Among the knights that graced the court of the Emperor Titus, there was one whom all men agreed in calling the GOOD KNIGHT. For some years he had been married to one whose beauty was her fairest portion, for she loved not the knight, her husband, but delighted in the company of others, and would gladly have devised his death, that she might marry another courtier.

The good knight could not fail of discovering the wickedness of his wife. Ofttimes did he remonstrate with her; but to all he said, she turned a deaf ear, and would not return the affection he felt, for one so unworthy of his love.

“My dear wife,” said the good knight, “I go to the Holy Land, to perform a vow: I leave you to your own discretion.”

The knight had no sooner embarked, than the lady sent for one of her lovers, a clever sorcerer.

“Know,” said she to him, when he arrived at the house, “my husband has sailed for the Holy Land; we live together; ay, and for all our lives, if you will but compass his death; for I love him not.”

“There is danger,” replied the necromancer; “but, for the sake of thee and thy love, I will endeavor to perform your wishes.”

Then took he wax and herbs, gathered at dead of night in secret places, and unguents made of unknown ingredients, and moulded a figure of the good knight, inscribing it with his name, placing it before him, against the wall of the lady’s chamber.

The good knight commenced his pilgrimage towards the Holy Land, and wist not what the lady and her lover were plotting against him and his dear life. As he descended towards the vessel in which he was to embark, he observed a man of some age, and of lofty and commanding stature, regarding him with interest. A long robe covered him, and its hood drawn over the face, concealed, in a great degree, the features of the wearer. At last the old man approached the knight.

“Good friend,” said he, “I have a secret to communicate to thee.”

“Say on, good father,” rejoined the knight, “what wouldest thou with me?”

“I would preserve thee from death.”

“Nay, father, that is in God’s hands; I fight not against his will.”

“To-day, then, thou diest; unless thou obeyest my commands:—and, listen, the lover of thy unfaithful wife is thy murderer.”

“Good sir,” replied the knight, “I perceive thou art a wise man; what shall I do to escape this sudden death?”

“Follow, and obey me.”

Many and winding were the streets through which the good knight followed his mysterious guide. At last they reached a dark, dismal-looking house, apparently without any inhabitant. The guide pressed his foot on the doorstep, and the door slowly opened, closing again as the knight followed the old man into the house. All was darkness, but the guide seized the knight’s hand and led him up the tottering staircase to a large room, in which were many strange books and figures of men and animals, interspersed with symbolic emblems of triangles and circles, whose meaning was known to that aged man alone. In the midst of the room was a table, on which burned a lamp without a wick or a reservoir of oil, for it fed on a vapor that was lighter than air, and was invisible to the eye. The old man spoke some words, to the knight unknown; in a moment the floor clave asunder, and a bath, on whose sides the same mystic symbols were written as on the walls of the room, arose from beneath.

“Prepare to bathe,” said the old man, opening a book on the table, and taking a bright mirror from a casket.

No sooner had the knight entered the bath than the old man gave him a mirror and bid him look into it.

“What seest thou?” asked he of the knight.

“I see my own chamber; my wife is there, and Maleficus, the greatest sorcerer in Rome.”

“What does the sorcerer?”

“He kneads wax and other ingredients; he hath made a figure of me, and written under it my name; even now he fastens it against the wall of my chamber.”

“Look again,” said the old man; “what does he?”

“He takes a bow; he fits an arrow to the string; he aims at the effigy.”

“Look on: as you love your life, when that arrow leaves the string, plunge beneath the water till you hear me call.”

“He shoots!” exclaimed the knight as he dived beneath the water.

“Come out; look again at the mirror; what seest thou?”

“An arrow is sticking in the wall, by the side of the figure. The sorcerer seems angry; he draws out the arrow, and prepares to shoot again from a nearer place.”

“As you value your life, do as before.”

Again the good knight plunged, and at the old man’s call resumed his inspection of the mirror.

“What seest thou now?” asked the old man.

“Maleficus has again missed the image; he makes great lamentations; he says to my wife: ‘If I miss the third time, I die’; he goes nearer to the image, and prepares to shoot.”

“Plunge!” cried the old man; and then, after a time: “Raise thyself, and look again; why laughest thou?”

“To see the reward of the wicked; the arrow has missed, rebounded from the wall, and pierced the sorcerer; he faints, he dies, my wife stands over his body, and weeps; she digs a hole under the bed, and buries the body.”

“Arise, sir knight: resume your apparel, and give God thanks for your great deliverance.”

A year and more elapsed before the good knight returned from his pilgrimage. His wife welcomed him with smiles and every appearance of pleasure. For a few days the knight concealed his knowledge of his wife’s conduct. At length he summoned all his and her kinsfolk, and they feasted in commemoration of his return from his dangerous pilgrimage.

“Brother,” said the knight during the feast, “how is it that I neither hear nor see aught of Maleficus, the great magician?”

“He disappeared, we know not whither, the very day that you departed for your pilgrimage.”

“And where did he die?” asked the knight, with a look at his wife.

“We know not that he is dead,” replied the guests.

“How should a sorcerer die?” asked the knight’s wife with a sneer.

“If not dead, why did you bury him?” rejoined the knight.

“Bury him! what meanest thou, my lord? I bury him!”

“Yes, you bury him,” said the knight, calmly.

“Brothers, he is mad,” exclaimed the lady, turning pale and trembling.

“Woman,” replied the knight, rising, and seizing the lady by the wrist, “woman, I am not mad. Hear ye all: this woman loved Maleficus; she called him here the day I sailed; she devised with him my death; but God struck him with that death he would have prepared for me, and now he lies buried in my chamber. Come, let us see this great wonder.”

The hiding-place of the body was opened, and the remains found where the knight had said; then did he declare before the judges and the people the great crimes of his wife; and the judges condemned her to death at the stake, and bade the executioner scatter her ashes to the four winds of heaven.

“Few practices were more prevalent among the witches than that which your tale illustrates, of effecting the death of an enemy through the medium of an enchanted image of the person intended to be affected,” said Herbert.

“As old Ben Jonson sings:

“Yes,” said Herbert; “it was a very approved method to melt a waxen image before the fire, under the idea that the person by it represented would pine away, as the figure melted; or to stick pins and needles into the heart or less vital parts of the waxen resemblance, with the hopes of affecting, by disease and pain, the portions of the human being thus represented and treated.”

“In one of the old ballad romances in which Alexander is celebrated, we find a full account of the wondrous puppets of a king and magician named Nectabanus. I will read you the old verses.

“No bad way,” said Thompson, “of testing the advantage of that royal and national luxury—war.”

“The rhymer makes his charms successful, especially in the case of one King Philip, a great and powerful prince, who brought nine-and-twenty great lords to battle against Nectabanus. Once put into his charmed basin, the magician saw the end of the battle, the defeat and death of his enemy.”

“The old Romans had as much fear of the waxen image, as good King James,” remarked Herbert; “and were as firm believers in the feats of Canidia over the enchanted model, as the Scottish King in the modelling of his national wiches, and the secret cavern on the hill, where Satan and his imps manufacture devils’ arrows to shoot at the enemies of the witches.”

“‘Sympathia Magica works wondrous charms,’ says Scott; and so before him dreamt the Arabian philosophers, and the royal witch-finder, who founds his arguments against waxen images on the doctrine of sympathy,” said Thompson.

“It is worth remarking,” said Herbert, “how witchcraft degenerated, not in its powers, but in its persons of the supposed witches. Joan of Arc, the wife of the protector Somerset, the mistress of Richard III., were in early days deemed worthy of being punished as witches. In later days, the charge was confined to the oldest, the ugliest, and generally the poorest crone in the neighborhood.”

“With the fashion of political-witchcraft, the custom of charging persons of rank with the crime, died away,” replied Lathom. “Instead of torturing images, or raising spirits for the sake of crowns and thrones, the witches became content to tease a neighbor’s child, or render a farmer’s cow barren. The last instance of such a charge against a person of rank, is the case of the Countess of Essex. The charges of sorcery, however, formed but a small portion of the accusations against the countess.”

“We are forgetting the moral,” said Thompson.

“It is short and plain,” answered Lathom, “and intended to be illustrative of the advantage of the confession of sins. The good knight is the soul of man, and his wicked wife the flesh of his body. The pilgrimage represents our good deeds. The wise magician, a prudent priest. Maleficus stands as the representative of the Devil, and the image is human pride and vanity; add to these the bath of confession, and the mirror of the sacred writings, by which the arrows of sin are warded off, and the allegory is complete.”

“Does your storehouse afford another magical tale?” asked Thompson.

“Many more; I will read one that is short, but curious, from its being founded on a generally received legend of the monk Gerbert, afterwards Pope Sylvester. I will call it, for want of a better name,

In the city of Rome stood an image: its posture was erect, with the right hand extended; on the middle finger of the outstretched hand was written: “Strike here.” Years and years had the image stood there, and no one knew the secret of the inscription. Many wise men from every land came and looked at the statue, and many were the solutions of the mystery attempted by them; each man was satisfied with his own conclusion, but no one else agreed with him.

Among the many that attempted to unravel the mystery of the figure was a certain priest. As he looked at the image, he noticed that when the sun shone on the figure, the shadow of the outstretched finger was discernible on the ground at some distance from the statue. He marked the spot, and waited until the night was come; at midnight, he began to dig where the shadow ceased; for three feet he found nothing but earth and stones; he renewed his labor, and felt his spade strike against something hard; he continued his work with greater zeal, and found a trap-door, which he soon cleared, and proceeded to raise.

Below the door, a flight of marble steps descended into the earth, and a bright light streamed upward from below. Casting down his spade, the priest descended; at the foot of the stairs he entered a vast hall; a number of men, habited in costly apparel, and sitting in solemn silence, occupied the centre; around, and on every side, were riches innumerable: piles of gold and enamelled vases; rich and glittering robes, and heaps of jewels of the brightest hue.

The hall was lighted by one jewel alone; a carbuncle so bright, so dazzling, that the priest could hardly bear to gaze upon it, where it stood in a corner of the hall. At the opposite end of the hall stood an armed archer; his bow was strung, and the arrow fitted to the string, and he seemed to take aim at the carbuncle; his brow blazed with reflected light, and on it was written: “I am, that I am; my shaft is inevitable: yon glittering jewel cannot escape its stroke.”

Beyond the great hall appeared another chamber, into which the priest, amazed at what he saw, entered. It was fitted as a bedchamber, couches of every kind ornamented it, and many beautiful women, arrayed in robes as costly as those worn in the great hall, occupied the chamber. Here too all was mute; the beautiful damsels sat in silence.

Still the priest went onward. There were rooms after rooms, stables filled with horses and asses, and granaries stored with abundant forage. He placed his hand on the horses, they were cold, lifeless stone. Servants stood round about, their lips were closed—all was silent as the grave; and yet what was there wanting—what but life?

“I have seen to-day what no man wall believe,” said the priest, as he re-entered the great hall; “let me take something whereby to prove the credit of my story.”

As he thus spake to himself, he saw some vases and jewel-handed knives on a marble table beside him; he raised his hand, he clasped them, he placed them in the bosom of his garment—all was dark.

The archer had shot with his arrow; the carbuncle was broken into a thousand pieces—a thick darkness covered the place; hour after hour he wandered about the halls and passages—all was dark—all was cold—all was desolate; the stairs seemed to have fled, he found no opening, and he laid him down and died a miserable death, amid those piles of gold and jewels, his only companions the lifeless images of stone. His secret died with him.

“Spenser in his Fairy Queen seems to have had some such tale as this in his mind, in his scene in the House of Riches,” remarked Herbert.

“You allude to the fiend watching Sir Gouyon, and hoping that he will be tempted to snatch some of the treasures of the subterraneous palace, so freely displayed to his view.”

“Sir Gouyon fares better than your priest,” replied Herbert; he resists the temptation, and escapes the threatened doom; as the poet says:

“Pope Sylvester, I presume,” said Thompson, “was a clever mechanician, and a good astronomer, as far as knowledge extended in his day.”

“Precisely so, and hence all the wondrous tales of his magic,” rejoined Lathom. “Born in France, and naturally of an acquisitive mind, he proceeded to Spain, to gain in the Saracenic university of Seville some little of the Eastern sciences. Arithmetic and astronomy, or, as Malmesbury calls the last, astrology, were then flourishing in Spain, and when introduced by him into his native country, soon gained for him the reputation of a magician.”

“Friar Bacon experienced in this country,” remarked Herbert, “that a knowledge of mechanics sufficient to create automatons, of acoustics to regulate the transmission of sounds through long, concealed pipes, and of astronomy to attempt some predictions of the weather from planetary movements, was quite enough to ensure him the name of magician among our rude ancestors.”

“One of the magic arts attributed to Gerbert,” remarked Lathom, “clearly indicates, that a knowledge of mechanism was the source of this reputation in his case. Malmesbury tells us that Gerbert framed a bridge, beyond which were golden horses of gigantic size, with riders of gold, richly glittering with jewels and embroidery. A party attempted to pass the bridge, in order to steal the treasures on the further side. As the first stept on the bridge, it rose gradually in the air, and stood perpendicularly on one end. A brazen man rose from beneath, and as he struck the water with a mace of brass, the sky was overshadowed, and all was thick darkness.”

“Setting aside the darkness,” said Thompson, “the result of accident, or an addition of the chroniclers, a little clever mechanism will account for the movable bridge of Gerbert.”

“The same explanation applies to the ever-burning lamp of the Rosicrucians, held in the hand of a figure armed with a mace, with which he dashes the lamp to atoms, on the entrance of any person into the secret vault.”

“Most undoubtedly, Herbert,” said Thompson; “for in this instance, the legend describes the figure as raising his hand at the first step of the intruder, preparing to strike as he draws nearer and nearer, and at last, when almost within reach, the secret springs on which he is walking dash down the armed hand of the figure, and the lamp and the secret perish in darkness.”

“The tales of natural magic,” said Herbert, “remind me of the legends of one of the Jameses of Scotland, in the subterraneous cavern of Halidon Hill.”

“I hardly know to what legend you allude,” replied Lathom.

“The one in which the king enters a long hall, where a hundred knights stand on either side, each with his armor on, and his horse ready caparisoned by his side. At the end of the hall stand a bugle and a sword. All is silence; the knights stand as statues, and their warhorses do not seem to breathe. The whole charm depends upon which is performed first, the bugle blown, or the sword drawn from its scabbard. The king seizes the bugle; the effect is that the whole melts into darkness, and the charm is gone.”

“As you have led the way to traditions of the northern part of our island,” said Lathom, “one form, if not the original one of the legend, which Scott has worked up in his Marmion, will not be out of place. I allude to the encounter of Marmion with De Wilton, under the guise of the spectral champion of the Pictish camp.”

“Your old monk’s book would have been a treasure to Sir Walter Scott,” said Herbert.

“That he would duly have appreciated its contents, no one can doubt,” replied Lathom, “but he was so well read in the later forms of the legends, which he would have found in its pages, that though apparently unknown to him, he required but little of its aid. Our writer would wish his readers to see in this legend an allegory of the discomfiture of the Devil armed with pride, by the Christian armed with faith. I will call it by the name of

On the borders of the diocese of Ely, stands an old castle, now crumbling into ruins, below which is a place called by the people Wandlesbury; commemorating by this name the camp of the Vandals, which they pitched hard by this castle, after laying waste the country and cruelly slaughtering the inhabitants. The camp was on the summit of a hill, on a round plain; round about it ran a trench which

Wo indeed to the adventurous man who dared to go armed into that camp, and call upon an adversary to meet him! Even as he called, another knight rode into the camp, armed at all points, and met the challenger in combat. The encounter was always fatal to one of the combatants.

The knight Albert sat in the hall of the castle of Wandlesbury, and shared the hospitality of the lord. At night, after supper, the household closed round the great fire, and each man in his turn told his tale of arms, love, or sorcery. The demon knight of the Vandal camp figured in many a tale, and Albert hastened to prove the truth of the legend. It was in vain that the lord of the castle endeavored to dissuade his guest from seeking the phantom knight. Armed at all points, the English knight sallied from the castle gate; and his trusty squire, a youth of noble blood, rode by his master’s side.

Some hours passed: the hall was sadly silent during the knight’s absence, for they all feared the worst for him; anon, a horn was heard at the gate, the warder hastened to open the doors, and the knight rode into the castle court; his squire followed him close, and he led by the bridle a horse of perfect form and figure, of enormous size, and coal-black.

The knight hastened to the hall; all clustered round him to hear his tale; but the good lord of the castle bade them first release him of his armor, and bring in refreshment. One by one the pieces of his armor were taken off, and neither wound nor bruise appeared; at last they proceeded to take off one of his cuishes; it was filled with blood, and even then a few drops were seen to ooze from a slight wound in the thigh. His wound dressed, his fatigue refreshed with good wine and meat, the lord of the castle requested the knight’s account of his meeting with the demon champion.

“My lord,” replied the English knight, “you know how, in despite of your earnest remonstrances, I rode from your castle gate. The moon was bright and clear, and I soon reached the entrance of the Vandal camp; without a pause I rode in and blew my bugle.

I waited for a moment in doubt.

Without a word the demon prepared for the charge; I raised my shield, couched my lance, and rushed to the attaint; we both staggered with the charge; our lances broke in half, but the points glided harmlessly from our armor. I still pressed on, and my adversary’s horse stumbled and fell; the demon was rolled on the ground. In a moment I was by his side, and seized his horse’s rein; the demon seemed to revive; he saw my action, snatched a portion of his broken lance, and darted it at me as a javelin. It struck me on my thigh, but in my eagerness I felt it not. In a moment

Had I not that dark black horse as a witness of the combat, I should begin to doubt whether I had met the demon.”

“Let us see the demon’s steed,” said the old lord, after he had thanked the knight for his relation of the adventure; “even now the dawn is about to break, and we must seek some little rest before day shines out.”

In the court-yard they found the black steed; his eye lustrous, his neck proudly arched, his coat of shining black, and a glittering war saddle on his back. The first streaks of the dawn began to appear as they entered the castle yard; the black steed grew restless, and tried to break from the hands of the groom; he champed his bit, snorted as in pain and anger, and struck the ground with his feet, until the sparks flew. The cock crowed—the black steed had disappeared.

Every year, on the self-same night, at that self-same hour, did the wound of the English knight burst out afresh, and torment him with severe anguish; to his dying day he bore this memorial of his encounter with the demon champion of the Vandal camp.

“You have made good use of Scott’s version of the tale in Marmion,” said Thompson, “to whom I should think your version of the story was hardly known.”

“No; if I remember rightly, he gives the old Durham tale of Ralph Bulmer as its immediate source, and the strange tale of the Bohemian knights as related by Heywood, in his Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels.”

“The introduction to the story recalls the custom so adroitly used by Chaucer to introduce his Canterbury tales,” remarked Herbert; “tale-telling round the fire.”

“When there was neither juggler nor minstrel present,” replied Lathom, “it seems to have been the custom of our ancestors to entertain themselves by relating or hearing a series of adventures.”

“So that Chaucer’s plan, at first sight so ingenious an invention, is in truth an equally ingenious adaptation of an ancient fashion.”

“But to return to our demonology,” said Lathom; “what notion was more common than that spirits could assume the human form, and live on earth, and mingle as mortals in social life? This belief we find illustrated by the author or authors of the Gesta.”

“The stay, however, of these spirits is generally but a lease of life for so many years,” remarked Herbert.

“Generally; but not in the case which my author gravely lays down as true, under the title of