rved, and finally in immediate
danger of being shot to death as an amusement for the Sultan's
bodyguard. But the Sultaness has found out who they are, visits them in
prison, and "reconciliations and forgivenesses of injuries" follow.

After this, things go in an easily guessable manner. The
Countess-Sultana beguiles her easy-going lord into granting her the
lives of the prisoners one after another, for which she rewards him by
carrying them off, with her son by the second marriage, to Italy, where
the boy is baptized. "The Apostle" (as the Pope is usually called in
Romance), by a rather extensive exercise of his Apostleship, gives
everybody absolution, confirms the original marriage of Thiebault and
the lady who had been so obstinately sorry that she had not killed him,
and who had suffered the paynim spousals so easily; and all goes
merrily. There is a postscript which tells how the daughter of the
Sultan and the Countess, who is termed _La Bele Caitive_, captivates and
marries a Turk of great rank, and becomes the mother of no less a person
than the great Saladin himself--a consummation no doubt very
satisfactory to the Miss Martha Buskbodies of the mediaeval world.

Now this story might seem to one who read it hastily, carelessly, or as
"not in the vein," to be partly extravagant, partly disagreeable, and,
despite its generous allowance of incident, rather dull, especially if
contrasted with its next neighbour in the printed volume, _Aucassin et
Nicolette_ itself. I am afraid there may have been some of these
uncritical conditions about my own first reading. But a little study
shows some remarkable points in it, though the original writer has not
known how to manage them. The central and most startling one--the
attempt of the Countess to murder her husband--is, when you think of it,
not at all unnatural. The lady is half mad with her shame; the witness,
victim, and, as she thinks, probable avenger of that shame is helpless
before her, and in his first words at any rate seems to think merely of
himself and not of her. Whether this violent outburst of feeling was not
likely to result in as violent a revulsion of tenderness is rather a
psychological probability than artistically certain. And Thiebault,
though an excellent fellow, is a clumsy one. His actual behaviour is
somewhat of that "killing-with-kindness" order which exasperates when it
does not itself kill or actually reconcile; and, whether out of delicacy
or no