastened door, while his daughter, with a faltering step, illuminated him on the obscure road. At length he found admittance by another passage into the cell in which Ursel was confined, and found him reclining in hopeless misery,—all those expectations having faded from his heart which the Count of Paris had by his indomitable gallantry for a time excited. He turned his sightless eyes towards the place where he heard the moving of bolts and the approach of steps. “A new feature,” he said, “in my imprisonment—a man comes with a heavy and determined step, and a woman with one that scarcely presses the floor!—Is it my death that you bring?—Believe me, that I have lived long enough in these dungeons to bid my doom welcome.” “It is not thy death, noble Ursel,” said the Emperor, in a voice somewhat disguised. “Life, liberty, whatever the world has to give, is placed by the Emperor Alexius at the feet of his noble enemy, and he trusts that many years of happiness and power, together with the command of a large share of the empire, will soon obliterate the recollection of the dungeons of the Blacquernal.” “It cannot be,” said Ursel, with a sigh. “He upon whose eyes the sun has set even at middle day, can have nothing left to hope from the most advantageous change of circumstances.” “You are not entirely assured of that,” said the Emperor; “allow us to convince you that what is intended towards you is truly favourable and liberal, and I hope you will be rewarded by finding that there is more possibility of amendment in your case, than your first apprehensions are willing to receive. Make an effort, if your eyes are not sensible of the light of the lamp.” “Do with me,” said Ursel, “according to your pleasure; I have neither strength to remonstrate, nor the force of mind equal to make me set your cruelty at defiance. Of something like light I am sensible; but whether it is reality or illusion, I cannot determine. If you are come to deliver me from this living sepulchre, I pray to God to requite you; and if, under such deceitful pretence, you mean to take my life, I can only commend my soul to Heaven, and the vengeance due to my death to Him who can behold the darkest places in which injustice can shroud itself.” So saying, and the revulsion of his spirits rendering him unable to give almost any other signs of existence, Ursel sunk back upon his seat of captivity, and spoke not another word during the time that Alexius disembarrassed him of those chains which had so long hung about him, that they almost seemed to make a part of his person.

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“This is an affair in which thy aid can scarce be sufficient, Anna,” said the Emperor; “it would have been well if you and I could have borne him into the open air by our joint strength, for there is little wisdom in showing the secrets of this prison-house to those to whom they are not yet known; nevertheless, go, my child, and at a short distance from the head of the staircase which we descended, thou wilt find Edward, the bold and trusty Varangian, who, on your communicating to him my orders, will come hither and render his assistance, and see that you send also the experienced leech, Douban.” Terrified, half-stifled, and half-struck with horror, the lady yet felt a degree of relief from the somewhat milder tone in which her father addressed her. With tottering steps, yet in some measure encouraged by the tenor of her instructions, she ascended the staircase which yawned upon these infernal dungeons. As she approached the top, a large and strong figure threw its broad shadow between the lamp and the opening of the hall. Frightened nearly to death at the thoughts of becoming the wife of a squalid wretch like Ursel, a moment of weakness seized upon the Princess’s mind, and, when she considered the melancholy option which her father had placed before her, she could not but think that the handsome and gallant Varangian, who had already rescued the royal family from such imminent danger, was a fitter person with whom to unite herself, if she must needs make a second choice, than the singular and disgusting being whom her father’s policy had raked from the bottom of the Blacquernal dungeons. I will not say of poor Anna Comnena, who was a vain and timid but not an unfeeling woman, that she would have embraced such a proposal, had not the life of her present husband, Nicephorus Briennius, been in extreme danger; and it was obviously the determination of the Emperor, that if he spared him, it should be on the sole condition of unloosing his daughter’s hand, and binding her to some one of better faith, and possessed of a greater desire to prove an affectionate sonin-law. Neither did the plan of adopting the Varangian as a second husband, enter decidedly into the mind of the Princess. The present was a moment of danger, in which her rescue to be successful must be sudden, and perhaps, if once achieved, the lady might have had an opportunity of freeing herself both from Ursel and the Varangian, without disjoining either of them from her father’s assistance, or of herself losing it. At any rate, the surest means of safety were to secure, if possible, the young soldier, whose features and appearance were of a kind which rendered the task no way disagreeable to a beautiful woman. The schemes of conquest are so natural to the fair sex, and the whole idea passed so quickly through Anna Comnena’s mind,

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that having first entered while the soldier’s shadow was interposed between her and the lamp, it had fully occupied her quick imagination, when, with deep reverence, and great surprise at her sudden appearance on the ladder of Acheron, the Varangian advancing, knelt down, and lent his arm to the assistance of the fair lady, in order to help her, apparently like Truth out of the depth of a well. “Dearest Hereward,” said the lady, with a degree of intimacy which seemed unusual, “how much do I rejoice, in this dreadful night, to have fallen under your protection! I have been in places which the spirit of hell appears to have contrived for the human race.” The alarm of the Princess, the familiarity of a beautiful woman, who, while in mortal fear, seeks refuge, like a frightened dove, in the bosom of the strong and the brave, must be the excuse of Anna Comnena for the tender epithet with which she greeted Hereward; nor, if he had chosen to answer in the same tone, which, faithful as he was, might have proved the case if the meeting had chanced before he saw Bertha, would the daughter of Alexius have been, to say the truth, irreconcilably offended. Exhausted as she was, she suffered herself to repose upon the broad breast and nervous shoulder of the Anglo-Saxon; nor did she make an attempt to recover herself, although the decorum of her sex and station seemed to recommend such an exertion. Hereward was obliged himself to ask her, with the unimpassioned and reverential demeanour of a private soldier to a Princess, whether he ought to summon her female attendants? to which she faintly uttered a negative. “No, no”—said she, “I have a duty to execute for my father, and I must not summon eyewitnesses;—he knows me to be in safety, Hereward, since he knows I am with thee; and if I am a burden to you in my present state of weakness, I shall soon recover, if you will set me down upon the marble steps.” “Heaven forbid, lady,” said Hereward, “that I were thus neglectful of your Highness’s precious health! I see your two young ladies, Astarte and Violante, are in quest of you—Permit me to summon them hither, and I will keep watch upon you if you are unable to retire to your chamber, where, methinks, the present disorder of your nerves will be most properly treated.” “Do as thou wilt, barbarian,” said the Princess, rallying herself, with a certain degree of pique, arising perhaps from her not thinking more dramatis personæ were appropriate to the scene, than the two who were already upon the stage. Then, as if for the first time, appearing to recollect the message with which she had been commissioned, she exhorted the Varangian to repair instantly to her father. On such occasions, the slightest circumstances have their effect on the actors. The Anglo-Saxon was sensible that the Princess was some-

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what offended, though whether she was so, on account of her being actually in Hereward’s arms, or whether the cause of her anger was the being nearly discovered there by the two young maidens, the sentinel did not presume to guess, but departed for the gloomy vaults to join Alexius, with the never-failing double-edged axe, the bane of many a Turk, glittering upon his shoulder. Astarte and her companion had been dispatched by the Empress Irene in search of Anna Comnena, through those apartments of the palace which she was wont to inhabit. The daughter of Alexius could nowhere be found, although the business on which they were seeking her was described by the Empress as of the most pressing nature. Nothing, however, in a palace, passes altogether unespied, so that the Empress’s messengers at length received information that their mistress and the Emperor had been seen to descend that gloomy access to the dungeons, which, by allusion to the classical infernal regions, was termed the Pit of Acheron. They came thither, accordingly, and we have related the consequences. Hereward thought it necessary to say, that her Imperial Highness had swooned upon being suddenly brought into the upper air. The Princess, on the other part, briskly shook off her juvenile attendants, and declared herself ready to proceed to the chamber of her mother. The obeisance which she made Hereward at parting, had something in it of haughtiness, yet evidently qualified by a look of friendship and regard. As she passed an apartment in which some of the royal slaves were in waiting, she addressed to one of them, an old respectable man, of medical skill, a private and hurried order, desiring him to go to the assistance of her father, whom he would find at the bottom of the staircase called the Pit of Acheron, and to take his scimitar along with him. To hear, as usual, was to obey, and Douban, for that was his name, only replied by that significant sign which indicates immediate acquiescence. In the meantime, Anna Comnena herself hastened onward to her mother’s apartments, in which she found the Empress alone. “Go hence, maidens,” said Irene, “and do not let any one have access to these apartments, even if the Emperor himself should command it. Shut the door, Anna Comnena; and if the jealousy of the stronger sex do not allow us the masculine privilege of bolts and bars, to secure the insides of our apartments, let us avail ourselves, as quickly as may be, of such opportunities as are permitted us; and remember, Princess, that however implicit your duty to your father, it is yet more so to me, who am of the same sex with thyself, and may truly call thee, even according to the letter, blood of my blood, and bone of my bone.—Be assured thy father knows not at this moment the feelings of a woman. Neither he nor any man alive can justly

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conceive the pangs of the heart which beats under a woman’s robe. These men, Anna, would tear asunder without scruple the tenderest ties of affection, the whole structure of domestic felicity, in which lie a woman’s cares, her joy, her pain, her love, and her despair. Trust, therefore, to me, my daughter! and believe me, I will at once save thy father’s crown and thy happiness. The conduct of thy husband has been wrong, most cruelly wrong; but, Anna, he is a man—and in calling him such, I lay to his charge, as natural frailties, thoughtless treachery, wanton infidelity, every species of folly and inconsistency, to which his race is subject. His faults are fixed by his nature. You ought not, therefore, to think of them, unless it be to forgive them.” “Madam,” said Anna Comnena, “forgive me if I remind you that you recommend to a princess, born in the purple itself, a line of conduct which would hardly become the female who carries the pitcher for the needful supply of water to the village well. All who are around me have been taught to pay me the obeisance due to my birth, and while this Nicephorus Briennius crept on his knees to your daughter’s hand which you extended towards him, he was rather receiving the yoke of a mistress than accepting a household alliance with a wife. He has incurred his doom, without a touch even of that temptation which may be pled by lesser culprits in his condition; and if it is the will of my father that he should die, or suffer banishment, or imprisonment, for the crime he has committed, it is not the business of Anna Comnena to interfere, she being the most injured among the imperial family, who have in so many, and such gross respects, the right to complain of his falsehood.” “Daughter,” replied the Empress, “so far I agree with you, that the treason of Nicephorus towards your father and myself has been in a great degree unpardonable; nor do I easily see on what footing, save that of generosity, his life could be saved. But still you are yourself in different circumstances from me, and may, as an affectionate and fond wife, compare the intimacies of your former habits with the bloody change which is so soon to be the consequence and the conclusion of his crimes. He is possessed of that person and of those features which women most readily recall to their memory, whether alive or dead. Think what it will cost you to recollect that the rugged executioner received his last salute,—that the shapely neck had no better repose than the rough block—that the artful tongue, the sound of which you used to prefer to the choicest instruments of music, must henceforward be inanimate!” Anna, who was not insensible to the personal beauties of her husband, was much affected by this forcible appeal. “Why distress me thus, mother?” she replied in a weeping accent. “Did I not feel as

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acutely as you would have me to do, this moment, however awful, would be easily borne. I had but to think of him as he is, to contrast his personal qualities with those of the mind, by which they are more than overbalanced, and resign myself to his deserved fate with unresisting submission to my father’s will.” “And that,” said the Empress, “would be to bind thee, by his sole fiat, to some obscure wretch, whose habits of plotting and intriguing had, by some miserable chance, given him the opportunity of becoming of importance to the Emperor, and who is therefore to be rewarded by the hand of Anna Comnena.” “Do not think so meanly of me, madam,” said the Princess—“I know, as well as ever Grecian maiden did, how I should free myself from dishonour; and, you may trust me, you shall never blush for your daughter.” “Tell me not that,” said the Empress, “since I shall blush alike for the relentless cruelty which gives up a once beloved husband to an ignominious death, and for the passion, for which I want a name, which would replace him by an obscure barbarian from the extremity of Thule, or some wretch escaped from the Blacquernal dungeons.” The Princess was astonished to perceive that her mother was acquainted with the purposes, even the most private, which her father had formed for his governance during this emergency. She was ignorant that Alexius and his royal consort, in other respects living together with a decency ever exemplary in people of their rank, had sometimes, on interesting occasions, family debates, in which the husband, provoked by the seeming unbelief of his partner, was tempted to let her guess more of his real purposes than he would have coolly imparted of his own calm choice. The Princess was affected at the anticipation of the death of her husband, nor could this have been reasonably supposed to be otherwise; but she was still more hurt and affronted by her mother taking it for granted that she designed upon the instant to replace the Cæsar by an uncertain, and at all events an unworthy successor. Whatever considerations had operated to make Hereward her choice, their effect was lost when the match was placed in this odious and degrading point of view; besides which is to be remembered, that women almost instinctively deny their first thoughts in favour of a suitor, and seldom willingly reveal them, unless time and circumstance concur to favour them. She called Heaven therefore passionately to witness, while she repelled the charge. “Bear witness,” she said, “Our Lady, Queen of Heaven! Bear witness, saints and martyrs all, ye blessed ones, who are, more than ourselves, the guardians of our mental purity! that I know no passion

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which I dare not avow, and that if Nicephorus’s life depended on my entreaty to God and men, all his injurious acts towards me disregarded and despised, it should be as long as Heaven gave to those servants whom it snatched from the earth, without suffering the pangs of mortality!” “You have sworn boldly,” said the Empress. “See, Anna Comnena, that you keep your word, for believe me it will be tried.” “What will be tried, mother?” said the Princess; “or what have I to do to pronounce the doom of the Cæsar, who is not subject to my power?” “I will show you,” said the Empress, gravely; and, leading her towards a sort of wardrobe, which formed a closet in the wall, she withdrew a curtain which hung before it, and placed before her her unfortunate husband, Nicephorus Briennius, half-attired, with his sword drawn in his hand. Looking upon him as an enemy, and conscious of some schemes with respect to him which had passed through her mind in the course of these troubles, the Princess screamed faintly, upon perceiving him so near her with a weapon in his hand. “Be more composed,” said the Empress, “or this wretched man, if discovered, falls no less a victim to thy idle fears than to thy baneful revenge.” Nicephorus at this speech seemed to have adopted his cue, for, dropping the point of his sword, and falling on his knees before the Princess, he clasped his hands to entreat for mercy. “What hast thou to ask from me?” said his wife, naturally assured, by her husband’s prostration, that the stronger force was upon her own side—“What hast thou to ask from me, that outraged gratitude, betrayed affection, the most solemn vows violated, and the fondest ties of nature torn asunder like the spider’s broken web, will permit thee to put in words for very shame?” “Do not suppose, Anna,” replied the suppliant, “that I am at this eventful period of my life to play the hypocrite, for the purpose of saving the wretched remnant of a dishonoured existence. I am but desirous to part in charity with thee, to make my peace with Heaven, and to nourish the last hope of making my way, though burdened with many crimes, to those regions in which alone I can find thy beauty, thy talents, equalled at least, if not excelled.” “You hear him, daughter?” said Irene; “his boon is for forgiveness alone; thy condition is the more godlike, since thou mayst unite the safety of his life with the pardon of his offences.” “Thou art deceived, mother,” answered Anna. “It is not mine to pardon his guilt, far less to remit his punishment. You have taught me to think of myself as future ages shall know me; what will they say of

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me, those future ages, when I am described as the unfeeling daughter, who pardoned the intended assassin of her father, because she saw in him her own unfaithful husband?” “See there,” said the Cæsar, “ is not that, most serene Empress, the very point of despair? and have I not in vain offered my life-blood to wipe out the stain of parricide and ingratitude? Have I not also vindicated myself from the most unpardonable part of the accusation, which charged me with attempting the murder of the godlike Emperor? Have I not sworn by all that is sacred to man, that my purpose went no farther than to sequestrate Alexius for a little time from the fatigues of empire, and place him where he should quietly enjoy ease and tranquillity; while, at the same time, his empire should be as implicitly regulated by himself, his sacred pleasure being transmitted through me, as in any respect, or at any period, it had ever been?” “Erring man!” said the Princess, “hast thou approached so near to the footstool of Alexius Comnenus, and durst thou form so false an estimate of him, as to conceive it possible that he would consent to be a mere puppet by whose intervention you might have brought his empire to submission? Know that the blood of Comnenus is not so poor; my father would have resisted the treason in arms; and by the death of thy benefactor only couldst thou have gratified the suggestions of thy criminal ambition.” “Be such your belief,” said the Cæsar; “I have said enough for a life which is not and ought not to be dear to me. Call your guards, and let them take the life of the unfortunate Briennius, since it has become hateful to his once beloved Anna Comnena. Be not afraid that any resistance of mine shall render the scene of my apprehension dubious or fatal. Nicephorus Briennius is Cæsar no longer, and he thus throws at the feet of his Princess and spouse, the only poor means which he has of resisting the just doom which is therefore at her pleasure to pass.” He cast his sword before the feet of the Princess, while Irene exclaimed, weeping, or seeming to weep bitterly, “I have indeed read of such scenes; but could I ever have thought that my own daughter would have been the principal actress in one of them—could I ever have thought that her mind, admired by every one as a palace for the occupation of Apollo and the Muses, should not have had room enough for the humbler, but more amiable virtue of feminine charity and compassion, which builds itself a nest in the bosom of the lowest village girl? Do thy gifts, accomplishments, and talents, spread hardness as well as polish over thy heart? If so, a hundred times better renounce them all, and retain in their stead those gentle and domestic

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virtues which are the first honours of the female heart. A woman who is pitiless, is a worse monster than one who is unsexed by any other passion.” “What would you have me do?” said Anna; “you, mother, ought to know better than I, that the life of my father is hardly consistent with the existence of this bold and cruel man. O, I am sure he still meditates his purpose of conspiracy! He that could deceive a woman in the manner he has done me, will not relinquish a plan which is founded upon the death of his benefactor.” “You do me injustice, Anna,” said Briennius, starting up, and imprinting a kiss upon her lips ere she was aware. “By this caress, the last that will pass between us, I swear, that if in my life I have yielded to folly, I have, notwithstanding, never been guilty of a treason of the heart towards a woman as superior to the rest of the female world in talents and accomplishments, as in personal beauty.” The Princess, much softened, shook her head, as she replied— “Ah, Nicephorus!—such were once your words! such, perhaps, were then your thoughts! But who, or what, shall now warrant to me the veracity of either?” “Those very accomplishments, and that very beauty itself,” replied Nicephorus. “And if more is wanting,” said Irene, “thy mother will enter her security for him. Deem her not an insufficient pledge in this affair; she is thy mother, and the wife of Alexius Comnenus, interested beyond all human beings in the growth and increase of the power and dignity of her husband and her child; and one who sees on this occasion an opportunity for exercising generosity, for soldering up the breaches of the Imperial house, and reconstructing the frame of government upon a basis, which, if there be faith and gratitude in man, shall never be again exposed to hazard.” “To the reality of that faith and gratitude, then,” said the Princess, “we must trust implicitly, as it is your will, mother; although even my own knowledge of the subject, both through study and experience of the world, has called me to observe the rashness of such confidence. But although we two may forgive Nicephorus’s errors, the Emperor is still the person to whom the final reference must be had, both as to pardon and favour.” “Fear not Alexius,” answered her mother; “he will speak determinedly and decidedly; but, if he acts not in the very moment of forming the resolution, it is no more to be relied on than an icicle in time of thaw. Do thou apprize me, if thou canst, what the Emperor is at present doing, and take my word I will find means to bring him round to our opinion.”

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“Must I then betray secrets which my father has intrusted to me?” said the Princess; “and to one who has so lately held the character of his avowed enemy?” “Call it not betray,” said Irene, “since it is written, thou shalt betray no one, least of all thy father, and the father of the empire. Yet again it is written by the holy Luke, that men shall be betrayed, both by parents and brethren, and kinsfolk, and friends, and therefore surely also by daughters; by which I only mean thou shalt discover to us thy father’s secrets, so far as may enable us to save the life of thy husband. The necessity of the case excuses whatever may be otherwise considered as irregular.” “Be it so then, mother. Having yielded my consent, perhaps too easily, to snatch this malefactor from my father’s justice, I am sensible I must secure his safety by such means as are in my power. I left my father at the bottom of those stairs, called the Pit of Acheron, in the cell of a blind man, to whom he gave the name of Ursel.” “Holy Mary!” exclaimed the Empress, “thou hast named a name which has been long unspoken in the open air.” “Has the Emperor’s sense of his danger from the living,” said the Cæsar, “induced him to invoke the dead?—for Ursel has been no living man for the space of three years.” “It matters not,” said Anna Comnena; “I tell you true. My father even now held conference with a miserable-looking prisoner whom he so named.” “It is a danger the more,” said the Cæsar; “he cannot have forgotten the zeal with which I embraced the cause of the present Emperor against his own; and so soon as he is at liberty, he will study to avenge it. For this we must endeavour to make some provision, though it increases our difficulties.—Sit down then, my gentle, my beneficent mother;—and thou, my wife, who hast preferred thy love for an unworthy husband to the suggestions of jealous passion and of headlong revenge, sit down, and let us see in what manner it may be in our power, consistently with your duty to the Emperor, to bring our broken vessel securely into port.” He employed much natural grace of manner in handing the mother and daughter to their seats; and, taking his place confidentially between them, all were soon engaged in concerting what measures should be taken for to-morrow, not forgetting such as should at once have the effect of preserving the Cæsar’s life, and at the same time of securing the Grecian empire against the conspiracy of which he had been the chief instigator. Briennius ventured to hint, that perhaps the best way would be to suffer the conspiracy to proceed as originally intended, pledging his own faith that the rights of Alexius should be

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held inviolate during the struggle; but his influence over the Empress and her daughter did not extend to obtaining so great a trust. They plainly protested against permitting him to leave the palace, or taking the least share in the confusion which to-morrow was certain to witness. “You forget, noble ladies,” said the Cæsar, “that my honour is concerned in meeting the Count of Paris.” “Pshaw! tell me not of your honour, Briennius,” said Anna Comnena; “do I not well know, that although the honour of the western knights be a species of Moloch, a flesh-devouring, blood-quaffing demon, yet that which is the god of idolatry to the eastern warriors, though equally loud and noisy in the hall, is far less implacable in the field? Believe not that I have forgiven great injuries and insults, in order to take such false coin as honour in payment. Your ingenuity is but poor, if you cannot devise some excuse which will satisfy the Greeks; and in good sooth, Briennius, to this battle you go not, whether for your good or for your ill. Believe not that I will consent to your meeting either Count or Countess, whether in warlike combat or amorous parley. So you may at a word count upon remaining prisoner here until the hour appointed for such gross folly be past and over.” The Cæsar, perhaps, was not in his heart angry that his wife’s pleasure was so bluntly and resolutely expressed against the intended combat. “If,” said he, “you are determined to take my honour into your own keeping, I am here for the present your prisoner, nor have I the means of interfering with your pleasure. When once at liberty, the free exercise of my valour and my lance is once more my own.” “Be it so, Sir Paladin,” said the Princess, very composedly. “I have good hope that neither of them will involve you with any of yon daredevils of Paris, whether male or female, and that we will regulate the pitch to which your courage soars, by the estimation of Greek philosophy, and the judgment of our blessed Lady of Mercy, not she of the Broken Lances.” At this moment, an authoritative knock at the door alarmed the consultation of the Cæsar and the ladies.

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Chapter Five Physician. Be comforted, good madam: the great rage, You see, is cured in him: and yet it is danger To make him even o’er the time he has lost. Desire him to go in: trouble him no more, Till further settling. King Lear

W   the Emperor Alexius Comnenus at the bottom of a subterranean vault, with a lamp expiring, and having charge of a prisoner, who seemed himself at the same extremity. For the first two or three moments, he listened after his daughter’s retiring footsteps. He grew impatient, and began to long for her return before it was possible she could have traversed the path betwixt him and the summit of these gloomy stairs. A minute or two he endured with patience the absence of the assistance which he had sent her to summons—but strange suspicions began to cross his imagination. Could it be possible?—had she changed her purpose on account of the hard words which he had applied to her? had she resolved to leave her father to his fate in his hour of utmost need? and was he to rely no longer upon the assistance which he had implored her to send? The short time which the Princess trifled away in a sort of gallantry with the Varangian Hereward, was magnified tenfold by the impatience of the Emperor, who began to think that she was gone to fetch the accomplices of the Cæsar to assault their prince in his defenceless condition, and carry into effect their half-disconcerted conspiracy. After a considerable time, filled up with this species of agony, he began at length, more composedly, to recollect the little chance that the Princess, even for her own sake, resentful as she was in the highest degree of her husband’s ill behaviour, would nevertheless join her resources to his, to the destruction of an indulgent and affectionate father. When he had adopted this better mood, a step was heard upon the staircase, and after a long and unequal descent, Hereward, in his heavy armour, at length coolly arrived at the bottom of the steps. Behind him, panting and trembling, partly with cold and partly with terror, came Douban, the slave well skilled in medicine. “Welcome, good Edward!” said the Emperor. “Welcome, Douban, whose medical skill is sufficiently able to counterbalance the weight of years which hang upon him.” “Your Highness is gracious,” said Douban—but what he would have farther said was cut off by a violent fit of coughing, the consequence of his age, of his feeble habit, of the damps of the dungeon,

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and the rugged exercise of descending the long staircase. “Thou art unaccustomed to visit thy patients in so rough an abode,” said Alexius; “and, nevertheless, to the damps of these drear regions state necessity obliges us to confine many, who are no less our beloved subjects in reality than they are in title.” The medical man continued his cough, perhaps as an apology for not giving that answer of assent, which his conscience did not easily permit him to render to an observation, which, though stated by one who should know the fact, seemed not to be in itself altogether likely. “Yes, my Douban,” said the Emperor, “in this strong case of steel have we found it necessary to enclose the redoubted Ursel, whose fame is spread through the world, both for military skill, political wisdom, personal bravery, and other noble gifts, which we have been obliged to smother for a time, in order that we might restore them to the world in their full lustre. Feel his pulse, therefore, Douban—treat him as one who hath suffered severe confinement, with all its privations, and is about to be restored to the full enjoyment of life, and whatever renders life valuable.” “I will do my best,” said Douban; “but your Majesty must consider, that we work upon a frail and exhausted subject, whose health seems already wellnigh gone, and may perhaps vanish in an instant—like that pale and trembling light, whose precarious condition the breath of this unfortunate patient seems closely to imitate.” “Summon, therefore, good Douban, one or two of the mutes who serve in the interior, and who have repeatedly been thy assistants in such cases—or stay—Edward, thy motions will be more speedy, do thou go for the men, make them bring some kind of litter to transport him; Douban, do thou superintend the whole. Transport him instantly to a suitable apartment, only taking care that it be secret, and let him enjoy the comforts of the bath, and whatever may tend to restore his feeble animation—keeping it in mind, that he must, if possible, appear to-morrow in the field.” “That will be hard,” said Douban, “after having been, it would appear, subjected to such fare and such usage as this fluctuating pulse talks of but too plainly.” “ ’Twas a mistake of the dungeon-keeper, the inhuman villain, who should not go without his reward,” continued the Emperor, “had not Heaven already bestowed it by the strange means of a sylvan man, or native of the woods, who yesterday put to death the jailer who meditated the death of his prisoner—Yes, my dear Douban, a private sentinel of our guards called the Immortal, had wellnigh annihilated this flower of our trust, whom for a time we were compelled to immure in secret. Then, indeed, a rude hammer had dashed to pieces an unpar-

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alleled brilliant, for in respect of a radical he is a diamond of the first water, but the fates have arrested such a misfortune.” The assistance having arrived, the physician, who seemed more accustomed to act than to speak, directed the bath to be prepared with medicated herbs, and gave it as his opinion, that the patient should not be disturbed till to-morrow’s sun was high in the heavens. Ursel accordingly was assisted to the bath, which he enjoyed according to the directions of the physician, and from thence he was transferred to a cheerful bedchamber, opening by an ample window to one of the terraces of the palace, which commanded an extensive prospect. These most agreeable operations were performed upon a frame so extremely stupified by previous suffering, so dead to the usual sensations of existence, that it was not till the sensibility should be gradually restored that the leech hoped the mists of the intellect should at length begin to clear away. Douban readily undertook to obey the commands of the Emperor, and remain by the bed of the patient until the dawn of morning, ready to support nature as far as the skill of leechcraft admitted. From the mutes, much more accustomed to be the executioners of the Emperor’s anger than of his humanity, Douban selected one man of milder mood, and, by Alexius’s order, made him understand, that the task in which he was engaged was to be kept most strictly secret, and the hardened slave was astonished to find that the attentions paid to the sick were to be rendered with more mystery than the bloody duties of death and torture. The passive patient received the various acts of attention which were rendered to him in silence; and if not totally without consciousness, at least without a distinct comprehension of their object. After the soothing operation of the bath, and voluptuous exchange of the rude and musty pile of straw, on which he had stretched himself for years, for a couch of the softest down, Ursel was presented with a sedative draught, slightly tinctured with an opiate. The balmy restorer of nature came thus invoked, and he sunk into a delicious slumber long unknown to him, and which seemed to occupy equally his mental faculties and his bodily frame, while the release of the features from their rigid tenor, and the easy posture of the limbs, no longer disturbed by fits of cramp, and sudden and agonizing twists and throes, attested alike a state of the most perfect bodily and mental tranquillity. The morn was already colouring the horizon, and the freshness of the breeze had already insinuated itself into the lofty halls of the palace of the Blacquernal, when a soft tap at the door of the chamber awaked Douban, who, undisturbed from the calm state of his patient,

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had indulged himself with a brief repose. The door opened, and a figure appeared, shrouded in the robes worn by an officer of the palace in his undress, and concealing beneath an artificial beard of great size, and of a white colour, the features of the Emperor himself. “Douban,” said Alexius, “how fares it with thy patient, whose safety is this day of such immense consequence to the Grecian state?” “Well, my lord,” replied the physician, “excellently well; and if he is not now disturbed, I will wager whatever skill I possess, that nature, assisted by the art of the physician, will triumph over the damps and the unwholesome air of an impure dungeon. Only be prudent, my lord, and let not an untimely haste bring this Ursel forwards into the contest ere he has arranged his ideas, and recovered, in some degree, the spring of his mind, and the powers of his body.” “I will rule myself,” said the Emperor, “or rather, Douban, I will be ruled by thee. Thinkest thou he is awake?” “I am inclined to think so,” said the leech, “but he opens not his eyes, and seems to me as if he regularly resisted the natural impulse to rouse and look around him.” “Speak to him,” said the Emperor, “and let us know what is passing in his mind.” “It is at some risk,” replied the physician, “but you shall be obeyed. —Ursel,” said he, approaching the bed of his blind patient, and then, in a louder tone, he repeated again, “Ursel! Ursel!” “Peace—Hush!” muttered the patient; “disturb not the blest in their ecstasy—nor again recall the most miserable of mortals to finish the draught of bitterness which his fate had compelled him to commence.” “Again, again,” said the Emperor, aside to Douban, “try him yet again; it is of importance for me to know in what degree he possesses his senses, or in what measure they have disappeared from him.” “I would not, however,” said the physician, “be the unhappy person, who, by an ill-timed urgency, should produce a total alienation of mind, and plunge him back either into absolute lunacy, or a stupor, in which he might remain for a long period.” “Surely not,” replied the Emperor; “my commands are those of one Christian to another, nor do I wish them farther obeyed than as they are consistent with the laws of God and of man.” He paused for a moment after this declaration, and yet five minutes had not elapsed ere he again urged the leech to pursue the interrogation of his patient. “If you hold me not competent,” said Douban, “to judge of the treatment of my patient, your Imperial Highness must take the risk and the trouble upon yourself.” “Marry, I shall,” said the Emperor, “for the scruples of leeches are

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not to be indulged, when the fate of kingdoms and the lives of monarchs are placed against them in the scales.—Rouse thee, my noble Ursel! and hear a voice, with which you were once well acquainted, welcome thee back to glory and to command! Look around thee, and see how the world smiles to welcome one from the doom of imprisonment elevated to that of empire!” “Cunning fiend!” said Ursel, “who usest the most wily baits in order to augment the misery of the wretched! Know, tempter, that I am conscious of the whole trick of the soothing image of last night;— thy baths,—thy beds and thy bowers of bliss; and sooner wilt thou be able to bring a smile upon the cheek of Saint Anthony the Eremite, than induce me to curl mine after the fashion of earthly voluptuaries.” “Try it, foolish man,” insisted the Emperor, “and trust to the evidence of thy senses for the pleasures by which thou art now surrounded; or, if thou art obstinate in thy lack of faith, tarry as thou art for a single moment, and I will bring with me a being so unparalleled in her loveliness, that a single glance of her were worth the restoration of thine eyes, were it only to look upon her for a moment.” So saying he left the apartment. “Traitor,” said Ursel, “and deceiver of old, bring no one hither! and strive not, by shadowy and ideal forms of beauty, to increase the delusion that gilds my prison-house for a moment, in order, doubtless, to destroy totally the spark of reason, and then exchange this hell upon earth for a dungeon in the infernal regions themselves!” “His mind is somewhat shattered,” mused the physician, “which is often the consequence of a long solitary confinement. I marvel much if the Emperor can shape out any rational service which this man can render him, after being so long immured in so horrible a dungeon.— Thou thinkest, then,” continued he, addressing the patient, “that the seeming release of last night, with its bath and refreshments, was only a delusive dream, without any reality?” “Ay—what else?” answered Ursel. “And that the arousing thyself, as we desire thee to do, would be but a resigning to a vain temptation, in order to awake to more unhappiness than formerly?” “Even so,” returned the patient. “What, then, are thy thoughts of the Emperor, by whose command thou sufferest so severe a restraint?” Perhaps Douban wished he had forborne this question, for, in the very moment when he put it, the door of the chamber opened, and the Emperor entered, with his daughter hanging upon his arm, dressed with simplicity, yet with becoming splendour. She had found time, it seems, to change her dress for a white robe, which resembled a kind of

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mourning, the chief ornament of which was a diamond chaplet, of inestimable value, which surrounded and bound the long sable tresses, that reached from her head to her waist. Terrified almost to death, she had been surprised by her father in the company of her husband the Cæsar, and her mother; and the same thundering mandate had at once ordered Briennius, in the character of a suspected traitor, under the custody of a guard of Varangians, and commanded her to attend her father to the bedchamber of Ursel, in which she now stood; resolved, however, that she would stick by the sinking fortunes of her husband, even in the last extremity, yet no less determined that she would not rely upon her own entreaties or remonstrances, until she should see whether her father’s interference was like to assume a resolved and positive character. Hastily as the plans of Alexius had been formed, and hastily as they had been disconcerted by accident, there remained no slight chance that he might be forced to come round to the purpose on which his wife and daughter had fixed their heart, the forgiveness, namely, of the guilty Nicephorus Briennius. To his astonishment, and not perhaps greatly to his satisfaction, he heard the patient deeply engaged with the physician in canvassing his own character. “Think not,” said Ursel in reply to him, “that though I am immured in this dungeon, and treated as something worse than an outcast of humanity—and although I am, moreover, deprived of my eyesight, the dearest gift of Heaven—think not, I say, though I suffer all this by the cruel will of Alexius Comnenus, that therefore I hold him to be mine enemy; on the contrary, it is by his means that the blinded and miserable prisoner has been taught to seek a liberty far more unconstrained than this poor earth can afford, and a vision far more clear than any Mount Pisgah on this wretched side of the grave can give us: Shall I therefore account the Emperor among mine enemies? He who has taught me the vanity of earthly things—the nothingness of earthly enjoyment—and the pure hope of a better world, as a certain exchange from the misery of the present?” The Emperor had stood somewhat disconcerted at the beginning of this speech, but hearing it so very unexpectedly terminate, as he was willing to suppose, much in his own favour, he threw himself into an attitude which was partly that of a modest person listening to his own praises, and partly that of a man highly struck with the commendations heaped upon him by a generous adversary. “My friend,” he said aloud, “how truly do you read my purpose, when you suppose that the knowledge which men of your disposition can extract from evil, was all the experience which I wished you to derive from a captivity protracted by adverse circumstances, far, very

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far, beyond my wishes! Let me embrace the generous man who knows so well how to construe the purpose of a perplexed, but still faithful friend.” The patient raised himself in his bed. “Hold, there!” he said, “methinks my faculties begin to collect themselves. Yes—that is the treacherous voice which first bid me welcome as a friend, and then commanded in tones never to be forgotten that I should be deprived of the sight of my eyes!—Increase thy rigour if thou wilt, Comnenus—add, if thou canst, to the torture of my confinement—but since I cannot see thy hypocritical and inhuman features, spare me, in mercy, the sound of a voice, more distressing to mine ear than toads, than serpents,—than whatever nature has most offensive and disgusting!” This speech was delivered with so much energy, that it was in vain that the Emperor strove to interrupt its tenor; although he himself, as well as Douban and his daughter, heard a great deal more of the language of unadorned and natural passion than he had counted upon his patience enduring. “Raise thy head, rash man,” he said, “and charm thy tongue, ere it proceed in a strain which may cost thee dear. Look at me, and see if I have not reserved a reward capable of atoning for all the evil which thy folly may charge to my account.” Hitherto the prisoner had remained with his eyes obstinately shut, regarding the recollection he had of sights which had been before his eyes the foregoing evening, as the mere suggestion of a deluded imagination, if not actually presented by some seducing spirit. But now, when his eyes fairly encountered the stately figure of the Emperor, and the graceful form of his lovely daughter, painted in the tender rays of the morning dawn, he ejaculated faintly, “I see!—I see!”—And with that ejaculation fell back on the pillows in a swoon, which instantly found employment for Douban and his restoratives. “A most wonderful cure indeed!” exclaimed the physician; “and the height of my wishes would be to possess such another miracle.” “Fool!” said the Emperor; “canst thou not conceive that what has never been taken away is restored with little difficulty? He was made,” he said, lowering his voice, “to undergo a painful operation, which led him to believe that the organs of sight were destroyed; and as light scarcely ever visited him, and when it did, only in doubtful and almost invisible glimmerings, the prevailing darkness, both physical and mental, that surrounded him, prevented him from being sensible of the existence of that precious faculty, of which he imagined himself bereft. Perhaps thou wilt ask my reason for inflicting upon him so strange a deception?—Simply it was, that being by it conceived

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incapable of reigning, his memory might pass out of the minds of the public, while, at the same time, I reserved his eyesight, that, in case occasion should call, it might be in my power once more to liberate him from his dungeon, and employ, as I now propose to do, his courage and talents in the service of the empire.” “And can your imperial Highness,” said Douban, “hope that you have acquired this man’s duty and affection, by the conduct you have observed to him?” “I cannot tell,” answered the Emperor; “that must be as futurity shall determine. All I know, is, that it is no fault of mine, if Ursel does not reckon freedom and a long course of empire—perhaps sanctioned by an alliance with our own blood—and the precious organ of eyesight, of which a less scrupulous man would have deprived him, against a maimed and darkened existence.” “Since such is your Highness’s opinion and resolution,” said Douban, “it is for me to aid, and not to counteract it. Permit me, therefore, to pray your Highness and the Princess to withdraw, that I may use such remedies as may confirm a mind which has been so strangely shaken, and restore to him fully the use of those eyes, of which he has been so long deprived.” “I am content, Douban,” said the Emperor; “but take notice, Ursel is not totally at liberty until he has expressed the resolution to become actually mine. It may behoove both him and thee to know, that although there is no purpose of remitting him to the dungeons of the Blacquernal, yet if he, or any on his part, should aspire to head a party in these feverish times,—by the honour of a gentleman, to swear a Frankish oath, he shall find that he is not out of the reach of the battleaxes of the Varangians. I trust to thee to communicate this fact, which concerns alike him and all who have interest in his fortunes.—Come, daughter, we will withdraw, and leave the leech with his patient.— Take notice, Douban, it is of importance that you acquaint me the very first moment when the patient can hold rational communication with me.” Alexius and his daughter departed accordingly.

Chapter Six Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Bears yet a precious jewel in its head. As You Like It

F   roof of the Blacquernal palace, accessible by a sash-door, which opened from the bedchamber of Ursel, there was

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commanded one of the most lovely views which the romantic neighbourhood of Constantinople afforded. After suffering him to repose and rest his agitated faculties, it was to this place that the physician led his patient; for when somewhat composed, he had of himself requested to be permitted to verify the truth of his restored eyesight, by looking out once more upon the majestic face of nature. On the one hand, the scene which he beheld was a masterpiece of human art. The proud city, ornamented with stately buildings, as became the capital of the world, showed a succession of glittering spires and orders of architecture, some of them chaste and simple, like those the capitals of which were borrowed from baskets-full of acanthus; some deriving the fluting of their shafts from the props made originally to support the lances of the earlier Greeks: forms simple, yet more graceful in their simplicity, than any which human ingenuity has been able since to invent. With the most splendid specimens which ancient art could afford of those strictly classical models were associated those of a later age, where more modern taste had endeavoured at improvement, and, by mixing the various orders, had produced such as were either composite, or totally out of rule. The size of the buildings in which they were displayed, however, procured them respect; nor could even the most perfect judge of architecture avoid being struck by the grandeur of their extent and effect, although hurt by the incorrectness of the taste in which they were executed. Arches of triumph, towers, obelisks, and spires, designed for various purposes, rose up into the air in confused magnificence; while the lower view was filled by the streets of the city, the domestic habitations forming long narrow alleys, on either side of which the houses arose to various and unequal heights, but, being generally finished with terraced roofs, had, when seen from an eminence, a more noble and interesting aspect than the sloping and uniform roofs of streets in the capitals of the north of Europe. It has taken us some time to give, in words, the idea which was at a single glance conveyed to Ursel, and affected him at first with great pain. His eyeballs had been long untrained by that daily exercise, which teaches us the habit of correcting the scenes as they appear to our sight, by our actual knowledge of the truth as it exists in nature. His idea of distance was so confused, that it seemed as if all the spires, turrets and minarets which he beheld, were crowded forward upon his eyeballs, and almost touching them. With a shriek of horror, Ursel turned himself to the further side, and cast his eyes upon a different scene. Here also he saw towers, steeples, and turrets, but they were those of the churches and public buildings beneath his feet, reflected

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from the dazzling piece of water which formed the harbour of Constantinople, and which, from the abundance of wealth which it transported to the city, was well termed the Golden Horn. In one place, this superb basin was lined with quays, where stately dromonds and argosies unloaded their wealth, while, by the shore of the haven, galleys, feluccas, and other small craft, idly flapped the singularly shaped and snow-white pinions which served them for sails. In other places, the Golden Horn lay shrouded in a verdant mantle of trees, where the private gardens of wealthy or distinguished individuals, or places of public recreation, shot down upon and were bounded by the shore. On the Bosphorus, which might be seen in the distance, the little fleet of Tancred was lying in the same station they had gained during the night, which was fitted to command the opposite landing: this their general had preferred to a midnight descent upon Constantinople, not knowing whether, so coming, they might be received as friends or enemies. This delay, however, had given the Greeks an opportunity, either by the orders of Alexius, or the equally powerful mandates of some of the conspirators, to tow six ships of war, full of armed men, and provided with the maritime offensive weapons peculiar to the Greeks at that period, which they had moored so as exactly to cover the place where the troops of Tancred must necessarily land. This preparation gave some surprise to the valiant Tancred, who did not know that such vessels had arrived in the harbour from Lemnos on the preceding night. The undaunted courage of that prince was, however, in no respect to be shaken by the degree of unexpected danger with which his adventure now appeared to be attended. This splendid view, from the description of which we have in some degree digressed, was seen by the physician and Ursel from a terrace, the loftiest almost on the palace of the Blacquernal. To the cityward, it was bounded by a solid wall, of considerable height, giving a restingplace for the roof of a lower building, which, sloping outward, broke to the view the vast height unobscured otherwise save by a high and massy balustrade, composed of bronze, which, to the havenward, sunk sheer down upon an uninterrupted precipice. No sooner, therefore, had Ursel turned his eyes that way, than, though placed far from the brink of the terrace, he exclaimed, with a shriek, “Save me—save me! if you are not indeed the destined executors of the Emperor’s will.” “We are indeed such,” said Douban, “to save, and if possible to bring you to complete recovery; but by no means to do you injury, or to suffer it to be offered by others.” “Guard me then from myself,” said Ursel, “and save me from the

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reeling and insane desire which I feel to plunge myself into the abyss, to the edge of which you have guided me.” “Such a giddy and dangerous temptation is,” said the physician, “common to those who have not for a long time looked down from precipitous heights, and are suddenly brought to them; Nature, however bounteous, hath not provided for the cessation of our faculties for years, and for their sudden resumption in full strength and vigour. An interval, longer or shorter, must needs intervene. Can you not believe this terrace a safe station while you have my support and that of this faithful slave?” “Certainly,” said Ursel; “but permit me to turn my face towards this stone-wall, for I cannot bear to look at the flimsy piece of wire, which is the only battlement of defence that interposes betwixt me and the precipice.” He spoke of the bronze balustrade, six feet high, and massive in proportion. Thus saying, and holding fast by the physician’s arm, Ursel, though himself a younger and more able man, trembled, and moved his feet as slowly as if made of lead, until he reached the sashed-door, where stood a kind of balcony-seat, in which he placed himself.—“Here,” said he, “will I remain.” “And here,” said Douban, “will I make the communication of the Emperor, which it is necessary you should be prepared to reply to. It places you, you will observe, at your own disposal for liberty or captivity, but it conditions for your resigning that sweet but sinful morsel termed revenge, which, I must not conceal from you, chance appears willing to put into your hand. You know the degree of rivalry in which you have been held by the Emperor, and you know the measure of evil you have sustained at his hand. The question is, Can you forgive what has taken place?” “Let me wrap my head round with my mantle,” said Ursel, “to dispel this dizziness which still oppresses my poor brain, and as soon as the power of recollection is granted to me, you shall know my sentiments.” He sunk upon the seat, muffled in the way which he described, and after a few minutes’ reflection, with a trepidation which argued the patient still to be under the nervous feeling of extreme horror mixed with terror, he addressed Douban thus: “The operation of wrong and cruelty, in the moment when they are first inflicted, excites, of course, the utmost resentment of the sufferer; nor is there, perhaps, a passion which lives so long in his bosom as the natural desire of revenge. If, then, during the first month, when I lay stretched upon my bed of want and misery, you had offered me an opportunity of revenge upon my cruel oppressor, the remnant of miserable life which remained to me should have been willingly bestowed to purchase it. But a suffering of

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weeks, or even months, must not be compared in effect with that of years. For a short space of endurance, the body, as well as the mind, retains that vigorous habit which holds the prisoner still connected with life, and teaches him to thrill at the long-forgotten chain of hopes, of wishes, of disappointments, and mortifications, which affected his former existence. But the wounds become callous as they harden, and other and better feelings occupy their place, while they gradually die away in forgetfulness. The enjoyments, the amusements of this world, occupy no part of his time upon whom the gates of despair have once closed. I tell thee, my kind physician, that for a season, in an insane attempt to effect my liberty, I cut through a large portion of the living rock. But Heaven cured me of so foolish an idea; and if I did not actually come to love Alexius Comnenus—for how could that have been a possible effect in any rational state of my intellects?—yet, as I became convinced of my own crimes, sins, and follies, the more and more I was also persuaded that Alexius was but the agent through whom Heaven exercised a dearly-purchased right of punishing me for my manifold offences and transgressions; and that it was not therefore upon the Emperor that my resentment ought to visit itself. And, I can now say to thee, that, so far as a man who has undergone so dreadful a change can be supposed to know his own mind, I feel no desire either to rival Alexius in a race for empire, or to avail myself of any of the various proffers which he proposes to me as the price of withdrawing my claim. Let him keep unpurchased the crown, for which he has paid, in my opinion, a price which it is not worth.” “This is extraordinary stoicism, noble Ursel,” answered the physician Douban. “Am I then to understand that you reject the fair offers of Alexius, and desire, instead of all which he is willing—nay, anxious to bestow—to be committed safely back to thy old blinded dungeon in the Blacquernal, that you may continue at ease those pietistic meditations which have already conducted thee to so extravagant a conclusion?” “Physician,” said Ursel, while a shuddering fit that affected his whole body testified his alarm at the alternative proposed—“one would imagine thine own profession might have taught thee, that no mere mortal man, unless predestined to be a glorified saint, could ever prefer darkness to the light of day; blindness itself to the enjoyment of the power of sight; the pangs of starving to competent sustenance, or the damps of a dungeon to the free air of God’s creation. No!—it may be virtue to do so, but to such a pitch mine does not soar. All I require of the Emperor for standing by him with all the power my name can give him at this crisis is, that he will provide for my reception as a monk in some of those pleasant and well-endowed seminaries of piety, to

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which his devotion, or his fears, have given rise. Let me not be again the object of his suspicion, the operation of which is more dreadful than that of being the object of his hate. Forgotten by power, as I have myself lost the remembrance of those that wielded it, let me find my way to the grave, unnoticed, unconstrained, at liberty, in possession of my dim and disused organs of sight, and, above all, at peace.” “If such be thy serious and earnest wish, noble Ursel,” said the physician, “I myself have no hesitation to warrant to thee the full accomplishment of thy religious and moderate desires. But, bethink thee, thou art once more an inhabitant of the court, in which thou mayst obtain what thou wilt to-day; while to-morrow, shouldst thou regret thy indifference, it may be thy utmost entreaty will not suffice to gain for thee the slightest extension of thy present conditions.” “Be it so,” said Ursel; “I will then stipulate for another condition, which indeed has only reference to this day. I will solicit his Imperial Majesty, with all humility, to spare me the pain of a personal treaty between himself and me, and that he will be satisfied with the solemn assurance that I am most willing to do in his favour all that he is desirous of dictating; while, on the other hand, I desire only the execution of those moderate conditions of my future aliment which I have already told thee at length.” “But wherefore,” said Douban, “shouldst thou be afraid of announcing to the Emperor thy disposition to an agreement, which cannot be esteemed otherwise than extremely moderate on thy part? Indeed, I fear the Emperor will insist on a brief personal conference.” “I am not ashamed,” said Ursel, “to confess the truth. It is true, that I have, or think I have, renounced what the Scripture calls the pride of life; but the old Adam still lives within us, and maintains against the better part of our nature in an inextinguishable quarrel, easy to be aroused from its slumber, but as difficult to be again couched in peace. While last night I but half understood that mine enemy was in my presence, and while my faculties performed but half their duty in recalling his deceitful and hated accents, did not my heart throb in my bosom with all the agitation of a taken bird, and shall I again have to enter into a personal treaty with the man who, be his general conduct what it may, has been the constant and unprovoked cause of my unequalled misery? Douban, no!—to listen to his voice again, were to hear an alarm sounded to every violent and vindictive passion of my heart; and though, may Heaven so help me as my intentions towards him are upright, yet it is impossible for me to listen to his professions with a chance of safety either to him or to myself.” “If you be so minded,” replied Douban, “I shall only repeat to him your stipulation, and you must swear to him that you will strictly

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observe it. Without this being done, it must be difficult, or perhaps impossible, to settle the league of which both are desirous.” “Amen!” said Ursel; “and as I am pure in my purpose, and resolved to keep it to the uttermost, so may Heaven guard me from the influence of precipitate revenge, ancient grudge, or new quarrel!” An authoritative knock at the door of the sleeping-chamber was now heard, and Ursel, relieved, by more powerful feelings, from the giddiness of which he had complained, walked firmly into the bedroom, and seating himself, waited with averted eyes the entrance of the person who demanded admittance, and who proved to be no other than Alexius Comnenus. The Emperor appeared at the door in a warlike dress, suited for the decoration of a prince who was to witness a combat in the lists fought out before him. “Sage Douban,” he said, “has our esteemed prisoner, Ursel, made his choice between our peace and enmity?” “He hath, my lord,” replied the physician, “embraced the lot of that happy portion of mankind, whose hearts and lives are devoted to the service of your Majesty’s government.” “He will then this day,” continued the Emperor, “render me the office of putting down all those who may pretend to abet insurrection in his name, and under pretext of his wrongs?” “He will, my lord,” replied the physician, “act to the fullest the part which you require.” “And in what way,” said the Emperor, adopting his most gracious tone of voice, “would our faithful Ursel desire that services like these, rendered in the hour of extreme need, should be acknowledged by the Emperor?” “Simply,” answered Douban, “by saying nothing upon the subject. He desires only that all jealousies between you and him may be henceforth forgotten, and that he may be admitted into one of your Highness’s monastic institutions, with leave to dedicate the rest of his life to the worship of Heaven and its saints.” “Hath he persuaded thee of this, Douban?”—said the Emperor, in a low and altered voice. “By Heaven! when I consider from what prison he was brought, and in what guise he inhabited it, I cannot believe in this gall-less disposition. He must at least speak to me himself, ere I can believe, in some degree, the transformation of the fiery Ursel into a being so little capable of feeling the ordinary impulses of mankind.” “Hear me, Alexius Comnenus,” said the prisoner; “and so may thine own prayers to Heaven find access and acceptation, as thou believest the words which I speak to thee in simplicity of heart. If thine

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empire of Greece were made of coined gold, it would hold out no bait for my acceptance; nor, I thank Heaven, have even the injuries I have experienced at thy hand, cruel and extensive as they have been, impressed upon me the slightest desire of requiting treachery with treachery. Think of me as thou wilt, so thou seek’st not again to exchange words with me; and believe me, that when thou hast put me under the most rigid of thy ecclesiastical foundations, the discipline, the fare, and the vigils, will be far superior to the existence falling to the share of those whom the King delights to honour, and who therefore must afford the King their society whenever they are summoned to do so.” “It is hardly for me,” said the physician, “to interpose in so high a matter; yet, as trusted both by the noble Ursel, and by his highness the Emperor, I have made a brief abstract of these short conditions to be kept by the high parties towards each other, sub crimine falsi.” The Emperor protracted the intercourse with Ursel, until he more fully explained to him the occasion which he should have that very day for his services. When they parted, Alexius, with a great show of affection, embraced his late prisoner, while it required all the selfcommand and stoicism of Ursel to avoid expressing in plain terms the extent to which he abhorred the person who thus caressed him.

Chapter Seven . . . . . . . . . O, Conspiracy! Sham’st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? O, then, by day, Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, Conspiracy; Hide it in smiles and affability: For if thou path thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention. Julius Cæsar

T   morning at last arrived, on which, by the Imperial proclamation, the combat between the Cæsar and Robert Count of Paris was appointed to take place. This was a circumstance in a great measure foreign to the Grecian manners, and to which, therefore, the people annexed different ideas from those which were associated with the same solemn decision of God, as the Latins called it, by the Western nations. The consequence was a vague, but excessive agitation among the people, who connected the extraordinary strife which they were to witness, with the various causes which had been whispered abroad, as likely to give occasion to some

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general insurrection of a great and terrible nature. By the Imperial order, regular lists had been prepared for the combat, with opposite gates, or entrances, as was usual, for the admittance of the two champions; and it was understood that the appeal was to be made to the Divinity by each, according to the forms prescribed by the church of which the combatants were respectively members. The situation of these lists was on the side of the shore adjoining on the west to the continent. At no great distance, the walls of the city were seen, of various architecture, composed of lime and of stone, and furnished with no less than four-and-twenty gates, or posterns, five of which regarded the land, and nineteen the water. All this formed a beautiful prospect, much of which is still visible. The town itself is about nineteen miles in circumference; and as it is on all sides surrounded with lofty cypresses, its general appearance is that of a city arising out of a stately wood of these magnificent trees, partly shrouding the pinnacles, obelisks, and minarets, which then marked the site of many noble Christian temples; but now, generally speaking, intimate the position of as many Mahomedan mosques. These lists, for the convenience of spectators, were surrounded on all sides by long rows of seats, sloping downwards. In the middle of these seats, and exactly opposite the centre of the lists, was a high throne, erected for the Emperor himself; and which was separated from the more vulgar galleries by a circuit of wooden barricades, erected in the imitation of the defences of a Gothic castle, and which, an experienced eye could perceive, might, in case of need, be made a defence itself. The lists were sixty yards in length, by perhaps about forty in breadth, and these afforded ample space for the exercise of the combat, both on horseback and on foot. Numerous bands of the Greek citizens began, with the very break of day, to issue from the gates and posterns of the city, to examine and wonder at the construction of the lists, pass their criticisms upon the purposes of the peculiar parts of the fabric, and occupy places, to secure them for the spectacle. Shortly after arrived a large band of those soldiers who were called the Roman Immortals. These entered without ceremony, and placed themselves on either hand of the wooden barricade which fenced the Emperor’s seat. Some of them took even a greater liberty; for, affecting to be pressed against the boundary, there were individuals who approached the partition itself, and seemed to meditate climbing over it, and placing themselves on the same side with the Emperor. Some old domestic slaves of the household now showed themselves, as if for the purpose of preserving this sacred circle for Alexius and his court; and, in proportion as the Immortals began to show themselves encroaching

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and turbulent, the strength of the defenders of the prohibited precincts seemed gradually to increase. There was, though scarcely to be observed, besides the grand access to the Imperial seat from without, another opening also from the outside, secured by a very strong door, by which different persons received admission beneath the seats destined for the Imperial party. These persons, by their length of limb, breadth of shoulders, by the fur of their cloaks, and especially by the redoubted battle-axes which all of them bore, appeared to be Varangians; but, although neither dressed in their usual habit of pomp, or in their more effectual garb of war, still, when narrowly examined, they might be seen to possess their usual offensive weapons. These men, entering in separate and straggling parties, might be observed to join the slaves of the interior of the palace in opposing the intrusion of the Immortals upon the seat of the Emperor and the benches around. Two or three Immortals, who had actually made good their frolic, and climbed over the division, were flung back again, very unceremoniously, by the barbaric strength and sinewy arms of the Varangians. The people around, and in the adjacent galleries, most of whom had the air of citizens in their holyday dresses, commented a good deal on these proceedings, and were inclined strongly to make part with the Immortals. “It was a shame to the Emperor,” they said, “to encourage these British barbarians to interpose themselves by violence between his person and the Immortal cohorts of the city, who were in some sort his own children.” Stephanos, the gymnastic, whose bulky strength and stature rendered him conspicuous amid this party, said, without hesitation, “If there are two people here who will join in saying that the Immortals are unjustly deprived of their right of guarding the Emperor’s person, here is the hand that shall place them beside the Imperial chair.” “Not so,” quoth a centurion of the Immortals, whom we have already introduced to our readers by the name of Harpax; “Not so, Stephanos; that happy time may arrive, but it is not yet come, my gem of the circus. Thou knowest that on this occasion it is one of these Counts, or western Franks, who undertakes the combat; and the Varangians, who call these people their enemies, have some reason to claim a precedency in guarding the lists, which it might not at this moment be convenient to dispute with them. Why, man, if thou wert half so witty as thou art long, thou wouldst be sensible that it were bad woodmanship to raise the holloa upon the game, and startle it ere it had been driven within compass of the nets.” While the athlete rolled his huge grey eyes as if to conjure out the sense of this intimation, his little friend Lysimachus, the artist, putting

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himself to pain to stand upon his tiptoe, and look intelligent, said, approaching as near as he could to Harpax’s ear, “Thou mayst trust me, gallant centurion, that this man of mould and muscle shall neither start like a babbling hound on a false scent, nor become mute and inert when the general signal is given. But tell me,” said he, speaking very low, and for that purpose mounting a bench, which brought him on a level with the centurion’s ear, “would it not have been better that a strong guard of the valiant Immortals had been placed in this wooden citadel, to ensure the object of the day?” “Without question,” said the centurion, “it was so meant; but these strolling Varangians have altered their station of their own authority.” “Were it not well,” said Lysimachus, “that you, who are greatly more numerous than the barbarians, should begin a fray before more of these strangers arrive?” “Content ye, friend,” said the centurion, coldly, “we know our time. An attack commenced too early would be worse than thrown away, nor would an opportunity occur of executing our project in the fitting time, if an alarm was prematurely given at this moment.” So saying, he shuffled off among his fellow soldiers, so as to avoid suspicious intercourse with such persons as were only concerned with the civic portion of the conspiracy. As the morning advanced, and the sun took a higher station in the horizon, the various persons whom curiosity, or some more decided motive, brought to see the proposed combat, were seen streaming from different parts of the town, and rushing to occupy such accommodation as the circuit round the lists afforded them. In their road to the place where preparation for combat was made, they had to ascend a sort of cape, which, in the form of a small hill, projected into the Hellespont, and the but of which, connecting it with the shore, afforded a considerable ascent, and of course a more commanding view of the strait between Europe and Asia, than either the immediate vicinity of the city, or the still lower ground upon which the lists were erected. In passing this height, the earlier visitants of the lists made little or no halt; but after a time, when it became obvious that those who had hurried forward to the place of combat were lingering there without any object or occupation, they that followed them in the same route, with natural curiosity, paid a tribute to the landscape, bestowing some attention on its beauty, and paused to see what auguries could be collected from the water, which were likely to have any concern in indicating the fate of the events that were to take place. Some straggling seamen were the first who remarked that a squadron of the Greek small craft (being that of Tancred) were in the act of making their way from Asia, and threatening a descent upon Constantinople.

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“It is strange,” said a person, by rank a captain of a galley, “that these small vessels, which were ordered to return to Constantinople as soon as they disembarked the Latins, should have remained so long at Scutari, and should not be rowing back to the imperial city until this time, on the second day after their departure from thence.” “I pray to Heaven,” said another of the same profession, “that these seamen may come alone. It seems to me as if their ensign-staffs, bowsprits, and topmasts, were decorated with the same ensigns, or nearly the same, with those which the Latins displayed upon them, when, by the Emperor’s order, they were transported towards Palestine; so methinks the voyage back again resembles that of a fleet of merchant vessels, who have been prevented from discharging their cargo at the place of their destination.” “There is little good,” said one of the politicians whom we formerly noticed, “in dealing with such commodities, whether they are imported or exported. Yon ample banner which streams over the foremost galley, intimates the presence of a chieftain of no small rank among the Counts, whether it be for valour or for nobility.” The seafaring leader added, with the voice of one who hints alarming tidings, “They seem to have got to a point in the straits as high as will enable them to run down with the tide, and clear the cape which we stand on, although with what purpose they aim to land so close beneath the walls of the city, he is a wiser man than I who pretends to determine.” “Assuredly,” returned his comrade, “the intention is not a kind one. The wealth of the city has temptations to a poor people, who only value the iron which they possess as affording them the means of procuring the gold which they covet.” “Ay, brother,” answered Demetrius the politician, “but see you not, lying at anchor within this bay which is formed by the cape, and at the very point where these heretics are likely to be carried by the tide, six strong vessels, having the power of sending forth, not merely showers of darts and arrows, but of Grecian fire, as it is called, from their hollow decks? If these Frank gentry continue directing their course upon the Imperial city, being, as they are, ——propago Contemptrix superum, sævæque avidissima cædis, Et violenta;*

we shall speedily see a combat better worth witnessing than that announced by the great trumpet of the Varangians. If you love me, let us sit down here for a moment, and see how this matter is to end.” “An excellent motion, my ingenious friend,” said Lascaris, which * Ovid Met.

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was the name of the other citizen; “but, bethink you, shall we not be in danger from the missiles with which the audacious Latins will not fail to return the Greek fire, if, according to your conjecture, it shall be poured upon them by the Imperial squadron?” “That is not ill argued, my friend,” said Demetrius; “but know that you have to do with a man who has been in such extremities before now; and if such a discharge should open from the sea, I would propose to you to step back some fifty yards inland, and thus to interpose the very crest of the cape between us and the discharge of missiles; a mere child might thus learn to face them without any alarm.” “You are a wise man, neighbour,” said Lascaris, “and possess such a mixture of valour and knowledge as becomes a man whom a friend might be supposed safely to risk his life with. There be those, for instance, who cannot show you the slightest glimpse of what is going on, without bringing you within peril of your life; whereas you, my worthy friend Demetrius, between your accurate knowledge of military affairs, and your regard for your friend, are sure to show him all that is to be seen without the least risk to a person, who is naturally unwilling to think of exposing himself to injury.—But, Holy Virgin! what is the meaning of that red flag which the Greek Admiral has this instant hoisted?” “Why, you see, neighbour,” answered Demetrius, “yonder western heretic continues to advance without minding the various signs which our Admiral has made to him to desist, and now he hoists the bloody colours, as if a man should clench his fist and say, If you persevere in your uncivil intention, I will do so and so.” “By Saint Sophia,” said Lascaris, “and that is giving him fair warning. But what is it the Imperial Admiral is about to do?” “Run! run! friend Lascaris,” said Demetrius, “or you will see more of that than perchance you have any curiosity for.” Accordingly, to add the strength of example to precept, Demetrius himself girt up his loins, and retreated with the most edifying speed to the opposite side of the ridge, accompanied by the greater part of the crowd, who had tarried there to witness the contest which the newsmonger promised, and were determined to take his word for their own safety. The sound and sight which had alarmed Demetrius, was the discharge of a large portion of Greek fire, which perhaps may be best compared to one of those immense Congreve rockets of the present day, which takes on its shoulders a small grapnel or anchor, and proceeds groaning through the air, like a fiend over-burdened by the mandate of some inexorable magician, and of which the operation was so terrifying, that the crews of the vessels attacked by this strange

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weapon frequently forsook every means of defence, and run themselves ashore. One of the principal ingredients of this dreadful fire was supposed to be naphtha, or the bitumen which is collected on the banks of the Dead Sea, and which, when in a state of ignition, could only be extinguished by a very singular mixture, and which it was not likely to come in contact with. It produced a thick smoke and loud explosion, and was capable, says Gibbon, of communicating its flames with equal vehemence in descent or lateral progress. In sieges, it was poured from the ramparts, or launched, like our bombs, in redhot balls of stone or iron, or it was darted in flax twisted round arrows and in javelins. It was considered as a state secret of the greatest importance; and for wellnigh four centuries it was unknown to the Mahometans. But at length the composition was discovered by the Saracens, and used by them for repelling the Crusaders, and overpowering the Greeks, upon whose side it had at one time been the most formidable implement of defence. Some exaggeration we must allow for a barbarous period; but there seems no doubt that the general description of the crusader Joinville should be admitted as correct:—“It came flying through the air,” says that good knight, “like a winged dragon, about the thickness of a hogshead, with the report of thunder and the speed of lightning, and the darkness of the night was dispelled by this horrible illumination.” Not only the bold Demetrius and his pupil Lascaris, but all the crowd whom they influenced, fled manfully when the commodore of the Greeks fired the first discharge; and as the other vessels in the squadron followed his example, the heavens were filled with the unusual and outrageous noise, while the smoke was so thick as to darken the very air. As the fugitives passed the crest of the hill, they saw the seaman, whom we formerly mentioned as a spectator, snugly reclining under cover of a dry ditch, where he managed so as to secure himself as far as possible from any accident. He could not, however, omit breaking his jest on the politicians. “What, ho!” he cried, “my good friends,” without raising himself above the counterscarp of his ditch, “will you not remain upon your station long enough to finish that hopeful lecture upon battle by sea and land, which you had so happy an opportunity of commencing? Believe me, the noise is more alarming than hurtful; the fire is all pointed in a direction opposite to yours, and if one of those dragons which you see does happen to fly landward instead of seaward, it is but the mistake of some cabin-boy, who has used his linstock with more willingness than ability.” Demetrius and Lascaris just heard enough of the naval hero’s harangue, to acquaint them with the new danger with which they were

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assailed by the possible misdirection of the weapons, and, rushing down towards the lists at the head of a crowd half desperate with fear, they hastily propagated the appalling news, that the Latins were coming back from Asia with the purpose of landing in arms, pillaging, and burning the city. The uproar, in the meantime, of this unexpected occurrence, was such as altogether to vindicate, in public opinion, the reported cause, however exaggerated. The thunder of the Greek fire came successively, one hard upon the other, and each, in its turn, spread a blot of black smoke upon the face of the landscape, which, thickened by so many successive clouds, seemed at last, like that raised by a sustained fire of modern artillery, to overshadow the whole horizon. The small squadron of Tancred were completely hid from view in the surging volumes of darkness, which the breath of the weapons of the enemy had spread around him; and it seemed by a red light, which began to show itself among the thickest of the veil of darkness, that one of the flotilla at least had caught fire. Yet the Latins resisted, with an obstinacy worthy of their own courage, and the fame of their celebrated leader. Some advantage they had, on account of their small size, and their lowness in the water, as well as the clouded state of the atmosphere, which rendered them difficult marks for the fire of the Greeks. To increase these advantages, Tancred, as well by boats as by the kind of rude signals made use of at the period, dispersed orders to his fleet, that each bark, disregarding the fate of the others, should press forward individually, and that the men from each should be put on shore wheresoever and howsoever they could effect that manœuvre. Tancred himself set a noble example; he was on board a stout vessel, fenced in some degree against the effect of the Greek fire by being in a great measure covered with raw hides, which hides had also been recently steeped in water. This vessel contained upwards of a hundred valiant warriors, several of them of knightly order, who had all night toiled at the humble labours of the oar, and now in the morning applied their chivalrous hands to the arblast and to the bow, which were in general accounted the weapons of persons of a lower rank. Thus armed, and thus manned, Prince Tancred bestowed upon his bark the full velocity which wind, and tide, and oar, could enable her to obtain, and placing her in the situation to profit by them as much as his maritime skill could direct, he drove with the speed of lightning among the vessels of Lemnos, plying on either side, bows, crossbows, javelins, and military missiles of every kind, with the greater advantage that the Greeks, trusting to their artificial fire, had omitted arming themselves with other weapons; so that when the valiant Crusader

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bore down on them with so much fury, repaying the terrors of their fire with a storm of bolts and arrows no less formidable, they began to feel that their own advantage was much less than they had supposed, and that, like most other dangers, the maritime fire of the Greeks, when undauntedly confronted, lost at least one-half of its terrors. The Grecian sailors, too, when they observed the vessels approach so near, filled with the steel-clad Latins, began to shrink from a contest to be maintained hand to hand with so terrible an enemy. By degrees, smoke began to issue from the sides of the great Grecian argosie, and the voice of Tancred announced to his soldiers that the Grecian Admiral’s vessel had taken fire, owing to negligence in the management of the means of destruction she possessed, and that all they had now to do was to maintain such a distance as to avoid sharing her fate. Sparkles and flashes of flame were next seen leaping from place to place, on board of the great hulk, as if the element had had the sense and purpose of spreading wider the consternation, and disabling the few who still paid attention to the commands of their Admiral, and endeavoured to extinguish the fire. The consciousness of the combustible nature of the freight began to add despair to terror; from the bolt-sprit, the rigging, the yards, the sides, and every part of the vessel, the unfortunate crew were seen dropping themselves, to exchange for the most part a watery death for one by the more dreadful agency of fire. The crew of Tancred’s bark, ceasing, by that generous prince’s commands, to offer any additional annoyance to an enemy who was at once threatened by the perils of the ocean and of conflagration, ran their vessel ashore in a smooth part of the bay, and jumping into the shallow sea, made the land without difficulty; many of their steeds being, by the exertions of the owners, and the docility of the animals, brought ashore at the same time with their masters. Their commander lost no time in forming their serried ranks into a phalanx of lancers, few indeed at first, but perpetually increasing as ship after ship of the little flotilla ran ashore, or having more deliberately moored their barks, landed their men, and joined their companions. The cloud which had been raised by the conflict was now driven to leeward before the wind, and the strait exhibited only the relics of the combat. Here tossed upon the billows the scattered and broken remains of one or two of the Latin vessels which had been burnt at the commencement of the combat, though their crews, by the exertions of their comrades, had in general been saved. Lower down were seen the remaining five vessels of the Lemnos squadron, holding a disorderly and difficult retreat, with the purpose of gaining the harbour of Constantinople. In the place so late the scene of combat, lay moored the hulk of the Grecian Admiral, burnt to the water’s edge, and still

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sending forth a black smoke from its scathed beams and planks. The flotilla of Tancred, busied in discharging its troops, lay irregularly scattered along the bay, the men making ashore as they could, and taking their course to join the standard of their leader. Various black substances floated on the surface of the water, nearer, or more distant to the shore; some proved to be the wreck of the vessels which had been destroyed, and others, more ominous still, the lifeless bodies of mariners who had fallen in the conflict. The standard had been borne ashore by the Prince’s favourite page, Ernest of Apulia, so soon as the keel of Tancred’s galley had grazed upon the sand. It was then pitched on the top of that elevated cape between Constantinople and the lists, where Lascaris, Demetrius, and other gossips, had held their station at the commencement of the engagement, but from which all had fled, between the mingled dread of the Greek fire and the missiles of the Latin crusaders.

Chapter Eight S        in complete armour, and supporting with his right hand the standard of his fathers, Tancred remained with his handful of warriors like so many statues of steel, expecting some sort of attack from the Grecian party which had occupied the lists, or from the numbers whom the city gates began now to pour forth—soldiers some of them, and others citizens, many of whom were arrayed for conflict. These persons, alarmed by the various accounts which were given of the combatants, and the progress of the fight, rushed towards the standard of Prince Tancred, with the intention of beating it to the earth, and dispersing the guards who owed it homage and defence. But if the reader shall have happened to have ridden at any time through a pastoral country, with a dog of a noble race following him, he must have remarked, in the deference ultimately paid to the highbred animal by the shepherd’s cur as he crosses the lonely glen, of which the latter conceives himself the lord and guardian, something very similar to the demeanour of the incensed Greeks, when they approached near to the little band of Franks. At the first symptom of the intrusion of a stranger, the dog of the shepherd starts from his slumbers, and rushes towards the noble intruder with a clamorous declaration of war; but when the diminution of distance between them shows to the aggressor the size and strength of his opponent, he becomes like a cruiser, who, in a chase, has, to his surprise and alarm, found two tier of guns opposed to him instead of one. He halts— suspends his clamorous yelping, and, in fine, ingloriously retreats to

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his master, with all the dishonourable marks of positively declining the combat. It was in this manner that the troops of the noisy Greeks, with much hallooing and many a boastful shout, hastened both from the town and from the lists, with the apparent intention of sweeping from the field the few companions of Tancred. As they advanced, however, within the power of remarking the calm and regular order of those men who had landed, and arranged themselves under this noble chieftain’s banner, their minds were altogether changed as to the resolution of instant combat; their advance became an uncertain and staggering gait; their heads were more frequently turned back to the point from which they came, than towards the enemy; and their desire to provoke an instant scuffle vanished totally, when there did not appear the least symptom that their opponents cared about the matter. It added to the extreme confidence with which the Latins kept their ground, that they were receiving frequent, though small reinforcements from their comrades, who were landing by detachments all along the beach; and that, in the course of a short hour, their amount had been raised, on horseback and foot, to a number, allowing for a few casualties, not much less than that which set sail from Scutari. Another reason why the Latins remained unassailed, was certainly the indisposition of the two principal armed parties on shore to enter into a quarrel with them. The guards of every kind, who were faithful to the Emperor, and more especially the Varangians, had their orders to remain firm at their posts, some in the lists, and others at various places of rendezvous in Constantinople, where their presence was necessary to prevent the effects of the sudden insurrection which Alexius knew to be meditated against him. These therefore made no hostile demonstration towards the band of Latins, nor was it the purpose of the Emperor they should do so. On the other hand, the greater part of the Immortal Guards, and those citizens who were prepared to play a part in the conspiracy, had been impressed by the agents of the deceased Agelastes with the opinion, that this band of Latins, commanded by Tancred, the relative of Bohemond, had been dispatched by the latter to their assistance. These men, therefore, stood still, and made no attempt to guide or direct the popular efforts of such as inclined to attack these unexpected visitors; in which purpose, therefore, no very great party were united, while the majority were willing enough to find an apology for remaining quiet. In the meantime, the Emperor, from his palace of Blacquernal, saw what passed upon the straits, and beheld his navy from Lemnos totally foiled in their attempt, by means of the Greek fire, to check the

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intended passage of Tancred and his men. He had no sooner observed the leading ship of this squadron begin to beacon the darkness with its own fire, than the Emperor formed a secret resolution to disown the unfortunate Admiral, and make peace with the Latins, if that should be absolutely necessary, by sending them his head. He had hardly, therefore, seen the flames burst forth, and the rest of the vessels retreat from their moorings, than in his own mind the doom of the unfortunate Phraortes, for such was the name of the Admiral, was signed and sealed. Achilles Tatius, at the same instant, determining to keep a close eye upon the Emperor at this important crisis, came precipitately into the palace, with an appearance of great alarm. “My Lord!—my Imperial Lord! I am unhappy to be the messenger of such unlucky news; but the Latins have in great numbers succeeded in crossing the strait from Scutari. The Lemnos squadron endeavoured to stop them, as was last night determined upon in the Imperial Council of War. By a heavy discharge of the Greek fire, one or two of the crusaders’ vessels were consumed, but by far the greater number of them pushed on their course, burnt the leading ship of the unfortunate Phraortes, and it is strongly reported he has himself perished, with almost all his men. The rest have cut their cables, and abandoned the defence of the passage of the Hellespont.” “And you, Achilles Tatius,” said the Emperor, “with what purpose is it that you now bring me this melancholy news, at a period so late when I cannot amend the consequences?” “Under favour, most gracious Emperor,” replied the conspirator, not without colouring and stammering, “such was not my intention— I had hoped to submit a plan, by which I might easily have prepared the way for correcting this little error.” “Well, your plan, sir?” said the Emperor dryly. “With your sacred Majesty’s leave,” said the Acolyte, “I would myself have undertaken instantly to lead against this Tancred and his Italians the battle-axes of the faithful Varangian guard, who will make no more account of the small number of Franks who have come ashore, than the farmer holds of the hordes of rats and mice, and such like mischievous vermin, who have harboured in his granaries.” “And what mean you,” said the Emperor, “that I am to do, while my Anglo-Saxons fight for my sake?” “Your Majesty,” replied Achilles, not exactly satisfied with the dry and caustic manner in which the Emperor addressed him, “may put yourself at the head of the Immortal cohorts of Constantinople; and I am your security, that you may either perfect the victory over the Latins, or at least redeem the most distant chance of a defeat, by

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advancing at the head of this choice body of domestic troops, should the day appear doubtful.” “You, yourself, Achilles Tatius,” returned the Emperor, “have repeatedly assured us, that these Immortals retain a perverse attachment to our rebel Ursel. How is it, then, you would have us intrust our defence to these bands, when we have engaged our valiant Varangians in the proposed conflict with the flower of the western army?—Did you think of this risk, Sir Follower?” Achilles Tatius, much alarmed at an intimation indicative of his purpose being known, answered, “that in his haste he had been more anxious to recommend the plan which should expose his own person to the greater danger, than that perhaps which was most attended with personal safety to his Imperial Master.” “I thank you for so doing,” said the Emperor; “you have anticipated my wishes, though it is not in my power at present to follow the advice you have given me. I would have been well contented, undoubtedly, had these Latins measured their way over the strait again, as suggested by last night’s council; but since they have arrived, and stand embattled on our shores, it is better that we pay them with money and with spoil, than with the lives of our gallant subjects. We cannot, after all, believe that they come with any serious intention of doing us injury; it is but the insane desire of witnessing feats of battle and single combat, which is to them the breath of their nostrils, that can have impelled them to this partial countermarch. I impose upon you, Achilles Tatius, combining the Protospathaire in the same commission with you, the duty of riding up to yonder standard of Apulia, and learning of their chief, called the Prince Tancred, if he is there in person, the purpose of his return, and the cause of his entering into debate with Phraortes and the Lemnos squadron. If they send us any reasonable excuse, we shall not be averse to receive it at their hands; for we have not made so many sacrifices for the preservation of peace, to break forth into war, if, after all, so great an evil can be avoided. Thou wilt receive, therefore, with a candid and complacent mind, such apologies as they may incline to bring forward; and, be assured, that the sight of this puppet-show of a single combat, will be enough of itself to banish every other consideration from the reflection of these giddy crusaders.” A knock was at this moment heard at the door of the Emperor’s apartment; and upon the word being given to enter, the Protospathaire made his appearance. He was arrayed in a splendid suit of ancient Roman-fashioned armour. The want of a visor left his countenance entirely visible; which, pale and anxious as it was, did not well become the martial crest and dancing plume with which it was decorated. He

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received the commission already mentioned with the less alacrity, because the Acolyte was added to him as his colleague; for, as the reader may have observed, these two officers were of separate factions in the army, and on indifferent terms with each other. Neither did the Acolyte consider his being united in commission with the Protospathaire, as a mark either of the Emperor’s confidence, or of his own safety. He was, however, in the meantime, in the Blacquernal, where the slaves of the interior made not the least hesitation, when ordered, to execute any officer of the court. The two generals had, therefore, no other alternative, than that which is allowed to two greyhounds who are reluctantly coupled together. The hope of Achilles Tatius was, that he might get safely through his mission to Tancred, after which he thought the successful explosion of the conspiracy might take place and have its course, either as a matter desired and countenanced by those Latins, or passed over as a thing in which they took no interest on either side. By the parting order of the Emperor, they were to mount on horseback at the sounding of the great Varangian trumpet, put themselves at the head of those Anglo-Saxon guards in the court-yard of their barrack, and await the Emperor’s further orders. There was something in this arrangement which pressed hard on the conscience of Achilles Tatius, yet he was at a loss to justify his apprehensions to himself, unless from a conscious feeling of his own guilt. He felt, however, that in being detained, under pretence of an honourable mission, at the head of the Varangians, he was deprived the liberty of disposing of himself, by which he had hoped to communicate with the Cæsar and Hereward, whom he reckoned upon as his active accomplices, not knowing that the first was at this moment a prisoner in the Blacquernal, where Alexius had arrested him in the apartments of the Empress, and that the second was the most important support of Comnenus during the whole of that eventful day. When the gigantic trumpet of the Varangian guards sent forth its deep signal through the city, the Protospathaire hurried Achilles along with him to the rendezvous of the Varangians, and on the way said to him, in an easy and indifferent tone, “As the Emperor is in the field in person, you, his representative, or Follower, will of course transmit no orders to the body-guard, except such as shall receive their origin from himself, so that you will consider your authority as this day suspended.” “I regret,” said Achilles, “that there should have seemed any cause for such precautions; I had hoped my own truth and fidelity—but—I am obsequious to his Imperial pleasure in all things.” “Such are his orders,” said the other officer, “and you know under

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what penalty obedience is enforced.” “If I did not,” said Achilles, “the composition of this body of guards would remind me, since it comprehends not only great part of those Varangians, who are the immediate defenders of the Emperor’s throne, but those slaves of the interior, who are the executioners of his pleasure.” To this the Protospathaire returned no answer, while the more closely the Acolyte looked upon the guard which attended, to the unusual number of nearly three thousand men, the more had he reason to believe that he might esteem himself fortunate, if, by the intervention of either the Cæsar, Agelastes, or Hereward, he could pass to the conspirators a signal to suspend the intended explosion, which seemed to be provided against by the Emperor with unusual caution. He would have given the full dream of empire, with which he had been for a short time lulled asleep, to have seen but a glimpse of the azure plume of Nicephorus, the white mantle of the philosopher, or even a glimmer of Hereward’s battle-axe. No such objects could be seen any where, and not a little was the faithless Follower displeased to see that whichever way he turned his eyes, those of the Protospathaire, but especially of the trusty domestic officers of the empire, seemed to follow and watch their occupation. Amidst the numerous soldiers which he saw on all sides, his eye did not recognise that of a single man with whom he could exchange a friendly or confidential glance, and he stood in all that agony of terror, which is rendered the more discomfiting, because the traitor is conscious that, beset by various foes, his own fears are the most likely of all to betray him. Internally, as the danger seemed to increase, and as his alarmed imagination attempted to discern new reasons for it, he could only conclude that either one of the three principal conspirators, or at least some of the inferiors, had turned informers; and his doubt was, whether he should not screen his own share of what had been premeditated, by flinging himself at the feet of the Emperor, and making a full confession. But still the fear of being premature in having recourse to such a base means of saving himself, joined to the absence of the Emperor, united to keep within his lips a secret, which concerned not only all his future fortunes, but life itself. He was in the meantime, therefore, plunged as it were in a sea of trouble and uncertainty, while the specks of land, which seemed to promise him refuge, were distant, dimly seen, and extremely difficult of attainment.

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Chapter Nine He should have lived, Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense, Might in the times to come have ta’en revenge, By so receiving a dishonoured life, With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had lived! Alack, when once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right; we would, and we would not. Measure for Measure

A         when Achilles Tatius, with a feeling of much insecurity, awaited the unwinding of the perilous skein of state politics, a private council of the Imperial family was held in the hall termed the Temple of the Muses, repeatedly distinguished as the apartment in which the Princess Anna Comnena was wont to make her evening recitations to those who were permitted the honour of hearing prelections of her history. The council consisted of the Empress Irene, the Princess herself, and the Emperor, with the Patriarch of the Greek church as a sort of mediator between a course of severity and a dangerous degree of lenity. “Tell not me, Irene,” said the Emperor, “of the fine things attached to the praise of mercy. Here have I sacrificed my just revenge over my rival Ursel, and what good do I obtain by it? Why, the old obstinate man, instead of being tractable, and sensible of the generosity which has spared his life and eyes, can be with difficulty brought to exert himself in favour of the Prince to whom he owes them. I used to think that eyesight and the breath of life were things which one would preserve at any sacrifice; but, on the contrary, I now believe men value them like mere toys. Talk not to me, therefore, of the gratitude to be excited by saving this ungrateful cub. And believe me, girl,” turning to Anna, “that not only will all my subjects, should I follow your advice, laugh at me for sparing a man so predetermined to work my ruin, but even thou thyself will be the first to upbraid me with the foolish kindness thou art now so anxious to extort from me.” “Your Imperial pleasure then,” said the Patriarch, “is fixed that your unfortunate son-in-law shall suffer death for his accession to this conspiracy, deluded by that heathen villain Agelastes, and the traitorous Achilles Tatius?” “Such is my purpose,” said the Emperor; “and in evidence that I mean not again to pass over a sentence of this kind with a seeming execution only, as in the case of Ursel, this ungrateful traitor of ours shall be led from the top of the staircase, or ladder of Acheron, as it is

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called, through the large chamber named the Hall of Judgment, at the upper end of which are arranged the apparatus for execution, by which I swear”—— “Swear not at all!” said the Patriarch; “I forbid thee, in the name of that Heaven whose voice (though unworthy) speaks in my person, to quench the smoking flax, or destroy the slight hope which there may remain, that you may finally be persuaded to alter your purpose respecting your misguided son-in-law, within the space allotted to him to sue for your mercy. Remember, I pray you, the remorse of Constantine.” “What means your reverence?” said Irene. “A trifle,” replied the Emperor, “not worthy being quoted from such a mouth as the Patriarch’s, being, as it probably is, a relict of paganism.” “What is it?” exclaimed the females anxiously, in the hope of hearing something which might strengthen their side of the argument, and something moved, perhaps, by curiosity, a motive which seldom slumbers in a female bosom, even when the stronger passions are in arms. “The Patriarch will tell you,” answered Alexius, “since you must needs know; though, I promise you, you will not receive any assistance in your argument from a silly legendary tale.” “Hear it, however,” said the Patriarch; “for though it is a tale of the olden time, and sometimes supposed to refer to the period when heathenism predominated, it is no less true, that it was a vow made and registered in the chancery of the rightful Deity, by an Emperor of Greece. It is, in truth, a tale not only of a Christian Emperor, but of him who made the whole empire Christian; and of that very Constantine, who was also the first who declared Constantinople to be the metropolis of the empire. This hero, remarkable alike for his zeal for religion and for his warlike achievements, was crowned by Heaven with repeated victory, and with all manner of blessings, save that unity in his family which wise men are most ambitious to possess. Not only was the blessing of concord among brethren denied to the family of this triumphant Emperor, but a deserving son of mature age, who had been supposed to aspire to share the throne with his father, was suddenly, and at midnight, called upon to enter his defence against a capital charge of treason. You will readily excuse my referring to the arts by which the son was rendered guilty in the eyes of the father. Be it enough to say, that the unfortunate young man fell a victim to the guilt of his stepmother, Fausta, and that he disdained to exculpate himself from a charge so gross and so erroneous. It is said, that the anger of the Emperor was kept up against his son by the sycophants who called upon Constantine to observe that the culprit disdained even to

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supplicate for mercy, or vindicate his innocence from so foul a charge. “But the death-blow had no sooner struck the innocent youth, than his father obtained proof of the rashness with which he had acted. He had at this period been engaged in constructing the subterranean parts of the Blacquernal palace, which his remorse appointed to contain a record of his paternal grief and contrition. At the upper part of the staircase, called the Pit of Acheron, he caused to be constructed a large chamber, still called the Hall of Judgment, for the purpose of execution. A passage through an archway in the upper wall leads from the hall to the place of misery, where the axe, or other engine, is disposed for the execution of state prisoners of consequence. Over this archway was placed a species of marble altar, surmounted by an image of the unfortunate Crispus—the materials were gold, and it bore the memorable inscription, T  ,     I        ,     . When constructing this passage, Constantine made a vow, that he himself and his posterity, being reigning Emperors, would stand beside the statue of Crispus, at the time when any individual of their family should be led to execution, and before they suffered him to pass from the Hall of Judgment to the Chamber of Death, that they should themselves be personally convinced of the truth of the charge under which he suffered. “Time rolled on—the memory of Constantine was remembered almost like that of a saint, and the respect paid to it threw into shadow the anecdote of his son’s death. The exigencies of the state rendered it difficult to keep so large a sum in specie invested in a statue, which called to mind the unpleasant failings of so great a man. Your Imperial Highness’s predecessors applied the metal which formed the statue to support the Turkish wars; and the remorse and penance of Constantine died away in an obscure tradition of the church or of the palace. Still, however, unless your Imperial Majesty has strong reasons to the contrary, I should give it as my opinion, that you will hardly achieve what is due to the memory of the greatest of your predecessors, unless you give this unfortunate criminal, being so near a relation of your own, an opportunity of pleading his cause before passing by the altar of refuge; being the name which is commonly given to the monument of the unfortunate Crispus, son of Constantine, although now deprived both of the golden letters which composed the inscription, and the golden image which represented the royal sufferer.” A mournful piece of music was now heard to ascend the stair so often mentioned. “If I must hear the Cæsar Nicephorus Briennius, ere he pass the altar of refuge, there must be no loss of time,” said the Emperor; “for

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these melancholy sounds announce that he has already approached the Hall of Judgment.” Both the Imperial ladies began instantly, with the utmost earnestness, to deprecate the execution of the Cæsar’s doom, and to conjure Alexius, as he hoped for quiet in his household, and the everlasting gratitude of his wife and daughter, that he would listen to their entreaties in behalf of an unfortunate man, who had been seduced into guilt, but not from his heart. “I will at least see him,” said the Emperor, “and the holy vow of Constantine shall be in the present instance strictly observed. But remember, you foolish women, that the state of Crispus and the present Cæsar, is as different as guilt from innocence, and that their fates, therefore, may be justly decided upon opposite principles, and with opposite results. But I will confront this criminal; and you, Patriarch, may be present to render what help is in your power to a dying man; for you, the wife and mother of the traitor, you will, methinks, do well to retire to the church, and pray God for the soul of the deceased, rather than disturb his last moments with unavailing lamentations.” “Alexius,” said the Empress Irene, “I beseech you to be contented; be assured that we will not leave you in this dogged humour of bloodshedding, lest you make such materials for history as are fitter for the time of Nero than of Constantine.” The Emperor, without reply, led the way into the Hall of Judgment, where a much stronger light than usual was already shining up the stair of Acheron, from which were heard to sound, by sullen and intermitted fits, the penitential psalms which the Greek church appointed to be sung at executions. Twenty mute slaves, the pale colour of whose turbans gave a ghastly look to the withered cast of their features, and the glaring whiteness of their eyeballs, ascended two by two, as it were from the bowels of the earth, each of them bearing in one hand a naked sabre, and in the other a lighted torch. After these came the unfortunate Nicephorus; his looks were those of a man half-dead from the terror of immediate dissolution, and what he possessed of remaining attention, was turned alternately to two black-stoled monks, who were anxiously repeating religious passages to him successively from the Greek scripture, and the form of devotion adopted by the court of Constantinople. The Cæsar’s dress also corresponded to his mournful fortunes: His legs and arms were bare, and a simple white tunic, the neck of which was already open, showed that he had assumed the garments which were to serve his last turn. A tall muscular Nubian slave, who considered himself obviously as the principal person in the procession, bore on his shoulder a large heavy headsman’s axe, and, like a demon waiting on a sorcerer, stalked step

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for step after his victim. The rear of the procession was closed by a band of four priests, each of whom chanted from time to time the devotional psalm which was thundered forth on the occasion; and another of slaves, armed with bows and quivers, and with lances, to resist any attempt at rescue, if such should be offered. It would have required a harder heart than that of the unlucky Princess to have resisted this gloomy apparatus of fear and sorrow, surrounding, at the same time directed against, a beloved object, the lover of her youth, and the husband of her bosom, within a few minutes of the termination of his mortal career. As the mournful train approached towards the altar of refuge, halfencircled as it now was by the two great and expanded arms which projected from the wall, the Emperor, who stood directly in the passage, threw upon the flame of the altar some chips of aromatic wood, steeped in spirit of wine, which, leaping at once into a blaze, illuminated the doleful procession, the figure of the principal culprit, and the slaves, who had most of them extinguished their flambeaux so soon as they had served the purpose of lighting them up the staircase. The sudden light spread from the altar failed not to make the Emperor and the Princesses visible to the mournful group which approached through the hall. All halted—all were silent. It was a meeting, as the Princess has expressed herself in her historical work, such as took place betwixt Ulysses and the inhabitants of the other world, who, when they tasted of the blood of his sacrifices, recognised him indeed, but with empty lamentations, and gestures feeble and shadowy. The hymn of contrition sunk also into silence; and, of the whole group, the only figure rendered more distinct, was the gigantic executioner, whose high and furrowed forehead, as well as the broad steel of his axe, caught and reflected back the bright gleam from the altar. Alexius saw the necessity of breaking the silence which ensued, lest it should give the intercessors for the prisoner an opportunity of renewing their entreaties. “Nicephorus Briennius,” he said, with a voice which, although generally interrupted by a slight hesitation, which procured him, among his enemies, the nickname of the Stutterer, yet, upon important occasions like the present, was so judiciously tuned and balanced in its sentences, that no such defect was at all visible—“Nicephorus Briennius,” he said, “late Cæsar, the lawful doom hath been spoken, that, having conspired against the life of thy rightful sovereign and affectionate father, Alexius Comnenus, thou shalt suffer the appropriate sentence, by having thy head struck from thy body. Here, therefore, at the last altar of refuge, I meet thee, according to the vow of the immortal Constantine, for the purpose of demanding whether thou

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hast any thing to allege why this doom should not be executed? Even at this eleventh hour, thy tongue is unloosed to speak with freedom what may concern thy life. All is prepared in this world and in the next. Look forward beyond yon archway—the block is fixed. Look behind thee, thou see’st the axe already sharpened—thy place for good or evil in the next world is already determined—time flies—eternity approaches. If thou hast aught to say, speak it freely—if nought, confess the justice of thy sentence, and pass on to death.” The Emperor commenced this oration with those looks described by his daughter as so piercing, that they dazzled like lightning, and his periods, if not precisely flowing like burning lava, were yet the accents of a man having the power of absolute command, and as such produced an effect not only on the criminal, but also upon the Prince himself, whose watery eyes and faltering voice acknowledged his sense and feeling of the fatal import of the present moment. Rousing himself to the conclusion of what he had commenced, the Emperor again demanded whether the prisoner had any thing to say in his own defence. Nicephorus was not one of those hardened criminals who may be termed the very prodigies of history, from the coolness with which they contemplate the consummation of their crimes, whether in their own punishment, or the misfortunes of others. “I have been tempted,” he said, dropping on his knees, “and I have fallen. I have nothing to allege in excuse of my folly and ingratitude; but I stand prepared to die to expiate my guilt.” A deep sigh, which almost partook of the nature of a scream, was here heard, close behind the Emperor, and its cause assigned by the sudden exclamation of Irene,—“My lord! my lord! your daughter is gone!” And in fact Anna Comnena had sunk into her mother’s arms without either sense or motion. The father’s attention was instantly called to support his swooning child, while the unhappy husband strove with the guards to be permitted to go to the assistance of his wife. “Give me but five minutes of that time which the law has abridged—let my efforts but assist in recalling her to a life which should be as long as her virtues and her talents deserve; and then let me die at her feet, for I care not to go an inch beyond.” The Emperor, who in fact had been more astonished at the boldness and rashness of Nicephorus, than alarmed by his power, considered him as a man rather misled than misleading others, and felt, therefore, the full effect of this last interview. He was, besides, not naturally cruel, at least where severities were to be enforced under his own eye. “The divine and immortal Constantine,” he said, “did not, I am persuaded, subject his descendants to this severe trial, in order further to search out the innocence of the criminals, but rather to give to those

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who came after him an opportunity of generously forgiving a crime which could not, without pardon, the express pardon of the Prince, escape without punishment. I rejoice that I am born of the willow rather than of the oak, and I acknowledge my weakness, that not even the safety of my own life, or resentment of this unhappy man’s treasonable machinations, have the same effect with me as the tears of my wife and the swooning of my daughter. Rise up, Nicephorus Briennius, freely pardoned, and restored even to the rank of Cæsar. We will direct thy pardon to be made out by the great Logothete, and sealed with the golden bull. For four-and-twenty hours thou art a prisoner, until an arrangement is made for preserving the public peace. Meanwhile, thou wilt remain under the charge of the Patriarch, who will be answerable for thy forthcoming.—Daughter and wife, you must now go hence to your own apartment; a future time will come, during which you may have enough of weeping and embracing, mourning and rejoicing. Pray Heaven that I, who, having been trained on till I have sacrificed justice and true policy to uxorious compassion and paternal tenderness of heart, may not have cause at last for grieving in good earnest for all the events of this miscellaneous drama.” The pardoned Cæsar, who endeavoured to regulate his ideas according to this unexpected change, found it as difficult to reconcile himself to the reality of his situation as Ursel to the face of nature, after having been long deprived of enjoying it; so much do the dizziness and confusion of ideas, occasioned by moral and physical causes of surprise and terror, resemble each other in their effects on the understanding. At length he stammered forth a request that he might be permitted to go to the field with the Emperor, and divert, by the interposition of his own body, the traitorous blows which some desperate man might aim against that of his Prince, in a day which was too likely to be one of danger and bloodshed. “Hold there!” said Alexius Comnenus;— “we will not begin thy newly-redeemed life by renewed doubts of thine allegiance; yet it is but fitting to remind thee, that thou art still the nominal and ostensible head of those who expect to take a part in this day’s insurrection, and it will be the safest course to trust its pacification to others than to thee. Go, sir, compare notes with the Patriarch, and merit your pardon by confessing to him any traitorous intentions concerning this foul conspiracy with which we may be as yet unacquainted.—Daughter and wife, farewell! I must now depart for the lists, where I have to speak with the traitor Achilles Tatius and the heathenish infidel Agelastes, if he still lives, but of whose providential death I hear a confirmed rumour.”

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“Yet do not go, my dearest father!” said the Princess; “but let me rather go to encourage the loyal subjects in your behalf. The extreme kindness which you have extended towards my guilty husband, convinces me of the extent of your affection towards your unworthy daughter, and the greatness of the sacrifice which you have made to her almost childish affection for an ungrateful man, who put your life in danger.” “That is to say, daughter,” said the Emperor, smiling, “that the pardon of your husband is a boon which has lost its merit when it’s granted. Take my advice, Anna, and think otherwise; wives and their husbands ought in prudence to forget their offences towards each other as soon as human nature will permit them. Life is too short, and conjugal tranquillity too uncertain, to admit of dwelling long upon such irritating subjects. To your apartments, Princesses, and prepare the scarlet buskins, and the embroidery which is displayed on the cuffs and collars of the Cæsar’s robe, indicative of his high rank. He must not be seen without them on the morrow.—Reverend father, I remind you once more that the Cæsar is in your personal custody from this moment until to-morrow at the same hour.” They parted; the Emperor repairing to put himself at the head of his Varangian guards—the Cæsar, under the superintendence of the Patriarch, withdrawing into the interior of the Blacquernal Palace, where Nicephorus Briennius was under the necessity of “unthreading the rude eye of rebellion,” and throwing such lights as were in his power upon the progress of the conspiracy. “Agelastes,” he said, “Achilles Tatius, and Hereward the Varangian, were the persons principally intrusted in its progress. But whether they had been all true to their engagements, he did not pretend to be assured.” In the female apartments, there was a violent discussion betwixt Anna Comnena and her mother. The Princess had undergone during the day many changes of sentiment and feeling; and though they had finally united themselves into one strong interest in her husband’s favour, yet no sooner was the fear of his punishment removed, than the sense of his ungrateful behaviour began to revive. She became sensible also that a woman of her extraordinary attainments, who had been by an universal course of flattery disposed to entertain an extraordinary opinion of her own consequence, made rather a poor figure when she had been the passive subject of a long series of intrigues, by which she was destined to be disposed of in one way or the other, according to the humour of a set of subordinate conspirators, who never so much as dreamed of regarding her as a being capable of forming a wish in her own behalf, or even yielding or refusing a consent.

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Her father’s authority over her, and right to dispose of her, was less questionable; but even then it was something derogatory to the dignity of a person born in the purple—an authoress besides, and giver of immortality— to be, without her own consent, thrown, as it were, at the head now of one suitor, now of another, however mean or disgusting soever, whose alliance could for the time benefit the Emperor. The consequence of these moody reflections was, that Anna Comnena deeply toiled in spirit for the discovery of some means by which she might assert her dignity, which was, in a certain degree, sullied; and various were the expedients which she devised for the recovery of her lost fame, and the establishment of her right of precedence. Among these schemes, it occurred to her, that if she could place herself in her husband’s situation, whose appearance in the lists was a matter inconsistent with his remaining under charge of the Patriarch, she would at once sustain his reputation, extend her own, and obtain what was her chief desire, an illustrious station in history. But although she performed with ease and grace the usual female exercises on horseback, yet the worship of our Lady of the Broken Lances, to whom the Countess of Paris was a true votaress, was to the Grecian Princess totally unknown. Notwithstanding the annunciation that the Count and the Cæsar were to be the actual combatants, there remained a belief in the assembly that the western lady, of whose valour the western army told so many wonders, would not abandon to mortal man, not even to her own husband, the right of discharging her duty in the field of battle. Although, therefore, upon considering the chance of the Count himself appearing in the lists, the Princess, who had set him down as a conquest to her charms, would not have hesitated to have presented herself as his opponent, trusting that, by one chivalrous device or another, Count Robert would have enabled her to leave the field with honour and glory, the danger to be encountered should the Countess herself take the field, was of a very different nature. It was probable that Brenhilda might have detected a little spirit of coquetry directed against her husband on the memorable evening at the house of that obliging person, Agelastes. The Princess knew, that in such a case the eyes of wives are like those of the lynx, and she concluded with some certainty, that the battle betwixt her and Brenhilda of Aspramonte would be any thing rather than what was called a courteous one,—on the contrary, that she was most likely to meet with some grievous disaster in the conflict, of which her death was most likely to be the consequence. The close approach of such a catastrophe prevented her thinking of committing herself to such an obvious peril. It must be remarked, that she had not learned the objection which was like to

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prevent the Lady Brenhilda from taking arms on the day appointed. If she had heard such a reason assigned, it is probable she might have adventured her own person, with hopes of escaping without any actual encounter. As it was, her thoughts hesitated betwixt pride, or rather vanity, which impelled her to thrust herself forward as an actress into this conspicuous scene, and the strong impulse of mortal fear, which reminded her, that if she attempted to gain the desired celebrity, it might probably be attended with defeat and with death. At once, after a species of fever-fit had occupied her for a considerable space, a light beamed upon her, like those of Saint Elmo in a storm, which hold out in the middle of the gloom the prospect of assured safety. It came into her mind at once, that, as the Emperor Alexius was on the field with force sufficient to subdue all his enemies, she might secure all the merit of offering herself as a championess of the day, without incurring any danger that her father’s well-known affection would permit her actually to engage in battle. To this, and her noble desire to equal Brenhilda, the heroine of the crusaders, she felt herself tempted to have recourse, confiding at last in Alexius’s paternal affection towards her. With this resolution she resorted to her apartments, where, among attires of various countries, she had one which had been presented to her as a sample of those worn in western Europe by such amazons as Brenhilda, who carried the defensive arms of the man while they retained at least a part of the dress of the other sex. These she adopted, and in such warlike guise she attired herself, and prevailed on Douban to attend her as her squire and armour-bearer. The old man did not consent till after many remonstrances, and in the full persuasion, that to humour a freak of the Princess, was sure to be a venial error, if not a praiseworthy action, in the estimation of her father, the Emperor.

Chapter Ten But now the hand of fate is on the curtain, And brings the scene to light. Don Sebastian

T       trumpet of the Varangians sounded its loudest note of march, and the squadrons of the faithful guards, sheathed in complete mail, and inclosing in their centre the person of their Imperial master, set forth upon their procession through the streets of Constantinople. The form of Alexius, glittering in his splendid armour, seemed no unmeet central point for the force of an empire; and while the citizens crowded in the train of him and his escort, there

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might be seen a visible difference between those who came with the premeditated intention of tumult, and the greater part, who, like the multitude of every great city, thrust each other, and shout for rapture on account of any cause for which a crowd may be collected together. The hope of the conspirators was lodged chiefly in the Immortal Guards, who were levied principally for the defence of Constantinople, partook of the general prejudices of the citizens, and had been particularly influenced by those in favour of Ursel, by whom, previous to his imprisonment, they had themselves been commanded. The conspirators had determined that those of this body who were considered as most discontented, should early in the morning take possession of the posts in the lists most favourable for their purpose of assaulting the Emperor’s person. But, in spite of all efforts short of actual violence, for which the time did not seem to be come, they found themselves disappointed in this purpose, by parties of the Varangian guards, planted with apparent carelessness, but, in fact, with admirable military skill, for the prevention of their enterprise. Somewhat confounded at perceiving that a design, which they could not suppose to be suspected, was, nevertheless, on every part controlled and counter-checked, the conspirators began to look for the principal persons of their own party, on whom they depended for orders in this emergency; but neither the Cæsar nor Agelastes was to be seen, whether in the lists or on the military march from Constantinople; and though Achilles Tatius rode in the latter assembly, yet it might be clearly observed that he was rather attending upon the Protospathaire, than assuming that independence as an officer which he loved to affect. In this manner, as the Emperor with his glittering bands approached the phalanx of Tancred and his followers, who were drawn up, it will be remembered, upon a rising cape between the city and the lists, the main body of the Imperial procession deflected in some degree from the straight road, in order to march past them without interruption; while the Protospathaire and the Acolyte passed under the escort of a band of Varangians, to bear the Emperor’s enquiries to Prince Tancred, concerning the purpose of his being there with his band. The short march was soon performed—the large trumpet which attended the two officers sounded a parley, and Tancred himself, remarkable for that personal beauty which Tasso has preferred to any of the crusaders, except Rinaldo d’Este, the creature of his own poetical imagination, advanced to parley with them. “The Emperor of Greece,” said the Protospathaire, to Tancred, “requires the Prince of Otranto to show, by the two high officers who shall deliver him this message, with what purpose he has returned,

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contrary to his oath, to the right side of these straits; assuring Prince Tancred, at the same time, that nothing will so much please the Emperor, as to receive an answer not at variance with his treaty with the Duke of Bouillon, and the oath which was taken by the crusading nobles and their soldiers; since that would enable the Emperor, in conformity to his own wishes, by his kind reception of Prince Tancred and his troop, to show how high is his estimation of the dignity of the one, and the bravery of both.—We wait an answer.” The tone of the message had nothing in it very alarming, and its substance cost Prince Tancred very little trouble to answer. “The cause,” he said, “of the Prince of Otranto appearing here with fifty lances, is this cartel, in which a combat is appointed betwixt Nicephorus Briennius, called the Cæsar, a high member of this empire, and a worthy knight of great fame, the partner of the Pilgrims who have taken the Cross, in their high vow to rescue Palestine from the infidels. The name of the said Knight is the redoubted Robert of Paris. It becomes, therefore, an obligation indispensable upon the Holy Pilgrims of the Crusade, to send one chief of their number, with a body of men-at-arms, sufficient to see, as is usual, fair play between the combatants. That such is their intention, may be seen from their sending no more than fifty lances, with their furniture and following; whereas it would have cost them no trouble to have detached ten times the number, had they nourished any purpose of interfering by force, or disturbing the fair combat which is about to take place. The Prince of Otranto, therefore, and his followers, will place themselves at the disposal of the Imperial Field Marshal, and witness the proceedings of the combat, with the most perfect confidence that the rules of fair battle will be punctually observed.” The two Grecian officers transmitted this reply to the Emperor, who heard it with pleasure; and, immediately proceeding to act upon the principle which he had laid down, of maintaining peace, if possible, with the crusaders, named Prince Tancred with the Protospathaire as Field Marshals of the lists, fully empowered, under the Emperor, to decide all the terms of the combat, and to have recourse to Alexius himself where their opinions disagreed. This was made known to the assistants, who were thus prepared for the entry into the lists of the Grecian officer and the Italian Prince in full armour, while a proclamation announced to all the spectators their solemn office. The same annunciation commanded the assistants of every kind to clear a convenient part of the seats which surrounded the lists on one side, that it might serve for the accommodation of Prince Tancred’s followers. Achilles Tatius, who was a heedful observer of all these passages, saw with alarm, that by the last collocation the armed Latins were

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interposed between the Immortal Guards and the discontented citizens, which made it most probable that the conspiracy was discovered, and that Alexius found he had a good right to reckon upon the assistance of Tancred and his forces in the task of suppressing it. This, added to the cold and caustic manner in which the Emperor communicated his commands to him, made the Acolyte of opinion, that his best chance of escape from the danger in which he was now placed, was, that the whole conspiracy should fall to the ground, and that the day should pass without the least attempt to shake the throne of Alexius Comnenus. Even then it continued highly doubtful, whether a despot, so wily and so suspicious as the Emperor, would think it sufficient to rest satisfied with the private knowledge of the undertaking, and its failure, with which he appeared to be possessed, without putting into exercise the bow-strings and the blinding-irons of the mutes of the interior. There was, however, little possibility either of flight or of resistance. The least attempt to withdraw himself from the neighbourhood of those faithful followers of the Emperor, personal foes of his own, by whom he was gradually and more closely surrounded, became each moment more perilous, and more certain to provoke a rupture which it was the interest of the weaker party to delay, with whatever difficulty. And while the soldiers under Achilles’s immediate authority seemed still to treat him as their superior officer, and appeal to him for the word of command, it became more and more evident that the slightest degree of suspicion which should be excited, would be the instant signal for his being placed under arrest. With a trembling heart, therefore, and eyes dimmed by the powerful idea of soon parting with the light of day, and all that it made visible, the Acolyte saw himself condemned to watch the turn of circumstances, over which he could have no influence, and to content himself with waiting the result of a drama, in which his own life was concerned, although the piece was played by others. Indeed, it seemed as if through the whole assembly some signal was waited for, which no one was in readiness to give. The discontented citizens and soldiers looked in vain for Agelastes and the Cæsar; and when they observed the condition of Achilles Tatius, it seemed such as rather to express doubt and consternation, than to give encouragement to the hopes they had entertained. Many of the lower classes, however, felt too secure in their own insignificance, to fear the personal consequences of a tumult, and were desirous, therefore, to provoke the disturbance, which seemed hushing itself to sleep. A hoarse murmur, which attained almost the importance of a shout, exclaimed,—“Justice, justice!—Ursel, Ursel!—The rights of the

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Immortal Guards!” &c. At this the trumpet of the Varangians awoke, and its tremendous tones were heard to peal loudly over the whole assembly, as the voice of its presiding deity. A dead silence prevailed in the multitude, and the voice of a herald announced, in the name of Alexius Comnenus, his sovereign will and pleasure. “Citizens of the Roman empire, your complaints, stirred up by factious men, have reached the ear of your Emperor; you shall yourselves be witness to his power of gratifying his people. At your request, and before your own sight, the visual ray which hath been quenched shall be re-illumined—the mind whose efforts were restricted to the imperfect supply of individual wants, shall be again extended, if such is the owner’s will, to the charge of an ample Theme or division of the empire. Political jealousy, more hard to receive conviction than the blind to receive sight, shall yield itself conquered, by the Emperor’s paternal love of his people, and his desire to give them satisfaction. Ursel, the darling of your wishes, supposed to be long dead, or at least believed to exist in blinded seclusion, is restored to you well in health, clear in eyesight, and possessed of every faculty necessary to exercise the Emperor’s favour, or merit the affection of the people.” As the herald thus spoke, a figure, which had hitherto stood shrouded behind some officers of the interior, now stepped forth, and flinging from him a dusky veil, in which he was wrapt, appeared in a dazzling scarlet garment, of which the sleeves and buskins displayed those ornaments which expressed a rank nearly adjacent to that of the Emperor himself. He held in his hand a silver truncheon, the badge of delegated command over the Immortal Guards, and, kneeling before the Emperor, presented it to his hands, intimating a virtual resignation of the command which it implied. The whole assembly were electrified at the appearance of a person long supposed either dead, or by cruel means rendered incapable of public trust. Some recognised the man, whose appearance and features were not easily forgot, and gratulated him upon his most unexpected return to the service of his country. Others stood suspended in amazement, not knowing whether to trust their eyes, while a few determined malecontents eagerly pressed upon the assembly an allegation that the person presented as Ursel was only a counterfeit, and the whole a trick of the Emperor. “Speak to them, noble Ursel,” said the Emperor. “Tell them, that if I have sinned against thee, it has been because I was deceived, and that my disposition to make thee amends is as ample as ever was my purpose of doing thee wrong.” “Friends and countrymen,” said Ursel, turning himself to the assembly, “his Imperial Majesty permits me to offer my assurance, that if in any former part of my life I have suffered injustice or hardship

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at his hand, it is more than wiped out by the feelings of a moment so glorious as this; and that I am well satisfied, from the present instant, to spend what remains of my life in the service of the most generous and beneficent of sovereigns, or, with his permission, to dispose of my future existence, in preparing, by devotional exercises, for a long immortality to be spent in the society of saints and angels. Whichever choice I shall make, I reckon that you, my beloved countrymen, who have remembered me so kindly during years of darkness and captivity, will not fail to afford me the advantage of your prayers.” The descent of a deity in a theatre is allowed to the poet, providing he can allege a plot which is worthy of such a solution. The descent of Ursel before the people of Constantinople, had the same apology, and met with the same allowance from the spectators. It had too much of that which elevates and surprises not to captivate the multitude, who sealed their reconciliation with three tremendous shouts, which are said so to have shaken the air, that birds, incapable of sustaining themselves, sunk down exhausted out of their native element.

Chapter Eleven “What, leave the combat out!” exclaimed the knight. “Yea! or we must renounce the Stagyrite.” “So large a crowd the stage will ne’er contain.” —“Then build a new, or act it on a plain.” P  

T         of the gratulating shout had expanded over the distant shores of the Bosphorus by mountain and forest, and died at length in the farthest echoes, when the people, in the silence which ensued, appeared to ask each other what next scene was about to adorn a pause so solemn and a stage so august. The pause would probably have soon given place to some new clamour, for a multitude, from whatever cause assembled, seldom remains long silent, had not a new signal from the Varangian trumpet given notice of a fresh purpose to solicit their attention. The blast had something in its tone spirit-stirring and yet melancholy, partaking both of the character of a point of war, and of the doleful sounds which might be chosen to announce an execution of peculiar solemnity. Its notes were high and widely extended, and prolonged and long dwelt upon, as if the brazen clamour had been waked by something more tremendous than the lungs of mere mortals. The multitude appeared to acknowledge these awful sounds, which were indeed such as habitually solicited their attention to Imperial edicts of melancholy import, by which rebellions were announced, dooms of treason discharged, and other tidings of a

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great and affecting import intimated to the people of Constantinople. When the trumpet had in its turn ceased, with its thrilling and doleful notes, to agitate the immense assembly, the voice of the herald again addressed them. It announced in a grave and affecting strain, that it sometimes chanced how the people failed in their duty to a sovereign, who was unto them as a father, and how it became the painful duty of the prince to use the rod of correction rather than the olive sceptre of mercy. “Fortunate,” continued the edict, “it is, when the supreme Deity, having taken on himself the preservation of a throne, in beneficence and justice resembling his own, has also assumed the most painful task of his earthly delegate, by punishing those whom his unerring judgment acknowledges as most guilty, and leaving to his substitute the more agreeable task of pardoning such of those as art has misled, and treachery hath involved in its snares. “Such being the case, Greece and its accompanying Themes, are called upon to listen and learn how a villain, named Agelastes, who had insinuated himself into the favour of the ministers of the Court, by affectation of deep knowledge and severe virtue, had formed a treacherous plan for the murder of the Emperor Alexius Comnenus, and a revolution in the state.” The herald announced with horror that this person, who, under pretended wisdom, hid the doctrines of a heretic and the vices of a sensualist, had found proselytes to his doctrines even among the Emperor’s household, and those persons who were most bound to him, and down to the lower order, to excite the last of whom were dispersed a multitude of forged rumours, similar to those concerning Ursel’s death and blindness, of which their own eyes had witnessed the falsehood. The people, who had hitherto listened in silence, upon this appeal broke forth in a clamorous assent. They had scarcely been again silent, ere the iron-voiced herald continued his proclamation. “Not Korah, Dathan, and Abiram,” he said, “the mutinous chiefs of the Israelites, had more justly, or more directly, fallen under the doom of an offended Deity, than this villain, Agelastes. The steadfast earth gaped to devour the apostate sons of Israel, while the termination of this wretched philosopher’s existence has been, as far as can now be known, by the direct means of an evil spirit, whom his own arts had evoked into the upper air. By this spirit, as would appear by the testimony of a noble lady, and other females, who witnessed the termination of his life, Agelastes was strangled, a death well becoming his odious crimes. Such extinction, even of a guilty man, must be most painful to the humane feelings of the Emperor, because it involves suffering beyond this world. But the awful catastrophe carries with it

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this comfort, that it absolves the Emperor from the necessity of carrying any farther a vengeance which Heaven itself seems to have limited to the exemplary punishment of the principal conspirator. Some changes of offices and situations shall be made, for the sake of safety and good order; but the secret, who had, or who had not, been concerned in this awful crime, shall remain in the bosoms of the persons themselves implicated, since the Emperor is determined to dismiss their offence from his memory, as the effect of a transient delusion; the fruit of a sudden and unpremeditated debauch is held deserving only of lenient punishment. Let all, therefore, who now hear me, whatever consciousness they may possess of a knowledge of what was this day intended, return to their houses, assured that their own thoughts will be their only punishment. Let them rejoice that Almighty goodness has saved them from the meditations of their own heart, and, according to the affecting language of Scripture,—‘Let them repent and sin no more, lest a worse thing befall them.’ ” The voice of the herald then ceased, and was again answered by the shouts of the audience. These were unanimous; for circumstances contributed to show the malecontent party that they stood at the Emperor’s mercy, and the edict that they heard having shown his acquaintance with their guilt, it lay at his pleasure to let loose upon them the strength of the Varangians, while, from the terms on which it pleased him to receive Tancred, it was probable that the Apuleian forces were also at his disposal. The voices, therefore, of the bulky Stephanos, of Harpax the centurion, and other rebels, both of the camp and city, were the first to thunder forth their gratitude for the clemency of the Emperor, and their thanks to Heaven for his preservation. About this time an officer of the palace, of no mean rank, as appeared from the latus clavus, that is, the official embroidery peculiar to his station, though otherwise very simply attired, entered the lists by the private gate, which, as we have said, opened beneath the Imperial seat, with a female, much muffled in her attire, clinging to the old man’s arm; and both seemed to possess the secret signal for giving way which commanded the Varangians, whether on or off guard. “My daughter,” said the aged man, in a whisper, “you are now come thus far, indeed, upon a desperate enterprize, yet have not committed your safety; so far you are still at liberty to withdraw from an enterprize, imagined and adopted rather in a fit of insanity, I must fairly own, than under calm reflection. The matter is still under the management of your wise father, who, if distinguished from other sovereigns by one qualification more worthy his rank than another, is conspicuous for his wisdom and the power of adapting his conduct to the circum-

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stances of the state at the time; believe me, he cannot but greatly resent the conduct of a daughter who shall thrust herself into his place, and embroil the public affairs by her unauthorised interference. I am silent with respect to the probable fate of the unfortunate old man, who, moved by your entreaties, has hitherto countenanced your folly, and cannot expect a milder doom than that of death, for interfering in such a high matter.” “Douban,” said the Princess, “thou little knowest my father, if thou dost connect him with any thought or action derogatory to a Roman Emperor, even when Rome was proudest. Believe me, to whom Alexius Comnenus is best known, that the same affection for his daughter which has this day spared the guilty, at so great a personal risk to his own safety, will leap forwards, with eminent zeal, to light itself at the patriot bravery of the same daughter, when she shall proffer herself a willing offering for her country in this hour of peril; and, if the preferred service of Anna Comnena be gladly accepted, think not that thou, old man, shalt be visited with any thing save honour and reward, for the facilities which thou hast afforded to her in the execution of her purpose.” “Alas! noble Princess,” answered Douban, “you, who judge of your father’s character from that which he exhibits to the public, are like to the traveller who forms an idea of a landscape from having seen it displayed under cover of a deep snow. The pathless morass, the treacherous quicksand, the devouring torrent, the headlong precipice, are, for the time, hidden from his eyes; and the apparent surface, amidst a scene full of dangers, presents only quiet and apparent smoothness, and perfect facility of route. Your father, to speak, Princess, with the plainness of an old servant, well knows in theory the fitting character of a patriot monarch, although, it must be confessed, that while under the action of personal passions, roused by the ingratitude and intrigues of those around him, our emperor is capable of great deviation from the path, which, in the case of another, none could better point out than he. I will suppose that, should you present yourself for this combat, the audience will huzza, and cry,—So let it be. Think, whether it is in your father’s power, allowing every thing for his inclination, to withdraw you from the danger with honour, or even safety to his Imperial house and himself; the populace become insatiate on occasion of public exhibitions, and as the empire has more than once depended on the event of a chariot-race, much more is it likely to be pitched upon the combat between two ladies of such high rank.” “And wherefore, Douban, shouldst thou doubt of the issue? dost thou fear that yon cold western sun bronzes the flesh to a more impenetrable substance than that of our happier climate? or thinkest

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thou that Greece, once so fertile in women of magnanimity and valour, is now exhausted of that glorious crop?” “Lady,” replied Douban, “my skill teaches me, that in natural strength the women of the west and of the east may be nearly gifted alike by nature, and that she has with no less equality bestowed her mental talents of valour and courage; still practice is the means by which those gifts, whether of the mind or body, are brought to perfection, and this case is exclusively confined to the foreign lady; nor do I see what your Imperial Highness has to oppose against one, who, from her childhood, has been trained in the service of such a saint as our Lady of the Broken Lances.” It may be here noticed, that this was only a specimen of the long and ineffectual opposition made by Douban to the wild and romantic idea which the Princess had taken of personally entering the lists. As is ordinary with other persons of a high temper and weak judgment, the Princess Anna argued in defence of her own sentiments with great vehemence, and thus confirmed herself in her own opinion, by the very obstinacy with which she maintained it. She had, besides, one encouragement, which fortified her much against the arguments of the physician. At the western extremity of the lists, detached from the seats of the audience, was placed a black chair, designed, as was supposed, for Brenhilda, Countess of Paris, whose personal liberty was to be restored or held forfeited, according to the issue of the judicial combat; now this seat being that of an actor, whose presence was so important to the issue of the combat, remained empty, notwithstanding that the hour was past noon; so that the Grecian Princess easily persuaded herself that she was likely, on the present occasion, to walk, as it is called, the course, that is, to begin and end her daring exploit by her mere appearance in the fatal lists; and so deeply was his persuasion implanted in her bosom, that, joined to the effect of her irritated obstinacy, it enabled her to set at bay every apprehension which had been that morning so powerful, and to resolve, that come what might come, she would stand forward on this occasion as a champion of ancient Greece, as she had in the past part of her life aspired to be the representative of her literary honours. The audience, reconciled to the thoughts of the discovered and frustrated conspiracy, began now, according to their custom, to turn themselves to the consideration of the matter which had more avowedly called them together, and private whispers, swelling by degrees into murmurs, began to express the dissatisfaction of the citizens at being thus long assembled, without receiving any communication respecting the purpose of their meeting.

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In the meantime, the Emperor seemed in deep conference with one of his officers, a circumstance which was somewhat inconsistent with the strict etiquette of his rank, which forbade him either private conversation or vehement action, when in presence of his people. The calm, quiet, impassive manner, was that which Grecians of the time thought best expressed the presence and demeanour of an earthly deity, to which their constitution assimilated the Emperor. On the other hand, the communication of Douban, for it was him whose conversation engrossed the Emperor’s attention, was too interesting to be postponed on account of etiquette, and Alexius Comnenus replied, in this hurried manner, to the alarming information respecting the Princess’s unforeseen resolution. “Now, the saints above protect and guard us! this is ever the way with those women of ability and talent; nor do you find one of them who does not, in the long run, make amends for years spent in prudent silence, by cramming the nonsense of a whole life into some thundering piece of absurdity, which is heard above the report of our Greek fire. Who would have thought that Anna Comnena, being my daughter, should have had the folly to propose herself as a match in the lists for this Frankish virago? But, well managed, we may have some advantage from this, since, true to speak, the House of Comnenus had need at present to do something to raise its credit with the people. Tell the idiot, therefore, since she will venture herself into such a drama, to bear her part boldly, and trust to me for bringing her off in safety; which I think may be managed, although a fillip from the Countess’s finger would be sufficient to dash to pieces what poor Anna Comnena is accustomed to call her head, iron-cap and altogether. Bid her, therefore, keep close where she now is, that is, in the passage underneath the scaffolding, until she shall observe the fit time for coming forward as boldly as she may, to mark which, I will give a stamp as a signal; and tell her to remember, that having begun this extraordinary undertaking of her own accord, she must trust to boldness and courage for carrying it through with credit.” The Emperor then, dismissing his counsellor, made a sign to the trumpets; in consequence of which they blew a point of war, in sounds far more lively than those which had prefaced the imperial edict. “Brenhilda of Aspramonte, by marriage Countess of Paris,” then said a herald, “art thou here in thy place to answer the challenge brought against thee by his Imperial Highness Nicephorus Briennius, Cæsar of this empire?” It now appeared that the seat appointed for the Countess was furnished with a subterranean communication, which might enable her to occupy the same at her pleasure, without being incommoded by the

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crowd of spectators. At what point between the walls of Constantinople and the exterior of the lists the further end of this passage opened, was concealed from the assistants, and was probably only known to the Countess of Paris herself, and those appointed to be her guides and attendants on the occasion. Thus it had all the effect of a theatrical apparition, when, robed in her customary habit, half civil, half military, the stately form of the Countess appeared gradually to raise itself in the dark seat appointed for her during the trial. No sooner had this sudden apparition been beheld with surprise by all, but with astonishment and consternation on the part of Anna Comnena, to whom it seemed to intimate, that her part of a contradictor in the lists would not remain unacted for want of an opponent, than, looking gracefully around, the Lady Brenhilda raised her voice “loud as a trumpet with a silver sound,” and addressed the assembly. “Brenhilda of Aspramonte,” she said, “by marriage Countess of Paris, is in the place of judgment as bound by her engagement, and, as is right and fitting, demands to know if the Cæsar Nicephorus Briennius be here in person as a challenger, or in case of lawful essoign, by a champion representing him to make good his asseveration, that the said Countess is his lawful captive, which assertion she positively denies, and contends that she is only prisoner to the said Cæsar through falsehood, treason, or overpowering force, which she is willing to prove upon his body, or in the case of lawful essoign, by a suitable champion, to whom she will intrust her cause.” The trumpets and tucketts reverberated this defiance, and called upon the Cæsar to appear and support his challenge. The Emperor stamped his foot, appeared to sit suspended, and apparently waited with some anxiety till his daughter should appear on the scene, where the absence of her husband now occasioned an awkward blank; but the trumpets had sounded three times ere the Princess Anna herself, astonished at the new part she was about to play, and confounded at finding herself easily permitted to enter upon a part which she thought would have been strongly contested by her father, found herself still spirited enough to go through what she had intended. She emerged from the place where she had hitherto been concealed, with less the air of the heroine than she had perhaps originally meditated, yet more perhaps than other parts of her conduct could have entitled her father to expect; she prostrated herself before the throne, and in the absence of her husband, which had been enjoined, she said, by his obedience to her father’s commands, she undertook boldly to maintain his honour in battle, as became a faithful wife—a right, she said, which could hardly be contested, since her opposite was also a female. As she went on, her voice seemed to gather strength from her situation, and the

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terms in which she appealed to her countrymen around, indicated a spirit which matched with the occasion. “The match,” she said, “could not be termed unequal; the wager of battle was laid by a woman against a woman—a wedded woman against one in the same situation—an Imperial Princess, born in the purple, against the Countess of a distant land, who could not be less than honoured by being so matched. She was willing to plight her oath that the quarrel of her husband was a lawful and true one, and that the Countess of Paris was in every respect true prisoner to her husband the Cæsar.” She had no sooner ceased to speak, than she was answered by the Countess, who was little accustomed to keep silence on such occasions. “Noble Tancred,” she said, “and you, his and my own knightly companions, who, in evidence of your purpose to free the land of Palestine from the yoke of the infidels, have signed your shoulders with the blessed badge of redemption, to you I appeal against the trickery changes of these wily Greeks. My lord and I were treacherously made prisoners two nights since, and the Cæsar took no little pride to himself for agreeing to a cartel, by which he pledged himself to vindicate his honour against the Countess of Paris, or against her husband, sullied by that treachery, within these lists. Now he vanishes from the place of combat, and leaves the answering of the challenge to the idle bravades of his wife,—a woman, a stranger to feats of arms, as the poor domestic hen that flutters round the head of some noble hound, who despises alike its person and its insults. Speak you, therefore, men to whom the dust of the battle-field is the breath of existence; and say, if Brenhilda of Aspramonte, victorious in twenty tournaments, can be compelled to disgrace herself by stooping to engage so contemptible a combatant? It is you only whom she can acknowledge as judges in a point of honour.” The assisting crowd of Grecians had heard, with a sensation of pride, the Princess Anna Comnena unexpectedly step forward at a time when the absence of her husband from the lists, an absence which seemed but indifferently accounted for, placed in danger the honour of the empire, their common parent. To this feeling of national glory the Greeks were always sufficiently sensible, and they were not a little proud of the spirit of the Princess, by whom it was gallantly asserted in the hour of need. They heard with proportional displeasure the appeal which the Countess made to the Apuleian prince, and eagerly turned their eyes upon their own Protospathaire, conjoined with him in commission as a marshal of the combat, and whom they expected, therefore, to support the cause of their national honour. The altercation between the marshals was accordingly high-toned

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and hasty; the Protospathaire contended that the very idea of females engaging in single combat was unknown to the laws of the empire, and that such an exhibition neither suited the presence of a Christian people, nor that of an emperor who derived his authority from the gospel. Prince Tancred again answered with equal vehemence, that the present judicial combat was not of the seeking of the Latins, but had been demanded by the Greeks themselves, who must therefore submit to the rules of it as practised by the western nations. The Protospathaire replied, by alleging, that the Countess herself had first proposed the duel; and Tancred rejoined that it did not signify on which side the proposition had been first made, since it had been formally accepted by the Greeks, reduced into the form of an imperial edict by them, and published in the name of the Emperor. So stood the debate, when Alexius Comnenus, observing the marshals begin to get warm, and that Prince Tancred, in particular, was not unlikely to augment the confusion by personally defying the Protospathaire, summoned both disputants before him, and expressed his own desire, as the monarch seated as umpire of the field, to regulate the terms of combat—a privilege, he said, too competent to a prince in such a situation to be debated by the experience of Prince Tancred. The Apuleian prince stooped his head in token of acquiescence in a tone so reasonable, and the Emperor, raising his voice, laid down the laws by which this singular combat should be decided. “Homer,” said he, “our earliest guide, and certainly our best instructor in sound morality, has declared, that military affairs of all kinds are foreign to the natural sphere of the female sex, and that they are justly called upon by their near relations to leave the business of the war to men. It is therefore our part, acting under this high authority, to prevent any more bloody arbitration than can arise from a question which may concern not the hands, but the wit and judgment of these two illustrious ladies; wherefore we decree, that our beloved daughter shall put to this illustrious Countess a question, or riddle, like that of the sphynx, to which the said Countess shall return an answer according to her best judgment—the fate of the combat being determined by the congruity of the said question and answer—so to be exchanged between the two illustrious contending parties; it being determined at the same time, that in whatever way the dispute shall be decided, no consequences shall affect the honour or liberty of the noble Brenhilda, Countess of Paris, who shall, in any event, pass to the camp of her allies free, unchallenged, and marked by peculiar signs of our favour, as one whom it is our delight to honour.” The audience, at least the Grecian part of it, received with shouts a proposal congenial enough to the garrulous and wordy character of

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their nation; and the Grecian Princess, whose heart throbbed lighter under her cuirass than it had hitherto done, lost not the opportunity of making a speech which was likely to exalt her in the eyes of her countrymen. “Since,” she said, “it is not the pleasure of our Royal Father that I should hazard, as my courage would cheerfully enable me to do, my life in behalf of the character of my country, and the credit of my husband, I will willingly, and without an instant’s premeditation, tender to this illustrious lady one of these enigmata which Grecian girls, when sporting, are in the custom of addressing to each other, that although the audience remain unprepared to judge the difference which may be betwixt us in respect of brute strength, they may yet have the means of conjecturing within what frame the intellectual spark has been planted most deeply, and when it burns most fervently under the guardianship of that Minerva, who is, according to the creed of our ancestors, the goddess of wit as well as war.” So saying, the Princess Anna Comnena, leaning forwards upon the desk or table which stood before the Emperor’s throne, wrote deliberately upon a pair of ivory tablets; then showed what she had written to the Emperor, and having received the guerdon of his applauding smile, she stepped into the lists, and walking across to the seat of Brenhilda, presented her, with a deferential congé, with the question which, “by the direction and command of her father she transmitted,” she said, “as the means which, being matched with a suitable answer, might put an end to the controversy between them.” The Lady Brenhilda took the tablets with a slight inclination of her person, and with the embarrassment of one from whom the task of reading a written character is generally expected, while, on the other hand, she is herself conscious that she does not possess the means of discharging it with facility. After the fruitless, or at least embarrassed attempt, to peruse the contents, which we may have seen presented on our own stage by the late Emery, or Jack Johnstone, she assumed an attitude half that of an angry heroine, half that of a petted girl, and holding the closed tablets aloft in her hand, she spoke in a tone corresponding to the resentment which flushed her lovely brow, and flashed in her sparkling eyes. “Am I a child,” she said, “that you meet my open challenge with scrawled spells, containing such charms, for any thing I know, as were used by the false wizzard whom I beheld Satan strangle in my very presence, or at least some childish riddle which is not worth a moment’s thought from a Countess of France?— If, lady, thou must needs thrust thyself into a strife which no way concerns thee, thou hadst best meet my challenge in the spirit in which it was given, and change with me one, two, or three fair blows,

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in which I promise to be as sparing to thy weakness as the consideration of my own honour will permit me. If, therefore, thou dare not insist upon a horse combat, which, for certain considerations, I am also contented to omit, stand to thy weapon, and protect thine honour as thou best canst.” So saying, and well accustomed with the usage which chivalry in such cases required, the Countess, with more energy than such an action required, passing between persons of such high rank, hurled the tablets at the Princess Anna Comnena, and springing into the lists, confronted her with her drawn sword in her hand. A mixed noise of censure and approbation burst from the audience, compelled to give it, from different motives. Tancred, and his men of steel, clashed their weapons, in token of approbation of their countrywoman’s courage, and her contempt of the timid compromise which had been proposed by the Grecian Emperor. The populace of Constantinople joined their applause, because the decisive step of the Countess Brenhilda seemed to ensure them such a sight as the Circus or the Amphitheatre had never presented to them, and which, therefore, they welcomed with clamorous joy. But the more nobly disposed Grecians were very differently affected;—their manners, we have already observed, were foreign to the exhibition of such atrocities as judicial combats, even when men appealed to the Deity for decision of a question which was likely to rest on their own individual strength and skill in arms. But that two such beautiful women as were now before them, should stand forward to hack, hew, and deface each other, under pretence of an appeal to the justice of Heaven, they most reasonably considered as a spectacle equally unlawful to permit, and disgusting to behold. This was more especially the general sentiment, when the demeanour of the two ladies plainly intimated the inequality with which they took the field. The Countess Brenhilda had an air of assurance and expertness in her gestures, which showed that the battle-field was for her a field of practice, where she had frequently found herself, and almost always with advantage. She pressed upon the unfortunate historian with an assured front and proud step, managing her sword as a woman of ordinary manners would have waved a fan, and striking her opponent with the flat side of the weapon, as she repeated the stern command,— “Yield thee, vassal! yield thee, or I will place on thee such a mark, that all as shall hereafter see it shall instantly exclaim, this is the fool who provoked the indignation of Brenhilda of Aspramonte.” In the meanwhile the ill-fated Princess, Anna Comnena, had about her such a feeling of the pride of noble descent, as kept her from turning her back, and trusting her safety to absolute flight; and though she recoiled before Brenhilda in sufficient confusion, she still held

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her sword in her hand, though much more with the natural idea of protecting her own person from the violence threatened by the Countess, than with the purpose of using it as an offensive weapon. The situation of the Emperor was sufficiently awkward, when the two combatants staggered towards him in so singular a position, and he began to wish at heart, that if Brenhilda’s vengeance would be satisfied with a slight cut, she might inflict it speedily, as the most certain way of separating the combatants, and ending a duel from which he could hardly hope in any case to gain honour or credit to his family. Fate, however, had provided for Anna Comnena a more respectable refuge from her present danger than her own prudence could have anticipated. As Brenhilda, waving her sword, yet still forbearing to strike, pressed with hurried footsteps the retreating Princess, she herself stumbled and fell, without rising again, as might have been expected from the gallant manner in which she had hitherto borne herself in the strife. It was a minute or two ere the Grecian Princess collected thought and presence of mind sufficient to avail herself of the circumstance which had happened; yet being, as we said, supported by the native pride of one “born in the purple,” and having also received several hints both from the words and gestures of her father, and, above all, perceiving that her dreaded antagonist lay as one in a swoon, she returned upon her steps, and unsheathing her sword, with the manner of one who was a little afraid of the deed she was committing, placed the point to the throat of the fallen Countess, and said, “Surrender thou, audacious heretic, and behold by what slight means Heaven can, when he will, prostrate the powerful by the hand of the humble.” An old woman, the colours of whose clothes were partly those of the Varangian guard, who had distinguished herself during the combat by her violent demeanour, now ran into the lists, which raised among the lower class a loud cry, that the Countess’s squire was come to surrender in her mistress’s name. It was even so: Vexhelia, for it was that experienced dame herself, had not by all her arguments been able to withhold Brenhilda from the lists, so soon as that lady ascertained that her antagonist in the encounter was only to be a female like herself, and the sage woman’s experience obliged her to acknowledge that such a contest as was to be expected, might possibly take place without danger on either side, though she greatly objected to her patient undertaking the risk of any combat whatever. Her complaints, cries, and expostulations, were disregarded among the variety of shouts which arose upon the ladies appearing about to join in the contest. But when the fall of Brenhilda was not followed by that immediate

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rally, which was to be expected from her youth and courage, Vexhelia deemed herself bound to take charge of the fallen cavalier, which probably she was the only person in the lists qualified to do. Kneeling on one knee to the seeming victress, she addressed her in a style which affected those who heard it, partly in a melancholy and partly in a ludicrous manner. “Pity, gentle Princess,” she said, “one of your own sex, who lies prostrate at your feet, less through the default of her own spirit and courage, than because she suffers under the heavy consequence of that primeval curse which was laid upon woman after the fall. On this I pledge my word and reputation, being one of those, though unworthy, whom Heaven hath endowed with knowledge to assist females in such extremities; and who may well appeal to the learned Douban, and to other men of medical knowledge here present, for the extent and success of my practice, as entitling me to offer my word and testimony upon such an occasion.” The length of this speech gave Anna Comnena leisure to recollect what answer on her part might best become the dignity of the moment, which was delivered, however, with a tremulous voice, as that of one who could scarce believe in the good luck which had so wonderfully rendered her victorious, when she expected nothing but defeat. “With all my heart, good woman,” she said, with an air of considerable dignity, “do I accept, in favour of your mistress, that surrender which you make in her name. The termination of the Countess’s fate must rest in the hands of my father, the Emperor, whose vassal I am, and to whom must result the effects of my conquest, whatever such shall be. And for yourself, good woman, whose name and character are not unknown to me, I have only to reprove you for not having let me know the circumstances in which this unfortunate lady stood, in which case loath I should have been to have endangered her condition by any exhibition of my own prowess. Remove, therefore, the lady from the lists, under such escort as the Emperor shall appoint: Let her be cared for as if she herself had been born in the purple, and await for future orders the pleasure of our father, who is always humane and generous.” Loud shouts of applause followed this speech, the rather that the Grecian people, considering the victory of the Princess as their own, were resolved not to suffer it to be called into question, if loud shouts and bold asseverations could maintain its credit. Alexius Comnenus, experienced in narrow and sudden turns of state, had sufficient time, while the Princess spoke, to arrange in his mind the advantages which might be derived from a change so unexpected. He gracefully waved his silver warder, and addressed the spectators to the following purpose: “You, our most loving subjects,

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and you, our no less trusty and honoured allies, are witnesses to the judgment which the Deity himself has been pleased to deliver by the issue of the combat betwixt those two high born ladies; and this I must say, that my daughter, though it please her to say otherwise, had private intimation of the state in which her antagonist found herself, and therefore withheld herself from joining at the first in the combat, which you might all see was eagerly provoked by the furious demeanour of the unhappy Countess. We nourish no ill will against the western lady upon this account, and considering the prejudices under which she has been educated, and more especially having respect to the holy enterprise in which she is engaged, we hereby proclaim her free, and discharged of every claim whatsoever at the hands of us, of the Cæsar, of our beloved daughter Anna Comnena, or any one else dwelling under our authority.” Nor had the anticipations of evil to the valiant Countess been half so great as was supposed. Whatever Vexhelia’s fears had prophesied as the consequences of such an encounter had passed away with an alarm instead of the expected event, so that the Countess of Aspramonte had no bad consequences from her fall whatever, excepting the fright and the alarm. This was, however, so great, that she was unable to recover her spirits, or even to dream of a second encounter in the lists, although she had, if in her ordinary state of mind, physical strength and mental courage sufficient to have taken the odds of two of the Princesses born in the purple without incurring the least hazard. Vexhelia, indeed, was a little ashamed at having taken the alarm too soon, nor was she pleased with the prospect of the Countess Brenhilda’s displeasure at the part which she had acted. She resolved, however, to maintain the credit of her reputation, and not yield to any one the right which she had to dictate in the present case. Accordingly, her interference was of consequence when the Grecians, and even the Crusaders, heard with loud shouts of approbation the speech of the Greek Emperor as a generous and candid tribute to the worth of the vanquished Countess. When, therefore, Robert of Paris expressed his dissatisfaction with the terms proposed by Alexius, Vexhelia interfered as the person proper to dictate what was to be done. The Count had seen the proposed combat with natural anxiety, and only his high spirit of chivalry had prevented his interference with the momentary strife in which he saw his Lady’s fall. He had in vain struggled to make his voice heard, or to interfere in reply to the Emperor’s speech. But when he saw his beloved Brenhilda borne out of the lists, anxiety to know her fate overcame every other feeling in his heart, and, plunging through the lists like a stag in extremity, he

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pursued those who bore his lady to a retired house at a little distance, where she was deposited. Vexhelia herself met him at the door, and with the authority which women of her class have in every age been in the habit of assuming, she positively prohibited him admittance. “Go,” she said, “my Lord Count, to the nearest church, and on your bare knees return thanks to God, that has saved your lady and you from the perils which, in your romantic frenzy, both of you have shown yourselves greatly too ready to incur. It is by the mercy of God that she is alive to tell the story. As my skill can warrant, if the lady be kept profoundly quiet, and safe from agitation, the insanity of this day may, by God’s blessing, pass away with no worse consequences than a bad dream might have done. Bless God, therefore, who has saved you and your countess from the consequences of your own rashness, and thank our Lady for having sent to your assistance one whose extensive experience leaves her little to seek respecting what should be done on such an occasion.” There was something in the peremptory tone in which this was said calculated to displease the haughty Count of Paris; yet his displeasure was such as manhood and the pressure of circumstances prohibited him from giving way to. He turned, therefore, on his heel with a feeling that held place betwixt obedience and contempt; and while gratitude to Heaven for the promised safety of his lady shed its benignant influence over the wilder passions which late events had aroused, he cleared the inner barricade of the lists at a single bound, and planted himself in front of the Emperor, who was equally surprised at his warlike agility, and alarmed at the remnants of stormy passion which still sat on his brow. “Emperor of Greece,” said he, without awaiting till such time as Alexius had addressed him, which it was obvious he was about to do, “leave not your imperial throne till you do justice to all parties. I tell you that I, Robert, Count of Paris, am still suitor, that after this woman’s contest that we have witnessed, your princely eyes will deign to look upon, and your tongue to decide that which is presently and expressly the business of the day. You are not ignorant, since indeed it is expressed by your own edict, that I undergo a challenge at the hand of Nicephorus Briennius, called the Cæsar, son-in-law to your Imperial Majesty, by his marriage with that lady, whom chance, not virtue, gave an accidental superiority in the late scuffle. I call, therefore, upon the said Cæsar, or any other champion in his behalf, to stand forth in arms to sustain the cause of quarrel, which is the foundation of his own challenge, or else to abide dishonoured and worthless in the eyes of all Europe and Asia. And for this purpose I call to record every true herald, who is competent to bear witness in affairs

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of honour, and I pledge myself to make their testimony known wherever arms are practised, or honour held in esteem.” The Emperor, at this bold address, stood as much distressed as the anxious shipwright, who, amid the buffetings of a storm, and the dangers of a lee-shore, sees one fresh leak burst out in his distressed vessel, before his utmost art has been able to close a former aperture against the waves; but Fate, who appeared to have taken under her charge a perplexed state of affairs, which would have puzzled human wit, had provided an answerer in place of Alexius, and better suited than the Emperor to meet the emergency of the moment. A person, dressed like one of the Varangian guard, sprung into the lists, with as much agility as Count Robert himself, and proclaimed with a loud voice his readiness to do battle with Count Robert of Paris, without any purpose of meddling with the quarrel of the two noble ladies, or saying the least injury to either one or other; but solely for the purpose of saving the honour of Nicephorus Briennius, and the credit of the empire; always, he concluded, under the gracious permission of his Imperial Majesty the Emperor. Alexius, with the utmost joy, beheld this unexpected assistance, and readily gave his consent to the bold soldier who stood thus forwards in the hour of utmost need, to take upon himself the dangerous office of champion when the opposite side was sustained by so redoubted an opponent. He the more readily acquiesced, as, from the size and appearance of the soldier, and the gallant bearing he displayed, he had no doubt of his individual person, and fully confided in his valour. But Prince Tancred interposed his opposition. “The lists,” he said, “were only open to knights and nobles; or, at any rate, men were not permitted to meet therein who were not of some equality of birth and blood; nor could he (himself a prince and knight) remain a silent witness where the laws of chivalry were in such respects forgotten.” “Let Count Robert of Paris,” said the Varangian, “look upon my countenance, and say whether he has not, by promise, removed all objection to our contest which might be founded upon an inequality of condition, and let him be judge himself, whether, by meeting me in this field, he will do more than comply with a compact which he has long since become bound by.” Count Robert, upon this appeal, advanced, and acknowledged, without further debate, that, notwithstanding their difference of rank, he held himself bound by his solemn word to give this valiant soldier a meeting in the field. That he regretted, on account of this gallant man’s eminent virtues, and the high services he had received at his hands, that they should now stand upon terms of such bloody

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arbitration; but since nothing was more common, than that the fate of war called on friends to meet each other in mortal combat, he would not shrink from the engagement he had pledged himself to; nor did he think his quality in the slightest degree infringed or diminished, by encountering in battle a warrior so well known and of such good account as Hereward, the brave Varangian. He added, that “he willingly admitted that the combat should take place on foot, and with the battle-axe, which was the ordinary weapon of the Varangian guard, since he saw his opponent was dismounted and so accoutred.” Hereward had stood still, almost like a statue, while this discourse passed; but when the Count of Paris had made this speech, he inclined himself towards the orator with a graceful obeisance, and expressed himself honoured and gratified by the manly manner in which the Count acquitted himself, according to his promise, with complete honour and fidelity. “What we are to do,” said Count Robert, with a sigh of regret, which even his love of battle could not prevent, “let us do quickly; the heart may be affected, the eye may be moist—but the hand must do its duty.” Hereward assented, with the additional remark, “Let us lose no more time, which is already flying fast.” And, grasping his axe, he stood prepared for combat. “I also am ready,” said Count Robert of Paris, taking the same weapon from a Varangian soldier, who stood by the lists. Both were immediately upon the alert, nor did farther forms or circumstances put off the intended duel. The first blows were given and parried with great deliberation, and Prince Tancred and others thought, that on the part of Count Robert the caution was much greater than usual; but, in combat as in food, the appetite increases with the exercise. The fiercer passions began, as usual, to awaken with the clash of arms and the sense of deadly blows, some of which were made with great fury on either side, and parried with considerable difficulty, and not so completely but what blood flowed on both their parts. The Greeks looked with astonishment on a single combat, such as they had seldom witnessed, and held their breath as they beheld the furious blows dealt by either warrior, and expected with each stroke the annihilation of one or other of the combatants. As yet their strength and agility seemed somewhat equally matched, although those who judged with more pretension to knowledge, were of opinion, that Count Robert spared putting forth some part of the military skill for which he was celebrated; and the remark was generally made and allowed, that he had surrendered a great advantage by not insisting upon his right of rank to fight upon

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horseback and with the lance. On the other hand, it was the general opinion among the Varangian’s comrades that he omitted to take advantage of one or two opportunities afforded him by the heat of Count Robert’s temper, who obviously was incensed at the duration of the combat. Accident at length seemed about to decide what had been hitherto an equal combat. Count Robert, making a feint on one side of his antagonist, struck him a severe blow on the other, which was uncovered, with the edge of his weapon, so that the Varangian reeled, and seemed in the act of falling to the earth. The usual sound made by spectators of such a scene at the sight of any painful or unpleasant circumstance, by drawing the breath between the teeth, was suddenly heard to pass through the assembly, while a female voice loud and eagerly exclaimed,—“Count Robert of Paris!—forget not this day that thou owest a life to Heaven and me.” The Count was in the act of again seconding his blow, with what effect could hardly be judged, when this cry reached his ears, and apparently took away his disposition for farther combat. “I acknowledge the debt,” he said, sinking his battle-axe, and retreating two steps from his antagonist, who stood in astonishment, scarcely recovered from the stunning effect of the blow by which he was so nearly prostrated. He sunk the blade of his battle-axe in imitation of his antagonist, and seemed to wait in suspense what was to take place next. “I acknowledge my debt,” said the valiant Count of Paris, “alike to Bertha of Britain and to the Almighty, who has preserved me from the crime of ungrateful blood-guiltiness.—You have seen the fight, gentlemen,” turning to Tancred and his chivalry, “and can testify, on your honour, that it has been maintained fairly on both sides, and without advantage on either. I presume my honourable antagonist has by this time satisfied the desire which brought me under his challenge, and which certainly had no taste in it of personal or private quarrel. On my part, I retain towards him such a sense of personal obligation as would render my continuing this combat, unless compelled to it by self-defence, a shameful and sinful action.” Alexius gladly embraced the terms of truce, which he was far from expecting, and threw down his warder, in signal that the duel was ended. Tancred, though somewhat surprised, and perhaps even scandalized, that a private soldier of the Emperor’s guard should have so long resisted the utmost efforts of so approved a knight as Count Robert, could not but own that the combat had been fought with perfect fairness and equality, and decided upon terms dishonourable to neither party. The Count’s character being well known and established amongst the crusaders, they were compelled to believe that

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some motive of a most potent nature formed the principle upon which, very contrary to his general practice, he had proposed a cessation of the combat before it was brought to a deadly, or at least to a decisive conclusion. The edict of the Emperor upon the occasion, therefore, passed into a law, acknowledged by the assent of the chiefs present, and especially affirmed and gratulated by the shouts of the assembled spectators. But perhaps the most interesting figure in the assembly was that of the bold Varangian, arrived so suddenly at a promotion of military renown, which the extreme difficulty he had experienced in keeping his ground against Count Robert had prevented him from anticipating, although his modesty had not diminished the courage with which he maintained the contest. He stood in the middle of the lists, his face ruddy with the exertion of the combat, and not less so from the modest consciousness proper to the plainness and simplicity of his character, which was disconcerted by finding himself the central point of the gaze of the multitude. “Speak to me, my soldier,” said Alexius, strongly affected by the gratitude which he felt was due to Hereward upon so singular an occasion; “speak to thine Emperor as his superior, for such thou art at this moment, and tell him if there is any manner, even at the expense of half his kingdom, he can requite thee for his own life saved, and, what is yet dearer, for the honour of his country, which thou hast so manfully defended and preserved.” “My Lord,” answered Hereward, “your Imperial Highness values my poor services over highly, and ought to attribute them to the noble Count of Paris, first, for his condescending to accept of an antagonist so mean in quality as myself; and next, in generously relinquishing victory when he might have achieved it by an additional blow; for I here confess before your Majesty, my brethren, and the assembled Grecians, that my power of protracting the combat was ended, when the gallant Count, by his generosity, put a stop to it.” “Do not thyself that wrong, brave man,” said Count Robert; “for I vow to our Lady of the Broken Lances, that the combat was yet within the undetermined doom of Providence, when the pressure of my own feelings rendered me incapable of continuing it, to the necessary harm, perhaps to the mortal damage, of an antagonist to whom I owe so much kindness. Choose, therefore, the recompense which the generosity of thy Emperor offers in a manner so just and grateful, and fear not lest mortal voice pronounces that reward unmerited which Robert of Paris shall avouch with his sword to have been gallantly won upon his own crest.” “You are too generous, my lord, and too noble,” answered the

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Anglo-Saxon, “to be gainsaid by such as I am, and I must not awaken new strife between us by contesting the circumstances under which our combat so suddenly closed, nor would it be wise or justly considered modest in me further to contradict you. My noble Emperor generously offers me the right of naming what he calls my recompense; but let not his generosity be dispraised, although it is from you, my lord, and not from his Imperial Highness, that I am to ask a boon, to me the dearest to which my voice can give utterance.” “And that,” said the Count, “has reference to Bertha, the faithful attendant of my wife?” “Even so,” said Hereward; “it is my proposal to request from the Emperor my discharge from the Varangian guard, and permission to share in your lordship’s pious and honourable vow for the recovery of Palestine, with liberty to fight under your honoured banner, and permission from time to time to recommend my love-suit to Bertha, the faithful attendant of the Countess of Paris, and the hope that it may find favour in the eyes of her noble lord and lady. I may thus finally hope to be restored to a country, which I have never ceased to love over the rest of the world.” “Thy service, noble soldier,” said the Count, “shall be as acceptable to me as that of a born earl; nor is there an opportunity of acquiring honour which I can shape for thee, to which, as it occurs, I will not gladly prefer thee. I will not boast of what interest I have with the King of England, but something I can do with him, and my credit shall be strained to the uttermost to settle thee in thine own beloved native country.” The Emperor then spoke. “Bear witness, heaven and earth, and you my faithful subjects, and you my gallant allies; above all, you my bold and true Varangian Guard, that we would rather have lost the brightest jewel from our Imperial crown, than have relinquished the service of this true and faithful Anglo-Saxon. But since go he must and will, it shall be my study to distinguish him by such marks of beneficence as may make it known through his future life, that he is the person to whom the Emperor Alexius Comnenus acknowledged a debt larger than his empire could discharge. You, my Lord Tancred, and your principal leaders, will sup with us this evening, and to-morrow resume your honourable and religious purpose of pilgrimage! We trust both the combatants will also oblige us by their presence.—Trumpets, give the signal for dismission.” The trumpets sounded accordingly, and the different classes of spectators, armed and unarmed, broke up into various parties, or formed into their military ranks, for the purpose of their return to the city.

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The screams of women, suddenly and strangely raised, was the first thing that arrested the departure of the multitude, when those who glanced their eyes back, saw Sylvan, the great ouran-outang, produce himself in the lists, to their surprise and astonishment. The women, and many of the men who were present, unaccustomed to the ghastly look and savage appearance of a creature so extraordinary, raised a yell of terror so loud, that it discomposed the animal who was the occasion of its being raised. Sylvan, in the course of the night, having escaped over the garden-wall of Agelastes, and clambered over the rampart of the city, found no difficulty in hiding himself in the lists which were in the act of being raised, having found a lurking-place in some dark corner under the seats of the spectators. From this he was probably dislodged by the tumult of the dispersing multitude, and had been compelled, therefore, to make an appearance in public when he least desired it, not unlike that of the celebrated Puliccinello, at the conclusion of his own drama, when he enters in mortal strife with the foul fiend himself, a scene which scarcely excites more terror among the juvenile audience, than did the unexpected apparition of Sylvan among the spectators of the duel. Bows were bent and javelins pointed by the braver part of the soldiery, against an animal of an appearance so ambiguous, and whom his uncommon size and grizzly look caused most who beheld him to suppose either the devil himself, or the apparition of some fiendish deity of ancient days, whom the heathens worshipped. Sylvan had so far improved such opportunities as had been afforded him, as to become sufficiently aware that the attitudes assumed by so many military men, inferred immediate danger to his person, from which he hastened to shelter himself by flying to the protection of Hereward, with whom he had been in some degree familiarized. He seized him, accordingly, by the cloak, and, by the absurd and alarmed look of his fantastic features, and a certain wild and gibbering chatter, endeavoured to express his fear and to ask protection. Hereward understood the terrified creature, and turning to the Emperor’s throne, said aloud,—“Poor frightened being, turn thy petition, and gestures, and tones, to a quarter which, having to-day pardoned so many offences which were wilfully and maliciously schemed, will not be, I am sure, obdurate to such as thou, in thy halfreasoning capacity, may have been capable of committing.” The creature, as is the nature of its tribe, caught from Hereward himself the mode of applying with most effect his gestures and pitiable supplication, while the Emperor, notwithstanding the serious scene which had just past, could not help laughing at the touch of comedy flung into it by this last incident. “My trusty Hereward,”—he said aside, “(I will not again call him

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Edward if I can help it)—thou art the refuge of the distressed, whether it be man or beast, and nothing that sues through thy intercession, while thou remainest in our service, shall find its supplication in vain. Do thou, good Hereward,” for the name was now pretty well established in his Imperial memory, “and such of thy companions as know the habits of the creature, lead him back to his old quarters in the Blacquernal; and that done, my friend, observe that we request thy company, and that of thy faithful mate Bertha, to partake supper at our court, with our wife and daughter, and such of our servants and allies as we shall request to share the same honour. Be assured, that while thou remainest with us, there is no point of dignity which shall not be willingly paid to thee.—And do thou approach, Achilles Tatius, as much favoured by thine Emperor as before this day dawned. What charges are against thee have been only whispered in a friendly ear, which remembers them not, unless (which Heaven forefend!) their remembrance is renewed by fresh offences.” Achilles Tatius bowed till the plume of his helmet mingled with the mane of his fiery horse, but held it wisest to forbear any answer in words, leaving his crime and his pardon to stand upon those general terms in which the Emperor had expressed them. Once more the multitude of all ranks returned on their way to the city, nor did any second interruption arrest their march. Sylvan, accompanied by one or two Varangians, who led him in a sort of captivity, took his way to the vaults of the Blacquernal, which were in fact his proper habitation. Upon the road to the city, Harpax, the notorious corporal of the Immortal Guards, held a discourse with one or two of his own soldiers, and of the citizens who had been members of the late conspiracy. “So,” said Stephanos, the prize-fighter, “a fine affair we have made of it, to suffer ourselves to be all anticipated and betrayed by a thickskulled Varangian; every chance turning against us as they would against Corydon, the shoemaker, if he were to defy me to the circus. Ursel, whose death made so much work, turns out not to be dead after all; and, what is worse, he lives not to our advantage. This fellow Hereward, who was yesterday no better than myself—What do I say? —better!—he was a great deal worse—an insignificant nobody in every respect!—is now crammed with honours, praises, and gifts, till he wellnigh returns what they have given him, and the Cæsar and the Acolyte, our associates, have lost the Emperor’s love and confidence, and if they are suffered to survive, it must be like the tame domestic poultry, whom we pamper with food one day, that upon the next their necks may be twisted for spit or pot.” “Stephanos,” replied the centurion, “thy form of body fits thee well

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for the Palæstra, but thy mind is not so acutely formed as to detect that which is real from that which is only probable, in the political world, of which thou art now judging. Considering the risk incurred by lending a man’s ear to a conspiracy, thou oughtest to reckon it a saving in every particular, where he escapes with his life and character safe. This has been the case with Achilles Tatius, and with the Cæsar. They have remained also in their high places of trust and power, and may be confident that the Emperor will hardly dare to remove them at a future period, since the possession of the full knowledge of their guilt has not emboldened him to do so. Their power, thus left with them, is in fact ours; nor is there a circumstance to be supposed, which can induce them to betray their confederates to the government. It is much more likely that they will remember them with the probability of renewing, at a fitter time, the alliance which binds them together. Cheer up thy noble resolution, therefore, my Prince of the Circus, and think that thou shalt still retain that predominant influence which the favourites of the amphitheatre are sure to possess over the citizens of Constantinople.” “I cannot tell,” answered Stephanos; “but it gnaws at my heart like the worm that dieth not, to see this beggarly foreigner betray the noblest blood in the land, not to mention the best athlete in the Palæstra, and move off not only without punishment for his treachery, but with praise, honour, and preferment.” “True,” said Harpax; “but observe, my friend, that he does move off to purpose. He leaves the land, quits the corps in which he might claim preferment and a few vain honours, being valued at what such trifles amount to. Hereward, in the course of one or two days, shall be little better than a disbanded soldier, subsisting by the poor bread which he can obtain as a follower of this beggarly Count, or which he is rather bound to dispute with the infidel, by encountering with his battle-axe the Turkish sabres. What will it avail him amidst the disasters, the slaughter, and the famine of Palestine, that he once upon a time was admitted to supper with the Emperor? We know Alexius Comnenus —he is willing to discharge, at the highest cost, such obligations as are incurred to men like this Hereward; and, believe me, I think that I see the wily despot shrug his shoulders in derision, when one morning he is saluted with the news of a battle in Palestine lost by the crusaders, in which his old acquaintance has fallen a dead man. I will not insult thee, by telling thee how easy it might be to acquire the favour of a gentlewoman in waiting upon a lady of quality; nor do I think it would be difficult, should that be the object of the prize-fighter, to acquire the property of a large baboon like Sylvan, which no doubt would set up as a juggler any Frank who had meanness of spirit to propose to

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gain his bread in such a capacity, from the alms of the starving chivalry of Europe. But he who can stoop to envy the lot of such a person, ought not to be one whose chief personal distinctions are sufficient to place him first in rank over all the favourites of the amphitheatre.” There was something in this sophistical kind of reasoning, which was but half satisfactory to the obtuse intellect of the prize-fighter, to whom it was addressed, although the only answer which he attempted was couched in this observation:— “Ay, but, noble centurion, you forget that, besides empty honours, it was proposed that this Varangian Hereward, or Edward, whichever is his name, is promised a mighty donative of gold.” “Marry, you touch me there,” said the centurion; “and when you tell me that the promise is fulfilled, I will willingly agree that the Anglo-Saxon hath gained something to be envied for; but while it remains in the shape of a naked promise, you shall pardon me, my worthy Stephanos, if I hold it of no more account than the mere pledges which are distributed among ourselves as well as to the Varangians, promising upon future occasions mints of money, which we are likely to receive at the same time with the last year’s snow. Keep up your heart, therefore, noble Stephanos, and believe not that your affairs are worse for the miscarriage of this day; and let not thy gallant courage sink, but, remembering those principles upon which it was called into action, believe that thy objects are not the less secure because fate has removed their acquisition to a more distant day.” While the veteran and unbending conspirator, Harpax, strengthened thus for some future renewal of their enterprise the failing spirits of Stephanos, the corps of the Immortals arrived on the parade assigned for their assembly in the morning, and their dismissal after the duty of the day. This being accomplished, such leaders as were of the necessary rank, repaired to the evening meal, and, from the general content and complaisance expressed by the Emperor and his guests of every description, it could little have been supposed that the day just passed over was one inferring a purpose so dangerous and treacherous. The Count of Paris, amongst others, bore himself as if the least recollection did not remain on his mind of the perfidious conduct of the Emperor at the conclusion of the last entertainment. He knew, in truth, that the knights of Prince Tancred not only maintained a strict watch round the house where his Countess remained still an invalid, but also, that they preserved a severe ward in the neighbourhood of the Blacquernal, as well for the safety of their heroic leader, as for that of Count Robert, the respected companion of their military pilgrimage. It was, indeed, the general principle of the European chivalry,

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that distrust was rarely permitted to survive open quarrels, and that whatever was forgiven, was dismissed from their recollection, as unlikely ever to recur. It may be believed that the evening passed over without any attempt to renew the ceremonial in the council chamber of the Lions, which had been upon a former occasion terminated in such misunderstanding. Indeed, it would have been lucky if the explanation between the mighty Emperor of Greece and the chivalrous Knight of Paris had taken place earlier; for reflection on what had passed, had convinced the Emperor that the Franks were not a people to be imposed upon by pieces of clockwork, and similar trifles, and what they did not understand, was sure, instead of procuring their awe or admiration, to excite their anger and defiance. Nor had it altogether escaped Count Robert, that the manners of the eastern people were upon a different scale from those to which he had been accustomed; that they neither were so deeply affected by the spirit of chivalry, nor, in his own language, was the worship of the Lady of the Broken Lances so congenial a subject of adoration. This notwithstanding, Count Robert observed, that Alexius Comnenus was a wise and politic prince; his wisdom perhaps too much allied to cunning, but yet aiding him to maintain with great address that empire over the minds of his subjects, which was necessary for their good, and for maintaining his own authority. He therefore resolved to receive with equanimity whatever should be offered by the Emperor, either in civility or in the way of jest, and not again to disturb an understanding which might be of advantage to Christendom, by a quarrel founded upon misconception of terms or misapprehension of manners. To this prudent resolution the Count of Paris adhered during the whole evening; with some difficulty, however, since it was somewhat inconsistent with his own fiery and inquisitive temper, which was equally desirous to know the precise amount of whatever was addressed to him, and to take umbrage at it, should it appear in the least degree offensive, whether so intended or not. A remarkable instance of this occurred towards the end of the entertainment, where the Emperor, in full confidence that all who heard must admire the ready wit of his favourite daughter, could not, in the fulness of his heart, help producing the tablets of Anna Comnena, upon which was written the epigram, in which composition the Princess, by his command, had endeavoured to substitute a strife of wits for a personal encounter with the lady of the Count of Paris. The knight did not hear this circumstance without displeasure; his colour changed, his seat seemed to become uneasy to him, and for a moment his fiery temper appeared to obtain the ascendant. A look, however, from Prince Tancred, to whom the Count very justly reck-

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oned himself specially obliged, and by whose ideas of propriety, more extended and liberal than his own, he had taken the resolution to guide himself, prevented him from any explosion of passion, while the Emperor, with great complacence, read from the tablets the riddle, or charade, as it might be termed, bearing upon his lips that mystic sort of smile with which the possessor of such a mystery seldom fails to regard those who are uninitiated in the secrets. “We will not by any means,” continued the Emperor, “suffer our most honourable guest, Count Robert, to fatigue his mind by a search after the occult meaning contained in the lines which we have read. Our wise physician Douban, therefore, hath full permission and command to pass behind the seat of our honourable guest, and whisper in his ear the import of the enigma. Our other guests, whose keen and exercised wits are the fruit of a more lively climate, cannot expect the same indulgence; yet as we are convinced that what is proposed by our dearest daughter as difficult of exposition cannot be an easy task to any one, those who have the good fortune to give a just interpretation, will receive from our treasurer, upon sending him the just exposition, a cup the size of a cocoa-nut in silver, expressing the Emperor’s praise of their alert talents, who had cracked, as it were, such a nut, and made themselves masters of the kernel.” Douban immediately carried the interpretation of the riddle to Count Robert, which was scarcely necessary, even for the satisfaction of a knight whose talents did not lie in the sudden interpretation of such enigmas. “I think,” he said, “that I myself might have penetrated this obscurity, without boasting the wit of a Theseus or an Œdipus. It remains to know whether the situation of my lady was a proper subject of amusement for the court and the company; and although the manners of France might have authorized me to dispute this question, yet I willingly leave it unstirred, being reluctant to suppose, that in a moment of reconciliation the Emperor should have chosen to attach to me, or to my lady, any thing which could be justly interpreted as an intentional affront.” Alexius was in no small haste to disavow the imputed intention of any thing like an affront, and perceiving that, with the best intention on both sides, any intercourse betwixt him and this fiery Count must be of an extremely dangerous nature, he hastened, therefore, to summon his guests to crown a solemn cup, which he dedicated to the present health and favourable termination of the Countess’s indisposition; at the same time making it his request, in the most courteous terms, that the Lady Brenhilda should remain his guest till the wars of Palestine were ended, or at least till her husband returned to his native

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country. The Emperor urged this request, the rather that it would be an act of wilful suicide, in a lady so situated, to venture into the tumults of a war deeply embittered by religious prejudices on both sides. In this too the Count of Paris expressed himself contented, on condition that he might leave the faithful Bertha, to assist the veteran Vexhelia in the Countess’s expected confinement, and with them a small but select band of French chivalry. In these terms the Countess acquiesced, although with considerable regret she saw that her situation prevented the possibility of her again bearing arms, until she had undergone her share of the lot imposed on the first female. She was delivered five months after of a male child, being for that very purpose conveyed to the celebrated chamber of purple marble, renowned for the birth of those princes of the Imperial family who claimed the enviable distinction of being born in the purple.

Chapter Twelve T    of Alexius Comnenus may be read at large in the history of his daughter Anna, who has represented him as the hero of many a victory, carried, says the purple-born, in the third chapter and fifteenth book of her history, sometimes by his arms and sometimes by his prudence. “His boldness alone has gained some battles, at other times his success has been won by stratagem. He has erected the most illustrious of his trophies by confronting danger, by combating like a simple soldier, and throwing himself bareheaded into the thickest of the foe. But there are others,” continues the accomplished lady, “which he gained an opportunity of erecting by assuming the appearance of terror, and even of retreat. In a word, he knew alike how to triumph either in flight or in pursuit, and remained upright even before those enemies who appeared to have struck him down; resembling the military implement termed the calthrop, which remains always upright in whatever direction it is thrown on the ground.” It would be unjust to deprive the Princess of the defence she herself makes against the obvious charge of partiality. “I must still once more repel the reproach which some bring against me, as if my history was composed merely according to the dictates of the natural love for parents which is engraved in the hearts of children. In truth, it is not the effect of that affection which I bear to mine, but it is the evidence of matter of fact, which obliges me to speak as I have done. Is it not possible that one can have at the same time an affection for the memory of a father and for truth? For myself, I have never directed my attempt to write history, otherwise than for the ascertainment

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of the matter of fact. With this purpose, I have taken for my subject the history of a worthy man. Is it just, that, by the single accident of his being the author of my birth, his quality of my father ought to form a prejudice against me, which would ruin my credit with my readers? I have given, upon other occasions, proofs sufficiently strong of the ardour which I had for the defence of my father’s interests, which those that know me can never doubt; but, on the present, I have been limited by the inviolable fidelity with which I respect the truth, which I should have felt conscience to have veiled, under pretence of serving the renown of my father.”— Alexiad, chap. iii. book xv. This much we have deemed it our duty to quote, in justice to the fair historian; we will extract also her description of the Emperor’s death, and are not unwilling to allow, that the character assigned to the Princess by our Gibbon, has in it a great deal of fairness and of truth. Notwithstanding her repeated protests of sacrificing rather to the exact and absolute truth, than to the memory of her deceased parent, Gibbon remarks truly, that “instead of the simplicity of style and narrative which wins our belief, an elaborate affectation of rhetoric and science betrays in every page the vanity of a female author. The genuine character of Alexius is lost in a vague constellation of virtues; and the perpetual strain of panegyric and apology, awakens our jealousy to question the veracity of the historian and the merit of the hero. We cannot, however, refuse her judicious and important remark, that the disorders of the times were the misfortune and the glory of Alexius; and that every calamity which can afflict a declining empire, was accumulated on his reign by the justice of Heaven and the vices of his predecessors.”—G’  Roman Empire, vol. ix. page 83, foot-note. The Princess accordingly feels the utmost assurance, that a number of signs which appeared in heaven and on earth, were interpreted by the soothsayers of the day as foreboding the death of the Emperor. By these means, Anna Comnena assigned to her father those indications of consequence, which ancient historians represent as necessary intimations of the sympathy of nature with the removal of great characters from the world; but she fails not to inform the Christian reader, that her father’s belief attached to none of these prognostics, and that even on the following remarkable occasion he maintained his incredulity:—A splendid statue, supposed generally to be a relict of paganism, holding in its hand a golden sceptre, and standing upon a base of porphyry, was overturned by a tempest, and was generally believed to be an intimation of the death of the Emperor. This, however, he generously repelled. Phidias, he said, and other great sculptors of antiquity, had the talent of imitating the human frame with surprising accuracy; but to suppose that the power of foretelling future events

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was reposed in these masterpieces of art, would be to ascribe to their makers the faculties reserved by the Deity for himself, when he says, “It is I who kill and make alive.” During his latter days, the Emperor was greatly afflicted with the gout, the nature of which has exercised the wit of many persons of science as well as Anna Comnena. The poor patient was so much exhausted, that when the Empress was talking of most eloquent persons who should assist in the composition of his history, he said, with a natural contempt of such vanities, “The passages of my unhappy life call rather for tears and lamentation than for the praises you speak of.” A species of asthma having come to the assistance of the gout, the remedies of the physicians became as vain as the intercession of the monks and clergy, and the alms which were indiscriminately lavished. Two or three swoons, that appeared to be mortal, predicted the death of this powerful prince, which took place after another more violent crisis; and such was the termination of Alexius Comnenus, a prince who, with all the faults which may be imputed to him, still possesses a real right, from the purity of his general intentions, to be accounted one of the best sovereigns of the Lower Empire. For some time, the historian forgot her pride of literary rank, and, like an ordinary person, burst into tears and shrieks, tore her hair, and defaced her countenance, while the Empress Irene threw away her princely habits, cut off her hair, changed her purple buskins for black mourning shoes, and her daughter Mary, who had herself been a widow, took a black robe from one of her own wardrobes, and presented it to her mother. “Even in the moment when she put it on,” says Anna Comnena, “the Emperor gave up the ghost, and in that moment the sun of my life set.” We shall not pursue her lamentations farther. She upbraids herself that, after the death of her father, that light of the world, she had also survived Irene, the delight alike of the east and of the west, and survived her husband also. “I am indignant,” she said, “that my soul, suffering under such torrents of misfortune, should still deign to animate my body. Have I not,” said she, “been more hard and unfeeling than the rocks themselves; and is it not just that one, who could survive such a father and mother, and such a husband, should be subjected to the influence of so much calamity? But let me finish this history, rather than any longer fatigue my readers with my unavailing and tragical lamentation.” Having thus concluded her history, she adds the following two lines:— The learned Comnena lays her pen aside, What time her subject and her father died.

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These quotations will probably give the readers as much as they wish to know of the real character of this Imperial historian. Fewer words will suffice to dispose of the other parties who have been selected from her pages, as persons in the foregoing drama. ——————— There is very little doubt that the Count Robert of Paris, whose audacity in seating himself upon the throne of the Emperor gives a peculiar interest to his character, was in fact a person of the highest rank; being no other, as has been conjectured by the learned Du Cange, than an ancestor of the house of Bourbon, which has so long given kings to France. He was a successor, it has been conceived, of the Counts of Paris, by whom the city was valiantly defended against the Normans, and an ancestor of Hugh Capet. There are several hypotheses upon this subject, deriving the well-known Hugh Capet, first from the family of Saxony; secondly, from Saint Arnoul, afterwards Bishop of Metz; third, from Nibilong; fourth, from the Duke of Bavaria; and, fifth, from a natural son of the Emperor Charlemagne. Variously placed, but in each of these contested pedigrees, appears this Robert, surnamed the Strong, who was Count of that district, of which Paris was the capital, most peculiarly styled the County, or Isle of France. Anna Comnena, who has recorded the bold usurpation of the Emperor’s seat by this haughty chieftain, has also acquainted us with his receiving a severe, if not a mortal wound, at the battle of Dorylæum, owing to his neglecting the warlike instructions with which her father had favoured him on the subject of the Turkish wars. The antiquary who is disposed to investigate this subject, may consult the late Lord Ashburton’s ingenious Genealogy of the Royal House of France; also a note of Du Cange’s on the Princess’s history, p. 362, arguing for the identity of her “Robert of Paris, a haughty barbarian,” with the “Robert called the Strong,” mentioned as an ancestor of Hugh Capet. Gibbon, vol. xi, p. 52, may also be consulted. The French antiquary and the English historian seem alike disposed to find the church, called in the tale that of the Lady of the Broken Lances, in that dedicated to Saint Drusas, or Drosin of Soissons, who was supposed to have peculiar influence on the issue of combats, and to be in the habit of determining them in favour of such champions as spent the night preceding at his shrine. In consideration of the sex of one of the parties concerned, the author has selected our Lady of the Broken Lances, as a more appropriate patroness than Saint Drusas himself, for the Amazons, who were not uncommon in that age. Gæta, for example, the wife of Robert Guiscard, a redoubted hero, and the parent of a most heroic

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race of sons, was herself an Amazon, fought in the foremost ranks of the Normans, and is repeatedly commemorated by our Imperial historian. There is nothing inconsistent in history with the idea of the Countess bearing arms, and longing to distinguish herself by feats of chivalry. That Anna Comnena should have caught the flame, is no way inconsistent with the vainglory which induced her to affect the character of a historian, and by those who read her history with attention, it may be observed to be the ruling principle on which it has been written. The author has hitherto hesitated between the character of the author of the foregoing romance, and that of the collector of those scraps of history, upon which its incidents, or at least its manners, are founded. It is in that of the former character of the author of a tale of fiction, that he indicates the fate of those persons, whom, after tormenting them sufficiently in the foregoing volumes, he consigns to repose and ease in this the third and last. The reader can easily conceive to himself that Robert of Paris distinguished himself among his brethren-at-arms and fellow-crusaders. His fame was resounded from the walls of Antioch; and, at the battle of Dorylæum, as we have already hinted, he was desperately wounded. His Lady Brenhilda, who had recovered of her confinement, was in great agitation at the news, and could not be withheld, by remonstrance from any quarter, from resolving to join the camp of the Crusaders, with the purpose of watching over the sick bed of her husband, and avenging him as opportunity should occur upon his infidel enemies. The faithful Bertha, who, though she made no pretension to unfeminine courage, had nevertheless that calm and deliberate valour, which can put fear at defiance when duty is in the opposite scale, insisted upon attending her mistress, while the young Count Robert remained under the charge of the veteran Vexhelia, who failed not to introduce him to the veterans of the Varangian guard, by whom he was highly cherished. With all the assistance which could be rendered by the Emperor of Constantinople, the pilgrimage of the Countess and her attendant to the sick bed of her husband, was both toilsome and perilous. It had, however, a favourable termination, and the Countess enjoyed the great satisfaction of mounting the walls of Jerusalem, and in so far discharging her own vows and those of her husband. This was the more fortunate, as the sentence of the physicians pronounced that the wounds of the Count had been inflicted by a poisoned weapon, and that complete recovery was only to be hoped for by having recourse to his native air. After some time spent in vain hopes of averting by

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patience this unpleasant alternative, the Count Robert subjected himself to necessity, or what was represented as such, and, with his wife and the faithful Hereward, and all others of his followers as had been like himself disabled from combat, took the way of Europe by sea. A light galley, hired at a dear rate, conducted them safely to Venice, and from that city the moderate portion of spoil which had fallen to the Count’s share among the conquerors of Palestine, served to convey them to his own dominions, which, more fortunate than those of most of his fellow pilgrims, had been left uninjured by their neighbours during the time of their proprietor’s absence on the Crusade. The report that the Count had lost his health, and the power of continuing his homage to the Lady of the Broken Lances, brought upon him the hostilities of one or two ambitious or envious neighbours, whose covetousness or ambition was sufficiently repressed by the brave resistance of the Countess and the resolute Hereward. Less than a twelvemonth was required to restore the Count of Paris to his full health, and to render him, as formerly, the assured protector of his own vassals, and the subject in whom the possessors of the French throne reposed the utmost confidence. This latter capacity enabled Count Robert to discharge his debt towards Hereward in a manner as ample as he could have hoped or expected. Being now respected alike for his sagacity, as much as he always was for his intrepidity, and his character as a successful crusader having obtained him the respect of foreign courts, he was repeatedly employed by the court of France in settling the troublesome and intricate affairs in which the Norman possessions of the English crown involved the rival nations. William Rufus was not insensible to his merit, nor blind to the importance of gaining his good will; and finding out his anxiety that Hereward should be restored to the land of his fathers, he took, or made an opportunity, by the forfeiture of some rebellious noble, of conferring upon our Varangian a large district adjacent to the New Forest, being part of the scenes which his father chiefly frequented, and here, it is said, the descendants of the valiant squire have subsisted for many a long year, surviving turns of time and chance, which are in general fatal to the continuance of more distinguished families. ——————— ——————— T   author was about to bestow some care in concluding the present romance, as being very probably the last work of fiction in which he may be tempted to engage; but he feels that the assertion has been, for different reasons, so often solemnly made—and reiterated —and again departed from, that he has very little credence to expect from the mildest of critics, who will probably take up Mrs Quickly’s

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reply to Falstaff, when he swears upon his honour—“Nay, you said so before.” The truth however is, that a dangerous disorder, incident to the time of life which he has reached, has, for more than a twelvemonth, attacked the author, with a severity not very capable of being consistent with the works of imagination; nor is it pleasant to feel one’s self discharging, with pain and toil, a task which, upon other occasions, has proved as light to himself, as it might be fairly held trifling by the public. It would be too disgraceful to require the hint, extorted from the unwilling secretary of the Archbishop of Grenada, and at the same time wait till a time when he himself should become incapable of profiting by it; for no writer can assure himself that the kindest criticism of the best friend might not be answered by the retort, that the Aristarch was too young to discover good from evil, and that the romance which he criticised was, in fact, the best which the author had ever composed. It must be owned, that the part played by the worthy archbishop on this occasion, is one that is by no means enviable, to be considered in prospective, by any author who has ever enjoyed a considerable portion of the public favour; and I am determined that I will be well assured that my present composition does not smell of the apoplexy, of which I myself am perhaps no good judge, before I commit the same error in another composition. As I have always dealt upon the square with the public, I think myself obliged to do so, when producing what is probably the last of my fictitious compositions; and with this view, I will candidly explain what was my object in this last attempt, in order that the reader may judge fairly, whether or not it has been my good fortune to attain it. It cannot be a matter of doubt that the object of an author of a work of fiction is, to fix the public attention, and for that purpose obtain novelty at whatever rate; if he has not the fortune to unite this necessary qualification with a probable tale of a domestic nature, the public good-naturedly permits him to lay his scene in distant countries, among stranger nations, whose manners are imagined for the purpose of the story—nay, whose powers are extended beyond those of human nature, so that there are no limits within the power of a reasonable enchanter, to which the fictitious author may not extend his own capacity, in despite of the limits of natural, and even moral impossibility. Whoever was the author of “Peter Wilkins,” with his glums and his gawries—which had the honour of suggesting to the Poet-Laureate the Glendoveers, the most beautiful creation, perhaps, of Fancy, stepping beyond the boundaries of nature—must certainly be of opinion, that the pleasure received by the reader’s imagination infinitely compensates that shock with which sober reason entertains the idea of

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human beings transporting themselves, with wings so ingeniously formed, through the bounds of the empyrean. A late novel, also, by the name of Frankenstein, which turns upon a daring invention, supposing the discovery of a mode by which one human being is feigned to be capable of creating another, by a process hitherto unknown, has also been forgiven, because this enormous postulate being granted, gives rise to an interesting series of discussions between the person whom he has created, and he himself the creator, as he is termed, starting between them a great number of interesting situations, which could not have existed between two creatures who did not hold, with respect to each other, the impossible and extravagant relation which is here supposed. These two celebrated instances are sufficient to prove, that almost any species of extravagance is pardoned to the author who aspires to entertain the public by the wildest flights of Imagination, providing he can do so without trespassing on the rules of morality or of good breeding. The costume of foreign nations, their habits and manners, are a very common resort upon this occasion, and the present author was of opinion, in undertaking the present task, that a more striking contrast could hardly be obtained than by setting the manners, implicated laws, and extreme punctiliousness of the Grecian empire towards its close, in comparison with, and in opposition to the warlike people of the West, who came with the extraordinary intention of totally subduing the followers of Mahommed, in the kingdoms which they had gained to the faith of God and the Prophet, as the Moslem expressed it. One remarkable characteristic of the fair sex was equally contrasted with the manners of the Greek females, and those accounted decorous among the people of the East. The western ladies, in contradiction to the doctrines of Christianity, and of Nature herself, were remarkable for the slight occasions on which, transgressing the dictates of Homer, they proudly refused to leave the business of the war to men; or, in other words, mingled, without either fear or scruple, in the combats, which were the chief and constant employment of their husbands and lovers; while in other countries the female sex was contented with awarding the prize of valour, if in any respect they mixed in the field. It is not in romances alone, that the Marphisas and Bradamantes made themselves remarkable by deeds of manly valour, and by encountering hand to hand the strongest champions of the other sex. In history also, the wives and daughters of the western nobles showed the same courage. There cannot be found a stronger example than that of Gæta, wife of the celebrated Robert Guiscard, thus told by Anna Comnena, whom we have so often mentioned in this history, and

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whose father was repeatedly at war with the celebrated Count Robert. “The Emperor of Greece had obtained some advantage in an action of light troops with the Latins, when,” the fair historian says, “they say that Gæta, the wife of Robert, who followed her husband to the wars, and fought like a Pallas, although she was not so learned as Minerva of Athens, looked upon the fugitives of her army with an eye of anger, and raising her voice, said aloud to them, in their own language, something resembling in sense that famous line of Homer,— ‘How long will you fly? stop at length, and shew yourselves men.’— And since she was not so powerful as to stop the flight by the force of her voice alone like the pagan goddess, she pursued them with lance in hand, rallied them, and brought them back to the combat, where they defeated a fresh charge of Alexius, and killed very many of his best soldiers.”—Hist. de L’Empereur Alexius, Chap. 5. This heroine Gæta is mentioned by the historian Anna Comnena, upon several other occasions, and never without commendations of her valour. It is certain, therefore, that the heroines of Europe carried into the Crusades with them their love of single combat, which must have appeared so strange to the ladies of the east. It was therefore the hope of the author to have produced some comedy from the meeting of such a heroine as Gæta, or Brenhilda, challenging to single combat the Princess Anna Comnena, a lady of a spirit sufficiently high to despise submission to a challenge without answer, and although the defiance was of a nature to which she might hardly have thought herself amenable, yet who might be supposed rather to accept it than put up with such an affront, according to her own phrase, to a princess born in the purple chamber. The author had not forgotten what the reader will probably remember, the ingenious allegory, namely, of the Sexes, which exists in the Spectator, and where the two nations, each pretended to consist exclusively of men and women, are finally reconciled, after several ingenious events, by the force of those passions to which both man and woman are naturally subject, and the contradiction of which must be, in a great measure, considered as a contradiction of the proper ends of their nature. This allegory itself, well known in its prose shape, exists also in poetry, and is, we believe, found in the earlier numbers of the Scots Magazine. The version is extremely poetical, and must be familiar to many of my readers. The real illness of Brenhilda would, indeed, have been liable to an objection which does not occur as equally applicable to supposing that at the period of the single combat her natural courage was, as physicians say usually happens, open to a train of attacks springing from the imagination, but not on that account the less certainly disabling cour-

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age, and destroying firmness of mind, upon occasions when the party would most willingly make a display of both. It happened, however, that the author did not feel himself very able to finish this part of his task with the success to which he conceived it capable of being wrought up. In the meantime, an accidental circumstance placed a part of the manuscript, without the author’s knowledge, in the hands of a bookseller in America, under circumstances which permitted him to make it public, and of course rendered it impossible to refuse the actual proprietor the means of rendering available his own property for his own interest. All further anxiety with respect to the finishing of the tale was necessarily laid aside, and the romance, though perhaps the last which the Author of Waverley shall write, comes before the public like the elder Hamlet before his last judge, “With all its imperfections on its head.”  

APPENDIX TO THE TEXT The surviving portions of manuscript for Count Robert of Paris include four passages which do not appear in the first edition, or in any of the continuous proof narrative. The two most substantial passages were evidently attempts to introduce more activity into the final volume (see Essay on the Text, 397). Scott tried to do this by having Alexius enlist the promise of help from the Manicheans to suppress the anticipated uprising. The first passage (21 leaves, bound as ff. 120–40 in the manuscript) is marked to be inserted as Chapter 3 of Volume 3, though Scott has endorsed the verso of the final leaf ‘End of vol II’. It is incomplete, but presents Patriarch Zosimus’s expression of doubts about Alexius’s plan and his reluctant introduction to the Emperor of Michael Ducas, the son of the Manichean leader, who guides Alexius to the amphitheatre where he addresses the assembled heretics. It was set up in proof ( 3777, ff. 44r–51v), though as it has survived this proof lacks the last two pages of the manuscript text (after ‘every honourable rank in the empire,’: 373.20). The text of the proof, which is marked ‘Revise’ by Ballantyne, incorporates a number of verbal changes to the manuscript, mostly tidying and clarificatory: it is likely that Scott was responsible for at least some of these. Scott has a number of further holograph corrections. This corrected proof is here adopted as the base-text for the bulk of the passage (to ‘rank in the empire’, 373.20), with a few further corrections. The final part of the passage, which survives only in manuscript, follows continuously in the present arrangement, edited to produce a normal printed text: a diplomatic (literal) transcription of the manuscript appears in the emendation list (491). The second passage (which may well be complete, with 8 pages (4 leaves), bound as ff. 115r–18v) is marked to be inserted after line 2 on page 249 of the original Volume 3 (‘the failing spirits of Stephanos.’ at 353.27 in the present edition). In it Alexius tells Michael that since the uprising has been averted the Manicheans should be asked to disperse to avoid provoking trouble. Although the scene in the amphitheatre is a telling one, the anticlimax of the second passage may well have made Scott decide to abandon both of them. This passage was apparently never printed (the manuscript has no printers’ marks): it is here edited to produce a normal printed text (ii), and a diplomatic transcription of the manuscript appears in the emendation list (491–94). The third passage, or ‘Paper apart’, occupies the recto and verso of a single leaf of the manuscript (f. 119). It is marked for insertion on 366

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page 175 (probably to replace 325.8–28) and shows Scott having Anna agree with her father in advance that a contest of wits should replace the physical duel, though Alexius is doubtful that Brenhilda will accept the proposal. It was apparently never printed; it is here edited to produce a normal printed text (iii), and a diplomatic transcription of the manuscript appears in the emendation list (494–95). The fourth passage ( 3777, ff. 354r–56r) consists of two additional paragraphs to conclude the present final chapter and the beginning of another chapter. Cadell has sensibly deleted these, with the observation: ‘It strikes me that this might complete Count R. the more as no more copy was recd from the 9 lines of Chap: XX set up below—except the conclusion commencing p. 301—the commencement of this conclusion might be left out as far as —— in p 303. all of it before that is better said in the Jedediah Introduction.’ The two paragraphs are largely redundant, and the opening of the new chapter is too fragmentary to be of use. They are here printed from the proof (iv) with the Editorial correction of two misprints as listed in the emendation list (495). (The conclusion to the novel is restored in the present edition, 361–65.)  

National Library of Scotland  3777, ff. 44r–51v and the King’s School, Canterbury  of Count Robert of Paris, ff. 120–40

Chapter III The Emperor lingered in the palace of the Patriarch, like one whose business is not completely finished, although he repeatedly seemed to take leave. At length the suspicions of the Patriarch became somewhat awakened. “Remember you,” said Alexius, “the youth Michael Cantacuzene?” “The son of the celebrated Manichean, who had so great a share in conducting the first rebellion of those heretics?” “I mean the same,” said the Emperor. “Surely your Imperial Majesty will not think,” said the Patriarch, “of calling in to your assistance a people so foully stained with heresy as these Manicheans, whom it has been your eminent part to destroy, in which exploit the name of Alexius Comnenus is raised high as a champion of the Holy Church?” “Heaven forbid,” said the Greek Emperor, with an affectation of assent to the principles of the Patriarch; “I will stand or fall by the true doctrines of the church; but I need not remind you, that the Prophet Elisha himself, who was surely possessed of no more sway over the church than the Patriarch is invested with over that of Constantinople, consented to the Syrian captain bowing himself to the earth in the house of Rimmon, although, in doing so, he gave some countenance

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to an act of idolatry; wherefore I conceive it is in your power, as head of the church, to give me licence so far to comply with these unhappy Manicheans, as to gain their assistance at a period, when, to speak the truth, they are still one of the slender resources which I may yet have at my command.” “Bethink you, Alexius Comnenus,” said the Patriarch, “with what hope you can apply to men who are banished from the empire by your own express orders, and who have reason to account themselves the objects of your most bitter persecution.” The Emperor shifted from one foot to another, and showed a considerable deal of embarrassment in his reply to so blunt a charge. “It is my wish,” he said, “to speak in plain terms the very truth of my present purpose, which Heaven knows is in every respect agreeable to the weal of heavenly church, so far as it is understood by me. I have used these Manicheans in my wars; and although I have dismissed and banished them, yet there seems no reason why I should not once more use them in an extremity like the present, and then lay them aside when it has passed by. Rely upon it, that as surely as I have behaved towards them with the severity which the church recommended, and I myself approved, so surely will I still abstain from any thing which may have an appearance of favouring their tenets, although I may not abstain altogether from taking advantage both of their physical strength and their mental energy, for which you know as well as me they are famous. I have shown the sincerity of my purpose towards the orthodox church, and have communicated to thee my intentions; do not, therefore, be stricter with me in this matter than Elisha the Tishbite was with Naaman the Syrian, upon whom he had just conferred a great blessing, but bear with me in this one thing, when the necessity of thy servant is so extreme.” The Patriarch looked on the ground, and said, after a minute’s consideration, “Much would I give, noble Emperor, to be certain with what real intention you make this singular communication to me; for if I am to speak the truth, my sovereign knows, that the reasons which he has assigned are scarcely such as any one in my condition can receive as substantial and solid. Let me speak to you with the freedom which is due to my character and yours; for plainly I will retract every promise I have made of befriending you in this matter, unless your grace is pleased frankly to make known to me the footing upon which I am admitted to your confidence, and the prospect there is of faith being kept with me in such intercourse.” “You disturb yourself as much,” said the Emperor, “as if these same Manicheans had never been the subject of a treaty, without any deadly quarrel on the part of the church; and yet I will allow, that knowing your prejudices against them, you, most learned Zosimus, are not the person whose mediation I should have used upon this

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occasion; but, to speak truth, my faith to these unhappy Manicheans has been so repeatedly broken, that I have only one pledge of security which I can offer to them, and that is Michael Ducas, the son of their celebrated chief Cantacuzene, who is under thy wardship, being inclosed in the cloister which is under your own charge.” “On my faith,” said the Patriarch, “I believe that now thou speakest truth, since thou showest me a strong reason why deceit is inconsistent with thine own interest. I will therefore trust thee, and deliver into thy hand the boy Ducas, that thou mayest employ him as thou wilt, taking the chance, as well for the church as for myself, that thou wilt act righteously with me in this matter. I will deliver up to thee the young Michael, praying thee to beware of him as one who has been trained up from his very infancy in heresy and foulest misbelief; and I pray you to remember that your weal here and hereafter, will depend entirely upon the veracity and truth with which you carry on a negociation between heaven on the one hand, and the devil himself on the other.” The Patriarch then clapped his hands, and a monk at the sound entered the apartment. He received his orders to bring the youth Ducas hither, and then the Patriarch relapsing into the modest and flattering courtier:— “I have now,” he said, “consented not only to put at your highness’s disposal the whole powers of the church itself, but, moreover, those of the powerful party which may be called peculiarly the enemies of its doctrines. Heaven pardon me, poor sinful man, if I have sinned in this; for Heaven only knows I have run into these intrigues from the pure spirit of love and fidelity to the Emperor, whom I have served from my youth upwards.” A moment afterwards Michael Ducas entered, a mild and modestlooking youth, clad in a novice’s dress, and having his eyes steadily fixed upon the ground. He was a youth of uncommon talent, and accustomed to fathom the depths of the Emperor’s policy, of which he had been the agent since his residence in the cloister of the Paraclete, of which the Patriarch was superintendant. To mark more plainly the winding politics of the Emperor, we have only to trace those which he observed towards the heretics, called Manicheans, whom he had different times encouraged, or at least tolerated, and at others persecuted, while he used them as a balance to the preponderating power of the clergy, who possessed almost as much authority at Constantinople as those of Rome in the Latin empire. An officer of the cloister was acquainted with the negotiation in which this Ducas was occasionally employed as a messenger, and rendered easy his absence from the cloister upon such occasions. Of late, however, his repeated absence from the duties of the Paraclete, had excited the suspicion of the Patriarch; the youth was laid

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under severe restrictions, and, to obtain his liberty, the Emperor was fain to make a direct application to Zosimus himself. “I will trouble you also,” said he, when leaving the palace, “to supply this youth with a horse, as he must accompany me to see a friend this very night, and with all the speed that may be.” The Patriarch crossed himself upon this information. “Is it possible,” said he within himself, “that the Emperor dare trust himself in person with a body of those armed heretics so near the time of midnight as the present hour? Either he must have more confidence in their fidelity than I should have supposed, or he must have more courage and determination than it was my opinion belonged to his character.” “Farewell, false churchman,” muttered the Emperor to himself; “thy covetousness and thy hypocrisy are too evident to deceive a monarch like myself.—When didst thou hear from thy father and thy friends, Michael?” “Not since I have seen them,” said the youth. “I understand,” said the Emperor; “but thy father and friends have nevertheless received intimation to direct as strong a body of their forces as they are able to collect, to assemble at the place fixed for the meeting.” “Such news,” said the young man, “have been circulated among our people; and all that is now necessary is a charter of peace to be granted by your Imperial Majesty to those of our persuasion, to give them some security for the privileges and protection, which are to be granted in consideration of our joining the Emperor with heart and hand upon this important emergency.” They here passed through the private gate of the Blacquernal Palace; the guards who were upon duty obeying without challenge a pass with which the Emperor had furnished himself. From thence they turned aside, and directed their course through a large broad pathway, which glittered under the moonlight, and passed through various remains of ancient splendour, palaces and temples glimmering white in some places, in others blackened by ruins. It was not long ere the Emperor and his companion came in sight of one object, a building, as it seemed, so excessively bulky, ample, and massive, as sunk the others into nothing in comparison with it. It was, or rather had been, a splendid amphitheatre, or place for the exhibition of contests with wild beasts, chariot-races, and even combats of gladiators, until the truly Christian priest Telemachus, by sacrificing his own life to a furious populace, died the martyr of humanity, and put a stop in future to these cruel amusements. The ancient edifice was no longer used as a place for the exhibition of gladiators; but, nevertheless, it continued a lofty and tremendous pile of ruins, capable originally of containing an immense number

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of people, whom love of amusement of some species or other still induced to frequent the long and ancient galleries, from whence their ancestors had once beheld those sights in which the Roman people gloried, though among the most cruel, probably, which were anywhere converted into objects of public amusement. “Do you think all is safe, Michael?” said the Emperor, in a whispering voice, which was, perhaps, affected by the scene in which he found himself. “We will soon see,” said Michael; and approaching closer to the principal entrance of the amphitheatre, he gazed on a stone table which was displayed there. “The purse of gold,” he said, “was to be left here, and behold here it is. It would scarcely have been found had it come under the observation of any who was unacquainted with the purpose of this meeting.” “A goodly matter it is,” said the Emperor, “that the sovereign of Greece, if he wishes to speak in private to one of his subjects, must needs have recourse to such base precautions as these.” “I know none, however,” answered Ducas, “more likely to answer your highness’s questions. You may be assured by this token, that no person has been at the place of meeting, save some one who entertained an idea of that which is about to happen.” They entered the huge building accordingly, advancing by small and disproportioned paths to the front of a gallery, from which the spectators in former times looked down upon the entertainments. The boy Michael, at the same time striking a light, set fire to a quantity of flax steeped in spirits of wine, which, immediately kindling into a bright flame, afforded him and his companion the means of seeing a considerable way round. Similar means of illumination were at once supplied to the other galleries in the neighbourhood, and one after another the immense space was lighted up to a fiery glare, which had an awful and alarming appearance. This scene was the more remarkable, as figures were seen, who appeared to keep themselves concealed in the dubious light, crouching each behind the blaze which illuminated their own galleries, and intimating, rather dimly than distinctly showing, that a considerable number of persons, muffled in cloaks, or disguised in other loose dresses, in which they could not be easily recognised amid the imperfect light, seemed to fill the back part of each gallery; and presented the idea of a great number of persons lying apparently in ambuscade, numerous enough to make a strong attack, at whatever advantage they might think it proper to take. The effect was so great upon the Emperor’s voice, that as he raised it to address an audience of such a doubtful and uncertain kind, it became tremulous as that of a sorcerer, when he evokes into light some crew of superior beings, of whom he does not exactly recognise

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the nature of the supernatural spectres he has called up, or place confidence in their intentions. “Men of Greece,” said Alexius, “these are evil signs of the times, when a friendly meeting between the Emperor and his subjects takes place thus obscurely.” “Ay,” replied a deep voice, proceeding from a dusky form, which rising up, flung its mantle around its limbs; “yet it is pleasant to our ears to be termed by our right title—namely, men of Greece, and subjects of the Emperor. The times were worse, when the best epithets which we could gain from our sovereign were, heretics and exiles.” “That may be,” replied the Emperor; “but he who looks accurately into the proceedings of that time will easily discover, that not the will of the Emperor, but the necessity in which he found himself placed, compelled him to use severity in cases where his judgment, and the mildness of his temper, would have recommended other measures and gentle language. It unfortunately happens, that you have entertained opinions at variance with those of the established Church. It will scarcely be denied, even by yourselves, that I have endeavoured, by every means in my power, to turn you back from this fatal difference, and induce you to receive the articles of the Christian faith upon the same principles with others of your religion; but this we have unhappily been unable to recommend to you, nor will we be blamed by Christian princes for having recourse to severity, and sentencing to exile those among you who would neither listen to the language of persuasion, or obey that of animadversion.” “And do you say,” answered the Heresiarch, who was no other than the famous Catacuzene, “that we, who believe according to the age of the apostles, are more allied to heresy than those who hold a different opinion with the obscure Ebionites, and affirm the same tenets which these men adopted in their ignorance and folly. Know, that if we do not think it our duty to insist upon the superiority of our doctrines, we will at least demand that we shall be in no sort construed to be held inferior in orthodoxy to those erring men, who, taking the buckler of your authority, pretend to brand us with the sinful and odious name of heretics.” “Accordingly,” said Alexius, “you will not find, men of Greece, that I drive the argument to any such hasty conclusion; I would that these angry controversies upon the debates and peculiar differences of religion were referred to a synod of the church, and that laymen should lay aside the subject of quarrel so long as the affairs of the state are in that precarious condition in which we now see them. In what manner would the Christian church be rectified, if the rule is made that its correction shall be by the means of the extirpation of one half of the erring members who hold a few disputable opinions? Already have these doubts sufficiently reduced the strength of Christianity, and the

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Jew, the Pagan—nay, even the foul Saracen himself, is victorious over the blessed cross, because they are unanimous in defending their peculiar opinions; while we, on the contrary, are not so strongly convinced of the falsehood of any one religion—whether Jew, Pagan, or Moslem—as we are of the error of those who think in general to the same purpose with ourselves. Surely, when you behold the Emperor of Greece humble himself before you, to obtain your consent to unite yourselves in the cause of Christianity, you will agree,—if not for his sake, at least for your own.” “I would not,” replied the Heresiarch, “recommend to my brethren to decline the present treaty which the Emperor proposes, providing only I were sure of that good faith and uprightness of intention in which alone such an agreement can have an advantageous basis.” “By my sceptre and my crown,” said the Emperor solemnly, “and by all the mysteries of that religion which are brought into question most unhappily during these debates, I vow to you that my purpose is not to give one branch of Christian belief an undue ascendance over the other; but, as soon as possible, to secure that all who profess and call for salvation in the name which is our common trust, may obtain the free access to every honourable rank in the empire, and preferment in the church without farther distinction.” “And in what manner can the Manicheans deserve that indifferent favour at the footstool of the Emperor, which has been, and is, the terms upon which only they can agree to espouse the cause of the Emperor Alexius Comnenus?” “That I will explain to you,” said the Emperor; “and, in doing so, you will perceive the extreme advantage which will result to the commonwealth from your union upon this occasion, and your forgetting that which you may conceive former injuries, providing you consent to draw together such of your forces as are willing once more to hazard themselves in a quarrel in which they have often vanquished. Assemble yourselves under your own banner with such strength as you can, and be ready to strike for Alexius Comnenus when a cry shall be raised to that purpose. This support (such have been the arrangements which my wisdom has made) will be sufficient to effect a complete victory over the traitors who have plotted the death of the Emperor and the overthrow of the government. Should we unhappily fail, the brave Varangian guard and many other loyal men will share in our ruin. If we should live, we will obtain freedom in civil matters and in religion; and if we should die, nature can never claim her general debt at any period when a brave man can be more willing to pay it.” A murmur of applause rung through the spacious amphitheatre, and seemed to express their unanimous consent to the measures proposed by the Emperor, who had indeed with considerable address retained the good opinion of many of the principal persons among the

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Manicheans. The doors or vomitories were now thrown open by the large party of Manicheans by whom the ancient theatre was occupied, and a rushing yet smothered sound of human beings departing under fear and apprehension of being overheard  

Canterbury  , ff. 115r–18v

The corps of Immortals approached the city, and a young cavalier, well appointed and gallantly armed, rode up to the Emperor in the middle of the procession and whispered some words to him which the reader may like to overhear. “Your Imperial Majesty’s orders are obeyed,” said he; “and the valiant servants of Heaven, whom the traducers of the saints call Manicheans, approach the sacred city of Constantinople with banners spread, and the sacred name of the Emperor in their mouth as their watch word.” “I had forgot them,” said the Emperor, with a deep sigh. “Alas! it is too often the case with us that are the powerful of the earth, that we have recourse to means of assistance in cases of emergency, which we forget so soon as the difficulty is passed over. The appearance of the Manicheans, unexpected as they are, in the vicinity, will not fail to spread the wildest alarm through Constantinople with which it has been yet filled during these eventful days. We must prevent the nearer approach of your friends, my good Michael. Speed back to your father —tell him that the promises which have been made to him in my necessity shall be faithfully kept, but for this purpose it will be necessary he withdraw his armed followers from the vicinity of Constantinople. I will assign to your people a place of rendezvous less ample, and a position of defence less important, than the amphitheatre where they have of late met; and methinks that such a place of meeting may be fixed upon within a thousand stadia from the metropolis, since a nearer vicinity would not fail to awaken the suspicions betwixt the church and those whose articles of faith you unhappily nourish.” “My Lord,” replied Michael Ducas, “I am but a boy. Nevertheless it has been my lot to see very much of the principles on which it has been your Highness’s pleasure to enter into capitulation with my father, and others who have adopted upon conscience the opinions of their persecuted race, when our arms can be rendered useful to the Emperor. We cannot pretend to fix upon a place of rendezvous which is not thought the better on account of its vicinity to the capital. The question then is, can the friends and loyal supporters of the Emperor’s rights convene for the purpose of his defence too near the sacred person who is to be guarded ? But if some sudden danger has glided past, little is cared what is to become of the Manicheans, whose assistance is no longer wanted to quell it; and the question then is,

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who would advise the introduction of these heretic dogs into the capital which holds the sacred person of the Emperor himself, and the most holy person of the Patriarch into the boot. My friends, noble Prince, are the same in adversity as in prosperity: willing to render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar’s, providing they may be allowed at the same time, without offence to the consciences of other men, to render unto Heaven that worship which their education teaches them to consider as acceptable. And, to speak the truth, I had instructions from my father and the chief men of our sect, to say that there must positively be an end of the vacillation which has hitherto taken place, and that we will either enjoy the indulgence of our consciences, which has been promised to us so often; or, failing of that, we will take our chance in the field against whomsoever may be disposed to meet us, were it the Emperor himself.” This threat, although from the mouth of a beardless boy, had a strong effect upon the nerves of the Emperor, which, however, he endeavoured to laugh off as well as his alarm would permit. “Michael Ducas,” he said, “my excellent young lad, I have been long anxious to what high preferment in the empire thou hadst best to be bred, and I now see with pleasure a boldness and audacity in thee, which qualifies thee in an eminent degree to represent thy country as the Emperor’s ambassador in a foreign state; nor do I believe there is one of so tender an age, who can with equal firmness support the cause of Greece, which on her part demands such a bold bearing, so prompt and ready in elocution, and the other qualities of which thou hast even now given us such a splendid display. Thou wilt therefore, I doubt not, thunder the importance of thy Emperor, and the greatness of thy country, the sacred nature of her rights, and the desperation with which they are like to be maintained, into the ears of foreign princes; but in order to be fully qualified for this important trust, there is one thing, my dear youth, which thou must heedfully keep in mind, namely, that thou takest heed that thou engage thy Prince in no stipulations which are instantly and immediately bound to accomplishment, where such discharge on his part is rendered impossible by circumstances. I readily own, and even thy juvenile understanding can easily comprehend, that if this emergency be a few weeks past, I will then have time so to order my affairs, that I can fulfil in the most ample degree that grant of liberty of conscience which is promised to thy people; but consider that, at this present moment, the various troops assembled in this capital, are one and all men so hostile to the tenets of the Manicheans, that they would view a liberty of conscience granted to them as little else than a dissolution of the bands of the Christian religion; nor are their prejudices more strong against the Jews and Mahometans themselves, than against the tenets which you especially hold as of the last consequence to the purity of your faith. The same

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opposition, and the same horror of your doctrines, is general among the Immortal Bands and the inhabitants of the city, and of consequence all those who are at present at arms in my defence, are men who would receive even the assistance of your bands with much suspicion: and if you avowed the intention of freely exercising the doctrines which they hold in abhorrence, believe me it will be the signal for a general battle, which you cannot hope will be a successful one against so great an odds. “The Europeans also, whom Chance, or some evil spirit, has put in arms at this moment, to increase the numbers of your enemies, will measure their way across the Hellespont upon receiving the news that the Manichean heretics have arrived at Constantinople with the purpose of imposing their heretical tenets upon the holy empire, and a slight computation would serve to assure you how very unwise it would be, to provoke so numerous and warlike a force as are sure to take arms against you for a strife so unequal.” The boy Ducas, upon hearing the emperor’s defence, and looking at the same time along the streets filled with armed men, could not deny the truth of what he said, yet seemed unwilling to resign defence of the stipulation which he had urged on the part of his friends. “The odds against us,” he replied, “are no doubt formidable; yet have I always read, my Lord, that in such emergencies those men who determine to behave themselves with gallantry, may expect the support of Heaven, and to that I for one should be willing to trust myself, providing my father Cantacuzene was disposed to the same submission; but, for my own part, I would rather trust myself to Heaven’s mercy, than willfully resign the terms which had been decidedly granted to me.” “Most excellent youth,” said the Emperor, “whose help I expect to use within no long space as negociator for the Emperor’s most important interest with the haughty Saracen, let me trust thou wilt so conduct thyself in this matter, that no rashness on thy part shall become the means of depriving me of thy early talents, and remind thy father that court favour is always slow in attainment, and subject to be deranged by accidental circumstances; nevertheless that which is directed towards him and his, shall be in some degree sure as well as slow, nor can any thing derange its motions towards them, except too violent an impetuosity on the part of those for whom it is designed. But come, we are now at the Palace, from the window of which we will see at what point the musters of the Manicheans have already arrived.” They were now accordingly within the walls of the City, and the Emperor, alleging divine service as the cause of absenting himself, caused the young Manichean to follow him into the chapel, the oriel of which commanded a distant view of the amphitheatre where the Emperor the evening before had met the chief of the Manicheans. Distin-

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guished by its size, it loured on the edge of the horizon, like an immense sentinel; and the sharpsighted Alexius Comnenus could discover the appearance of standards, and of a body of troops not exceeding a thousand men, who seemed to be cautiously exhibiting themselves between the amphitheatre and the capital, and were probably the van of a more numerous body which occupied the interior of the building itself. The Emperor, changing the tone in which he had spoken to his young emissary, addressed him with a degree of confidence which he had not hitherto made use of. “I thought so, by Heavens!—your friends, young man, have exposed themselves to be cut to pieces by the orthodox party on the one hand, and by the Counts upon the other, by showing their presence, and yet without appearing in predominating force. Spur, Michael Ducas! ride like lightning, my good friend, and warn the Manicheans to withdraw; for I think thou wilt agree with me, that an attack upon Constantinople were a vain attempt by so small a number, when the citizens themselves are ready in arms to pour to the walls.” The tone of alarm in which the Emperor spoke alarmed the youth, who started from his side, and in a moment Alexius beheld him, like a glancing dart, set forth from the walls of the city, and ride full speed towards the amphitheatre. “It is done,” said the Emperor; “the battle is fought and won, and there is little fear of the heretics obtaining any advantage on this occasion by the terror of their arms. I would that the emergency of state affairs would permit me to act with perfect fidelity to these poor men, who have not upon any occasion been disinclined to take my part, while all that I have done to them by way of recompense, is to preserve for them a sort of dubious existence between toleration and persecution within the bounds of the empire. But is it in my power to assure them a more extensive toleration?—wherefore are they heretics? what have they to do with such doctrines? and why do not those content them which are held by the orthodox? They keep their ground, however, and I fear my young ambassador will find them obstinate. But no—he has reached them and the sullen masses which break off from the main body, with a view to disperse themselves, show plainly that—Heaven be praised—they have no thought of action for this evening, and their distant appearance will apprise the orthodox, the Immortals, and all of them, that Alexius hath at his command other troops, who can easily be made forthcoming in case of need.”  

Canterbury  , f. 119r–v

In this dilemma a thought suddenly occurred to her, that in the classical, and even in the sacred writings, nothing was more common,

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than an appeal from a trial of actual force, to the more appropriate contest of ingenuity betwixt two warriors of the female sex. In such a trial she did not permit herself to doubt, that she should become successful, as her whole life had been spent in efforts of composition and in contests of the understanding, which had been her perpetual exercise, and in which she might be reasonably supposed to possess a great superiority over the countess Brenhilda, whose life had been devoted to the effectual service of our Lady of the Broken Lances. She figured to herself, therefore, that if this Frankish countess should adventure upon herself the combat, she, the Princess, would have nothing to do but to suggest a contest of their wits instead of a personal struggle, in which she doubted not being supported by her father and the unanimous voice of his people, who were arrived at a degree of civilization which would not willingly see noble ladies take upon them a character so unsuitable for their sex as that of a gladiator. When this plan was communicated to the Emperor, he consented to it with reluctance, provided the Countess Brenhilda should agree to peril the combat upon the harmless issue which his daughter proposed, upon which, however, he expressed his own strong doubts. “As it is said of the Egyptians,” he said, “that they sauce all their dishes with the onion root, so it may be truly said of these barbarous Franks —men, women, and even children—that no public display is made among them, which does not in some shape or other turn upon blows, slaughter, and death. I therefore yield to the proposal of my daughter, assuring her, however, that it will be difficult to prevail upon the Countess to consider such a trial as she proposes as being a proper decision of the contest of the day.  

National Library of Scotland  3777, ff. 354r–56r

That Count Robert and his lady reached a full period of years and honours, may be easily conceived, since, by what steps we are neither able nor willing to trace, we find their descendants on the throne of France. Hereward and his well-deserving Bertha found in their native country a lot of settled contentment, though rather lower in the style of rank. Time had done away with many of the distinctions between the two races of conquering Normans and vanquished Saxons, although it might be two or three generations before they sunk into the general description of English, applied equally to the descendants of each. Chapter XX I  only remains to say, that the idea of this tale of Count Robert was founded upon the singular contrast which must have taken place at the

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period of the crusades, between the European nations, inflamed in the highest degree by principles of chivalry, and that of the Greeks of the lower empire, who were political and false to the utmost extreme. Unwilling to recognize any principle which did not rest upon immediate

ESSAY ON THE TEXT

1.    C O U N T R O B E R T O F P A R I S 2.        C O U N T R O B E R T O F P A R I S 3.     : the Manuscript; from the Manuscript, Proofs, and First Edition to the present text 4.   : the Magnum; Tales and Romances 5.   :  . The following conventions are used in transcriptions from Scott’s manuscript: deletions are enclosed 〈thus〉 and insertions mthuso; an insertion within an insertion is indicated by double arrows ‘thus’; the letters ‘NL’ (new line) are Scott’s own, and indicate that he wished a new paragraph to be opened, in spite of running on the text. Editorial comments within quotations are designated by square parentheses [thus]. The same conventions are used as appropriate for indicating variants in the corrected proofs and the published editions. Full details of works referred to by authors or short titles in this essay can be found at the head of the Explanatory Notes, 503–04.

1.    COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS Scott’s last three extended fictions (Count Robert of Paris and Castle Dangerous, which appeared together as Tales of my Landlord (Fourth and Last Series),1 and the imperfectly completed and still largely unpublished The Siege of Malta)2 had their origin in stories known to him from his childhood or early youth. In the case of Count Robert the germ of the narrative is to be found in Edward Gibbon’s account (based on Anna Comnena)3 in his Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (6.64–65: Ch. 58) of Count Robert’s occupation of the Emperor Alexius’s throne, which Scott had used in his ‘Essay on Chivalry’ for the Supplement to the fourth, fifth, and sixth Editions of the Encyclopaedia Britannica in 1818.4 The passage in Gibbon runs thus: . . . a French baron (he is supposed to be Robert of Paris) presumed to ascend the throne, and to place himself by the side of Alexius. The sage reproof of Baldwin provoked him to exclaim, in his barbarous idiom, ‘Who is this rustic, that keeps his seat while so many valiant captains are standing round him?’ The emperor maintained his silence, dissembled his indignation, and questioned his interpreter concerning the meaning of the words, which he partly suspected from the universal language of gesture and countenance. Before the departure of the pilgrims he endeavoured to learn the name and condition of the audacious baron. ‘I am a Frenchman,’ replied Robert, ‘of the purest and most ancient nobility of my country. All that I know is, that there is a church in my neighbourhood, the resort of those who are desirous of approving their valour in single combat. Till an enemy appears, they address their prayers 381

    to God and his saints. That church I have frequently visited, but never have I found an antagonist who dared to accept my defiance.’ Alexius dismissed the challenger with some prudent advice for his conduct in the Turkish warfare; and history repeats with pleasure this lively example of the manners of his age and country. The first mention of the new novel suggested by the incident in Comnena and Gibbon, which eventually turned out to be Count Robert of Paris, occurs in an entry in Scott’s Journal for 16 April 1829, where he pauses to take stock: ‘I have a monstrous deal on hand. Let me see. Life of Argyle and Life of Peterborough for Lockhart. 3d. Series Tales of my Grandfather—Review for Gillies—New Novel—End of Anne of Geierstein.’5 Scott completed Anne of Geierstein on 29 April, but much was to happen before he could begin the new novel. By early June he was turning his mind to concluding the usual preparatory contract with Robert Cadell, writing to John Gibson as trustee of the Scott/Ballantyne trust (acting on behalf of the creditors after the financial collapse of 1826) to urge his acceptance of Cadell’s proposal for a collected edition of the poetry to match the Magnum novels, which had made a promising start. There would be some loss on existing stock of the poems, but ‘To prevent the possibility of your being annoyed about funds I propose at the same time to enter into an engagement with Mr Cadell for a new work of fiction at the usual rateable price as the edition may be smaller than that of the last though we will judge better of that a week or two hence. This will form a fund of between £3000 and £4000 which I propose to dedicate to this new adventure under your management.’6 However, the new novel was for the time being crowded out by work on the projects already mentioned, and by the two-volume History of Scotland for Dionysius Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia, which, as Scott’s Journal records, he began on impulse on 18 April 1829, and which was published on 1 November 1829 and 1 March 1830. By mid-November, no contract had been concluded, and other potential distractions were in the offing, for Cadell wrote to Scott on the 17th of that month: ‘I shall most cheerfully send you a proposal for a New Series of Tales—also for a Novel—the moment you say the word— [new paragraph] I shall suppose A new Series of Tales say from The History of England’.7 A week later Cadell was urging Scott to give priority to completing the Magnum (in case he should die soon): ‘my plan is simply this—that in place of writing a Novel, or even a New Series of Tales your unparalleled industry be devoted to complete the Introductions and Notes to the whole Novels’,8 and on 26 November he noted in his diary that Scott had called and ‘most fully agreed in my view of finishing the notes & Introductions & expressed himself much pleased with my letter’.9 The plan for Scott to work full-time on the Magnum came to nothing: the History of Scotland was completed at the end of the winter, and as he began to recover from his first stroke on 15 February 1830, he turned 382

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his attention more seriously than hitherto to the new novel. Cadell reports in his memorandum book a conversation of 20 February: he then expressed his diffidence of doing a Novel well—and that he leant to one of the time of the early Crusaders I asked if it was the period of Peter the Hermit, he said No—but that of Godfrey of Boulonge and when the Crusaders so blocked up Constantinople that many of them remained there—one man took possession of the King’s chair—he thought something might be made of this fellow, who when asked what brought him there, replied, that he had gone to four cross roads to fight any man who would come that no one came which is the reason he came there— I alluded to the Knights of Malta on which he said that he contemplated that for a Grandfathers Tales—on this he asked me pointedly “what should I do first” I instantly replied—“Sir Walter I always speak frankly to you do a Novel first—were you to do a New Series of Tales of a Gfather it might be alleged that you preferred it because the money went more directly into your own pocket—do a Novel next by all means, by which too Mr Gibsons funds will be increased” he assented to all this and asked me to get for him a translation of the Byzantine Historians which he thought he would be able to make something of—.10 Cadell goes on to note that a print-run of 5000 for the new work was envisaged, and three days later (on 23rd February) he recorded that Scott was planning research: he asked if I had got for him any account of a Copy of the Byzantine Historians—I mentioned that there was a Copy in the Advocates also in the Signet Library—on this he expressed great diffidence of getting it from either, “no sooner” he said do I take down a Volume than some Newspaper fellow makes a paragraph of it, while some other might anticipate me in the subject hearing what I was likely to take I think I could make something out of that quarry the time of the Crusades is so full of bustle and is so elastic”.11 The long delayed formal offer of publication was made by Cadell to Gibson and accepted, according to the minutes of the Trustees, on 4 March: ‘We hereby offer the sum of Two thousand five hundred guineas for the right to print five thousand Copies of a new work of Fiction by Sir Walter Scott Bart to be comprised in three volumes post octavo, and to sell for one guinea and a half.’12 Scott was not to commence writing for another eight months, but the assembling of source materials continued. Cadell records a conversation on 4 March: ‘I mentioned the Byzantine Historians & that Cochrane is to write about a copy —I asked him also [if he] wished to have a Copy of a new Edition of Le Bos History of the Lower Empire which he is anxious to have also—’.13 On 19 March Scott wrote to Cadell: ‘By the Bye there is a book often in Catalogues which I would be glad to have Knollys history of the Turks. It will help me in the New Novel. If there is not one in Edinr. I will find

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one in London.’14 Cadell replied that he would do his best,15 but Scott was getting impatient waiting for the Byzantine historians,16 and on the 30th Cadell was able to report to him: ‘As the Byzantines would take some mtimeo of coming, no copy that can be called good being to be had in London, I have borrowed your excellent friend Mr Thomsons copy which goes p[er] Carrier tomorrow, I expect Knoll〈y〉e from London in a few days—I could not get a copy here—though it is by no means an uncommon book.’17 By ‘the Byzantine historians’ or ‘the Byzantines’ Scott apparently means Louis Cousin’s French translation of some of the Byzantine historians (see Historical Note, 498, and further discussion later in this paragraph).18 About Knolles there can be no doubt. Cadell brought it with him to Abbotsford on 6 May, with interleaved copies of Chronicles of the Canongate and Anne of Geierstein for Scott to annotate for the Magnum, and the men fell to discussing the title of the projected novel: He proposes beginning a new Novel very soon, I asked him if he had 〈 [?] 〉 fixed on a title, which he said “No” to, I hinted at making it some name or other “a Tale of the Holy wars” he seemed afraid of the Tales of the Crusaders having anticipated this, I thought otherwise & alleged that the popularity of the Tales as a good reason for having a good run for it—“Ah” he replied “this may suit the bookseller and make a great & immediate demand but I have my doubts if this does not commit the author”—he added “that he had a story in his head but he had not yet made up his mind to it” he also said that he had the next “Tales of a Grandfather” before his eyes—“I must” he said do something for myself ’—.19 Four days later, on 10 May, Scott was continuing to seek assurance from Cadell that he could prudently devote time to the new novel: ‘He asked me if I thought, now that he was so much in advance with the Introductions & Notes, if he might try his hand on the Demonology for the Family Library, and perhaps commence the New Novel. I replied, “most certainly” that I thought he might now finish these at his leisure & go on with the other matters which he mentioned—he told me that he still adhered to his Crusaders story—and thought he could make something of it—’.20 Cadell notes that the discussion of the new work of fiction continued in a conversation on 13 May: ‘we talked about the new Novel and its probable title, he still leans against my attractive title, we talked a good deal about Constables fancy for this, which took possession of him to such an extent as to allow his vanity to express itself as if he were “all but the author of the works—”.’21 But by 4 June Scott had again put the novel on hold: ‘he will do the Tales of a Grandfather first for Christmas —he still leans to the Knights of Malta and will probably touch on the Moors and the Spaniards—the Novel he does not think so important as to time but he thinks he may finish it too and by Xmas—but his leaning is to the Tales the time for them being so important’.22 Not that he was

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uneager to get ahead when the other projects permitted. By 8 July the Letters on Demonology were nearly finished (the Journal records their completion on the 16th), and Cadell records: ‘the approaching completion of this Volume led me to ask him if he thought of the New Novel soon—he said his fingers were itching to get at it—I asked if he had fixed on the subject—he replied that he had two in his head—but still leaned to that of the Crusaders and the passage through Constantinople—’.23 After experimenting with the Knights of Malta and considering a Spanish subject, Scott settled on medieval France for the fourth series of Tales of a Grandfather,24 and though progress with this was held up by ‘a pouring in of strangers whose visits I could well have excusd’, by the end of August he had ‘sketchd my Novel and will soon have it at press and quickly through it’.25 On 4 September Cadell visited Abbotsford, and the question of the title of the now sketched novel was agitated: Just as we got to Melrose bridge toll he said “You want the name of the New Novel “Robert of Paris” or “Robert of the Isle” or “Robert of the Island” or “Robert De Lisle” is at your service, only I do not like the junction of a French & English name”—I told him that I preferred “Robert of Paris” he on this told me that it was a Crusading story that Robert of Paris was one of the most renouned champions of his day & he thought of being able to do some good with it— . . . I asked whether Robert of Paris should be announced by “Sir Walter Scott Bart” or by “the Author of Waverley” he preferred the latter decidedly for many reasons—.26 The next day Cadell noted that Scott ‘put into my hand the title of the Novel which is fixed to be R       P    a Romance of the Lower Empire’.27 On 9 September Scott wrote to Cadell requesting ‘best information as to constantinople as I shall soon begin that matter while it is in my head’;28 but on the same day Cadell actually sent to Abbotsford James Dallaway’s Constantinople Ancient and Modern,29 and received an upbeat response on the 18th: ‘When I get the Tales within sight of land I will not pause in taking up the novel which should be a good one though I may fail in making it so.’30 On 7 October Scott moved towards his eventual title: ‘I am half quarrelling with the name of Robert of Paris from confusing it with John of Paris I begin to think Count Robert would have done better.’31 By the 20th of that month he was able to report to Cadell: ‘I have finishd the Second volume Tales and am half done with [the] third when we will have a word with count Robert of Paris’,32 and the fourth series of the Grandfather was duly completed on 19 November.33 On 23 October Scott informed Cadell: ‘As I do not not wish to fail in the Count I am determind not to spare reading on Count Robert & am labouring through the Byzantine historians. We must not miss stays if labour will do us right. . . . I have not quite arranged my plan but there is certainly some wind in the bag if I can bring it into a tune’.34 The ‘Byzantine historians’ are Cousin’s translation which Cadell had

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borrowed from Thomas Thomson.35 Scott wrote to Thomson himself during November 1830: ‘I am working away with the Old Byzantines to which you lent me the passkey I am delighted with Anna Comnena battling her father 〈into〉 into a heroe while he seems to me to have had much of the attorney in him’.36 Scott was evidently reading seriously for Count Robert. On 1 December 1830 Cadell noted in his diary: ‘First Sheet of Count Robert of Paris gone to Sir Walter in proof to day’.37 The genesis was complete and composition had at last begun. 2.    COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS The first reference by Scott himself to the actual composition of Count Robert is in a letter of 2 December 1830 to Cadell, stating simply ‘I am getting on with the Count.’38 Initial reactions in Edinburgh to the material arriving from Abbotsford were less than enthusiastic. Cadell noted in his diary for 4 December: ‘Js Ballantyne called & left me the beginning of Robert of Paris on which he wishes my opinion, his, is unfavorable—I do not think it bad but the names are oddish & should be changed’.39 Two days later he wrote to Scott to convey Ballantyne’s objections, initiating an acrimonious exchange of missives: James Ballantyne has put a task upon me which he was much more able to undertake himself but as he is slightly indisposed I fancy I must indulge him— He is not very well pleased with the commencement of Count Robert and as usual is somewhat alarmed—he asked my opinion on Saturday and sent me the pages already set up, the case is wholly different, as I allege to him, from the two short Tales of the Second Chronicles of the Canongate where we saw the whole—now we only see but a very small portion—in reply to this he says the author never fails to produce a charming book when the commencement is good such as the Talisman—the Betrothed commenced very differently & was less popular—I honestly confess that in the few pages I have seen there appears to me nothing very alarming—on the contrary I was pleased with it—all but the names Pleuxippas &c —and there are farther objections of the stern printer—he put it to me, & I certainly do recollect the remark that Mr Lockharts admirable Novel of Valerius was essentially injured in general estimation, by the Roman names being associated in no way with our ideas of witty conversation, or any thing where, light amusing or pleasing reading is concerned. I must do Ballantyne the justice to say that he wished to delay the expression of his opinion till he had seen more of the M.S. there I conceive he is wrong, and it is much better that you should mknowo soon what his objections are In case you think them at all worth your attention— I have come as mnear aso I well can to what he wished me to say, at the same time my own opinion clings to the names only, or

 387 rather is inclined against the names only, and with this exception I see nothing at the commencement 〈what〉 mthato may not turn out a charming romance, the simile at the opening is beautiful.40 Scott replied on 8 December: Although we are come near to a point to which every man knows he must come yet I acknowlege I though[t] I might have put it off for two or three years for it is hard to lose ones power of working when you have perfect leisure for it. I do not view James Ballantynes objection although his kindness may not make him sensible of it so much as an objection to the particular objects of his criticism which is merely fastidious as to my having faild to please him an anxious and favourable judge & certainly a very good one. It would be losing words to say that the names are really no objection or that the[y] might be in some degree smoothd of[f] by adopting mor[e] modern Grec[ia]n. This is odd. I have seen when a play or novel would have [been] damnd by introduction of MacGregors or MacGruthers or others which you use[d] to read as a preface to Fairintosh[’s] Whiskey on every spirit shop. Yet these have been wrought into heroic [names]. James is with many other kindly critics perhaps in the predicament of an honest drunkard when crop-sick the next morning who does not ascribe the malady to the wine he has drunk but to having tasted some particular dish at dinner which disagreed with his stomach. The fact is I have not only written a great deal but as Bobadil teaches his companions to fence I have taught a hundred gentlemen to write nearly as well if not altogether so [well] as myself. Now such being my belief I have lost it is plain the power of interesting the country by surprizes [?] and ought in justice to all parties to retire while I have some credit. But this is an important step and I will not be obstinate about it if necessary. I would not act hastily and would think it right to set up at least half a volume. The subject is essentially an excellent one. If it brings to my friend J. B. certain prejudices not unconnected perhaps with his old preceptor Mr Whales cane we may find ways of obviating but frankly I cannot think of flinging aside the half finish[d] volume as [if] it were a corkd bottle of wine. It is a decisive resolution for laying aside Count Robert (which I almost wish I had namd Anna Comnena) I will not easily prevail on myself to begin another. Meantime we may go on with what we have on hand.41 The following day Scott attempted business as usual, writing to Cadell: ‘I send you Sheet B of the unlucky Count—it will do little harm to correct it whether we ultimately use it or no for the rest we must do as we dow as my mother used to say.’42 Also on the 9th, Ballantyne tried to soothe the author’s feelings: I have . . . carefully read your letter to Mr Cadell. I am sure you will not wish me to waste your time by using ceremony. I most steadfastly dissent from your opinion, that,  — not        —Robert of paris be defective in interest, it is

    because the power of production has departed from you. I think The Betrothed remarkably dull, and this is the all but universal opinion. The Talisman was written immediately after, and it is one of the most brilliant of all your productions. What accounts for this? Just this. The Betrothed is a dull subject, cast in a dull period. The Talisman is a happy subject, cast in a happy period. I am sometimes very impertinent, or used to be; but always utterly honest. What I have given is my conscientious opinion, which fire wont melt out of me. Then again, it is far too early to pretend to give an opinion, far less to decide, about Robert of Paris. I confess I think 24 pages an enormous length for a single conversation, of no great interest perhaps, betwixt Achilles & Hereward; but it would be grievous to stop before the experiment is fairly made. You are of opinion the subject is an excellent one; whereas I do not even know what the subject is.43 That same day, the 9th, Cadell noted in his diary that he had received proofs of the novel, and that his wife Anne and he ‘read them till nearly 12—Much heavy work with them’.44 These were probably proofs direct from Ballantyne rather than corrected by the author. On the 10th he joined in Ballantyne’s damage limitation exercise, writing to Scott: I . . . fear you have taken the matter too seriously—Ballantyne has just been with me, he tells me he has written to you himself. We agree that laying aside Count mRoberto is out of the question, it would not do in any way, were you once to lay aside a Novel I question if you could be induced to write another under any circumstances. I trust you will think no more of this frown of honest James— there is one great good in speaking frankly to you, and it is, that you never take ill what is well intended.45 Also on the 10th Cadell received a parcel from Abbotsford, presumably including the corrected author’s proofs of the first two sheets of the novel: he revised the first sheet that evening, and the next day he completed that task and began revising the second sheet,46 but Scott remained deeply unsettled as his letters of Saturday 11 and Sunday 12 December to Ballantyne and Cadell respectively painfully indicate: You make a most unnecessary vindication of yourself personally. But the inference remains the same. The imputing the dislike to the subject is your kindness to me & your good wishes but I have long lookd on you as a fair & favourable specimen of the capricious public and being such a very good omen of their opinion & I think in express[ing] that dislike fairly & honestly you do not put the saddle on the right horse so that my inference becomes natural & compleat & no wonder. The only question seems to be whether to leave the plough in the furrow or finish the job and I incline for the first. It will be better than to convince all the world of our own truth which it is as wise to keep to ourselves.47 388

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And to Cadell he writes: I am much obliged for your kind letter and have taken a more full review of the whole affair than I was able to do at first. There were many circumstances in the matter which you & J. B. could not be aware of and which if you were aware of could [not] have influenced your judgment which yet had and have a most powerful effect upon mine. . . . [There follows an account of Scott’s parlous state of health] . . . Now in the midst of all this I began my work with as much attention as I could and having taken pains with my story I find it is not relishd nor indeed tolerated by those who have no interest in condemning it but a strong interest in putting even a face upon their conscience. Was not this in the circumstances a damper to an invalid already afraid that the sharp edge might be taken off his intellect though he was not himself sensible and did it not seem of course that Nature was rather calling for repose than for further efforts in a very exciting & feverish stile of composition. It would have been the height of injustice and cruelty to impute want of friendship or sympathy to J. B.’s discharge of a doubtful and I am sensible a perilous task. And yet . . . The bringer of unwellcome news Has but a losing office.

And it is a failing in the temper of the most equal minded men that we find them less liable to be pleased with good news than bad & with the tidings that they have fallen short of their aim than if they had been told they had hit the mark. But I never had the l[e]ast thought of blaming him and indeed my confidence in his judgement is the most forcible part of the whole affair. It is a consciousness of this judgement & sincerity which makes me doubt whether I can proceed with the County Paris in opposition to those who have given their opinions on the subject. I am anxious to do justice to all concernd and yet from [for] the soul of me I cannot see what is likely to turn out for the best. It cannot be but that I must have lost greatly in publick opinion. There are many excellent archers who have out shot me in my own bow. Even the still greater numbers of those who may be considerd as my inferiors diminish the value of such compositions in general by showing at what a cheap rate an imitation of them can be constructed. These are all obvious difficulties & unfortunately circumstances have gone far to shatter the self confidence with which I might have battled them under more propitious circumstances. There are two or three ways of managing this business and while I state them to you I am in fact thinking them over with myself. I cannot think of going on as I have begun with the Count & I have no confidence in getting a mor[e] successful line. I may attempt The Perilous Castle of Douglas but I fear the subject is too much used and that I may fail in it. Then being idle will never do for a thousand reasons. All this I am thinking of till I am half sick. I wish James who gives such stout advice when things are wrong would tell us how to keep them right but he stands mute

    like the conspirator in Gowries famous [plot?]. One is tempted to cry Woe worth thee is there no help in thee. Perhaps we will do better to take no resolution till we all meet together.48 This is the first mention of the possibility of abandoning, or at any rate deferring, Count Robert in favour of another novel, which turned out to be Castle Dangerous. Early on Monday morning, 13 December, Ballantyne showed Cadell the letter he had received, and Cadell replied encouragingly with a brief epistle (written before receiving Scott’s letter to himself at 9am):49 James Ballantyne has just shown me your note of Saturday in which your leaning seems to be to allow the plough to remain in the furrow—we have just held a divan on all these views. and I must say that your original view seems the best, to give Ballantyne half a Volume to put in type, by this he will be much more able to give a sound mopiniono—at present he judges from but a dawning of the work. This is giving Count Robert and his Author fair play. When I had the pleasure on Saturday I said by all means proceed —this work is counter to your inclination as above alluded to, which leaves me a good deal at a loss, still the judgement formed on so narrow a surface may be wrong (I mean Ballantynes judgement) —all this leaves the greater weight to your own plan, the more as you only know how the story is likely to unfold. I shall not hesitate to mtakeo broad sketch of the whole of these discussions as they are likely to affect your interests in the Magnum & shall most frankly place them before you in every view I can— either prior to or when I see you at Abbotsford—.50 Perhaps as a result of receiving this letter, Scott wrote in more positive terms to Ballantyne on Tuesday 14 December: ‘I have got over my fright for I flatter myself it was no more. I had never had an idea but of thanking you for your criticism. If the worst was true you discharged a most friendly duty in a case by which you would be one of the greatest sufferers. . . . Supposing myself better satisfied than I am at present I will cut down the first proofs of County Paris or cancell them entirely & try a new departure.’51 Meanwhile, on the Monday Cadell had been ‘grieved . . . excessively’ by Scott’s letter of Sunday,52 and he wrote a long epistle on the Tuesday and Wednesday 14th and 15th, mostly before he had seen Scott’s encouraging letter to Ballantyne: I wrote you a short letter on Monday, and promised another before I got to Abbotsford, in the meantime I have your long and deeply interesting communication of Sunday—at first I confess it cast a gloom over me—a heavy gloom, but after sleeping and waking over it I have got greatly more cheerful. Your letter is one which I can look upon only as testifying a confidence in me for which I am very grateful, and what my merits scarcely entitle me to, it calls upon me however to strain every faculty to benefit you, to conceal no one feeling—no one opinion 390

 391 from you that may be of use in the present emergency—and now that we are going to council to discuss every point that may bear on the interests of parties, which interests are in every view mutual, we must bring all our energies to the discussion. I shall begin with a reference to your reply to my first letter as to Count Robert, when Ballantyne was in bed, in the letter I allude to you 〈you〉 say “we must do nothing to injure the magnum” I do not 〈personally〉 pointedly say that if Count Robert is not popular—if it is not received with applause—if it is not received with more applause than any of its precursors up to the Tales of the 〈Tales of the〉 Crusaders—it will injure the Magnum, and this injury will be done to 45 preceding Volumes—40 Volumes will be occupied to Woodstock inclusive—and five more will include Anne of Geierstein—any want of success therefore will militate against all these— My view has been if the Magnum could be carried on to 48 Vols or four years issue—the addition of one Novel would nearly effect this—if to 50 Months two Novels—one in three the other in four Vols. I must honestly say that with the feeling that “a trot might be had for the avenue” I have looked upon these additions with a favourable eye, and opposed to the first view I say if they are good—if they meet with the approbation of the public—in fact if they are a hit. they will benefit the magnum—they will enhance the value of your literary property of every description—and give eclat to the close of your works of fiction. Such is my review of the pro’s and con’s, it would be too late to place it before you after the appearance of Count Robert, the more if the Count were to come out somewhat heavily—not too late if otherwise— The question comes to be how to get over the present difficulty —the remedy appears to me to be to have the whole . completed before the work goes to press—if good, if pronounced by the stern Printer to be fitted to appear—let it appear—the effect upon the Magnum under this plan one of absolute prudence—towards yourself is one of absolute justice—You mseemo now mtoo feel yourself less equal to hard work—I assume this, for if Dr. Abercromby restricts the aliment for the body—we—the greedy booksellers and printers must not overwork the willing mind—if the body gets less to do so must the mind—and I am confident were you to proceed with Count Robert with the feeling that it might injure all its predecessors you would get on far less cheerfully of course far less successfully, than if you thought that what you have in hand shall cause no loss but loss of time. Do not I pray you think that you can be idle, altho no new Novel is 〈[?]〉 on the Anvil—there are the Notes of Redgauntlet and All after to Anne of Geierstein inclusive—occasional articles in the Quarterly and other Reviews—Reliquæ Trotcosiensis—Tales of a Grandfather and such light work as will keep your hand fully occupied—and your mind easily occupied—

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    I have not a dread of your having full and constant occupation, I do pray, for many a day to come—but I own I have my fears of your grappling with and annoying yourself with a Work of Fiction in any other way that [for ‘than’] having one complete as a . Upon the great general view it does by no means follow that the great operation of the Waverley Novels is to produce mmoreo money as a book in 50 Volumes than a book in 45 Vols: the additional number may have the appearence of the calculations of the Custom House and the Budget of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, but the returns at the end may show that two and two do not make four—I do beg therefore that no gloom may put on you on this account, it has been said by good & fair judges that any addition to the Novels might impair what are gone before & create the question “how long is this to go on” my reply to this has been the next one or two will be great & make a noble finish—whether & how this finish is best to be brought about remains for mature consideration . . . I had written all that precedes this, when Ballantyne called & showed me your most cheerful letter to him of yesterday, my first inclination was to put the whole of my lucubrations in the fire and recast the same—but when I re-read 〈it〉 mthemo and consider the friendship of your long letter of Sunday, and the confidential candour on the face of it I cannot bring myself to pass it over with a mere allusion to the points which if not touched upon now you might at an afterday msayo I had not met your plain unvarnished exposition with the like frankness—Glad indeed am [I] to see that you are to turn to the Count again—I trust there is nothing in what I have said that will tend to turn you aside from your present resolution— There is one difficulty which the appearance of the Count will remove, that is, getting quit of the announcement—.53

On Saturday 18 December Cadell recorded a visit to Abbotsford by Ballantyne and himself: Jas: Ballantyne and I came to Abbotsford to day with feelings of considerable anxiety how we should find Sir Walter—this anxiety had been considerably increased by the recent correspondence concerning Robert of Paris, and the general gloom apparent in Sir Walter[’s] letters about himself. We met the Baronet at the Grand Entrance, he looked well, he volunteered a walk along the Shrubbery he said he should not venture higher to day—we had not gone far before he said—“well —since it is to be I must lay aside Count Robert but what is to be done with John Gibson & his money for the Novel.” Ballantyne started when Sir Walter spoke in this manner, and regretted the determination he had come to, for a considerable time he continued to talk of the difficulties he had to encounter the number of subjects taken up by others, and that in fact there was no place to put his foot upon—at all events he seemed resolved to lay aside Count Robert in the mean time, during the greater part of this conversation I said

 393 mnot a wordo but allowed Ballantyne and Sir Walter to discuss the Count—after we had gone on a bit however, seeing a favourable opening on his recurring to the point, I said that I had considered the whole subject most maturely and felt convinced that the Novel should be written, he said little to this at first, and brought on the subject of his political article which turned out to be the Property Tax—at which I confess I felt grievously disappointed, we continued this subject for some time as well as general politics, the French Revolution &c—till he broke out and said (he was leaning on my arm at this time) “I fancy I must write this Novel if you will have it so, altho I see some difficulties, but it is very natural in you to propose mtoo me to write it all but woes man I cannot read my own hand” on this I instantly said that Mr Buchanan could aid & that I would most willingly frank him—“aye” he replied to this “that may do by the bye” all the way towards the house we discussed all these points, we adjourned to the Study at it was near 4 oclock & getting dark, we had a long crack in continuation of the same subject till dinner time. He admitted that a amanuensis was a bore to have in the house, but above all in writing a work of Fiction that he sometimes rose and walked about—sometimes walked up his library stair, sometimes took a turn about the house and grounds, when he wanted to pass through his mind the idea that was upon it.” Ballantyne and I both admitted that Mr Buchanan would be a load upon him—the whole tenor of Sir Walters conversation at this time was that the book is to be written, altho’ he feels himself very doubtful of being successful—he mentioned upon this that he felt conscious of the heavy dragging nature of the Chronicles of the Canongate, Anne of Geierstein &c and the necessity there was of having a good close— . . . [Cadell said that the object was to close at 48 or 50 volumes.] . . . Ballantyne & I maintaining that he ought to write, upon this he stated the outline of the Story of Count Robert & on the whole was very cheerful about it; on my starting the difficulty of not going on with the Book and withdrawing the title already announced, he said “that could be easily done by making an apology and saying the author did not like what he had written and withdrew it” I doubted the prudence of this, and stated that the next new Novel after such an announcement would not be well received—after tea we again retired to his study—shortly after we got there he said “I like your plan of the fifty Volumes, if 〈three〉 mfouro Volumes were required to make it these could be so managed as to have the Tale in the first three and the fourth a dialogue or leave taking.54 On Sunday 19th Cadell penned a dark memorandum: ‘I am very gloomy about Sir Walter—Ballantyne is equally so— Ballantyne mthinkso he never will get through Count Robert. I am somewhat less gloomy & think he may, he said more than once to day “I am terrified of becoming like my father—a man done before my days are done”’.55 When Scott resumed his Journal on 21 December, after a three-month break, he

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recorded his own resolution: ‘After all I considerd that [I] might be stupid and yet not strike with a paralsy and that I ought not to throw up the game. It was agreed after long pros and con; it was settled to trie the tale once more and only bring it forward or not as it would be found to succeed.’ He also suspected, on Christmas Eve, a little ‘supercherie’, i.e. deceit, in Ballantyne’s ‘praises of the work I am busy with’, ‘though he protests not’. Two days after Christmas Scott was working on the notes to the Magnum Woodstock rather than pushing ahead with the novel (‘ I have had all my life a longing to do some thing else when I am calld to particular labour—a vile contradictory humour which I cannot get rid of. Well I can work at something so at the Magnum work I.’) Cadell noted in his diary for the same day that he had yet again revised the first sheet of Count Robert.56 Also on 27 December he sent a fulsomely encouraging letter, confirming another potential distraction from the novel by agreeing to take a second series of French Tales of a Grandfather,57 and the next day he again revised Sheet B of the novel.58 Scott embraced the French offer on the 30th: ‘The Second series you shall certainly have if it will cover £200 or £300 at this term which however do not press. I think I will set to work to them unless Robert of Paris comes more readily than just now but I will try him first after the 6th’.59 On 8 January 1831 Scott was ‘eager to get at Robert of Paris’,60 and the following day he was cheered by Ballantyne’s high praise ‘of Anna Comnena in Sheet D’.61 On the 11th the novel was certainly under way again: Scott recorded in his Journal that Laidlaw had begun to act as amanuensis (at 44.28), and he was able to record good progress until the 21st, when the first volume was finished: ‘I have finishd Vol I and and am correcting it carefully I think it might be finishd in february certainly in March’.62 The manuscript makes it clear that the first volume originally concluded with Chapter 12: when it became apparent that Chapter 11 ended at p. 329 and that Volume 1 was full, Chapter 12 was shifted to become the first of the new volume. (In this essay, to avoid confusion, references to the  text employ the sequential numbering for the whole work found in the running heads for the left-hand pages rather than those by volume and chapter number found on the left-hand pages.) On 22 January, according to the Journal, author and amanuensis reached ‘p. 46’. It is often difficult to be certain about such references, but this one may indicate that Laidlaw had continued to number pages sequentially from the point where he began, and that in addition to the final leaves of the original first volume, numbered 1–20, he had now completed a further 26 leaves, or rather more than 50 first-edition pages (say 20  pages). This progress was not however maintained. On 28 January Scott notes in his Journal: ‘I wrote with Laidlaw. It does not work clear, I do [not] know why. The plot is nevertheless a good plot and full of expectation. But there is a cloud over me I think and interruptions are frequent. I creep on however.’ For ten

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days from 31 January Scott was snowbound in Cadell’s house in Edinburgh, where he had gone to see his doctors and make his will, and having to write for himself (‘I wrote a good deal of Count Robert, yet I cannot tell why my pen stammers egregiously and I write horridly incorrcorect’). It was during this Edinburgh visit that Cadell records: ‘Ballantyne had sent this morning for a motto to one of the Volumes of Count Robert of Paris. Sir Walter said I fancy I must fancy one for him, what is attached to this is what he wrote for the occasion—not only   but in proof—two days after when Ballantyne sent for his authority he laughed and said he must just just give James the “Deluge a Poem”.’63 Cadell was meanwhile busy revising sheets of the first volume.64 Back at Abbotsford, Scott recorded in his Journal for 10 February that he ‘set to work with Mr. Laidlaw’, and subsequent entries record good progress, with occasional weak days. On 19 February he wrote: ‘Sent off this morning proofs as far as end of 1s[t] Volume and twenty manuscript pages equal to about a quarter of the second. Is it good or not? I cannot say. I think it betterns as it goes on and so far so good. I am certain I have written worse abomination, as John Ballantyne, poor fellow, used to say.’ This would appear to indicate he sent off a further 20 of Laidlaw’s leaves (say 40 first edition pages), bringing the total for the original second volume to over 90 pages. (The low estimate of ‘a quarter’ here may be because Scott has not added in the transferred chapter.) On 23–25th he notes that a regular pattern of work has emerged: ‘Mr. Laidlaw comes from ten till one. . . . [After dinner] sit till 6 o’clock when enter Mr. Laidlaw again and works commonly till eight; after this work usually alone till half past nine then work till half past nine, sup on porridge and mild and so to bed. The work is half done. If any asks what time I take to think on the composition I might say in one point of view it was seldom five minutes out of my head the whole day. In another light it was never the serious subject of consideration at all for it never occupied my thoughts entirely for five minutes together except when I was dictating to Mr. Laidlaw.’ Cadell, who had expressed concern to Scott earlier in the month that he might be over-working,65 wrote encouragingly to the author on 28 February: ‘Count Robert seems to get on most gallantly It is full of the most joyeous description—and is most interesting—I am in great hopes from the present appearance of the story and the personages’.66 Scott’s Journal shows occasional signs of weariness, most notably on 1–3 March: ‘All these thre[e] days I wrote afternoon and faggd forenoon. Kept up the ball indifferent well but began to tire on the third and suspected that I was flat—a dreary suspicion not easily chase[d] away when once it takes root.’ But by 14 March, after a break to review Robson’s Heraldry,67 he was pressing ahead in excellent spirits: ‘I am driving on the Count of Paris right mer[r]ily. I have plenty of leisure and vive la plume.’ Two days later he recorded in his Journal that he had

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begun the third volume, and he anticipated publication in mid-April.68 Meanwhile Cadell was revising Sheet H of the second volume.69 But on 18 March, as the Journal entry indicates, a further problem presented itself. Laidlaw had increased the size of his handwriting, 70 throwing Scott’s calculations out. He found that he had not yet written enough to fill the second volume: ‘Ballantyne writes me that the copy sent will not exceed 265 pages when the end of vol II is markd so 45 more pages must be furnishd to run it out to pages 329. This is an awful cast back. So the gap is to be made up.’ (The ‘cast back’ was, of course, actually 65 pages, and in fact Scott must have written 70, since in the first surviving proofs Volume 2 ends at page 337.) The next day, 19 March, Cadell encouraged the author: ‘How capitally Count Robert gets on, I feel confident that it will be a hit, and a great hit.’71 Scott responded with a determination to have the new novel ready for publication at the most advantageous moment, given the current political unrest: ‘The publication of Robert (the precise time of publication that is will be of the last consequence which can be conceived The publick will tire of the Reform bill as they tire of every thing and if our little venture has that germ of popularity in it which we are willing to hope the point will be to push it out when the tide is just turning & it may sail most gallantly For this reason I will push on with the 3d volume that we may not miss that which waits for no man.’72 On 5 April Cadell’s diary entry records his revision of the last sheet of Volume 2, probably now in its augmented state.73 Scott’s Journal entry for the same day indicates that (apart from a minor irritant) he was not entirely happy with his plans for the final volume: ‘This fift[h] day of April is the March fair at Selkirk. Almost every one of the family goes there, Mr. Laidlaw among others. I have a hideous paralytick custom of stuttering with my pen and cannot write without strange blunders yet I cannot find any failure in my intelect. Being unable to w[r]ite to purpose with my own hand This forenoon is a sort of holiday to me. The third volume of Count Robert is fairly begun but I fear I shall want stuff to fill it for I would not willingly bombast it with things inappropriate. If [only] I could fix my mind to the task to-day.’ Two days later, on 7 April, Cadell recorded his revision of the first sheet of this final volume.74 The next day Scott is seen taking a positive attitude towards his problem with the conclusion of the novel: ‘ I have been quarrelling with the last copy about a third of vol III I want to write it with more action for that purpose I shall wait till Monday [11 April] I think & conclude the volume next night I return a revise & a proof to J. B.’75 On 9 April he was sent a revise of Sheet C.76 But before it could have arrived a storm had broken which was to derange his completion of the novel. On that same 9 April, Cadell and Ballantyne were visiting Abbotsford. In his memorandum book Cadell later wrote up what had happened:

 397 About this time James Ballantyne asked if I had spoken about Count Robert and Brenhilda, Ballantyne looked surprised when I said No—and entered upon the point, adverting to Brenhilda being enceinte—and that he and I were afraid of the effect of the incident —Sir Walter did not appear to like this very well—and said he had thought well of it—and he did not see how it could be changed this threw Ballantyne and I somewhat aback . . . we resumed the subject of Brenhildas pregnancy, but altho we referred to the sheet which B. had in his pocket we could make no impression on the author . . . he stated that he should send for Laidlaw in the evening & resume the Third Volume of Count Robert, he thought, he said, he would give more stirring incident to the scene, which it rather, he took into his head, wanted—he thought he would conclude with a battle when the celebrated Greek fire might be brought into play . . . the moment Count Robert is done he resumes the French Tales of a Grandfather—namely the “Second Series”.77 For the moment, nothing came of the visitors’ objections, and on 12 April Scott continued to make progress with the final volume, though he noted in his Journal that he feared ‘sinking a little from having too much space to fill and a want of the usual inspiration’: it seems that his intention of the previous week to introduce ‘more action’ was proving difficult to realise. The following day he wrote: ‘At ten o’clock began where I had left off at my romance. Mr Laidlaw agrees as to the portion of what we are presently busy [with’s] worth. Laidlaw begins to smite the rock for not giving forth the water in quantity sufficient. I remarkd to him that this would not profit much. Doing perhaps twelve pages a day will easily finish up us: and if it prove dull why dull it must be.’ The same day he informed Cadell: ‘I am getting on with Count Robert & still expect to be done in a fortnight if the Printer does his duty’.78 On the 15th he was hopeful that a few days might be saved: ‘Count Robert will I think be certainly finishd in a fortnight & I will endeavour to abridge the time to ten days’.79 The Journal entry for 16 April contains the sentence ‘About one hundred leaves will now complete Robert of Paris’: the terms ‘leaf ’ and ‘page’ are at this stage interchangeable, because Laidlaw is using short leaves and a page of his large writing contains little more than a printed page. Scott had evidently reached around page 200 of the final volume in its original form. A third stroke on 17 April put him out of action for a week, and it was not until the 23rd that he was able to send Ballantyne the corrected proofs of sheet G (pages 145–68 of the surviving proofs:  314.9–323.8).80 He wrote a little himself on the 25th and (as he informed Cadell) awaited Laidlaw’s arrival to begin the first of the intended final 100 or so leaves (‘perhaps about 100 or perhaps a little less’).81 The same day he wrote again: ‘I have little doubt Count Robert may appear next week’.82 The next day he observed that ‘James will have all the copy within a very few days which will be about 90 short pages’,83 but progress was slower than he hoped, and on 2 May he noted

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that another ‘Two or three days will finish Court Robert though not so well as I could wish’.84 The objections of Ballantyne and Cadell to the pregnant combat had not gone away; it now turned out that the fight was to be between Brenhilda and the capricious Anna Comnena, which hardly improved matters in their eyes. On 6 May Cadell noted in his diary: ‘Ballantyne called when we had a long talk about the combat at the close of Count Robert—we resolved to write Sir Walter Scott both of us.’85 That day Cadell wrote in these terms: Mr Ballantyne has made an appeal to me to day, as to the incident near to the conclusion of Count Robert, and I cannot but say that I agree with him in every particular. I beg and intreat of you to reconsider what Mr Ballantyne points at; when he and I were at Abbotsford last, you did not yield to the views we then and now entertain as to Brenhilda when she first appears likely to become a mother— But I confess the combat and what follows have cast a gloom over me which I cannot get rid of—it is not much my way to make many apologies for saying what is my honest opinion—and on the present occasion I know you will give me no credit for them were I to deviate from my former course—but I do most earnestly place before you the consequences of a break down with Count Robert— that it will injure all your work to the extent of many thousand pounds cannot be for a moment doubted. But to your inestimable health it will be far more injurious than thousands can restore—It will chagrin and disappoint you of itself, and to this will, as sure as I now write, be added ma great falling off ino the sequel of our present great undertaking— The composition appears to my poor wits, excellent, better you never wrote, but it is the incidents that are damning— I would be mtheo last person living, to put you to any unnecessary trouble, but trouble I know you would say afterwards is nothing compared to the pain of having committed a great fault, or I might call it a great blot—and not be told of it—but the book is so near a close that the trouble would be but slight, very slight—all nearly up to the Combat might do—but I look to certain shipwreck if it remains as it is now is, I am the more posed at mallo this from my anxiety to have the Count as “a trot for the avenue”—this at small labour you can still make it to have—and I do hope you will on this occasion hear your two friendly, but I assure you, honest critics— and hear them with that calmness and that clear perception so eminently your own on all important occasions— I shall say no more but enclose Ballantynes note— I trust you keep stout pray do not let this annoy you—it will all come to good—.86 Scott’s stunned reaction is recorded in his Journal for 6–7 May: Here is a precious job. I have a formal remonstrance from these

 399 critical persons Ballantyne and Cadell remonstrating against the last volume of Count Robert which is within a sheet of being finishd. I suspect their opinion will be found to coincide with that of the publick; at least it is not very different from my own. The blow is a stunning one I suppose for I scarcely feel it. It is singular but it comes with as little surprize as if I had a remedy ready. Yet God knows I am at sea in the dark and the vessell leaky, I think, into the barga[i]n. I cannot conceive that I should have tied a knot with my tongue which my teeth cannot untie. We will see. . . . I will right and left on those unlucky proof sheets and alter at least what I cannot mend. The next day, 8 May, he resolved to ‘fight it out if I can’, and replied to Cadell: I have thought very much on the conclusion of Robert of Paris and no mode of altering it has occurrd as yet It is no doubt very possible to make different which I will see about doing but I have little hope of making it better. Depend upon it I will do all that Doctors & disease permit to please you at the conclusion should I literally die in the harrows of which I have no fear . . . Do not doubt my setting about my alterations with spirit but if they should not answer I will not be engaged to try another arrow in the dark If you have any ideas or hints it will [be] but a cha[r]ity to impart them to impart them for I am tortured with my head outside & the inside requires all the assistance you can give it.87 He replied separately to Ballantyne (whose letter does not seem to have survived) on the 9th, concentrating on practicalities: I entirely dissagree from your criticism. If you had looked into our old friend Addison one of the most scrupulous of writers you would find he settles the debate between the sexes upon the same principle which I have adopted. But as your opinion finds weight in Mr Cadells eyes I can make no hesitation in rewriting the third volume with as much care as I can. I desire to have a Copy of it, for the running Copy has not been regularly supplied) proof sheets & all & stitched together that my task of shuffling them may be lighter as it is very inconvenient that I cannot use my own hand in which case we would not have lost a week. As it is we will get on as fast as possible, but nothing can be done whatever till I have the running Copy. I have that of the two first volumes but of the third I have only received the proof sheets . . . I am in haste & with the good spirits of a horse taken out of the stall to run his stage once again.88 On 12 May, however, Scott (apparently influenced by Lockhart)89 found the business of altering what he had written too wearisome and decided to suspend operations: ‘Resolved to lay by Robert of Paris and take it up when I can work. Thinking on it really makes my head swim and that is not safe.’ Instead he turned to the second series of the French Tales of a Grandfather ‘which will be easier work’.90 The Tales made steady progress, and by 12 June he was into the second volume and as his

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next task ‘preparing for finishing Count Robert’.91 At this stage, Scott decided to put into practice a project mentioned nearly six months earlier, in his letter of 12 December 1830 to Cadell, to whom he now wrote on 3 July: I have put on the stocks a tale of arms love antiquities battle & so forth calld Castle Dangerous and the first volumes is ready for press I think as I have got through the worst part of the labour I will finish the whole at the rate of fifteen or twenty pages for six days a week & keep the other thinghs afloat at the same time When you come here I will mtell you of them,o An attempt of this kind if it succeed at all must succeed greatlym,o & the only effct will be passion and the time requires that when we dash at such a time [‘dash’ and ‘time’ are uncertain]m,o we should do our best It is not my intention mto printo it 〈to〉 mwitho J. B. as it may be convenient to print elsewhere mifo in casem,o we should wish to be private at firstm,o I will talk to you about my plan when I see youm,o for which I am sufficiently eager and will shew you that I have thoughmto on Count Parism,o but I fear it will always be like〈r〉 mended china than wholem;o However it must not be lost and I only wish to start with some thing on whih I have bestowd the pains which I am now taking . . . Freind Laidlaw writes with great industry and I hope you will have a 〈cop〉 complete article before we almost go to press I do not know if you will understand all this but the 〈upshort〉 upshot is to bring out a new novel as soon as we can of [‘of ’ perhaps changed from ‘if’] [the] whole two volumes will be done by 〈June〉 mJulyo one being complete in manner fore said by this 1st. of that month.92 Three days later on 6 July Cadell, visiting Abbotsford, found that Scott had already written about 120 printed pages worth of the new novel. He offered £1200 for the work, and Scott accepted.93 On 15 July Scott was still talking of Count Robert being ‘out in a month’,94 but by the 29th he suggested to Cadell that Castle Dangerous ought to appear first.95 Laidlaw told Cadell on 9 August that Scott had not touched Count Robert since the criticisms of the combat by Ballantyne and Cadell, and that the state of affairs generally was worrying: ‘[I] had another short talk with Laidlaw—who told me that the morning after I came [Friday 5 August] Sir Walter could not get on with Castle Dangerous his ideas get confused—& he has since then laid it aside—of the Tales of a Grandfather (French) Second Series—there is about two Volumes done—and as to Count Robert he had not touched it since I condemned the third Volume—so that here are three unfinished works’.96 A minor irritation presented itself late in August. In a letter to Cadell of the 25th, Scott noted the appearance of a long extract from Count Robert in the Athenæum.97 The passage, which appeared in the issue for 20 August 1831, extends from 6.22 (‘This lecture’) to 47.24 (‘obliv-

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ion.’). It had been copied from the Philadelphia National Gazette and Literary Register for 2 July, which was drawing on late proofs without cancels (see 412 below).98 Cadell responded to Scott on the 27th: ‘The extract most fortunately is a good one—however teazing the mode by which it got out.’99 By the end of August Castle Dangerous was nearly finished,100 and Cadell was urging Scott to turn his attention again to the completion of Count Robert: It will not do to be faint-hearted about this worthy Knight. the title is good—the public have long had it before them—the pillaged extract is fortunately a very happy bit—and will create an interest for the whole—I have throughout looked upon the whole nearly of the two first Volumes as good—the blot, as it humbly appears to me of the latter part is, the amazon getting enceinte—it is bold of me to say so, but this is the fault—The balance of the work after the introduction of this incident is rather more than a Volume—but it is almost all in print or in proof, and I think that one short week of your uncommon industry would castrate all this bairn affair and bring the randy wife to the battle field sword in hand to meet all comers.101 Scott answered on 1 September, saying he had ‘doubts of Count Robert’ but would ‘set to work without loss of time’, though he might decide to throw it ‘over board’.102 The next day, Cadell suggested a change of publication plan: I write now to place before you a suggestion—and it is to bring out Count Robert before Castle Dangerous—I am led to this First—By the piracy, and the incessant demand this created for the book—I am assailed at all hands for it—Mr Whittaker writes me that the short extract will do good if the book follows soon— Second—It has been so long announced that it will not be so easy to give a good reason for keeping it back—the Dangerous Castle no one knows of and we may keep it as long as we like— On the whole I would say that it is more prudent to sail the Count into the market in October or in November and the Castle in February or March—I confess too I have a leaning to this from your late letters speaking less cheerily of the Castle— . . . If before you go you do not see the whole of Count Robert in proof the utmost care will be observed before it goes mto presso over and above Mr Lockharts revisal—.103 The reference in the last paragraph is to Scott’s impending voyage to the Mediterranean in what turned out to be a vain quest for improved health. Scott replied to Cadell on 2 September that he would within a couple of days let him have ‘Robert . . . alterd as I best can’,104 but it is not clear that he did this immediately. His mind, it seems, was sometimes confused: visiting Abbotsford on 5 September, Cadell was distressed to find that he imagined he was working on Count Robert when he was in fact engaged with Castle Dangerous.105 Four days later, Cadell sent running copy of Count Robert so that Scott could adjust the ending.106

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On 8 September Scott wrote to Cadell: ‘I send you the Byzantyne historians excepting one volume being the History of Anna Comnena I 〈also〉 need to copy one or two passages from it. I will anxiously expect the running copy of the Dangerous & 〈you〉 Robert.’107 He was obviously working on the closing pages of the novel with their quotations from the historian, translated from the French of Cousin. The next day Cadell sent the running copy with the passages he considered objectionable marked up (whether in response to changes suggested by Scott, as in his letter of 2 September, or as a catalyst to such changes is not clear): I have the pleasure of yours with copy for Castle Dangerous—but I am doubtful of two Volumes being made out of it—the   received for Vol II will make but 170 pages of Print. or half a Volume— C  R     Agreeably to your wish I now send running copy of this— I have already alluded to what appeared last spring to be the blemish of the work—namely Brenhilda not being an Amazon to the close— In order to save you all the trouble I can, I have marked the first mention of her being enceinte, as well as all allusions to it afterwards, including of course the frequent mention of Vexhelia the Dr. Hamilton of the piece— If some other reason could be given for Brenhilda not being able to fight it would savour the dish much very much—and with all the proofs and sheets before myouo it will not I trust cost you much trouble—I assure you it is of vast importance to all your works—nay more, it will show the loons that the lion still liveth. never mind cancels—I do not grudge them—It is a pity that Hereward & Count Robert fight at all—Hereward is almost lost in Vol III—I mention these points in consequence of their occurring on going over the book just now—.108 A list prepared by Cadell of the offending passages, which was presumably sent with this letter, has also survived.109 On 11 September Scott wrote to Cadell: ‘I have no doubt I shall in the course of 2 or 3 days make up the alteration of Count Robert to the necessary length Of course you will take care no body sees the cancelld 〈cop〉 sheets I will not space them but I wish to make them as 〈fear〉 few cancels as possible I would not like them to find their way out of doors In general I do not approve of criticism’.110 As it turned out, Scott’s changes were a good deal less than Cadell had hoped for. On 12 September Laidlaw wrote to Cadell at Scott’s dictation: ‘I send you copy to fill up the last part of vol II [i.e. III] & think I can manage the two preceding vols. without any cancel or with very little for I do not think the incident itself so objectionable as the laying great weight upon it which I have no question of being able to avoid.’111 The next day Scott himself wrote: ‘I send you the 3d volume corrected but wanting about two sheets I cannot correct Vexhelia so permanently

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as you seem to think necessary but it must take its chance and after all I cannot submit out & out to objections which I do not see the force of I will take my chance & you can hardly expect me to do more I have no doubt that correcting the proofs all will do pretty well [new paragraph] for this I must trust to you.’112 Cadell’s diary entry for 13 September makes his disappointment clear: ‘packet from Sir Walter with changes on Count Robert not at all to my mind’,113 but in his letter of that day to Scott he confined himself to a practical matter: I have received all your notes, as well as Count Robert with additions—I write this to say that I think I can save you good 24 Pages in this change— Volume Second is already full or 337 Pages—but you add 24 pages to it by taking the First sheet from Vol Third—probably you do really mean this to suit the story—but as Vol: Third is already set up to 255 Pages and appears nearly at the close of the story—you may require these 24 pages to help it—my advice therefore would be not to add any more to Volume Second—but let the first Sheet of Volume mThirdo stand, cancelling the Page 24 as marked by you—.114 The ‘additions’ to Count Robert were presumably the two intended Manichean passages: in the first Alexius enlists the help of the Manicheans, and in the second they are anticlimactically dispersed after the uprising has been averted (see Appendix to the Text). The evidence of the proofs is not entirely clear, but it seems that Scott envisaged the first two chapters of Volume 3 (Chapters 24 and 25) as moving back into Volume 2. He cancelled the original p. 24 (beginning Chapter 3 of the volume, or Chapter 26 in the  sequential numbering), and noted on his proof of the original Volume 3 half-title: ‘End of Vol. II Go on & take in 21 pages of manuscript’.115 The ‘21 pages’ would be the first Manichean passage (ff. 120r–140r of the Canterbury manuscript). Originally, this had been intended to follow Chapters 24 and 25 as a third chapter in Volume 3: the 21 pages are boldly headed in Laidlaw’s hand ‘Count Robert of Paris vol III Page 23 Cancel the printed page & proceed as follows’, and the incomplete surviving proof of the first Manichean passage is eight leaves of sheet B of the third volume (pp. 25–40). But (unless he made a mistake) Scott seems to have considered pushing this first Manichean passage back into the second volume, along with Chapters 24 and 25. Laidlaw’s heading has been deleted, probably by Scott, and he has endorsed the verso of the final leaf (f. 140v) ‘End of Vol II’. (The half-title endorsement mentioned is unfortunately ambiguous.) It seems likely that the wholesale transfer of Chapters 24 and 25 along with the first Manichean passage did not take place, but when (after Scott’s involvement had ceased) Lockhart and Cadell pruned Volume 2 drastically, Chapters 24 and 25 were after all moved back into that volume and combined as a single chapter. The first Manichean

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passage was abandoned (it is not clear exactly when, or by whose decree), and the second was apparently never put into type. On 14 September Laidlaw wrote to Cadell at Scott’s dictation: ‘I send you the conclusion of Count Robert which I cannot help thinking has as good a chance as its neighbours; but I find it impossible to work any more at it [new paragraph] I have considered this as well as I can & I do not think that I have the least chance of mending it any more than I have by taking thought of adding one inch to my stature.’116 The same day Scott himself sent corrected proofs: ‘I inclose another sheet you will easily see where it comes in the one wh[i]ch follow was sent you yesterday On reading it attentively I think our friend James Ballantyne is absurdly close lace & will stand to the issue but I do not by any means wish you to do so.’117 An important development took place on 16 September, as Cadell records in his memorandum book: . . . had a long conversation [with Lockhart] about Sir Walter, Count Robert & Castle Dangerous—Mr L. made a most excellent suggestion as to these two—on my expressing my fears as to Castle D. ever appearing after Count Robert with any kind of success he suggested making them into a Tales of my Landlord, and getting Sir Walter to write a short Jedediah Cleishbotham Introduction for them—I liked this idea much, the more as Castle Dangerous is only a Volume and a half. . . . I . . . hinted [to Scott] at making Count Robert & Castle Dangerous into four Volumes as a Series of Tales of My Landlord if he would give me a Jedediah Cleishbotham Introduction—he replied “I have no objections to this but am not in the vein for such an Introduction . . . he . . . showed me a kind of 〈Introduction〉 Conclusion to Castle Dangerous, he seemed damped on my stating that it would suit better as a note to the reprint for the New Edition.118 Lockhart’s suggestion was duly adopted, providing a neat solution to the publishers’ conundrum. On 20 September Laidlaw wrote to Cadell sending ‘the Proof of the conclusion to Count Robert’ and requesting a revise.119 Three days later Cadell’s memorandum book notes that Scott would provide a Jedidiah introduction to the now agreed four-volume Tales of My Landlord (Fourth and Last Series) when he arrived in London on his way to join the warship which was to carry him to Malta. He also records: ‘I had a short confab with Lockhart about Count Robert & Castle Dangerous—which we agreed that I should send to him in London after Sir Walter had left for Portsmouth’.120 It is clear that Lockhart and Cadell had it in mind to effect radical revisions once the author was out of the country. Scott reached London on 28 September, and there he wrote his Jedidiah introduction, which is discussed and printed as an Appendix to the Text in the  edition of Castle Dangerous.121 Scott sailed from Portsmouth on 29 October, and the drastic revisions by Cadell and Lockhart now went ahead. The day before the author’s

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departure Cadell had written to John Gibson, entirely misleadingly: ‘Sir Walter has made such changes on Count Robert as to render necessary the cancelling of a considerable part of Vols II and III as well as part of vol 1. the whole of these changes are now undergoing Mr Lockhart’s revisal.’122 Lockhart lost no time: his changes to Count Robert arrived on 4 November, and on 5 November the setting of the revised text was set in motion.123 On 22 November, Cadell wrote to the metropolitan booksellers Whittakers with a copy of the four-volume publication for use in soliciting subscriptions, though ‘some of the sheets are proofs only—the whole, indeed, is only at press this evening . . . 4,000 go p[er] Steam on Saturday. I think they will reach you on Tuesday—’.124 On the 26th the 4000 copies were sent off (being the normal proportion for sale in London of the 5000 print run originally envisaged),125 and on 2 December Cadell was able to write to Scott in Malta that ‘Count Robert & the Dangerous Castle are out’.126 The official publication date in Edinburgh and London was 1 December 1831.127 3.     For Count Robert there survive a fragmentary manuscript and from one to three batches of proofs for the different sections of the novel (including material not used in the first edition), to which can be added evidence of a late proof stage of certain parts of the novel—evidence deriving from American and French editions of the novel, limited parts of which were set up from late proof sheets.128 There is the first edition, and there are the Magnum (1833) and three formats of Tales and Romances (also 1833). In the remainder of this essay the material is presented as follows. First, there is a description of the manuscript. Then, the novel is discussed sequentially in a number of sections as described below: for each section there is a description of progression from the manuscript (where it survives) through proof stages to the first edition, and thence to the present text. The division into sections is necessary because the surviving materials for each section are different. For convenience, the discussion of the later editions (the Magnum and the three formats of Tales and Romances) is reserved for the fourth part of the essay, and in the final fifth part there is an overview of the procedures adopted in arriving at the present text and a characterisation of that text. It should be noted that the earliest complete and extant version of the novel is the first edition, but that departs so radically from what Scott had written or dictated (as seen in those parts of the manuscript to have survived, and those surviving proofs derived directly from the manuscript), that it is essential all remaining proof materials are sequentially ordered, so that the progressive departures from the original text can be determined.

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The Manuscript. The fragmentary manuscript of Count Robert of Paris is in the Hugh Walpole Collection at the King’s School, Canterbury (the footnote gives the editorial foliation used in this essay).129 It has 140 leaves and is mostly in the hand of William Laidlaw, but a few passages are in Scott’s own hand. Laidlaw averages some 400 words per leaf, but in the surviving fragments for Volume 3 his writing is larger, and there are only 300 words. Scott has about 530 words per leaf. Both Laidlaw and Scott write on the rectos, leaving the facing versos blank for insertions. The main surviving portion of the narrative corresponds to 39.42 (‘upon such occasions’) to 131.38, that is, to the end of the original first volume now restored in the  , and from 286.30 (‘regulate the pitch’) to 295.6 (‘his restored eyesight’). The following five passages are in Scott’s hand: 39.42 (‘upon such occasions’) to 44.28 (‘Still’) where Laidlaw assumed his role of amanuensis for the first time (see 394 above); 66.6 (‘“Knew’) to 66.20 (‘has escaped 〈its terrors But〉’); 83.13 (‘In commending’) to 83.32 (‘Long live the 〈King〉’); 104.24 (‘Others retaind’) to 114.29 (‘such parts of the person’); and 289.11 (‘These most agreeable operations’) to 289.39 (‘tranquility’). From time to time Laidlaw was temporarily unavailable, for a few minutes, or for a day or more, and it is to be presumed that on some of those occasions Scott decided to continue by himself. On the third of the occasions listed above Scott went through the brief passage on Laidlaw’s return, and the amanuensis made corrections to what Scott had written. The fourth and longest passage in Scott’s hand has two discontinuities. The action is continuous from f. 72r to f. 73r (106.32), but the grammatical link is imperfect (see the entry in the Emendation List): it is significant that with f. 73 Scott moves to a new set of numbers, and to longer leaves. The second leaf of the new sequence (f. 74r) is less than a third full, but the third leaf seems to continue without a break in the sense. The sixth leaf (a slip bound as f. 70, but properly following f. 77) has only eleven lines: these end Chapter 9 (112.13), and it is possible that they were indeed intended to end a chapter. Scott begins a new chapter with f. 78r, but his background information on Brenhilda and Count Robert is syntactically incomplete at the end of f. 79r: the following leaf (beginning a new sequence) appears to be where Laidlaw resumed, with an abrupt return to the narrative (114.29–31: see the entry in the Emendation List). It may be that the background information was completed on a leaf which has not survived, but it is also likely that Scott broke off on Laidlaw’s return and forgot, as he began to dictate, that he needed a concluding passage which would ease the transition back to the narrative mode. Scott did not generally correct or revise what Laidlaw had written, though at several points he did so, and on a number of occasions he evidently asked Laidlaw to read the narrative back to him and to incorporate corrections and additions, mostly very small, and usually

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inserted on the facing verso. Both correction and enhancement can be observed at 54.36–43: An hour had elapsed during [which] we heard from time to time mthe noise of battleo when a Varangian presented himself at the side of the Emperors litter. The horse was covered with foam & 〈the cavallier with blood〉 mhad obviously from his trappings the fineness of his limbs & the smallness of his joints been the charger of some chief of the desart which had fallen by the chance of battle into possession of the northern warrioro. The broad axe which 〈he〉 mthe Varangiano bore was also stained with blood . . . . Longer passages inserted by Laidlaw on the versos are the introduction of the Nubian slaves at 80.24–33, and the imprisonment and release of Hugh of Vermandois at 101.30–102.2; he also uses a separate leaf for an insertion elaborating on the description of Agelastes’s saloon at 129.34–130.27. The passages in Scott’s own hand are largely coherent, but they show abundant evidence of his failing health. At times his writing is painfully crabbed and irregular. Words are often malformed, most frequently with a superfluous minim inserted. The indicative punctuational system employed in the earlier novels (to guide the compositor, or perhaps the copyist, in applying the normal conventions for public consumption) is not generally in operation. There are more full stops and fewer dashes separating sentences than formerly: this may be because Scott was mindful that his own manuscript rather than a copy was to go to the printer, but the application of the punctuation is very haphazard. Words are often omitted, or repeated; the wrong words are sometimes written, though it is often possible to tell what was intended, and sometimes Scott himself corrects his mistake. The grammar is frequently defective, and the phrasing can be awkward beyond what is justified by the clear attempt to suggest Greek circumlocution. Very occasionally it is difficult to see what Scott had in mind in a faulty passage. An example occurs at 83.25, where the first-edition and  texts read: ‘. . . whatever Christian goes to war for their recovery, must go as our subject, and hold any conquest which he may make, as our vassal. Vice and virtue, sense and folly, ambition and disinterested devotion, will alike recommend to the survivors of these singular-minded men, to become the feudatories of the empire . . .’. The manuscript version of the junction of the two sentences has additional material: ‘. . . vassal 〈or if he conquers and holds〉 〈such such possession〉 〈he must retain possession of it 〈〈if〉〉 as his conquest as a tenant and vassal of ours〉 Upon the most wayward I hope to impose this belief and my sage counsellors let men consider who shall have had the real interest in the consequences of the crusade—〈now so 〉 mand theo dangerous 〈achievements〉 crew who pursue it. unless I 〈grealtly〉 greatly err vice . . .’. If this were to be incorporated in a printed

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text it would probably result in something like this: ‘. . . Upon the most wayward I hope to impose this belief, and, my sage counsellors, let men consider who shall have had the real interest in the consequences of the crusades, and the dangerous crew who pursue it. Unless I greatly err, vice . . .’. This almost makes sense, but the intermediaries were probably wise to prune rather than to second-guess Scott. Laidlaw’s handwriting is, of course, largely free from malformations of individual words (though it is often impossible to decide whether initial letters are upper or lower case), and his punctuation, though sparse, is closer to that which appears in print: the normal marks separate sentences, but there is little internal pointing. Confused constructions are found in Laidlaw’s hand as well as in Scott’s, though they are less frequent. It is highly probable that Scott dictating was less liable to confusion than Scott writing, and it is possible that Laidlaw sometimes put obvious errors right as he wrote. A rare plotting error (though a minor one) occurred on Laidlaw’s watch. At 287.35 the first edition and the  read: ‘Behind him . . . came Douban, the slave well skilled in medicine. [new paragraph] “Welcome . . .’. The junction of the sentences runs in manuscript: ‘. . . in medecine whom Anna Comnena had dispatched to her fathers assistance. [new paragraph] “Fool!” said Alexius Could she not have sent an able bodied & courageous man instead of one who far from assisting me to carry another is scarcely able to transport himself. Welcome . . .’. Scott had forgotten that, not long before, Alexius actually asked Anna to send Douban (277.9). In addition to the surviving parts of the main narrative there are several leaves, in Laidlaw’s hand, containing three separate passages for the third volume which do not appear in the first edition. The first and third of these (bound in reverse order as ff. 120r–140r and ff. 115r–118v) introduce and dispose of Alexius’s enlisting of the Manicheans; the second (f. 119r–v) shows Anna agreeing with her father in advance that a contest of wits should replace the physical duel. These are discussed and printed in the Appendix to the Text. Apart from Anna’s agreement and the later Manichean passage, the surviving portions of the manuscript were used by the printer: they have occasional page numbers and indications of divisions of labour, and several leaves have been cut in two horizontally to facilitate their allocation to compositors. In the surviving portions of the manuscript there are only two chapter mottoes (for Chapters 7 and 29). The rest were presumably provided at proof stage, though in the first edition seven chapters remain without mottoes. From the Manuscript, Proofs, and First Edition (Ed1) to the Present Text. In Count Robert of Paris (and Castle Dangerous) the editor is confronted with certain important features unique in the

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Waverley Novels. These features have necessitated modifications to the procedures adopted in the other  volumes. Count Robert was as we have seen mostly dictated to William Laidlaw. Where it survives the manuscript is broadly coherent, but locally it is often faulty or clumsy in expression. It is clear from the surviving proofs that Robert Cadell (and his wife) and Lockhart not only corrected obvious errors and clumsinesses of expression but introduced extensive local improvements, as they considered them. Scott himself corrected proofs at various stages, but his corrections were sometimes faulty. Finally, after Scott had left Britain Cadell and Lockhart radically recast parts of the second and third volumes. As a final complication, Scott made some corrections in Naples to the novel in the edition by Galignani of Paris, but no direct record of these has survived. The aim of the present edition is to recover as much of Scott’s work as is feasible. In accordance with the overall  textual policy the first edition has been used as the base-text for the present edition except for the Conclusion and the passages included in the Appendix to the Text, though for certain extended passages now restored the text is derived from proofs (see 429 below). The base-text has, however, been extensively emended. Necessary corrections of error and faulty expression are always accepted, but manuscript readings or (in the absence of the manuscript) early proof readings that are coherent are preferred to firstedition readings, except where the latter are known to be Scott’s, or judged to involve the sort of creative input that usually characterise his corrections other than those that are merely mechanical. Whereas the normal  policy has been to avoid adopting part of a proof correction and rejecting the rest, it is often the case in Count Robert that a correction by Cadell or Lockhart is partly necessary, partly not: in such cases the  emendation will be restricted to the necessary (or the highly desirable). As with all the  texts, to a greater or lesser extent, the incompleteness of the surviving evidence means that some corrections made by Scott will be rejected, but the resulting text of Count Robert will contain much more of Scott, and much less of his enthusiastic intermediaries, than those hitherto available. Specific examples of emendations are introduced as appropriate in the following analysis of the manuscript and proof material surviving for the different parts of the novel, and fuller illustrations of the types of emendation can be found in the overview of the present text at 425–31. The proofs of Count Robert are found chiefly in  3776 and 3777, and in  23140, in the National Library of Scotland. They are of different stages, and mostly fragmentary. They are not bound in order, and sometimes different stages are bound as though they were one stage. Any description of these proofs will necessarily be complex. In the following analysis the novel is divided editorially into sections, numbered in roman capitals, a new section beginning when there is a major change

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in the sets of proofs surviving (or in the case of Section III where the surviving manuscript begins). The heading for each section gives the appropriate  reference. Within each section, each batch is given an identifying letter, or letter and number. The library foliation is followed by the proof page and line numbers, the corresponding first-edition numbers when these differ from the proofs, and the  numbers when these differ from those given at the head of the section. There follows an indication of the relationship of the batch to its predecessor and successor, where these survive, so as to indicate the continuity of sets of proofs. These sets will normally be of proofs of a single stage of the text, but sometimes, as indicated in the descriptions (e.g. with Lockhart’s set), there was evidently some mixing of batches of different stages. The first surviving state of the text is called ‘A’, the next ‘B’, the third ‘C’. Parallel batches of proofs with the same print but different handwritten corrections (or occasionally no corrections) are identified as ‘A1’, ‘A2’ etc. It should be noted that a set of proofs extending over more than one section is very likely to change its identifying tag as its status shifts depending on the other batches surviving for the new section. Although the surviving proofs are fragmentary, they do include a nearly complete run of those sent by Cadell to Lockhart for his correction after Scott’s departure for Malta. Lockhart makes only very minor corrections up to the end of Chapter 31, probably while reading himself into the novel in preparation for his reworking of the last third, and only the most urgent of these were adopted in cancels or the errata lists. Thereafter, in addition to Lockhart’s major corrections (principally, to excise the Brenhilda-Anna combat and Alexius’s plan to make Hereward his son-in-law, and to tone down the portrayal of Osmund) the first edition shows the input of in-house intermediaries making mostly non-verbal corrections, one per first-edition page on average. The proofs seen by Lockhart had generally been very lightly corrected by Scott, but Scott’s main proof correction must have been done at an earlier proof stage: unfortunately, only one section of his full proof correction work survives, beginning with the unpublished account of the Brenhilda-Anna combat (Section X). Similarly, only one section survives of Cadell in full correction mode (Section I). Both Scott and Cadell average some three corrections per first-edition page, but it is impossible to say whether this is typical of their input (in Castle Dangerous, where many more of the proof stages have survived, Cadell’s input in the earlier stages varies widely, while Scott has from just over one correction per first-edition page to 2.3). Section I: 3.1–21.31 (‘struck the Greek’). For this section there are two extant sets of proofs representing two stages in the development of the text. I:A] M S 3777, ff. 3r–14v, 52r–63v (proof 1.3.1–48.24; Ed1 1.3.1–

   

411

49.1: no successor). This first stage has extensive corrections by Cadell; some of the smaller corrections are probably by Ballantyne, and from f. 57v (16.20) there are only a very few small corrections which are probably also Ballantyne’s. At the beginning of the second gathering (f. 52r–v) Cadell’s work has been preceded by some marking of repetitions and a suggested correction, all in pencil, by his wife Anne. In all Cadell made some 135 corrections, of which over 50 seem to have been aimed at clarifying the print; over 25 are general stylistic changes; 15 eliminate verbal repetition; 13 substitute a single word thought to be an improvement; 8 are grammatical corrections; and 6 eliminate tautologies. This version must be subsequent to an earlier stage involving changes by Scott including the elimination of difficult names such as ‘Pleuxippus’ —but no significant pruning of the long exchange between Hereward and Achilles (see 386–88 above)—and perhaps also more radical changes. I:B] M S 3776, ff. 4r–26v (proof and Ed1 1.3.1–48.25; E E W N 3.1–21.30 (‘and while he’)): continues as II:A. The print of this second batch is identical with that of the first edition. It incorporates most of Cadell’s changes made in I:A (but 16 of them were not taken up, especially from proof 1.30–35 (14.4–16.20). It has a further 340 or so differences from the print of I:A (an average of 7 per first-edition page), indicating at least one lost intermediate version. It is very likely that Scott was involved at this intermediate stage. At this late point in his career, his corrections are less distinctive than they had been some years before, and the intermediaries are much more interventionist. But at 10.9 the change in Hereward’s age from ‘five-and-twenty’ to ‘two-andtwenty’ seems almost certain to be his, and there are other changes in the sense which might also point to his involvement. Some 80 of the 340 changes made at this intermediate stage involve punctuation or spelling (notably the insertion of 18 commas and the deletion of 14). The verbal changes include some 90 clarifications, some 50 general stylistic changes, some 35 eliminations of verbal repetition and the same number of changes to the sense; some 20 replacements of single words; and 13 changes to names. This batch has two Scott changes in ink and 13 changes by Lockhart in pencil, none of them extensive; none of the corrections in this version appears in the first edition. The present edition takes the first edition as its base-text for this section, in accordance with the normal  procedures, emending when a proof change (whether known to be by Cadell or unattributed) appears unnecessary or deleterious. Just half of Cadell’s 135–odd corrections have been rejected, resulting in emendations to the base-text: principally 29 clarifications judged unnecessary, 16 general stylistic changes, and 6 replacements of individual words. Six of Cadell’s corrections not adopted for the first edition have been accepted. Of the 340–odd changes between I:A and I:B, rather more than half have

412

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been rejected: principally, some 60 clarifications and 40 general stylistic changes, some 12 replacements of individual words, 9 changes in the sense, and 6 eliminations of repetitions. For the  , one of Scott’s two changes in I:B has been adopted (the avoidance of a repetition at 9.29); the other (which actually leads to a repetition) has not. Five of Lockhart’s corrections have been adopted: three eliminating repetition (10.8, 11.32, and 13.32), one a clear grammatical correction (10.43), and one the deletion of a curious adjective in ‘that 〈tropical〉 region’ (17.2). Section II: 21.30 (‘thus parried’) to 39.42 (‘as was usual’). Only one batch of late proofs survives for this section. II:A] M S 3776, ff. 27r–50r (proof and Ed1 1.49.1–95.18): I:B ctd; continues as III:A. The print is that of the first edition, except for a cancel at proof and Ed1 91–92 (38.7–40), and there are six pencil corrections by Lockhart. Two of these changes (38.31 ‘that sect’ for ‘the stoic’, and 38.40 ‘Elephans’—a misreading of ‘Elephas’—for ‘Elephantos’) were taken into the first edition by means of the cancel. (The variants introduced in the cancels in the first edition of this novel—which also changed the proof ‘sate’ to ‘sat’ at 38.15—do not appear in the American editions or in that published by Galignani in Paris and read by Scott in Naples: see 423 below.) Lockhart also noted, with reference to the ‘Caliph, (who could neither read nor write,)’ at 38.5: ‘There were no such Caliphs’. For the  text of this section, three of Lockhart’s corrections are deemed unnecessary, but one elimination of a repetition is adopted. In addition, ‘Violanto’ has been corrected editorially to ‘Violante’ (38.6), and the proof ‘sate’ noted above has been preferred to the first edition’s ‘sat’ (38.15). Section III: 39.42 (‘upon such occasions’) to 103.40 (‘number of soldiers.’). For this section there survive the manuscript (in Scott’s hand to 44.28, thereafter mostly in Laidlaw’s) and a late proof. III:A] M S 3776, ff. 50r–134v (proof and Ed1 1.95.18–264.23): II:A ctd; IV:A appears to run on, but it is an earlier stage. The print is that of the first edition except for a cancel at 97–98, to accommodate Cadell’s change, prompted by Lockhart, from ‘always’ to ‘occasionally’ at 40.31 (the pre-cancel reading survives in the American and Galignani editions); at 41.6 a dash and closing quotation marks have been reversed in the first edition in the course of re-setting for the cancel. The proof has 16 further pencil corrections by Lockhart, some of them marginal marks, mostly small corrections such as 6 eliminations of repetitions: these were not adopted in the first edition. Two Lockhart changes (‘Gallaphron’ for ‘Gallaplune’ at 79.27, and ‘precision’ for ‘position’ at 96.5) were included in the errata list for the volume (the uncorrected readings survive in the Galignani edition). III:A also has one unadopted

   

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clarification in Scott’s hand (57.5). In the first part of the section (from 39.42 to 44.28) there are just under 100 significant changes between Scott’s manuscript and the first edition (there are also changes, much more numerous, of the sort always involved in converting Scott’s manuscript into print, such as the supplying of punctuation). The principal categories of change are: some 20 stylistic changes; 15 clarifications; 10 changes of individual words; 10 changes of the sense; and 8 fillings of lacunae or tidyings of confusion. In addition many minor confusions in Scott’s manuscript have been sorted. Compared with the manuscript for the second part of the section (from 44.28 to 103.40), which is mostly in Laidlaw’s hand, there are over 900 significant changes (roughly half the frequency compared with the Scott part). The principal categories are: some 280 clarifications; 140 general stylistic changes; 116 eliminations of repetitions; 84 changes of single words, and a further 20 changes of small words; 50 grammatical corrections; 30 additions of detail, and a similar number of changes in the sense; 23 changes in the form of words; 17 corrections of clear error; 16 additions of speech attributions; 12 eliminations of tautologies; and 11 fillings of lacunae. As in Section II, it is likely that Scott was involved at a proof stage between manuscript and the surviving proof: almost certainly he inserted the motto and first paragraph of Chapter 9. For the  over 400 emendations have been made to the firstedition base-text of this section (rejecting nearly half of the changes described above), almost all of them involving a return to the manuscript in cases where it has seemed probable that changes were made by intermediaries rather than by Scott in the missing proof stages. Some 165 emendations involve rejecting clarifications that seem unnecessary and pedestrian rather than helpful. Some 110 general stylistic changes are rejected, mostly as being pointless, in addition to 8 changes of word order, and the same goes for some 80 of the changes of individual words. The manuscript forms of words have been preferred on 25 occasions. Pedantic grammatical changes have been rejected (some 18). Changes in the sense are usually accepted, as likely to be authorial: the exceptions are where the shift (whether authorial or resulting from intermediary activity) is out of touch with the manuscript, for instance losing a nuance (64.19), or resulting in a repetition (45.40). Eliminations of repetitions are also accepted, unless there is rhetorical repetition (on some 18 occasions). Scott’s unique clarification at 57.5 noted above has been incorporated, and so have Lockhart’s six eliminations of repetitions. Section IV: 103.41 (‘Far on the right’) to 128.8 (‘overhung the cataract.’). For this section (from signature M) there survive the manuscript (in Scott’s hand to 114.29, thereafter mostly in Laidlaw’s) and one batch of proofs. IV:A] M S 3776, ff. 135r–167r (proof and Ed1 1.265.1–end): appears

414

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to run on from III:A, and probably concludes Lockhart’s set of Volume 1, but IV:A is an earlier stage of the text (Lockhart’s set for Volume 2 begins with a late text, V:A1); no successor. This proof has no corrections, apart from vertical pencil marks in the margin on ff. 149r (114.26–31), 156r (119.41–120.6), and 159r (122.20–23), all descriptions of women, but the print exhibits many differences from the first edition: it would appear to represent an earlier proof version than the three batches (I:B, II:A, and III:A) constituting  3776 up to this point, in that there must have been a further major proof stage before the first edition. It must also be a later stage than the proofs corrected by Cadell (Section I:A) in  3777, since it has half the density of differences from the first edition found in I:A, even when Cadell’s corrections are included as part of the print of I:A. The batch of proofs used by Lockhart for this section has, uniquely, not survived. Evidence of a later stage of proofs for this batch can be found in three foreign editions. The edition of the novel published at Paris by Baudry, dated 1831, though mostly identical verbally with the first edition, preserves one proof reading suggesting that a late proof sheet had been included in its set: at 124.1–2, for the first edition’s ‘hermitage, where’ it has ‘hermitage, a place that is, of retirement, where’: proof IV:A has ‘hermitage, that is, a place of retirement, where’. The Galignani edition has the proof ‘some other Epicurean philosopher’ for the first edition’s ‘some Epicurean philosopher’ at 127.39. The American editions have the proof ‘assurances’ for the first edition’s ‘assurance’ at 108.37. Between the manuscript of the first part of this section (mostly in Scott’s hand) and the surviving proof print there are some 250 noteworthy changes, apart from the usual numerous punctuations and other tidyings. The most common types of change are: some 60 clarifications; some 45 sortings of confusions and lacunae in the manuscript; 30 general stylistic changes; 20 grammatical corrections; 20 eliminations of repetitions; 15 changes to the sense; and 15 corrections of clear error. Between the manuscript of the second part of the section, in Laidlaw’s hand, and the proof print there are some 175 changes, principally: some 50 clarifications; 25 general stylistic changes; 20 eliminations of repetition; 20 replacements of one word with another; and 10 changes in the sense. Between the proof print and the first edition for this whole section there were some 150 changes, most of them involving punctuation or spelling, the other categories being: 15 clarifications; 15 eliminations of repetitions; the addition of 20 commas and the deletion of 10; and 15 general stylistic changes. In this section over 150 emendations have been made for the  of changes made between manuscript and proof print, some 50 of them rejecting unnecessary clarifications, and another 40 fussy stylistic corrections. A further 25 emendations have been made of similar sorts of changes between the proof print and the first edition.

   

415

Section V: 128.9–210.11 (‘and by’). For the first two-thirds of Volume 2 in the first edition there survive two parallel very late proofs. Their print is almost identical with that of the first edition. The manuscript, in Laidlaw’s hand, survives for only the first chapter of Volume 2 in the first edition (the last chapter of Volume 1 in the present edition). V:A1] M S 3777, ff. 357r–463v (proof and Ed1 2.3.1–216.25): no textual predecessor, but as part of Lockhart’s set it runs on from IVA; perhaps continues as VI:B2. This batch has 18 pencil comments or queries by Lockhart, most of them not acted upon. Thus at 139.15 he underlines ‘Jupiter’ and comments: ‘Why Jupiter in this Christian land? The author has forgot it is not 〈ancient〉 mheatheno Greece.’ At 143.21–22 he underlines ‘ceased to exist as an independent nation for more than a generation’ and comments (ignoring the likely bias of the speaker): ‘this seems inconsistent with the history of Hereward’. Lockhart’s other comments tend to concentrate on what he took (usually hypercritically or wrongly) to be minor improbabilities or inconsistencies in the action. Two of his complaints were judged sufficiently important to justify cancels (which were not available for the American or Galignani editions): at 137.20 ‘Normans’ was changed to ‘Franks’ (and the opportunity was taken to substitute ‘Tranchefer’ for ‘tranchefer’ at line 12); and at 182.42 ‘Haram’ was changed to ‘Household’ at his suggestion (he had also commented: ‘The haram! Good God’). Lockhart’s correction of ‘cost’ to ‘zest’ at 139.36 appears in the errata for the volume, as does his correction of ‘pruchie’ to ‘psyche’ at 180.37. Both of these errata corrections are adopted in the  . This late stage of the proofs was evidently used for part at least of the batch by the Galignani compositor who has ‘hold’ for the first edition’s ‘seizure’ at 146.38 (repeating line 33). V:A2] M S 3776, ff. 173r–279v (as V:A1); no predecessor or successor. The print of this batch is that of V:A1. It has a very few corrections, almost all by Scott, generally not adopted in the first edition. Scott’s corrections tend to be erroneous in one way or another, but those at 186.23, 188.34–35, 188.42, and 196.5 have been accepted in the present edition (see the Emendation List). At the top of page 198 the first reference to Brenhilda’s combat (though not her pregnancy) has been marked in pencil in the margin (with an ‘X’): the particular passage is not changed for the first edition, but this is only the first of many such marks discussed below. In addition, 6 small changes were made between the surviving proof print and the first edition, all of which have been accepted for the present text. For the first chapter only of the original second volume (the last chapter of Volume 1 in the present edition, following the manuscript intention) the manuscript, in Laidlaw’s hand, survives. There are some 55 noteworthy changes between manuscript and the surviving proof print, principally: 18 general stylistic changes, of which 12 have been rejected

416

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resulting in emendations in the  ; 14 clarifications (7 emendations); and 10 eliminations of repetitions (all except one accepted). Section VI: 210.11 (‘early marriage’) to 228.41 (‘answered the’). For this section there are three surviving late batches of proofs of the original version of the novel. They are almost parallel, but the print of VII:B1 and B2 shows five punctuational variants from A. VI:A] M S 3776, ff. 280r–303v (proof and Ed1 2.217.1–264.24): no predecessor; appears to run on as VII:A, but that is an earlier stage. This first batch is a late proof of the original version of the novel (with Brenhilda’s pregnant combat). Cadell has marked points relating to Brenhilda on 217, commenting (hypercritically): ‘This is the first notice of the Lady Brenhilda being unequal to the Combat—& stated by Bertha on the same day as the Countess challenged the Cæsar—she (the Countess) must have known her inability when she gave the challenge’ (f. 289r–v). He also has a clarificatory correction, not adopted at later stages, at 226.10– 12: ‘As to the combat, the Cæsar has 〈devised〉 mpledged himself too it, and it shall be my care that he shall not retreat from the dangerous part of it mexcept 〈by〉 ‘he prefers’ being led to executiono.’ The latter part of this correction is written over Anne Cadell’s pencil ‘he was led to execution’. (There is a pencil alteration of the first ‘so’ to ‘as’ in ‘so soon as’ at f. 303r, probably also by Anne: this passage does not appear in the first edition (see Emendation List entry for 228.1.) VI:B1] M S 23140, unfoliated (as VI:A): no predecessor; continues as VII:B1. This batch has a print with five punctuational variants from A; there are no corrections. VI:B2] M S 3777, ff. 149r–173v (as VI:A): perhaps V:A1 ctd; continues as VII:B2 This batch has a print identical to that of B1 (the text of the American editions corresponding to pages 217.12–220.16 was set up from this stage),130 and extensive corrections by Scott, and by Lockhart after Scott’s departure for Malta, from 217.12 onwards. Cadell has endorsed it on the first page ‘Count Robert as altered by Mr Lockhart Nov/31’. The 15 corrections by Scott include two relating to the Brenhilda story (and rejected for the  which restores the original combat), 8 clarifications, and a number of miscellaneous changes. These corrections (except for one of the Brenhilda items, in a passage excised by Lockhart) are incorporated in the first edition.131 Lockhart made 30 corrections. These were also incorporated in the first edition, but not all of them have been accepted for the  . They consist of: 7 relating to Brenhilda (all but one of which have been rejected for the  );132 4 changes to Hereward’s story (one of them partly accepted for the  as a sorting of plot confusion—see 429 below—the other 3 rejected); 8 eliminations of repetitions (one rejected); 6 clarifications (of which 3 are rejected); 4 censorings of material that might have been considered indelicate (all of which are rejected); and two stylistic

   

417

changes (both rejected). There were 30 changes, mostly of punctuation, between the corrected third batch of proofs and the first edition: 8 of these have been rejected in the present edition. Section VII: 228.41 (‘Varangian’) to 257.12 (‘END OF VOLUME SECOND.’). For this section there again survive three batches of proofs, corresponding to those in VI except that the print of VII:A represents an earlier stage than that of VI:A. VII:A] M S 3776, ff. 304r–340r (proof 2.262[i.e. 265].1–337.12; Ed1 2.263.1–309.16): appears to run on from VI:A, but VII:A is an earlier stage; continues as VIII:A1. This first batch is an early proof of the original version of the novel. Anne Cadell has been through this section introducing pencil corrections and marking passages relating to Brenhilda with marginal lines and one comment. Robert has confirmed most of them in ink and added more points relating to Brenhilda. On f. 313v (236.31–34) Anne comments: ‘I[t] was the night of the day she had challenged him’, and Robert overwrites with his own observation: ‘This the most pointed mention of the bairn since p 235 [ 217] if a new construction could be given to this incident a great blot could be removed from the book’. At 315r Robert comments on 237.32–33: ‘There is no good reason for the howdy [midwife] being tied to the apron string of the Countess during the greening [pregnancy]’. He has 3 minor corrections in ink confirming pencil changes (which are probably Anne’s, though their form could indicate Ballantyne) at proof 276 and 277 (which were both adopted) and 296 (not adopted). Cadell also has a deletion to eliminate a repetition at proof 282 (in a passage deleted for the first edition). At f. 311v (235.1–13) Scott responds (convincingly) to a query in red ink by James Ballantyne’s printing colleague John Hughes about the consistency of the plot. Hughes writes: ‘At p. 140 [181.16] the Acolyte tells Agelastes that he had made no impression on Hereward. Here the Acolyte speaks to him as if mheo were really one of the conspirators.’ Scott replies: ‘better explained afterwards’. Scott also makes a two-word correction at 239.31, which was not adopted. This was apparently the marked batch that Cadell passed to Scott so that he could consider the Brenhilda points. It is possible that Scott kept this batch until he received VII:B2 (the corrections for which affect the page divisions only slightly) and used it as a guide for his abortive work on the Brenhilda story there. VII:B1] M S 23140, unfoliated (proof 2.265.1–336.24 (‘on the contrary, it’); Ed1 2.263.1–308.22; E E W N 228.41–256.42): VI:B1 ctd; appears to run on as VIII:A2, but that is an earlier stage. The print of this batch shows some 120 changes from VII:A (indicating at least one lost intermediate batch), principally: some 40 clarifications (half of them rejected in the  , resulting in emendations); some 30 general stylistic changes (almost all rejected here); some 20 eliminations of

418

   

repetition (all but one accepted); some 15 spelling changes (3 rejected); and the usual numerous punctuational changes. There are no corrections, and this batch lacks 309. VII:B2] M S 3777, ff. 174r–212br (proof 2.265.1–337.19; Ed1 2.263.1–309.16): VI:B2 ctd; continues as VIII:B. This batch has essentially the same features as VI:B2. It seems that Scott began by marking for possible deletion with lines in the margin the passages Cadell had indicated in VII:A. When he decided not to co-operate in this bowdlerisation he began to mark these passages ‘stet’, and then gave up. In addition Scott made over 15 corrections, mostly small clarifications, and those in the part preserved in the first edition were adopted. These authorial corrections are adopted in the  , except on 4 occasions when he is clearly in error. After Scott’s departure, Lockhart made some 30 changes, including extensive deletions of material relating to Brenhilda and Vexhelia. This reworking goes far beyond the limited passages marked by Cadell in VII:A and toyed with by Scott. Most of these changes have been rejected in the present edition. Between these proofs and the first edition a further 45 or so changes were made, mostly in punctuation and other very minor matters: most of these have been accepted in the  . One odd change occurs at 231.10. All the surviving proofs refer to Sancta Sophia ‘which the infidels, since their occupation of the city, have turned into their principal mosque’. In the first edition ‘have’ appears incorrectly as ‘had’, prompting Magnum to delete all after ‘Sancta Sophia’. The American and Galignani editions have the proof reading, which is adopted in the  . Section VIII: 259.4 to 267.24 (‘the staggering Alexius.’). Three batches of proofs have survived for the conclusion of Volume 2 in the first edition, which does not have any passages of the sort that proved so contentious in the previous section. The first two are parallel early proofs; the third represents a later stage. VIII:A1] M S 3776, ff. 346r–356r (proof 3.3.1–23.20; Ed1 2.310.1 to the end): VII:A ctd; continues as IX:A1. This batch is an early proof. It has 7 corrections by Cadell (mostly confirming or responding to Anne’s pencilled suggestions), involving small matters of style, none of which was adopted for the first edition, and none of which demands a place in the  . There are 4 similar corrections by Scott, also unadopted, 3 of which are now accepted, but one of which is too confused to be incorporated in the  . Like VII:A this batch was evidently retained by Scott and fell by the textual wayside. VIII:A2] M S 23140, unpaginated (as VIII:A1): appears to run on from VII:B1, but VIII:A2 is an earlier stage; continues as IX:A2. The print of this batch is identical with that of VIII:A1. It has no corrections. VIII:B] M S 3777, ff. 214r–225r (as VIII:A1): VII:B2 ctd; continues as IX:A3 Between VIII:A2 and this third batch some 65 changes were

   

419

made, indicating a lost intermediate batch, principally: 23 in punctuation (all accepted for the present edition); 14 general stylistic changes (all rejected for the present edition); 13 clarifications (likewise all rejected); and 9 replacements of single words (8 rejected). Lockhart made some 27 changes, principally: 6 clarifications (all rejected for the present edition); 6 eliminations of repetition (one rejected); 4 general stylistic changes (all rejected); and 4 replacements of single words (all rejected). At 263.10 he abolished a chapter division (restored in the present edition). Between the corrected VIII:B and the first edition a further 20 changes were made, almost all involving punctuation: only one change (a stylistic one) has been rejected. There are two proofs of the last page of this section, one with the final Lockhart correction, the other with a note by Cadell: ‘Volume. III might commence here. mPageso 250 of Count R. would be all that could be made out—the balance of this volume can be made up of 137 mof Castle Dangerouso ending with Chap V. leaving a full 360 pages for Vol: IV—’. This follows on the decision to publish the two novels together as Tales of my Landlord (Fourth and Last Series). At this point, Scott inserted the chapter in which Alexius approaches the Manicheans (see 403 above and Appendix to the Text, 367–74). Section IX: 267.25 to 334.43 (‘of their meeting.’). For most of this section there are three surviving parallel batches of proofs. IX:A1] M S 3776, ff. 356v–445r (proof 3.24.1–201.9; Ed1 3.5.1– 172.4): VIII:A1 ctd; continues as X:B2. Against the surviving portion of manuscript (286.29 (‘regulate the pitch’) to 295.6 (‘his restored eyesight’)), which is mostly in Laidlaw’s hand, the print of this batch has some 120 significant variations, principally: 36 clarifications (17 rejected for the  ); 14 general stylistic changes (8 rejected); 10 changes affecting the sense (5 rejected); and 10 substitutions of one word for another (5 rejected). There are light corrections by Scott, not adopted for the first edition: of the less than 30 corrections, 10 are for the purpose of clarification (6 rejected, as leading to unperceived repetition or other problems) and 9 involve changes in the sense (all now accepted). There is also one unadopted correction by Cadell, an unhappy attempt at eliminating a repetition (substituting ‘Alexius’ for ‘that of the Emperor’ at 322.30: the Magnum solves the problem with ‘that of his Prince’), and some, if not all, of the many marginal markings and underlinings of passages deemed problematic are probably also by Anne in pencil and Robert in ink. Scott has stopped responding to the major points of contention relating to the plot. At the end of this section, and beginning of X:B2 there are a few very brief comments and queries in pencil which the hand suggests are by Lockhart, though this batch is not part of his principal set (the same applies to X:B2 and XI:A1). IX:A2] M S 23140 (unpaginated) (proof 3.24.1–77.25 (‘the palaces

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of ’); Ed 1 3.5.1–77.24 (‘towers, obelisks,’); E E W N 267.25–295.25: VIII:A2 ctd; no successor. The print of this incomplete batch is identical with that of IX:A1, and it has no corrections. IX:A3] M S 3777, ff. 225v–314r (as IX:A1): VIII:B ctd; continues as X:B3. This batch has fairly light corrections, mostly by Lockhart, adopted for the first edition. There are over 100 of these corrections, principally: some 25 general stylistic changes, generally rather pointless (21 have been rejected for the present edition); 16 eliminations of repetition (4 rejected); 16 other replacements of one word by another (15 rejected); and 17 clarifications (10 rejected). The changes to the plot continue, notably in a substantial excision of business relating to the combat between Anna and Brenhilda at 332–45. Folios 224v and 225v in IX:A3 are two versions of the first edition’s 3.5 (page 24 of the original third volume in proof numbering, the opening of  Chapter 26). The first, with an earlier version of the text than that in the surviving batches, is all cancelled by Scott. The second was the first page of the batch corrected by Lockhart. In its print, which is that of IX:A1 and A2, 3 changes have been made: one elimination of repetition, one spelling change, and one elimination of tautology. There is one, unnecessary, insertion by Scott: after ‘encounter’ at 325.3 he adds: ‘trusting that her antagonist would not appear in the mist [for ‘list’]’. Between the IX:A3 proofs corrected by Lockhart and the first edition there were a further 170 or so changes, mostly non-verbal but including some 20 eliminations of repetition (all accepted in the present edition), 14 general stylistic changes (9 rejected), 7 corrections of what was perceived as error (2 rejected), 8 clarifications (4 rejected), and 5 changes in the sense (all rejected). Section X: 335.1 (‘In the meantime’) to 350.27 (‘to shelter him[self ]’). For this section, beginning with a long account of Brenhilda’s fight excised for the first edition, there are four batches of proofs, beginning at different points, the last three parallel. X:A] M S 3777, ff. 28r–29v, 20r–27v, and 30r–31v (proof 3.217.1 (‘trusting her safety’) to 240.23 (‘hastened to shelter’); compare Ed1 3.172.5–186.17; E E W N 340.42–350.27): no predecessor or successor. The earliest stage is represented by this incomplete batch. The proofs have been corrected by Scott, and his 70–odd changes were almost all incorporated in later stages. Of these corrections some 23 involve small clarifications, of varying degrees of helpfulness, 9 are replacements of one word by another more telling one, and 7 are general stylistic enhancements. At 349.17–19 (‘I may thus . . . the world’) and 23–26 (‘I will not 〈say〉 mboasto . . . native country’) Scott inserts two short passages preparing for Hereward’s return to England. One or two mechanical corrections and markings of passages are present in a darker ink, probably the work of Ballantyne.

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X:B1] M S 3777, ff. 32r–43v (proof 3.217.1 (‘her back, and trusting’) to 240.25 (‘to shelter him-[self]’); compare Ed1 3.172.5–186.18; E E W N 340.42–350.27): no predecessor or successor. The print incorporates the corrections made in X:A. There are just some 28 corrections by Scott (including 11 clarifications and 7 local changes of sense), as well as a very few by Ballantyne and Cadell. None of these corrections appears in the first edition. They are mostly incorporated in the  by means of 22 emendations. X:B2] M S 3776, ff. 445r–464v (proof 3.201.10 (‘In the meantime, the Emperor’) to 240.25 (‘to shelter him-[self]’); compare Ed1 3.172.5– 186.18; E E W N 335.1–350.27): IX:A1 ctd; continues as XI:A1. The print is identical with that of X:B1. There are extensive pencil marks, some at least of them probably by Lockhart, mostly querying the plot, and often confirmed in ink by Cadell. Scott has eight or nine small corrections in the section which is not included in the first edition, some in response to the query marks, but none affecting the business. Six of these corrections are accepted for the  , which takes X:B2 as its base-text for the excised passage. The most notable exception is Scott’s addition, in response to a marginal ‘Quy’, probably by Lockhart, of the phrase ‘as he has been termed’ after ‘Homer, . . . our earliest guide, and certainly our best instructor in sound morality’ (338.24–25). In the passage excised for the first edition, Lockhart has made three minor corrections, two grammatical (one now accepted) and one clarificatory (now rejected). In the section corresponding to the first edition there is only one deletion of a superfluous word (at 350.22: ‘suppose 〈him〉 either’), by whom is difficult to know, and this is adopted in the pub-lished version. X:B3] M S 3777, ff. 314r–335v (as X:B2): IX:A3 ctd; continues as XI:A2. This batch covers the same area as X:B2, and the print is identical to that of B1 and B2. The passages marked in B2 are mostly again marked in the margin. Lockhart made half a dozen small changes in the unprinted section, but then decided to delete it all, providing a short first-edition substitution cutting the Brenhilda-Anna fight. After several pages without corrections, there is a paper apart (ff. 326r–327r: in Laidlaw’s hand) which Scott had substituted for a short passage at the end of the fight. Very likely this was never put in type. It is included in the present text at 343.15–40. Between the corrected X:B3 and the first edition there are some 30 changes, 8 to avoid repetition, most of the rest punctuational. Almost all of these are accepted for the  . Section XI: 350.27 (‘[him]self by flying’) to 361.35. For the final portion of the narrative there are four surviving batches of proofs, none of which covers the entire section: the first three are parallel. XI:A1] M S 3776, ff. 465r–476v (proof 3.241.1–264.24 (‘of the Counts of Paris,’); Ed1 3.186.18–206.11; E E W N 350.27–359.12):

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X:B2 ctd. A few repetitions and other problems have been marked in pencil, some at least of them probably by Lockhart, and there is one pencil correction (354.3, changing ‘occur’ to ‘recur’), also probably his, adopted in the first edition, but this was also corrected in A3. XI:A2] M S 3777, ff. 336r–356r (proof 3.241.1–273.10; compare Ed1 3.186.18–211.12; E E W N 350.27–361.35): X:B3 ctd. The earlier pages have a dozen or so small Scott corrections adopted in the first edition, and Lockhart deletes a passage dealing with the riddle and Brenhilda’s parturition; the later pages have some 30 corrections by Lockhart, including two further short deletions: the deletions and 6 other Lockhart corrections have been rejected in the  . At the end of this batch there are two paragraphs not included in the first edition. They are rather repetitive and awkward. There is also a brief opening of a Ch. 20. These will be found in the Appendix to the Text, 378–79. XI:A3] M S 3780, ff. 1r–12v (as XI:A1): no predecessor. The print of this batch is identical with that of XI:A1 and A2, and it has the same termination as A1. Some 20 ink corrections have been made, some and perhaps all by Ballantyne, mostly of a mechanical sort, and almost all of them adopted in the first edition. XI:B] M S 3777, ff. 64r–73r (proof and Ed1 3.193.1 (‘But he who can stoop’) to 211.12; E E W N 353.2–361.35): no predecessor. The print of this batch is that of a late proof, incorporating the corrections made in XI:A2 and A3, and also making the major deletions. There are over 20 small corrections in red ink by James Ballantyne’s printing colleague John Hughes, a few other in-house corrections of typographical errors, and over 20 corrections by Cadell: these last include 12 stylistic changes (only two of them accepted for the present edition), two minor plot revisions, and a few lines of Brenhilda plot business (on a paper apart bound as f. 102r–v, rejected for the  at 353.34–35). Between the corrected XI:B proof and the first edition there were only 5 punctuational corrections and the sorting of a typographical error. Section XII [Conclusion]: 361.37 to the end. The conclusion for Count Robert, which was not published, survives in Laidlaw’s hand (  876, ff. 44r–54r), and in three parallel batches of proofs. XII:A1] M S 3777, ff. 15v–19v: E E W N 3.361.37 to the end. The print follows Laidlaw’s  very closely, with only non-verbal and mechanical changes, apart from one correction (of ‘time’ to ‘toil’ at 362.7), and two misreadings at 362.17 and 42. Scott has made over 40 corrections, more than half of them clarifications (mostly useful), some 8 stylistic enchancements, and only two or three involving minor changes in the sense. XII:A2] M S 3780, ff. 13r–17v. This batch is a duplicate of A1, with a few mechanical marks and corrections by James Ballantyne.

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XII:A3] M S 3780, ff. 19r–23v. This is another duplicate, without corrections. In the present edition proof XII:A1 as corrected by Scott is the basetext for this final section. 3.    Scott read Count Robert in Naples, for on 16 February 1832 he wrote to Cadell: ‘I sent Lockhart a set of errata with a correction of errors from Count paris It grieves me that they are taken from Galignanis edition but I suppose it can easily be transferrd to yours I hope it will come save.’133 The Galignani is a fairly faithful reprinting of the first edition, often following its lineation, though not its pagination. There are the usual sorts of non-verbal variants, though they are sparingly introduced. Seven verbal variants at various points corresponding to the first two volumes of the first edition preserve proof readings, suggesting that, at times, Galignani was working from a very late set of proofs (the details were noted above at 412,414, 415,and 418).Like the American editions Galignani does not include the corrections made to the first edition by means of cancels, but unlike them it does not include either the five corrected readings in the errata lists at the end of the first two volumes of the first edition. There are a few misprints and (mostly necessary) corrections.134 It seems unlikely that anything in the Galignani edition would have invalidated the corrections that Scott made in Naples. There is no way of telling how many corrections he made, or their nature. Nor can we know how many, if any, of them were incorporated in the Magnum edition and the collected Tales and Romances in the three usual formats. Given the peculiar nature of the production of Count Robert of Paris and Scott’s known involvement to some extent, by way of Galignani, in the production of the Magnum text, it has seemed advisable to diverge from the normal  procedure and adopt from the Magnum not only clear rectifications of error but changes that may be considered as likely authorial stylistic enhancements. The Magnum footnotes, however, have been postponed to the final volumes of the  in the usual way. From the Magnum derive—probably independently, though one cannot rule out some sporadic marking up of copies in the printing house135 —the texts of this novel in the three versions of Tales and Romances published in octavo (8vo), 16mo, and 18mo formats in May 1833. A hypothetical stemma, or family-tree, of editions, reads thus: First Edition (1832) o [Scott’s corrections to the Galignani edition (1832)] o bbbbbbbbbb Magnum (1833) dddddddddd o o o 8vo Tales and 16mo Tales and 18mo Tales and Romances (1833) Romances (1833) Romances (1833)

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The Magnum. Count Robert appeared as Volume 46 and part of Volume 47 of the Magnum edition in March and April 1833. There are a little over 100 verbal changes to the first-edition text, in addition to the provision of footnotes and chapter end-notes. Some 30 of the changes appear to have been made on general stylistic grounds, and some 20 to avoid verbal repetition. Some 15 changes are grammatical corrections, and another 15 are factual corrections, half of them historical. Only half a dozen changes affect the sense, and then not radically, though a similar number of corrections are made to clarify the plotting. There are some 450 non-verbal changes between first edition and Magnum, principally: over 70 commas added and 90 deleted; over 70 changes in spelling or the forms of words; and some 40 raisings of initial letters and 15 lowerings of initial capitals. The  accepts roughly half of the verbal changes in the Magnum for the reasons given above, resulting in nearly 50 emenda-tions in addition to those already examined (a quarter of them involving repetitions). Over 30 miscellaneous helpful changes to the first-edition punctuation have been adopted, along with 10 changes to the spelling or forms of words; on 9 occasions the Magnum is the authority for the convention of indicating interrupted speech by means of a long dash outside (rather than inside) the closing quotation marks. Tales and Romances. Some of the changes made in the Magnum probably resulted from Scott’s work on the Galignani edition, but he could have had no hand in the texts of Count Robert which appeared in the three formats of Tales and Romances in May 1833. They are however described briefly to complete the publishing history. Count Robert occupies the second part of Volume 12 and the first part of Volume 13 of the 14–volume octavo Tales and Romances, of which the first seven volumes appeared in 1827, and the last seven in 1833. The text makes 11 verbal changes to the Magnum text, some of them clearly erroneous. A number of footnotes are provided, and as with all of the Tales and Romances texts, the long notes are reserved for the ‘Introductions, and Notes and Illustrations’ in the final volumes of the  . There are some 260 unique non-verbal changes, including some 80 commas added and some 60 deleted, and some 30 changes in spelling. Over 25 of these changes revert to first-edition readings, but they may all have been spontaneous: for example, both the first edition and the 8vo habitually prefer to give ‘mean time’ as two words. Four non-verbal readings in the octavo Count Robert have been adopted for the  . Count Robert occupies the second part of Volume 14, the whole of Volume 15, and the first part of Volume 16 of the 17–volume 16mo Tales and Romances, of which the first nine volumes appeared in 1827 and the last eight in 1833. There are some 80 unique changes to the Magnum text, all non-verbal, with 15 commas inserted and the same

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number deleted, and 10 spelling changes. Six of the readings are reversions to the first edition, probably spontaneous. Count Robert occupies the second part of Volume 11 and the first part of Volume 12 of the 13–volume 18mo Tales and Romances, of which the first seven volumes were published in 1827 and the last six in 1833. The text makes 8 verbal changes to the Magnum, some of them clear errors. There are some 110 unique non-verbal changes, notably the deletion of 37 commas. The 18mo reverts to first-edition readings on five occasions, probably spontaneously. 5.   :   The first significant intermediaries in the conversion of Scott’s late manuscripts into print were normally the compositors. They would be responsible for punctuating the text, and in the case of Count Robert they interpreted Scott’s manuscript sensitively in accordance with the conventions of the period, so that very little emendation of their punctuation has been necessary (usually prompted by the Magnum, as noted above, or very occasionally by one of the other collected editions). The compositors also interpret Laidlaw’s manuscript sensibly, though as noted above Laidlaw supplies more than Scott does of the punctuation appropriate for a printed text, and of course his punctuation is of much less importance for the editor than Scott’s own. Compositorial misreadings are not numerous, since Laidlaw’s hand is admirably clear (apart from that curious failure to distinguish between the upper and lower case forms of many initial letters). Rare misreadings of Laidlaw include ‘soldiers’ for ‘soldiery’ (51.37), ‘charter’ for ‘character’ (70.31), ‘free’ for ‘fine’ (90.25), ‘proffered’ for ‘proffessed’ (95.25), ‘lonely’ for ‘lovely’ (123.5), and ‘loving’ for ‘living’ (123.7). At 123.40–41 Laidlaw has ‘a ring of price’: the compositor misread the last word as ‘pure’, resulting in ‘a ring of pure gold’. Misreadings of Scott are numerically much fewer but proportionately more common, e.g. ‘loudly’ for ‘broadly’ (40.43), ‘limited’ for ‘timid’ (105.22), and ‘fierce’ for ‘fair’ (108.31). At 107.10 Scott has Count Robert refer to Alexius as ‘sitting stationary like a block of stone in a nich’, but the ‘n’ of ‘nich’ is malformed, leading the compositor to misread it as ‘rock’, so that the first edition has ‘sitting stationary like a block of wood, or the fragment of a rock’. There is, as in the earlier novels, a tendency for one small word to be substituted for another (‘any’ for ‘an’ at 53.12; ‘to’ for ‘from’ at 95.40), for a small word to be omitted or inserted, and for a terminal ‘s’ to be added or omitted. All such misreadings are corrected from manuscript in the present edition. For the first two-thirds of the novel (before the earliest references to Brenhilda’s combat resulted in Lockhart’s serious involvement) most of the proof correction was carried out by Anne and Robert Cadell and by Scott himself. The manuscript of Count Robert is often locally somewhat

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incoherent, and this incoherence is also characteristic of the earliest stage of proofs, which followed the manuscript closely. When faced with a proof obviously in need of extensive correction and tidying, Cadell tended to give himself a fairly free hand. Sometimes what he did is essential; sometimes it is no more than possibly desirable; and often it seems quite unnecessary. It is as though he expected the text in front of him to be more faulty than it actually is (an extension of the intermediaries’ attitude from the earliest Waverley Novels, when they would assume that perfectly valid period idioms were just further authorial slips). One can observe Cadell at work on a paragraph from the beginning of the narrative (3.28–4.14), for which the manuscript does not survive. The first surviving proofs (I:A) read as follows: In the same manner, efforts have been made by the mighty of the earth to transplant large cities, states, and communities, by one great and sudden exertion, attempting to secure to the new capital the wealth, the dignity, the magnificent decorations and unlimited extent of the ancient city, which they desire to renovate; while, at the same time, they begin a new succession of ages from the date of the new building, to last, they may suppose, as long, and with as much fame, as that which its founder hopes shall replace all its youthful glories. But nature has her laws, which seem to apply to the social system as well as the vegetable. It appears a general rule, that what is to last long should be slowly matured and gradually improved, while every short-hand effort, however gigantic, at speedy execution of a plan calculated to endure for ages, exhibits symptoms of premature decay in its very original condition. Thus, in a beautiful Oriental tale, a dervise explains to a sultan how he had nursed the most insignificant trees by raising their shoots from the seed, and it damps the prince’s pride to reflect that those plantations were gathering new vigour from each returning sun, while his exhausted cedars, which had been transplanted by one violent effort, were drooping their majestic heads in the Valley of Orez. This passage is essentially coherent, and needs very little proof correction. Cadell rightly sees that the end of the first sentence is faulty, and he attempts to sort it with minimal alteration: ‘. . . and with as much fame, as its founder fondly hopes shall replace all its youthful glories’. Unfortunately this is still confused, and a more thoroughgoing revision after the last surviving proofs resulted in the first-edition text accepted in the present edition: ‘and with as much fame, as its predecessor, which the founder hopes his new metropolis may replace in all its youthful glories’. At the end of the third sentence, the words ‘in its very original condition’ are clearly faulty, and Cadell’s ‘from its very commencement’ is an economical sorting. In the last sentence, Cadell spots that ‘insignificant’ is the wrong word, and intelligently replaces it with ‘magnificent’, which Scott may have intended to write: before the next surviving proofs (I:B) the phrase became ‘the magnificent trees among which they

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walked’, with a change in the sense which may well be Scott’s. Cadell also found the sequence of verbs ‘nursed . . . raising’ odd, and reasonably substituted ‘reared . . . nursing’. But Cadell did not stop with this necessary, or highly desirable work. In the first sentence he substitutes ‘expecting’ for ‘attempting’, ‘structure’ for ‘building’, and ‘imagine’ for ‘may suppose’. He changes the word order in the second sentence: ‘to the social as well as the vegetable system’. At the beginning of the third sentence he substitutes ‘is held to be’ for ‘appears’, though this becomes ‘appears to be’ in I:B. The unusual use of the term ‘short-hand’ is rejected in favour of a more conventional ‘sudden’, and in the same sentence ‘at speedy execution’ becomes ‘to bring about the speedy execution’. In the last sentence ‘and it damps the prince’s pride to reflect’ becomes the smoother ‘and the prince’s pride is damped when he reflects’. Any of these changes may of course be thought an improvement on the text before Cadell, but none is self-evidently called for, and the  reverts to the I:A print. (Three unnecessary clarifications were added before I:B: ‘they mhope too begin . . . those plantationsm, so simply reared,o were gathering . . . while his mowno exhausted cedars’. These have also been rejected for the present text.) Cadell’s treatment of the paragraph analysed above is typical of his work, though such frenetic activity is not found on every page of the I:A proofs. His corrections include most of the types encountered in the earlier  volumes: the elimination of repetition of single words in close neighbourhood and of tautology; the substitution for single words of ones deemed more appropriate; the replacement of unusual words or phrases by more familiar ones; the correction of perceived grammatical error; and the toning down or censorship of anything that might be thought in the least shocking. With each such correction, whether by Cadell or unattributable (and therefore potentially by Scott) an editorial judgment has to be made as to its validity. If (infrequently) a repetition is judged rhetorical it is reinstated—from the manuscript when available, failing which from the earliest surviving proof—as at 40.24 and 67.7. Very occasionally, tautology (or near tautology) may make stylistic sense, as at 263.31 where ‘grants and benefactions’ is changed to ‘grants and actions’. Examples of emendations of the inappropriate replacement of single words where tautology is not involved can be found at 50.37 (‘travelled’ for the more meaningful ‘reposed’) and 64.6 (‘an ordinary’ for ‘a common’). The familiar ‘ominous’ replaces ‘ill-boding’ at 53.18, and ‘disguised’ replaces ‘shrouded’ at 290.2. Examples of unrecognised archaic idioms restored for the present text can be found in the Emendation List for 67.37, 110.5, and 229.1. Toning down or censorship can be observed in the following examples: ‘human person’ for ‘thewes and sinews’ (10.12); ‘gallant horses’ for ‘furious horses’ (61.4); and the deletion of Nicephorus’s ‘yet I may be

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pardoned in hoping that when examining barbarians of this class, my accomplished spouse will be so kind as to consult me beforehand’ (64.20–21). In The Fair Maid of Perth and Anne of Geierstein the  editors have observed an increasing tendency on the part of the intermediaries to make extensive changes to Scott’s text for the sake of clarity, spelling out anything that might present the reader with the slightest difficulty. This tendency increases further in Count Robert, as almost any page of the Emendation List will amply demonstrate (for instance at 41.26–32). This is linked with frequent attempts at stylistic enhancement of the sort observed in the paragraph analysed above. The present text restores the manuscript or early proof reading wherever the corrections are judged to be pointless or positively deleterious. It is frequently the case that the uncorrected text makes good sense and reads perfectly well as does much of the paragraph analysed above. Sometimes a minor editorial emendation is necessary, but this is preferred to a more extensive proof correction: examples can be found in the Emendation List for 220.31, 358.14, and 361.22. The most frequent type of correction among those known to be by Scott involves local changes to the sense of his text. The change may involve a very minor shift, as when Alexis says ‘for I cannot be expected to pardon so ungrateful a rebel’ rather than ‘for I shall scarce pardon’ (266.7). It can be rather more substantial. At 269.5 Scott inserts after ‘the most heart-rending kind.’ the sentence ‘That I should take combat is impossible’. And it can sometimes be crucial to the sense, as when he described Anna Comnena as ‘a ma vaino timid but not an unfeeling woman’ (277.26, where Scott’s superfluous ‘a’ has to be deleted and an editorial ‘and’ added to accommodate the insertion). Several of Scott’s proof corrections are clarificatory, and some of these are hardly necessary and would probably have joined similar unattributed items for rejection if their authorship had not been known: for example, ‘to raise the hollo upon the game, mand startle the gameo, ere it had been driven within compass of the nets’ (303.40–41: editorially accommodated for the present text). But some of the Scott clarifications are genuinely helpful to the reader of average intelligence. Thus at 188.34 his insertion of ‘during the banquet’ before ‘both I’ reminds the reader of the occasion referred to, and at 346.43–347.1 the ‘right mof ranko to fight upon horseback m& with the lanceo’ is more informative with the additions. Most of Scott’s other corrections involve either stylistic enhancements (sometimes rhetorical as at 270.40–41, 345.29–30, and 349.24) or eliminating repetitions. When a proof correction is known to be by Scott it is normally accepted. The editor may consider some of his changes less than desirable, but that is neither here nor there. It is not infrequently the case, though, that Scott’s corrections towards the end of his life are too faulty

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to be adopted, even with editorial intervention. Sometimes the problem is that he is out of touch with his text. In the paragraph analysed above he inserts a ‘new’ before ‘plantations’, overlooking the presence of the word immediately afterwards (he can hardly have intended the repetition to be rhetorical in this case). Among his imperfect corrections are the following: ‘When mthere is iso raised in a just cause’ (205.25); ‘and meveno not so completely’ (346.33); and ‘with what effect could hardly be judged mfrom the first advantageo’ (347.16). In the last third of the novel Lockhart became the most significant intermediary. His principal endeavour was to eliminate all reference to the duel between Brenhilda and Anna. He took the opportunity to censor most of the broad comic references to Vexhelia’s husband Osmund, and jokes related to Vexhelia’s own profession. Alexius’s plans to make Hereward his son-in-law also disappear, probably because the Emperor changes his mind. These major excisions are now restored, the text derived from the proofs, some of them corrected by Scott (together with Scott’s conclusion, which was presumably deleted by Lockhart or Cadell): see the entries in the Emendation List for 235.32, 238.17, 332.28, 334.43, 335.40, 343.15, 354.32, and 361.37 to the end. Lockhart is keen on spotting what he takes to be inconsistencies in the action, as his queries noted above indicate, and although his major cuts have been restored in the present text, he was at least partly justified in excising a passage at 228.1 (see the entry in the Emendation List). However, his surgery was too drastic. While Hereward’s custody of Ursel leads nowhere in the narrative, his responsibility for Count Robert is at least plausible, and it is important for Alexius’s reaction to the Count’s sudden appearance in the lists at 345.19 that it should not come as a complete surprise. The present text restores most of Lockhart’s excision in this case. Exceptionally, a marginal note by Lockhart note at 130.36 querying the appropriateness of the phrase ‘or the lighter delicacies of Grecian cookery’ has been taken as sufficient authority for an editorial deletion. His major corrections apart, Lockhart was more restrained than Cadell in his revision of Scott’s work, though the text he was working on had of course already been corrected once by Cadell, and by Scott. He contributes his share of clarifications, eliminations of repetition, and general stylistic revisions, which have been assessed for the present edition on the principles already stated. One or two of his stylistic revisions are more creative than Cadell’s: for example, his re-working of the motto at 259.8 and his substitution of ‘glassy waters’ for ‘shore’ at 296.11. Such creative input is deemed inappropriate by the  . In general Lockhart’s work is characterised by fussy pedantry. His censor’s instinct is well developed and is applied in the interests of Protestant orthodoxy as well as sexual prudery. For the former one may cite his changing of ‘the Satan of Christian mythology’ to ‘the Satan of monkish

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mythology’ (270.34–35), and for the latter his deletion at 218.34–38: ‘the negro-portress . . . intimated, that she had been in some sort a witness of his meeting with the Saxon damsel〈, although, she added, such rendezvous in that place were not altogether unusual, nor was Judith a severe censurer〉.’ The editions subsequent to the first provide a further source of emendation. The Magnum, which as we have noted drew on Scott’s corrections (no longer extant) made in Naples to the Galignani edition, provides roughly 100 small improvements, mostly involving more helpful punctuation and the elimination of repetitions, but including also corrections of clear error,136 stylistic enhancements, and a handful of changes to the sense. Scott will have been responsible for some at least of these, and one of the stylistic changes at least sounds like him: Sebastes’ poinard is ‘rushing to its descent’ rather than ‘about to descend’ when Hereward intercepts it with his battle-axe (21.28). All of the variants adopted from the Magnum are certainly in accordance with the normal standing orders approved by the author. As always in the  , editorial emendations are kept to a minimum, but in Count Robert more than 70 interventions have been judged necessary. Usually such emendations are employed, as noted above, to help a proof reading to work, or to effect a repair more economically than the original correctors. There are also a handful of corrections of clear error (see the Emendation List for 13.43, 38.6, 305.37, 357.18, 359.16, and 359.27). It is the usual  practice to restore the original volume divisions envisaged by Scott in composition, in place of those dictated by the need to have volumes of a standard size (330 pages or so was the ideal). The manuscript ends the first volume decisively with the twelfth chapter. In the first edition the volume ends with Chapter 11, presumably because it had reached p. 329. The restoration of the original division between Volumes 2 and 3 is more problematic. As noted above (396) Ballantyne informed Scott that his plan to end Volume 2 with the tenth chapter ( Chapter 21) would make only 265 pages (in the first proofs the chapter ends at p. 267). Scott had to write another 65 (he wrongly says 45) pages to bring Volume 2 up to the same standard length as its predecessor. In fact he wrote 70 pages, since in the first proofs Volume 2 ends at p. 337, with the twelfth chapter ( Chapter 23). The division there is an extremely strong one, suggesting that Scott became imaginatively involved with the new division which had been forced upon him. For this reason, it has seemed appropriate to adopt the new division in the present text.137 (The matter is further complicated by Scott’s unclear proposals for reorganisation with the insertion (abortive as it turned out) of the first Manichean passage, and by the later adjustments by Lockhart and Cadell, but none of these changes is compelling.) Since Scott envisaged Count Robert and Castle Dangerous as quite

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separate novels, and acceded without enthusiasm to Lockhart’s convenient plan to publish them together as Tales of my Landlord (Fourth and Last Series) (see 404 above), it has been decided to publish them separately in the present edition. The Jedidiah introduction which Scott wrote in London for the Tales is edited separately in the Appendix to the Text for Castle Dangerous. The novel as now presented is much closer to that envisaged by its author than the first-edition or Magnum texts. It is freed from the major censorships applied to it by Cadell and Lockhart, as well as from many minor tonings-down and conventionalisations. Stylistically it is more adventurous. Relieved of much unnecessary spelling-out, it is a good deal sharper. More demanding for readers in its strangeness of plot and expression (matching the obfuscatory ways of speaking and acting adopted by many of the characters), it offers an experience both challenging and rewarding.  All manuscripts referred to are in the National Library of Scotland, unless otherwise stated. For the shortened forms of reference employed see 503–04. 1 The original title-pages of Volumes 1 to 3 read: ‘T A L E S O F M Y L A N D L O R D ,/ Fourth and Last Series,/    /  / J E D E D I A H C L E I S H B O T H A M,    -   ./ [rule]/ The European with the Asian shore—/ Sophia’s cupola with golden gleam—/ The cypress groves—Olympus high and hoar—/ The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream,/ Far less describe, present the very view/ That charm’d the charming Mary Montagu./ Don Juan./ [rule]/            ./ V O L. I. [I I. I I I.]/ [double rule]/ P R I N T E D F O R R O B E R T C A D E L L , E D I N B U R G H ;/     .,       ./ [rule]/ 1832.’ Jedidiah (‘beloved of the Lord’) is the name given to Solomon in 2 Samuel 12.25. ‘Clashbottom’ was a facetious name used by one of Joseph Train’s corresponding ‘Parish Clerks and Schoolmasters of Galloway’, ‘derived . . . from his using the Birch’ (  3277, pp. 22–23); clash in Scots means ‘strike’ or ‘flog’. For further discussion of the name and its origins, see The Black Dwarf, ed. P. D. Garside,     4a, 129–30. Count Robert of Paris and Castle Dangerous are the last two of the tales nominally written by Peter Pattieson, whom Jedidiah Cleishbotham employed as his assistant in the school (see The Black Dwarf,     4a, 8), and whose work has been ‘collected and reported’ by Cleishbotham in four series of Tales of my Landlord, i.e. The Black Dwarf and Old Mortality (first series, 1816), The Heart of MidLothian (second series, 1818), The Bride of Lammermoor and A Legend of Montrose (third series, 1819), and ‘collected and arranged’ in Count Robert of Paris and Castle Dangerous (fourth series, 1832). A parish-clerk is clerk to the kirk session, the lowest church court in the Presbyterian system. The position was very often given to the schoolmaster. In Scots,

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    cleugh is a gorge or ravine; hence Gandercleugh is, most obviously, ‘goosehollow’. The motto may have been chosen by Scott, but Lockhart chose that for the fourth volume of the Tales, relating to Castle Dangerous: see     23b, 223. The motto for the first three volumes comes from Byron, Don Juan, Canto 5 (1821), lines 17–18 and 21–24. Sophia is Sancta Sophia (Latin Holy Wisdom (Christ)), the dedicatee of the great church of Hagia Sophia at Constantinople, built 532–37, which became a mosque on the fall of Constantinople in 1453, and a museum in 1934. Olympus is a mountain 2911m high in NE Greece. The ‘twelve isles’ (actually nine) are the Princes’ Isles off the Asian coast of the Sea of Marmara, where in Byron’s time Turkish country houses were built. For the admiration expressed by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu in her Turkish Letters (published in 1763, but originally written in 1716) see Byron’s Complete Poetical Works, ed. Jerome J. McGann, 7 vols (Oxford, 1980–93), 5.706. See Donald E. Sultana, ‘The Siege of Malta’ Rediscovered (Edinburgh, 1977). Comnena’s account (304–05) runs: ‘Comme ils étoient tous assemblez, & qu’ils venoient de préter le serment, il y eut un des Comtes qui eut la hardiesse de s’asseoir sur le trône. L’Empereur connoissant la fierté de sa nation, ne lui dit rien; mais le Comte Baudoüin s’approcha, & le tirant par la main, lui dit, Il ne vous appartient pas de vous mettre en cette place. C’est un honneur que l’Empereur ne fait à personne, étant en ce païs-ci, il en faut observer les Loix. Il ne répondit rien à Baudoüin; mais il dit en sa langue, comme parlant en soi-même, Voila un beau paisan, pour étre assis seul, pendant que tant d’excellens Capitaines sont debout. Aléxis aiant remarqué le mouvement de ses lévres, appela l’interpréte pour lui demander ce qu’il avoit dit, & l’aiant appris, il n’en témoigna rien aux François, mais il ne l’oublia pas.’ (When they were all assembled, and when they had taken the oath, one of the counts had the boldness to seat himself on the throne. Knowing the pride of his nation, the Emperor didn’t say anything to him; but Count Baldwin went up to him and, taking him by the hand, said: ‘You should not have occupied this seat. It’s an honour which the emperor grants no one: being in this country one ought to observe its laws.’ He did not reply to Baldwin; but he said in his own language, as if speaking to himself: ‘What a peasant, sitting alone while so many excellent captains are standing.’ Having observed the movement of his lips, Alexis summoned the interpreter, asking him what he had said, and having learned what that was he didn’t reveal anything to the Frenchman, but he didn’t forget it.) Prose Works, 6.46–47. The Journal of Sir Walter Scott, ed. W. E. K. Anderson (Oxford, 1972): all references to the Journal are identified in the text of this essay by the entry date. Anderson notes that Lockhart had proposed these two lives—of John Campbell (1678–1743), 2nd Duke of Argyll, and of Charles Mordaunt (c. 1658–1735), 3rd Earl of Peterborough—as possible contributions to Murray’s Family Library (which he edited), but they were never written. The third series of Tales of my Grandfather appeared in December 1829. Scott’s (anonymous) review of two French works appeared in the Foreign Quarterly Review, edited by R. P. Gillies, in August 1829. Letters, 11.202: 6 June 1829.

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 3911, f. 65r.  3911, f. 79r: 23 November 1829.  21019, f. 50r.  21043, f. 28r–v.  21043, f. 30r–v. Cadell’s financial calculations for the new novel, dated 24 February 1830, are found in   21056, f. 22r.  113, p. 186.  21043, f. 35r–v. The reference is to Charles Lebeau, Histoire du BasEmpire, en commençant à Constantin le Grand, a new edition of which was in progress at the time of writing (21 vols, Paris, 1824–36: originally published in 29 vols, Paris, 1757–1817). In the event, Scott appears not to have derived any material specifically from this work. Letters, 11.306. Richard Knolles, The Generall Historie of the Turkes was originally published at London in 1603. The Abbotsford library contains the 6th edition, with the title The Turkish History, 3 vols (London, 1687–1700), and the 2nd edition of an abridgement, 2 vols (London, 1704: originally published in 1701): CLA, 262, 238. ‘I shall try to procure Knolley’:  794, f. 352r: 20 March 1830. Letters, 11.311: Scott to Cadell, 24 March 1830 (‘I am tiring for the Byzantine books’).  3912, f. 276r. Thomson (1768–1852) was Principal Clerk of Session, and a noted antiquary. On 3 April 1830 Scott wrote to Cadell: ‘I am glad to have the Byzantines though I trust I will get a copy of my own’ (Letters, 11.323). The only other candidate is the Byzantinæ Historiæ Corpus, an occasional series of thirty thick folio volumes in Greek, with parallel Latin translations, and with exhaustive scholarly notes, published at Paris between 1645 and 1702. It is unlikely that Scott received such a massive publication, and there is no internal evidence that he used it systematically for Count Robert, though he may have consulted individual volumes (perhaps for the Latin version of Procopius: see explanatory note to 70.23–26). Both the Corpus (as 28 volumes, beginning in 1648) and the 1685 edition of Cousin appear in A Catalogue of the Library of the Faculty of Advocates, Edinburgh, 3 vols (Edinburgh, 1742–1807), 1.94, 154.  21043, ff. 40v–41r. The author’s fee for such casual works as the History of Scotland, Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft, and the various series of Tales of a Grandfather went to Scott personally, and not to the Scott/ Ballantyne trust as was the case with the Magnum and new works of fiction.  21043, f. 43r–v. Scott had begun his Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft on or shortly after 21 March 1830, as his Journal indicates.  21043, f. 45r–v. For Constable’s suggestion of names for Scott’s novels, and his pride in his contributions, see The Abbot, ed. Christopher Johnson,     10, 384 and Kenilworth, ed. J. H. Alexander,     11, 395–96.  21043, f. 53v.  21043, f. 67v. See Letters, 11.373–74: 11 July 1830, to Cadell;   745, f. 181v: 14 July 1830, to Ballantyne;  745, f. 182v: 14 July 1830, to Cadell;  745, f. 185r: 15 July 1830, to Cadell. Two leaves evidently of the abortive Maltese project have survived (  5317, ff. 82–83).

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     745, f. 207r: to Cadell (received 31 August).  21043, f. 71r–v.  21043, f. 73r. The ‘Lower Empire’ is the Roman Empire from the age of Constantine. Lockhart’s account (7.218–19) of this visit of Cadell’s compresses several months’ discussions misleadingly. There is a small sheet of paper with the title in Scott’s hand (and that for Reliquiæ Trotcosienses), dated 5 September:  745, f. 213r.  745, f. 216v.  3914, f. 30r: Cadell to Scott;  21020, f. 39r: Cadell’s diary. Letters, 11.391.  745, f. 224r: to Cadell. John of Paris (d. 1306) was a celebrated theologian.  745, f. 227v.  745, f. 246r: Scott to Cadell. Letters, 12.2 (the letter is misdated there). The finishing of the Tales had been delayed by incursions of visitors in late October:   745, f. 231r and f. 236r: Scott to Cadell, 21 October and 2 November 1830. See Scott’s letter of 8 September 1831 to Cadell at 402.  3134, no. 192. The date of the month is uncertain: it was originally ‘30’, but Scott seems to have changed it to either ‘3’ or ‘7’.  21020, f. 50v.  745, f. 255r.  21020, f. 51r.  3915, f. 142r–v. Letters, 11. 432–33. In Ben Jonson, Every Man in his Humour (1601), 4.2.67–74, Captain Bobadil says: ‘I would select 19 more to my selfe . . . & I would teach these 19 the special tricks . . . till they could all play very neare or altogether as well as my selfe.’ Letters, 11.434.  869, f. 133r.  21020, f. 52r.  3915, f. 158r.  21020, f. 52r. Letters, 11.435. Letters, 11.436–38.  21020, f. 52v.  3915, f. 168r. Letters, 11.439–40.  21020, f. 52v.  3915, ff. 172r–175r. For Reliquiæ Trotcosienses, a guide to Abbotsford and its collections, see the edition by Gerard Carruthers and Alison Lumsden (Edinburgh, 2004). The main part of this letter may be the basis for Lockhart’s misleading statement (7.244–45) that at this stage Cadell and Ballantyne, as well as Drs Abercromby and Ross and Lockhart himself, were urging Scott to restrict his activities to the annotation of the Magnum. Lockhart and the doctors may well have spoken in these terms, and Scott may well have replied as Lockhart records: ‘if I were to be idle I should go mad. In comparison to this, death is no risk to shrink from.’ Scott has endorsed the letter ‘The Bishops fist is in it Vide Gil Blas’: the

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proverbial expression refers to burnt porridge or over-roasted meat, and Scott links this with the decline in the authorial powers of the Archbishop of Granada in Le Sage’s novel (see 362.8–15 and explanatory note).  20143, ff. 76r–77v. Lockhart’s version of this Abbotsford visit (7.249–50) differs from Cadell’s memorandum, which is more likely to be accurate, having been written on the spot: ‘. . . seeing how much he stood in need of some comfort, the printer and bookseller concurred in urging him not to despair of Count Robert. They assured him that he had attached too much importance to what had formerly been said about the defects of its opening chapters; and he agreed to resume the novel, which neither of them ever expected he would live to finish. “If we did wrong,” says Cadell, “we did it for the best: we felt that to have spoken out as fairly on this as we had done on the other subject [the pamphlet], would have been to make ourselves the bearers of a death-warrant”.’  21043, ff. 76r–77v.  21020, f. 54v.  3915, f. 204r: partly cited in Letters, 11.448n.  21020, f. 54v. Letters, 11.452.  15980, f. 6r: Scott to Cadell.  3916, f. 29r: the reference is to Anna’s first appearance in the novel, in Chapter 3.  15980, f. 11r: Scott to Cadell.  21043, f. 88v: Cadell memorandum for 7 February. The motto in Scott’s hand for Chapter 16, endorsed by Cadell, follows as f. 88a and a proof as 88b. Sheet E on 24 January, F on 25th, H on 4 February, I on 9th, and K on 19th:   21021, ff. 6v, 8r–v, 9r.  3916, f. 147v: 13 February.  3916, f. 214r–v. Journal entry for 4 March. The review was intended for the Quarterly Review, but it did not progress beyond proof stage: see J. H. Alexander, ‘Scott’s Review of The British Herald’, Wordsworth Circle, 18 (1987), 73–80.  15980, f. 45v: [16 March 1831], to Cadell.  21021, f. 13v. See  15980, f. 52r (Scott to Cadell, 26 March 1831): ‘I have been cheated with the copy not running out as I expected Mr Lai[d]law having enlarged his hand which however is clear & distinct in proportion’.  3917, f. 95r–v.  15980, f. 47r–v: 20 March 1831.  21021, f. 16v.  21021, f. 17r.  15980, f. 62r.  3917, f. 224r: John Hughes (James Ballantyne’s printing colleague) to Scott.  21043, ff. 93v–95v.  15980, f. 64r.  15980, f. 67r: to Cadell.  15980, f. 74r: to James Ballantyne.

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     15980, f. 79r: to Cadell (dictated to Laidlaw). Letters, 12.14 (dictated to Laidlaw).  15980, f. 81v: to Cadell.  15980, f. 88r: to Cadell.  21021, f. 21r.  3918, ff. 25r–26r.  15980, ff. 89r–90r.  15980, f. 91r. Kurt Gamerschlag notes that this (dictated) letter ‘begins with a cold “Dear Sir” instead of the usual “Dear James”’ (‘The Making and Un-Making of Sir Walter Scott’s Count Robert of Paris’, Studies in Scottish Literature, 15 (1980), 95–123 (110)). For the essays by Addison alluded to see the explanatory note to 364.29–37. Lockhart, 7.284.  15890, f. 95r: to Cadell, 14 May 1831. The second French series was never completed. What Scott finished has been edited by William Baker and J. H. Alexander as Tales of a Grandfather: The History of France (Second Series) (DeKalb, Illinois, 1996).  15980, f. 111r: to Cadell.  15980, ff. 113r–114r. The corrections in this letter are by Cadell: he seems to have been experimenting with the tidying-up of Scott’s correspondence for posterity.  21043, f. 99v;   15980, ff. 115r, 117r.  15980, f. 122r: to Cadell.  15980, f. 136r.  21043, f. 110r.  15980, f. 156r: to Cadell. William B. Todd and Ann Bowden, Sir Walter Scott: A Bibliographical History 1796–1832 (New Castle, Delaware, 1998), 720–21, 723. The date is there given wrongly. The extract in the Athenæum reproduces its source faithfully, except for two misreadings: ‘description from’ for ‘description of’ (40.9) and ‘instinctive of’ for ‘of instinctive’ (41.21). It runs from 36.22 to 47.24 in the     text.  3919, f. 57r.  15980, f. 159r: Scott to Cadell, 30 August 1831.  3919, f. 78r.  15980, f. 160r.  3919, f. 113r–v.  15980, f. 162r.  21043, ff. 112r–115r.  3919, f. 126r; this was in response to Scott’s request of 7 September ( 15980, f. 169r).  15980, f. 170r.  3919, f. 126r.  900, ff. 42r–43r.  15980, f. 176r.  15980, f. 179r–v.  15980, f. 178r–v.  21021, f. 39v.  3919, f. 137r.

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129

437

 3777, f. 213r. Scott has endorsed the cancelled p. 24 (f. 224v) with the same message: ‘Go on with 21 pages of Manuscrip’, though the number is not clearly written.  15980, f. 186r–v.  15980, f. 188r.  21043, ff. 116r–117r.  15980, f. 198r.  21043, ff. 122v–123r.  24b, 191–208.  113, p. 252.  21021, f. 47r. Cadell’s calculations for Tales of My Landlord (Fourth Series) (  21056, f. 31r), dated 9 November 1831, include £105 due to Lockhart for his revisions and an allowance of £150 for ‘Alterations, corrections, &c very very numerous’.  797, f. 128r.  797, f. 127r.  5317, f. 116r. William B. Todd and Ann Bowden, Sir Walter Scott: A Bibliographical History 1796–1832 (New Castle, Delaware, 1998), 720. The edition published in New York by Harper is identical with Carey and Lea’s published in Philadelphia, both in 1832. The French editions, which are distinct, were published in Paris in 1831 by Baudry and in 1832 by Galignani. Most of the leaves are quarto-type, measuring approximately 26 by 23cm and were formed by the folding in two, and perhaps cutting or tearing, of two sets of folio-type leaves derived from demy sheets. The leaves have been folded and unfolded length-wise at the left edge to produce a margin 1.5cm wide. The sheets have a crown and post-horn device as watermark (compare Heawood 2774) with ‘AC’ beneath it, and ‘A C   S  1829’ as countermark. Longer leaves (each one being half of a folio sheet), 30.5 by 18.5 cm, are found at ff. 73–79, with a Britannia device and as countermark ‘J W 1820’ and ‘T     M  ’. For ff. 115–17 there is only the countermark ‘J W  1829’; f. 118 is a smaller sheet of wove paper, 22.5 by 18.3 cm. The leaves have been numbered by Scott and Laidlaw. On one occasion a repeated additional number with an asterisk was used to create a new verso, presumably when a batch was to be sent off to the printers. As there is no library foliation, the leaves have been given editorial numbers as set out in the following table: Editorial Scott’s and Laidlaw’s foliation Volume 1 (    ) (several leaves are missing at the beginning of the volume) 1–14 2–15 15 16* 16–69 16–69 (The motto for f. 24 is in NLS   21043, f. 88A: see 395 above) 70 6 (a misbound slip of paper, which should follow f. 77: no watermark visible)

   

438 71–72 73–77 78 79 80–99

70–71 [1]–5 [6 bis] 7 [1]–20

Volume 2 is missing Volume 3 (several leaves are missing at the beginning of the volume) 100–03 50–53 104 ‘Paper Apart p. 54’ (slip) 105–114 54–63 (the remainder of Volume 3 is missing) Unpublished (see Appendix to the Text) 115r–118v 1A–8A ‘Papers apart P. 249’ (Appendix: passage two) 119r–v ‘Paper apart page 175’ (Appendix: passage three) 120–40 1–21 (Compare Appendix: passage one) 130 131

132 133 134

135

136

The Galignani edition has the proof readings for only 217.22–24 and 220.7 (‘manner’), evidence of a further stage of proofs. For the Brenhilda correction accepted by Ed1 see the Emendation List for 217.22. For the passage excised by Lockhart see the corresponding entry for 220.3. Scott’s correction in this passages reads: ‘. . . and that such treason 〈will〉 mmay in facto triumph, if she couch the lance in her own person mfor such is the law of her sex from which she cannot escape not withstanding her valouro.’ The exception is a minor clarification valid for the original plot at 228.36, where Lockhart substitutes ‘to the Countess of Paris’ for the proof ‘to the Count of Paris of his lady’.  15980, f. 280r. Three of the corrections are also found in the Magnum and other collected editions: at 111.42 ‘do’ for ‘does’; at 118.29 ‘Princess’ for ‘Princes’; and at 320.5 ‘offered’ for ‘effected’. These may well be spontaneous, but any or all of them could derive from marked-up sheets. It is noteworthy that the American editions have ‘attempted’, which is Scott’s proof correction in IX:A1 (leading to a repetition): that, too, may have been a spontaneous correction, but a marked-up sheet seems at least equally likely. The first edition retains ‘effected’, though obviously incorrect, as does the 1831 Baudry Paris edition following it. The 8vo shares 12 readings with the 16mo and 8 readings with the 18mo; the 16mo shares 6 readings with the 18mo; the 8vo, 16mo, and 18mo share 4 readings. All of these are against the Magnum, and almost all of them are non-verbal. They were probably mostly independently arrived at, and they may all have been so. The Magnum’s attempt in the latter part of the novel to change ‘Bohemond of Antioch’ to ‘Bohemond of Tarentum’, correct at the period of the action, has not been adopted for the present text: Bohemond’s claim to Antioch is embedded in the fiction.

 137

439

The later alterations to this volume division are described at 403. They were occasioned by the plan to include the Manichean material, which was later abandoned, and by the radical revisions made by Cadell and Lockhart; they have therefore no strong claim to be considered for adoption in the present text.

EMENDATION LIST

The base-text for most of this edition of Count Robert of Paris is a specific copy of the first edition, owned by the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels. For the conclusion and the passages included in the Appendix to the Text other base-texts have been chosen, as indicated, and for certain extended passages now restored the text is derived from proofs (see Essay on the Text, 429). The sections I to XI designated for editorial purposes correspond to those described in the Essay on the Text, 409–23. All emendations to the base-text, whether verbal, orthographic, or punctuational, are listed below, with the exception of certain general categories of emendation described in the next paragraph, and of those errors which result from accidents of printing such as a letter dropping out, provided always that evidence for the ‘correct’ reading has been found in at least one other copy of the first edition. In manuscript Scott prefers ‘Saint’ to ‘St’, and the full form is used in the present text. The Magnum’s unhyphenated ‘Protospathaire’ is adopted, reflecting the general manuscript usage (which includes ‘Proto’spathaire’). Inverted commas are sometimes found in the first edition for displayed verse quotations, sometimes not; the present text has standardised the inconsistent practices of the base-text by eliminating such inverted commas, except when they occur at the beginnings or ends of speeches. The typographic presentation of mottoes, volume and chapter headings, and the opening words of volumes and chapters, has been standardised. It is clear that the printers had only one italic ligature for both œ and æ; the two are differentiated in this edition. Ambiguous end-of-line hyphens in the base-text have been interpreted in accordance with the following authorities (in descending order of priority): predominant first-edition usage; Magnum; 8vo; 16mo; 18mo. Each entry in the list below is keyed to the text by page and line number; the reference is followed by the new,  reading, then (normally) in brackets the reason for the emendation, and after the slash the base-text reading that has been replaced. On certain occasions it has been found appropriate or convenient to conclude an entry with a note giving the editorial thinking behind, or authority for, the emendation, or part(s) of it. The great majority of emendations are derived from the manuscript or from the proofs. Most merely involve the replacement of one reading by another, and these are listed with the simple explanation ‘( )’ and, for example, ‘(proof I:A )’. The spelling and, punctuation of some emendations from the manuscript and proofs have been normalised in accordance with the prevailing conventions of the base-text. And although as far as possible emendations have been fitted into the existing 440

  441 base-text punctuation, at times it has been necessary to provide emendations with a base-text style of punctuation. Where a manuscript reading adopted by the  has required editorial intervention to normalise spelling or punctuation, the exact manuscript reading is given in the form: ‘(  actual reading)’. Where the new reading has required any other fresh editorial interpretation of the manuscript he explanation is given in the form ‘( derived: actual reading)’. The same distinctions are made with readings derived from proofs. When the authority for an emendation is the text of a proof, this is indicated by e.g. ‘(proof I:A)’, this being the first stage at which the reading adopted occurs in the text. (A designation such as ‘A1’ will also silently include ‘A2’ and ‘A3’, since the printed text of such parallel sets of proofs is identical.) When the authority for an emendation is a holograph proof correction this is noted as, e.g., ‘(Cadell proof correction I:A)’. When holograph evidence makes it possible to identify the person wholly or chiefly responsible for the correction adopted in Ed1 but rejected for the present text, his name is given in square parentheses after the Ed1 reading resulting from his change, together with the identifying tag for the set of proofs in which the correction was made. In these identifications ‘Scott’ and ‘Lockhart’ are self-explanatory. ‘Cadell’ covers corrections by Robert Cadell and his wife Anne (see Essay on the Text, 388, 411, etc.). ‘Ballantyne’ denotes James Ballantyne, and ‘Hughes’ his colleague John Hughes in the printing house (see Essay on the Text, 417, 422). Where more than one person had a substantial input into the Ed1 reading, their names and the tags denoting the relevant stages are given, separated by a semicolon. The same applies to changes first appearing in a proof text, indicated simply by the identifying tag in square parentheses at the end of the entry; ‘post-proofs’ indicates that the Ed1 reading does not appear in any of the surviving proofs. In transcriptions from the manuscript and proofs: deletions are enclosed 〈thus〉 and insertions mthuso. In spite of the care taken by the intermediaries, some confusions persisted into the first edition. In these circumstances the reading from the earliest edition to offer a satisfactory solution is adopted as the neatest means of rectifying a fault. Readings from the later editions are indicated by ‘(Magnum)’, ‘(8vo)’, or ‘(18mo)’. Magnum readings are also adopted as possibly resulting from Scott’s correction of the Galignani edition (see Essay on the Text, 430), where they correct errors, or otherwise conform to Scott’s known practices and preferences. Emendations which have not been anticipated by a contemporaneous edition are indicated by ‘(Editorial)’. I: 3.1–21.31 Proof I:A (M S 3777, ff. 3r–14v and 52r–63v); Proof I:B (M S 3776, ff. 4r–26v) 3.20 old (proof I:A) / aged [I:B] 3.23 said, the (proof I:A: said the) / said, arises the [I:B] 3.23 decline, and death, that (Editorial) / decline and death that 3.30 attempting (proof I:A) / expecting [Cadell I:A] 3.33 they begin (proof I:A) / they hope to begin [I:B]

442 3.34 3.34 4.3 4.3 4.5 4.6 4.6 4.8 4.10 4.11 4.12 4.21 4.21 4.22 4.30 4.35 4.36

5.1 5.2

5.5 5.7 5.12 5.12 5.13 5.27 5.29 5.32 5.35 5.37

  building (proof I:A) / structure [Cadell I:A] they may suppose (proof I:A) / they imagine [Cadell I:A] social system, as well as the vegetable. (proof I:A: social system as well as the vegetable.) / social, as well as the vegetable system. [Cadell I:A] appears a (proof I:A) / appears to be a Cadell corrects in I:A to ‘is held to be a’. The change to the Ed1 reading was made between I:A and I:B. short-hand (proof I:A) / sudden [Cadell I:A] at speedy (proof I:A) / to bring about the speedy [Cadell I:A] ages, exhibits (proof I:A) / ages, is doomed to exhibit [I:B] a sultan (proof I:A) / the sultan [I:B] and it damps the prince’s pride to reflect that (proof I:A) / and the prince’s pride is damped when he reflects, that [Cadell I:A] plantations were (proof I:A) / plantations, so simply reared, were [I:B] his exhausted (proof I:A) / his own exhausted [I:B] advantages, of (Editorial) / advantages of climate, the (proof I:A) / climate, and with all the Cadell inserts the ‘and’ in I:A; the Ed1 reading is completed in proof I:B. mines (proof I:A) / treasure-houses [I:B] who did (proof I:A) / who had performed [Cadell I:A] motive (Magnum) / reward statuary, while in their turn they confer upon those whom they consider as meriting it, a species of immortality. (proof I:A) / statuary. Cadell first deletes the phrase, then writes ‘stet’ and rewrites the beginning as ‘who in their turn’. It was deleted between I:A and I:B. vital and vivifying (Magnum) / vivifying and vital Rome, the national energy . . . empire, but that (Cadell proof correction I:A derived: Rome, the national energy by which she had been for ages led on from victory to victory, mhe might have secured for a 〈time〉 long period the existence of a great and powerful empire, buto that) / Rome,—that The phrase ‘the national energy . . . victory’ is derived from the proof print; ‘he might . . . empire, but’ is a Cadell insertion in correcting this proof, designed to make a coherent sentence, but a slightly less radical version of his correction achieves the same object. or Rome (proof I:A) / or for Rome [I:B] circumstance Constantine . . . his country, and (proof I:A) / circumstance, the state of the capital of Constantine had been totally changed, and [I:B] and gradually ameliorated the hearts, and tamed (proof I:A) / in gradually ameliorating the hearts, and taming [I:B] the human race (proof I:A) / the people [Cadell I:A] turning themselves meekly (proof I:A) / turning meekly [I:B] absence (proof I:A) / place [I:B] Emperor’s usage of these two cities might be compared to the conduct of a (proof I:A) / Emperor, under whom the work was carried on, might be compared to a [I:B] misplaced or misemployed. (proof I:A) / misplaced. [I:B] splendour, some (proof I:A) / splendour, as we have already said, some [I:B] was secretly and internally liable (proof I:A) / was internally and imperceptibly tending Cadell changes the proof reading to ‘was imperfectly tending’ in I:A.

 

5.38 5.40 5.40 5.43 6.9 6.9 6.16 6.17 6.21 6.22 6.26 6.31 6.34 6.34 6.35

6.42 6.42 6.43 7.2 7.4 7.4 7.6 7.10 7.12 7.12 7.16 7.16 7.17 7.22 7.22 7.26 7.26 7.28 7.28 7.29

443

In proof I:B this becomes ‘was internally and imperceptibly tending’; Lockhart marks ‘and imperceptibly’ for deletion, but this was not adopted. prognostications were (proof I:A) / prognostications of declension were [I:B] Empire; (Magnum) / Empire, Constantinople, and its (proof I:A) / Constantinople, its [Cadell I:A] often (proof I:A) / frequently [I:B] dominion (proof I:A) / dominions [Cadell I:A] than from that portion of it which has (Cadell proof correction I:A: than from that portion of it which 〈had〉 mhaso) / than from what remnants of fortune had [I:B] Alexius Comnenus (proof I:A) / the Emperor [I:B] engaged, whether (proof I:A) / engaged in hostilities, whether [Cadell I:A] south, not one was there to (proof I:A) / south, there was not one for [I:B] feast of repast (proof I:A) / tempting repast [Cadell I:A] weakest, most (proof I:A) / weakest, the most [Cadell I:A] double the national fury, by the influence (proof I:A) / double fury, by the powerful influence [I:B] abide by (proof I:A) / use [I:B] kind (proof I:A) / course [Cadell I:A] he was afraid . . . support (Cadell proof correction I:A: he 〈had a conscious fear of being allowed〉 mwas afraido to advance without receiving any support) / he had a conscious doubt of the valour of his troops [I:B] himself (proof I:A) / in his own person [Cadell I:A] and bestowing (proof I:A) / and of bestowing [I:B] not devised until (proof I:A) / even [I:B] the court was (proof I:A) / the Greek court was [I:B] could not be (proof I:A) / ought to have been [I:B] forth by . . . sensation of the (proof I:A: forth, by a respect for real worth, and a sensation of the) / forth by real worth, and the [Cadell I:A; I:B] but had belonged (Editorial) / but belonged Pekin, and both, doubtless, from the same reason, the wish to (proof I:A) / Pekin; both, doubtless, being influenced by the same vain wish, to [I:B] in (proof I:A) / from [Cadell I:A] can (proof I:A) / could [I:B] those to which (proof I:A) / the measures of [I:B] would (proof I:A) / might [I:B] resorted (Cadell proof correction I:A: 〈resolved〉 mresortedo) / proved in the same circumstances [I:B] while in the retreat (proof I:A) / while retreating [Cadell I:A] was worsted (proof I:A) / had been worsted [Cadell I:A] the knowledge (proof I:A) / such knowledge [Cadell I:A] profession which (proof I:A: profession, which) / profession, as [Cadell I:A] The misleading comma is editorially deleted. ground in the wisest manner (proof I:A) / military positions to the best advantage [I:B] recovered (proof I:A) / covered [Cadell I:A] conflicts to his own advantage, in (proof I:A) / conflicts, in [I:B]

444 7.31 7.34 7.37 7.38 7.39 7.43 8.3

8.6 8.6 8.7 8.8 8.21 8.23 8.23 8.25 8.26 8.28 8.32

9.23 9.25 9.29 9.29 9.33 9.36 9.39 9.41 9.42 10.8 10.11 10.12 10.12 10.14 10.17 10.20

  only done (proof I:A) / done only [I:B] he was (Cadell proof correction I:A: 〈Alexius〉 mheo was) / the Emperor was [I:B] called (proof I:A) / termed [I:B] nations (proof I:A) / tribes, (they can hardly be termed states,) [I:B] declaring (proof I:A) / saying [I:B] might . . . probability, as (Cadell proof correction I:A: might 〈have claimed of being〉 mhave laid claim to be regardedo, in all probability, as) / might, in all probability, have been regarded as [I:B] eyes, being . . . practice to do. (proof I:A) / eyes, than had been the practice of his predecessors, who generally took this method of shortening the ambitious views of competitors. Ed1 is a reworking of Cadell’s ‘than had been the practice of his predecessors who took this means of overturning the ambitious views of competitors.’ and lacquered it over (proof I:A) / which he covered [Cadell I:A] hypocrisy, which . . . pure religion. (proof I:A) / hypocrisy. [Cadell I:A; I:B] His (proof I:A) / It is even said, that his [Cadell I:A; I:B] with his artificial character (proof I:A) / with the real character of the Emperor [Cadell I:A] upon (proof I:A) / on [Cadell I:A] and a poverty (proof I:A) / and poverty [I:B] which, in (proof I:A) / which last, in [I:B] traits of Alexius (proof I:A) / traits of the character of Alexius [Cadell I:A] it (proof I:A) / that country [I:B] extraordinarily (proof I:A) / very [Cadell I:A] story. Like . . . little difference. (Cadell proof correction I:A: story. Like an expert architect, if we cannot find a favourable point of rock, which is always to be sought for as the most stable foundation 〈of〉 mforo an arch, we 〈can〉 mmust try [to]o supply its place with 〈a resting place〉 moneo of piles, in which it is hoped the reader will find little difference.) / story. [I:B] Cadell’s presumed ‘to’ is obscured by the binding. being her (proof I:A) / the goddess [I:B] Cadell deletes ‘being her’ in I:A; ‘the goddess’ was inserted for I:B. Founder (proof I:A) / artist [I:B] fortunately (Scott proof correction I:B: 〈happily〉 mfortunatelyo) / happily they (proof I:A) / these [I:B] assured their readers had (proof I:A) / recorded as having [I:B] calculated (proof I:A) / designed [Cadell I:A] an express nature (proof I:A) / a very urgent description [I:B] art which (Editorial) / art, which to inmates (proof I:A) / to the inhabitants [Cadell I:A] rank (Lockhart proof correction I:B: 〈place〉 mranko) / place whom their (proof I:A) / whose [I:B] taught at (proof I:A) / taught them at [I:B] with thewes and sinews (proof I:A derived: with the thewes and sinews) / with the human person [I:B] race. These (proof I:A) / race. [new paragraph] These [I:B] silver, and bearing (proof I:A) / silver, bearing [I:B] really a handsome young man (proof I:A) / eminently distinguished both [I:B]

  10.22 10.22 10.26 10.35 10.43 11.1 11.4 11.4 11.5 11.5 11.6 11.7 11.18 11.19 11.20 11.22 11.25 11.28 11.32 11.42 11.43 12.6 12.6 12.12 12.17 12.23 12.26 12.27 13.6 13.7 13.11 13.12 13.13 13.14 13.19 13.23 13.28 13.28 13.31 13.32 13.42 13.43 13.43 13.43 14.5 14.7

445

size (proof I:A) / strength [I:B] the confident and self-possessed air with (proof I:A) / the air of confidence and self-possession with [Cadell I:A] the information (proof I:A) / the greater part of the information [I:B] be (proof I:A) / have been recently [I:B] covered it as (Lockhart proof correction I:B: covered mito as) / covered as this rich (Magnum) / thisrich From the shoulders betwixt the armour hung (proof I:A) / From betwixt the shoulders hung [I:B] upon (proof I:A) / over [I:B] seemed to be (proof I:A) / had the appearance of [I:B] but, more (proof I:A) / but, when more [I:B] reality composed (proof I:A) / reality a surcoat composed [I:B] form (proof I:A) / exhibit [I:B] actually (proof I:A) / more particularly [I:B] unfit to be (proof I:A) / incapable of being [I:B] sinews than his own, was (proof I:A) / sinews, was [I:B] ring was (proof I:A) / ring were [Cadell I:A] part was (Cadell proof correction I:A: part 〈of the weapon〉 was) / part, both spike and blade, was [I:B] along with him, as (proof I:A) / along, as [Cadell I:A] individual (Lockhart proof correction I:B: 〈military man〉 mindividualo) / military man find (proof I:A) / procure [I:B] use (proof I:A) / custom [Cadell I:A] but open (proof I:A) / but to quell open [I:B] such as were (proof I:A) / such were [I:B] actions (proof I:A) / services [Cadell I:A] having (proof I:A) / bearing [Cadell I:A] terrors. (proof I:A) / terrors; and thus they were summoned to take the field. [I:B] formed out of (proof I:A) / formed of [I:B] greatest that (proof I:A) / greatest perhaps that [Cadell I:A] difficult to (proof I:A) / difficult for the Emperors to [I:B] this (Cadell proof correction I:A: 〈their〉 mthiso) / their must have (proof I:A) / must therefore have [Cadell I:A] obtained (proof I:A derived: attained) / made [I:B] of Alexius Comnenus (proof I:A) / of Comnenus [I:B] England. (proof I:A) / England, who furnished recruits to his chosen body-guard. [I:B] in the ideas (proof I:A) / according to the notions [I:B] fate, being (proof I:A) / fate, the appellation being [I:B] whom (proof I:A) / as [I:B] drove to (proof I:A) / drove fresh supplies of the Anglo-Saxons, or Anglo-Danes, to [I:B] the martial (proof I:A) / unabated martial [I:B] true (Lockhart proof correction I:B: 〈historical〉 mtrueo) / historical his (Magnum) / the 1657 (Editorial) / 1637 296 (Editorial) / 196 221 (Editorial) / 231 inhabitants, and, besides, that (Editorial) / inhabitants; and, besides that beloved, while they (proof I:A) / beloved, they [I:B]

446 14.9 14.11 14.12

14.16 14.19 14.24 14.30

14.32 14.33 14.38 14.40 14.42 14.42 15.7 15.11 15.16 15.20 15.22 15.25

15.27 15.29 15.32 15.34

15.41 15.42 15.43 16.1 16.5 16.12 16.15 16.21 16.22

  with (proof I:A) / to [I:B] seldom were (proof I:A) / were seldom [Cadell I:A] government to execute. (proof I:A) / government intrusted to their charge. In I:A Cadell changes this phrase to ‘were charged with some special commission.’ The Ed1 reading appears in proof I:B. or failed (proof I:A) / or had failed [I:B] set there, I (proof I:A) / upon duty—ahem! Then I [I:B] folks (proof I:A) / folk [Cadell I:A] it (Cadell proof correction I:A) / the language of the country In I:A Cadell changes proof ‘the language’ to ‘it’ to avoid repetition. He crossed out ‘Stet’ beside this, but his suggestion was not taken up; ‘of the country’ was added between I:A and I:B. the language itself (proof I:A) / almost all languages In I:A Cadell changes ‘the language itself’ to ‘our language’. The Ed1 reading appears in proof I:B. admit they are (proof I:A) / admit that such are [I:B] bear’s (proof I:A) / bear’s [I:B] the Varangian guards (proof I:A) / a Varangian guard [I:B] and a more (proof I:A) / and more [I:B] alarmed his companion (proof I:A) / determined both on a hasty retreat [I:B] had trodden (proof I:A) / had now trodden [I:B] amid (proof I:A) / behind [I:B] slumber, yet (proof I:A) / slumber, any more than the place well selected for repose, yet [I:B] awakened (proof I:A) / alive [I:B] watchful (proof I:A) / almost awake [I:B] The slumberer now, however, as the loiterer before (proof I:A) / And now the slumberer, as the loiterer had been before Cadell changes ‘slumberer’ to ‘sleeper’ (which was not adopted) and inserts ‘had been’. The Ed1 reading appears in proof I:B. little (proof I:A) / somewhat [Cadell I:A] a satchel (Editorial) / a little satchel very little (proof I:A) / more than due [I:B] The ‘little’ before ‘satchel’ is by far the least significant of the three. in expression of countenance (proof I:A) / in the expression of his features Cadell corrects to ‘the expression of his’ in I:A; ‘countenance’ becomes ‘features’ between I:A and I:B. his companion’s personal vanity (proof I:A) / the displeasure which he had thoughtlessly excited [I:B] in the first reputation (proof I:A) / highly distinguished Cadell changes ‘first’ to ‘highest’ in I:A. The Ed1 reading appears in I:B. Lysimachus (proof I:A) / the little artist [I:B] credit . . . happily executed (proof I:A) / the talents of his friend into notice Cadell deletes ‘of him’ in I:A; the Ed1 reading appears in I:B. when they exist (proof I:A) / as existing [I:B] Stephanos, with more self-complacence (proof I:A) / the athletic hero, softening his tone [I:B] Games”—— (Magnum) / Games——” (proof I:A Games.”) limbs of (proof I:A) / limbs formed of [I:B] warrior (proof I:A) / commander [I:B]

  16.26 16.31 17.2 17.4 17.16 17.17 17.23 17.35 17.36 17.40 18.4 18.6 18.28 18.32 18.34 18.38 18.39 19.3 19.4 19.5 19.8 19.11 19.17 19.19

19.24 19.25 19.26 19.33 19.35 19.41 20.4 20.6 20.7 20.8 20.13 20.21 20.35 20.36 21.11 21.21 21.26 21.27 21.28

447

less confidence (proof I:A) / less apparent confidence [I:B] Eastern slave’s tale (proof I:A eastern slave’s tale) / Eastern tale [I:B] that region (Lockhart proof correction I:B: that 〈tropical〉 region) / that tropical region it—gave (proof I:A) / it, being the longer continuance of that sweet and placid light—gave [I:B] to its name (proof I:A) / as its legend tells us [I:B] gather not in (proof I:A) / cannot glean [I:B] there is no (proof I:A) / there has been no [I:B] exhibits any (proof I:A) / exhibits symptom of any [I:B] stocks yet lower than they are (proof I:A) / stock yet lower than it is [I:B] stop—are (Editorial) / stop,” said the valiant centurion, “are that this (proof I:A) / which [I:B] one”—— (Magnum) / one——” animal should indeed (proof I:A) / animal indeed [I:B] open for enriching (proof I:A) / ready to enrich [I:B] timidly a (Editorial) / timidly, a great (proof I:A) / military [I:B] duty! Learn first,” said the centurion, “learn, young (proof I:A) / duty!” said the centurion. “Learn first, young [I:B] we, all night placed (proof I:A) / we, placed [I:B] into (proof I:A) / within [I:B] steel (proof I:A) / gold [I:B] mind, were (proof I:A) / fear him, were [I:B] such things (proof I:A) / such strange things [I:B] formed (proof I:A) / fashioned [I:B] we do but secure them . . . the Emperor (proof I:A: we do but secure them against their being used for treasonable purposes; while, if the barbarian be honestly minded, he has weapons and armour at his quarters far meter to be used in defence of the Emperor) / you reduce him to his proper weapons, and you will see him start up in arms fit for duty [I:B] us (proof I:A) / our [I:B] proves (proof I:A) / prove [I:B] Now (proof I:A) / How [I:B] upon (proof I:A) / of the [I:B] discover”—— (Magnum) / discover——” argues (proof I:A) / arguing [I:B] renown (proof I:A) / rumour [I:B] at (proof I:A) / in [I:B] body.” (proof I:A) / body, if Christian some of them are—for example, this dark man with a single tuft on his head.” [I:B] were so (proof I:A) / were even so [I:B] been a (proof I:A) / been already a [I:B] lowest in (proof I:A) / most raw recruit in [I:B] undaunted fellows shall (proof I:A) / compeers and fellows will [I:B] isles, until (proof I:A) / isles of Greece, until [I:B] yourself.” (proof I:A) / yourself?” he continued, somewhat ironically. [I:B] emerged under (proof I:A) / emerged from under [I:B] ill-fated (Magnum) / ill-fitted when, the (proof I:A: when the) / when, at the [I:B] rushing to its descent (Magnum) / about to descend

448

 

II: 21.30–39.42 Proof II:A (M S 3776, ff. 27r–50r) 23.3 Acoulouthos (Magnum derived: Accoulouthos) / Acouloutos 23.5 Varangian guards (Magnum: Varangian Guards) / Varangians 24.26 humanity”—— (Magnum) / humanity——” 26.27 cannot (Editorial) / can 26.40 believe”—— (Magnum) / believe——” 27.1 your life-long bond-slave (Editorial) / your bond-slave for life-long 27.3 and”—— (Magnum) / and——” 28.9 leader who (Editorial) / leader, who 29.3 Britain! (Magnum) / Britain. 31.33 Acoulouthos (Magnum) / Acoulotos 31.34 Acoulouthos (Magnum) / Acoulotos 32.13 Comnenus”—— (Magnum) / Comnenus——” 32.29 Sacred Ear (Magnum) / sacred ear 37.23 stools (Lockhart proof correction II:A: 〈foot〉stools) / footstools 38.6 Violante (Editorial) / Violanto 38.7 Princess, and a (Editorial) / Princess, a 38.15 sate (proof II:A) / sat [post-proofs] 38.40 Elephas (Lockhart proof correction IIA: Elepha〈ntos〉mso) / Elephans The ‘n’ is not clearly deleted, but that must have been Lockhart’s intention. 39.12 soldier (Magnum) / soldier, III: 39.42–103.40 Manuscript; Proof III:A (M S 3776, ff. 50r–134v) 40.7 The Emperor ( ) / Alexius [III:A] 40.9 her ( ) / the [III:A] 40.11 deport () / deportment [III:A] 40.15 “Ha () / “Why here [III:A] 40.15 Why () / why [III:A] 40.16 cue ( ) / moment [III:A] 40.16 visages regis ad exemplum; but (Editorial) / visages, regis ad exemplum; but (  visages But) 40.18 spoke ( ) / spoken [III:A] 40.20 Follower () / fellows [III:A] 40.21 forgot among () / forgot that passage among [III:A] 40.24 subject of confidence ( subject 〈of f〉 confidence) / person of confidence [III:A] 40.42 enormous ( ) / prodigious [III:A] 40.43 broadly ( ) / loudly [III:A] 41.1 thought was becoming ( ) / thought might be becoming [III:A] 41.4 doest () / dost [III:A] 41.6 it at ( ) / it once before at [III:A] 41.9 so as furtively to convey ( ) / in order that he might furtively convey [III:A] 41.15 observe ( ) / notice [III:A] 41.18 “How did (  “How 〈was〉 mdido) / “How,” said Alexius, “did [III:A] 41.18 savour, compared to ( m. . . savouro compared to) / relish, compared with [III:A] 41.19 former?” pursued Alexius. ( former 〈draught〉” pursued Alexius) / former?” [III:A] 41.22 nevertheless () / Nevertheless [III:A]

  41.23 41.24 41.26 41.26 41.27 41.31 41.32 41.32 41.32 41.42 42.3 42.5 42.13 42.24 42.24 42.36 42.38 42.38 43.3 43.5 43.8 43.14

43.16 43.16 43.33 43.34 43.38 43.38 43.42 44.6 44.9 44.15 45.3 45.23 45.25 45.39 45.40 46.5 46.22

449

combat, the ( combat the) / combat, with the [III:A] of wine () / of rare wine [III:A] Another failure ( Another 〈falling〉 failure) / Another deficiency there might be [III:A] Elephant, “provided (Magnum) / Elephant, of whom we have already spoken, “provided ( Elephant of whom we have already spoken “providing) throne, “was perhaps the size of the cup at ( throne was perhaps the size of the cup at) / throne,—“it might be the smaller size of the cup compared with that at [III:A] them together ( ) / the cups compared together [III:A] that is, if thou (  derived: that it if thou) / that we may be sure thou [III:A] the goblet ( ) / the present goblet [III:A] thought there ( ) / thought, from the manner of the draught, there [III:A] which ( ) / that [III:A] to say for what you () / to inform those blessed with admission to the Muses’ temple, for what it is that you [III:A] taunts () / jests [III:A] desirable ( derived: desire) / divine [III:A] very rigid ( very rigiid) / especially severe [III:A] from others. Therefore ( from others He therefore) / from all others, in reference to her lord. Therefore [III:A] command, whose ( commad whose) / command, being such a one whose [III:A] presume () / suppose [III:A] brought us () / brought to us [III:A] that”—— (Magnum) / that——” fluttered, as (  flutterd as) / fluttered during close battle, as [III:A] men’s constitutions (  mens constitutions) / man’s constitution [III:A] begin ( ) / seem [III:A] The   has ‘imperal chanbr of puple seem [end of line] ble begin to wax’ (but ‘seem’ is only one possible reading). Whatever Scott meant at the line division, ‘begin’ is clear and makes good sense: it may have been intended to replace the doubtful word or words. a dance ( ) / a festive dance [III:A] Its dust is () / The dust of war is [III:A] western ( ) / northern [III:A] clear ( ) / free [III:A] I said just now was (  derived: I said juwas) / I have said even now was [III:A] without due consideration ( ) / without consideration [III:A] of the time () / of time [III:A] aggrandisement at (  aggrandizemnt at) / aggrandisement of fame at [III:A] noble fountain (  noble fountan) / princely sire [III:A] around, and ( around and) / around to the audience, and [III:A] mayest () / mayst [III:A] its ( ) / a [III:A] looked something like ( ) / looked like [III:A] for () / to [III:A] of sincerity (  of sincerety) / of blunt sincerity [III:A] Grecian audience () / court of her father [III:A] her father’s courtiers (  her fathers courtiers)/the Grecian court [III:A]

450 46.24 46.26 46.27 46.28 46.29 47.1 47.4 47.15 47.16 47.17 47.19 47.19 47.20 47.24 47.32 47.33 47.35 47.35 47.36 47.39 47.39 48.18 48.19 48.23 48.30 48.30 48.31 48.38 48.40 49.6 49.6 49.9 49.17 49.21 49.28 49.34 49.43 50.9 50.9 50.10 50.12

  if given (  derived: had given) / if bestowed [III:A] or heart ( ) / or his heart [III:A] sentiments () / feelings [III:A] Princess Anna was ( Princess Anna 〈Comn〉 was) / Princess was [III:A] commence—and ( derived: commence. And) / commence. It was also noticed [III:A] The new sentence in Laidlaw’s  is potentially misleading. must be still supposed to have retained ( ) / must be supposed to have still retained [III:A] this might () / this recollection might [III:A] capacity. ( capacity 〈than〉.) / light. [III:A] Anna Comnena began (  Anna Comnina began) / Anna began [III:A] incertain () / uncertain [III:A] of her father Alexius, but (  of her father Alexias but) / of Alexius Comnenus, but [III:A] which has unfortunately not () / which unfortunately has not [III:A] It () / The narrative [III:A] of oblivion () / of total oblivion [III:A] Romans.* (Lockhart proof correction III:A) / Romans,* secured during the preceding night by the wily barbarians. (  Romans had been secured in the course of the night by these wily barbarians.) course had () / course of advance had [III:A] advance ( ) / penetrate [III:A] further () / farther [III:A] retreat into () / retreat with safety into [III:A] evening, with ( evening with) / evening, to ascertain, with [III:A] foresight, to ascertain the (  foresight to ascertain the) / foresight, the [III:A] were placed (Lockhart proof correction III:A) / were now placed ( as Ed1) observances were ( ) / observances of the household were [III:A] presides there in person, was (  presides there in person was) / presides in person over the deliberations of his servants, was [III:A] bestial. () / bestial in its sound. [III:A] by surprise ( ) / by a slight motion of surprise [III:A] left () / allowed [III:A] upon () / on [III:A] rejected, respecting in this the (  rejected. respecting in this the) / rejected, herein paying respect to the [III:A] a slave of the chamber () / a confidential slave [III:A] interior, should (  interior should) / interior of our imperial palace, should [III:A] this ( ) / learning such opinion [III:A] infidel () / infidels [III:A] the extremity (Lockhart proof correction III:A) / the last extremity (  the very last extremety) joyful ( joyfull) / hopeful [III:A] hope had darted ( ) / hope darted [III:A] pass. ( ) / pass, with instructions to occupy it. [III:A] front of battle ( ) / charge of the rear [III:A] he proposed ( ) / he had proposed [III:A] troops, cheerfully (  troops cheerfully) / troops, as the post of danger at the time, cheerfully [III:A] his own ( ) / the imperial [III:A]

  50.15 50.16 50.16 50.21 50.27 50.29 50.32 50.36 50.37 50.38 50.42 51.1 51.5 51.10 51.11 51.15 51.16 51.17 51.17 51.18 51.20 51.32 51.34 51.37 51.38 51.38 52.9 52.10 52.30 52.33 52.34 52.39 52.39 52.40 53.3 53.4 53.4 53.6 53.12 53.18 53.21 53.34 53.35 54.2 54.5 54.9

451

of. () / of even by the oldest soldiers. [III:A] After () / During [III:A] during which ( ) / when [III:A] under command () / under the command [III:A] warriors, moving slow and steady (  warriors moving slow & steady) / warriors, who now led the van of the army, moving slowly and steadily [III:A] rocks, and breasting and surmounting ( rocks & breasting & surmounting) / rocks and precipices, and surmounting [III:A] passes () / defiles [III:A] burthen () / burden [III:A] reposed () / travelled [III:A] they () / the army [III:A] lay in the execution ( ) / it was to execute them [III:A] kind, () / kind; [III:A] narrative () / narration [III:A] which had ( ) / which, though the soldiers composing the same were heavily armed, had [III:A] to make a halt () / to halt [III:A] being that part of the country in which () / from [III:A] and insignificant ( & insignificant) / and comparatively insignificant [III:A] hills melts () / hills which melt [III:A] flat and irregular country (  flat & irregular country) / plains [III:A] station ( ) / pass which we occupied [III:A] discover ( ) / discern [III:A] arms, eat ( arms eat) / arms, to eat [III:A] or extend ( derived: or extended) / or they might be seen to extend [III:A] soldiery ( ) / soldiers [III:A] by the vulgar () / by vulgar [III:A] for use ( ) / for the use [III:A] Interpolate ( ) / Insert [III:A] interpose () / insert [III:A] Those who ( ) / Those soldiers who [III:A] commander ( ) / leader [III:A] demand ( ) / command [III:A] Varangians should ( ) / Varangians, lately the vanguard, should [III:A] army, bringing off safely the (  army bringing off safely even the) / army, so as to bring off in safety the [III:A] had been () / was still [III:A] Acoulouthos (Magnum) / Acouloutos ( Acoloutous) military () / literary [III:A] alla, Mohamed (Magnum) / alla Mohamed (  as Ed1) it ( ) / them [III:A] an ( ) / any [III:A] ill-boding (  ill boding) / ominous [III:A] been considerately dispersed ( ) / been dispersed [III:A] left to ( ) / left there to [III:A] than a () / than of a [III:A] commands () / command [III:A] who will mix themselves among us. ( who will mix them selves among us.) / who in their headlong flight will not fail to mix themselves among our ranks. [III:A] but that we ( ) / but we [III:A]

452 54.14 54.15 54.16 54.17 54.22 54.25 54.27 54.41 55.13 55.15 55.16 55.18 55.20 55.22 55.22 55.23 55.25 55.38 55.40 55.41 56.5 56.31 56.36 56.40 57.2 57.5 57.9 57.10 57.19 57.24 57.28

57.37 58.6 58.6 58.12

58.23

  fill the ranks ( ) / fill up the number [III:A] remained on () / were to undertake [III:A] accompanied their sovereign, as (  accompaned their sovreign as) / followed their sovereign with their eyes, as [III:A] hill. ( ) / hill, leaving them behind to resist and perish. [III:A] the path () / the middle path [III:A] them ( ) / him [III:A] cry ( ) / shout [III:A] into possession () / into the possession [III:A] that faithful (  that faithfull) / this faithful [III:A] brethren, among (  bretheren among) / brethren, the Anglo-Saxons, among [III:A] him ( ) / the body [III:A] their burthen ( ) / their precious burden [III:A] paused, having (  paused having) / paused; for, having [III:A] and being (  derived: & been) / she was [III:A] audience: but ( derived: audience but) / audience. Indeed, but [III:A] the manuscript before her, those of (  the manuscript before her those of) / her own manuscript, the emotions of [III:A] recitation, indeed, he (  recitation indeed he) / recitation, he [III:A] halt upon the top of the ( ) / halt after the main army had cleared the [III:A] distant noise of the engagement ( ) / distant engagement [III:A] lost the ( ) / lost, on hearing the narration of these events, the [III:A] or of () / as well as of [III:A] it please () / it may please [III:A] for faithful ( for faithfull) / for the faithful [III:A] saving () / save [III:A] hath pleased () / hath now pleased [III:A] given me by (Scott proof correction III:A) / of ( as Ed 1) Peace!” ( Peace”) / Peace all,” [III:A] The exclamation mark is substituted for Ed1 comma by Magnum: ‘Peace all!’. if Edward () / if an Edward [III:A] This was (  this was) / This feat was [III:A] youth () / station [III:A] thankfulness: “We . . . assured that ( thankfullness “we may not” he said as he saluted this pledge of gratitude pessing 〈it to〉 by pressing it to his lips “remain long together but be assured that) / thankfulness: “Precious relic!” he said, as he saluted this pledge of esteem by pressing it to his lips; “we may not remain long together, but be assured,” bending reverently to the Princess, “that [III:A] that ( ) / the [III:A] practical (  derived: partical) / professional [III:A] the dust was more concentrated together than ( ) / the cloud of dust was more concentrated than [III:A] Arabs, and slain . . . gallant leader was ( Arabs & slain their leader Jesdegard in which service their own gallant leader was) / Arabs, and their gallant leader had slain their chief Jezdegerd, in which service he was [III:A] Emperor, descending from his litter, assume ( Emperor descending from his litter assume) / Emperor himself descend from his litter, like an ordinary cavalier, and assume [III:A]

  58.25 58.27 58.27 58.31 58.31 58.35 58.41 59.2 59.5 59.5 59.13 59.22

59.23 59.35 59.40 59.41 59.42 60.9 60.18 60.20 60.20 60.25 60.33 61.3 61.4 61.6 61.8 61.9 61.11 61.12 61.14 61.14 61.16 61.20 61.38 61.38 62.4 62.24 62.25 63.2 63.3 63.10 63.34

453

Empress, and the (  Empress & the) / Empress, as well as the [III:A] the litters () / their litters [III:A] adopted () / assigned [III:A] pass ( ) / defile at the fountain [III:A] possible, with about . . . at the fountain. ( possible with about a hundred guards men who had come off the relicts of those who had defended the defile at the fountain) / possible. [III:A] strength, and . . . diminished in (  strength & who now again appeared diminished in) / strength, again appearing in diminished [III:A] Acoulouthos (Magnum) / Acouloutos (  Aco〈u〉boutous) contract () / contest [III:A] hearing the () / hearing of the [III:A] who () / whom [III:A] brother—and whom (Magnum) / brother, and whom (  brother & whom) to observe the emotions . . . a few minutes to (  to observe the emotions of these gallant soldiers for having allowed a few minutes to) / to make more observations on what passed among those brave soldiers; for a few minutes having been allowed to [III:A] trumpet (Magnum) / trumpets ( as Ed1) plain, and throw ( derived: plain throw) / plain, betwixt the Roman army and the city, and throw [III:A] pass of the fountain, he (  pass of the fountain he) / pass, he [III:A] portion of the cavalry ( ) / body of cavalry [III:A] possessed of ( ) / mounted on [III:A] their proposed ( ) / the proposed [III:A] van ( ) / front [III:A] forwards ( ) / forward [III:A] front ( ) / head [III:A] fall back into ( ) / fall into [III:A] beheld a () / beheld, as it were, a [III:A] way amid ( ) / inroad upon [III:A] furious ( ) / gallant [III:A] rear of the phalanx ( rear mof the phalanx . . .o) / rear ranks of the brave Varangians [III:A] over () / from [III:A] “We (  We) / “The enemy thus repulsed, we [III:A] interior, who (  interior who) / interior of the household, who [III:A] post () / posts [III:A] dangerous () / perilous [III:A] reported that () / reported, that [III:A] mouth () / lips [III:A] had thereby acquired () / had acquired [III:A] much, or whose, attention ( much, or who’s attention) / much attention [III:A] upon ( ) / to [III:A] inferior (Lockhart proof correction III:A) / second (not in ) Alexius ( ) / the Emperor [III:A] hinted the ( ) / hinted that the [III:A] in the agitated empire () / in so agitated an empire [III:A] crossing ( ) / passing [III:A] repulsed, it would appear, when (  repulsed it would appear when) / coldly received when [III:A] unwilling () / indisposed [III:A]

454 64.6 64.10 64.10 64.19

64.25 64.28 64.30 64.33 64.35 65.1 65.1 65.5 65.8 65.17 65.18 65.20 65.38 65.39 65.42 66.3 66.5 66.6 66.8 66.9 66.9 66.12 66.14 66.16 66.25 66.26 66.39 67.2 67.5 67.7 67.15 67.15 67.16 67.17 67.18 67.24 67.37 67.38 67.39 67.40 68.10 68.14

  a common ( ) / an ordinary [III:A] combat ( ) / conduct [III:A] death, and he ( death & he) / death; he [III:A] ages, yet may I be pardoned . . . beforehand. (  ages. yet may I be pardoned in hoping that when examining barbarians of this class my accomplished spouse will be so kind as to consult me before [end of line] hand.) / ages. [III:A] add unnoticed () / add, that is unnoticed [III:A] fountain at the top of the pass () / fountain [III:A] which ( ) / that [III:A] thee ( ) / thou [III:A] or subject of () / or of [III:A] own () / imperial [III:A] and order (  & order) / and to order [III:A] or at ( ) / or do at [III:A] part . . . came, we (  part without further notice as it came we) / pass as it came, without farther notice, we [III:A] recks ( ) / matters [III:A] them ( ) / it [III:A] come () / came [III:A] guided by ( ) / guided through the wilderness by [III:A] cloud. No () / cloud. But no [III:A] alleviate them ( ) / obtain supplies [III:A] calamities ( ) / calamitous defeats [III:A] have escaped () / have already escaped [III:A] “Knew?” () / “Knew before?” [III:A] their shortest way (  derived: their sortest way) / their way [III:A] deluging () / deluged [III:A] empire in ( ) / empire, and its vicinity, in [III:A] disordered ( disorderd) / disorderly [III:A] who cover our frontier, in their own despite, as ( who cover our frontier in their own despite as) / who, while they pretend to independence, cover our frontier as [III:A] of provisions () / of the provisions [III:A] All () / Now,—all [III:A] joined ( ) / united [III:A] See (  see) / Behold [III:A] kings, and man of men—the (  derived: Kings & men of men—the) / kings—the [III:A] mayest () / mayst [III:A] loud () / sounding [III:A] Alas ( ) / My liege [III:A] many chiefs () / many independent chiefs [III:A] independent chiefs there are of European (  independant chiefs there are of European) / independent European [III:A] armies advancing ( ) / armies are advancing [III:A] announcing () / announce [III:A] such the () / such are the [III:A] he will be hardly guided () / he is not likely to be guided [III:A] wishes, Heaven ( wishes Heaven) / wishes and projects, it may chance that Heaven [III:A] Who () / Whom [III:A] troop () / band [III:A] to him () / to this Godfrey [III:A] heads ( ) / leaders [III:A]

  68.20 68.21 68.28 68.40 68.41 69.15 69.17 69.18 69.25 69.28 69.31 69.32 69.32 69.43 70.10 70.10 70.19 70.26 70.30 70.31 70.32 70.36 70.37 70.38 70.40 70.41 71.5 71.7 71.7 71.10 71.13 71.20 71.42 72.8 72.28 72.37 72.39 73.23 73.31 73.39 73.40 74.1 74.7 74.8 74.17 74.20

455

so () / as [III:A] May ( ) / Might [III:A] people ( ) / inhabitants [III:A] was conscious ( ) / was internally conscious [III:A] by necessities of state () / by state necessities [III:A] friends, and slay each other, as ( friends & slay each other as) / neighbours, and challenge each other to mortal fight, as [III:A] covered also with ( ) / covered with [III:A] which defends () / defending [III:A] hard-wood () / hard wood [III:A] the Frankish ( ) / the lances of Frankish [III:A] she has given ( ) / the Divine will has given [III:A] which she has ( ) / which it hath [III:A] obtaining ( ) / achieving [III:A] history ( ) / memory [III:A] chiefly out of ( ) / chiefly of [III:A] also out of () / also of [III:A] himself stoutly on ( him self stoutly on) / himself on [III:A] Gaul, more properly termed Britain. ( Gaul more properly terned Britain.) / Gaul. [III:A] life. A few () / life. On one side of the strait dwell a few [III:A] character ( ) / charter [III:A] who perform ( ) / who, performing [III:A] upon () / on [III:A] cottage, sounded (  cottage sounded) / cottage who holds the turn of this singular service, sounded [III:A] duty—he ( derived: duty, he) / duty. He [III:A] it sensibly express () / its hull sink sensibly in the water, so as to express [III:A] No one is seen, and though half-formed voices (  No one is seen & though half formed voices) / No form is seen, and though voices [III:A] appointed, which is ( appointed which is) / appointed, but disembark not, for the land is [III:A] on () / in [III:A] slowly (Magnum) / gradually (  as Ed1) possessions.” ( ) / possessions on that strange coast.” [III:A] Why ( ) / In truth [III:A] neck () / head [III:A] with ( ) / to [III:A] situated ( ) / who dwelt [III:A] proper name () / proper appellation. [III:A] Other battles have been fought, and had ( Other battles have been fought & had) / Battles have been fought in old time, that have had [III:A] Hastings—woes ( ) / Hastings—O woes [III:A] but woman’s (  but womans) / but a woman’s [III:A] I was () / I hardly existed, or was [III:A] reconcile at ( ) / reconcile with the soldier’s narrative [III:A] proof, if he avers any thing from ( proof if he avers any thing from) / proof, in whatsoever he avers from [III:A] worship deeper () / worship of these learned goddesses, deeper [III:A] desirous alike ( ) / equally desirous [III:A] hast thou ( ) / thou hast [III:A] by assistance ( ) / by the assistance [III:A] burthen () / burden [III:A]

456 74.38 74.38 74.39 75.12 75.22 75.40 75.42 76.4 76.6 76.8 76.12 76.14 76.19 76.21 76.25 76.41 77.1 77.2 77.20 77.21 77.23 77.23 77.37 77.42 77.43 78.23 78.24 78.25 78.28 79.1 79.8 79.15 79.27 79.27 79.33 80.17 80.20 80.22 80.23 80.24 80.25 80.31 80.37 81.2 81.14 81.15 81.21 81.22 81.28

  of military ( ) / of the military [III:A] of guards ( ) / of the necessity of guards [III:A] forwards ( ) / forward [III:A] them ( ) / themselves [III:A] vaults () / halls [III:A] come () / coming [III:A] prolix () / lengthened [III:A] under custody ( ) / under the custody [III:A] Reason it was () / It was only natural [III:A] but scarce () / little [III:A] “Handsome ( “handsome) / “Nevertheless, handsome [III:A] with.” [new paragraph] “And never ( derived: with—and never) / withal.” [new paragraph] “If such be their final end,” said Achilles, “never [III:A] Anglo-Saxon (Editorial) / Anglo-Briton ( Anglo-briton) has now at least inherited the () / has now inherited, notwithstanding, the [III:A] not for ordinary ( ) / not ordinarily [III:A] and whom (  & whom) / but whom [III:A] observation ( ) / penetration [III:A] pushed the ( ) / provoked to extremity the [III:A] it, of ( it of) / it, who did not participate of [III:A] liquid ( ) / fluid [III:A] the courtiers ( ) / we courtiers [III:A] the Elephant (Magnum) / The Elephant (  as Ed1) without the least () / avoiding, at the same time, every [III:A] men ( ) / those [III:A] as thy () / as of thy [III:A] climbeth () / climbs [III:A] aspire, ( ) / aspire at court, [III:A] knock () / strike [III:A] danger () / dangers [III:A] Zosimus ( ) / Zozimus [III:A] the real () / their real [III:A] the time ( ) / thy time [III:A] Gallaphron (Lockhart proof correction III:A) / Gallaplune (not in ) thence (Magnum) / whence (not in ) Council of War (  council 〈of〉 [caret] war) / Council was [III:A] kinds, curiously (Editorial) / kinds curiously ( as Ed1) equivalent to () / of rank with [III:A] Protospathaire, already (  Protospathere already) / Proto-spathaire, or commander of the guards, already [III:A] Follower—and the Patriarch. (  Follower.) / Follower, and leader of the Varangians—and the Patriarch. [III:A] door ( ) / doors [III:A] was ( ) / were [III:A] esteemed ( ) / considered [III:A] were apparently made to ( ) / were made, as it were, to [III:A] giving ( ) / as [III:A] persisted not long in () / did not long persist in [III:A] last ( ) / length [III:A] be the () / be, in the long run, the [III:A] empire, in the long run, though ( empire in the long run though) / empire, though [III:A] how many ( ) / what [III:A]

  81.32 81.36 81.40 82.5 82.13 82.17 82.21 82.25 82.28 82.38 83.1 83.2 83.4 83.5 83.8 83.9 83.16 83.17 83.19 83.24 83.29 84.17 84.23 84.26 84.33 84.37 85.4 85.6 85.9 85.10 85.19 85.20 85.31 85.32 85.35 85.41 86.7

457

providing ( ) / provided [III:A] you mean () / you, at this present moment, mean [III:A] thus, not ( thus not) / thus, but not [III:A] expression ( ) / expressions [III:A] garrisons, additional to (  garrisons additional to) / garrisons, in addition to [III:A] not augment by wrangling the ( ) / not by wrangling augment the [III:A] numbers. () / numbers, between this city and the western frontier of the empire. [III:A] of the empire ( ) / to our kingdom [III:A] shall ever . . . the world (  shall ever endanger the walls of 〈me〉 the metropolis of the world) / shall, by assembling beneath our walls, ever endanger the safety of the metropolis of the world [III:A] of their provisions in ( ) / of provisions, in [III:A] them by ( ) / the crusaders by [III:A] of country ( ) / of the country [III:A] the intercourses ( ) / your intercourse [III:A] counts . . . emperor ( ) / Counts . . . Emperor [III:A] As often with Laidlaw’s hand, the initial ‘c’ may be either capital or lower case. to important persons, and ( to important persons and) / to persons of note, and [III:A] to the inferior () / to those under them [III:A] will be ( ) / shall be [III:A] body. We will . . . practice, and by ( body. We will deal with them in all christian practice and by) / body, whom we may deal with in all Christian prudence. Thus, by [III:A] listening, we ( listening we) / listening to them, we [III:A] possession () / property [III:A] empire, and (Lockhart proof correction III:A) / empire, not its enemy, and (  empire mnot its enemyo and) regain () / reconquer [III:A] prolongs the ( ) / prolongs, in western churches, the [III:A] heretics, but ( hereticks but) / heretics to the true faith, but [III:A] Patriarch. And ( patriarchm.o 〈and〉 And) / Patriarch; and [III:A] the tinge of green and of purple (  the tinge of green & of purple) / the fitting tinge of green and purple [III:A] The genius ( ) / The peculiar genius [III:A] boastful mode of talking ( boastfull mode of talking) / boastful talking [III:A] most endeavoured ( ) / most of those in the service of Alexius, endeavoured [III:A] purposes ( ) / ends [III:A] supposed the ( ) / supposed that the [III:A] Others thought ( ) / A third class thought [III:A] intentions. () / intentions, he concluded, against them in particular. [III:A] such () / peculiar [III:A] a foreign capital, with (  a forreigin capital with) / the foreign capital where they had found refuge, with [III:A] Anglo-Saxons had ( ) / Anglo-Saxons of England had [III:A] to similar questions, and evading others ( to similar questions & evading others) / to the same questions, and evading similar others [III:A]

458 86.10 86.13 86.15 86.17 86.18 86.19 86.20 86.21 86.22 86.28 86.30 86.30 86.33 86.35 86.35 86.39 86.41 86.43 87.1 87.2 87.7 87.8 87.8 87.13 87.14 87.22 87.32 87.32 87.41 87.42 87.43 88.23 88.34 88.36 89.2 89.2 89.5

  war instantly approaching. (  war instantly approaching〈ly〉m—o) / the immediate approach of war. [III:A] form camp ( ) / form a camp [III:A] provisions ( ) / provision [III:A] commit the (  comit the) / commit, to a page or esquire, the [III:A] equipments to a page or esquire, took (  equipments to a page or esquire took) / equipments, took [III:A] and seek ( & seek) / in order to seek [III:A] some solitary reflection () / his solitary reflections [III:A] his communication () / his direct communication [III:A] royal () / Imperial [III:A] It was () / These graduated terraces were [III:A] seen: some (Editorial) / seen; some (  seen, Some) going and coming ( going & comming) / passing to and fro [III:A] day; and (Editorial) / day, and (  day and) if to () / if their sole object was to [III:A] woes () / cares [III:A] solitude () / seclusion [III:A] enquiry, as . . . a person (  inquiry as conjecturing him to be a person) / enquiry, considering him to be one [III:A] that singular invasion, which (  that singular invasion which) / the singular invasion by numerous enemies, and from various quarters, which [III:A] the strange soldier, though (  the strange soldier though) / the soldier of the guard, though [III:A] went () / walked [III:A] dogged at a distance by ( ) / dogged by [III:A] personage too common (  personage 〈sufficiently〉 mtooo common) / personage not so unfrequent [III:A] Constantinople to ( ) / Constantinople as to [III:A] sable () / distant, though apparently watchful [III:A] place lost ( ) / place had lost [III:A] know () / remark [III:A] why dost thou want me ( ) / what dost thou want with me [III:A] wherefore ( ) / why [III:A] have ( ) / possess [III:A] me information ( ) / me the information [III:A] exact () / demand [III:A] was irresistibly reminded of ( ) / felt irresistibly renewed in his mind [III:A] ruins, forming (  ruins forming) / fragments of building, occupying [III:A] other point (Lockhart proof correction III:A) / part ( as Ed1) taste so ( ) / taste and attitude so [III:A] be () / seem [III:A] origin. [new paragraph] According to tradition, . . . classical devotion. (  derived: origine [new paragraph] According to tradition this had been a temple to the Egyptian goddess Cybele built while the Empire was yet heathen & while Constantinople whas still only known by the name of Byzantium. It is well known that the superstition of the Egyptians as particularly gross in itsself & as peculiarly the foundation of many wild doctrines represented as its Mystic or secret meaning was contrary to the principles of general toleration & the polytheism received by Rome, excluded by repeated laws from the respect paid by the empire to almost every other religion, however extravagant or absurd.

 

89.24 89.41 90.3 90.4 90.5 90.8 90.8 90.9 90.9 90.16 90.19 90.21 90.25 90.26 90.30 90.35 90.39 91.3 91.27 91.28 91.31 91.33 91.34 91.37 92.12 92.24 92.24 92.25 92.29 92.29 92.32 92.33

459

Nevertheless these rites had charms for the curious & the superstitious & although denounced repeatedly yet obtained a footing in spite of the opposition of reason to a supperstition which was the most contemptible & abject in a literal point of view. The wildest & most extravagant when explained by mystical alegories. The secret rites which [caret] 〈they〉 practised 〈pro〉 in these temples & although they were demolished by order of the senate they were finally restored with increased splendour & their fantastic & gloomy rites were admitted to become part of 〈the〉 classical devotion.) / origin, which we shall briefly detail. [new paragraph] According to tradition, this had been a temple dedicated to the Egyptian goddess Cybele, built while the Roman empire was yet heathen, and while Constantinoplle was still called by the name of Byzantium. It is well known that the superstition of the Egyptians,— vulgarly gross in its literal meaning as well as in its mystical interpretation, and peculiarly the foundation of many wild doctrines,—was disowned by the principles of general toleration, and the system of polytheism received by Rome, and was excluded by repeated laws from the respect paid by the empire to almost every other religion, however extravagant or absurd. Nevertheless, these Egyptian rites had charms for the curious and the superstitious, and had, after long opposition, obtained a footing in the empire. [III:A] though () / although [III:A] a church () / a Christian church [III:A] sable () / black [III:A] dogs’ . . . cows’ (Magnum) / dog’s . . . cow’s (  dogs . . . cows) reverently held ( ) / held reverently [III:A] spirit daily ( ) / spirit, it is said, daily [III:A] round () / rounds [III:A] said ( ) / rumoured [III:A] further () / farther [III:A] look on () / look without trembling on [III:A] thou foolish ( ) / thou art foolish [III:A] is ( ) / can be [III:A] fine ( ) / free [III:A] ribs ( ) / bones [III:A] Thy eyes ( ) / Thine own eyes [III:A] circumstance ( ) / deceptious change [III:A] the blackness () / thy blackness [III:A] making words pass instead () / making subtle words pass upon the hearers instead [III:A] his religion and his ( his religion & his) / my religion and my [III:A] these he () / these opinions I [III:A] him yourself,” (  him your self”) / him then yourself.” [III:A] forwards ( ) / forward [III:A] by an ( ) / by a half-worn and [III:A] of Agelastes (  of Agilastes) / of the philosopher, Agelastes [III:A] is the () / is held the [III:A] these ( ) / those [III:A] smile of a court calls ( ) / smiles of a court call [III:A] frown reduces () / frowns reduce [III:A] ceremonies ( ) / punctilios [III:A] from different () / from those of different [III:A] these ( ) / those [III:A] judicious () / grave [III:A]

460 92.39 93.3 93.8 93.8 93.11 93.19 93.23 93.35 93.43 93.43 94.1 94.13 94.14 94.15 94.19 94.22 94.25 94.29 94.34 94.40 94.41 94.43 95.2 95.3 95.11 95.12 95.13 95.25 95.25 95.27 95.40 95.40 96.2 96.5 96.11 96.13 96.25 96.27 96.28 96.31 96.34 97.8 97.13 97.24 97.25

  to the prince (  to the Prince) / to the world he lives in, and to the prince [III:A] and he ( & he) / and so he [III:A] remark even ( ) / remarked, even [III:A] and hath some ( ) / and with these some [III:A] “can ( ) / “have you so employed him? Can [III:A] crab ( derived: msea-ocrab) / sea-crab [III:A] The double jingle with lines 17 and 20 was overlooked when the insertion was made in the   margin. through () / owing to [III:A] collecting or preserving ( ) / being collected or preserved [III:A] shock you;” (  shock you”) / offend you,” [III:A] not shock your opinion, yet ( ) / not even shake your good opinion of the person I allude to; yet [III:A] it ( ) / such [III:A] probably—since (Magnum) / probably, since (  probably since) boasting entirely to themselves—you (  boasting 〈to them〉 intirely to them [end of line] selves—you) / boasting so entirely to themselves but the Varangians have learned a little of it—you [III:A] learned nothing which ( ) / heard nothing of me which [III:A] am strike ( ) / am, I can strike [III:A] mass. We stamp (  mass. we stamp) / mass. We that are initiated enjoy high privileges—we stamp [III:A] otherwise () / others [III:A] of philosophy ( of Phylosophy) / of the heathen philosophy [III:A] I must the rather remember ( ) / I am the rather bound to remember [III:A] but like ( ) / but narrow-minded, like [III:A] only to () / but to [III:A] all ( ) / most [III:A] for () / to [III:A] providing ( ) / provided [III:A] hold a communication ( ) / hold communication [III:A] ourselves () / himself [III:A] wild a wish ( ) / ardent and universal an aspiration [III:A] tribes () / tribe [III:A] professed ( proffessed) / proffered [III:A] know, the (  know the) / know it, the [III:A] from () / to [III:A] I Christian ( I Chr〈r〉istian) / I a Christian [III:A] forbid, at ( ) / forbid it, at [III:A] precisions (Magnum) / position (  as Ed1) Lockhart corrects to ‘precision’ in III:A, but Magnum’s plural is required. “He () / “No. He [III:A] say a () / say has deported himself as a [III:A] further () / farther [III:A] thee? ( ) / thee but things that are foreign to thyself? [III:A] loved”—— ( ) / loved——” [III:A] has ( ) / hast [III:A] that ( ) / should [III:A] an ( ) / our [III:A] pretend a degree of () / assert the [III:A] further () / farther [III:A] and trust ( & trust) / yet trust [III:A]

  97.35 98.5 98.6 98.7 98.9 98.14 98.21 98.22 98.31 98.33 98.34 98.36 98.36 98.43 98.43 99.3 99.20 99.27 99.36 99.41 99.41 100.2 101.10 101.12 101.13 101.18 101.24 101.25 101.25 101.35 101.37

102.42 102.3 102.5 102.7 102.25 102.35 102.39 103.1 103.1 103.2

461

half a dozen of ( ) / some six or eight [III:A] shewn to any of ( ) / even mentioned as being fit for any one of [III:A] the usurper () / the ancient usurper [III:A] Only () / But [III:A] eminent ( ) / imminent [III:A] would () / should [III:A] the Count ( ) / he [III:A] providing ( ) / provided [III:A] his munificence () / the royal munificence [III:A] has no doubt . . . counsels the (  has no doubt to bring in by his councils the) / will no doubt expect to prevail by his counsels, on most of the [III:A] even Godfrey ( ) / even on Godfrey [III:A] was ( ) / were [III:A] the pious arguments arising from the sacred ( ) / the sacred [III:A] there ( ) / then [III:A] toys () / playthings [III:A] other’s (Magnum) / others (  as Ed1) “No, but such (  “no but such) / “Such [III:A] have known him . . . ignorant in ( have known him often select a subject out of the rawest and most ignorant in) / have often known him select one of the rawest & most ignorant persons in [III:A] serious, we ( serious we) / serious in his pretensions in such mystical matters, we [III:A] mistake me,” (  mistake me”) / apprehend me not,” [III:A] Acolyte; “you (  Acolyte “you) / Acolyte, hastily; “you [III:A] words the ( ) / words, which he himself would perhaps have felt it difficult to reconcile, the [III:A] exposing (Editorial) / exposed (  as Ed1) opposed on ( ) / opposed to each other on [III:A] be the necessary consequence. () / be inevitable. [III:A] the effects produced on them by the adulterated (Magnum) / their deficiency of (  Their defficiency of) their own power () / their strength [III:A] have suffered injuries tamely (  have suffered 〈them〉 injuries tamely) / have tamely suffered injuries [III:A] strength inferior ( ) / power so inferior [III:A] as ( ) / after [III:A] to render themselves . . . message, was ( derived: to render them selves that the Count of Vermandois after his lofty message was) / to surrender themselves to the lieutenants of Alexius. So that the Count of Vermandois, so haughty in his bearing when he first embarked, was [III:A] Grateful for the attentions (  Gratefull for the attentions) / Grateful, therefore, for attentions [III:A] Tholouse (Editorial) / Thoulouse ( as Ed1) These considered ( ) / These princes considered [III:A] be justly ( ) / justly be [III:A] they would ( ) / each chief of crusaders would [III:A] chiefs independent ( chiefs independant) / chiefs, who were wholly independent [III:A] in course () / in the course [III:A] of numerous ( ) / of the numerous [III:A] alongst ( ) / along [III:A] adopted () / chosen [III:A]

462 103.4 103.8 103.9 103.12 103.20 103.20 103.32 103.33

  no seats in the neighbourhood () / no other seats within view of the pageant [III:A] order the () / order, but standing, the [III:A] Protosebastos (Magnum) / Proto-sebastos ( as Ed1) imperial ( ) / Emperor’s [III:A] Varangians extended, in (  Verangi extended in) / Varangians, in [III:A] numbers, the (  numbers the) / numbers, were drawn up the [III:A] place ( ) / places [III:A] an exact () / the exact [III:A]

IV: 103.41–128.8 Manuscript; Proof IV:A (M S 3776, ff. 135r–167r) 104.6 the Emperor () / the Grecian Emperor [IV:A] 104.8 Vermandois. Yet ( Vermandois—yet) / Vermandois. And yet [IV:A] 104.14 the Crusaders ( ) / The Crusaders [IV:A] 104.17 one, should, . . . possible. ( one should in passing render to him the homage agreed upon in as few words as possible.) / one, were apprised, that, in passing, each was to render to him, in as few words as possible, the homage which had been previously agreed on. [IV:A] 104.22 on ( ) / by [post-proofs] 104.23 associates being (IV:A) / associates from being [post-proofs] ( associates who might be) 104.28 Thus, the two . . . overcharged contents. ( derived: Thus the two 〈immen〉 great 〈bo [‘bo’ changed from ‘tr’]〉 bodies of troops 〈residing〉 mpausingo at same distance from each other on the banks of the Bosphorus coast & differing from each other in language speech arms and appearance. The small troops of horse which from time to time spurrd forth from the one of these bodies to join the other likee flashes of lightning passing from cloud to cloud communicated 〈each〉 mone too 〈eac〉 other by such emissaries their overcharged contents.) / Thus two great bodies of troops, Grecian and European, paused at some distance from each other on the banks of the Bosphorus canal, differing in language, arms, and appearance. The small troops of horse which from time to time issued forth from these bodies, resembled the flashes of lightning passing from one thunder-cloud to another, which communicate to each other by such emissaries their overcharged contents. [IV:A] 104.35 forwards ( ) / forward [IV:A] 105.10 these great lords practised ( these Great Lords practising) / the great lords, from these various motives, practised [IV:A] 105.12 appear flouting ( ) / seem like irreverence Proof IV:A has ‘seem like flouting’. The further correction to ‘irreverence’ is post-proofs. 105.13 Grecians. ( ) / Grecians. But there were very many of a different temper. [IV:A] 105.14 The main body of the counts . . . were, many of them, too (  The main body of the Counts . . . were many of them too) / Of the great number of counts . . . many were too Proof IV:A has ‘The greater number of the counts . . . were many of them too’. The further change to Ed1 was made post-proofs. 105.17 and though ( & though) / and these, though [post-proofs] 105.18 resistance, they yet (proof IV:A) / resistance, yet [post-proofs] (  resistance—But mtheyo yet) 105.20 the very step () / the step [post-proofs]

 

463

105.22 timid ( ) / limited [IV:A] 105.23 where ( ) / when [IV:A] 105.24 so, and to them . . . the others an (  so and to them an obsequious ally while he was to the others an) / so; and who, though to them an obsequious ally, was to the others, when occasion offered, an [postproofs] 105.29 crusade, for (  crusade for) / crusade, as well as for [IV:A] 105.32 devotees ( ) / crusaders [IV:A] 105.34 Greeks . . . the worst, so (  Greeks sometimes notwithstanding their 〈le〉 all their arts were put decidedly to the worst so) / Greeks, notwithstanding all their art, were often worsted; so Proof IV:A makes the change resulting in the Ed1 reading except for the deletion of ‘sometimes’ which was effected post-proofs. 105.36 soldiers ( ) / allies [IV:A] 106.6 homage, on which (  homage on which) / homage. On this [IV:A] 106.8 to Bohemond . . . and, desirous (  to Bohemond of Antiochs turn to render this fealty arose on the Norman adventurers 〈retirinngal〉 retirining and desirous) / to the turn of Bohemond of Antioch, already mentioned, to render this fealty, the Emperor, desirous [IV:A] 106.15 deference, but ( deference but) / deference to Bohemond; but [IV:A] 106.16 exposing him ( ) / exposing Alexius himself [IV:A] 106.16 affront, in which (  affront in which) / affront, which [IV:A] 106.17 deeply an () / deeply, as an [IV:A] 106.19 upon () / at [IV:A] 106.21 halted at once ( ) / at once halted [IV:A] 106.25 with chamois ( with shamois) / with garments of chamois [IV:A] 106.25 generally ( derived: general) / in general [IV:A] 106.26 country, which he (  country which he) / country. This, however, he [IV:A] 106.28 the importance of the () / so important a [IV:A] 106.30 him (  hin) / his steps [IV:A] 106.30 throne. But having sprung (  throne But having sprung) / throne, but sprung [IV:A] 106.31 thrown ( derived: thiroun) / threw [IV:A] 106.32 pages, without (  derived: pages he took possession of [new leaf] Without) / pages. Without [IV:A] 106.33 he seated () / the Frank seated [IV:A] 106.33 empty () / vacant [post-proofs] 106.36 caressed (  caressd) / began to caress [IV:A] 106.36 which reposed itself ( ) / which had followed him, and which, feeling itself as much at ease as its master, reposed its grim form [IV:A] 106.41 walk on which ( ) / space which [IV:A] 106.43 baron () / Frank [post-proofs] 107.5 intended to do. [new paragraph] Meanwhile ( intended to do Meanwhile) / would do, and somewhat timorous of taking a resolution for themselves. [new paragraph] Meanwhile [IV:A] 107.7 which might () / which, though provincial, might [IV:A] 107.9 the tone (proof IV:A) / his tone [post-proofs] (not in  ) 107.9 said he ( said 〈said said〉 he) / he said [post-proofs] 107.10 who remains () / who has remained [post-proofs] 107.10 of stone in a nich () / of wood, or the fragment of a rock [IV:A] 107.12 around? ( arounds.) / around, among the thrice conquered Varangians? [IV:A] 107.14 to some ( ) / to the accents of some [IV:A]

464

 

107.17 hands (  〈hand〉 mhandso) / battle-axes [IV:A] 107.19 commenced the disorder of the day ( ) / occasioned it Proof IV:A has ‘commenced this disorder’. The Ed1 reading was introduced post-proofs. 107.25 and foul () / and a gentle degree of force [IV:A] 107.27 Count? Is (  Count Is) / Count of Paris? Is [IV:A] 107.33 know,” ( know”) / know not,” [IV:A] 107.33 reluctantly, “I (  derived: reluctantly “I) / reluctantly—“I [IV:A] 107.41 conceived () / imagined [IV:A] 107.42 going () / about [IV:A] 107.42 plan (Magnum) / scheme ( as Ed1) 107.43 affront. With . . . he cast (  derived: affront With calmnness which his internal feelings renderd renderd singular acute cast) / affront, and probably an assault upon his person. He was about to call to arms, when, casting What immediately precedes ‘cast’ in the   is unclear: it is certainly not ‘as he’. The corrections resulting in the Ed1 reading appear in IV:A, except for the change of ‘as he cast’ to ‘casting’, which is post-proofs. 108.1 crusaders, where all (  crusaders where all) / crusaders, he saw that all [IV:A] 108.2 He instantly () / He therefore instantly [post-proofs] 108.4 Latins ( ) / Franks [post-proofs] 108.13 throne?” ( throne”—) / throne, and who thinks proper thus to vindicate his rank?” [IV:A] 108.15 though numerous as ( thorough numerous as) / though the brave are as numerous there as [IV:A] 108.15 will tell you his name and rank himself. (proof IV:A) / will himself tell you his name and rank. [post-proofs] ( will tell you his name and rank yourself.) 108.31 fair () / fierce [IV:A] 108.34 themselves () / each other [IV:A] 108.37 assurances ( ) / assurance [post-proofs] 109.1 I leave you not unjostled ( ) / I have not left you unjostled [IV:A] 109.7 Latin ( ) / Frankish [post-proofs] 109.8 wonder you ( ) / wonder that you [IV:A] 109.11 would have at the same time found ( ) / would, at the same time with the words of the dialect, have [IV:A] 109.19 Latin (proof IV:A) / Frank [post-proofs] (not in ) 109.22 it was bent by () / it were become decrepid by Proof IV:A has ‘it was become decriped by’. The further correction to the Ed1 reading is post-proofs. 109.29 devotions, having (  devotions having) / devotions in the chapel, having [IV:A] 109.29 ash and oak ( ashes and oak) / ash and oak-tree [IV:A] 109.33 stranger’s (  strangers) / new comer’s [IV:A] 109.36 horse and break ( horse 〈and another〉 and break) / horse, and did break [IV:A] 110.4 I assure you, sir, if you doubt, that (  I assure Sir if your doubt that) / I assure you, if you doubt that [IV:A] 110.5 not hunt ( not hund) / hunt not [IV:A] 110.7 discharged () / discharge [IV:A] 110.7 the noontide hour ( derived: the moon tined hour) / the morn had arisen [IV:A] The third  word may be ‘timd’, but in either case the present reading is that most likely intended.

  110.8 110.15 110.18 110.19 110.19 110.21 110.21 110.22 110.29 111.10 111.26 111.42 112.2 112.2 112.24 112.30 112.34 113.4

113.6 113.9 113.12 113.19 113.25 113.26

113.29 113.35 113.36 113.39 113.41 113.43 114.5 114.6 114.16 114.19

465

chapel. ( ) / chapel, you do us foul injustice. [IV:A] Christians ( Chhristians) / Christian [IV:A] will () / shall [IV:A] centre () / rank [IV:A] army, and having ( armey and havin) / army, beside our standard, or elsewhere, and have [IV:A] as more () / as, by their evil customs, more [IV:A] If () / Meanwhile [IV:A] homage, I ( homage I) / homage, and I [IV:A] him safe on (  derived: him saf on) / him in the course of going on [IV:A] flouting () / braving [IV:A] out of bounds (  out of of bounds) / out of the school-bounds [IV:A] Count, do ( Count does) / Knight,” said the Count of Tholouse, “does [IV:A] Magnum corrects ‘does’ to ‘do’. rivalled ( rivald) / rival [IV:A] as in the dancing-room (  as in in the dancing room) / as at the dancing-room [IV:A] in front () / in the front [IV:A] their ( ) / the [IV:A] a little girl () / a girl [IV:A] mortified. The men . . . made ( mortifieid The men successful in the encounter were now made) / mortified and disappointed. The successful party among the suitors were expected to be summoned to joust among themselves. But they were surprised at being made [IV:A] aspired herself to wear armour, to (  aspired herself to wear armour to) / aspired to wear armour herself, to [IV:A] Lady ( ) / mistress [IV:A] one on another. The gallants ( ) / to each other, and intimated a different result than the gallants anticipated. The knights [IV:A] do irreparable damage ( derived: to irreparable damage) / cause irreparable injury [IV:A] knight who sought to do battle, but would willingly (  Knght wo sought to do battle but willingly) / knight who would willingly [IV:A] the lady’s hand . . . his predecessors. ( the ladies hand in case of his success providied he was left at liberty in case of 〈bein〉 himself sharing the fate of his predecessors.) / the reward of the tournament, in case he had the fortune to gain it, declaring, that neither lands nor ladies’ charms were what he came thither to seek. [IV:A] IV:A has ‘hither’, which becomes ‘thither’ post-proofs. came (  cam) / advanced [IV:A] ran ( ) / tilted [IV:A] unhelmed and unhorsed ( unhelmd and unhorsid) / unhorsed and unhelmed [IV:A] its effect ( ) / its natural effect [IV:A] the young lady. But () / the lady; but [IV:A] sustained, she ( sustained she) / sustained by the young heiress, she [IV:A] more of (  mor of) / of more [IV:A] renowned jousters (  derived: renown geousters) / renowned of Norman knights [IV:A] on () / in [IV:A] a leg ( ) / an arm [IV:A]

466

 

114.20 rencounter () / rencontre [IV:A] 114.23 seen also, nor (  seen also nor) / known also in military exploits, nor [IV:A] 114.24 after military fame. She was ( ) / after fame. They both assumed the cross at the same time, that being then the predominating folly in Europe. [new paragraph] The Countess Brenhilda was Proof IV:A has the Ed1 reading except for the ‘that’ inserted postproofs. 114.29 parts of . . . displayed. [rule] As (Editorial) / parts of her face as were not usually displayed. [new paragraph] As (  parts of the person [new leaf and paragraph] As) The abrupt resumption of the narrative comes as Scott resumes dictation after several pages in his own hand. See Essay on the Text, 406. 114.34 train (Magnum) / retinue ( as Ed1) 114.36 crowd () / crowds [IV:A] 114.38 Paris, who felt his walk more incommoded than (  Paris who felt his walk more incommoded than) / Paris had embarked his horses on board of ship, and all his retinue, except an old squire or valet of his own, and an attendant of his wife. He felt himself more incommoded in this crowd than [IV:A] 114.39 him, began (  him began) / him, and began [IV:A] 115.1 strange adventures ( ) / strange sights, or adventures [IV:A] 115.22 investigation. (  derived: investigation observe.) / discussion, and limit its enquiry to the last. [IV:A] 115.31 devotions for the great ransom that was ( ) / devotions where the great ransom was [IV:A] 115.34 the highest ( ) / our highest [IV:A] 115.40 you throw () / you may, perchance, throw [IV:A] 116.17 been better () / been much better [IV:A] 116.40 seek ( ) / be industrious in seeking out [IV:A] 116.41 wife () / lady [IV:A] 117.16 will ( 〈have〉 mwillo) / shall [IV:A] 117.18 sea ( ) / country [IV:A] 117.20 hence, amid (  hence amid) / hence, in our renowned Grecian Archipelago, amid [IV:A] 117.22 billows which () / billows that [IV:A] 117.24 The middle part (  derived: The mmiddleo inland part) / The inland part [IV:A] 117.33 country which ( ) / Holy Land, which [IV:A] 117.34 near the ( ) / near to the [IV:A] 117.35 than a ( ) / than the length of a [IV:A] 117.36 emprise ( ) / enterprise [IV:A] 117.43 the approach () / the expected approach [IV:A] 117.43 deliverance (  deliverence) / deliverer [IV:A] 118.3 whom such a ( ) / whom a [IV:A] 118.15 them.” [new paragraph] The philosopher . . . enchantment. “The sage (Editorial) / them.” The philosopher . . . enchantment. [new paragraph] “The sage ( them. [new paragraph] The sage) 118.24 inaptly () / unaptly [IV:A] 118.29 Princess (Magnum) / Princes ( as Ed1) 118.29 the dance ( ) / the youthful dance [IV:A] 118.34 out and ridicule their ( out & ridicule their) / out, ridicule, and enjoy their [IV:A] 118.41 his own folly ( ) / what he had done [IV:A] 118.42 silliness with ( ) / folly of the Princess by [IV:A]

  119.6 119.6 119.23 119.23 119.24 119.26 119.32 119.35 120.12 120.39 120.40 121.2 121.11 121.14 121.29 121.37 121.37 121.43 122.11 122.18 122.42 122.42 123.1 123.1 123.5 123.5 123.7 123.8 123.10 123.11 123.12 123.12 123.16 123.18 123.26 123.31 123.35 123.37 123.38 123.41 123.41 123.41 124.1

124.22

467

into ridicule ( into redicule) / into what would render him ridiculous [IV:A] planned, as ( planned as) / planned with malice prepense, as [IV:A] these ( ) / those [post-proofs] lay palace () / lay the palace [IV:A] beckon ( ) / invite [IV:A] features fiendishly () / features, fiendishly [post-proofs] strictest degree of examination () / strictest examination [IV:A] forwards ( ) / forward [IV:A] been ever () / ever been [IV:A] in () / on [IV:A] emprise ( ) / enterprise [IV:A] We descendants of the old Germans claim ( ) / We Norman ladies, descendants of the old Germans, claim [IV:A] IV:A has ‘Old’, changed to ‘old’ post-proofs such (Magnum) / some ( as Ed1) best ( ) / most likely to be [IV:A] been () / remained [IV:A] fear of the ( ) / fear of saluting the [IV:A] that of the ( ) / that of approaching the [IV:A] taking the adventure in hand ( ) / following out the enterprise [IV:A] unbefitting ( ) / unusual to [IV:A] agitated, in (  agitated in) / agitated, now in [IV:A] atone for. (  attone for.) / atone. [IV:A] said she () / she said [IV:A] emprise ( ) / enterprise [IV:A] thy () / thine [IV:A] lovely ( ) / lonely [IV:A] relieved, and ( relieved &) / relieved—and—and [IV:A] living ( ) / loving [IV:A] very ( ) / highly [IV:A] couple (  coupple) / pair [post-proofs] be doubt ( ) / be a doubt [IV:A] destined ( ) / fated [post-proofs] due ( ) / destined [IV:A] and I ( & I) / and, such is my regret, that I [IV:A] anxiety, and (  anxiety &) / anxiety, as one that had made an offer she would not willingly see accepted, and [IV:A] go upon ( ) / go forth upon [IV:A] you know () / you may have occasion to know [IV:A] hands from whence () / eminence of the persons from whom [IV:A] into press ( ) / into the presence [IV:A] achievement was ( atchievement was) / achievement of armorial distinction, was [IV:A] price, bid (  price bid) / pure gold, prayed [IV:A] that ( ) / it [IV:A] favour () / esteem [IV:A] kiosk—a hermitage, that is, or place of retirement—where (  Thiosk a hermitage, that is, or place of retirement where) / kiosk, or hermitage, where Proof IV:A has ‘kiosk, or hermitage, that is, a place of retirement, where’. The further correction to the Ed1 reading is post-proofs. so easily () / so little embarrassed with baggage as my husband [IV:A]

468

 

124.33 Count and Countess of Paris attended ( Count & countess of Paris attended) / Count of Paris and his lady attended [IV:A] 124.41 about an hour ( ) / for some time [IV:A] 125.1 in the woods which rushed down upon ( in the woods wh rushed down upon) / among the woods that came down to IV:A has the Ed1 reading, except for ‘which’, which became ‘that’ post-proofs. 125.2 came out of () / emerged from [post-proofs] 125.4 Various ( various) / Variety of [IV:A] 125.7 as in some of the ancient ( as in some of the antient) / as represented in some groups of ancient [IV:A] 125.15 there were () / they saw groups of persons with [IV:A] 125.20 Scythians, presented . . . having flat (proof IV:A) / Scythians whom they beheld, presented the deformed features of the demons they were said to worship—flat [post-proofs] ( Scythians bearing the deformed features of the demons whom they were sent to worship—that is having flat) 125.26 body ( ) / bodies [IV:A] 125.31 horses () / steeds [IV:A] 126.6 it is like (proof IV:A) / as they seemed [post-proofs] (not in  ) 126.13 their ( ) / these [IV:A] 126.16 “Toxartes ( ) / “Peace, Toxartis [IV:A] See the explanatory note for this line at 525. ‘Peace’ is post-proofs. 126.19 Toxartes ( ) / Toxartis [IV:A] 126.23 sword she dealt ( ) / sword dealt [IV:A] 126.23 Toxartes ( ) / Toxartis [IV:A] 126.33 exercises () / exercise [IV:A] 126.39 Toxartes ( ) / Toxartis [IV:A] 126.40 at the farthest from the () / in the act of galloping the farthest from his [IV:A] 126.42 Count Robert, as one . . . “could (  derived: Count Robert as one who understood his trade “could) / Couut Robert, who had now rejoined his friends, “could [IV:A] The stage direction is necessary, but there was no need to excise ‘as one who understood his trade’. 127.13 and to expect (  & to expect) / and expecting [IV:A] 127.13 say, categorical (  say; categorecal) / say, prompt and categorical [post proofs] 127.19 further ( ) / farther [post-proofs] 127.20 for () / forth [IV:A] 127.25 bare rock ( ) / lofty and barren precipice [IV:A] 127.26 much ( ) / the stream of a full river [IV:A] 127.43 vegetation, by which . . . ascended ( derived: vegetation by which the 〈water〉 mbrooko seemed as if it might itself have descended to the lower ground had it not chosen the more noisy & ostentatious road of forming a cascade over the rock. Ths path after having ascended) / vegetation, ascended [IV:A] 128.9/10 [no text] ( ) /                . [IV:A] V: 128.9–210.11 Manuscript (to 131.38 only); Proof V:A1 (M S 3777, ff. 357r–463v); Proof V:A2 (M S 3776, ff. 173r–279v) 128.17 his (Magnum) / this ( as Ed1) 128.19 Greek () / old man [V:A1] 128.20 Countess ( ) / his lady [V:A1]

  128.22 128.22 128.23 128.27 128.27 128.34 128.35 128.36 128.39 129.2 129.5 129.7 129.8 129.11 129.20 129.22 129.26 129.39 129.40 130.4 130.16 130.17

130.23 130.31 130.36

130.41 131.1 131.11 131.20

131.20 131.33 131.39 133.22 134.40 137.1 138.6 139.7 139.36

469

He () / The philosopher [V:A1] upon () / on [V:A1] by the ( ) / by a display of the [V:A1] race who are doomed () / race doomed [V:A1] be slaves ( ) / be the slaves [V:A1] “that when () / “when [V:A1] or indisposition ( our minodisposition) / or sickness [V:A1] others, he chooses ( others he chuses) / others, which is at other times scarce lawful, to choose [V:A1] further () / carry into effect [V:A1] fairies and of ghosts (  fairies & of gohsts) / fairies and ghosts [V:A1] duty () / duties [V:A1] beat () / beaten [V:A1] whose pretentions () / whose moral characters [V:A1] to few ( ) / to a few [V:A1] your lordship mentions (  derived: you [end of line] Lordship mentions) / you mention [V:A1] with ( ) / wtth [V:A1] spoke in ( ) / advanced no farther than [V:A1] at present () / at the period of our story [V:A1] undraped ( ) / scantily-covered [V:A1] light for ( ) / light, to ornament [V:A1] men () / man [V:A1] Deity.” [new paragraph] A () / Deity.” [new paragraph] Some subjects of natural history were painted on the walls, and the philosopher fixed the attention of his guests upon the half-reasoning elephant, of which he mentioned several anecdotes, which they listened to with great eagerness. [new paragraph] A [V:A1] approaching us, and ( approaching us &) / approaching, and [V:A1] among them ( ) / among the couches [V:A1] days, or the succulent (Editorial) / days, or the lighter delicacies of Grecian cookery, or the succulent In the  this passage comes at the end of the sentence. Lockhart notes in proof ‘this was Grecian cookery’, but he does nothing about the apparent slip on Scott’s part. The incongruous phrase is here omitted. choice. ( ) / choice on such subjects. [V:A1] much better () / much the better [V:A1] water; and ( water &) / water presently; and [V:A1] noise (Editorial) / murmur While ‘murmur’ replaced  ‘sounds’, to avoid repetition, at 127–28 the stream is distinguished for its loudness. The word ‘noise’ is a more appropriate correction. an armour () / the armour [V:A1] hath () / has [V:A1]                 . ( End of Volume first) / [no text] [V:A1] background (Magnum) / back-ground of (Magnum) / de his danger (Magnum) / its danger knee, (Magnum) / knee pistrinum (Editorial) / Pistrinum zest (Lockhart proof correction V:A1) / cost Lockhart’s correction was included in the errata list for the second volume of Ed1.

470

 

140.4 exquisite who (Editorial) / exquisite, who 140.9 that (Magnum) / those 148.21 in those (Editorial) / on those Magnum changes ‘in the things on’ to ‘on the things on’, but it should rather have changed this one. 150.27 Toxartes (Editorial) / Toxartis 150.29 Toxartes (Editorial) / Toxartis 150.31 however—how (Editorial) / however, how 150.31 &c.—that (Editorial) / &c. that 151.27 apartment (Magnum) / apartments 152.10 longer than (Editorial) / longer, than 153.7 the cap (Editorial) / the peaceful cap 153.21 cap-a-pie (Editorial) / cap-à-piè 154.26 background (Magnum) / back-ground 157.12 half-Norman (Magnum) / half-Asiatic 158.22 dishes, (Magnum) / dishes 162.37 all-engrossing (Magnum) / all engrossing 163.6 answer (Magnum) / answer, 168.30 bed-clothes (Magnum) / bed clothes 174.40 Sophia (Magnum) / Sophie 176.22 weapon (Magnum) / weapons 179.12 deviser’s (Magnum) / deviser ’s 180.37 psyche (Lockhart proof correction V:A1) / pruchie Lockhart’s correction was included in the errata list for the second volume of Ed1. 185.26 facets (Magnum) / faucettes 186.23 more precisely to (Scott proof correction V:A2) / more to 187.25 this (Magnum) / his 187.26 Sebastocrator (Magnum) / Sebasto-crator 187.31 Agelastes has (Editorial) / he has 188.7 the atmosphere (Magnum) / this atmosphere 188.34 When during the banquet both (Scott proof correction V:A2) / When both 188.42 occupy your (Scott proof correction V:A2) / take up your 189.38 ancestor.” (8vo) / ancestor.’ 190.7 Agelastes”—— (Magnum) / Agelastes——” 191.8 sombre (Magnum) / twilight 192.28 a sort (Magnum) / the sort 194.28 hope. Were (Magnum) / hope; were 194.36 who, (Magnum) / who 195.10 knight (8vo) / knight, 196.5 brute that would have this,” (Scott proof correction V:A2) / brute,” 197.41 feature—“thou (Magnum) / feature; “thou 199.31 enemy, that he might . . . involving (Magnum) / enemy by the basest stratagem upon his lady; upon whom also a similar stratagem has been practised, involving 199.33 honour; (Magnum) / honour, 200.23 said to himself, (Editorial) / said, 200.25 life has long been bitter (Editorial) / it is long since life has been bitter 203.36 palace, where (Magnum) / palace, in which are imprisoned the blind old traitor Ursel, and where 203.37 was incarcerated (Magnum) / was also incarcerated 205.33 he continued (Magnum) / said the Acolyte 206.15 languor (Magnum) / languor, 207.42 nevertheless,” (Magnum) / nevertheless—”

 

471

VI: 210.11–228.41 Proof VI:A (M S 3776, ff. 280r–303v); Proof VI:B1 (M S 23140); Proof VI:B2 (M S 3777, ff. 149r–173v) 214.23 Hampshire (Ed1 errata list) / Hampton 214.36 pass (Magnum) / pass, 215.11 Ulrica (Editorial) / Urica 217.22 must (proof VI:A) / may in all likelihood [Scott VI:B2] See Essay on the Text, 416. 217.23 What authorizes thee to say that (proof VI:A) / Why dost thou think so [Lockhart VI:B2] 217.24 lady, this Countess of Paris, has (proof VI:A) / lady has [Lockhart VI:B2] 217.26 “But there is . . . tell thee, which (proof VI:A) / “True,” said the Saxon maiden; “but you speak of things that passed in a far different land, where faith and honour are not empty sounds; as alas! they seem but too surely to be here. Trust me, it is no girlish terror which [Lockhart VI:B2] 217.28 Constantinople, to (proof VI:A) / Constantinople: I go to [Lockhart VI:B2] 217.36 This lady Countess is a Frank, and holds (proof VI:A) / This Frankish lady holds [Lockhart VI:B2] 217.42 She is . . . usurp for (proof VI:A) / She has been, besides, a presumptuous fool, usurping for [Lockhart VI:B2] 218.14 her noble lord Count Robert to (proof VI:A: her noble Lord Count Robert to) / her own noble lord to [Lockhart VI:B2] 218.20 upon the present (proof VI:A) / upon this [Lockhart VI:B2] 218.25 or one (proof VI:A) / or, at all events, of one [Lockhart VI:B2] 218.36 the Saxon damsel . . . censurer. (Scott and Lockhart proof correction VI:B2: proof 〈a fair〉 mtheo Saxon mDamselo, 〈although, she added, such rendezvous in that place were not altogether unusual, nor was Judith a severe censurer〉.) / the Saxon damsel. The change to ‘the Saxon damsel’ is Scott’s, but the deletion of the suggestive phrase is Lockhart’s. 219.35 dish (Magnum) / pasty 220.6 by calling (proof VI:A) / by now calling [Lockhart VI:B2] 220.7 manner (proof VI:A) / manners [Lockhart VI:B2] 220.7 himself to (proof VI:A) / himself previously to [Lockhart VI:B2] 220.9 cacabulum (8vo) / cacaabulum 220.31 divinity.” [new paragraph] “What . . . appointed.” [new paragraph] “Yet (proof VI:A derived: divinity.” [new paragraph] “What is yet worse,” said the Varangian, “and what I tell you with regret is, that if some champion take not the field in this lady’s behalf, the battle is lost, and that such treason will triumph, if she couch the lance in her own person.” [new paragraph] “Varangian, thou knowest not our women of France,” said the Count; “there are not two knights in the Emperor of Greece’s service who, if their strength and valour were joined together, durst brave the Countess of Paris in single fight. I who know her, and have often met her in the lists, can bear witness to this. I would account it a doubt both of her valour and virtue, were I to take arms in her stead in a quarrel so fairly appointed.” [new paragraph] “Yet) / divinity!” [new paragraph] “Yet Lockhart changes ‘the Varangian’ in VI:B2 to ‘Hereward’ to avoid repetition. After substantial (unsuccessful) changes by Scott, Lockhart further revised and then deleted it. It is now restored with Lockhart’s substitution.

472 221.3

221.5 221.10 223.6 223.32 223.33 223.40 224.8 224.20 225.7 225.15 225.17 225.27 225.27 225.29 225.31 227.26 227.28

228.1

  We may witness . . . her defeat; (Scott proof correction VI:B2: We may witness 〈her〉 mthe countesseso triumph—we may witness, I grieve to say, her defeat;) / To triumph, or to be defeated, is in the hand of fate; [Lockhart VI:B2] The proof text reads: ‘We may witness her triumph—we may witness, I grieve to say, her defeat;’. Scott changes ‘her’ to ‘the countesses’. Lockhart makes other changes, not now adopted, and then substitutes the Ed1 reading. she receives (proof VI:A) / the lady receives [Lockhart VI:B2] can (proof VI:A) / canst [post-proofs] “If (proof VI:A) / “And if [post-proofs] Have . . . and (proof VI:A) / have . . . And [post-proofs] still have (proof VI:A) / have still [post-proofs] knows, when . . . raise him?” (proof VI:A) / knows what may come thereafter?” [Lockhart VI:B2] a friend—where a son, so (proof VI:A) / a soldier—a champion—a friend—so [Lockhart VI:B2] on (proof VI:A) / to [post-proof] housekeeper, whom . . . novelty?” (proof VI:A) / housekeeper!” [Lockhart VI:B2] Emperor himself. (proof VI:A) / Emperor. [post-proofs] What! to lavish . . . Amazon! (proof VI:A) / False, smiling, cozening traitor!–-and for that unfeminine barbarian! [Lockhart VI:B2] wife (proof VI:A) / jealous dame [Lockhart VI:B2] Constantinople, who . . . her husband, were (proof VI:A) / Constantinople were [Lockhart VI:B2] laws for divorce should (proof VI:A) / laws should [Lockhart VI:B2] thou, Edward, . . . my beloved son, and (proof VI:A) / thou, dear Edward, and [Lockhart VI:B2] mayst (proof VI:A) / mayest [post-proofs] Thou understandest . . . met. Think, as (proof VI:A) / Edward, my main trust is in thee. Accident presents us with an opportunity, happy of the happiest so it be rightly improved, of having all the traitors before us assembled on one fair field. Think, then, on that day, as [Lockhart VI:B2] one.” [new paragraph] “It is impossible,” . . . thy demands?” [new paragraph] “Permission [228.27] (proof VI:A derived: one.” . . . [as     ] . . . disposal? [new paragraph] “So far from it,” said the Emperor, “that I will add to the mandate, of my own free will, the charge of this Ursel, in whose fate the rebels affect so much interest. Look at this scroll so soon as thou art in private; thou wilt see what reason they have to charge me with inhumanity upon his account. Go, my hero, and make thy provisions for the day after to-morrow.” [new paragraph] “To make those,” said the Varangian, “I must have . . . [as     ] . . . “Permission) / one.” [new paragraph] “Indeed!” said the Emperor. “What, in one word, is thy demand?” [new paragraph] “Permission [Lockhart VI:B2] See Essay on the Text, 429. In the proof, ‘so’ in ‘so soon’ has been underlined for deletion, with ‘as’ to be substituted.

VII: 228.41–257.12 Proof VII:A (M S 3776, ff. 304r–340r); Proof VII:B1 (M S 23140); Proof VII:B2 (M S 3777, ff. 174r–212br) 229.1 petition to thee (proof VII:A) / petition thee [VII:B1] 229.19 what I think is incredible (proof VII:A) / what is almost incredible [VII:B1]

 

473

229.22 as scarce a king would have (proof VII:A) / as a king would scarcely have [VII:B1] 230.4 the matters of weight which (proof VII:A) / the weighty matters which [VII:B1] 230.5 him, and upon . . . empire, stopt (proof VII:A) / him, stopt [Lockhart VII:B2] 230.13 burthen (proof VII:A) / burden [VII:B1] 231.11 have (proof VII:A) / had [post-proofs] 231.14 drew in (proof VII:A) / withdrew [VII:B1] 231.15 opening which they had peeped through (proof VII:A) / opening through which they had peeped [VII:B1] 232.16 said he (proof VII:A) / he said [VII:B1] 232.16 the sentinel (proof VII:A) / the Varangian sentinel [Scott VII:B2] The clarification is unnecessary, and it repeats line 13. 232.25 and were huddled (proof VII:A) / and huddled [VII:B1] 233.19 at (proof VII:A) / of [Cadell VII:A] 233.20 Paris, whom he had reported to be enlarged. (proof VII:A) / Paris. [Lockhart VII:B2] 233.26 Surely (proof VII:A) / He ought to have been so [Lockhart VII:B2] 233.26 that can take burthen for his own appearance (proof VII:B) / entitled to take burden for his appearance [Lockhart VII:B2] Between proof VII:A and VII:B1 ‘burthen’ was changed to ‘burden’. 233.34 in appearance (proof VII:A) / to appear [post-proofs] 233.40 others.” [new paragraph] “Still . . . broken.” [new paragraph] “But (proof VII:A) / others.” [new paragraph] “But [Lockhart VII:B2] 234.6 But”— (Magnum) / But—” 235.6 our heart (proof VII:A) / our hearts [VII:B1] 235.20 mind. “Hast (proof VII:A) / mind. [new paragraph] “Hast [post-proofs] 235.32 defensive.” . . . I see [238.11] / defensive.” [new paragraph] “I shall take care, however,” said Hereward, “that thou art better provided in case of need.—Thou knowest not the Greeks.” [new page] CHAPTER XII. [new paragraph] T Varangian did not leave the Count of Paris until the latter had placed in his hands his signet-ring, semee (as the heralds express it), with lances splintered, and bearing the proud motto, “Mine yet unscathed.” Provided with this symbol of confidence, it was now his business to take order for communicating the approaching solemnity to the leader of the crusading army, and demanding for him, in the name of Robert of Paris, and the Lady Brenhilda, such a detachment of western cavaliers as might ensure strict observance of honour and honesty in the arrangement of the lists, and during the progress of the combat. The duties imposed on Hereward were such as to render it impossible for him to proceed personally to the camp of Godfrey; and though there were many of the Varangians in whose fidelity he could have trusted, he knew of none among those under his immediate command whose intelligence, on so novel an occasion, might be entirely depended on. In this perplexity he strolled, perhaps without well knowing why, to the gardens of Agelastes, where fortune once more produced him an interview with Bertha. [new paragraph] No sooner had Hereward made her aware of his difficulty, than the faithful bower-maiden’s resolution was taken. [new paragraph] “I see [Lockhart VII:B2] For this passage the     text is derived from proof VII:A, with its one correction by Cadell. Emendations to this corrected proof are noted in the entries that follow. 235.40 been as (proof VII:B1) / been, in general, as

 

474 236.5

Vexhelia guide (proof VII:B1) / Vexhelia, whom I met in the street, and knew to be a countrywoman by her dress, guide 236.11 laughed loudly (proof VII:B1) / continued his broad laugh 236.15 she (proof VII:B1) / Bertha 236.36 place. (proof VII:B1) / place in battle. 237.9 weird, from which this lady is distant many a long day, in (proof VII:B1) / weird, in 237.12 assist with thy advice a woman in her condition, in a foreign land—thee (proof VII:B1) / assist a woman in her condition— thee 237.17 skilful (proof VII:B1) / skilfull 237.22 Scutari (proof VII: B1) / Sentun 237.24 important (proof VII:B1) / imporThe last 3 letters of ‘important’ were lost at a page division in proof VII:A; they are present in proof VII:B1. 238.3 doubt not (Scott proof correction VII:B2) / trust 238.9 other’s (proof VII:B1) / others 238.17 errand.” [new paragraph] “Thanks . . . the world. [245.15] / errand.” [new paragraph] The Varangian was too well acquainted with the manners of camps to permit the fair Bertha to go alone on such an errand. He provided, therefore, for her safeguard a trusty old soldier, bound to his person by long kindness and confidence; and having thoroughly possessed her of the particulars of the message she was to deliver, and desired her to be in readiness without the enclosure at peep of dawn, returned once more to his barracks. [new paragraph] With the earliest light, Hereward was again at the spot where he had parted overnight with Bertha, accompanied by the honest soldier to whose care he meant to confide her. In a short time, he had seen them safely on board of a ferry-boat lying in the harbour; the master of which readily admitted them, after some examination of their license to pass to Scutari, which was forged in the name of the Acolyte, as authorized by that foul conspirator, and which agreed with the appearance of old Osmund and his young charge. [Lockhart VII:B2] For this passage the     text is derived from proof VII:A, with one handwritten correction each by Scott and Cadell. Emendations to this corrected proof are noted in the entries that follow. 238.40 seeing that (Editorial) / seeing it likely that 238.40 will in all likelihood in due (Scott proof correction VII:B2 derived: will in mall likelyhoodo due) / in due 239.37 will”—— (proof VII:B1) /will——” 239.40 Hereward, (Editorial) / Hereward; 239.41 find him time (Scott proof correction VII:B2) / he shall have time 240.4 against the day after to-morrow (proof VII:B1) / against tomorrow 240.6 consented (Lockhart proof correction VII:B2) / agreed 240.11 It was further agreed that when Osmund (Lockhart proof correction VII:B2) / When Osmund 240.13 should repair (Lockhart proof correction VII:B2) / should, it was agreed, repair 240.30 with her (proof VII:B1) / at her house 240.33 seldom (Scott proof correction VII:B2) / never 240.39 Bertha? (proof VII:B1) / Bertha; 241.2 Hampshire (proof VII:B1) / Hampton 241.8 troth, I (proof VII:B1) / troth, my lord, I

  241.11 241.11 241.18 241.23 241.27 241.34 241.34 241.38 242.9 242.14 242.29 242.31 242.38 242.42 243.4 243.8 243.42

245.16 245.18 245.20 245.21 245.24 245.25 245.34 245.38

246.37 247.12 247.12 247.26 247.31 247.33 247.34 247.34

475

will (proof VII:A) / shall [Cadell proof correction VII:A] repose (proof VII:B1) / refreshment froward (proof VII:B1) / forward and called out (proof VII:B1) / and began to call out Count; (proof VII:B1) / Count, satisfied.—Here (proof VII:B1) / satisfied. Here Edric,” . . . “forget (proof VII:B1) / Edric, . . . forget hour. And (proof VII:B1) / hour; and whom (proof VII:B1) / that man; (proof VII:B1) / man, sense? (proof VII:B1) / sense. morning?—what (proof VII:B1) / morning; what becomes all of a sudden (Scott proof correction VII:B2) / was well, gentlemen; and (proof VII:B1) / well; gentlemen, and sly (proof correction VII:B2, perhaps by Scott) / shy not,” replied Vexhelia, “ I (proof VII:B1) / not, I he might with perfect safety (Scott proof correction VII:B2) / he himself might with safety 244.17 silence; (proof VII:B1) / silence, 244.22 Sancta (proof VII:B1) / Santa 244.25 blame,—somewhat close,—you understand?—somewhat (proof VII:B1) / blame, somewhat close,—you understand, somewhat 244.39 remedied.” (proof VII:B1) / remedied. 245.12 rais retrace his steps with the (proof VII:B1) / rais return without the offered its splendid view to (proof VII:A) / opened on the view of [Lockhart VII:B2] while (proof VII:A) / though [Lockhart VII:B2] larger, (Magnum) / larger being guardians (proof VII:A) / being the guardians [VII:B1] what (proof VII:A) / a scene which [Lockhart VII:B2] part (proof VII:A) / portion [VII:B1] was (proof VII:A) / were [VII:B1] gayety. . . . As they [246.30] (VII:A emended as indicated) / gayety. [new paragraph] The party at length landed in safety; and as they [Lockhart VII:B2] Three changes made for proof VII:B1 are here adopted: ‘in’ became ‘without’ (245.39); ‘thatcould’ became ‘that could’ (246.1); and ‘Holy lady, I’ becomes ‘Holy lady!” continued he, speaking to himself, “I’ (246.19). Italy—“Al’-erta (Magnum) / Italy. [new paragraph] “Al’-rta assured token (proof VII:A) / assured one [post-proofs] obstruct (proof VII:A) / obstructs [post-proofs] in the semblance of a pageant (proof VII:A) / through such messengers as these [VII:B1] ask the grey-bearded old man, . . . Scutari, who (proof VII:A derived: ask the grey-bearded old man, who, I think, calls himself the greybearded Charon of Scutari) / ask who [Lockhart VII:B2] memory (proof VII:A) / mind [VII:B1] passions (proof VII:A) / follies [Lockhart VII:B2] men.” . . . entreat: “As [248.9] (proof VII:A) / men?” [new paragraph] Bertha advanced and whispered in the ear of Ernest. Meantime joke followed jest, among Polydore and the rest of the gay youths, in riotous and ribald succession, which, however characteristic of the rude speakers,

476

247.42 248.9 248.17 248.29 248.38 249.3

249.23 249.28

249.40

250.26

250.43 251.4 251.27 252.6 252.42 253.11 254.20 254.20 254.21 254.38 254.38 254.41 254.42 255.6 255.19 255.19 255.20 255.20

  may as well be omitted here. Their effect was to shake in some degree the fortitude of the Saxon maiden, who had some difficulty in mustering courage to address them. “As you have [VII:B1; Lockhart VII:B2] incontinence (proof VII:A) / certain offences [Lockhart VII:B2] gentlemen—as (proof VII:A) / gentlemen,” she said, “as [VII:B1] maltreated, be she nun or midwife, be (proof VII:A) / maltreated, be [Lockhart VII:B2] Godfrey.” [new paragraph] “I will assist . . . assistance. [new paragraph] “We spend (proof VII:A) / Godfrey.” [new paragraph] “We spend [Lockhart VII:B2] Gentlewomen of your occupation are generally in haste (proof VII:A) / You are no soft Eastern, fair maid [Lockhart VII:B2] The young Apulian conducted her through the huts (Editorial) /By availing herself of this courtesy of the young Apulian, Bertha imprudently separated herself from the old Varangian; but the intentions of the youth were honourable, and he conducted her through the tents and huts forwards (proof VII:A) / forward [VII:B1] message to his own ear. . . . Bertha laid (proof VII:A) / message for his own ear. [new paragraph] Bertha, meantime, laid The phrase ‘to his own ear’ became ‘for his own ear’ for proof VII:B1. The main correction was made by Lockhart in VII:B2. adventure. . . . implies.” [new paragraph] In the meanwhile [250.15] (proof VII:A, with correction) / adventure. [new paragraph] In the meanwhile Scott corrects ‘a deputy’ to ‘the deputy’ in VII:B2. The main correction is by Lockhart, also in VII:B2. Tancred sat . . . contained Hugh (proof VII:A) / Tancred, the noblest knight of the Christian chivalry, sat at no great distance from him, with Hugh The passage was altered for proof VII:B1 and radically pruned by Lockhart in proof VII:B2. *History of Chivalry. (proof VII:A) / [no text] [Lockhart VII:B2] Paris——” (proof VII:A) / Paris”—— [VII:B1] message. . . . The battle (proof VII:A) / message; and, having briefly narrated the recent events, thus concluded:—“The battle [Lockhart VII:B2] rest. This message . . . Brenhilda of Aspramonte.” (proof B1) / rest.” [Lockhart VII:B2] lord (proof VII:A) / lords [VII:B1] renders (proof VII:A) / have rendered [VII:B1] talent (proof VII:A) / military skill [VII:B1] was liable to (proof VII:A) / might [VII:B1] by various opportunities which might arise (proof VII:A) / should opportunities arise [Lockhart VII:B2] had more privately intimated (proof VII:A) / had not omitted to intimate [Lockhart VII:B2] his want (proof VII:A) / Count Robert’s want [VII:B1] delivered the bridle to (proof VII:A) / put the bridle into [VII:B1] is brave (proof VII:A) / is fleet and brave [VII:B1] numbered the (proof VII:A) / numbered in it the [VII:B1] Bertha intimated (proof VII:A) / Bertha accordingly intimated [VII:B1] general, without (proof VII:A) / general to the parties, without [VII:B1] motives, when (proof VII:A) / motives; when [VII:B1] rais began (proof VII:A) / ferryman began [Lockhart VII:B2]

  255.22 255.25 255.31 255.34 256.10 256.24 256.29 256.30 256.37 256.41 256.43 257.5 257.12

477

wife and family (proof VII:A) / duties [Lockhart VII:B2] rais occupied (proof VII:A) / ferryman occupied [Lockhart VII:B2] made (proof VII:A) / taken [VII:B1] preparation (proof VII:A) / preparations [VII:B1] further (proof VII:A) / farther [post-proofs] got on shipboard (proof VII:A) / succeeded in embarking [VII:B1] himself (proof VII:A) / in person [VII:B1] a height upon the shore (proof VII:A) / a neighbouring height [VII:B1] straits (proof VII:A) / strait [VII:B1] his eye (proof VII:A) / the eye [VII:B1] order (proof VII:A) / orders [post-proofs] the port contained (proof VII:A) / could be procured [VII:B1]                  (proof VII:A) / [post-proofs]

VIII: 259.4–267.24 Proof VIII:A1 (M S 3776, ff. 346r–356r); Proof VIII:A2 (M S 23140); Proof VIII:B (M S 3777, ff. 214r–225r) 259.8 spark of fire to change its nature [new line] Into a power so generally destructive, [new line] That (proof VIII:A1) / spark to change its nature so, [new line] That [Lockhart VIII:B] 259.12 are doom’d to (proof VIII:A1) / which [VIII:B] 259.16 storm (proof VIII:A1) / tempest [Lockhart VIII:B] 259.17 they are in (proof VIII:A1) / their instinct gives them [VIII:B] 259.19 convulsion, (proof VIII:A1) / thunder-storm [VIII:B] 259.20 disquietude (proof VIII:A1) / disturbance [VIII:B] 259.21 It can scarcely be doubted . . . the inferior orders (proof VIII:A1) / It seems that human nature, when its original habits are cultivated and attended to, possesses something upon the same occasion of that prescient foreboding, which announces the approaching tempest to the inferior ranks Lockhart corrects ‘coming’ to ‘approaching’ in VIII:B, but the main change had been made for the B proof text. 259.29 overshadow (proof VIII:A1) / come over [VIII:B] 260.1 An extensive (proof VIII:A1) / Privy [VIII:B] 260.3 city; though the (proof VIII:A1) / city; the [VIII:B] 260.4 the name or nature (proof VIII:A1) / the nature [VIII:B] 260.11 devastating (proof VIII:A1) / innumerable [VIII:B] 260.13 nearer (proof VIII:A1) / more near [VIII:B] 260.14 debated over (proof VIII:A1) / discovered [VIII:B] 260.19 could not be supposed to (proof VIII:A1) / did not all [VIII:B] 260.22 movements (proof VIII:A1) / motions [VIII:B] 260.24 assembled gradually, and were placed (proof VIII:A1) / were gradually assembled, and placed [VIII:B] 260.32 in (proof VIII:A1) / on [VIII:B] 260.34 which had seemed (Editorial) / which seemed 260.41 was (proof VIII:A1) / had been [VIII:B] 260.42 and, carefully disguised, rode to the shore, at (proof VIII:A1) / and went to the shore of the sea, at [VIII:B] 260.43 the rais, or ferryman (proof VIII:A) / Bertha’s old ferryman [Lockhart VIII:B] 260.43 had at length . . . no longer of importance. (proof VIII:A1) / had set at liberty, partly in contempt, and partly that the report he was likely to make, might serve to amuse the conspirators in the city. [VIII:B; postproofs]

478 261.8 261.8 261.8 261.15 261.18 261.18 261.23 261.27 261.29 261.30 261.31 261.32 261.33 261.38 261.39 261.40 262.2 262.7 262.8 262.30 262.32 262.37 263.1 263.9 263.10 263.21 263.31 263.32 264.2 264.4 264.5 264.7

264.10 264.22 264.23 264.35 264.43

  a communication (proof VIII:A1) / a private communication [Lockhart VIII:B] wily Prince (proof VIII:A1) / wily and ever mercenary Prince [Lockhart VIII:B] Antioch; and as Bohemond . . . prefaced. (proof VIII:A1) / Antioch. [Lockhart VIII:B] rais (proof VIII:A1) / ferryman [Lockhart VIII:B] mercenary (proof VIII:A1) / avaricious [Lockhart VIII:B] band, selected, as he conceived, by Bohemond, were come to (proof VIII:A1) / band had been selected by Bohemond, and were coming to [Lockhart VIII:B] appearance and manner (proof VIII:A1) / stature and gestures [Lockhart VIII:B] aliptes (Magnum) / alipes esuriens in cælum, jusseris, (Magnum) / esuriens, in cælum jusseris Agelastes started (proof VIII:A1) / Agelastes first started [VIII:B] recovered his presence (proof VIII:A1) / recovered presence [VIII:B] had for a moment led him to fear he was (proof VIII:A1) / had made him suspect himself [VIII:B] he answered (Magnum) / he could not forbear answering [new paragraph] The sentence (Editorial) / [same paragraph] The sentence rode (proof VIII:A1) / walked [VIII:B] reply. “The (Editorial) / reply. [new paragraph] “The indeed (proof VIII:A1) / in earnest [VIII:B] station (proof VIII:A1) / seat [VIII:B] rank (proof VIII:A1) / station [VIII:B] course (proof VIII:A1) / defence [VIII:B] him, though (Editorial) / him, who attended him in his ride, though While on his way (proof VIII:A1) / During the whole ride [VIII:B] and giving (proof VIII:A1) / and again giving [VIII:B] most profound (proof VIII:A1) / deepest [VIII:B] astonishment. . . . A [263.21] (proof VIII:A1) / astonishment. [new paragraph] Although [Lockhart VIII:B] his court (proof VIII:A1) / his own court [VIII:B] benefactions (proof VIII:A1) / actions [VIII:B] political expediency (proof VIII:A1) / temporal policy [VIII:B] without excuse (proof VIII:A1) / unjustifiable [VIII:B] the more (proof VIII:A1) / that more [VIII:B] and courtiers . . . given to (proof VIII:A1) / and the courtiers endeavoured to make up for the applause which they had given in council to [VIII:B] by imputing . . . deserving of. (proof VIII:A1) / by elsewhere imputing to his motives greater guilt than really belonged to them. Proof VIII:B has ‘by imputing to his motives greater guilt’, which Lockhart changes to the Ed1 reading. enmity or vengeance (proof VIII:A1) / spleen or jealousy [Lockhart VIII:B] and, though he (proof VIII:A1) / and he [VIII:B] them, it (proof VIII:A1) / them, though it Proof B has ‘them, and it’, later changed to the Ed1 reading. sums paid as a bribe to (Scott proof correction VIII:A1 derived: sums mas a bribeo paid to) / sums paid to the sacred empire and our holy (proof VIII:A1) / the empire and the holy [Lockhart VIII:B]

 

479

265.8 265.9

innumerable (proof VIII:A1) / united [Lockhart VIII:B] no difficulty in overcoming (proof VIII:A1) / little difficulty in scattering [Lockhart VIII:B] 265.10 this Godfrey, Bohemond, Tancred, and the rest of them. (proof VIII:A1) / these Godfreys, Bohemonds, and Tancreds. [Lockhart VIII:B] 265.21 the ranks (proof VIII:A1) / their ranks [VIII:B] 265.36 by (proof VIII:A1) / in [VIII:B] 265.37 this state (proof VIII:A1) / this present state [VIII:B] 265.38 the present (proof VIII:A1) / this [post-proofs] 266.7 us; for I cannot be expected to pardon so (Scott proof correction VIII:A1 derived: us; mI canot be expected to pardono for I shall scarce pardon) / us; for I shall scarce pardon 266.10 histories of persons . . . posterity (proof VII:A1) / page of a historian such as my daughter that is most likely to be received without challenge by posterity The plural ‘histories’ becomes ‘history’ in proof VIII:B, where Lockhart changes the whole to the Ed1 reading. 266.16 them (proof VIII:A1) / such [VIII:B] 266.21 detraction (Scott proof correction VIII:A1) / it 266.22 be for your Majesty to write your own (proof VIII:A1) / be to write your Majesty’s own [VIII:B] 266.40 discontent (proof VIII:A1) / tumult [VIII:B] 266.42 cause (proof VIII:A1) / watchword [Lockhart VIII:B] 267.8 and receiving (proof VIII:A1) / or receiving [VIII:B] 267.19 is no (proof VIII:A1) / were no [Lockhart VIII:B] 267.24/25 [no text] (proof VIII:A1) /    . [post-proofs] IX: 267.25–334.43 Manuscript (from 286.29 to 295.6 only); Proof IX:A1 (M S 3776, ff. 356v–445r); Proof IX:A2 (M S 23140: to 295.25 only); Proof IX:A3 (M S 3777, ff. 224v–314r) 267.29 task—sometimes a bloody one. [new line] Predestination—A   (proof IX:A1: task—sometimes a bloody one. [new line] Predestination.—Anonymous.) / task. [new line] Old Play. [Lockhart IX:A3] 267.34 was still . . . Countess. He (proof IX:A1 was still . . . Countess. [new paragraph] He) / still remained, her only companion being an old woman named Vexhelia, the wife of the soldier who accompanied Bertha to the camp of the crusaders; the kind-hearted maiden having stipulated that, during her absence, her mistress was not to be left without an attendant, and that attendant connected with the Varangian guard. He [postproofs] In IX:A3 Lockhart indicates that the text should read simply: ‘was still lodged. He had’. The Ed1 reading was provided at a later stage. 268.16 means,” answered (Editorial) / means”—answered 268.35 male sex (Scott proof correction IX:A1 derived: other 〈sex〉 mmale sexo) / other sex 269.5 observation. Such as I . . . impossible.” [269.16] (proof IX:A3, corrected by Scott) / observation.” Scott inserts the final sentence in IX:A3. 269.30 rejected the (Editorial) / rejected such the 270.1 such of them (Magnum) / supernatural beings 270.12 back considerably from (Scott proof correction IX:A1) / back from 270.23 lower (proof IX:A1) / lowest [post-proofs] 270.35 Christian (proof IX:A1) / monkish [Lockhart IX:A3] 270.40 of the descendent of a Frankish knight (Scott proof correction IX:A1) / of a Frankish maiden

480

 

271.39 means. Vexhelia (proof IX:A1) / means. Her new attendant Vexhelia [post-proofs] 271.40 was, by hearsay at least, considerably (Scott proof correction IX:A1 was m〈at〉 ‘by’ hearsay at leasto considerably) / was considerably 272.7 none (proof IX:A1) / not one [post-proofs] 272.8 numerous (proof IX:A1) / timorous [post-proofs] 272.14 the bosquets (Magnum) / these bosquets 273.2 inexplicitly (proof correction, perhaps by Scott, IX:A1) / unexplicitly 273.39 and crown (Magnum) / and my crown 274.18 iron door (proof IX:A1) / iron-door [post-proofs] 274.19 representing (proof IX:A1) / resembling [post-proofs] 275.16 was (proof IX:A1) / were [post-proofs] 275.31 bedfellow (proof IX:A1) / bride [Lockhart IX:A3] 275.42 will avert (proof IX:A1) / can avert [Lockhart IX:A3] 276.12 woman with (proof IX:A1) / woman or a child with [Lockhart IX:A3] 276.28 effort, if your (proof IX:A1) / effort, and try whether your [post-proofs] 277.26 a vain and timid (Scott proof correction IX:A1 derived: a ma vaino timid) / a timid 278.4 her, apparently like Truth out of the depth of a well. (proof IX:A1) / her out of the dreary staircase. [post-proofs] 278.19 and nervous shoulder (Scott proof correction IX:A1) / and shoulder 279.5 guess, (Magnum) / guess; 279.35 door, Anna (Editorial) / door,” she said, “Anna 280.10 subject. His faults are fixed by his nature. You (Scott proof correction IX:A1: subject. mHis faults are fixd by his natureo You) / subject. You 280.11 them (Editorial) / his faults 280.38 the artful tongue (Scott proof correction IX:A1) / the tongue 280.39 must henceforward be inanimate! (proof IX:A1) / is silent in the dust! [Lockhart IX:A3] 280.41 beauties (proof IX:A1) / graces [Lockhart IX:A3] 281.42 martyrs all, (Magnum) / martyrs, all 285.38 to-morrow (proof IX:A1) / the morrow [Lockhart IX:A3] 286.31 she () / her [IX:A1] 287.10 at () / nearly reduced to [IX:A1] 287.15 summons—but (  summons—〈a minute or two—&〉 mbuto) / summon; but [IX:A1] 287.16 possible?—had (  possible,—had) / possible? Had [IX:A1] 287.18 applied to ( ) / used towards [IX:A1] 287.18 her? had ( her had) / her? Had [IX:A1] 287.26 species of agony ( ) / feeling of agonizing uncertainty [IX:A1] 287.27 chance that () / chance there was that [IX:A1] 287.28 Princess, even (Editorial) / Princess would, even (  Princess would even) [IX:A1] 287.29 behaviour, would nevertheless join (  behaviour would never the less join) / behaviour, join [IX:A1] 287.30 of an ( ) / of one who had so generally showed himself an [IX:A1] 287.36 Edward!” said the Emperor. “Welcome, Douban, whose (Scott proof correction IX:A1: Edward! msaid the Emperoro Welcome, Douban!” 〈he said,〉 “whose) / Edward! Welcome, Douban!” he said, “whose 288.1 long staircase ( ) / long and difficult staircase [IX:A1] 288.3 drear ( ) / dreary [IX:A1] 288.7 assent, which (  assent which) / assent, with which [IX:A1] 288.8 render () / reply [IX:A1]

 

481

288.10 steel have (  derived: steel & 〈adamant〉 have) / steel and adamant have [IX:A1] 288.12 the world () / the whole world [IX:A1] 288.14 smother () / obscure [IX:A1] 288.14 might restore ( ) / might, at the fittest conjuncture, which is now arrived, restore [IX:A1] 288.15 treat ( ) / consider [IX:A1] 288.17 be restored ( ) / be suddenly restored [IX:A1] 288.21 that ( ) / this [IX:A1] 288.22 breath ( ) / life-breath [IX:A1] 288.23 imitate ( ) / resemble [post-proofs] 288.24 Summon () / Desire [IX:A1] 288.26 speedy, do (  derived: speedy do) / speedy; do [IX:A1] 288.27 men, make () / mutes—make [IX:A1] 288.27 transport him; Douban (  transport him 〈&c〉 Douban) / transport the patient; and, Douban [IX:A1] 288.30 whatever may () / whatever else may [IX:A1] 288.31 keeping it in () / keeping in [post-proofs] 288.34 this () / his [IX:A1] 288.35 talks of ( ) / intimates [IX:A1] 289.1 brilliant, for in respect of a radical he is a diamond of the first water, but (Scott proof correction IX:A1: brilliant, mfor in restect of a radical he is a diamon of the first watero but) / brilliant, but 289.4 the bath ( ) / a bath [IX:A1] 289.7 he enjoyed () / was employed [post-proofs] 289.8 physician, and from (  Physician and from) / physician; but without affording any material symptoms of recovery. From [IX:A1] 289.11 These most agreeable operations ( ) / These operations [IX:A1] 289.14 restored that ( ) / restored, by friction of the stiffened limbs, and other means, that [IX:A1] 289.21 anger () / displeasure [IX:A1] 289.24 and the hardened ( and the the hardend) / while the hardened [IX:A1] 289.25 with more () / with yet more [IX:A1] 289.26 duties ( ) / offices [IX:A1] 289.30 and voluptuous ( ) / and the voluptuous [IX:A1] 289.34 he sunk () / the captive sunk [IX:A1] 289.36 the release of the features from their rigid tenor, and the easy posture of the limbs . . . twists and throes, attested alike a state of the most perfect bodily and mental tranquillity. (  derived: the release of the features from their rigid tenor and the easy posture of the limbs . . . twists and throes attend alike a state of the most perfect 〈tranquility〉 bodily & metal tranquility.) / the features were released from their rigid tenor, and the posture of the limbs, no longer disturbed by fits of cramp, and sudden and agonizing twists and throes, seemed changed for a placid state of the most perfect ease and tranquillity. [IX:A1] 289.42 breeze had already insinuated () / breeze of dawn had insinuated [Lockhart IX:A3] 289.42 soft ( ) / gentle [IX:A1] 290.2 shrouded () / disguised [IX:A1] 290.2 palace in his undress, and (  derived: Palace in his indress and) / palace, and [IX:A1] 290.6 such immense consequence () / such consequence [IX:A1] 290.10 an impure (  〈the〉 an impure) / the impure [IX:A1] 290.11 forwards ( ) / forward [IX:A1] 290.12 arranged his ( ) / arranged the disturbed current of his [IX:A1]

482 290.14 290.17 290.18 290.22 290.31 290.33 290.37 290.38 290.40 291.3 291.3 291.4 291.5 291.9 291.9 291.10 291.14 291.23 291.26 291.30 291.34 292.6 292.7 292.12 292.12 292.32 292.33 292.33 293.6 293.7 293.17 293.24 293.30 293.33 294.5 294.12 294.23 294.25 294.28 294.34 295.1 295.30 295.31 295.35

  myself ( my self) / my impatience [IX:A1] regularly ( ) / absolutely [IX:A1] rouse and (  rouse &) / rouse himself and [IX:A1] said he () / he said [IX:A1] unhappy () / rash and guilty [IX:A1] or a ( ) / or produce a [IX:A1] and of man (  & of man) / and man [IX:A1] yet five minutes had not elapsed () / yet but few minutes had elapsed [IX:A1] Douban, “to (  Douban “to) / Douban, somewhat vain of the trust necessarily reposed in him, “to [IX:A1] Ursel! and hear (  Ursel! & hear) / Ursel! hear [IX:A1] you were ( ) / thy ears were [Lockhart IX:A3] and to command (  & to command) / and command [IX:A1] one from the doom of imprisonment elevated to that of empire ( ) / thee back from imprisonment to empire [Lockhart IX:A3] image ( ) / images [IX:A1] night;—thy baths,—thy beds and thy ( night;—thy baths,—thy beds & thy) / night,—thy baths—thy beds—and thy [IX:A1] bliss; and sooner wilt ( ) / bliss—But sooner shalt [IX:A1; Lockhart IX:A3] Lockhart changes ‘wilt’ to ‘shalt’ in IX:A3. the pleasures () / the reality of the pleasures [IX:A1] this hell upon earth for () / this earthly hell for [post-proofs] much if () / much,” was his farther thought, “if [IX:A1] bath () / baths [IX:A1] awake ( ) / wake [IX:A1] a suspected () / a more than suspected [IX:A1] a guard () / a strong guard [IX:A1] like () / likely [IX:A1] assume ( ) / reassume [post-proofs] enjoyment () / enjoyments [post-proofs] from () / for [IX:A1] present?” ( present”) / present? No!” [IX:A1] Yes—that () / Yes,” he muttered, “that [IX:A1] in tones never to be forgotten (Scott proof correction IX:A1) / fiercely upon his patience enduring. (Scott proof correction IX:A1) / upon. the recollection () / the imperfect recollection [IX:A1] pillows () / pillow [IX:A1] miracle ( ) / miraculous restorative [IX:A1] empire.” ( ) / empire, to counterbalance those of other conspirators.” [IX:A1] the precious organ ( ) / the continued enjoyment of the precious organs [IX:A1] behoove ( ) / behove [IX:A1] Blacquernal, yet (  Blacquernal yet) / Blacquernal palace, yet [IX:A1] the Varangians ( ) / my Varangians [IX:A1] his daughter (proof IX:A1) / his accomplished daughter [post-proofs] (not in  ) lovely views ( ) / lovely and striking views [IX:A1] roofs, had (proof IX:A1 derived: roofs, these domestic buildings had) / coverings, thickset with plants and flowers, and fountains, had [Lockhart IX:A3] than the (proof IX:A1) / than is ever afforded by the [Lockhart IX:A3] untrained by (proof IX:A1) / strangers to [Lockhart IX:A3]

 

483

295.37 by our actual knowledge . . . nature (proof IX:A1) / by the knowledge which we derive from the use of our other senses [Lockhart IX:A3] 296.11 shore (proof IX:A1) / glassy waters [Lockhart IX:A3] 296.33 height unobscured (Magnum) / height, unobscured 297.18 stood (Magnum) / there was placed 297.19 said he (proof IX:A1) / he said [post-proofs] 301.29 path (Magnum) / path, 302.23 barricades, erected . . . and which, an (proof IX:A1) / barricades, which an [Lockhart IX:A3] 302.25 a defence itself (proof IX:A1) / serviceable for purposes of defence [Lockhart IX:A3] 303.40 holloa (proof IX:A1) / hollo [post-proofs] 303.40 game, and startle it ere (Scott proof correction IX:A1 derived: game, mand startle the gameo ere) / game, ere 303.41 of the (proof IX:A1) / of he [post-proofs] 304.18 was (proof IX:A1) / were [post-proofs] 304.21 conspiracy (proof IX:A1) / conspirators [post-proofs] 304.43 a descent (proof IX:A1) / the descent [post-proofs] 305.1 a captain (proof IX:A1) / the captain [post-proofs] 305.37 superum, sævæque avidissima (Editorial) / Superûm sané, sævæque avidissima The proof reads: ‘superum sané, avidississima’. This was partly corrected: ‘avidissima’ is correct, and so is the inserted ‘sævæque’. But the erroneous ‘sané’ should have been deleted, and the change of ‘superum’ to ‘Superûm’ is uncalled for. 307.43 were assailed (proof IX:A1) / might be assailed [post-proofs] 308.24 the period (Magnum) / that period 310.22 arrayed for (proof IX:A1) / arrayed as if for [Lockhart IX:A3] 311.41 saw (proof IX:A1) / observed [Lockhart IX:A3] 312.1 observed (proof IX:A1) / seen [Lockhart IX:A3] 312.7 mind (8vo) / mind, 313.26 standard of Apulia, (proof IX:A1) / standard, [post-proofs] 314.25 deprived the (proof IX:A1) / deprived of the [post-proofs] 315.22 which (proof IX:A1) / whom [post-proofs] 315.23 recognise that of a (proof IX:A: recognize that of a) / recognise a [post-proofs] 316.2 He should have lived . . . Measure for Measure (proof IX:A1) / Tomorrow—oh, that’s sudden! Spare him, spare him; [new line] He’s not prepared to die. [new line]  . [Lockhart IX:A3] 316.29 cub. And (Editorial) / cub; and 316.32 will (proof IX:A1) / wilt [post-proofs] 317.1 Hall of Judgment (Magnum) / hall of judgment 317.13 relict (proof IX:A1) / relic [post-proofs] 317.26 Greece. It is (Editorial) / Greece. [new line] “What I am now to relate to you,” continued he, “is A new chapter is begun here in proof, making the preceding chapter impossibly short. Lockhart rightly abolished the division, but clumsily. A neater repair is now effected. 318.6 contrition (Magnum) / remorse 319.16 traitor (Magnum) / criminal 319.26 church appointed (proof IX:A1) / church has appointed [Lockhart IX:A3] 319.36 successively (Magnum) / alternately 320.5 offered (Magnum) / effected 321.21 contemplate (proof IX:A1) / contemplated [post-proofs]

484

 

321.25 sigh, which almost partook of the nature of (proof IX:A1) / sigh, almost amounting to [post-proofs] 321.40 cruel, at least where (Scott proof correction IX:A1) / cruel, where 322.28 go to (Magnum) / go forth to 322.30 his Prince (Magnum) / the Emperor 323.9 it’s (proof IX:A1: its) / it is [post-proofs] 323.10 granted. (proof IX:A1) / granted? [post-proofs] 324.3 person (proof IX:A1) / Princess [post-proofs] 324.6 disgusting soever, (proof IX:A1) / disgusting, [Lockhart IX:A3] 324.9 her dignity, which was, in a certain degree, sullied; and (proof IX:A1) / her sullied dignity, and [Lockhart IX:A3] 324.11 she devised . . . her father, the Emperor. [new chapter] [325.28] (proof IX:A1 derived) / she revolved. [new chapter] [Lockhart IX:A3] Three editorial emendations have been made in this passage: at 324.31 a comma replaces the proof semicolon; at 325.22 ‘carried’ replaces ‘united’; and at 325.27 ‘persausion’ is corrected to ‘persuasion’. 326.17 admirable military (proof IX:A1) / perfect [Lockhart IX:A3] 326.22 was to (proof IX:A1) / were to [post-proofs] 327.26 Field Marshal (proof IX:A1) / Court [Lockhart IX:A3] 327.37 a proclamation (Magnum) / a solemn proclamation 328.23 it became (Magnum) / it seemed to become 329.18 exercise (proof IX:A1) / adorn [Lockhart IX:A3] 329.43 suffered injustice or hardship at (proof IX:A1) / suffered at [Lockhart IX:A3] 330.4 dispose of my future existence, in (proof IX:A1) / bestow it in [Lockhart IX:A3] 330.5 a long (proof IX:A1) / an infinite [post-proofs] 330.10 The descent . . . spectators. It had (proof IX:A1) / This sudden apparition of the long-lost Ursel had [Lockhart IX:A3] 330.14 who (proof IX:A1) / and they [Lockhart IX:A3] 331.9 edict (proof IX:A1) / herald [Lockhart IX:A3] 331.17 how (Scott proof correction IX:A1) / that 331.18 of the ministers of the Court (Scott proof correction IX:A1: of the 〈Emperor〉 mministers of the Courto) / of the Emperor 331.21 state.” The herald announced with horror that this (proof IX:A1 derived: state. The herald announced with horror that this) / state. This [Lockhart IX:A3] 331.27 their own eyes had (proof IX:A1) / your own eyes have [Lockhart IX:A3] 331.28 falsehood. (Editorial) / falsehood.” 331.32 “the mutinous chiefs of the Israelites, had (proof IX:A1) / “had [Lockhart IX:A3] 331.35 while (proof IX:A1) / but [Lockhart IX:A3] 331.36 philosopher’s (proof IX:A1) / man’s [Lockhart IX:A3] 331.40 death (proof IX:A1) / fate [Lockhart IX:A3] 331.41 extinction (Scott proof correction IX:A1) / a death 331.41 must be (proof IX:A1) / must, indeed, be [Lockhart IX:A3] 332.6 remain (proof IX:A1) / sleep [Lockhart IX:A3] 332.9 delusion; the fruit . . . lenient punishment. (proof IX:A1 derived: delusion, the fruit . . . lenient punishment.) / delusion. [Lockhart IX:A3] 332.15 heart (proof IX:A1) / hearts [post-proofs] 332.15 ‘Let . . . them.’” (Magnum) / “Let . . . them.” 332.19 show (proof IX:A1) / convince [Lockhart IX:A3] 332.20 Emperor’s (proof IX:A1 derived: Empress’s) / Sovereign’s [Lockhart IX:A3]

 

485

332.22 it pleased (proof IX:A1) / it had pleased [Lockhart IX:A3] 332.28 preservation. [new paragraph] About . . . The audience [334.37] / preservation. [new paragraph] The audience [Lockhart IX:A3] For this passage the     text is derived from proof IX:A1, lightly corrected by Scott and Cadell. Three emendations have been made to this corrected proof, as noted in the following entries. 333.28 servant, well knows (Editorial) / servant who 〈knows and loves him〉, well knows Scott’s proof correction is imperfect. 333.40 rank.” (Editorial) / rank, and the Emperor.” The last three words, now editorially deleted, are underlined and ‘Query’ is written in the margin by Lockhart. 334.7 perfection, and (Editorial) / perfection and practice, and X: 335.1–350.27 Proof X:A (M S 3777, ff. 28r–29v, 20r–27v, and 304–31v); Proof X:B1 (M S 3777, ff. 32r–43v); Proof X:B2 (M S 3776, ff. 445r–464v); Proof X:B3 (M S 3777, ff. 314r–335v) 334.43 meeting. [new paragraph] In the meantime . . . they blew [335.35] / meeting. [new paragraph] Alexius was not slow to perceive the tendency of their thoughts; and, on a signal from his hand, the trumpets blew [Lockhart X:B3] For this passage the     text derives from proof X:B2, lightly corrected by Scott. No emendations to this corrected proof have been necessary. 335.37 “Brenhilda of Aspramonte, by marriage Countess (proof X:B2) / “Robert, Count [Lockhart X:B3] 335.38 place to (proof X:B2) / place, or by knightly proxy, to [Lockhart X:B3] 335.40 empire?” [new paragraph] It now appeared . . . of his Imperial Majesty the Emperor. [new paragraph] Alexius [345.19] / empire?” [new paragraph] The Emperor conceived himself to have equally provided against the actual appearance at this call of either of the parties named, and had prepared an exhibition of another kind, namely, certain cages, tenanted by wild animals, which being now loosened, should do their pleasure with each other in the eyes of the assembly. His astonishment and confusion, therefore, were great, when, as the last note of the proclamation died in the echo, Count Robert of Paris stood forth, armed cap-a pie, his mailed charger led behind him from within the curtained enclosure, at one end of the lists, as if ready to mount at the signal of the marshal. [new paragraph] The alarm and the shame that were visible in every countenance near the Imperial presence, when no Cæsar came forth in like fashion to confront the formidable Frank, were not of long duration. Hardly had the style and title of the Count of Paris been duly announced by the heralds, and their second summons of his antagonist uttered in due form, when a person, dressed like one of the Varangian Guards, sprung into the lists, and announced himself as ready to do battle in the name and place of the Cæsar Nicephorus Briennius, and for the honour of the empire. [new paragraph] Alexius [Lockhart X:B3] For this passage the     text is derived from proof X:B2, corrected mainly by Scott. Emendations to this corrected proof are noted in the entries that follow. 336.6 military, the (proof X:B2) / military, mand above all warmd with a [?]o the

 

486 336.22 336.42 338.18 338.19 338.19 338.25

339.23 339.42 340.35 340.37 340.38 340.40 341.29 341.30 341.38 343.15

The last word is illegible, and it seems impossible to make sense of this Scott correction. treason, or overpowering force, which (Editorial) / treason, and 〈foul usage〉 mor overpowr forceo, which Scott’s correction is imperfect. contested, since (proof X:B2) / contested mtowards hero, since Scott’s correction seems impossible. field, (Editorial) / field privilege (Editorial) / privileeg too competent (proof X:B2) / too mclearlyo competent The unnecessary insertion is made in pencil by Lockhart. morality, has (proof X:B2) / morality, mas he has been termdo has Scott’s unnecessary insertion is made in response to a pencil ‘Qu[er]y’ by Lockhart. “by (Editorial) / “I, by hadst (Editorial) / must opponent (Editorial) / oponent thee, vassal! yield (proof X:B2) / thee, 〈vassal〉! yield The deletion is not by Scott. this is (Editorial) / this to is Comnena (Editorial) / Comdena colours (Scott proof correction X:A: 〈contour〉 mcolourso) / colour guard, who had (Editorial) / guard, had might possibly take (Scott proof correction X:A) / might take [new paragraph] Nor had the anticipations . . . his voice heard [343.40] / N.L. Nor had the anticipations of evil to the valiant Countess been half so great as was supposed so that whatever Vexhillia’s fears had prophesied as the consequences of such an encounter had passed away with an alarm instead of the expected event so that the Countess of Aspremont had no bad consequences from her fall whatever excepting the fright & the alarm. This was however so great that she was unable to recover her spirits or even to dream of a second encounter in the lists although she had if in her ordinary state of mind physical strength & mental courage sufficient to have taken the odds of two of the Princesses born in the purple m[Scott adds] without incurring the least hazardo [new paragraph] Vexhillia indeed was a little ashamed at having taken the alarm too soon nor was she pleased with the prospect of the Countess Brenhilda’s displeasure at the part which she had acted. She resolved however to maintain the credit of her reputation & not yeild to any one the right which she had to dictate in the present case. accordingly her interference was of consequence when the Grecians & even the Crusaders heard with loud shouts of approbation the speach of the Greek Emperor as a generous & candid tribute to the worth of the vanquished Countess. [new paragraph] When therefore Robert of Paris expressed his dissatisfaction with the terms proposed by Alexius Vexhillia interfered as the person proper to dictate what was to be done. NL. The Count had seen the proposed combat with natural anxiety & only his high spirit of Chivalry had prevented his interference with the momentary strife in which he saw his Lady’s fall. He had in vain struggled to make his voice heard

 

345.20 345.22 345.29 346.5 346.8 346.12 346.18 346.26 346.27 346.43 347.2 347.8 347.11 347.23 347.39 348.12 348.20 348.22 348.43

487

The proofs from X:A to B3 read: [new paragraph] ‘This speech, which was, in the circumstances, a generous and candid tribute to the worth of the stranger heroine, was heard as such with loud shouts of approbation by the Grecians, and even the troops of Tancred seemed disposed to testify their acquiescence. One person, however, intimated his dissatisfaction with the terms on which Alexius Comnenus was disposed to conclude the controversy. This was Robert of Paris, who had been deterred by surprise, and his chivalrous notions of gallantry, from interfering in the momentary strife which had subsisted between his lady and the Grecian Princess. He had seen, with what alarm may be conceived, the fall and surrender of the Countess Brenhilda, and had in vain struggled to make his voice heard’. In correcting proof X:B3 Scott directs a ‘paper apart’ in Laidlaw’s hand to be substituted (  3777, f. 326r–v). This is adopted for the present text with editorial punctuation and other necessary emendations. 344.9 story. As (Editorial) / story, and it is still more so, as far as 344.32 witnessed, your (Editorial) / witnessed, that your 344.34 since (Editorial) / ince 344.36 Nicephorus Briennius (Editorial) / Briennius Nicephorus 344.37 lady, whom (proof X:B) / lady, to whom The ‘to’ is inserted in the margin, in pencil by Lockhart. 345.16 Nicephorus Briennius (Editorial) / Briennius Nicephorus forwards (proof X:A) / forward [post-proofs] champion when . . . opponent. (proof X:A) / champion. [Lockhart X:B3] he (himself a prince and knight) remain (Scott correction proof X:B1: he m(himself a prince & knight)o remain) / he remain encountering (Scott proof correction X:B1) / meeting guard, since . . . accoutred. (Scott proof correction X:B1: guard msince he saw his opponent was dismounted and so accouterdo.) / guard. towards the orator (Scott proof correction X:B1) / towards him affected, the eye may be moist—but (Scott proof correction X:B1: affected, mthe eye may be moist—obut) / affected, but duel (Magnum) / combat deliberation (Scott proof correction X:B1) / caution right of rank to fight upon horseback and with the lance. (Scott proof correction X:B1: right mof ranko to fight upon horseback m& with the lanceo.) / right to fight upon horseback. among the Varangian’s comrades that he (Scott proof correction X:B1) / that the gallant Varangian him a severe blow on (Scott proof correction X:B1 ) / him on spectators of such a scene at (Scott proof correction X:B1: tpectators mof such a sceneo at) / spectators at Ballantyne probably corrected ‘tpectators’. was to take place next. (Scott proof correction X:B1 derived: was 〈to be the next process of the combat〉 mtake pless place nexto.) / was to be the next process of the combat. knight as Count Robert, (Scott proof correction X:B1 ) / knight, the courage (Scott proof correction X:B1) / the indomitable courage occasion; (8vo) / occasion, he can requite thee (Scott proof correction X:B1) / to atone generous (Scott proof correction X:B1) / great

488

 

349.3

justly considered modest (Scott proof correction X:B1: justly considerd modest) / prudent 349.11 request from the Emperor my (Scott proof correction X:B1)/ request my 349.15 the faithful attendant (Scott proof correction X:B1) / the attendant 349.24 my credit (Scott proof correction X:B1) / it XI: 350.27–361.35 Proof XI:A1 (M S 3776. ff. 465r–476v: to [206.11] only); Proof XI:A2 (M S 3777, ff. 335v–354r); Proof XI:A3 (M S 3780, ff. 1r–12v; to [206.11] only); Proof XI:B (M S 3777, ff. 64r–73r) 353.24 day.” [new paragraph] While the (proof XI:A1) / day.” The [Cadell XI:B] 353.25 strengthened thus (proof XI:A1) / thus strengthened [Cadell XI:B] 353.27 Stephanos, the corps of Immortals . . . the necessary rank (proof XI:A1) / Stephanos. [new paragraph] After this, such leaders as were included in the invitation given by the Emperor This was pruned by Lockhart in XI:A2 and further corrected by Cadell in XI:B. 353.31 the Emperor (proof XI:A1) / Alexius [Cadell XI:B] 353.33 one inferring (proof XI:A1) / one which had inferred [Cadell XI:B] 353.35 The Count of Paris, amongst others, bore (proof XI:A1) / The absence of the Countess Brenhilda, during this eventful day, created no small surprise to the Emperor and those in his immediate confidence, who knew her enterprising spirit, and the interest she must have felt in the issue of the combat. Bertha had made an early communication to the Count, that his lady, agitated with the many anxieties of the few preceding days, was unable to leave her apartment. The valiant knight, therefore, lost no time in acquainting his faithful Countess of his safety; and afterwards joining those who partook of the banquet at the palace, he bore Cadell makes the change in a paper apart ( 3777, f. 102r-v). 353.39 his Countess remained still an invalid, but (proof XI:A1) / Brenhilda remained, but [Cadell XI:B] 353.42 pilgrimage. It was, indeed, the (proof XI:A1) / pilgrimage. [new paragraph] It was the [Cadell XI:B] 354.3 unlikely ever to recur. (proof correction XI:A1: unlikely ever to 〈oc〉mreocur.) / unlikely to recur; but on the present occasion there was a more than usual assemblage of troops, which the occurrences of the day had drawn together, so that the crusaders were called upon to be particularly watchful. [Cadell XI:B] 354.7 lucky (Magnum) / lucky, 354.8 Paris (Magnum) / Paris, 354.9 earlier; for (Magnum) / earlier. For 354.13 defiance. Nor (Magnum) / defiance; nor 354.32 not. [new paragraph] A remarkable . . . being born in the purple. [new chapter] [356.15] / not. [new chapter] [Lockhart XI:A2] For this passage the     text is derived from proof XI:A2, corrected mainly by Scott. Emendations to this corrected proof are noted in the entries that follow. 354.36 of Anna (Editorial) / of his daughter Anna 355.4 the riddle (Editorial) / the following riddle 355.7 secrets. [new paragraph] “We (Editorial) / secrets. [8 lines blank] [new paragraph] “We The space was left in the proof for the riddle, which was apparently never provided. 355.15 indulgence; (Editorial) / indulgence,

 

356.16

356.18 357.10 357.14 357.18 357.37 358.5 358.13 358.14

358.22 359.16 359.27 359.27 359.34 360.2

360.19 360.19

489

355.27 of a Theseus (proof XI:A2) / of 〈a〉 mthe old knightso Theseus Scott substitutes ‘the old knights’ for ‘a’ but does not complete his correction, which in any case results in a repetition with line 24. 355.40 Countess’s (Editorial) / Countesses The form of the word in a Scott correction is regularised. 356.2 suicide, in a lady so (proof correction XI:A3 / suicide in a lady, so The proof correction is probably by Ballantyne. 356.11 male (Editorial) / female See 360.30 [beginning of chapter] T      of Alexius Comnenus may (Editorial) / [beginning of chapter] I was not until after the conquest of Jerusalem that Count Robert of Paris returned to Constantinople, and, with his wife, and such proportion of his followers as the sword and pestilence had left after that bloody warfare, resumed his course to his native kingdom. Upon reaching Italy, the first care of the noble Count and Countess, was to celebrate in princely style the marriage of Hereward and his faithful Bertha, who had added to their other claims upon their master and mistress, those acquired by Hereward’s faithful services in Palestine, and no less by Bertha’s affectionate ministry to her lady in Constantinople. [new paragraph] As to the fate of Alexius Comnenus, it may The first sentence was marked as problematic in XI:A2 as inconsistent with the final pages of the novel in proof (and indeed to some extent in Ed1). No change was made. A simple repair is now effected editorially. carried (proof XI:A1) / achieved [Cadell XI:B] Alexiad (Magnum) / Ibidem our Gibbon (proof XI:A1) / our own Gibbon [Cadell XI:B] our belief (Editorial) / a belief relict (proof XI:A1) / relic [corrected in XI:B, perhaps by Ballantyne] as Anna (proof XI:A1) / as of Anna [Hughes XI:B] clergy, and (proof XI:A1) / clergy, as well as [Cadell XI:B] three swoons, . . . of Alexius (proof XI:A1: three swoons, which appeared to be mortal, predicted the death of this powerful Prince, which took place after another more violent crisis; and such was the termination of Alexius) / three deep successive swoons gave ominous warning of the approaching blow; and at length was terminated the reign and life of Alexius The proof reading was reworked by Lockhart in XI:A2 and, by John Hughes, in XI:B. It is here restored, with an editorial ‘that’ for the first ‘which’. threw away her (proof XI:A1) / cast from her her [Cadell XI:B] Metz (Editorial) / Altex Ashburton’s (Editorial) / Ashburnham’s ingenious (proof XI:A2) / elaborate [Lockhart X:A2] Soissons (Magnum) / Loissins historian. [new paragraph] There is nothing . . . last. [new paragraph] The reader [360.16] (proof X:A2, with corrections) / historian, Anna Comnena. [new paragraph] The reader There are four editorial emendations: ‘by feats’ for proof ‘be feats’ (360.5); ‘historian’ for ‘his o ian’ and ‘by those’ for ‘b[inverted e] those’ (360.8); and the running on of a new proof paragraph after ‘founded.’ (360.13). fame was resounded (proof XI:A2) / fame resounded [Cadell XI:B] and, at (proof XI:A2) / but, at [Lockhart X:A2]

490

 

360.20 Dorylæum . . . Countess enjoyed [360.37] (proof X:A2 derived) / Dorylæum, he was so desperately wounded, as to be disabled from taking a part in the grandest scene of the expedition. His heroic Countess, however, enjoyed The curiously distorted proof of the final part of the first paragraph reads: ‘His Lade Brenhilda, who had recovered of he confinement, was in great agitation at the news d not be withheld, beor removadciul.eh,,f-is- [end of line] strance from ane quarter, from resolving to join the camp of the Crusaders, with the purpose of watching over the sick bed of her husband, and avenging him as opportunite should occur upon his infidel enemies.’ This has been editorially corrected, and the following editorial emendations have been made to the rest of the passage: ‘duty’ for ‘duet’; ‘young’ for proof ‘eoung’; ‘Vexhelia’ for ‘Vexhilia’; and ‘by’ for ‘be’. 360.43 in vain hopes (proof XI:A2) / in the vain hope [Cadell XI:B] 361.1 alternative, the Count (proof XI:A2) / alternative, Count [XI:B] 361.3 as (proof XI:A2) / who [Hughes XI:B] 361.4 of Europe (proof XI:A2) / to Europe [Hughes XI:B] 361.5 hired at a dear (proof XI:A2) / procured at a high [Cadell XI:B] 361.6 that city the (Editorial) / that then glorious city, the Proof XI:A2 has ‘that the’, which Lockhart corrects to ‘that then glorious city the’. A more economical editorial correction is now made. 361.14 covetousness or ambition was sufficiently (proof XI:A2) / covetousness was, however, sufficiently Lockhart inserts ‘however’ in XI:A2; Cadell deletes ‘or ambition’ in XI:B. 361.22 his sagacity (Editorial) / his wisdom and his sagacity Proof has ‘his valour and his sagacity’. Lockhart, noting the clash between ‘valour’ and ‘intrepidity’ changes ‘valour’ to ‘wisdom’ in XI:A2, but this results in a tautologous doublet. A simple editorial solution is now preferred. 361.22 intrepidity, and (Editorial) / intrepidity and 361.23 crusader having obtained him the respect of foreign courts, he (proof XI:A2) / crusader, he [Lockhart X:A2] 361.32 here (proof XI:A2) / where [Lockhart X:A2] 361.33 squire have (proof XI:A2) / squire and his Bertha have [Lockhart X:A2] [Conclusion] 361.37–end Base-text: M S 3777, ff. 15v–19v, as corrected by Scott. Scott’s corrections are adopted unless otherwise indicated. (Laidlaw’s M S 876, ff. 44r–54r) 361.37 be tempted (Editorial) / be again tempted 361.42 critics, who will probably take up Mrs (proof) / critics, than Mrs (proof correction: critics, 〈who will probably take up〉 mthano Mrs) 362.8 by the (Editorial) / with a view to the 362.10 and at (Editorial) / & at 362.14 evil, and that (Editorial) / evil—that 362.15 composed. (Editorial) / composed—and that the correspondence of the author’s critic, if not closed by a draft upon his treasurer of a hundred ducats, or, at least, 〈my〉 mhiso best wishes for his madviserso prosperity, with a little more taste than it is his good fortune to enjoy at present. (  composed & that the correspondence of the Author & Critic if not closed by a draft upon his treasured 〈wish〉 of a hundred ducats or at least my best wishes for his prosperity with a little more taste than it is his good fortune to enjoy at present.) 362.17 to be considered in prospective ( ) / 〈to be〉 maso considered in perspective

  362.19 362.20 362.26 362.28 362.29 362.30 362.36 362.38 362.42 363.9 363.18 363.24 363.26 364.11 364.35 364.37 364.38 365.15

491

Scott’s change may have been prompted by a misreading of Laidlaw’s   in the proof text. I am (proof) / 〈I am〉 mthe author of Waverly iso that my (proof) / that 〈my〉 mhiso the reader (Editorial) / he object (proof) / 〈object〉 mpurposeo Scott’s change leads to repetition. attention, and (Editorial) / attention & rate; if (Editorial) / rate; nay, if reasonable enchanter (proof) / reasonabl〈e〉my powerfulo enchanter Scott’s change leads to repetition. gawries—which . . . nature—must (Editorial) / gawries, which . . . nature, must compensates (  compensate〈d〉mso) / compensated situations, which (Editorial) / situations and discussions, which costume (Editorial) / c〈u〉moost〈o〉muom came with (proof) / came mto Greeceo with it. [new paragraph] one (Editorial) / it. mNL In compari[son] their peopleoOne alone like the pagan goddess, (Editorial) / alone, mlike the Pagan Goddesso nature. This (Editorial) / nature. [new paragraph] This Scots (Editorial) / Scottish readers. [new paragraph] The (Editorial) / readers. The   (Editorial) / [no text.]

Appendix to the Text Passage One (main portion): base-text M S 3777, ff. 44r–51v, as corrected by Scott 367.27 awakened. [new paragraph] “Remember () / awakened. “Remember 367.28 you,” said Alexius (Editorial) / you, mLord Emperoro” said he (  you” said he) 367.34 destroy, in which exploit the (Editorial) / destroy, and in which exploit the (  destroy & in that the) 367.35 raised high ( ) / raised so high 367.36 Church?” ( church?”) / Church.” 368.18 passed (Editorial) / passd (not in  ) 368.36 I will retract ( ) / I retract 369.38 Constantinople as (  Constantinople 〈at at〉 as) / Constantinople, as 369.44 Paraclete, had (proof) / Paraclete, mso was the cloister calld in which he was 〈immurd〉 immuredo had ( Paraclete had) 370.2 Zosimus (Editorial) / Zozimus (  as proof) 370.18 understand,” (proof) / understand〈,〉m.—o” ( understand.”) 370.37 was, or rather had been, a (Editorial) / was mor rather had beeno a (  was a) 371.27 him and (Editorial) / him & (not in  ) 371.36 showing (Editorial) / shewing (not in ) 372.19 difference, and (proof) / difference mof opiniono, and (  difference &) 373.2 they (proof) / 〈they〉 mthe members of their religionso (  as proof) Passage One (conclusion): base-text Canterbury M S, ff. 138r–140r 373.20 and preferment . . . of being overheard [374.4] (Editorial) / & preferment in the Church without farther distinction” “And in what manner can the Manacheans deserve that indifferent favour at the footstool of the Emperor which has been & is the terms up [end of line] on which only they can agree to espouse the cause of the emperor Alexius Comnenus?”

492

 

“That I will explain to you 〈to you〉” said the Emperor “& in doing so you will perceive the extreme advantage which will result to the commonwealth from your union upon this occasion & your forgetting that which you may conceive former injuries〈s〉 providing you consent to draw together such of your forces as are willing once more to hazard themselves in a quarrel in which they have often vanquished. Assemble your selves under your own banner with such strength as you can & be ready to strike for Alexius Comnenus when a Cry shall be raised to that purpose. This support (such have been the arrangements wh. my wisdom has made)—will be sufficient to effect a complete victory over the traitors who have plotted the death of the Emperor & the overthrow of the government. Should we unhappily fail the brave Varangian guard & many other loyal men will share in our ruin. If we should live we will obtain freedom in civil matters & in religion & if we should dy nature 〈may well〉 can never claim her general debt at any period when a brave man can be more willing to pay it.” A murmur of applause rung through the spacious amphitheatre & seemed to express their unanimous consent to the measures proposed by the Emperor who had indeed with considerable address retained the good opinion of many of the principal persons among the Manicheans. The doors or vomitories were now thrown open by the large party of Manicheans by whom the antient theatre was occupied & a rushing yet smothered sound of human beings departing under fear & apprehension of being over heard Passage Two: base-text Canterbury M S, ff. 115r–18v 374.7 The corps of Immortals . . . in case of need.” [377.39] (Editorial) / The corps of immortals approached the city & a young cavalier well appointed & gallantly armed rode up to the Emperor in the middle of the pocession & whispered some words to him which the reader may like to over hear. “Your imperial majesties orders are obeyed” said he “& the valiant servants of Heaven whom the traducers of the saints call manicheans approach the sacred city of Constantinople with banners spread & the sacred name of the Emperor in their mouth as their watch word.” “I had forgot them” said the Emperor with a deep sigh. Alas! it is too often the case with us that are the powerfull of the earth that we have recourse to means of assistance in cases of emmergency which we 〈have〉 forget so soon as the difficulty is passed over. The appearance of the Manicheans unexpected as they are in the vicinity will not fail to spread the wildest alarm through Constantinople with whch it has been yet filled mduringo in these eventfull days. We must prevent the nearer approach of your friends my good Michael, speed back to your father, tell him that the promises which have been made to him in my necessity shall be faithfully kept but for this purpose it will be necessary he withdraw his armed followers from the vicinity of Constantinople. I will assign to your people a place of rende [e.o.l.] vous less ample & a position of defence less important than the amphitheatre where they have of late met; & methinks that such a place of meeting may be fixed upon within a thousand stadia from the metropolis since a nearer vicinity would not fail to awaken the suspicions betwixt the church & those whose articles of faith you unhappily nourish” “My Lord” 〈said〉 mrepliedo Michael Ducas “I am but a boy nevertheless it has been my lot to see very much of the principles on which it has been your Highness’s pleasure to enter into capitulation with my father & others who have adopted upon conscience the opinions of their persecuted race when our arms can be rendered usefull to the emperor

 

493

we cannot pretend to fix upon a place of rendevous which is not thought the better of its vicinity to the capital. The question then is can the friends & loyal supporters of the Emperors rights convene for the purpose of his defence too near the sacred person who is to be guarded but if some sudden danger has glided past little is cared what is to become of the manicheans whose assistance is no longer wanted to quell it & the question then is who would advise the introduction of these heretic dogs into the capital which holds the sacred person of the 〈emperor him self & the holy〉 emperor him self & the most holy person of the Patriarch into the boot. My friends noble Prince are the same in adversity as in prosperity willing to render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsars providing they may be allowed at the same time without offence to the consciences of other men to render unto Heaven that worship which their education teaches them to consider as acceptable & to speak the truth I had instructions from my father & the chief men of our sect to say that there must positively be an end of the vacillation which has hitherto taken place & that we will either 〈have〉 menjoyo the indulgence of our consciences which has been promised to us so often, or failing of that we will take our chance in the field against whom soever may be disposed to meet us, were it the Emperor him [end of line] self.” This threat although from the mouth of a beardless boy had a strong effect upon the nerves of the Emperor which however he endeavoured to laugh off as well as his alarm would permit. “Michael Ducas” he said “my excellent young lad I have been long anxious to what high preferment in the empire thou hadst best to be bred & I now see with pleasure a boldness & audacity in thee which qualifies thee in an eminent degree to represent thy country 〈in〉 as the Emperors ambassador in a forreign state nor do I believe their is one of so tender an age who can with equal firmness support the cause of Greece which on her part demands such a bold bearing so prompt & ready in elocution & the other qualities of which thou hast even now given us such a splendid display. Thou wilt therefore I doubt not thunder the importance of thy emperor & the greatness of thy country the sacred nature of her rights & the desperation with which they are like to be maintained into the ears of forreign Princes, but in order to be fully quallified for this important trust there is one thing my dear youth which thou must heedfully keep in mind, namely, that thou takest heed that thou engage thy Prince in no stipulations which are instantly & immediately bound to accomplishment where such discharge on his part is rendered impossible by circumstances. I readily own & even thy juvenile understanding can easily comprehend that if this emergency be a few weeks past I will then have time so to order my affairs that I can fullfill in the most ample degree that grant of liberty of conscience which is promised to thy people; but consider that at this present moment the various troops assembled in this capital 〈have〉 mareo one & all men so hostile to the tenets of the Manicheans that they would view a liberty of conscience granted to them as little else than a dissolution of the bands of the Christian religion; nor are their prejudices more strong against the Jews & Mahometans them selves than against the tenets which you especially hold as of the last consequence to the purity of your faith. The same opposition & the same horror of your doctrines is general among the Imortal bands & the inhabitants of the city & of consequence all those who are at present at arms in my defence are men who would receive even the assistance of your bands with much suspicion & if you〈r〉 avowed the intention of freely exercising the doctrines which they hold in abhorrence believe me

494

  it will be the signal for a general battle which as you canniot hope will be a successfull one against so great an ods. The Europeans also whom Chance or some evil spirit has put in arms at this moment to encrease the numbers of your enemies) will measure their way across the Hellespont upon receiving the news that the Manichean heretics have arrived at Constantinople with the purpose of imposing their heretical tenets upon the Holy empire & a slight computation would serve to assure them how very unwise it would be to provoke so numerous & warlike a force as are sure to take arms against you for a strife so unequal.” The Boy Ducas upon hearing the emperor’s defence & looking at the same time along the streets filled with armed men could not deny the truth of what he said yet seemed unwitting to resign defence of the stipulation which he had urged on the part of his friends. “The odds against us” he replied “are no doubt formidable yet have I always read my Lord that in such emergencies those men who determine to behave them selves with gallantry may expect the support of Heaven, & to that I for one should be willing to trust my self providing my father Cantaquzene was disposed to the same submission but for my own part I would rather trust my self to Heaven’s mercy than willfully resign the terms wh. had been decidedly granted to me” “Most excellent youth” said the emperor “whose help I expect to use within no long space as negociator for the Emperors most important interest with the haughty Saracen let me trust thou wilt so conduct thy self in this matter that no rashness on thy part shall become the means of depriving 〈thee〉 mmeo of thy early talents & remind thy father that court favour is always slow in attainment & subject to be deranged by accidental circumstancs nevertheless that which is directed towards him & his shall be in some degree sure as well as slow nor can any thing derange its motions towards them except too violent an impetuosity on the part of those for whom it is designed But come we are now at the Palace from the window of which we will see at what point the musters of the manacheans have already arrived.” They were now accordingly within the walls of the City & the Emperor alledging that divine service as the cause of absenting him self caused the young manichean to follow him into the Chapel the oriel of which commanded a distant view of the amphitheatre where the Emperor the evening before had met the Chief of the Manicheans. Distinguished by its size it lowered on the edged of the horizon like an immense sentinel & the sharpsighted Alexius Comnenus could discover the appearance of standards & of a body of troops not exceeding a thousand men who seemed to be cautiously exhibiting them selves between the amphitheatre & the capital & were probably the van of a more numerous body which occupied the interior of the building itself. The Emperor changing the tone in which he had spoken to his young emissary adressed him with a degree of confidence wh. he had not hitherto made use of. “I thought so by Heavens!—your friends young man have exposed them selves to be cut to pieces by the orthodox party on the one hand & by the Counts upon the other by shewing their presence & yet without appearing in predominating force. Spur Michael Ducas! ride like lightening my good friend & warn the Manicheans to withdraw for I think thou wilt agree with me that an attack upon Constantinople were a vain attempt by so small a number when the Citizens themselves are ready in arms to pour to the walls.

 

495

The tone of alarm in which the Emperor spoke alarmed the youth who started from his side & in a moment Alexius beheld him like a glancing dart set forth from the walls of the City & ride full speed towards the amphitheatre. “It is done” said the Emperor “the battle is fought & won & there is little fear of the heretics obtaining any advantage on this occasion by the terror of their arms. I would that the emergency of state affairs would permit me to act with perfect fidelity to these poor men who have not upon any occasion been disinclined to take my part while all that I have done to them by way of recompense is to preserve for them a sort of dubious existence between toleration & persecution within the bounds of the empire. But is it in my power to assure them a more extensive toleration?—wherefore are they heretics? what have they to do with such doctrines? & why do not those content them which are held by the orthodox? they keep their ground however & I fear my young ambassador will find them obstinate. But no—he has reached them & the sullen masses which break off from the main body with a view to disperse themselves shew plainly that—Heaven be praised—they have no thought of action for this evening, and their distant appearance will apprise the orthodox, the Immortals & all of them that Aexius hath at his command other troops who can easily be made forthcomming in case of need.” Passage Three: base-text Canterbury M S , f. 119r–v 377.42 In this dilemma . . . contest of the day.” [378.27] (Editorial) / In this delemma a thought suddenly occurred to her that in the classical & even in the sacred writings nothing was more common than an appeal from a tryal of actual force to the more appropriate contest of ingenuity betwixt two warriors of the female sex. In such a tryal she did not permit her self to doubt that she should become successfull as her whole life had been spent in efforts of composition & in contests of the understanding which had been her perpetual exercise & in which she might be reasonably supposed to possess a great superiority over the countess Brenhilda whose life had been devoted to the effectual service of our Lady of the Broken lances. She figured to her self therefore that if this Frankish countess should adventure upon herself the combat, she the Princess would have nothing to do but to suggest a contest of their wits instead of a personal struggle in which she doubted not being supported by her father & the unanimous voice of his people who were arrived at a degree of civilization which would not willingly see noble Ladies take upon them a character so unsuitable for their sex as that of a Gladiator. When this plan was communicated to the Emperor he consented to it with reluctance provided the countess Brenhilda should agree to 〈put〉 mperilo the combat upon the harmless issue which his daughter proposed upon which however he expressed his mowno strong doubts. 〈These Franks he said〉 As it is said of the Egyptians he said that the sauce all their dishes with the onion root so it may be truly said of these barbarous Franks men women & even children that no public display is made among them which does not in some shape or other turn upon blows slaughter & death I therefore yeild to the proposal of my daughter assuring her however that it will be difficult to prevail upon the countess to consider such a 〈contest〉 mtryalo as she proposes as being a proper decision of the contest of the day Passage Four: base-text M S 3777, ff. 354r–356r 378.37 Normans (Editorial) / Normens 379.3 extreme (Editorial) / extrewe

END-OF-LINE HYPHENS

All end-of-line hyphens in the present text are soft unless included in the list below. The hyphens listed are hard and should be retained when quoting. 8.1 12.2 14.1 22.38 24.35 29.20 31.30 33.37 36.22 36.24 57.19 60.36 63.9 71.4 79.20 80.26 86.1 86.35 96.12 108.17 111.18 114.24 114.40 115.10 119.23 123.34 124.4 124.20 126.26 148.24

good-natured body-guards life-guard to-night Battle-axes barley-wine battle-axe guard-room side-door folding-doors Anglo-Dane kettle-drums son-in-law landing-place Anglo-Saxon snow-white cross-examined to-morrow good-natured well-formed knight-errant six-and-twenty tide-mark fellow-travellers donjon-keep noble-minded to-day waiting-woman saddle-bow self-conceited

153.34 162.37 166.28 172.10 174.40 177.9 178.40 180.24 223.22 224.42 227.1 233.2 238.29 246.37 249.12 249.34 253.1 260.25 269.15 277.32 286.28 294.27 296.31 301.19 310.29 319.20 320.11 338.16 350.36 351.30

496

under-garments all-engrossing prison-keepers lurking-hole trap-door Anglo-Saxon Anglo-Saxon iron-handed man-at-arms double-hearted father-in-law much-esteemed wine-pot al’-erta spear-shaped Anglo-Saxon fellow-pilgrims row-boats heart-rending son-in-law dare-devils battle-axes resting-place self-command high-bred blood-shedding half-encircled Proto-spathaire half-reasoning thick-skulled

HISTORICAL NOTE

Historical Sketch. At the end of the third century, the Emperor Diocletian had introduced a system whereby the Roman Empire was governed by two emperors, in the east (the senior) and the west. In 476, after decades of barbarian attrition, the office of western emperor was terminated. The surviving emperor of the east, militarily the more secure of the two, ruled what has come to be known as the Byzantine empire, which lasted till the fall of Constantinople to Islam in 1453. The Byzantine empire was characterised by a fusion of Christian theology, Roman imperial organisation, and Hellenic intellectual culture. The secular and the sacred were linked in the person of the emperor, who had caesaropapistic authority in both spheres. It was his business to preserve the fabric of Church and state. The elaborate court ceremonial evident in Count Robert of Paris is an essentially accurate delineation of a society valuing continuity and stability above innovation.1 Alexius’s attempts to extirpate heresy, by argument, and if necessary by force, are to be similarly interpreted. His defence of the Eastern Church’s position against the Pope of Rome on the matters in dispute between them (see note to 215.25–27) was also part of the imperial job description. The main action of the novel takes place in 1096 or 1097, during the build-up of the first crusade.2 The imperial throne was occupied by Alexius Comnenus, who had seized it on the abdication of Nicephoros III Botaneiates in 1081, the last in a series of such coups. In the tenth century, the Byzantine empire had been in good heart, strong in itself, and with a Muslim opposition seriously weakened by faction, but by the time of Alexius’s accession the position had deteriorated seriously. To the east, the nomadic Islamicised Seljuk Turks had occupied most of Asia Minor, reaching the western coast by 1091. To the north, other nomadic aggressors from the Asian steppes were pressing down from the lower Danube to the outskirts of Constantinople itself; the Cumans, following on the Pechenegs (Patzinaks), were persuaded by Alexius to destroy their predecessors in 1091 (the surviving Patzinaks eventually joined the Byzantine army), but they in turn became the main threat from that direction: Alexius won a notable victory over them in 1094, but they were not finally defeated until after his death. During the same decade the Magyars (Hungarians) began to expand south towards the Adriatic coast. In 1095 Alexius appealed to Pope Urban II to help him raise mercenaries from the west to defend the eastern frontier of Christendom. The Pope’s powerful appeal to European leaders led to a response far exceeding Alexius’s expectations, or indeed his wishes. In the following spring a disorganised band of peasants inspired by the French Peter the Hermit were the first to arrive, but they were routed by the Turks near Nicaea. Towards the end of 1096, more substantial forces 497

498   (perhaps 50,000 in number) moved eastwards. Their main leaders were Godefroy of Bouillon (or of Lorraine), Raimond of Toulouse, and Bohemond. They had their own agenda, not least designs on the Byzantine territories, and the novel emphasises Alexius’s skill in persuading them to acknowledge his authority in all the lands to be reconquered in Asia Minor. His success was limited. In 1098 Antioch was captured, and Bohemond proclaimed himself prince. Raimond and Godefroy advanced to capture Jerusalem in July 1099, and Godefroy became ruler of a new kingdom of Jerusalem. The crusading conquests eventually made it more, rather than less, difficult for Alexius to re-establish Byzantine rule in Asia Minor and the Levant. Scott’s Sources. Scott had two principal sources for Count Robert. It is certain that he used the French translation of Anna Comnena’s Alexiad by Louis Cousin: on 8 September 1831 he retained the volume containing Comnena to copy passages for the final pages of the novel, and those passages are clearly from the French version (see Essay on the Text, 402). He does not appear to have used any of the other material in the Cousin collection. No evidence has been found that he drew on the Latin translation of Comnena in the Corpus Byzantinæ Historiæ (see note 18 to Essay on the Text, 433: Scott did not read Greek), or indeed on any of the other historians in that series, or any of the voluminous editorial commentaries in Latin.3 While Comnena is one source, temperamentally Scott preferred Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, first published 1776–88, of which he owned a twelve-volume edition published in London in 1802. He concurred with Gibbon’s view of Comnena (5.124: Ch. 48). Her judgments were sometimes acute, but in general instead of the simplicity of style and narrative which wins our belief, an elaborate affectation of rhetoric and science betrays in every page the vanity of a female author. The genuine character of Alexius is lost in a vague constellation of virtues; and the perpetual strain of panegyric and apology awakens our jealousy, to question the veracity of the historian and the merit of the hero. As the notes on the characters below show, when there is a marked divergence between Comnena and Gibbon, Scott usually chooses to follow the latter, as Charles Mills had done in his 1820 The History of the Crusades, a study which was of only marginal value for Count Robert of Paris. The Major Characters. As is customary in the Waverley Novels Scott has a mix of historical and non-historical characters. Agelastes. There is no reason to think that Agelastes has a specific historical original, but his mixture of late Greek philosophy and oriental superstitions probably derives from Gibbon’s extended account of the eclectic paganism (‘this unnatural alliance of philosophy and superstition’) embraced by Julian, who was Roman Emperor from 316 to 363 (2.362–70: Ch. 23 (367)). Baldwin. Baudouin (c. 1058–1118) was the brother of Godefroy de

  499 Bouillon, succeeding him in 1100. He appears only briefly in the novel, without any characterisation, rebuking Robert for assuming Alexius’s seat (see Comnena, 304–05 and Gibbon, 6.65 (Ch. 58)). Alexius Comnenus. Born in 1048, Alexius I Comnenus skilfully engineered his accession to the imperial throne in 1081 after 25 years of instability, with many changes of often incompetent emperors, and occupied it till his death in 1118. Anna’s account of her father is almost entirely commendatory, and modern historians regard him as having been a remarkably astute and successful ruler, consolidating and even slightly extending the imperial boundaries under severe pressure, and in particular handling the Crusaders with great skill. Gibbon’s account acknowledges the skill and the achievements (5.123–25, 6.62: Chs 48, 58), but the historian’s dislike of Alexius’s character is evident in his mention of reports of his lack of personal courage, his deceitfulness, his family luxury, his superstitious cast of mind, and his hypocrisy (5.125–26).4 Scott’s balancing of virtues and defects in his presentation of Alexius (the tone is established in the first chapter) is very much in Gibbon’s style. Anna Comnena. Anna Comnena (1083–c. 1153), was the oldest child of Alexius I. Alexius passed the throne on to her brother John, of whom Anna disapproved. She instigated a rebellion against him, and on its failure was sent into exile. It was then, as an embittered political loser, that she wrote her account of her father’s reign, the Alexiad, in archaic Greek. The Alexiad is highly regarded by modern historians,5 but Scott takes his tone from Gibbon, who, as noted above, while making use of Comnena’s work, condemned her ‘elaborate affectation of rhetoric and science’ (5.124: Ch. 48). The allusions to Anna’s work in the novel are generally accurate, but her character and role in the plot must be regarded as essentially imaginary. Bohemond of Antioch. Bohemond I of Antioch, elder son of Robert Guiscard (see below), was born between 1050 and 1058 and died in 1111. In the years before his father’s death in 1085 Bohemond was active in the Norman attempt to defeat the Grecian Empire in the west, beginning with the capture of Avlona, S of Durazzo (in Albania), in 1081; but in 1083 he was driven from Larissa (in Greece) by Alexis. When his father died, Bohemond was forced to resort to ‘the inheritance of his sword’ (Gibbon, 5.576: Ch. 56), since he had been passed over in favour of his younger brother Roger. In 1089 he forced Roger to cede territories including Taranto (Otranto) to him. The first crusade offered him an opportunity to renew his expansionist ambitions in Asia Minor. After passing through Constantinople as described in the novel Bohemond became Prince of Antioch in 1098, but in the fiction he claims the title while still in Constantinople, though he states that the city has not yet been conquered (98.6–7, 159.27–29): this may have been suggested to Scott by Comnena’s observation that Bohemond had asked for the post of governor of Antioch before the city had fallen (329). Scott’s depiction of a valiant but ambitious, wily, selfinterested, and avaricious man follows Comnena (51, 308–08; also Mills, 109).

500   Brenhilda. A fictitious character. Her name (not located in this form before Scott) recalls the physically powerful Brunhild or Brünhilde of the Nibelungenlied and one of the powerful Frankish queen consorts in the sixth century (see note to 121.3–5) . Godfrey Duke of Bouillon. Bouillon is a town now in Belgium, which at the period was held by the Counts of the Ardennes, whom the German kings invested with the dukedom of Lower Lorraine, that is to say of Brabant, as opposed to Upper Lorraine (usually known simply as Lorraine). Because Bouillon was their chief stronghold, it became usual to designate these dukes loosely as Dukes of Bouillon, though it was not yet a duchy. Godefroy of Bouillon (c. 1060–1100) had expected to inherit the dukedom of Lower Lorraine in 1076 from his uncle, who had adopted him; but the Holy Roman Emperor Henry IV bestowed it on his own son Conrad, and did not grant it to Godfrey until 1089. Scott’s characterisation of Godfrey as wise, mature, prudent, bold, disinterested, and pious follows Gibbon (6.51–52, 63 (Ch. 58); also Mills, 83). In Anna Comnena (290–91, 299) the emphasis is rather on his wealth and pride, with a degree of deception. Hereward. The figure of Hereward is entirely imaginary, but his name recalls Hereward ‘the Wake’, the Saxon guerrilla leader in the resistance to William the Conqueror after 1066. Hugh de Vermandois. Hugues de France (1057–1102), brother of Philippe I, King of France 1060–1108, became Count of Vermandois as a result of his marriage to Adelaide, Countess of Vermandois (d. 1120). His pride in his birth, wealth, and power (66.42–67.6) is derived from Comnena (293: compare Gibbon, 6.53n (Ch. 58) and Mills, 90). Irene.The Empress Irene Ducaena (d. 1123) is depicted by Comnena in an entirely favourable light. Scott largely ignores her daughter’s picture and paints a much less flattering portrait of a woman not herself talented, coldly ambitious, and nursing a hysterical hatred of her husband (42.8–10; 225.14; 227.10–15). No doubt this was suggested by Gibbon’s account (5.126: Ch. 48) of her calling Alexius a hypocrite on his deathbed. Nicephorus Briennius. Nicephorus Bryennius (c. 1064 or c. 1080–c. 1137) was the eldest son of a pretender to the imperial throne, of the same name, in the 1070s. Anna presents him as a handsome, talented man, a fine soldier, and like herself a historian (19, 202–03, 301). Scott does not wholly neglect Anna’s panegyrics, but his Caesar is largely imaginary, the requirements of the plot resulting in a severe demotion of his character. Raymond of Toulouse. Raimond IV de Saint-Gilles (c. 1042–1105), Marquis of Provence from 1066, became Count of Toulouse and Duke of Narbonne in 1093 on the death of his elder brother Guillaume IV. Scott’s presentation of him as a pious and frank-hearted warrior, with a large following and favourably disposed to Alexius follows Anna Comnena (309) rather than Gibbon, who (while acknowledging his eminent qualities) emphasises his haughtiness, envy, obstinacy, avarice, and ambition, and finds Anna’s praise of him odd (6.54n (Ch. 58); compare Mills, 118).

  501 Robert Guiscard. Robert Guiscard (c. 1020–85), Duke of Apulia and Calabria, though dead twelve years before the action of the novel, is referred to several times. His wiliness and bravery are found in both Comnena (41–43) and Gibbon (5.553–54: Ch. 56), and his greed and ambition in Comnena (176). Of Norman origin, he led his followers in typically predatory activities in the south of Italy: in 1059 Pope Nicholas II formally invested him as Duke of Apulia and Calabria, and he occupied southern Italy and Sicily, taking over territory occupied by Byzantines, Lombards, and Muslims, completing his conquests in 1071. In 1074 Guiscard agreed to a marriage alliance with Byzantium, his daughter being to marry Constantine, son of Emperor Michael VII Doukas, but after Alexius overthrew Michael in 1078 (when Nicephorus III Botaneites became emperor) he invaded the Byzantine Balkans in 1081, with the blessing of Pope Gregory VII, and his successful operations there ended only with his death during an epidemic in 1085. He married his second wife, Sikelgaita of Salerno (d. 1090) in 1059. Robert of Normandy. Robert (c. 1060–1134), the eldest son of William the Conqueror, became Duke of Normandy on his father’s death in 1087. Count Robert of Paris’s characterisation of him as ‘a valiant, though extravagant, thoughtless, and weak man’ (142.28–29) derives from Gibbon (6.53, 70: Ch. 58), who suggests that military activity brought out the best in him. He does not appear in Comnena. Robert of Paris. The figure is historical, but Scott’s development of the Count is largely imaginary, taking as its point of departure the incident of the occupation of the imperial chair recorded by Comnena and Gibbon (see Essay on the Text, 381–82). For the meagre and confused historical information about the historical original see the note to 359.6–37. Tancred. Tancred (d. 1112) was the nephew of Robert Guiscard and hence the cousin of Bohemond. In Gibbon (6.55, 59, 64: Ch. 58) he is the perfect chivalric figure, valorous and generous, immune to Alexius’s flattery and bribery. Comnena, acknowledging his outstanding leadership qualities, concentrates on his ironic and disrespectful treatment of her father. Tancred refused the Emperor’s offer of gold with heavy irony, and on his cousin’s death in 1111, after being defeated in an attempt on Constantinople, he scornfully refused to hand Antioch over to Alexius as Bohemond had agreed (Comnena, 318, 406–07). Scott (e.g. 308.28–309.33) follows Gibbon (compare Mills, 109–10). Ursel. The historical Roussel de Bailleul, a Norman captain, came to the East in 1070. In 1073 he was leader of the Frankish forces, but became a freelance adventurer. Captured by the Turks, he was handed over to Alexius late in that year. He was a prisoner until Emperor Michael VII needed his help to oppose John Bryennius. He died suddenly and somewhat mysteriously in 1078. Scott’s Ursel is essentially imaginary. In her first book, Comnena (24–27) tells how Alexius subjected Roussel to a pretend blinding (though with his knowledge of the stratagem) so as to dissuade his followers from attempting to rescue him from captivity.

502   Topography. The general location and appearance of Constantinople are common knowledge. Scott derives a few details of buildings and furnishings from Comnena and Gibbon, and from Dallaway. Otherwise, his buildings are imaginary, owing much to the commonplaces of gothic fiction.6  1 Georgina Buckler says that Scott’s picture of the Byzantine court is ‘not wholly a caricature’: Anna Comnena: A Study (London, 1929), 46. 2 The only sizeable passage of time (‘About four weeks’) occurs at the beginning of Chapter 9 (100.34). Chapters 2 to 8 have taken only a few hours; the remaining chapters take four days. 3 The reference at 359.28–31 to Du Cange’s commentary on Comnena is taken from Gibbon. That to his notes on Villehardouin at 13.41–43 is also given by Gibbon, though the more specific page reference (albeit incorrect) suggests that in this case Scott, or an intermediary, had consulted the original. 4 A. A.Vasiliev takes Gibbon to task for his ‘antihistoric’ comment that Alexius was like a jackal scavenging after the Crusaders: History of the Byzantine Empire: 324–1453 (Madison, Wisconsin, 1952), 406–07. 5 The Alexiad of Anna Comnena, trans. E. R. A. Sewter (London, 1969), 11. 6 At the beginning of February 1831, when Scott was staying at Robert Cadell’s house in Edinburgh, the publisher invited the painter William Allan, a recent visitor to Constantinople, to talk to Scott about the city and show him sketches he had made of it, but Scott seemed to be wearied by the encounter and it is impossible to tell what, if anything, he derived from it. See Kurt Gamerschlag, ‘The Making and Un-Making of Sir Walter Scott’s Count Robert of Paris’, Studies in Scottish Literature, 15 (1980), 95–123 (104).

EXPLANATORY NOTES

In these notes a comprehensive attempt is made to identify Scott’s sources, and all quotations, references, historical events, and historical personages, to explain proverbs, and to translate difficult or obscure language. (Phrases are explained in the notes while single words are treated in the glossary.) The notes offer information rather than critical comment or exposition. When a quotation has not been recognised this is stated: any new information from readers will be welcomed. References are to standard editions, or to the appropriate page of the Catalogue of the Library at Abbotsford. When quotations reproduce their sources accurately, the reference is given without comment. Verbal differences in the source are indicated by a prefatory ‘see’, while a general rather than a verbal indebtedness is indicated by ‘compare’. Biblical References are to the Authorised Version, unless otherwise stated. Plays by Shakespeare are cited without authorial ascription, and references are to William Shakespeare: The Complete Works, edited by Peter Alexander (London and Glasgow, 1951, frequently reprinted). The following publications are distinguished by abbreviations, or are given without the names of their authors: CLA J. G. Cochrane, Catalogue of the Library at Abbotsford (Edinburgh, 1838). Comnena Histoire de l’Empereur Aléxis, Écrite par Anne Comnéne, in Histoire de Constantinople Depuis le régne de l’ancien Justin, jusqu’à la fin de l’Empire. Traduite sur les Originaux Grecs par Mr. Cousin [History of Constantinople from the Reign of Justinian the Elder to the end of the Empire, translated from the original Greek sources by Mr [Louis] Cousin], 8 vols (Paris, 1685),Vol. 4. (The Histoire was originally published in 1672–74.) Dallaway James Dallaway, Constantinople Ancient and Modern (London, 1797): CLA, 271. Gibbon Edward Gibbon, History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, ed. Oliphant Smeaton, introd. Christopher Dawson, 6 vols (London, 1966; this Everyman’s Library edition was originally published in 1910): see CLA, 204. Letters The Letters of Sir Walter Scott, ed. H. J. C. Grierson and others, 12 vols (London, 1932–37). Lockhart J. G. Lockhart, Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 7 vols (Edinburgh, 1837–38). Magnum Walter Scott, Waverley Novels, 48 vols (Edinburgh, 1829–33). Mandeville The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundevile, Kt. (London, 1725). Mills Charles Mills, The History of the Crusades, for the Recovery and Possession of the Holy Land, 2 vols (London, 1820): CLA, 231. ODEP The Oxford Dictionary of English Proverbs, 3rd edn, rev. F. P. Wilson (Oxford, 1970). OED The Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd edn, 20 vols (Oxford, 1989). Prose Works The Prose Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 28 vols (Edinburgh, 1834–36). Ray John Ray, A Compleat Collection of English Proverbs, 3rd edn (London, 1737): CLA, 169. 503

504

 

Weber Tales of the East, ed. Henry Weber, 3 vols (Edinburgh, 1812): CLA, 43. 3.5–18 motto Samuel Johnson, Irene (1749), 1.1.31–43. Leontius and Demetrius lament the fall of Constantinople to the Turks in 1453. 4.8–14 a beautiful Oriental tale . . . Orez see ‘Mirglip the Persian; or, Fincal the Dervise of the Groves’, in James Ridley, The Tales of the Genii, included in Weber: ‘The sultan [Adhim] stood some time admiring the magnificent appearance of each island of larix [larch]; and it damped his pride to reflect, that the plantations of the dervise [Fincal] were gaining new vigour from every returning sun, while his exhausted cedars were drooping their majestic heads in the plains of Orez’. ‘Mirglip’ appears at 3.556–88, and the quoted passage at 573. (The Tales were originally published pseudonymously, ascribed to Charles Morell, in 1764.) 4.19 the city of Constantine Constantine the Great (c. 274–337), having attained supreme power as Roman Emperor in 324, transferred the seat of government from Rome to the Greek city of Byzantium (the modern Istanbul), which was renamed Constantinople (‘the city of Constantine’) in 330. 5.9 The world was now Christian in the early 4th century Constantine the Great (see note to 4.19) in effect made Christianity the official religion of the Roman Empire. 5.14–15 some . . . by their own devices Scott is probably thinking of the theological controversies of the early 4th century, the most prominent of which was Arianism with its denial of the divinity of Christ. 5.16–17 others failed not . . . temporal power see e.g. Gibbon, 2.247 (Ch. 20): ‘the episcopal chair was solicited . . . as a temporal rather than as a spiritual dignity’. 5.23 borrowed splendour M. G. Lewis, ‘The Lover’s Astronomy’, line 28, in Poems (London, 1812), p. 37; Percy Bysshe Shelley, as quoted in John Galt, The Life of Lord Byron (London, 1830), 247. 5.27–29 the world . . . Constantinople ‘By his [Constantine’s] commands the cities of Greece and Asia were despoiled of their most valuable ornaments’ (Gibbon, 2.81: Ch. 17). ‘Historians of taste lament the removal of so many columns and statues from Rome by Constantine, in his ardour for embellishing his new city’ (Dallaway, 97n). 5.39 Alexius Comnenus see Historical Note, 499. 5.42–43 the savage incursions of the Scythians or the Hungarians the Scythians (also called Tartars by Gibbon: 3.3 (Ch. 26)) were a nomadic race from European and Asiatic Russia. Although some of them served in the Imperial army, they were a constant threat to the Empire (see e.g. Comnena, 141, 165, 167, 189). The term tended to be applied by Byzantine writers to all northern barbarians. Gibbon notes the Scythian origin of the Hungarians (5.512: Ch. 55); he records (5.519) that after their defeat in 955 they posed no further threat, but during Alexius’s reign Hungary had its eyes on expansion to the Adriatic coast, and Comnena (107, 200) mentions hostile activity by Dacians, her term for the Hungarians. 6.2–6 the Empress Pulcheria . . . the same reason Pulcheria was the older sister of Theodosius II (reigned 408–450). He was only 6 when he succeeded, and she ran the Empire piously during his early years when it was subject to much barbarian assault, becoming Empress on his death in 450. She is credited with founding three churches dedicated to the Virgin Mary. The most distant from the land walls (see note to 9.12–37) was the church at the Hodegon Monastery, located E of Hagia Sophia near the sea walls. Quite near by, in Chalkoprateia, the copper market district W of Hagia Sophia, is the church of the Theotokos (Mother of God). Both of these were close to the

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Great Palace of Byzantium built by Constantine at the foundation of the city, and extended at various periods, including the 6th century. The third church possibly founded by Pulcheria, dedicated to the Virgin as ‘Blachernitissa’, is near to the Palace of Blachernae, built by the Emperor Anastasius I (reigned 491–518): see note to 32.26. But it was actually outside the walls until they were extended in the early 7th century. Du Fresne attributes the first and third of these churches to Pulcheria, and notes that some authorities also credit her with the Theotokos: Charles Du Fresne, Historia Byzantina duplici commentario illustrata (Paris, 1680), Part 2 ‘Constantinopolis Christiana’, Book 4, 88, 83, 85. 6.17–21 the Franks from the west . . . the south ‘A name of some German tribes between the Rhine and the Weser had spread its victorious influence over the greatest part of Gaul, Germany, and Italy; and the common appellation of F  was applied by the Greeks and Arabians to the Christians of the Latin church, the nations of the West, who stretched beyond their knowledge to the shores of the Atlantic Ocean.’ (Gibbon, 5.477 (Ch. 53): he discusses the development of the Franks at 1.248–51 (Ch. 10); see note to 142.33–37 below). The Seljuq Turks, descendants of the Turkish prince Seljuq c. 1000, converted to Islam and became aggressive in western Asia from the mid-11th century, defeating the Byzantine army at Manzikert in Armenia (now Melazgherd) in 1071: see Gibbon, 6.1–18. ‘The Comans [or Cumans] were a Tartar or Turkman horde, which encamped in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries on the verge of Moldavia. The greater part were pagans, but some were Mohammedans’ (Gibbon, 6.187n: Ch. 61). For Scythians see note to 5.42–43. The Saracens were Arabian Moslems (Gibbon, 5.216ff: Ch. 50): they were actually much less of a direct threat to the Empire in the 11th century than they had been in the 7th and 8th centuries when they twice besieged Constantinople. 6.22 a feast of repast see John Milton, Sonnet XVII (published 1673), line 9. 6.24–25 the Roman . . . called ‘in the lowest period of degeneracy and decay, the name of R    adhered to the last fragments of the empire of Constantinople’ (Gibbon, 5.482: Ch. 53). 6.30 the fiery-footed Frank for the epithet see, e.g., Romeo and Juliet, 3.2.1. 6.30–32 Peter the Hermit . . . crusades after Pope Urban II had called in 1095 for the first crusade (1096–99), Peter the Hermit (c. 1050–1115) inspired the mainly French participants by his eloquence and himself participated in the hostilities. 6.34 abide by hold to. 6.42 the painted show see, e.g., Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene (1590–96), 6.10.3.7. 7.9–10 the Greek empire . . . that of Pekin Scott may have been thinking of the account in Mandeville of the court of ‘the grete Chane of Chatay’ (the Emperor of China): Chs 20 and 22 (256–65, 278–97). 7.18 Bohemond of Antioch see Historical Note, 499. 7.21 under shield in battle or combat. The phrase is found in Chaucer’s Ghoast: or, a Piece of Antiquity. Containing twelve pleasant Fables of Ovid (London, 1672), Arg[ument] 6, line 44 (p. 18). Scott’s quotation marks may indicate a phrase that in 1831 was not yet assimilated to the language, whereas later in the century it is used by several authors, including Morris and Tennyson; but compare 221.2. 8.7–11 His wife . . . during life the incident is recorded by Gibbon, 5.126 (Ch. 48). For Irene see Historical Note, 500. 8.14 the Manichæans, or Paulicians respectively followers of the teachings of the Persian Manes (c. 215–275), and (probably) of Paul of Samosata

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(3rd century). The Manichaean heresy was based on a supposed primeval conflict between light and darkness. In the 7th century it gave rise to the specifically Christian Paulician heresy, which maintained that all matter was evil and under the dominion of an evil God opposed to the good God of the spiritual world. (Gibbon (5.490: Ch. 54) derives the name from its founder’s ‘peculiar devotion to the writings and character of St. Paul’ but this is disputed.) 9.2–11 motto see Joanna Baillie, Constantine Paleologus, 1.1 in her Miscellaneous Plays (London, 1804), 282–83. Baillie is describing Constantinople. 9.12–37 what is termed the Golden Gate . . . purposes of defence perhaps misled by the phrasing of one of his sources, Scott has conflated Theodosius I (‘the Great’, who reigned 379–395) and Theodosius II (reigned 408–450): ‘The walls of Constantinople were extended in 413 during the minority of Theodosius II. by his guardian Anthemius, and the whole completed with incredible diligence in two months. These were overturned by an earthquake in 39th of Theodosius, and rebuilt under the direction of Constantine, the prefect of the East in 447. . . . The Porta aurea was a triumphal arch built by Theodosius [I, the Great], upon his defeat of the imperial usurper Maximus [c. 390], and besides the statue of Victory of gilded bronze placed on it, was profusely ornamented with beaten gold’ (Dallaway, 16, 17). The walls constructed by Theodosius II offered a landward defence of the city some 1000 metres W of Constantine’s walls. He incorporated the free-standing Golden Gate in his walls, with a defensive gate in front of it. According to Charles Du Fresne, Historia Byzantina duplici commentario illustrata (Paris, 1680), Part 2 ‘Constantinopolis Christiana’, Book 1, 52, Theodosius the Great’s inscription (referred to more precisely at 38.10) reads: ‘Hæc loca Theodosius decorat post fata tyranni,/ Aurea sæcla gerit, qui portam construit auro’ (Theodosius embellishes this spot after the tyrant’s death; he who makes a gate of gold brings a golden age). For artistic decline in the later Empire, see Gibbon, 1.412 (Ch. 14). The expression ‘assorting . . . with’ means ‘matching, suiting’. 10.12 thewes and sinews the phrase, giving thewes the implied sense of ‘muscles’, was adopted by Scott, perhaps from ‘The Marriage of Sir Gawaine’, Part 1, line 30 (Francis James Child, The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, 5 vols (Boston and New York, 1882–98), no. 31). However, the word had meant, less specifically, ‘bodily strength’ or, as Shakespeare uses it, ‘bodily proportions implying strength’ (Julius Caesar, 1.3.81; Hamlet, 1.3.12). 10.16–18 a light helmet . . . terrible jaws Hereward’s dress armour appears to be Scott’s invention. 11.11 Hercules in Classical legend, the Roman name of a Greek hero noted for his feats of strength. 11.39–40 a Varangian . . . body-guard in 987–88 Emperor Basil II was sent 6000 Swedish (or Varangian) warriors by Waladimir I of Russia, whom the roving Varangian immigrants had established as Czar, and made them his imperial bodyguard. After the Norman conquest of England in 1066 many Anglo-Saxons joined the guard. 12.16 rich, or rather gaudy see Hamlet, 1.3.71. 12.24–25 which term . . . barbarians Comnena (79) refers to the Varangians as ‘Barbares’ (barbarians). The original meaning of their name is a matter of debate. 12.29 pathless ocean Charlotte Smith, ‘The Swallow’, line 42, in Beachy Head: with Other Poems (London, 1807), 82; and William Stewart Rose, ‘St. Lewis’, line 23, in his The Crusade of St. Lewis, and King Edward the Martyr (London, 1810), 4: CLA, 186. 12.29–34 Piracy . . . settlement see Gibbon, 5.522 (Ch. 55). 12.35–13.3 The conquests . . . service of their swords the Scandinavians expanded in two directions in the 9th and 10th centuries. The Varangians

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(Danes and Swedes) passed along the great rivers of Russia, reaching the Black Sea in 825, and in the early 11th century they were active in S Italy. The Vikings (Danes and Norwegians) occupied large areas of the British Isles in the 9th century, and in 911 (according to a disputed tradition) Normandy is supposed to have been ceded to them by the French king Charles III (‘the Simple’). The term ‘sea-kings’ is frequently found in poems of Scott’s time: e.g. Bernard Barton, ‘Bow Hill’, lines 18 and 25, in his Poems (London, 1825), 273–74. The OED cites only the present occurrence of ‘sea-serpent’, which refers to the carved heads of sea-monsters on the bows of Scandinavian ships. 12.40 pathless wastes a common poetic phrase: see Samuel Johnson (1709–84), ‘London: A Poem’ (1738), line 171. It is also used by: John Dyer, John Langhorne, William Cowper, Anne Grant, Anna Seward, George Crabbe, Mary Robinson, and James Hogg, among others. 13.1 frozen zone common poetic phrase, used from the 17th to 19th centuries. 13.4–5 the famed Prætorian Bands of Rome . . . their new princes the elite imperial bodyguard instituted by the Emperor Augustus at the beginning of the Christian era. They originally amounted to perhaps 9,000 or 10,000 men, but later grew to 16,000. Gibbon (1.101: Ch. 5) sees in the ‘licentious fury’ of their disloyalty to the Emperor in 193 ‘the first symptom and cause of the decline of the Roman empire’. They were disbanded by Constantine I in 312. At the time of Alexius, the Varangian Guard was a very small body: in 1090 his standing army was only some 500 strong. 13.9–10 the straits of Elsinore . . . Sestos and Abydos Elsinore (Helsingør) in Denmark overlooks the strait separating it from Sweden. Sestos and Abydos are villages on the W and E sides respectively of the Hellespont, the strait that links the Mediterranean and the Sea of Marmara, S of Constantinople. 13.12 the conquests obtained by the Normans . . . west notably the invasion of England in 1066. 13.17–20 their native country . . . Britain Gibbon writes (5.523: Ch. 55) that the strength of the Varangians ‘was recruited by a numerous band of their countrymen from the island of Thule. On this occasion the vague appellation of Thule is applied to England’. 13.33–43 the Byzantine historians . . . p. 221 for the Byzantine historians in general see Historical Note, 498. The discussion of the Varangians by Charles du Fresne, seigneur du Cange appears in his edition of Histoire de l’Empire de Constantinople sous les Empereurs françois (Paris, 1657), Part 1, 296–99. Gibbon’s discussion (which gives the reference to du Cange) can be found in Chs 55 and 56 (5.522–24, 566–68): Scott’s reference is to the edition in his library (12 vols, London, 1802: CLA, 204). 14.37–38 the fox’s foot . . . sheep’s fleece compare the proverbial wolf in a lamb’s skin, or in sheep’s clothing: Ray, 295; ODEP, 907. 15.1–2 as they started . . . coupled together the image is of two hounds coupled on a leash starting game. 15.28 Lysimachus Dallaway notes (68n) that in the circus there was a bronze statue of Hercules by ‘Lymachus’. Scott’s variant of the name may have been suggested by Lysimachus, Governor of Mytilene in Pericles and/or Gibbon’s correct attribution of the statue to Lysippus, the 4th-century  sculptor in bronze (6.176: Ch. 60). 15.35 the Palestra the gymnasium. 15.37 Hercules see note to 11.11. 15.42 Castor in Classical mythology, the twin warriors Castor and Pollux were regarded as patrons of athletes and sailors. Dallaway notes (68n) that there were statues of the twins in the circus. 16.4 our Muse apparently a general reference. In Greek mythology the

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nine Muses were the goddesses of literature and the arts, variously allocated, but none was a patron of the visual arts. 16.9 Phidias and Praxiteles Phidias (born c. 500  ) was a celebrated Athenian artist, particularly known for his sculptures; Praxiteles (born c. 390  ) was pre-eminent in the later, softer style of Athenian sculpture. 16.13 a single drop of oil on his bosom wrestlers would smear themselves with oil to make it more difficult for their opponent to get a grip. 16.14 Hercules instituted the Isthmian Games the Isthmian festival, celebrated on the Isthmus of Corinth in the spring of every other year in Classical times, included athletic contests and horse-races, and poetical and musical competitions. According to the Tenth Olympian Ode of Pindar, Hercules (see note to 11.11) founded the main Olympic Games (not the Isthmian variety) in honour of his father Zeus. 16.21–22 my crown [of withered parsley] wreaths of parsley were awarded to victorious contestants in the Isthmian festival. 16.31–33 the Eastern slave’s tale . . . Damascus see ‘The Story of Noureddin Ali, and Bedreddin Hassan’, Arabian Nights’ Entertainments, in Weber, 1.98. 16.36 the Cydnus the river Cilicia in S Turkey, famous as the site of Antony’s first meeting with Cleopatra (Antony and Cleopatra, 2.2.190–91). 17.11 By Castor and by Pollux see note to 15.42. The names of the twin warriors were frequently used in oaths. 17.13–14 the steady Romans shook the world Samuel Johnson, The Vanity of Human Wishes (1749), line 180. 17.17–18 the golden age underlying this exchange is a series of allusions to the Classical concept of the mythical Golden Age of innocent happiness, followed by the lesser Ages of Silver and Bronze, and finally after a respite with the Heroic Age of the Theban and Trojan Wars, the Iron Age of the degenerate present. 17.20 Harpax the name, though only that, may have been suggested by Alexander Pope’s use (alluding to the Greek meaning ‘robber’) in his Epistle to Bathurst (1732), lines 93–94. 17.21–22 the shaven head and the single tuft of a Mussulman ‘This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition that Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it’: Byron, The Siege of Corinth (1816), note to line 424, in Lord Byron: the Complete Poetical Works, ed. Jerome J. McGann, 7 vols (Oxford, 1980–93), 3.485. 17.38 Bethink you consider. 18.4 passage of the jeweller see text, 29.36–39. 18.7 Ismail the name probably derives from a fortress at the mouth of the Danube, now in Romania (Byron, Don Juan, Canto 7 (1823), line 65). 18.10 ripping up opening up (as, proverbially, old sores: Ray, 204; ODEP, 678). 18.39 Lycurgus either a legendary legislator of the Classical state of Sparta c. 600  ; or a late 4th-century  Athenian orator advocating the old social discipline. 19.7 without side outside. 19.10–11 the comet . . . things of comets were traditionally held to portend significant historical events. 19.17 triple steel John Milton, Paradise Lost (1667), 2.569. 19.29 Sisyphus the name derives from a legendary king of Corinth of exceptional cunning. 19.35 Sebastes of Mitylene the name Sebastes may derive from a confidant of Xerxes in John Hoole, Themistocles (Dramas and other Poems; of the Abbe Pietro Metastasio, trans. Hoole, 3 vols (London, 1800), 3.73–152). Mitilíni

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is one of the principal towns of the island of Lesbos off the coast of Asia Minor. 19.37–38 all the eyes of Argus’s tail in Greek mythology, Zeus fell in love with Io and turned her into a heifer to conceal her from his jealous wife Hera. Hera obtained the heifer from Zeus and set the herdsman Argus, who had eyes all over his body, to guard her. When Zeus’s son Hermes killed Argus, Hera placed his eyes in the peacock’s tail. 19.39 abide in stick to. 20.28 I can shoot like a Scythian the Scythians (see note to 5.42–43) were known for the unusual degree of curvature of their bows and their skill in archery. 20.33–35 the robbers . . . justice the eighth of the twelve Labours of Hercules (for whom see note to 11.11) involved killing Diomedes who fed his horses with human flesh: the horses ate Diomedes’s body and became tame. Theseus, a legendary hero believed by the Athenians to have been one of their early kings, killed a number of brigands including Corynetes, Sinis, Sciron, and Procrustes, who ill-treated travellers in various ways. 21.7 Sicarius Latin assassin; murderer. 21.9 give me no odds make no allowances for me (as if I were a weaker party). 21.17 cockerel’s comb must be cut proverbial: see Ray, 183; ODEP, 164. 22.1 hard . . . as flint proverbial: see ODEP, 352. 22.11 Follower see note to 23.3–4. 22.12 Hereward see Historical Note, 500. 22.14–16 night-hawk . . . kite proverbial: ‘a kite will never be a good hawk’ (ODEP, 431). 22.15 Saint George the patron saint of England (see note to 28.39–40). 22.32–34 Hector . . . Priam in Greek legend, Achilles was the son of Peleus (‘Pelides’) and the sea-maiden Thetis (‘•D(LD`B,."’ in Homer’s The Iliad, 1.538 etc., usually rendered—e.g. by Alexander Pope in his 1715–20 translation—as ‘silver-footed’). At the siege of Troy (Ilion) he chased the Trojan leader Hector, son of Priam, around the walls of the city before killing him. 23.3 As well as it is it is just as well that it is as it is. 23.3–4 the Acoulouthos, or Follower the English word translates the Greek term ‘•6`8@L2@H’. 23.14 Bœotia the inhabitants of Boeotia, the country immediately NW of Attica (the area including Athens), were proverbial for stupidity. 23.14 bear out endure; sustain without succumbing. 23.15 turn off produce. 23.18 casting pearls before swine . . . Gospel see Matthew 7.6. 23.25 bear me make my way. 23.26 press of sail as much sail as a ship can carry at a particular time. 23.38 perfect Achitophels in 2 Samuel Chs 16–17 Achitophel (Ahithophel in the Authorised Version) offers advice to David’s rebellious son Absalom. 23.40–41 tell thee the very riddle let you know the precise meaning. 23.43 your Valour for a similar use of this phrase see John Fletcher, The Tragedie of Bonduca (first performed before March 1619), 1.2.126 (The Dramatic Works in the Beaumont and Fletcher Canon, ed. Fredson Bowers, 10 vols (Cambridge, 1966–96), 4.167). 24.15–17 an ignorant macaroni officer . . . army one of the foppish dandies who received commissions before the reforms instituted by Frederick Augustus (1763–1827; Duke of York and Albany from 1784). At the beginning of his period as commander-in-chief of the army from 1795 to 1809 he ensured,

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inter alia, that all candidates for commissions should produce a recommendation from a field officer, and that no promotion should take place until a specified period of service had elapsed (six years for a major). 25.26–27 letting comparisons pass i.e. setting comparisons aside. 25.39 Protospathaire captain of the guards (the French form of the Medieval Latin ‘protospatharius’, literally first swordsman). 25.41 hath me at hatred hates me. 26.1–2 Nicanor . . . his name in the books of Maccabees in the Apocrypha Nicanor is a formidable warrior. 26.4 pretend to claim. 26.5 the red dragon the red dragon is shown as King Harold’s standard at the Battle of Hastings (1066) in the Bayeux Tapestry. 26.14 Achilles Tatius the name is taken from a teacher of rhetoric and author of romance who flourished in the 2nd century  . 26.20–21 the heathen cohorts . . . Turks Comnena (154, 365) refers to Turks and Scythians serving in the imperial army. After the death of their leader Attila in 453 the Huns were defeated, many of them joining the Roman armies; in Comnena (154) one Uzas, a member of the Uzes tribe, related to the Huns and Scyths, fights for the Emperor against the Latins. 26.41 give him the lie accuse him to his face of lying. 26.42 a place of meeting i.e. for a duel. 27.24 thou liest in thy throat an emphatic form of ‘thou liest’, found frequently in Shakespeare (e.g. Twelfth Night, 3.4.149). 27.29–30 death . . . spares no man proverbial: see ODEP, 173. 27.37 the blackness of a wolf’s mouth alluding to the proverbial expression ‘as dark as a wolf’s mouth’ (ODEP, 167–68). 28.26–27 the long march near Laodicea the (imaginary) story is told at 47–61. 28.30–34 Hampton . . . Southampton both forms (‘Hamtun’ and ‘Sudhamtun’) of the name of the city in Hampshire were current at the time of the novel. Hereward comes from Hampshire. 28.39–40 Saint George of merry England . . . Cappadocia virtually nothing is known of the 3rd-century saint who was adopted as a patron embodying the chivalrous ideal by various states, including England. Gibbon (2.399: Ch. 23) is inclined to accept the identification of St George with the 4thcentury bishop George of Cappadocia in Asia Minor, but this theory is now generally rejected. 29.2–3 Bide the other brunt face the other attack. 29.19–20 that seven times heated furnace see Daniel 3.19–20, where Nebuchadnezzar ‘commanded that they should heat the furnace one seven times more than it was wont to be heated. And he commanded the most mighty men that were in his army to bind Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, and to cast them into the burning fiery furnace.’ 29.23 well fare good luck to. 29.24 turned off turned aside. 29.25 ripping up see note to 18.10. 29.39 the Patriarch in the Eastern, or Greek, Orthodox Church the bishops of Antioch, Alexandria, Jerusalem, and Constantinople are known as ‘patriarchs’. The Bishop of Constantinople is Head of the Church or ‘Ecumenical Patriarch’. 29.42–43 given . . . the fox the geese to keep proverbial: see ODEP, 285. 30.8 lucre of (desire for) gain derived from; (desire for) acquisition of. 30.23 wink hard close his eyes tight, so as to ‘wink at’ (avoid acknowledging) disagreements.

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30.24 slurred over passed over lightly. 30.27 Anglo-Danish i.e. English Varangian. 30.31 Hastings the battle of Hastings (14 October 1066), at which the English King Harold was killed and William the Conqueror established Norman rule in England. 30.37 advanced work outwork; fortification lying outside the parapet. 31.2–10 motto not identified; probably by Scott. In the first two lines the youth is directed to take off his shoes and socks and to loose the binding of his hair. 32.7 the Bridge of Peril the bridge may have been suggested by similar perilous structures in romance (notably the narrow bridge in Ludovico Ariosto, Orlando furioso (1516), 29.33–48); by ‘the sharp and perilous bridge of the abyss’ which separates the innocent from the guilty in Gibbon’s account of Moslem teaching (5.247: Ch. 50); or by Joseph Addison’s vision of human life in similar terms in The Spectator, No.159 (1 September 1711). 32.11 the Golden Horn an inlet of the Bosphorus, dividing European Istanbul. 32.15 the daughter of the imperial arch the phrase has not been located elsewhere. 32.23 bethink thee consider. 32.26 the Blaquernal the Palace of Blachernae (named after a military commander, Blacheran, killed in the area) was originally built by the Emperor Anastasius I (reigned 491–518) and frequently rebuilt, becoming the favourite imperial residence under the Comneni dynasty. 32.40 born in the purple porphyrogenita; born into the imperial family, in the porphyry or purple chamber reserved for the Empress to give birth. See Gibbon, 5.108 (Ch. 48). 33.1–3 sound . . . shallow conceit the image is that of mariners determining the depth of the water beneath their ship by letting down a weighted measuring line. 33.6–7 moved somewhat beyond his mood i.e. made more angry than usual. 33.14–15 in despite of despite. 33.23 the court of guard a small body of soldiers stationed as a guard (French corps de garde). 34.6–7 one of the most barbarous points of Oriental despotism compare Gibbon, 2.176 (Ch. 19): ‘Those unhappy beings [eunuchs], the ancient production of Oriental jealousy and despotism, were introduced into Greece and Rome by the contagion of Asiatic luxury.’ 34.29 To hear is to obey the phrase is used in oriental contexts in Byron’s The Bride of Abydos (1813), Canto 1, line 44, and Don Juan, Canto 6 (1822), line 905. 34.39 the Greek crucifix a crucifix with four arms of equal length. 35.16 bodied out gave a body to. 35.19 under favour with all due respect. 35.27–35 a small altar . . . approached the altar Scott may be recalling Comnena, 361: ‘L’Empereur lui aiant enfin accordé cette grace, on envoia ordre aux Bourreaux de surseoir l’exécution, & celui qui le porta, les trouva au deça des mains, au delà desquelles il n’y a plus de grace pour les condamnez. ‘10. Ce sont deux mains de bronze que les anciens Empereurs ont fait attacher au haut d’une voûte, à dessein que les coûpables qui sont menez au supplice puissent toûjours recevoir grace jusques à ce qu’ils soient arrivez à cét endroit, qui semble leur dire par un langage secrét, que le Prince les peut encore embrasser par sa clémence; mais quand le coûpable les a passées, c’est un signe que cette clémence l’abandonne à la justice.’ (The Emperor having finally

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accorded him [the plotter Michael] this mercy, an order was sent to the executioners to stay the proceedings, and the bearers of the message found them short of the ‘hands’, beyond which there is no more grace for those condemned. These are two hands of bronze, which the emperors in former times had attached to a high arch, so that the guilty who are being led to execution can always receive grace up to the point at which they reach this place, which seems to indicate silently to them that the prince can still enfold them in his clemency; but when the criminal has passed them, it is a sign that this clemency gives them up to justice.) 36.10 as I bethink me now I think of it. 36.30 the Princess Anna Comnena see Historical Note, 499. 36.40–41 the fair sex . . . Roman ladies the Byzantine court emphasised its continuity with imperial Rome by reviving the practice by which men ate reclining on couches while women sat in chairs. 37.8 Nicephorus Briennius see Historical Note, 500. 37.33 the Patriarch Zosimus from 1084 to 1111 the Patriarch of Constantinople (supreme cleric of the Eastern Church) was Nicolas III Kyrdiniates. Scott probably took the name Zosimus from a historian of the late 5th and early 6th centuries frequently referred to in Gibbon (e.g. 2.130: Ch. 17). 38.2 Astarte the name derives from the Phoenician moon-goddess: see John Milton, Paradise Lost (1667), 1.438–39. Comnena has a passing reference to her (290). Manfred’s deceased beloved in Byron’s Manfred (1817) is also called Astarte. 38.5 the Caliph a caliph is the chief civil and religious leader of a Muslim country. It is impossible to say whether Scott has a particular caliph in mind. On a set of proofs, Lockhart underlined ‘Caliph, (who could neither read nor write,)’ and commented: ‘There were no such Caliphs’ ( 3776, f. 47v). 38.6–7 Violante, usually called the Muse it is not clear whether Violante is conceived as being like the Muse (a general image for the source of artistic inspiration: see note to 16.4) or like someone inspired by a Muse (compare 63.6). 38.9 Robert Guiscard, the Archduke of Apulia see Historical Note, 500–01. 38.22 joint stool stool expertly made by a carpenter. 38.28 Michael Agelastes apparently an imaginary character. The surname means ‘he who never laughs’ and is used for the archetypal humourless person by Laurence Sterne (who in turn derived it from Rabelais) in Tristram Shandy, Vol. 3 (1761), Ch. 20. 38.29 dressed like an ancient Cynic philosopher the Cynical philosophers in ancient Greece showed their contempt for the luxuries of life by living with ostentatious simplicity. 38.40–42 the ancients had an idea . . . kneeling down Alexander Pope refers to the ‘half-reas’ning elephant’ in An Essay on Man (1743 version), 1.222. For the persistence into more modern times of the popular belief that the elephant has no knees, see The Spectator, No. 455 (12 August 1712). See also Oliver Goldsmith, An History of the Earth, and Animated Nature, 2nd edn, 8 vols (London, 1779), 4.262: ‘While the elephant is young, it bends the legs to lie down or to rise; but when it grows old, or sickly this is not performed without human assistance; and it becomes, consequently, so inconvenient, that the animal chuses to sleep standing.’ 38.43–39.1 the country of the Gymnosophists India, where the ancient Jainist (Hindu) ascetic mystics to whom the Greeks gave this name lived (they preferred to go naked, or nearly naked). They are described in Mandeville, Ch. 29 (357–60).

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39.21 habitude in familiarity with. 39.31 in advance of in front of. 40.16–17 regis ad exemplum Latin componitur orbis/ regis ad exemplum (the world is shaped after its ruler’s pattern): Claudian, Panegyric on the Fourth Consulship of the Emperor Honorius A D , lines 299–300. 40.32 Waes hael, Kaisar mirrig und machtigh Old English ‘Waes hæ– l, ca– sere mirige and meahtig’: Be of health, gracious and mighty emperor. 40.35 Drink hael Old English ‘drinc hæ– l’: I drink [your] health. Scott would have found this phrase, together with ‘Waes Heal’ in Joseph Strutt, Horda Angel-cynnan, 3 vols (London, 1775–76: CLA, 154), 1.48. 40.39 took off drank completely; drank at a single draught. 41.29 Taranis a Celtic god identified by the Romans with Jupiter. 42.13 the Muses see note to 16.4. 42.15–16 the desolation of the universe the destruction of the universe by fire at the end of time: see 2 Peter 3.12. 42.23 awful rule and right supremacy The Taming of the Shrew, 5.2.109. 42.29–30 remember me recollect. 42.39 If I am permitted to speak, and live compare N[ahum] Tate, The History of King Richard The Second (London, 1681), 5.2 (p. 47): ‘O! can I speak and live?’ 43.16 the breath of his nostrils the essence of his life. The expression derives ultimately from Genesis 7.22. 44.11 the heretic Franks the ‘Franks’ or western Europeans (see note to 6.17–21) owed ecclesiastical allegiance to Rome, as opposed to the Eastern or Greek Orthodox Church. For the issues at dispute between the Churches see note to 215.25–27. 44.23 Alexander Alexander the Great (356–323  ), who reigned as Alexander III King of Macedon from 336. He spread Greek civilisation to large parts of Asia by a series of military campaigns. 44.25 Apelles the most eminent of Greek painters, active in the 4th century  . 44.41 Minerva the Roman Minerva (the Greek Pallas Athene) was the goddess of handicrafts, and of wisdom. 45.32–37 motto see John Hughes, The Siege of Damascus (London, 1720), 2.1 (p. 15). 46.20–21 the applause . . . with full hands i.e. enthusiastic applause. 46.35–36 attained her fifth lustre reached the age of 25, a lustre being five years. 47.25 Laodicea probably Laodicea ad Lycum, formerly situated near Denizli, some 350 km S of Constantinople. The battle is imaginary. 47.31 our last chapter the reference is imaginary. 47.34 our victorious eagles see Gibbon, 1.11 (Ch. 1): ‘The attachment of the Roman troops to their standards was inspired by the united influence of religion and of honour. The golden eagle, which glittered in the front of the [Roman] legion, was the object of their fondest devotion’. 48.9 Jezdegerd see note to 59.38. 49.6 a minister of the interior a court official. 49.10 Sancta Sophia the Latin form of the Greek Hagia Sophia (‘Sacred Wisdom’). 49.43 the good genius each person was believed to be influenced by a good and an evil genius, or angel, offering opposed advice. 50.6 the Immortals this body was formed by John I Tzimisces (969–76) and reconstructed by Michael VII (1071–78). Its name derived from the royal bodyguard in ancient Persia composed of 10,000 infantry, the flower of the

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whole army, who were called the Immortals because their number was kept constantly full. 50.16–17 the dead period . . . alike asleep see Homer, The Iliad, 24.677–78. 50.22 Monastras an imperial captain who appears several times in Comnena: he is described as ‘homme à demi-Barbare de naissance’ (one halfbarbarian by birth: 278) and ‘demi-Romain, & demi-Barbare’ (half-Roman, half-barbarian: 286). 51.23–24 as if struck by the rod of the prophet Moses see Numbers 20.11. 52.3–5 to use the language of Horace . . . procured see Horace (65–8  ), Odes, 1.20.1–2: ‘Vile potabis modicis Sabinum/ cantharis’ (Come, drink with me—vile Sabine out of common tankards). The Sabines lived in the central Appenine mountains of Italy. 52.6–7 decocted barley . . . the grape see Henry V, 3.5.18–22. 52.20–22 ail . . . ‘ailments’ the etymology is false, but the spelling ‘ail’ for ‘ale’ is found in 16th and 17th-century Scots use. 52.42 Lelies ‘This, which is a running together of the words La illah Allah [There is no god but God], is the profession of faith, and the war-cry of the Saracens’ (William Stewart Rose, ‘St. Lewis’, note to line 18 in his The Crusade of St. Lewis, and King Edward the Martyr (London, 1810), [11]: CLA, 186). 53.4 Alla illa alla, Mohamed resoul alla Arabic God is God; Mohammed is the prophet of God. 53.8–9 I warrant me I’ll be bound. 53.26 in despite of despite. 55.18–19 like the valiant Menelaus for the body of Patroclus after Hector kills Patroclus, Menelaus fights to secure his body and ensure its return to Achilles: see Homer, The Iliad, Bk 17. 57.17 in my degree in my manner. 57.21–22 a ring of price a valuable ring. 58.32 come off left the field of battle. 59.2 had a contract together were attracted to each other, or closely joined as in a marriage. 59.29–30 the last necessity the utmost necessity. 59.38 Varanes . . . Jezdegerd the names were probably suggested by the Persian king Jezdegerd and his son who succeeded him in 420 (Gibbon, 3.319: Ch. 32). 61.1–2 after the manner of the ancient Macedonians the Macedonians under Alexander the Great perfected the phalanx formation in the 4th century  . It consisted of ‘sixteen ranks of long pikes, wedged together in the closest array’ (Gibbon, 1.14: Ch. 1). 61.3 Idumeans natives of Idumea, or Edom, a territory between Egypt and Palestine. 61.11 officers of the interior officials in charge of domestic affairs. 61.18 passed it over disregarded it. 61.43–62.2 the rank of Cæsar . . . the empire ‘Above a thousand years, from Vespasian to Alexius Comnenus, the Cæsar was the second person, or at least the second degree, after the supreme title of Augustus was more freely communicated to the sons and brothers of the reigning monarch. To elude without violating his promise to a powerful associate, the husband of his sister, and, without giving himself an equal, to reward the piety of his brother Isaac, the crafty Alexius interposed a new and supereminent dignity. The happy flexibility of the Greek tongue allowed him to compound the names of Augustus and Emperor (Sebastos and Autocrator), and the union produced the sonorous title of Sebastocrator [majestic ruler]’ (Gibbon, 5.459–60: Ch. 53). There seems to be no authority for the text’s ‘more than one’.

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62.7–14 motto not identified: probably by Scott. 62.18 the Sebastocrator see note to 61.43–62.2. 63.15 Apollo the Classical god of music and poetry. 63.21 the desert hath produced roses see Isaiah 35.1. 63.22 the barren rocks . . . honey the Promised Land of Israel is often described in the Old Testament as ‘flowing with milk and honey’: e. g. Exodus 3.8. 64.2 the Pythian god Apollo, so called because his first feat was the destruction of the dragon Python, personifying the dark forces of the underworld. 65.20–23 Europe . . . Asia the phraseology is Gibbon’s (6.66: Ch. 58): ‘the daughter of Alexius exclaims that Europe was loosened from its foundations, and hurled against Asia’. See also 5.125 (Ch. 48): ‘Europe was precipitated on Asia’. What Comnena actually says (289) is: ‘Tout l’Occident, tout ce qui habite depuis la mer Adriatique jusqu’aux colonnes d’Hercule, & toute l’Europe, pour ainsi dire, sembloit soûlevée contre l’Asie’ (the whole of the west, all those who dwelt between the Adriatic and the Pillars of Hercules [the Straits of Gibraltar], and the whole of Europe (so to speak) seemed roused up against Asia). 65.35–37 a huge body of men . . . Hungary for Peter the Hermit see note to 6.30–-32. The story of Peter’s abortive crusade, known as the Peasants’ Crusade, ending with a mass of bones, is in Comnena (288–93). 65.38–39 as when Israel . . . cloud ‘the Lord went before them [the Children of Israel] by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead them the way; and by night in a pillar of fire, to give them light; to go by day and night’: Exodus 13.21. 65.39 showers of manna . . . quails see Exodus Ch. 16 and Numbers Ch. 11 for the two variant versions of the miraculous nourishment of the Children of Israel. The nature of the ‘manna’ is not known for certain. 65.40–41 No waters gushed from the rock see note to 51.23–24. 66.10–11 Palestine . . . people see note to 63.22. 66.13 Greek fire a combustible composition based on naphtha, or liquid bitumen, for setting fire to the enemy’s ships or works. Gibbon tells the story of its invention and early use at 5.393–95 (Ch. 52). 66.15 in their own despite in spite of themselves. 66.21 the second storm the first crusade: see Historical Note, 497–98. 66.39 Hugh of Vermandois Hugues (Hugh, or Hugo, for whom see Historical Note, 500) was brother to Philip I (the Fair: 1052–1108; acceded as King of France 1060). 67.1–2 the king of kings Gibbon notes (6.60 and note: Ch. 58) that this title was given to the French king by his subjects. 67.3–5 He bears the blessed banner . . . apostle Comnena (294) refers to the presentation of the standard of St Peter to Vermandois by Pope Urban II. Popes claim to be Peter’s successors on the authority of Matthew 16.18. 67.23–25 an old friend, our enemy . . . Bohemond of Antioch the historical Bohemond had always been opposed to Alexius: see Historical Note, 499. 67.26–33 Robert of Apulia . . . lances see Historical Note, 500–01. The term lances here may mean simply ‘horsemen provided with lances’, but it may (as certainly later in the novel) have the technical meaning as given in Charles Mills, The History of Chivalry or Knighthood and its Times, 2 vols (London, 1825), 1.118: ‘Armies were reckoned by lances, each lance meaning the knight himself with his men-at arms, or lighter cavalry, and his footsoldiers’: CLA, 231. 67.39–40 Godfrey Duke of Bouillon see Historical Note, 500. 68.2–4 the siege of Troy . . . Agamemnon Agamemnon headed the

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Greek army at the siege of Troy: Homer has an impressive catalogue of the hundreds of ships in which they arrived (The Iliad, 2.484–785). 68.5–6 those whom they fantastically call Knights the chivalric system was a peculiarly western development, alien to the Byzantines. 68.18 the very ass which he rode upon see Gibbon, 6.34 (Ch. 58): ‘the ass on which he rode was sanctified, in the public eye, by the service of the man of God’. 68.22 the Patriarch himself made a similar retreat this is not known to refer to a historical incident. 68.24–27 the question now is . . . Turks compare Comnena, 302: ‘Godefroi se soûmit, bien-tôt aprés a la volonté de l’Empereur, & lui prêta le serment qu’il avoit jusqu’alors si constamment refusé; & il promit de lui rendre les villes qui avoient autrefois appartenu aux Romains, s’il les prenoit sur les Turcs’ (Shortly afterwards Godfrey submitted to the Emperor’s will, and swore the oath he had hitherto so steadfastly refused to take; and he promised to give up to him the cities which had formerly belonged to the Romans, if he took them from the Turks). 68.29 the morasses of Bouillon Bouillon is situated in the foothills of the Ardennes, now in S Belgium near the French border, not a marshy area. 68.42 Latin Christians Western Christians subject to the authority of Rome, their liturgy being in Latin. 68.42 Manicheans see note to 8.14. 69.5–6 the armies of old . . . advance for the first, and most remarkable, of these actions (applied to the army of the Persian Xerxes attacking Greece) see the abridged history of the world by the 2nd or 3rd-century Justin (Marcus Junianus Justinus), 2.10. 69.14 the breath of their nostrils see note to 43.16. 69.20 Mount Olympus a mountain 2911m high in NE Greece. 69.21–27 a missile weapon unknown to us . . . uncommon thickness Scott draws on Comnena’s description (296–97). 70.2 It becomes us it is fitting, or proper, for us. 70.6 one Robert, styled Duke of Normandy Robert (1054?–1134), eldest son of William the Conqueror, inherited the title of Duke of Normandy (but not the throne of England) on his father’s death and according to his father’s wishes in 1087. 70.7–11 counts . . . competent to understand ‘earl’ is an English term for the French ‘comte’; ‘another jargon’ presumably also refers to English. As the son of William the Conqueror, Robert of Normandy would have Englishmen among his followers. 70.17 the famous Alexandrian library founded by Ptolemy I of Egypt (323–283  ), by the 1st century  this library amounted to some 700,000 volumes. Its destruction began during Julius Caesar’s invasion of Egypt in 48  . 70.23–26 the learned Procopius . . . Gaul Scott’s attention was no doubt drawn to the account in Procopius (c. 500–c. 565) by Gibbon’s summary (4.101: Ch. 38) of De Bello Gotthico (On the Gothic War), 4.20.42–58: ‘. . . the gravest historian of the times describes the wonders of a remote isle, whose eastern and western parts are divided by an antique wall, the boundary of life and death, or, more properly, of truth and fiction. The east is a fair country, inhabited by a civilised people: the air is healthy, the waters are pure and plentiful, and the earth yields her regular and fruitful increase. In the west, beyond the wall, the air is infectious and mortal; the ground is covered with serpents; and this dreary solitude is the region of departed spirits, who are transported from the opposite shores in substantial boats and by living rowers. Some families of fishermen, the subjects of the Franks, are excused from tribute, in consideration

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of the mysterious office which is performed by these Charons of the ocean. Each in his turn is summoned, at the hour of midnight, to hear the voices, and even the names, of the ghosts: he is sensible of their weight, and he feels himself impelled by an unknown, but irresistible, power.’ Scott may have consulted the whole passage, in Latin (following Gibbon’s reference) rather than in the original Greek, which he could not read: the Latin version is a close one: Procopii Cæsariensis Historiarvm svi Temporis Libri VIII, ed. Claudos Maltreto (Paris, 1662), 623–25. (There is a fairly faithful translation by Henry Holcroft, The History of the Gothick Warrs, Book 4, Chap. 12, in The History of the Warres Of the Emperor Justinian (London, 1653), 140–41; but there are no verbal echoes to suggest that Scott was working from this.) A modern English translation from the Greek reads: ‘They say, then, that the souls of men who die are always conveyed to this place. And as to the manner in which this is done, I shall presently explain, having many a time heard the people there most earnestly describe it, though I have come to the conclusion that the tales they tell are to be attributed to some power of dreams. Along the coast of the ocean which lies opposite the island of Brittia there are numerous villages. These are inhabited by men who fish with nets or till the soil or carry on a sea-trade with this island, being in other respects subject to the Franks, but never making them any payment of tribute, that burden having been remitted to them from ancient times on account, as they say, of a certain service, which will here be described by me. ‘The men of this place say that the conduct of souls is laid upon them in turn. So the men who on the following night must go to do this work relieving others in the service, as soon as darkness comes on, retire to their own houses and sleep, awaiting him who is to assemble them for the enterprise. And at a late hour of the night they are conscious of a knocking at their doors and hear an indistinct voice calling them together for their task. And they with no hesitation rise from their beds and walk to the shore, not understanding what necessity leads them to do this, but compelled nevertheless. There they see skiffs in readiness with no man at all in them, not their own skiffs, however, but a different kind, in which they embark and lay hold of the oars. And they are aware that the boats are burdened with a large number of passengers and are wet by the waves to the edge of the planks and the oarlocks, having not so much as one finger’s breadth above the water; they themselves, however, see no one, but after rowing a single hour they put in at Brittia. And yet when they make the voyage in their own skiffs, not using sails but rowing, they with difficulty make this passage in a night and a day. Then when they have reached the island and have been relieved of their burden, they depart with all speed, their boats now becoming suddenly light and rising above the waves, for they sink no further in the water than the keel itself. ‘And they, for their part, neither see any man either sitting in the boat with them or departing from the boat, but they say that they hear a kind of voice from the island which seems to make announcement to those who take the souls in charge as each name is called of the passengers who have come over with them, telling over the positions of honour which they formerly held and calling out their fathers’ names with their own. And if women also happen to be among those who have been ferried over, they utter the names of the men to whom they were married in life.’ (Procopius with an English translation by H. B. Dewing, 7 vols (London and New York, 1914–54), 5.267–71.) 70.33 Charon in Greek mythology, Charon ferried the dead in his boat across the River Styx to Hades. 71.14 the infernal Styx see preceding note. 71.15–17 we would gladly disbelieve . . . Justinian the account of the Emperor Justinian (reigned 527–65) given in Procopius’s informal The Secret History is exceedingly unflattering.

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71.35–36 the Greek language, which you term the Roman ‘After the restoration of the Western empire by Charlemagne and the Othos, the names of Franks and Latins acquired an equal signification and extent, and these haughty barbarians asserted, with some justice, their superior claim to the language and dominion of Rome’ (Gibbon, 5.481–82: Ch. 53). 71.43 settle our long accounts pay dues which have accumulated over a long time. While basically a financial metaphor there is also an implication of this being a final moral and political reckoning. 72.8–19 a valiant race . . . exiles essentially Scott’s account of the colonisation of 5th-century England follows that of Gibbon, who has the Britons invite the Saxons from the Continent to help them, but the historian emphasises that the Britons received more than they bargained for at the hands of their allies (4.88–89: Ch. 38). Scott uses the terms ‘Anglo-Saxons’ and ‘Angles’ loosely. 72.23 Mount Caucasus mythical mountain where Prometheus was chained by Zeus, and which gives its name to the Caucasus range between the Black and Caspian Seas rising to 5633m. 72.27–28 I have heard . . . name Normandy is supposed to have been created in 911 from part of the Frankish region of Neustria (which dated from 511): see note to 12.35–13.3. 72.34 William, Duke of Normandy William the Conqueror (1028–87), natural son of Robert I Duke of Normandy, succeeded as duke in 1035. 72.36 defeated, in a great battle, Harold see note to 30.31. Hastings is in Sussex. 73.27 claim the advance of claim to be superior to. 73.33–34 his eldest son . . . Normandy see note to 70.6. 73.34–37 some other of his children . . . issue on his death in 1087 William I (William the Conqueror) was succeeded by his third son William, probably born between 1056 and 1060 and called Rufus because of his ruddy complexion. William I had excluded his eldest son Robert from the succession, having quarrelled with him, but he left him Normandy on his death; his second son Richard had been killed in a hunting accident c. 1081; and although his fourth and youngest son Henry had actually been born in England, his third son William was his favourite, and he nominated him as his successor. After William Rufus assumed the throne there was much jostling for power among the three surviving brothers, and when William II was killed while hunting in 1100 his younger brother Henry (1068–1135) moved quickly to upstage his brother Robert and was accepted by the barons as king, reigning as Henry I. There was never any question of England being divided on the death of William I, and the Conqueror’s nomination of William Rufus was one of the normal ways of proceeding; but the bad feeling between the brothers accounts for Hereward’s speculation. 74.10–16 the nine goddesses . . . Parnassus Parnassus was a Greek mountain N of Delphi sacred to the nine muses, for whom see note to 16.4. 74.26–33 motto unidentified; probably by Scott. 76.6 Reason it was it was reasonable. 76.25 for ordinary in the ordinary course of events; normally. 77.20–21 as Homer has it . . . liquid in The Iliad, 5.339 the wounded Aphrodite sheds ÆPäD (ichor), the liquid which gods have instead of blood. 77.39 Saint Sophia see note to 49.10. 77.39–41 The Prophet Balaam . . . to him see Numbers 23.27–28. Balaam beats his ass for falling down under him, though by so doing he was saved from being killed by an angel for disobeying God’s command not to curse the Israelites. The ass speaks to rebuke her master. 78.13–14 the elder Brutus . . . jester Lucius Junius Brutus, who is sup-

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posed to have feigned idiocy to escape the fate of his brother, who had been put to death by their uncle, the king Tarquinius Superbus. According to tradition he led the revolt against the Tarquins which established the Roman Republic and led to his election as one of the first two Roman consuls in 509  . 78.24 it will go hard but unless prevented by overwhelming difficulties. 79.24–31 motto see John Milton, Paradise Regained (1670), 3.337–43. Milton’s prowest means ‘most valiant’; the spelling prowess’d here indicates a misunderstanding, dating from the early 18th century, as ‘endowed with prowess’ and hence simply ‘valiant’. In Matteo Maria Boiardo’s Orlando innamorato (1487) Agrican, king of Tartary, besieges Albracca, a city ruled by Gallaphron king of China, in order to win the latter’s daughter, who has already been wooed by many knights including followers of Charlemagne. 79.38 The offices formerly filled by prefects, prætors, and questors under Roman rule prefects were civil governors, prætors were magistrates, and questors were financial officials. 80.11–14 a stately throne . . . metal compare the description of Solomon’s throne in 1 Kings 10.18–20: ‘Moreover the king made a great throne of ivory, and overlaid it with the best gold. The throne had six steps, and the top of the throne was round behind: and there were stays on either side on the place of the seat, and two lions stood beside the stays. And twelve lions stood there on the one side and on the other upon the six steps: there was not the like made in any kingdom.’ 80.14–18 a tree . . . leaves see Gibbon, 5.458 (Ch. 53): ‘a golden tree, with its leaves and branches, which sheltered a multitude of birds warbling their artificial notes, and two lions of massy gold, and of the natural size, who looked and roared like their brethren of the forest’. 80.20–21 the Grand Domestic . . . prime minister properly from the middle of the 11th century the two Great Domestics were the military commanders-in-chief of the imperial forces in the East and West. 80.21–22 the Logothete, or chancellor so Gibbon (5.461: Ch. 53): ‘the great Logothete, the supreme guardian of the laws and revenues, is compared with the chancellor of the Latin monarchies’. The Logothete was the head of the imperial civil service. 80.22 the Protospathaire, already mentioned see 25.39 and note. 80.23 the Acolyte, or Follower see note to 23.3–4. 80.25 Nubian from the region of Nubia, covering much of the present S Egypt, N Sudan, and Ethiopia. 81.20 Durazzo in 1081–82 Robert Guiscard and his son Bohemond had besieged and taken Durazzo (now Durrës, Albania) from the Greeks: Gibbon, 5.563–69 (Ch. 56). 81.28–29 the Bosphorus this strait, on whose western side Constantinople was built, joins the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara. 81.30–31 Innumerable . . . sea-shore see Hebrews 11.12: ‘Therefore sprang there even of one [Abraham] . . . so many as the stars of the sky in multitude, and as the sand which is by the sea shore innumerable’. Comnena uses the comparisons twice (289, 304). 83.9–10 take good order for this see well to this; take effective measures to see that this is done. 83.14–15 in some sort to some extent. 83.23–25 every village in Palestine . . . empire Dan is in the extreme N of Palestine, Beersheeba in the extreme S. 84.3 that Paradise is to be gained by the sabre a recurring motif in the Koran, e.g. 4.74: ‘Let those who would exchange the life of this world for the hereafter, fight for the cause of God; whoever fights for the cause of God, whether he dies or triumphs, on him We shall bestow a rich recompense’

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(trans. N. J. Dawood, London, 1956, revised 1999), 68). Gibbon (5.257: Ch. 50) paraphrases the Koran thus: ‘“The sword,” says Mohammed, “is the key of heaven and of hell . . .”.’ 84.6 mortal pang a metonymic phrase apparently first used to refer to the whole of life by John Wesley (1703–91) and his brother Charles (1707–88) in ‘Hymn IV: Let all who truly bear’, line 26, and ‘Naomi and Ruth’, line 51. 84.10 men of peace Love’s Labour’s Lost, 5.1.31, and see The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2.3.39. 84.17–19 that Holy Land . . . the infidel from the Muslim capture of Jerusalem in 638 until the establishment of the Kingdom of Jerusalem in 1099, the Holy Land was out of Christian control. 84.21–23 the Cross . . . emblem for the Greek cross see note to 34.39. 84.27–28 the locusts . . . intimated the locusts are noted by Comnena (289); she also likens Bohemond and his father to caterpillars and locusts (51). 84.36–38 the sacred ink . . . of green and of purple for the imperial purple ink see Gibbon, 5.155 (Ch. 49). He also notes (5.461n: Ch. 53): ‘the Imperial ink, which is still visible on some original acts, was a mixture of vermilion and cinnabar, or purple. The emperor’s guardians, who shared in this prerogative, always marked in green ink the indiction [cycle of 15 years] and the month’. 85.17–18 the Prophet’s tomb . . . his green banner Mohammed died and was buried at Medina in 632. The green banner he is said to have favoured has become a symbol of Islam. 85.18 the King of France’s brother Hugh of Vermandois: see note to 66.39. 86.24–28 one of those broad terraces . . . the Turks see Gibbon’s reference (5.457: Ch. 53) to ‘the gardens, which descended by many a terrace to the shores of the Propontis’, and Dalloway’s confirmation (22) of their modern survival. 87.17 turned short turned round abruptly. 87.28–29 One who is master of the world . . . passions proverbial: see ODEP, 517. 88.23–25 the English prejudices . . . conductor the prejudices are attested by the proverbial ‘Black as the devil’ (Ray, 220; ODEP, 63), and by references to the Devil appearing as a black man. 89.6–7 a temple to the Egyptian goddess Cybele the cult of Cybele, a fertility goddess, originating in Phyrgia (central Turkey) had been prohibited to Romans until the imperial period (i.e. around the beginning of the Christian era). Gibbon (1.33: Ch. 2) discusses the fluctuating official attitude to such superstitions in the Empire, and notes that two Egyptian deities ‘Isis and Serapis (the dead bull-god Apis) at length assumed their place among the Roman deities’. 89.32 Apis see preceding note. 90.8–9 Midnight and Noon . . . appearance ‘Almost all the writers on demonology mention, as a received opinion, that the power of the demons is most predominant at noon and midnight’ (‘Introduction to the Tale of Tamlane’, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, ed. T. F. Henderson, 4 vols (Edinburgh, 1902), 2.335). 91.7 Witikind Scott had used this name for the father of Harold the Dauntless in his poem of that name published anonymously in 1817. 91.23–24 built on the sand . . . against them echoing Jesus’s parable of the man who built his house on sand: Matthew 7.26–27. 92.2–6 motto not identified: probably by Scott, but imitating the style of Isaac Watts (1674–1748) who frequently uses the phrase ‘dawning day’ in a spiritual sense.

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92.34–35 formed in the image of his Creator see Genesis 1.27. 93.2–3 Diogenes . . . the old scoffer the slave is named after the 4thcentury  Cynic philosopher Diogenes of Sinope, who set no store by civilised customs and was given to subersive repartee. For the Cynics see note to 38.29. 93.22 Waltheoff Scott uses a probably fictitious Abbot Waltheoff in Ivanhoe,     8, ed. Graham Tulloch, 154.18. In his note to this reference Graham Tulloch suggests the abbot is named after Waltheof, Earl of Northumberland (d. 1076). 94.3 A truce with this enough of this. 94.19 Anubis the Egyptian jackal-headed god responsible for conducting the souls of the dead to judgment. 94.28 Kenelm name of an English saint (d. 812 or 821), who may have fallen in battle against the Welsh and was regarded as a martyr. 94.31–32 What avails it whether it was in the body or in the spirit? compare 2 Corinthians 12.2: ‘I knew a man in Christ above fourteen years ago, (whether in the body, I cannot tell; or whether out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth;) such an one caught up to the third heaven’. ‘What avails it’ means ‘what does it matter’. 94.32 the faith of Woden in northern mythology Woden, or Odin, was the supreme god and creator. 94.33 the shrine of Saint Augustin Augustine (d. c. 604) was the first Archbishop of Canterbury, where his shrine in the abbey church was venerated. 94.36–37 the doctrine which causeth to err see Proverbs 19.27: ‘Cease, my son, to hear the instruction that causeth to err from the words of knowledge’. 94.37–38 false prophets . . . miracles see Matthew 24.24; Mark 13.22. 94.41 wicket . . . truth in the first part of John Bunyan, The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678), Christian’s first objective is to attain a wicket which will allow him to begin his pilgrimage. 95.18 Bertha name of a number of English saints, notably Bertha, Queen of Kent (d. c. 603), who was venerated at Canterbury from the 11th century. 95.20 spoils of the dead i.e. banners captured in battle by warriors now dead. 95.42 stagger in my faith compare Romans 4.20. 96.1 let glance shot. 96.3 for weal or woe for good or ill. The phrase was commonplace. 97.16 Out upon thee shame on you. 97.33–34 within a very few hours within the last few hours; not many hours ago. 98.6–7 Bohemond as the usurper of Antioch . . . empire see Historical Note, 499. 98.12 Narses the name occurs several times in Gibbon, most frequently with reference to Narses the eunuch, commander of the Roman armies in the 6th century (4.347: Ch. 43). 98.33 bring in reduce. 99.25–27 in the words of the divine Homer . . . laughter see The Odyssey, 8.326–27. The translation by Alexander Pope with William Broome and Elijah Fenton (1725–26), 8.366, has ‘unextinguish’d laughter’. 99.28 in presence present; perhaps in the imperial presence. 99.30–31 the dead themselves . . . the grave compare Hamlet, 1.4.46–48. 99.38 taken in the mouth of spoken by. 100.4–12 motto not identified: probably by Scott. 100.34 passed over passed. 102.3 Raymond of Tholouse see Historical Note, 500. 102.29–30 by interested means i.e. by appealing to their self-interest. 102.39–40 in course of during.

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103.2 the Propontis the Sea of Marmora, between the straits of the Bosphorus to the N and the Hellespont to the S. 103.9 the Protosebastos it is not clear exactly who is meant here. Comena records (96): ‘Taronite, qui avoit épousé la sœur d’Aléxis, fut élevé dans le même tems à la dignité de Protosébaste, & de Protovestiaire. Un peu aprés il fut encore honoré de celle de Panypersébaste, & de César. Alors, le tître de Protosébaste fut déféré à son frere Adrien, avec celui d’Illustrissime. Enfin, Nicéphore, le troisiéme, & le dernier de ses freres, fut créé Drungaire de la flôte, & César’ (Taronites, who had married the emperor’s sister [Maria], was honoured with the same titles of protosebastos [first majesty] and protovestarius. A little later he was promoted to the rank of panhypersebastos and of Caesar. The title of Most Illustrious Protosebastos was bestowed on Alexius’s brother Adrian, and Nicephorus, his third and youngest brother, was made Great Drungarius of the Fleet, and Caesar.) The panhypersebastos and protosebastos ranked below the Emperor, sebastocrator, and Caesar. 103.22–23 borrowed by the Romans . . . Persia see note to 50.6. 103.35–36 the celebrated Labarum the imperial standard adopted by Constantine the Great (see note to 4.19), being the Roman military standard of the late Empire, with the addition of Christian symbols. It is described by Gibbon, 2.229–31 (Ch. 20). 104.6–7 hold the lands . . . of his throne i.e. acknowledge the emperor’s claim as feudal superior on the lands to be conquered. 104.19 Baldwin see Historical Note, 499–500. 105.30–32 It was a common saying . . . lances the saying has not been located before Scott. There is probably an echo of the Titan Atlas who in Greek mythology supported the heavens with his head and hands. 106.16 a cutting affront for the source of this scene in Gibbon, see Essay on the Text, 381–82. 106.24 a barret cap a little flat cap. 107.33 nice of fussy about. 107.36 Tartar an inhabitant of the region of Central Asia extending E from the Caspian Sea. 108.15 numerous as the sands of the sea see note to 81.30–31. 108.40 methinks I would know I have a mind to know. 108.41 assert . . . to claim for. 109.27 ever and anon continually at intervals. 110.32 Robert, Count of Paris see Historical Note, 501. 111.30 Rodomont a boastful Saracen leader in Orlando furioso by Ludovico Ariosto (1474–1533). 111.32 en champ clos French in the lists. 111.43 Gaita see Historical Note, 501. 112.15–22 motto not identified; probably by Scott. 112.23 Brenhilda see Historical Note, 500–01. 112.26–31 the Marphisas and Bradamantes . . . creation Marfisa and Bradamante are female warriors in Orlando furioso by Ludovico Ariosto (1474–1533). Marfisa has a magically wrought breastplate (19.84) and Bradamante an irresistible lance (32.75). 112.35–36 Aspramonte probably to be regarded as fictitious. Aspromonte is a region behind Reggio in Calabria in the extreme S of Italy’s ‘toe’, subject to repeated invasions in the middle ages, and with a reputation for lawlessness. Aspremont is a seignory with a castle near Nice: it was part of Provence until 1419, and was Italian territory from 1419 till its reversion to France in 1860. But Scott was probably simply attracted by the name which occurs several times with Scott’s form in Ludovico Ariosto, Orlando furioso (1516), 1.30.7 etc., and (as ‘Aspramont’) in John Milton, Paradise Lost (1667), 1.583. Its

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meaning, ‘grim mountain’, would suit Brenhilda’s martial character. 113.16 bent to withhold intent upon withholding. 114.5 He was of the blood of Charlemagne see note to 359.6–37. Charlemagne (742–814) became King of the Franks in 768 and Emperor of the West in 800. 114.15 in the room of in place of. 114.26 Amazon one of the nation of legendary women warriors. 115.31 the great ransom that was paid for us Jesus’s atonement for the sins of humankind by his death is envisaged as a ransom in Mark 10.45, Matthew 20.28, and 1 Timothy 2.6. 115.41–42 wearing such a belt as this the belt is often associated with knighthood. The expression ‘belted knight’ occurs in several ballads and in Robert Burns, ‘Is there for honest poverty’ (1795), line 25. Its significance is explained by John Ferne (The Blazon of Gentrie (London, 1586), 109): ‘in later times, the insignes and marks of Knighthood, by the sword, are obserued, to be a girdle and sword gilded, and girded to his side: as also, a paire of spurres gilt, to signifie . . . the reward of his horsemanship, and that he is a Cheualier. What honor consisteth in this girdle and sword, is to be perceiued by this, in that, according to the institution thereof, he ought to be girded with this girdle and sword, by the hands of the Soueraigne, or his Lieutenant in the feeld, as a part of the ceremonie of his dubbing. Very aptly is this girdle (called Balthea) [margin ‘A Belt.’] added to the ornament of a Knight, as a signe of his degree, since that it is expedient to a man, that taketh in hand any businesse of difficultie, or important labour, and especially he that goeth a warfare, to gird his loines, for, the idle and sluggish person (as the wiseman saith) goeth loose and vngirt. The girdle then is a signe of labor and businesse, not of sloth and effeminate wantonnes.’ 116.16–17 Had my ancestor Charles . . . the Saale the Frankish kingdom inherited by Charlemagne (see note to 114.5) from his father Pepin was bounded on the E by the Thüringer Saale River, which flows near Weimar and Leipzig to join the Elbe. In the course of massively expanding his territories in most directions he pushed the eastern frontier to the Vistula which flows through Warsaw, entering the Baltic Sea near Gdansk. 117.1 We have fallen right things have turned out well for us. 117.6 take the cross i.e. go on a crusade. Gibbon (6.39: Ch. 58) refers to the physical assumption of a representation of the Cross on a crusader’s clothing. A red cross was worn on the right shoulder. 117.23 Zulichium Scott perhaps took the name from the Latin for St Züllichau (Brandenburg). As Margaret Tait points out in Scott Newsletter, 13 (1988), 14–15, this version of the Sleeping Beauty story is strongly influenced by a passage in Mandeville (Ch. 4: 28–31): ‘And some Men seyn, that in the Ile of Lango [Chios, in the Aegean Sea] is zit the Doughtre of Ypocras, in forme and lykenesse of a gret Dragoun, that is an hundred Fadme of lengthe, as Men seyn: For I have not seen hire. And thei of the Iles callen hire, Lady of the Lond. And sche lyethe in an olde Castelle, in a Cave, and schewethe twyes or thryes in the Zeer. And sche dothe non harm to no Man, but zif Men don hire harm. And sche was thus chaunged and transformed, from a fair Damysele, in to lyknesse of a Dragoun, by a Goddesse, that was clept Deane [Diana]. And Men seyn, that sche schalle so endure in that forme of a Dragoun, unto the tyme that a Knyghte come, that is so hardy, that dar come to hire and kisse hire on the Mouthe: And then schalle sche turne azen to hire owne Kynde, and ben a Woman azen: But aftre that sche schalle not liven longe. And it is not longe siththen, that a Knyghte of the Rodes, that was hardy and doughty in Armes, seyde that he wolde kyssen hire. And whan he was upon his Coursere, and wente to the Castelle, and entred in to the Cave, the Dragoun lifte up hire

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Hed azenst him. And whan the Knyghte saw hire in that Forme so hidous and so horrible, he fleyghe awey. And the Dragoun bare the Knyghte upon a Roche, mawgre his Hede; and from that Roche, sche caste him in to the See: and so was lost bothe Hors and Man. And also a zonge Man, that wiste not of the Dragoun, wente out of a Schipp, and wente thorghe the Ile, til that he come to the Castelle, and cam in to the Cave; and wente so longe, til that he fond a Chambre, and there he saughe a Damysele, that kembed hire Hede, and lokede in a Myrour; and sche hadde meche Tresoure abouten hire: and he trowed, that sche hadde ben a comoun Woman, that dwelled there to receyve Men to Folye. And he abode, tille the Damysele saughe the schadewe of him in the Myrour. And sche turned hire toward him, and asked hym, what he wolde. And he seyde, he wolde ben hire Limman or Paramour. And sche asked him, zif that he were a Knyghte. And he seyde, nay. And than sche seyde, that he myghte not ben hire Lemman: But sche bad him gon azen unto his Felowes, and make him Knyghte, and come azen upon the Morwe, and sche scholde come out of the Cave before him; and thanne come and kysse hire on the Mowthe, and have no Drede; for I schalle do the no maner harm, alle be it that thou see me in lyknesse of a Dragoun. For thoughe thou see me hidouse and horrible to loken onne, I do the to wytene, that it is made be Enchauntement. For withouten doute, I am non other than thou seest now, a Woman; and therfore drede the noughte. And zif thou kisse me, thou schalt have alle this Tresoure, and be my Lord, and Lord also of alle that Ile. And he departed fro hire and wente to his Felowes to Schippe, and leet make him Knyghte, and cam azen upon the morwe, for to kysse this Damysele. And whan he saughe hire comen out of the Cave, in forme of a Dragoun, so hidouse and so horrible, he hadde so great drede, that he fleyghe azen to the Schippe; and sche folewed him. And whan sche saughe, that he turned not azen, sche began to crye, as a thing that hadde meche Sorwe: and thanne sche turned azen, in to hire Cave; and anon the Knyghte dyede. And siththen hidrewards, myghte no Knyghte se hire, but that he dyede anon. But whan a Knyghte comethe, that is so hardy to kisse hire, he schalle not dye; but he schalle turne the Damysele in to hire righte Forme and kyndely Schapp, and he schal be Lord of alle the Contreyes and Iles aboveseyd.’ 117.35 a bow-shot a distance of from 100 to 300 metres, depending on the type of bow and the skill of the archer. 118.13–14 Like the Israelites . . . waxed old see Deuteronomy 29.5. 118.18 one of the Magi . . . Zoroaster Zoroaster (Zarathushtra) was an Iranian prophet, traditionally 7th–6th century  , who proclaimed a dualistic view of good and evil forces. In the 6th and 5th centuries a hereditary priestly caste known as the Magi came into being and Zoroastrianism became the Persian state religion. 118.24 fool’s paradise proverbial: ODEP, 277. 118.40–41 no passion so bitter . . . hatred proverbial: see ODEP, 336. 119.16 sleep like that of death see Psalm 13.3. 119.22 Artavan de Hautlieu Artavan is a Persian and Armenian name (‘honest’, ‘just’). Hautlieu is a French place name (‘high place’). 120.13 bear notice observe; note. 120.36 the Sepulchre of God the sacred site in Jerusalem of the tomb where Jesus’s body was deposited after his crucifixion. 121.3–5 claim a voice with our lords . . . useless ‘Although no substantial evidence exists for the regular participation of women in invasions or any kind of warfare—as we have seen, the contemporary historical sources were almost completely silent about their presence—it may be that Germanic and Celtic women participated as witnesses and inciters in invasion and fighting’: Lisa M. Bitel, Women in Early Medieval Europe, 400–1100 (Cambridge, 2002),

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79–80. Brenhilda’s name recalls Brunhild (c. 534–613), one of three powerful Frankish queens in the 6th century: as consort she was active in the governing of Austrasia (the eastern Frankish kingdom) together with her husband Sigibert until his assassination in 575 and then acted as regent for her son Childebert. 121.14 I am in your judgment i.e. I leave it to you to judge. 123.40–41 a ring of price a valuable ring. 124.27–32 motto not identified; probably by Scott. 124.35 to admiration admirably well. 124.37 belles lettres literary studies as opposed to science; elegant literature. The term is first recorded in French in the late 17th century, and in English in the early 18th. 125.20–21 presented the deformed features . . . worship see Gibbon (3.25: Ch. 26): ‘These savages of Scythia . . . were distinguished from the rest of the human species by their broad shoulders, flat noses, and small black eyes, deeply buried in the head. . . . A fabulous origin was assigned worthy of their form and manners—that the witches of Scythia, who, for their foul and deadly practices, had been driven from society, had copulated in the desert with infernal spirits, and that the Huns were the offspring of this execrable conjunction.’ 125.42–43 our hippodrome, or atmeidan . . . language the English ‘hippodrome’ follows the French spelling of a word which comes from the Latin ‘hippodromos’ (itself a Greek word in roman script); the Turkish term ‘atmeidan’ appears in Gibbon, 2.82n and 83 (Ch. 17). 125.43–126.1 the sacrament i.e. of marriage, which is one of the seven sacraments in the teaching of the Roman Catholic and Orthodox Churches. 126.17 Toxartes the precise name has not been found elsewhere. It was perhaps suggested by Toxaris, in the essay ‘Scythes’ (The Scythian) by Lucian (c.  115–c. 200). The manuscript spelling is a normal Greek form for a man’s name: the first edition’s ‘Toxartis’ is perhaps a movement in the direction of Lucian’s form. 127.27 the Hellespont see note to 13.9–10. 127.33–34 the Sibyl’s temple at Tivoli among the Roman remains at Tivoli (the Latin Tibur), 29 km E of Rome, is a temple traditionally attributed to the Sibyl (soothsayer) of Tibur. 127.34–35 invention of Polytheism . . . sovereignty i.e. a minor deity was invented as guardian of the spot, and this was made possible by the existence of polytheism. 127.39 some Epicurean philosopher a follower of Epicurus (341–270  ), an Athenian philosopher who taught that the only good is pleasure (or the absence of pain) and that the best pleasure is discerned in a perfect harmony of body and mind, found in plain living and virtue. The term Epicurean came to be used, as here, to denote a devotion to refined and tasteful sensuous enjoyment. 128.10–16 motto not identified; probably by Scott. 128.24–28 the race of Ham . . . brethren Ham, the youngest son of Noah, saw his father drunk and naked; as a punishment, God cursed Ham’s son Canaan, ordering him to live as a ‘servant of servants’ (i.e. a slave) to his cousins (Genesis 9.18–27). In the division of the ‘world’ between the sons of Noah (Genesis 10), Ham was allocated the southern sweep which was identified with Africa; black people could therefore be referred to as ‘sons of Ham’. 128.36–37 hewers of wood and drawers of water Joshua 9.21, 27. 129.3–4 numerous as the sand of the sea see note to 81.30–31. 129.42 the Graces in Classical mythology, three goddesses who bestowed beauty and charm. They were a favourite subject for painters and sculptors. 130.14 the miracle of Prometheus in Classical mythology, Prometheus made humankind out of clay. 130.35–36 Trimalchio’s banquet in the Satyricon by Petronius Arbiter

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(d.  65), an ostentatious banquet is provided by the vulgar rich parvenu Trimalchio. 130.43 with our will if we had our wish. 131.19 in the front of in front of. 131.20 a Damascus blade a fine sword made of strips of iron and steel welded together. 133.7 then unknown to the western world during the middle ages and Renaissance elephants were rarities in Europe: at the turn of the 8th century Charlemagne was given one by Haroun al-Raschid, and in the early 13th century Louis IX of France gave Henry III of England one for his menagerie in the Tower of London. 133.15–16 corps de garde French small body of soldiers stationed on guard. 133.21–22 In the front of in front of. 134.12 Apollo the Classical god of music and poetry. 135.33 the Queen of the World at different times, various cities have claimed this title: notably Rome, which Constantinople saw itself as succeeding. 136.8–9 to be of the same clay with other mortals the formation of humankind from clay is a frequent biblical topic. 136.34–35 the deer . . . rat probably the Malayan mouse deer. 136.43–137.2 moaning over his prey . . . humanity this belief is alluded to in 2 Henry VI, 3.1.226–27. 137.12 Tranchefer a French-derived term found (as ‘trau– chfer’) and defined as ‘cutter of yron’ in John Bourchier, The History of The Valiant Knight Arthur of Little Britain, ed. E. V. U[tterson] (London, 1814), 208 (a 16thcentury translation of a French romance). 138.4–5 gone before me excelled me. 138.35 ex preposito Latin by design; of set purpose. 138.41–42 Homer. . . Virgil. . . Horace to the leading Greek and Latin epic poets Homer and Virgil (70–19  ) is added Horace (65–8  ) as master of the highly polished ode. 139.5 Chian wine wine from the island of Chios (Khíos), a Greek island off the coast of Turkey, was highly prized. 139.7 the pistrinum the mill where slaves were employed to pound corn. 139.15 the omnipotent Jupiter Jupiter was the chief of the Roman gods. 139.38–39 their name was Legion see Mark 5.9. 139.39–40 in Homeric phrase . . . assuaged see The Odyssey, translated by Alexander Pope with William Broome and Elijah Fenton (1725–26), 15.159: ‘the short rage of thirst and hunger ceast’. 140.1–2 There is no new guise . . . old one see ‘The Knight’s Tale’ in Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales I (A) 2125. Chaucer is known as ‘the father of English poetry’. 140.5–6 We have piped . . . danced Matthew 11.17; Luke 7.32. 140.6–7 the jovial chorus . . . Bacchus euhoe was the traditional shout of joy at festivals of Bacchus, the Roman god of wine, and inspirer of music and poetry. In Milton’s masque Comus (1634) the magician of that name is the son of Bacchus and Circe. 140.8 the Muses see note to 16.4. 140.9 Phœbus Apollo, the Classical god of music and poetry. 140.18 the second commandment the second of the ten commandments given by God to Moses forbids the making of ‘any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth’ (Exodus 20.4). 140.30 after ages times to come. 142.6 Put it not on that issue i. e. do not take a risk by making things depend on that point.

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142.10–11 any Cæsar . . . since the great Julius the third or family name of Gaius Julius Caesar (102–44  ) passed to his nephew Octavian and subsequent emperors to Hadrian ( 138). Thereafter it was the title of the imperial heir-presumptive, but in modern use it is often applied to emperors down to the fall of Constantinople in 1453. 142.14–15 the story of Hero and Leander in this old Greek tale Leander swims the Hellespont every night to visit Hero, a priestess of Venus. One night he drowns, leading Hero to drown herself. 142.26 we are not Normans this is the only clear distinction between Franks and Normans in the novel. Elsewhere the eastern use of the term ‘Frank’ for all western Christians, and Hereward’s reluctance (on 143) to distinguish between the two races generally prevail. 142.35–37 the valiant Franks . . . the celebrated Clovis the Franks first appeared c. 250 as a confederation of German tribes in the region between the Rhine and the Saale (see note to 116.16–17). After 437 they migrated westwards, and in 481 founded the Frankish (French) kingdom under Clovis I, or Chlodowech (456–511). Clovis invoked the aid of Christianity during a battle near Cologne in 496, and after his victory he and his troops were baptised. 143.17 the same Lord-Paramount the King of France. 143.26–27 It is God who casteth down and who buildeth up compare Psalm 102.10: ‘thou hast lifted me up, and cast me down’. 144.8–9 put . . . upon offered . . . to. 144.11 do shame to insult, injure. 144.15 It was . . . conduct it was up to your master to show that he resented my conduct. 144.17 did not consist with was not in conformity with. 144.23 ever and until until the time that. 144.25 God schaw the right the Scots form of ‘show’ indicates that Scott is thinking of the motto of the Crawford family, though the proverbial saying is not restricted to them: it is used, for instance, by the Earl of Morton in David Hume of Godscroft, The History of the Houses of Douglas and Angus, 2 vols (Edinburgh, 1644, 1643), 2.319: see CLA, 3, 20. 145.19 accepted of accepted. 145.35 Under your favour by your leave; with respect. 146.6 the schools places where philosophers instructed their hearers. 146.34 milk of roses a pharmaceutical liquid made from roses. 147.8–9 as in the court of Pekin . . . the ritual compare Gibbon (5.463: 53) notes a particularly swift change of imperial attire at Constantinople. For Peking, Scott may have been thinking of a passage in Marco Polo: ‘the great  [Kublai Khan] thirtéene times in the yeare doeth giue apparell to his Barrons, in thirtéen great feastes he doeth make, and at euery time he doeth chaunge this apparel’ (N. M. Penzer, The Most Noble and Famous Travels of Marco Polo, Edited from the Elizabethan Translation of John Frampton, 2nd edn (London, 1937), 68 (Ch. 55). 147.19 shaped forth pictured to view, outlined. 147.21–22 blocking forth sketching out. 147.27–29 that Count of Vermandois . . . instant war Comnena (302) records the indignation of Godfrey at the humiliation of Hugh de Vermandois, and Gibbon (6.61: Ch. 58) that of his troops. Mills (1.97–98) records his release by Alexius at Godfrey’s insistence. 148.11–12 endeavour to bribe . . . of a precious stone see Matthew 7.6. 148.28 your Imperial Divinity the term ‘Divinity’ is being loosely employed, as at 220.31 where it is applied to saints and angels. In Classical times it was common for Roman emperors to be regarded as gods, but when

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Constantine became a Christian (see note to 5.9) the claim was moderated, so that the Byzantine emperors were considered to be the equals of the apostles and co-rulers with Christ: by virtue of this status they continued to be addressed by the epithets ‘holy’ and ‘divine’. 149.9 yellow dross John Leyden, ‘Ode to an Indian Gold Coin’, line 47, in The Poetical Remains of the late Dr. John Leyden (Edinburgh, 1819), 165: ‘Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!’. 149.38 Penthesilea in Greek mythology daughter of Ares, god of war, and a queen of the Amazons. 150.2 to boot into the bargain. 150.2–3 gain . . . the weathergage of get to the windward of; hence get the better of. 150.14 Thalestris in Greek mythology a queen of the Amazons who brought three hundred women to Alexander the Great, hoping to breed a race of children as strong and intelligent as him. 150.22 subdue the patience of a saint proverbial: compare ODEP, 696. 151.18 Vicit Leo ex tribu Judæ Latin the Lion of the tribe of Judah [Christ] has prevailed. See Revelation, 5.5 in the Vulgate. 151.31–35 motto Richard III, 4.2.28–31. 152.5 topp’d his part played his part to perfection; transcended the character assigned to him. 152.11–13 fortunate . . . measures of violence i.e. by playing a long game Alexius will be able to deal with Agelastes at his leisure. 152.15 the bosom serpent see note to 275.7–8. 152.16–17 When Greek meets Greek . . . tug of war see Nathaniel Lee, The Rival Queens, or The Death of Alexander the Great (1677), 4.2.138: ‘When Greeks joyn’d Greeks, then was the tug of War’. 152.37 Marcus Antoninus Mark Antony (c. 82–30  ) became ruler of Rome after the assassination of Julius Caesar in 44  . 152.41 The time requires it, and the prize deserves it for the rhythm compare The Merchant of Venice, 4.1.295, 298: ‘The court awards it and the law doth give it . . . The law allows it and the court awards it.’ 153.15 fleurs-de-lis semées French lily flowers scattered over the surface. 153.16–18 after times reduced . . . our own time the fleurs de lys originally semées (in heraldic terminology: sowed, scattered) over the shield of the King of France were reduced to three in 1376. Scott refers to the attempt of France to dominate Europe during his lifetime. 154.22 sanctum sanctorum Latin holy of holies (Exodus 26.34 in the Vulgate). 155.16 winking hard see note to 30.23. 156.28 the wise King of Israel Solomon. See note to 80.11–14. 157.18 Michael Cantacuzene the name was probably suggested either by a soldier Cantacuzenus in the imperial service noted by Comnena (381: ‘Cantacuzéne’), or by that of John Cantacuzene (c. 1292–1383), Byzantine emperor 1347–54: see Gibbon, Ch. 63. 157.34–35 peep of light early dawn. 157.35–36 pass . . . over cause to go across. 158.4 Under grant of life as I may live; with profound respect. 158.10–12 the worshippers of Bel . . . our provinces in Bel and the Dragon (Apocrypha) the Babylonian priests and their wives and children enter the temple of the idol Bel by night and consume the food left by the king for the god. 158.18 the sacred ink . . . chancery see note to 84.36–38. 159.8 make good cheer feast and make merry.

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159.12 whom Alexius delighted to honour see Esther 6.6, 7, 9, 11. 159.22–24 the veneration . . . hold sacred the Orthodox tradition enjoins fasting from meat and dairy products during an extended Advent covering the 40 days before Christmas (beginning on 15 November). In the western Church, Advent does not begin until the fourth Sunday before Christmas. 159.27–29 on the very day . . . not yet conquered for Bohemond’s claim to Antioch in the fiction see Historical Note, 499. 160.16–17 The boasted cup of Nestor . . . down to us in The Odyssey, 3.40–68, Telemachus drinks from a golden cup on his arrival at King Nestor’s court. 160.37–39 equal to that of the Graces . . . Parnassus i.e. corresponding in number to the three Graces (see note to 129.42) rather than the nine Muses (see note to 16.4). 161.22–23 the delicate . . . Gascogne grape the former duchy of Gascony in SW France included Bordeaux, noted for its fine vineyards. 161.26 darkness almost palpable see John Milton, Paradise Lost (1667), 12.187–88: ‘Darkness must overshadow all his bounds,/ Palpable darkness, and blot out three days’. 161.39–40 gather itself pause to recover breath or summon up its energies. 162.9–10 a descendant of Charlemagne see note to 359.6–37. 162.24 put upon offer to. 162.25–26 beard not the lion in his den proverbial: see ODEP, 35. 163.14–15 Let thy arms be rent . . . heels when a knight was degraded from that rank his sword would be broken and his spurs cut from his heels: Charles Mills, The History of Chivalry; or, Knighthood and its Times, 2 vols (London, 1825), 1.60: CLA, 231. 163.35 Ursel see Historical Note, 501. 164.11–12 employed . . . an Argive spring Scott may be thinking of The Trojan Women by Euripides (c. 480–406  ), lines 205–06, where one of the captive Trojan women says ‘Maybe I will draw water from Peirene, a pitiable servant at the sacred springs’. Peirene is not in Argos (NE Peloponesia), but the latter was Agamemnon’s homeland. 164.28 bethought him of remembered. 164.40 an engine hurls a stone referring to a military catapult. 167.1 Zedekias when the Babylonians under Nebuchadnezzar captured Jerusalem, the Jewish king Zedekiah was blinded and carried into captivity with most of his people (2 Kings 25.1–7). 167.1–2 the Ides of March in the old Roman calendar, 15 March. This was the date of Julius Caesar’s assassination. 167.3 filling up the period completing the sentence. 168.33–34 if these necromantic vassals . . . raise the devil necromancers, or magicians, were thought to be able to conjure up the devil. 169.12–17 motto not identified; probably by Scott. 169.27 Sylvan the name means ‘animal living in the woods’, but see also note to 271.14. 170.9 bemoaning itself lamenting its lot. 170.12 play thyself amuse yourself. 171.23–24 to which . . . the Ourang Outang the term is first recorded by a Dutch physician in Java in 1631. 171.33–36 The last we have heard of . . . Europeans the particular incident has not been traced. For an account of the slaughter of orang-utans by European travellers throughout the nineteenth century see Barbara Harrison, Orang-Utan (Singapore, 1987), 15–22. 171.39–40 the ancient belief in . . . satyrs Pan was the Greek god of

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flocks and shepherds. He was accompanied by sylvans (wood spirits) and satyrs (spirits of the woods and hills, with the legs of goats or some other bestial feature). 171.42 the satyr seen by Saint Anthony in the desert Antony of Egypt (251–356) lived as an ascetic in complete solitude at Pispir from 286 to 306. In legend he is said to have met centaurs and satyrs in the desert. ‘If the satyr was the orang-outang, the great human ape . . ., one of that species might actually be shown alive at Alexandria in the reign of Constantine. Yet some difficulty will still remain about the conversation which St. Anthony held with one of these pious savages in the desert of Thebais’ (Gibbon, 2.507n: Ch. 25). 172.1–5 the annals . . . any other case Alexius’s menagerie may have been suggested by the Ottoman imperial collection of unusual animals which flourished in the 16th and 17th century in the Palace of the Porphyrogenitus adjoining that of Blachernae. There is a general reference to this collection in Dallaway, 116 and note. 172.12 the man of the woods the phrase is a translation of the Malayan original of ‘orang-outang’: Oliver Goldsmith, An History of the Earth, and Animated Nature, 2nd edn, 8 vols (London, 1779), 4.189 (‘the Ourang Outang, or Wild Man of the Woods’). 172.38 take his opponent at advantage act when he had the advantage of his opponent. 173.26 rescue or no rescue a formula meaning that he would retain the obligations of a prisoner even if subsequently released by his friends: see Jean Froissart, Chronicles, trans. John Bourchier, Lord Berners, 2 vols (1523–25, repr. London, 1812; CLA, 29), 1.537: ‘yelde you my prisoner, rescue or no rescue, or els ye are but deed’. 173.29 the lay of Androcles and the Lion Androcles, a runaway slave, extracted a thorn from a lion’s paw. Recaptured, he was sentenced to fight with a lion, but the lion in question turned out to be the animal he had helped and proved affectionate rather than aggressive. The story is told by Aulus Gellius (c.  130–180). 174.23 The poor monster, as Trinculo might have called him see The Tempest, 2.2.148. 174.39–40 the Cathedral of Saint Sophia the existing Hagia Sophia (see note to 49.10), the third church of that name on the site, was built under the emperor Justinian in 532–37. It became a mosque on the fall of Constantinople in 1453 and a museum in 1934. 174.42 Saint Swithin bishop of Winchester from 852 till his death in 862; he was canonised in popular estimation in 971, when his remains were translated to a shrine in the cathedral. 175.9 drew up behind came up close behind. 175.21–22 die the death suffer death; be put to death. 176.2 Yield . . . rescue or no rescue see note to 173.26. 176.37–38 hold the candle compare Romeo and Juliet, 1.4.37–38: ‘For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase;/ I’ll be a candle-holder and look on’ (see Ray, 3 and ODEP, 100). 177.15 With your patience by your leave. 178.15–17 if any thing . . . suffering female ‘Amid the various duties of knighthood, that of protecting the female sex, respecting their persons, and redressing their wrongs, . . . was represented as one of the principal objects of the institution’ (‘An Essay on Chivalry’ (1818), in Prose Works, 6.26). 178.26 a universal blot James Thomson, Autumn (1730), lines 1040–44: ‘A solid shade, immense. Sunk in the gloom,/ Magnificent and vast, are heaven and earth./ Order confounded lies; all beauty void;/ Distinction lost; and gay variety/ One universal blot’.

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178.31 Saint Dunstan 909–988, Archbishop of Canterbury from 960; he was recognised as a saint soon after his death. 178.41 resolve me on free me from uncertainty concerning. 179.8–13 motto not identified; probably by Scott. 179.32 Alguric the Hun probably fictitous, his name a conflation of Attila the Hun (c. 406–53) and Alaric the Goth (c. 370–410). 179.38 in the way of discovering likely to discover; with a good chance of discovering. 180.4–5 Dionysius the tyrant . . . Syracuse Dionysius I, ruler of Syracuse in Sicily 405–367  , built a prison consisting of a large underground cave in the shape of an ear which focused the conversations of the prisoners so that they could be overheard from an adjoining room. See P[atrick] Brydone, A Tour through Sicily and Malta, new edn (London, 1806), 155–58: CLA, 318. 180.7–9 it has been transported . . . Loretto the Holy House at Loreto, near Ancona in E Central Italy, is alleged to have been inhabited by the Virgin Mary at the time of the Annunciation by an angel of her forthcoming motherhood. When threatened with destruction by the Turks in 1291 it is said to have been miraculously transported by angels from Nazareth to Dalmatia (W Croatia), and thence to Loreto in 1295. 180.21–22 Saint George see note to 28.39–40. 180.36 Bradamante a maiden warrior in Orlando innamorato by Matteo Boiardo (1441–94) and Orlando furioso by Ludovico Ariosto (1474–1533). 180.37 Zoé kai psyche Greek life and soul; i.e. my dearest darling. 181.5 I shame me not in procuring I am not ashamed to procure. 181.19 iron-witted Richard III, 4.2.28 (compare 151.31 above). 182.39 indifferently well pretty well. 183.4 Cytherean associated with Venus, the Roman goddess of love. The name derives from an island (Kythira) off the S coast of Peloponesia, Greece, one of the islands which claims to have been where Venus’s Greek prototype Aphrodite landed after her birth from the sea. 183.6 the genii who attended on the eastern talismans see, among many examples of genii appearing when talismans are touched or magic rings rubbed, ‘The Story of the Second Calendar, a King’s Son’, Arabian Nights’ Entertainments: ‘as soon as I touch a talisman, which is at the entrance into my chamber, the genie appears’ (Weber, 1.44). 183.15 in so far to that extent. 183.18 Isis the principal goddess of ancient Egypt, she became worshipped as a nature goddess throughout the Roman world, and in due course became an embodiment of the universal goddess. 183.27 the sport of circumstances Byron, Don Juan, Canto 5 (1821), lines 135–36: ‘Men are the sport of circumstances, when/ The circumstances seem the sport of men.’ 183.29 The favour of Venus . . . Mars alluding to the Roman goddess of love and god of war. 183.30 the god armipotent see ‘The Knight’s Tale’ in Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales, I (A) 1982 (‘Mars armypotente [mighty in arms]’). 183.32 wreathed with the myrtle representing love: see 184.12–13. 184.10 auguring bad fortune like the raven the raven was believed to be a bird of ill omen, as in its anticipation of Duncan’s death in Macbeth, 1.5.35–37. 184.10 blasted oak a common image in 18th-century poetry; the oak was a sacred tree, and a blasted oak is therefore associated with powers of evil or misfortune. 184.10–11 on the left hand in augury birds flying on the left presage misfortune.

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184.11–12 faint heart never won fair lady proverbial: Ray, 104; ODEP, 238. 184.13 the laurels of Mars a traditional sign of distinction achieved in battle. 184.15 Cytherea or Naxos for Cytherea see note to 183.4. Naxos is an island in the Aegean where Ariadne, abandoned by Theseus, is supposed to have been found and wedded by Dionysus. 184.37–38 thou wantest not thy lantern to discern an honest man Diogenes of Sinope (see note to 93.2–3) is said to have gone about Athens with a lantern in broad daylight, saying that he was seeking an honest man. 185.29 en brut French uncut. 186.26–27 an expressive, though vulgar phrase, the sneaking kindness the first use of the word ‘sneaking’ in this sense recorded by OED is in Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa (1748). 186.28 myrmidons the followers of Achilles in The Iliad. 187.19 Saint Dunstan see note to 178.31. 189.32 overborne by odds borne down by superior numbers. 189.36–40 the distinction seems a strange one . . . tell thee compare Charles Mills, The History of Chivalry; or, Knighthood and its Times, 2 vols (London, 1825), 1.263: ‘Originally, in most countries, no person could tourney unless he proved himself to be maternally a knight of gentle birth, by four descents [i.e. generations], and displayed a legitimate coat-armour. But this regulation was every where relaxed in favour of hardy [i.e. bold] knights who could not boast of ancestral honours.’ 189.42 the exorciser’s rap a magician’s knock to summon a spirit. 190.27 Death and furies the oath is common in the older English drama. 191.36–37 Bevis of Hampton the hero of a popular 14th-century verse romance of that name. ‘Hampton’ is Southampton (see note to 28.30–34). 192.11 come in join in the battle. 192.35 Militat . . . Cupido Latin every lover is a soldier, and Cupid has a camp of his own. See Ovid (43  –17  ), Amores, 1.9.1–2. 193.1 that envious churl Time . . . Cupid ‘Time clipping Cupid’s wings’ was a favourite subject of early modern artists. 193.26–28 Socrates . . . Xantippe Socrates was a leading Greek philosopher (469–399  ). His wife, Xanthippe, was said to have been a scold. 193.29 Phryne a Greek prostitute of the 4th cent.  , famous for her beauty. 193.31 the cynic Diogenes see note to 93.2–3. 194.41–195.4 the celebrated siege of Troy . . . leman in Greek legend, the cowardly Paris, son of Priam King of Troy, carried off from Greece Helen, wife of the King of Sparta. In the conflict that followed and which ended with the destruction of Troy, his brothers, including finally Hector, were killed, and Paris himself was shot by Philoctetes. 195.22 cry craven surrender. 195.38 par amours French by way of (sexual) love. 195.40 By the rood by the Cross (of Christ). A common medieval oath. 195.43 Under favour with all submission; subject to correction. 196.19 in fault of in the absence of. 197.28 put upon offered. 198.9 hold the lists against engage in jousting with. 200.8 God show the right see note to 144.25. 200.11 by the mass by the eucharist. A common medieval oath. 200.15 Dan Cupid Love’s Labour’s Lost, 3.1.170. The Spanish term Dan (‘Sir’, ‘Lord’) is applied humorously. 201.16–17 take it along with you bear in mind.

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202.11 thews and sinews see note to 10.12. 202.19 written upon his forehead Byron, Cain (1821), 2.1.75. Cain was dedicated to Scott. 202.21 the thick-coming doubts and suspicions compare Macbeth, 5.3.38–39, where Lady Macbeth’s doctor says that ‘she is troubled with thickcoming fancies/ That keep her from her rest’. 203.7 It skills not it doesn’t matter. 203.10 Bower of Love compare the Bowre of Blisse in Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene, Bk 2 (1590), Canto 12. 204.25 pass for being be taken for. 205.3 set at defiance bid defiance to. 206.5 the foul fiend the Devil. 206.9 get thee behind me, Satan Matthew 16.23; Mark 8.33; Luke 4.8. 206.35–36 motto George Crabbe, The Library (1781), lines 563–64. 207.38 stock or stone see Wisdom 14.21 in the Apocrypha: ‘for men . . . did ascribe unto stones and stocks [idols of stone and wood] the incommunicable name [of God]’. 209.12–13 the troth . . . Odin in northern mythology Odin, the principal god, received wisdom from the severed head of the god Mimir. He was known as Woden by the early Anglo-Saxons. Scott may have in mind as a similar survival of pagan beliefs into an officially Christian society the Stone of Odin, one of the Stones of Stenness in Orkney before its destruction in 1814: lovers would pledge their faith by linking hands through a hole in the stone (see notes to The Pirate, Magnum, 25.50, 315–16). 209.32 Waltheoff see note to 93.22. 209.33 Engelred the name of a fictitous character in Ivanhoe,     8, ed. Graham Tulloch, 206.40. 209.36–37 Ederic the Forester . . . Saxons Wild Edric was a Shropshire leader of opposition to the Normans from 1067–70, who made peace with William, but apparently rebelled later. He is the central figure in the novel by Anne Ker, Edric, The Forester; or, The Mysteries of the Haunted Chamber (London, 1817), though the emphasis there is on his support for William the Conqueror against nobles who continue to oppose the Norman invasion. 209.42 they made a step backwards in civilisation this appears to be imaginary: Scott is combining disparate material creatively in this passage. 210.16 twenty-one years complete Scottish terminology indicating the attainment of the twenty-first birthday. 210.20 niddering Scott adopted this mistaken form of the Old English nithing (‘villain’) from Robert Henry, The History of Great Britain, from the First Invasion of it by the Romans under Julius Caesar, 6 vols (London, 1771–93), 3.363 (‘Nidering’): CLA, 28. See also Ivanhoe,     8, ed. Graham Tulloch, note to 130.5. 210.39–40 later ages have ascribed it to the Druids Graham Tulloch observes (Ivanhoe,     8, note to 17.42): ‘the ancient Celtic Druids performed their religious ceremonies in oak groves. In the late 17th century the antiquary John Aubrey associated the stone circle at Stonehenge with them, and by the 19th century the theory of the druidic origins of stone circles had gained general acceptance.’ 211.3 The torch of the Saxon Cupid compare ‘Hymen’s torch, gay Cupid’s light’: Sylvia Bowden, ‘An Epithalamium’, line 11, in Samuel Bowden, Poems on Various Subjects (London, 1754), 210. 211.5 though undeserved by the perfidy of either i.e. though neither of them had been perfidious, which would have merited adversity. 211.9–10 William Rufus for William II, King of England 1087–1100, see note to 73.34–37. He increased further the severity of the forest laws

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operating in the New Forest, Hampshire (Hereward’s county), which had been established as a royal hunting preserve by William the Conquerer in 1079. Rufus was killed by an arrow while hunting in the Forest. 211.17 Saint Augustin see note to 94.33. 211.17 Kenelm see note to 94.28. 212.7 the Strait the English Channel. 212.19–20 purchasing pardon . . . the Holy Land ‘Anxious restless guilt hoped that pardon might be procured by him who underwent the pains of pilgrimage, and who made the sacrifice of prayer in a land which, above all other countries, seemed to have been favored by the Deity’: Mills, 1.5. 214.7 Martha unlike her sister Mary, Martha’s priority, as recounted in Luke 10.38–42, was her domestic duties. 214.7 in all form with all due ceremony. 215.25–27 The Saxons . . . Rome Martha is assuring the Lady of Aspramonte that the Saxons acknowledged fully the authority of the Roman Church and accepted its teaching, though it is not clear which possible misunderstanding on the Lady’s part she is attempting to dispel. In raising the question of heresy she may be alluding to the Celtic Church, established in Britain before the arrival of the mission of St Augustine from Rome in 596–97, but that Church’s disagreement with Rome over the dating of Easter, together with all other matters of difference between the two Churches (which involved matters of practice rather than of doctrine), had been largely resolved at the Synod of Whitby in 664. In continental Europe and the eastern Mediterranean there had been a series of arcane disputes on the appropriate date for observing Easter from the 2nd to the 5th centuries (for the earliest see Gibbon, 2.40: Ch. 16); but until the introduction of the Gregorian calendar in the Western Church in 1582, there was no fundamental disagreement between the Eastern and Western Churches over the date of Easter Day, which is celebrated on the first Sunday following the full moon that occurs on the vernal equinox (21 March) or any of the next 28 days. On the other hand, there were in existence at the time of the novel those ‘disputable doctrines’ which had led to the separation of Western and Eastern Churches in 1054, most notably the rejection by Constantinople of the ‘filioque’ clause added to the Nicene Creed in 589: this asserts that the Holy Spirit proceeds from God the Son as well God the Father. The Eastern Church also rejected the ecclesiastical centrality of Rome in general and papal supremacy in particular, the doctrine of Purgatory, clerical celibacy, and the use of unleavened bread in the eucharist. 216.10 a female Quixote the phrase refers to Charlotte Lennox’s novel The Female Quixote; or the Adventures of Arabella (1752), which is modelled on Cervantes’s Don Quixote. 216.12 squire of the body personal attendant. 217.2 infringing on breaking; violating; transgressing; contravening. 217.8–9 blade was never so true to shaft the phrase is probably proverbial: compare ‘Sworn friends, as the haft is to the knife’ (Kenilworth,     11, ed. J. H. Alexander, 36.33). 218.20 judicial combat see note to 301.38–39. 218.20–21 the present the present occasion; the affair in hand. 218.36 in some sort in some way; somehow or other. 219.11–12 the most Christian kingdom P. Mathieu notes that ‘The Kings of France cary the Title of Most Christian since Clovis [465–511, King of the Franks]’, and that Charles the Bald (823–77) had used the title at his coronation in 843 (The History of Lewis the Eleventh, trans. Edward Grimeston, 2 vols (London, 1614), 2.70). 220.1 strain courtesies stand upon ceremony.

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221.2 under shield see note to 7.21. 221.9 break through transgress. 221.28–34 motto Richard II, 5.3.137–42. The expression ‘several powers’ means ‘various forces’. 222.39 the foul fiend the Devil. 223.8 the full soul loatheth the honey-comb see Proverbs 27.7. 224.5–6 spending my life . . . Scotland the King of Scots at the time of the novel’s action was actually Edgar (1072–1107), who acceded in 1097 and is recorded as making use of English and Norman volunteers. The first William to be King of Scots was William the Lyon (1143–1214), who acceded in 1165: he was considered an illustrious monarch and warrior, so the mistake may be deliberate. 224.15 bringing round effecting, doing. 224.28–29 till the blades . . . ribs compare Mark Antony’s words to the conspirators in Julius Caesar, 5.1.39–40: ‘Villains, you did not so when your vile daggers/ Hack’d one another in the sides of Cæsar.’ 225.4–5 the petty formula . . . drudge see Gibbon, 4.387 (Ch. 44): ‘the divorced wife resigned the bunch of keys, by the delivery of which she had been invested with the government of the family’. 225.7 Quirites Roman citizens. 225.26 snaffle and curb a snaffle is a simple bridle-bit. A curb is a more powerful device used with unruly horses, consisting of a chain or strap passing under the lower jaw, and fastened to the upper ends of the branches of the bit; the reins being attached to the lower ends of the branches, leverage is obtained for forcing the chain against the jaw. 225.29–30 our laws . . . in blood Draco’s codification of the Athenian legal system in the late 7th century  was proverbial for its severity, and is described by Gibbon as ‘written in characters of blood’ (4.431: Ch. 44). See also Christopher Marlowe, The Jew of Malta (performed c. 1590, published 1633), Prologue, lines 20–21. 227.14–15 you have lived a hypocrite . . . die one see note to 8.7–11. 228.5 devil was unchained according to Roger de Hoveden, the French king, hearing of the agreement for the release of Richard I in 1193, at once sent word to John to take care of himself because the devil was now let loose (Chronica Magistri Rogeri de Houedene, ed. William Stubbs, 4 vols (London, 1868–71), 3.216–17): see CLA, 27. The story, with its use of ‘unchained’, a free translation of the Latin solutus, was repeated from Robert Henry, The History of Great Britain, from the First Invasion of it by the Romans under Julius Caesar, 6 vols (London, 1771–93), 3.154–55 (see CLA, 28), and used by Scott in Ivanhoe: see     8, ed. Graham Tulloch, note to 119.41. 228.18 Surely not certainly not. 228.40 the traitor who betrays with a kiss like Judas: Matthew 26.49; Mark 14.45; Luke 22.47–48. 229.13–14 sow with salt the place where it stood in order to sterilise it. See Judges 9.45. 229.31 the die is cast proverbial: ODEP, 186. The words are derived from the Latin ‘Iacta alea esto’ (let the die be cast), said to have been said by Julius Caesar as he crossed the Rubicon and marched on Rome in 49  . 230.2–3 motto see Thomas Campbell, Gertrude of Wyoming (1809), 3.19.9. 230.8–9 in all their bearings in all of their aspects or relations to other things. 230.39 point of war military musical signal. 231.10–12 Sancta Sophia . . . mosque see note to 174.39–40. 231.18–20 invisible huntsmen . . . Germany in 1796 Scott published as ‘The Chase’ (later called ‘The Wild Huntsman’) his translation of the retelling

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of an old legend as ‘Der wilde Jäger’ (1778) by Gottfried August Bürger (1747–94), in which an impious hunter is condemned to pursue the chase ‘Till time itself shall have an end’, heard but not seen by ‘the lated peasant’ and the ‘wakeful priest’. 231.21 was up was in progress. 233.13 passages of arms as in Ivanhoe,     8, ed. Graham Tulloch, 66.36, a passage of arms is a tournament in which a group of knights take on all challengers. Graham Tulloch notes that Scott seems to have been the first to use this phrase in English, apparently basing it on the French pas d’armes, the name given to a stylised representation of the defence of a passage or crossroads against all comers. 233.15 God show the right see note to 144.25. 233.27 take burthen for assume responsibility for. 234.30–31 fill up the cry join in the revolutionary shouting or chase. 234.35 Mercury in Roman mythology Mercury was the messenger and herald of the gods. 234.36 determine for decide upon. 235.6 God alone . . . knows the thoughts of our heart a frequent biblical concept: see e.g. Psalm 44.21. 235.23 passages of arms see note to 233.13. 235.29–30 what shift I shall make for what I shall do in order to procure. 236.9 Vexhelia the name has not been found elsewhere. 237.4 on foot astir, on the move. 237.13 Lucina-fer-opem Latin Lucina, give your aid. From Terence, Andria (produced 166  ), line 473. Lucina (Juno) was the Roman goddess of childbirth. 237.22 Scutari Üsküdar, on the E side of the Bosphorus opposite Istanbul (Constantinople). 237.37 set their hands to the plough see Luke 9.62: ‘No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God’. 238.21 Under favour with all due respect. 239.7 hedge ruffians mean ruffians. 239.17 a letter of credence a letter of introduction. 239.19 It skills not talking there is no good in talking. 240.19 sowed, as heralds now call it see note to 153.16–18. 241.16–22 motto The Taming of the Shrew, 5.2.155–60. 243.9 diligent in searching it out . . . Scripture see e.g. Psalms 64.6, 77.6; Matthew 2.8. 244.43 As you live by bread compare Luke 4.4. 245.13 Hero and Leander see note to 142.14–15. 246.6 their . . . reverences a respectful expression, used here with ironical overtones. 247.19 Apulian from the region of Apulia in SE Italy. 247.21 ultramontane from the other (here the N) side of the Alps. 247.32 Charon see note to 70.33. 247.33 put . . . in memory remind. 247.42–43 Persons among the Crusaders . . . feathers the first record of this punishment is in 1189, when Richard I decreed that any robber sailing with the crusaders should be so treated (Mills, 2.19). 248.15–16 taken a view . . . of had a look at. 248.34 Pope Joan according to a 13th-century legend, in 855 a distinguished female scholar in male guise became pope as John VIII. After reigning for more than two years, she gave birth to a child and died shortly afterwards.

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249.16 squires of the body personal attendants. 249.25 Otranto a seatown on the heel of Italy, in the district of Apulia (Puglia). 249.25–26 Prince Tancred see Historical Note, 501. 250.12 involved in an idle form i.e. disguised as something trivial. 250.32–33 Raymond of Provence see Historical Note, 500. 250.38–39 Count of Lorraine the Lower see Historical Note, 500. 251.15 Under your favour with all submission; subject to correction. 251.20 turn and tear me i.e. behaving like a wild animal at bay. 251.25 take some order with do something to see about. 252.8 bower maiden chamber-maid; lady in waiting. 252.12–13 Their solemn vow . . . the plough see note to 237.37. 252.34 this blessed sign a representation of the Cross: see note to 117.6. 253.28 the Chancery of Heaven see Lawrence Sterne, Tristram Shandy, Vol. 6 (1762), Ch. 8: ‘The  , which flew up to heaven’s chancery with the oath [of Uncle Toby], blushed as he gave it in;—and the   , as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever.’ 253.36 occasioned our countermarching to be resulted in our countermarching being. 254.35–36 a suit of armour . . . Milan could afford from the early middle ages Milan in N Italy was known for its fine steel armour. 256.14 a proverb of the time . . . horse see ODEP, 67. 257.11 the many-billowed Hellespont the term ‘many-billowed’ has not been found before Scott. It can be used to translate either the common Homeric word ‘B@8bN8@4F$H’ (e.g. The Iliad, 1.34), or the word ‘B@8L6b:T