Classic Poem

I MET the knight Sir Ernalton
In those right pleasant days,
When, in attendance on the earl,
I tarried at Ortaise.
A wise and worthy knight was he—
Sir Ernalton of Pine—
And pleasant converse oft we held
Above our cups of wine.

Sir Ernalton had much to say
Whereof I loved to learn,
And once, it chanced, the converse turned
Upon the knight of Bearn.
No man was near, our speech to hear,
And we were frank with wine,
And therefore freely spake my friend,
Sir Ernalton of Pine.

Quoth he, “The king, Don Pedro, slew,
Some twenty years ago,
The Count of Biscay, for a cause
Of which I nothing know.
His daughter, Lady Florens, fled
To seek Earl Gaston here;
And came in grief before the earl,
And made her story clear.

“Earl Gaston heard her grievous tale
With generous concern,
And matched her with his kinsman young,
The gallant knight of Bearn.
Sir Peter found sufficient art
To quell his lady's tears,
And happily, as man and wife,
They lived for many years.

“Now comes my tale: ten months ago,
One pleasant winter morn,
The knight from Languedudon rode
To hunt, with hound and horn;
And it befell that in a dell,
That most unlucky day,
The hounds of good Sir Peter brought
A mighty boar to bay.

“Sir Peter heard their yells from far,
And rode the greenwood fast:
And, drawing on, espied the boar—
A monster fell and vast.
His fiery eyes, and foaming tusks
Were fearful to be seen,
As in his wrath he ripped the dogs,
And slew them on the green.

“‘Now, by St. Hubert!’ said the knight,
‘This thing must have an end:
It seems but pastime to the boar
My gallant dogs to rend.’
And then he urged his horse amain,
And dashed, in full career,
To bring that battle to an end
With one true stroke of spear.

“But coming near, his charger swerved,
And would not front the beast,
Whereat, I trow, Sir Peter's wrath
Was mightily increased.
‘Ah, craven!’ quoth he to his horse,
‘Dost thou so fail thy lord?’—
And, leaping from his seat, he drew
His trusty Bordeaux sword.

“An hour the knight waged battle hot,
Against his foaming foe,
And sought his life with utmost skill
Of cunning stab and blow.
An hour he fought, and verily
The mighty boar he slew:
And, standing by the carcass vast,
His merry bugle blew.

“His servants of the hunt came in,
And they were in amaze,
And scrutinized the monster fell
With wonder in their gaze.
‘This boar,’ said they, ‘is sure the same
That, twenty years ago,
Just here, in this same dell, alarmed
Our lady's father so.’

“‘What say you?’ said the knight of Bearn,
And then an aged wight
Came forth before the rest, and made
Free answer to the knight;
‘Just twenty years ago,’ quoth he,
‘In this same month, and day,
The count, our lady's father, brought
A boar like this to bay.

“‘And pressing hard upon the beast,
In this green valley here,
Some devil's voice came suddenly,
And strangely, to his ear.
Whether it came from ground, or air,
Our lord could never tell:
But certainly the voice he heard—
And others heard as well.

“‘Why woundest thou a creature weak,
Whose comfort harms thee not?
The cruel shall die cruelly—
Such were the words, I wot;
And, with their sound, the churning boar
Passed free of spear and sword:
Within a year Don Pedro slew
Our well-beloved lord!’

“‘Gramercy,’ quoth Sir Peter then,
‘My dame's unhappy sire
By the mere battle, proved the beast
No better than a liar.
A hind may be a creature weak—
Not so this giant boar:
But, certes, if he ever spake,
The beast will speak no more!’

“Then back to Languedudon rode
The knight, his halls to win,
Leaving the strongest of his train
To bear the wild boar in;
And when the men had cast their load
Upon the pavèd court,
Sir Peter called his dame to see
The trophy of his sport.

“Fair Lady Florens left her bower,
And came forth readily,
And with a smile upon her face,
The slaughtered boar to see:
But when she saw the gory beast,
Her face grew wondrous pale,
And, lifting up her lily hand,
She sought her eyes to veil.

“But presently she put away
Her white hand from her eyes,
And freely gazed, and mused as one
Who deals with mysteries.
Sometimes she mused, then wended back
Her lonely bower to seek—
Her right hand pressed upon her breast,
Her left upon her cheek.

“A lonely hour she passed in bower,
Then came, with honeyed word,
And face quite cunning in its smiles,
And thus addressed her lord:
‘I owe a vow to good St. James,
And, husband, I would fain
Take our dear daughter Adrienne,
And journey into Spain.’

“Sir Peter heard his dame's request,
And said, ‘So let it be:’
And Lady Florens, with the word,
Departed speedily.
From Castle Languedudon, forth
She journeyed with her train;
And, by my troth, the wily dame,
Came never back again.

“That night, when all were sound asleep,
Sir Peter left his bed,
And seized his naked sword, and placed
His basnet on his head;
Fierce smote he right and left, and cried
His sounding battle-cry:
I trow he deemed himself a-field,
And in sore jeopardy.

“A little page, who shared his room,
Fled from his blows aghast,
And reached the door, and flitted out,
And made the strong bolt fast.
Long, from without, boy Gracien heard
The knight that battle wage—
Heard wild Sir Peter's slashing blows,
And cries of valiant rage.

“As sweet as summer did he seem—
The gallant knight of Bearn!—
When, on the morrow, from his page,
He came the truth to learn.
‘Certes, dear boy,’—he smiled, and said—
‘I toiled to slay the boar,
And so my dreams were fever-wild:
The thing will chance no more.’

“But, with the second night, once more
Sir Peter left his bed,
And seized his naked sword, and placed
His basnet on his head;
And shouted forth his battle-cry,
And waged his fight amain;
While little Gracien, quite aghast,
Escaped the room again.

“So passed his nights, until he pined;
And now, as all may see,
By his wan looks, the gallant knight
Is stricken mortally.
Ten months agone he slew the boar,
And there are men who say
His wife, who augurs of his death,
Can name his dying day.

“He here at Ortaise, with the earl—
She with her friends in Spain—
Such thing, Sir John, should hardly be;
The wife should come again.
But she is versed in mysteries,
Of necromantic art,
And such give cunning to the brain,
But poison to the heart.”

So said my friend Sir Ernalton:
I mused his story's wonder—
It was a complex web, which I
Might scarcely win asunder.
“Doubtless,” I said at last, “the dame
Knew more than she would say
Of the great beast Sir Peter slew
On that unlucky day.

“Perchance, enlightened by her art,
She knew the mighty boar
Was some fair knight, who rode that land
In merry days of yore.
And angered some old forest god,
Whose terrible decree
Thus brutalized the gentleman
From his humanity.

“This seems quite strange—nay, wonderful—
But, nathless, we are told
Of many cases similar
In chronicles of old.
For instance—and a score of such
My reading could impart—
The cavalier, young Acteon,
Was changed into a hart.”

“Sir John”—said good Sir Ernalton—
“Pray make that story clear:
I have not heard of Acteon,
And much desire to hear.”
Then I replied, “This Acteon,
Of whom you seek to know,
Was a right valiant gentleman,
Who flourished long ago.

“The youth was fond of hound and horn,
And all fair forest sport:
And, one day, riding in the woods—
As chronicles report—
He roused a very noble hart,
And pressed so eagerly
Upon that chase, that soon he lost
His hounds and company.

“Holding his way for all that day,
With speed and courage keen,
At setting of the sun he reached
A meadow close and green—
A meadow with a pleasant brook,
Shut in with beechen shades—
And caught Diana bathing there
With all her snowy maids.

“The goddess was confused enough,
But, towering in her pride,
Refused her naked loveliness
By any art to hide,
And chid her blushing girls, who sought,
By crouching or by flying,
To shun the youth who sate his horse
Their naked charms espying.

“‘Ah, hunter vile!’—Diana said—
‘Whoever sent you here’
Was not your friend, as presently
Shall very well appear.
I will not that your tongue shall speak
The secret of your eyes:
Your speech shall never put to shame
Our maiden modesties.

“‘Take shape and likeness of the hart
Which you have chased to-day!
It is my will: so let it be.’—
And, sir, old writers say,
Young Acteon, with Diana's words,
Assumed the horned looks
Of the wood-hart, whose natural love
Is for the water-brooks.

“And finally, Sir Ernalton,
The same old writers show,
That as the human quadruped
Went plaining to and fro,
And gazing on his slender knees,
His hounds came up with him,
And, urged on by the cruel maids,
Soon tore him limb from limb.

“This is the tale of Acteon:
And sad Sir Peter's dame,
I nothing doubt, from all you say,
Knows more than she will name.
Of that great boar her husband slew—
And so, perhaps, should be
Excused, in somewhat, for her flight,
And seeming cruelty.”

“It may be,” said Sir Ernalton,
“That what you say is true:
But, sure, the dame deals cruelly
Where tenderness is due.
The husband is a dying man,
And, sir—I must maintain—
If he had slain St. Hubert's self,
The wife should come again.”