the sight; but, just as she was going to look out, she heard the marquis call her; and she set down a water-pot she had in her hand, and knelt down before him with her usual steady countenance.

"The marquis asked for her father; and, going in-doors to him, took him by the hand, and said, with many courteous words and leave-asking, that he had come to marry his daughter. The poor man turned red, and stood abashed and quaking, but begged his lord to do as seemed good to him; and then the marquis asked Griselda if she would have him, and vow to obey him in all things, be they what they might; and she answered trembling, but in like manner; and he led her forth, and presented her to the people as his wife.

"The ladies, now Griselda's attendants, took off her old peasant's clothes, not much pleased to handle them, and dressed her anew in fine clothes, so that the people hardly knew her again for her beauty.

'Her hairés have they combed that lay untresséd

Full rudély, and with their fingers small

A coroune on her head they have ydresséd,

and Griselda behaved so well and discreetly, and behaved so kindly to every one, making up disputes, and speaking such gentle and sensible words

'And couldé so the people's heart embrace,

That each her lov'th that looketh on her face."

"In due time the marchioness had a daughter, and the marquis had always treated his consort well, and behaved like a man of sense and reflection; but now he informed her that his people were dissatisfied at his having raised

* Nouches-nuts ?-buttons in that shape made of gold or jewelry.

her to be his wife; and, reminding her of her vow to obey him in all things, told her that she must agree to let him do with the little child whatsoever he pleased. Griselda kept her vow to the letter, not even changing countenance; and shortly afterward an ill-looking fellow came, and took the child from her, intimating that he was to kill it. Griselda asked permission to kiss her child ere it died; and she took it in her bosom, and blessed and kissed it with a sad face, and prayed the man to bury its 'little body' in some place where the birds and beasts could not get it. But the man said nothing. He took the child, and went his way; and the marquis bade him carry it to the Countess of Pavia, his sister, with directions to bring it up in secret.

"Griselda lived on, behaving like an excellent wife; and four years afterward she had another child, a son, which the marquis demanded of her, as he had done the daughter, laying his injunctions on her at the same time to be patient. Griselda said she would; adding-as a proof, nevertheless, what bitter feelings she had to control

'I have not had no part of children twain;
But first, sickness; and after, woe and pain.'

The same 'ugly sergeant' now came again, and took away the second child, carrying it like the former to Bologna; and twelve years after, to the astonishment and indignation of the poet, and the people too, but making no alteration whatsoever in the obedience of the wife, the marquis informs her, that his subjects are dissatisfied at his having her for a wife at all, and that he had got a dispensation from the pope to marry another, for whom she mut make way, and be divorced, and return home; adding, instingly, that she might take back with her the dowry wich she brought him. Woefully, but ever patiently, des Griselda consent; not, however, without a tender excla ation at the difference between her marriage

day and this: and as she receives the instruction about the dowry as a hint that she is to give up her fine clothes, and resume her old ones, which she says it would be impossible to find, she makes him an exquisite prayer and remonstrance, in which she says:

'Let me not like a worm go by the way.
Remember you, mine owen lord so dear,
I was your wife, though I unworthy were.'

"She leaves her beautiful home in the simplest garb possible, without one word of complaint for her tyrannical husband, who is thus testing her love.

"The people follow her weeping and wailing; but she went ever as usual, with staid eyes, nor all the while did she speak a word. As to her poor father, he cursed the day he was born. And so with her father, for a space, dwelt 'this flower of wifely patience;' nor showed any sense of offence, nor remembrance of her high estate.

"At length arrives news of the coming of the new marchioness, with such array of pomp as had never been seen in all Lombardy; and the marquis, who has, in the mean time, sent to Bologna for his son and daughter, once more desires Griselda to come to him, and tells her that as he has not women enough in his household to wait upon his new wife, and set every thing in order for her, he must request her to do it; which she does with all ready obedience, and then goes forth with the rest to meet the new lady. At dinner, the marquis again calls her, and asks her what she thinks of his choice. She commends it heartily, and prays God to give him prosperity; only adding, that she hopes he will not try the nature of so young a creature as he tried hers, since she has been brought up more tenderly, and perhaps could not bear it.

And when this Walter saw her patience,

Her gladdé cheer, and no malíce at all,

And he so often had her done offence,
And she aye sad * and constant as a wall,
Continuing aye her innocence over all,
This sturdy marquis 'gan his hearté dress
To rue upon her wifely stedfastness.'

He gathers her in his arms, and kisses her; but she takes no heed of it, out of astonishment, nor hears any thing he says: upon which he exclaims, that, as sure as Christ. died for him, she is his wife, and he will have no other, nor ever had; and with that he introduces his supposed bride to her as her own daughter, with his son by her side; and Griselda, overcome at last, faints away.

'When she this heard, aswooné down she falleth

For piteous joy; and, after her swooning,

She both her youngé children to her calleth,
And in her armés, piteously weeping,
Embraceth them, and tenderly kissing
Full like a mother with her salté tears
She bathed both their visage and their hairs.

'Oh! such a piteous thing it was to see

Her swooning, and her humble voice to hear!
“Grand mercy! Lord, God thank it you (quoth she),
That ye have saved me my children dear:

Now reckt I never to be dead right here,
Since I stand in your love and in your grace,
No force of death, ‡ nor when my spirit pace.

"O tender, O dear, O youngé children mine!
Your woful mother weenéd steadfastly,
That cruel houndés or some foul vermín
Had eaten you: but God of his mercy
And your benigné father tenderly

Hath done you keep ;" and in that samé stound
All suddenly she swapped adown to ground.

'And in her swoon so sadly holdeth she
Her children two when she 'gan them embrace,

Sad; composed in manner; unaltered.

+ Reck; care.

No force of death; no matter for death.

That with great sleight and great difficulty
The children from her arm they 'gan arrace,*
Oh! many a tear on many a piteous face
Down ran of them that stooden her beside;
Unnethe abouten her might they abide."

That is, they could scarcely remain to look at her, or stand still.

"And so, with feasting and joy, ends this divine cruel story of Patient Griselda; the happiness of which is superior to the pain, not only because it ends so well, but because there is ever present in it, like that of a saint in a picture, the sweet, sad face of the fortitude of woman."