"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.