



Produced by Nigel Britton




The Pilgrim of Castile, or El Pelegrino in Su Patria

by Lope de Vega, translated and abridged by William Dutton

published 1621

The First Book

Upon the shore of Barcelona, between the planks of a ship which had
suffered wreck, there appeared as if it had been a parcel of cloth
covered with weed: which being perceived by some fishermen, they
took it into their bark, and carried it along the shore about the
space of two miles, where under the shade of some trees, they
cleaned away the weeds and mud, and found that it was a man in a
trance, who was almost past sense, and without life. These fishers,
moved with compassion, kindled a fire with some branches cut from an
old oak, and he who had been so near the losing of his life, now
recovering it, let them know what countryman he was, by his
complaint: discovered his admiration by his looks; and the feeling
he had of the good which they had done him, by the fire with which
he had to acknowledge it. Nature, doing the accustomed office of a
pitiful mother, sent his blood to restore the more enfeebled parts;
and having brought him almost to his former strength, he was about
to have revealed himself: but thinking it did not fit in so strange
a fortune, he concealed his birth and name, only saying that his
ship suffered wreck in the sea, and seizing of these planks which
the waves had cast upon the shore, he was two days floating amongst
the billows of the sea, who sometimes merciful and then again cruel,
did bring him nearer and then farther from the land, until such time
that the reflux of the water vanquishing the impetuosity of the
tempest, he was cast upon the sands, where the violence of the
stroke having as it were ploughed up his tomb, he thought himself
buried. His return (he said) was from Italy, and the occasion of his
voyage the indulgences of the Jubilee, which was while Clement the
Eighth sat as Pope. And sighing much, amongst the broken speeches of
his story, he let them understand that he missed a companion of his
travels, of whom there was no news to be had, as it seldom happens
that those who do free us from bodily misfortunes can also ease
those of the mind. So he rested this day within one of their cabins,
while the cold night descending, all crowned with stars, did impart
unto mortal creatures rest in conformity with the quality of their
lives, giving desires unto the poor, cares unto the rich, complaints
unto the sad, unto the contented sleep, and jealousy to the amorous.
In the midst thereof he heard a lyre played upon, and according with
a voice, which in singing complained of a shepherdess's cruelty. The
pilgrim, although weary, loved music more than rest, and went out of
his cabin into a meadow, from whence seeing about a dozen houses,
and among some osiers the author of those plaints, called him from a
distance. The singer replied fearfully, but the pale light of the
moon, revealing the secrets of the night, made him see that it was a
poor man, and without arms. He then showed him a plank lying amongst
reeds over a little brook, giving its murmuring unto the
solitariness of the place and silence of the night; which when he
had passed, they saluted one the other courteously, especially he
which came (for strangers are always courteous out of necessity);
and they sat down together upon the grass.

No sooner had the pilgrim informed himself of the name of the
village, of the lord thereof, and how far it was distant from
Barcelona, when they saw two men approaching, who instead of
saluting them presented two arquebuses to their faces, and instilled
a thousand fears in their hearts. The stranger told them that they
could take nothing from them but his life--which he esteemed little
(and six hours ago much less): the other said that he was the son of
a seaman--between a fisherman and a pilot--and that all his goods
consisted of this his instrument, with which he did charm away his
cares. The soldiers did not appear to desire their clothes, because
one was of ship's canvas and the other of coarse cloth; and there is
no robber who is not liberal of that which is of no worth. But they
entreated them to conduct them to the village, which in regard to
the uncertainty of the way they could not find but in a great time.
The fisherman told them that in recompense for their courtesy he
would advise them not to go, forasmuch as the inhabitants were a
warlike people, and did not willingly lodge men of their fashion;
and that it would be impossible to escape from their hands if they
were discovered, because upon the sounding of the first alarm, all
the other villages would answer them, from whom would come a
multitude of labourers, who with divers arms would stop the
passages, and knew the ways so well that there was neither brook,
tree nor rock which they had not at their fingers' ends. To this
counsel the bandoleers replied that they were not alone; but there
were above fifty in their troupe, fighting under the colours of a
Catalonian knight, who had been injured by another more mighty than
he both in means and parentage, although not in strength, reason or
courage. Hardly had they ended these words, when by the light of the
stars they saw the arms of the squadron and its captain of whom they
had spoken, and now being joined all together, they lodged by force
in various houses of the village. The pilgrim, curious to learn (as
are all those who travel in foreign countries), mingled himself
amongst the soldiers, who in no way disliked his company but instead
invited him to supper; after which (the floor serving them for beds)
they entertained one the other with discourse, until the slow dawn
then at the end of February became daybreak. Now that they knew the
pilgrim's history, and he being desirous to learn from them their
own turbulent narrative, his features and comprehension being
pleasing to them, one among them named Ramond told it in this
manner:

The History of Doricles

"In this famous city, which with a wonderful greatness opposeth
Italy, and astonisheth Africa, there was born a lady of noble
parentage, who having been a firebrand unto her country, had no
small conformity with Greek Helen. Her name was Florinda, her beauty
heavenly and her spirit divine, and she having attained unto years
fit for marriage, two knights equal in youth, greatness of means and
nobleness of blood did seek her love, with like hope but unlike
favour. Love, natural inclination, a sympathy of manners or an
influence of the stars did constrain Florinda to love Doricles and
hate Filander, who to shorten his way between hope and possession,
and to prevent his rival, demanded her in marriage of her parents,
who would willingly have given the respect which they might unto the
intercessor and his merits, had they not found that Florinda felt
differently on gaining knowledge of the husband which they
propounded to her. They loved her tenderly and would not constrain
her with rigour, but speaking frankly to Filander, told him that she
would not agree to it, although they had persuaded her as masters,
and commanded as parents. Filander augmenting his love by her
dislike, found out that the love which Florinda bore for Doricles
was the cause of the disdain she bore him. The idea of revenge came
to him, and he formed a resolution to remove from the world the
obstacle of his design, notwithstanding the scandals and evils that
so brutal an enterprise might bring. He armed himself with such
company as he thought good (as he was not unprovided with friends
nor wanted servants) at such times as he thought he might find
Doricles at his mistress's door, or in the street by her house. But
his rival, dubious of his plans, always went well accompanied and
better armed, as one who did not think that he could have a better
friend than his sword. Having caused a ladder to be brought upon the
eve of a feast unto her garden wall, by that means to speak with
her, it happened that Filander coming into that street, and
performing his usual office of spy, heard Florinda speak to
Doricles, and saw her give him a nosegay of jasmine which she had in
her hand, with embracings more insupportable to him than favourable
to Doricles. He charged those which kept the gate, and began with
them a cruel combat: Doricles comes down, and searching Philander in
the midst of his enemies, wounds him and puts him to flight: for a
favoured lover is as a gambler who wins, and in all hazards is
always master of the fortunes of his adversary. Doricles goes away
victorious out of the street, while Filander's love (which had
turned to disdain) became by this encounter a mortal hatred. Then
either side increased their bands; the fire of their anger kindled
all their parents; and although they every day spoke together as if
they had no quarrel, they failed not to fight every night when they
met. In this scandal Doricles lost the enjoying of his mistress,
Filander her favour, she her renown and their parents their honour.
Time increased the love of the one, while the other's hatred
increased his desire of revenge, and of the small pleasure which the
two lovers had, Filander had the least, it seeming better to him in
this business to rely upon his industry for the effecting of that
which his strength would be wanting. Having then learned that
Florinda was to take her pleasure at sea in a bark, he hid two or
three days before a brigantine in a creek not far from the shore, in
which he appareled himself like a Turk, with some other of his
friends (for accomplices in amorous enterprises are seldom wanting)
and with necessary rowers attended his mistress: the Meuxin, which
is the tower where the watch of Barcelona is kept, having discovered
that no enemies sailed in all the sea. In the meantime the contented
Florinda with her companions was not gone from the shore a league
when the counterfeit frigate hoisted sail, and beating the water
with her oars, overtook her bark, the mariners whereof looking for
nothing less than such a surprise, could not resolve either to fly
or to defend themselves; but contrariwise (as the fearful bird
seeing the proud merlin come fiercely stooping upon her, is
accustomed to attend her with couched wings) acknowledging by the
Turkish sails, the power of their enemies which were upon them, and
quitted their oars; and fear (which with a cold shivering ran
through all their veins) gave them no time to discern their deceit.
Finally they boarded them, and two or three of the disguised Turks
leaping into the bark ravished away the new Helen, who was carried
into the brigantine and found herself in the arms of Filander. The
counterfeit words of these pirates, who called him Murat Rais, made
those who remained free in the bark believe that he was the author
of this robbery, and seeing that they took nothing but Florinda,
they returned again to Barcelona, recounting the disgrace in every
street and place where they came, with more cries and tears than
words, which coming to the ears of her parents, caused more grief in
them then can be told, principally in her sorrowful mother, who
bewailed her loss with a passion more befitting her sex than a
generous courage. Mounted scouts in vain spurred up and down the
coast, but Filander (who had brought Florinda into a private garden
house, having taken away his turban and his Turkish disguise)
declared unto her, that the incomparable force of his love had
constrained him to have recourse to this deviousness, and did enjoy
her beauty with assurance, although she took heaven, the trees and
the fountains to witness the violence which was used on her.

Of no less consideration was Doricles' pain, who full of mortal
sorrow, was a thousand times by the sea's side ready to imitate the
despair of those nymphs which saw Europa ravished; nevertheless, and
as well to oblige unto him his mistress's parents, and to satisfy
himself, he bought a ship of an Aragonese, which had brought in
wheat, and loading it with silks, velvets and other merchandise gave
his sails to the wind, turning his prow toward Argiere, Sali, Morat,
Fuchel, Mami, Xafer, and other pirate haunts; Doricles enquired
amongst them of his mistress, and of as many others as he knew did
rob upon the coast of Spain. But when he met with none who could
tell him news of her, whom his rival enjoyed with such pleasure, he
went to Constantinople, and from thence unto Cairo, and having run
along the coast of the kingdoms of Fez, Morocco, Tarndan, and
Tafilet, despairing of ever finding her, whom he had so long time,
and so vainly sought, changed his merchandise into Christian slaves
and returning into Spain, disembarked at Ceuta. While the deceived
Doricles did thus run along the coast of Africa, a servant of
Filander, were it either out of some displeasure which he had taken,
or out of envy of his happiness, revealed all the proceeding unto
the Justice of Barcelona, who in the night following besieged the
garden house, with main force, and took Filander then when he least
expected it. The news and admiration, which his subtility and
surprise caused in the city, moved the citizens confusedly to see
him pass through the streets; through the midst of whom he was borne
to prison, and the sorrowful maid (already made a woman against her
will) was rendered unto her parents; the sentence was mortal, the
opinion common, the approbation general, and the process short. The
scaffold was ready, Filander disposed himself to die, and made it
appear that he had the courage of a knight, and the soul of a
Christian; nevertheless the Viceroy and the Bishop, interposing
their authority, assembled the parents, and having mollified the
nearest, dissuaded Filander's death, in respect of the honour which
they might gain by his life. So of two evils choosing the least,
they had more care to the reparation of their honour, than to the
contentment of revenge; thus they changed the mourning which was
already provided for Filander into nuptial habits, and the scaffold
into a bed, where Florinda was given him in lawful marriage: but the
same day that they joined hands with the contentment and rejoicing
of all the world, Doricles entered into the city, and unlooked for
appeared at the head of two hundred men, whom he had drawn out of
captivity, upon whose casques did shine in silver broidery the arms
of Barcelona and their restorer; his word was I love the King. The
sight and entry of this heroic citizen was exceedingly agreeable and
dear unto the Barcelonians; but the insupportable news of his
rival's marriage with his mistress was no sooner come unto Doricles'
ears, but all the city in arms were divided into factions, and
contrary parties. This suspended the marriage for some days, during
which time it was remonstrated unto Doricles, that he could not
marry Florinda without infamy. He answered that what he could not
have, ought not to be given to Filander, it being in no way
reasonable that this deceiver should gain by fraud what he had lost
by so much travail; and there was no other means to accord him, but
that Florinda should retire into a monastery. This distressed her
parents who were already contented with the satisfaction of their
honour, and the alliance of their son in law, whose parents offered
unto Doricles a beautiful sister of Filander in marriage; but he
unwilling thereunto, demanded justice against Filander for his
crime, offering that after he should be beheaded he would marry
Florinda as widow unto a knight. This last offer was in principle
agreed unto by Filander's and Florinda's parents, but when Doricles
thought that Filander had been led to prison, and from thence to
death, he was given to understand how he was pardoned, and the
marriage consummated. If his sorrow were great it may be known by
the effects, seeing it is now twenty years since, from these
Pyrennean mountains which divide France from Spain, he hath lived as
an outlaw, robbed, pillaged and ruined all that he finds, neither
kingdoms being able to take any revenge. He was one and twenty years
old when he came from Africa: he is now forty one: a strong man,
vigorous of his person, which is much fortified by his austere and
wild life. And that may be believed of him, which was said of
Hercules, that without doubt he had three lives, for if he had had
but one, it had been a miracle that he had not lost it by so many
wounds.

This day about sunrise he came down to see what noise this was,
which the night before had sounded from the sea unto the woods, and
he with about ten of us which followed him having found some boards
which the sea had cast up, upon one of which was seated a young man
in habit of a pilgrim like thyself, pale, in a trance, all drenched
in water, his hair full of dirt and sand, and to conclude, evil
accommodated with this tempest. He commanded us to carry him to that
place where the rest of his men were, and as well to dry him as to
get him breath, which he had almost lost, we endeavoured to unclothe
him, but he refusing to be seen or to be touched by us, it made our
captain suspect that he was not a man, for although he enforced
himself to appear so, yet his actions showed the clean contrary;
when as preventing the desire which the captain had to be cleared of
his sex, this pilgrim of whom I tell thee (taking him aside)
confessed that she was a woman, who came in this habit from Italy,
with her husband; in which voyage, they had suffered shipwreck upon
this shore: and in saying this, shame and desire to defend herself
brought colour into her face, and valour into her heart; with one,
she appeared perfectly fair, and with the other extremely hardy:
Nevertheless her beauty being more powerful to hurt others, than her
strength to defend herself, hath vanquished Doricles' mind, who with
sweet and courteous words persuaded her to rest this day in his
company, during which time her face hath never been without tears.
In the meantime he commanded, after sunset, that his supper and his
bed should be provided in one of those villages, but we instantly
heard that some charge of money which was to be carried to Genoa,
should come this way, and having waited for them until midnight, we
were without both supper and lodging: for this cause we sent two of
our companions before, who are they which found you together with
him who conducted us hither; Doricles is now with this pilgrim; I
cannot tell thee whether he hath gained her or no, nor whether the
bed had made a peace between two minds so absolutely differing: but
certain it is that they are now lodged together."

The soldiers easily perceived that the pilgrim hearing this story,
bathed his face with his tears, and with sad and violent sighings
endeavoured to pierce heaven: they desiring the cause, he remaining
a long time silent, and they still pressing him; in the end he began
to cry out: Oh miserable wretch that I am, I have lost my honour, my
glory is destroyed, my hope is dead, by the hands and weakness of a
woman. Oh that ever the sea pardoned my life, since that with so
much pity, it reserved thine, to the end that my eyes might be
witnesses (after so many labours and dangers) of such an offence.
Well did the soldiers know that this was the man whom the pilgrim
respected, and the true north star unto which she turned the needle
of her affection: but they endeavouring to comfort him, so much
increased his fury, that drawing forth his sword out of his
pilgrim's staff, the outside whereof served as a scabbard, he ran
enraged out of the house unto the house where the captain lay, and
there gave such blows upon the door, and such loud cries, that the
captain thinking he had been assailed by the Justice or by the
inhabitants of that place, leaped out of his bed in his shirt, his
pistol in his hand, and opening the door asked Who was there? A
wretched man, answered the pilgrim with an incredible fierceness,
and one from whom thou hast taken his honour, with this vile woman
which thou dost possess. Doricles discharged his pistol and the
pilgrim turning his body, the bullet lit in his arm. All the company
ran thither at the noise, and the valiant Catalonian disposed
himself to strike quicker than the lightning come out of thunder
sent by Jove against the giants, when the miserable pilgrim woman,
embracing him with prayers, begged the pilgrim's life, saying unto
Doricles, that this man was he whom she did only acknowledge for her
master, and on the other side assuring her desperate husband that
she had not transgressed against her honour, neither in deed, word
nor thought; because his prayers had not vanquished her, and his
threats could never. I do not know if it ought to be believed of a
woman: the history commendeth her chastity, and I do religiously
believe the virtue of this sex so much esteemed by me, and so
greatly held in account all my life. Doricles would willingly that
the pilgrim should have been contented with his life, which he would
leave him, and that he should have gone away without the woman, but
the incensed Castilian defying him to a single combat, began to
defame him, and provoke him in such manner, that he commanded his
soldiers to hang him up at the next tree of the mountain: hardly was
the word out of the captain's mouth, when the pilgrim found himself
carried out of the village by those barbarous fellows, and upon his
way towards the wood where he should be branched up. Finding himself
then at the place of execution and in the presence of an inevitable
death, he entreated them with tears that they would let him
recommend his soul to him that was the author thereof; which being
permitted unto him, he drew out of his bosom an image of the blessed
Virgin; which holding up, with his eyes and his hands to heaven, he
began his prayers devoutly, having the match of one of their pieces
about his neck near unto him who tied it to a bough of a great oak,
only waiting for the end of his devotions: nevertheless even as he
fastened the last knot, the fair morning rejoicing the world with
new light, clearly discovered the amiable colour of his face.

Who will believe that in the space of one night so many fortunes
should happen to one man, if it were not known that things are
written to be marked, and that evils do seldom come alone, seeing
that the evils which happen in one night to one unfortunate man, do
surpass all the prosperity which can happen to a fortunate man in
all his life? The soldiers seeing the honest and grave countenance
of this pilgrim, his youth and his innocence, and being otherwise
mollified with his prayers; or having their hearts secretly touched
by the hands of God, for he who hardened Pharaoh's heart can mollify
others, they resolved to let him live, not willing to be more cruel
than the sea, which the day before had cast him upon land from
drowning; and thinking it was an infamous cruelty, that he who had
been spared by things without sense, should be destroyed by them who
ought to have reason. The pilgrim gave them thanks for their
liberality, and referring their reward unto heaven, entreated them
that if by chance, this woman which he had left, did persevere in
the firmness of her speech, they should tell her that she should
find him at Barcelona: this said, he took his way towards the city,
and the soldiers towards the village. But the feigned news of his
death which they were constrained to deliver unto Doricles, so much
deprived the sorrowful pilgrim woman of sense (whom he had already
thrust out of his chamber, being vexed with her cries) that she
remained a long time as dead, and when as she was come again unto
herself, she did and said so many pitiful things, that these fierce
men most accustomed to shed blood, did now shed tears. So that the
captain despairing of ever being able to pacify her, and thinking
that the beginnings of extreme grief do easily pass to a frenzy,
commanded that she should be carried upon the great highway; where
the miserable woman was left, drowning herself in tears, and
murdering her face with her hands, she made herself look with great
deformity: from thence following the way by the seaside she went to
Valencia.

The pilgrim in the meantime was at Barcelona, having stayed two
days, to view the goodly strong walls of the city; the third day as
he was beholding the Viceroy's palace, this fisherman, whose voice
had so unhappily drawn him from the cabins of the other fishermen,
and as a deceitful hyena had called him to bring his life into such
danger, knew him, and demanded of him if he were not the thief,
which entertained him the other night with words, until his
companions came and entering by force into the houses of the
village, had robbed them and pillaged them? It is true answered the
pilgrim, that I am he who by the sound of thy voice came out of the
cabins of men of thy profession, but not he who came with the
robbers which you speak of: upon this they contested one against the
other, insomuch that the people ran to the noise; and as to be
pursued with hue and cry, there needs no more cause but to be a
stranger, so all the world believing in the natural Catalonian's
words, the poor pilgrim was impetuously carried away by the people,
and as a robber put into prison.

The infamous rabble who for crimes great or small are accustomed to
possess these places, which are like so many true representations of
Hell, put him into a dark corner worse than the worst sink of
Constantinople, where it is impossible to recite the blows they gave
him, and the injuries they said unto him: because having no metal
about him but the bullet, which Doricles shot into him the night of
his misfortune, he had not wherewith to pay his garnish or entrance,
nor ability to find better means to appease them.

Night victorious over human cares, imposing rest unto their labours
and their thoughts, and reducing their actions to a deep silence
came amongst these barbarous people, yet the miserable stranger only
not so much as closing his eyes: he felt not the grief of his wound,
not the infamy of his imprisonment, all that which troubled him, and
all that which he feared, was the pilgrim woman's losing of her
honour, which wrought so with him, that whilst others slept in this
confusion, without that the want of beds, the importunity of many
noisome creatures, which run up and down in the prison, the fear of
judgement to come, nor the present misfortune could wake them; our
pilgrim only is awake, complaining against heaven, the sea, and his
cruel fortune which had preserved his life, then, when he had no
feeling of death, to make him suffer it now in a state so sensible.

At the length the sun with a countenance full of shame and as if he
had been constrained, shone through the thick bars of the prison
windows, showing in the pale colour of his beams, that he feared he
should be kept there, when the pleasant blows of the jailer, and the
sweet noise which his keys made in the strong locks, awaked from
their forgetfulness those unto whom the fear of punishment for their
faults could work no remembrance: but the pilgrim was not waked,
because he was not asleep; he came out amongst the rest nevertheless
to give thanks to the day, for having passed over so miserable a
night. There began this miserable body to move his parts, going many
leagues in a little space: prayers importuned some, care wearied
others; necessity called out here, hunger sighed there, and Liberty
was wished for everywhere: the laws called upon execution, ministers
upon punishment, and favour importuned for delay; those who had
wherewith went out by the air, others not having wherewith could not
find the door; the confusion of voices, the unquietness of the
judge, the coming in of some, the going out of others, and the noise
of fetters, made in this discordant instrument a fearful striving.

In this time, a knight, who for the nobleness of his blood, and the
antiquity of his imprisonment, was generally respected as the
master, cast his eyes upon the pilgrim, and considering his deep
melancholy, his habit and his person, incited by his good
countenance and aspect, (for there is no letter of favour which
worketh greater effects in all necessities) called him to a little
alley which answered to the door of his chamber, and asked his name,
his country, and the cause of his imprisonment. The pilgrim recited
unto him the success which you have heard, beginning his life, from
the time that the sea gave it him, by casting him upon the shore not
far from the walls of Barcelona. The knight wondered at it, and
collecting from his reasons, and the manner of his speech, his
understanding and his gentleness, took such affection unto him, that
he placed him in his chamber: where having restored his weak forces,
with conserves which he had, he made him reveal his arm, and he
himself healed the wound with medicines and words, which he had
learned being a soldier; for if herbs and stones have this virtue,
wherefore should it be wanting to holy words?

The contented pilgrim afterwards turning his eyes round about the
chamber, saw written upon the walls with a coal according to the
ancient manner of prisoners, certain hieroglyphic verses, at the
sight whereof, he knew that he who had written them was not
ignorant. Over the picture of a young man, which had the chief
place, was written this verse from Virgil:

in somnis ecce ante oculos maestissimus Hector

After that was painted a heart with wings, which flew after death
with the letter of Aeneas, sending the body of his friend to the
great Evander.

mortuus Pallante

Near unto that was figured Prometheus, or Titius, who being tied
with strong chains to the rocks of Mount Caucasus, nourished an
Eagle with his entrails, the words were from Ovid, and said thus:

Vitae dolor, vita molestiae et magnis gratos fore morte, sed mori
non potest

By a river, between two infernal shores, Forgetfulness was painted,
being a young man who carried a vessel full of remembrances, which
he did endeavour to fling into the water, with these words of
Lucretius:

Cadit iterum cum pervenit usque ad summum

The head and harp of Orpheus were portrayed upon a gate amongst the
waves of the river Hebrus, into which he had been cast by the
Bacchantes, they came unto <DW26>s, the words were these:

Hic flevit gerit, feras et genimina viperarum

There was also painted a lady lying dead with a sword through her
body, with these words of Scaliger upon the death of Polyxena:

Non satis vincere homines?

In the distance which might be between the window and the flower,
was painted the giant Argus with his hundred eyes, and Mercury
charming him asleep, with this Vespasian epigram:

Subtilis amor maxime inutilis dolis

With such and other curiosities, which the Knight writ as aptly
fitting his adventures, did he adorn his chamber and pass away his
tedious imprisonment.

Whilst that the Pilgrim was busy in beholding these conceits, he was
called before the judges to answer the accusation against him, and
he relating simply the truth, by the little art which he brought
with him in his speech, he plainly showed that there was no guilt in
him; his cause being recommended unto the judges by the knight, who
writ his innocence unto them, he was acquitted and brought back
again into the knight's chamber, where they ate together. Their
discourse which at the end of dinner served for their last dish
(amongst other things) fell upon their misfortunes, because that
there is nothing which more aptly, and readily doth ease the mind
than relation of our own misadventures. The master of the lodging
(who could willingly have spared that name) being entreated by the
pilgrim to relate the cause of his imprisonment, began to speak in
this manner:

The History of Mireno

"In a little town not far from this great city, there was a
gentleman named Telemachus married with a fair lady, not so chaste
as the Roman Lucretia although she carried her name; the report was,
that this marriage was made against her wishes, and it is likely to
be true, as by the effects it was afterwards witnessed: her
melancholy increased, her beauty and clothes neglected, did show a
languishment, as roses, when the radical moisture of their boughs
decreases. Telemachus did force himself to divert her from this sad
kind of neglect, least it might seem unto some which should see her,
that this sadness proceeded from his default, for oftentimes
innocent husbands are accused for their wives' evil conditions. He
apparelled her richly, allowed her to solace and recreate herself at
sea, and carried her to see the choicest gardens. And this being not
sufficient he opened his house to all good company. Amongst the
young knights which did ordinarily frequent and converse with them,
there was one called Mireno, so much my friend, that if death had
not set a difference between us, I could not have been persuaded (he
being alive) to discern which of us two had been myself. This man
cast his eyes (until this time busied in the consideration of
another's beauty) upon Telemachus' fair wife; who looking upon him
more earnestly than upon any other, had (it may be) incited him: for
although it be said that love can pierce as a spirit, into the most
close and secret places: yet I do think it impossible, that any man
should love, if he be not at the first obliged thereunto by some
little hope. He concealed from me the beginning of his thought: for
love is always borne discreetly, and dumb as a child. But the same
sweetness of its conversation doth so quickly teach it to speak,
that like a prisoner at the bar he oftentimes cast himself away by
his own tongue. So after he saw himself admitted in Lucretia's eyes
(an evident index that he was already in her soul) not being able to
suffer the glory of that whereof he easily endured the pain; he made
unto me a great discourse of his fortune, or to say truer, of his
folly; which could not have been hurtful unto him, if he had
followed my advice as well as he asked it. But it is ordinary,
especially with those who are in love, to ask counsel, then when as
for nothing in the world they would forbear to do that which they
have in their mind. There was no history, either divine or human,
which was within my knowledge and to the purpose, that I did not lay
before him, exaggerating the evils which did proceed from like
enterprises. But Mireno who had already firmly determined to follow
his purpose, and thinking that I was not apt for his design, by
little and little, forbore to visit me. Quickly did he forbear to
accompany me in walking: we went no more by day to public
conversations, nor by night to private; A notable error in the
condition of men, whose loves and friendships are kept by flattery,
and lost by truth. I did bear Mireno's absence with great
impatience, and he had no feeling of his living without me; because
Lucretia being now his whole soul, could not suffer that he should
have another Mireno: having thus shaken me off, communicated his
business with a third, who was so common a friend unto us both, that
when I wanted Mireno, or Mireno wanted me, we did seek one the other
at his house. This man was not so considerate as I was, contrariwise
there was no kind of danger, into which he would not precipitate
himself to pleasure his friend; such friends are like powder on
festival days, which to rejoice others spendeth itself. This made me
disguise myself to follow them in the night; and one time above the
rest, when I had more patience, and they less consideration than the
ordinary, I saw how they set a ladder to a window of a tower, which
revealed a spacious prospect towards the sea, over a garden of
Telemachus: I stayed to the end, not to discover what they did, but
to see if I could serve in any stead in the importance of this
danger, and my heart did not deceive me, although Mireno who was
within it did deceive me. For after the first sleep, then when as
with less force he vanquisheth the cares of a master of a family, I
heard a noise, and presently I saw Mireno coming down the ladder,
and Aurelio (for so was he called with whom he was accompanied)
receiving him in his arms, and persuading him to fly: hardly were
they out of the street, when a servant loosing the ladder let it
fall. I ran to the fall thereof, and as well as I could gathering it
up, stepped behind a corner, from whence I espied Telemachus in his
shirt, having his sword naked in one hand, and a candle in the
other: and looking out from the window of the tower if he could
discern anything upon the ground, of that which he had heard: I
crept softly to the gate; and hearkening what was said in this
family where there was this alarm, I understood that the disgrace of
our two lovers, was taken to be the industry of robbers. In this
they were not deceived, for those are no small thieves, who steal
good name and rob away honour: I returned a little more contented to
my house, but slept but badly, in this care. The morning being come
I sent for Mireno, with whom having discoursed of divers matters, I
asked what news of Lucretia? He told me he did not speak with her:
for all wicked secrets do for the most part conceal themselves from
true friends. I said then unto him, that I wondered he would
dissemble a thing so known; Telemachus her husband being come unto
my house, to tell me that he had heard him within his; that looking
out of a window of a tower, he had seen him go down by a ladder:
Mireno astonished and wondering at my revelation, confessed unto me
what had passed, and how Lucretia having yielded to his letters,
messages, and services had made him master of her liberty, yielding
unto him the treasure which was so fiercely guarded by Telemachus'
hundred eyes. Which was the reason why I placed this hieroglyphic of
Argus and Mercury, with the epigram:

Subtle love deceiveth jealousy.

He proceeded to tell me that when Telemachus was asleep, they talked
together in a garden, into which he entered by a ladder made of
cords, which Aurelio kept, unto whom only he had imparted this
secret, having found me so averse from succouring him. I asked what
he had done with the ladder? He told me that from the leaving of
that proceeded Telemachus' advertisement. I told him that Telemachus
knew nothing, neither had the ladder served as an occasion to
discover anything unto him: and letting him see the service which I
had done him, I did begin to conjure him, that he would abandon the
perilous success which he ought to expect from the pursuit of this
design, seeing that Telemachus at the least had notice that his wife
was not by his side when there was noise in the lodging. So that he
promised me, he would not go any more thither, and the more to
divert him from going thither, he resolved to absent himself from
Barcelona. I confirmed him in this resolution; because that truly
there is nothing which so much eclipseth the desire of lovers, as an
interposed distance of place between them; yet it was not needful,
because by the time Mireno disposed himself to depart, Telemachus
had already changed his dwelling from this city unto the little
place where he was married; and this was a memorable observation,
Mireno losing the repeated view of his Lucretia, lost her also out
of his thought, and confirmed his love better than ever to Erisila,
(she was that other lady whom I in the beginning of my discourse I
said he had loved) who again loved him better and with more pleasure
than before, because that love which succeedeth after jealousy is
more violent. Besides, the amiable parts which were in Mireno, who
was of a goodly stature, of great spirit, and an illustrious blood,
of a free condition, amiable both on horseback, and on foot, and
renowned beyond all of his age, for all military exercise; as for
his face, behold this picture, wherein I assure you, the painter was
no flatterer; I keep it here for my comfort, although it be always
present in my soul, as you may judge by the words written:

Before my eyes in a dream, sad Hector did appear.

Because truly his image did never abandon my sight, but either
sleeping or waking he was represented to my eyes: in effect we fell
into our old inwardness; but in the midst of this peace, the wife of
Telemachus had so much power over him, that vanquished with her
prayers, he brought her again to Barcelona, where she was no sooner
seen by Mireno, but the ancient flames of his love, blowing away the
ashes into the wind, revealed themselves more lively: and I fearing
what might happen by this coming back of Lucretia, persuaded Mireno
to marry. He himself finding that it was the honorablest, the
easiest and the safest way to distance himself from these loves,
entreated me to find out some worthy subject, who might set a bound
unto his affections: I propounded many who I thought were of his
quality, although not of his merit; but it was with him as with
those who buy without pleasure, and do not content themselves with
any price; for some are too high, others too low: these black, those
pale; one lean, the other too fat; this was too fine, another too
sluttish: in short, seeing that he liked none of those, and would
not marry, I left him, for I saw that Lucretia had more power with
him than all the others together. They then began to see one another
again, for in these good works, mediators are seldom wanting:
Erisila who was passionately in love with Mireno, began to discern
in him a coldness and a carelessness in seeing her, and that he did
divert himself by other pleasures. She (in this suspicion, which may
be called a true jealousy) began to observe and follow him; so that
without spoiling much, she knew, if not all that passed, at the
least what was the subject which ravished away her Mireno.

Who will believe so extraordinary a conceit as I shall tell you?
Truly he only, who doth know how much the spirit of a woman is
disposed (especially if she is in love) to any kind of industry and
subtility: Erisila never left seeking occasion that Telemachus
should see her, until in the end Telemachus did behold her, and in
viewing Erisila, he saw in her a brave disposition of a woman, who
looked upon him with fair and sweet eyes; for when they will
deceive, they make their eyes snares, and their sweetnesses baits:
Telemachus yielded himself (although he loved Lucretia) forced by
the eyes and beauty of Erisila, which did so much the more provoke
him, by how much she desired to deceive him: he began to come to her
house, and she to feign a great deal of passion, Mireno giving them
leisure enough, as he did not frequent her house as he was
accustomed. Finally their affection came to the point that Erisila
desired. Then she said unto him one day (as if she had not known him
to be married, which he dissembled also) that she had seen him enter
into one Lucretia's house, whereat she had conceived great jealousy.
Telemachus smiling, began to appease her saying, that it was without
any design that he had entered into this house (whereof indeed he
was master) and as she began to witness a more feeling sorrow,
accompanied with false tears; he began to remonstrate that Lucretia
was virtuous and well born; with a great many other commendations of
her chastity, and of Telemachus her husband's care (commending
himself). And some are of the opinion that self-commending is not
unbeseeming, when it importeth the good opinion of another man.
Erisila then finding a good occasion for her wicked design, told him
that Lucretia's husband might be a gallant man, yet nevertheless she
knew that Lucretia did not forbear to make love unto a knight of the
city; and she was afraid that she might as well love him as the
other: because whatsoever woman she be, she doth easily suffer
herself to be won, after the first lightness: Telemachus who began
to wax so pale that it was easily seen in his face, what interest he
had in this discourse; entreated her to discover who was this
knight: but she feigning to be jealous of him, whom she did
endeavour to make so jealous, enforceth her complaints, persuading
him that she was troubled with that jealousy which indeed she had
raised in him. In short, Erisila was unwilling to name who it was;
Telemachus suddenly stepped to her, and drawing his dagger, setting
it to her throat made her utter the name of Mireno, a person whom he
knew better then she: with this Telemachus went away, confessing it
was true that he had loved Lucretia, not knowing she had another
lover; but now from this time forward he would hate her, and would
settle all his affection upon her, in confirmation of which, he gave
her a chain of gold, and a diamond.

By this means, Erisila thought that the husband would keep his
house, and that Mireno (by this means barred from seeing Lucretia)
would come to visit her as he was accustomed. But the knight, whom
it concerned to wipe away this spot from his honour by the blood of
he who had offended him, seeing it was now no longer time to keep
that which was lost, feigning a few days after to go to Montserrat,
gave a beginning to his revenge, and an end unto my life. The two
lovers were not so besotted, nor I such a fool, that we did not
think (although we were ignorant of Erisila's malice) that this
absence might be feigned; having had so many examples in the world;
wherefore we sent our faithful friend Aurelio secretly after him.
But the advised Telemachus, who knew well that he was not to deceive
fools, feigning that he went to Valencia, returned when he was
halfway, and hid himself in Barcelona.

Now Mireno could not spend the night so assured with Lucretia but
that I kept the door, although he did entreat me not to do it; God
knoweth how many nights I passed without pleasure; for my heart did
always tell me that their two lives did run a dangerous fortune. But
Telemachus the third night after entering by a secret door into the
garden (as I spoke of unto you) without being heard or seen by any
person, with only one servant with him, who carried a halberd, came
unto the chamber where his steps were heard, and out of which Mireno
came to meet him, very evil provided of arms to defend himself, not
that I doubt he would not have well defended himself, half asleep
and naked as he was, with his sword alone which he had in his hand:
If his adversary, who was accommodated with more advantageous arms,
had not overthrown him dead to the ground with an arquebus shot: the
report of the piece, made me judge that such a salutation at that
time of the night, was rather a condemnation, than anything else:
wherefore endeavouring to break open the doors, I waked the
neighbours, some of whom running thither with their arms, and having
helped me to overthrow the doors, we entered in. Already had
Telemachus broken into his cabin, where Lucretia was hid, and
dragging her from thence, not far from the place where Mireno lay,
he thrust his sword into her, so that as we arrived, her breath went
away with a last Jesu. And as he had already killed Mireno,
methought Scaliger's verse, which is under this picture was not
unapt:

Was it not enough to kill and vanquish men?

I had not as yet seen Mireno, and searching him with mine eyes all
about the room, I saw him lying dead: thou may see in the tears
which now flow from my eyes, what was then my grief, I do not know
what I did, yet seeking for Telemachus, I did excuse him for the
care of defending himself; and from justifying so bloody an
execution: for having met face to face, I thrust at him, with which
thrust, he accompanied their two lives, which he had extinguished.
By this time the house was beset by those whom the Justice had
raised, who apprehended as many as they found, and me especially,
for having killed Telemachus without cause, although according to
the laws of the world there was but too much cause, and here they
put me where thou now see me, and where I have lived this five
years, desiring death, as thou may see by this winged heart of mine
flying after this image of dead Mireno; with these words out of
Virgil:

My Pallas dead, I bide alive by force.

My travels are figured in those of Sisyphus, and Titius, and
represented by these words out of Ovid:

O wretched state, constrain'd to live In plaints eternally: When
Death which only help can give, Affords no power to die.

The sorrow which this great city felt by the loss of Mireno is
expressed in this figure of the head and heart of Orpheus, with
these words:

There wept the Woods, the Beasts, and the Serpents.

For I do not think that there was either tree or stone which were
not moved with this so pitiful an accident. And here will I end his
story, with these tears which I will offer incessantly to his
memory, and these words which I have made for Lucretia's tomb:

Here lieth Lucretia, less chaste than the Roman, but more fair:
Tarquin did not force her, but love; and although she died for her
infidelity, love, who was the cause, has the power to excuse her.

So the faire Lucretia remained in mortal rest, and her name, in my
imagination, is not worthy of blame: for having been overcome by the
excellent parts of her lover, and by that unchangeable force which
love ever useth against great and free courages."

The pilgrim's imprisonment had not passed at so easy a rate of his
patience, had not Everard (so was the knight called that made this
discourse) favoured his affairs: for his innocence could not gain
him his liberty, nor good opinion, which he did deserve; so powerful
was his only habit, to work in the judges an evil conceit of his
person; yet Doricles (captain of those robbers) being pardoned, and
received again into the city's favour; the pilgrim was also
absolved, as were his confederates.

His curiosity to hear the fisherman's singing having brought him to
receive a hurt in his arm with a piece, into an extreme danger of
hanging, unto three months imprisonment, which without the help of
Everard had been insupportable. They took their leaves one of
another, with a thousand loving embraces, and Everard having further
obliged him with some money, he resolved to go to Montserrat, and I
to finish this First Book.

The end of the First Book.

Book Two

By a straight way, between thick trees and shady did the pilgrim go
towards Montserrat, who turning his head at a noise which he heard
behind at his back, he saw two young men with palmer’s staves, whose
fair faces and blond hair showed them to be either Germans or
Flemings. He saluted them, and joyful of so good company, he imposed
silence unto a thousand sad thoughts, which solitariness had brought
into his memory. Travelling together, they began to discourse of
diverse matters, with which they easily and with pleasure passed
away the craggy, and uneven way of the mountain, until they came
unto a fountain, which bubbling into a valley, made a gentle
harmony. So that as it were invited by the sweet noise and the fresh
shade, they sat down upon the rushes which grew by the brook’s side,
and admired the sweet complaints of the nightingale. One of the
Germans, which shewed a good nature embellished with learning, began
to discourse of Filomela’s love, saying that now she would
recompense with her infinite notes, for all the time that she had
been dumb after Terreus had cut out her tongue. The Spaniard replied
that Martial had uttered the same conceit, and the German rejoicing
to find in him more capacity than in common persons (for it is an
insupportable labour to travel with an ignorant man) rose from the
place where he sat, and embracing him with a great deal of
contentment, after many other discourses, Let us go, said he, to
adore the blessed Virgin. In this image so much renowned, through
all the world, we cannot make a more holy voyage, nor I in better
company than thine: let us go said the Spaniard by this path, which
seemeth to me to be much the shorter, although a little steeper, for
the most part of the way.

This being said, they took their way towards the abbey, which they
discovered shortly after, built upon the side of a sharp mountain,
and under a great rock, which did seem to threaten it with ruin.

When they were entered, with devotion and humility, casting their
eyes upon tapestries of France, Germany, and almost all the world:
they were astonished, to see the walls decked with so many excellent
paintings, histories, and accompanied with a thousand several kinds
of offerings, which with an admirable correspondence did stir up and
astonish the senses altogether. There did they pour forth their
prayers and their tears, and after they had seen and been informed
of all that was considerable in the monastery, the day having lost
her beauty by the sun’s absence; they retired altogether until the
morning shining through the eastern gates gave them knowledge of the
new day’s approach. Then they resolved to visit the divers
habitations of the hermits which lived in these mountains, and being
come unto the seventh hermitage, they found a young man of an
agreeable countenance and a goodly presence, whose long and well
combed hair gave a reverent majesty unto his aspect. This man stayed
them dinner, and after their repast, being entreated by the pilgrims
to tell them what devotion had confined him into these solitary
mountains, he related the history of his life, in this manner:

The History of Aurelia
"Amongst all the things which in the course of my life I have seen
and marked, I might peradventure tell you some one, which might
better content you. But thinking that one cannot better persuade
than by the example of himself, I will therefore tell you a story
which is drawn from my youth, and from the twentieth year of my age,
written by my misfortune and imprinted in my memory, seeing that the
renewing can do me no damage, and may bring you profit. This short
tyranny, the bane of youth, the illusion of the sight, the prison of
the soul, and the darkener of the sense, which is called Beauty, and
which heaven seemeth to give women for our mischief: blinded so my
eyes at the first knowledge, which they had in the world, that my
spirit did not live so much in myself, as in her whom I loved, nor
found more rest out of her sight, than things do out of their
centre; because that as the fire always sendeth the flames thereof
to its proper sphere, so my heart addressed its desires to her
beauty.

Now as this love was not platonic, I will not dispute whether it
were honest, profitable, or delightful; let it satisfy that it which
is the cause of so much evil, seemed unto me, the greatest and
sovereignest good in the world. This subject of my misfortunes was
called Aurelia, free in her customs of that kind of life which
Plautus and Terence describe in their fables; and of whom Aulus
saith excellently well; that a courtesan is a vessel full of holes,
which can contain nothing. She was fair in all perfection, of a
quick and hardy spirit and of a reasonable good nature, a woman (to
be short) unto whom experience in the world had brought a great deal
of knowledge. It cost me little to possess her, because that these
kind of women (clean contrary unto other women, who forced by the
love of a man, do honestly yield unto his merits) trusting to their
charms and unto the gentleness of usage, are passionate with men
more when they are enjoyed than when they are pretended. I was not
vexed at the first with the conversation of the young men, who at
any hour howsoever extraordinary were never wanting in her house,
because the favours which she did me, and the little which they cost
me made me live much contented, especially seeing myself preferred
before others of better means and merits then myself; when I went to
see her, they gave me place, and departed courteously, leaving me
alone with her.

These my visitations were not agreeable unto her servants, because
they thought that thereby this rabble of youth was scattered, which
brought them profit. And that if Aurelia should fall in love with
me, my quality being not capable to sustain her expense, she must
spend out of her own means, from whence would inevitably follow a
necessity of living more regularly, which they would by no means
hear of; and of this were they not much deceived, for in a small
time Aurelia, who had ravished so many others, was taken herself in
my love, and made captive to my will, which made true one part of
this fear, by shortening the revenues of her house, to lengthen the
reins of her pleasure. Not that all the charge of the house fell
upon her; for I miserable man, tormenting my parents, and
importuning my friends, did run to the preservation of this love,
which almost always depended on money.

The life which we led (we loving one another tenderly, and having in
our power the liberty of enjoying) may easily be judged by my youth,
and by Aurelia’s, who was then about twenty years old. The house
seemed too strait for our love, and searching solitary fields, we
made the sight of open heaven witness of our follies. Our life was a
blind imitation of the nature of beasts, we communicated our secrets
to trees, which did not see, as if the leaves had not been so many
clear eyes, and a thousand amorous delights to the dumb fountains,
which might well have troubled the purity of their waters, I cannot
think how in so little a way as there was between my house and hers.
It remained 5 years space before I knew that I was arrived there,
being certain, that in 3 years space of that time, the famous
English Drake passed the Strait of Magellan and compassed the world
about. If in all this time, the loyalty which she swore unto me were
broken or no, I am not able to say, nor yet forbear to believe,
because it seems almost a thing impossible for such women from their
custom, to keep themselves to an orderly life.

At the end of these five years, I saw myself at the end of my means,
and although I was more amorous than in the beginning, yet Aurelia
did suffer herself to be vanquished by the obligations of another,
who had more power than my services: I say obligations, because I
cannot believe that only love can bind one unto so strange a change.
One night Aurelia having seen me retire myself unto my bed, she had
received Feliciano into hers (so was the knight called.) I stirred
with a profound jealousy, rose up out of my bed, and went to her
house, where the door was shut against me: and the servants answered
me from above out at a high window, feigning that they were gone to
bed, to make me rather to retire unto my own house. But my extreme
love which would not at that time, have relied upon my eyes, and
feared to be betrayed by my thoughts, made me cry aloud, that
somebody should open the door, so that my voice came unto Aurelia's
ears. And Feliciano making show of a valiant-lover, began to clothe
himself, promising to chastise my boldness with his sword, and by
his only presence to cure my folly; but the cunning Circe, who knew
well whatsoever good or bad success came unto me, it would rebound
unto her shame, hindered him with her arms and diverted him with her
tears, although there was no great need: for the bravest do
unwillingly arm themselves when they are once naked; and to come out
of a house into the street had been a manifest and mad rashness.

Aurelia so prevailing in that manner, wherein others of her kind are
wont to prevail; and making Feliciano believe that I should be her
husband, and that if I did perceive him she should lose me,
persuaded him half unclothed and in the midst of January, that he
would go onto the highest roof of the house. Onto which he being
gone, I was let into the house, where I found Aurelia in bed making
so many complaints of my liberty, and of the scandal which I gave
the neighbours, that instead of being angry, it behove me to appease
her, where (after some time spent) she in complaining of me, and I
in asking pardon for my jealousy, and for the desire which I had to
surprise her in that infidelity which I did distrust: I possessed
the absent man’s place, which was still warm, serving for a proof of
my ignorance and blockishness. Morning brought again the sun, and
the sun the day, yet neither of them was sufficient to make me see
my folly (so evil doth a lover discern of his own acts) I rose
contented, and although I entered last, yet I went sooner away then
Feliciano.

In the meantime Menander who had for the space of some years been
Feliciano's mistress, grew extremely jealous, and hearing of this
trick which Aurelia had put upon him, could not forbear speaking of
it, mocking him with the cold night which he had endured, and that
he had suffered me, who never had any intent to marry her, to
possess that place by her side which he had lost: Feliciano assured
her that Aurelia (preferring his love, before the obligations,
wherein for so many years she was bound unto me) did rather abuse me
than him; and that whensoever she or any other would afford him the
like courtesy, he would willingly suffer one evil night to have so
many good: and for proof of what he said, he gave her a key, whereof
I was wont to be master, which I was made believe was lost. Menander
dissembled her thoughts, but so soon as she met me again, she told
me all the circumstances, and with all gave me the key; having which
I needed no other witnesses of the truth, nor other instrument to
open the door. I then resolved to revenge myself of Aurelia in
leaving her, and of Feliciano, in serving Menander, from whose love
I presumed he had not freed himself, and if he had been free yet I
knew he must needs be grieved that I should enjoy her whom he loved
in everybody’s opinion. I found Menander willingly disposed, for our
thoughts were alike, and our injury alike, and we might well serve
to revenge one the other. She then feigned to love me, and I paid
her in the like counterfeiting. Aurelia was advertised, and grew
desperate, and Feliciano no less enraged, sought me to kill me.
Behold how jealousies and neglects do reveal the truths which are in
the centre of our hearts.

Aurelia found me sooner than Feliciano did, as she who therein
hazarded least: and staying me began in fury and in threatenings,
yet ended in prayers and in tears. But upon so fresh an injury, I
was rather confirmed in my neglect (seeing her yield unto my love)
than any way moved with her passion. Finally, having changed my
first affection into hatred, (always insupportable to a woman who
hath been well beloved) Aurelia began to pursue me, and although
that the city of my birth and abode doth not yield for greatness to
above two or three in all Spain, yet could not I find any lodging
wherein she did not clamour me, any friend whom she did not revolt
from me, any secret which she did not publish, nor any danger
whereinto she did not endeavour to throw me. So that oppressed with
these pursuits, and seeing myself reduced to the contenting of her,
after a thousand contrary deliberations, I resolved to take upon me
a religious habit, and to prevail by his protection, in whose hands
and feet God hath imprinted the marks of our reparation.

But oh! the supreme force of a despised love, as from the holy choir
of the monastery, from the midst of the altars and images of the
saints, the tears of Aurelia drew me again; and then I followed her,
with more liberty and less shame then before, leaving the habit
whereof I was not worthy, and neglecting the spiritual treasure
which I did then enjoy, to follow the infamous life which I had
formerly led, so much power hath the capital enemy of our souls. Our
love began fresher than ever, with the general scandal of those who
knew us, the hatred of our parents and the detestation of all our
friends, which within a small time brought me to such terms that I
thought sorrow would have killed me. The infamy wherein we lived and
the fear of justice did oblige us to depart the city, and selling
that small remainder of goods which we had left, laden with a number
of evils, we passed into Italy; from whence I went (for some time)
to serve the catholic king in Flanders, and the Duke of Savoy in
Piedmont, returning always to Naples where I had left her. The last
time I put to sea with her in my company (intending after the
Flanders wars to return into Spain) where in a violent tempest
(which heaven for the quiet of our souls) sent us in the gulf of
Narbonne; in the last point of life, and when we were past hope of
escaping, we vowed ourselves to a religious life with such
earnestness of tears, that afterwards the storm ceasing and we
landing, she entered into the Monastery of the Conception; and I
underwent this habit wherein you now see me, where after some years
of probation this cell was given me."

Here Tirsis the Hermit of this happy abode stayed his discourse, and
our pilgrims judging that it was too late to pass further, and it
being necessary to descend into the lodging which within this holy
house is given freely to strangers, they went unto the monastery,
discoursing upon the hermit’s relation, determining the next day to
go to the uttermost hermitage, which under the title of St Jerome,
crowneth the head of the mountain.

But the misfortunes of our pilgrim, which had slept for some time,
began to wake with more violence; for in the house where these
strangers had lodged there were missing some jewels, with a
maidservant of the house, and the Germans amongst others were
pursued by the Justice, although innocent, because it was affirmed
by some that this servant enamoured of their beauties had run away
with them.

All nations have their epithets, which being once received by the
world can never be lost. The Scythians are called cruel, the
Italians religious, the French noble, the Dutch industrious, the
Persians faithless, the Turks lascivious, the Parthians curious, the
Burgundians fierce, the Britains hardy, the Egyptians valiant, the
Lorraines gentle, the Spaniards arrogant and the Germans beautiful.
And this was the cause for which it was thought that the maid being
seduced by them had run away with them.

Now the Germans were easily taken, but the pilgrim desperate through
his late long imprisonment which he had suffered in Barcelona, and
out of the little justice which he as a stranger could expect,
seeing them come unto him, stood upon his defence, and flourishing
his palmer’s staff, (with which he was very skilful) left two of
them lying upon the ground wounded, and virtuously freed himself
from the hands of the others, who remained astonished at his valour.
Between Tortosa and Castellón there stretcheth forth a great hill,
wherewith the sea of that coast is bounded, along the coast of the
vale of Sego and of the Kingdom of Valencia: where the Moors of
Algiers and Salé do land out of their galleys, when they are not
perceived by the watch, and hiding themselves amongst the hollow
places of these hills, do rob not only the fishermen but all such as
pass that way. And sometimes when they are many of them together,
they do rob away whole villages together; in this vale, they being
guided by renegades, and those betrayed again by the Moors: there
one dark night did the pilgrim lie (weary with his journey which he
had taken out of the way) obliged thereunto by the fear which he had
of pursuit. And being asleep after many long and grievous
imaginations of his lost happiness, which he did believe to be still
in the hands of Doricles, the roaring of the sea (the waves whereof
breaking against the rocks make a horrible noise) awaked him. He
heard near unto him the voices of some Moors, who having joyfully
supped upon the land, were talking of their robberies. He who
sleeping upon the ground in the field, at his waking, findeth
himself near unto a venomous snake, doth not so soon lose his
colour, as doth our fearful Pilgrim, hearing the Moors so near him,
whose hands he did think it impossible to escape. Yet relying upon
his judgement in a matter wherein he thought his strength would not
prevail, stole from them by gentle sliding upon the ground, making
his hands perform the office of his feet until he had attained the
top of the hill, where finding that the Moors had heard him, he
began to cry with a loud voice: Here valiant knights here, this is
our day: behold the Moors before you, and as prey in your hands,
whom you have with such pains and diligence endeavoured to overtake.
Hardly had he courageously uttered these words, when as the Moors
(like frogs who at the noise of passengers leap from the bank sides
into the quiet waters of the lake) ran with all the speed they could
to the sea to get aboard their boat, with which they easily got to
their galley.

Full of admiration was the pilgrim, to see how happily his
resolution had succeeded, when from a tree which was near unto him
he heard a voice, which said: Ah knight, help me for the mother of
God’s sake. His valiant courage which was never astonished with any
kind of danger or misfortune, guided by the voice unto the tree,
where he had heard him, saw a man tied thereunto, of whom having
asked his name, he was answered, that he was a Catalonian knight,
whom the Moors (after they had killed two of his servants) had taken
upon the coast road of Valencia. The pilgrim having unbound him, and
both of them departing from the sea, took their way to Almenara, and
through the valley beautified with orange trees, travelled towards
Faura. Already had the morning strewed pearls upon flowers, who
putting their heads forth of the boughs, did seem to salute the day,
when both the discourse, and face of the knight, did show unto the
pilgrim that this was Everard, he who (when he was prisoner at
Barcelona) had obliged the pilgrim for his liberty; both their joys,
their embraces and their tears were as admirable as the success
which you have heard, from whence is recollected, how agreeable unto
heaven is the good which is done unto strangers; signified by the
ancient philosophers in Deucalion and Pyrrha, who for having lodged
Jupiter, were made restorers of the world; and contrarily, Diomedes
devouring his guests with his horses, he was in the end himself
devoured by them.

The pilgrim demanded of Everard how he had gotten his liberty, and
he told him that with the help of some friends he had broken prison,
and escaped away by the post of Barcelona; from whence he might well
have gone for Italy, but being unwilling to be a runaway from his
own country, he was resolved to go to the Court to have his cause
judged, whither he was going with that intention, when he fell into
this ambush of the Moors. He then demanded of him, if he knew
Doricles and being answered that he was his kinsman, the pilgrim
sighed many times, without telling the cause, although he were much
importuned by Everard, unto whom he only said, he had a young
brother in his company who had quitted him to follow Doricles;
Everard who understood something of the secrets (suspecting that
this was some woman, who had been stolen away by the robbers upon
the shore of Barcelona) assured him that he knew all the servants
which Doricles had in his house, and that there was not one
Castellan amongst them.

In such and like words, which drew infinite sighs and tears from the
pilgrim, they arrived at the ancient Sagunto, (where at this day are
remaining, the most famous works of the Roman period of any that are
in Spain) and from thence they went to the city of Valencia,
entering by the royal bridge over the Turia, which river the Moors
call Guadalaviar: and passing by the famous Towers of Serranos, they
lodged at a knight’s house, who was friend unto Everard, and of the
family of the Mercaderos. There they remained this night, finishing
the relation of their fortunes, until the sun rising called them
from their rest, especially Everard, who carried with a strong
desire of finishing his intended journey, departed with grief from
the company of the pilgrim, whom he left no less sorrowful, in this
flourishing city.

There he spent a few days in beholding the proud buildings wherewith
it was embellished: and in the end he visited the hospital where mad
folks are with more care and convenience looked unto and kept, than
in any city in all Spain: there beholding the several humours of
these miserable people, he (I say) who lately was likely to have
lost his own wits, saw amongst those who were least mad, sit down at
the table (at which they did altogether eat) a young fool and very
beautiful, whose flaxen hair was longer than men do ordinarily wear
in Spain. All the blood in this pilgrim’s body came into his face,
and went suddenly back again, out of the remembrance which this mad
creature brought unto him of his mistress, whom he could not well
know, as well because he could not comprehend in his mind by what
means she had been reduced to this distraction; and less, how to
this place, as also through her evil usage in that place, and her
sickness, she did differ from the idea which he had of her
countenance in his mind. Nevertheless, as she beheld him with her
eyes full of admiration, he was confirmed in his first thought, and
letting fall some tears, he said unto her in a low voice (least the
keeper who had brought them to the table should hear them) do ye
know me? To whom this woman (never known to be so in that place) who
had seen him carried unto the oaks of the mountain, where Captain
Doricles had commanded his soldiers to hang him, for whose death she
had shed so many tears, and sighed out so many complaints, that the
violence of her grief had troubled her understanding; and yet also
doubting of his life, though she did see him; tremblingly answered,
that she was wont to know him. Already was this pilgrim, by the
voice, by the fearfulness, and by the tears assured that this mad
body was the master of all her wits; and fearing lest he might make
some demonstration of his inward grief, whereunto by the sight of
this so great misfortune he was obliged; he demanded softly of her,
how and by what means she was come unto this miserable estate? The
grief I took (answered she) thinking upon your death, as soon as the
Captain had commanded that you should be hanged. Not without having
offended me, replied the pilgrim, a thing which I never expected
from your constancy, although far greater occasion had been offered.
The losing of my honour (said she) must be out of these two
respects, either of force or for pleasure: if out of pleasure, I had
now no cause to bewail myself; nor if it were by force means to
bring remedy, and less means had I in losing of my wits. And that it
is true, that the very thought I had of your death was the cause of
my madness, let this satisfy you, to see that I recover them, in
having you alive. Fair Nisa, answered the pilgrim, am not I a
miserable man, in having been the cause of so much evil by my
misfortunes? There is nothing, dear Pamphilus (replied Nisa in
weeping) deserves this name that hath been suffered for your
occasion, and for so cruel a feeling as the report of your death
brought to me. And if I were permitted to embrace you here according
unto my desire, the recompense would be as great as the travels,
which I do bewail only in regard they were no more, since that,
according to their multitude, they would augment the glory of my
suffering. It was not in vain, answered Pamphilus, (for the History
names him from henceforward) that my hope made me desire to live,
only that I might see you, for I was assured that in the glory of
beholding you, all jealousy would be wiped away, that might any way
allay my joy. And if the eyes of those who look upon us, did not
better see, then their understandings do know, you should before
this have found that your desire of embracing was most agreeable to
me. To this said Nisa (whose name hitherto we have hid, as also
Pamphilus’), because that travailing in this habit amongst so many
dangers (I durst not tell their country nor their name) I will make
my passion serve as a remedy. What passion? answered Pamphilus.
Every time, said she when my grief deprives me of my reason, they
tell me that I cry aloud, those words which I will now say to thee,
in embracing thee. And then she said these words: O my spouse, is it
possible that my eyes do behold thee? Is it not thou, who died in
the mountains of Barcelona, by the evil hands of Doricles’ barbarous
soldiers? Blessed be the hour wherein I see the news is false. In
speaking this, Nisa fell about Pamphilus’ neck, amorously embracing
him, whose overwhelming delight was only interrupted by the presence
of the assistants.

When the man (who had the charge of appeasing the mad folks’ fury)
saw this deportment in Nisa, he began to give her rude words and
sharp blows. Let him alone said Pamphilus, for I am his countryman
and his wife’s kinsman, and do not wonder that this sight of me,
doth cause in him this sorrow. Whatsoever you are, answered this
barbarous fellow, it skills not, here are neither complements nor
visitations. And the token of this man’s mad fit in coming upon him,
is to call his husband, with such or the like words. But if I pacify
this, his mad fit said Pamphilus, to what end doth your chastisement
serve? And how will you appease it, said the other, is not this an
evident token of his madness, that he calls you his spouse, and
takes you for a woman? You are ignorant of his humour, and of the
trouble he gives us, although he does not appear to be above
nineteen year of age. I know all this well, answered Pamphilus.
Nevertheless let me speak to him, for I do assure you that myself
alone can appease him; and as it is a good work, from anybody who
hath a sickness to take away the pain, for some time, though it
return again; so in madness, it is a good work to bring to pass,
that he who hath lost his wits should recover them again though it
were but for one hour.

Yet neither this reason, nor many other, served him to any purpose,
for the officers had already put manacles upon Nisa's hands; and the
master did rigorously pull her to the cage, although she had no need
of this remedy, nor any other, but the sight of Pamphilus. But as
those who are accustomed to lie, are seldom believed, although they
say the truth: so in him who is mad, it is accounted a token of
greater madness, to seem wise. Thus Nisa was had away to strait
imprisonment, and Pamphilus standing ashamed, fearing that everyone
knew what was privy only to himself, beheld her with abundance of
tears; a thousand times he was about to let go the reins of his
passion, which his understanding held in, and to be mad in reason,
believing that if he were mad, the chastisement of his madness
should be to remain with Nisa, which was the greatest good he could
hope for. And to begin his design, he offered (against the laws of
this house) to break the gates of the prison, and see her by force:
but hardly had he made any demonstration thereof, when the porters
with the mad servitors, (such as having recovered their wits, do
serve the others) fell upon him, and beating him cruelly, flung him
into the street, where (as the fish whereof Aristotle speaks which
being drawn out of the water, frames a humane voice and dies) he
fetched a great sigh and fell upon the ground exhausted.

The sun was declined low toward the west, colouring with gold and
purple that part of the horizon, when Pamphilus returning out of his
misery found himself in the arms of a young man, who having
compassion of his grief, encouraged him to recover life. Pamphilus
looking steadfastly upon him, with heavy sadness, demanded where he
was? The young man told him, that he was at the door of the
hospital, where the mad folks were kept. And how is it, replied
Pamphilus, that I am not within? Because (said the other) thou
appearest to be more diseased in body then in the passions of thy
mind. Thou judgest by the countenance (said Pamphilus) but if thou
hadst seen my heart, thou wouldst rather judge that my evil
proceeded from my spirit: true it is, that the body feeleth also the
pains of the mind. What kind of evil is thine, answered the young
man, being so near the place, where evils of wounded minds are
cured? For if thou art not within the Hospital, thou desirest (as it
seemeth) to be in, seeing thou dost not deny thy evil; and thou
confessest, that it proceedeth from thy mind, the passions whereof
are not far from falling into that infirmity which is cured in this
place. The evil which I have (said Pamphilus) hath a remedy in this
house, and my misfortune is such, that despairing to cure me, they
have flung me out. Thou canst have no such evil, answered the young
man, but there is an antidote to be found for it. Incurable love
(said Pamphilus groaning out a sigh) unto which all the medicines
and herbs of physic are improfitable. What is not love but to be
cured, answered the other? And are Avicenna’s seven remedies of no
force, and not true? Of those said Pamphilus, and at the tales which
Pliny writeth, my passion worketh; I only allow of his counsel, who
adviseth chiefly to marry; but the disposition of my fortune, and
the rigorous influence of my stars, not only do not suffer me, but
make it to me almost impossible. And although hope sometime
promiseth it to me, yet I find that it is truly as Plato calleth it:
the waking man’s dream. Love, then (said the young man) is the cause
of this habit which thou wearest, and of thy pilgrimage. It is so
(said Pamphilus) and by that thou may know the quality of my evil,
and the difficulty of my cure. Oh, said the young man pitifully
sighing, what a grievous story, dost thou renew in me. A history
like unto mine? said Pamphilus. If not, said the other, yet at the
least of love. By thy faith (then said Pamphilus) dost thou love? I
not only love, said the other, but am also more unhappy than thou
thinkest, for a stranger and a pilgrim, and no less outraged by
fortune. Tell me then, said Pamphilus, (in looking earnestly upon
him) thy name and of what country thou art; for in all the years of
my banishment, I could never find any man so miserably persecuted as
myself: and in this, I have more occasion than all men to bewail my
destinies. A Christian, said the stranger, ought never to bewail the
destinies, nor think that good or evil fortune depend on them:
although many ancient philosophers have believed that there is a
kind of devil, and certain imaginary women which they call Parquae,
which give the spirit into the creature at the birth, an opinion
worthy rather of laughter, than belief; It being most certain, that
this name Destiny, is only to be attributed to the decree of God,
who truly seeth and knoweth all things before they be, and the
ordering of them cannot depend on anything but of him. I know well,
said Pamphilus, that the Poets have called these Parquae Destiny,
and the Philosophers, especially the Stoics, have believed that it
is an order or disposition of second causes, as from the planets
under the influence of which we are born, which rule and determine
all the inferior good and evil effects which do happen to man: so
said Ptolemy, Democritus, Chrysippus and Epicurus, who also ascribe
to Destiny, all the inclinations, the vices and the virtues, the
desires and passions even unto the actions and thoughts, which some
have endeavoured to prove by the authority of Boetius, who says that
the order of destiny moves the heavens, and the stars temper the
elements, and tie human actions to their causes by a most
indissoluble knot.

But leaving apart a matter of so long a discourse, from whence is
sprung the error of the Priscillianists, who believe that the soul
and the body are necessarily subject to the stars, and many other
errors which succeed this first; I desire thou shouldst know, that I
speak according to custom, which willeth that this name Destiny, and
other Christian idioms, be taken for misfortune, believing that
nevertheless, God in his divine providence speaks by Destiny as men
express the conceptions of their minds by words. Thy face (said the
young man) promiseth no less, than what I have heard come from thy
mouth; for thy presence and aspect is an index of thy nobleness, as
thy tongue is of knowledge: which worketh in me a great pleasure,
and desire to tell thee my name, my country, quality and my
misfortunes, which if thou please to hearken unto with patience, I
will as briefly as I can relate:

The History of Pamphilus and Celio.
"The city of Toledo, in the heart of Spain; strong by situation,
noble by antiquity, famous for the preservation of the Christian
faith ever since the time of the Goths, generous both in learning
and arms, having a temperate heaven and a fertile Earth. Environed
with the famous river Tagus, which is itself also begirt with a high
but pleasant hill: it is the place where my now living parents were
born, as also myself (although my ancestors in former times came
from those parts of the Asturias which are called Santillana, the
ancient title of the house of Mendoza) there was I brought up in my
more tender years. But when my parents thought I was capable of
learning, they sent me to the University of Salamanca, with such
company as was fit for a man of my place, to the end that besides
the Latin tongue which I knew already, I might study the knowledge
of the law. Here I am constrained to make a long digression, because
that of the history of another, depends the foundation of mine. My
father had other children; Lisard his eldest son, who was in
Flanders with the Archduke Albert, where he got no small reputation,
principally in the siege of Ostend, and Nisa a daughter, and if I be
not partial, one of most excellent beauty, who lived in that honour
and good name unto which she was bound by the nobleness of her birth
and the care of such parents.

Unto these terms was the young man proceeded in his discourse,
whereat Pamphilus exceedingly troubled covered his face with his
hands, whereof the other demanding a reason, Pamphilus said to him,
that his grief which had brought him unto that estate wherein he
found him was returned again, yet he thought it was with less
violence than it had formerly done. All this Pamphilus feigned,
because the story which the Toledan told him, was his own proper
story, and this Nisa whom he called his sister, was the pilgrim
whose wits were lost out of the apprehension of Pamphilus’ death; so
do acts dissembled many times meet, and sometimes do then reappear
most when they are most endeavoured to be hidden. I will not proceed
in my story, said he if thou find not thyself so well, that thou may
hearken unto me; for there is no time worse employed than that which
one loseth in speaking to them, which give no ear to the speaker.
Thou may proceed, said Pamphilus, (being desirous to understand the
estate of his own affairs) for I find my grief begins to leave me,
eased by thy presence and thy words. I must tell thee then, said the
young man, that there was in Madrid a brave Knight, and a great
friend of my father’s, with whom he had great inwardness of
acquaintance, ever since the wars of Granada, and I think they were
together in that famous Battle of Lepanto: from this friendship it
followed, that at the end of some years, they treated of the
marrying of my sister Nisa, with one of this knight’s sons, of whom
I now speak, and the young man’s name was Pamphilus. But while these
things were a-doing, the father of Pamphilus died, and the
proposition of marriage ceased. Pamphilus who by the renown that
went of my sister, as also by her picture, was taken in her love,
and grew wonderful sad and melancholy, and falling from one
imagination to another, in the end he resolved upon this which I
shall tell thee, that thereby thou may see how innocent those were,
who without the light of faith, did anciently believe in fortune and
destinies. Which was, that making his mother believe that he would
go into Flanders, and journeying some days in the habit and equipage
of a man at arms, and after having sent his servants to Alcalá de
Henares, and there disguising himself in other clothes, he went to
Toledo: where not being known to any person, he found means to be
employed as a servant in my father’s house, which was no hard matter
to do, because that his excellent feature and countenance
accompanied with his intelligence were pledges sufficient of his
fidelity, and gave my father not only a desire to be served by him,
but also to respect him. My father received him ignorant of his
quality and of his intent (a strange imagination of a man, being a
knight, and so well known almost of all, in the country wherein he
was born; that he could so hide himself, at the door (as it were) of
his own house, that nobody could know, either where he was or what
he did) yet so it was, that his humility, his diligent service, and
other commendable parts which he had, gained such credit with my
parents, that I do believe he might as easily have compassed his
designs with his feigned poverty, as with his true riches.

The chiefest thing whereunto he applied himself as his whole study,
was to appear agreeable to Nisa, which was easy to be done, for who
can guard himself from a domestic enemy? The simplicity wherewith
this knight did begin his treason, and the good words which he used,
gained him entrance into those places whereinto hardly and with
great difficulty, could the ancient servants come. Behold with how
little care, a noble gentleman kept in his house another Greek
horse, like unto miserable Troy: for such of necessity must this
young man’s heart needs be full of thoughts and armed with malice,
which (the hour of execution approaching) broke forth into such
flames, as have fired our renown. When Pamphilus thought that Nisa
was disposed to hearken to his intention, were it that his sickness
were true, or feigned; as most likely it was, he made himself sick.
My parents, who accounted of this servant as of their governor, and
loved him equal with their dearest children, there being no key
about the house, no account in all their expense, nor any secret in
their affaires, wherein he was not trusted, caused him to be tended
with all the care which was possible for love and respect to bring.
The physicians said that this infirmity proceeded from a deep
melancholy, and the best remedy that was to be given, was to rejoice
him, and principally by music; In which they were not deceived, for
if love does participate of the evil spirit, and that David drove
away the evil spirit from Saul by the sweetness of his harp, by the
same means love might be driven away. Thou sayest true, said
Pamphilus, (who gave great attention unto the relation of his own
story, to see to what end the discourse of this young man would
come, who was his mistress’ brother) for without doubt it holdeth
many conditions of the evil spirit, and leaving apart the principal
which is to torment with fire, behold the sympathy which they have
one with the other. The devils do delight themselves in things which
are naturally melancholy, inhabiting in horrible places, obscure and
solitary, and loving darkness and sadness: all which qualities are
common with them which love, and cannot attain to that which they
pretend, they desire solitary places, and the dens of deserts, there
to entertain in silence their sad thoughts, without anything to
trouble them, no not the light of heaven. But let me entreat thee to
proceed in thy story of this knight, for I desire with passion to
know the end.

My sister Nisa, said Celio, then (for so was the young man called)
could play admirable well of the lute, and sang so sweetly that in
the like danger, the dolphin would more willingly have brought her
to the shore, then he did Arion sometimes to Corinth. Wherefore by
the consent of my parents, and not against her will, she went into
Pamphilus’ little chamber, (consider with thyself the happy glory of
a man in his case) and sang a poem which he himself had composed,
for he had that way a dextrous facility, and very natural; neither
did it want the excellence of art. But whilst Nisa sang, Pamphilus
wept, and never turned his eyes from hers; so that one resembled the
crocodile, and the other a Siren, excepting that one sang to give
him health, and the other wept to deceive her of her honour. Nisa
seeing his extremity of sadness, said unto him that her intent was
not that her music should have the same effect in him as it had in
others, which is, to make them sadder, but contrarily her desire was
to rejoice him. There is (answered he) no other voice nor other
harmony, unless it may be the harmony of heaven, can rejoice me but
yours: nevertheless my evil being past hope of cure, bindeth me to
bewail myself, and not to think upon anything but upon the beauty
which causeth it. What evil is that (said Nisa) past cure, which
proceedeth from a cause commended by thee? It is an evil (answered
Pamphilus) whereof I do hinder the cure, and whereof the only
comfort is to know that I suffer it for the fairest creature in the
world. The liberty wherein we live (said Nisa) doth give me leave
Pamphilus, to speak unto the here of a suspicious matter: by the
tokens which thou hast delivered unto me of thy evil, thou hast
given me knowledge of the occasion that makes thee sick, although I
am ignorant of the cause, who makes the sick: thou lovest without a
doubt, and I take it in good part that thou wouldst confess unto me,
that which thou wouldest not speak unto the physicians, assuring
thee that thou may better trust my love then their art. But I
conjure thee, by that goodwill which thou knowest I have born thee
ever since thou hast served my parents that thou wilt tell me
whether I know her whom thou lovest, and whether I can be helpful
unto thee in thy curing, for thy tears doe make me pity thee. You
may well serve to help me pitiful Nisa (said then the cunning lover,
who might well have instructed Ovid) seeing I do not hope for it
from any other hands than yours, and that you know the cause of my
pain, as well as you know yourself."

Here Pamphilus demanded of Celio (wondering that he should tell so
particularly that which passed so secretly between him and Nisa) how
he knew the same words which they had spoken, he being at that time
far off, following his study in Salamanca? To which Celio answered,
that the same Pamphilus had left the story in writing with a friend
of his, from whom having had the means since that time to get it, he
learned all unto the least particular, and then proceeding on his
discourse, he continued in this manner:

"The colour which came into Nisa's face when she heard Pamphilus’
words, cannot be compared, but unto the red rose with milky leaves,
although it be a poetical term, and borrowed of the same author, yet
feigning not to understand what he said, she answered that if it
were any of her friends she would endeavour (at the least) to bring
it about that she should know his evil, that thereupon he might lay
the foundation of his remedy. I am in that state said Pamphilus that
I dare not so much as sigh or breath out her name, yet I can show
you her portrait, which is the original cause of my misfortune, and
for whose sake I am come from my own country into yours, where I
remain an humble servant of your house, and do think myself most
happy to be so, although I am a knight, and equal unto her whom you
call your friend, and with whom I should have been now married, if
my father had lived until this day, for only his death barred me of
this happiness. And in saying these words, Pamphilus gave her her
picture, which had been drawn by the most excellent painter of our
time, called Philip of Lianho; whose pencil oftentimes durst compare
with Nature herself, who out of mere envy unto him for that (as it
seemed) shortened his days. Yet Nisa (through whose veins ran a cold
shivering) affirmed that she did not know the face; I do not wonder
said Pamphilus, that the ancient philosopher hath delivered his
opinion; that it is a very hard matter to know oneself, putting this
sentence: Know Thyself, on the facades of the most famous temples.
Yet see another more natural, the knowledge whereof you cannot deny.
Saying this, he reached her a very fair looking-glass: Nisa seeing
her face within the crystal could no longer suffer his discourse,
nor the knight’s presence: but rising up in a fury, said unto him in
great anger as she went away, thy boldness shall cost thee thy life.
Can it be better employed, answered Pamphilus, than for your beauty
to be ended?"

She answered well, said the Pilgrim, if she had accomplished what
she said. She accomplished it so ill, replied Celio, that within a
few days she loved him better than she loved herself, proving the
verse of the famous poet Dante to be infallibly true: that love
excuseth no one who is beloved from loving. But how came it (said
the pilgrim) that a maid should love; who had hearkened with so much
disdain in the beginning? Because, answered Celio, that all maids
for their first answer consult with shame, and for their second
consult with weakness: although for my own part, I think that
Pamphilus despairing of his remedy helped himself with charms. I
cannot believe so, answered Pamphilus, a man hath liberty to love,
and not to love as it seemeth good unto himself, and it seems to be
a terrible and cruel thing that a chaste woman should be violently
constrained to love, whether she would or no: charms and witchcraft
may peradventure move, persuade and tempt without suffering to be in
rest, and with these exterior persuasions make one yield unto the
prayers and tears of a lover: yet for all this it cannot be said,
that she is constrained but that of her goodwill, she giveth consent
to her desire, suffering herself rather to be vanquished by her own
proper nature, than by the force of any magic art. Wherefore it is
an evident folly in those which love, to complain that they are
violently constrained will he nil he, to follow their loves, because
God never suffereth that the power of free will should be taken from
Man; and if anyone say he hath been forced by diabolical
persuasions, it may be answered, he was not forced in his reason,
but in his concupiscence: neither is it to be believed that a
knight, a Christian wise young and brave gentleman, would help
himself with such wicked means to attain his ends. It is not likely,
answered Celio, and it may be, that he witnessing his fidelity by
other services, obliged her to condescend unto his will, for Nisa is
not the only woman in this world subject to this weakness.

"Nevertheless, behold the strange accident which happened unto them
both, as a beginning of their misfortunes; for it being rumoured at
Madrid that Pamphilus was come from Flanders, the news thereof came
unto my father’s ears, who (desirous to make him his son in law, in
favour of the ancient acquaintance and love he had with his father,
and because that it had been formerly agreed between them) one day
told her, that he was resolved to marry her, not naming unto whom;
and thereupon writing to Madrid, to Pamphilus’ mother, entreating
her to send him to Toledo, congratulating also with her, her son’s
happy return and the prosperous success of his affairs, and
remembered unto her the amity which he had contracted with her
husband, his father. The sad Nisa, who already desperately loved
Pamphilus, told him that her father would marry her, and the knight
who was designed for her husband was shortly to come from Madrid
unto their house, but she knew nothing in particular more of him,
but that he was a brave soldier who lately came out of Flanders.
Pamphilus (ignorant that he was the person who was meant) fell into
great extremity at the news, and after many tears and other follies,
he said he was resolved to be gone, for his heart would never suffer
him to see a new servant unto his mistress in this house. A strange
and never heard of story, that a man should be jealous of himself,
and fly from his own presence. Nisa who now thought it as impossible
for her to be without Pamphilus, as the Earth without water, fire
without matter to burn, or as the celestial harmony without their
first mover, said unto him in weeping, that she would have him take
her away with him, and that she would follow him over the world; yet
upon this condition, that he should swear solemnly, never to lose
the respect which was due unto her honour: which oath being taken by
Pamphilus without any consideration of the danger which might
happen: he made choice of a dark night, and by a garden which
answered upon the river, took her from the house, and by the same
river went from the town, carrying her in his bark, until he came
unto those mountains which are called Sisla: this was it which he
writ afterwards from Valencia to a friend of his of Saragossa.

Now follows the beginning of my peregrination, which (having been
too long in this history) I will briefly relate. At the dolorous
letter which was written to me of this success (which was discovered
as soon as Pamphilus was gone from Toledo) I came from Salamanca to
my father’s house, which I found all in mourning for the loss of my
sister. My father in few words obliged me to revenge it, which I
swore that I would, with many words as free as his were grave: and
to execute my intent I went to Madrid. I sought Pamphilus in all the
houses of his friends, and visited his mother, asking news of him,
making show how things had passed. His innocent mother said, it was
two years since he went into Flanders, and that from the time of his
departure, she never had heard from him, from whence she collected
he was dead. I thought that she, knowing what he had done, had
disguised the truth: and while I was in this meditation, I casting
my eyes upon a young gentlewoman, who sat sewing by this reverend
matron. I found her in my mind so fair, that her only look had power
to temper my sorrow, and hardly had I fully viewed her perfections,
when as I propounded in myself to serve her, and to steal her away,
thinking by this means to give satisfaction to our honour, and
beginning to my revenge. To recount unto you at this time all the
passages and the care which I used to speak with her, and to bring
her to my will, would be to trouble you with a long discourse; let
it satisfy that I drew her from her house with the same thread
wherewith Pamphilus had pulled Nisa from ours, and in a strange and
foolish mind led her into France, where her beauty ministered
subject unto a knight to serve her and for me to kill him: from
whence it followed that for safety of my life I was driven to leave
her. Nevertheless, I am resolved whatsoever happen unto me to seek
her, because that besides, I do love her more than myself, I owe so
much unto her merit and virtue with which she hath faithfully
accompanied me, through many and variable successes."

Night had spread his black veil over the face of the Earth, and the
houses were as full of candles, as the heaven of stars; men and
creatures retired themselves, from their common labour, when as the
miserable Pamphilus gave over hearing the tragedy of his love, with
the last act of his honour: and to know that he did then but begin
to suffer his evils when he thought he was at an end of them. He
admired the justice of Heaven, which had suffered that his sister
should so lightly have quitted her mother’s house to run away with a
man; yet finding in himself the example of his own misleading of
Nisa, and that the injury which he had done unto Celio was no less
than that which he had received, he did not hold it just in himself
once to think of revenge, but rather to persuade him that he should
not, nor ought to leave her, which he performed with the best words,
and the liveliest reasons he could devise. Remonstrating unto him
that amongst gentlemen the only condition of nobleness should bind
him to seek for her, which Celio allowing for most reasonable, gave
him his word to employ his endeavours to that purpose. And being
lodged this night together, they supped and slept in one house. The
next morning Pamphilus gave him a letter to a French gentleman with
whom he had great acquaintance, that he might favour him in finding
out Finia, for so was his sister called. But Celio departed not for
certain days, during which time there was a perfect friendship knit
between those two secret enemies; so that Pamphilus knowing the
offence which Celio had done unto him, pardoned him in his heart,
and Celio ignorant that this was Pamphilus, was disposed to the
pardoning of him. The resolution was with great oaths to enquire out
one the other, and to help each other in all accidents as brothers;
assigning the rendezvous within six months, in the city of Pamplona.

So went Celio upon his enterprise; and some few days after his
departure, Pamphilus’ sorrow increasing out of the opinion that it
was impossible for him to recover Nisa; it happened that going one
night from his lodging in a vain desire he had to see the windows of
the prison (where his happiness and joy was enclosed) he heard a
knight cry out for help against some who would at advantage have
killed him. He suddenly stepped unto him, and drawing out his sword
out of his palmer’s staff with an incredible dexterity, accompanied
with a valiant & brave courage, made them loose him whom they would
have killed, and save their own lives by a shameful though a safe
flight.

The knight would needs know who he was, who had delivered him from
so great danger: and although Pamphilus excused himself from telling
his name, yet the knight’s desire and courtesy prevailed more than
the humbleness wherewith the pilgrim did endeavour to persuade him
that he had done him no service: to conclude, he led him to his
house, where his good and gentle behaviour being observed, the
knight and his parents bore such affection unto him that they did
oblige him to become their guest.

There remained Pamphilus some days, at the end of which Jacinth (so
was this knight called) told him the history of his love unto fair
Lucinda, and the occasion for which these assassinators wold have
murdered him, who for this only cause, were come from Seville unto
Valencia where the subject of the passion and the sorrow wherein he
lived did remain. I do believe that lovers have some sympathy one
with another, and that they join and communicate in such manner as
you have seen in this discourse, seeing that our pilgrim never came
into any house where there was not someone or other tainted with
this evil, even though it were in craggy mountains.

By this overture of Jacinth’s secret, Pamphilus was bound to reveal
his: and after he had made him swear that he would grant him his
request, he said that in recompense of his life which he had saved,
as he himself confessed, he conjured him to help him to a place, in
that prison where the mad folks were shut up. Jacinth, astonished at
so strange a request, would needs know the cause. But Pamphilus
promising to tell him as soon as he had done him that favour, and
casting himself at his feet with most earnest and unheard of words,
affirming the good he should doe him to put him in this place, made
Jacinth suspect that some secret danger did enforce him into that
place. And willing very generously to satisfy the obligation wherein
he was tied, after some inconveniences and reasons urged to divert
him, having agreed with him of the means which he should use. That
very night Jacinth took five or six men of the hospital who entering
suddenly into Pamphilus’ chamber, put him in a chair, and carried
him away in their arms. Miserable condition of this man, who after
so many strange successes, being wise (if those who love can be so)
to make himself to be taken and shut up willingly, as a madman,
where all the mad folks would willingly be accounted wise.

All Jacinth’s house admired at this novelty, and all his family
complained that this stranger, unto whom Jacinth owed his life, was
so unworthily requited by Jacinth himself: but she who most
complained of his cruelty and had the truest feeling of it was
Tiberia his sister, who was both fair and discreet above all the
ladies in Valencia, who affecting the gentleness and fair spirit of
our unfortunate pilgrim, did not see but by his eyes, and did not
breathe but from him. Jacinth told them that Pamphilus was mad, and
that it was necessary he should be cured before the disease
increased too far. The father of this knight, who was very learned,
blamed exceedingly this precipitate course, saying that in all
infirmities there was nothing more dangerous than physic out of
season, and swore that he should be had out of the hospital to be
cured in his house. Tiberia confirmed this piety, saying that reward
due unto him, they being not so poor, but that they had means
sufficient to have him cured in their house, with greater care of
his health, and less scandal to his honour Jacinth replied that he
was a stranger, and that nobody knew him. But all the household were
so much against him, blaming him for ingratitude, especially his
father and his sister, that he was constrained to tell them what he
knew. Whereat in imagining the cause, all of them were astonished,
and wondered. They thought that Pamphilus was a spy, who went
disguised under the habit of a pilgrim, and that fearing to be known
by someone, he used this subtility to save his life: for although he
spoke Spanish, nevertheless, by his fair face and exceeding beauty,
he seemed a stranger, and by his actions a gentleman. With this
confession, Jacinth remained in their good opinion, though the house
was much troubled, and Tiberia was full of pitiful grief and care
for Pamphilus’ life: who being in prison among the mad folks (in the
judgement of many, the very centre of greatest misery) imagined
himself to be in most glorious happiness.

To this new madman the more ancient gave place, and Pamphilus, with
divers feignings and counterfeitings of his face, endeavoured to
express his madness; which fashion of his, seeming them as tokens of
rashness, they put him into the prison with irons on his hands,
where to confirm them the more in their opinion of his madness, he
said so many words so far from the matter, that his affliction was
believed. There he stayed some few days before he could see his
beloved Nisa, suffering most insupportable discommodities, difficult
to be spoken of, and almost impossible to be believed; in the
meantime Celio went by Saragossa into France, to find his beautiful
and beloved Finia whom he had lost, where being come, he heard the
news of the peace which was proclaimed between the two nations,
which made him rest that night (with more contentment out of the
facility which it brought to his design) staying for the light of
the morning to clear his passage over the mountains into France.

The End of the Second Book.

Book Three

Whilst the sad and afflicted Celio entered into France by the
mountains of Jaca to see if he could find his dear Finia, our
pilgrim Pamphilus having gotten out of the prison, as a madman whose
fury was over, was admitted to the table where others did eat, where
also sat his fair Nisa; near unto whom he did always endeavour to
sit, and there and in all other convenient places he told her his
fortunes. She blamed him for putting himself into this place,
although she did acknowledge how she was tied unto him, for this his
great folly.

Pamphilus as a true lover, who only aimed at the end of his love,
which was to marry her, and who had sworn by a thousand oaths to
resist the violence of his desires until a lawful marriage would
suffer him to accomplish them, said unto her in comforting her, that
if she had suffered this misery for him, and that they ought to be
all one, there was no reason but he should have his part of this
misery, to the end that equal in all things, their marriage might be
without advantage of one side or another, and that his love unto her
did prevail so far as not to let pass one day without seeing her,
notwithstanding any danger, and although his honour were thereby in
hazard. The servants of the house did not hinder their speaking
together, because that Nisa being apparelled like a man, and having
a care that her hair should not reveal her sex, everybody did
believe that she was as she seemed to be. For although that her
beauty were extreme, yet the world hath not any so great, but it
appeareth little, being much neglected; especially seeing that if
art do not polish the beautifullest and finest diamonds, and that
they be not set in gold with enamelling and other necessary
ornaments, they show not the lustre, grace nor beauty which they
have being artificially cut and set in a foil by cunning workmen.

The misery of this kind of life seemed unto our two lovers as
nothing in regard of the former travails which they had suffered, as
I have heard it often said by many: and I myself know by experience
that if two lovers may see and speak together, they have no feeling
of the miseries which do serve them as means to attain thereunto. Oh
what will not those which love resolve of! What is it, which doth
not seem possible unto them? What travails can weary them? And what
dangers can make them fear? O love strong as death: seeing that a
lover living in that which he loves, and being dead in himself, hath
no more feeling of torment then a body deprived of a soul. With what
tears were these two separated at night, by the cruel officers of
this prison? (If it be cruelty to deal rigorously with mad folks)
with what care and languishment did they attend the day that they
might see one the other? What discreet follies did they utter in
public, full of equivocations to deceive those who heard them, and
to divert the evils which they suffered? And with what amorous
discourses did they in particular warm their desires to marry? How
much doth he commend Nisa's virtue, and the chaste but loving
defence which she made of her honour, for Pamphilus being a man had
yielded often unto his passion, if she had not moderated his
violence? With what grace they gave madly, favours one unto another,
of the wildest things they could find upon the ground, which
Pamphilus stuck in his hat, instead of jewels or feathers which he
was wont to wear. But fortune envying their contentedness, even in
this misery, would not let them live in this place at rest, but
arming himself anew against them, even at that time when as they
thought (by Jacinth’s help) to get out of that prison, there came
unto this city an Italian earl, of the house of Aguilora, called
Emilio, who desiring to have a Fool with him, promised a great alms
unto their house if they would give him a madman, who having lost
his fury might entertain him with sport. Those of the hospital
failed not to promise him one, and withal to bring him to his
lodging some of their most peaceable madmen, amongst whom were the
pilgrim Pamphilus and the fair Nisa. The Earl joyful to see them,
inquired of their keepers their conditions, one of whom answered
thus:

This man strong and able who you see there, was sometimes a brave
soldier, who having served upon many occasions like a Hector,
desired the reward of his valour which he had merited above all
other. But he finding himself denied, and that it was given unto the
cowardliest fellow in the army, fell from this imagination into so
profound a melancholy, that he lost his wits. He hath lost his fury
in the prison although oftentimes it returns. His discourse is
always of marshalling an army, of besieging a fort, of lodging a
camp, or causing it to march. All is sluices, <DW18>s, trenches,
platforms, ravelins, casemates, flankers, palisadoes, counterscarps,
squadrons, cannons, muskets, pistols, corselets, pikes. This weak
and pale man is of another humour, who having given himself too much
to the study of philosophy, lost his understanding. Of this man the
Earl demanded, which was the Primum Mobile, either Coelum Imperium,
or Coelum Crystallinum? unto whom the madman answered thus:

"After moving the spheres by a local motion, the divines do teach us
that there is another heaven perpetually in rest from all motion,
created from the beginning, and full of an innumerable thousands of
intelligences and of happy spirits, which were created together in
it and with it. In such sort as the mingled bodies are accustomed to
engender some things in inferior places, as fishes in the water,
birds in the air and the vegetative creatures, plants and minerals
in the earth. This heaven for its greatness and for its inestimable
light, is called Imperial, as who should say Fiery (not for the
natural property of fire, but for the glorious clearness wherewith
it shineth) is the throne destined before the constitution of the
world, and as a royal palace ordained from the beginning, for all
those who are to reign before the face of God, the light whereof is
so lustrous and clear, that the corporal eyes cannot behold or look
upon it, no more than the birds of the night can the sun."

All the assistants remaining astonished at this discourse, another
one of the madmen began to cry, calling his dogs, and luring his
hawks like the great falconer and huntsman as he had been; of whom,
as the Earl began to laugh, Pamphilus said thus unto him; you ought
not mock at this exercise, but at those who exercise it unorderly
and untimely, without respecting either season or place: for
according to Xenophon and Athenaeus, hunting was famous amongst the
Persians. Homer said it was practised amongst the Greeks that
thereby their young men might become hardier; for as Horace writes,
the Hunter often lies abroad in the cold night without remembering
his wife. Philon the Hebrew tells notable things of hunting, in his
Preface unto his Warfare. Cicero says no less, in his book of The
Nature of the Gods. And Peter Gregory says that the original
thereof, was in the beginning of the world to the end that men
should be able to free themselves from the persecutions of beasts.
If hunting, replied the Earl, (who was a man of great knowledge) had
not passed from the honest exercise (the imitation of war) unto that
of pleasure, who would doubt of the excellence thereof? But in
regard of the hurt it doth in the fields, and the expense which it
brings unto him who follows it? Louis the Twelfth King of France
justly forbade it: for what else is the meaning of the fable of
Actaeon, devoured by his dogs, but that overmuch hunting wastes both
goods and life? And passing by many other things, which might be
gathered from this verse of Virgil, where he says, Aeneas and sad
Dido went a-hunting together in a wood: joined also the dangers of
life which cannot be told, neither is it to be wondered at, that
this man became mad, seeing that as Dion assureth the same exercise
made the Emperor Adrian a fool. Then answered the mad hunter, that
with more reason should he be laid in this place for a madman,
because he would persuade madmen, and reason with them who had no
reason.

The discourse of this madman, said the Earl savouring nothing of
madness, obliges me to answer: for a man must fight with those who
give occasion, play with such as have money, and answer unto
everyone in the same manner he speaks. But if all the madmen in
Spain were as you, and that my children should remain there, I
should rather desire to have them ignorant than learned; know said
the fool that if it were possible a man should desire to be born in
France, to live in Italy and to die in Spain, to be born for the
nobleness of the French, who always have had their king of their own
nation, and never mingled with any other; to live, for the liberty
and felicity of Italy: and to die for the Catholic faith which is so
certain in all Spain. And as concerning your children, whatsoever
happens of it, suffer them not to live in ignorance; for there is
less danger in being mad, than in being ignorant. Whilst this man
spoke, another singing near to him let the Earl know that music had
brought him to that estate, for it is said; that it is a kinswoman
to poetry: the ancients said the madmen have comprised music amongst
the liberal sciences. Aristotle in his Politics, Budeus in his
Commentary upon the Greek tongue and Caelius the Rhodian do say that
music is a mixture compounded of sounds sweet, flat and sharp.
Plutarch in the life of Homer puts one voice flat and the other
sharp, the flat voice proceeds from within and the sharp from the
area of the mouth, and from their divers tempering make the harmony;
the object of the hearing is the sound, and the reflection of the
air, as Galen teaches; and the sound is made from the act of some
one thing into another, by the means of the stroke which causes it:
two bodies are required to make a sound, because that one cannot do
it. The echo is an air struck into hollow places, which resisting
the stroke of the voice, return the same words which are spoken. So
say Themiserus, Pliny, Ovid and Macrobius in his Saturnales. The
voice and the word are not one thing, the word holds the ground from
the tongue helped by the nostrils, the lips and the teeth: and the
instruments of the voice are the throat, the muscles which move, and
the nerves which come down from the brain. Who was the first
inventor of music? asked the Earl. The madman answered, Josephus
said that it was Tubal, Adam’s nephew, although that others give the
invention to Mercury, as Gregory Gerand: and Philostratus said that
Mercury learned it from Orpheus and Amphion. But Eusebius attributes
it to Dionysus. Then asked the Earl, into how many parts music was
divided? The madman answered, according to Boetius, into the
theoretical and the practical, be it either natural, artificial,
celestial or human; the natural and celestial is that which is
considered in the harmony of all the parts of the world: the human
is that which treats of the proportions of the body and of the soul,
and their parts: for Plato, Pythagoras and Architas have thought
that the motions and conversions of the stars cannot be without
music. And Vitruvius is of the opinion that buildings are not framed
without music. Leaving celestial and human, there follows
artificial, divided into musical organs and Instruments.

Thereupon the other madmen began to put in practice that whereof he
only showed the theory, and began to make such a noise with confused
and discording voices, that it was impossible to understand them.
But being appeased, he who kept the madmen made great account unto
the Earle of a mad astrologer, who by the contemplation of such high
things was fallen into this abasement. Hardly had the Earl looked
upon him, when he began to tell him that the composition and figure
of the world in its form was called a sphere which was solid, and
that passing through the middle, the poles were placed in the
extremes or vertical points immovable: one made the North on this
side of the Bear, and from the stars of that part of heaven called
Aquila, Boreal or Arctic; The other which was opposite by diameter
was called Antarctic and meridional; there was he interrupted by
others, who would not let him proceed, and after it was not possible
to appease them, although there were a great many more painters,
poets and mathematicians, but above all there was an alchemist, a
famous disciple of Raymundus Lullius.

At this time Emilio had fixed his eyes upon Nisa, and beholding the
sadness with which she was silent, he demanded of the Master the
humour of this mad creature? Who answered him, that love had brought
him to his folly. Her delicate face, and the occasion of her evil,
gave him at the same time desire and compassion with such affection,
that agreeing with the Master at the price of a hundred crowns, he
made choice of her from amongst all the other to lead her into
Italy. But hardly had Pamphilus seen the effects of this election,
when as his fury increasing truly, which was before but feigned, he
struck, he bit and took on, as if he had been enraged against those
who took his dear Nisa away. But they being a great many against him
alone, the Earl took her from the house, and shortly after from
Valencia. And Pamphilus tied up as a madman, was had back again with
many grievous blows, bewailing bitterly the loss of his dear Nisa.
And by how much he endeavoured to make the officers believe that he
was not mad, by so much the more he persuaded them that he was not
well in his wits: because being oppressed with grief he told them
plainly that he had caused himself to be brought thither only to see
this young mad creature, whom they had accounted to be a man, but
indeed was a woman and his wife, whom he had concealed under this
habit for fear of her father, from whom he had stolen her away.

But they were so confirmed in their opinion of his madness, that by
those reasons whereby he did think they were tied to give him his
liberty, he made them more obstinate to refuse him, until they might
have more evident tokens of the tranquillity of his mind. Whilst he
did complain to see that it served him to no purpose to tell the
truth, which of all things in the world doth most enrage a man, and
that in regard of Jacinth’s absence, he could not tell unto whom to
have recourse. The unfortunate Nisa was meanwhile come to Barcelona,
with so much sorrow and tears that Emilio already repented that he
had bought her: inasmuch as there is nothing more unprofitable than
a sad fool. The Earl embarked, not knowing that she whom he led with
him had the fortune of Scianus’ horse, which cost his masters their
lives: He endeavoured to rejoice Nisa, causing her to sit at his
table, to make her eat meat, because it was told him that she would
famish herself to death, where earnestly beholding her face, and
considering her actions, he did suspect, that she was neither mad,
nor a man: He let this day pass over, and the next day he was
assured of both; Inasmuch as so great a sadness could not be
feigned; and that Nisa's reserved speech and the modesty of her
looks declared openly that which upon other occasions she had hidden
with so much care; Emilio being then persuaded that this mad
creature was a woman, or at the least having evident tokens thereof,
inquired with great care of her sadness, using her as a gentlewoman,
and with respect due unto her sex. Nisa who had now neither care to
disguise herself nor to live, confessed she was a woman, and would
not be comforted by Emilio's words: but Emilio, who the more he
conversed with her the more was engaged in her love, in the end
suffered himself to be vanquished in her beauty: for Nisa now
ceasing to appear as a man captivated all those who beheld her with
her marvellous grace. Love then began to make himself master over
Emilio through pity, which is the cloak under which it enters into
our minds; as the pill under gold, that the bitterness may not
offend: and his passion increased so far as to desire to know her
evil and to procure her remedy. But neither for any effect of love,
nor hope of remedy that he could give her would Nisa witness any
feeling of pleasure, or obligation to him: all which served to
sharpen Emilio’s desires, which he did make appear with greater
demonstrations: whereat Nisa being grieved, endeavoured to divert
him from her love, conjuring him with tears that he would not lead
her in this indecent habit. The Earl being courteous offered her
other clothes, but she assured him that she had made a vow never to
wear any but pilgrim’s habit, until she had seen the Patron of Spain
in Galicia. Emilio nevertheless did make her one of serge, and the
pilgrim being new clothed appeared more beautiful, there being no
new apparel which doth not embellish, nor so poor a habit new which
doth not enrich a well-proportioned body.

But by this time, a great fog with a tempestuous wind arising in the
gulf, the mariners knew by the signs which are wont to forerun such
storms that they were likely to undergo a great hazard of drowning.
Their presage was not vain, for the wind rose with such extremity
and violence and the sea wrought with such huge billows that the
Masters could no more command, nor the rowers obey. The Captain was
astonished, the pilot pale, some cried, others silent and without
stirring remained as men in a trance with fear. And in this
confusion which continued six hours, the miserable galley split
against the rocks; Emilio who now no more remembered his love, and
who knew not that the unfortunateness of Nisa brought forth this
effect (clean contrary unto Caesar’s fortune, which appeased storms)
endeavoured to save his life with much travail: and the heaven
reserving Nisa's life to run greater fortunes, cast her as formerly
she had been upon the shore of Barcelona.

Those which remained alive were cast away in the same place: Nisa
having stayed some time to recover herself after this fortune went
in pilgrimage to Marseille: where one day visiting the famous Church
of the Penitent, whom the angels buried in the mountain where God
gave his laws to Moses, she saw a woman, a pilgrim as herself though
in other habit, who with great devotion was upon her knees at the
stairs of the great altar. She appeared to Nisa to be a Spaniard,
wherefore desiring better to inform herself, obliged thereunto, by
her love unto the country, she stayed at the gate whereat (when
having done her devotions) she came forth, and Nisa saluting her,
they both found that they were Castilians: their joy was so great
that it had been confirmed by embraces, if the man’s apparel which
Nisa wore, had not hindered it: and little by little they went
apart, that they might speak more freely, and with less fear of the
French, who already begun to behold their beauties: and being placed
under a rock which was adjoining the sea, Nisa said thus unto her,
of what province are you, fair Spaniard? Of the Kingdom of Toledo
(answered the pilgrim) and of the greatest city, having merited to
lodge the kings for many years: you are then of Madrid replied Nisa,
and so we are here met by chance two pilgrims of one country, for I
am also of Toledo. Then, said the pilgrim, fetching a great sigh:
there was born the cause of my peregrination, and of my misfortune.
It is easy to be seen in thy youth and in thy beauty, that love hath
brought you into these parts; and if it be of a gentleman of whom
thou dost complain, I believe I know him. It may be so, said the
pilgrim of Madrid, and believe me so soon as I saw you I was
abashed, because you have the very countenance of my enemy; you wish
me evil by all circumstance, then said Nisa: rather all good replied
the pilgrim; for all that resembles his body is agreeable to me,
only I complain of the cruelty of his mind. Will you not tell me his
name or his parents? said Nisa. I hazard a small matter in telling
thee that, answered she; for contrariwise I gain thus much, that it
seems to me I am quiet and at peace, having seen thee, which since I
lost him never came to me before now. His name is Celio, and the
name of a sister which he hath is Nisa, which are the best tokens I
can give thee, to make him known to thee; because besides that she
is famous for her beauty, she is also more famous for her disgrace.
Nisa remained astonished to hear her own name and her brother
Celio’s (for this pilgrim was Finia, Pamphilus’ sister, who had been
left in France as you have already heard) wherefore she desired
earnestly to know the particular of this story, which Finia related
in the same manner as Celio had done to Pamphilus. In the city of
Valencia, accusing his jealousy, which had made him cruelly kill a
French gentleman from whose death ensued his absence, and all the
miseries and travails which she had since endured; Nisa dissembling
that part which she had in the story, blamed the cruelty of her
brother Celio, and with the contentment, which she received in
seeing Pamphilus’ portrait, in Finia her beauty, she tempered her
grief for his absence, and her sorrow which she had, that both their
parents should lose their children for one cause: then did she tell
her that she knew Pamphilus, and that it was not long since she saw
him, assuring her (as one verily believing) that he was in Spain:
Finia demanded of Nisa how she knew him, and where it was that she
had seen him? And Nisa because she would not reveal herself, told
her that she had known him at Constantinople, where they had been
both slaves together: Finia bursting into tears, embraced Nisa and
implored her to tell her name and the story of her brother if she
knew it: Nisa answered that Pamphilus himself had heretofore in his
captivity told it to her, and that she would willingly recount it to
her: but first she deceived Finia in telling her that her name was
Felix, and that going from Toledo with a captain who embarked in
Cartagena, they had been made captives in passing to Oran and
afterwards had to Algiers, where a Turk of Constantinople had bought
her. And so following the story of Pamphilus which was also hers,
from the beginning as you have heard related by Celio until their
departure from Toledo, she began to say as follows:

The Story of Pamphilus and Nisa.

"After that Pamphilus went away from Toledo with Nisa, thinking that
her father would marry her with another, and being jealous of
himself, he told me that suffering some of those discommodities,
which do offer themselves unto such men as travail without their
lawful wives, they came to Seville, a beautiful city, if the sun
shine upon any, for riches, greatness, magnificence, policy, haven
and staple of the Indies: where it may be said that twice every
year, there enters the substance of all Spain. There would Pamphilus
enjoy the beauties of Nisa; but on a sudden he lost the respect
which he was accustomed to bear to her chastity against the oath
which he had solemnly sworn, and hid himself for some days out of
her sight, during which time he was ready to grow mad; yet finding
her again, and craving pardon with new oaths to keep the first
inviolably, they were friends again.

But Pamphilus being one day at the market place, he was recognised
by a merchant of Toledo, a great friend to Nisa her father, who
going about to lay hands on him and apprehend him, Pamphilus was
enforced to lay hand upon his sword, to defend himself from the
Justice. It happened well for Pamphilus, whose courage and address
in arms is incredible, and accompanied with an admirable force; He
was nevertheless constrained to depart speedily from Seville. And he
thinking it discommodious for him to lead Nisa with him in her
woman’s apparel, he clothed her in a suit of his, and cutting off
her hair (of which he after made great relics), he girt a sword to
her side, and so they went to Lisbon together; but they were hardly
accommodated in their lodging, when as a captain, and a great friend
to Lisard, Nisa’s elder brother, who was now in Flanders, had
advertisement of their coming. Although Nisa were sufficiently
disguised, yet her countenance (to those who had formerly seen her)
being sufficiently known, would easily reveal that which they did so
carefully endeavour to hide.

But their good fortune (which delivered them from these dangers, it
may be to reserve them for greater) would at that time, wherein the
captain and his friends came to search for Pamphilus, that Nisa was
alone in the lodging, of whom having enquired her name and her
masters, she said she was a boy who served Pamphilus de Luxan, a
knight of Madrid, not thinking that it did import to tell his name
in a strange country. The captain never informed himself farther for
what he sought; but his ensign inquired news of Nisa; whereat she
being troubled, and repenting that she had said anything of
Pamphilus, answered that she was gone by sea with Pamphilus to
refresh themselves as far as Belen, a famous monastery and the
ancient sepulchre of the Kings of Portugal. This sudden lie of Nisa
saved Pamphilus’ life, or at the least the honour of both those
lovers: for the soldiers went presently to the haven attending there
for their return; and the captain accounting them already taken, and
liking Nisa her fashion, behaviour and countenance exceeding well,
entreated her to become his page, assuring her that he would use her
better than any that ever had worn his casque: Nisa seemed to yield
with great willingness, if he pleased to accept of his service, and
dissembling the care and fear which she had of Pamphilus’ life, said
to the captain that having spoken with her master and given him an
account of such jewels and other things as were in his custody, he
would not fail to come to him; with this answer the captain and the
soldiers were hardly gone out of the doors, when Pamphilus came out
of the town to his lodging, little thinking his enemies were so near
to him: what help do strange countries bring to those unto whom
misfortunes are ever domestic? Nisa told him the danger which
threatened him, and Pamphilus having recourse to the remedy, took a
speedy resolution to leave Spain. Nisa promised to follow him
through seas and lands, (howsoever unknown) and a Portuguese knight
who had a company in Ceuta offered to conduct him. Ceuta is a
frontier tower of the Moors in Africa, not far from Tetouan, and as
it were placed to confront Gibraltar, as the uttermost bound of
Europe: by which place it is said the Moors entered, who under the
leading of Julian conquered Spain. There remained our two lovers for
some time in great peace; although Pamphilus discontent to see his
desires denied by Nisa her chaste resolution, had no great quietness
in his own mind. He would have married her, but it was not possible
to persuade Nisa unto it; she thinking it would be a great
disparagement unto her honour for her to be married in this manner:
and then when he seemed with reason to persuade her, she
contradicted him with tears, remonstrating that she was his, and
that true love had a respect unto an honest end, whereas he who
propounded unto himself only delight, differed little from a beast.
Pamphilus cursed these reasons of Nisa, and sometimes out of grief,
would go a whole day and not speak to her, until in the end overcome
with her sweet patience, he was constrained to send a thousand sighs
as ambassadors for a peace to her, who had the empire over him.

Now the noble courage of this young knight, seeing himself amongst
so many brave soldiers, who went every day to the wars against the
Moors, did believe that it was a dishonour to his birth to carry a
sword idle by his side, whilst others bathed theirs in their
enemies’ blood; wherefore one morning from the watchtowers, the
bells and trumpets giving the alarm, incited by his own generosity
and with the disdains wherewith Nisa in his opinion had disgraced
him three or four days before, he went forth armed at all points,
having a red scarf upon his left arm, a white feather upon his helm,
and a mountain of snow upon his shield; from the top of which, as
from Mount Etna in Sicily came a mouth of fire. So went Pamphilus
out upon his bay horse, which had a black mane and a black tail, and
a white star on the forehead, filling the Portuguese with admiration
to see with what address he managed him; and how gracefully he bore
his lance; but Nisa her evil fortune or his own desperate resolution
who prayed at his departure that she might not see him return alive,
suffered the battle to be ordered in such manner that day that the
Christians had the worst; and Pamphilus searching death, broke into
a squadron of Moors where being wounded and overthrown, he was taken
and led prisoner unto Fez.

The news of this accident came speedily to Nisa’s ears, for the
report of evil successes come sooner to the ears of lovers than that
of happy events: what her grief was it is not necessary to express,
otherwise than in representing Nisa far from her parents, out of her
own country, and from any friends, and which was most, from the dear
presence of him for whose sake she had quitted all these, and for
whose loss she was almost out of her wits. But as the greatest
encounters of fortune do sometime bring forth the greatest strength
and courage of the mind; so Nisa’s grief raised in her mind such
valiant virtue, that she boldly thrust herself into the acquaintance
and friendship of a Moor, who with a safe conduct trafficked in
Ceuta: him she so far gained with her affability and presence, that
he lead her with him to Fez under the habit of an Arab, he teaching
her in a few days the greatest part of the language (of which she
was not altogether ignorant before) Nisa thus lived in Fez in the
habit of a Moor, and under the name of nephew to this barbarian, who
charmed with her understanding, gentleness of spirit and graceful
behaviour, endeavoured to persuade her to leave our religion,
promising to give him his daughter with the best part of his estate,
which was exceeding much. Nisa did not refuse him, nevertheless she
entreated him that he would first suffer her to be instructed in the
law, that she might receive it with more assurance, and more
quietness of mind. With these words and with her beauty, Nisa grew
absolute master of this Moor, of his women (wherein they abound) of
Leila Acha his daughter, of his goods, his slaves and his horses:
upon which as she rode up and down the town for her pleasure, she
was almost adored by these barbarians. She called herself Hassan
Rubin amongst them, a name which Ali Japha had given her in memory
of his son, in whose place he accounted of her, saying that she was
his portraiture. Amongst Ali Japha’s slaves there was one Spaniard,
with whom Nisa having many times speech, she entreated him that he
would inquire secretly with whom a slave of the Kingdom of Toledo
lived; and whose name was Pamphilus? This man found out the same
day, and following her when she was alone, he told her that Sali
Murat had taken him in a battle which was fought in Ceuta, and had
him still in his power, with other slaves who served the masons
about the house which he was building: Nisa glad of this news, in
the evening got on horseback, clothed in a scarlet casque, laid
about with gold lace, having a hat upon her head embroidered with
pearl and a great feather, and a rich sword of Tunis hanging in a
scarf by her side: in this manner she went into the street where
Sali Murat dwelt, and saw (in a new house which was there being
built) her miserable (but beloved) Pamphilus, not yet fully
healed of his wounds, having a poor doublet of course canvas and
breeches of the same, without shoes upon his feet, and carrying with
another Christian the materials wherewith that house was to be
built; she stayed not (as she had thought) because that seeing him
in this state, the tears which she shed would have revealed her; but
feigning to turn her horse in the street, and the beams of her face
properly resembling them of the sun having scattered the clouds of
this water, she stayed looking upon these slaves, and said unto
Pamphilus in the language of Fez, why doth Murat build this fair
house, having another in this street so fair? Pamphilus answered
(according to his knowledge) that they were for the keeping of
slaves, because that since his good success in the former war he was
grown proud, and did presage that he should have many. Thou art then
his slave, said she, in the Castilian tongue. Pamphilus answered
that by his misfortune he was brought to that estate, and earnestly
beholding her face, let fall to the ground that which he held in his
hand, wondering to see a Moor which should so perfectly resemble his
beloved Nisa: for that this should be she, he could not persuade
himself, by reason of her language, her habit and the small time
since that he left her in Ceuta: so he remained without speaking,
endeavouring to cover his astonishment and confusion by his silence,
when as she speaking to him in the Arabian tongue asked of him if he
were a knight? Pamphilus more assured that it was Nisa, by the
resemblance of her face, and distrusting it was not she by her
language, hearing her speak the language of Fez so naturally,
answered her. I told Sali Murat that I was a poor man, but because
you resemble so much a master which heretofore I had (unto whom I
never lied in my life) I will not deceive you. I am a Castilian
Knight, and of the Kingdom of Toledo, and of a place whereof it is
not possible but you should have heard, because that the names of
prince’s courts are notorious to all nations, as Paris in France,
Rome in Italy, Constantinople in Greece and Madrid in Spain; there
was I born, subject unto this misfortune wherein you see me. But
gentle Moor, I pray tell me, who you are and why you ask of me my
country and my quality? I am, said Nisa, nephew to the governor Ali
Japha, and son to Muley Nuzan his brother, by a Christian slave who
was born in Toledo: my name is Hassan Rubin, although that
heretofore I called myself by my mother’s name, Mendoza: my uncle’s
son being dead, he sent for me to Morocco, the place of my birth,
from whence he brought me hither, and to comfort himself called me
by the name of his son; promising me to marry me unto Leila Acha his
daughter, who is the fairest in all Africa, and this is the reason
which inciteth me to love Christians (who are well born) because my
mother was one; especially Spaniards and of her own country: and it
grieves me extremely that thou art belonging to this governor, who
is reputed to use his slaves hardly, as it may be seen by experience
in thyself, who being such that thy nobility doth manifestly appear,
notwithstanding the misery and poverty of thy clothes, yet doth put
thee to such vile labour. Wherefore as well because thou pleasest me
well as for the reasons which I have told thee, I will bring it to
pass, if thou think good of it, that Ali Japha shall buy thee, and
in his house there shall be nothing wanting unto thee but thy
liberty; as for all other things I will use thee as myself.
Pamphilus at these words cast himself at her feet, and by force did
many times kiss them, thanking her for the favour which she did him.

So being departed, Nisa told Ali Japha the desire which she had unto
a Spanish slave who was evil entreated of Sali Murat; the Moor, who
desired to oblige him absolutely and to satisfy his pleasure in all
things, went the next morning to Sali Murat; to treat with him about
the sale of this slave; which being not refused unto him, they
talked of the price: Sali demanded a thousand ducats, because
(sayeth he) he had been taken in good equipage, both for arms and
horse, and a red scarf upon his left arm, a thing which (he said) in
the time of his being in Spain he had seen in kings’ portraitures:
Nisa who was most interested at the bargain said to him that in
Spain clothes were common, and the pride of soldiers equal to the
majesty of their princes: In the end they agreed upon five hundred
ducats, and Nisa going to the chamber where Pamphilus lay, took him
along with her; he filled with tears, and imaginations, attributing
this kindness to the resemblance which was between the Moor and
Nisa, and oftentimes he resolved to believe that it was she; for
although the habit and tongue disguised her, yet the voice and
countenance revealed her. She lodged him in a place differing and
better than that of the slaves: she caused him incontinently to be
clothed, and going to see him the first night, she brought him one
of her smocks, entreating him to wear it under his: Pamphilus cast
himself at her feet, and Nisa turning herself away, he humbly kissed
the ground which she had trodden upon. But they had not long talked
together when Pamphilus grew so certain that if she was not Nisa he
was mad; that thereby he could not sleep, he could not eat nor do
any other thing but show her his thoughts in the violence of sighs:
Nisa fearing that in this perplexity he might lose his wits, to
assure him and thereby to know the secret of his heart, uttered
these words one day to him; Pamphilus the love which I bear thee
constrained me to procure thy good, and to solicit thy rest: I told
Ali Japha that I stood much affected unto thee, and he answered me,
that if I wished he would send thee into thy country, that thou
shouldst go upon thy word, and that from thence thou shouldst upon
thy honour, send him that which thou owest him. But I who lose my
life in losing thee have entreated him to give thee my sister Fatima
to wife, and that thereby I doubted not but I should persuade thee
to alter thy religion and become a Moor; If thou canst bee contented
to do this for me I shall know thy gentleness, and thou shalt enjoy
the most beautiful gentlewoman in all Morocco, and shalt be one of
the richest men of all Africa, because that besides what my father
left her, my uncle will give her a great part of his estate also,
and I will give thee mine, and my wife and I will sojourn under thy
government.

Pamphilus, whose intent was to make her reveal herself unto him, or
else to nettle Nisa so far as that she should declare herself,
coldly answered, that to obey her, and to requite the duty which he
owed her, he would willingly become a Moor; as well for that reason,
as also that he had seen Fatima sometimes in the baths; of whom he
was grown so amorous that the little pleasure and less health which
he had, proceeded from thence. Hardly had Nisa heard Pamphilus’
resolution when in an extreme fury she said unto him, Ah perfidious
traitor and barbarous enemy: without God, without faith, without
love, without loyalty; is this that which thou owest unto heaven, to
thy parents, to thy country and to the unfortunate and miserable
Nisa? Who to deliver thee hath put herself into such great dangers?
I knew well my most beloved Nisa, answered Pamphilus (embracing her)
that this subtlety was necessary, for to make thee reveal thine; for
thou governest thyself in such manner that before thou wouldst have
otherwise plainly declared thyself to me, I should have lost my
wits, if not my life. Let go my arm, ungrateful wretch, said Nisa;
use no more these subtleties, having discovered so much perfidious
weakness; but wretch that I am, why do I complain? Seeing that he
who forsaketh God doth not injure me in forsaking me: but in the end
after many sorrowful complaints, his satisfactions had such virtue
that her anger being overcome by her love, they remained friends,
with more pleasure and firmness than ever, as it always happens
between true lovers.

This day passed away, followed with many others, during which time
they entered into deliberations of the means whereby they might
recover their liberty; which seemed to them impossible in respect of
the love which Ali Japha bore unto Nisa, as also in respect of the
love which Fatima bore unto Pamphilus; for she having heard that he
would be a Moor and that his uncle would marry her to him, favoured
him, to Nisa’s great grief who upon this jealousy was for the space
of three months without any loving correspondence with him: Behold
an unheard of story! Wherein is to be seen what a woman (who loveth)
can effect; seeing she deceived the distrust of an old Moor, and
brought all his house to that point that all things were governed by
the only will of Pamphilus: who taking better counsel, whilst Ali
Japha was gone to Taroudant where the king lay at that time, wrought
so handsomely with Acha and Fatima that they would go into Spain
with him, upon the remonstrance which he made to them that his love
was certain and assured, and theirs deceitful, false and not to be
believed: they were not hard to be persuaded, because they were
women, Moors, and lovers; three things of a lesser resistance. So
one fair night, having packed up all the best jewels they could
find, they got all four to horseback, and Pamphilus being clad in
the like apparel unto Nisa that thereby they might pass more surely,
they came unto Ceuta, where being joyfully received by the General,
he accommodated them with shipping for Lisbon. There he let Acha and
Fatima understand that it was necessary for them to go to Rome, that
the chief and holy Pope might receive them into the Church, and
pardon them himself: all which they did the sooner to get out of
Spain; they being contented to follow them wheresoever they would
go, embarked themselves all together in a ship of Aragon, which had
brought in wheat, and having a fair wind they arrived in Sicily,
from whence because it was the year of Jubilee, they went all four
in the habit of pilgrims to Rome. There Acha and Fatima were
baptized: Acha was called Clementina (of his Holiness’ name), and
Fatima was called Hippolyta, from her godmother. The marriage was
resting still, to be performed according to promise. But Pamphilus
and Nisa entertained them always with hope, remonstrating unto them
that it was not fit nor just that they should be married before they
came unto their father’s house. So after they had seen the great
part of Italy and France, from thence they passed into Spain, where
they thought that Nisa’s parents’ anger was by this time over, for
when thefts in love are not chastised upon the act in warm blood,
they are always remitted with time. But having run a dangerous
fortune in a miserable tartana into which they had embarked
themselves at Villa Franca, and having been long beaten with a sore
tempest, they finished their shipwreck within the sight of the walls
of Barcelona, neither is known, whether Nisa and the Moors are alive
or dead: but Pamphilus swimming attained unto a plank of the ship,
and within a day after, being taken up by some Moors of Bizerta,
they carried him to Constantinople where I saw him a captive, and
where he told me what I have related."

Thus Nisa added to the truth to hide herself from Finia, knowing
already by that which was related in the first Book, how she and
Pamphilus were both taken up half drowned, one by the fishers and
the other by captain Doricles, with their several successes in their
peregrinations in Spain, until they met together amongst the madmen
in the hospital of Valencia. Finia thanked her much for the news
which she had told her of her brother, showing some grief for the
death of Nisa; afterwards having concluded their return into Spain,
they retired themselves together to Marseille, where they rested for
some days, Finia believing always that Nisa was this Felix, whose
name she had borrowed.

In the meantime, miserable Pamphilus suffered in prison with more
rigorous pain than he did before, because that his fury increasing
with his grief he was kept so much the more straitly, by how much he
was thought to be the more mad. In the end Jacinth came to Valencia
and being advertised by Pamphilus of his misfortune, he drew him out
of the cage, and had him to his house, saying that his parents had
sent him five hundred crowns of Castile to defray the charge of his
cure at home. All those who remained in the hospital were sorry,
because until that time, there was never seen a madman so wise, nor
a wise man which did imagine so many follies. There did Pamphilus
take again his ancient habit, and being departed from Jacinth and
his sister, (in whom the wonderfulness of his story raised no less
love than pity) took again the second time his way to Barcelona,
where he was no sooner come but he was met and known, by one of
those whom he had wounded in Montserrat: he was then the second time
laid in prison in the same place where the two Germans his
companions had remained until that time. A thing worthy of
admiration in any understanding, that a man should not be able to
find the clue whereby he might get out of so many labyrinths; from
Barcelona to Valencia, and from Valencia to Barcelona, in journeying
in a small part of his country, with more variable successes then
Aeneas did in his voyage of Italy, or Ulysses in that of Greece.
Pamphilus saw there his friends with great grief, and was received
by them with great joy. And Finia and Nisa coming from Marseille
little by little over the craggy mountains which divide France from
Spain, came unto Perpignan, where I leave them to their rest,
attending the Fourth Book.

The End of the Third Book.

Book Four

Great is love amongst the gods, and amongst men marvellous says
Phaedrus in Plato: Hesiod says that the two first things which were
seen after the Chaos, were Love and the Earth. Parmenides says that
it was engendered before the Gods; preferring it in knowledge to the
father of the Muses: and in war, before the god of battles; making
this argument, that, that which detains is greater than that which
is detained; and that he is truly strong, who vanquishes the strong:
he calls it the light of the understanding, and assures that, he
lives only in darkness who is not lightened with its fire. And among
other attributes, he calls it the God of Peace, the Father of
Desire, and the Appetite of Good; in the presence of which the soul
desires to be eternally: from whence it follows that love is a
desire of immortality, which reconciles affections, gives goodwill,
takes away hatred: of the nature of this love was that of our
pilgrims, at the least Nisa's, who being with Finia departed from
Perpignan, came with her into Barcelona, about that time when the
sun having passed the middle of the day descends towards the West
Indies. But fortune not yet weary with troubling and crossing them,
showed her that the first travails were only to be feared in regard
of those which were necessarily to follow: for as she entered with
Finia into the city, a confused throng of people constrained them to
stand in the middle of the street. Nisa was desirous to know upon
what occasion such a world of people was assembled, and seeing an
old man who related it unto others, with pity, she entreated him
(out of courtesy) to tell her. It is (pilgrims my friends), said the
old man, because there is a knight, a Castilian, going to have his
head cut off for killing an officer of justice, who would have
apprehended him upon suspicion of theft, which he had not done, near
unto Montserrat, whether he was going in pilgrimage (as you
peradventure may do). But besides the greatness of his crime, which
is no less then rebellion, he was found to have in the hollow of his
staff a sword longer then is permitted to be worn by the ordinances
of this kingdom.

I am much grieved at it, answered Nisa, for many reasons; and
principally, because he is a Castilian; for as you may perceive by
my tongue this pilgrim and I are both Castilians: it would more
grieve you (said the old man) if you saw his face and his
proportion, accompanied with such youth that he doth not seem to be
two and twenty years complete. Can you tell this knight’s name, said
Finia? One of my sons, said the old man, has been his Proctor, and
he told me that he was called Pamphilus de Luxan, born at Madrid,
which is a city sufficiently known throughout all the world. With a
pale and deadly countenance did the two pilgrims behold one another,
and bursting into tears as from two fountains, they embraced and
fell down together. The good old man wondering to see them thus
suddenly oppressed, knew that this knight’s name had pierced to
their soul; and encouraging them as much as possibly he could, he
retired them to the door of the next house, the better to avoid the
throng of people which stayed at the rareness of the accident; Nisa
and Finia, having some time bewailed the miserable Pamphilus, told
the old man that he was their kinsman. Then came a man entering into
the street, breaking through the press of the people with his horse:
which moved Nisa to entreat the old man, to enquire what he was, and
upon what occasion he made such haste through the company? Who being
informed, and coming again, demanded a reward for the good news
which he brought. Hath Pamphilus his pardon, said Finia? He whom you
saw pass by, answered the old man, is a knight of Valencia, called
Jacinth Centellas, who coming the other day into this town upon some
occasion, knew Pamphilus, and withal understanding he was condemned
to die, told the Viceroy that this criminal person was a madman, and
but newly gotten out of the hospital of Valencia, as he offered to
verify: whereupon the Viceroy and the Judge, willing to save this
young man, suspended the execution of his judgement, and gave
commission to this knight to bring proof of his affection; so much
the rather believing his words by how much Pamphilus confessed his
crime and desired to die, with an extreme grief: but the time
expiring (which was given to Jacinth) for the verifying of
Pamphilus’ madness, he was going towards the place of his execution,
and by the way, is met by Jacinth (as you have seen) who hath
brought with him sufficient proof and an express command from the
Viceroy that he shall be taken back again to Valencia.

This news revived Nisa and Finia, who having rested themselves there
all that day went the next day to see him in the prison; at the
entrance whereof they found, that for a madman he was taken out and
set upon a mule, to be carried to Valencia. And even upon the
instant that Pamphilus lifting up his eyes beheld his dear Nisa, and
that she advanced herself to speak to him, came one of the servants
and apprehended Nisa, and his companions seizing upon Finia put them
both in prison: although Pamphilus cried out that she was his
brother, for being accounted for a madman he was not hearkened to,
but contrariwise because he passionately cast himself from his mule
upon the ground, he was with much cruelty tied upon his mule’s back,
and with shrewd blows set forward in his way; their opinion of his
madness being the more confirmed.

I cannot forbear wondering every time I think of this man’s
misfortunes! He came first to Barcelona to suffer at Valencia all
those miseries which you have formerly heard. And now it seems he
returns that way again anew to begin the same pains. The cause of
Finia's and Nisa's apprehension was that Nisa in regard of his
apparel and of his short hair was thought to be a man, and being
always in Finia's company, the Justice took hold of them out of a
strong suspicion that they did live lewdly and incontinently
together, a thing which is often covered under the cloak of
pilgrimage, which makes it more odious and frequent in that country.
Whatsoever might happen of it, Nisa would not reveal herself
notwithstanding any fear of chastisement: but defending her cause as
a man, denied that ever she had so much as spoken otherwise than
with great honesty and modesty to Finia. Who accounting Nisa for a
man, and believing certainly that she was the same Felix whom she
feigned to be, with whose conversation and beauty she was charmed,
confessed simply her desire (for the effect was impossible) and
although the honesty of their conversation did appear by both their
confessions, yet their beauty was a cruel witness against their
innocence.

About this time came the afflicted Celio (by the mountains of
France, the principal cities whereof he had sought for his beloved
Finia) back to Barcelona, still continuing his quest, and only to
inform himself if there were any pilgrims of Castile; and having
understood that there were two prisoners but a few days before he
went to see them, hoping to hear some news, if not of Finia, at
least of the country. His fortune would that he should first meet
with her before he saw his Sister Nisa, and being advertised that
see had been taken with a young man, and laid up for the suspicion
that was had of their dishonest love, he spoke to her through an
iron grate, which separates the men’s Prisons from the women’s.

Is this O Finia, the confidence which I had of thy virtue so
conformable to the nobleness of thy blood? Is it here (after having
searched thee almost all France over, having measured step by step
all the tedious plains and craggy mountains which did lead unto any
place where there was either hope or likelihood to find thee,
undergoing many notable dangers) that I should think to find thee in
a public prison with a young man? Now are all my suspicions
confirmed, and my reasons that I had to kill the Frenchman, for
which I have suffered so many travails: Is this the recompense of so
many evils, which for thy sake I have endured? Dost thou thus
requite thy obligations to me? At the least this comfort I have, I
may return into my country with full assurance that I shall not
incur any infamy, neither in thy friend’s opinion nor in mine own:
for having left thee in this danger, and in those which will
inevitably follow thee, seeing thou hast found another who
accompanies thee, honours thee and defends thee. Think not, O
ungrateful person, answered Finia in weeping, that I have ever
offended thee, for thou canst not make me suffer so much that I
would hazard that which thou hast cost me, for all the treasure of
the world: thy jealousy made thee kill a man and leave me alone in
such a place; the difficulty of getting away from whence,
considering my weakness, may seem a miracle. In my voyage I have met
with this man, who no less innocent then chaste Joseph, suffers this
unjust imprisonment for having been the most honest helper that I
could have desired in thy absence, as thou may plainly see by the
modesty of his countenance and his speech, if thou please to speak
with him. To excuse thyself, answered Celio, in so notorious a
crime, is to move me to greater anger, because thou may have failed
as a woman, but to deny it to me and to say that thou hast not done
it, is a most evident token that thou wilt deceive me either here or
in thy own country (if ever thou return thither) therefore I do
forbid thee for ever to dare to name me or to say thou ever knew me.
So said Celio, and turning his back to Finia left her in the
greatest grief that a woman could suffer; which is in these
accidents to lose his presence under whose protection she lives:
especially when it seems to her that she cannot hope for any other
remedy or succour. Celio hiding the tears which he shed in going
away, and consulting with the fury of his jealousy, and his rage for
the injury which he did think he had received, concerning the
revenge which he should take, waited for Nisa's enlargement, that he
might kill him. The judges although that the prisoner’s innocence
did sufficiently appear, yet would not give them liberty to return
together (for those do seem to permit the evil, which do not forbid
the occasion) but retired Finia into a house and commanded Nisa whom
they called Felix, that that day he should leave the city of
Barcelona. Nisa went then late in the evening out of the town, and
far from thinking that her brother waited to kill her, believing her
to be the man with whom Finia had so irreconcilably offended him:
and the darkness of the evening with the disguise of man’s apparel
which Nisa wore deprived Celio's eyes, (already blinded with anger)
from discerning her to be his sister Nisa, into whose body he twice
thrust his sword, and had absolutely killed her if some passengers
upon the way at that time had not, not only hindered him, but also
apprehended him and put him in prison.

The miserable Nisa, who then began to have a greater feeling of her
suffered miseries, was carried to an honourable citizen’s house of
great compassion and charity, who having given order for her
dressing and found that her wounds were not mortal, pursued Celio so
eagerly in justice, informing the judges of the crime which he
himself had seen him commit, that the third day after he was
condemned to death. Celio alleged in his defence that Finia was his
lawful wife, and that having found her imprisoned with this young
man for suspicion of incontinency, he did not think that he had done
evil if he had killed them both. Whereupon they ordered that Finia
should be imprisoned again; but she having some notice thereof,
prevented it by flight.

On the other side, Pamphilus coming to Valencia recovered his
liberty by Jacinth’s means; with an extreme contentment to Tiberia,
unto whom Pamphilus giving thanks for the care which she had of him,
raised in her a thousand hopes which his absence and misery had
killed. He took leave of her with many fair and amorous words, and
returning to Barcelona, went to seek for his dear Nisa in the prison
wherein he had seen her shut when he went away as a madman. But when
he found Celio there in her place, in such extreme danger of his
life, from whom (informing him of the cause of his misfortune) he
was told all the injury which Finia had done him with a pilgrim,
whom he had wounded, whereby he came to know that this man whom
Celio out of jealousy would have killed was his own sister Nisa. And
with the grief of so unhappy a news, Pamphilus cried out; O cruel
Celio, thou hast taken away the life of thy own sister, and my dear
wife, whom under this habit accompanied my fortunes: and it may be
also my sister Finia, for whose sake thou hast unjustly killed Nisa.
I am Pamphilus thy enemy, unto whom (not knowing of me) thou didst
recite the story of thy fortunes, who have already pardoned the
injury which thou hast done to my honour in ravishing away Finia,
having consideration of the injury which I did thee in leading away
Nisa.

With less grief would Celio have heard the sentence of his death,
than the relation which Pamphilus made; for he remained so
astonished and silent as if he had been taken out of prison to go to
execution. He would have justified his innocence, but being not able
to utter one word, he remained dumb, and his hands and his feet
without any motion made him appear as one insensible. Pamphilus as
almost mad, left him in the prison, and going up and down to enquire
for Nisa, he was accounted for a madman by all those who saw him,
for they did remember that for a madman he was saved, being
condemned to die. Pamphilus having been three or four times at
Jacinth’s house; love, to work the greater confusion, had augmented
his sister Tiberia's desires; who (as you have heard) cast her eyes
upon Pamphilus’ beauty: he overcome with the good turns, and pitiful
care which she had of his misfortunes, had not rigorously entreated
her thoughts: she, when this last time she saw him return to
Barcelona, and that neither her prayers nor entreaties could stay
him; wrote to her brother (who did accompany him in his journey) how
that Pamphilus, out of the lustful courage of an ungrateful guest,
had so far forgotten himself as to make love to her, and that she,
yielding to his persuasions had embarked herself with more sure
gauges, than, without the bonds of marriage, did fit either with her
honour or the reputation of either of them.

Jacinth, angry at this evil correspondence and ungrateful
acknowledgement of his friendship, good turns and hospitality,
sought Pamphilus as earnestly as he sought Nisa, and having found
him, led him out of the town upon the shore side, where he showed
him his sister’s letter: afterwards (setting his hand on his sword)
he said he would wish him to draw his sword: now to offend him, that
sword which formerly he had at Valencia, drawn in his defence,
although a treacherous fellow as he was did not deserve to have his
sword measured with his. The innocent pilgrim excused himself,
entreating him to let him search out Nisa, whom (he said) he had
heard was sore wounded, and that he would not upon the lies and
indiscretion of a despised woman hinder him in this business which
did so nearly concern him as did the search for his dear wife, who
was in danger of losing her life; and that he himself was the most
assured witness to how much pain, labour and danger Nisa had cost
him; and only thoughts of whom had kept him from taking pleasure in
any other thing. These excuses did not satisfy Jacinth, because the
opinion which he had concealed of his sister Tiberia's virtues did
darken in his understanding the light of all Pamphilus’ reason: who
out of the many obligations against his honour and condition,
suffered Jacinth’s injurious words. But in the end, seeing him
threaten him with his sword in his hand, calling him base coward,
runagate, and many other insupportable insolences, he drew his sword
to slay his enemies and with a point nimbly running upon him,
overthrew him to the ground, if not dead, yet at least so near dead
that he seemed so. Pamphilus most grievously detesting his most
outrageous fortune, took him in his arms and carried him into the
town, the one shedding his blood and the other his tears; and
finding strong life in him, he persuaded him of the truth of his
innocence, leaving him at a church door (whither the people flocked
apace to see him, knowing that he was wounded). And without
inquiring any further of Nisa, he went once again out of Barcelona,
although much more sad; for he left his best friend whom he had
sorely wounded with his own hand, and his dearest friend near the
hands of death.

Iber so called of Iberia, an ancient river of that kingdom
(sometimes very rich) not far from that place where Scipio
vanquished the Carthaginians, and as Titus Livius affirms, joined
Spain to the Roman Empire, running from two fountains, bathes the
fields of the Cantabrians and the Celtiberians, taking its name from
the Celts which came out of France, and from the province of Iberia,
no less rich and fruitful than those which of the same name are
called Iberian, near the mountain Caucasas, having abundance of gold
within their veins. This famous flood, according to Pliny, rises
near to the ancient Iuliobriga, and after many windings and turnings
comes to wash the walls of Sallibinum, which Caesar called Caesar
Augustus, and the injury of times Saragossa.

At the course of these crystalline waters Pamphilus stayed his
flight, sitting down upon the bank of the river, which began to
swell with his tears, so pitiful to behold, that the very winds did
seem to condole with him in his complaints by their doleful noise,
amongst the leaves of the trees, and the birds warbling out their
woes. There was not anything of life which had not some show of
sorrow with him, unless it were the fishes, which being dumb did not
put forth their heads out of their clear waters at the importunity
of other voices, yet their silence did seem to join with him in
sorrow. Is it possible said he, that the fear of losing this
unprofitable life should have more power over me than the duties
which I owe to my birth and to my mistress? How comes it to pass
that not to lose a thing, so vile in my eyes, so heavy to my soul
and so grievous to my suffering, I have lost the most esteemed of my
understanding, the most honoured of my memory and the most adored of
my will? It is thou fair Nisa, who over the sharp mountains of
Toledo didst courageously follow my steps, from their highest tops
even to the sands of the Spanish Sea: thou art she, who in the
battle of Ceuta didst bitterly bewail my captivity: art not thou o
my dear Nisa she who under the habit of a Moor and under the name of
Hassan Rubin, drew me from the Kingdom of Fez, and from the
captivity of Sali Morata? Wert not thou cast away with me at sea, in
our return from Italy within the view of Barcelona’s walls, and whom
the sea cast up on the shore, as unworthy to possess so rich a
pearl? Didst not thou live afterwards a long time amongst the madmen
as deprived of thy reason, with the very grief of my Death? Didst
not thou suffer new shipwreck at Marseille? And finally wounded by
thy jealous brother lie now in a strange country, either sick or
dead? Seeing all this is so, how can I apprehend the least notion of
leaving thee? Where is my courage, or am I not Pamphilus of Luxan?
Is this the virtuous blood of those valiant governors, who so nobly
defended the walls of Madrid from the Moors of Toledo? It is not
possible! I am not myself, my misfortunes have changed me into
something else. To be in love and to be a coward is a manifest
contrariety: yet to deny that I love is to say the sun is darkness
and the night light, especially since I cannot say but that I have
seen Nisa. But seeing I do confess that I have seen her, how can I
say but that I love her? And if I love her, how can I leave her? And
if I have left her, wherefore do I live?

So did Pamphilus accuse himself for having left Nisa for any danger;
no more nor no less than as one who travailing upon the way
remembers something of importance which he had forgotten at home,
breaking off from his discourse and from his company, turns back
again to his lodging where he thinks he shall never come time
enough; with the same haste Pamphilus makes his way back again to
Barcelona, from which both in haste and fear he had departed. A
strong chain of lovers, which tied to their desired beauty, shortens
itself by the force which lengthens it, until it returns to its
centre. Beauty without doubt, which lifting up the vapours of the
lovers’ eyes, seems to draw unto itself the very weighty and earthy
part, despite all resistance made by the natural weight, and as the
sun oftentimes converts into burning beams the humour which is
concealed in the clouds, so beauty converts into fire all the tears
and sadness of lovers.

Few leagues had Pamphilus journeyed from the famous colony of the
Romans when as going down a hill, it being so late that the sun had
left no light in the west, but as it were a golden girdle; which
environing the horizon did seem as a crown unto the neighbouring
night: he heard a voice grievously complaining in a meadow, which
shadowed with high rocks, was very dark.

The courageous pilgrim went into it, and saw a man lying upon the
grass amongst the trees which were watered with a fresh brook, of
whom demanding the cause of his complaint, he entreated him to come
to him, if he desired to know, before he yielded up his soul, caused
by three mortal wounds which were made in his body. Pamphilus
approached him although with some distrust, and lifting him up
leaned his head against a tree. I am a knight, said the wounded man;
treacherously murdered by his hands who hath received most good
turns from me; there is a monastery in these fields which is not far
from hence, if thou canst carry me on thy shoulders thither, thou
shalt bee the Aeneas of my soul, and I the Anchises, saved
peradventure from the eternal fire which I have merited. Pamphilus
laid down his palmer’s staff (oh how hurtful it is to leave one’s
weapons upon any occasion whatsoever) taking him in his arms; and
remembering that he had so carried Jacinth, he thought to himself,
that seeing he was come to carry others to the grave, he was not far
from thence himself: and comforted himself with this, that if he
were not Death himself, he was yet his bier. So journeying towards
the monastery with the wounded man, who with broken speeches
interrupted by his approaching death, recited the cause thereof. The
pilgrim being come to the gate, and seeing by the clear light of the
moon, in the front thereof, the image of our Blessed Lady the
Virgin, said to the wounded man that he should recommend his soul
whilst he knocked at the gate. At whose knocking the porter being
come, and informed by the pilgrim of the accident, answered that
with like dissimulation, certain bandoleers of Jara had one night
robbed the monastery, and for that cause he could not open the gate
without the superior’s license. Pamphilus entreated him to dispatch:
but there being a long garden between the monastery and cell, before
he could return the knight died in his arms.

Pamphilus looked pale, dismayed with the accident, and almost as
dead as he, and encouraging him to this fearful and sharp passage,
laid a cross of two myrtle boughs on his stomach. Instantly he heard
a troop of horse, whose masters being divided into divers paths, did
seek for the dead man. By their words and their diligence, the
pilgrim knew their design, and calling them, showed them him whom
they sought for, telling them how he had found him. Amongst them was
his brother, who seeing Pamphilus bloody, and in a pilgrim’s habit
(which is enough to make an honest man suspected) cried out, Oh thou
Castilian traitor, thou hast murdered him to rob him. And at the
very instant, the same friend who had killed this poor knight, and
who the better to cover his treason, accompanying the brother, took
hold of the pilgrim’s arm: thou robber and infamous assassin, what
hath made thee murder the noblest knight in this country? Sirs,
replied Pamphilus, I found him in a meadow hard by, bewailing his
death, which he said was wrought by the hand of one whom he did
account his best friend: and out of compassion and at his entreaty,
I brought him to this monastery, where he departed this life in my
arms. But Tansiles (who was the traitor which had killed him)
fearing lest the pilgrim might discover something which he might
have heard from the dying man concerning his treason, pulling out a
pistol from the pommel of his saddle, gave fire and aimed it
directly at his head. Yet heaven not permitting that it should go
off (for saints and angels do always assist the innocent) the
pilgrim lived. O let him live said Tirsus, (so was the dead man’s
brother called) for it is much better, that keeping him in prison he
may confess his own crime: and whether he killed him for to rob him,
or whether some enemy of my brother Godfrey’s did not hire him to
murder him. The traitor answered to Tirsus and to the others who did
accompany him, that blood (yet warm) of his friend would not suffer
him to delay his revenge so long. Yet all their opinions prevailing
against his: the innocent Pamphilus was bound hand and foot on a
horse, and dead Godfrey laid on another. It is a just judgment, said
Pamphilus (by the way) for my leaving of Nisa wounded, and Jacinth
almost dead. Do you not hear, said Tirsus? Without doubt this Nisa
is the woman for whose sake he hath committed this murder, and
Jacinth some friend who led my brother to the place. All of them
believed what Tirsus said, and the traitor Tansiles interpreted
Pamphilus’ despair in such sort, that everyone believed that
Pamphilus did speak of Godfrey’s death.

They led him into no town as he thought they would, but to a grange
house, about half a league from the monastery, the gate whereof was
between two towers. Tirsus knocked, and a servant answered: tell my
mother and sisters (said he) that I have brought my brother Godfrey
dead, and his murderer with him. Instantly he heard a great cry in
the hall of the house, by which Pamphilus did know that fortune
prepared a great deal of evil for him: Nevertheless desiring to die,
he resolved not to defend his life with his tongue, which he could
not do with his arms. Someone opened the door of the house, and with
candles lighted the miserable mother with her daughters and servants
received her dead son. Some howling and crying carried him into the
hall, others ran upon poor Pamphilus, tearing his beard and pulling
him by the hair of the head, and almost stunned him with blows. With
this good entertainment he was lodged this night in one of the
towers, having his body laden with irons, yet he was heard to utter
no words but only that he deserved this and more for forsaking Nisa.
All this night nothing was heard but cries and complaints for
Godfrey, and the time which was not employed in this funereal
exercise they spent in talking of Nisa and what she should be, whom
their prisoner had so often in his mouth.

The light of the morning, which very slowly enters into prisons,
brought day to Pamphilus, not in waking him who had not slept, but
in advertising his soul of his approaching death, the certain news
whereof he would willingly have welcomed with gifts: when as the
prison door being open, he saw Godfrey’s mother and sisters enter,
demanding of him in great passion and choler, wherefore he had
killed her son? But he answering, only for Nisa's sake am I reduced
to this misery, they began to beat him with such rage that they left
him almost dead; and shutting the prison, they resolved to famish
him to death. But whilst about noon, the dead body was carried to
burial, with lights, mourning and funeral company of his parents and
friends: Flerida his youngest sister, mollified with Pamphilus’
complaints, were it that his countenance did enforce her to believe
his innocence, or that some other secret sympathy inclined her to
have pity of his life, went to the prison, and by the keyhole said
thus to him: unfortunate pilgrim, do not afflict thyself, for I will
free thee despite my mother and my brothers; who art thou, said
Pamphilus who promises life when there is nothing but heaven which
can give it me? I am Flerida (answered she) one of Godfrey’s sisters
who do promise it to thee, afflicted with thy grief out of the
assurance I have in my own imagination of thy innocence.

I swear unto thee by God said Pamphilus, that going in the night
through a meadow I found thy brother wounded unto death, as he told
me by one whom he did reckon to be his best friend; I took him on my
shoulders, and carried him to the monastery, where he died in my
arms before the gate was opened: I do not desire to live, but the
care which I have of another’s life more than mine own makes me seek
my liberty contrary to my desire; if thou canst procure me it, I am
a knight, and of a family from which ungrateful man nor traitor ever
sprang: thou shalt do a heroic deed worthy of an illustrious lady,
and though I should never merit it, yet heaven will not fail to
acknowledge it. Flerida had not need of so many reasons, who was
virtuous and so well disposed to free him, that she would hazard a
thousand lives to give it to him. And (as aptly it served) those
which were gone to accompany her brother’s body to the grave, not
being able to return speedily (as well in regard of the distance of
the place, as in respect of the pomp of the funeral, which lasted
nine days) gave her opportune means to open the planks on the top of
the prison, thereby letting him down some vittles: all her other
sisters, her mother and the servants only entered to torment him,
they seeing him live, not knowing wherewith he did sustain himself,
anger, indignation and cruelty increased so far in them that they
resolved to kill him, before Tirsus’ return from the obsequies of
his brother. But Flerida the same night gave him such strong files,
that the fetters, staples and locks being cut asunder, and he being
fastened to a cord, she drew him up by that hole which she had made
by removing the planks; & all the household being in their dead
sleep, she opened the gates: afterwards, with honest embraces,
shedding some tears and with many jewels which she did constrain him
to take, she was departing from him, when he casting himself at her
feet, with the humblest words he could speak, promising to repay her
this good turn with an immortal remembrance; and if that ever she
had occasion to come into Castile, she should enquire for a knight
of Madrid called Pamphilus of Luxan, that she might be assured she
should not return without due thanks and acknowledgements for so
perfect an obligation.

Pamphilus knowing that to proceed further in the quest of Nisa was
to resist the will of heaven, which had opposed him in it with so
many rigorous successes, went to Saragossa; resolving from thence to
travel into Castile. If thou didst not possess O Nisa (said he to
himself as he went along) all my thought, and if thou didst not hold
as much place in my body as my soul does, which is all in every
part; who would doubt, but Flerida should be now mistress of my
will? O how powerful are good turns in apt occasions, seeing that
the firmness of love which could not be moved with such painful
travails, such fearful shipwrecks and with such cruel captivities
and imprisonments, with one good turn alone in an opportune time, is
shaken, if not mastered; at least the roof, if not the walls; and
although the foundation be firm yet the windows and other ornaments
do shake: let not those which shall hear this be displeased with
him; for this was not so much a change from the love of Nisa, as a
feeling of Flerida's goodwill: and as there is nobody so solid which
the sun sometime doth not pierce, so there is no love so firm but
that the first motions thereof may shake.

Pamphilus so by long travail came to Saragossa, and would not enter
into it before it was dark night, for fear he might be followed or
met by someone whom he knew: and very early in the morning departed
from thence and by unused paths, from pasture to pasture, and from
mountain to mountain, he endeavoured to shun the great highway,
fearing that Flerida's brother might make pursuit after him. In the
end, wearied with the sharpness of the mountains and the austerity
of the life which he was constrained to lead, he resolved one night
to lie in some place where he might be better accommodated than in
these deserts, and entering into a city which divides the two
kingdoms, he enquired for a lodging. But nobody being willing to
entertain him, seeing him so evilly apparelled, his feet bloody, his
face tanned, his hair knotted and shagged, he went to the hospital,
the last refuge of misery. Pamphilus found the gates open at that
time, but without light, and asking the cause, he was told that in
regard of a strange noise which every night was there heard, which
had happened ever since the death of a stranger who came thither to
lodge, nobody had dwelt there; yet he might (as they said) enter in
if he would, for he should find there a man of holy life in a little
chapel, who endured for the honour of God all those illusions, and
who would show him a place where he might lie without danger.
Pamphilus then entered into a dark obscure place, and after some few
steps saw a great way off a dim light of a lamp, to which place he
addressed himself, and called the holy man. What wouldst thou have,
thou wicked spirit? answered the holy man. Thou dost mistake me said
Pamphilus, I am a pilgrim, who endeavours to seek a lodging for this
night. Then he opened the door, where Pamphilus saw a man of a
middle stature and age, with a long beard and hair, a gown of coarse
cloth down to his ankles. The chapel was little with an old altar,
the base whereof did serve him for his bed: he had a stone for his
pillow, his staff for his companion, and a death’s head for his
looking-glass.

How durst thou come into this place, said he to the pilgrim, did no
man advertise thee of the disquiet lodging which is here? I have
been told it, answered the pilgrim, but I have suffered so much
labour in my travels, so much cruelty in imprisonments, so many
heavy misfortunes and cold entertainments, that no disquiet can be
new to me. The poor man then lighted a candle at the lamp which
burned before the altar, and without saying anything commanded the
pilgrim to follow him; he went through a garden, which lay wild as a
forest or wilderness, where having showed him a part of the house,
amongst some cypress trees he unlocked the door of a chamber, and
said to him, seeing thou art young and accustomed to travails, enter
here: make the sign of the cross and be not dismayed nor astonished,
but sleep; Pamphilus took the candle, and setting it on a stone
which lay there, bade his host good night and shut the door.

There was a bed in the chamber good enough to rest on, especially
for a man who hath lain so many nights on the ground: this invited
him to unclothe himself, and taking one of the shirts which Flerida
at his departure had given him, he put it on and got into the bed.
Hardly had he revolved in his imagination the confusion of his life,
a thing which often (the body being at rest) is represented to the
mind, when as sleep which is truly called the image and brother of
Death, possessed his senses with that force which it is accustomed
to use on weary pilgrims. All that part, which the sun abandons when
it goes down to the Indies was in a deep silence, when the noise of
some horses awaked Pamphilus. He thought he was stirring (as many
times happens to travellers) and that his bed did move as if a ship
or a horse was to carry him. Nevertheless remembering that he was in
the hospital, and the causes for which it was uninhabitable, he
opened his eyes. He saw horsemen enter by two and two into the
chamber, who lighting torches which they had in their hands at the
candle which he had left burning by him, they cast them against the
ceiling of the chamber, where they stuck fast with their bottoms
upward and their tops downwards, which dropped down burning flames
on his bed and on his clothes. He covered himself as well as
possibly he could, leaving a little hole to look out that he might
see whether his bed did burn or no; when as instantly he saw the
flames go out, and that on a table which was in the corner of the
chamber, four of them were playing at primero. They passed,
discarded, and set up money as if they had truly played: so long
till at length they debating upon a difference, they fell into
quarrel in the chamber, which made such a noise with clashing of
swords that the miserable Pamphilus called on (for help) our Lady of
Guadalupe, which was only left (of all the shrines in Spain)
unvisited, although it were in his own country of Toledo. Because
holy places near to one are many times left unvisited out of a hope
which is had, that they might be visited at any time. Nevertheless
the clattering of the swords and all other noise for the space of
half an hour ceased, and he was all of a sweat out of the very fear
he had; yet no sooner was he well satisfied to see himself in their
absence at some rest, not thinking that they would come again, when
instantly he felt that the bed and the clothes were pulled away from
him by the outermost corners: and he saw at the same time, a man
come in with a torch in his hand lighted, followed by two others,
the one with a great brazen basin, and the other sharpening a little
knife. Then began he to tremble, and all his hair stood on end, he
would have spoken but he was not able. When they were near him, he
who held the torch put it out, and Pamphilus thinking that they
would kill him, and that the basin was to receive his blood, put his
hands forth against the knife, and felt that they laid hold of him;
he gave a great cry, and the torch instantly kindled again: and he
saw himself between two great mastiff dogs, who held him fast in
their teeth. Jesus! cried out Pamphilus, at which name all these
fantastic illusions vanished away, leaving him so weary and so
affrighted with their company that he would not stay there any
longer: but going out into the garden by which he was entered, he
went to the chamber of the good hermit, who seeing him so pale, weak
and naked opened him the door, and said to him; have your hosts here
given you an evil night’s lodging? So ill, said Pamphilus, that I
have not rested all night, and yet I have left them my clothes to
pay for it. The good man received him as well as he could; telling
him how many others with like success had been so used, and many
other discourses, wherewith he passed away the night until morning.

Those who do not know the nature, quality and condition of spirits,
will account this history a fable: wherefore I do not think it unfit
to advertise them that there are some, fallen from the lowest choir
of angels, who despite the essential pain, which is the eternal
privation from the sight of God, suffer less pain than the other, as
not having so much sinned. And those are of such nature that they
cannot much hurt men, but do take pleasure to displease them; with
frightings, noises, rumours, subtleties and such like other things
which they do in the night in houses, which thereby they make
altogether uninhabitable, not being able otherwise to hurt but by
these foolish and ridiculous effects, limited and bound by the
almighty power of God. These the Italians call fairies, the
Spaniards elves and the French hobgoblins; of whose mockery and
sports William Totan speaks in his book War of the Devils, calling
them devils of the least noble hierarchy. Cassian writes that in
Norway they possess highways, play with passenger, and do hire
themselves out for wages as servants. Jerome Manchy reports of a
spirit which was in love with a young man, served him, solicited him
in divers forms and stealing money bought him many things wherein he
delighted. Michel Pselho makes six kinds of these spirits: fiery,
airy, earthy, watery, subterranean and fire flying spirits: in all
which authors one may see, their properties, their illusions, and
their remedies.

The light of day, which is the amiable and illustrious daughter of
heaven, and the only guide of mortals, did sufficiently assure
Pamphilus that now he need not any more to fear the evil infestation
of the spirits: then waking this good man, they both rose, and went
together to the chamber where Pamphilus lay: but entering in to see
the stir that was made the last night, they found the bed,
Pamphilus’ clothes and all other things in the same place where they
had laid, without any appearance that they had been stirred. Whereat
Pamphilus being ashamed, with haste made himself ready without
speaking a word, and thinking that this good hermit would account
him for a great liar and a man of weak courage, departed from him,
and thence took his way towards Guadalupe without once daring to
turn his head towards the city, vowing to himself never to come into
it again upon any occasion whatsoever should happen, if he were not
assured to find his Nisa there.

There are two hills in the confines of the mountain of Morena, which
as two strong walls environ the town and monastery of Guadalupe,
with so many fountains which run from the rocks into the bottom of
the valley, so much fruit and so much grain of all sorts that it
seems Nature knowing that which should happen, had destined this
place from the beginning of the world to build this palace to the
princess of heaven. The pilgrim being come thither and having adored
the Virgin, visited the temple and paid his vow: as he went back
again down the stairs, at that time of the year when the sun is
equally distant between the two Poles; he met a passenger going
towards the temple, who earnestly beholding him asked him if he had
not known either there or in any other place, a pilgrim of Madrid
called Pamphilus, who lately was in Aragon. Pamphilus, troubled with
this demand and fearing that he was sought after with some warrant
from the justice for Godfrey’s death, turned back and fled towards
the temple; but the Aragonese by some tokens which were given him,
and by his sudden flight, presuming that it was he, followed him and
courteously calling him said, stay knight; I am not come to
apprehend you, neither doth the privilege of this place permit any
man to be arrested prisoner here. It is only a letter from a young
lady called Flerida, which I bring you: see thereby what I am, and
for what occasion I seek you. Pamphilus then staying took the
letter, and having opened it, found the contents as follows:

To the Pilgrim of Madrid:

Thou thyself O Pamphilus may judge in what care thou left me, if
thou hast had never so little thought of me since thou left me. And
now as well to satisfy myself as to know how thy misfortunes are
determined, have I sent this messenger to you. My brothers being
returned and missing thee in the prison where they had left thee,
witnessed more sorrow for thy departure then for my brother
Godfrey’s death. But a few days after, a woman of the country
falling out with another, amongst other words (which choler
provoked, a thing ordinary amongst women) said she was the cause of
Godfrey’s death. Being thereupon taken, and having confessed that
Tansiles killed him out of jealousy, he was apprehended, and the
crime being verified, the third day after he had his head cut off.
My mother and my brother being now assured of thy innocence doe
bewail their hard usage towards thee, and have made great search to
find thee. If thou wilt return, they will redeem the injury of thy
unjust Imprisonment with embraces and kind usage, and thou shalt
thereby pay me for the desire which I continually have of thy
welfare, and for the tears which thou hast cost me.

The pilgrim wondered at Tansiles’ strange fate, and was something
moved in his mind with Flerida's loving desires: but fearing to
offend Nisa, he satisfied the messenger as well as he could, giving
him the jewels which Flerida had given him, entreating that he would
secretly deliver them, together with a most kind letter to her,
which he presently wrote, and so the same day dispatched away the
messenger, who went his way very joyful that he had in so short a
time so happily dispatched his business: for Flerida not thinking he
could easily find him, had commanded him to search him in every
house where pilgrims were used to lodge throughout all Spain. I do
here remember that I heard Pamphilus say, after he had retired
himself to covert from the storm of his fortunes, that he never in
all his life found anything so difficult as to resist Flerida's
desire, for besides the obligations wherein he stood tied, which
were very great and no less than for his life, she was most
perfectly fayre; yet he continued his loving friendship by letters,
not only with her but with her brothers also, until that she being
married with a knight of Andalucia was carried into the Indies.

Ten times had the sun circled heaven in the time of the year when as
Astrea doth equal the balances of the Equinoctial, when Pamphilus
journeying night and day through deserts and unknown ways found
himself one morning when the day began to smile on him at the side
of craggy mountains, oppressed both with weariness and hunger, and
much more with the remembrance of Nisa, where sitting at the foot of
an oak beholding the solitariness of the fields and the murmuring of
the little brooks which fell precipitately from the mountain, he
heard a flute played upon, to the sound whereof turning his eyes, he
saw a man sitting between two rocks amidst a flock of sheep, which
seemed to leave their feeding to hearken to his music.

But Pamphilus having other discourses in his head went to him, and
wishing health to him, (which he could not obtain for himself) and
courteously again saluted by the shepherd, who having nothing that
savoured of rusticness but his apparel, made him know in a few
reasons his understanding; and the other quickly discerned in the
pilgrim that he had more need of meat than discourse. Wherefore
getting fire out of two laurel sticks which for that purpose he
carried with him, they poorly fed of that which Fabio (for so was
this shepherd called) had willingly dressed, the ground serving them
for a table, the grass for napkins, and bubbling brooks for their
drink and music. They passed away the best part of the day in
telling their adventures: and when it grew night, they retired
themselves into a little village, whether Fabio led Pamphilus to
keep his master’s oxen, who was a farmer of a grange which Nisa’s
father had in the mountains. Pamphilus was glad of this condition,
hoping that by this means he might with time have news of his
mistress. By the way Pamphilus entreated Fabio to relate the cause
of his retiring into this place, who although that this request
brought to his mind a great deal of grief and passion, yet after
some sighs he shortly told him that he was borne in Biscay, and
descended of most noble parents who were careful to fit him in his
youth with qualities answerable to his birth, wherein he profited so
well, that he neither raised discontentment in his parents nor shame
to his tutors; but after growing more ripe in years, and incited
with the courageous heat of youth. In those times, when the English
with their warlike ships ravaged along our coasts, as well of Spain
as the islands, and oftentimes with their desperate resolutions made
themselves masters of our Indian gold, I put myself to sea in one of
the King’s armadas, as well with an intent to gain honour by my
valour, as experience in those services, thereby to be the abler to
serve my country wherein I was so fortunate (because I will not say
too much) that I got command myself, and by taking and executing two
or three of those pirates was in a fair way both of grace with the
King, and renown in the world, when my eyes were the instruments
whereby the most excellent and admirable beauty of Albiana
captivated my heart so powerfully that all other courses set apart,
I was enforced to give myself wholly to her service, wherein after
some small time, I had so happy a progression, that she did confess
she was obliged by my perseverance, and by the opinion which the
world held of me, to esteem of me and of my service: thus happily in
her favour I spent some time, until it fortuned some English slaves
which I had, endeavouring to make an escape but by my soldiers and
mariners prevented, I inflicted a cruel punishment on them, bound
thereunto by that common policy which exacts from masters, a severe
hand over their mutinous slaves; especially I used it towards one,
who more eminent then the rest, as well in regard of his person as
that he was a chief author of their attempt, which Albiana with most
earnest prayers to me sought to divert, were it out of a pitiful
compassion, ordinary in most women, or that she took any special
liking to him. But I having more care at that time to execute my
rage, then mindful of her importunity, (which I did not think would
have turned to that consequence) for example sake, which as it is
powerful, so is it most necessary, especially amongst men of our
profession, who serve ourselves with multitudes of them, persevered
in having him soundly punished. Whereat she discontented, though
with little show thereof, underhand wrought such means by her
friends at court, before I imagined any such thing, that the slave
was by messenger from the Duke of Lerma, and by warrant under the
King’s hand fetched from me, and the next day she did let me know
that any denial to a woman effects her hatred; for she sent me a
letter wherein she said I was a cruel monster, and that she was so
far from loving and esteeming me, that she would ever hate my
barbarous nature, and she wondered that any valour could be lodged
where cruelty had such a habitation; to conclude she told me that I
should never come in her sight, nor be where she might hear of my
name. How grievous this was to me gentle sir may easily be guessed
if you knew the extremity of my love, which was so much that I
presently without the knowledge of any of my friends took such order
as I could with my command, and retired myself into these desert
places, where I am resolved under this disguised habit to end my
days; seeing that Albiana will have it so, who whether her
complaints were just or no, or whether they but serve to colour her
inconstancy, shall be always loved and truly obeyed by me, to whom
only this comfort is left: that though life hath left me, death will
take me. Before Fabio had finished this short discourse, they had
discovered the village where Alfesibus did keep Nisa's father’s
cattle, in the best house of the village, which for a country house
was a fair one. Alfesibus received Pamphilus, and informed by Fabio
of his intent he agreed with him for wages; and after an evil supper
and a worse lodging he passed the night miserably. And when morning
appeared, Pamphilus went after his oxen to the solitary fields,
where he lived some time free from the confused noises of the
cities, with a good leisure to meditate on his adventures.

In the meantime Nisa healed of her wounds and knew that she had
received them from her own brother out of jealousy which he had
conceived against her for Finia. And entreating her good host that
he would have pity on her blood, by both their means his pardon and
liberty was obtained, the one soliciting, and the other forbearing
the prosecution. One of the wounds which Nisa had received was in
her left side, and as in the dressing it could not be avoided but
that she was known to be a woman, although she had conjured her host
to keep it secret from his family, yet it was impossible: because
that his son Thesander unhappily one day was at her dressing and
transported so into his mind the wounds which she had in her body,
that within a few days, he fell sick by force of this continual
thought, not being able to receive into his imagination any thought,
but the desire of this beauty. For all the heaven of love moves
between these two poles, imagination and desire. And then his body
is as full of imaginary and fantastic figures as the astrologer’s
globe. Thesander did all that he could to divert himself from this
thought, and as evils are healed by their contraries, he proposed to
his eyes other objects, and other cares to his imaginations: But as
art is made out of many experiences which were wanting to Thesander,
he rather found the evil than the remedy. For it is impossible that
young men should know much, because that to be wise requires
experience, and that is gotten with time.

Nisa was much grieved at Thesander’s passion, although he had never
spoken to her about it. But as he which is amorous so often speaks
as he looks on that which he loves, she easily read in his looks the
depth of his thoughts; and willing to disabuse him so, that not
being understood by others, she might let him understand the vanity
of his love, one night after she was healed, being entreated by all
the company, she sang these verses following:

  I wot not what is love, nor yet his flame,
  Nay more, to know it I have not the mind:
  In others, twill suffice a man may find,
  The woes this tyrant in their souls doth frame.
  That I for him do sigh he cannot say,
  He masters not my will, that bideth free:
  His bad and my good nature disagree,
  And free, me from his empire’s laws for aye.
  To cast his darts elsewhere, I him require,
  My heart (as rocks of brass) doth scorn his might:
  Let him not grieve, I from him take my flight,
  Because I am all ye, and he all fire.

But they rather increased the fire which was too much kindled in
Thesander’s soul, who taking the lute from Nisa answered her with
these verses, which he had conceived in his mind the night before:

  The great God’s supreme power to deny,
  Unto my soul as rashness I do hold:
  This to deny with truth I may be bold:
  Mine evil, nor yet myself I can destroy.
  My knowledge, love hath ravished whom you blame,
  I think he hath no might nor yet discretion:
  If I be thus tormented for confession.
  You that deny his power feel not the same.
  He makes the widest breach in strongest brass,
  From coldest ice, he greatest fire can draw:
  Not one can fight him; for none ever saw,
  Ought else his shafts in swiftness to surpass.

Very aptly might Nisa at that time have revenged the motions which
Pamphilus had to agree to Flerida's will: if love had been a spirit
(as some have believed) which might have told them to her.

But it was not just that so rare a faith should be spotted with any
infamy. Thesander’s love in the meantime, springing from this first
spark and increased by Nisa's resistance, like a fire which a little
water makes more violent; or like palm trees growing most, when a
weight is laid on them.

Nisa waxed strong and walked abroad, when desperate Thesander
revealed himself to a physician, who encouraged him either to
manifest his evil or else as the best remedy, against his love to
work from his imagination this deep melancholy, and to divert it by
some honest exercise, and that the courage of the practiser is the
first matter on which the heavens imprint the form of their
succours, for as much as their favour is not obtained by womanish
prayers and vows but by the vigorous actions of men, agreeing to
which the Greek adage says that the Gods do sell their blessings
unto men, in exchange of their labours. Thesander was animated by
these counsels, but finding that divisions were weak remedies
against the splendour of Nisa’s beauty, fell into a relapse, and
grew so weak that he was constrained to reveal the cause of his
sickness. The pitiful father who was already informed of Nisa's
quality conjured her with tears to be mistress of his wealth, and
marry his son, of whose sickness there was no other remedy: Nisa
admiring at the several ways whereby fortune sought to separate her
from Pamphilus, revealed then to the good old man the whole history
of her life, and laid before him all the impossibilities which did
excuse her from satisfying so many courtesies; the chiefest whereof
was, in his willingness to admit her to the highest degree of honour
and affection that was possible for him to do, she being a stranger,
and in such an indecent habit, for a woman fit to be his son’s wife.
By this means she satisfied the father: but poor Thesander was so
desperate that falling into greater extremity, he was at the last
point of his life; like unto trees whose boughs do not lose their
greenness until that their humour which doth quicken them do
absolutely fail, because that hope is the radical moisture which
doth keep us alive, and is to us as oil to our fire. Nisa seeing
that Thesander was for her sake upon the point of losing his life,
and she herself had not now lived, but out of his father’s pity, was
exceedingly perplexed that she could not satisfy so just an
obligation: and not being able to rest in these confused thoughts,
the representations of Pamphilus’ labours did always appear in her
mind, who she thought to be prisoner still at Valencia. Thesander’s
evil increased, Nisa deferred the remedy, and the father accused
this poor amorous man, in my opinion innocent, because, that in
things natural, we do neither merit nor demerit: In brief, all the
whole family entreated Nisa that she would have pity of Thesander’s
young years, and that at the least she would assuage his passion
with one amorous word.

Amongst all the variable fortunes as well by land as sea which our
pilgrim had suffered, there was none so difficult for her as this.
Nevertheless she resolved to entertain Thesander until he had
recovered some strength, that thereby he might the better be able to
bear the subtlety which she intended. And in this she did not
deceive herself, for our spirits have some resemblance with the
nature of young horses, which are easier managed with gentle bits
than with hard; the sweet words, the feigned hopes and embraces of
Nisa within few days restored Thesander’s weakened spirit, during
which time Celio was delivered out of prison with an exceeding
desire to see her, as well because he had heard news of her health,
as because he imagined that if Finia were not in her company, yet at
the least he might hear some news of her. Nevertheless the sorrowful
Nisa believing that Celio desired to kill her, not knowing what
Pamphilus had told him of her disguising herself in the habit of a
pilgrim; so soon as she heard of his freedom, fled secretly from
Barcelona. In the meantime Lisard the eldest brother to Celio and
Nisa, who as you heard was a soldier in Flanders, disembarking in
the same town of Barcelona, far from thinking that persons so near
him were there: having met with Finia on the way, on the first day
of her travel, although almost in the last of the tragical comedy of
her fortunes, sorry to see so fair a pilgrim go a-foot,
understanding which way she was bound, offered to accompany her into
Castile: Finia willing to be gone from Celio, whom she thought never
to be able to appease, and not knowing that this was his brother,
accepted his offer and went with him to Toledo. Where being received
of his parents with all kinds of joy, his desire was that Finia
might also be well entertained and kindly used, telling them in what
manner he had found her. His parents received her with a great deal
of honour and embraces, yet not without some suspicions that she was
some spoil of the Flanders war. Lisard then asked for his brother
Celio and for his sister Nisa, they telling him the cause of their
absence. Finia thereby knew that the house wherein she was come was
her husband’s father’s, and that he who had brought her thither was
his brother, whereat not sufficiently wondering, she then thought
that fortune began to look on her misfortunes with a more clear
countenance.

The day following, Lisard resolving to seek for his sister Nisa and
to kill Pamphilus, told his parents that he had some pretensions at
the court, on which he built the necessity of a new voyage, showing
them some attestations in writing of that which he had done in
Flanders, for which he hoped of good recompense. His Father
perspicuously knowing his mind through his reasons, wherewith he
endeavoured to colour his journey, and fearing to lose him with the
other, propounded a thousand objections, telling him that he should
now rest after his voyage, and from the travails of war, contenting
himself with the honour which he had gotten, because that in this
age the reward did fly from the merit. Lisard thus persuaded by his
father remained in the house, although it grieved him that after he
had bought so much renown with the loss of his blood so far from his
own country, he should now lie still and rust with infamy; finally
being discontent that he was beheld as he thought with this mark, he
went into the country to shun the first encounter of the people’s
sight, into the same village where amongst the other servants of his
father’s farmer, Pamphilus lived, who was never before known of
Lisard; and as one day he beheld him more curiously then he did all
the others, for hardly could the baseness and indignity of his habit
disguise his person and beauty; he called him to him, and inquired
of the cause, why he lived in this base office. The excuses which he
made did not seem current (indeed being feigned by Pamphilus, who
already knew that Lisard was Nisa's eldest brother). Wherefore
Lisard said to him that he should do better if leaving this rustic
life, he would abide in his service and take the charge of two
horses which he had, for which he would give him wages, and
convenient clothes; Pamphilus refused this offer, not that he was
not willing to return into the happy house in which he had first
known Nisa: but fearing that being known in her absence, he should
run a dangerous fortune of his life. Nevertheless, being weary of
the austere life which he led amongst these mountains, for there is
nothing more true (as the philosophers say) than that those which
are solitary are either gods or devils, he resolved in the end to
accept this condition, wishing rather that he might die by Nisa's
parents’ hands, then live any longer in these solitary deserts.

Now you see how forward we are in bringing back our pilgrim from his
long travels, seeing that from being a courtier, he became a
soldier; from a soldier, a captive; from a captive, a pilgrim; from
a pilgrim, a prisoner; from a prisoner, a madman; from a madman, a
herdsman; from a herdsman, a miserable lackey, in the same house
where all his misfortunes began: to the end that you seeing this
circle of fortune from one pole to another, without one moment of
rest, or any of good in the beginning, middle or end of his
adventures: you may learn to know, how travelling abroad brings
honour, profit and many times the contrary. All consists in the
disposition of heaven, whose influence guides the passages of our
life, as it pleases them; because that although the empire of
free-will be above, yet few persons be found who resist their motions;
it is therefore a weakness unworthy of a gentle heart not to dare
hazardously to enterprise anything, seeing it is evident that if
those who have effected great things had not begun them, they had
never achieved them. As also hazardous enterprises belong only to
brave courage; although heaven disposes of the success. Above all
things the election imports much, as Propertius says, all things are
not equal unto all. Seneca tells of an old man who being asked how
he could live to those years in following the court, answered that
it was in doing good turns and not excepting against injuries; but
this patience doth not seem honourable to me, nor that it is any
virtue to serve to live. And if posterity doth render unto everybody
his honour, as Tacitus says, what renown can he leave behind him,
who dies as it were in the cradle, and from his swaddling clouts to
his hearse hath hardly shifted a shirt; like the plant which hath
the form of a living lamb, the stock whereof growing out of the
ground to the stomach, and not being able to eat more grass than
that which grows round about it, dies for want of nourishment.
Glorious was Darius, when being come to the river Tearus, which
takes his beginning from two fountains, whereof the one is hot and
the other cold, he caused the famous inscription whereof Herodotus
speaks to be made: To this place, against the Scythians, came the
most famous of all men, Darius the son of Hystaspes. Who hath ever
obtained anything without running for it? Who hath ever run for it,
if he have not seen it? And what rest can he know, who hath never
proved any storm or adversity by sea or land? For there are no days
so sweet and comfortable as those which we spend in the arms of our
friends, after long travel and great dangers; nor any nights so
sweet, as those which are spent about the fire with an attentive
family, unto the discourses of one’s former dangers and adventures;
as Ulysses within Zacinth to his dear Penelope and his son
Telemachus. So after many divers adventures, Pamphilus comes to the
happy day of his rest, and though he were not at the siege of Troy,
nor at the conquest of the New World with Cortes, yet it was no
small valour in him to defend himself from so many different and
perilous assaults of fortune, and in the end to have merited by so
many labours, the rest which shortly he shall enjoy in his own
country.

Whilst these things thus passed in the mountains of Toledo,
Thesander was being recovered by Nisa's loving embrace, and she
disposed to leave him, as well because his life was assured as
because that she desired to assure hers, and deliver herself from
the care wherewith she was searched after by her brother Celio.

One night when sleep mastered her lover’s senses, and held a silence
over the whole family, she went out of the city, and took the way
towards Lerida. But night had hardly all hid her black head, crowned
both with sleep and fear, when the deceived Thesander waked out of
the most sorrowful dream that could possess his fantasy,
representing to his imagination the absence of fugitive Nisa,
together with her deceitful words, her sweet disdains, and her fair
face; a thing which sometime happens principally to him which loves
or fears. Inasmuch as those things which threaten us do represent to
us in sleeping, the same cares which we have in the day awake.
Thesander rising in this imagination, began to search Nisa guided by
the light of his soul, and not finding her, it little wanted that he
did not die with grief for her departure; neither his father nor the
rest of his parents had power enough to keep him from running after.
And so he came to Toledo a long time before Nisa, for a lover who
follows that which he loves doth go faster than he who flies from
that which he doth not love; because he which doth not love grows
sorrowful in going, and he which loves by going puts off his grief.

In the meantime, Lisard much pleased with Pamphilus’ understanding
and person, had taken him to wait in his chamber, not suffering him
to live in the baseness of his first office which he had given him,
and in this quality he lived at Toledo with his master, always
taking great care that his master’s parents might not see him,
because that if they had viewed him with any consideration, they
must needs have known him. But Lisard who with frequent conversation
with Finia (whom his parents did use as lovingly as they could have
done Nisa) was fallen in love with her, revealed this to Pamphilus,
and making him the minister of his passion, gave him charge to speak
to her, and to dispose her (with all his power) to be favourable to
his desires; Pamphilus obeying his master and taking occasion one
festival day, when everybody was abroad, went to find Finia from
Lisard: but when in coming to her he knew her to be his sister, and
she knew him to be her brother, they both remained astonished, dumb
and as immovable as stones. But shortly after this first confusion,
Pamphilus began to speak in this manner: Sister, tell me by what
means thou came hither, since Celio abandoning thee left thee in
Barcelona, for I know already the whole progress of thy misfortune,
as conformable unto mine as we are equal in birth.

By his means whom the destinies pleased, said Finia, to whose
disposing my will cannot resist: Lisard brother of my husband Celio,
having found me on the way from Saragossa brought me hither, where I
think I may abide his return with more honour. The same man said
Pamphilus, sent me to thee to speak to thee about his love, and he
having found me in a grange which he hath in the mountains of
Toledo, where I had sheltered myself from the strokes of fortune,
under the basest condition of the world, hath brought me now into
this place where thou now see me in the quality of a groom; and
because that heretofore in the beginning of my fortunes I have been
in this house, I kept myself from being seen until this time, as
thou may well know, having not been seen until this day by thee.
Suffer and abide the end of thy fortune as I have done, and do not
say thou know me, for I will entertain Lisard with some lie from
thee, until such time that we may see whereunto the revolution of
this conjunction of our misfortunes will tend, and when will end the
effects of this our honour’s eclipse. Thus did Pamphilus and Finia
meet, and instead of reprehending one the other they remained there
both good friends, for it is ordinary with those who are culpable to
dissemble the faults of others, lest they be reprehended for their
own. In the meantime, Thesander went from place to place in Toledo
inquiring for Nisa, and when this news came to Lisard’s ears, that
there was a young man which enquired for his sister, he verily
thought that it was Pamphilus, who by some sinister accident having
lost her, was come thither to find her. And telling Pamphilus the
story of Nisa's ravishing, which he knew much better, told him, that
he was now in Toledo in her quest; and that having no man, in whose
hands he could better commit the satisfaction of his revenge than
his, nor of whose courage and fidelity he could be better assured
of, he entreated him, and conjured him to kill him. A notable
winding in a success so strange and so embroiled, which is so much
the more admirable to me, who know it better then they who read it,
how true it is.

Pamphilus, astonished to see that he was engaged to kill Pamphilus,
or at the least a man who either in searching for Nisa, or else one
who for the only disaster of his name deserved to die, endeavoured
to find him, rather to know what he would with Nisa than with any
mind to execute Lisard’s intent on the others innocence. His master
did not accompany him in this action; for as Tacitus says of Nero,
although he commanded murders, yet he always turned his sight away
from them.

Pamphilus having found Thesander privately inquired of the cause why
he searched for Nisa: Thesander recounted the story from Nisa's
being wounded by Celio, and healed by his father, and that she had
left them one night without bidding them adieu, paying with
ingratitude all the good offices which were done her in that house.
Neither did he forget to relate how she (for the dressing of her
wound) being constrained to expose her breast, she was discovered to
be a woman; from whence proceeded his desire and the cause why he
sought her in this place, which she said was the place of her birth.
Joyful was Pamphilus to hear of the healing of Nisa's wounds, and
instead of killing Thesander he led him into his chamber, where
having used him with all the courtesy that was possible, he told him
that in this house where he remained were Nisa's parents and
brother.

Lisard having a great opinion of Pamphilus’ courage (Pamphilus whom
he called Maurice) did verily believe that he would infallibly kill
Nisa's ravisher, which he believed to be Thesander, wherefore he
demanded leave of his father to go, fearing that if Maurice should
perhaps be taken prisoner, he might confess the author of Pamphilus’
death. The father afflicted at his departure, fearing that in this
his age, death might take him in the absence of all his children,
would know the cause of his journey: and Lisard telling him that he
had sent to kill him, who had run away with his sister, who was come
to Toledo, and that he did believe that his servant unto whom he had
given this commission had already executed it, put the old man into
a greater care then he was in before, much fearing the damage which
might come from so violent a revenge: Pamphilus had persuaded
Thesander to call himself Pamphilus to all those who should ask his
name in Toledo, assuring him that he should the sooner hear news of
Nisa: In this time Lisard and his Father coming into Pamphilus’
chamber, to know how he had succeeded in the execution of his
command, found Pamphilus and Thesander together. They demanded of
Thesander what he was, who answered: that he was Pamphilus. Lisard
drew out his sword instantly to kill him, but he was withheld by his
father, who having already known Pamphilus told his son that the
other was Pamphilus. Lisard believed that his father told him so to
appease him, wherefore he fiercely strove to break away from his
father, that he might kill Thesander, saying that the other was his
man Maurice. The whole family drawn thither by the noise and seeing
this rage to prevent greater mischief, ran to the magistrates, who
hearing the stir raising the neighbours laid Pamphilus and Thesander
in two several prisons, until it was verified which was Pamphilus,
for although that Thesander apprehending the danger began now to say
that it was not he, was not believed: for all believed that fear
made him deny his name. In the meantime Jacinth being whole of his
wounds which Pamphilus had given him, sought him all over Barcelona,
and not finding him, believed that he was returned into his own
country, as well to follow him as hearing that his Lucinda was at
Madrid, resolved to go thither, and passing by Saragossa he found
the pilgrim Nisa at the entrance of the famous pillar which was
built by the angels in the time of the apostle who planted religion
in Spain, and having (by many tokens which Pamphilus had told him,
and marked her out to him) known her, he also made himself known as
Jacinth. Nisa assuring herself of him out of the love which she knew
was between him and Pamphilus, betook her to a habit proper to her
sex, and left this pilgrim’s apparel at the walls of this holy
house, together with her staff, which in so many dangers and such
long ways had been so faithful a companion. And so travelling
together towards Madrid, Nisa desired to seek Pamphilus first in his
own house, whither being come with Jacinth, and finding his
sorrowful mother afflicted for the loss of her children, she
comforted her much by the assurance which she gave to her, that they
were both alive, and the hope they put her in to find them at
Toledo. The good old lady encouraged by these words and persuaded by
Nisa and the great desire she had to see her children, took her
youngest daughter Eliza with her (being her staff and her comfort in
her afflictions, who in her brother’s absence had increased no less
in beauty then Finia, nor in understanding than Pamphilus) and went
all together to Toledo.

The miserable Tiberia, Jacinth’s sister, thinking that her treason
being discovered, she should be hardly used by her brother as by the
disgrace and danger whereunto she had unjustly exposed him she
merited; left Valencia and with such of the family as would follow
her, she addressed herself to that city, whether fortune already did
seem to call these lovers.

Celio in the meantime despairing to find Finia or satisfy Nisa, he
for his part being more than satisfied of both their innocences,
returned to Toledo and some days before his coming thither he met
Tiberia, in whose company as he journeyed he heard news of the
combat between Jacinth and Pamphilus, for which cause he offered her
his house to retire to, until such time as that writing to her
brother, she made her peace with him, which might be done by the
help of his parents, whose assistance he promised.

In this manner in one day, and in one time, entered into the noble
Leonicio’s house: Aureliana, Pamphilus; mother, Nisa, Eliza,
Jacinth, Tiberia and he who was most despaired of, Celio, of whom
there was no news expected, being accounted as dead, or captive as
some had reported. The sudden joy to see Nisa so beautiful, and
Celio so well, stronger in this habit than in that which he had
brought home from his studies, before his peregrination, bound
Leonicio to shed abundance of tears, and Aureliana could not forbear
when she saw her dear Finia so long time lost, and Celio with tender
embraces, demanded pardon for his causeless suspicions, and of Nisa
for the wounds which he had given her, being ignorant what she was.
There was none discontented but Jacinth, who seeing his sister
Tiberia in this company without knowing how she came thither, would
needs take a public satisfaction before all the world. But the
authority of so many signal persons not only stayed him, but
obtained pardon from him for his sister’s offence. Thesander and
Pamphilus were taken out of prison, and then it was quickly known
who was the true Pamphilus: whose happy finding there did so rejoice
the whole company and the whole town that all the nobility and
gentry ran to see him, and rejoice with their parents for their
happy arrival. Amongst all which came to this happy and joyful
welcoming home were fair Lucinda, who was married to Jacinth, to
satisfy the many obligations wherein she was due. Lisard having
opened his eyes upon Tiberia's beauty, and by the impression which
the report of Celio's love and Finia's made in his mind, clean wiped
away his affection of that kind to Finia, he entreated Jacinth to
give her to him in marriage, which was easily granted, and with
everyone’s consent. And to comfort Thesander for the love which he
bore to Nisa, he was married to faire Eliza, Pamphilus’ sister, then
about fourteen years old. Celio, with joy to all, married Finia. And
Nisa after so many divers fortunes, with the joy of both their
parents, (which was so full that it melted them into tears, and
almost all the company) was given into the beloved arms of her most
dear Pamphilus.

Happy pilgrims of love, your vows being accomplished, now rest
happily and joyfully (after so many bitter fortunes, wherewith your
loves have been seasoned) in the sweet repose of your native place,
in which peace I will leave you, that you may enjoy the delights
which you have merited: and seeing that I have left your statues in
the temple, I will leave in the temple of renown the pen with which
I wrote your unfortunate loves.

FINIS.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Pilgrim of Castile, by Lope de Vega

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