The Forest Lovers

"Ah, Messire," babbled the shiny rogue, "have I not done after my kind

also?"

"You have indeed, my friend," Prosper replied. "Now I will do after

mine."

To be short, he had Master Porges stripped, horsed, and stoutly

flogged then and there. This he did by the simple device of calling up

his agents by name, having the general's knack of judging men. Master

Porges was a pursy man, but there were burlier than he; a couple of

lean stablemen made good practice with the stirrup-leathers. At the

end the entire herd were his slaves. One fetched his horse, another

his shield and spear, three fought for the stirrup. A dozen would have

shown him the way to the last scene of the martyrdom (for so, by vivid

comparison, the common enthusiasm conceived it); but for this he chose

the man who had unstrapped the girl. This worthy had not failed to

recommend himself to notice on that score. He received his reward.

Prosper addressed him two requests. The first was, "Lead," and the man

led him. The second was, "Go," and the man fled back. Prosper was left

alone before a form of bruised bracken to make what he could of it.

He was a man of action, not given to reflections, not imaginative,

essentially simple in what he thought and did. What he did was to

dismount and doff his helmet. Next, with the butt of his spear, he

battered out the cognizance on his shield till no fesse

dancettée rippled there. "I will bear you next when I have won

you," said he to the maimed arm. Bare-headed then he knelt before the

form in the fern and prayed.

"Lord God of heaven and earth, now at last I know what the love of

woman is. Let my wife learn of me the love of an honest man. And to

that end, Father of heaven, suffer me to be made a man. Per

Christum Dominum," etc.

At the end of his prayer he knelt on, and what drove in his brain I

know not at all. The unutterable devotion of that meek and humble

creature who called him master and lord, who had lain by his side,

walked at his heels, sat at his knee, served at his table, put his

foot to her neck (she so high in grace, he so shameless in brute

strength!), bowed to a yoke, endured scorn, shame, bleeding, stripes,

blindness, and the swoon like death--all this was something beyond

thought: it was piercingly sweet, but it beat him down as a breath of

flame. He fell flat on his face upon the black fern and blood, and so

stayed crying like a boy.

When he got up he buckled on his helm, mounted, and rode straight for

Goltres.

Master Porges knew an image-maker at March, and paid him a visit. He

caused to be made a little stone figure of a lady, very beautiful,

with a brass aureole round her victorious head. She was depicted

trampling on a grinning knight--evidently the devil in one of his many

disguises, though as like Prosper as description could provide.

Underneath, on the pedestal, ran the legend--Sancta Isolda Dei

Genetricis Ancilla Ora Pro Nobis. He set this up in his chamber

over a faldstool, and said three Paters and nine Aves before

it daily. He reported that he derived unspeakable comfort from the

practice, and for my part I believe that he did.