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Chapter 10

Hunting the Hart

During Kalander’s hunt, a stag is slain and Pyrocles disappears after leaving a letter that explains little. Musidorus searches for him throughout Arcadia, accompanied only by Clitophon, who, after some unrecorded adventures, recognizes the black armor of his own cousin Amphialus. Musidorus puts on the black armor and is forthwith attacked by men who escort the black-and-white coach of Queen Helen of Corinth. (1593 ed. 17v.39)

Musidorus and Pyrocles then went together abroad, and the good Kalander entertained them with pleasant discoursing. He told them how well he loved the sport of hunting when he was a young man and how much, by comparison, he disdained all chamber delights. The sun (howsoever great a journey it had to make) could never prevent him with earliness, nor the moon with her sober countenance dissuade him before midnight, from watching for the deer’s feeding.

“O,” said he, “you will never live to my age, unless you keep yourselves in breath with exercise and in heart with joyfulness: too much thinking consumes the spirits, and often it falls out that while one thinks too much of his doing, he neglects to do the effect of his thinking.”

Then spared he not to remember how much Arcadia had changed since his youth. Activity and good fellowship were now nothing valued as they were then, but according to the nature of the old-growing world, still worse and worse. Then he would tell them stories of such gallants as he had known.

And so with pleasant company he beguiled the time’s haste and shortened the way’s length, until they came to the side of the wood where the hounds were in couples awaiting their coming, but with a whining accent craving liberty. Many of them in color and marks so resembled each other that it showed they were of one kind. The huntsmen were handsomely attired in their green liveries, as though they were children of summer. They held staves in their hands to beat the guiltless earth when the hounds were at a fault, and they wore horns about their necks to sound an alarum upon a silly fugitive.

The hounds were straight uncoupled, and ere long the stag thought it better to trust to the nimbleness of his feet than to the slender fortification of his lodging. But even his feet betrayed him, for howsoever they went, they themselves uttered themselves to the scent of his enemies. The hounds took the scent one from another, sometimes believing the wind’s advertisement, sometimes the view of their faithful counselors—the huntsmen. With open mouths they then declared war when the war was already begun, and their cry was composed of so well-sorted mouths that any man would perceive some kind of proportion, but the skillful woodmen found music.

Delight and a variety of opinions drew the horsemen sundry ways, yet cheering their hounds with voice and horn, they nonetheless kept together. The wood seemed to conspire with them against its own citizens, deciphering their noise through all its quarters. Even the nymph Echo ceased to bewail the loss of Narcissus and became a hunter. The stag was in the end so hotly pursued that (leaving his flight) he was driven to make courage of despair, and so, turning his head, made the hounds testify by change of speech that he was at a bay—as if from hot pursuit of their enemy, they were suddenly come to a parley.

Kalander (by his skill of coasting the country) was amongst the first that reached the besieged deer. Some of the younger sort would have killed it with their swords, but he would not suffer that and instead with a cross-bow sent a death to the poor beast, who with tears showed the unkindness it took of man’s cruelty.

By the time that the whole company was assembled, and the stag had bestowed himself liberally among them that had killed him, Daiphantus was missed. Palladius carefully inquired, but no news could be given him, except for one man who said he thought he had returned home, because he marked him, in the chief of the hunting, take a by-way, which might lead to Kalander’s house. That answer for the time satisfying, and they having performed all duties, as well for the stag’s funeral as the hounds’ triumph, they returned home. Some talked of the fatness of the deer’s body, some of the fairness of his head, some of the hounds’ cunning, some of their speed, and some of their cry, till coming home (about the time that the candles begin to inherit the sun’s office) they found Daiphantus was not to be found.

Palladius greatly marveled, and a day or two passed, while neither search nor inquiry could help him to knowledge, until at last he lighted upon the letter that Pyrocles had written before he went a-hunting and left in his study among his other writings. The letter was directed to Palladius himself, and contained these words:

“My only friend! Violence of love leads me into such a course, whereof your knowledge may much more vex you than help me. Therefore pardon my concealing it from you since then. If I wrong you, it is in the respect I bear you. Return into Thessalia, I pray you, as full of good fortune as I am of desire: and if I live, I will in short time follow you; 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 ,8 he knew it to be the armor of his cousin, the noble Amphialus. Fearing that some inconvenience had happened to him, he revealed both his doubt and cause of doubt to Palladius, who considered it best to make no longer stay but to follow on, lest by chance some violence were offered to so worthy a knight, whose fame the world seemed to set in balance with any knight living.

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 speeches, poured itself so fast into tears, that Palladius could not hold her longer in error, but, pulling off his helmet, “Madam,” he said, “I perceive you mistake me. I am a stranger in these parts. I was set up upon, without any cause given by me, by some of your servants, whom I have evilly treated. Although I did so in my just defense, I have come to make my excuse to you. Seeing you such as I do, I find greater cause why I should crave pardon of you.”

When she saw his face and heard his speech, she looked out of the coach and saw that some of her men were slain and some lay under their dead horses, striving to get out from under them. Without making more account of the matter, “Truly,” said she, “they are well served who dared to lift up their arms against that armor. But sir knight,” said she, “I pray you tell me, how come you by this armor? For if it be by the death of him who owned it, then have I more to say to you.”

Palladius assured her it was not so, telling her the true manner how he found it.

“It is enough,” said she, “for that agrees with the manner he has lately used. But I beseech you, sir,” said she, “since your prowess has bereft me of my company, let it yet so far heal the wounds it has given as to guard me to the next town.”

“However great my business may be, fair lady,” said he, “it shall willingly yield to so noble a cause. But first, even by the favor you bear to the lord of this noble suit of armor, I conjure you to tell me the story of your fortune herein, lest hereafter—when the image of so excellent a lady in so strange a plight comes before my eyes—I condemn myself for want of consideration in not having demanded thus much. Neither do I ask it without protestation, that wherein my sword and faith may avail you, they shall bind themselves to your service.”

“Your conjuration, fair knight,” said she, “is too strong for my poor spirit to disobey, and that shall make me (without any other hope, my ruin being—but by one—unrelievable) to grant your will herein. And to speak the truth, it would be a strange coyness in me not to say to a person representing so much worthiness that which I am glad to utter even to rocks and woods.

unkindness] Musidorus’ mind dwells on the unkindness Pyrocles has shown him.

.] The heraldic insignia (device) of Amphialus is one of several passages, like the later catalogue of trees, that Sidney had not composed before he died.