leaves it wrapt in a silken mantle at the door of a monastery. The abbot takes it in, and rears it, baptizing it by the name of Coûtant (Coustant, Constant) because its cure was so expensive.

Fifteen years later, the abbot, having occasion to seek an interview with the Emperor, was accompanied by the foundling, now become a handsome youth. Muselin, struck with his appearance, inquires who he is, and discovers from the account of the abbot that young Constant must be the very boy whom he had thought to slay. He takes him into his service, and then considers about the best method of making away with him. A war is raging on his frontier, and he causes Constant to accompany him to the scene of action. From thence he sends him back with a sealed letter to the governor of Byzantium, containing orders to put the bearer immediately to death. On his arrival, Constant found the governor at dinner, so while waiting for an audience he turned his horse loose in the pleasure grounds of the palace, and himself reclining under the welcome shade of an arbour, fell fast asleep.

The beautiful daughter of the Emperor, walking in the garden, sees the sleeper, and thinks him the handsomest young man she has ever beheld. Curious to know the nature of his message, she takes out and opens the despatch he carries at his side; horrified at its contents, she thinks only of how to save so comely a youth from the fate awaiting him. She substitutes for the letter he bears, another, duly provided with the imperial seal (her father, it appears, had left a blank order in her hands), and in this epistle the governor is ordered, not to kill the bearer, but to marry him to the princess. When the exchange has been effected, she and her companion awaken Constant, and conduct him to the governor. The princess pretends great astonishment at the contents of the letter, and at first refuses compliance. The governor reminds her that the Emperor must be strictly obeyed. At last she agrees that he shall call a council of the barons and chief men of the country and ask their advice. they approve of the marriage she will no longer withhold her consent. These counsellors, as might be expected, recommended compliance with the imperial command, and the fortunate youth marries the Emperor's beautiful daughter. The nuptial festivities lasted fifteen days, and all Byzantium did nothing but eat, drink, and make merry. Great was the astonishment of the Emperor Muselin when, on his return, he discovered what had taken place. His designs were frustrated-the past could not be undone there was nothing for it but to accept the son-in-law provided for him by an inevitable destiny. Constant finally succeeds to his throne, converts his wife to Christianity, and

If

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they have a son named Constantine, in honour of whom the city of Byzantium was afterwards called Constantinople.

A story somewhat similar to this is to be found in the Gesta Romanorum, about the son of a forester, whom an emperor attempted to kill in the same manner. In the story of the Gesta, an old knight, with whom the youth lodges, reads his fatal despatch, and substitutes for it an order to marry him at once to a daughter of the Emperor.

The last of our five stories-The Countess of Ponthieu : a Tale of Beyond Seas-was a great favourite in the eighteenth century. The most characteristic creations of the Middle Age could not attract the patronage of a period to which mediæval literature appeared only barbaric, superstitious, and incomprehensible. The Countess of Ponthieu was relished because it had less of simplicity and vigour, and approached more nearly the modern order of romance. It is amusing to see how the age of wigs, and lace, and high-heeled shoes evinces its partiality for a tale of the crusades. M. de la Place perpetrated a solemn caricature of the old romance under the name of a Tragedy in Five Acts. It was made the basis of a novel by de Vignacourt; and Madame de Gomez expanded it into a romance. As a fiveact opera, by Saint-Marc, the Countess enjoyed a brilliant success in 1771.

A certain Count of Ponthieu gave his daughter in marriage to a brave knight, named Thiebaut de Donmart. For five years the knight and his wife lived happily together, but without having any offspring. Hoping that an heir might be vouchsafed in answer to his prayers, Thiebaut resolved on a pilgrimage to St. Jago, and his wife entreated and obtained permission to accompany him. On. their journey the knight was one day slowly riding, unarmed, with his lady through a forest, having sent his men a little way on in advance. They lost their way among the trees, and found themselves presently surrounded by eight robbers, armed to the teeth. Thiebaut avoids the onset of the first, snatches away his weapon, strikes him down, and kills the two next who assail him, but is at last overpowered, stripped, and flung, bound hand and foot, into a thorn-brake. The robbers, furious at their loss, carry off his wife, on whom they determine to revenge themselves. When released, she finds her way back to her husband, who entreats her to take the sword of one of the slain men and cut the cords which bind him. She, in a frenzy of shame, perhaps dreading future reproaches on his part, takes the weapon, and strikes at him a blow which she meant to be fatal. Thiebaut, seeing her purpose, rolled himself over with a mighty effort, and the blade fell on the strongest

of his bonds, so that with one more struggle he sprang up, free.

'My lady!' cried he, please God you will not slay me to-day.' Sir, replied she, 'I am sorry not to have done so.' Rejoining their attendants, he treats his wife with undiminished courtesy, but leaves her at a convent while he completes his journey. On his return, he takes her back with him to France -is gentle and forbearing towards her, but upon his guard.

'During the festival which celebrated their return, the Count of Ponthieu asked Thiebaut to entertain him with some adventure which he had met with or heard of on his way. The knight can think of nothing but this very adventure of the robbers, which he relates as though it had happened to some other travellers. So strange a story excites the curiosity of the Count, who insists on knowing the names of those to whom it happened. Thiebaut finds himself compelled to tell him the truth. The wife of Thiebaut, when charged by her father with her crime, not only avows it, but expresses her regret that she had not been able to kill her lord upon the spot.

The Count, horror-stricken to find himself the father of such a monster, resolved on a terrible punishment. He caused a ship to be prepared, in which he embarked with his young son, his daughter, and her husband. When some distance out at sea, a large tun or hogshead was brought up, in which he ordered his daughter to be enclosed, and thrown into the sea, in spite of the intercession and the tears of her husband and her brother.

But our Lord Jesus Christ, says the old storyteller, who is sovereign father of all, and desireth not the death of the sinner, but rather that he should turn and live-as He showeth us plainly every day by His works, by examples, and by miracles-sent the lady succour, as you shall hear.

She was picked up, almost dead, by a Flemish merchant vessel, trading with Morocco. When she came to herself, and found that she was among Christian men, she felt exceeding thankful and penitent, and desired greatly to amend her life, and feared sorely because of the sins she had committed, both against God and man.

The Flemings presented her to the Sultan of Morocco, who persuaded her to turn Mahometan-made her his wife, and treated her with all the indulgence the fondest affection could suggest. She brought him a daughter and then a son.

Meanwhile, the Count of Ponthieu began to feel remorse for his severity towards his daughter-confessed himself, and took the cross to go beyond seas. Seeing this, the unhappy Thiebaut, and his devoted friend, the Count's son, become crusaders likewise,

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and accompany him to the Holy Land. After performing their vows, and serving a year with the Knights Templars, they embarked at Acre to return home. Their vessel was wrecked on the coast of Morocco, and they were thrown into a dungeon, where they lay long, half-starved, till the Count's son fell sick, nigh unto death.

The next incident of the story we give in the original, for the sake of those who may be curious to see the old Picard French of the thirteenth century :

'Après avint que li Soudans tint court molt efforcie et fist grant joie del jour de sa nativité. Et ensi estoit li coustume as Sarrazins : après mangier vinrent li Sarrazin au Soudant et li disent:-Sire, nos vous requerons nostre droit. Et il lor demanda que c'estoit. Et il li disent:-Sire, un caitif crestien por mettre au biersel. Et lorotria, car il ne l'en estoit gaires, et lor dist:-Alés à la chartre et prenés celui ki mains puet vivre. Il alèrent à la chartre et en traisent le Conte cargié de barbe velue. Et quant li Soudans le vit en si povre estat, si lor dist:-Cis n'avoit mestier de plus vivre; alés, menés l'ent, et en faites vostre volenté. La feme au Soudant, dont vous avés oï ki estoit fille au Conte, estoit en la place ù on amena le Conte, qui estoit ses pères, por ocirre. Et luès qu'ele l'ot veu, si li mua li sans et li cuers, ne mie por tant k'ele le conneust fors tant que nature l'en destraignoit. Lors dist la Dame au Soudant:-Sire, je sui Françoise, si parleroie volentiers à icel povre home ainçois que il morust, s'il vous plaisoit.-Dame, fait li Soudans, oill, bien me plaist. La Dame vint au Conte, et le traist d'une part, et fist les Sarrazins traire arrière, et li demanda dont il estoit, et il dist :-Dame, je sui del royaume de France, d'une terre c'on apiele Pontiu. Quant li Dame (oï chou, si li mua toz li sans. Erramment li demanda de quel gent il estoit.Certes, Dame, fait il, il ne me puet gaires caloir de quel gent je soie, car j'ai tant soufiert de paines et d'angoisses puis que je m'en parti que je aime mius à morir k'à vivre. Mais tant vos dis jou bien por voir que j'estoie quens de Pontiu. Quant la Dame oï chou, nul samblant n'en fist. Elle se parti luès dou Conte, et vint au Soudant et li dist:-Sire, donnés moi cel caitif, s'il vous plaist, car il sait des ekiés et des tables, et des biaus contes qui molt vos plairont, et si juera devant vos et vos aprendra.-Dame, fait li Soudans, par ma loi, sachiés que je volentiers le vous donrai; faites ent vostre volenté. Lors le prist la Dame et l'envoia en sa chambre.'-pp. 199–202.

'After this it so happened that the Sultan held full court, and made great rejoicings on account of his birthday. Now this was the custom of the Saracens: after dinner they came to the Sultan and said-'Sire, we have come to ask of you our privilege.' He asked them what that was, and they said-'Sire, a captive Christian to set up as a mark to shoot at.' And he granted their request-for he thought it a mere trifle-saying, 'Go to the prison and take out the one that is likely to die soonest.' They went to the prison and drew out the Count

covered with a shaggy beard. And when the Sultan beheld him in such poor case, he said to them-This one cannot live much longer; take him hence, and do as you like with him.' The wife of the Sultan, who, as you have heard, was the Count's daughter, was in the place to which they brought the Count, her father, to kill him. And as soon as she saw him, her heart and blood were stirred,-not that she recognised him, except as natural instinct constrained her. Then said the lady to the Sultan,-Sire, I am a Frenchwoman, and I would gladly speak to this poor man before he dies, if you please.' 'Lady,' quoth the Sultan, 'Yes, I am very willing.' The lady then approached the Count, took him apart, and making the Saracens withdraw behind them, asked whence he came. And he said, 'Lady, I am from the kingdom of France, from a country they call Ponthieu.' When the lady heard that, all her blood was stirred. Immediately she inquired of what rank he was. Verily, lady,' quoth he, 'it can be small matter to me what rank I am of; for I have suffered so much pain and distress since I left home, that I would sooner die than live. But nevertheless, I tell you the truth when I say that I was Count of Ponthieu.' When the lady heard that, she did not allow her feelings to appear, but quitting the Count straightway, came up to the Sultan, and said, -Sire, give me this prisoner, if you please; for he understands chess and tric-trac, and knows good stories that will please you much, and will play before you, and teach you.' 'Lady,' quoth the Sultan, by my law, be assured I give him you willingly; do with him what you please.' Then the lady took him and sent him to her chamber.'

The gaolers next bring out Thiebaut, for whom she asks in like manner; and then her brother, whom she also obtains. If there were a hundred,' says the good-natured Sultan, 'you should have them, with all my heart. When by great care, and the very gradual administration of food, the three captives are restored to health, she asks the Count if he had not a daughter, and what has become of her. He tells her truly the sad story, and says he regards their late sufferings as the punishment of his cruelty.

And what should you say if you heard that your daughter was living ?"

The father, the husband, and the brother, alike protest that nothing in this world could make them so happy. Then she discovers herself to them. By the advice of his wife, the Sultan intrusts Thiebaut with horse and arms, and by his help vanquishes. a formidable adversary who had invaded his kingdom. At last the lady, pretending illness, and assuring the Sultan that only her native air can recover her, is allowed to embark, with her infant son, taking Thiebaut and the other two as her escort. At Brundisium they send back the Moorish mariners, with a polite message to the Sultan; not without some little compune