You spoil us for our trade:—two bonnets doffed,
And travellers’ questions holding you afield,
For these you give us this.” “Sir! not your meed,
Nor worthy of your breeding; but in sooth
Such is not out of Pavia.” Therewithal
He led them to fair chambers decked with that
Makes tired men glad—lights, and the marble bath,
And flasks that sparkled, solid amethyst,
And grapes, not dry as yet from morning dew.
Thereafter at the supper-board they sat,
Nor lacked it, though its guest was reared a king,
Worthy provend in crafts of cookery,
Pastel, pasticcio—all set forth on gold;
And gracious talk and pleasant courtesies,
Spoken in stately Latin, cheated time
Till there was none but held the stranger-sir,
For all his purfled robe of cramasie,
Goodlier than robes could show him. Presently
Talk rose upon the Holy Sepulchre.
“I go myself,” said Torel, “with a score
Of better knights—the flower of Pavia—
To try our steel against King Saladin’s.
Sirs! ye have seen the countries of the Sun,
Know you the Soldan?” Answer gave the King,
“The Soldan we have seen—’twill push him hard
If, which I nothing doubt, your Pavian lords
Are valorous as gentle;—we, indeed,
Are Cyprus merchants making trade to France—
Dull sons of Peace.” “By Mary!” Torel cried,
“But for thy speech, I ne’er heard speech so fit
To lead the war, nor saw a band that sat
Liker a soldier’s in the sabre’s place,
But sure I hold you sleepless!” Then himself
Playing them chamberlain, with torches borne,
Led to their restful beds, commending them
To sleep and God, who hears, Allah or God,
When good men do his creatures charities.
At dawn the cock, and neigh of saddled steeds
Broke the King’s dreams of battle—not their own,
But goodly jennets from Torello’s stalls,
Caparisoned to bear them: he their host
Up—with a gracious manner like the dew—
To bid them speed. Beside him in the court
Stood Dame Adalieta: comely she,
And of her port as stately, and as sweet
As if the threaded gold about her brows
Had been a crown. Mutual good-morrow given,
Thanks said and stayed, the lady prayed her guest
To take a token of his sojourn there,
Marking her good-will, not his worthiness;
“A gown of miniver—these furbelows
Are silk I spun—my lord wears ever such—
A housewife’s gift! but those ye love are far;
Wear it as given for them.” Then Saladin:
“A princely gift, Madonna, past my thanks;
And—but thou shalt not hear a ‘no’ from me—
Past my receiving—yet I take it: we
Were debtors to your noble courtesy
Out of redemption—this but bankrupts us.”
“Nay, sir,—God speed you!” said the knight and dame.
And Saladin, with phrase of gentilesse
Returned, or ever that he rode alone,
Swore a great oath in guttural Arabic—
An oath by Allah—startling up the ears
Of those three Christian cattle they bestrode,
That never yet was nobler-natured man,
Nor statelier lady;—and that time should see
For a king’s lodging quittance royal repaid.
PART II.
It was the day of the Passaggio:
Ashore the war-steeds champed the gimmal-bit;
Afloat the galleys tugged the mooring-chain—
Waiting their loads; the Lombard armourers,
Red-hot with rivetting the helmets up,
And whetting axes for the heathen heads,
Cooled in the crowd that filled the squares and streets
To speed God’s soldiers. At the none that day
Messer Torello to the court came down,
Leading his Lady;—sorrow’s hueless rose
Grew on her cheek, and thrice the destrier
Struck fire, impatient, from the pavement-squares,
Or ere she spoke, tears in her lifted eyes,
“Goest thou, lord of mine?” “Madonna, yes!”
Said Torel, “for my soul’s weal and the Lord
Ride I to-day: my good name and my house
Reliant I entrust thee, and because
It may be they shall slay me, and because
Being so young, so fair, and so reputed,
The noblest will entreat thee—wait for me,
Widow or wife, a year, and month, and day;
And if thy kinsmen press thee to a choice,
And I be not come, hold me for dead:
Nor link thy blooming beauty with the grave
Against thine heart.” “Good, my lord!” answered she,
“Hardly my heart sustains to let thee go;
Thy memory it can keep, and keep it will,
Though my one lord, Torel of Istria,
Live, or—” “Sweet, comfort thee! San Piero, speed,
I shall come home: if not, and worthy knees
Bend for this hand, whereof none worthy lives,
Least he who lays his last kiss thus upon it,
Look thee, I free it—” “Nay!” she said, “but I,
A petulant slave that hugs her golden chain,
Give the gift back, and with it this poor ring:
Set it upon thy sword-hand, and in fight
Be merciful and win, thinking on me.”
Then she, with pretty action, drawing on
Her ruby, buckled over it his glove—
The great steel glove—and through the helmet bars
Took her last kiss;—then let the chafing steed
Have his hot will and go.
Have his hot will and go. But Saladin,
Safe back among his lords at Lebanon,
Well wotting of their coming, waited it,
And held the crescent up against the cross.
In many a doughty fight Ferrara blades
Clashed with keen Damasc, many a weary month
Wasted a-field; but yet the Christians
Won nothing nearer to the sepulchre;
Nay, but gave ground. At last in Acre pent,
On their loose files, enfeebled by the war,
Came stronger smiter than the Saracen—
The deadly Pest: day after day they died,
Pikeman and knight-at-arms: day after day
A thinner line upon the leaguered wall
Held off the heathen:—held them off a-space;
Then, over-weakened, yielded, and gave up
The city and the stricken garrison.
So to sad chains and hateful servitude
Fell all those purple lords—Christendom’s stars,
Once high in hope as soaring Lucifer,
Now low as sinking Hesper: with them fell
Messer Torello—never none so poor
Of all the hundreds that his bounty fed
As he in prison—ill-entreated, bound,
Starved of sweet light, and set to shameful tasks;
And that great load at heart to know the days
Fast flying, and to live accounted dead.
One joy his gaolers left him,—his good hawk;
The brave, gay bird that crossed the seas with him:
And often in the mindful hour of eve,
With tameless eye and spirit masterful,
In a fine anger checking at his hand,
