Arcadia. Sir Philip Sidney
if I die, love my memory.”
This was all, and this Palladius read over twice or thrice.
“Ah, Pyrocles,” said he, “what means this alteration? What have I deserved of you, to be thus banished from your counsels? Heretofore I have accused the sea, condemned the pirates, and hated my evil fortune that deprived me of you, but now your own self is the sea that drowns my comfort. Your self is the pirate that robs yourself from me. Your own will becomes my evil fortune.”
Then turned he his thoughts to all forms of guesses that might shed light upon the purpose and course of Pyrocles—for he was not so sure by his words that it was love, as he was doubtful where the love was. One time he thought some beauty in Laconia had laid hold of his eyes, another time he feared that it might be Parthenia’s excellence that had broken the bands of all former resolutions, but the more he thought, the more he knew not what to think. Armies of objections rose against any accepted opinion.
Then, as careful what to do himself, he at length determined never to stop seeking him, till his search should be either by meeting accomplished or by death ended. Therefore—for all the unkindness, bearing tender respect that his friend’s secret determination should be kept from any suspicion in others—he went to Kalander and told him that he had received a message from Daiphantus, by which he understood that he was going back to Laconia about some matters greatly important to the poor men whose protection he had undertaken.
He said that it was not in any sort fit for him to follow Daiphantus unless in such private ways that he would not be known. Therefore he would then bid Kalander farewell, arming himself in black armor—as either a badge or a prognostication of his mind—and taking only with him good store of money and a few choice jewels, leaving the greatest number of them and most of his apparel with Kalander. He did this partly to give Kalander more cause to expect their return and so to be less curiously inquisitive after them, but also partly to leave honorable thanks unto him for his charge and kindness, which he knew he would not otherwise receive.
The good old man, having neither reason to dissuade nor hope to persuade, received the things with the mind of a keeper, not of an owner. But before Palladius went, Kalander desired to have the happiness fully to know who Palladius and Daiphantus were. He said he had until then delayed asking this, fearing to be in any way importunate, but now he could not be so much an enemy to his desires as any longer to imprison them in silence. Palladius told him that the matter was not so secret that so worthy a friend could not deserve the knowledge, and should have it as soon as he might speak with his friend, without whose consent he could not reveal their identities, because their promises bound him otherwise.
Palladius bade him hold for most assured that if they lived but a while, he should find that they who bore the names of Daiphantus and Palladius would give him and his retinue cause to think his noble courtesy well employed. Kalander would press him no further, but desired that he might have leave to go with him, or at least to send his son and servants with him.
Palladius broke off all ceremonies by telling him his case stood so that Kalander’s greatest favor should be in making less ado of his parting. Kalander, knowing it would be more encumbrance than courtesy to strive, abstained from further urging him but not from heartily mourning the loss of so sweet a conversation.
Clitophon alone, by vehement importunity, obtained permission to go with him. He wanted to see Daiphantus again, whom he named and accounted his lord. And so, in such private guise departed Palladius, and that he had a companion to talk with, yet he talked much more with unkindness.7
And first they went to Mantinea, where, because Parthenia was there, Palladius suspected there might be some cause of Daiphantus’ abode. But finding no news of him, they went to Tegea, Rhipa, Enispe, and Stymphalus, and Phineus (famous for its poisonous Stygian water). They went through all the rest of Arcadia, making their eyes, their ears, and their tongues serve almost for nothing but that enquiry. But they could know nothing but that in none of those places Pyrocles was known. And so they went, making one place succeed to another in their search with similar uncertainty, many times encountering strange adventures worthy to be registered in the rolls of fame; but this may be omitted.
As they passed through a pleasant valley— where on either side the high hills lifted up their beetle-brows as if they would overlook the pleasantness of their under-prospect—they were, by the daintiness of the place and the weariness of themselves, invited to alight from their horses. They pulled off their horses’ bits so that they might something refresh their mouths upon the grass that plentifully grew (brought up under the care of those well-shading trees). They themselves lay down beside the murmuring music of certain waters that spouted out of the side of the hills and, in the bottom of the valley, made of many springs a pretty brook, like a commonwealth of many families.
After they had a while hearkened to the persuasion of sleep, they rose and walked onward in that shady place until Clitophon spied a piece of armor, and not far off another piece. And so, the sight of one piece teaching him to look for more, he at length found all, with headpiece and shield. By its device, which was
Yet with a sudden conceit, having long borne great honor to the name of Amphialus, Palladius thought best to take that armor (thinking thereby to learn news of Amphialus from those who should know that armor) and yet not hinder him in the search for Daiphantus. So he, by the help of Clitophon, quickly put on that armor, whereof there was no piece wanting, although it was hacked in some places, betraying some fight not long since passed. It was somewhat too large, yet served well enough.
And so getting on their horses, they had traveled but a little way when, in the opening of the mouth of that valley, they met a coach drawn with four milk-white horses furnished all in black, with a blackamoor boy upon every horse, all appareled in white, and the coach itself very richly furnished in black and white. But before they could come so near as to discern what was within, there came running upon them over a dozen horsemen, who cried to them to yield themselves prisoners or else they should die.
But Palladius, not accustomed to grant over the possession of himself upon so unjust titles, with sword drawn gave them so rude an answer that many of them never had breath to reply again. Being well backed by Clitophon and having an excellent horse under him, he avoided those who overpressed him and, before the next horseman thought of it, punished him for the fault of the fellow whom he had avoided. And so either with cunning or with force, or rather with a cunning force, he left none either living or able to make his life serve to others’ hurt.
When done, he approached the coach and assured the black boys, who were else ready to run away, that they should have no hurt. He looked inside the coach and found in the one end a lady of great beauty—and such beauty as showed forth beams both of wisdom and good nature, but all as much darkened as might be with sorrow. In the other end he saw two ladies, whose demeanor showed well that they were but her servants, holding before them the picture of a goodly gentleman (whom he knew not) painted. Their faces showed a certain waiting sorrow, for their mistress’s weeping had infected their eyes.
The chief lady had not so much as once heard the noise of this conflict (so sorrow had closed up all the entries of her mind, and love tied her senses to the beloved picture). Musidorus’ shadow, falling upon the picture, made her cast up her eyes, and seeing the armor which she knew too well, and thinking he was Amphialus, the lord of her desires, and with the blood coming more freely into her cheeks, as though it would be bold, and yet growing new again, pale for fear, with a pitiful look, like one unjustly condemned, “My lord Amphialus,” said she, “you have punished me enough. It is time for cruelty to leave you, and evil fortune me. If not, I pray you accomplish the one even now, and finish the other. You can have no fitter time nor place to grant my prayer and kill me.”
With that, sorrow, impatient to be slowly uttered in her often hesitating