The gentle Euphemia lived in a castle, and her father was the Count Grandnostrel. The wise Alasco, who had dwelt for fifty years in the mullioned chamber of the North Tower, was her tutor, and he taught her poetry arithmetic and philosophy, to love virtue, and the use of the globes.

And there came the lord of Mountfidget to her father’s halls to drink the bloodred wine, and make exchange of the beeves and swine of Mountfidget against the olives and dried fruits which grow upon the slopes of Grandnostrel. For the pastures of Mountfidget are very rich, and its beeves and swine are fat.

“And peradventure I shall see the fair Euphemia,” said the young lord to Lieutenant Hossbach, of the Marines, who sojourned oft at Grange of Mountfidget, and delighted more in the racket-court, the billiard-table, and the game of cards, than in guiding the manoeuvres of his trusty men-at-arms. “Peradventure,” said the young lord, “I shall see the fair Euphemia⁠—for the poets of Grandnostrel sing of her peerless beauty, and declare her to be the pearl of pearls.”

“Nay, my lord,” said the lieutenant, “but an you behold the girl once in that spirit, thou art but a lost man, a kestrel with a broken wing, a spavined steed, a noseless hound, a fish out of water; for credit me, the fair Euphemia wants but a husband;⁠—and therefore do the poets sing so loudly.” For Lieutenant Hossbach knew that were there a lady at the Grange the spigot would not turn so freely.

“By my halidome,” said the young lord, “I will know whether the poets sing sooth or not.”

So the lord of Mountfidget departed for the Castle of Grandnostrel, and his beeves and his swine were driven before him.

Alasco the Wise sat in the mullioned chamber, with the globes before him and Aristotle’s volume under his arm, and the gentle Euphemia sat lowly on a stool at his feet. And she asked him as to the lore of the ancient schools. “Teach me,” she said, “as Plato taught, and the learned Esculapius and Aristides the Just; for I would fain walk in the paths of knowledge, and be guided by the rules of virtue.” But he answered her not at all, nor did he open the books of wisdom. “Nay, my father,” she said; “but the winged hours pass by, and my soul is athirst!”

Then he answered her and said; “My daughter, there cometh hither this day the young lord of Mountfidget, whose beeves and swine are as the stars of heaven in number, and whose ready money in many banks brings in rich harvest of interest. He cometh hither to drink the bloodred wine with your father, and to exchange his beeves and swine for the olives and the dried fruits which grow upon the slopes of Grandnostrel; and peradventure he will ask to see thy father’s daughter. Then wilt thou no longer desire to hear what Plato teaches, or how the just man did according to justice.”

But Euphemia replied; “Nay, my father. Am I no better than other girls that I should care for the glance of the young man’s eye? Have I not sat at your feet since I was but as high as your knee? Teach me still as Plato taught.”

But Alasco said; “Love will still be lord of all.”

“He shall never be lord of me,” said Euphemia.

And in those days there was the rinderpest in the land among the cattle, and the swine were plagued with a sore disease, and there had gone forth an edict and a command from the Queen’s Councillors that no beeves or swine should be driven on the Queen’s highways. So there came upon the lord of Mountfidget men armed with authority from the Queen, and they slew his beeves and his swine, and buried their carcases twenty fathom deep beneath the ground.

And the young lord was angered much, for he loved his beeves and his swine, and he said to himself, “What will my lord, the Count Grandnostrel, say unto me, if I visit him with empty hands? Will the bloodred wine be poured, or shall I see the gentle Euphemia?” For the Count Grandnostrel was a hard man, and loved a bargain well. “But I have much money in many banks,” said the lord of Mountfidget, in council with himself. “And though my beeves and my swine are slain and buried, yet will he receive me; for the rich are ever welcome, though their hands be empty.” So he went up the slopes which led to the Castle of Grandnostrel.

And at the portal, within the safeguard of the drawbridge, there were huge heaps of dried fruits, and mountains of olives. And there came out to him the Count Grandnostrel, and demanded of him where were his beeves and his swine. And the lord told the count how men in authority from the Queen had come upon him on the road, and had slain the beasts, and buried them twenty fathom beneath the earth⁠—because of the rinderpest which raged in the land, and because of the disease among the swine. Then said the Count Grandnostrel: “And art thou come empty-handed to drink the bloodred wine; and hast thou never a horn or a tusk? If my butler draw but a sorry pint for thee, I’ll butler him with a bastinado! No;⁠—not a cork! Get thee gone to thy Grange.” So he drew up the drawbridge, and the sweet scent of the olives and of the dried fruits were borne aloft by the zephyrs, and struck upon the envious senses of the young lord.

“And shall I not see thy daughter, the gentle Euphemia?” said he.

Then the Count Grandnostrel called to his archers and bade them twang their bows; and the archers twanged their bows, and seven arrows struck the Lord Mountfidget full upon his breast. But their points availed nought against his steel cuirass; so he smiled and turned away.

“Nay, my lord, Count Grandnostrel,” said he, “thou shalt rue the day when thou treated thus one who has ready money in many banks; I will set the lawyers at thee, and ruin thee with many costs.”

Then, as he walked away, the archers twanged again, and struck him on the back. The good steel turned the points, and the arrows of Grandnostrel fell blunted to the ground. But I fear there was one arrow which entered just above the joint of the knight’s harness, and galled the neck of the young lord.

But as he went down the slopes there waved a kerchief from the oriel window over the eastern parapet.

’Twas midnight, and there came a soft knock at the door of Alasco the Wise. But Alasco heard it not, for he was drinking in the wisdom of the ancients with all his senses, and his ears were deaf to all earthly sounds.

“Sleepest thou, my father?” said the gentle Euphemia, as she opened the door, “or is thy soul buried amidst thy books?”

“Daughter,” said Alasco the Wise, “my soul is buried among my books. The hour is short, and the night cometh, and he who maketh not his hay while the sun of life shineth, shall hardly garner his crop beneath the cold, damp hand of death. But for thee, my child, and thy needs, all other things shall give way.” Then he wiped his pen, and put a mark in his book, and closed his lexicon.

“My father,” said the girl, “didst thou hear my father’s archers, how their bows twanged this morn?”

“I heard a rattling as of dried peas against a windowpane,” said the sage.

“It was the noise, father, of the arrows as they fell upon the breast of the Lord Mountfidget. And they fell upon his back, also, and alack! one has struck him on the nape of his neck! And then he rode away. Oh, father!”

“And is it thus with thee, my child?” said Alasco.

“Thus, father,” said Euphemia. And she hid her face upon the serge of his mantle.

“Did I not say that love should still be lord of all?” said the sage.

“Spare me, father,” said the damsel. “Spare the child that has stood at thy footstool since she was as high as thy knee. Spare me, and aid me to save my lord!”

Then they sallied forth from the small wicket which opens into the forest from beneath the west barbican.

And in the morning the Count of Grandnostrel called for his daughter. And his eyes were red with drinking, and his breath was thick, and he sat with his head between his hands. For he had drunk the bloodred wine sitting all alone through the mght, laughing, as he quaffed down goblet after goblet, at the discomfiture of the lord of Mountfidget. “Rinderpest, indeed!” he had said. “He that cometh hither empty-handed is likely to return a-dry. Ho! there, butler! another stoup of Malvoisie, and let it be that with the yellow seal.” But in the morning he had called for a cool tankard, and now he demanded his daughter’s presence, that she might pour for him the cup which cheers but not inebriates. “Where is the Lady Euphemia? Why tarries the Lady Euphemia?” But the attendants answered him never a word. Then he called again. “Why cometh not my child to pour for her father the beverage which he loves? Now, by cock and pie, an that old greybeard detain her, he shall hence from the mullioned chamber⁠—and that with a flea in each ear.” But still they answered him not a word. Then he up with the tankard from which he had taken his morning’s brewst, and flung it at the menial’s head. “Thou churl, thou sot, thou knave, thou clod! why answerest thou not thy liege and lord?” But the menial put his hands to his bruised head, and still answered he never a word.

Then there entered Dame Ulrica, a poor and aged cousin of the house, who went abroad to dances and to tea-parties with the gentle Euphemia. “An please you, my lord count,” said dame Ulrica, “Euphemuia has fled this morning by the small wicket which leads from beneath the west barbican into the forest, and Alasco the Wise has gone with her.”

Then the Count Grandnostrel stood up in his wrath, and sat down in his wrath, and stood up in his wrath once again. “That tankard full of gold pieces,” said he, “to him who shall bring me the greybeard’s head!”

Then the archers twanged their bows, and the men-at-arms sharpened their sabres, and the volunteers looked to their rifles, and the drummers drummed, and the fifers fifed, and they let down the drawbridge, and they went forth in pursuit of the wise Alasco and the gentle Euphemia.

“By cock and pie,” said the Count Grandnostrel, “an it be as I expect, and that sorry knave from Mountfidget is at the bottom of this⁠—”

“In that case it will be meetest, my lord, that she should be his wife,” said the Dame Ulrica, who was riding on a palfrey at his right hand. And when she spoke the ancient virtue of the old race was to be seen in her eye, and might be heard in her voice.

“Thou sayest well, dame,” answered the count.

“And the lord of Mountfidget has beeves and swine numerous as the stars, and ready money in many banks,” said Dame Ulrica. For Dame Ulrica was not virtuous only, but prudent also.

“By cock and pie thou sayest sooth,” said the Count Grandnostrel. And as they had now reached the Fiery Nostril, a hostel that standeth on the hill overlooking the olive gardens of the castle, the count called loudly for the landlord’s ale. “By cock and pie this is dry work,” said the Count Grandnostrel. “But we will squeeze Mountfidget drier before we have done with him.”

Then the menials laughed, and the potbellied landlord swayed his huge paunch hither and thither, as he shook his sides with merriment. “Faix, and it is my lord the count is ever ready with his joke,” said the landlord.

So they paid for the beer and rode on.

In the upper chamber of a small cottage, covered with ivy and vines, lay the lord of Mountfidget, hurt unto death. For one of the arrows had touched him on the nape of the neck, and the point had been dipped in the oil of strychnine. And there leaned over his couch a widow, watching him from moment to moment, touching his lips ever and anon with orange juice mixed with brandy, and wiping the clammy dew from his cold brow. “Lord of Mountfidget,” she said, “when my dear husband was torn from my widowed arms, thy father gave unto the poor widow this cottage. Would I could repay the debt with my heart’s blood.”

“Aha! alas! alack! and well-a-day,” said the young lord. “Nought can repay me now⁠—either interest or principal. All my money at all the banks cannot prolong my life one hour. No, nor my beeves and swine, though they outnumber the stars of heaven, and are fatter than a butter-tub. It is all up with poor Mountfidget.”

“Nay; say not so, my lord. If only I could reach the wise man that liveth in the mullioned chamber of the north tower, he hath a medicine that might yet be of avail.”

Then Mountfidget demanded who was the wise man, and where was the mullioned chamber of the north tower; and when he learned that aid could be had only from the Castle of Grandnostrel, he sighed amain, and sighed again, and then thus he addressed the widow; “Ay, help from Grandnostrel;⁠—yes; but not such aid as that. I want no greybearded senior to rack my dying brains with wise saws; but, if it might be given me to let my eyes rest but once on the form of the gentle Euphemia, methinks I could die contented.”

Then the door of the chamber was opened, and there entered a young page, whose slashed doublet and silken hose were foul with the mud of many lanes, and the dirt of the forest clung to his short cloak, and his hair was wet with the dropping of the leaves, and his cap was crushed and his jacket was torn. “He is here! he is here!” said the page. “I have followed him by his blood through the forest.” Then the page fell at the bed-foot, and there he fainted.

But as the page sank upon the floor, a small bottle fell from his breast coat-pocket, and the widow saw that it was labelled “antidote for the oil of strychnine.” Then the widow’s heart leaped for joy, and as she poured the precious drops into the gaping wound, she said a prayer that the page might recover also.

But what noise is this of horses and of men around the humble vinevard of that poor widow? “Tiraloo, Tiraloo, Tiraloo-ooh,” “Ha!” said the Mountfidget, raising himself on his elbow, “ ’tis the war-cry of the Grandnostrel!” “Rowdadow, Rowdadow, Rowdadow-dow,” then greeted his ears. “Ha! ha!” he cried. “Rowdadow, a Rowdadow, Rowdadow-dow; ’tis the war-cry of the Mountfidget!” And he grasped the sword which lay beneath his pillow. “Mountfidget to the rescue! Shall a man lie still and perish beneath the bedclothes? Ho, a Hossbach! Ho, a Walker!” For Walker was the captain of the men-at-arms at Mountfidget, and the lord knew the voice of his trusty clansman.

Then the widow looked through the lattice-window, and told him how the fight went. But no one thought of the page upon whose brow the clammy hand of death was falling as he lay at the bed-foot.

Alascco the Wise had been left in the forest, and was unable to stir another step. “ ’Tis the blood of the Mountfidget,” he had said, when he saw the gouts upon the path. “I know it by its purple hue, and by its violet-scented perfume. Follow it on, but take that bottle with thee. And stay, lest thy sex betray thee to ill-usage from the boors, take this page’s raiment which I carry in my wallet, and put the bottle in thy breast coat-pocket. If thou find, as is too likely, a gaping wound in the nape of the neck, naught can restore him but this. Pour it in freely, and he shall live. But if he shall first have heard the war-cry of thy father to disturb him, then he shall surely die.” So the gentle Euphemia had gone through the forest, and had reached the chamber of the widow in which lay the lord of Mountfidget.

And as she lay at the foot of the bed, slowly there came back upon her mind a knowledge that she was there. She put her hand to her bosom in haste, and found that the bottle was gone. Then a terrible sound greeted her ears, and she heard the war-cry of her father. Tiraloo, Tiraloo, Tiraloo-ooh! “He is dead,” she cried, springing to her feet. “He is dead, and I will die also.”

Then the widow knew that it was the gentle Euphemia. “No, thou gentlest one,” she said; “he shall not die. He shall live to count the fat beeves and the many swine of Mountfidget, and shall be the possessor of much money in many banks; and thou, thou gentlest one, shall share his blessings. For love shall still be lord of all.”

“I do confess,” said the gentle Euphemia in a silvern whisper⁠—in a silvern whisper that was heard by him beneath the bedclothes⁠—“I do confess that love is lord of me.” Then she sank upon the floor.

And then they all returned to the Castle of Grandnostrel, and on their way they took up the wise Alasco, who had remained in the forest.

“Nay, father,” said the damsel smiling, “but thou hast been right in all things, and hast taught me better than Plato ever taught.”

“And was not I young once myself!” said the sage. So when the bloodred wine had warmed his old veins, and made supple the joints of his aged legs, he tripped a measure in the castle hall, and was very jocund.

So the lord of Mountfidget was married to the gentle Euphemia. But when three months were passed and gone, Lieutenant Hossbach had returned to his regimental duties.

And love shall still be lord of all.