[16] Gesta Stephani, ap. Duchesne, Script. Normann. p. 961, 2. [17] William of Malmesbury, Hist. Novell. lib. ii. [18] Henry of Huntingdon, De Episcopis sui temporis. [19] Perhaps this is too positively asserted. No doubt exists as to the political operation, but it has been questioned whether Theseus had a more real existence than the other heroes who gave their names to, or were named after, the several Athenian tribes. See Arnold’s Thucyd., Appendix II. [20] History of Greece, p. 5. [21] History of Greece, p. 6. [22] The arrival of Theseus at Athens roused Medea’s jealousy, and she proposed to poison him. She did not arrive at Athens until some time after she had reached Greece with Jason and the Argonauts; while the journey of Theseus from Trœzen to Athens appears to have been his first exploit. Either, therefore, Theseus was not an Argonaut, or this charge against Medea is ungrounded. [23] Eteocles and Polynices, the sons of Œdipus, agreed, after the expulsion of their father, to reign alternate years in Thebes. Eteocles, however, at the end of the first year, refused to surrender his power, upon which Polynices laid siege to the city, assisted by six other princes. The brothers met in battle, and fell by each other’s hands. [24] Lockhart’s Spanish Ballads. [25] See a subsequent ballad in the same collection:— In her hot cheek the blood mounts high, as she stands gazing down Now on proud Henry’s royal state, his robe and golden crown, And now upon the trampled cloak, that hides not from her view The slaughtered Pedro’s marble brow, and lips of livid hue. * * * * * Away she flings her garments, her broidered veil and vest, As if they should behold her love within her lovely breast— As if to call upon her foes the constant heart to see Where Pedro’s form is still enshrined, and evermore shall be. But none on fair Maria looks, by none her breast is seen, Save angry heaven, remembering well the murder of the Queen; The wounds of jealous harlot rage, which virgin blood must staunch, And all the scorn that mingled in the bitter cup of Blanch. The utter coldness of neglect that haughty spirit stings, As if ten thousand fiends were there, with all their flapping wings. She wraps the veil about her head, as if ‘twere all a dream, The love—the murder—and the wrath—and that rebellious scream. For still there’s shouting on the plain, and spurring far and nigh; “God save the King—Amen! Amen! King Henry!” is the cry, While Pedro all alone is left upon his bloody bier— Not one remains to cry to God, “Our Lord lies murdered here.”