of the meyney. Thiebault feels that
his unhappy wife is guiltless, but unluckily does not assure her of
this, merely asking her to deliver him. So she, seeing a sword of one
of the slain robbers, picks it up, and, "full of great ire and evil
will," cries, "I will deliver you, sir," and, instead of cutting his
bonds, tries to run him through. But she only grazes him, and actually
cuts the thongs, so that he shakes himself free, starts up, and wrests
the sword from her with the simple words, "Lady, it is not to-day that
you will kill me." To which she replies, "And right sorry I am
therefor."[78] Their followers come up; the pair are clothed and set out
again on their journey. But Thiebault, though treating his wife with the
greatest attention, leaves her at a monastery, accomplishes his
pilgrimage alone, and on his return escorts her to Ponthieu as if
nothing had happened. Still--though no one knows this or indeed anything
about her actual misfortune and intended crime--he does not live with
her as his wife. After a time the Count, who is, as another story has
it, a "_h_arbitrary" Count, insists that Thiebault shall tell him some
incident of his voyage, and the husband (here is the weak point of the
whole) recounts the actual adventure, though not as of himself and his
lady. The Count will not stand ambiguity, and at last extorts the truth,
which the lady confirms, repeating her sorrow that she had _not_ slain
her husband. Now the Count is, as has been said, an arbitrary Count, and
one day, his county having, as our Harold knew to his cost, a sea-coast
to it, somewhat less disputable than those of Bohemia and the Ardennes,
embarks, with only his daughter, son-in-law, son, and a few retainers,
taking with him a nice new cask. Into this, despite the prayers of her
husband and brother, he puts the lady, and flings it overboard. She is
picked up half-suffocated by mariners, who carry her to "Aymarie" and
sell her to the Sultan. She is very beautiful, and the Sultan promptly
proposes conversion and marriage. She makes no difficulty, bears him two
children, and is apparently quite happy. But meanwhile the Count of
Ponthieu begins--his son and son-in-law have never ceased--to feel that
he has exercised the paternal rights rather harshly; the Archbishop of
Rheims very properly confirms his ideas on this point, and all three go
_outremer_ on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. They are captured by the
Saracens of Aymarie, imprisoned, sta