Chapter 5 No.5

Now Absalom, the favorite son of David, was wroth at his brother Amnon who had dealt wickedly with his sister. And at a sheep-shearing where Absalom had invited Amnon and all his other brothers, Absalom had commanded his servants, saying, "Mark ye now when Amnon's heart is merry with wine, and when I say unto you, 'Smite Amnon;' then kill him; fear not: have not I commanded you? Be courageous, and be valiant."

And the servants of Absalom did unto Amnon as Absalom had commanded, and David mourned for his son every day.

So Absalom fled and went to Geshur and was there three years. And the soul of David longed to go forth unto Absalom, for he loved him dearly. And the king sent for Joab, who had counselled the king to forgive, and said unto him, "Go ye and bring the young man Absalom again to me."

So Joab arose and went to Geshur, and brought Absalom to Jerusalem.

And the king said, "Let him turn to his own house, and let him not see my face."

So Absalom returned to his own house, and saw not the king's face.

But in all Israel there was none to be so much praised as Absalom for his beauty: from the sole of his feet even to the crown of his head there was no blemish in him. And when he polled his head, he weighed the hair of his head at two hundred shekels after the king's weight.

So Absalom dwelt two full years in Jerusalem, and saw not the king's face. Therefore Absalom sent for Joab, to have sent him to the king; but he would not come to him: and when he sent for him again the second time, he would not come.

Therefore he said unto his servants, "See, Joab's field is near mine, and he hath barley there; go and set it on fire." And Absalom's servants set the field on fire.

Then Joab arose, and came to Absalom unto his house, and said unto him,

"Wherefore have thy servants set my field on fire?"

And Absalom answered Joab, "Behold, I sent unto thee, bidding thee come hither, that I might send thee to the king, to say, 'Wherefore am I come from Geshur? it had been good for me to have been there still: now therefore let me see the king's face: and if there be any iniquity in me, let him kill me.'"

So Joab came to the king, and told him: and when he called for Absalom, he came to the king, and bowed himself on his face to the ground before the king: and the king kissed Absalom.

And it came to pass after this, that Absalom prepared him chariots and horses, and fifty men to run before him.

And Absalom rose up early, and stood beside the way of the gate: and it was so, that when any man that had a controversy came to the king for judgment, then Absalom called unto him, and said, "Of what city art thou?" And he said, "Thy servant is of one of the tribes of Israel."

And Absalom said unto him, "See, thy matters are good and right; but there is no man deputed of the king to hear thee."

[Illustration: THE MAN RUNNETH ALONE]

Absalom said moreover, "Oh that I were made judge of the land, that every man which hath any suit or cause might come unto me, and I would do him justice."

And it was so, that when any man came nigh to him to do him obeisance, he put forth his hand, and took him, and kissed him.

And on this manner did Absalom to all Israel that came to the king for judgment: so Absalom stole the hearts of the men of Israel.

And there came a messenger to David, saying, "The hearts of the men of

Israel are after Absalom."

And David said unto all his servants that were with him at Jerusalem, "Arise, and let us flee; for we shall not else escape from Absalom: make speed to depart, lest he overtake us suddenly, and bring evil upon us, and smite the city with the edge of the sword."

And the king went forth, and all the people after him, and tarried in a place that was far off.

And David went up by the ascent of mount Olivet, and wept as he went up, and had his head covered, and he went barefoot.

And all the people that was with him covered every man his head, and they went up, weeping as they went up.

Then David arose, and all the people that were with him, and they passed over Jordan: by the morning light there lacked not one of them that was not gone over Jordan.

Then David came to Mahanaim. And Absalom passed over Jordan, he and all the men of Israel with him. So Israel and Absalom pitched their tents in the land of Gilead.

And it came to pass, when David had come unto Mahanaim that the people brought beds, and basins, and earthen vessels, and wheat, and barley, and flour, and parched corn, and beans, and lentiles, and parched pulse, and honey, and butter, and sheep, and cheese of kine, for David, and for the people that were with him, to eat: for they said, "The people are hungry, and weary, and thirsty, in the wilderness."

And David numbered the people that were with him, and set captains of thousands and captains of hundreds over them.

And David sent forth a third part of the people under the hand of Joab, and a third part under the hand of Abishai, and a third part under the hand of Ittai. And the king said unto the people, "I will surely go forth with you myself also."

But the people answered, "Thou shalt not go forth: for if we flee away, they will not care for us; neither if half of us die, will they care for us: but now thou art worth ten thousand of us: therefore now it is better that thou succour us out of the city." And the king said unto them, "What seemeth you best I will do." And the king stood by the gate side, and all the people came out by hundreds and by thousands.

And the king commanded Joab and Abishai and Ittai, saying, "Deal gently for my sake with the young man, even with Absalom." And all the people heard when the king gave all the captains charge concerning Absalom. So the people went out into the field against Israel; and the battle was in the wood of Ephraim; where the people of Israel were slain before the servants of David, and there was there a great slaughter that day of twenty thousand men. For the battle was there scattered over the face of all the country; and the wood devoured more people that day than the sword devoured.

And Absalom met the servants of David. And Absalom rode upon a mule, and the mule went under the thick boughs of a great oak, and his head caught hold of the oak, and he was taken up between the heaven and the earth; and the mule that was under him went away. And a certain man saw it, and told Joab, and said, "Behold, I saw Absalom hanged in an oak."

And Joab said unto the man that told him, "And, behold, thou sawest him, and why didst thou not smite him there to the ground? and I would have given thee ten shekels of silver, and a girdle."

And the man said unto Joab, "Though I should receive a thousand shekels of silver in mine hand, yet would I not put forth mine hand against the king's son: for in our hearing the king charged thee and Abishai and Ittai, saying, 'Beware that none touch the young man Absalom.'

"Otherwise I should have wrought falsehood against mine own life: for there is no matter hid from the king, and thou thyself wouldest have set thyself against me."

Then said Joab, "I may not tarry thus with thee." And he took three darts in his hand, and thrust them through the heart of Absalom, while he was yet alive in the midst of the oak.

And ten young men that bare Joab's armour compassed about and smote

Absalom, and slew him.

And Joab blew the trumpet, and the people returned from pursuing after

Israel: for Joab held back the people.

And they took Absalom, and cast him into a great pit in the wood, and laid a very great heap of stones upon him: and all Israel fled every one to his tent.

And David sat between the two gates: and the watchman went up to the roof over the gate unto the wall, and lifted up his eyes, and looked, and beheld a man running alone. And the watchman cried, and told the king. And the king said, "If he be alone, there is tidings in his mouth." And he came apace, and drew near, and said, "Tidings, my lord the king: for the Lord hath avenged thee this day of all them that rose up against thee."

[Illustration: IS THE YOUNG MAN, ABSALOM, SAFE?]

And the king said unto Cushi, "Is the young man Absalom safe?" And Cushi answered, "The enemies of my lord the king, and all that rise against thee to do thee hurt, be as that young man is."

And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, thus he said, "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!"

And it was told Joab, "Behold the king weepeth and mourneth for Absalom." And the victory that day was turned into mourning unto all the people: for the people heard say that day how the king was grieved for his son. And the people gat them by stealth that day into the city, as people being ashamed steal away when they flee in battle.

But the king covered his face, and the king cried with a loud voice, "O my son Absalom, O Absalom, my son, my son!"

* * * * *

And David spake unto the Lord the words of this song in the day that the Lord had delivered him out of the hand of all his enemies:

"The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; the God of my rock; in him will I trust: he is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my high tower, and my refuge, my saviour; thou savest me from violence.

"I will call on the Lord, who is worthy to be praised: so shall I be saved from mine enemies.

"When the waves of death compassed me, the floods of ungodly men made me afraid; the sorrows of hell compassed me about; the snares of death prevented me; in my distress I called upon the Lord and cried to my God: and he did hear my voice out of his temple, and my cry did enter into his ears.

"Then the earth shook and trembled; the foundations of heaven moved and shook, because he was wroth. There went up a smoke out of his nostrils, and fire out of his mouth devoured: coals were kindled by it.

"He bowed the heavens also, and came down; and darkness was under his feet.

"And he rode upon a cherub, and did fly: and he was seen upon the wings of the wind.

"And he made darkness pavilions round about him, dark waters, and thick clouds of the skies.

"Through the brightness before him were coals of fire kindled.

"The LORD thundered from heaven, and the most High uttered his voice.

"And he sent out arrows, and scattered them; lightning, and discomfited them.

"And the channels of the sea appeared, the foundations of the world were discovered, at the rebuking of the LORD, at the blast of the breath of his nostrils.

"He sent from above, he took me; he drew me out of many waters; he delivered me from my strong enemy, and from them that hated me: for they were too strong for me.

"I was also upright before him, and have kept myself from mine iniquity.

"Therefore the LORD hath recompensed me according to my righteousness; according to my cleanness in his eye sight.

"With the merciful thou wilt shew thyself merciful, and with the upright man thou wilt shew thyself upright.

"With the pure thou wilt shew thyself pure; and with the forward thou wilt shew thyself unsavoury.

"And the afflicted people thou wilt save: but thine eyes are upon the haughty, that thou mayest bring them down."

Now the days of David drew nigh that he should die; and he charged

Solomon his son, saying:

"I go the way of all the earth: be thou strong therefore, and shew thyself a man; and keep the charge of the Lord thy God, to walk in his ways, to keep his statutes, and his commandments, and his judgments, and his testimonies, as it is written in the law of Moses, that thou mayest prosper in all that thou doest, whithersoever thou turnest thyself: that the Lord may continue his word which he spake concerning me, saying, 'If thy children take heed to their way, to walk before me in truth with all their heart and with all their soul, there shall not fail thee a man on the throne of Israel.'"

So David slept with his fathers and was buried in the city of David.

Then sat Solomon upon the throne of David his father; and his kingdom was established.

* * * * *

David was, as you have learned from the account of him you have just been reading, a poet and a singer and one of his beautiful songs is to be found near the close of this story of his life. We may imagine him singing this, and accompanying himself on the harp; touching the strings softly as he told that, "The sorrows of hell compassed me about; the snares of death prevented me"; but striking out loud sounding chords as he exultantly cried. "Then the earth shook and trembled; the foundations of heaven moved and shook."

Does it seem at all strange to you that we should call this poetry? It has no rhyme, and it is not broken up, as are most poems, into lines of nearly equal length; but a poem it is, nevertheless. Hebrew poetry was quite different in some ways from modern poetry. It did not have rhymes, though it did have about it a certain musical quality which made it very suitable for chanting. Then, too, the words and the manner of treating subjects were different from those employed in prose, just as they are in our own poetry.

David in this song is praising God for making him victorious over his enemies. Let us look for a moment at the way in which he expresses himself, and see whether we can find out just where the beauty of this hymn of praise lies. In the first paragraph he applies to the Lord various titles-"my rock," "my shield," "my high tower." He means to say by this that God is strong enough to protect him and defend him, but is not his way of saying it more forceful?

A few lines down we have the words, "The waves of death compassed me." Does this not give you a vivid idea of the helplessness of David and his hopelessness? What he means is, "I was in constant danger of losing my life," but he puts this fact into impressive words that leave a distinct picture in our minds.

Still further on we read, "There went up a smoke out of his nostrils, and fire out of his mouth devoured." This strikes us as a very daring way of describing God, but it is also a forceful way. We get just the idea of the irresistibleness of God which David meant we should.

These are but a few of the striking descriptions of which David makes use in this song. You will find others in almost every paragraph.

CHEVY-CHASE

By RICHARD SHEALE

NOTE.-It was said in the old legend that Percy, Earl of Northumberland, declared that he would hunt for three days on Scottish lands without asking leave from Earl Douglas, who either owned the soil or had control of it under the king. This ballad dates back probably to the time of James I, and is merely a modernized version of the old stories.

God prosper long our noble king,

Our lives and safeties all;

A woful hunting once there did

In Chevy-Chase befall.

To drive the deer with hound and horn

Earl Percy took his way;

The child may rue that is unborn

The hunting of that day.

The stout Earl of Northumberland

A vow to God did make,

His pleasure in the Scottish woods

Three summer days to take,-

The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chase

To kill and bear away.

These tidings to Earl Douglas came,

In Scotland where he lay;

Who sent Earl Percy present word

He would prevent his sport.

The English earl, not fearing that,

Did to the woods resort,

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold,

All chosen men of might,

Who knew full well in time of need

To aim their shafts aright.

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran

To chase the fallow deer;

On Monday they began to hunt

When daylight did appear;

And long before high noon they had

A hundred fat bucks slain;

Then, having dined, the drovers went

To rouse the deer again.

The bowmen mustered on the hills,

Well able to endure;

And all their rear, with special care,

That day was guarded sure.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods

The nimble deer to take,

That with their cries the hills and dales

An echo shrill did make.

Lord Percy to the quarry went,

To view the slaughtered deer;

Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promis?d

This day to meet me here;

"But if I thought he would not come,

No longer would I stay;"

With that a brave young gentleman

Thus to the earl did say:-

"Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come,-

His men in armor bright;

Full twenty hundred Scottish spears

All marching in our sight;

"All men of pleasant Teviotdale,

Fast by the river Tweed;"

"Then cease your sports," Earl Percy said,

"And take your bows with speed;

"And now with me, my countrymen,

Your courage forth advance;

For never was there champion yet,

In Scotland or in France,

"That ever did on horseback come,

But if my hap it were,

I durst encounter man for man,

With him to break a spear."

Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed,

Most like a baron bold,

Rode foremost of his company,

Whose armor shone like gold.

"Show me," said he, "whose men you be,

That hunt so boldly here,

That, without my consent, do chase

And kill my fallow deer."

The first man that did answer make,

Was noble Percy he-

Who said, "We list not to declare,

Nor show whose men we be:

"Yet will we spend our dearest blood

Thy chiefest harts to slay."

Then Douglas swore a solemn oath,

And thus in rage did say:

"Ere thus I will out-brav?d be,

One of us two shall die;

I know thee well, an earl thou art,-

Lord Percy, so am I.

"But trust me, Percy, pity it were,

And great offence, to kill

Any of these our guiltless men,

For they have done no ill.

"Let you and me the battle try,

And set our men aside."

"Accursed be he," Earl Percy said,

"By whom this is denied."

Then stepped a gallant squire forth,

Witherington was his name,

Who said, "I would not have it told

To Henry, our king, for shame,

"That e'er my captain fought on foot,

And I stood looking on.

You two be earls," said Witherington,

"And I a squire alone;

I'll do the best that do I may,

While I have power to stand;

While I have power to wield my sword

I'll fight with heart and hand."

Our English archers bent their bows,-

Their hearts were good and true;

At the first flight of arrows sent,

Full fourscore Scots they slew,

Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent,

As chieftain stout and good;

As valiant captain, all unmoved,

The shock he firmly stood.

His host he parted had in three,

As leader ware and tried;

And soon his spearmen on their foes

Bore down on every side.

Throughout the English archery

They dealt full many a wound;

But still our valiant Englishmen

All firmly kept their ground.

And throwing straight their bows away,

They grasped their swords so bright;

And now sharp blows, a heavy shower,

On shields and helmets light.

They closed full fast on every side,-

No slackness there was found;

And many a gallant gentleman

Lay gasping on the ground.

In truth, it was a grief to see

How each one chose his spear,

And how the blood out of their breasts

Did gush like water clear.

At last these two stout earls did meet;

Like captains of great might,

Like lions wode, they laid on lode,

And made a cruel fight.

They fought until they both did sweat,

With swords of tempered steel,

Until the blood, like drops of rain,

They trickling down did feel.

"Yield thee, Lord Percy," Douglas said,

"In faith I will thee bring

Where thou shalt high advanc?d be

By James, our Scottish king.

"Thy ransom I will freely give,

And this report of thee,-

Thou art the most courageous knight

That ever I did see."

"No, Douglas," saith Earl Percy then,

"Thy proffer I do scorn;

I will not yield to any Scot

That ever yet was born."

With that there came an arrow keen

Out of an English bow,

Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart,-

A deep and deadly blow;

Who never spake more words than these:

"Fight on, my merry men all;

For why, my life is at an end;

Lord Percy sees my fall."

Then leaving life, Earl Percy took

The dead man by the hand;

And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy life

Would I had lost my land.

"In truth, my very heart doth bleed

With sorrow for thy sake;

For sure a more redoubted knight

Mischance did never take."

A knight amongst the Scots there was

Who saw Earl Douglas die,

Who straight in wrath did vow revenge

Upon the Earl Percy.

Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called,

Who, with a spear full bright,

Well mounted on a gallant steed,

Ran fiercely through the fight;

And past the English archers all,

Without a dread or fear;

And through Earl Percy's body then

He thrust his hateful spear;

With such vehement force and might

He did his body gore,

The staff ran through the other side

A large cloth-yard and more.

So thus did both these nobles die.

Whose courage none could stain.

An English archer then perceived

The noble earl was slain.

He had a bow bent in his hand,

Made of a trusty tree;

An arrow of a cloth-yard long

To the hard head haled he.

Against Sir Hugh Montgomery

So right the shaft he set,

The gray goose wing that was thereon

In his heart's blood was wet.

This fight did last from break of day

Till setting of the sun;

For when they rung the evening-bell

The battle scarce was done.

With stout Earl Percy there was slain

Sir John of Egerton,

Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John,

Sir James, that bold baron.

And with Sir George and stout Sir James,

Both knights of good account,

Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain,

Whose prowess did surmount.

For Witherington my heart is woe

That ever he slain should be,

For when his legs were hewn in two,

He knelt and fought on his knee.

And with Earl Douglas there was slain

Sir Hugh Mountgomery,

Sir Charles Murray, that from the field

One foot would never flee.

Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too,-

His sister's son was he;

Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed,

But saved he could not be.

And the Lord Maxwell in like case

Did with Earl Douglas die:

Of twenty hundred Scottish spears,

Scarce fifty-five did fly.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen,

Went home but fifty-three;

The rest in Chevy-Chase were slain,

Under the greenwood tree.

Next day did many widows come,

Their husbands to bewail;

They washed their wounds in brinish tears,

But all would not prevail.

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood,

They bore with them away;

They kissed them dead a thousand times,

Ere they were clad in clay.

The news was brought to Edinburgh,

Where Scotland's king did reign,

That brave Earl Douglas suddenly

Was with an arrow slain:

"O heavy news," King James did say;

"Scotland can witness be

I have not any captain more

Of such account as he."

Like tidings to King Henry came

Within as short a space,

That Percy of Northumberland

Was slain in Chevy-Chase:

"Now God be with him," said our King,

"Since 'twill no better be;

I trust I have within my realm

Five hundred as good as he:

"Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say

But I will vengeance take;

I'll be reveng?d on them all

For brave Earl Percy's sake."

This vow full well the King performed

After at Humbledown;

In one day fifty knights were slain

With lords of high renown;

And of the rest, of small account,

Did many hundreds die:

Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase,

Made by the Earl Percy.

God save the king, and bless this land,

With plenty, joy and peace;

And grant, henceforth, that foul debate

'Twixt noblemen may cease.

THE ATTACK ON THE CASTLE [Footnote: The Attack on the Castle is from Scott's novel of Ivanhoe.]

By SIR WALTER SCOTT

A moment of peril is often also a moment of open-hearted kindness and affection. We are thrown off our guard by the general agitation of our feelings, and betray the intensity of those which, at more tranquil periods, our prudence at least conceals, if it cannot altogether suppress them. In finding herself once more by the side of Ivanhoe, Rebecca was astonished at the keen sensation of pleasure which she experienced, even at a time when all around them both was danger, if not despair. As she felt his pulse, and inquired after his health, there was a softness in her touch and in her accents, implying a kinder interest than she would herself have been pleased to have voluntarily expressed. Her voice faltered and her hand trembled, and it was only the cold question of Ivanhoe, "Is it you, gentle maiden?" which recalled her to herself, and reminded her the sensations which she felt were not and could not be mutual. A sigh escaped, but it was scarce audible; and the questions which she asked the knight concerning his state of health were put in the tone of calm friendship. Ivanhoe answered her hastily that he was, in point of health, as well, and better, than he could have expected. "Thanks," he said, "dear Rebecca, to thy helpful skill."

"He calls me dear Rebecca," said the maiden to herself, "but it is in the cold and careless tone which ill suits the word. His war-horse, his hunting hound, are dearer to him than the despised Jewess!"

"My mind, gentle maiden," continued Ivanhoe, "is more disturbed by anxiety than my body with pain. From the speeches of these men who were my warders just now, I learn that I am a prisoner, and, if I judge aright of the loud hoarse voice which even now despatched them hence on some military duty, I am in the castle of Front-de-Boeuf. If so, how will this end, or how can I protect Rowena and my father?"

"He names not the Jew or Jewess," said Rebecca, internally; "yet what is our portion in him, and how justly am I punished by Heaven for letting my thoughts dwell upon him!" She hastened after this brief self-accusation to give Ivanhoe what information she could; but it amounted only to this, that the Templar Bois-Guilbert and the Baron Front-de-Boeuf were commanders within the castle; that it was beleaguered from without, but by whom she knew not.

The noise within the castle, occasioned by the defensive preparations, which had been considerable for some time, now increased into tenfold bustle and clamor. The heavy yet hasty step of the men-at-arms traversed the battlements, or resounded on the narrow and winding passages and stairs which led to the various bartizans [Footnote: A bartizan is a sort of small overhanging balcony, built for defense or for lookout.] and points of defense. The voices of the knights were heard, animating their followers, or directing means of defense, while their commands were often drowned in the clashing of armor, or the clamorous shouts of those whom they addressed. Tremendous as these sounds were, and yet more terrible from the awful event which they presaged, there was a sublimity mixed with them which Rebecca's high- toned mind could feel even in that moment of terror. Her eye kindled, although the blood fled from her cheeks; and there was a strong mixture of fear, and of a thrilling sense of the sublime, as she repeated, half-whispering to herself, half-speaking to her companion, the sacred text-"The quiver rattleth-the glittering spear and the shield-the noise of the captains and the shouting!"

[Illustration: IVANHOE WAS IMPATIENT AT HIS INACTIVITY.]

But Ivanhoe was like the war-horse of that sublime passage, glowing with impatience at his inactivity, and with his ardent desire to mingle in the affray of which these sounds were the introduction. "If I could but drag myself," he said, "to yonder window, that I might see how this brave game is like to go! If I had but bow to shoot a shaft, or battle- axe to strike were it but a single blow for our deliverance! It is vain-it is vain-I am alike nerveless and weaponless."

"Fret not thyself, noble knight," answered Rebecca, "the sounds have ceased of a sudden; it may be they join not battle."

"Thou knowest naught of it," said Ivanhoe, impatiently; "this dead pause only shows that the men are at their posts on the walls and expecting an instant attack; what we have heard is but the distant muttering of the storm; it will burst anon in all its fury. Could I but reach yonder window!"

"Thou wilt but injure thyself by the attempt, noble knight," replied his attendant. Observing his solicitude, she added, "I myself will stand at the lattice, and describe as I can what passes without."

"You must not-you shall not!" exclaimed Ivanhoe. "Each lattice, each aperture, will soon be a mark for the archers; some random shaft-"

"It shall be welcome!" murmured Rebecca, as with firm pace she ascended two or three steps, which led to the window of which they spoke.

"Rebecca-dear Rebecca!" exclaimed Ivanhoe, "this is no maiden's pastime; do not expose thyself to wounds and death, and render me forever miserable for having given the occasion; at least, cover thyself with yonder ancient buckler, and show as little of your person at the lattice as may be."

Following with wonderful promptitude the directions of Ivanhoe, and availing herself of the protection of the large ancient shield, which she placed against the lower part of the window, Rebecca, with tolerable security to herself, could witness part of what was passing without the castle, and report to Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants were making for the storm. Indeed, the situation which she thus obtained was peculiarly favorable for this purpose, because being placed on an angle of the main building, Rebecca could not only see what passed beyond the precincts of the castle, but also commanded a view of the outwork likely to be the first object of the meditated assault. It was an exterior fortification of no great height or strength, intended to protect the postern-gate, through which Cedric had been recently dismissed by Front-de-Boeuf. The castle moat divided this species of barbican [Footnote: A barbican is a tower or outwork built to defend the entry to a castle or fortification.] from the rest of the fortress, so that, in case of its being taken, it was easy to cut off the communication with the main building, by withdrawing the temporary bridge. In the outwork was a sallyport [Footnote: A sallyport is an underground passage from the outer to the inner fortifications.] corresponding to the postern of the castle, and the whole was surrounded by a strong palisade. Rebecca could observe, from the number of men placed for the defence of this post, that the besieged entertained apprehensions for its safety; and from the mustering of the assailants in a direction nearly opposite to the outwork, it seemed no less plain that it had been selected as a vulnerable point of attack.

These appearances she hastily communicated to Ivanhoe, and added, "The skirts of the wood seem lined with archers, although only a few are advanced from its dark shadow."

"Under what banner?" asked Ivanhoe.

"Under no ensign of war which I can observe," answered Rebecca.

"A singular novelty," muttered the knight, "to advance to storm such a castle without pennon or banner displayed! Seest thou who they be that act as leaders?"

"A knight, clad in sable armor, is the most conspicuous," said the Jewess; "he alone is armed from head to heel, and seems to assume the direction of all around him."

"What device does he bear on his shield?" replied Ivanhoe.

"Something resembling a bar of iron, and a padlock painted blue on the black shield."

"A fetterlock and shackle-bolt [Footnote: These are terms in heraldry. Ivanhoe means that, since he is a prisoner, fetters and shackles would be good device for his shield.] azure," said Ivanhoe; "I know not who may bear the device, but well I ween it might now be mine own. Canst thou not see the motto?"

"Scarce the device itself at this distance," replied Rebecca; "but when the sun glances fair upon his shield it shows as I tell you."

"Seem there no other leaders?" exclaimed the anxious inquirer.

"None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this station," said Rebecca; "but doubtless the other side of the castle is also assailed. They appear even now preparing to advance-God of Zion protect us! What a dreadful sight! Those who advance first bear huge shields and defences made of plank; the others follow, bending their bows as they come on. They raise their bows! God of Moses, forgive the creatures Thou hast made!"

Her description was here suddenly interrupted by the signal for assault, which was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, and at once answered by a flourish of the Norman trumpets from the battlements, which, mingled with the deep and hollow clang of the nakers (a species of kettledrum), retorted in notes of defiance the challenge of the enemy. The shouts of both parties augmented the fearful din, the assailants crying, "Saint George for merry England!" [Footnote: Saint George is the patron saint of England.] and the Normans answering them with loud cries of "En avant De Bracy! Beau-seant! 'Beau-seant! Front-de-Boeuf a la rescousse!" [Footnote: En avant De Bracy means Forward, De Bracy. Beau-seant is the name given to the black and white standard of the Knights Templars. The word was used as a battle cry. A la rescousse means To the rescue.] according to the war-cries of their different commanders.

It was not, however, by clamor that the contest was to be decided, and the desperate efforts of the assailants were met by an equally vigorous defence on the part of the besieged. The archers, trained by their woodland pastimes to the most effective use of the long-bow, shot, to use the appropriate phrase of the time, so "wholly together," that no point at which a defender could show the least part of his person escaped their cloth-yard shafts. [Footnote: Cloth-yard was the name given to an old measure used for cloth, which differed somewhat from the modern yard. A cloth-yard shaft was an arrow a yard long.] By this heavy discharge, which continued as thick and sharp as hail, while, notwithstanding, every arrow had its individual aim, and flew by scores together against each embrasure and opening in the parapets, as well as at every window where a defender either occasionally had post, or might be suspected to be stationed-by this sustained discharge, two or three of the garrison were slain and several others wounded. But confident in their armor of proof, and in the cover which their situation afforded, the followers of Front-de-Boeuf and his allies showed an obstinacy in defence proportioned to the fury of the attack, and replied with the discharge of their large cross-bows, as well as with their long-bows, slings, and other missile weapons, to the close and continued shower of arrows; and, as the assailants were necessarily but indifferently protected, did considerably more damage than they received at their hand. The whizzing of shafts and of missiles on both sides was only interrupted by the shouts which arose when either side inflicted or sustained some notable loss.

"And I must lie here like a bed-ridden monk," exclaimed Ivanhoe, "while the game that gives me freedom or death is played out by the hand of others! Look from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware that you are not marked by the archers beneath. Look out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the storm."

With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she had employed in mental devotion, Rebecca again took post at the lattice, sheltering herself, however, so as not to be visible from beneath.

"What dost thou see, Rebecca?" again demanded the wounded knight.

"Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them."

"That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe; "if they press not right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself; for as the leader is, so will his followers be."

"I see him not," said Rebecca.

"Foul craven!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the helm when the wind blows highest?"

"He blenches not!-he blenches not!" said Rebecca, "I see him now, he leads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. They pull down the piles and palisades; they hew down the barriers with axes. His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like a raven over the field of the slain. They have made a breach in the barriers- they rush in-they are thrust back! Front-de-Boeuf heads the defenders; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. God of Jacob! it is the meeting of two fierce tides-the conflict of two oceans moved by adverse winds!"

She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a sight so terrible.

"Look forth again, Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her retiring; "the archery must in some degree have ceased, since they are now fighting hand to hand. Look again, there is now less danger."

Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately exclaimed, "Holy prophets of the law! Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand on the breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the progress of the strife, Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed and of the captive!" She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, "He is down!-he is down!"

[Illustration: THE BLACK KNIGHT AT THE GATE OF THE CASTLE]

"Who is down?" cried Ivanhoe; "for our dear Lady's sake, tell me which has fallen?"

"The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness-"But no-but no! the name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed! he is on foot again, and fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his single arm. His sword is broken-he snatches an axe from a yeoman-he presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow. The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman-he falls-he falls!"

"Front-de-Boeuf?" exclaimed Ivanhoe.

"Front-de-Boeuf," answered the Jewess. "His men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar; their united force compels the champion to pause. They drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls."

"The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?" said Ivanhoe.

"They have-they have!" exclaimed Rebecca; and they press the besieged hard upon the outer wall; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other; down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the assault. Great God! hast Thou given men Thine own image that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren!"

"Think not of that," said Ivanhoe; "this is no time for such thoughts.

Who yield? Who push their way?"

"The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shuddering; "the soldiers lie grovelling under them like crushed reptiles. The besieged have the better."

"Saint George strike for us!" exclaimed the knight; "do the false yeomen give way?"

"No!" exclaimed Rebecca, "they bear themselves right yeomanly. The Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge axe; the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of the battle. Stones and beams are hailed down on the bold champion: he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down or feathers!"

"By Saint John of Acre," [Footnote: Saint John of Acre was the full name of the Syrian town usually known as Acre. During the Crusade which the Christians of Europe undertook to recover the Holy Land from the Saracens, Acre was one of the chief points of contest. It was held first by one party, then by the other. Owing to this importance, it was natural that its name should come to be used as an exclamation.] said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his couch, "methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed!"

"The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca-"it crashes-it is splintered by his blows-they rush in-the outwork is won. Oh God! they hurl the defenders from the battlements-they throw them into the moat. O men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no longer!"

"That ridge-the ridge which communicates with the castle-have they won that pass?" exclaimed Ivanhoe.

"No," replied Rebecca; "the Templar has destroyed the plank on which they crossed; few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle- the shrieks and cries which you hear tell the fate of the others. Alas! I see it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle."

"What do they now, maiden?" said Ivanhoe; look forth yet again-this is no time to faint at bloodshed."

"It is over for the time," answered Rebecca; "our friends strengthen themselves within the outwork which they have mastered, and it affords them so good a shelter from the foemen's shot that the garrison only bestow a few bolts on it from interval to interval, as if rather to disquiet than effectually to injure them."

"Our friends," said Ivanhoe, "will surely not abandon an enterprise so gloriously begun and so happily attained. O no! I will put my faith in the good knight whose axe hath rent heart-of-oak and bars of iron. Singular," he again muttered to himself, "if there be two who can do a deed of such derring-do![Footnote: Derring-do is an old word for daring, or warlike deed] A fetterlock, and a shackle-bolt on a field sable-what may that mean? Seest thou nought else, Rebecca, by which the Black Knight may be distinguished?"

"Nothing," said the Jewess; "all about him is black as the wing of the night raven. Nothing can I spy that can mark him further; but having once seen him put forth his strength in battle, methinks I could know him again among a thousand warriors. He rushes to the fray as if he were summoned to a banquet. There is more than mere strength-there seems as if the whole soul and spirit of the champion were given to every blow which he deals upon his enemies. God assoilzie [Footnote: Assoilzie is an old word for absolve] him of the sin of bloodshed! It is fearful, yet magnificent, to behold how the arm and heart of one man can triumph over hundreds."

"Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, "thou hast painted a hero; surely they rest but to refresh their force, or to provide the means of crossing the moat. Under such a leader as thou hast spoken this knight to be, there are no craven fears, no cold-blooded delays, no yielding up a gallant emprize, since the difficulties which render it arduous render it also glorious. I swear by the honor of my house-I vow by the name of my bright lady-love, I would endure ten years' captivity to fight one day by that good knight's side in such a quarrel as this!"

"Alas!" said Rebecca, leaving her station at the window, and approaching the couch of the wounded knight, "this impatient yearning after action-this struggling with and repining at your present weakness, will not fail to injure your returning health. How couldst thou hope to inflict wounds on others, ere that be healed which thou thyself hast received?"

"Rebecca," he replied, "thou knowest not how impossible it is for one trained to actions of chivalry to remain passive as a priest, or a woman, when they are acting deeds of honor around him. The love of battle is the food upon which we live-the dust of the m?lée [Footnote: M?lée is a French word meaning a hand-to-hand conflict.] is the breath of our nostrils! We live not-we wish not to live-longer than while we are victorious and renowned. Such, maiden, are the laws of chivalry to which we are sworn, and to which we offer all that we hold dear."

"Alas!" said the fair Jewess, "and what is it, valiant knight, save an offering of sacrifice to a demon of vain glory, and a passing through the fire to Moloch? [Footnote: Moloch was the fire-god of the ancient Ammonites, to whom human sacrifices were offered.] What remains to you as the prize of all the blood you have spilled, of all the travail and pain you have endured, of all the tears which your deeds have caused, when death hath broken the strong man's spear, and overtaken the speed of his war-horse?"

"What remains?" cried Ivanhoe. "Glory, maiden-glory! which gilds our sepulchre and embalms our name."

"Glory!" continued Rebecca; "alas! is the rusted nail which hangs as a hatchment over the champion's dim and mouldering tomb, is the defaced sculpture of the inscription which the ignorant monk can hardly read to the inquiring pilgrim-are these sufficient rewards for the sacrifice of every kindly affection, for a life spent miserably that ye may make others miserable? Or is there such virtue in the rude rhymes of a wandering bard, that domestic love, kindly affection, peace and happiness, are so wildly bartered, to become the hero of those ballads which vagabond minstrels sing to drunken churls over their evening ale?"

"By the soul of Hereward!" replied the knight, impatiently, "thou speakest, maiden, of thou knowest not what. Thou wouldst quench the pure light of chivalry, which alone distinguishes the noble from the base, the gentle knight from the churl and the savage; which rates our life far, far beneath the pitch of our honor, raises us victorious over pain, toil, and suffering, and teaches us to fear no evil but disgrace. Thou art no Christian, Rebecca; and to thee are unknown those high feelings which swell the bosom of a noble maiden when her lover hath done some deed of emprize which sanctions his flame. Chivalry! Why, maiden, she is the nurse of pure and high affection, the stay of the oppressed, the redresser of grievances, the curb of the power of the tyrant. Nobility were but an empty name without her, and liberty finds the best protection in her lance and her sword."

"I am, indeed," said Rebecca, "sprung from a race whose courage was distinguished in the defence of their own land, but who warred not, even while yet a nation, save at the command of the Deity, or in defending their country from oppression. The sound of the trumpet wakes Judah no longer, and her despised children are now but the unresisting victims of hostile and military oppression. Well hast thou spoken, Sir Knight: until the God of Jacob shall raise up for His chosen people a second Gideon, or a new Maccabeus, it ill beseemeth the Jewish damsel to speak of battle or of war."

The high-minded maiden concluded the argument in a tone of sorrow, which deeply expressed her sense of the degradation of her people, imbittered perhaps by the idea that Ivanhoe considered her as one not entitled to interfere in a case of honor, and incapable of entertaining or expressing sentiments of honor and generosity.

"How little he knows this bosom," she said, "to imagine that cowardice or meanness of soul must needs be its guests, because I have censured the fantastic chivalry. Would to Heaven that the shedding of mine own blood, drop by drop, could redeem the captivity of Judah! Nay, would to God it could avail to set free my father, and this his benefactor, from the chains of the oppressor. The proud Christian should then see whether the daughter of God's chosen people dared not to die as bravely as the finest Nazarene maiden, that boasts her descent from some petty chieftain of the rude and frozen north!"

She then looked toward the couch of the wounded knight.

"He sleeps," she said; "nature exhausted by suffrance, and the waste of spirits, his wearied frame embraces the first moment of temporary relaxation to sink into slumber."

She wrapped herself closely in her veil, and sat down at a distance from the couch of the wounded knight, with her back turned toward it, fortifying, or endeavoring to fortify, her mind against the impending evils.

During the interval of quiet which followed the first success of the besiegers, while the one party was preparing to pursue their advantage and the other to strengthen their means of defence, the Templar and De Bracy held brief counsel together in the hall of the castle.

"Where is Front-de-Boeuf?" said the latter, who had superintended the defence of the fortress on the other side; "men say he hath been slain."

"He lives," said the Templar, coolly-"Lives as yet; but had he worn the bull's head of which he bears the name, [Footnote: Front-de-Boeuf means Bull's Head.] and ten plates of iron to fence it withal, he must have gone down before yonder fatal axe. Yet a few hours, and Front-de- Boeuf is with his fathers-a powerful limb lopped off Prince John's enterprise." [Footnote: Prince John was scheming to usurp the throne of England while King Richard, his brother, was absent on one of the Crusades.]

"And a brave addition to the kingdom of Satan," said De Bracy; "this comes of reviling saints and angels, and ordering images of holy things and holy men to be flung down on the heads of these rascaille yeomen."

"Go to, thou art a fool," said the Templar; "thy superstition is upon a level with Front-de-Boeuf's want of faith; neither of you can render a reason for your belief or unbelief. Let us think of making good the castle. How fought these villain yeomen on thy side?"

"Like fiends incarnate," said De Bracy. "They swarmed close up to the walls, headed, as I think, by the knave who won the prize at the archery, for I knew his horn and baldric. Had I not been armed in proof, the villain had marked me down seven times with as little remorse as if I had been a buck in season. He told every rivet on my armor with a cloth-yard shaft, that rapped against my ribs with as little compunction as if my bones had been of iron. But that I wore a shirt of Spanish mail under my platecoat, I had been fairly sped."

"But you maintained your post?" said the Templar. "We lost the outwork on our part."

"That is a shrewd loss," said De Bracy; "the knaves will find cover there to assault the castle more closely, and may, if not well watched, gain some unguarded corner of a tower, or some forgotten window, and so break in upon us. Our numbers are too few for the defence of every point, and the men complain that they can nowhere show themselves, but they are the mark for as many arrows as a parish-butt on a holyday even. Front-de-Boeuf is dying too, so we shall receive no more aid from his bull's head and brutal strength. How think you, Sir Brian, were we not better make a virtue of necessity, and compound with the rogues by delivering up our prisoners?"

"How!" exclaimed the Templar; "deliver up our prisoners, and stand an object alike of ridicule and execration, as the doughty warriors who dared by a night attack to possess themselves of the persons of a party of defenceless travelers, yet could not make good a strong castle against a vagabond troop of outlaws, led by swineherds, jesters, and the very refuse of mankind? Shame on thy counsel, Maurice de Bracy! The ruins of this castle shall bury both my body and my shame, ere I consent to such base and dishonorable composition."

"Let us to the walls, then," said De Bracy, carelessly; "that man never breathed, be he Turk or Templar, who held life at lighter rate than I do. But I trust there is no dishonor in wishing I had here some two scores of my gallant troop of Free Companions? Oh, my brave lances! if ye knew but how hard your captain were this day bested, how soon should I see my banner at the head of your clump of spears! And how short while would these rabble villains stand to endure your encounter!"

"Wish for whom thou wilt," said the Templar, "but let us make what defence we can with the soldiers who remain. They are chiefly Front-de- Boeuf's followers, hated by the English for a thousand acts of insolence and oppression."

"The better," said De Bracy; "the rugged slaves will defend themselves to the last drop of their blood, ere they encounter the revenge of the peasants without. Let us up and be doing, then, Brian de Bois-Guilbert; and, live or die, thou shalt see Maurice de Bracy bear himself this day as a gentleman of blood and lineage."

"To the walls!" answered the Templar; and they both ascended the battlements to do all that skill could dictate, and manhood accomplish, in defence of the place. They readily agreed that the point of greatest danger was that opposite to the outwork of which the assailants had possessed themselves. The castle, indeed, was divided from that barbican by the moat, and it was impossible that the besiegers could assail the postern door, with which the outwork corresponded, without surmounting that obstacle; but it was the opinion both of the Templar and De Bracy that the besiegers, if governed by the same policy their leader had already displayed, would endeavor, by a formidable assault, to draw the chief part of the defenders' observation to this point, and take measures to avail themselves of every negligence which might take place in the defence elsewhere. To guard against such an evil, their numbers only permitted the knights to place sentinels from space to space along the walls in communication with each other, who might give the alarm whenever danger was threatened. Meanwhile, they agreed that De Bracy should command the defense of the postern, and the Templar should keep with him a score of men or thereabouts as a body of reserve, ready to hasten to any other point which might be suddenly threatened. The loss of the barbican had also this unfortunate effect, that notwithstanding the superior height of the castle walls, the besieged could not see from them, with the same precision as before, the operations of the enemy; for some straggling underwood approached so near the sallyport of the outwork that the assailants might introduce into it whatever force they thought proper, not only under cover, but even without the knowledge of the defenders. Utterly uncertain, therefore, upon what point the storm was to burst, De Bracy and his companion were under the necessity of providing against every possible contingency, and their followers, however brave, experienced the anxious dejection of mind incident to men inclosed by enemies who possessed the power of choosing their time and mode of attack.

Meanwhile, the lord of the beleaguered and endangered castle lay upon a bed of bodily pain and mental agony. He had not the usual resource of bigots in that superstitious period, most of whom were wont to atone for the crimes they were guilty of by liberality to the church, stupefying by this means their terrors by the idea of atonement and forgiveness; and although the refuge which success thus purchased was no more like to the peace of mind which follows on sincere repentance than the turbid stupefaction procured by opium resembles healthy and natural slumbers, it was still a state of mind preferable to the agonies of awakened remorse. But among the vices of Front-de-Boeuf, a hard and griping man, avarice was predominant; and he preferred setting church and churchmen at defiance to purchasing from them pardon and absolution at the price of treasure and of manors. Nor did the Templar, an infidel of another stamp, justly characterize his associate when he said Front-de-Boeuf could assign no cause for his unbelief and contempt for the established faith; for the baron would have alleged that the church sold her wares too dear, that the spiritual freedom which she put up to sale was only to be bought, like that of the chief captain of Jerusalem, "with a great sum," and Front-de-Boeuf preferred denying the virtue of the medicine to paying the expense of the physician.

But the moment had now arrived when earth and all his treasures were gliding from before his eyes, and when the savage baron's heart, though hard as a nether millstone, became appalled as he gazed forward into the waste darkness of futurity. The fever of his body aided the impatience and agony of his mind, and his death-bed exhibited a mixture of the newly-awakened feelings of horror combating with the fixed and inveterate obstinacy of his disposition-a fearful state of mind, only to be equalled in those tremendous regions where there are complaints without hope, remorse without repentance, a dreadful sense of present agony, and a presentiment that it cannot cease or be diminished!

"Where be these dog-priests now," growled the baron, "who set such price on their ghostly mummery? I have heard old men talk of prayer- prayer by their own voice-such need not to court or to bribe the false priest. But I-I dare not!"

"Lives Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," said a broken and shrill voice close by his bedside, "to say there is that which he dares not?"

The evil conscience and the shaken nerves of Front-de-Boeuf heard, in this strange interruption to his soliloquy, the voice of one of those demons who, as the superstition of the times believed, beset the beds of dying men, to distract their thoughts, and turn them from the meditations which concerned their eternal welfare.

He shuddered and drew himself together; but, instantly summoning up his wonted resolution, he exclaimed, "Who is there? what art thou, that darest to echo my words in a tone like that of the night raven? Come before my couch that I may see thee."

"I am thine evil angel, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," replied the voice.

"Let me behold thee then in thy bodily shape, if thou be'st indeed a fiend," replied the dying knight; "think not that I will blench from thee. By the eternal dungeon, could I but grapple with these horrors that hover round me as I have done with mortal danger, Heaven or Hell should never say that I shrunk from the conflict!"

"Think on thy sins, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," said the almost unearthly voice-"on rebellion, on rapine, on murder! Who stirred up the licentious John to war against his grayheaded father-against his generous brother?"

"Be thou fiend, priest, or devil," replied Front-de-Boeuf, "thou liest in thy throat! Not I stirred John to rebellion-not I alone; there were fifty knights and barons, the flower of the midland counties, better men never laid lance in rest. And must I answer for the fault done by fifty? False fiend, I defy thee! Depart, and haunt my couch no more. Let me die in peace if thou be mortal; if thou be demon, thy time is not yet come."

"In peace thou shalt NOT die," repeated the voice; "even in death shalt thou think on thy murders-on the groans which this castle has echoed- on the blood that is engrained in its floors!"

"Thou canst not shake me by thy petty malice," answered Front-de-Boeuf, with a ghastly and constrained laugh. "The infidel Jew-it was merit with Heaven to deal with him as I did, else wherefore are men canonized who dip their hands in the blood of Saracens? The Saxon porkers whom I have slain-they were the foes of my country, and of my lineage, and of my liege lord. Ho! ho! thou seest there is no crevice in my coat of plate. Art thou fled? art thou silenced?"

"No, foul parricide!" replied the voice; "think of thy father!-think of his death!-think of his banquet-room flooded with his gore, and that poured forth by the hand of a son!"

"Ha!" answered the Baron, after a long pause, "an thou knowest that, thou art indeed the Author of Evil, and as omniscient as the monks call thee! That secret I deemed locked in my own breast, and in that of one besides-the temptress, the partaker of my guilt. Go, leave me, fiend! and seek the Saxon witch Ulrica, who alone could tell thee what she and I alone witnessed. Go, I say, to her, who washed the wounds, and straighted the corpse, and gave to the slain man the outward show of one parted in time and in the course of nature. Go to her; she was my temptress, the foul provoker, the more foul rewarder, of the deed; let her, as well as I, taste of the tortures which anticipate Hell!"

"She already tastes them," said Ulrica, stepping before the couch of Front-de-Boeuf; "she hath long drunken of this cup, and its bitterness is now sweetened to see that thou dost partake it. Grind not thy teeth, Front-de-Boeuf-roll not thy eyes-clench not thy hand, nor shake it at me with that gesture of menace! The hand which, like that of thy renowned ancestor who gained thy name, could have broken with one stroke the skull of a mountain-bull, is now unnerved and powerless as mine own!"

"Vile, murderous hag!" replied Front-de-Boeuf-"detestable screech-owl! it is then thou who art come to exult over the ruins thou hast assisted to lay low?"

"Ay, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," answered she, "It is Ulrica!-it is the daughter of the murdered Torquil Wolfganger!-it is the sister of his slaughtered sons! it is she who demands of thee, and of thy father's house, father and kindred, name and fame-all that she has lost by the name of Front-de-Boeuf! Think of my wrongs, Front-de-Boeuf, and answer me if I speak not truth. Thou hast been my evil angel, and I will be thine: I will dog thee till the very instant of dissolution!"

"Detestable fury!" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf, "that moment shalt thou never witness. Ho! Giles, Clement, and Eustace! Saint Maur and Stephen! seize this damned witch, and hurl her from the battlements headlong; she has betrayed us to the Saxon! Ho! Saint Maur! Clement! false- hearted knaves, where tarry ye?"

"Call on them again, valiant baron," said the hag, with a smile of grisly mockery; "summon thy vassals around thee, doom them that loiter to the scourge and the dungeon. But know, mighty chief," she continued, suddenly changing her tone, "thou shalt have neither answer, nor aid, nor obedience at their hands. Listen to these horrid sounds," for the din of the recommenced assault and defence now rung fearfully loud from the battlements of the castle; "in that warcry is the downfall of thy house. The blood-cemented fabric of Front-de-Boeuf's power totters to the foundation, and before the foes he most despised! The Saxon, Reginald!-the scorned Saxon assails thy walls! Why liest thou here, like a worn-out hind, when the Saxon storms thy place of strength? Thou shalt die no soldier's death, but perish like the fox in his den, when the peasants have set fire to the cover around it."

"Hateful hag! thou liest!" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf; "my followers bear them bravely-my walls are strong and high-my comrades in arms fear not a whole host of Saxons. The war-cry of the Templar and of the Free Companions rises high over the conflict! And by mine honor, when we kindle the blazing beacon for joy of our defence, it shall consume thee body and bones."

"Hold thy belief," replied Ulrica, "till the proof reach thee. But no!" she said, interrupting herself, "thou shalt know even now the doom which all thy power, strength and courage is unable to avoid, though it is prepared for thee by this feeble hand. Markest thou the smouldering and suffocating vapor which already eddies in sable folds through the chamber? Didst thou think it was but the darkening of thy bursting eyes, the difficulty of thy cumbered breathing? No! Front-de-Boeuf, there is another cause. Rememberest thou the magazine of fuel that is stored beneath these apartments?"

"Woman!" he exclaimed with fury, "thou hast not set fire to it? By heaven, thou hast, and the castle is in flames!"

"They are fast rising at least," said Ulrica, with frightful composure, "and a signal shall soon wave to warn the besiegers to press hard upon those who would extinguish them. Farewell, Front-de-Boeuf! But know, if it will give thee comfort to know it, that Ulrica is bound to the same dark coast with thyself, the companion of thy punishment as the companion of thy guilt. And now, parricide, farewell for ever! May each stone of this vaulted roof find a tongue to echo that title into thine ear!"

[Illustration: ULRICA LOCKS THE DOOR ]

So saying, she left the apartment; and Front-de-Boeuf could hear the crash of the ponderous keys as she locked and double-locked the door behind her, thus cutting off the most slender chance of escape. In the extremity of agony, he shouted upon his servants and allies-"Stephen and Saint Maur! Clement and Giles! I burn here unaided! To the rescue- to the rescue, brave Bois-Guilbert, valiant De Bracy! It is Front-de- Boeuf who calls! It is your master, ye traitor squires! Your ally-your brother in arms, ye perjured and faithless knights! All the curses due to traitors upon your recreant heads, do you abandon me to perish thus miserably! They hear me not-they cannot hear me-my voice is lost in the din of battle. The smoke rolls thicker and thicker, the fire has caught upon the floor below. O, for one draught of the air of heaven, were it to be purchased by instant annihilation! The red fire flashes through the thick smoke! the demon marches against me under the banner of his own element. Foul spirit, avoid! I go not with thee without my comrades-all, all are thine that garrison these walls. Thinkest thou Front-de-Boeuf will be singled out to go alone? No; the infidel Templar, De Bracy, Ulrica, the men who aided my enterprises, the dog Saxons and accursed Jews who are my prisoners-all, all shall attend me-a goodly fellowship as ever took the downward road."

But it were impious to trace any further the picture of the blasphemer and parricide's death-bed.

When the barbican was carried, the Sable Knight sent notice of the happy event to Locksley, the archer, requesting him at the same time to keep such a strict observation on the castle as might prevent the defenders from combining their force for a sudden sally, and recovering the outwork which they had lost. This the knight was chiefly desirous of avoiding, conscious that the men whom he led, being hasty and untrained volunteers, imperfectly armed and unaccustomed to discipline, must, upon any sudden attack, fight at great disadvantage with the veteran soldiers of the Norman knights, who were well provided with arms both defensive and offensive; and who, to match the zeal and high spirit of the besiegers, had all the confidence which arises from perfect discipline and the habitual use of weapons.

The knight employed the interval in causing to be constructed a sort of floating bridge, or long raft, by means of which he hoped to cross the moat, in despite of the resistance of the enemy. This was a work of some time, which the leaders the less regretted, as it gave Ulrica leisure to execute her plan of diversion in their favor, whatever that might be.

When the raft was completed, the Black Knight addressed the besiegers: "It avails not waiting here longer, my friends; the sun is descending to the west, and I have that upon my hands which will not permit me to tarry with you another day. Besides, it will be a marvel if the horsemen come not upon us from York, unless we speedily accomplish our purpose. Wherefore, one of ye go to Locksley, and bid him commence a discharge of arrows on the opposite side of the castle, and move forward as if about to assault it; and you, true English hearts, stand by me, and be ready to thrust the raft endlong over the moat whenever the postern on our side is thrown open. Follow me boldly across, and aid me to burst yon sallyport in the main wall of the castle. As many of you as like not this service, or are but ill armed to meet it, do you man the top of the outwork, draw your bowstrings to your ears, and mind you quell with your shot whatever shall appear to man the rampart. Noble Cedric, wilt thou take the direction of those which remain?"

"Not so!" said the Saxon; "lead I cannot; but may posterity curse me in my grave, if I follow not with the foremost wherever thou shalt point the way. The quarrel is mine, and well it becomes me to be in the van of the battle."

"Yet, bethink thee, noble Saxon," said the knight, "thou hast neither hauberk, nor corselet, nor aught but that light helmet, target, and sword."

"The better!" answered Cedric; "I shall be the lighter to climb these walls. And-forgive the boast, Sir Knight-thou shalt this day see the naked breast of a Saxon as boldly presented to the battle as ever ye beheld the steel corselet of a Norman."

"In the name of God, then," said the knight, "fling open the door, and launch the floating bridge."

The portal, which led from the inner wall of the barbican to the moat, and which corresponded with a sallyport in the main wall of the castle, was now suddenly opened; the temporary bridge was then thrust forward, and soon flashed in the waters, extending its length between the castle and outwork, and forming a slippery and precarious passage for two men abreast to cross the moat. Well aware of the importance of taking the foe by surprise, the Black Knight, closely followed by Cedric, threw himself upon the bridge, and reached the opposite side. Here he began to thunder with his axe upon the gate of the castle, protected in part from the shot and stones cast by the defenders by the ruins of the former drawbridge, which the Templar had demolished in his retreat from the barbican, leaving the counterpoise still attached to the upper part of the portal. The followers of the knight had no such shelter; two were instantly shot with cross-bow bolts, and two more fell into the moat; the others retreated back into the barbican.

The situation of Cedric and of the Black Knight was now truly dangerous, and would have been still more so but for the constancy of the archers in the barbican, who ceased not to shower their arrows upon the battlements, distracting the attention of those by whom they were manned, and thus affording a respite to their two chiefs from the storm of missiles which must otherwise have overwhelmed them. But their situation was eminently perilous, and was becoming more so with every moment.

"Shame on ye all!" cried De Bracy to the soldiers around him; "do ye call yourselves cross-bowmen, and let these two dogs keep their station under the walls of the castle? Heave over the coping stones from the battlement, an better may not be. Get pickaxe and levers, and down with that huge pinnacle!" pointing to a heavy piece of stone carved-work that projected from the parapet.

At this moment the besiegers caught sight of the red flag upon the angle of the tower, which Ulrica raised to show that she had fired the castle. The stout yeoman Locksley was the first who was aware of it, as he was hasting to the outwork, impatient to see the progress of the assault.

"Saint George!" he cried-"Merry Saint George for England! To the charge, bold yeomen! why leave ye the good knight and noble Cedric to storm the pass alone? Make in, brave yeomen!-the castle is ours, we have friends within. See yonder flag, it is the appointed signal- Torquilstone is ours! Think of honor-think of spoil! One effort, and the place is ours!"

With that he bent his good bow, and sent a shaft right through the breast of one of the men-at-arms, who, under De Bracy's direction, was loosening a fragment from one of the battlements to precipitate on the heads of Cedric and the Black Knight. A second soldier caught from the hands of the dying man the iron crow with which he heaved at and had loosened the stone pinnacle, when, receiving an arrow through his headpiece, he dropped from the battlements into the moat a dead man. The men-at-arms were daunted, for no armor seemed proof against the shot of this tremendous archer.

"Do you give ground, base knaves!" said De Bracy. "Give me the lever!"

And, snatching it up, he again assailed the loosened pinnacle, which was of weight enough, if thrown down, not only to have destroyed the remnant of the drawbridge which sheltered the two foremost assailants, but also to have sunk the rude float of planks over which they had crossed. All saw the danger, and the boldest avoided setting foot on the raft. Thrice did Locksley bend his shaft against De Bracy, and thrice did his arrow bound back from the knight's armor of proof.

"Curse on thy Spanish steel-coat!" said Locksley, "had English smith forged it, these arrows had gone through, as if it had been silk or sendal." He then began to call out. "Comrades! friends! noble Cedric! bear back and let the ruin fall."

His warning voice was unheard, for the din which the knight himself occasioned by his strokes upon the postern would have drowned twenty war-trumpets. The faithful Gurth indeed sprung forward on the planked bridge, to warn Cedric of his impending fate, or to share it with him. But his warning would have come too late; the massive pinnacle already tottered, and De Bracy, who still heaved at his task, would have accomplished it had not the voice of the Templar sounded close in his ear:

"All is lost, De Bracy; the castle burns."

"Thou art mad to say so!" replied the knight.

"It is all in a light flame on the western side. I have striven in vain to extinguish it."

With the stern coolness which formed the basis of his character, Brian de Bois-Guilbert communicated this hideous intelligence, which was not so calmly received by his astonished comrade.

"Saints of Paradise!" said De Bracy; "what is to be done?"

"Lead thy men down," said the Templar, "as if to a sally; throw the postern gate open. There are but two men who occupy the float, fling them into the moat, push across for the barbican. I will charge from the main gate, and attack the barbican on the outside; and if we can regain that post, be assured we shall defend ourselves until we are relieved, or at least till they grant us fair quarter."

"It is well thought upon," said De Bracy; "I will play my part.

Templar, thou wilt not fail me?"

"Hand and glove, I will not!" said Bois-Guilbert. "But haste thee, in the name of God!"

De Bracy hastily drew his men together, and rushed down to the postern gate, which he caused instantly to be thrown open. But scarce was this done ere the portentous strength of the Black Knight forced his way inward in despite of De Bracy and his followers. Two of the foremost instantly fell, and the rest gave way notwithstanding all their leader's efforts to stop them.

"Dogs!" said De Bracy, "will ye let two men win our only pass for safety?"

"He is the devil!" said a veteran man-at-arms, bearing back from the blows of their sable antagonist.

"And if he be the devil," replied De Bracy, "would you fly from him into the mouth of hell? The castle burns behind us, villains!-let despair give you courage, or let me forward! I will cope with this champion myself."

And well and chivalrous did De Bracy that day maintain the fame he had acquired in the civil wars of that dreadful period. The vaulted passage to which the postern gave entrance, and in which these two redoubted champions were now fighting hand to hand, rung with the furious blows which they dealt each other, De Bracy with his sword, the Black Knight with his ponderous axe.

At length the Norman received a blow which, though its force was partly parried by his shield, for otherwise never more would De Bracy have again moved limb, descended yet with such violence on his crest that he measured his length on the paved floor.

"Yield thee, De Bracy," said the Black Champion, stooping over him, and holding against the bars of his helmet the fatal poniard with which the knights despatched their enemies, and which was called the dagger of mercy-"Yield thee, Maurice De Bracy, rescue or no rescue, or thou art but a dead man."

"I will not yield," replied De Bracy, faintly, "to an unknown conqueror. Tell me thy name or work thy pleasure on me; it shall never be said that Maurice De Bracy was prisoner to a nameless churl."

The Black Knight whispered something into the ear of the vanquished.

[Footnote: The Black Knight is Richard the Lion-Hearted, king of

England, who has returned from the Crusades to reclaim his throne from

his usurping brother.]

"I yield me to be true prisoner, rescue or no rescue," answered the Norman, exchanging his tone of determined obstinacy for one of deep though sullen submission.

"Go to the barbican," said the victor, in a tone of authority, "and there wait my further orders."

"Yet first let me say," said De Bracy, "what it imports thee to know. Wilfred of Ivanhoe is wounded and a prisoner, and will perish in the burning castle without present help."

"Wilfred of Ivanhoe!" exclaimed the Black Knight-"prisoner, and perish! The life of every man in the castle shall answer it if a hair of his head be singed. Show me his chamber!"

"Ascend yonder winding stair," said De Bracy; "it leads to his apartment. Wilt thou not accept my guidance?" he added in a submissive voice.

"No. To the barbican, and there wait my orders, I trust thee not, De

Bracy."

During this combat and the brief conversation which ensued, Cedric, at the head of a body of men, had pushed across the bridge as soon as they saw the postern open, and drove back the dispirited and despairing followers of De Bracy, of whom some asked quarter, some offered vain resistance, and the greater part fled toward the courtyard.

De Bracy himself arose from the ground, and cast a sorrowful glance after his conqueror. "He trusts me not!" he repeated; "but have I deserved his trust?"

He then lifted his sword from the floor, took off his helmet in token of submission, and, going to the barbican, gave up his sword to Locksley, whom he met by the way.

As the fire augmented, symptoms of it became soon apparent in the chamber where Ivanhoe was watched and tended by the Jewess Rebecca. He had been awakened from his brief slumber by the noise of the battle; and his attendant, who had, at his anxious desire, again placed herself at the window to watch and report to him the fate of the attack, was for some time prevented from observing either by the increase of the smouldering and stifling vapor. At length the volumes of smoke which rolled into the apartment, the cries for water, which were heard even above the din of the battle, made them sensible of the progress of this new danger.

"The castle burns," said Rebecca-"it burns! What can we do to save ourselves?"

"Fly, Rebecca, and save thine own life," said Ivanhoe, "for no human aid can avail me."

"I had not found thee, Wilfred," said the Black Knight, who at that instant entered the apartment, "but for thy shouts."

And seizing upon Ivanhoe, he bore him with him to the postern, and having there delivered his burden to the care of two yeomen, again entered the castle to assist in the rescue of the other prisoners.

One turret was now in bright flames, which flashed out furiously from window and shot-hole. But in other parts the great thickness of the walls and the vaulted roofs of the apartments resisted the progress of the flames, and there the rage of man still triumphed, as the scarce more dreadful element held mastery elsewhere; for the besiegers pursued the defenders of the castle from chamber to chamber, and satiated in their blood the vengeance which had long animated them against the soldiers of the tyrant Front-de-Boeuf. Most of the garrison resisted to the uttermost; few of them asked quarter; none received it. The air was filled with groans and clashing of arms; the floors were slippery with the blood of despairing and expiring wretches.

Through this scene of confusion, Cedric rushed, in quest of Rowena, while the faithful Gurth, following him closely through the m?lée, neglected his own safety while he strove to avert the blows that were aimed at his master. The noble Saxon was so fortunate as to reach his ward's apartment just as she had abandoned all hope of safety, and, with a crucifix clasped in agony to her bosom, sat in expectation of instant death. He committed her to the charge of Gurth, to be conducted in safety to the barbican, the road to which was now cleared of the enemy, and not yet interrupted by the flames. This accomplished, the loyal Cedric hastened in quest of his friend Athelstane, determined, at every risk to himself, to save that last scion of Saxon royalty. But ere Cedric penetrated as far as the old hall In which he had himself been a prisoner, the inventive genius of Wamba the Jester had procured liberation for himself and his companion in adversity.

When the noise of the conflict announced that it was at the hottest, the Jester began to shout, with the utmost power of his lungs, "Saint George and the dragon! Bonny Saint George for merry England! The castle is won!" And these sounds he rendered yet more fearful by banging against each other two or three pieces of rusty armor which lay scattered around the hall.

A guard, which had been stationed in the outer or ante-room, and whose spirits were already in a state of alarm, took fright at Wamba's clamor, and, leaving the door open behind them, ran to tell the Templar that foemen had entered the old hall. Meantime the prisoners found no difficulty in making their escape into the ante-room, and from thence into the court of the castle, which was now the last scene of contest. Here sat the fierce Templar, mounted on horseback, surrounded by several of the garrison both on horse and foot, who had united their strength to that of this renowned leader, in order to secure the last chance of safety and retreat which remained to them. The drawbridge had been lowered by his orders, but the passage was beset; for the archers, who had hitherto only annoyed the castle on that side by their missiles, no sooner saw the flames breaking out, and the bridge lowered, than they thronged to the entrance, as well to prevent the escape of the garrison as to secure their own share of booty ere the castle should be burned down. On the other hand, a party of the besiegers, who had entered by the postern, were now issuing out into the courtyard, and attacking with fury the remnant of the defenders, who were thus assaulted on both sides at once. Animated, however, by despair, and supported by the example of their indomitable leader, the remaining soldiers of the castle fought with the utmost valor; and, being well armed, succeeded more than once in driving back the assailants, though much inferior in numbers.

Athelstane, who was slothful, but not cowardly, beheld the Templar.

"By the soul of Saint Edward," he said, "yonder over-proud knight shall die by my hand!"

"Think what you do!" cried Wamba; "hasty hand catches frog for fish. Ye may be leader, but I will be no follower; no bones of mine shall be broken. And you without armor too! Bethink you, silk bonnet never kept out steel blade. Nay, then, if wilful will to water, wilful must drench. Deus vobiscum [Footnote: Deus vobiscum means God be with you] most doughty Athelstane!" he concluded, loosening the hold which he had hitherto kept upon the Saxon's tunic.

To snatch a mace from the pavement, on which it lay beside one whose dying gasp had just relinquished it, to rush on the Templar's band, and to strike in quick succession to the right and left, levelling a warrior at each blow, was, for Athelstane's great strength, now animated with unusual fury, but the work of a single moment; he was soon within two yards of Bois-Guilbert, whom he defied in his loudest tone.

"Turn, false-hearted Templar! turn, limb of a band of murdering and hypocritical robbers!"

"Dog!" said the Templar, grinding his teeth, "I will teach thee to blaspheme the holy order of the Temple of Zion;" and with these words, half-wheeling his steed, he made a demi-courbette toward the Saxon, and rising in the stirrups, so as to take full advantage of the descent of the horse, he discharged a fearful blow upon the head of Athelstane.

"Well," said Wamba, "that silken bonnet keeps out no steel blade!" So trenchant was the Templar's weapon, that it shore asunder, as it had been a willow-twig, the tough and plaited handle of the mace, which the ill-fated Saxon reared to parry the blow, and, descending on his head, levelled him with the earth.

"Ha! Beau-seant!" exclaimed Bois-Guilbert, "thus be it to the maligners of the Temple knights!" Taking advantage of the dismay which was spread by the fall of Athelstane, and calling aloud, "Those who would save themselves, follow me!" he pushed across the drawbridge, dispersing the archers who would have intercepted them. He was followed by his Saracens, and some five or six men-at-arms, who had mounted their horses. The Templar's retreat was rendered perilous by the numbers of arrows shot off at him and his party; but this did not prevent him from galloping round to the barbican, of which, according to his previous plan, he supposed it possible De Bracy might have been in possession.

"De Bracy! De Bracy!" he shouted, "art thou there?"

"I am here," replied De Bracy, "but I am a prisoner."

"Can I rescue thee?" cried Bois-Guilbert.

"No," replied De Bracy; "I have rendered me, rescue or no rescue. I will be true prisoner. Save thyself; there are hawks abroad. Put the seas betwixt you and England; I dare not say more."

"Well," answered the Templar, "an thou wilt tarry there, remember I have redeemed word and glove. Be the hawks where they will, methinks the walls of the preceptory of Templestowe will be cover sufficient, and thither will I, like heron to her haunt."

Having thus spoken, he galloped off with his followers.

Those of the castle who had not gotten to horse, still continued to fight desperately with the besiegers, after the departure of the Templar, but rather in despair of quarter than that they entertained any hope of escape. The fire was spreading rapidly through all parts of the castle, when Ulrica, who had first kindled it, appeared on a turret, in the guise of one of the ancient furies, yelling forth a war- song, such as was of yore raised on the field of battle by the scalds of the yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled gray hair flew back from her uncovered head; the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance contended in her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she brandished the distaff which she held in her hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal Sisters who spin and abridge the thread of human life.

The towering flames had now surmounted every obstruction, and rose to the evening skies one huge and burning beacon, seen far and wide through the adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed down, with blazing roof and rafter; and the combatants were driven from the courtyard. The vanquished, of whom very few remained, scattered and escaped into the neighboring wood. The victors, assembling in large bands, gazed with wonder, not unmixed with fear, upon the flames, in which their own ranks and arms glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of the Saxon Ulrica was for a long time visible on the lofty stand she had chosen, tossing her arms abroad with wild exultation, as if she reigned empress of the conflagration which she had raised. At length, with a terrific crash, the whole turret gave way, and she perished in the flames which had consumed her tyrant. An awful pause of horror silenced each murmur of the armed spectators, who, for the space of several minutes, stirred not a finger, save to sign the cross. The voice of Locksley was then heard-"Shout, yeomen! the den of tyrants is no more! Let each bring his spoil to our chosen place of rendezvous at the trysting-trees in the Harthill Walk; for there at break of day will we make just partition among our own bands, together with our worthy allies in this great deed of vengeance."

THE DEATH OF HECTOR

From HOMER'S ILIAD [Footnote: One of the greatest poems that has ever been written is the Iliad, an epic of great length dealing with the siege of Troy. The author is generally considered to be the old Greek poet and singer Homer. although some authorities believe that the poem was not all written by any one man.

The selection from the Iliad which is given here is from the translation by Alexander Pope. The passage has been abridged somewhat.]

NOTE.-Of all the mythical or half-mythical events which the ancient Greeks believed formed a part of their early history, there is none about which more stories have grown up than the Trojan War. According to the Greek belief, this struggle took place somewhere in the twelfth century B. C., but it now seems entirely likely that there was really no such contest, and that the stories told about it were but myths.

To the marriage of Peleus with the sea-nymph Thetis, all the gods were invited except Eris, or Discord, who, angered at the slight, determined to have vengeance. She took, therefore, a most beautiful golden apple on which were inscribed the words For The Fairest, and tossed it into the midst of the merry wedding party. Instantly a dispute arose, Juno, queen of the gods, Minerva, goddess of wisdom, and Venus, goddess of love and beauty, each claiming the fruit. Finally it was decided to leave the choice to an impartial judge, and Paris, son of Priam, the old king of Troy, was chosen.

Paris was utterly ignorant of the fact that he was the son of the king, having been banished from his home in his infancy because a prophecy had foretold that he should bring about the destruction of his native city. Rescued and brought up by a shepherd, he lived a simple shepherd's life on Mount Ida.

When the three radiant goddesses stood before him he was overcome with the difficulty of his task, and each of the three attempted to help him out by offering a bribe. Juno offered prosperity through life, Minerva wisdom and influence, but Venus, smiling slyly, promised him the love of the most beautiful woman in the world. Moved not by this bribe, but by the unsurpassable beauty of Venus, Paris awarded her the apple, and thus gained for himself and for his people the hatred of Juno and Minerva.

Later Paris was received back into his father's palace, and was sent on an embassy to the home of Menelaus, king of Sparta, in Greece. While at the home of Menelaus, Paris fell in love with Helen, the wife of his host, the most beautiful woman in the world, and persuaded her to return to Troy with him. Thoroughly roused, Menelaus sought the aid of the other Grecian kings in his attempt to get back his wife and punish the Trojans for the treachery of their prince, and a huge expedition under the command of Agamemnon, brother of Menelaus, set out for Troy. The Grecian army could make no immediate head against the Trojans, and for nine years it encamped outside the city of Troy, attempting to bring about its downfall. Battles and contests between single champions were frequent, but neither side seemed able to win any permanent victory.

Achilles was the bravest and strongest of the Grecian heroes, and all looked to him as the man through whom success must come. However, he became angered at Agamemnon and withdrew from the contest, and victory seemed about to fall to the Trojans. One day Patroclus, the friend and kinsman of Achilles, distressed at the Greek fortunes, removed of Achilles his armor, and at the head of Achilles's own men, went forth to do battle with the Trojans. He was slain by Hector, the son of Priam, the bravest of the Trojan defenders, and in anger at his friend's death, Achilles returned to the conflict. The battle was waged outside the city, and owing to the prowess of Achilles, matters looked bad for the Trojans.

Apollo, god of light, who favored the Trojans, took upon himself the form of a Trojan warrior, and while appearing to flee, drew Achilles after him, and thus allowed the Trojans to gain the shelter of the city walls. The selection from the Iliad given here begins just as Apollo throws off his disguise and reveals his identity to Achilles.

Thus to their bulwarks, smit with panic fear,

The herded Ilians* rush like driven deer:

There safe they wipe the briny drops away,

And drown in bowls the labors of the day.

Close to the walls, advancing o'er the fields

Beneath one roof of well-compacted shields,

March, bending on, the Greeks' embodied powers,

Far stretching in the shade of Trojan towers.

Great Hector singly stay'd: chain'd down by fate

There fix'd he stood before the Scaean gate;

Still his bold arms determined to employ,

The guardian still of long-defended Troy.

*[Footnote: Ilium, or Ilion, was another name for Troy,

and the Ilians were Trojans.]

Apollo now to tired Achilles turns

(The power confess'd in all his glory burns):

"And what," he cries, "has Peleus'* son in view,

With mortal speed a godhead to pursue?

For not to thee to know the gods' is given,

Unskill'd to trace the latent marks of heaven.

What boots thee now, that Troy forsook the plain?

Vain thy past labor, and thy present vain:

Safe in their walls are now her troops bestow'd,

While here thy frantic rage attacks a god."

*[Footnote: Achilles was the son of Peleus and the sea-nymph Thetis.]

The chief incensed-"Too partial god of day!

To check my conquests in the middle way:

How few in Ilion else had refuge found!

What gasping numbers now had bit the ground!

Thou robb'st me of a glory justly mine,

Powerful of godhead, and of fraud divine:

Mean fame, alas! for one of heavenly strain,

To cheat a mortal who repines in vain."

Then to the city, terrible and strong,

With high and haughty steps he tower'd along,

So the proud courser, victor of the prize,

To the near goal with double ardor flies.

Him, as he blazing shot across the field,

The careful eyes of Priam* first beheld

Not half so dreadful rises to the sight

Through the thick gloom of some tempestuous night,

Orion's dog* (the year when autumn weighs),

And o'er the feebler stars exerts his rays;

Terrific glory! for his burning breath

Taints the red air with fevers, plagues, and death,

So flamed his fiery mail. Then wept the sage:

He strikes his reverend head, now white with age;

He lifts his wither'd arms; obtests* the skies;

He calls his much-loved son with feeble cries:

The son, resolved Achilles' force to dare,

Full at the Scaean gates expects* the war;

While the sad father on the rampart stands,

And thus adjures him with extended hands:

*[Footnote: Priam was the old king of Troy, father of Hector.]

*[Footnote: Orion's dog means Sirius, the dog star, which was

believed by the ancients to be a star of very bad omen.]

*[Footnote: Obtests means entreats.]

*[Footnote: Expects here means awaits.]

"Ah stay not, stay not! guardless and alone;

Hector! my loved, my dearest, bravest son!

Mehinks already I behold thee slain,

And stretch'd beneath that fury of the plain,

Implacable Achilles! might'st thou be

To all the gods no dearer than to me!

Thee, vultures wild should scatter round the shore,

And bloody dogs grow fiercer from thy gore.

How many valiant sons I late enjoy'd,

Valiant in vain! by thy cursed arm destroy'd,

Or, worse than slaughter'd, sold in distant isles

To shameful bondage, and unworthy toils,

What sorrows then must their sad mother know,

What anguish I? unutterable woe!

Yet less that anguish, less to her, to me,

Less to all Troy, if not deprived of thee.

Yet shun Achilles! enter yet the wall;

And spare thyself, thy father, spare us all!

Save thy dear life; or, if a soul so brave

Neglect that thought, thy dearer glory save.

Pity, while yet I live, these silver hairs;

While yet thy father feels the woes he bears,

Yet cursed with sense! a wretch, whom in his rage

(All trembling on the verge of helpless age)

Great Jove has placed, sad spectacle of pain!

The bitter dregs of fortune's cup to drain:

To fill the scenes of death his closing eyes,

And number all his days by miseries!

Who dies in youth and vigor, dies the best,

Struck through with wounds, all honest on the breast.

But when the Fates* in fulness of their rage

Spurn the hoar head of unresisting age,

In dust the reverend lineaments deform,

And pour to dogs the life-blood scarcely warm:

This, this is misery! the last, the worst,

That man can feel! man, fated to be cursed!"

*[Footnote: The Fates were thought of by the ancient peoples as

three old women, who spun the thread of human life, twisted it,

and cut it off whenever they thought it was long enough.]

He said, and acting what no words could say,

Rent from his head the silver locks away.

With him the mournful mother bears a part;

Yet all her sorrow turn not Hector's heart.

The zone unbraced, her bosom she display'd;

And thus, fast-falling the salt tears, she said:

"Have mercy on me, O my son! revere

The words of age; attend a parent's prayer!

If ever thee in these fond arms I press'd,

Or still'd thy infant clamors at this breast;

Ah, do not thus our helpless years forego,

But, by our walls secured, repel the foe."

So they,* while down their cheeks the torrents roll;

But fix'd remains the purpose of his soul;

Resolved he stands, and with a fiery glance

Expects the hero's terrible advance.

So, roll'd up in his den, the swelling snake

Beholds the traveller approach the brake;

When fed with noxious herbs his turgid veins

Have gather'd half the poisons of the plains;

He burns, he stiffens with collected ire,

And his red eyeballs glare with living fire.*

Beneath a turret, on his shield reclined,

He stood, and question'd thus his mighty mind:

*[Footnote: The word spoke is omitted here.]

*[Footnote: Homer is famous for such comparisons as these. If you

ever come across the term "Homeric simile," you may know that it

means such a long, carefully worked out comparison as this.]

"Where lies my way? to enter in the wall?

Honor and shame the ungenerous thought recall:

Shall proud Polydamas* before the gate

Proclaim, his counsels are obeyed too late,

Which timely follow'd but the former night

What numbers had been saved by Hector's flight?

That wise advice rejected with disdain,

I feel my folly in my people slain.

Methinks my suffering country's voice I hear,

But most her worthless sons insult my ear,

On my rash courage charge the chance of war,

And blame those virtues which they cannot share.

No-if I e'er return, return I must

Glorious, my country's terror laid in dust:

Or if I perish, let her see me fall

In field at least, and fighting for her wall."

*[Footnote: Polydamas, a Trojan hero and a friend of Hector's,

had previously advised prudence and retreat within the wall.]

Thus pondering, like a god the Greek drew nigh;

His dreadful plumage nodded from on high;

The Pelian* javelin, in his better hand,

Shot trembling rays that glitter'd o'er the land;

And on his breast the beamy splendor shone,

Like Jove's own lightning, o'er the rising sun.

As Hector sees, unusual terrors rise;

Struck by some god, he fears, recedes, and flies.

He leaves the gates, he leaves the wall behind:

Achilles follows like the winged wind.

Thus at the panting dove a falcon flies

(The swiftest racer of the liquid skies),

Just when he holds, or thinks he holds his prey,

Obliquely wheeling through the aerial way,

With open beak and shrilling cries he springs,

And aims his claws, and shoots upon his wings:

No less fore-right* the rapid chase they held,

One urged by fury, one by fear impell'd:

Now circling round the walls their course maintain,

Where the high watch-tower overlooks the plain;

Now where the fig-trees spread their umbrage broad,

(A wider compass), smoke along the road.

Next by Scamander's* double source they bound,

Where two famed fountains burst the parted ground;

This hot through scorching clefts is seen to rise,

With exhalations streaming to the skies;

That the green banks in summer's heat o'erflows,

Like crystal clear, and cold as winter snows:

Each gushing fount a marble cistern fills,

Whose polished bed receives the falling rills;

Where Trojan dames (ere yet alarm'd by Greece)

Wash'd their fair garments in the days of peace.*

By these they pass'd, one chasing, one in flight

The mighty fled, pursued by stronger might:

Swift was the course; no vulgar prize they play,

No vulgar victim must reward the day:

Such as in races crown the speedy strife:

The prize contended was great Hector's life.

*[Footnote: Pelian is an adjective formed from Peleus,

the name of the father of Achilles.]

*[Footnote: Fore-right means straight forward.]

*[Footnote: The Scamander was a famous river that flowed near the

city of Troy. According to the Iliad, its source was two springs,

one a cold and one a hot spring.]

*[Footnote: It was not, in these very ancient times, thought beneath

the dignity of even a princess to wash her linen in some clear river

or spring.]

As when some hero's funerals are decreed

In grateful honor of the mighty dead;*

Where high rewards the vigorous youth inflame

(Some golden tripod, or some lovely dame)

The panting coursers swiftly turn the goal,

And with them turns the raised spectator's soul:

Thus three times round the Trojan wall they fly.

The gazing gods lean forward from the sky.*

*[Footnote: The favorite way, among the ancients, of doing honor to

a man after his death was to hold a sort of a funeral festival,

where contests in running, wrestling, boxing, and other feats of

strength and skill were held.]

*[Footnote: The gods play a very important part in the Iliad.

Sometimes, as here, they simply watch the struggle from their home

above Olympus; sometimes, as in the first lines of this selection,

they actually descend to the battlefield and take part in the

contest.]

As through the forest, o'er the vale and lawn,

The well-breath'd beagle drives the flying fawn,

In vain he tries the covert of the brakes,

Or deep beneath the trembling thicket shakes;

Sure of the vapor* in the tainted dews,

The certain hound his various maze pursues.

Thus step by step, where'er the Trojan wheel'd,

There swift Achilles compass'd round the field.

Oft as to reach the Dardan* gates he bends,

And hopes the assistance of his pitying friends,

(Whose showering arrows, as he coursed below,

From the high turrets might oppress the foe),

So oft Achilles turns him to the plain:

He eyes the city, but he eyes in vain.

As men in slumbers seem with speedy pace,

One to pursue, and one to lead the chase,

Their sinking limbs the fancied course forsake,

Nor this can fly, nor that can overtake;

No less the laboring heroes pant and strain:

While that but flies, and this pursues in vain.

*[Footnote: Vapor here means scent.]

*[Footnote: Dardan is an old word for Trojan.]

What god, O Muse,* assisted Hector's force

With fate itself so long to hold the course?

Phoebus* it was; who, in his latest hour,

Endued his knees with strength, his nerves with power.

And great Achilles, lest some Greek's advance

Should snatch the glory from his lifted lance,

Sign'd to the troops to yield his foe the way,

And leave untouch'd the honors of the day.

*[Footnote: The Muses were nine sister goddesses who inspired poetry

and music. No ancient Greek poet ever undertook to write without

first seeking the aid of the Muse who presided over the particular

kind of poetry that he was writing. Homer here addresses Calliope,

the Muse of epic poetry.]

*[Footnote: Phoebus is Apollo, whom at the opening of this selection

we found aiding Hector by misleading Achilles.]

Jove* lifts the golden balances, that show

The fates of mortal men, and things below:

Here each contending hero's lot he tries,

And weighs, with equal hand, their destinies.

Low sinks the scale surcharged with Hector's fate;

Heavy with death it sinks, and hell receives the weight.

*[Footnote: Jove, or Jupiter, was the king of gods and men.]

Then Phoebus left him. Fierce Minerva* flies

To stern Pelides,* and triumphing, cries:

"O loved of Jove! this day our labors cease,

And conquest blazes with full beams on Greece.

Great Hector falls; that Hector famed so far,

Drunk with renown, insatiable of war,

Falls by thy hand, and mine! nor force, nor flight,

Shall more avail him, nor his god of light.*

See, where in vain he supplicates above,

Roll'd at the feet of unrelenting Jove;

Rest here: myself will lead the Trojan on,

And urge to meet the fate he cannot shun."

*[Footnote: Minerva, goddess of wisdom, was the special protector of

the Greeks. Throughout the struggle she was anxious to take part

against the Trojans, but much of the time Jupiter would not let her

fight; he allowed her merely to advise.]

*[Footnote: The ending-ides means son of. Thus Pelides means

son of Peleus.]

*[Footnote: The god of light was Apollo.]

Her voice divine the chief with joyful mind

Obey'd; and rested, on his lance reclined,

While like De?phobus* the martial dame

(Her face, her gesture, and her arms the same),

In show and aid, by hapless Hector's side

Approach'd, and greets him thus with voice belied:

*[Footnote: De?phobus was one of the brothers of Hector. Minerva

assumes his form, and deceives Hector into thinking that his

brother has come to aid him.]

"Too long, O Hector! have I borne the sight

Of this distress, and sorrow'd in thy flight:

It fits us now a noble stand to make,

And here, as brothers, equal fates partake."

Then he: "O prince! allied in blood and fame,

Dearer than all that own a brother's name;

Of all that Hecuba* to Priam bore,

Long tried, long loved: much loved, but honor'd more!

Since you, of all our numerous race alone

Defend my life, regardless of your own."

*[Footnote: Hecuba was the name of Hector's mother.]

Again the goddess:* "Much my father's prayer,

And much my mother's, press'd me to forbear:

My friends embraced my knees, adjured my stay,

But stronger love impell'd, and I obey.

Come then, the glorious conflict let us try,

Let the steel sparkle, and the javelin fly;

Or let us stretch Achilles on the field,

Or to his arm our bloody trophies yield."

*[Footnote: Spoke, or said, is understood here.]

Fraudful she said; then swiftly march'd before:

The Dardan hero shuns his foe no more.

Sternly they met. The silence Hector broke:

His dreadful plumage nodded as he spoke;

"Enough, O son of Peleus! Troy has view'd

Her walls thrice circled, and her chief pursued

But now some god within me bids me try

Thine, or my fate: I kill thee, or I die.

Yet on the verge of battle let us stay,

And for a moment's space suspend the day;

Let Heaven's high powers be call'd to arbitrate

The just conditions of this stern debate

(Eternal witnesses of all below,

And faithful guardians of the treasured vow)!

To them I swear; if, victor in the strife,

Jove by these hands shall shed thy noble life,

No vile dishonor shall thy corse pursue;

Stripp'd of its arms alone (the conqueror's due)

The rest to Greece uninjured I'll restore:

Now plight thy mutual oath, I ask no more."*

*[Footnote: It meant more to an ancient Greek to have his body given up to his family, that it might be buried with proper rite's, than it does to a modern soldier, for the Greeks believed that the soul could not find rest until the body was properly buried. This makes the refusal of Achilles to agree to Hector's request seem all the more cruel.]

"Talk not of oaths" (the dreadful chief replies,

While anger flash'd from his disdainful eyes),

"Detested as thou art, and ought to be,

Nor oath nor pact Achilles plights with thee:

Such pacts as lambs and rabid wolves combine,

Such leagues as men and furious lions join,

To such I call the gods! one constant state

Of lasting rancor and eternal hate:

No thought but rage, and never-ceasing strife

Till death extinguish rage, and thought, and life.

Rouse then my forces this important hour,

Collect thy soul, and call forth all thy power.

No further subterfuge, no further chance;

Tis Pallas,* Pallas gives thee to my lance.

Each Grecian ghost, by thee deprived of breath,

Now hovers round, and calls thee to thy death."

*[Footnote: Pallas was another name for Minerva.]

He spoke, and launch'd his javelin at the foe;

But Hector shunn'd the meditated blow:

He stoop'd, while o'er his head the flying spear,

Sang innocent, and spent its force in air.

Minerva watch'd it falling on the land,

Then drew, and gave to great Achilles' hand,

Unseen of Hector, who, elate with joy,

Now shakes his lance, and braves the dread of Troy.

"The life you boasted to that javelin given,

Prince! you have miss'd. My fate depends on Heaven.

To thee, presumptuous as thou art, unknown,

Or* what must prove my fortune, or thy own.

Boasting is but an art, our fears to blind,

And with false terrors sink another's mind.

But know, whatever fate I am to try,

By no dishonest wound shall Hector die.

I shall not fall a fugitive at least,

My soul shall bravely issue from my breast.

But first, try thou my arm; and may this dart

End all my country's woes, deep buried in thy heart."

*[Footnote: Or is here used instead of either.]

The weapon flew, its course unerring held,

Unerring, but the heavenly* shield repell'd

The mortal dart; resulting with a bound

From off the ringing orb it struck the ground.

Hector beheld his javelin fall in vain,

Nor other lance, nor other hope remain;

He calls De?phobus, demands a spear-

In vain, for no De?phobus was there.

All comfortless he stands: then, with a sigh:

"'Tis so-Heaven wills it, and my hour is nigh!

I deem'd De?phobus had heard my call,

But he secure lies guarded in the wall.

A god deceived me: Pallas, 'twas thy deed,

Death and black fate approach; 'tis I must bleed.

No refuge now, no succor from above.

Great Jove deserts me, and the son of Jove,*

Propitious once, and kind! Then welcome fate!

'Tis true I perish, yet I perish great:

Yet in a mighty deed I shall expire,

Let future ages hear it, and admire!"

*[Footnote: The armor of Achilles had been made for him by Vulcan,

god of fire.]

*[Footnote: This reference is to Apollo.]

[Illustration: BEFORE HIS BREAST THE FLAMING SHIELD HE BEARS]

Fierce, at the word, his weighty sword he drew,

And, all collected, on Achilles flew.

So Jove's bold bird,* high balanced in the air,

Stoops from the clouds to truss the quivering hare.

Nor less Achilles his fierce soul prepares:

Before his breast the flaming shield he bears

Refulgent orb! above his fourfold cone

The gilded horse-hair sparkled in the sun,

Nodding at every step (Vulcanian frame!):

And as he moved, his figure seem'd on flame.

As radiant Hesper* shines with keener light,

Far-beaming o'er the silver host of night,

When all the starry train emblaze the sphere:

So shone the point of great Achilles' spear.

In his right hand he waves the weapon round,

Eyes the whole man, and meditates the wound;

But the rich mail Patroclus* lately wore

Securely cased the warrior's body o'er.

One space at length he spies, to let in fate,

Where 'twixt the neck and throat the jointed plate

Gave entrance: through that penetrable part

Furious he drove the well-directed dart:

Nor pierced the windpipe yet, nor took the power

Of speech, unhappy! from thy dying hour.

Prone on the field the bleeding warrior lies,

While, thus triumphing, stern Achilles cries:

*[Footnote: The eagle was sacred to Jove.]

*[Footnote: Hesper was the old name for Venus, the evening star,

the brightest of the planets.]

*[Footnote: Patroclus was the friend of Achilles, whom Hector had

killed. Hector had, after the usual custom, taken possession of

the armor of Patroclus, which had originally belonged to Achilles.]

"At last is Hector stretch'd upon the plain,

Who fear'd no vengeance for Patroclus slain:

Then, prince! you should have fear'd what now you feel;

Achilles absent was Achilles still:

Yet a short space the great avenger stayed,

Then low in dust thy strength and glory laid.

Peaceful he sleeps, with all our rites adorn'd,

Forever honor'd, and forever mourn'd:

While cast to all the rage of hostile power,

Thee birds shall mangle, and the dogs' devour."

Then Hector, fainting at the approach of death:

By thy own soul! by those who gave thee breath!

By all the sacred prevalence of prayer;

Oh, leave me not for Grecian dogs to tear!

The common rites of sepulture bestow,

To soothe a father's and a mother's woe:

Yet their large gifts procure an urn at least,

And Hector's ashes in his county rest."

"No, wretch accursed!" relentless he replies

(Flames, as he spoke, shot flashing from his eyes);

"Not those who gave me breath should bid me spare,

For all the sacred prevalence of prayer,

Would I myself the bloody banquet join!

So-to the dogs that carcase I resign.

Should Troy, to bribe me, bring forth all her store,

And giving thousands, offer thousands more;

Should Dardan Priam, and his weeping dame,

Drain their whole realm to buy one funeral flame:

Their Hector on the pile they should not see.

Nor rob the vultures of one limb of thee."

Then thus the chief his dying accents drew:

"Thy rage, implacable! too well I knew:

The Furies* that relentless breast have steel'd,

And cursed thee with a heart that cannot yield.

Yet think, a day will come, when fate's decree

And angry gods shall wreak this wrong on thee;

Phoebus and Paris shall avenge my fate,

And stretch thee here before the Scaean gate."

*[Footnote: The Furies were three hideous sisters who sometimes

drove people mad with rage and remorse.]

He ceased. The Fates suppress'd his laboring breath,

And his eyes stiffen'd at the hand of death;

To the dark realm the spirit wings its way

(The manly body left a load of clay),

And plaintive glides along the dreary coast,

A naked, wandering, melancholy ghost!

Achilles, musing as he roll'd his eyes

O'er the dead hero, thus unheard, replies.

"Die thou the first! When Jove and heaven ordain,

I follow thee."-He said, and stripp'd the slain.

Then forcing backward from the gaping wound

The reeking javelin, cast it on the ground.

The thronging Greeks behold with wondering eyes

His manly beauty and superior size;

While some, ignobler, the great dead deface

With wounds ungenerous, or with taunts disgrace.

"How changed that Hector, who like Jove of late

Sent lightning on our fleets, and scatter'd fate!"

High o'er the slain the great Achilles stands,

Begirt with heroes and surrounding bands;

And thus aloud, while all the host attends:

"Princes and leaders! countrymen and friends!

Since now at length the powerful will of heaven

The dire destroyer to our arm has given,

Is not Troy fallen already? Haste, ye powers!

See, if already their deserted towers

Are left unmann'd; or if they yet retain

The souls of heroes, their great Hector slain.

But what is Troy, or glory what to me?

Or why reflects my mind on aught but thee,

Divine Patroclus! Death hath seal'd his eyes;

Unwept, unhonor'd, uninterr'd he lies!

Can his dear image from my soul depart,

Long as the vital spirit moves my heart?

If in the melancholy shades below,

The flames of friends and lovers cease to glow,

Yet mine shall sacred last; mine, undecay'd,

Burn on through death, and animate my shade.

Meanwhile, ye sons of Greece, in triumph bring

The corpse of Hector, and your paeans sing.

Be this the song, slow-moving toward the shore,

Hector is dead, and Ilion is no more."

Then his fell soul a thought of vengeance bred

(Unworthy of himself, and of the dead);

The nervous* ancles bored, his feet he bound

With thongs inserted through the double wound;

These fix'd up high behind the rolling wain,

His graceful head was trail'd along the plain.

Proud on his car the insulting victor stood,

And bore aloft his arms, distilling blood.

He smites the steeds; the rapid chariot flies;

The sudden clouds of circling dust arise.

Now lost is all that formidable air;

The face divine, and long-descending hair,

Purple the ground, and streak the sable sand;

Deform'd, dishonor'd, in his native land,

Given to the rage of an insulting throng,

And, in his parents' sight, now dragg'd along!

*[Footnote: Nervous here means strong, sinewy.]

The mother first beheld with sad survey;

She rent her tresses, venerable gray,

And cast, far off, the regal veils away.

With piercing shrieks his bitter fate she moans,

While the sad father answers groans with groans.

Tears after tears his mournful cheeks o'erflow,

And the whole city wears one face of woe:

No less than if the rage of hostile fires,

From her foundations curling to her spires,

O'er the proud citadel at length should rise,

And the last blaze send Ilion to the skies.

THE WOODEN HORSE

From VERGIL'S AENEID

NOTE.-As the Iliad is the greatest of Greek poems, so the Aeneid is the greatest of Latin poems. It was written by Vergil, who lived in the first century B. C., and is one of the classics which every one who studies Latin takes up. References to it are almost as frequent in literature as are references to the Iliad, to which it is closely related. The translation from which this selection of the Wooden Horse is taken is by John Conington.

The Iliad deals with the Trojan War (see introductory note to Death of Hector), while the Aeneid deals with the wanderings of a Trojan hero after the fall of his city. Aeneas, from whom the Aeneid takes its name, was the son of Anchises and Venus, goddess of love, and was one of the bravest of the Trojan heroes; indeed, he was second only to Hector.

When Troy was taken by the stratagem which Aeneas describes in this selection, he set sail with numerous followers for Italy, where fate had ordained that he should found a great nation. Juno, however, who hated the Trojans, drove the hero from his course, and brought upon him many sufferings. At last in his wanderings he came to the northern shore of Africa, where he found a great city, Carthage. Dido, queen of the Carthaginians, received Aeneas hospitably, and had prepared for him a great feast, at the conclusion of which she besought him to relate to her the story of the fall of Troy. Aeneas objected at first, as he feared he could not endure the pain which the recital would give him, but in the end he complied with her request.

The following selection gives the account of the stratagem by which the

Greeks, after thirteen years' siege, finally took Troy.

Torn down by wars,

Long beating 'gainst Fate's dungeon-bars,

As year kept chasing year,*

The Danaan* chiefs, with cunning given.

By Pallas,* mountain-high to heaven

A giant horse uprear,

And with compacted beams of pine

The texture of its ribs entwine,

A vow for their return they feign:

So runs the tale, and spreads amain.

There in the monster's cavernous side

Huge frames of chosen chiefs they hide,

And steel-clad soldiery finds room

Within that death-producing womb.

*[Footnote: The Greeks besieged Troy, or Ilium, for nine years

without making much head against it, and in the tenth year

succeeded in taking the city only by fraud, which Aeneas here

describes.]

*[Footnote: Danaans is a poetical name for the Greeks.]

*[Footnote: Pallas was Minerva, daughter of Jupiter, and one of the

most powerful of the goddesses. She favored the Greeks, and longed

to take their part against the Trojans, but was forbidden by Jupiter

to aid them in any way except by advising them.]

An isle there lies in Ilium's sight,

And Tenedos its name,

While Priam's fortune yet was bright,

Known for its wealth to fame:

Now all has dwindled to a bay,

Where ships in treacherous shelter stay.

[Illustration: THE WOODEN HORSE]

Thither they sail, and hide their host

Along its desolated coast.

We thought them to Mycenae* flown

And rescued Troy forgets to groan.

Wide stand the gates: what joy to go

The Dorian camp to see,

The land disburthened of the foe,

The shore from vessels free!

There pitched Thessalia's squadron, there

Achilles' tent was set:

There, drawn on land, their navies were,

And there the battle met.

Some on Minerva's offering gaze,

And view its bulk with strange amaze:

And first Thymoetes loudly calls

To drag the steed within our walls,

Or by suggestion from the foe,

Or Troy's ill fate had willed it so.

But Capys and the wiser kind

Surmised the snare that lurked behind:

To drown it in the whelming tide,

Or set the fire-brand to its side,

Their sentence is: or else to bore

Its caverns, and their depths explore.

In wild confusion sways the crowd:

Each takes his side and all are loud.

*[Footnote: Mycenae was the capital city of Agamemnon, the leader

of the Greeks in the Trojan War.]

Girt with a throng of Ilium's sons,

Down from the tower Laoco?n runs,

And, "Wretched countrymen," he cries,

"What monstrous madness blinds your eyes?

Think you your enemies removed?

Come presents without wrong

From Danaans? have you thus approved

Ulysses,* known so long?

Perchance-who knows?-the bulk we see

Conceals a Grecian enemy,

Or 'tis a pile to o'erlook the town,

And pour from high invaders down,

Or fraud lurks somewhere to destroy:

Mistrust, mistrust it, men of Troy!

Whate'er it be, a Greek I fear,

Though presents in his hand he bear."

He spoke, and with his arm's full force

Straight at the belly of the horse

His mighty spear he cast:

Quivering it stood: the sharp rebound

Shook the huge monster; and a sound

Through all its caverns passed.

And then, had fate our weal designed

Nor given us a perverted mind,

Then had he moved us to deface

The Greeks' accursed lurking-place,

And Troy had been abiding still,

And Priam's tower yet crowned the hill.

*[Footnote: Ulysses was the craftiest of the Greeks, the man to

whom they appealed when in need of wise advice.]

Now Dardan* swains before the king

With clamorous demonstration bring,

His hands fast bound, a youth unknown,

Across their casual pathway thrown

By cunning purpose of his own,

If so his simulated speech

For Greece the walls of Troy might breach,

Nerved by strong courage to defy

The worst, and gain his end or die.

The curious Trojans round him flock,

With rival zeal a foe to mock.

Now listen while my tongue declares

The tale you ask of Danaan snares,

And gather from a single charge

Their catalogue of crimes at large.

There as he stands, confused, unarmed,

Like helpless innocence alarmed,

His wistful eyes on all sides throws,

And sees that all around are foes,

"What land," he cries, "what sea is left,

To hold a wretch of country reft,

Driven out from Greece while savage Troy

Demands my blood with clamorous joy?"

That anguish put our rage to flight,

And stayed each hand in act to smite:

We bid him name and race declare,

And say why Troy her prize should spare.

Then by degrees he laid aside

His fear, and presently replied:

*[Footnote: The Trojans were called Dardans, from Dardanus, the

founder of Troy.]

"Truth, gracious king, is all I speak,

And first I own my nation Greek:

No; Sinon may be Fortune's slave;

She shall not make him liar or knave,

If haply to your ears e'er came

Belidan Palamedes'* name,

Borne by the tearful voice of Fame,

Whom erst, by false impeachment sped,

Maligned because for peace he pled,

Greece gave to death, now mourns him dead,-

His kinsman I, while yet a boy,

Sent by a needy sire to Troy.

While he yet stood in kingly state,

'Mid brother kings in council great,

I too had power: but when he died,

By false Ulysses' spite belied

(The tale is known), from that proud height

I sank to wretchedness and night,

And brooded in my dolorous gloom

On that my guiltless kinsman's doom.

Not all in silence; no, I swore,

Should Fortune bring me home once more,

My vengeance should redress his fate,

And speech engendered cankerous hate.

Thence dates my fall: Ulysses thence

Still scared me with some fresh pretence,

With chance-dropt words the people fired,

Sought means of hurt, intrigued, conspired.

Nor did the glow of hatred cool,

Till, wielding Calchas* as his tool-

But why a tedious tale repeat,

To stay you from your morsel sweet?

If all are equal, Greek and Greek,

Enough: your tardy vengeance wreak.

My death will Ithacus* delights,

And Atreus'* sons the boon requite."

*[Footnote: It was Palamedes who induced Ulysses to join in the

expedition against Troy. Preferring to remain at home with his

wife Penelope and his infant son Telemachus, Ulysses pretended

madness, and Palamedes, when he came to beg for his aid, found

him plowing up the seashore and sowing it with salt. Palamedes

was quite certain that the madness was feigned, and to test it,

set Telemachus in front of the plow. By turning aside his plow,

Ulysses showed that he was really sane. Later Palamedes lost

favor with Grecian leaders because he urged them to give up the

struggle and return home.]

*[Footnote: Calchas was the most famous of the Grecian sooth-sayers

or prophets. They never began any important operations until

Calchas had first been consulted and had told them what the gods

willed.]

*[Footnote: Ithacus is a name given to Ulysses, who was from

Ithaca.]

*[Footnote: The sons of Atreus were Agamemnon, leader of the

Grecians, and Menelaus, King of Sparta, the theft of whose wife,

Helen, was cause of the Trojan War.]

We press, we yearn the truth to know,

Nor dream how doubly base our foe:

He, faltering still and overawed,

Takes up the unfinished web of fraud.

"Oft had we planned to leave your shore,

Nor tempt the weary conflict more.

O, had we done it! sea and sky

Scared us as oft, in act to fly:

But chiefly when completed stood

This horse, compact of maple wood,

Fierce thunders, pealing in our ears,

Proclaimed the turmoil of the spheres.

Perplexed, Eurypylus we send

To question what the fates portend,

And he from Phoebus'* awful shrine

Brings back the words of doom divine:

'With blood ye pacified the gales,

E'en with a virgin slain,*

When first ye Danaans spread your sails,

The shores of Troy to gain:

With blood ye your return must buy:

A Greek must at the altar die.'

That sentence reached the public ear,

And bred the dull amaze of fear:

Through every heart a shudder ran,

'Apollo's victim-who the man?'

Ulysses, turbulent and loud,

Drags Calchas forth before the crowd.

And questions what the immortals mean,

Which way these dubious beckonings lean:

E'en then were some discerned my foe,

And silent watch the coming blow.

Ten days the seer, with bated breath,

Restrained the utterance big with death:

O'erborne at last, the word agreed

He speaks, and destines me to bleed.

All gave a sigh, as men set free,

And hailed the doom, content to see

The bolt that threatened each alike

One solitary victim strike.

The death-day came: the priests prepare

Salt cakes, and fillets for my hair;

I fled, I own it, from the knife,

I broke my bands and ran for life,

And in a marish lay that night,

While they should sail, if sail they might.

No longer have I hope, ah me!

My ancient fatherland to see,

Or look on those my eyes desire,

My darling sons, my gray-haired sire:

Perhaps my butchers may requite

On their dear heads my traitorous flight,

And make their wretched lives atone

For this, the single crime I own.

O, by the gods, who all things view,

And know the false man from the true,

By sacred Faith, if Faith remain

With mortal men preserved from stain,

Show grace to innocence forlorn,

Show grace to woes unduly borne!"

*[Footnote: Phoebus Apollo, god of the sun and of prophecy.]

*[Footnote: When the Greeks set out for Troy, their ships were

becalmed at Aulis, in Boeotia. Calchas consulted the signs and

declared that the delay was caused by the huntress-goddess Diana,

who was angry at Agamemnon for killing one of her sacred stags.

Only by the death of Iphigenia, daughter of Agamemnon, could the

wrathful goddess be placated. The maiden was sent for, but on her

arrival at Aulis she was slain by the priest at Diana's altar.

According to another version of the story, Iphigenia was not put

to death, but was conveyed by Diana to Tauris, where she served as

priestess in Diana's temple.]

Moved by his tears, we let him live,

And pity crowns the boon we give:

King Priam bids unloose his cords,

And soothes the wretch with kindly words.

"Whoe'er you are, henceforth resign

All thought of Greece: be Troy's and mine:

Now tell me truth, for what intent

This fabric of the horse was meant;

An offering to your heavenly liege?

An engine for assault or siege?"

Then, schooled in all Pelasgian* shifts,

His unbound hands to heaven he lifts:

"Ye slumberless, inviolate fires,

And the dread awe your name inspires!

Ye murderous altars, which I fled!

Ye fillets that adorned my head!

Bear witness, and behold me free

To break my Grecian fealty;

To hate the Greeks, and bring to light

The counsels they would hide in night,

Unchecked by all that once could bind,

All claims of country or of kind.

Thou, Troy, remember ne'er to swerve,

Preserved thyself, thy faith preserve,

If true the story I relate,

If these, my prompt returns, be great.

*[Footnote: Pelasgian means Grecian. The name is derived from

that of Pelasgus, an early Greek hero. By their neighbors the

Greeks were regarded as a deceitful, double-dealing nation.]

"The warlike hopes of Greece were stayed,

E'en from the first, on Pallas' aid:

But since Tydides,* impious man,

And foul Ulysses, born to plan,

Dragged with red hands, the sentry slain,

Her fateful image* from your fane,

Her chaste locks touched, and stained with gore

The virgin coronal she wore,

Thenceforth the tide of fortune changed,

And Greece grew weak, her queen* estranged

Nor dubious were the sig'ns of ill

That showed the goddess' altered will.

The image scarce in camp was set,

Out burst big drops of saltest sweat

O'er all her limbs: her eyes upraised

With minatory lightnings blazed;

And thrice untouched from earth she sprang

With quivering spear and buckler's clang.

'Back o'er the ocean!' Calchas cries:

'We shall not make Troy's town our prize,

Unless at Argos' sacred seat

Our former omens we repeat,

And bring once more the grace we brought

When first these shores our navy sought.'

So now for Greece they cross the wave,

Fresh blessings on their arms to crave,

Thence to return, so Calchas rules,

Unlocked for, ere your wonder cools.

Premonished first, this frame they planned

In your Palladium's stead to stand,

An image for an image given

To pacify offended Heaven.

But Calchas bade them rear it high

With timbers mounting to the sky,

That none might drag within the gate

This new Palladium of your state.

For, said he, if your hands profaned

The gift for Pallas' self ordained,

Dire havoc-grant, ye powers, that first

That fate be his!-on Troy should burst:

But if, in glad procession haled

By those your hands, your walls it scaled,

Then Asia should our homes invade,

And unborn captives mourn the raid."

*[Footnote: Tydides was Diomedes, son of Tydeus. The termination

-ides means son of; thus Pelides is Achilles, son of Peleus.]

*[Footnote: There was in a temple of Troy an image of Minerva, or

Pallas, called the palladium, which was supposed to have fallen

from the sky. The Greeks learned of a prophecy which declared that

Troy could never be taken while the palladium remained within its

walls, and Ulysses and Diomedes were entrusted with the task of

stealing it. In disguise they entered the city one night, procured

the sacred image and bore it off to the Grecian camp.]

*[Footnote: Minerva, supposedly angered at the desecration of her

statue.]

Such tale of pity, aptly feigned,

Our credence for the perjurer gained,

And tears, wrung out from fraudful eyes,

Made us, e'en us, a villain's prize,

'Gainst whom not valiant Diomede,

Nor Peleus' Larissaean* seed,

Nor ten years' fighting could prevail,

Nor navies of a thousand sail.

*[Footnote: Achilles. Larissa was a town in Thessaly, of which

Peleus, the father of Achilles, was king.]

[Illustration: LAOCO?N Statuary Group in The Vatican, Rome]

But ghastlier portents lay behind,

Our unprophetic souls to bind.

Laoco?n, named as Neptune's priest,

Was offering up the victim beast,

When lo! from Tenedos-I quail,

E'en now, at telling of the tale-

Two monstrous serpents stem the tide,

And shoreward through the stillness glide.

Amid the waves they rear their breasts,

And toss on high their sanguine crests:

The hind part coils along the deep,

And undulates with sinuous sweep.

The lashed spray echoes: now they reach

The inland belted by the beach,

And rolling bloodshot eyes of fire,

Dart their forked tongues, and hiss for ire.

We fly distraught: unswerving they

Toward Laoco?n hold their way;

First round his two young sons they wreathe,

And grind their limbs with savage teeth:

Then, as with arms he comes to aid,

The wretched father they invade

And twine in giant folds: twice round

His stalwart waist their spires are wound,

Twice round his neck, while over all

Their heads and crests tower high and tall.

He strains his strength their knots to tear,*

While gore and slime his fillets smear,

And to the unregardful skies

Sends up his agonizing cries:

A wounded bull such moaning makes,

When from his neck the axe he shakes,

Ill-aimed, and from the altar breaks.

The twin destroyers take their flight

To Pallas' temple on the height;

There by the goddess' feet concealed

They lie, and nestle 'neath her shield.

At once through Ilium's hapless sons

A shock of feverous horror runs:

All in Laoco?n's death-pangs read

The just requital of his deed,

Who dared to harm with impious stroke

Those ribs of consecrated oak.

"The image to its fane!" they cry:

"So soothe the offended deity."

Each in the labour claims his share:

The walls are breached, the town laid bare:

Wheels 'neath its feet are fixed to glide,

And round its neck stout ropes are tied:

So climbs our wall that shape of doom,

With battle quickening in its womb,

While youths and maidens sing glad songs,

And joy to touch the harness-thongs.

It comes, and, glancing terror down,

Sweeps through the bosom of the town.

O Ilium, city of my love!

O warlike home of powers above!

Four times 'twas on the threshold stayed:

Four times the armour clashed and brayed.

Yet on we press with passion blind,

All forethought blotted from our mind,

Till the dread monster we install

Within the temple's tower-built wall.

E'en then Cassandra's* prescient voice

Forewarned us of our fatal choice-

That prescient voice, which Heaven decreed

No son of Troy should hear and heed.

We, careless souls, the city through,

With festal boughs the fanes bestrew,

And in such revelry employ

The last, last day should shine on Troy.

*[Footnote: The death of Laoco?n and his sons has always been a

favorite subject in art and in poetry. (See illustration.)]

*[Footnote: Cassandra was a daughter of Priam, king of Troy. She had

been loved by Apollo, who bestowed on her the gift of prophecy; but

she had angered him by failing to return his love, and he, unable

to take back the gift, decreed that her prophecies should never be

believed. All through the siege she had uttered her predictions and

always they proved true; but no one ever paid heed to her warnings.]

Meantime Heaven shifts from light to gloom,

And night ascends from Ocean's womb,

Involving in her shadow broad

Earth, sky, and Myrmidonian* fraud:

And through the city, stretched at will,

Sleep the tired Trojans, and are still.

*[Footnote: Here Myrmidonian means simply Grecian.]

And now from Tenedos set free

The Greeks are sailing on the sea,

Bound for the shore where erst they lay,

Beneath the still moon's friendly ray:

When in a moment leaps to sight

On the king's ship the signal light,

And Sinon, screened by partial fate,

Unlocks the pine-wood prison's gate.

The horse its charge to air restores,

And forth the armed invasion pours.

Thessander,* Sthenelus, the first,

Slide down the rope: Ulysses curst,

Thoas and Acamas are there,

And great Pelides' youthful heir,

Machaon, Menelaus, last

Epeus, who the plot forecast.

They seize the city, buried deep

In floods of revelry and sleep,

Cut down the warders of the gates,

And introduce their banded mates.*

*[Footnote: These are all Grecian heroes.]

*[Footnote: After the Greeks entered the gates the chief Trojan

citizens were put to death, and the city was set on fire, Aeneas,

with his little son and his aged father, escaped and took ship

for Italy, accompanied by a band of followers.]

ULYSSES

Adapted From THE ODYSSEY

NOTE.-The Odyssey is one of the most famous of the old Greek poems, one that is still read and enjoyed by students of the Greek language, and one that in its translations has given pleasure to many English and American readers. Its influence on the works of our best writers has been remarkable, and everybody wishes to know something about it.

It is in twenty-four books or parts, and tells of the wanderings and adventures of the Greek hero, Ulysses, king of Ithaca, after the Trojan War. His wanderings lasted for ten years, but most of the Odyssey is taken up with the events that happened in the last few weeks of this time, during which period, at intervals, Ulysses himself tells the story of his wanderings, winning everywhere the sympathy and admiration of those to whom he tells it.

It is customary to speak of the Odyssey as one of Homer's poems, but the probability is that it was written at different times by different people, and at a date later than that at which the Iliad was written. One of the standard translations of the Odyssey is that of Alexander Pope, which is followed in this story. The tale has of necessity been very much abridged; the details of the journeyings of Ulysses are omitted entirely, and the emphasis is placed on his return home.

* * * * *

When Ulysses departed to join in the Trojan War, he left his wife Penelope and his young son Telemachus at home. He was one of the foremost of the Greek chieftains in the Trojan War, and his deeds are a prominent part of the story in the Iliad.

After Ulysses had been many years absent, he was thought by most of his friends to be dead, and many disorders grew up in his kingdom. Most disturbing of all was the fact that many wicked and treacherous men came about Penelope as suitors for her hand, claiming that there was no reason why she should not marry, as her husband had not been heard of since the Trojan War, and had undoubtedly long since died. Both Penelope and Telemachus still clung to the thought that Ulysses might be living, and the mother would by no means consent to taking another husband.

At this time the gods in council decided that Ulysses should be brought back home, and accordingly Telemachus was inspired to travel in search of his father. Hoping that his journey might be successful, Telemachus, guided by Minerva in the shape of the wise old Mentor, set out on his long and trying journey. In time he learned that his father was still living, and had been held for many years in the Island of Calypso. During the absence of Telemachus, the suitors of Penelope planned to destroy him on his voyage home, but failed to accomplish their purpose.

After much persuasion by the gods, Calypso was induced to release Ulysses, and he, building a boat with his own hands, set out on his homeward journey, but in a terrible tempest was shipwrecked and barely escaped with his life, being rescued by a princess to whom he tells the story of his journeyings.

He told how at one time he was in a ship driven by a tempest far from shore, and finally landed upon the flowery coast of the land of Lotus, where he found a hospitable race who lived a lazy, happy life, eating and drinking the things which nature provided them. So divinely sweet were the lotus leaves that whosoever ate them were willing to quit his house, his country and his friends, and wish for no other home than the enchanting land where the lotus plant flourished.

Denying themselves the pleasure of tasting the lotus leaves, Ulysses and his men sailed from the coast to the land of Cyclops, where they were appalled by the sight of a shepherd, enormous in size, unlike any human being, for he had but one eye, and that a huge one in the center of his forehead. Ulysses with a few of his men landed upon the shore and visited the giant's cavern home. While they were inspecting this strange place, the monster returned, bearing on his back half a forest which he cast down at the door, where it thundered as it fell. After building a huge fire, the giant entered the cavern, and in a voice of thunder asked Ulysses who he was, and why he came to this shore. Ulysses explained, and for an answer the huge Cyclops seized two of the followers of Ulysses, dashed them against the stony floor, and like a mountain beast devoured them utterly, draining the blood from their bodies and sucking the marrow from their bones.

[Illustration: ULYSSES OUTWITTED THE CYCLOPS]

After satisfying his hunger, the monster slept upon the ground, and all night long Ulysses and his followers lay in deadly terror. The next day Ulysses gave the giant wine, and when he was sleeping in a drunken stupor, the Greek hero took a green stick, and heating it until it burnt and sparkled a fiery red, thrust its flaming point into the only eye the Cyclops had.

Raging with pain, the monster stumbled about the cave trying without success to find Ulysses and his followers, though he did discover the door, and stationed himself there to prevent their escape. In the cave were the great sheep that made the herd of the Cyclops, and throwing themselves beneath the animals and clinging to their wool, Ulysses and his followers escaped through the door, while the blind giant was touching his sheep one by one to see that nothing but sheep passed out. Soon the hero and his men were safe on board the ship, though they narrowly escaped destruction from a big boulder that the giant threw into the sea when he discovered that his victims had made their escape.

Aeolus, ruler of the winds, anxious to aid Ulysses, gave him prosperous winds and tied the treacherous winds up in a bag, but some of the curious mariners untied the bag, and the conflicting winds escaping, destroyed several of the ships and threw Ulysses and the survivors upon the island of Circe.

This famed enchantress, following her usual custom, turned the followers of Ulysses into swine, but he, aided by Mercury, released them from their enchantment.

After a year's stay on this island, he was urged by Circe to make a descent into the Infernal Regions, where he saw the tortures inflicted upon the wicked who had died before him. On his return he was sent upon another voyage, where he met the Sirens, who lured some of his men to destruction by their charming songs; but Ulysses himself escaped by having himself chained to the mast. He sailed between Scylla and Charybdis safely, though he lost some of his men in the terrible passage.

After Ulysses told in full his story, the kindly princess put him on board a magic ship and sent him to Ithaca, where he was placed on shore with all his treasures, though he did not at first know where he was.

However, he finally learned that he was home again, and visited the house of a favorite servant, who gave him a full account of what had happened during his absence.

In the meantime Telemachus returned home, having learned that his father was still living; and, directed by the gods, he went to the house of the same old servant with whom Ulysses had taken refuge. That night the father and son recognized each other, and after a joyful reunion they lay down to rest, having decided that in the morning Telemachus should repair to the palace and tell Penelope that her husband was still alive, but leave her in ignorance of the fact that he was near at hand.

In the rosy light of the morning the young prince hastened across the dewy lawn on his way to his mother. When he reached the palace he propped his spear against the wall, leaped like a lion over the threshold, hastened with running steps across the hall, and threw himself into the arms of his loving mother. The passionate joy of their meeting was shadowed only by the story that Telemachus had to tell, yet the story was lightened somewhat by the knowledge that Ulysses still lived, though under enchantment, and might in time be able to return to his kingdom.

Penelope, knowing that her husband was still living, became more than ever incensed at the outrageous conduct of the suitors, who had quartered themselves in her palace and were living in luxury and vice. However, even with Telemachus at her side, it was impossible to drive out the powerful men, so that she felt compelled still to endure their unwelcome presence.

According to the plans made by Ulysses and his son, the former about this time started for the palace, clothed like a beggar, with a scrip flung over his shoulders around his patched and ragged gown. Leaning upon a rude staff which his old servant had given him, Ulysses and his servant passed along the road and descended into the town.

On the way they met a most wicked and treacherous former servant of Ulysses, who, now risen to power, insulted the beggared chief by word and blow. It was with difficulty that Ulysses restrained himself, for all his mighty rage was roused, and he swung his staff as though to strike his insulter dead. However, remembering what was at stake, he conquered himself and endured the insults.

As they drew near the gates of the city, they saw lying in the filth of the gutter an old, decrepit dog, who had been the pet and joy of Ulysses before he left for war. Argus was now grown old and feeble, and had been kicked from the palace by the cruel servants and left to starve in the street. No sooner, however, had the chieftain approached than Argus knew his master, and dragged himself, panting, to kiss the feet of the returned hero.

Ulysses, recognizing the dog, exclaimed, "See this noble beast lying abandoned in the gutter! Once he was vigorous, bold and young; swift as a stag, and strong as a lion. Now he lies dying from hunger. Surely his age deserves some care. Was he merely a worthless beauty, and is he despised for that reason?"

"No," replied the servant, "he once belonged to Ulysses, but since the chieftain left his home, nothing restrains the servants; and where riot reigns there can be no humanity.

"Whenever man makes himself a slave, half his worth is taken away."

While they were speaking, Argus raised his head, took one last look at his master, and closed his eyes forever.

A moment later, Ulysses, a despicable figure, old and poor, in ragged clothing, trembling and leaning on his staff, rested against the pillar of his own gate. Telemachus was the first to see his father, and ordered that food should be given the poor beggar, and that he should be invited to enter the hall and share the comforts of the palace. The experiences of the poor old mendicant in the palace were more trying than any that he had had, for he met with nothing but insults and abuse from the assembled suitors, in spite of the fact that Telemachus more than once urged them to be generous, and himself set the example repeatedly.

Once only did Ulysses give way to his rage, and that was when another beggar insulted him and challenged him to fight. Then Ulysses spread his broad shoulders, braced his limbs, expanded his ample chest, and struck but once with his powerful right arm. Although he expended but half his strength, the blow crushed the jaw-bone of the beggar, and felled him, stunned and quivering, to the ground, while from his mouth and nostrils poured a stream of purple blood.

This happened in the street before the palace, and Ulysses, taking no notice of his fallen foe, flung his tattered scrip across his shoulder, knotted the thong around his waist, and returned to the palace, where the nobles joined in sarcastic compliments on his strength.

While Ulysses hung about the palace in beggar's garb, only one person recognized him, and that was his old nurse Euryclea, who saw upon his knee a scar, that came from a wound which he had received when a youth in hunting a wild boar. Then the old nurse had tended the wound, and now she knew at once her fallen master. With difficulty Ulysses restrained her joy, and urged her to keep his secret till the time came to disclose it.

While these things were happening, the suitors grew more and more insistent, and at a great banquet in the palace they became so riotous that both Penelope and Telemachus knew that something must be done.

Ulysses was subjected to continual insult, and the suitors, quarreling among themselves, insisted that Penelope should give them some definite answer.

Finally the queen and her son perfected a plan and announced to the suitors that at a certain time after the feast the queen would decide which she would accept. Penelope then went to the inmost room of the palace and unlocked the door where the royal treasures lay, and taking from among them the great bow which Ulysses had carried, and the quiver that contained his arrows, she brought them down to the hall. This bow was a gift to Ulysses in his youth, and the warrior had used it in many a fierce combat, but so powerful was it that none but himself could bend it.

Taking the bow before the assembled suitors, the majestic queen spoke as follows: "You make vain pretense that you love me; you speak of me as a prize, and you say you seek me as a wife. Now hear the conditions under which I will decide, and commence the trial. Whichever one of you shall first bend the bow of Ulysses, and send a fleet arrow through the eyes of twelve axes truly arranged, him will I follow, leaving this home which has been my delight and which now has come to be but a torture to me."

She spoke carefully, and at the same time showed the rings and the bow. But as she touched the powerful weapon, thoughts of her lost king filled her eyes with tears.

The suitors did not like the plan Penelope proposed, but saw no other way to gratify their hopes. Although they objected, Telemachus insisted that Ulysses should be present at the trial, and that he himself should be the first to make the attempt, for he said, "If I win, then will my mother go with me."

Three times Telemachus twanged the bow, and three times his arrows sped along the hall, each time missing by a narrower margin the difficult mark. As he was about to make the fourth attempt, Ulysses signaled him to stop, feeling sure that on this trial the young man would succeed.

Disappointed and grieving, Telemachus obeyed, saying, "I have failed, but it is because of my youth and not my weakness. So let the suitors try."

The first to make the attempt was Leiodes, a blameless priest, the best of all the suitors, the only one in the throng who was a decent man, and who detested the conduct of the wretches who hung about the queen. However strong his heart, his feeble fingers were not able to bend the bow, and in despair he passed it on to the next. One after another the suitors tried and failed, till only two remained; but they were the mightiest and the best.

At this point Ulysses, still in disguise, summoned two of his old servants, the masters of his herds and flocks, and with them passed out of the banquet hall. Once by themselves, the king made himself known, and in a moment both the men were at his feet, embracing his knees and shedding tears of joy and gratitude.

Without delay, Ulysses spoke, "We have no time now to indulge in unseemly joy. Our foes are too numerous and too fierce, and almost before we know it some one may betray us. Let us return to the banquet separately; I first, and you following me a few moments later. Tell no one who I am, but when the remaining suitors refuse to allow me to make the attempt with the bow, you, Eumaeus, bring the instrument at once. In the meantime lock every gate of the palace, and set some woman to lock each door within and leave it locked, no matter what sound of arms, or shouts, or dying groans they hear. You, Philaetius, guard the main gate to the palace; guard it faithfully with your life!"

When Ulysses was within, he spoke to the two powerful suitors as follows: "Take my advice, noble lords, let the bow rest in peace this day, and tomorrow dispute for the prize. But as you delay the contest, let me take the bow for one moment and prove to you that I whom you despise may yet have in my feeble arm some of its ancient force."

Antinous, with lightning flashing from his eyes, yet with some terror at the bold carriage of the beggar, cried, "Is it not enough, O miserable guest, that you should sit in our presence, should be admitted among princes? Remember how the Centaur was treated; dragged from the hall, his nose shortened and his ears slit. Such a fate may be yours."

But the queen interfered, saying, "It is impious to shame this stranger guest who comes at the request of our son Telemachus. Who knows but that he may have strength to draw the bow? Virtue is the path to praise; wrong and oppression can bring no renown. From his bearing, and from his face and his stature, we know our guest can have descended from no vulgar race. Let him try the bow, and if he wins he shall have a new sword, a spear, a rich cloak, fine embroidered sandals, and a safe conveyance to his home."

"O royal mother," interrupted Telemachus, "grant me a son's just right! No one but a Grecian prince has power to grant or deny the use of this bow. My father's arms have descended to me alone. I beg you, O queen, return to your household tasks and leave us here together. The bow and the arms of chivalry belong to man alone, and most of all these belong to me."

With admiration for her manly son, Penelope left the banquet hall and returned to her chamber, where she sat revolving in her mind her son's words, while thoughts of his noble father brought abundant tears to her eyes.

In the hall was riot, noise, and wild uproar as Euinaeus started to place the bow in the hand of Ulysses.

"Go back to thy den, far away from the society of men, or we will throw you to your dogs!" cried the crowd of disappointed suitors to the trembling servant.

"Slight their empty words, listen not to them," shouted Telemachus. "Are you so foolish as to think you can please so many lords? If you give not the bow to the suppliant, my hands shall drive you from the land, and if I were strong enough I would expel this whole shoal of lawless men." Thus encouraged, Euinaeus handed the great bow to the king.

In the meantime the gates had been closed, and Philaetius secured them with strong cables, after which he returned silent to the banquet room, and took his seat with his eyes upon his lord.

In his hands Ulysses turned the bow on all sides, and viewed it over and over, wondering if time had weakened it, or other injury had come to it during his long absence. Snarling in anger, the suitors spoke derisively, but the chieftain disdained reply, and continued with exact eye to study every inch of his weapon. Then with ease he held the bow aloft in one hand, and with the other tried its strength. It twanged short and sharp like the shrill cry of a swallow. Every face paled, and a general horror ran through all present, for from the skies the lightning burst, and Jove thundered loudly on high.

Then sitting as he was, Ulysses fitted an arrow to the string and drew back, leveling his eye to every ring. Then with a mighty pull, he drew back the bow and gave the arrow wing. Straight it left the string, and straight it passed through every ring and struck the gate behind, piercing even the solid wood through and through.

[Illustration: ULYSSES GAVE THE ARROW WING ]

"I have brought no shame to you," said Ulysses, turning to Telemachus, "nor has my hand proved unfaithful to my aim. I have not lost my ancient vigor, and ill did I deserve the disdain of these haughty peers. Let them go and find comfort among themselves, if they can, in music and banqueting."

Even as Ulysses spoke, Telemachus girded on his shining sword, seized a javelin, and took his stand at his father's side.

From that moment Ulysses ceased to be the beggar, and stripped of his rags he stood forth like a god, full before the faces of the astonished suitors. He lifted his bow, and threw before his feet a rattling shower of darts.

"We have another game to play this day, O coward princes!" he exclaimed. "Another mark we must reach with our arrows. May Phoebus assist us, and our labor not be in vain!"

With the last word, the great chieftain loosed his arrow, and on its wing death rode to Antinous, who at that moment had raised a golden bowl from which to drink. The fateful arrow passed through his neck, and he fell upon the floor, and the wine from the tumbling goblet mingled with his blood.

The rest of the suitors were confounded at what they saw, and thronged the hall tumultously, half in fear and half in anger.

"Do you aim at princes?" they cried. "This is the last of the unhappy games you shall play. Death now awaits you, and vultures shall tear your body."

"Dogs, you have had your day," the Greek warrior spoke. "You thought there was no further fear of Ulysses, and here you have squandered his wealth, made his house your home, and preyed upon his servants. Worse than all, fired by frenzy, you have claimed even the wife of your chieftain. You have known neither shame nor dread of the gods, and now is come the hour of vengeance. Behold your King!"

The confused suitors stood around with pale cheeks and guilty heads before the dreadful words of Ulysses.

Eurymachus alone was bold enough to speak. "If you are indeed Ulysses, great are your wrongs, for your property has been, squandered, and riot and debauchery have filled your palace. But at your feet now lies Antinous, whose wild ambition meant to slay your son and divide your kingdom. Since he is dead, spare the rest of your people. Our gold and treasures shall defray the expense, and the waste of years shall be refunded to you within the day. Until then, your wrath is just."

With high disdain the king thus sternly spoke, "All the treasures that we had before you began your pillage, joined with all your own, would not bring you mercy. I demand your blood and your lives as prizes, and shall not cease till every one of you lies as pale as yonder wretch upon the floor. You have but one choice-to fight or to fly."

All the great assembly trembled with guilty fears excepting Eurymachus alone, who calling upon the others to follow him, drew his traitor sword, and rushed like a lion against his lord.

As they met, Ulysses turned aside the sword of his rushing foe, and forced his own through the traitor's breast. Eurymachus dropped his sword from his weakening hand, and fell prone upon the table, breaking it to the ground, and scattering the rich viands over the marble floor.

Almost at the same moment Amphinomus rushed forward to the attack, but Telemachus drove his brazen spear through the breast of the fierce foe, who fell crashing to the stones.

"Arm! great father, arm!" cried Telemachus. "In haste I run for other arms and missiles, for helmet and shield. Let the two servants stand faithfully by your side till I return."

"Haste!" replied Ulysses, "lest the host come upon us all at once, and we be driven from our post."

Telemachus flew to the room where the royal armor lay, and brought with him four brazen helmets, eight shining spears, and four broad shields. Still among the coward princes the arrows of Ulysses were flying, each carrying death to an enemy. Each placed a helmet upon his head, and buckled on an armor, and thus clothed, the four stood shoulder to shoulder, awaiting the onset, for by this time the surviving princes had remembered the strength that lay in their numbers, and prepared to charge together upon the king and his attendants.

Now Minerva, the wise goddess and friend of Ulysses, appeared again before him as the aged Mentor, and advised him how to fight. Then with change of form, she suddenly perched like a swallow on a rafter high, where, unperceived, she could watch the struggle.

The conflict that followed was a sight worthy of the gods, for again and again the traitor princes charged upon the doughty four, each time losing some of their number; for rarely did it fail that the king and each of his faithful adherents took at least one life from the multitude. Again and again clouds of darts threatened the life of the king and his son, but every time Minerva blew them aside, and they fell harmless upon the floor, or buried themselves in the woodwork behind the struggling heroes. At last but three of the attacking party remained alive. First of these was Leiodes, the priest, who had first tried the bow of Ulysses.

"O gracious king, hear my supplication! I have never dishonored your house by word or deed, and often I tried to check the injustice of the rest, but they never listened to my words. Do not make yourself guilty of insult to my consecrated head."

"Priest you are," returned Ulysses, "but your vows have been made against me, and against me have your daily prayers been said. Moreover, you aspired to the hand of my wife, and as you joined in the common crime against me, you deserve the common fate."

Even as he spoke, he seized a sword from the hand of one of the dead princes, and swung it flashing through the air, and that moment the priest's head rolled muttering on the floor. There remained only Phemius, the reverend minstrel, whose poems had pleased the king in earlier days, and Medon, the faithful friend and servant of Telemachus.

Neither had taken part in the struggle, and both were spared.

"Be bold," Ulysses said to them, "and rely on the friendship of my son. Live, and be to the world an example, to show how much more safe are good than evil deeds. Go out to the open court and leave us here in this room of blood and carnage."

Carefully the rooms were then searched by Ulysses and his followers, but nowhere could they find a single living traitor. The dead lay on the floor in heaps like fish that had been cast from the net upon the sands, and lie stiffening in the air.

Ulysses was not content till he had punished every evil servant and treacherous man and woman about the palace or in the town in proportion to his misdeeds.

Then by the aid of Euryclea, his faithful old nurse, he robed himself in garments fit for the shoulders of a king, and prepared to meet the queen.

During all this time Penelope had remained in her apartments terrified by the confusion and noise of fighting in the palace, but praying always for her son. We can imagine her surprise and delight when she learned how the battle had turned, and that the beggar, who had fought so manfully, was indeed none other than her husband Ulysses.

Once more in possession of the throne, the Greek hero and his son rapidly destroyed every vestige of the unhappy days that had passed, and soon the kingdom was again enjoying a prosperous and happy reign.

JOHN BUNYAN

The father of John Bunyan was a poor tinker, a mender of pots and kettles, working sometimes in his own house and sometimes in the homes of others. His son followed the same occupation and did his work well. Even after he became a popular preacher and a great author he kept on with his humble calling. It was a queer occupation for a man of genius, and scarcely any one would expect the man who followed it to write a book that would be more widely read than anything except the Bible. Evidently Bunyan was no common tinker.

John Bunyan was born at Elstow, a village near Bedford, in 1628, a year famous in English history as that in which the king, Charles I, was forced to grant the Petition of Right presented by the House of Commons. But the commotion in politics produced little effect on father and child, and the latter grew up as most English boys of his time did grow, except that he had the advantage of attending a grammar school in Bedford, a greater advantage than it seems unless we remember that there were then no common schools in England.

The young tinker was a violent and passionate boy, profane, and a leader in all the mischief of his kind. In his own account of his early life written long years afterward he accuses himself of all manner of sins. Yet from what he says in other places we know that he was far from being the worst of boys, and that many things that gave him the greatest concern were curiously exaggerated by his uneasy conscience.

He must have been a strange little fellow, for while he was swearing, lying and leading raids upon his neighbors' fruit orchards he was often terrified by the awfulness of his sin and "trembling at the thoughts of the fearful torments of hell-fire."

To appreciate his feelings fully, we must remember the age in which he lived as the time when everything in the Bible was taken as wholly literal, when people believed that sin was followed by awful punishments in a fiery hell, and when miraculous events were considered common.

The young John must have known such occurrences as the following, related by Froude in his Life of Bunyan:

"A man commonly called 'Old Tod' came one day into court, in the Summer Assizes at Bedford, to demand justice upon himself as a felon. No one had accused him, but God's judgment was not to be escaped, and he was forced to accuse himself. 'My lord,' said Old Tod to the judge, 'I have been a thief from my childhood. I have been a thief ever since. There has not been a robbery committed these many years, within so many miles of this town, but I have been privy to it.' The judge, after a conference, agreed to indict him for certain felonies which he had acknowledged. He pleaded guilty, implicating his wife along with him, and they were both hanged."

Filled with terror by the fearful things he heard and saw, it is no wonder that so sensitive a child was haunted by such nightmares as are described by one of his biographers.

[Illustration: JOHN BUNYAN 1628-1688]

Once he dreamed that he was in a pleasant place, jovial and rioting, when an earthquake rent the earth, out of which came bloody flames, and the figures of men tossed up in globes of fire, and falling down again with horrible cries and shrieks and execrations, while devils mingled among them, and laughed aloud at their torments. As he stood trembling, the earth sank under him, and a circle of flames embraced him.. But when he fancied he was at the point to perish, one in shining white raiment descended and plucked him out of that dreadful place, while the devils cried after him to take him to the punishment which his sins deserved. Yet he escaped the danger, and leapt for joy when he awoke and found it was a dream.

At seventeen, Bunyan was a tall, active lad still wild and reckless, an inventor of tales, who swore to their truth, a great leader in athletic sports, but free from drunkenness and other coarse vices. The Civil War was nearing its end, and martial deeds drew Bunyan to enlist, but his term of service was short and it is not known on which side he served.

Soon after this he married an excellent girl, an orphan, who had been brought up religiously and who made an excellent wife for the successful tinker. He was now a regular attendant upon the Established Church, though, as he says, still retaining his wicked life.

The story of Bunyan's conversion is one that is difficult for us to understand. To him it was a series of terrifying experiences, a succession of agonizing struggles, which grew only the more terrible after he was convinced of his own sinful ways. He tells the story of his fearful spiritual contest in the plainest, most matter-of-fact way, but scarcely mentions his home life, his daily work, or the growth of his family.

To him, the Devil was a very real person, who came as a tempter and would not be denied, long after Bunyan had completely reformed his ways and was living a life of strict honesty, purity and self-denial. No sooner had his manner of living become perfect, as we should consider it, than mental and spiritual temptations fell upon him. He believed that he had denied and sold his Savior; that he had committed the one sin for which no atonement was possible, and that he stood on the brink of a very real hell in whose sulphurous flames his body would burn forever. We cannot help pitying the poor country workman whose tender conscience and loyal soul tortured him with pains, worse a thousand times than those of physical death. No doubt his mind wavered in the balance, for such agonies lead to insanity, if they are not the evidence of it.

At last, however, his self-tormenting ceased, and his weary soul found rest in a comforting belief in Christ's forgiveness. As a result of his worry his health had given way, and he felt that his end was at hand. But after peace came to him and he joined the Baptist Church his strength came back, and for several years he kept at his business, making good progress and finding himself at twenty-five years of age in a better position in life than that to which he had been born.

There came to him a further call, and ignorant as he was of history, literature and philosophy, he entered the ministry of his church. He knew his Bible thoroughly, he had experienced all the terrors of the lost and all the joys of the redeemed, and he possessed that living enthusiasm that carries conviction to others. So, when he spoke to the people among whom he had passed his life, he caught the imagination of every one and bore them all along on the flood of his eloquence. No such preacher was there in England; and everywhere, in woods, in barns, on the village greens and in the chapels of the towns he preached his religion.

In the height of his fame, the Commonwealth ended, the Puritans lost their control of political affairs, and Charles II was restored to the throne of England. Soon the separate meetings of the Nonconformists were prohibited, and Bunyan was warned that he must cease his preaching. No one could be more firm, however, in following the dictates of his conscience than this reformed tinker*, and so, although he knew arrest and imprisonment faced him, he arranged to meet his people and deliver to them a farewell address in November, 1660. At that meeting the constables found him and took him away without any resistance on his part. The government was anxious to deal liberally with Bunyan, for his fine character and good influence were both recognized, but the sturdy exhorter declined to stop his preaching and would not give the least assurance that he would not continue to spread his faith. As a consequence he was committed to the Bedford jail, where he was not kept, however, in close confinement for any great part of the time. His family were allowed to visit him, and his friends often came in numbers to listen to his addresses.

There was no time when he would not have been liberated if he had merely promised to give up his preaching. At the end of six years he was liberated, but as he began preaching at once, he was rearrested and kept for six years longer, when a general change of governmental policy sent him out into the world at forty-four years of age, free to preach when and where he wished.

Bunyan's imprisonment was of great value to him, in one respect at least, for it gave him time to read, reflect and write. That he availed himself of the privilege, his great works testify. After his release he continued his labors among his congregation, in writing, and in visiting other churches. His little blind child, who visited him so often in the jail, died; but the rest of his family lived and did well, and Bunyan must be considered a very happy man during the sixteen years he stayed in his neat little home in Bedford.

In August, 1688, he received word that a bad quarrel had taken place between a father and son, acquaintances of Bunyan, who lived at Reading. The old peacemaker went at once to the family and after much persuasion succeeded in reconciling the two and persuading the father not to disinherit the son. But this was the last charitable act of the great preacher, for in returning he was drenched to the skin in a heavy shower of wind and rain, and after a brief illness died at the home of one of his friends in London.

THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS

INTRODUCTION

The Pilgrim's Progress was written while Bunyan was in the Bedford jail, and as the writer says, was written for his own amusement. Christian is Bunyan himself, and the trials and experiences of the former are but the reflections of the temptations and sufferings of the great preacher set forth in wonderfully dramatic and striking form.

At some time nearly every person reads The Pilgrim's Progress, and to those who do, Christian becomes a very real person. It is a Puritan book, pure and simple, and as such, contains some things that people of other denominations may object to, but there is so much of truth, simplicity and real human nature in it, so much that touches the spiritual experiences of all human beings, that most people, regardless of creed, are helped by it.

The Pilgrim's Progress is a very plain allegory. It describes persons and things as real and material, but always gives to everything a spiritual significance. There is no room for doubt at any time, for the names are all so aptly chosen that the meaning may be seen by any reader. Yet the allegory is so significantly true that while a child may read and enjoy it as a story and be helped by its patent truthfulness and poetry, the maturer mind may find latent truths that compensate for a more careful reading.

"As I walked through the wilderness of this world," the book begins, "I lighted on a certain place where there was a den [Footnote: The Bedford jail.] and I laid me down there to sleep, and as I slept, I dreamed a dream. I dreamed, and behold, I saw a man, a man clothed in rags, standing with his face from his own home, with a book in his hand, and a great burden upon his back. I looked and saw him open the book and read therein; and, as he read, he wept and trembled; and not being able longer to contain, he broke out with a lamentable cry, saying, 'What shall I do?'" This man is Christian, the hero of the story.

CHRISTIAN BEGINS HIS JOURNEY

In this plight, therefore, he went home and refrained himself as long as he could, that his wife and children should not perceive his distress; but he could not be silent long, because that his trouble increased. Wherefore at length he brake his mind to his wife and children; and thus he began to talk to them:

"O my dear wife," said he, "and you, my children, I, your dear friend, am in myself undone by reason of a burden that lieth hard upon me; moreover I am for certain informed that this our city will be burned with fire from heaven, in which fearful overthrow, both myself, with thee, my wife, and you my sweet babes, shall miserably come to ruin, except (the which yet I see not) some way of escape can be found, whereby we may be delivered."

At this his relations were sore amazed; not for what they believed that what he had said to them, was true, but because they thought that some frenzy distemper had got into his head; therefore, it drawing near night, and they hoping that sleep might settle his brains, with all haste they got him to bed.

But the night was as troublesome to him as the day; wherefore, instead of sleeping, he spent it in sighs and tears. So, when the morning was. come, they would know how he did. He told them, "Worse and worse." He also set talking to them again; but they began to be hardened.

They also thought to drive away his distemper by harsh and surly carriages to him; sometimes they would deride, sometimes they would chide, and sometimes they would quite neglect him. Wherefore he began to retire himself to his chamber, to pray for and pity them, and also to condole his own misery; he would also walk solitarily in the fields, sometimes reading, and sometimes praying: and thus for some days he spent his time.

Now, I saw, upon a time, when he was walking in the fields, that he was, as he was wont, reading in his book, and greatly distressed in his mind; and as he read, he burst out, as he had done before, crying, "What shall I do to be saved?"

I saw also that he looked this way and that way, as if he would run; yet he stood still, because, as I perceived, he could not tell which way to go. I looked then, and saw a man named Evangelist coming to him, who asked, "Wherefore dost thou cry?"

He answered, "Sir, I perceive by the book in my hand that I am condemned to die, and after that to come to judgment, and I find that I am not willing to do the first, nor able to do the second."

Then said Evangelist, "Why not willing to die, since this life is attended with so many evils?" The man answered:

"Because I fear that this burden that is upon my back will sink me lower than the grave, and I shall fall into Tophet. And, sir, if I be not fit to go to prison, I am not fit, I am sure, to go to judgment, and from thence to execution; and the thoughts of these things make me cry."

Then said Evangelist, "If this be thy condition, why standest thou still?"

He answered, "Because I know not whither to go."

Then he gave him a parchment roll, and there was written within, "Flee from the wrath to come."

The man therefore read it, and looking upon Evangelist very carefully, said, "Whither must I fly?"

Then said Evangelist, pointing with his finger over a very wide field,

"Do you see yonder wicket gate?"

The man said, "No."

"Then," said the other, "Do you see yonder shining light?"

He said, "I think I do."

Then said Evangelist, "Keep that light in your eye, and go up directly thereto: so shalt thou see the Gate; at which, when thou knockest, it shall be told thee what thou shalt do."

So I saw in my dream that the man began to run. Now, he had not run far from his own door; but his wife and children, perceiving it, began to cry after him to return; but the man put his fingers in his ears, and ran on, crying, "Life! life! eternal life!"

So he looked not behind him, but fled toward the middle of the plain. The neighbors also came out to see him run, and, as he ran, some mocked, others threatened, and some cried after him to return; and, among those that did so, there were two that resolved to fetch him back by force. The name of one was Obstinate, and the other Pliable.

[Illustration: HE LOOKED NOT BEHIND HIM]

Obstinate argues with Christian, but gives him up in despair and returns to his home, but Pliable, thinking after all there may be some good reason in Christian's conduct, decides to accompany him to the wicket gate, and they converse on the way.

THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND

Now, I saw in my dream, that just as they had ended this talk they drew near to a very miry slough, that was in the midst of the plain; and they, being heedless, did both fall suddenly into the bog. The name of the slough was Despond. Here, therefore, they wallowed for a time, being grievously bedaubed with the dirt; and Christian, because of the burden that was on his back, began to sink in the mire. Then said Pliable, "Ah! neighbor Christian, where are you now?"

"Truly," said Christian, "I do not know."

At this Pliable began to be offended, and angrily said to his fellow, "Is this the happiness you have told me all this while of? If we have such ill-speed at our first setting out, what may we expect betwixt this and our journey's end? May I get out again with my life, you shall possess the brave country alone for me."

And, with that, he gave a desperate struggle or two, and got out of the mire on the side of the slough which was next to his own house; so away he went, and Christian saw him no more.

Wherefore, Christian was left to tumble in the Slough of Despond alone; but still he endeavored to struggle to that side of the slough that was still further from his own house, and next to the wicket gate; the which he did, but he could not get out, because of the burden that was upon his back; but I beheld in my dream, that a man came to him whose name was Help, and asked him what he did there?

"Sir," said Christian, "I was bid go this way by a man called Evangelist, who directed me also to yonder gate, that I might escape the wrath to come; and as I was going thither I fell in here."

Help. "But why did you not look for the steps?"

Chr. "Fear followed me so hard, that I fled the next way, and fell in."

[Illustration: IN THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND ]

Help. "Then give me thy hand." So he gave him his hand, and he drew him out, and set him upon sound ground, and bid him go on his way.

Then I stepped to him that plucked him out and said, "Sir, wherefore, since over this place is the way from the City of Destruction to yonder gate, is it that this plat is not mended, that poor travelers might go thither with more security?"

And he said unto me, "This mire slough is such a place as cannot be mended: it is the descent whither the scum and filth that attends conviction for sin doth continually run, and therefore it is called the Slough of Despond; for still as the sinner is awakened about his lost condition, there ariseth in his soul many fears, and doubts, and discouraging apprehensions, which all of them get together, and settle in this place. And this is the reason of the badness of the ground.

"It is not the pleasure of the King that this place should remain so bad. His laborers also have, by the direction of His Majesty's surveyors, been for above these sixteen hundred years employed about this patch of ground, if perhaps it might have been mended: yea, and to my knowledge," said he, "here have been swallowed up at least twenty thousand cart-loads, yea, millions of wholesome instructions, that have at all seasons been brought from all places of the King's dominions, and they that can tell say that they are the best materials to make good ground of the place, if so be it might have been mended; but it is the Slough of Despond still, and so will be when they have done what they can.

"True, there are, by the direction of the Lawgiver, certain good and substantial steps, placed even through the very midst of this slough: but at such time as this place doth much spew out its filth, as it doth against change of weather, these steps are hardly seen; or, if they be, men, through the dizziness of their heads, step beside, and then they are bemired to purpose, notwithstanding the steps be there; but the ground is good when they are once got in at the gate."

Now, I saw in my dream, that by this time Pliable was got home to his house again, so that his neighbors came to visit him; and some of them called him wise man for coming back, and some called him fool for hazarding himself with Christian; others again did mock at his cowardliness, saying, "Surely, since you began to venture, I would not have been so base as to have given out for a few difficulties." So Pliable sat sneaking among them. But at last he got more confidence, and then they all turned their tales, and began to deride poor Christian behind his back.

* * * * *

Christian proceeds on his way, meeting many persons and conversing with them, often discouraged, but always persistent in his idea of gaining Mount Zion and the holy city. The perils that he meets do not overwhelm him, and even when he is apparently doomed to certain destruction, some happy turn of events sets him again on his way rejoicing. Friends also appear to help him whenever he most needs them.

THE FIGHT WITH APOLLYON

When I saw in my dream that, on the morrow, he got up to go forward, but they desired him to stay till the next day also; and then, said they, we will, if the day be clear, show you the Delectable Mountains, which, they said, would yet further add to his comfort, because they were nearer the desired haven than the place where at present he was; so he consented and stayed.

[Illustration: THE FIGHT WITH APOLLYON ]

When the morning was up, they had him to the top of the house, and bid him look south; so he did; and, behold, at a great distance he saw a most pleasant mountainous country, beautified with woods, vineyards, fruits of all sorts, flowers also, with springs and fountains, very delectable to behold. Then he asked the name of the country. They said it was Emmanuel's Land; "and it is as common," said they, "as this hill is, to and for all the pilgrims. And when thou comest there from thence," said they, "thou mayest see to the gate of the Celestial City, as the shepherds that live there will make appear."

Now he bethought himself of setting forward, and they were willing he should. "But first," said they, "let us go again into the armory." So they did; and when they came there, they harnessed him from head to foot with what was of proof, lest, perhaps, he should meet with assaults in the way.

He being, therefore, thus accoutered, walketh out with his friends to the gate, and there he asked the porter if he saw a pilgrim pass by. Then the porter answered, "Yes."

Chr. "Pray, did you know him?"

Por. "I asked him his name, and he told me it was Faithful."

Chr. "Oh, I know him; he is my townsman, my near neighbor; he comes from the place where I was born. How far do you think he may be before?"

Por. "He has got by this time below the hill."

Chr. "Well, good Porter, the Lord be with thee, and add to all thy blessings much increase, for the kindness that thou hast showed to me."

Then he began to go forward; but Discretion, Piety, Charity and Prudence would accompany him down to the foot of the hill. So they went on together, reiterating their former discourses, till they came to go down the hill.

Then said Christian, "As it was difficult coming up, so, so far as I can see, it is dangerous going down." "Yes," said Prudence, "so it is; for it is a hard matter for a man to go down into the Valley of Humiliation, as thou art now, and to catch no slip by the way; therefore, are we come out to accompany thee down the hill." So he began to go down, but very warily; yet he caught a slip or two.

Then I saw in my dream that these good companions, when Christian was gone to the bottom of the hill, gave him a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine and a cluster of raisins; and then he went on his way.

But now, in this Valley of Humiliation, poor Christian was hard put to it; for he had gone but a little way, before he espied a foul fiend coming over the field to meet him; his name is Apollyon. Then did Christian begin to be afraid, and to cast in his mind whether to go back or to stand his ground. But he considered again that he had no armor for his back; and therefore thought that to turn the back to him might give him the greater advantage with ease to pierce him with his darts. Therefore he resolved to venture and stand his ground; for, thought he, had I no more in mine eye than the saving of my life, it would be the best way to stand.

So he went on and Apollyon met him. Now the monster was hideous to behold; he was clothed with scales like a fish, and (they are his pride) he had wings like a dragon, feet like a bear, and out of his belly came fire and smoke, and his mouth was as the mouth of a lion. When he was come up to Christian, he beheld him with a disdainful countenance, and thus began to question with him.

Apol. "Whence came you? and whither are you bound?"

Chr. "I am come from the City of Destruction, which is the place of all evil, and am going to the City of Zion."

Apol. "By this I perceive thou art one of my subjects, for all that country is mine, and I am the prince and god of it. How is it, then, that thou hast run away from thy king? Were it not that I hope thou mayest do me more service, I would strike thee now, at one blow, to the ground."

Chr. "I was born, indeed, in your dominions, but your service was hard, and your wages such as a man could not live on, 'for the wages of sin is death,' therefore, when I was come to years, I did as other considerate persons do, look out, if, perhaps, I might mend myself."

Apol. "There is no prince that will thus lightly lose his subjects, neither will I as yet loose thee; but since thou complainest of thy service and wages, be content to go back: what our country will afford, I do here promise to give thee."

Chr. "But I have let myself to another, even to the King of princes; and how can I, with fairness, go back with thee?"

Apol. "Thou hast done in this, according to the proverb, 'Changed a bad for a worse;' but it is ordinary for those that have professed themselves his servants, after a while to give him the slip and return again to me. Do thou so too, and all shall be well."

Chr. "I have given him my faith, and sworn my allegiance to him; how, then, can I go back from this, and not be hanged as a traitor?"

Apol. "Thou didst the same to me, and yet I am willing to pass by all, if now thou wilt yet turn again and go back."

Chr. "What I promised thee was in my nonage; and beside, I count the Prince under whose banner now I stand is able to absolve me; yea, and to pardon also what I did as to my compliance with thee; and beside, O thou destroying Apollyon! to speak truth, I like his service, his wages, his servants, his government, his company and country better than thine; and, therefore, leave off to persuade me further; I am his servant, and I will follow him."

Apol. "Consider, again, when thou art in cool blood, what thou art like to meet with in the way that thou goest. Thou knowest that, for the most part, his servants come to an ill end, because they are transgressors against me and my ways. How many of them have been put to shameful deaths; and, beside, thou countest his service better than mine, whereas he never came yet from the place where he is to deliver any that served him out of their hands; but, as for me, how many times, as all the world very well knows, have I delivered, either by power or fraud, those that have faithfully served me, from him and his, though taken by them; and so I will deliver thee."

Chr. "His forbearing at present to deliver them is on purpose to try their love, whether they will cleave to him to the end; and as for the ill end thou sayest they come to, that is most glorious in their account; for, for the present deliverance, they do not much expect it, for they stay for their glory, and then they shall have it, when their Prince comes in his and the glory of the angels."

Apol. "Thou hast already been unfaithful in thy service to him; and how dost thou think to receive wages of him?"

Chr. "Wherein, O Apollyon! have I been unfaithful to him?"

Apol. "Thou didst faint at first setting out, when thou wast almost choked in the Gulf of Despond; thou didst attempt wrong ways to be rid of thy burden, whereas thou shouldest have stayed till thy Prince had taken it off; thou didst sinfully sleep and lose thy choice thing; thou wast, also, almost persuaded to go back, at the sight of the lions; and when thou talkest of thy journey, and of what thou hast heard and seen, thou art inwardly desirous of vainglory in all that thou sayest or doest."

Chr. "All this is true, and much more which thou hast left out; but the Prince whom I serve and honor is merciful, and ready to forgive; but, besides, these infirmities possessed me in thy country, for there I sucked them in; and I have groaned under them, been sorry for them, and have obtained pardon of my Prince."

Then Apollyon broke out into a grievous rage, saying, "I am an enemy to this Prince; I hate his person, his laws, and people; I am come out on purpose to withstand thee."

Chr. "Apollyon, beware what you do; for I am in the king's highway, the way of holiness; therefore take heed to yourself."

Then Apollyon straddled quite over the whole breadth of the way, and said, "I am void of fear in this matter; prepare thyself to die; for I swear by my infernal den, that thou shalt go no further; here will I spill thy soul." And with that he threw a flaming dart at his breast; but Christian had a shield in his hand, with which he caught it, and so prevented the danger of that.

Then did Christian draw, for he saw it was time to bestir him; and Apollyon as fast made at him, throwing darts as thick as hail; by the which, notwithstanding all that Christian could do to avoid it, Apollyon wounded him in his head, his hand and his foot. This made Christian give a little back; Apollyon, therefore, followed his work amain, and Christian again took courage, and resisted as manfully as he could. This sore combat lasted for above half a day, even till Christian was almost quite spent; for you must know that Christian, by reason of his wounds, must needs grow weaker and weaker.

Then Apollyon, espying his opportunity, began to gather up close to Christian, and wrestling with him, gave him a dreadful fall; and with that Christian's sword flew out of his hand. Then said Apollyon, "I am sure of thee now."

And with that he had almost pressed him to death, so that Christian began to despair of life: but as God would have it, while Apollyon was fetching of his last blow, thereby to make a full end of this good man, Christian nimbly stretched out his hand for his sword, and caught it, saying, "Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall I shall rise," and with that gave him a deadly thrust, which made him give back, as one that had received his mortal wound.

Christian perceiving that, made at him again, saying, "Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us." And with that Apollyon spread forth his dragon's wings, and sped him away, that Christian for a season saw him no more.

In this combat no man can imagine, unless he had seen and heard as I did, what yelling and hideous roaring Apollyon made all the time of the fight-he spake like a dragon; and, on the other side, what sighs and groans burst from Christian's heart. I never saw him all the while give so much as one pleasant look, till he perceived he had wounded Apollyon with his two-edged sword; then, indeed, he did smile, and look upward; but it was the dreadfulest sight that ever I saw.

"A more unequal match can hardly be,

Christian must fight an Angel; but you see,

The valiant man by handling Sword and Shield,

Doth make him, tho' a Dragon, quit the field."

So when the battle was over, Christian said, "I will here give thanks to him that delivered me out of the mouth of the lion, to him that did help me against Apollyon." And so he did, saying-

"Great Beelzebub, the captain of this fiend,

Design'd my ruin; therefore to this end

He sent him harness'd out: and he with rage,

That hellish was, did fiercely me engage.

But blessed Michael helped me, and I,

By dint of sword, did quickly make him fly.

Therefore to him let me give lasting praise,

And thank and bless his holy name always."

Then there came to him a hand, with some of the leaves of the tree of life, the which Christian took, and applied to the wounds that he had received in the battle, and was healed immediately. He also sat down in that place to eat bread, and to drink of the bottle that was given him a little before; so, being refreshed, he addressed himself to his journey, with his sword drawn in his hand; for he said, "I know not but some other enemy may be at hand."

But he met with no other affront from Apollyon quite through this valley.

Later Christian meets Faithful, a true pilgrim, but one of a different temperament, so that his trials and other experiences have been different, but the two proceed on their journey together happy in good companionship. They pass through Vanity Fair, and Faithful is stoned to death.

After Christian's escape from Vanity Fair he is joined by Hopeful, and the two travel on as he and Faithful had done. Their trials continue but Christian finds even more help in the cheerful nature of Hopeful than in the gentle disposition of Faithful, and he looks forward without great dread to other trials which he may have to endure.

DOUBTING CASTLE AND GIANT DESPAIR

Now, I beheld in my dream, that they had not journeyed far, but the river and the way for a time parted; at which they were not a little sorry, yet they durst not go out of the way. Now the way from the river was rough, and their feet tender, by reason of their travels; "so the souls of the pilgrims were much discouraged because of the way."

Wherefore, as still they went on, they wished for a better way. Now, a little before them, there was on the left hand of the road a meadow, and a stile to go over into it; and that meadow is called By-path Meadow. Then said Christian to his fellow:

"If this meadow lieth along by our wayside, let us go over into it."

Then he went to the stile to see, and, behold, a path lay along the way, on the other side of the fence.

"It is according to my wish," said Christian. "Here is the easiest going; come, good Hopeful, and let us go over."

Hope. "But how if this path should lead us out of the way?"

Chr. "That is not like. Look, doth it not go along by the wayside?"

So Hopeful, being persuaded by his fellow, went after him over the stile. When they were gone over, and were got into the path, they found it very easy for their feet; and withal, they, looking before them, espied a man walking as they did (and his name was Vain-confidence); so they called after him, and asked him whither that way led. He said to the Celestial Gate.

"Look," said Christian, "did not I tell you so? By this you may see we are right."

So they followed and he went before them. But, behold, the night came on, and it grew very dark; so that they that were behind lost the sight of him that went before.

He, therefore, that went before (Vain-confidence by name), not seeing the way before him, fell into a deep pit, which was on purpose there made, by the prince of those grounds, to catch vainglorious fools withal, and was dashed in pieces with his fall.

Now Christian and his fellow heard him fall. So they called to know the matter, but there was none to answer, only they heard a groaning. Then said Hopeful, "Where are we now?"

Then was his fellow silent, as mistrusting that he had led him out of the way; and now it began to rain, and thunder and lightning in a very dreadful manner, and the water rose amain.

Then Hopeful groaned in himself, saying, "Oh, that I had kept on my way!"

Chr. "Who could have thought that this path should have led us out of the way?"

Hope. "I was afraid on it at the very first, and therefore gave you that gentle caution. I would have spoken plainer, but that you are older than I."

[Illustration: IN DOUBTING CASTLE ]

Chr. "Good brother, be not offended; I am sorry I have brought thee out of the way, and that I have put thee into such imminent danger. Pray, my brother, forgive me; I did not do it of an evil intent."

Hope. "Be comforted, my brother, for I forgive thee; and believe, too, that this shall be for our good."

Chr. "I am glad I have with me a merciful brother. But we must not stand thus; let us try to go back again."

Hope. "But, good brother, let me go before."

Chr. "No, if you please, let me go first; that, if there be any danger, I may be first therein, because by my means we are both gone out of the way."

Hope. "No, you shall not go first; for your mind being troubled may lead you out of the way again."

Then, for their encouragement, they heard the voice of one saying, "Set thine heart toward the highway, even the way which thou wentest; turn again."

But by this time the waters were greatly risen, by reason of which the way of going back was very dangerous. (Then I thought that it is easier going out of the way, when we are in, than going in when we are out.) Yet they adventured to go back; but it was so dark, and the flood was so high, that in their going back they had like to have been drowned nine or ten times.

Neither could they, with all the skill they had, get again to the stile that night. Wherefore, at last, lighting under a little shelter, they sat down there until the daybreak, but, being weary, they fell asleep.

Now there was not far from the place where they lay, a castle called Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant Despair; and it was in his grounds they were now sleeping.

Wherefore he, getting up in the morning early, and walking up and down in his fields, caught Christian and Hopeful asleep in his grounds. Then, with a grim and surly voice, he bid them awake; and asked them whence they were, and what they did in his grounds.

They told him they were pilgrims, and that they had lost their way.

Then said the Giant, "You have this night trespassed on me, by trampling in and lying on my grounds, and therefore you must go along with me."

So they were forced to go, because he was stronger than they. They also had but little to say, for they knew themselves in a fault. The Giant, therefore, drove them before him, and put them into his castle, into a very dark dungeon, nasty and stinking to the spirits of these two men.

Here, then, they lay from Wednesday morning till Saturday night, without one bit of bread, or drop of drink, or light, or any to ask how they did; they were, therefore, here in evil case, and were far from friends and acquaintance. Now in this place Christian had double sorrow, because it was through his unadvised counsel they were brought into this distress.

"The Pilgrims now, to gratify the flesh, Will seek its ease; but oh! how they afresh Do thereby plunge themselves new griefs into; Who seek to please the flesh, themselves undo."

Now, Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence. So when he was gone to bed, he told his wife what he had done; to-wit, that he had taken a couple of prisoners and cast them into his dungeon, for trespassing on his grounds. Then he asked her also what he had best to do further to them. So she asked him what they were, whence they came, and whither they were bound; and he told her. Then she counselled him that when he arose in the morning he should beat them without any mercy.

So, when he arose, he getteth him a grievous crabtree cudgel, and goes down into the dungeon to them, and there first falls to rating of them as if they were dogs, although they never gave him a word of distaste. Then he falls upon them, and beats them fearfully, in such sort that they were not able to help themselves, or to turn them upon the floor. This done, he withdraws and leaves them, there to condole their misery, and to mourn under their distress.

So all that day they spent the time in nothing but sighs and bitter lamentations. The next night, she, talking with her husband about them further, and understanding they were yet alive, did advise him to counsel them to make away with themselves.

So when morning was come, he goes to them in a surly manner as before, and perceiving them to be very sore with the stripes that he had given them the day before, he told them that, since they were never like to come out of that place, their only way would be forthwith to make an end of themselves, either with knife, halter, or poison. "For why," said he, "should you choose life, seeing it is attended with so much bitterness?"

But they desired him to let them go. With that he looked ugly upon them, and, rushing to them, had doubtless made an end of them himself, but that he fell into one of his fits (for he sometimes, in sunshiny weather, fell into fits), and lost for a time the use of his hand; wherefore he withdrew, and left them as before, to consider what to do. Then did the prisoners consult between themselves, whether it was best to take his counsel or no; and thus they began to discourse:

Chr. "Brother, what shall we do? The life that we now live is miserable. For my part I know not whether it is best, to live thus, or to die out of hand. 'My soul chooseth strangling rather than life,' and the grave is more easy for me than this dungeon. Shall we be ruled by the Giant?"

Hope. "Indeed, our present condition is dreadful, and death would be far more welcome to me than thus forever to abide; but yet, let us consider, the Lord of the country to which we are going hath said, 'Thou shalt do no murder;' no, not to another man's person; much more, then, are we forbidden to take his counsel to kill ourselves. Besides, he that kills another, can but commit murder upon his body; but for one to kill himself is to kill body and soul at once.

"And, moreover, my brother, thou talkest of ease in the grave; but hast thou forgotten the hell, whither for certain the murderers go? 'For no murderer hath eternal life.'

"And let us consider, again, that all the law is not in the hand of Giant Despair. Others, so far as I can understand, have been taken by him, as well as we, and yet have escaped out of his hand. Who knows but that God that made the world may cause that Giant Despair may die? or that, at some time or other, he may forget to lock us in? or that he may, in a short time, have another of his fits before us, and may lose the use of his limbs?

"And if ever that should come to pass again, for my part, I am resolved to pluck up the heart of a man and try my utmost to get from under his hand. I was a fool that I did not try to do it before; but, however, my brother, let us be patient, and endure a while. The time may come that may give us a happy release; but let us not be our own murderers."

With these words, Hopeful at present did moderate the mind of his brother; so they continued together (in the dark) that day, in their sad and doleful condition.

Well, toward evening, the Giant goes down into the dungeon again, to see if his prisoners had taken his counsel; but when he came there he found them alive; and truly, alive was all; for now, what for want of bread and water, and by reason of the wounds they received when he beat them, they could do little but breathe. But, I say, he found them alive; at which he fell into a grievous rage, and told them that, seeing they had disobeyed his counsel, it should be worse with them than if they had never been born.

At this they trembled greatly, and I think that Christian fell into a swoon; but, coming a little to himself again, they renewed their discourse about the Giant's counsel; and whether yet they had best to take it or no. Now Christian again seemed to be for doing it, but Hopeful made his second reply as followeth:

Hope. "My brother, rememberest thou not how valiant thou hast been heretofore? Apollyon could not crush thee, nor could all that thou didst hear, or see, or feel, in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. What hardship, terror, and amazement hast thou already gone through! And art thou now nothing but fear? Thou seest that I am in the dungeon with thee, a far weaker man by nature than thou art; also, this Giant has wounded me as well as thee, and hath also cut off the bread and water from my mouth; and with thee I mourn without the light. But let us exercise a little more patience: remember how thou playedst the man at Vanity Fair, and wast neither afraid of the chain, nor cage, nor yet of bloody death. Wherefore, let us (at least to avoid the shame that becomes not a Christian to be found in) bear up with patience as well as we can."

Now, night being come again, and the Giant and his wife being in bed, she asked him concerning the prisoners, and if they had taken his counsel. To which he replied, "They are sturdy rogues, they choose rather to bear all hardship, than to make away with themselves."

"Then," said she, "take them into the castleyard to-morrow, and show them the bones and skulls of those that thou hast already despatched, and make them believe, ere a week comes to an end, thou also wilt tear them in pieces, as thou hast their fellows before them."

So when the morning was come, the Giant goes to them again, and takes them into the castle-yard, and shows them, as his wife had bidden him.

"These," said he, "were pilgrims as you are, once, and they trespassed in my grounds, as you have done; and when I thought fit, I tore them in pieces, and so, within ten days, I will do you. Go, get you down to your den again;" and with that he beat them all the way thither.

They lay, therefore, all day on Saturday in a lamentable case, as before.

Now, when night was come, and when Mrs. Diffidence and her husband, the Giant, were got to bed, they began to renew their discourse of their prisoners; and withal the old Giant wondered that he could neither by his blows nor his counsel bring them to an end.

And with that his wife replied:

"I fear, that they live in hope that some will come to relieve them, or that they have picklocks about them, by the means of which they hope to escape."

"And sayest thou so, my dear?" said the Giant; "I will, therefore, search them in the morning."

Well, on Saturday, about midnight, they began to pray, and continued in prayer till almost break of day.

Now, a little before it was day, good Christian, as one half-amazed, brake out in this passionate speech:

"What a fool," quoth he, "am I, thus to lie in a stinking dungeon, when

I may as well walk at liberty! I have a key in my bosom, called

Promise, that will, I am persuaded, open any lock in Doubting Castle."

Then said Hopeful, "That is good news, good brother; pluck it out of thy bosom and try."

Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began to try at the dungeon door, whose bolt (as he turned the key) gave back, and the door flew open with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both came out. Then he went to the outward door that leads into the castle-yard, and, with his key, opened that door also. After, he went to the iron gate, for that must be opened, too; but that lock went damnable hard, yet the key did open it. Then they thrust open the gate to make their escape with speed, but that gate, as it opened, made such a creaking that it waked Giant Despair, who, hastily rising to pursue his prisoners, felt his limbs to fail, for his fits took him again, so that he could by no means go after them.

Then they went on, and came to the King's highway, and so were safe, because they were out of his jurisdiction.

Now, when they were gone over the stile, they began to contrive with themselves what they should do at that stile, to prevent those that should come after from falling into the hands of Giant Despair. So they consented to erect there a pillar, and to engrave upon the side thereof this sentence-"Over this stile is the way to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, who despiseth the King of the Celestial Country, and seeks to destroy his holy pilgrims."

Many, therefore, that followed after, read what was written, and escaped the danger. This done, they sang as follows:

"Out of the way we went, and then we found

What 'twas to tread upon forbidden ground;

And let them that come after have a care,

Lest heedlessness makes them, as we, to fare.

Lest they for trespassing his prisoners are,

Whose Castle's Doubting, and whose name's Despair."

Having escaped from Doubting Castle they continue their perilous way, ever drawing nearer to the Celestial City, and ever growing more impatient for the end of their pilgrimage.

BEULAH LAND, DEATH, AND THE CELESTIAL CITY

Now I saw in my dream, that by this time the Pilgrims were got over the Enchanted Ground, and entering into the country of Beulah, whose air was very sweet and pleasant, the way lying directly through it, they solaced themselves there for a season. Yea, here they heard continually the singing of birds, and saw every day the flowers appear in the earth, and heard the voice of the turtle in the land. In this country the sun shineth night and day; wherefore this was beyond the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and also out of the reach of Giant Despair, neither could they from this place so much as see Doubting Castle.

Here they were within sight of the city they were going to, also here met them some of the inhabitants thereof; for in this land the Shining Ones commonly walked, because it was on the borders of heaven. In this land, also, the contract between the bride and the bridegroom was renewed; yea, here, "As the bridegroom rejoiceth over the bride, so did their God rejoice over them." Here they had no want of corn and wine; for in this place they met with abundance of what they had sought for in all their pilgrimage.

Here they heard voices from out of the city, loud voices, saying, "Say ye to the daughter of Zion, Behold, thy salvation cometh! Behold, his reward is with him!" Here all the inhabitants of the country called them, "The holy people, The redeemed of the Lord sought out," etc.

[Illustration: The Celestial City]

Now, as they walked in this land, they had more rejoicing than in parts more remote from the kingdom to which they were bound; and drawing near to the city, they had yet a more perfect view thereof. It was builded of pearls and precious stones, also the street thereof was paved with gold; so by reason of the natural glory of the city, and the reflection of the sunbeams upon it, Christian with desire fell sick; Hopeful also had a fit or two of the same disease. Wherefore, here they lay by it a while, crying out, because of their pangs, "If ye find my beloved, tell him that I am sick of love."

But, being a little strengthened, and better able to bear their sickness, they walked on their way, and came yet nearer and nearer, where were orchards, vineyards, and gardens, and their gates opened into the highway. Now, as they came up to these places, behold the gardener stood in the way, to whom the pilgrims said, "Whose goodly vineyards and gardens are these?" He answered, "They are the King's, and are planted here for his own delight, and also for the solace of pilgrims." So the gardener had them into the vineyards, and bid them refresh themselves with the dainties. He also showed them there the King's walks, and the arbors where he delighted to be; and here they tarried and slept.

Now, I beheld in my dream, that they talked more in their sleep at this time than ever they did in all their journey; and being in a muse thereabout, the gardener said even to me, "Wherefore musest thou at the matter? It is the nature of the fruit of the grapes of these vineyards to go down so sweetly as to cause the lips of them that are asleep to speak."

So I saw that when they awoke, they addressed themselves to go up to the city; but, as I said, the reflection of the sun upon the city (for "the city was pure gold") was so extremely glorious, that they could not, as yet, with open face behold it, but through an instrument made for that purpose.

So I saw that, as they went on, there met them two men, in raiment that shone like gold; also their faces shone as the light. These men asked the pilgrims whence they came; and they told them. They also asked them where they had lodged, what difficulties and dangers, what comforts and pleasures they had met in the way; and they told them.

Then said the men that met them, "You have but two difficulties more to meet with, and then you are in the city."

Christian, then, and his companion, asked the men to go along with them; so they told them they would.

"But," said they, "you must obtain it by your own faith."

So I saw in my dream that they went on together, until they came in sight of the gate.

Now, I further saw, that betwixt them and the gate was a river, but there was no bridge to go over, and the river was very deep. At the sight, therefore, of this river, the Pilgrims were much stunned; but the men that went with them said, "You must go through, or you cannot come at the gate."

The pilgrims then began to inquire if there was no other way to the gate; to which they answered, "Yes; but there hath not any, save two, to-wit, Enoch and Elijah, been permitted to tread that path, since the foundation of the world, nor shall, until the last trumpet shall sound."

The Pilgrims then (especially Christian) began to despond in their minds, and looked this way and that, but no way could be found by them by which they might escape the river. Then they asked the men if the waters were all of a depth.

They said, "No;" yet they could not help them in the case; "for," said they, "you shall find it deeper or shallower as you believe in the King of the place."

They then addressed themselves to the water; and entering, Christian began to sink, and crying out to his good friend Hopeful, he said, "I sink in deep waters; the billows go over my head, all His waves go over me! Selah."

Then said the other, "Be of good cheer, my brother, I feel the bottom, and it is good."

Then said Christian, "Ah! my friend, 'the sorrows of death have compassed me about;' I shall not see the land that flows with milk and honey;" and with that a great darkness and horror fell upon Christian, so that he could not see before him. Also here he in a great measure lost his senses, so that he could neither remember nor orderly talk of any of those sweet refreshments that he had met with in the way of his pilgrimage.

But all the words that he spake still tended to discover that he had horror of mind, and heart-fears that he should die in that river, and never obtain entrance in at the gate. Here, also, as they that stood by perceived, he was much in the troublesome thoughts of the sins that he had committed, both since and before he began to be a pilgrim. It was also observed that he was troubled with apparitions of hobgoblins and evil spirits, for ever and anon he would intimate so much by words.

Hopeful, therefore, here had much ado to keep his brother's head above water; yea, sometimes he would be quite gone down, and then, ere a while, he would rise up again half dead. Hopeful also did endeavor to comfort him, saying, "Brother, I see the gate, and men standing by to receive us;" but Christian would answer, "It is you, it is you they wait for; you have been Hopeful ever since I knew you."

"And so have you," said he to Christian.

"Ah, brother;" said he, "surely if I was right, He would now arise to help me; but for my sins He hath brought me into the snare, and hath left me."

Then said Hopeful, "My brother, you have quite forgot the text, where it is said of the wicked, 'There are no bands in their death, but their strength is firm. They are not in trouble as other men, neither are they plagued like other men.' These troubles and distresses that you go through in these waters are no sign that God hath forsaken you, but are sent to try you, whether you will call to mind that which heretofore you have received of his goodness, and live upon him in your distresses."

Then I saw in my dream, that Christian was as in a muse a while. To whom also Hopeful added this word, "Be of good cheer, Jesus Christ maketh thee whole;" and with that Christian brake out with a loud voice, "Oh! I see Him again, and He tells me, 'When thou passeth through the waters I will be with thee; and through the river, they shall not overflow thee.'"

Then they both took courage, and the enemy was after that as still as a stone, until they were gone over. Christian therefore presently found ground to stand upon, and so it followed that the rest of the river was but shallow.

Thus they got over.

Now, upon the bank of the river, on the other side, they saw the two Shining Men again, who there waited for them, wherefore, being come out of the river, they saluted them, saying, "We are ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for those that shall be heirs of salvation."

Thus they went along toward the gate.

Now you must note that the City stood upon a mighty hill, but the Pilgrims went up that hill with ease, because they had these two men to lead them up by the arms; also, they had left their mortal garments behind them in the river, for though they went in with them, they came out without them. They, therefore, went up here with much agility and speed, though the foundation upon which the City was framed was higher than the clouds. They therefore went up through the regions of the air, sweetly talking as they went, being comforted, because they safely got over the river, and had such glorious companions to attend them.

Now while they were thus drawing toward the gate, behold a company of the heavenly host came out to meet them: to whom it was said, by the other two Shining Ones, "These are the men that have loved our Lord when they were in the world, and that have left all for His holy name; and He hath sent us to fetch them, and we have brought them thus far on their desired journey, that they may go in and look their Redeemer in the face with joy."

Then the heavenly host gave a great shout saying, "Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the Lamb." There came out also at this time to meet them, several of the king's trumpeters, clothed in white and shining raiment, who, with melodious noises, and loud, made even the heavens to echo with their sound. These trumpeters saluted Christian and his fellow with ten thousand welcomes from the world; and this they did with shouting and sound of trumpet.

This done, they compassed them round on every side; some went before, some behind, and some on the right hand, some on the left (as it were to guard them through the upper regions), continually sounding as they went, with melodious noise, in notes on high; so that the very sight was to them that could behold it as if heaven itself was come down to meet them. Thus, therefore, they walked on together; and as they walked, ever and anon, these trumpeters, even with joyful sound, would, by mixing their music with looks and gestures, still signify to Christian and his brother how welcome they were into their company, and with what gladness they came to meet them.

And now were these two men, as it were, in heaven, before they came at it, being swallowed up with the sight of angels, and with hearing of their melodious notes. Here also they had the City itself in view, and they thought they heard all the bells therein to ring to welcome them thereto. But above all, the warm and joyful thoughts that they had about their own dwelling there, with such company, and that for ever and ever. Oh, by what tongue or pen can their glorious joy be expressed! And thus they came up to the gate.

Now, when they were come up to the gate, there was written over it in letters of gold, "Blessed are they that do His commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the City."

Then I saw in my dream that the Shining Men bid them call at the gate; the which, when they did, some looked from over the gate, to-wit, Enoch, Moses and Elijah, etc., to whom it was said, "These pilgrims are come from the City of Destruction, for the love that they bear to the King of this place;" and then the pilgrims gave in unto them each man his certificate, which they had received in the beginning; those, therefore, were carried in to the King, who, when he had read them, said, "Where are the men?"

To whom it was answered, "They are standing without the gate."

The King then commanded to open the gate, "That the righteous nation," said he, "which keepeth the truth may enter in."

Now I saw in my dream that these two men went in at the gate: and lo, as they entered, they were transfigured, and they had raiment put on that shone like gold. There were also that met them with harps and crowns, and gave them to them-the harps to praise withal, and the crowns in token of honor.

Then I heard in my dream that all the bells in the city rang again for joy, and that it was said unto them, "Enter ye into the joy of your Lord."

I also heard the men themselves, that they sang with a loud voice, saying, "Blessing, and honor, and glory, and power, be unto Him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb for ever and ever."

Now, just as the gate were opened to let in the men, I looked in after them, and, behold, the City shone like the sun; the streets also were paved with gold, and in them walked many men, with crowns on their heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps to sing praises withal.

There were also of them that had wings, and they answered one another without intermission, saying, "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord." And after that they shut up the gates; which, when I had seen, I wished myself among them.

AWAY [Footnote: From Afterichiles, by James Whitcomb Riley, copyright 1887.]

By JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

I cannot say, and I will not say,

That he is dead.-He is just away!

With a cheery smile and a wave of the hand,

He has wandered into an unknown land,

And left us dreaming how very fair

It needs must be, since he lingers there.

And you-oh you, who the wildest yearn

For the old-time step and the glad return,-

Think of him faring on, as dear

In the love of There as the love of Here;

And loyal still, as he gave the blows

Of his warrior strength to his country's foes.-

Mild and gentle, as he was brave,-

When the sweetest love of his life he gave

To simple things;-Where the violets grew

Pure as the eyes they were likened to,

The touches of his hand have strayed

As reverently as his lips have prayed:

When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred

Was dear to him as the mocking-bird;

And he pitied as much as a man in pain

A writhing honey-bee wet with rain.-

Think of him still as the same, I say;

He is not dead-he is just away!

LITTLE GIFFIN OF TENNESSEE

Out of the focal and foremost fire,

Out of the hospital walls as dire,

Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene-

Eighteenth battle and he sixteen-

Spectre such as you seldom see,

Little Giffin of Tennessee.

"Take him and welcome," the surgeon said,

"But much your doctor can help the dead!"

And so we took him and brought him where

The balm was sweet on the summer air;

And we laid him down on a lonesome bed,

Utter Lazarus, heels to head.

Weary war with bated breath!

Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death!

Months of torture, how many such!

Weary weeks of the stick and crutch!

And still the glint of the steel-blue eye

Told of a spirit that wouldn't die,

And didn't-nay more, in Death's despite

The crippled skeleton learned to write.

"Dear Mother," at first, of course, and then,

"Dear Captain," asking about the men.

Captain's answer, "Of eighty and five,

Giffin and I are still alive."

"Johnston's pressed at the front," they say-

Little Giffin was up and away.

A tear, the first, as he bade good-bye,

Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye.

"I'll write, if spared."-There was news of fight,

But none of Giffin-he didn't write.

I sometimes fancy that when I'm king,

And my gallant courtiers form a ring,

Each so careless of power and pelf,

Each so thoughtful for all but self,

I'd give the best on his bended knee-

Yes, barter them all, for the loyalty

Of Little Giffin of Tennessee.

LITTLE BREECHES

A PIKE COUNTY VIEW OF SPECIAL PROVIDENCE

By JOHN HAY [Footnote: John Hay was born in Indiana, and in 1861 became the law- partner of Abraham Lincoln, and for the greater part of the time during the latter's life as president of the United States, acted as his private secretary. After the War he held various political offices and was an editorial Writer on the New York Tribune. He became known for his unusual tact and foresight, and finally became secretary of state.

He is well known, too, for his writings, the most notable of which is

his Abraham Lincoln, which was written in company with John G Nicolay.

Besides this he wrote a number of humorous poems, of which Little

Breeches is perhaps the best known.]

I don't go much on religion,

I never ain't had no show;

But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir,

On the handful o' things I know.

I don't pan out on the prophets

And free-will, and that sort of thing,-

But I b'lieve in God and the angels,

Ever sence one night last spring.

[Illustration: Went team, Little Breeches, and all]

I come into town with some turnips,

And my little Gabe come along,-

No four-year-old in the country

Could beat him for pretty and strong,

Peart and chipper and sassy,

Always ready to swear and fight,-

And I'd larnt him ter chaw terbacker,

Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket

As I passed by Taggart's store;

I went in for a jug of molasses

And left the team at the door.

They scared at something and started,-

I heard one little squall,

And hell-to-split over the prairie

Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie!

I was almost froze with skeer;

But we rousted up some torches,

And sarched for 'em far and near.

At last we struck hosses and wagon,

Snowed under a soft white mound,

Upsot, dead beat,-but of little Gabe

No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me

Of my fellow-critter's aid,-

I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,

Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

* * * * *

By this, the torches was played out,

And me and Isrul Parr

Went off for some wood to a sheepfold

That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed

Where they shut up the lambs at night.

We looked in, and seen them huddled thar,

So warm and sleepy and white;

And THAR sot Little Breeches and chirped,

As peart as ever you see,

"I want a chaw of terbacker,

And that's what's the matter of me."

How did he git thar? Angels.

He could never have walked in that storm.

They jest scooped down and toted him

To whar it was safe and warm.

And I think that saving a little child,

And bringing him to his own,

Is a derned sight better business

Than loafing around the Throne.

This little poem is an imitation of what was the rude dialect of some parts of Pike County, Indiana. One must not be too critical of the roughness and the apparent irreverence of some of the lines, for the sentiment is a pleasing one. An ignorant man who believes in "God and the angels" may be forgiven for the crudity of his ideas, and the mistakes he makes in bringing up his boy, especially as he "never ain't had no show."

THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL"

By W. S. GILBERT

'Twas on the shores that round our coasts

From Deal to Ramsgate span,

That I found alone, on a piece of stone,

An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,

And weedy and long was he;

And I heard this wight on the shore recite,

In a singular minor key:-

"O, I am a cook and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair

Till I really felt afraid,

For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,

And so I simply said:-

"O elderly man, it's little I know

Of the duties of men of the sea,

And I'll eat my hand if I understand

How you can possibly be

"At once a cook and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig!"

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which

Is a trick all seamen larn,

And having got rid of a thumping quid

He spun this painful yarn:-

"'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell

That we sailed to the Indian sea,

And there on a reef we come to grief,

Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned

(There was seventy-seven o' soul);

And only ten of the Nancy's men

Said 'Here' to the muster-roll.

"There was me, and the cook, and the captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sun tight and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,

Till a hungry we did feel,

So we drawed a lot, and, accordin', shot

The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,

And a delicate dish he made;

Then our appetite with the midshipmite

We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,

And he much resembled pig;

Then we wittled free, did the cook and me.

On the crew of the captain's gig.

[Illustration: "FOR DON'T YOU SEE THAT YOU CAN'T COOK ME?"]

"Then only the cook and me was left,

And the delicate question, 'Which

Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,

And we argued it out as such.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,

And the cook he worshipped me;

But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed

In the other chap's hold, you see.

"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom.

'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be.

I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I;

And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Say he: 'Dear James, to murder me

Were a foolish thing to do,

For don't you see that you can't cook me,

While I can-and will-cook you?'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt

And the pepper in portions true

(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,

And some sage and, parsley too.

"'Come here,' says he, with proper pride,

Which his smiling features tell;

"'Twill soothing be if I let you see

How extremely nice you'll smell.'

"And he stirred it round, and round, and round,

And he sniffed at the foaming froth;

When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals

In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less,

And as I eating be

The last of his chops, why I almost drops,

For a wessel in sight I see.

* * * * *

"And I never larf, and I never smile,

And I never lark nor play;

But I sit and croak, and a single joke

I have-which is to say:

"O, I am a cook and a captain bold

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig!"

KATEY'S LETTER

By LADY DUFFERIN

Och, girls, did you ever hear

I wrote my love a letter?

And altho' he cannot read,

I thought 'twas all the better.

For why should be he puzzled

With spellin' in the matter,

When the manin' was so plain

I loved him faithfully,

And he knows it-oh, he knows it-

Without one word from me.

I wrote it, and I folded it,

And put a seal upon it,

'Twas a seal almost as big

As the crown of my best bonnet;

For I wouldn't have the postman

Make his remarks upon it,

As I'd said inside the letter

I loved him faithfully,

And he knows it-oh, he knows it-

Without one word from me.

My heart was full, but when I wrote

I dare not put the half in;

For the neighbors know I love him,

And they're mighty found of chaffin',

So I dare not write his name outside,

For fear they would be laughin',

But wrote, "From little Kate to one

Whom she loves faithfully,"

And he knows it-oh, he knows it-

Without one word from me.

Now, girls, would you believe it,

That postman so consated,

No answer will he bring me,

So long have I waited?

But maybe-there mayn't be one,

Because-as I have stated-

My love can neither read nor write,

But he loves me faithfully,

And I know, where'er my love is,

That he is true to me.

THE ARICKARA INDIANS [Footnote: This description is taken from. Irving's Astoria, an account of early explorations in the Northwest, undertaken under the management of John Jacob Astor.]

By WASHINGTON IRVING

The village of the Rikaras, [Footnote: The Arickaras, or Rees as they are now sometimes called, are reduced to a few hundred persons who are, with the Mandans and other Indians, on a reservation in North Dakota.] Arickaras, or Ricarees, for the name is thus variously written, is between the 46th and 47th parallels of north latitude, and fourteen hundred and thirty miles above the mouth of the Missouri. [Footnote: This would place the village somewhere near the present site of Bismarck, North Dakota.] The party reached it about ten o'clock in the morning, but landed on the opposite side of the river, where they spread out their baggage and effects to dry. From hence they commanded an excellent view of the village. It was divided into two portions, about eighty yards apart, being inhabited by two distinct bands. The whole extended about three quarters of a mile along the river bank, and was composed of conical lodges, that looked like so many small hillocks, being wooden frames intertwined with osier, and covered with earth. The plain beyond the village swept up into hills of considerable height, but the whole country was nearly destitute of trees.

While they were regarding the village, they beheld a singular fleet coming down the river. It consisted of a number of canoes, each made of a single buffalo hide stretched on sticks, so as to form a kind of circular trough. Each one was navigated by a single squaw, who knelt in the bottom and paddled, towing after her frail bark a bundle of floating wood intended for firing. This kind of canoe is in frequent use among the Indians; the buffalo hide being readily made up into a bundle and transported on horseback; it is very serviceable in conveying baggage across the rivers.

The great numbers of horses grazing around the village, and scattered over the neighboring hills and valleys, bespoke the equestrian habits of the Arickaras, who are admirable horsemen. Indeed, in the number of his horses consists the wealth of an Indian of the prairies; who resembles an Arab in his passion for this noble animal, and in his adroitness in the management of it.

After a time, the voice of the sovereign chief, "the Left-handed," was heard across the river, announcing that the council lodge was preparing and inviting the white men to come over. The river was half a mile in width, yet every word uttered by the chieftain was heard; this may be partly attributed to the distinct manner in which every syllable of the compound words in the Indian language is articulated and accented; but in truth, a savage warrior might often rival Achilles himself for force of lungs.

The explorers landed amid a rabble crowd, and were received on the bank by the left-handed chief, who conducted them into the village with grave courtesy; driving to the right and left the swarms of old squaws, imp-like boys, and vagabond dogs, with which the place abounded. They wound their way between the cabins, which looked like dirt-heaps huddled together without any plan, and surrounded by old palisades; all filthy in the extreme, and redolent of villainous smells.

At length they arrived at the council lodge. It was somewhat spacious, and formed of four forked trunks of trees placed upright, supporting crossbeams and a frame of poles interwoven with osiers, and the whole covered with earth. A hole sunken in the centre formed the fireplace, and immediately above was a circular hole in the apex of the lodge, to let out the smoke and let in the daylight. Around the lodge were recesses for sleeping, like the berths on board ships, screened from view by curtains of dressed skins. At the upper end of the lodge was a kind of hunting and warlike trophy, consisting of two buffalo heads garishly painted, surmounted by shields, bows, quivers of arrows, and other weapons.

On entering the lodge the chief pointed to mats or cushions which had been placed around for the strangers, and on which they seated themselves, while he placed himself on a kind of stool. An old man then came forward with the pipe of peace or good-fellowship, lighted and handed it to the chief, and then falling back, squatted himself near the door. The pipe was passed from mouth to mouth, each one taking a whiff, which is equivalent to the inviolable pledge of faith, of taking salt together among the ancient Britons. The chief then made a sign to the old pipe-bearer, who seemed to fill, likewise, the station of herald, seneschal, and public crier, for he ascended to the top of the lodge to make proclamation. Here he took his post beside the aperture for the emission of smoke and the admission of light; the chief dictated from within what he was to proclaim, and he bawled it forth with a force of lungs that resounded over all the village. In this way he summoned the warriors and great men to council; every now and then reporting progress to his chief through the hole in the roof.

In a little while the braves and sages began to enter one by one as their names were called or announced, emerging from under the buffalo robe suspended over the entrance instead of a door, stalking across the lodge to the skins placed on the floor, and crouching down on them in silence. In this way twenty entered and took their seats, forming an assemblage worthy of the pencil; for the Arickaras are a noble race of men, large and well formed, and maintain a savage grandeur and gravity of demeanor in their solemn ceremonials.

All being seated, the old seneschal prepared the pipe of ceremony or council, and having lit it, handed it to the chief. He inhaled the sacred smoke, gave a puff upward to the heaven, then downward to the earth, then toward the east; after this it was as usual passed from mouth to mouth, each holding it respectfully until his neighbor had taken several whiffs; and now the grand council was considered as opened in due form.

The chief made an harangue welcoming the white men to his village, and expressing his happiness in taking them by the hand as friends; but at the same time complaining of the poverty of himself and his people; the usual prelude among Indians to begging or hard bargaining.

Mr. Hunt then spoke, declaring the object of his journey to the great Salt Lake beyond the mountains, and that he should want horses for the purpose, for which he was ready to trade, having brought with him plenty of goods. He concluded his speech by making presents of tobacco.

The left-handed chieftain in reply promised his friendship and aid to the new-comers, and welcomed them to his village. He added that they had not the number of horses to spare that Mr. Hunt required, and expressed a doubt whether they should be able to part with any. Upon this, another chieftain, called Gray Eyes, made a speech, and declared that they could readily supply Mr. Hunt with all the horses he might want, since, if they had not enough in the village, they could easily steal more. This honest expedient immediately removed the main difficulty; but the chief deferred all trading for a day or two, until he should have time to consult with his subordinate chiefs, as to market rates; for the principal chief of a village, in conjunction with his council, usually fixes the prices at which articles shall be bought and sold, and to them the village must conform.

The council now broke up. Mr. Hunt transferred his camp across the river at a little distance below the village, and the left-handed chief placed some of his warriors as a guard to prevent the intrusion of any of his people. The camp was pitched on the river bank just above the boats. The tents, and the men wrapped in their blankets and bivouacking on skins in the open air, surrounded the baggage at night. Four sentinels also kept watch within sight of each other outside of the camp until midnight, when they were relieved by four others who mounted guard until daylight.

[Illustration: TRADING FOR HORSES]

A trade now commenced with the Arickaras under the regulation and supervision of their two chieftains. Mr. Hunt established his mart in the lodge of the Big Man. The village soon presented the appearance of a busy fair; and as horses were in demand, the purlieus and the adjacent plain were like the vicinity of a Tartar encampment; horses were put through all paces, and horsemen were careering about with that dexterity and grace for which the Arickaras are noted. As soon as a horse was purchased, his tail was cropped, a sure mode of distinguishing him from the horses of the tribe; for the Indians disdain to practice this absurd, barbarous, and indecent mutilation, invented by some mean and vulgar mind, insensible to the merit and perfections of the animal. On the contrary, the Indian horses are suffered to remain in every respect the superb and beautiful animals which nature formed them.

The wealth of an Indian of the far west consists principally in his horses, of which each chief and warrior possesses a great number, so that the plains about an Indian village or encampment are covered with them. These form objects of traffic or objects of depredation, and in this way pass from tribe to tribe over great tracts of country. The horses owned by the Arickaras are, for the most part, of the wild stock of the prairies; some, however, had been obtained from the Poncas, Pawnees, and other tribes to the southwest, who had stolen them from the Spaniards in the course of horse-stealing expeditions into the Mexican territories. These were to be known by being branded, a Spanish mode of marking horses not practised by the Indians.

As the Arickaras were meditating another expedition against their enemies the Sioux, the articles of traffic most in demand were guns, tomahawks, scalping-knives, powder, ball; and other munitions of war. The price of a horse, as regulated by the chiefs, was commonly ten dollars' worth of goods at first cost. To supply the demand thus suddenly created, parties of young men and braves had sallied forth on expeditions to steal horses; a species of service among the Indians which takes precedence of hunting, and is considered a department of honorable warfare.

While the leaders of the expedition were actively engaged in preparing for the approaching journey, those who had accompanied it for curiosity or amusement, found ample matter for observation in the village and its inhabitants. Wherever they went they were kindly entertained. If they entered a lodge, the buffalo robe was spread before the fire for them to sit down; the pipe was brought, and while the master of the lodge conversed with his guests, the squaw put the earthen vessel over the fire, well filled with dried buffalo meat and pounded corn; for the Indian in his native state, before he has mingled much with white men, and acquired their sordid habits, has the hospitality of the Arab; never does a stranger enter his door without having food placed before him; and never is the food thus furnished made a matter of traffic.

The life of an Indian when at home in his village is a life of indolence and amusement. To the woman is consigned the labors of the household and the field; she arranges the lodge; brings wood for the fire; cooks; jerks venison and buffalo meat; dresses the skins of the animals killed in the chase; cultivates the little patch of maize, pumpkins, and pulse, which furnishes a great part of their provisions. Their time for repose and recreation is at sunset, when, the labors of the day being ended, they gather together to amuse themselves with petty games, or hold gossiping convocations on the tops of their lodges.

As to the Indian, he is a game animal, not to be degraded by useful or menial toil. It is enough that he exposes himself to the hardships of the chase and the perils of war; that he brings home food for his family, and watches and fights for its protection. Everything else is beneath his attention. When at home he attends only to his weapons and his horses, preparing the means of future exploit. Or he engages with his comrades in games of dexterity, agility and strength; or in gambling games in which everything is put at hazard, with a recklessness seldom witnessed in civilized life.

A great part of the idle leisure of the Indians when at home is passed in groups, squatted together on the bank of a river, on the top of a mound on the prairie, or on the roof of one of their earth-covered lodges, talking over the news of the day, the affairs of the tribe, the events and exploits of their last hunting or fighting expedition; or listening to the stories of old times told by some veteran chronicler; resembling a group of our village quidnuncs and politicians, listening to the prosings of some superannuated oracle, or discussing the contents of an ancient newspaper.

As to the Indian women, they are far from complaining of their lot. On the contrary, they would despise their husbands should they stoop to any menial office, and would think it conveyed an imputation upon their own conduct. It is the worst insult one virago can cast upon another in a moment of altercation. "Infamous woman!" will she cry, "I have seen your husband carrying wood into his lodge to make the fire. Where was his squaw that he should be obliged to make a woman of himself?"

Mr. Hunt and his fellow-travellers had not been many days at the Arickara village, when rumors began to circulate that the Sioux had followed them up, and that a war party, four or five hundred in number, were lurking somewhere in the neighborhood. These rumors produced much embarrassment in the camp. The white hunters were deterred from venturing forth in quest of game, neither did the leaders think it proper to expose them to such risk. The Arickaras, too, who had suffered greatly in their wars with this cruel and ferocious tribe, were roused to increased vigilance, and stationed mounted scouts upon the neighboring hills. This, however, is a general precaution among the tribes of the prairies. Those immense plains present a horizon like the ocean, so that any object of importance can be descried afar, and information communicated to a great distance. The scouts are stationed on the hills, therefore, to look out both for game and for enemies, and are, in a manner, living telegraphs conveying their intelligence by concerted signs. If they wish to give notice of a herd of buffalo in the plain beyond, they gallop backward and forward abreast, on the summit of the hill. If they perceive an enemy at hand they gallop to and fro, crossing each other; at sight of which the whole village flies to arms.

Such an alarm was given in the afternoon of the 15th. Four scouts were seen crossing and recrossing each other at full gallop, on the summit of a hill about two miles distant down the river. The cry was up that the Sioux were coming. In an instant the village was in an uproar. Men, women, and children were all brawling and shouting; dogs barking, yelping, and howling. Some of the warriors ran for the horses to gather and drive them in from the prairie, some for their weapons. As fast as they could arm and equip they sallied forth; some on horseback, some on foot; some hastily arrayed in their war dress, with coronets of fluttering feathers, and their bodies smeared with paint; others naked and only furnished with the weapons they had snatched up. The women and children gathered on the tops of the lodges and heightened the confusion of the scene by their vociferation. Old men who could no longer bear arms took similar stations, and harangued the warriors as they passed, exhorting them to valorous deeds. Some of the veterans took arms themselves, and sallied forth with tottering steps. In this way, the savage chivalry of the village to the number of five hundred, poured forth, helter-skelter, riding and running, with hideous yells and war-whoops, like so many bedlamites or demoniacs let loose.

After a while the tide of war rolled back, but with far less uproar. Either it had been a false alarm, or the enemy had retreated on finding themselves discovered, and quiet was restored to the village. The white hunters continuing to be fearful of ranging this dangerous neighborhood, fresh provisions began to be scarce in the camp. As a substitute, therefore, for venison and buffalo meat, the travellers had to purchase a number of dogs to be shot and cooked for the supply of the camp. Fortunately, however chary the Indians might be of their horses, they were liberal of their dogs. In fact, these animals swarm about an Indian village as they do about a Turkish town. Not a family but has two or three dozen belonging to it of all sizes and colors; some, of a superior breed, are used for hunting; others, to draw the sledge, while others, of a mongrel breed, and idle vagabond nature, are fattened for food. They are supposed to be descended from the wolf, and retain something of his savage but cowardly temper, howling rather than barking, showing their teeth and snarling on the slightest provocation, but sneaking away on the least attack.

The excitement of the village continued from day to day. On the day following the alarm just mentioned, several parties arrived from different directions, and were met and conducted by some of the braves to the council lodge, where they reported the events and success of their expeditions, whether of war or hunting; which news was afterward promulgated throughout the village, by certain old men who acted as heralds or town criers. Among the parties which arrived was one that had been among the Snake nation stealing horses, and returned crowned with success. As they passed in triumph through the village they were cheered by the men, women, and children, collected as usual on the tops of the lodges, and were exhorted by the Nestors of the village to be generous in their dealings with the white men.

The evening was spent in feasting and rejoicing among the relations of the successful warriors; but sounds of grief and wailing were heard from the hills adjacent to the village: the lamentations of women who had lost some relative in the foray.

An Indian village is subject to continual agitations and excitements. The next day arrived a deputation of braves from the Cheyenne or Shienne nation; a broken tribe, cut up, like the Arickaras, by wars with the Sioux, and driven to take refuge among the Black Hills, near the sources of the Cheyenne River, from which they derive their name. One of these deputies was magnificently arrayed in a buffalo robe, on which various figures were fancifully embroidered with split quills dyed red and yellow; and the whole was fringed with the slender hoofs of young fawns, and rattled as he walked.

The arrival of this deputation was the signal for another of those ceremonies which occupy so much of Indian life; for no being is more courtly and punctilious, and more observing of etiquette and formality than an American savage.

The object of the deputation was to give notice of an intended visit of the Shienne (or Cheyenne) tribe to the Arickara village in the course of fifteen days. To this visit Mr. Hunt looked forward, to procure additional horses for his journey; all his bargaining being ineffectual in obtaining a sufficient supply from the Arickaras. Indeed nothing could prevail upon the latter to part with their prime horses, which had been trained to buffalo hunting.

On the 9th of July, just before daybreak, a great noise and vociferation was heard in the village. This being the usual Indian hour of attack and surprise, and the Sioux being known to be in the neighborhood, the camp was instantly on the alert. As the day broke Indians were descried in considerable numbers on the bluffs, three or four miles down the river. The noise and agitation in the village continued. The tops of the lodges were crowded with the inhabitants, all earnestly looking toward the hills, and keeping up a vehement chattering. Presently an Indian warrior galloped past the camp toward the village, and in a little while the legions began to pour forth.

The truth of the matter was now ascertained. The Indians upon the distant hills were three hundred Arickara braves returning from a foray. They had met the war party of Sioux who had been so long hovering about the neighborhood, had fought them the day before, killed several, and defeated the rest with the loss of but two or three of their own men and about a dozen wounded; and they were now halting at a distance until their comrades in the village should come forth to meet them, and swell the parade of their triumphal entry. The warrior who had galloped past the camp was the leader of the party hastening home to give tidings of his victory.

Preparations were now made for this great martial ceremony. All the finery and equipments of the warriors were sent forth to them, that they might appear to the greatest advantage. Those, too, who had remained at home, tasked their wardrobes and toilets to do honor to the procession.

The Arickaras generally go naked, but, like all savages, they have their gala dress, of which they are not a little vain. This usually consists of a gray surcoat and leggins of the dressed skin of the antelope, resembling chamois leather, and embroidered with porcupine quills brilliantly dyed. A buffalo robe is thrown over the right shoulder, and across the left is slung a quiver of arrows. They wear gay coronets of plumes, particularly those of the swan; but the feathers of the black eagle are considered the most worthy, being a sacred bird among the Indian warriors. He who has killed an enemy in his own land is entitled to drag at his heels a fox-skin attached to each moccasin; and he who has slain a grizzly bear wears a necklace of his claws, the most glorious trophy that a hunter can exhibit.

An Indian toilet is an operation of some toil and trouble; the warrior often has to paint himself from head to foot, and is extremely capricious and difficult to please, as to the hideous distribution of streaks and colors. A great part of the morning, therefore, passed away before there were any signs of the distant pageant. In the mean time a profound stillness reigned over the village. Most of the inhabitants had gone forth; others remained in mute expectation. All sports and occupations were suspended, excepting that in the lodges the painstaking squaws were silently busied in preparing the repasts for the warriors.

It was near noon that a mingled sound of voices and rude music, faintly heard from a distance, gave notice that the procession was on the march. The old men and such of the squaws as could leave their employments hastened forth to meet it. In a little while it emerged from behind a hill, and had a wild and picturesque appearance as it came moving over the summit in measured step, and to the cadence of songs and savage instruments; the warlike standards and trophies flaunting aloft, and the feathers, and paint, and silver ornaments of the warriors glaring and glittering in the sunshine.

[Illustration: RETURN OF THE WARRIORS]

The pageant had really something chivalrous in its arrangement. The Arickaras are divided into several bands, each bearing the name of some animal or bird, as the buffalo, the bear, the dog, the pheasant. The present party consisted of four of these bands, one of which was the dog, the most esteemed in war, being composed of young men under thirty, and noted for prowess. It is engaged on the most desperate occasions. The bands marched in separate bodies under their several leaders. The warriors on foot came first, in platoons of ten or twelve abreast; then the horsemen. Each band bore as an ensign a spear or bow decorated with beads, porcupine quills and painted feathers. Each bore its trophies of scalps, elevated on poles, their long black locks streaming in the wind. Each was accompanied by its rude music and minstrelsy. In this way the procession extended nearly a quarter of a mile. The warriors were variously armed, some few with guns, others with bows and arrows, and war clubs; all had shields of buffalo hide, a kind of defence generally used by the Indians of the open prairies, who have not the covert of trees and forests to protect them. They were painted in the most savage style. Some had the stamp of a red hand across their mouths, a sign that they had drunk the life-blood of a foe!

As they drew near to the village the old men and the women began to meet them, and now a scene ensued that proved the fallacy of the old fable of Indian apathy and stoicism. Parents and children, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters met with the most rapturous expressions of joy; while wailings and lamentations were heard from the relatives of the killed and wounded. The procession, however, continued on with slow and measured step, in cadence to the solemn chant, and the warriors maintained their fixed and stern demeanor.

Between two of the principal chiefs rode a young warrior who had distinguished himself in the battle. He was severely wounded, so as with difficulty to keep on his horse; but he preserved a serene and steadfast countenance, as if perfectly unharmed. His mother had heard of his condition. She broke through the throng, and rushing up, threw her arms around him and wept aloud. He kept up the spirit and demeanor of a warrior to the last, but expired shortly after he had reached his home.

The village was now a scene of the utmost festivity and triumph. The banners, and trophies, and scalps, and painted shields were elevated on poles near the lodges. There were war-feasts and scalp-dances, with warlike songs and savage music; all the inhabitants were arrayed in their festal dresses; while the old heralds went round from lodge to lodge, promulgating with loud voices the events of the battle and the exploits of the various warriors.

Such was the boisterous revelry of the village; but sounds of another kind were heard on the surrounding hills; piteous wailings of the women, who had retired thither to mourn in darkness and solitude for those who had fallen in battle. There the poor mother of the youthful warrior who had returned home in triumph but to die, gave full vent to the anguish of a mother's heart. How much does this custom among the Indian women of repairing to the hill tops in the night, and pouring forth their wailings for the dead, call to mind the beautiful and affecting passage of Scripture, "In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not."