_d._ 1387 | Majorca | _d._ 1349 | James _d._ (_s.p._) 1375] Roussillon takes its name from Ruscino, the ancient capital, which was destroyed by the Northmen in 859. The site is now occupied by a tower and a Romanesque chapel, a couple of miles from Perpignan. The name of Ruscino appears for the first time B.C. 218, when Hannibal crossed the Pyrenees on his march into Italy. The Roman Senate sent ambassadors to the people of Ruscino to urge them to oppose the progress of the great Carthaginian. They met where is now this castle, but were listened to with impatient murmurs. The tower, that dates from the twelfth century, is all that remains of the castle of the counts of Roussillon. No one has as yet undertaken serious exploration of the site, which infallibly would surrender very important relics of the ancient capital of the Rusceni, one of the Nine Peoples, and where in all probability the Phœnicians had a mercantile station; the plough, or mattock, has repeatedly turned up Iberian, Greek, Punic, Roman, and Arabic coins. [Illustration: GATEWAY OF THE CITADEL, PERPIGNAN] One cannot quit Castell-Rossello, as the tower is now called, without mention of William de Cabestang, who was châtelain of the neighbouring village of Cabestang. Taken with the charms of Sirmonde, the wife of Raimond, Count of Roussillon, he celebrated her in song. The husband, transported with jealousy, had him waylaid and murdered, then tore out his heart, had it roasted, and served at table. After Sirmonde had partaken of the dish he revealed to her what she had eaten. Then said she, “This meat has been to me so good and savoury that no other shall pass my lips.” The Count at this drew his sword, and Sirmonde threw herself from the window and perished by the fall. Alphonso II of Aragon went to the place, ordered the arrest of the Count, and the burial of the troubadour and the Countess before the western entrance of the church of S. Jean at Perpignan. A few lines from one of his _sirventes_ in her honour may be quoted:-- “Before my mind’s eye, lady fair, I see thy form, thy flowing hair, Thy face, thy iv’ry brow. My path to Paradise were sure Were love to God in me as pure As mine to thee, I trow. “Perchance thou wilt not bend an ear, Perchance not shed for me a tear, For me, who in my prayer To Mary Mother ever plead, To stead thee in thy hour of need, Sweet lady, passing fair. “Together from first childish days, As playfellows, I knew thy ways; I served thee when a child. Permit me but thy glove to kiss, That, that will be supremest bliss. Will still my pulses wild.”