Licensed, May 9. 1678.

Ro. L'Estrange.

Fatall Prudence, OR, DEMOCRATES, THE Unfortunate Heroe.

A Novell.

Translated out of French.

LONDON, Printed by J. Bennet for R. Bentley and M. Magnes in Russell-street near Covent-Garden, 1679.

Fatall Prudence, OR, DEMOCRATES, THE Unfortunate Heroe.
A Novell.

THe Unfortunate Heroe of this History, having through many considera­ble services merited the good Graces of his King, and see­ing himself honour'd with his fa­vour, and being possest of a very large estate by his liberalities, de­scended a while to make some re­flection within himself of that glorious Rank and Eminence he was in at Court by his Prince, and to examine to what those of his quality were exposed. He [Page 2]look'd on the favour he had, not as those use to do who are yet in prosperity, he had better eyes then your generality of favou­rites, who know not that it is deceitful, but when they can no longer keep it from destroying them. He saw very well that it was inconstant, and that he ought to mistrust it, that it ex­pos'd to all the dangers immagi­nable those whom it raises to the highest dignity and honours, and that in giving them riches and credit, it makes their best friends become their Emulators, and renders all those inferiour to them enviously jealous of their glory and happiness. The con­sideration of all these things made Democrates (for so was this unfortunate Heroe call'd) re­solv'd to take a very strict care of his least accounts, and of all his words: that so he might not raise [Page 3]to himself any enemies, nor give those, whom the noise of his for­tune might make malicious, any occasion of becoming prejudiciall to him, though they should dai­ly watch for an Opportunity to be so; nor to undertake any thing which he had not very well exa­mined, and to follow the Dire­ctions of prudence, when those that were equal to him never did consult it.

He had scarce made this reso­lution, but the Duke Nicanor, brother to the King his Master, desir'd him to assist him in his Love, and acquainted him with the design he had to marry Fulci­ana, a Lady that was one of the greatest beauties that shone in the Kingdome, and daughter to one of the first Officers of the Crown, but whom he could not marry without blemishing his quality, because she had not received so [Page 4]many advantages from fortune as to place her in the number of Princesses, as she had from Na­ture, which had made her one of the Charming beauties in the world. This confidence gave Democrates a very great trouble, for he well knew prudence some­times was altogether unprofita­ble, in that it could not give hap­py Councells. But yet, after he had sufficiently consulted what he ought to do, he thought that to oblige at once both the King his Master, and the Duke Nicanor, it was his duty to disswade the Prince from a design that would be a disreputation to his glory, & contrary to the esteems that all persons, even the highest digni­fied of the Kingdome, had con­ceiv'd of him. He told him therefore, he thought he should not deserve the honour he did him, if he should disguise his [Page 5]sentiments to him, whereupon he represented to him in terms that were as pressing as respect­full, all that might oblige him to leave off such a design, and that he could not marry Fulciana without lessening himself ex­treamly, and without betraying his quality, and lowering that great reputation he had acquir'd. The Prince, after he had heard all his reasons, did as most Lo­vers use to do when they are per­swaded of the truth of what is told them, that is to say, approve them sighing, and told Democra­tes he was not then in a condition to hearken to his councells, be­cause it was not in his power to follow them.

A little after the King hearing of the Amours of his Brother, and fearing he would make an alli­ance so prejudiciall to his quali­ty, told Democrates, that as he [Page 6]had always assum'd the care of his fortune, so he would also take upon him that of his marriage, and give him still new accessi­ons with the beautifull Fulciana, though Democrates had not as yet ingag'd his heart to any, and had beheld in that person all he was able to desire, yet the resolution of the King to marry him gave him a very sensible affliction; be­cause the Duke Nicanor, who was passionately fir'd with the same charms, had made a Disco­very of his Love to him, and al­so desir'd him to serve him in it. He endeavour'd neverthelesse to conceal from the King's eyes the surprise that that discourse was the occasion of to him, and after he had return'd him his acknow­ledgments for all the favours and kindness he for him, and testi­fied to him that he was ready to do all he should command him, [Page 7]he made him to foresee that he had no mind to marry Fulciana, but through obedience; and that he had not yet any design to di­spose of himself, nor any inclina­tion for that fair one; the King, who was firmly resolv'd upon that marriage, did not seem to apprehend any thing of what Democrates would fain have had him understood, and told him he was glad to see him in the resolu­tion of obliging him. Democrates went away from him very much troubled, and was musing all the rest of the day, and all the night, about the means to keep himself in the good graces of the King, and in those of the Duke Nicanor; but Prudence not ha­ving furnish'd him with any, or at least having given him but ve­ry weak ones, he went the next day betimes to wait upon the Duke, who no sooner preceiv'd [Page 8]him coming into his chamber, but he lookt upon him with eyes full of threatning, and told him in a very disdainful manner, and which show'd a great deal of scorn, ‘I do not any longer won­der, why you were able to per­swade me not to marry Fulciana, a Rivall ought not to give any other Councels to his Rival; but you ought to regard your difference that is betwixt us, not to abuse my confidence, to sacri­fice all your flame to me, and not to demand of the King the object of my vows, and that of my earnest desires. You may, added he with a look capable to make a heart of the greatest assurance and resolution trem­ble, press on this marriage if you are weary of living; but let heaven be my witness, you shall sooner be in the arms of death, then in those of Fulciana. [Page 9]Death, replied Democrates to him, shall not beget any fear in me in the estate to which I am reduced, and I do so much the more earnestly desire it, as I see it is only that which can deliver me from the confusion into which I am cast, by the confi­dence you have made me of your Love, and that extream kindness the King has for me; since that that confidence makes me to pass for a traitor, and for one ungrateful, without having merited that name; and that the Bounties of the King, in be­stowing upon me more then I desire, makes me to pass for their Rival, without ever loving the object of their flame; but to show you, continued he, that all I say is true, if you can finde out any means to prevent my marrying of Fulciana, and keep the King from being displeas'd [Page 10]with me for it, I protest to you I'll subscribe to whatever you are pleas'd to have me, and I will likewise, to assist you, do all that ever I am able, without appearing ungrateful to the Kings bounties, and rebellious to his commands.’ This dis­course, far from giving the Duke Nicanor any Joy, only serv'd to increase the trouble he had in his breast; he knew very well that a Rival was not all he had to fear, and that the King having heard of his passion, did not press De­mocrates to marry Fulciana, but only to prevent his marrying of her; this consideration made him almost immoveable; fear and grief took possession of his soul, and for some time kept him from speaking; but after his grief had lost a little of its violence, and he was somewhat come to himself, he told Democrates, he would [Page 11]think upon what he had said, and that on his side nothing should be spared to make things succeed according to his desires. Demo­crates being retired, the Duke opened his breast again to grief, and was buried in a profound stu­die, which he got not out of till he had light upon a way to divert the blow which threatned him. He resolv'd with himself, the more easily to attain the end of his design, to remove Democrates from the high place he held in the King's affection, and therein to follow the examples of all great men, who sacrifice to their interests all those who serve them, and who little are troubled for the misfortunes that befall them, so they can but have what they desire: this made our de­spairing Lover go and tell the King that Democrates proclaim'd openly that he had more hatred [Page 12]then Love for Fulciana, that he had rather lose his favour, then marry her, that he knew how to turn aside the stroke, and that it was more then he could do, to make him buy, at the expence of his heart, the bounties he had re­ceived from him; and that his services having merited those re­wards, it was not just that he should buy them over again, or rather sacrifice himself to con­serve 'em; the King did so much the more readily believe this dis­course, as he began to remem­ber that Democrates had made him foresee he would not marry Fulciana, but only in obedience to him, which so incens'd him, that a little more would have made him been immediately ar­rested. After the Duke Nicanor had perswaded the King his bro­ther what he had a minde to make him believe, Fulciana, the [Page 13]Father of his Mistress, who joyn'd with him in the intrigue, came by his order to speak to the King and to conjure him not to give his daughter to a man, who only had a scorn & an aversion for her; he would with all his heart most readily have consented to this match, if the heart of Democrates had been dispos'd to it, but that since he discovered by those dis­courses that he would never have any Love for her, and that he would not marry her but by con­straint, he intreated him that he might have the sentiments of a father, and that he might not consent to the unhappiness of a daughter, whom he most tender­ly loved. As the King was going to reply to him, Fulciana entered to act the personage of the Duke Nicanor, her Father and she had resolv'd on beforehand to have her represent. Fulcian had no [Page 14]sooner perceiv'd her, but he feign'd to be much surpriz'd, and ask'd her if she came to stir up the Kings pity, and to divert the misery she was threatn'd with. ‘I come, replied she to him, mau­ger all the aversion I have for Democrates, and all the hatred he declares he has for me, to show I can obey the commands of my Prince, and to tell him I am ready to follow his Laws. Ah! childe, did Fulcian answer her, think upon what you are doing, and do not promise that which you may have cause to repent of, and do not so rashly run to meet your misery. Al­though I very well know, re­ply'd she, that I am likely to be the most wretched person in the world, in marrying him whom my Prince would give me, yet I will never relent, that I have obeyed my King: it is a crime to [Page 15]refuse him any thing; he de­mands of me my heart, and it is to him that I give it, and not to Democrates, though I am rea­dy to marry him. Ah, Sir! cry'd out Fulcian, throwing himself at the Kings feet, have pity of a childe, who to obey you, has none for her self; and if my prayers and tears cannot soften you, suffer your self to be over­come by her generosity, and con­tent your self with her obedi­ence.’

These Discourses so surpriz'd the King, that after he had ad­mir'd the power that Fulciana had over her self, he sent them both away without resolving on any thing, and told them he would advise what to do.

Whilst all these things were hapning, the Duke Nicanor, whom Love had inspir'd with all these stratagems and devises, waited [Page 16]the issue of them with impati­ence; for he had not made Fulci­ana say, that she was ready to marry Democrates, but that so their actions might be the less observ'd, and that there might be no suspicion either of the Love that that fair one had for him, or of the hopes he gave her of mar­rying her: but at the same time, after such an acknowledgment to prevent the Kings pressing on the marriage which he fear'd, and also that it should not be accom­plish'd, he caused the Father of Fulciana to oppose it, and to drive things off so long till he had absolutely remov'd Democrates from the place he held in the Kings affection, and had made all the world believe that he had a most invincible hatred for Ful­ciana, he hop'd if all these things did not cause the breaking off the match which he fear'd, they [Page 17]would at least serve to gain him time; and indeed he did obtain a great deal; for the King testify­ed so much anger against Demo­erates, that it was a long while be­fore he was willing to permit him to come into his presence. On the other side, seeing himself yet but ill confirm'd in his Estates, and Fulcian having very great credit, and several considerable friends, he was afraid to pro­voke him; so that all these things, joyned to the thoughts he had, that since Fulciana con­sented to marry Democrates, she was not so much beloved by the Duke his brother as they had been perswading him, troubled him exceedingly, and made it a long time before he could de­termine any thing. He found he was not likely to get out of the incertainty and confusion which he perceiv'd himself involv'd in, [Page 18]if he had not resolved to send for Democrates, and to discourse with him in private, to see if he could not perswade him to stifle, or at least to conceal the hatred he thought he had for Fulciana; but he was extraordinarily surprized to learn from his mouth, that he found himself more disposed to Love then hatred, and that he begged of him not to demand the cause of that coldness and indiffe­rence he had shown the first time he had spoken to him of that mar­riage. That Discourse made the King suspect some part of the truth, and he obliged Democrates to tell him the rest, which he thought he might do, without any imprudence, and without loosing the respect he owed to the Duke Nicanor, after what he had done for him, the King having learnt all, confessed he had acted prudently, and not being any [Page 19]longer able to doubt of the Love which his Brother had for Fulcia­na, and fearing that that fair one would suffer her self to be van­quished by the charms of ambiti­on, again told Democrates that he would have him marry her, and that he would protect him from the fury of his Brother: which he promised, not knowing any means how to turn it off.

The Duke Nicanor having learnt this news, sought every where for Democrates, to immo­late him to his Love, and to his choler; but not having found him, he resolved to marry Fulcia­na privately, and afterwards to declare his marriage to the King. He communicated that design to Fulcian, who seeing by that his Ambition satisfyed, told him he might be married without fear­ing any thing, and if the King resolv'd to make his marriage [Page 20]void, he would then discover to him that he could not bring any into his family who might pro­cure him more considerable ad­vantages then his daughter, and that he had still need of Fulcian and his friends.

There wanted no more to o­blige the the Duke of Nicanor to marry the adorable Fulciana, which he did in the presence of several considerable witnesses. In the mean time news was brought to the King of it, who notwith­standing caused her to be sought for, to make her marry Democra­tes in his presence whom she was already married to. For indeed he could not give any belief to the certainty of it, untill it was con­firmed to him by the Duke his Brother, who presently came to throw himself at his knees, and to intreat him to consent to his marriage. ‘He told him he knew [Page 21]very well he was much to blame in that he had done it without his knowledge; but he had not the power to be Master of his pas­sion, which he had a long time contended with, and that it was impossible for him to resist the violence of his Love, and to deny his hand (where he had sacrific'd his heart) to the most beautiful person in the world: the King repli'd to him, that for a Mistress he could not make choice of one who might be more advantagi­ous to him, and he doubted not but Fulciana had that honour; but that he did not believe she was his wife, and he knew very well that he was, too prudent, and had too much Spirit to do so great an injury to his Quality and Eminence. He replied to him, that what he told him was true, and named him all those persons who had seen him mar­ried.’ [Page 22]The King stood immova­ble at this discourse, with de­spite and choler in his eyes, and especially in his Countenance; but yet he durst not let them break out but lightly, nor go to break off so unequal a marriage; because he saw very well that Fulcian having had that temerity to permit it, he had likewise more friends and greater power then he imagined, and that he could not oppose him without raising up against him a party of the most considerable Grandees in the Realm, which was the cause that he pardoned his Bro­ther, and that he agreed to his marriage rather through policy, then out of any satisfaction he re­ceived by it.

The choler and despite of the King, (being thus forcibly stifled in him, as that he durst not let it break forth either against the [Page 23]Duke his Brother, or against Fulcina,) fell upon Democrates; he was greatly inraged against him, and blamed his prudence, which he but a little before did so highly value. He told him that he was the cause of the injury his Brother had done to his blood, and so deprived him of his favour, but yet without banishing him the Court, where he afterwards lookt upon him for sometime, but [...] with a great deal of indif­ference.

Democrates, perceiving that he was deprived of the good graces of his Prince, and that he had no favourable place in the minde of the Duke Nicanor, because when he had justifyed himself of what that Duke had said to the King, he had consented to the marriage of Fulciana, knew at his own ex­pence, that when misfortune is obstinately resolved to pursue a [Page 24]person, prudence signifies very little, and how profitable soever it is at other times, one consults it then but in vain. ‘Is there any one, says he, (in bewailing him­self with his friends at the dis­grace that had hapned to him,) to whom prudence can be favou­rable; when he is forced to do evil, whatever it is possible for him to do? and when he runs the same danger in not pursuing its direction? Those whose lives, fate has determined shall be mi­serable, and yet who have the Election given them of two or three punishments, have enough to consult of prudence to know what they shall do, and not­withstanding at last they are ne­cessitated to choose one punish­ment. Fortune has now almost put me into this condition, I could not consent to what the King-commanded me, without [Page 25]provoking the Duke Nicanor, nor consent to what Duke Ni­canor would have me, without incensing the King; and my un­happinesse was such, that I did draw upon my self his anger in doing nothing.’

Five or six moneths were spent before Democrates was restored to the good graces of his Prince, but at last the King, considering that the Marriage of his brother had been more profitable to him then he had imagined, and that Fulcian had hindred a great many discon­tented persons from breaking out into any violences, & had brought them to their duty and submissi­on, looked upon this prudent un­fortunate man with as good an eye as ever he had done before his disgrace; but he did not re­store him to his confidence; he loved him without making him his favourite, that place cannot be [Page 26]easily rendred to those who have once lost it, through the good or­der that those observe, who by their wit and happy addresse have known how to make themselves Masters of it.

Our Heroe who was not whol­ly satisfied with the reparation that Fortune then did make him, perceiving himself much less em­ployed then when he had been his Princes favourite, and was intrusted with all his secrets, was resolved to try whether the perse­cutions of Love were any thing pleasanter then those his evil for­tune caused him, and gave up himself to be charm'd with the beauties of Sestiana, the Daughter of Count Sestianes, who was not altogether so happy in point of Estate as he, but who was of as illustrious a Family: Although his passion was very violent, yet as he did nothing but with a great [Page 27]deal of prudence, he was resolved to know before he would declare it, if it were likely to be appro­ved of, and would not make a dis­covery of his flame, before that his actions, his services, and his regards had made the judication. Sestianes began to perceive his love, and wished with all his heart that his tongue would con­firm what his eyes did seem to tell him, when her father was sollicited for her by a considera­ble person: Sestianes fearing lest he might fall off, gave him his word before he had ever acquain­ted his daughter with it, and came not to tell her the news till after the marriage was concluded on. This fair one, who began to have some inclinations for Demo­crates, received it with a very cold indifference; but she always told her father that she was ready to be led by his commands, which [Page 28]she looked upon as her duty to do, as much because of the obedience she owed him, as because that De­mocrates had not as yet declared the passion he had for her.

This unhappy Lover whom Prudence had always betrayed, had scarcely learnt this sad and afflictive news, but he came to wait upon Sestiana to make a dis­covery of his love to her; She had no sooner perceived it but she was instantly sensible of so great an emotion, and so violent a grief in her breast, that it was plainly remarkable in her face. Democrates on his part appeared so planet-struck, that he could not so much as get one word, which occasioned them a great while to do nothing but keep their eyes fixed upon one another, without having the power to speak a syllable; but at last Demo­crates broke the silence, and after [Page 29]he had eased himself of two or three sighs which lay very heavy upon his soul, and which made the afflicted fair one sufficiently to know the trouble he had in it, he said to her; ‘Is it possible, Ma­dam, that what I have now late­ly heard is true, and that you are within these few days to be led to the Altar by— Yes, re­ported she to him in a little kinde of rage, I am, since you have been willing to permit it: Pardon me, my Lord, replied she immediatly, repenting that she spoke to him in that man­ner, and do not attribute it to any thing but the terrible trans­ports of grief I have upon my spirit, and which do confound me, that they keep me from thinking either of what I do or say. Ah! Madam, did Demo­crates answer her, flinging him­self at her knees, You need not [Page 30]longer conceal from me, that I should have been the happiest man in the world, if fate which continually is persecuting me, had not fully opposed it; Your eyes and mouth do tell it me; they are witnesses you cannot disavow; do not make them false, for heavens sake, but suf­fer me to feel in all their extent the fatal and yet charming dis­pleasures of learning my happi­nesse, when it is impossible for me to enjoy it: They will give me joy and sadnesse both toge­ther, the former in hearing that I have the glory to be belov'd by so fair and generous a person, and the latter in having known it too late, and in not having soo­ner declar'd my passion to you. Ah, cruel man! replied Sestiana to him sighing, why did you no sooner speak of it? or why do you speak of it so late? If you [Page 31]loved me, as you say you did, you ought to have loved my repose, and not to deprive me of it, to let me believe that you have ne­ver had any kindenesse for me: The little worth there is in me, replied Democrates to her, not rendring my losse considerable, ought not to cause that of your repose; but as my losse is vastly great in losing you, it is only I my self ought to complain, and to repent that I have no sooner discovered my flame to you: From whence did it then pro­ceed, said Sestiana to him, that you were so long without spea­king of it? those who demand a heart, answered he her, with­out having merited it by their services, by their love and sub­missions, have been often ill re­ceived; I looked on yours as too considerable to be hazarded; be­sides I was not ignorant that a [Page 32]heart does not sacrifice its self but to the knowledge it hath of the Love of its votary, and not to the demand he shall make of it, and that there is no beauty but refuses it to those who have not merited it by their Love and Services, unless ambition con­strains them to it, or that the grandeur and the illustrious me­rit of those who demand it do oblige them: as likewise we ought not to be esteemed Lo­vers, as soon as we begin our passion; it is time which must acquire that quality, and those who have not discovered that they do with justice possesse it, are much to blame to pretend that they are beloved, because they begin to love. The Love of a beautiful and charming per­son ought not to be the conquest of a Gallants first sigh; and those who are so vain to believe they [Page 33]could obtain it before they have learnt to love, deserve to meet with the highest severity and Indignation of the fair One, whose heart they are so bold to demand. This has been it, con­tinued Democrates, which made me forbear so long to discover the ardour with which I burn, and as I fear'd provoking you by the confession of my Love, I was willing to dispose your breast to it by dutifull submissions, by my assiduities, and by a thousand other marks of the most violent passion that ever was.’

Sestiana could not hear this dis­course without dismissing some sighs, and when Democrates, had left of speaking, she told him, ‘that since she had mistrust­ed his merit, and he had thought he could never obtain her heart before he had made himself wor­thy of it by his services and by [Page 34]his Love, he ought to have pre­vented the unhappiness that had befell him, to have demanded her of her father as soon as he had taken up the design of love­ing her, and afterwards to have indeavoured by his cares and as­siduities to obtain her of her self. Ah! Madam, replied he to her, I was not willing to serve my self that way, but would have obtained your heart of your self alone, and have had you to ren­der it to the proofs of my Love, and not to your duty; without that, I should never have thought to have the glorious ad­vantage of being beloved by so fair and beautiful a person, though possibly you would have consented without any trouble to marry me; I should not have known how to distinguish your Love from your Obedience, but should have always thought you [Page 35]ought to hate me, not doubting but I should have merited your hatred, for having demanded you of any other besides your self.’ They continued still some time together in disburthening themselves of their sighs, and in bewailing their unhappiness, and when they were taking their leaves of one another, Sestiana ad­vises Democrates to go and declare to her Father the Love he had for her, and she desired him at the same time not to see her any more, if he could obtain no­thing from him: this unfortunate Lover had no sooner left her, but he went to discover his passion to Sestianes, who told him, that he did as much resent the displeasure as himself, in that he had not sooner declared his passion, but now his Daughters marriage was too far gone to break it off. Demo­crates, after this answer that he [Page 36]had foreseen, return'd as affli­cted, as you may imagine, you your selves should be in the like circumstances, and a few days af­ter he had the cruel dissatisfacti­on to see a person married whom he loved even to adoration, and by whom he was likewise greatly beloved. Then did he repent the time he had lost before he had de­clared his Love, and then did he a thousand times detest the pru­dence that had councell'd him to act in that manner.

Fortune, which till then had still seem'd to repent for all the in­sultations she had made over our Heroe, and for all the miserys she had procured him, seem'd in this to repent more then ever; since that Sestiana became a wid­dow within three months after she was married. The death of her Husband gave Democrates a fresh opportunity to make his ap­plications [Page 37]to her. Sestianes appro­ved both of his visits, and of the address he made to his Daughter, and there was only a waiting for the expiration of the year of her mourning to celebrate the mar­riage; when, on a sudden, For­tune, which was resolved to be no longer favourable to this Lo­ver, or rather which had not seem'd to be favourable to him, but to make him the more deeply sensible of the afflictions she was preparing for him, declar'd her self absolutely his enemy.

Affairs were then in this po­sture, when Theomedes, a Prince of the blood, and a near relation of the Kings, received this Letter from one of the Officers of the Army.

To Prince THEOMEDES.

BEing now just upon the point of go­ing to be accountable to the Gods for my actions, and seeing my self very near my last moment of life, I thought it was my duty to reveal to you a business that concerns you very much. A few days since one of my ac­quaintance came to demand of me whe­ther I would joyn in a conspiracy that was contrived against your Life: he would not acquaint me with the names of the confederates, but all that I could draw from him was, that he be­lieved that Democrates was one of the Number, because he was too great a friend to those who had ingaged him in it, not to be one, & that it was impos­sible for him to be wholly unacquainted with it. He was to have come to me two days afterwards, to give me more [Page 39]certain intelligences of it, and to know my resolution, but he was the next day killed in the sedition you know late­ly happened in this City, which has been the cause that I could not know any thing more of it. You ought after this advise to conserve the days that are so dear to the State.

Poligesne.

Theomedes had no sooner read over this Letter, but he went and carried it to the King, who was greatly surprized to finde the name of Democrates in it; but as he could not imagine him to be capable of so great a baseness, he would not make him be arrested, as Theomedes demanded, before he had sent to his house who had writ this Letter, to see if no ways were to be found out whereby to get some further discoveries and satisfactions: but those who went thither having found him dead, [Page 40]came back without having got any other information, and with­out having learnt any thing that might deliver them out of the trouble and confusion into which in all probability this Letter was likely to cast I know not how many.

This could not be kept so se­cret; but that Democrates who had great friends, was advertised of it; but as he knew himself in­nocent, and did not think the King had any suspicion to his dis­advantage, nor gave any credit to the Imposture, he would not follow the advice of those who councell'd him to fly.

Sestianes, who was the Author of this conspiracy, having con­fusedly learnt this news, and fear­ing that Democrates, who as it was reported, knew the name of the chief of the conspiracy, would discover him, came to see him [Page 41]without examining well what he did, as most guilty persons do, who lose their Judgement by the fear they have upon them, and ‘told him, that he had heard he would accuse him; but that those who might have told him he was guilty (in case he had been told so) accused him un­justly, and their suspicions were not grounded any otherwise then in that they knew the Prince Theomedes was his Ene­my, and hated him mortally, which made them believe that, to be delivered of so powerfull and redoubted an Enemy, and who was very prejudicial to him at Court, he had resolved to be his death.’

‘This Discourse much surpriz­ed Democrates, he told Sestianes that he acquainted him with things he had never heard of, that he did not believe he could [Page 42]ceive so horrible a thought, and so contrary his glory, and that never to having known the Authors, nor the complices of this conspiracy, nor so much indeed as that they had conspi­red it, he nere thought of ac­cusing him, nor any other:’ those words in some measure dissipated Sestianes's fear, and kept him from flying, as he had proposed to himself. He went after he had quitted Democrates, to find out his companions in this conspiracy, and bid them not be allarm'd, whatsoever they might hear re­ported, for he was sure there was no body knew any thing.

Whilst things went on thus, they resolved to arrest Democrates, to oblige him to tell what he knew of this conspiracy. This unfortunate Heroe learnt this news without appearing in the least allarmed at it, and indeed [Page 43]without any change of counte­nance; and as he relyed much upon his innocence, he went to address himself to his Prince as he was wont to do, which caused him to have the honour of being arrested in the Kings Palace, and conducted to Prison by those Guards. He was kept there two days without having any thing said to him, and on the third he was interrogated, but to no pur­pose, this unhappy Innocent not being able to discover what he did not know; they shewed him af­terwards Poligesne's Letter, to see whither that would not surprize him, and make some motion in his face. But he without seeming any whit astonished, answer'd those that shewed it him, that ei­ther Poligesne was an impostor, or that he who had a mind to have seduced him was one, and as these Judges could not get any [Page 44]other answer from him, they went their way, and related no­thing to the King and Prince The­omedes, but only the resolution of Democrates.

When those who came to in­terrogate him were gone, he made reflections upon the Letter they had showed him, by which he understood that the Author of the conspiracy was of his acquain­tance, and one of his friends: he run over in his mind all those he knew, to see if among his friends there was any he could think ca­pable of this baseness, and upon whom he might fasten his suspici­ons; but not having found any, he remembred what Sestianes had come and told him some time be­fore he was taken prisoner, and immediately suspected part of the truth, which greatly troubled him, and gave him cruel inquie­tudes; for if on one side he was [Page 45]almost ready to dispair to have any reason to suspect the father of his Mistress of an action so foul and so unworthy a man of Ho­nour; on the other side he thought himself obliged to tell all he knew, and was perswaded that it was to make himself a criminal, and to wound his honour to keep it undiscovered; yet after he had consulted with himself what he should do, he saw very well that he ought not to accuse a man of the quality of Sestianes without any proofs, and upon a simple conjecture, and that if the evil treatments he had received from the Prince Theomedes made his Enemies believe it was he who had conspired against him, it was a motive strong enough to make his friends believe that he was suspected unjustly, and that with­out knowing the truth, would be to draw consequences to his dis­advantage, [Page 46]absolutely contrary to his glory and injurious to his reputation; wherefore, after he had well consulted prudence, to see what he had best do, it gave him only the advice to be silent, and not to speak of what it was impossible for him to prove, and that which might undoubtedly make him lose the heart of his Mi­stress: yet possibly had he heark­ned lesse to the Counsels of pru­dence, and had said all he knew, that Sestianes astonished, confoun­ded and surprised, as ordinarily most criminals are, when they see they are discovered, would not so well have known how to hide his surprise and trouble, and that his countenance would have discovered his crime, but as he had no proofs, it might be not only to run the hazard of losing the heart of his Mistress, but also be in danger to be looked up­on [Page 47]as an Impostor, for uttering that he could not make out: not but that if Democrates had been happy, fortune might have made him prosperous in acting after this manner, but as he proposed to himself that he would follow prudence in all things, and not put any thing to hazard, he ought not to undertake that which might be in the least peril­lous.

In the mean time whilst that this criminal without a crime, or rather this innocent victim of misfortune, gave himself up ho­ly to his inquietude, and sought out means to get rid of the doubt that was upon his spirit, Sestia­nes on his part was in a fear and trouble very difficult to be ex­prest. Sometimes he thought De­mocrates knew his crime, and that the Love he bore his Daughter kept him from speaking of it, [Page 48]sometimes he fancied he knew nothing of it, and then again he was perswaded, that he could not be very long Master of his secret, but would be constrain'd to de­clare it. His mind, being tost a­bout with all these different thoughts, successively gave up it self to fear, grief, torment, and hope, without ever getting it dis­possest of those wracking Inquie­tudes, no, not in those very mo­ments wherein he flattered him­self that Democrates knew not any thing, or if he had acquainted him with all, his love would have kept him from making any discovery.

Though Sestianes was still in fear, and his disquiets were great, and though the troubles and cares of Democrates were much more smart and pungent, and his griefs by far more sensible, yet all those torments came not [Page 49]near the cruel displeasures that Se­stiana resented, and as glory was a thousand times more dear to her then her life, and love; it was only despite that caused all her sighs, she was more deeply touch­ed at Democrates's being imprison­ed, because she had loved him, then because she did love him, and she had a most unexpressable regret that she had suffered a per­son to get her esteem and tender­ness whom she Judg'd unworthy of it, and whom she thought was guilty of the most shamefull and horrid baseness in the world. This generous Person did not re­semble those who cannot hate the objects they have loved, and who cannot see the crimes that Lovers do commit after they have once known how to gain their hearts, but with the eyes of their love; that is to say, only to excuse them, she looked not upon the [Page 50]pretended crime of Democrates with any other eyes then those of her choller, and only aim'd to be reveng'd both of him, and of her self, for that he had been able to constrain her Love; and to make her declare to him the weakness of her heart in bearing him so ar­dent an affection: wherefore she took up a resolution never to marry him, although he should get out of prison, and be perfect­ly restored into the Kings favour, unless she should be fully purg'd of that injurious suspition with which his reputation had been sullied.

Whilst Sestiana gave up her self wholly to her despite, Democrates was several times interrogated; but he still shew'd an equal assu­rance and resolution, and the Prince Theomedes not doubting but that he had some secret Ene­mies, took so great a care over [Page 51]himself, that those who had a de­sign to take away his life, could not finde any favourable opportu­nity to put their purpose in execu­tion.

The Imprisonment of Democra­tes, who could not be thought guilty of a crime so unworthy of him, and so contrary to the great reputation he had acquired, ex­treamly troubled several of his friends: and, above them all, Anaxander, who was a stranger of an Illustrious Family, and whose Name is known through­out a good part of Europe. They had made some Voyages toge­ther, and had contracted so great a friendship, that I know not how to express it, but in saying, that all the Histories have said of the most strongest friendships in the world cannot equal that which was between them. It had been already a good while that this [Page 52]stranger had designed to go back into his own Country, and his departure had not been retarded, but through the great affection he bore to Democrates, whom he could not then tell how to leave. But yet now he did resolve to go, seeing his friend in prison; but it was only for his service, as you will finde in the sequel.

This generous and faithfull friend made his departure with all the precipitation he could, and went out of the Kingdome with­out taking his leave of any person, and even without saluting the King, to whom he was very well known; because all these things he thought might be advantagi­ous to him, in the designe he had to serve his friend, and that he might derive from thence such consequences, as should be capa­ble to get that to be believed which he had a mind to perswade.

Democrate's imprisonment be­gan to be the publick discourse, both among the great ones, and the common people. All Judg­ments were divided, and there were different thoughts about this action according to the diffe­rent inclinations of persons. Some spoke of him as a Notorious Cri­minal, others maintain'd his in­nocence, and there were some that could not tell how to think him either one way or other, and knew not what they had best be­lieve, the King himself, and the Prince Theomedes began to find themselves under no small trou­ble and confusion; whilst Demo­crates, though the only person that was accused, and a prisoner, injoy'd a greater tranquillity then any of e'm, and felt his Soul as serene and calm as ever.

Matters were in this posture, that is to say, no more advanced [Page 54]then they were the first day of De­mocrates's being taken prisoner, when Anaxander, who was at last gone out of the Kingdome, in which his friend was unjustly ac­cused, writ to the King this Let­ter which, if you please, you may peruse.

To the KING.

I Thought my self obliged to acquaint your Majesty, not to let an Innocent perrish, that I am the Author of that conspiracy you have heard of, which threatens the life of Prince Theome­des, and that the friendship which is between Democrates and me, hath made some of the conspiratours be­lieve, that I might have discovered to him the designe I had against the life of that Prince; but I too much loved that dear and generous friend, to ingage him in it. Yet possibly I had [Page 55]done it, if he had not been your sub­ject; but his crime had been too great to set upon the Relations of a King, from whom he had received so many signal favours, this reason oblig'd me to be carefull of his glory, and not to put him into the unworthy, and cruel necessity of betraying, either his King, or his friend. Such an acknow­ledgment will no doubt surprise you; but my crime is so glorious, that I hope time will discover that only the gene­rous can blacken themselves with the like sin, and that how criminal soever I declare my self to be, posterity will not reproach my glory. As I should be troubled that Prince Thoemedes should lose his life upon any other sub­ject then that for which I had resolved to sacrifice him, I would inform him that there are some of your subjects who conspire against him, though I cannot tell by whom they are ingaged to it, nor what their motives is that thrust them on.

Anaxander.

As Anaxander was indowed both with a great presence of wit, and command of prudence; and what had happened, concluded him from doubting that Prince Theomedes had secret Enemies, and that they did conspire against him, she gave him that informa­tion that so the confession of a crime which he had not commit­ted, should not make the guilty believe that they were in any safe­ty, and likewise that this Prince should not expose himself to their fury.

I will leave you to Judge of the Kings surprise, and of the asto­nishment of Prince Theomedes, as soon as they had red Anaxanders Letter. They were along time, both of them, without knowing either what they ought to do, or even believe: but at last the King, who had not yet stifled in his breast all the sentiments of esteem [Page 57]he had formerly had for Democra­tes, was of opinion that he might believe that Letter, and that which confirm'd it in his thoughts was the remembrance of that precipitation that Anaxan­der had made to be gone, and that he seem'd to glory in his crime, in saying, that posterity would not reproach his glory, and the agree­ment he found of this Letter to that of Poligesne's, who had writ­ten that he was not assured of De­mocrates's being joined in the con­spiracy; but that he believ'd he might possibly know of it, because one of his friends was the Author of it.

As we live in an age where in­vention reigns, and where expe­rience discovers dayly that it is not in the power of Kings to hin­der a prisoner from knowing all that passes, either for, or against him, the friends of Democrates [Page 58]soon got him to be informed of all that Anaxander had writ in his favour; they also got convey'd a copy of the Letter he had sent to the King, in his justification. This Letter gave our illustrious prison­er as great a trouble and intangle­ment, as it had done the King, and Prince Theomedes; he could not perswade himself that a per­son so generous, and the very bottom of whose soul he thought he knew, could be capable of such a crime, and the more he consi­dered him either as innocent, or guilty, he was resolv'd to save his life, the more that generosity made him doubt that he was guilty.

He had not been many mo­ments in that reflection, but he quited it to fix upon another. ‘If Anaxander said he, in himself, was innocent, he would have found out some way to let me [Page 59]understand that he did not ac­cuse himself, but to save me my honour, and perhaps my life; and would not have expos'd me to the hard Necessity of doubt­ing of his Innocence, in a time, wherein he would possibly have divulged mine at the expence of his glory.’ He was a long while in this cruel uncertainty, but at last whatever ground he had to doubt, he could not be perswaded that so perfect a friend could pos­sibly be guilty.

Though Democrates had a deal of prudence, and a very piercing wit, he had his imagination fill'd with too many different thoughts, to present at once before him, the prudence which Anaxander had made use of in this emergency. For that generous friend had not a mind, for several considerable reasons, to let him know the truth of what he writ to the King, [Page 60]he apprehended that he should not finde out a person that would be faithful enough to acquaint him with it viva voce, or if he should write to him, there might be a great deal of difficulty to get that Letter come safe into his hands without any surprise. But yet these were not the principal reasons which obliged him not to discover to Democrates, that he was innocent, and only did de­clare himself the contrary to serve him, he had a more powerful rea­son then all those, and as he knew the generosity of that il­lustrious unfortunate man, he did apprehend, that if he did know the truth he would discover it, and avow that his friend did only render himself criminal to serve him.

Sestianes learn'd all that pass'd, but yet these Intelligences could not dissipate his fears, and smooth [Page 61]his breast into a calm, he knew very well that that had not alte­red the state of things, he saw well that if Democrates knew he was a criminal, it was still in his power to declare him so, and as he was the Author of the conspi­racy, he knew better then any person that Anaxander could not make himself guilty but out of ge­nerosity, and to save his friend; and he also did much doubt of the reasons which had induc'd him to give that advice, that he had put at the end of his Letter to the Prince Theomedes.

The King, who as I have al­ready told you, began to retrive his esteem for our Heroe, and who was of opinion that Anaxan­ders Letter might be relied upon, after he had made Theomedes to consent to it, who was the most interessed in this affair, declared that Democrates was innocent, and [Page 62]gave order he should be let out of prison.

This generous unfortunate per­son was no sooner set at liberty, but he went to throw himself at the King's feet. ‘I know Seignior, said he to him, how dear the li­berty which I now receive, has cost the glory of the most perfect friend that ever was: that too o­bliging Anaxander has not made himself guilty but to make me innocent, all his crime is my unhappiness he has thought he ought to give me at the expence of his reputation, those illustri­ous & almost incredible marks of his frendship, but too disadvanta­gious for himself; since they make him lose the esteem he had ac­quired among men: I will re­sume my setters to render him back his glory and his inno­cence, mine will be powerfull enough to free me from 'em, or if [Page 63]in spight of all its power I am constrain'd to perish, I shall not have the sensible and cruell dis­pleasure of living, and of know­ing my self the cause of a crime which will be unjustly imputed to the most virtuous of all men. You deserve, replied the King to him, amaz'd at this discourse, to have chains put on you far more heavy then those you now have quitted, not so much for the crime of which you are pos­sibly too justly suspected, as for the trouble and confusion you endeavour to throw into the breast of a King, who does all he can to defend you from those perils you are threatned with: I cannot secure you from them with justice, but in finding an­other guilty who justifies you; and yet when I have found him you implore your Rhetorick to perswade me that he is inno­cent, [Page 64]and do all you can to de­stroy what I have been hitherto doing for you. Cease, ungrate­ful, your opposition to my boun­ties, and if you will not do it, because I desire it, do it then ei­ther out of pity to your self, or from the obedience you owe me, and do not give me the regret of making him perish, who has been heretofore honoured with my Confidence: Though you should believe Anaxander is in­nocent, yet receive the testimo­nies of that friendship he gives you, and do not publish that he is not guilty, but leave it to time to justifie him; it renders justice to all the world, it does not suf­fer it self to be corrupted but of­tentimes brings to light the in­nocence of those who have been thought culpable, and the crimes of those who pass not only for innocent but likewise for most [Page 65]virtuous. Think upon what I say, and take you heed of pulling down my anger upon you, which should be so much the more vi­olent as you shall have forc'd it to break out.’

The King said no more to him but left Democrates in an inquie­tude and perplexity, from which he found it very painful to relieve himself.

He was hardly got to his own house, but he complain'd of for­tune, which had too dearly sold him the liberty he had then so lately received; insomuch that he did as earnestly desire as ever he had done, to be sent back into the prison from which he was but newly delivered; and also com­plain'd of the Kings favours to him, which he then found too cruel: ‘What, said he to himself, in reflecting upon what that Prince had told him, ought I to [Page 66]suffer so faithful a friend as A­naxaender, who gives me such powerfull and generous marks of his friendship, to lose for my sake the reputation he has got­ten in the world? ought I to suf­fer his name to be dishonoured, and posterity to doubt of his In­nocence? but on the other side, ought I to oppose the commands of my Prince? ought I to deny him that which he requires of me? ought I to despise his boun­ties, and cause a moment of in­quietude to a King who hath so much loved me, and from whom I have received so many signal benefits? no, no, I owe too much to that Royal Benefactor, I cannot without a crime resist his commands; but though he should have never bestowed any favour on me, he is my Prince, and I am his subject, and in that quality I owe him all. Love, and [Page 67]friendship ought to give place to duty, Subjects owe all to their Prince, and we owe him obedi­ence preferably to those who brought us into the world.’

Democrates thus entertain'd his thoughts, when Sestianes came to visit him, to congratulate him for the good fortune of being set at liberty. After he had payd his compliments, Democrates told him what had taken up his imaginati­on before his arrival, and the scruple he had to suffer it to be thought that so perfect a friend as Anaxander was should be capable of the most base and infamous of all crimes, and the most unwor­thy the title of a gallant or gene­rous man.

Sestianes, who fearing lest he should be discovered, had wished with all his soul they had never spoke of this conspiracy, and that Anaxander who was absent had [Page 68]still been thought culpable, ans­wered him, that if that friend was criminal, he ought not to have that scruple, and that he was extreamly too blame to conserve it if he was not. ‘The generous, added he, always receive a great deal of renown from their fa­mous actions; Anaxander, in do­ing what he has done for you, hath labour'd more for his own glory then for yours; that in­teressed generous person in sa­ving your life, and in restoring the honour of it to you, puts you but in the condition you were before suspected; but what does he not do for himself? since by it he obtains the immortal & glorious happiness of passing in the ages to come for a grand ex­ample of friendship, since he will have the glory of having been the most generous man in the world, and of having done the [Page 69]most remarkable action that ever was, and which will make his memory live, and posterity speak of him with admiration and E­logies: do not you put so many obstacles, pursued he, to so ma­many glorious advantages that he would presently purchase at the expence of a little honour, which he will only lose for a time, and which will be resto­red to him with much more lu­stre then it will be lost with ig­nominy; this is the fruit he ex­pects from the service that he shall have rendred you, and this is that which he will gain in serving of you, if you do not op­pose it: Do not speak any more of crime or guilty, and let the re­membrance thereof for a time lie dead, since that otherwise Anax­ander could not acquire the glo­ry he aims at from so generous an action, and that it would be said [Page 70]he is of intelligence with you, and that you are resolved to ren­der that to him which he lends you in the same time he gives it to you. Democrates answered Se­stianes, that all those reasons could not satisfie the scruple he had in him, that posterity did not always do justice, and that very often it was misinform'd of the truth; that it made him al­most despair to see the glory of his friend hazarded for ever, whilst that the truly guilty liv'd in safety;’ he brought out those words with an air that made Se­stianes believe he intended them to be spoke to him, which was the cause that he did what we shall tell you in the succession of this History.

As soon as Sestianes was de­parted, Democrates went to see his Mistresse, whom he found all a­lone; he went to cast himself [Page 71]down at her feet, but Sestiana pre­vented his doing it, and told him with a great deal of fiercenesse and scorn, that after what had befell him she could no longer hearken to his sighs without wounding her glory, nor suffer a criminal to entertain her with his passion. Ah! Madam, replied Democrates to her, with an air extream full ‘of respect, and as sorrowful as passionate, if all the wretched are Criminals, I avow to you I am the most guilty of all men, since I am the most unfortunate, but yet not so much, for having been unjustly suspected of the most shameful basenesse imagi­nable, but because I have no lon­ger the glorious advantage of being beloved by the most beau­tiful and most equitable person in the earth: Since you believe me equitable, answered Sestiana to him, you ought not to com­plain [Page 72]of me. I see plainly, re­ply'd that unfortunate Lover to her, that though to this present I always thought my self to be in­nocent, that I had never brought any reproach to my glory, and that also now, I do not know my crime, yet I must needs be a grand Criminal, since you doubt of my Innocence. I doubt it with Justice, reported to him the provoked fair one, and if what Anaxander has written in your fa­vour was sufficient to get you out of prison, and to restore you your life, it is not sufficient to render you your honour, nor is it enough to make me believe that I should not love in you a man blasted with a most hatefull crime; it is not enough to hinder me from doubting your inno­cence, and it is not enough for my satisfaction, for my repose, and for my glory. Ah! where­fore [Page 73]have I ever seen you? wherefore have you discovered your flames to me? wherefore have I loved you? wherefore have you been able to constrain me in spight of my self to show you my tenderest affections; wherefore have you put me in a capacity of regretting all my life the love I have born you? and wherefore shall I speak it? yes, to punish you for your crime, to punish you for having known how to constrain me to confess my Love to you, and to make you suffer if you still love me; where­fore—but whence is it that my heart cannot speak it without sighing, wherefore base man? wherefore notwithstanding all my despite, have I still more love for you then I ought to have. Though I read in your counte­nance that this discourse is not displeasing to you, pursued she, [Page 74]with eyes inflamed with dispite, with love, and rage, and that you meet with nothing in it to punish you, yet know, that this new confession of my flame ought to make you suffer more then you imagine, if you loved me truly; since there is nothing in the world can oblige me to give you my hand, before your innocence be so fully justifyed, that I shall have no further room to doubt of it; for in a word, continued she, though you be pardoned, yet you are not sufficiently justifyed. When one has once lost one's ho­nour, it is not so easily recovered, and there is need of more con­vincing proofs then what a friend writes, who would gladly sacri­fice his glory to the friendship he has for you, and who possibly would speak otherwise, if he once saw himself charged with fetters.’

This discourse gave Democrates both a sensible affliction, and as sensible a joy; for if on the one side he was even ravished to learn that Sestiana had loved him always, and to see that notwithstanding all her despite she had not the pow­er to conceal her love from him; on the other side he resented a most incredible grief to see him­self not in a condition to possesse her, nor that he knew any ways in the world how to justine his innocence so fully, that it might be impossible for his fair and beau­tiful Mistress to be able to doubt of it. These thoughts for some time took up his minde, and oc­casioned him for some moments not to answer her, but at last he broke off his silence, and said to her, ‘I do not know any thing, Madam, that can better prove my innocence to you, and that can better make it known to all the [Page 76]world, then the passion I have for you, and which I have been so hardy as to declare to you A heart that had found it self cul­pable, would not have had a suf­ficient assurance to give you the marks of his flame, and to de­mand of you the permission and honour to sigh for you, it would not have dared to adde this crime to that which it would have been sullied with, and it would have apprehended that your wit and your eyes which penetrate all things, and which have a parti­cular power of discerning, would quickly have found out both its crime and its most secret senti­ments. Do not endeavour, in­terrupted Sestiana, to seduce my [...]pite by this flattering dis­course, and if you will oblige me, let me alone to enjoy it till such time that I shall be no lon­ger able to doubt of your inno­cence. [Page 77]I must then, replied Democrates to her, wait (if so be I can do it without expiring) till fortune which has rendered me guilty, makes a discovery of my inno­cence; possibly it will labour my justification, when I shall least think of it, in the same manner as it has laboured to eclipse my glory, when I as little suspected it. As this inconstant Deity of­ten makes persons guilty, that so she may divert her self with the trouble and confusion into which she casts them, she is also pleased to restore them their in­nocence, when they believe their virtue shall never be known, and when they dispair to see them­selves again in the same degree of honour as they were before they had the unhappiness to be attacked by that flitting good­ness. This time will come, Ma­dam, and you will know then [Page 78]that I am not altogether unwor­thy of the Love you bear me. Ah! why is not this time come alrea­dy, cried Sestiana to her self, do not you imagine, replied she im­mediately, that Love makes me speak in this manner, it is my glory only that takes up all my thoughts, and all that is capable of securing it, so sensibly touch­es me, that none ought to ad­mire I show so much of ardour, when there is something told me that may serve either to re-esta­blish it, or bring an accession to it. But, Madam, did Democrates answer her, if by the justifying of my innocence, I could ren­der you the glory which you have lost, because you have lo­ved me, shall not your love be satisfied, and shall not this justi­fication be also as sensible to it as to your glory? Be you the judge of it, repeated Sestiana to him, [Page 79]the tenderness you know I have for you, and do not demand any thing more of me.’ They were yet some time together, during which Democrates knew, that if that fair one had any great love for him, she had yet a greater as­cendent over her spirit, and that it would be impossible for him to obtain her hand, before he should purge himself of the pretended crime with which she thought he might be yet suspected.

Democrates was scarcely gone from Sestiana, but he was think­ing of the means to justify himself in that manner as the fair one de­manded; but the more he was musing on 'em, the more he found himself perplexed, for he began to believe that Sestianes was the true criminal, and the Councel that he had given him, to believe that Anaxander was guilty, and to ex­tinguish the remembrance of a [Page 80]crime whereof it was almost im­possible to discover the Author, added to what he had told him just before he was taken prisoner, confirmed him in that thought, and redoubled the inquietude that tormented him. ‘What if I should said he accuse Sestianes? what if he should confess his crime, and by his acknowledgment I should be justified? I should then do what Sestiana requires of me, I should likewise make a discove­ry of my innocence, and satisfie her glory; but also, as that would cause me to do more than she demands, I should, in find­ing out the means of making my self be beloved, finde out those of making my self be hated at the same time. I should, in finding out the means of obtaining her hand, find out those of making her refuse to give it me, and to conclude, I should in finding out [Page 81]the means of justifying my self, finde out those of making my self in her esteem guilty of a crime much more odious than this is now lie under the imputation of and such are the rigours and se­verities of fate which is resolute­ly determined to follow me, that I cannot do the one without the other, not pass for innocent be­fore the object to whom I would justify my self, without passing at the same time in her thoughts for ungratefull, cruel, and for much more guilty than I do ap­pear to her at present.’ After that this afflicted Lover had been for some time entertaining him­self with these sad and lamentable thoughts, and had made all these things be run over in his imagina­tion, he was immovable like a statue for a good considerable time, and stood as it were so buri­ed in his grief, that very scarcely [Page 82]did he give any sign of life: when he was a little come out of that trouble which the excess of his grief had cast him into, he be­thought himself on a sudden, that he had found out the secret of get­ing out of the incertainty and trouble in which he was. ‘I must, said he to himself, declare to Sestiana all I know, and discover to her all the reasons that per­swade me, to believe her father is the Author of the crime of which I am suspected, and de­mand of her that she will marry me by way of recompence, for having so faithfully kept the se­cret, and to oblige me to keep it still, and I hope that the silence I have observed for her sake, and the fear she will have of my breaking it, will cause her not to refuse giving me her hand, least she appear ungratefull towards her Father and me.’ He had [Page 83]hardly remain'd a moment in these remarkable & flattering thoughts, but he quitted them to let himself be hurried away by others. ‘To act in this manner, said he, would be to hazard too much, if Sestiana should not give any be­lief to my discourse, she would be obliged to have for me an in­vincible hatred, and far from obtaining it by this way, I should for ever lose the place I possess in her heart: I ought therefore to act with prudence, it is too fair a virtue to lose, it will fur­nish me with other means to at­tain the end of my desires; and as I am sure of the tender affecti­ons of that divine beauty which causes all my pains, I ought to hope that she will have pitty of my torments, and that time, my services, my respects, and my innocence will make her at last resolve to marry me.’

These were the flattering hopes wherewith Democrates buoy'd up himself, and the deference he had for the Councells that prudence gave him; but it ought not to be wondered at, he never remem­bred that it had always been a­gainst him, he forgot the miseries that it had caused him, as soon as ever the danger or the mischief was past, and though it had al­ways proved treacherous to him, he would nevertheless rely upon it, and could not resolve to aban­don it.

A little while after he returned to Sestiana, whom he found as in­vincible as before, and who re­peated to him only the same things that she had already said; which gave him such a cruel vex­ation and despite, that he went to tell her Father how obstinately she refused to marry him, and withall to desire him that he [Page 85]would consider his promise to him, and to speak to Sestiana in his favour. Sestianes who had re­solved to ruin Democrates, and who notwithstanding all the love this passionate Gallant had for his Daughter, did not think himself secure; because he perswaded himself that he might very well betray a Father-in Law, to reesta­blish the glory of a friend, to whom he was so greatly obliged; received him outwardly with the greatest joy imaginable, for he had resolved to be very civil to him untill he should finde a fit opportunity to work his absolute ruin, he promised him to imploy with his Daughter all the autho­rity of a Father, and declared to him that he should be sensible how great his satisfaction was in it by the earnestness of his indea­vours to conclude their Marriage. Democrates conjured him not to [Page 86]employ all his authority, and not to be inraged against the object of his most dear and tender de­sires, and told him, that the love he had for Sestiana was too full of respect to desire she should be any whit provoked, or to have her o­bliged to do any thing with vio­lence. Sestianes made answer to him, that he was exceeding glad to finde in him those sentiments, and that he would manage things in such a manner as that both should be satisfyed.

After that Democrates had given him a thousand thanks, and had conjured him to be as good as his word, he took his leave of him; but Sestianes to continue the part of a dissembling impostor and trai­tor, that he had accustomed him­self to act; instead of what he had promised to do for him, bid his daughter always to treat him in that manner she had done since [Page 87]that he was got out of prison, and forbad her to let him know it was by his order that she treated him so. As that generous person thought her Father acted by the fame motives as she did, this dis­course did not give her any trou­ble, and she presently replied to him, that she would obey him so much the more willingly, as that he commanded nothing of her but what she had already resolved to do. A little while after there was presented to Sestiana a match more considerable by far then Democra­tes was. This blinde Father, whose ambition was the only engine that moved him in all his actions, im­mediately bid his Daughter not to reject Arcas, (for so was this new Lover called) but to keep him up with some small hopes, but yet without letting Democrates know it was by his command; which caused Sestiana to be very much [Page 88]troubled, and which made her know more certainly that she still bore our Heroe a far greater Love than ever she imagined. Yet Sesti­anes began to finde himself in a strange perplexity, for he durst not let his Daughter marry Arcas, because she was long before pro­mised to Democrates, and he was terrible afraid that this affront might provoke him so, as to make him speak all that he thought he knew, sooner then he would have done: and on the other side, he would not give her to Democrates; because he was only searching for a favourable occasion to ruin him.

During this inquietude of his, our Heroe who relied upon his word, and upon the Love which Sestiana had not been able to con­ceal from him, began to have his minde now more at ease, and set­led in him; without ever in the least forseeing the new misfor­tunes [Page 89]with which he was threat­ned. After he had taken order about his Love, he was contriving some means not to pass for un­gratefull towards Anaxander, whom he always thought inno­cent of the crime of which he had accused himself; but not precisely knowing the place where he was, and not being willing to write to him by ordinary ways, he gave a letter to one of his own Servants, and sent him to look him out, where he imagined he was most likely to be, and as he did not doubt of the fidelity of this Ser­vant, from whom he had never any thing of a secret, and that he would not have Anaxander believe he had hazarded his reputation to save a guilty person, he ordered him to assure him from his own mouth that he was innocent, and to tell him, to prove the truth of it to him, that he thought that [Page 90] Sestianes was really guilty, and the authour of that conspiracy; but that he had no minde to accuse him, because of the love he bore to his daughter, and not being willing to trust all this to paper, he only writ five or six lines to this most dear friend, to give him proofs of his health, and to make him see that he enjoyed the liber­ty which he so frankly had pro­cured him.

As we live in an age where a se­cret is no longer a virtue, and the things that we would keep the most private and concealed, are in a short time known to those from whom we most desire to have them kept a mistery, it seems De­mocrates was not long without ap­prehending he had a Rival, and that a favoured one too, not only by the father of his Mistriss, but by his Mistriss her self; this news was more sensible to him, and [Page 91]touched him deeper then all the outragious cruelties that fortune had till then made him suffer; he abandoned himself wholly to his grief and rage, he called a thou­sand times Sestiana faithless, and Sestianes a traitour, and perfidious, and even doubted sometimes if he had not best tell all that obliged him to believe, that he was the authour of the conspiracy which had been made against Theomedes; but as he was too prudent to hear­ken to those thoughts that were conceived in the heats and trans­ports of a first motion, and to fol­low the counsels of choler, he quickly turned from that designe to another, viz. of going to wait upon Sestianes and his daughter, & to reproach them for their per­fidiousnesse, and their breach of promise; but whether they were not within, or else that they would not be spoke withal by him, it was [Page 92]impossible for him to have a sight of them.

If the news of Arca's love had been a very great affliction to De­mocrates, Sestianes was quite de­spairing when he understood that he had heard of it, because he saw himself thereby obliged to labour his ruine; for his ambition to see his daughter married to Arcas (who next to the Princes of the bloud, was one of the first of the Kingdom) being joyned to the fear he was in, that Democrates would discover him one day, and that likewise after an affront so sensible to his flame, he would de­clare that he was criminall much sooner then he had or would have done, did powerfully sollicit him to procure his ruine, in what man­ner soever it might be; but this new misfortune obliged him to take the soonest opportunity he could to do it in; wherefore from [Page 93]that day, after he had command­ed his Daughter to treat Arcas & Democrates with an equal kinde­nesse, and to endeavour to keep them both to her, until such time that he should make known his choice to her, he went his way to one of his Countrey houses, with two or three of those that were of the conspiracy against Theomedes, that so they might contrive a­mongst them the means to execute the designe he had projected, and to discourse together freely, with­out being afraid of any ones over­hearing them. They were scarce got half a league from the Town, when they perceived a good way off them a man set upon by three others; they did what they could to relieve him, but the assailants who were theeves, seeing them coming up directly to them, be­took themselves to flight; but the rage they were in to see them­selves [Page 94]surprised, made them give this person whom they had de­signed to rob, several wounds, so that Sestianes and those with him found the poor miserable wretch even without life; when they were got up to him, they searched him immediately to see if they could finde any thing about him which might serve to make him known, but they met with nothing save a Letter which was directed to A­naxander, and which was written with Democrates his own hand, which made them, after they had anew examined who it might pos­sibly be, to know for certain that it was one of his own servants, (for indeed it was he whom Demo­crates had sent to Anaxander.) Se­stianes had easily got open the Let­ter, for as it happened, it had been run through with one of the thrusts that the dead body had re­ceived, just there where the seal [Page 95]was, so that it was in a manner o­pen of it self: he read it with a great deal of pleasure and satisfa­ction, because it might make the innocence of our Heroe be called again into question, and because he thought that it might serve him in the designe he had, which caused him to give it those to read who were with him, who told him after they had seen it, that it would be sufficient to shew it to the King and to Prince Theomedes, to get Democrates be put into fetters a­gain, from which he was but new­ly released, and to make him be believed that he was guilty. Se­stianes who would have had surer ways to ruin him, at first resisted it; but at last he resolved upon it, seeing he should not expose him­self to any danger in doing so, and that he ought not to let slip an occasion that fortune seemed to present to him expresly for his ser­vice, [Page 96]and that which yet was a stronger inducement to him, was, that if by that means he came not to the end of his hopes, it should be in his power in the same man­ner as before, to execute what he had resolved upon. The matter being thus setled, one of the two who had given this counsel, re­called his word a few moneths af­ter, and said, that they had not well weighed what they did, and that Sestianes would be likely to destroy himself, if he went to put in execution what they had pro­jected together; since that Demo­crates seeing himself accused by him whom he knew to be really guilty, would not be able to re­frain accusing him in his turn, and to tell all that he knew. That is all that I demand, replied Sestia­nes, and that is the true way to ju­stifie my self, and for ever to de­prive me of the fear that I have of [Page 97]being discovered. When I shall have accused Democrates, and he shall accuse me afterwards, he won't be thought worthy to be believed, nor will any thing he shall say find any credit, for they will cry out, that he speaks so meerly out of rage and matter of revenge, that he would not ac­cuse me but only because I have impeach'd him, and if he had known that I had been a criminal, he would not have tarried so long before he had accused me. All those that would accuse me after this, let them know my crime, or or know it not, will be look'd upon as Impostors, and it will not be hard for me to make it be be­lieved, either that they are friends to Democrates, or that they are gained by him; So that that Letter will be doubly profitable to me, for it will both serve me a­gainst Democrates, and against [Page 98]those who shall be apt to accuse me, and it will likewise keep off others from having the confi­dence to do it, for fear least I turn the crime upon themselves.

This perfidious Man, having confirmed himself in this resolu­tion, so fitly took his time, that he did not give the King this let­ter but in the presence of Prince Theomedes, for fear, that if the Prince had not been there by, the osteem the King had for Democra­tes had kept him from making him be arrested again, and that he had quite stifled this proof of his crime.

The success of this baseness an­swered the expectation of him who had been guilty of it: the King after he had learnt how this Letter came to be found, and had read it over, could not refrain shewing it to Prince Theomedes; because that Sestianes in giving it [Page 99]to him had said out aloud enough to make the Prince know what it was.

Theomedes having seen the Let­ter, said without much exami­ning what he had read, he was so highly transported with choler, that Democrates having himself giving undisputable proofs of his crime, it was very fit and neces­sary to have him clapt up again, and that without doubt he would acknowledge then what they could not before get him to con­fess. The King who thought that demand was just and equitable, immediatly gave orders to have him put anew into prison. He could not but admire as well as Theomedes to see Sestianes accuse a man that was so neer being his Son in Law; but he answered, that he ought to sacrifice all things to the Royall blood, and that since Democrates was guilty [Page 100]of so ignominious a crime, he was unworthy to come into his fami­ly, that he had lost all the esteem he once had for him, and that he would no longer acknowledge him for a man that aspired to be made happy in the possession of his Daughter.

The unfortunate Democrates therefore return'd to his fetters from which he had been but new­ly released, but he was not long there before they spoke to him a­bout it, for the next day he was sent for to be interrogated, and to see what he had to say for the let­ter he had written to Anaxander which they shewed him; it was contained in these words.

DEMOCRATES to the Generous ANAXANDER.

TO charge your self with my crime to free me from my fetters, and to oblige me, to ruine the great repu­tation you have in the world, and the esteem that your vertue has gained you are such signal and valuable favours, as can never be returned; and I must acknowledg that I shall be obliged to you, not only so long as I live, but even after I am dead, since you have kept my memory from being stained with a crime of which you your self have purged me. I will not say any more about it, for I believe you are not ignorant that if nothing can be i­magined capable to requite such an ob­ligation, it is impossible to find out terms that may be sufficient to express [Page 102]it well, wherefore I will content my self to assure you that I am ready to pour out all my blood for the generous Anaxander, to which I owe both my honour and my life.

After that Democrates had seen this Letter, he said without ever altering his countenance, that indeed it was writ with his own hand, and that he did not see it could be any ways prejudi­cial to him, nor did it make it e­vident that he was guilty of a crime that had never entered in­to his thoughts; his Judges re­plied to him that his Letter was contrary to his words, and that he affirmed in it, that Anaxander had charged himself with a crime to deliver him from his Fetters, and that he was redevable to him for his life. They added, that nothing was able to keep them from believing such convincing proofs, and that [Page 103]he could not deny what he had just then affirmed, in confessing the Letter they had shewn him, and which was adressed to Anax­ander, was of his own hand-wri­ting. They bid him afterward speak whither he had any thing to say that might serve for his justification. ‘Honour, replied this illustrious and generouspri­soner to them, which is a thou­sand times more dear to me than my life, obliges me to answer you, and if I was not afraid of losing it in dying, the world should see me run with joy to meet my death; since nothing but that can deliver me from the infultation of my evil fortune. I will say then since it is honour, and not the fear of death, that would have me defend my self, that none need to wonder if I writ to Anaxander, not as to a cri­minal, but as to the generousest [Page 104]person upon earth, since I never have believed that he was guilty of the crime which he has accu­sed himself of, to deliver me from the danger he saw me threatned withal; but am and shall be always perswaded that his generosity, and the friend­ship he has testified to me, did oblige him to undertake what he has done in my favour. You cannot doubt but that I thought thus as soon as I knew he had im­puted that Crime to himself, when I shall tell you, that I de­clared it to the King, who is a witness you cannot refuse, and whom every body will think, both in duty and justice, you ought to believe. Acknowledg­ing therefore Anaxander inno­cent, and that generous friend having declared himself guilty, to discover to me the greatness of his friendship, and to free me [Page 105]from my chains, could I write otherwise to him (without de­serving to be looked on for it as a criminal) then that he had charged himself with my crime in declaring that he was guilty of that which I my self was ac­cused of, since that tho he was innocent and I was so likewise, it is still true that he did take upon himself my crime, since it was that which I was accused of. Ought one afterwards to won­der if I write to him; that Iowe him both my honour and my life? was I not equally in danger, ei­ther as innocent, or as a crimi­nal? have not I the same obliga­tions to him also both ways? and has he not done as much for me, as if it had been impossible to doubt of the crime which was imposed upon me?’

When Democrates had ended his discourse, his Judges went a­way [Page 106]very much satisfied with his answer, and made it visible both in their eyes, and countenance, that they approved his reasons. But that did not keep him from complaining of the rigours and injustice of his fate, and to shew more concern and trouble at his imprisonment then he had done the first time he had been taken. ‘What said he to himself, seeing he was alone, must my prudence and my love procure to me so sensible an affront? must I be ae­cused by him whom I ought to accuse? and must I be in Irons in the room of him whom I ought to have put there before now? tis too much to suffer unjustly, let us discover the proofs we have of the crime of Sestianes, so as he has done those he had a­gainst us, and if that cannot save us, nor is able to work his ruin, let us have at least the pleasure [Page 107]of accusing him who impeaches us, of making his innocence to be suspected, and of giving him some confusion and trouble as well as he has us. Yes, the lot is cast for it, let us no longer hearken either to love or pru­dence. But what, replied he im­mediately, if I have too long ta­ken their counsels, and if my prudence ruined me, I cannot in this case be imprudent, without doing a far greater injury to my self then prudence has ever done me; since that having let the time be lost of accusing Sestianes I cannot now speak against him, without being look'd upon for an impostor, and a wicked wretch, and without giving them to think that it is only re­venge which makes me do so, and that I would not ruin him but because he has been the cause that I am now a prisoner. Ah! [Page 108]prudence, cryed he to himself, after he had reflected upon all the misfortunes it had caused him, how dear do you cost me now? wherefore have you hin­dered me from putting into the letter I writ to Anaxander, all that I had a mind he should know, and wherefore have you counsel'd me to have him only know it by the mouth of him I sent to him? I do see very well that you resolve I shall have the unprofitable satisfaction not on­ly of having harkned to, but also follow'd your counsels in all things that have happened to me of trouble and vexation, and to console me in my misfortunes; you would have me impute all to Fate, which has put things to such a pass that prudence fails in whatsoever it advises, and pro­duces effects contrary to those it has been wont to do. It is true, [Page 109]said he, going on talking to him­self in that melancholy way, that since I resolv'd to be govern­ed by prudence in all things, and have learnt to know it, I have perceived that one ought to rely no more upon it then upon for­tune, & whatsoever it has made one undertake for the best, has often proved to be very unhap­py. It is at present so suspected, that those who are directed by it as a guide of their actions, and those who never in the least con­sult it, do equally mistrust it, & both of them, thinking that eve­ry body uses it as a vail to hide other designs then what they make to be visible, apprehend it in another, and are so very fear­ful of it, that they are not sensi­ble of the mischief it does, but when they are past all hopes & opportunity of remedying it.’

This Illustrious and Eminent [Page 110]prisoner, who had no other en­tertainment then that which his sad and troubled thoughts fur­nished him withal, was three or four days before he knew what to do, either to save himself, or ruin himself; and during this time, he resented all that love choler, and revenge do make those suffer who are labouring under those 3. cru­el passions. He laid before him the perfidiousness of Sestianes, whom he began to look upon as the most deceitful and wicked of all men breathing, and he did whatsoe­ver he could to stifle the love he had for his Daughter, but she had too powerful an ascendent in his heart, for him to be able to re­move her from it in so short a time, and he made very unprofi­table attempts about it; for the more he thought on Sestiana, the more her beauty came into his memory, and notwithstanding all [Page 111]his resistance, it gave an accession to the love he had for that charm­ing & generous person, & which he endeavoured to destroy with so little success.

As this Irresolute Lover had his thoughts more upon his love, than his imprisonment, and upon the fetters that Sestiana had made him wear, than on those in which his supposed crime retained him, word was brought him from the King, that his prison was open, and he might go out when he pleased. This news, which he did not at all suspect, surprised him exceedingly. He thought the right guilty persons were disco­vered, and went immediately to be informed of it to one of his re­lations houses, who had been ve­ry serviceable to him the former time when he had been a prisoner, and who since his last misfortune had found a means to let him [Page 112]know in his prison, that he would imploy both all his Estate, and all his friends to make him fully con­vinced of the share he took in his intrests. As Democrates was just at his house, he met him coming out to acquaint him with all that had happened; he told him that his Judges, knowing the esteem the King had for him, and being ful­ly perswaded of his Innocence, by the answer he had made them, had declared that they believed him Innocent, and said that tho he should have been a Criminal, yet things were in such a posture that they could not Judge him with any justice. He added, that Prince Theomedes having been de­sired by several persons of quality whom he named to him, to con­sent to his being set at liberty, that Prince thought himself oblig'd to sollicite for him, for fear of ma­king to himself any more enemies, [Page 113]in seeking, with too great an ear­nestness and resolution, the ruine of a person whose crime was not averred, and who possibly had never been his enemy. Our Heroe having understood all these things, went to return his ac­knowledgment to the King for all the favours he had shown him. He likewise thought himself ob­liged to go and thank Prince The­omedes, which he did after he had been to wait upon the King; and the next day he went to visit all those that had interessed them­selves in his favour; and after all he sent one of his servants where he suspected Anaxander to be, to advertise him of all that had hap­pened; but he gave him no let­ter, for fear lest fortune which has persecuted him with as much fury as blindness, should invert the proofs of his innocence, to render him guilty.

After he had done all that ei­ther civility or duty exacted from him, he had a great desire to an­swer the demands of his love; to give his flame some satisfaction; and to go and see his Mistriss; But what Sestianes had done to ruin him, made him see so much un­worthyness in that visit, that he durst not grant any thing to his love for fear of bringing any ble­mish to his glory. Never did any Lover see himself in a greater and more cruel perplexity; he would very fain see Sestiana, and yet he would not see her; love her, and yet not love her, put her out of his thoughts, and yet keep her in them. ‘What, said he to himself, reflecting upon the miseries that his love did make him suffer, must I love the Daughter of a man, that not only hath desired my ruin, but all whose actions have too much encouraged me [Page 115]to believe that he is guilty of the crime, of which he has made me twice unjustly suspected? but what, said he, entertaining himself still with his thoughts, if Sestianes is base and perfidious, Sestiana is one the most generous and most vertuous persons in the world; but how can so much virtue, and so much baseness be found in one and the same blood? noe, noe, I only help to abuse my self, I fall into the same snares, that Love sets for me, and that Tyrant who is resolved to make me love her, makes me see in her such vertues as she has not; since she is the Daughter of Se­stianes, she must needs resemble him, and be perfidious and wick­ed as he is; but (alas!) though she be of his blood, she is still one of the most charming persons in the creation; the Crime of her Father has not changed the beau­tiful [Page 116]lineaments of her face; she loves me, I ought to love her, since that Love can only be re­paid by love. Perhaps I have done her an injury, when the crime of her Father makes me doubt her virtue; it is no new thing to see wicked parents have virtuous children, nor wicked children to have virtu­ous parents.’ After he had strengthened himself in this opi­nion, and had resolutely deter­mined not to banish from his heart the love he had for Sestiana, he fully concluded not to recri­minate upon Sestianes, but to sa­crifice his choller, and his resent­ment to his love. He was no soon­er setled in his resolution, but he perceived Sestianes coming up to him. That sight awakened again his choller, and notwithstanding the resolution he had taken not to discover his resentments to [Page 117]him, yet he could not refrain ut­tering these words to him. ‘You ought not said he to him, with so much eagerness to lay hold upon all occasions of ruining me, for fear lest I should accuse you, and I have been secret, I think, for a sufficient time, to oblige you to believe that I could still be so. I do not know, re­plied Sestianes to him, with a look full of disdain, what it is you mean, and if I am guilty of any crime of which I ought to be accused it is only in your fan­cy; but I should be too blame to wonder at it, added he, what my duty has obliged me to do against you very likely may not inspire you with any thing to my advantage, but revenge may possibly have made you seek out all ways to ruin me; but my in­nocency secures me from all that you can say against me, and those [Page 118]persons that are disinteressed will still know, when you speak after the manner you do now, that it is only revenge which makes you capable of ha­ving any such discourse: as for my part, continued he, though I am very sorry I have lost your friendship, yet I shall never repent my having done what I ought for the safety of the Prince Theomedes: we owe all to persons of his blood, and in the like occasion, we are o­bliged to do the same thing for all the World. Have you that confidence to speak to me in this manner, replied Democrates to him, and have you forgot what you told me some time before I was taken prisoner, the first time that I was unjustly suspected? whatsoever I might have told you, reported Sestianes to him with a very great assurance, I [Page 119]never told you I was a criminal, and if I had been so, and you had known it, I should not have had that presumption to carry to the King the Letter that you wrote to Anaxander; and as it was by meer accident that I met with it, I could, to serve you, have made it not to be seen, and I had done it, with­out doubt, if my duty had not obliged me to the contrary; howsoever I am extreamly over­joyed, that those great proofs of your crime have not produced against you the fatall effects you could not but expect from them. But as I am not indued with less virtue then my Daughter, I am not willing to have for my Son-in-Law a man who is not clear'd but by favour of the crime, of which possibly with too much justice he may have been suspe­cted. I take my self to be quit of [Page 120]my promise after what has hap­pened to you, and if you think I treat you too severely, impute it only to your crime, or if you are innocent, impute it then to your misfortune.’

Saying these last words he left Democrates, but in such a condi­tion that was enough to make the most hardy to fear, and to stir up pity in those that are least sensi­ble. He had a good minde to break out into the violence of his rage, and follow Sestianes, to make him repent of his so insolent dis­course, but the excess of that sad­ness and grief into which those injurious words had put him, rendered him powerless, and were the cause, that the fire and rage that was visible in his eyes, was not able to appear in his acti­ons. Then did he solemnly swear that he would never any longer think of Sestiana's charms, and [Page 121]the hatred he had conceived a­gainst the Father, and which had an accession by his discourse, made him in appearance stifle all the love he had for the daughter.

Five or six days past in which Democrates did all he could to drive Sestiana out of his thoughts, and that fair one all that she could possibly think of, to forget Democrates.

In the mean time Sestianes who feared nothing from our Heroe, frequently saw those that were of the conspiracy with him, and dis­covered to them that the alarm which had been given the Prince Theomedes was the cause that he al­ways went well guarded, and that they must wait, and take up o­ther measures then those they had resolved on. He flattered them with the hopes of a happy success, and made them foresee that if any of them had the confidence to ac­cuse [Page 122]him, he could order [...] so, that the crime should revert upon him, for he would say that he was bribed by Democrates, who accord­ing to all appearances, studied to revenge himself of the sensible af­front he had given to his honour, in presenting the King with the letter he wrote to Anaxander; which had been easie for him, be­cause none of them could give in proofs of his conspiracy, being all ingaged only by word.

But though Sestianes feared no­thing from Democrates, yet he re­solved not to let a person live who he knew very well would be his mortalenemy, after he had offend­ed him in two such ticklelish points as are honour and love; but as nothing did engage him to precipitate his ruin, he waited till time furnish'd him with a favour­able opportunity to set about it with safety, and without fear of [Page 123]being ever discovered: and being as expert in his politicks, as he was treacherous and wicked, he stired up Arcas, in covert words, to kill Democrates, telling him that as long as he lived, it was im­possible for him to root him out of the heart of his Daughter, and that he would have the dissatis­faction of knowing that she loved another besides himself; which so awakend the Jealousie of this new Gallant, that he narrowly watch­ed the actions of Sestiana, to see if after the prohibitions of her Fa­ther to love his Rival, and ever­more to speak to him, her love would make her finde out any way to come to discourse with him.

Whilst these things were hap­pening, Democrates was the most perplexed man in the world. The love that he thought he had for ever driven out of his breast, [Page 124]had by degrees got in again, and ruled there with so much vio­lence, that he could not finde out any ways to get the mastery of it; which obliged him by all means imaginable to try if he could not possibly speak with Sestiana pri­vately, to learn if he was still be­loved by her, and to resolve, ac­cording as she treated him, whe­ther he should persevere in his Love, or continue the efforts he made, to stifle a flame, which ty­rannised in his breast with so ab­solute an Empire, and which he had several times unprofitably at­tempted to remove from it.

After he had a good while been contriving how to come to the end of this design, and to enter­tain the object of his vows with that freedom he desired, he thought it was his best way to in­treat the service of one of Sestia­na's relations, who had always [Page 125]testified to him a very great esteem, and also as great a friend­ship; and to begg of her to order it so, that this fair one might be one day at her house, that so he might have the happiness of dis­coursing with her there. Sestia­na who had an absolute confi­dence in this person, and who did as earnestly desire to speak with Democrates, as Democrates did to speak with her, made her the same request, so that this Lady found it no hard matter to give them both a satisfaction.

The day that these two Lovers were to see one another being come, they each of them resolved, on their parts to resist with all the power they could the tender sen­timents that Love inspired into them; and to that end both of them left their lodgings in this resolution, but when they were got together, a very small matter [Page 126]would have made them forgot what they had resolved upon, and have set them upon new protesta­tions of Love: for though their design was fully to hate one ano­ther, and to make their hatred visible by the reciprocal testimo­nies of it; yet they were never in a less disposition to do it. But however, Sestiana, who had a very great ascendent over her self, and who was resolved to be as good as her intentions, spoke first, and said to Democrates, ‘I would willingly demand a fa­vour of you, which I desire you would grant me in the name of that Love which has reciprocal­ly reigned in both our hearts; if you still love me, and if you have any kindness for your self, you ought not to deny it me, it being a thing that will re-esta­blish our repose, and keep us from doing that which may be [Page 127]shamefull to us; it is a thing that will be profitable to us both, and which will spare us a great many sighs: in a word, it is your hatred; I do whatsoever I can to give you mine, but I know very well that without the help of yours all my efforts will signify little. This request added she, looking stedfastly upon him, ought not to give you so great a surprise as I see plainly by your countenance it does, for I de­mand nothing of you but what is just, you owe me your hatred, and I likewise owe you mine; you owe me yours, after what my Father has done against you; and I owe you mine, because you have had the confidence to demand of me my heart, and e­ven to seduce it, yours being stained with a crime which as yet you have not been able to purge your self of, but through [Page 128]the bounties of the King, and the favours of Prince Theomedes. You see by that, continued she, that we cannot love one another without betraying our glory, and not to have a hatred for each other is to wound it, and therefore you ought to grant me yours, for the price of mine. Ah! Madam replied Democrates to her with a languishing voice, and an air the most passionate in the world, if there be nothing but my hatred that can draw upon me yours, I am sure you will never hate me as long as you live; you demand that of me which is not in my power, for love and hatred are not volunta­ry things, and if when one has once began either to love or hate, it is impossible any longer to be Master of those two great and violent passions, it is very difficult to kindle them when [Page 129]one has not as yet began to re­sent them. But yet I will avow to you, if that can bring you any satisfaction, that my desires were agreable to yours, that I have done whatever I could to hate you, and that it has not been possible for me to effect it, any more then it has been for you; which clearly shows that our hearts do not agree with our desires, that they have given themselves up absolutely to love, and that they have not any place in them to receive hatred. Since you will not hate me, replied Sestiana to him, I will be more generous then you, I will begin first to do my duty, and by my example inspire into you those sentiments you ought to have What, Madam, answered Demo­crates, can you then resolve to hate me, when you ought to give me the most signal marks of your [Page 130]love? Ah! let me beseech you think of the violence I do to my self for your sake, and remember that the ardent affection I con­serve for you, after those treat­ments I have received from your father, ought to make you have in my favour more pleasant and obliging sentiments. That ar­dent affection which you con­serve for me, after an affront which ought to be so sensible to you, replied she to him, produ­ces more effects then you ima­gine, for if it makes me to know the greatness and excess of your love, it at the same time makes me to understand your baseness, and if according to the rule, which is, that one should return love for love, it obliges me to have a kindness for you, accor­ding then to that other, which is, that one should look upon the base with contempt, it o­bliges [Page 131]me to hate you. Do what­soever you please, replyed this unfortunate Lover to her, I will bear all from you without mur­muring, I will respect your choller, I will respect your ha­tred, and in spight of all your contempts, I will conserve for you a love so firm and constant, that there shall be nothing in the world capable to shake it. Well then! answered this Generous Heroin Lover, since you force me to acknowledg a weakness, which shall never be of advan­tage to you, I do love you, I own it, and though I would, yet I cannot oblige my heart to hate you; but in spight of all that love that this perfidious heart will conserve, I am going to marry Arcas, to make you know that. Ah! Madam, (inter­rupted the miserable Domocrates, whom those words had almost [Page 132]rendered immoveable,) what crime have committed that can oblige you to punish me with so much rigour? hate me rather, for heav'ns sake, then love me in this manner. So long as you shall hate me, I shall hope al­ways that my love, and my re­spects may be able one day to o'recome your hatred, and ren­der me possessor of one of the fai­rest persons in the world; but when I shall see you in the arms of Arcas, I shall only hope from death to derive the end of all my pains and sufferings. Yet if you knew, pursued he, fetch­ing a deep sigh, what I do for your repose, and if you knew the tears, and the cruel afflicti­ons I keep from you, I am sure you would treat me with less ri­gour; but whatsoever the evils that my silence causes me, your repose is too dear to me not [Page 133]to preferr it to mine; I should be afraid I might see you die with regret and grief, and that fear forces me to conceal from you a secret which would cost you too dear. All that I demand of you, continued he, for the reward of a service, which pos­sibly you will never know the greatness of, and which proceeds only from an excess of love and generosity, is that you would not marry Arcas. You would then, interrupted Sestiana, o­blige me to pay a service without knowing it, and even without knowing whether it be true that you have rendered me any or no. Ah! Madam, cryed De­mocrates, interrupting he rin his turn, this service has somewhat so particuler in it, that I cannot render it to you, and discover it to you both together; the one is incompatible with the other, [Page 134]and if I told it you, I should not then render it to you. Since that this secret is of so great impor­tance, replied this charming person to him, I will not oblige you to reveal it, and show my self curious, as the generality of my sex do, for fear my curiosity should be punished, and I should repent my earnestness in pres­sing you to discover it. This discourse, replied Democrates to to her, does not surprise me, I knew long since how much a­bove other women you were, and that you do nothing where­in there is not an extraordinary height of prudence to be obser­ved; but in short, Madam, as this vertue is not repugnant to that which I demand of you, and and that it does not oblige you to betray me, let me beseech you to tell me, what it is you would have me to hope for, and [Page 135]if you are resolved to marry, —Ah! let us not discourse any longer, said the fair Lady inter­rupting him, either of love, or of marriage, do not force me if you love me, to discover my weakness to you and do not con­strain me to betray my virtue. When you were without a Ri­val, I did not finde it so difficult to testify my choller to you; but now I must complain of you in spite of all my resistance; my heart will not let me resolve to hate you, but speaks to me in your favour, and tells me you will cost me not a few tears. I do not know whence this melan­choly foreknowledge proceeds, but I perceive very well that pi­ty does interess it self as much for you, as Love; and indea­vours to stifle all those senti­ments I ought to have to your disadvantage. Do not enquire [Page 136]any further, answered-our He­roe, from whence those senti­ments of love and pity proceed, that speak to you so much in my favour, my Love and my inno­cence without doubt are the cause of them, and thereby do advertise you, not to betray in marrying Arcas, the most faith­full and most passionate of all Lovers; because that when you come to be convinced of his in­nocence, the death you will have brought upon him by your cruel carriage, will oblige you to bestow upon him some tears.’ The Lady staid till then without pouring out any, but at those ve­ry words she could not forbear shedding a few, which she ming­led with those sighs that at the same time broke from her, and immediately took her leave of him, not to give him the satisfa­ction he might have derived from [Page 137]the pleasureableness of a frailty which was of so much advantage to him: but she told him as she was going away, that if she could make her duty to agree with her Love, he might assure himself that she would do whatsoever he desired her, and that she would never marry Arcas. Democrates, after he had this answer, return'd back again, but not so well satis­fied as he would have been, if he had had a less knowledge of the power that Sestiana had over her self, for he was sensible that al­though this generous person had more then an ordinary kindness for him, yet she would sacrifice her love to her duty, and the o­bedience she owed to her Father would make her to marry his Ri­val, though indeed she had never so great an aversion to him.

As this Lover, whose heart was divided between hope and [Page 138]fear, was going to his lodgings, he found an occasion to exercise his valour, for he met with a nu­merous troop of seditious persons, who had conspired the ruin of all the House Royal. He put himself in the head of the Soldiers whom the King had sent to seize those Traitours and perfidious subjects, and to punish, by a sudden death, those they could not arrest. De­mocrates animated them in such a manner by his courage and words, that they wrought mira­cles by his Example, and brought back five hundred of those sediti­ous fellows prisoners.

The King having heard what was done, received our Heroe with a tenderness as you may easi­ly imagine, and the Prince Theo­medes, who was no less obliged to him then the King, in as much as the conspiracy respected all the House Royal, testifyed to him the [Page 139]esteem he had of his valour.

And whilst love and fortune were treating Democrates in a more civil and obliging manner then they had done before for I know not how long, fear began to take a violent possession of the heart of Sestianes. He could not tell what was become of one of those who joined with him in the conspiracy against Prince Theomedes, and as it was he of all the number whom he most mistrusted, his absence gave him so great an inquietude as would be very difficult to express, unless one could be sensible of all that fear produces in the hearts of cri­minals that are afraid of being discovered.

But as there is nothing can be kept so secret long, as to be a re­serve from jealous Lovers, Arcas, who had very faithfull spies, was soon informed that Sestiana had [Page 140]had a long discourse with Demo­crates at one of her cosins houses. He immediately complained to her Father of it, who was glad to hear it, & assured him that for the future he would so order things, as they should not be able to finde out any way for a conversation. He would have made the same complaint to Sestiana, but she re­ceiv'd it in such a manner, as made him know that his love & his jea­lousie were both indifferent to her and that he would find it a hard matter to root out of her breast a Rival who had made himself Ma­ster of it, and who had long be­fore obtained her esteem, and had surprized her tenderest affections. There was very little wanting, to make this Lover, who abandoned himself to his dispair, lose that respect which is due to so char­ming a Sex, and to speak like one that is jealous, and a husband, in­stead [Page 141]of speaking like an inamou­red Gallant: and the violence he did himself in retaining his jea­lous transports, made him go a­way from this fair and scornful Lady, full of an extraordinary despite, and so furious a jealousie, that as soon as he was got within his own doors, he wrote a chal­lenge to Democrates, to oblige him to fight him the next day.

Our Heroe was too generous not to meet at this assignation of honour, and indeed he was first at the place, which Arcas had appointed. That Rival, whom despite and choller animated, came thither a little after. They were not long before they had their swords in their hands, and were ingaged; and they immediately, by the passes they made, gave one another the mutual marks of their valour, but at last, you must know (without any necessity of my de­scribing [Page 142]to you the manner of their combat, which I was no eye witness of) that Arcas was forced to ask his life of Democra­tes, and to promise him that he would never marry Sestiana. Fame quickly spread this news abroad, and Sestianes was as much afflicted at it, as his daughter had joy, and the whole Court commended De­mocrates, and esteemed his pru­dence, in that he had given life to a man of the quality of Arcas, and who had in the opinion of all the world such relations and friends as would most certainly revenge his death.

But whilst hope began to repos­sess the heart of Democrates, and likewise he to feel the joy that for­tune never gave him but for a few moments, and only to pre­sage new miseries, Arcas felt what­soever rage and despair make those indure who are violently [Page 143]tormented with them, and a lit­tle more would have made him revenge upon himself the injuri­ous and sensible affront that fate had put upon him.

If those two Lovers resented, the one joy, and the other grief, Sestiana singly resented both; for if Democrates's victory gave her the former, she was greatly trou­bled in that she could not see him, nor have the libertie to speak with him, and the assurance that her father gave her, that he would never consent she should marry him, in a great measure allay'd the joy she had at first conceived from the victory of that dear and faithful Lover.

But as misfortune, which ne­ver observes any measures in the evils it causes, when it has once begun to make a person feel the rigour of its most cruel and pier­cing malice, and which was re­solved [Page 144]that our illustrious and generous Heroe should be expo­sed to the grievous and terrible severity of its assaults, and that the unfortunate Democrates should not long make her waver between joy and sadness; though she was in a condition much more capa­ble to raise pitty, then stir up en­vy, for the joy she had was so far from causing the effects it was wont to produce, that it only served to make her the more sen­sible of the unjust and tormenting pains of her destiny; it found that she was still too favourably dealt with, and that her grief ought not to be mixt with any joy at all, nor with any hopes of ever being able to get out of it, nor so much as to see it lessen and decay; and therefore made her know with as much diligence, as those, who thought they brought good news, could inform her, that the faith­ful [Page 145]and unfortunate Democrates had been cruelly assassinated the precedent evening, as he was go­ing from his lodgings to wait up­on the Prince, by three men un­known, who after they had gi­ven him several mortal wounds, with all the hast they could, be­took themselves to their heels for safety, and they proved so succes­ful to them, that those who had pursued them, were not able so much as to learn any news of them.

The generous and faithful Lo­ver of the unfortunate Democrates had no sooner heard this sad and fatal truth, but the lively excess of that grief she resented at it, so vi­olently seized upon her, that at first she was not able to complain of her fate for a loss that was so sensible to her; but as soon as the trouble into which this dreadful news had put her, was a little dis­sipated, [Page 146]and her grief had given her leasure to reflect upon the new calamities that her unhappi­ness had brought upon her, and to think of the death of a person to whom she had given her heart, she discovered, by her sighs and tears, and by her complaints, that notwithstanding the ardent affection Areas had for her, and the commands that her father had laid upon her to be favourable to it, she had still had a kindness for Democrates, and that she did yet love him even after his death.

Though Sestiana was in one of the saddest and deplorable condi­tions in the world; though her miseries were extream, and one would think that nothing was ca­pable of giving them any accessi­on, yet her cruel destiny, which was not weary of persecuting her, had, in causing the death of Democrates, prepared new matter [Page 147]to increase the grief of this il­lustrious miserable Lady; and to redouble her tears; since that those, who confirmed to her the death of her Lover, told her like­wise that those Assassines having thought him dead, after they had given him so many wounds, had betook themselves to their heels, and that Democrates had al­so yet so much strength as to speak to those who were come to his relief, and to tell them that the condition in which he was, obliged him to inform the King and Prince Theomedes that he be­lieved Sestianes was the Author of the conspiracy against the latter of them, and that the Love he had for the divine Sestiana, had kept him from making any disco­very of it. They also added, that after he had pronounced the name of Sestiana, those sighs which Love had made him fetch, [Page 148]joined to the extream weakness, that the loss of his blood had put him into, for some time had kept him from speaking; but at last he had said with much ado, that he was not fully assured that Sestia­nes was guilty, but that he had very powerfull indications of it, and that Prince Theomedes ought only to make use of his words, to constrain him, in case he was a criminal, to discover all himself, after he had got him arrested, or at least but to oblige that Prince to mistrust him, and to take heed that he does not expose himself to the fury of his assaults.

It is impossible to represent well to you the estate of the affli­cted Sestiana, after she had heard of this new misfortune. Fear, despite, hatred, Love and grief had their several combats in her, from which she never got with any advantage, but the end of [Page 149]them was always fatall to her re­pose. Fear made her apprehend something that would be of very ill consequence to her Father; despite and hatred made her hate him, whom love for all that for­ced her still to have a kindness for, though he was only fit for his grave; and grief made her be­wail him whom she detested. Her sighs were divided between love and Nature, she gave some to the future unhappiness of her Father, and some she bestowed on her Lover, and if she was not to be comforted for the loss of him, those words he uttered dying a­gainst her Father, afflicted her yet more. She loved him, be­wailed him, and hated him alto­gether: she hearkned to her du­ty, she followed the sentiments that love inspired into her, and at the same time gave somewhat too to her despite; but though [Page 150]she did what she could to content them all, yet her mind was no whit the less quiet nor her affli­ctions less great and cruel, and grief got absolute mistriss of her soul, and tormented it with all the rigor and severity that it is wont to make use of when it has a mind to give a cruel persecuti­on to those whom it undertakes to make most miserable, by put­ting them into a condition never to be able to injoy a moments re­pose.

Democrates's words at dying were quickly carried to the King, and to Prince Theomedes, who were no less surprised at them, then at the death of that generous unfortunate man. They were both very hard to believe that Sestianes should be guilty, and what he had done outwardly for Theomedes, in giving to the King the letter that Democrates had writ [Page 151]to Anaxander, kept that Prince from giving any credit to that in­formation against him. But yet as nothing is dearer to us than life, which ought to be kept with the greatest care, he was resolved to let him be atrested if he was to be found, that so he might be the better satisfied of the truth of it, and to see if his looks would not betray him, and if his sur­prise of finding himself a prisoner would not make him confess a crime of which he was only sus­pected by force, or make him do what he could to the contrary, give some manifestations of it, & designed at the same time to set him at liberty, if he did not ac­knowledg any thing, without forcing him by any wrack or tor­ture to declare himself guilty. But it was not the love he had for Sestianes, nor any happiness that he wisht him, obliged him to act [Page 152]after this manner; but what he thought he had done to serve him, in accusing Democrates, who was to have been his Son in-Law, had much lessened the severity he would have had towards him, and ingaged him to treat him ge­nerously, at least until he might have some proofs of the attempt of which he was accused.

Prince Theomedes was in this re­solution, and had already desired the King to permit Sestianes to be arrested, and to go out of prison a little while after, if he should not confess himself a criminal, and if no other more convincing proofs could be alledged against him of his crime then the last words of Democrates, which did not positively conclude him guil­ty, when that Sestianes was com­ing up to them where they were. The King, and Prince Theomedes were greatly surprized to see him, [Page 153]for they could not doubt but that he had heard of the last words of Democrates, which were spoke be­fore too great a multitude not to have been reported to him, and they were perswaded that he would rather have thought upon flying, then upon coming thither. But this perfidious wretch was too subtil too have conceived any such design that would have been so prejudicial to him, and he had not resolved to betray himself. ‘I come, said he to them with a countenance that seemed not to have the least concern upon it in the world, and with as great an assurance in his voice; to ren­der my self a prisoner, to justifie me of what Democrates has said of me dying: had I been crimi­nal, I should not with so much confidence dare now to appear before you, I should have been by this time far enough off of [Page 154]this place, and have had time e­nough to make my escape from the just chastisement that would have been due to me; but I de­sire to prove it a meer imposture, and so show my innocence, for it is only virtue that is the cause of my crime.’ Yes, my virtue is all that has rendered me guilty; since that, continued he, addres­sing himself to Prince Theomedes, ‘what I lately did for you, in dis­covering the Letter that Demo­crates was sending to his friend, was the occasion of his resolving to do what he could to make my innocence be suspected, and to be revenged for my making his to be called in question. It is well known how sweet re­venge is, and what it will prompt a man to do; what ef­fects it produces daily; that there are some persons who find it impossible to stifle the senti­ments [Page 155]it inspires them withal; that there are some with whom it never dies; and indeed who keep it up even after death, in leaving it as an Inheritance to their Children or friends, or elce in saying such words when they are dying, as make 'em per­secute, after their death, those whom they were resolved to be revenged of while they were a­live. This revenge is oft times too deeply rooted in the hearts of men, and which of all the pas­sions dies last with them: which has made Democrates to say that he had very powerful manifesta­tions of my crime: it is clearly demonstrable by those last words, that he was cruelly trou­bled with this outragious passi­on, that it compleated his desires, and took up all his thoughts; since that then when he should have been only thinking on that [Page 156]great account he was going to make to the Gods of all his acti­ons, it was only the power of re­venge that was able to open his mouth. Yet he had not that au­daciousness positively to affirm that I was a Criminal, for fear least his Imposture might have been too apparent; but was for­ced, in-spite of his good inclina­tion to ruin me to be contented with only making my innocence doubted of, possibly thinking, that in case his wounds should not be mortal, he might be ob­liged to prove what he had said. And thus you see, continued he, both what is my crime, and wherefore I am criminal, yet notwithstanding my Innocence, if you suspect me to be guilty, said he, throwing himself upon his knees before the King, and Prince Theomedes, I have deserv­ed to die, and will seek it with a [Page 157]passionate earnestness, since I've merited your anger and whoso­ever has had the unhappiness to displease Kings and Princes, and has procur'd himself their anger, is unworthy to live, or at least deserves to have but a languish­ing life, accompanied with a thousand miseries, and full of melancholy fears, and torments, and inquietudes.’

If the King and Prince Theome­des could not keep their surprise from being taken notice of, in see­ing Sestianes coming up to them, his words made it much more vi­sible in their looks: they stood a good while silent, not knowing what they had best to doe, nor in­deed what they had best to say to him; but at last being overcome by his artifices, they took the most deceitful and perfidious of all men breathing for the most generous, and thought it would [Page 158]be an injustice to question his in­nocence, and that they ought to send him away with a perfect ab­solution; that which perswaded Theomedes to it, was, that if he had conspired against him, which he could not believe, for the reasons I have acquainted you with, this civil treatment would oblige him possibly to change his design of killing him, into that of doing him service.

This crafty perfidious wretch, after he had kist the Kings hand and the Princes, withdrew very much satisfied at the favourable success of so uncommon a temeri­ty, and as before ever he went a­bout this devise, he had acquaint­ed his assosiates with it, and bid them not to be allarmed at it, nor fear any thing, he went strait from the presence to give them an account of what had past, and to let them know the good for­tune, [Page 159]that his address and artifices bad met with, and the esteem that the King and Prince Theomedes had of him. This intelligence did exceedingly rejoyce the con­federates; they thought they had no cause of apprehending any thing, but that they were as safe as could be, and that no mischief could be fall them, it being out of the power of fortune to betray them, and ever to make them be discovered, having got a person so witty, so fortunate, and so couragious as Sestianes, who was able to turn those things to his ad­vantage, which in all probability, would have wrought his absolute ruin.

When Sestiana was informed with how much honour her Fa­ther was come off of the imputa­tion he lay under, her fear began by degrees to abate, in thinking that her Father was not looked [Page 160]upon as criminal, and that he was not taken prisoner, but the more this fear grew off, the great­er was her regret for the death of so faithfull a Lover; all her vir­tue, though it was most severely strict, could not keep her from bestowing some tears on a person who had like to take away her Fathers life. ‘I perceive very well, said she to her self, if De­mocrates were still living, my vir­tue would not suffer me, either to see him, or to love him, or so much as permit him to have any Love for me; but pity obliges me, do what I can, to bewail the unhappy fate of him to whom I had given my heart; none ought to wonder at it, nor ought I to wonder at it my self, pity produces many other ef­fects, and if it force us to bewail our enemies, when they are no longer in a capacity of doing us [Page 161]any hurt, none need to be amaz­ed, if it makes us to regret those whom we have loved. I wish, said she to her self, discoursing still with her thoughts, that De­mocrates had not spoke against my Father, but has not my Fa­ther spoke against him, and af­ter he had promised he should marry me, did not he deprive him of all hopes that he would ever give me his hand? I wish that Democrates had had those sentiments a generous per­son ought to have, but he was a Man; that is to say, sensible of injuries, and besides, an abused Lover, and those two things do often oblige persons to do both more then they ought, and more then they would. To conclude, I wish that Democrates had not done what an Heroick, but what a severe and scrupulous virtue inspires in those who possess it [Page 162]in the supremest degree; but re­venge, that cruel imperious pas­sion, which always governs with an absolute Empire the hearts of those it has got the power over, and which has as little reason to qualify it as love, and besides is full as blinde; that Tyrant of Souls did force him, in spight of all his resistance, to prefer its councells to those of generosity.’ These were the sentiments of Sestiana, who im­puted to revenge all that Democra­tes had spoke against her Father, and who never yet suspected the truth, and was less disposed to di­vine it, for it is very rare for a child to doubt the innocence of those who are the occasion of their coming into the world.

But although Democrates was almost universally lamented, and his friends took his death with a great deal of grief, which was [Page 163]likewise bewailed most passio­nately by her, who notwithstand­ing the severity of her virtue, had not the power to hate him, yet his death was not left to be un­punished, though they were ig­norant of the Authors of it. Not but that Arcas was suspected of it; but the want of sufficient proof, together with his eminent quality, kept the relations of De­mocrates from discovering their resentment and revenge, as much as they had done, had they known that another had been the Author of so foul and base an action, or had they had any sufficient proofs against those who had been so, to which there might have been some credit given.

Sestianes began to hope for a fa­vourable success of his barbarous and cruel design; he thought he had blown over all the storms that threatned him, that he was [Page 164]not likely to be exposed to the re­verse of fortune, and that the esteem the Prince Theomedes testi­fied to him, would give him a more convenient opportunity to execute what he had resov'd upon when the Court received a Letter from Anaxander, whom fame, & the particular friends of Democra­tes, had informed of all that had past. This sad and generous friend of our Heroe, who studied to be revenged of his death, sent word that it was no longer neces­sary to keep things in disguise, and that he was Innocent of the crime, of which he had impeach­ed himself, to save a friend, who was no more a Criminal then he or the clearest person alive; but that he was very sure that what Democrates had said against Sestia­nes after he had received his deaths wound, was most certainly true, that the love he had for his [Page 165]Daughter, was the occasion that he did not discover it sooner, and that the Father of that fair One suspecting our Heroe knew of his crime, had accused him purely out of fear, that so if it should happen to him to be accused a­gain, he might have a very fair plea for himself, and make the world believe that what he should speak was only out of malice and revenge. He added also that his friend had given him a full ac­count of all these things a little before that fatal accident befell him, and in the same letter sent all the particulars that made De­mocrates to suspect Sestianes, and what he had said before he was taken prisoner the first time. Moreover he offered to come, if they desired it, to render himself a prisoner to maintain what he said, and to defend the honour of his friend after his death as well [Page 166]as he had done when he was li­ving, and earnestly petitioned the King to let Sestianes be arrested to force him to discover all, and shewed him that he should not run the hazard of committing an injustice, in case he did act in that manner; so long as it was al­ways in his power to restore him his libertie, if he judg'd him to be innocent, but that it was ne­cessary to have him arrested for the safety of Prince Theomedes's life; because he knew of no other Criminals but him, and that what he had said, after he had ex­cused himself for fa [...]ing the life and honour of his friend, was only that the true guilty persons, whom yet he did not know, might not live in any security, and that the Prince Theomedes might not remain any longer ex­posed to their fury.

This Letter was presented to [Page 167]the King with as much faithfull­ness as secrecy, and was perused by him and Theomedes without Sestianes's knowing any thing of it in the world. It gave them a very great confusion, and before they ever went about making Sestianes to be arrested, they ex­amined into the whole life of De­mocrates, to see if he had never been guilty of any action misbe­coming a Gallant man, and which might give them any cause not to believe him. They likewise up­on the same account looked over all the actions of Anaxander, and whatever they had known of him, during the time he had made his residence in that Court; but they found nothing in nei­ther of them that did not very highly commend their virtue, and their generosity, and which did not perswade them to give an intire belief to all their words. [Page 168]They also reflected upon all they knew of Sestianes; but they were sensible upon several occasions, that he had given them some cause of doubting his virtue; and they believed that since Democra­tes had never given them any of mistrusting his with justice, and that he accused him at a time, when persons are wont to speak the truth more then at any other time; upon the whole, they thought they were obliged to be­lieve Sestianes guilty: all these things considered with what they began to be perswaded of that he had possibly blinded them by a false and pretended semblance of virtue, and that his generosity was only an artifice to dazle them, and to divert the blow that threatned him, made them resolve to have him taken, and be clapt up in the Tower, where none might be ad­mitted to discourse with him, [Page 169]which they immediately caused to be put in execution.

Though he was not a little sur­priz'd to see himself become a pri­soner, yet he had so much wit with him as to conceal his inward disorder, and though fear had ta­ken full possession of his heart, yet his countenance did shew all the tranquillity imaginable, and as he perceived they had no proofs against him, and had only put him into prison to see if he would not betray himself, he defended himself so admirably, that he de­ceived all those who in the least thought any thing to his disad­vantage. He was demanded why, upon the report that ran up and down, that Democrates knew all the Conspiracy, he had told him, that he was unjustly suspected, ex­cept he had always apprehended him, or had heard that he should be accused by him. They added [Page 170]also, that if he was not guilty, he should not have made such a dis­course, and that whether either he had suspected him, or had re­ally told him that he was a Crimi­nal, or that he pretended he had heard it, there was still an equal ground to doubt his Innocence; since if that was true which was told to Democrates, that he was guilty, of necessity there was a re­port of it, and likewise some proofs of his crime, and if it was not, in all probability he only came to sound him, and to endeavour to know cunningly of him, if it were true or not, that he was acquain­ted with all the conspiracy, there­by the better to order his affairs. Sestianes answered, that nothing of all this was true, and that if he had been to wait upon Democrates, to hold such a discourse with him, he should not have dared to act a­gainst him, as he had done, for [Page 171]fear he should have recriminated upon him, and that since he had said nothing of it all the time he lived, whilst it was supposed that he had said those things to him, which very likely would have ru­ined him, and that he had not so much as spoke of them when he was dying, it was very easie to see that it was a meer falsity that was imputed to him. He added that it was no wonder if Anaxander did seek to take away his life, for ha­ving put into the hands of the King the letter that Democrates writ to him, that he had done things much more considerable to secure the reputation of his friend, and that since he had ren­dered himself guilty for his sake, though he was Innocent, he might very easily be induced to tell a lye to be revenged of a person who had acted against him, who was not able to bear his crime without [Page 172]horror, and who likewise could not refrain showing the proofs he had of it.

Never were persons seen in a greater perplexity and confusion then were the King and Prince Theomedes, after they had heard the answer that Sestianes made, they were clearly of opinion that he might justly be suspected, but they did not see which way he could be convicted, and as all pro­babilities signifie nothing with­out positive proofs, and that it is a most unjust thing to condemn a person upon a bare suspicion, they could not tell how in the world to get out of this trouble that Sestianes put them into by his confidence, and undaunted reso­lution. ‘What, said Prince The­omedes, must I confound the In­nocent with the guilty, believe the most generous of all men are the most base, and the most per­fidious [Page 173]and that the most perfi­dious & base are the most gene­rous? must I think Anaxander to be an Imposter? and must I think Sestianes a wicked and perfidious wretch that has determined my death? he, who, to serve me, de­clared against his designed Son in Law? and must I, in a word, by a cruel necessity do an injury to the memory of Democrates, and doubt his Innocence, who all his life was never known to be guilty of an action unworthy an honourable person? But what, said he again presently, must I be always in fear? daily exposed to danger, and wait till he, whose life I dare not yet take away, come and run me through? Yes, I ought always to be exposed to danger and not fear the fury of those who aim at my life; fear is unworthy of a Prince, and much more of a [Page 174]generous man: Princes ought not to be too careful to secure themselves from the danger that threatens them, their courage and their virtue ought to be their guard, and to answer for what befals them, and that which is looked upon as foresight in o­thers, will in them be counted baseness and Cowardice.’

Prince Theomedes, after he had a pretty while abandoned himself to his inquietude, began to heark­en to those sentiments which ge­nerosity usually inspires into per­sons of his Rank and Quallity, and went to demand of the King, that the most Criminal of all men might be set at liberty, when word was brought that one of the five hundred prisoners, who had been taken in the late conspiracy, where there were ten thousand that rose up against all the Royall house, accused Sestianes of the [Page 175]Crime, which Democrates had charged him with as he was dy­ing. This undaunted Criminal, who was ignorant who he should be, said as soon as ever he heard of it, that this fellow was some cheat and impostor, that he did unjustly accuse him, and that he would make him to confess the contrary, and deny all he had said. Whereupon Cleobis (for so was that prisoner called) was brought before him; but he was greatly surprized when he saw that it was one of those who had been of the conspiracy with him, and that it was the same person, who we were mentioning be­fore, was missing, and for whom he was so much concerned since, that he knew not what was be­come of him, and also that it was him of all the Number whom he most suspected. The sight of him had even almost made him change [Page 176]his countenance, and his emoti­on went very near to discover what he had always concealed with so favourable a success. Yet notwithstanding, his confidence having immediately banished the fear that had begun to seize upon his heart, he looked upon Cleobis with an air full of fierceness and a contemning scorn mixt toge­ther, and said with a disdainfull smile; ‘though in the condition I am in at present, I might fear all things from my Enemies, and that the imposture, which may justly be tearmed, the innocents executioner, makes use of all the most cruel and artificious ways of malice to take away my life, yet it is sufficient to scarter my fear, that it is only Cleobis who presents himself, and is the man that accuses me. I do not believe the King nor the Prince Theomedes will easily give any [Page 177]credit to him: for any one may very well think, that if I had conspired, I should not have dis­covered the secret to a man so much to be mistrusted, and it is very apparent that he does not now accuse me, but only to pro­long his life, and by this artifice to hope, that Prince Theomedes, thinking himself greatly obliged to him, will demand his pardon of the King: I have been assured by some persons of my acquaint­ance, that my Enemies, and the Relations of Domocrates, has promised to get his crime par­doned, provided he would say that which he had been so hardy to utter against me, and which he still neither durst, nor can maintain. But though all this should not be true, pursued he, it is very well known that he has formerly been my greatest Enemy, and that he was forced [Page 178]to seek my friendship. All these circumstances do discover, that his former hatred had not now been awakened, but that he saw he had a most convenient opportunity for it; nor that he had accused me, but either from the prospect he had thereby to obtain his pardon, or from the satisfaction he should have to see me perish with him; and that there ought not to be any credit given to such a person, whom so many several reasons do in­duce to accuse an innocent.’

If before that Cleobis had accu­sed Sestianes, the King and Prince Theomedes's perplexity was great, this discourse of that subtil and ingenious Politician gave a great­er accession to it, and he had still so much good fortune, that he made use of those things which were most likely to ruin him, to confound others, and cast them [Page 179]into a far greater trouble then that with which his breast was a­gitated; but at last that good for­tune grew weary, of accompany­ing so perfidious a wretch; and Heaven, which was resolved to leave him no longer unpunished, now made a truth to be known which had so long been kept se­cret, which had given confusion to so many persons, and which untill then, could never be disco­vered, what ever ways they had made use of, and notwithstand­ing all they had done to finde it out. But yet this wicked man had the happiness not to betray himself, and still stood it out with a great deal of wit and bravery, as long as it was possible for him. He did not put fortune to the blush for the good services she had done him, but he showed that his bold­ness, his constancy, and his wit did equal his crimes, and possibly [Page 180]he might yet have defended him­self longer, if that some of the conspirators, whom Cleobis nam'd, had not fled for it, and if the o­thers had not been taken prison­ers, discovered all the particula­rities, maintained to Sestianes's face that he was guilty, and had not by convincing proofs, and such as were impossible to be doubted of, deprived him of all the means of defending himself any longer.

They asked Cleobis, to be more clearly satisfied in all things, why he, (who had told Poligesnes, that he would discover all things to him, and who was dead before he saw him,) had said, that he be­lieved Demotrates was of the con­spiracy. Cleobis answered, that they had all thought so, for he being so near marrying the daughter of Sestianes, they were fully perswaded that he had com­municated [Page 181]his design to him, but it seems that time had discovered to them the contrary.

The perfidious Sestianes, seeing himself convicted, yet was not at all the more allarmed at it, nor did he show any actions that betray'd the constancy he had al­ways testifyed, he confest all without changing his counte­nance, and spoke with as much assurance, as if his judges had been the Criminals, and he their Judge. ‘Yes, said he to them, since I cannot tell how any long­er to defend my self, I acknow­ledge I did conspire against Prince Theomedes, and the ill Offices he did me at Court, to­gether with the displeasure I re­ceived in that he had given to one of his creatures a place which the King intended to be­stow on me, and which he had even promised me, did make me [Page 182]hatch the design of taking away his life, and for that purpose I elected such persons as had as in­different a kindness for him as my self, and who had as great reason to complain of him; and if you examine well all those of the confederacy, added he, you will finde that the greatest num­ber of them are those that live near his lands and dominions, and whom he has by his un­just tyranny, obliged to have an invincible hatred for him, and to study all ways ima­ginable how to compasse his death. After this confession you may imagine that Democra­tes was innocent, and that I would not have destroy'd him but for fear lest he should accuse me in the thoughts I had, that one of the Conspirators had dis­covered all to him, and that it was only for that he had been [Page 183]suspected of the crime that I was the Authour of. If Democrates, said I to my self, knows all, no­thing but the love he bears my daughter, will keep him from speaking & revealing my crime; but as there are several things that may stifle this love, that may make him repent of his silence, and at last hearken to his duty, when it shall counsel him to dis­cover and betray me, it is my best way to make him undergo the same fate, as I have designed for the Prince Theomedes, and to be only thinking now how I should effect it with the greatest safety. I was in this resolution, when a meer chance presented me with the means to bring it a­bout, more secret, and less peril­lous, then those were I had pro­posed to my self, and gave me an opportunity to execute part of what I had projected, and [Page 184]without any blood shed, to di­vert the blow that teemed to threaten me. The letter that De­mocrates writ to Anaxander fell into my hands, and I thought it my prudentest course to put it into those of the Kings, and that this ill office I should do to the unfortunate Innocent person would prevent all manner of be­lief of whatsoever he should say against me. You have known the success of it, but you are ig­norant yet that the fear of being discovered having taken a new possession of my heart, and that the desire which Ambition had kindled in me, to see my Daugh­ter married to Arcas, who is, as you know, both by his Estate, and birth, much more consider­able then Democrates, obliged me to seek out fresh occasions of destroying this latter. Fortune, which continued still favoura­ble [Page 185]to me, presented me with one less hazardous then the for­mer: I knew that Arcas was cru­elly persecuted by his jealousie, and that he could not indure my Daughter should conserve any tenderness for Democrates, I made use of this occasion to bring my design about, and told him, that he ought not to suffer a Ri­val to have half shares of a heart which ought to belong wholly to him. As there is need of but a little thing to stir up a jealous man, who does not doubt but that his Rival has too great an Interest in the favours of his Mistriss, and whom Arcas his jealousie had councell'd before to call him to an account for it, he strait fought with Democrates, and in that duel met with the shameful success you have heard of; which being so fatal to his honour, he came to give me a [Page 186]relation of his unhappiness, and of the sensible disgrace that For­tune had made him receive. I knowing him then to be in a hu­mour fit to undertake any thing, I told him it was such a shame to suffer his Rival to live any longer, and to have an object that should daily represent to him the affront his honour had received, that without any more a doe he was resolved to put a pe­riod to his days. A short time af­ter he caused Democrates to be as­sassinated by three persons whom he had hired for that purpose, or rather by three of those merce­nary Assassines, who are daily employed in such murders. Now, continued he, after this particular information, you ought not to ask any thing fur­ther of me, and I have told you more then you would have known had you only learnt that [Page 187]I was the Author of Democrates his death; since that without my Conncel, Arcas possibly would never have assassinated him. This is, pursued he, a faithful account of all my crimes, and all the fa­vour I demand of you, if you can grant any to so great a Criminal as I am, is to hasten the day of my death, lost I should repent that I had committed them, and that the tormenting rigour of a long & cruel imprisonment should a­bate my constancy, so as it would do my countenance, and make those who should be spectatours at my Death, to think, that I was afraid of punishments, and that Death was terrible to me. I know very well, continued he, that I cannot hope for pardon, and as I would not desire to live after I had acknowledged my self a Criminal, I confess all my crimes, and even those whereof [Page 188]I was not accused, that so the horrour you ought to have to suffer so great a Criminal to live, should oblige you to give a sud­den determination of my death, and as short a day for it.’

Though Sestianes was long be­fore suspected, and even before his confession they ceased any longer to doubt of his crime, yet his discourse was very surprizing to those Judges, as well as it ac­quainted them with the Authour of our Heroe's Death. They caused him to be lockt up again, and went to inform the King and Prince Theomedes of all had pas­sed, and what Sestianes had told them. Their astonishment could not keep them from bestowing some sighs upon the Death of Democrates, whose innocence thereby was fully known to them, and reflecting upon the generosi­ty of Anaxander, whom the trou­ble [Page 189]and confusion in which they were, had till then kept them from esteeming as they ought to have done; Prince Theomedes cry­ed out, that he had never seen a person so generous, nor so faith­full a friend, and that he had rea­son to boast of his crime in the first Letter he had sent them, the misterious fence of which he so perfectly knew, and which he had reason to say, that as bad a Cri­minal as he declared himself to be, he hoped that posterity should not be able to reproach his honour; since that his crime was so glorious, and generous, that posterity ought to conserve the remembrance of it, to cause it to be admired by all those that should hear it.

The King having understood, by the relation that was given him, what Sestianes had said, and heard of all the crimes he had charged himself with, and that [Page 190] Arcas had caused Democrates to be murthered, immediately ordered him to be arrested; but as he was of too illustrious a birth, and like­wise had several Relations and Friends that held a very conside­rable rank at Court, he present­ly learnt all that had past there, and by a hasty flight had escaped the prison they had prepared for him, and some time after they heard that he was got into France. As for Sestianes he had what he desired, and was a little while after condemned to lose his head. Prince Theomedes would never­thelesse have used his utmost in­terest to prevent that sentence a­gainst his life, if he had been on­ly guilty against him; but there was so much perfidiousness in his crime, which came from a breast so black and wicked, that he was judged utterly unworthy to ob­tain any favour, and that such a [Page 191]perfidious and dangerous man ought not to be permitted to live, who knew how to dissemble with so much art, and who was capable of accomplishing whatsoever he undertook, which could be no o­ther then such things as must needs have most cruel and perni­cious consequences.

This crafty and undaunted Cri­minal satisfied at the expence of his life the sentence that had been given against him, and died as al­most all of that Country are wont to do, that is to say, with a con­stancy worthy to be admired, and so it was by a great number of people, who spoke very advanta­giously of his Criminal and inge­nious carriage, and said, that he had a wit capable of the most dif­ficult and hazardous enterpri­ses.

That which was the more re­markable in this History, was, [Page 192]that Democrates, without think­ing in the least of it, had himself laboured to revenge his death, be­fore he died, and that Heaven had suffered Cleobis to be among the five hundred prisoners, whom that generous Heroe had helped to take, in the service of his King, without knowing that among them there was a person, who could remove the doubt they had of his Innocence, and discover the real guilty person, and who, in re-establishing his glory, could hinder posterity from making his memory odious, and in a word, who could revenge his death, by the blood of the most perfidious man in the world.

I think it is not necessary to re­late what Sestiana said, and did, between the condemnation of her Father, and his death, nor at that time that she heard of his death; for it is very well [Page 193]known than the power of grief makes one at first not to resent it, that the surprise it causes keeps one silent, and that the extream weakness it easts one into, takes away the sence. The violence of Sestiana's grief pro­duced all these effects, and she could not resent, and know all the calamities that were befallen her altogether, untill the trou­ble and seizure were a little over, which gave her such fa­tall and sensible intelligences. But when she was a little come to her self, and in a condition of resenting the cruel assaults of her grief. ‘O heavens! said she to her self, is it possible you should have resolved that I shold indure so many miseries? is it possible that you should permit it, and can it be belie­ved that a poor harmless maid should be destined to bear all [Page 194]the rage of the most barba­rous and pittiless fate? Ah! how did Democrates say to me, when I spoke to him of the crime which he was unjust­ly accused of, that the guilty person would cost me many tears. Both the guilty and the innocent do cost me so at once; I knew not the crime of one, untill it was impossi­ble for me to prevent his de­struction, and I did not learn the innocence of the other untill after his Death. I did not demand so much, nor would I have known of my Fathers crime, only have heard of the innocence of Democrates, but I would have known it, that so I might have recom­penced it, and not have been obliged only to pour out tears. Ah! too sensible loss of a dear and faithfull Lover, in­to [Page 195]what a sad condition do you reduce me? Ah! Demo­crates, how will thy Death cost me tears? ah! too blind Father, what have you done? ah! but what, pursued she, am I sensible of what I do? I more bewail a Lover then a Father; yes, it is true, I do bewail him, and that without shocking either reason, or du­ty, or virtue; and though I ought to bewail them both, yet fate will have it, that he who should be the dearest to me, should be the least be­wailed. Ah! wherefore too scrupulous Lover, did you not discover your secret to me, I should have known your in­nocence, and would have mar­ryed you before my Father had forbid it; but you ima­gined, that I would not have believed your discourses, and [Page 196]you would not put any thing to the hazard. You resolved to be prudent, but your pru­dence, which was almost fa­tal to you, has not in this oc­casion been more favourable then formerly. It is true it has spared me many displea­sures which possibly would not have been so cruel to me, and which perhaps I might have now forgot, and I ac­knowledge this service after thy death. But replied she immediately, ought I to count that a Service, which makes me now to weep, and which has caused thy death, and like­wise that of my Fathers? yes, continued she, it was one, but time has made it fatal, our common unhappiness has poi­soned it; and prudence, which promises, and which affords o­thers so much good fortune, [Page 197]will give us only causes of af­flicting our selves, and after it did make thee lose the favour of thy Prince, kept thee from making any further declarati­on of thy flame to me, when thou mightest have married me, to have made me doubt your Innocence, to have be­trayed you in all things, and to have rendered all your actions fatal to you, and at last to have cost you your life, that if it had not hindered you from being the death of Arcas, that inhuman Rival had not made you be assassinated. It is impossible for life to be any longer pleasing to me, after the loss of so faithful a Lo­ver, and it cannot but be hate­ful to me after the death of a Father who has lost his head upon a Scaffold; where­fore in honour and Love I [Page 198]ought to be so much the more desirous to die, since it is only that which can put an end to all my cruel tor­ments, with which my Soul will be overwhelmed as long as I have a day to live.’

The sorrow of this fair and generous afflicted Lady could not possibly meet with any di­minution, time which for the most part wears out other griefs, how cruel so ever, could doe nothing upon hers, till at last she met with what she so much desired, which was so violent a Feavour, that in a few days it put an end to all her trou­bles, as it did to her life.

Five or six months after all these bloody and Tragical ad­ventures, they were informed that Anaxander had revenged [Page 199]the death of his friend, for ha­ving met Arcas in France, he obliged him to draw, in which duell he only received a slight wound from him, but came off a conqueror, by laying his E­nemy dead at his feet,

FINIS.

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