# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/Adalieta

ADALIETA.
(FROM BOCCACCIO.)
PART I.
Long years agone—so saith the chronicler Whose old Italian gentleness of touch Findeth no echo on the northern harp To counterpart its music—long ago, When Saladin was Soldan of the East, The Kings let cry a general crusade, And to the trysting-plains of Lombardy The idle lances of the North and West Rode all that year, as all the year runs down Into a lake from all its hanging hills The clash and glitter of a hundred streams. Whereof the rumour reached to Saladin, And that swart King—as royal of his heart As any crowned champion of the Cross— That he might fully, of his knowledge, know The purpose of the lords of Christendom, And when their war and what their armament, Took thought to cross the seas to Lombardy. Wherefore, with wise and trustful servants twain, All habited in garbs that merchants use, With trader’s band and gipsire on the breast That best loved mail and dagger, Saladin Set out upon his journey perilous. In that far day fair land was Lombardy! A sea of country plenty, islanded With cities rich, nor richer one than thee, Marble Milano! from whose gate at dawn, With ear that little recked the matin-bell But a keen eye to measure wall and foss, The Soldan rode, and all day long he rode For Pavia—passing basilic, and shrine, And gaze of vineyard-workers, wotting not Yon trader was the Lord of Heathenesse. All day he rode; yet at the wane of day No gleam of gate, or ramp, or rising spire, Nor Tessin’s sparkle underneath the stars Promised him Pavia; but he was ’ware Of a gay company upon the way, Ladies and Lords, with horse, and hawk, and hound, Cap-plumes and tresses fluttered with the stir Of merry race for home. “Go!” said the King To him that rode upon his better hand, “And pray these gentlemen of courtesy How many leagues to Pavia, and the gates, What hour they close them.” Then the Saracen Set spur, and being joined, to him that showed First of the hunt, he said his message—they Checking the jangling bits, and chiding down The unfinished laugh to listen—and by this Came up the King, his bonnet in his hand, Theirs doffed to him: “Sir Trader,” Torel said (Messer Torello ’twas, of Istria), “They shut the Pavian gate at even-song And even-song is sung.” Then turning half, Muttered, “Pardie, the man is worshipful, A stranger too!” “Fair Lord!” quoth Saladin, “Please you to stead a weary traveller, Saying where we may lodge, the town so far And night so near.” “Of my heart, willingly,” Made answer Torel, “I did think but now To send my knave an errand—he shall ride And bring you unto lodgement—oh! no thanks, Our Lady speed you!” Then with whispered hest He named their guide and sped them. Being gone, Torello told his purpose, and the band, With ready zeal and loosened bridle-chains, Sped for his hunting-palace, where they set A goodly banquet underneath the planes, And hung the house with guest-lights, and anon Welcomed the wondering strangers, thereto led Unwitting by a world of winding paths: Messer Torello, at the inner gate, Waiting to take them in—a goodly host, Stamped current with God’s image for a man Chief among men—truthful, and just, and free. Then he, “Well met again, fair sirs! Our knave Hath found you shelter better than the worst. Please you to leave your selles, and being bathed. Grace our poor supper here.” Then Saladin, Whose sword had yielded ere his courtesy, Answered, “Great thanks, Sir Knight! and this much blame, ​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, The good grey falcon made his master cheer. ​One day it chanced Saladin rode a-field With shawled and turbaned Emirs, and his hawks, Barbary-bred, and mewed as princes lodge, Flew foul, forgot their feather, hung at wrist, And slighted call. The Soldan, quick of wrath, Bade slay the cravens, scourge the falconer, And seek some wight that knew the heart of hawks,
To keep it hot and true. Then spake a Sheikh: “There is a Frank in prison by the sea, Far-seen therein.” “Give word that he be brought,” Quoth Saladin, “and bid him set a cast: If he hath skill, it shall go well for him.” Thus by the winding path of circumstance One palace held, as prisoner and prince, Torello and his guest. Unwitting each, Nay and unwitting, though they met and spake Of this goshawk and this—Signors in serge— And Chapmen crowned, who knows?—till on a time Some trick of face, the manner of some smile, A gleam of sunset from the glad days gone Caught the king’s eye, and held it. “Nazarene! What nation art thou?” asked he. “Lombard I, A man of Pavia.” “And thy name?” “Torel, Messer Torello known in happier times, Now best unknown.” “Come hither, Christian!” The Soldan said, and led the way, by court, And hall, and fountain, to an inner room, Rich with kings’ robes: therefrom he reached a gown, And “Know’st thou this?” he asked. “High lord! I might Elsewhere,” quoth Torel, “here ’twere mad to say Yon gown my wife unto a trader gave That shared our board.” “Nay, but that gown is this, And she the giver, and the trader I,” Quoth Saladin; “I, thrice a king to-day, Owing a kingly debt and paying it.” Then Torel, sore amazed, “Great lord, I blush, Remembering the Master of the East Lodged sorrily.” “It’s master’s master thou!” Gave answer Saladin. “Come now and see What wares the Cyprus traders keep at home; Come now and take thy place, Saladin’s Friend.” Therewith into the circle of his lords, With gracious mien the Soldan led his slave, And while the dark eyes glittered, seated him First of the full divan. “Orient lords,” So said he,—“let the one who loves his king Honour this Frank, whose house sheltered your king, He is my brother:” then the night-black beards Swept the stone floor in ready reverence, Agas and Emirs welcoming Torel: And a great feast was set; the Soldan’s friend Royally garbed, upon the Soldan’s hand Shining, the one star of the banquetters.
PART III.
All which, and the abounding grace and love Shown him of Saladin, a little held The heart of Torel from its Lombard home With Dame Adalieta: but it chanced He sat beside the king in audience, And there came one who said: “My lord the king, That galley of the Genovese which sailed With Frankish prisoners is gone down at sea.” “Gone down!” cried Torel. “Ay! what recks it, friend, To fall thy visage for?” quoth Saladin, “A galley less to ship-stuffed Genoa!” “Good, my lord!” Torel said, “It bore a scroll Inscribed to Pavia, saying that I lived; For in a year, a month, and day, not come, I bade them hold me dead—and dead I am, Albeit living, if my lady wed Perforce constrained.” “Certes,” spake Saladin, “A noble dame—the like not won, once lost— How many days remain?” “Two days, my prince, And twelve-score leagues between my heart and me: Alas! how to be passed?” Then Saladin: “Lo! I am loath to loose thee—wilt thou swear To come again if all go well with thee, Or come ill speeding?” “Yea, I swear, my king, Out of true love,” quoth Torel, heartfully. Then Saladin: "Take here my signet-seal; My admiral will loose his swiftest sail Upon its sight, and cleave the seas, and go And clip thy dame, and say the Trader sends A gift, remindful of her courtesies.” Passed were the year, and month, and day; and passed Out of all hearts but one Sir Torel’s name, Long given for dead by ransomed Pavians. And Pavia, thoughtless of her Eastern graves, A lovely widow, all too gay for grief, Made peals from half a hundred campaniles To ring a wedding in. The seven bells Of San Piero from the nones to noon, Boomed with bronze throats the happy tidings out; Till the great tenor, overswelled with sound, Cracked himself dumb. Thereat the sacristan, Leading his swinkèd ringers down the stairs, Came blinking into sunlight—all his keys Jingling their little peal about his belt. Whom, as he tarried, locking up the porch, A foreign signor, browned with southern suns, Turbaned and slippered, as the Moslems use, Plucked by the cope. “Friend,” quoth he—’twas a tongue Italian true, but in a Moslem mouth— “Why are your belfries busy—is it peace Or victory, that so ye din the ears Of Pavian lieges?” “Truly, no liege thou!” Grunted the sacristan, “who knowest not That Dame Adalieta weds to-night Her fore-betrothed,—Sir Torel’s widow she, That died i’ the chain?” “To-night!” the stranger said. “Aye, sir, to-night!—why not to-night?—to-night! And you may see a goodly Christian feast If so you pass their gates at even-song, For all are asked.” For all are asked.” No more the questioner, But folded on his face the Eastern hood, Lest idle eyes should mark how idle words Had struck him home. “So quite forgot!—so soon!— And this the square wherein I gave the joust, And that the loggia, where I fed the poor; And yon my palace, where—oh, fair! oh, false!— They robe her for a bridal. May it be? Clean out of heart, with twice six changeful moons, The heart that beat on mine as it would break, That faltered forty oaths. Forced! forced!—not false— Yea, I will sit, Wife, at thy wedding feast, And let mine eyes give my fond faith the lie.” So in the stream of gallant guests that flowed Feast-ward at eve, went Torel—passed with them The outer gates—crossed the great courts with them A stranger in the walls that called him lord. Cressets and coloured lamps made the way bright, And rose-leaves strewed to where, within the doors The master of the feast, the bridegroom, stood, A—glitter from his forehead to his foot, Giving fair welcomes. He, a courtly lord,
Marking the Eastern guest, bespoke him fair, ​Prayed place for him, and bade them set his seat Upon the dais. Then the feast began,
And wine went free as wit, and music died— Outdone by merrier laughter:—only one Nor eat, nor drank, nor spoke, nor smiled,—but gazed On the pale bride, pale as her crown of pearls, Who sate so cold, and still, and sad of cheer, At the bride-feast. At the bride-feast. But of a truth, Torel Read the thoughts right that held her eyelids down, And knew her leal to her memories. Then, to a little page who bore the wine, He spake: “Go tell thy Lady thus from me: In mine own land, if any stranger sit A wedding guest—the bride, out of her grace, In token that she knows her guest’s good-will, In token she repays it, brims a cup, Wherefrom he drinking, she in turn doth drink. So is our use.” The little page made speed And told the message. Then that lady pale— Ever a gentle and a courteous heart— Lifted her troubled eyes, and smiled consent On the swart stranger. By her side, untouched, Stood the brimmed gold. “Bear this,” she said, “and pray He hold a Christian lady apt to learn A graceful lessson.” But Sir Torel loosed From off his finger—never loosed before— The ring she gave him on the parting day; And ere he drank, behind his veil of beard Dropped in the cup the ruby, quaffed, and sent.— Then she, with sad smile, set her lips to drink, And something in the Cyprus touching them, Glanced—gazed—the ring!—her ring!—Jove! how she eyes The wistful eyes of Torel!—how, heartsure, Under all guise, knowing her lord returned, She springs to meet him coming!—telling all In one great cry of joy. In one great cry of joy. Oh, me! the rout, The storm of questions, stilled, when Torel told His name, and, known of all, claimed the Bride Wife. Maugre the wasted feast, and woeful groom, All hearts but his were light to see Torel: But Adalieta’s lightest, as she plucked The bridal-veil away. Something therein— A lady’s dagger—small, and bright, and fine, ​Clashed out upon the marble. “Wherefore that?” Asked Torel. Answered she: “I knew you true; And I could live, so long as I might wait; But they—they pressed me hard; my days of grace Ended to-night—and I had ended too, Faithful to death, if so thou hadst not come.”
Edwin Arnold.