“In few words: while he pleaded for another, he won me for himself. If at least”— with that she sighed—“he would account it winning; for his fame had so framed the way to my mind that his presence—so full of beauty, sweetness, and noble conversation—had entered there before he vouchsafed to call for the keys.
“O lord, how did my soul hang upon his lips while he spoke! Oh, when he in feeling manner would describe the love of his friend, ‘How well,’ thought I, ‘does love between those lips!’ When he would with daintiest eloquence stir pity in me toward Philoxenus, ‘Why sure,’ said I to myself, ‘Helen, be not afraid: this heart cannot lack pity.’ And when he would extol the deeds of Philoxenus, who indeed had but waited on him therein, ‘Alas,’ thought I, ‘good Philoxenus, how evil doth it become thy name to be subscribed to this letter!’ What shall I say? Nay, what should I not say, noble knight, I who am not ashamed—nay, am delighted—thus to express my own passions?
“Days passed; his eagerness for his friend never decreased; my affection to him ever increased. At length, in the way of ordinary courtesy, I obtained of him—who suspected no such matter—this, his picture: the only Amphialus, I fear, that I shall ever enjoy.
“For grown bolder, or madder, or bold with madness, I uncovered my affection unto him. But, Lord, I shall never forget how anger and courtesy at one instant appeared in his eyes when he heard that motion—how with his blush he taught me shame. In sum, he left nothing un-assayed which might disgrace himself to grace his friend, in sweet terms making me receive a most resolute refusal of himself. But when he found that his presence did far more persuade for himself than his speech could persuade for his friend, he left my court, hoping that forgetfulness—which commonly waits upon absence—would make room for his friend. To his friend he would not utter thus much, I think, for a kind fear not to grieve him, or perchance—though he cares little for me—for a certain honorable gratefulness not yet to uncover so much of my secrets. He meant, as it should seem, to travel into far countries until his friend’s affections either ceased or prevailed.
“But within a while Philoxenus came to see how the fruits of his friend’s labor were coming on, when—as in truth I cared not much how he took it—he found me sitting, beholding this picture of Amphialus, I know not with how affectionate a countenance, but I am sure with a most affectionate mind. I straight found jealousy and disdain took hold of him, and yet the froward9 pain of my own heart made me so delight to punish him—whom I esteemed the chiefest hindrance in my way—that when he sued for my favor with humble gesture and vehement speeches, I told him that I would hear him more willingly if he would speak for Amphialus as well as Amphialus had done for him.
“He never answered me,” said Helen, “but, pale and quaking, he went straight10 away; and straight my heart misgave some evil outcome. And yet, though I had authority enough to have stayed him—as in these fatal things it falls out that the high-working powers make second causes unwittingly accessory to their determinations—I did no further, but sent a footman of mine, whose faithfulness to me I well knew, to follow him from place to place and bring me word of his proceedings: which (alas!) have brought forth that which I must ever rue.
“For he had traveled scarce a day’s journey out of my country, when (not far from this place) he overtook Amphialus, who (by succoring a distressed lady) had been here stayed. By and by he called him to fight with him, protesting that one of them should die. You may easily judge how strange it was to Amphialus, whose heart could accuse itself of no fault but too much affection toward him. He refused to fight with Philoxenus and would fain have made him understand, but (as my servant told me) the more Amphialus went back, the more Philoxenus followed, calling him traitor and coward, yet never telling him the cause of this strange alteration. ‘Ah, Philoxenus,’ said Amphialus, ‘I know I am no traitor, and you well know I am no coward: but I pray you, content yourself with thus much, and let this satisfy you, that I love you, since I bear thus much of you.’ But Philoxenus, leaving words, drew his sword and gave Amphialus a great blow or two, which, but for the goodness of his armor, would have slain him.
“And yet so far did Amphialus contain himself, stepping aside and saying to him: ‘Well, Philoxenus, thus much villainy am I content to put up with, not any longer for thy sake—for I have no cause to love you, since you injure me and will not tell me the cause—but for your virtuous father’s sake, to whom I am so much bound. I pray you, go away and conquer your own passions, and you shall make me soon yield to be your servant.’
“Philoxenus would not attend his words but still struck so fiercely at Amphialus that, in the end, nature prevailed above determination and he was fain to defend himself, and withal so to offend him, that by an unlucky blow poor Philoxenus fell dead at his feet, having had time only to speak some words, whereby Amphialus knew that I was the cause. Amphialus forthwith gave such tokens of true-felt sorrow, that as my servant said, no imagination could conceive greater woe.
“But by and by an unhappy occasion made Amphialus surpass himself in sorrow, for Philoxenus was but newly dead when there came to the same place the aged and virtuous Timotheus. Having heard of his son’s sudden and passionate manner of parting from my court, he had followed him as speedily as he could, but (alas) not so speedily but that he found him dead before he could overtake him. Though my heart is nothing but a stage of tragedies, yet I must confess, it is even unable to bear the miserable representation of their tragedy, knowing Amphialus and Timotheus as I have done. Alas, what sorrow, what amazement, and what shame was in Amphialus when he saw his dear foster-father find him the killer of his only son? In my heart I know he wished mountains had lain upon him to keep him from that meeting. As for Timotheus, sorrow of his son and (I think principally) unkindness of Amphialus so devoured his vital spirits that, able to say no more but ‘Amphialus, Amphialus, have I? …’ he sank to the earth, and presently died.
“But not my tongue, though daily used to complaints, no, nor my heart (which is nothing but sorrow) if it were turned to tongues, would dare undertake to show the unspeakableness of his grief. His next deed serves to make you know my fortune: he threw away his armor, even this which you have upon you—which, when I saw just now, I vainly hoped he had put on again. Then he ran into the thickest of the woods, as if ashamed of light, lamenting and even crying out so pitifully that my servant (though of a fortune not used to much tenderness) could not refrain from weeping when he told it to me.
“This servant overtook him, but Amphialus drew his sword, the only part of his arms (God knows to what purpose) he carried about him, and threatened to kill him if he followed. With that he bade him deliver this bitter message, that he well enough found that I was the cause of all this mischief, and that if I were a man, he would go over the world to kill me. And he bade me assure myself that of all creatures in the world, he most hated me.
“Ah, sir knight (whose ears I think by this time are tired with the rugged ways of these misfortunes), now weigh my case, if at least you know what love is. For this cause have I left my country, putting in hazard how my people will in time deal by me and adventuring what perils or dishonors might ensue, only to follow him who proclaims hate against me and to bring my neck unto him, if that may redeem my trespass and assuage his fury.
“And now sir,” said she, “you have your request. I pray you take pains to guide me to the next town, that there I may gather such of my company again as your valor has left me.”
Palladius willingly condescended, but before they began to go, there came Clitophon. He had been something hurt by one of them and had pursued him a good way, until at length overtaking him and ready to kill him, he understood these men were servants to the fair queen Helen and that the cause of their enterprise was for nothing but to make Amphialus prisoner, whom they knew their mistress sought, for she concealed her sorrow from nobody.
But Clitophon, very sorry for what happened, came back to comfort the queen and help those who were hurt in the best sort he could. He was framing friendly constructions of this rashly undertaken enmity, when in comes another (till that time unseen) all armed with his beaver down, who, first looking round about upon the company, as soon as he spied Palladius, drew his sword and, making no other prologue, let fly at him. But Palladius (sorry for so much harm as had already happened) sought rather