For five years Apuleius stayed in the house of Thyasus, and ate as many sweet cakes as he chose; and if he wanted more than were given him he wandered down to the tent of his old masters, and swept the shelves bare as of yore. At the end of the five years Thyasus proclaimed that a great feast would be held in his garden, after which plays would be acted, and in one of them his donkey should appear.
Now, though Apuleius loved eating and drinking, he was not at all fond of doing tricks in public, and as the day drew near he grew more and more resolved that he would take no part in the entertainment. So one warm moonlight night he stole out of his stable, and galloped as fast as he could for ten miles, when he reached the sea. He was hot and tired with his long run, and the sea looked cool and pleasant.
"It is years since I have had a bath," thought he, "or wetted anything but my feet. I will take one now; it will make me feel like a man again"; and into the water he went, and splashed about with joy, which would much have surprised anyone who had seen him, for a.s.ses do not in general care about washing.
When he came back to dry land once more, he shook himself all over, and held his head first on one side and then on the other, so that the water might run out of his long ears. After that he felt quite comfortable, and lay down to sleep under a tree.
He was awakened some hours later by the sound of voices singing a hymn, and, raising his head, he saw a vast crowd of people trooping down to the sh.o.r.e to hold the festival of their G.o.ddess, and in their midst walked the high priest crowned with a wreath of roses.
At this sight hope was born afresh in the heart of Apuleius. It was long indeed since he had beheld any roses, for Thyasus fancied they made him ill, and would not suffer anyone to grow them in the city. So he drew near to the priest as he pa.s.sed by, and gazed at him so wistfully that, moved by some sudden impulse, the pontiff lifted the wreath from his head, and held it out to him, while the people drew on one side, feeling that something was happening which they did not understand.
Scarcely had Apuleius swallowed one of the roses, when the a.s.s"s skin fell from him, his back straightened itself, and his face once more became fair and rosy. Then he turned and joined in the hymn, and there was not a man among them all with a sweeter voice or more thankful spirit than that of Apuleius.
[Apuleius, _The Golden a.s.s_.]
_GUY OF WARWICK_
Everyone knows about the famous knight Sir Guy, the slayer of the great Dun Cow which had laid waste the whole county of Warwick. But besides slaying the cow, he did many other n.o.ble deeds of which you may like to hear, so we had better begin at the beginning and learn who Sir Guy really was.
The father of Guy, Segard the Wise, was one of the most trusty councillors of the powerful earl of Warwick and Oxford, who was feared as well as loved by all, as a man who would suffer no wrong through the lands which he governed.
Now the earl had long noted the beauty and strength of Segard"s young son, and had enrolled him amongst his pages and taught him all manner of knightly exercises. He even was versed in the art of chess-playing, and thus whiled away many a wet and gloomy day for his master, and for his daughter the fair Felice, learned in astronomy, geometry, and music, and in all else that professors from the schools of Toulouse and Spain could teach a maiden.
It happened one Pentecost that the earl of Warwick ordered a great feast, followed by a tourney, to be held in the open s.p.a.ce near the castle, and tents to be set up for dancing and players on the lute and harp. At these tourneys it was the custom of every knight to choose out his lady and to wear her token or colours on his helmet, as Sir Lancelot did the red sleeve of Elaine, and oftentimes, when Pentecost and the sports were over, marriages would be blessed by the priest.
At this feast of Pentecost in particular, Guy stood behind the chair of his master the earl, as was his duty, when he was bidden by the chamberlain of the castle to hasten to the chamber of the Lady Felice, and to attend upon her and her maidens, as it was not thought seemly for them to be present at the great feast.
Although, as we have said, the page had more than once been called upon to amuse the young damsel with a bout of chess, she had ever been strictly guarded by her nurse and never suffered to exchange a word with the youth whose place was so much below hers. On this evening, however, with none to hinder her, she chattered and laughed and teased her ladies, till Guy"s heart was stolen from him and he quite forgot the duties he was sent to fulfil, and when he left her presence he sought his room, staggering like one blind.
Young though he was, Guy knew--none better--how wide was the gulf that lay between him and the daughter of his liege lord. If the earl, in spite of all his favour, was but to know of the pa.s.sion that had so suddenly been born in him, instant death would be the portion of the over-bold youth. But, well though he knew this, Guy cared little, and vowed to himself that, come what might, as soon as the feast was over he would open his heart to Felice, and abide by her answer.
It was not easy to get a chance of speaking to her, so surrounded was she by all the princes and n.o.ble knights who had taken part in the tourney; but, as everything comes to him who waits, he one day found her sitting alone in the garden, and at once poured forth all his love and hopes.
"Are you mad to think that _I_ should marry _you_?" was all she said, and Guy turned away so full of unhappiness that he grew sick with misery. The news of his illness much distressed his master, who bade all his most learned leeches go and heal his best-beloved page, but, as he answered nothing to all they asked him, they returned and told the earl that the young man had not many days to live.
But, as some of our neighbours say, "What shall be, shall be"; and that very night Felice dreamed that an angel appeared to her and chided her for her pride, and bade her return a soft answer if Guy again told her of his love. She arose from her bed full of doubts and fears, and hurried to a rose bower in her own garden, where, dismissing her ladies, she tried to set her mind in order and find out what she really felt.
Felice was not very successful, because when she began to look into her heart there was one little door which always kept bursting open, though as often as it did so her pride shut it and bolted it again. She became so tired of telling herself that it was impossible that the daughter of a powerful n.o.ble could ever wed the simple son of a knight, that she was about to call to her maidens to cheer her with their songs and stories, when a hand pushed aside the roses and Guy himself stood before her.
"Will my love ever be in vain?" he asked, gasping painfully as he spoke and steadying himself by the walls of the arbour. "It is for the last time that I ask it; but if you deny me, my life is done, and I die, I die!" And indeed it seemed as if he were already dead, for he sank in a swoon at Felice"s feet.
Her screams brought one of her maidens running to her. "Grammercy, my lady, and is your heart of stone," cried the damsel, "that it can see the fairest knight in the world lying here, and not break into pieces at his misery? Would that it were _I_ whom he loved! I would never say him nay."
"Would it _were_ you, and then I should no more be plagued of him,"
answered Felice; but her voice was softer than her words, and she even helped her maiden to bring the young man out of his swoon. "He is restored now," she said to her damsel, who curtseyed and withdrew from the bower; then, turning to Guy, she added, half smiling:
"It seems that in my father"s court no man knows the proverb, "Faint heart never won fair lady." Yet it is old, and a good one. _My_ hand will only be the prize of a knight who has proved himself better than other men. If _you_ can be that knight--well, you will have your chance with the rest."
The soul of the youth leaped into his eyes as he listened; for he knew that this was much for the proud Felice to say. But he only bowed low, and with new life in his blood he left the castle. In a few days he was as strong as ever he had been, and straightway sought the earl, whom he implored to bestow on him the honour of knighthood.
"Right gladly will I do so, my page," answered Rohand, and gave orders that he would hold a solemn ceremony, when Guy and twenty other youths should be dubbed knights.
Like many young men, Sir Guy thought that his first step on the road was also to be his last, and instantly sought the presence of Felice, whom he expected to find in the same softened mood as he had left her. But the lady only laughed his eagerness to scorn.
"Think you that the name of knight is so rare that its ownership places you high above all men?" asked she. "In what, I pray you tell me, does it put you above the rest who were dubbed by my father with you to-day?
No troth of mine shall you have until your name is known from Warwick to Cathay."
And Sir Guy confessed his folly and presumption, and went heavily unto the house of Segard.
"O my father," he began before he had let the tapestry fall behind him, "I would fain cross the seas and seek adventures."
"Truly this is somewhat sudden, my fair young knight," answered Sir Segard, with a mocking gleam in his eyes, for Guy"s father had not been as blind as fathers are wont to be.
"Other knights do so," replied Guy, drawing figures on the floor with the point of his sword. "And I would not that I were behind them."
"You shall go, my son," said Segard, "and I will give you as companions the well-tried knights Sir Thorold and Sir Leroy, and Heraud, whom I have proved in many wars. Besides these, you shall have men-at-arms with you, and such money as you may need."
Before many days had pa.s.sed, Sir Guy and his friends had sailed across the high seas, and had made their way to the n.o.ble city of Rouen. Amidst all that was strange and new to him, there was yet much that was familiar to his eyes, for there were certain signs which betokened a tournament, and on questioning the host of the inn he learned all that he desired. Next morning a tourney was to be held by order of the emperor and the prize should be a white horse, a milk-white falcon, and two white greyhounds, and, if he wished it, the hand of the princess Whiterose, the emperor"s daughter.
Though he had not been made a knight a month ago, Sir Guy knew full well the customs of chivalry, and presented a palfrey, scarcely less beautiful than the one promised as a prize, to the teller of these happy tidings. Then he put on his armour and rode forth to the place of the tourney.
In the field over against Rouen was gathered the flower of Western chivalry. The emperor had sent his son, and in his train came many valiant knights, among them Otho duke of Pavia, hereafter to be Sir Guy"s most bitter enemy. The fights were long and sore, but one by one the keenest swordsmen rolled in the dust, and the prize was at length adjudged to the youngest knight there present.
Full courteously he told all who might wish to hear that he might not wed Whiterose, the princess, for his faith was already plighted to another across the sea. And to Felice and to her father he sent the falcon and horse and greyhounds as tokens of his valour. After that he and his friends journeyed to many lands, fighting tournaments when there were any tournaments to fight, till the whole of Christendom rang with the name of Sir Guy.
"Surely I have proved my worth," he said, when a whole year had gone by.
"Let us go home"; and home they went.
Joyful was the welcome bestowed on him by every one he met--joyful, that is, from all but Felice.
"Yes, you have done well," she said, when he knelt before her, offering some of the prizes he had won. "It is truly spoken among men that there are not twelve knights living as valorous as you. But that is not good enough for me. It matters not that you are "one of the best"; my husband must be "the best of all.""
In vain Sir Guy pleaded that with her for his wife his strength would be doubled, and his renown also.
"If you cannot conquer all men for my sake _now_, you will never do it after," she answered; and Sir Guy, seeing his words were useless, went out to do her bidding.
The wrath of his father and mother was great when their son came to tell them he was going to seek a fresh quest, but, though his heart was sore rent with their tears, he only embraced them tenderly, and departed quickly, lest he should make some promise he might not keep.
For long he found no knight whose skill and strength were equal to his own, and he was beginning to hope that the day was drawing nigh that should see him stand without a peer, when, in a tourney near the city of Benevento, his foe thrust his lance deep into his shoulder, and for many days Sir Guy lay almost senseless on his bed.
Now Otho duke of Pavia had neither forgotten nor forgiven his overthrow by the young knight at Rouen, more than a year agone, and he resolved to have his revenge while his enemy was still weak from loss of blood. So he hid some men behind some bushes, which Sir Guy would needs pa.s.s while riding along the road to the north, "and _then_," thought he, "I will cast him into prison, there to await my pleasure."
But though his plans were well laid, the fight went against him, and in the end Sir Guy, nearly fainting with weariness and loss of blood, was again the victor, and Otho"s best knight, Sir Guichard of Lombardy, owed his life to the swiftness of his horse. His victory, however, was to Sir Guy as sad as many defeats, for his constant companions lay dead before him.