THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 FAR FROM TO-DAY
 
 FAR FROM TO-DAY 
 
 BY GERTRUDE HALL 
 
 I. TRISTIANE 
 
 II. SYLVANUS 
 
 III. THE SONS OF PHILEMON 
 
 IV. THEODOLIND 
 V. SERVIROL 
 
 VI. SHEPHERDS 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS 
 1892
 
 Copyright, 1892, 
 BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
 
 AU rightt reserved. 
 
 J&ntocrsttg $rrss: 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
 
 PS 
 IW5 
 
 .Sisters*
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I. TRISTIANE 9 
 
 II. STLVANUS 63 
 
 III. THE SONS OF PHILEMON , . 91 
 
 IV. THEODOLIND 147 
 
 V. SERVIROL . , . 191 
 
 VI. SHEPHERDS .,..,.,,. 251
 
 TRISTIANE.
 
 FAR FROM TO-DAY. 
 
 TEISTIANE. 
 
 " T T 7E are merrymakers on our way to the capital, 
 V V whither we are betaking us for the coronation 
 feasts. I am Triflor," said the leader to the host, who 
 stood still hesitating in the doorway. " Surely you 
 have heard of jolly Triflor, blithe Triflor. And these 
 (come forward, my children ! my lord the host 
 of this fine inn is going to give us all a shelter for 
 the night, because he knows that it is cold sleeping 
 under the stars in the decline of the year, and he is 
 a good gentleman who would not have the harm 
 less amusing folks suffer) and these, sir, are (for 
 ward, children !) Hatto, who eats knives and smacks 
 his lips over them, who can balance straws on the 
 end of his nose, and make faces so droll, the sober 
 water on reflecting them is forced to break into a 
 laugh ; Jarl, who can hurl the big rocks, whom 
 you may bind with new ropes if you will, and 
 eric ! crac ! a little stiffening of his massive thews, 
 he is free again ; Kahilde and Kabiorg, the matchless 
 dancers, so light of foot you can afterward cook 
 in their sound shells the eggs upon which they have
 
 10 TRISTIANE. 
 
 trodden ; Tristiane, the woman who tells the truth ; 
 and Ib, tamer of wild beasts " 
 
 As he spoke their names, the members of that 
 motley company stepped into the large, low, smoky 
 room, lighted by pine boughs that were burning 
 fiercely on the rough stone-hearth : Hatto, the juggler, 
 slim as an ill-conditioned reed, with a long, pointed, 
 humorous nose, and a hungry expression that lent 
 verisimilitude to the leader's report of his appetite 
 for such food even as knives ; the strong man, short 
 and bow-legged, with hairy wrists and a warlike de 
 meanor, yet with eyes more mild than a calf's ; the 
 dancing sisters, pretty and travel-stained and weary, 
 huddled together in a single cloak to keep one 
 another warm ; Tristiane, the woman who told the 
 truth, the host looked wonderingly, as she entered, 
 at the great form in the dull scarlet garb, with the 
 black wolf-skins hanging from her shoulders. 
 
 " But what is that ? " he asked doubtfully of the 
 new apparition on the threshold. 
 
 " That," explained Triflor, " is the tamer, and that 
 which he leads is the tamed!' 
 
 The host leaped backward in the air as he rec 
 ognized for a lion the strange animal staring at 
 him with stern, yellow eyes from the dusk beyond 
 the doorway. 
 
 " Out of my house ! " he cried, possessed with a 
 wild dismay. " Away from my door ! Hold on to 
 the beast, chain him up ! " 
 
 " Oh, he is very, very tame ; is it not so, Ib ? " said 
 Triflor, with a smile calculated to disarm. " Do not 
 get angry ; Hatto might tickle his nose with his straw,
 
 TRISTIANE. 11 
 
 and he would only waggle his tail. Ib, put your 
 hand in the beast's mouth ; you see, he is as gentle 
 as a lamb. He was, indeed, very wild, but our brave 
 Ib has entirely subdued him. He will lie quietly 
 under the table while we eat our supper." 
 
 " There is a solid iron ring out in the empty ox- 
 stall," said the host, firmly unheedtul of Triflor's de 
 monstrations ; " he must go there. The tamer must 
 keep guard over him, and the door must be safely 
 barred. Snorro, show the man into the stall ; " and 
 with anxious precision he shut the door upon lion- 
 tamer and lion. 
 
 Ib turned dully from the door without a murmur. 
 
 The warm red glare of the pine logs suddenly cut 
 off from the twilight air made it seem darker and 
 colder than before. He could hardly distinguish 
 where he stood, that dark outline somewhat resem 
 bled the old baggage-wagon they took turns at drag 
 ging through the day ; that yonder might be a well, 
 and that other a horse-trough, where was the 
 ox-stall ? 
 
 " This way ! " he heard a young voice at a little 
 distance from him. He stumbled in the direction 
 whence came the sound, drawing the lion after him. 
 
 He came to a covered enclosure that had long, 
 wide openings at about the height of his shoulder. 
 By contrast with the pitchy darkness of the stall, 
 those spans of open night appeared a milky blue-gray. 
 
 " The ring is on your right," said the voice, still dis 
 tant, but in another direction. " Fasten the door, and 
 I will bring you some hay to lay on the ground." 
 
 In a few minutes an armful of hay came down
 
 12 TRISTIANE. 
 
 upon his head. Looking up, he was able to distin 
 guish against the sky a wild-haired, boyish outline. 
 
 " What is his name ? " said the voice, in a tone of 
 deep interest. 
 
 " He has no name." Then, with a sudden bitter 
 vehemence : " It is a mortification of the spirit to be 
 called by a name not yours ; and as I do not know 
 what those other fierce kings, his brothers, used to 
 call him in their language, I leave him uninsulted 
 by a lesser appellation." 
 
 " Now, me," said the boy, not quite understanding, 
 " when they want me they say, ' Snorro ! Sriorro,' 
 they say, ' get up ! Snorro, go to work ! ' What I 
 ask you is, when you want him to come " 
 
 "No need to want. I have him at the end of a chain. 
 Go, child. Leave us alone. The lion wishes to sleep." 
 
 " I will bring him a marrow-bone." He scrambled 
 down the wall, and the sound of his footsteps died 
 away in the night. 
 
 Ib spread the straw on the cold ground and sat 
 down upon it, so that the lion's great, heavy head 
 rested upon his knees. The yellow eyes glowed at 
 him in the darkness. He passed his thin hands 
 through the thick, rough mane, clutching at it with a 
 fierce caress. " They have turned us away," he said, 
 talking in incoherent murmurs to the brute, " because 
 we look so dangerous and so bad, my friend. They 
 are afraid of us. They do not know how cold and sad 
 and sick we are. They say, 'See the treacherous eye; 
 see,' they say, ' the gleaming fangs.' It would seem 
 they wished to mock us, but they cannot know 
 that, with the will, we have scarcely the power to
 
 TRISTIANE. 13 
 
 attack the meanest cur that lives, we are so weary, so 
 cold, so homesick, so fallen, alas ! so fallen. . Ugh, 
 the loathsome world ! the loathsome people ! How 
 they laugh and shout at us when we come before them 
 in fool's gear, led in derision by a slender flower-chain, 
 poor, despised, discrowned royalty ! They cannot see 
 it burn, then, in the once proudly flashing eye, 
 blear to-day, the remembrance of times when their 
 faces had blanched with terror at the sound of a cer 
 tain mighty voice, when their feet had been so bound 
 with fear they could not have stirred from the path. 
 Now they say to us, ' Come,' and we come ; ' Go,' and 
 we go. They lift an impatient hand to strike us, and 
 we lower our lessened heads, submitting, we are 
 so frozen and so forlorn. We have not strength now 
 to rebel, no, nor spirit to resist " 
 
 He put his arms round the lion, who was shiver 
 ing with cold, and buried his face on the shaggy 
 head. He felt a warm, moist touch repeated slowly 
 again and again on his cheek, streaked with burning 
 tears. Thus they cowered silently together. 
 
 The dark ether kindled slowly with tremulous 
 points of fire. But what dim light entered the stall 
 scarcely served to distinguish the formless mass of 
 man and lion closed in a monstrous embrace. Heavy, 
 broken sighs alone interrupted the silence, and occa 
 sionally peals of distant laughter ringing from the 
 inn, or a few notes, louder than the rest, from Triflor's 
 shrill instrument. 
 
 " He is piping for the wenches to dance," said Ib to 
 himself ; and at the sound arose in his mind a clear 
 image of the whole scene, Triflor sweating over
 
 14 TRISTIANE. 
 
 the music, with cheeks expanded to bursting, beating 
 the measure with one flat foot; the girls dancing, 
 with slender arms intertwined, weariness lending a 
 certain languid grace to their movements ; Hatto 
 looking on, leaning against the wall in his favorite 
 attitude, one spindle leg across the other, his elbows 
 pointed out jauntily from his hips, his head thrown 
 back, his face distorted in a gleeful grimace that 
 exposed all his sharp, uneven teeth ; Jarl in a cor 
 ner, diligently pulling at his stiff beard to keep him 
 self awake, and nodding notwithstanding; the host 
 and inn-people in ecstasies of delight over the un 
 usual entertainment ; Suorro, quite forgetful of mar 
 row-bones and the like, holding his sides at Hatto's 
 facial pranks ; and Tristiane the woman from the 
 mountains ? he could not place her in the scene 
 his vivid imagination painted. He had not known 
 her long enough to be sure, without seeing, what her 
 part would be in the merry gathering. Perhaps she 
 was watching the fun and dancing, listening to Tri- 
 flor's jests, without smiling. He had not yet seen 
 her smile, and could only picture her face as wearing 
 a look of calm wonder, or less than wonder, perhaps, 
 calm curiosity ; her eyes, used to resting upon 
 dark mountain outlines and deep fir-forests swaying 
 in the north wind, and turbulent mountain streams, 
 expressing mild interest, but scarcely amusement, at 
 such antics. Or yet, perhaps, with as calm disregard 
 of the noisy proceedings, she had turned from them, 
 and sat gazing at the fire that flung her great majestic 
 shadow upon wall and ceiling. 
 
 Ib drew from his satchel a piece of dark bread
 
 TRISTIANE. 15 
 
 and offered it to the lion, who sniffed at it languidly, 
 and refused it. He bit at it himself, but it seemed 
 too bitter food. He restored it to the satchel, and 
 once more pillowed his head on the lion's. 
 
 Gradually, with the course of hours, the merry 
 sounds from the inn became less, then ceased alto 
 gether, and a deep stillness held the night. 
 
 Ib, wearied out with a long day's march, slum 
 bered restlessly, waking every now and then with a 
 start, and wondering wildly where he might be. Was 
 that a dungeon in which he lay, awaiting death ? At 
 the relief remembrance brought, beads of cold sweat 
 stood on his brow. He tried to keep awake to avoid 
 the horror of dreams, but the weight of excessive 
 physical fatigue drew down his lids in spite of his 
 endeavor. He had finally fallen into a deeper sleep, 
 and was wholly unconscious when a soft golden light 
 dawned and grew slowly upon the upper portion of 
 the wall and the rough beams over his head, lending 
 each jutting edge a distinct dark shadow. A cock 
 somewhere, mistaking the sudden light for the dawn, 
 crowed lustily. At the shrill sound Ib started guilt 
 ily, as Peter may have done, and lay motionless, 
 trembling. His fears had somewhat subsided, and 
 he dared to stir a little, the rustling of the straw 
 comforted him, as he lay wondering at the dim 
 glory overhead, when he thought to hear a voice 
 speaking his name : " Ib ! Ib ! " 
 
 He did not answer. His heart burned and quiv 
 ered within him. 
 
 " Ib," said the voice once more. Then again, after 
 a pause, " Ib, are you cold ? "
 
 16 TRISTIANE. 
 
 Reassured, he rose to his feet and looked out into 
 the night. 
 
 A late half-moon had just risen above the low 
 level of the horizon, and hung there, a great, dull, 
 golden jewel. Its rays touched and brightened faintly 
 one side of the figure that was standing without ; but 
 the face of it was completely in the shade. Still, 
 from their great shadowy sockets Ib could feel the 
 unseen eyes of Tristiane fixed upon him. 
 
 "I came to bring you that," she reached him 
 the black wolf-skins. 
 
 " You are thanked," said Ib, receiving them. " Ib 
 is not ungrateful." 
 
 " Why do you tell me," she asked quietly, " that 
 your name is Ib? Ib is not your name." 
 
 At the unexpected words Ib fell back a pace, 
 paling in the dark. "You are mistaken," he said, 
 with dry lips that almost refused their office, " I am 
 indeed so called." 
 
 " Why will you lie ? " said Tristiane. 
 
 There was a pause, during which Ib hear! noth 
 ing but his heart hammering in his ears. " Do you 
 know," he asked finally, in a hoarse, tremulous whis 
 per, " what my name is ? Speak low, in charity." 
 
 " No," said Tristiane. " I know only this, that you 
 are not what you would appear. I know, poor soul, 
 how wretched and heavy-laden you are. Your shift 
 ing eyes and hood drawn closely over your ashen 
 face have told their story to me, and your heavy 
 footsteps, and voice without ring. You are too hum 
 ble, too patient of blows, to be merely the low churl 
 you seem. The sorrow I read in your eyes is too
 
 TRISTIANE. 17 
 
 great for a contemptible soul. What have you to 
 hide ? My heart has cried out for pity at sight of 
 you. I have yearned to assist you. Ease your soul 
 of its secret to me. Tristiane, who never lies, gives 
 you her faith, in face of all the holy stars, that no 
 harm shall come to you through her, but that the 
 burden that crushes you shall be made lighter by 
 her helping you to bear." 
 
 " Go your way," cried Ib, in hot, frightened excite 
 ment. " What have you to do with me ? I did not! 
 call you, you are a stranger. You do not even 
 seem one like me, but of a greater and goodlier race. 
 Go your way, go your way ! " 
 
 And then, unaccountably, as he looked at her, it 
 seemed as though on the utter darkness of his soul 
 a door had been suddenly opened, beyond which 
 shone a little light. Bewildered with a tremulous 
 joy at the bare thought of even such partial release 
 from the tenebrous desolation that surrounded him, 
 " Wait, wait ! " he cried, as she turned slowly to go. 
 With wonderful agility he climbed the wall and 
 leaped over it, and stood at her side. He clung to 
 her hand. " Your pity has prevailed," he said. " There 
 is something in your face that calls for perfect trust. 
 I am impelled to tell you, woman known one day, 
 what through the changes of many moons I have 
 jealously hidden from the very air of heaven " 
 
 Then, struck by a sudden torturing thought, he 
 broke short and dropped her hand. " Alas ! " he cried 
 dolorously, " but even you will shrink away from me 
 when I tell you of the blood upon my hands." 
 
 " No," said Tristiane. " I knew of it." 
 
 2
 
 18 TRIST1ANE. 
 
 " Then " he again seized her hand " come with 
 me out of the moon." He drew her hurriedly toward 
 the shadow of the ox-stall. As they crossed the 
 moonlit space, their shadows fell in strange con 
 trast on the dark earth, one so simply drawn and 
 large ; the other so small and bent, with crooked 
 knees, and a fantastic head sunk deep between the 
 shoulders. 
 
 " My name," said Ib, almost in her ear, " is not Ib, 
 as you, who carry out the prophecy of ancient sagas, 
 were aware as soon as my lying lips pronounced the 
 word. I am Magnus Magnusson " He stopped, 
 breathing hard. Then he went on more rapidly. 
 " That name, all unknown to you, is not so in the 
 capital to which our steps bring us daily nearer. 
 When you are there, you will, no doubt, hear it often 
 enough spoken, I do not know whether more in 
 horror or contempt. Some one will point out to you 
 the splendid lions hewn in stone on the steps of the 
 king's palace, and say, ' Those were made by Mag 
 nus, son of Magnus,' then, turning from them, will 
 tell you a story of fame turned to infamy. But you 
 will not believe me as evil as they make me, only 
 so weak, so much weaker than they could conceive ! 
 
 " You see, I was poor, obscure, cutting stone for 
 miserable bread, when there rose in me, a low-born 
 youth with nothing but a high-sounding name, a 
 passionate thirst for honor and ease, and the com 
 panionship of the great, to whom I looked up as to 
 bright stars. Looking back on those days of my 
 earliest dreams of glory, I try to think there was 
 something generous, something not wholly ignoble
 
 TRISTIANE. 19 
 
 in me ; but I do not know, I do not know. Inch 
 by inch, steadily I rose, by the bare strength of a 
 sleepless ambition. It was not easy for me, but I 
 never ceased one hour from the whole effort of body 
 and soul. From the common stone, finally, I made 
 the perfect things you shall perhaps see. I gazed 
 through the bars at the king's lions in their den; 
 then formed their shapes in marble, gloriously ideal 
 ized. I gained reverence through the hard-won skill 
 of rny right hand. I arrived at the greatness I had 
 coveted. The king himself begged me to adorn his 
 house with shapes of strength and beauty. Admir 
 ing men came to me and said humbly, ' Master, 
 teach us ! ' Clad in my new robes of dignity, I tried 
 to forget, disown, the days when I had hungered 
 unsatisfied. 
 
 " Among those who came to learn of me was one, 
 a foster-brother to the young prince whose corona 
 tion we are going to see; he put his sharp chisel 
 carelessly to the stone, and lo ! it lived. What I had 
 spent my youth and health in acquiring, some god 
 had flung to him in reckless lavishness. A burning 
 bitterness surged in my heart at sight of his work, 
 a slow, consuming hatred of him ; for I discovered 
 in his eye a lurking contempt of me. It seemed to 
 say, 'The world knows you not, but I know you.' 
 It seemed somehow he was aware of the low origin 
 I concealed, and the old struggles I denied as though 
 they had been ignominious. He found nothing to 
 respect in the long effort by which I had lifted my 
 self from the level sea of insignificance, only some 
 thing to laugh at in my petty weaknesses. I felt,
 
 20 TRISTIANE. 
 
 though I never saw him do it, that he mocked, with 
 the strange cruelty of youth, the peculiarities of my 
 person, my gait, that I had studied to make grave 
 and dignified (my low stature had always been a 
 vexation to me, but by my sternly erect carriage I 
 had arrived at appearing almost tall) ; my manner 
 of speech, that I had not succeeded in rendering soft 
 and polished as that of the inhabitants of the court, 
 where I now figured as an honored guest. He spoke 
 to me as to a slave, that a free-born man, out of his 
 own nobility, refrains from calling slave ! I knew 
 by some subtle sense, the property of morbidly sen 
 sitive vanity, that he held me up to the laughter of 
 his companions and the women of the palace. I 
 thought I caught sneering side-glances from their 
 eyes, yet never anything I could complain of, ap 
 peal from. My life was poisoned. I was too small to 
 rise above the intangible offence of their ridicule. 
 
 "The king said to me one day, 'Make me two 
 bold lions to support my throne.' Then my enemy, 
 who stood by, spoke the dastard from his high 
 advantage, 'Let the son of Magnus make one lion, 
 and I will make the other.' The king laughed at 
 his audacity, and said, ' So let it be.' My hair was 
 growing prematurely white with the toils of a storm- 
 beaten life ; his face was blooming with its first 
 golden down. There was a deep, refined cruelty to 
 me in letting us vie together, whatever the issue of 
 our emulation. I could not work well with so much 
 stifled, corroding hatred in my heart. My mallet grew 
 heavy, my chisel unsure ; the glory had gone out of 
 my work. It was a botch. When I was forced to own
 
 TRISTIANE. 21 
 
 that, I shed tears wrung from the bitterest humilia 
 tion. Then, like a thief, I slipped into the room 
 where his statue stood, finished, as I had heard. Yes, 
 his was all that could be wished. How it would 
 shine beside mine, my young pupil's ! How every 
 one would turn from mine to admire the perfection 
 of his, and speak of it aloud before me ! In an access 
 of uncontrollable rage I lifted my mallet But no ! 
 I was not so base ; it was only the momentary evil 
 impulse of vanity at bay. As I lowered my arm, 
 I suddenly perceived him in the door-way, beneath 
 the half-drawn curtain. He stood there, the strip 
 ling, in all the insolent beauty of his youth, look 
 ing at me from between his half-closed golden 
 lashes, his lips slightly curled in a smile. His face 
 said plainly, ' I looked to find him here, the peacock 
 who hides his feet ! Fortunately, I am here in person 
 to defend my work from his felonious hands. How 
 amused the world will be to-morrow, when I shall 
 tell of this : the great master who sneaks in at night 
 to mar a rival's labor ! ' In an instant, before he 
 could cry out, he was stretched on the ground at my 
 feet, the scorn transfixed on his lips, my hammer 
 driven so deep in his skull I had afterward not 
 strength to withdraw it." 
 
 The son of Magnus hid his face in his hands ; his 
 whole miserable frame shook with horrified shudder 
 ing at the remembrance of that scene. "But the 
 worst was not that," he went on, " not that I found 
 myself a murderer ; the worst was when, the deed 
 accomplished, I found myself to be a coward. I, to 
 whom the respect of others, the esteem of myself,
 
 22 TRISTIANE. 
 
 was more than food or air, found myself trembling 
 with abject fear of the consequences of what I had 
 done. They would be fatal, I knew ; for I had never 
 been truly beloved, only borne with and respected 
 for the sake of my talents ; and now, who would find 
 the least excuse for me, who conceive any motive in 
 me but meanest jealousy of the gifts of that youth, 
 whose very faults had been as bright and bewitching 
 as my only virtues were sombre and unattractive ? 
 No one would understand, or feel the least poor pulse 
 of pity for one whose sun had so suddenly gone down 
 forever. And then, unexpectedly, vile physical fear, 
 such as I had, to that day unproved, thought my 
 nature incapable of, surged in me and discolored 
 my lips at the thought of pangs the flesh can be 
 made to suffer. Veiling my eyes from the sight of 
 my victim, I slunk from the palace and fled into the 
 night. From the moment I took on that vesture of 
 fear I seemed to shrink in stature ; and when, as part 
 of my disguise having shaved my worshipful beard, 
 my face appeared to men as my internal nature had 
 suddenly appeared to my own inner eyes, stripped of 
 all charitable veils, my face showed the weak, mean 
 mouth of a coward I had worn hidden beneath the 
 dense hair, even as my soul revealed the shameful 
 weakness I had striven to cover and ignore. Home 
 less vagabond from that hour, unrecognizable in my 
 humble guise, I wandered as far as possible from 
 the scene of my fall, suspicious and afraid of every 
 shadow by day, hag-ridden by night. 
 
 " And lo ! the strange colors my life takes on ! 
 When I had reached a place that seemed safe, comes
 
 TRISTIANE. 23 
 
 across my path the lion that, from a seeming likeness 
 to myself, my starving heart clings to, for is not he 
 too an exile, he too debased from high estate, a 
 mockery of himself, weak, and early old from the 
 inclemency of Fate ? And I must stay with him, 
 a man cannot live wholly loveless ! and with him 
 become a servant's servant to Tritior, no condition 
 too vile for me now ! And suddenly dies the old 
 king, and Triflor sees good to be present at the coro 
 nation of the young prince, and a horrible attraction 
 draws me, too, back to the old haunts I have shunned, 
 a strange excess of fear. For the habit of fear has 
 grown on me. When I tremble now, it is with the 
 accumulated terror of months. It seems to me that 
 if some one now in my presence were to speak of 
 Magnus, in a very ecstasy of fright I should be forced 
 to leap up and cry, ' I am Magnus .' ' All else in me 
 has been degraded and lost in that feeling, all the 
 lofty qualities I boasted of in the days of my pride. 
 Sometimes in the still of the night I try to remember 
 what little good I, who thought myself not a bad 
 man, really did in those days ; and, alas ! it seems 
 so little that I doubt if I was ever good at all. And 
 do you know what is my greatest torment now ? 
 That in thinking of the man I killed I always see 
 his face as it was at his best and brightest. In his 
 eye that persecutes me is no hatred, his lips wear no 
 scorn, till I almost doubt he ever wronged me, and 
 none of the justice, only the blackness, of my deed 
 remains." 
 
 Ib ceased, staring at the visionary face. The moon 
 had gained on the shadow in which they had stood.
 
 24 TRISTIANE. 
 
 Tristiane was full in the silvery light, but Ib still in 
 the dark. 
 
 " And now," he said, turning to her once more, 
 and there was a wild appeal in his voice, "I have 
 told you what manner of man I am, I have placed 
 my life in your hands, what will you do with my 
 life ? How will you, who have never done wrong, 
 deal with me, whose whole life has been evil ? " 
 
 Then Tristiane said slowly : " I will be your friend. 
 I will love you. I will shield you in all the days of 
 your danger. I am strong. Oh, my wounded, way 
 worn brother, lean upon me and rest ! " She held 
 out her hands to him. 
 
 Ib did not take them, but stood startled and hesi 
 tating, as though suddenly in a dream something of 
 peace and joy and promise of redemption had come 
 into the night of his life, and he feared to move lest 
 he should wake ; then, as his slow brain seized the 
 value of her words, he fell forward at her feet, and 
 clasped his arms about her knees, and hid his face in 
 her garment, sobbing like a little child. 
 
 At dawn the strange caravan moved on southward 
 over the saddening land, beginning to wither and 
 turn brown in the autumnal air. Last of all in the 
 fantastic procession came Ib, leading the lion, his 
 eyes turning forever through the weary marches upon 
 the great figure of Tristiane, whether distinguished 
 far ahead, seeming to help, with one careless hand, 
 Jarl with his wagon-load, or lingering behind with 
 the foot-sore Kabiorg. The unswerving devotion of 
 his gaze still followed her when the light failed, and
 
 TRISTIANE. 25 
 
 she seemed but a shadow within the shade ; and 
 when at last they had reached a resting-place for the 
 night, and they might talk softly together awhile, 
 and his face rest a little upon her hands, the world 
 seemed less a foe, and life less wholly accursed. 
 
 Day by day the little troupe neared the capital. 
 At last, one evening at sunset, they came in sight of 
 its towers glowing faintly far away in the dying red 
 light. Triflor clapped his hands and shouted with 
 wild delight. Ib felt himself grow cold to the heart. 
 A black mist hid the distant prospect from his eyes. 
 He stopped, overcome, and would have sunk upon 
 the earth but that he felt the strong hand of Tristiane. 
 He looked up at her. They walked on together with 
 out speaking. 
 
 The merrymakers came constantly in contact with 
 other travellers approaching the capital by the same 
 road. Now splendid companies of horsemen passed 
 them ; now groups of peasants in their holiday clothes. 
 
 The feasts of the coronation, which were to last 
 seven days, were within one day of beginning, when 
 Triflor, in his tinsel, for the first time stood on his 
 little platform, clashing his cymbals to attract the 
 passers' attention, and in the pauses of the deafening 
 music inviting them to enter his booth and enjoy for 
 a small consideration the wonders therein to be dis 
 played. The crowd flocked in under the old curtain, 
 eager to be amused, a lazy, happy, holiday crowd, 
 that laughed heartily at Hatto's tricks, and wondered 
 with wide eyes at the ease with which Jarl lifted huge 
 weights, and held them balanced in one knotty hand. 
 The girls in spangled kirtles danced daintily before
 
 26 TRISTIANE. 
 
 their admiring eyes, waving their long bright scarfs. 
 Ib, with a feint of trepidation, led forward the 
 lion, who, worn out and impotent and half-blind as 
 he was, still looked rather formidable, and aston 
 ished the lookers-on by placing his hand in the 
 terrible red moutli of the beast, and making him 
 leap through a hoop, and perform other clown's 
 feats. Then Kahilde led him around, the fierce desert 
 king, by a flower-chain, to symbolize the triumph of 
 Love ; Ib following her at a few steps' distance with a 
 drawn sword, to impress the people with a sense of 
 her risk. The pallor of his strange, hollow face as 
 he stood up before the many eyes, and the drops of 
 sweat that appeared on his forehead as at a sudden 
 wild wave of the lion's tail the crowd broke out in a 
 loud cry, lent a touch of reality to his acting. The 
 crowd gave a sigh of relief when he finally led the 
 lion out of their sight. 
 
 Tristiane had been standing apart, idly leaning 
 against one of the roof-supporting shafts, half hidden 
 by the evergreens that for ornament had been twined 
 about them, intermingled with bright berries. Care 
 lessly, when Ib had vanished, she let her eyes stray 
 over the heads of the spectators. They had been 
 fastened for a few seconds on one, the only one there 
 whose face, rising above the rest, was on a level with 
 her own, when Triflor came up to her, and suddenly 
 drew the attention of the whole crowd upon her. 
 He pointed at her with the end of his wand : " This," 
 he said, " is the Woman who tells the truth." 
 
 Tristiane stood composed and unembarrassed un 
 der the scrutiny of so many eyes.
 
 TKISTIANE. 27 
 
 Suddenly some one at the farther end of the booth 
 broke out laughing. Triflor caught up the laugh. 
 "Ha! the gentleman laughs. He thinks such a 
 woman should indeed be set up at a show, like a 
 strange and very rare animal. The manner of Tris- 
 tiane, this truthful woman, however, is perhaps dif 
 ferent from what the gentleman has supposed." 
 Then, addressing the whole community : " Do you 
 know the saying in the legend of long ago, that 
 one who in all his days has not lied shall surely be 
 able to tell falsehood from truth in others ? That 
 does my Tristiane. That her presence may not seem 
 a reproach to the ladies here who cannot do as much," 
 he added apologetically, " I will confess that she has 
 lived, deep among the unpopulous mountains, a life 
 of perhaps enforced innocence. To account for her 
 superior size, we must suppose her to have fed on 
 strange fruits. Her fame as a seer reached me as I 
 was passing through those parts, and taking advan 
 tage of a sudden awakened instinct of curiosity in 
 her concerning the world of smaller and less truthful 
 beings, I was enabled to bring her thus far." 
 
 From the statuesque repose of her face one might 
 have supposed Tristiane quite unconscious of Triflor' s 
 words. 
 
 "Approach, approach, and put her to the test," pur 
 sued Triflor ; " approach, however clever you may 
 be, you cannot hope to baffle her." 
 
 The crowd came a little nearer, laughing faintly in 
 wonder, not knowing exactly what to say to her. 
 
 " Come," said Triflor, encouragingly, " see for your 
 selves. Tell me, Tristiane, is it not so, that I had
 
 28 TRISTIANE. 
 
 some excellent sausages and cabbages for my early 
 meal?" 
 
 Tristiane shook her head. 
 
 " No more did I. You see, ladies and gentlemen, 
 she does not know that I had bacon and onions, but 
 is sure I ate no cabbage." 
 
 " My name is Knut, is that not so ? " asked a 
 voice at her right hand. 
 
 She looked around at a strong sunburned fellow 
 with gold rings in his ears. 
 
 "Yes; Knut." 
 
 " And I peddle earthen pipkins in a great basket 
 about town for a living ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " But I plough and dig the earth, watering it with 
 sweat, for a harvest ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Then, perhaps, I am a cook of my great Lord 
 Sweyu's, and fashion dainty dishes for his tooth ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 The crowd showed signs of interest. Several broke 
 in with questions. But Tristiane fixed her attention 
 only on the man with the ear-rings. 
 
 " Then I tell you finally : I live by water, carry 
 ing it in jars as it is wanted for the luxurious bath 
 of some fair court-lady." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " No ? Should you say that I was a seaman, then ? " 
 
 Tristiane nodded assent. The man started. A 
 murmur of wonder passed through the crowd. 
 
 "And ray ship, the 'Viking,' reached land last 
 night ? "
 
 TRISTIANE. 29 
 
 " Your ship. Not the ' Viking.' 
 
 " And we are not to spread sails again until the 
 feasts are over, and young Erik established king 
 over us." 
 
 "Erik the glove, and Sweyn the hand ! " said a voice 
 somewhere in the crowd, that, however, no one 
 heeded. " Erik the mask, and Sweyn the face." 
 
 And now Tristiane was assailed with questions 
 from all sides. Something of awe came into the 
 faces of the people as she answered them one after 
 the other; no question trivial enough to make her 
 quiet eyes disdainful, nor so cunning and clever as to 
 make her hesitate in answering. She stood looking 
 over their heads with far-seeing eyes that seemed 
 scarcely aware of them. Gradually the questions, 
 asked at first with light, eager curiosity, grew fewer, 
 and it came to seem a rather solemn thing to stand 
 under those deep eyes and have untruth denounced. 
 
 " Tristiane," said a voice just near her, when finally 
 silence had fallen on the people, "now heed me 
 awhile." 
 
 She turned to the speaker, the tall man who had 
 arrested her attention before, the only one whose 
 eyes met hers from an equal height. He was dressed 
 in a common garb, and judging from that, might 
 have been a peasant. A fierce red beard hid the 
 lower part of his face. There was a keen brightness 
 in the light of his steadfast eye. 
 
 Tristiane returned his firm, large-eyed gaze ; then, 
 as he was beginning to speak, interrupted him. 
 
 " Why will you speak ? Your garb is a lie. Your 
 conduct is a lie. Those clothes do not belong to you,
 
 30 TRISTIANE. 
 
 nor does the character you assume. You have no 
 need to speak to be told by me that you are lying." 
 And then, more gently, as she looked at him whose 
 eyes were on hers as steadfastly as before, unabashed 
 by her reproach : " What need have you to demean 
 yourself ? You are brave enough to keep true, and 
 strong enough, and great-hearted and noble enough, 
 as I can see." 
 
 The booth was finally deserted ; Triflor and Hatto 
 and Jarl went forth to seek what amusement or in 
 terest the city might afford them. The little dan 
 cers, weary, retired to rest. Tristiane remained with 
 Ib, who had been left to keep guard over Trirlor's 
 possessions. 
 
 " I am crushed with the weight of memories," he 
 said to her. " It seems but a day since I passed 
 through these streets at night, a trembling shadow. 
 I can still feel the blood upon my clothes. It had 
 come to seem a little like the past, to have a little 
 the dimness of a dream ; but now again I feel the 
 heat at my heart I felt in my earliest remorse, and I 
 cannot free myself of the thought he must be still 
 lying undiscovered beside his blood-bespattered 
 masterpiece." 
 
 Tristiane comforted him with her hand, laid gently 
 on his head in the dumb eloquence of pity too deep 
 for words. He lifted his head from between his 
 knees, and looked up at her. 
 
 " Your face dispels the vision," he said, after intent 
 gazing. " Your touch makes my head cool. I can 
 almost think sometimes that I have been forgiven, 
 for your sake, because you have cared about my mis-
 
 TEISTIANE. 31 
 
 ery. When I look at you long long there seems 
 to corne to me a voice from somewhere far away that 
 whispers to my heart a promise of peace, to be ful 
 filled some time, before I die, perhaps, or after. 
 Surely it was a token of some relenting in Heaven 
 toward me that you should come to me at the time 
 of my most hopeless pain. You have lifted me a 
 little out of the slough where I am fallen. From 
 your complete courage I have gained this little 
 strength : that I do not pity myself any more, but 
 exult with a savage gladness that I have suffered so 
 much, suffer so much, and can perhaps, at length, 
 with my exquisite torture hope to pay my just debts 
 and stand up a free soul again. Tristiane, Tristi- 
 ane," seizing hold of her, like a frightened child, 
 " say again that you will not leave me. Sometimes, 
 in dreams, my suspicious soul tells me that you have 
 gone ; and then when I awake, though it is still black 
 night, it seems like the dear dawn to me, thinking, 
 ' I have you yet.' You are the last spar to which 
 a desperate man is clinging, who but for you must 
 sink in a sea whence is never a re-arising." 
 
 He clung to her arms as though indeed to save 
 himself from death, his haunted eyes straining from 
 their orbits. She soothed him as a mother her de 
 lirious child. 
 
 He grew quiet again at her words ; and being full 
 of memories, went on in a rambling way to talk half 
 to her, half to himself, of his old home and old friends, 
 and old acts and thoughts. 
 
 "I wonder who now lives in the quiet house at 
 the end of the street, the quiet street. I had a
 
 32 TRISTIANE. 
 
 little garden enclosed by high walls. There was a 
 fir-tree. There was a dark pool by which I used to 
 sit and meditate. I could watch in it the reflection 
 of the sky. I remember a little rosy sunset-cloud I 
 saw melt away there one night. Swallows had built 
 uuder my roof. I used to water a rose-tree. Oh, 
 how could I love such simple things as I did, and yet 
 be a bad man ? How could it be, Tristiane ? And 
 my old brown volumes I used to read when I was 
 tired of wielding the mallet ; and my shapely lions 
 that I made ! Oh ! if it could be," he groaned, and 
 tears of yearning homesickness crowded in his eyes, 
 " that 1 might find myself once more watching the 
 rosy cloud float in the well of my own garden ; that 
 I should stand in my own walls, about each stone of 
 which a thousand memories wreathe, and hew into 
 beauty the spotless marble, humming, perhaps, as I 
 used ; that men like myself might take me again by 
 the hand, and converse with me pleasantly of arts 
 and dreams and destinies ! I never loved my fellow- 
 beings very warmly ; there seemed to be an in 
 superable barrier between us, somehow. I was 
 still a solitary soul when I lived in intimate com 
 munion with them ; but now, how I could faithfully 
 love the least among them, if I were only as I 
 used to be, if I were just worthy to touch their 
 hands ! " 
 
 Tristiane led him gradually to forget as he answered 
 her questions concerning the city and its inhabitants 
 and customs. She listened attentively. 
 
 " And Sweyn ? Who is Sweyn ? I have heard 
 that name twice to-day."
 
 TKISTIANE. 33 
 
 " He," said Ib, " is the captain of the king's guards. 
 We were not friends. I never liked him, by reason 
 of the difference between us ; and now I think I 
 could love him for that same reason. He is in high 
 favor with young Erik, an idle, ease-loving boy, 
 Erik, beloved mostly for the sake of his father. I 
 have heard say that Sweyn, no doubt, will wield the 
 sceptre, whilst the other wears the crown. He is 
 worshipped by the people for his daring deeds in bat 
 tle. He is great in body as in soul. The glamour of 
 glory is about his name. He is a hero." 
 
 Tristiane could not sleep that night for the many 
 new thoughts that fermented in her brain. The long 
 hours of darkness for her were painted with ever- 
 shifting figures and scenes, through which shone one 
 starlike idea, and illumined them all with clear, 
 unvarying rays. 
 
 At sight of her on the following day, Ib was im 
 pressed with the set purpose in her face. 
 
 " What are you going to do, Tristiane ? " he asked, 
 in wonder at it. 
 
 "Do not ask me, Ib. It is true that I have a deed 
 to perform. I think, maybe, it was because I fore- 
 felt it dimly, that I was impelled to leave the quiet 
 shepherd-folk and mingle with this strange, great 
 world." 
 
 Ib looked at her with troubled, anxious eyes. 
 
 " Where are you going, Tristiane ? " he cried, seiz 
 ing hold of her hand, when in the evening she was 
 about to go forth on her secret mission. " Do not go, 
 Tristiane." 
 
 3
 
 34 TRISTIANE. 
 
 Tristiane turned back with a smile that reassured 
 him. 
 
 " It is for the best," she said, and departed. 
 
 He walked up and down, up and down like a 
 caged lion, as long as her absence lasted. Weak 
 tears of relief came to his eyes as she stood before 
 him again. 
 
 " Oh, you must not leave me," he pleaded. " I feel 
 as if I had lost you forever each time you go from 
 my sight. It is like suffering death over and over 
 again. And to have you go, not being able to follow 
 you with my persistent thought, I was all afloat in 
 a black sea, Tristiane. Say you will not go again." 
 
 But Tristiane shook her head. 
 
 " I must, Ib. It is best." 
 
 "Oh, why have you secrets from me who have 
 shown you all my heart ? But no ; forgive me, Tris 
 tiane. I will not complain. No, I am content ; only 
 say you will always surely, surely come back to me, 
 and I will hold my peace." 
 
 But his anxious eyes dogged her every least move 
 ment on the days that followed, and an unconquer 
 able pain convulsed his face at her repeated absences. 
 At her return each time, with redoubled silent fervor, 
 he clung to the blessing of her presence. 
 
 " You look so happy, Tristiane," he said once. 
 " Your face wears a hopeful, expectant look. For 
 what pleasant thing are you waiting?" 
 
 And another time he said with a sharp, sorrowful 
 voice, 
 
 "Do not look at me like that, Tristiane, as if you 
 did not see me at all, but some one else beyond, as
 
 TRISTIANE. 35 
 
 if some great person stood behind me, and I were too 
 small and insignificant to conceal him in the least, 
 and the sound of my voice were lost to you in rapt 
 contemplation of him. Ah, Tristiane," with sudden 
 anguish, " what has come between us ? Sometimes 
 now, though I hold your hand and see your face, 
 I feel as if you were far away and lost to me 
 utterly." But at the pained, startled look she gave 
 him he went on penitently : " No, no, Tristiane, do 
 not have any care of what I say. You know I am 
 never quite in my right mind nowadays. Make allow 
 ances for me. No, nothing is true but that you have 
 been good to me and are not going to forsake me." 
 
 One morning she found him laboring under a ter 
 rible agitation. 
 
 " Tristiane, I cannot hide from you what I have 
 seen," he said. " Silence would strangle me. You 
 must tell me what is the gold ring fastened around 
 your neck." 
 
 Tristiane instinctively lifted her hand to her neck, 
 and felt the gold ring there stirred with the sudden 
 wild pulsation of her heart. 
 
 " I was waiting for you to return last night, and as I 
 waited sleep overtook me. When I woke, the first pale 
 glimmer of dawn lighted the sky. I had not heard 
 your footsteps as you came back, and for my peace I 
 must make sure with my eyes that you were near. So 
 I crept to where you slept, and was satisfied, and about 
 to retire, when I distinguished by the faint light a 
 glitter on your bare neck that could scarcely be a 
 stray lock of your hair. I came nearer, I could not 
 help it, and Whose ring is that great, golden,
 
 36 TRISTIANE. 
 
 strangely chiselled ring, that might fit the hand of 
 Thor ? For whom are you leaving me, Tristiane ? 
 Why are you deceiving me ? " 
 
 There was that in her face when she said, " Will 
 you not trust me, Ib ? " that made his anger vanish 
 as mist. 
 
 " Yes, I will, I will ! " he cried, with a passionate 
 revulsion of feeling. " You shall never hear another 
 murmur from me. How dare I question you ! I 
 will trust you as far as death, and farther. I will 
 trust you as the true and steadfast stars that return 
 every night forever, and that it would be a stupid, 
 blasphemous thought to doubt." 
 
 " How your face shines, Tristiane ! " 
 
 The great day had finally arrived. The whole 
 population had flocked to the chief streets of the city 
 to see the new king borne in triumph foremost in the 
 glittering procession. 
 
 From where they had stayed quietly at home in 
 the old booth Ib and Tristiane could hear faintly the 
 joyous acclamations of the people, and the noises of 
 pipes and drums. Ib had not dared to venture forth. 
 
 " How your face shines, Tristiane ! " he had said in 
 numerable times that day. Whenever he looked at her, 
 it struck him anew. " Why does your face shine ? " 
 
 But she had not told him. When he grew restless 
 and excited at the noises without, she took his hand 
 quietly in her own, and made him tell her about his 
 old home, and the fir-tree, and the well, and the swal 
 lows under the roof. It always seemed he could 
 never stop when he began talking of them.
 
 TEISTIANE. 37 
 
 " How would it be with you," said Tristiane, turn 
 ing her shining face away, as if her secret must appear 
 written there, " if one should say to you, ' You may 
 go back to the old house. The past shall be forgiven, 
 the dark days forgotten. You shall sit again under 
 your own trees, and watch the peaceful sky reflected 
 in the well of your own garden ' ? " 
 
 " Do not say such things to me," cried out Ib, in 
 anguish. " You were never cruel before. Do you 
 not see that you are torturing me to death ? " 
 
 Tristiane was silent, but she pressed his hand hard 
 to her side to keep from speaking. 
 
 " How your face shines, Tristiane ! how your face 
 shines ! " 
 
 It seemed to her the light had never been so long 
 in fading away before. She came to the door and 
 lifted the curtain certainly a hundred times, to see 
 how much the sun had declined. Finally the red 
 glow began to narrow in the clouds, and left them 
 gray. The streets were again full of the people that 
 had before been massed together in the heart of the 
 city. The merrymakers got home, Triflor bursting 
 with food for conversation. The lights were lit in 
 the booth ; everything was made ready for the nightly 
 performance, sure to be attended by great crowds on 
 such a holiday. 
 
 Finally, that too was over. 
 
 " Do not leave me to-night," said Ib, holding Tris 
 tiane by the hem of her garment. " I am so filled 
 with strange fears and forebodings. My heart stops 
 at every sound. I need to know that you are near, to 
 live through the night."
 
 38 TRISTIANE. 
 
 " I will be back in a little while. Do not ask me 
 where I am going. I cannot tell you, not yet. It 
 may be you too will be glad to-morrow. Good-night." 
 
 The sky was full of stars. Tristiane walked on 
 hurriedly. The streets were still alive with people ; 
 it was too great a holiday to go to bed. She pro 
 ceeded without hesitation, as going over well-known 
 ground. Finally she came to the king's dwelling. 
 She showed a ring at the palace-door, and was led in 
 unquestioned. Passing through the corridors, her 
 ears were met with mingled sounds of music and 
 wassail and laughter. They grew less as she ap 
 proached a well-known chamber, far apart ; and when 
 she had entered it, and the heavy bear-skin curtain 
 had dropped behind her, she found herself again in 
 perfect stillness. Her heart was beating loud with 
 emotion. She held her glad eyes fixed upon the door 
 opposite the one through which she had come. 
 She had not waited long, though it seemed long to 
 her impatient spirit, when the curtain was suddenly 
 lifted. 
 
 Tristiane moved one quick step forward, then 
 stopped short, and stared in dumb, pleased wonder 
 at the man who had entered. 
 
 She had seen him before : once, the first time, in 
 peasant's attire, for it was the tall man with the 
 red beard, and many times since in plain soldier's 
 garb ; but never him nor any one arrayed with simi 
 lar magnificence. 
 
 A long mantle, lined with costly furs, snowy and 
 soft, fell in stately folds from his shoulders. His 
 purple tunic was bordered with gold. A heavy roll
 
 TRISTIANE. 39 
 
 of twisted gold, the two meeting ends of which were 
 beaten in similitude of lions' heads, curled around his 
 powerful neck, and betokened his exalted rank. 
 
 His face, in unison with his apparel, that night 
 had assumed a sudden splendor. His vigorous beard 
 and crisp long hair shone like burnished metal. His 
 eyes had the steady gleam of jewels ; his great brow 
 the purity and polish of some precious marble ; his 
 lips a more vivid purple than his garment. An 
 inward fire of gladness, a mighty purpose, seemed 
 to have lent his heroic stature almost godlike 
 proportions. 
 
 " Welcome, Tristiane ! " he said to her, approaching. 
 
 "And is it Sweyn ?" asked Tristiane, abashed ; for 
 he scarcely seemed the same man she had importuned 
 so many days with her insistent prayers. 
 
 " Even Sweyn." 
 
 " You wear such a glad visage to-night, I know 
 that you have gained of the king the pardon I have 
 asked. Is it not so ? The son of Magnus may re 
 turn to his home, and have restored to him his 
 wealth and his work, and something of the old peace 
 and the dignity that is more to him than air to 
 breathe. Is it not so ? Ah, you are good, good, 
 good ! " Tristiane, with impulsive gratitude, seized 
 his hand and bent to kiss it. Sweyn withdrew it 
 quickly. 
 
 " I am glad to-night, but not for that, Tristiane," 
 he said. 
 
 Tristiaue uttered a faint cry of sorrow, and the 
 shining light went out of her face. " You have not 
 obtained it yet ? And I must come again, and still
 
 40 TRISTIANE. 
 
 again and again ! Do you know how many times 
 you have said ' Come to-morrow ' to me, how many 
 times I have come here burning with hope, and gone 
 away chilled with disappointment ? I thought that 
 this should be the last. You promised to aid me. I 
 saw in your face that you had truly that intention. 
 Are you not so powerful with the young king as 
 they say ? Ah, surely I thought to hold his pardon 
 in my hands to-night, written out fair and clear. I 
 thought to have taken it home, and to have wakened 
 him where he slept with the lion, and have shown it 
 to him. How he would have wept for joy on my 
 shoulder ! Oh, Sweyn, oh, mighty, magnificent 
 Sweyn, how long must I wait for that ? One day 
 would be so much gained from desperate wretched 
 ness ! Why do you dally, of whom they say that 
 but to ask of the king is to obtain ? " 
 
 Sweyn smiled slowly, fixing his strangely bright 
 eyes upon her as he spoke. " Tristiane, you of the 
 wise, truthful eyes, are, after all, the simplest woman 
 in all the world. The first silly wench from the 
 street could answer that question of yours. You can 
 see men's spoken lies in their faces, but have not, it 
 appears, the gift of divining evident truths left un- 
 uttered. Why am I slow to answer your petition, 
 and eager to let you come here night after night to 
 learn from my lips how your suit is advanced ? What 
 is the fate of Magnus to me ? But your presence 
 within my doors is more than the interests of this 
 vast realm." 
 
 Tristiane stared at him blankly, not understanding. 
 " But you are going to get Ib's pardon for me ? "
 
 TRISTIANE. 41 
 
 she faltered ; " you are going to do as you have 
 promised ? " 
 
 Sweyn laughed. " Ah, how simple you are ! how 
 simple you are ! You are like the great pine-trees 
 of your mountains, and the grand gray rocks, and 
 the pure cold wind, and the deep-blue mighty ele 
 ment ! What an ever-renewed delight you are to 
 me, Tristiane ! " the laughter passed from his face, 
 and his eyes were intensely earnest. " Now forget 
 for a moment that petty coward, not worth the 
 breath we use to speak his name, whom out of your 
 own generosity you would wish to save, and listen 
 to me a little. I am Sweyn. I have fought many 
 battles. I have seen death close in the face, and 
 smiled at it. My name is one that makes the ene 
 my's blood stand still in his chilled veins. I "am a 
 king in all but the name. There are thousands who 
 will do my will at a sign. I can choose to-morrow 
 a bride among the most beautiful arid noblest iu the 
 land ; and yet, until I saw you, I was as lonesome 
 as a creature of which kind only one has been placed 
 upon the earth. I have been friends with men, and 
 yet not of them. I have led, commanded, made use 
 of them, been above them. And so my life has been 
 cursed with a hidden want. But when I saw you 
 first, when to satisfy the young king's freak we 
 had gone forth on a merry masking-time, some 
 thing in me cried out at the sight, ' You have found 
 your peer.' Your frank eyes looked straight into 
 mine, used to looking down into others' eyes, and 
 your soul shone out from them in its fearless, stain 
 less altitude. A simple majesty breathed from your
 
 42 TRISTIANE. 
 
 quiet lineaments. I distinguished an awful beauty 
 in them ; you are so greatly, strangely beautiful, that 
 the common herd, too dull and blind to recognize 
 gods when they walk among them, do not even sus 
 pect your beauty ! I said, before leaving you, ' She 
 shall be Sweyn's bride,' and yet I had not resolved 
 what my next movement towards you should be, 
 when I learned that you had urged to see me. I 
 wondered what you would want of me. There was 
 something sublimely laughable in your petition, 
 you cannot be aware of it, being unlike any one else ; 
 I was staggered by the touch of greatness in your 
 simplicity, that made you come and trust the cower 
 ing lamb to the generosity of a bloodthirsty lion, 
 relying upon a bare word of his not to harm it, but 
 to save it from the other lions. There was something 
 unanswerable in the high reasons given by you for 
 mercy and pardon, something fatal to argument 
 in your complete ignorance of mean and revengeful 
 motives. Ah, you are not cunning like other mor 
 tals ! You say exactly what is in your mind ; you 
 either have no knowledge, or else a noble disdain 
 for sinuous courses, and my soul bows to you, 
 Tristiane ! " 
 
 Tristiane stood like a statue, and listened to his 
 words without averting her puzzled face, that had 
 turned by one faint shade paler as he spoke. 
 
 " Tristiaue," pursued Sweyn, more hotly, and com 
 ing nearer to her, " you shall never leave me now ! 
 You do not understand. Sweyn loves you. Sweyu 
 has chosen you for his bride, for it is fit a lion 
 should have a lioness for his mate. Sweyn has
 
 TRISTIANE. 43 
 
 despised for you all the artful, accomplished beauties 
 of the court, for you, grown like a perfect tree 
 among the wind-blown hills. The proudest in the 
 land shall bow to you, the mistress of Sweyn, who is 
 prouder than any, and yet himself bows before you. 
 Oh, beloved, your lashes are like a line of sunlight 
 across the great august eyes, darkly blue and deep 
 like the sea. In possession of you, my goddess, I 
 am myself uplifted and made a god. I am joyous 
 as they, transcending all human powers of gladness, 
 since I can hold your great and gracious body in my 
 longing arms, and call you Tristiane, my Tristiane, 
 my beautiful, beloved Tristiaue ! " 
 
 The young warrior came toward her with out 
 stretched arms, his eyes shining with a wonderful 
 brilliancy, not far from the fervor of passionate tears, 
 his firm lips trembling for once with an unspeakable, 
 perfect tenderness. 
 
 Tristiane watched him with troubled, fascinated 
 eyes. A sudden beautiful softness, even as a reflec 
 tion from his, came into her face. She did not seem 
 able to move ; but when she felt the first slight 
 touch of his hand, as though suddenly awakening, 
 she cried out, " No, no, you must leave me ; I must 
 go to Ib!" 
 
 " Never again, Tristiane ! You .shall forget Ib. 
 What is Ib ? I hate him ! He shall have his par 
 don, the cur, but you shall never see him again. I 
 will teach you to forget him. We will be happier 
 together than mortals had dreamed to be. We will 
 live in more than human splendor, I in the divine 
 radiance of your face, you in the light of my trernen-
 
 44 TRISTIANE. 
 
 dous love that will force from you a similar love in 
 return. Do you think you will not love me as I 
 love you ? To-morrow, I tell you, Tristiane, you will 
 give me throb for throb, because we were made for 
 each other. I recognized you, marked mine, as 
 soon as my eyes met yours. You are my own by 
 right of the stars, of my birth, of my strength. 
 Sweyn has always conquered ! And he holds you 
 now, and you are his forever But you have turned 
 pale, you have become so cold." 
 
 " Let me go," said Tristiane. " I am standing in 
 the dark, all in the dark. Only this is clear : I 
 must go back to Ib. I have promised never to leave 
 him. He cannot live without me. His life has been 
 so sad ! Let me go." 
 
 " No, no," cried Sweyn, vehemently ; " I abhor the 
 very thought of your past contact with that man. 
 He shall never lift his base eyes upon you again. Is 
 it not enough that he shall be pardoned for your 
 sake ? " 
 
 " Let me go. You must let me go. He will die 
 if I leave him ; he needs me. He has only me in all 
 the world. I am true to him forever." 
 
 " You will forget him, I say. I will make you for 
 get him. How dull you are, Tristiane, and ignorant, 
 and cold ! Do you not know, Tristiane, that you shall 
 love me, that it is not possible for an immense 
 love like mine to awaken no answering love in the 
 beloved, that your only home is my arms, your 
 resting-place my heart ? " 
 
 " No, no, no ! " cried Tristiane, in strenuous protest, 
 shuddering away from him. " I do not know what
 
 TEISTIANE. 45 
 
 you are saying. But I am going ; I am going back 
 to Ib." 
 
 She moved to go ; but he caught her, without a 
 word, before she could reach the door. 
 
 " Stay ! " lie said, in a command that was still an 
 appeal. 
 
 " I am going back to Ib." 
 
 "You shall stay!" he said fiercely, between set 
 teeth, losing his head. 
 
 His terrible strong arms were around her; their 
 faces were within an inch of each other; her eyes 
 glowered sternly into his beneath her stormy, gath 
 ered brows ; each could feel the other's quick, angry 
 breath fanning his hot face. 
 
 Then began a mighty struggle. It was a contest 
 as between two lions of equal power and courage. 
 Without a sound from their lips, but occasionally a 
 sharply drawn breath, they strove together for a few 
 seconds, she for freedom, he for mastery. Sud 
 denly, with a cry of triumph, she broke from his 
 arms and made a step for the door. He overtook 
 her, and held her fast again, with a burst of hoarse 
 laughter. She felt a deathlike sense of cold creep 
 over her, realizing the uselessness of her efforts. 
 
 Sweyn stared for a moment in her fierce, unyield 
 ing blue eyes ; then, with a sudden impulse, he flung 
 her from him. "Go, go back to your son of Mag 
 nus!" he cried, out of his mind with blind wrath. 
 " I renounce you ! What have I to do with a woman 
 rigid as stone with resistance of me ? I demeaned 
 myself to strive with a woman ; but you have driven 
 me mad ! Go, go back to your shameful lover ! "
 
 46 TRISTIANE. 
 
 lie shouted, with an increase of unreasoning rage. 
 " You would have saved him, but I tell you that you 
 have sold him ! Mark me in this : he shall be taken 
 and put to some terrible death before your eyes ! I 
 myself will tear him limb from limb, yes, with my 
 own hands ! Do not imagine that he shall escape 
 justice, or revenge call 1t now more properly ! 
 There is no hole on earth so small he can hide in 
 it from me! Go, go now, if you will!" and he 
 dashed from the room. 
 
 Tristiane stood still, stunned. Her arms dropped 
 at her sides. The room swam before her eyes; then 
 all grew blank before them, and she reeled stupidly 
 to the door. 
 
 She knew not how she reached the open air, but 
 suddenly she found the stars above her head. The 
 keen, cold wind restored her to her senses, that had 
 seemed failing. With laboring heart and trembling 
 feet she hurried on in the direction of Triflor's booth. 
 Everything was hopelessly confused in her mind. 
 She seemed walking in utter darkness. Only this 
 was clear to her: that she must hurry hurry 
 and take Ib away somewhere and hide him. As the 
 thought of his danger pressed harder upon her, she 
 started to run. An occasional drunken song met her 
 ear. Once or twice she missed the way, and had to 
 retrace her steps. The night made everything look 
 unfamiliar. 
 
 It seemed to her she had been wandering about 
 the city for many hours, when she finally reached 
 what she thought to be the street she was looking 
 for. Yes, she remembered it. The booth was at the
 
 TRISTIANE. 47 
 
 other end. She hurried as much as was possible in 
 the almost utter darkness ; for the torch placed in an 
 iron ring at the corner had burned itself out, and the 
 starlight was dim. Now she stood on familiar ground. 
 There was the booth. All might yet be well. 
 
 She felt her hair rise on her head with a sudden 
 mortal fear as she entered the enclosure ; for in ad 
 vancing she stumbled over disorderly masses lying 
 about the ground. Then she became aware of the 
 stars above her head peeping in through the broken 
 roof. 
 
 " Ib ! Ib ! " she cried out, and began groping madly 
 about among broken, ruined things. Suddenly her 
 hand met something soft and warm, the lion. Ib, 
 then, must be near. 
 
 He lay by the lion, quite still. She shook him 
 and called to him. 
 
 He drew a long sigh. " Tristiane ? " he asked 
 faintly, as though awaking from a deep slumber. 
 
 Tristiane fell on her knees beside him. "What 
 has happened, Ib ? " 
 
 " Ah, is it you ? Thank God it is you ! " 
 
 " What is it, Ib ? What has happened ? " 
 
 " What know I ? " he said feebly. "A brawl, a 
 drunken mob. They set out to tear down the place, 
 for fun. All fled. I was afraid to go at first, and 
 then something fell across my legs and I could not, 
 because I was so faint. It is there now, and holds 
 me down. Can you lift it ? " 
 
 She lifted the beam ; he crawled from under it. 
 
 " Can you stand, Ib ? " she asked. " Can you 
 walk ? Oh, Ib ! " she cried out, in a voice of most
 
 48 TRISTIANE. 
 
 piercing anguish, " we are in danger ! We must fly 
 tonight this minute ; and I have brought this 
 upon you ! Oh, do not ask me ; I cannot tell you ! 
 For the sake of pity, do not ask me ! Only this : we 
 must fly! Whither, I do not know, only away 
 from this city, filled with our enemies. Come, 
 come, Ib!" 
 
 But Ib had sunk again to the ground. "I am 
 hurt, Tristiane. I cannot walk. We cannot fly. No 
 matter, Tristiane; I have long expected it. Don't 
 be so distressed. I was lying in a stupor a little 
 while ago, that seemed like death, and it was such 
 peace as I have never known. I think I could lie 
 still here to-night and let them come that seek me, 
 and kill me if they would, and call it a relief. A 
 beautiful, grand denial of all the past it would be, 
 would it not, Tristiane ? to meet my death like a 
 man in the end, after having shunned it so long, like 
 a hunted hare." And then, in a whisper, " Are they 
 looking for me ? " 
 
 And through an exquisite sympathy Tristiane 
 could feel the fever of fear that had come back 
 upon him in spite of his courageous words. She 
 did not answer. 
 
 " Are they looking for me ? " he asked again. 
 
 " Oh, Ib, I will save you yet ! " she cried out ; " I 
 will save you yet ! " There was not a moment to be 
 lost. She stooped and gathered him in her arms, 
 a light weight, scarcely more than a child's, he was 
 so wasted away with sorrow and pain and fear. With 
 a sigh of relief, he let his head drop on her shoulder ; 
 he felt so safe in those strong, kind arms.
 
 TKISTIANE. 49 
 
 She stood still a moment, hesitating. Where should 
 she go ? Then, as a sudden light, came back to her 
 mind the thought of Knut and his boat, that was to 
 sail as soon as the coronation feasts were over, the 
 last day of which was about to dawn. Knut, for the 
 sake of Kabiorg's sweet eyes, had been a frequent 
 visitor at the booth ; and Tristiane, scarcely listen 
 ing, had heard long accounts of his boat, anchored at 
 the mouth of the river. In a rapid whisper she told 
 Ib of it. They could not venture to follow the fer 
 tile, populous river road, but must travel to their 
 destination over unfrequented downs along the deso 
 late sea-coast. 
 
 " You know the ways ; direct me," said Tristiane. 
 She moved to the door, and came again under the 
 open sky. " The lion ! " said Ib, sorrowfully. Without 
 a word she turned back. The lion was standing strain 
 ing his chain after Ib. She unfastened him and led 
 him along. The three went forth into the darkness. 
 
 At daybreak the city was far behind them. They 
 had reached unimpeded the verge of the sea. When 
 the light made things distinct, Tristiane, who from 
 the first dim glimmer of dawn had been glancing 
 anxiously behind her, to make sure they were not 
 followed, stopped and let Ib softly on the ground. 
 They dared not travel in the daylight on the exposed 
 bare highland ; one least mischance would be fatal, 
 Tristiane felt, and she would not risk it. In a little 
 hollow, veiled by a few ragged bushes, they lay all 
 day, Ib, with heroic forbearance, refraining from 
 questions concerning their flight ; for which her eyes 
 rendered him grateful praise.
 
 50 TRISTIANE. 
 
 When the darkness had come on again, Tristiane 
 arose and resumed her burden. Ib seemed heavier 
 than before, for she was faint with hunger and con 
 suming agitation. She had not dared to beg for 
 bread; they must vanish from the land like shad 
 ows, leaving no trace of their passage. Ib, exhausted, 
 slept fitfully in her arms. She plodded on and on, 
 unwearied and watchful. Now and then, at some 
 least unaccountable sound, she felt a tremor pass 
 over his body, and her heart beat wildly against 
 her breast for pity. 
 
 " Oh, be not afraid, Ib ! I am with you. I am 
 stroug. Indeed I will save you. No one can reach 
 you but through me." 
 
 Over the desolate downs they went by the faint 
 light of stars. She carried him tenderly as a mother 
 might, having a care of his hurt limb. A little late 
 moon gave them its light for a few hours. Tristiane 
 set her face to the wind, and progressed rapidly, 
 in the direction of the river mouth. Occasionally, 
 for a minute, she felt the numbness of extreme 
 fatigue creep over her, and her foot dragged ; but 
 there arose in her mind the memory of Sweyn's infu 
 riate face and threatening words, and she went along 
 more rapidly than ever, with quickening breath, a 
 grim determination in her face that frowned darkly 
 on the darkness. Glows of painful heat swept 
 through her frame at the ghastly image of what 
 must follow their being overtaken. But no; she 
 would save Ib, Ib, whom she had betrayed ! And 
 at the thought of her fond treachery, alas! how 
 she had striven to do the very best for him! a
 
 TKISTIANE. 51 
 
 great yearning to make compensation to him made 
 her cry out again : " I will never leave you, Ib. I am 
 your slave. I will watch over you every hour. I will 
 be with you until death. Oh, have you not told me of 
 a beautiful storied place where there are more flowers 
 than here, and the air is balmy, and the sun shines 
 in a sky continually serene and more deeply blue 
 than ours ? Have you not, Ib ? We will go there; 
 we will travel, travel, travel until we reach it. The 
 boat will take us as far, perhaps. We will not rest 
 until we have touched that shore. I will carry you 
 so in my untiring arms. Then, when we are once 
 there, we will lie down on the soft grass and listen 
 to the birds without speaking. We will remember 
 the past only as a troubled dream. Oh, Ib, Ib ! 
 say that it shall be so ! Say that you can still be 
 happy ! " 
 
 Ib looked at her long with his grateful eyes. The 
 dream was too beautiful. 
 
 " Among those people that speak another language 
 we shall be alone as in an enchanted place. Tris- 
 tiane will have to be your world at first, as well 
 as your servant. I will strive to be enough, in 
 deed, Ib. I will heap up pleasant leaves for you to 
 sleep on. All that shall be when we have reached 
 the boat, if we can just reach the boat ! We shall 
 see this shore fade away like smoke. We will 
 say good-by forever to this old home, and begin 
 life all over again, turning our eyes to a new and 
 fairer, that will hold great peace for us two, poor 
 pilgrims ! " 
 
 She felt a tear from Ib's eyes fall upon her neck.
 
 52 TKISTIANE. 
 
 A strange flood of tears blinded her own eyes, the 
 first she had ever wept. 
 
 ".Oh, Ib," she cried out in great torment, "forgive 
 me ! forgive me ! No ! spare me, do not ask me 
 for what. Hush!" 
 
 She stopped short, and dropped to the ground. 
 
 A noise of horses' feet. A group of horsemen 
 came in sight, their bright torches flaring in the 
 wind, and shedding about them a strong bloody light. 
 They stood still not far from the place where the 
 three had cowered down in the shadow of a stunted 
 tree. They seemed to consult together for a minute. 
 They held their torches high aloft to light the downs, 
 and gazed anxiously about. Tristiane held her 
 breath, choked by her heart. Then they galloped on, 
 and were soon lost to sight behind the unevenness of 
 the ground. 
 
 Tristiane arose and took up Ib, and moved onward 
 again, walking with set teeth. The strain was be 
 ginning to tell upon her. Her even breath was 
 drawn deep and hard. Ib, weak and sick, slept. 
 She knew not what thanks to make for that unex 
 pected blessing of sleep that had fallen upon him. 
 He was saved the agony of uncertainty that racked 
 her as they went, went, went along the high cliff 
 overhanging the sounding sea. They must be near- 
 ing the mouth of the river now. In a little they 
 should be safe. An anticipated exultation curved 
 her lips. 
 
 Suddenly she heard again the trampling of hoofs. 
 She bowed down over the earth, shielding Ib with 
 her body. Another troop of horsemen rode by, hold-
 
 TRISTIANE. 53 
 
 ir,g high their torches. They were evidently in search 
 of some fugitive. An overpowering feeling of in- 
 tensest hatred made Tristiane grind her teeth. How 
 he had kept his word ! how cruel to the core he was ! 
 with what joy he would do all he had threatened, 
 and more ! how he would hound them to death with 
 his bloodhounds, and laugh when he had them at 
 bay ! with what keen vindictiveness he would relish 
 her horrible pain, in the slow, hard death he would 
 inflict on the shrinking body of Ib ! 
 
 She put her arms protectingly around him, and all 
 the fierceness of a lioness aroused in defence of her 
 young fired her blood. By all that was holy in 
 heaven and on earth, he should be baffled yet ! She 
 arose again, and went on along the unresting sea, 
 dragging the tired lion. 
 
 A feeling of despair, the first yet known, came 
 over her when another troop of horsemen rode by. 
 She bit the ground for rage and sorrow as she lay 
 on it waiting for them to get out of sight. The 
 enforced delay might be fatal ; already the sky was 
 paling. 
 
 When they had passed, she went on stolidly: 
 she would save him ! But a feeling of cold was 
 in her heart on account of the thousand ghastly 
 suspicions that dimly crowded about her brain, and 
 that she had not the courage to face and consider. 
 Ib was heavy as lead; a dull stupor had come 
 over him from pain and weariness ; his head hung 
 helplessly on her arm. All at once, the whole 
 weight of the truth coming upon her, she halted. 
 Of course they would be taken. His people for
 
 54 TRISTIANE. 
 
 they must be bis people would lie in wait at all 
 tbe ways. Tbey sbould be cut off from the port, 
 and driven to the sea. With the courage of des 
 peration she shook herself free from the fear that 
 was about to paralyze her, aud walked on bravely, 
 for the sake of one possible chance of safety, for 
 she must do something. 
 
 The stars went out one by one ; the dread dawn 
 came on relentlessly ; slowly it whitened in the 
 east. 
 
 They must be quite near the river now. The 
 boat, no doubt, would leave on the high tide ; the 
 tide, she judged, was about half in. On the high 
 cliff, against a palely roseate sky, appeared the great 
 form of the woman, burdened with the wounded 
 man, leading the lion. 
 
 Suddenly, far ahead, her keen eye caught sight of 
 men on horseback standing still. She shaded her 
 eyes and gazed fixedly at them. Yes, his men ! He 
 had done his worst ; he had cut off the way to the 
 ship. Then she looked behind, and thought to per 
 ceive more men coming on from there. Then, sud 
 denly, in the far distance at her right hand she 
 caught the movement of many vague shapes. So it 
 had all been in vain, the long march, the almost 
 unendurable strain, the trembling hope! Fool, to 
 have thought to escape him ! Had he not warned 
 her ? " Sweyn was never conquered ; Sweyn never 
 sues; Sweyn seizes his own." So they were in 
 Sweyn's hands at last ! 
 
 She turned her face to the sea. There was no 
 place to hide now from the broadening day. She
 
 TRISTIANE. 55 
 
 laid Ib on the ground, and sat down beside him, with 
 his head on her lap. The doting old lion crouched 
 by him, and licked his hand, very feebly, once or 
 twice. Tristiane watched the sky slowly deepening 
 in color where the sun was going to rise. All was 
 over now, they had only to wait. Her eyes, fall 
 ing on Ib's face, filled again with those unfamiliar 
 human tears. As it lay, turned to the dawn, the soft 
 light seemed to alter and ennoble it ; the large, in 
 telligent brow wore a look of almost seraphic beauty ; 
 the weak mouth showed only an excessive tenderness 
 in its pale lines ; the hollow eyes were filled with 
 peace ; the wind that blew in his soft thin hair, pure 
 \vhite now at the temples, made it look like rays of 
 light. A great hot tear from Tristiane's eyes fell 
 upon his cheek. His eyes opened, and looked up 
 into the gloom of hers. " Ah, we are resting," he said 
 vaguely. " It is good to rest, good to rest." 
 
 His eyelids, weighed down with somnolence, 
 opened and closed again a few times, then finally 
 opened wide, and were fixed upon her with infinite 
 love. " I have been dreaming beautiful things. I 
 had forgotten what we were about. Are we nearly 
 there, Tristiane ? But no, I do not care. I feel like 
 a little child again. I am quite, quite safe wherever 
 you are. You said once, ' Rest upon me.' You see 
 I have, Tristiane. You are so strong, so great and 
 strong." 
 
 Not strong nor great then as she sat looking away 
 from him, far out to sea, forcing back the stream of 
 her tears to its burning bed. Her dust-tarnished, 
 dew-drenched head had a drearv, disordered look.
 
 56 TRISTIANE. 
 
 The old godlike calm of her face had given place to 
 an expression of simple suffering humanity. 
 
 " Tristiane," said Ib, finally, after a long pause, " I 
 have thought just lately that maybe my life was not 
 made all wrong for me, after all. I call back my 
 curses against fate. Maybe it was best for me that 
 I should be hurled off my high pedestal of self-right 
 eousness, and, finding myself in reality so much less 
 than the stature of a man, should strive to gain a 
 manly height Surely striving, whether a man suc 
 ceed or not, will count for something in the end. I 
 think that as I am now I think I hope and 
 yet cannot altogether trust myself if I were put 
 back where I stood when I for the first time discov 
 ered myself wanting, I could stand up and pay wil 
 lingly the penalty of a crime." They both gazed 
 silently at the sky for a while. " And then I have 
 you," he went on. " Without all that pain and horror 
 I should not have had you, Tristiane. I think you 
 have made up for it all. It was worth such suffering 
 to find such pity under the skies. I think perhaps 
 for you I would live it all over again, the pain, the 
 horror, and yes, the crime." And with more love 
 and gratitude in his face than could ever be conveyed 
 by words, he said softly, " How shall I ever thank 
 you, Tristiane ! Oh, my patient, compassionate 
 Tristiane ! " 
 
 His eyelids dropped ; he dozed again before Tris 
 tiane, who was searching her mind for some little 
 word to say, could speak at all. Thank Heaven that 
 he slept ! 
 
 She turned and looked around. The party from
 
 TKISTIANE. 57 
 
 the right had come nearer. She could now distin 
 guish the mounted men one from another. The light 
 was so bright they must be able to see her now, and 
 Ib, and the lion. Yes, evidently they had been spied. 
 The men came on quite rapidly over the uneven, 
 difficult ground. One great horseman led the rest. 
 She knew him even from so far away. He threw 
 his bridle to the wind, and advanced at headlong 
 speed. Turning again to the sea, she saw a little 
 ship flying over the dark waves with full white sails, 
 
 the same, no doubt, in which they were to have 
 escaped. 
 
 And now the great rider was within hearing. She 
 could not bear to turn and see him advancing with 
 his conquering mien, to watch the massive outline 
 growing more distinct, and the terrible revengeful 
 face, and the unfaltering eye. 
 
 How sweetly Ib slept! Suddenly she stretched 
 her hand to his throat. One slight effort of the 
 strong, merciful hand, and he need not fear Sweyn, 
 
 not pain, not death, ever any more. One effort of 
 that hand and But no, she could not do it. 
 
 No, there was nothing to do, nothing. 
 
 With her last strength she rose to her feet and 
 confronted the rider ; then the sense of the approach 
 ing danger and death for her sleeping friend over 
 powered her. She threw up her arms and sank down 
 beside him, vanquished, and buried her blanching 
 face in her knees ; for there was nothing to do, 
 nothing. The steel might pass through her body 
 first, but Ib would be reached in the end, even as 
 Sweyn had said. No, there was no hole so small on
 
 58 TRISTIANE. 
 
 the face of the earth they might in it have hidden 
 from him. 
 
 A voice like a clarion rang through the misty 
 morning air, " Magnus, son of Magnus ! Magnus, 
 son of Magnus ! " 
 
 Tristiane felt Ib tremble violently. She looked up. 
 Ib was half raised on his knees, staring with starting 
 eyes at the rider, now quite near. His face was 
 ashen and quivering. 
 
 The great voice rang out again, clear and sonorous : 
 " Magnus, son of Magnus ! The ban against thee is 
 called in. Thou art pardoned of king and country. 
 Thy goods are restored to thee. Thy rank is thine 
 own again. Praise to the king who sees that mercy 
 is good ! " 
 
 Ib stared at him, still quivering. Then slowly 
 a great smile irradiated his face, at the same time 
 glorified by the newly risen sun. He stretched 
 his hands out uncertainly, and groped in the air a 
 moment, and fell backward on the ground with a 
 sigh, his face smiling vaguely up at the suddenly 
 illumined sky, the face of one who has died of a 
 joy too great. 
 
 And Tristiane, and Sweyn, who had arrived on the 
 spot and leaped from his saddle, stood gazing at each 
 other over the frail, miserable, liberated body with 
 the joy-lit face. Her eyes were ringed with shadows 
 dark and sad like death. His, too, were sleepless 
 and feverishly bright, staring from a haggard face. 
 All the world lay steeped in the sweet red color of 
 the new day. They gazed, gazed without words, 
 till Sweyn cried out, in a voice harsh and broken
 
 TKISTIANE. 59 
 
 with emotion : " Ob, why did you think the very 
 worst of me ? Why did you believe all that I said ? 
 I have been seeking you all over the land ever 
 since." 
 
 And across the broken barriers of hatred and in 
 justice, Tristiane, her face full of unutterable prayers, 
 held out her hand to him.
 
 SYLVAN US.
 
 SYLVANUS. 
 
 * I "HERE was a rich merchant who lived very com- 
 JL fortably and happily with his excellent lady 
 until their only child died. 
 
 The poor little thing had come so late and gone so 
 soon. It had been so pretty and promising ; it could 
 already creep about the floor arid babble ; it danced 
 in the nurse's arms as soon as ever a well-known face 
 appeared in the doorway ; then suddenly, in a few 
 hours, all that was changed, there was just a pale 
 little body to put away quickly and plant a white 
 rosebush over. 
 
 " These are evil days," thought the merchant, bowed 
 over his ledgers in his counting-house ; " but they will 
 pass too." He was a fat, rosy man, fond of ease and 
 money and his wife. He had been fond also of little 
 Otto ; but it seemed to him that as sorrow made one 
 miserable and did no one any good, one's clearest 
 duty was to put it away and forget it. He could, 
 perhaps, have done so, but his wife would not let 
 him. Her eyes were always red ; she never smiled ; 
 she seldom spoke. In the middle of the night he 
 was awakened by her crying. When he looked up 
 from his emptied dish, he saw that she could not eat. 
 And this month after month.
 
 64 SYLVANUS. 
 
 At last he considered that he was quite worn out, 
 and must take a holiday, must contrive to breathe 
 for a time some other atmosphere than this doleful 
 one of his own house. He judged that his absence 
 would be a grateful relief to his lady, who not only 
 would not permit him to console her, but looked re 
 sentfully, it appeared to him, upon his good appetite 
 and sound slumbers. 
 
 He set his affairs in such order that his business 
 could be carried on for a while without his attend 
 ance, embraced his wife, and started off on a journey 
 with a couple of good friends he had. 
 
 At the end of three months he returned. He blew 
 his whistle lustily as he came clattering down the 
 street. He had brought curious gifts to his wife, 
 beside a fresh lease of health gained in the sunny 
 foreign land. 
 
 His wife, sad and listless as when he left her, came 
 out on to the doorstep to greet him. 
 
 " Hold out your arms carefully, wife," he said to 
 her ; and from under his cloak he dropped something 
 into them, something dark and warm and soft. 
 
 " What is it ? " she cried out in alarm. " Is it a 
 cub ? " for it was after sundown, and everything dim 
 and gray. " Is it a little wolf ? " 
 
 The merchant laughed, leaped off his horse, no, 
 he did not really leap, but let himself prudently 
 down, and they went into the house. 
 
 The wife hurried to the light. The man followed, 
 and sat down by her, enjoying her astonishment. 
 
 The brown thing slept. It smelt good, of dead 
 leaves.
 
 SYLVANUS. 65 
 
 It was a little child, after all. But what a strange 
 little child ! Not like any other she had seen. 
 Firstly, it was so brown ; then it had such ears, 
 long and pointed, as one could see if one pushed back 
 the coal-black locks that fell over them. Its face 
 was not pretty, like her baby's ; it did not look like 
 a baby even ; yet she could not help bending over 
 and kissing it. It opened its eyes, very large and 
 dark and soft those were, looked stupidly ahead 
 for a second, then curled up closer, rather like a tiny 
 bear than a child, gave a warm sigh, and slept on. 
 She gathered it hungrily against her bosom, forgetting 
 to ask who was its mother, and if she might not be 
 missing it. 
 
 Then her husband told her his story. In tracking 
 the boar, on a jolly hunting-expedition, he and one 
 of his friends had got separated from the rest of 
 the company, and had come to a spot in the very 
 heart of the hills which looked to them as if never 
 human foot had trodden it before. There it was dim 
 and cool, and quite silent but for the noise of streams 
 and the fowls of the air. No woodman's axe had 
 ever gleamed among the trees ; they were gigantically 
 high, and their trunks were covered with thick moss, 
 moss and long vines hung down from their limbs ; their 
 roots were great and gnarled, and swelled up under 
 the fallen leaves of many autumns. Under a rock 
 among the tall ferns, in a den lined with leaves, the 
 huntsmen had found five little brown things huddled 
 together, all sleeping. They had marvelled on dis 
 covering what strange cubs they were, and had stolen 
 one to bring home to her for a pet 
 
 5
 
 66 SYLVANUS. 
 
 The wife leaned back, holding it close and rocking 
 it When she closed her eyes it felt so dearly warm 
 and sweet and natural in the place that had been so 
 long empty. She did not think once of trying to re 
 turn the little creature to its own mother, who may 
 have wanted it, even though she had other four. 
 She laid it to sleep that night in the curve of her 
 arm against her side; every time she woke she 
 caressed it. 
 
 They called it Sylvanus because it was from the 
 woods. 
 
 To the merchant's mind came drifting back stories, 
 read years before and almost forgotten, of a race of 
 wild forest people, supposed to have lived in that 
 land he had visited, in the days of long vanished 
 gods ; a race of beings who had like this child long 
 ears and little horns budding on their foreheads 
 among the rough locks. 
 
 The merchant never thought long of anything that 
 was puzzling, unless indeed it were connected with 
 money-making ; his wife was pleased with her little 
 monster ; a measure of peace and contentment had 
 come back into his home, which allowed him to eat 
 his fat capons and take a nap afterward with an 
 easy heart : that was enough for his adventure among 
 the hills to be accounted altogether good. 
 
 Far beyond the rich city that crowded to the edges 
 of the river, arose a line of thickly wooded hills. 
 These looked blue, blue and very far away. They 
 turned violet at evening, then gray ; one could 
 scarcely believe that they were really clothed with
 
 SYLVANUS. 67 
 
 thick green waving trees. Probably, even if Otto's 
 mother had insisted that the attempt should be made, 
 the sylvan child could not have been put back in his 
 nest among the ferns ; the huntsmen could not easily 
 have found again that primeval place so lost among 
 the hills, if one there had been willing to take the 
 long journey and try. 
 
 The merchant's house stood in the most populous 
 part of the city, on the very edge of the river. The 
 slow dark water washed its walls, and showed by a 
 green line how high it could sometimes rise. There 
 were steps leading down to it. Up these came the 
 bargemen bringing bales of merchandise from the 
 boats below, bales that had a fine flavor of the East. 
 For our merchant was a great man in his way, and 
 dealt in rich stuffs from all parts of the world, pre 
 cious spices too, gems, and even birds. In his vaulted 
 ware-chambers one saw brocades and beads and 
 flower-bulbs and pink-crested cockatoos ; one smelt 
 sandalwood and cocoa-nuts. His own prosperous 
 face was often seen among his clerks ; sometimes he 
 himself bent over the counter praising and measuring 
 off stiff gold cloth to a lady of quality ; but oftenest 
 he was to be found at his desk over his swelling ac 
 counts, which indeed gave him enough to do. 
 
 When Sylvanus could walk by himself, he came 
 down into the warerooms too, and wished to play at 
 hide-and-seek among the rolls of silk and velvet. 
 But he was ordered out at once : he was such a trou 
 blesome fellow ; he got into such unexpected mis 
 chief, and had an unpleasant habit of biting the
 
 68 SYLVANUS. 
 
 hands that attempted to prevent or restrain him. 
 That he did it with laughter and not in anger did 
 not make it less disagreeable to the young clerks, 
 ruefully examining the prints of his sharp small teeth 
 on their fingers and thumbs. 
 
 The only one who heartily loved him, who truly 
 enjoyed his society, was the merchant's wife, Hild- 
 gart. She could scarcely endure that he should leave 
 her sight. She thought him even beautiful and sweet. 
 She gave him all her own little child's things to play 
 with. She clothed him as richly as if he had been a 
 nobleman's son. She took him with her wherever 
 she went, holding his strong little brown hand lov 
 ingly in her plump white one. She rejoiced to see 
 how straight and vigorous he was, and, even though 
 it frightened her somewhat? how in his rough play 
 he could crush and break and destroy. 
 
 Sometimes when the wind was singing boisterously 
 among the gables, unaccountably he would be seized 
 with a wild spirit of gayety ; nothing could hold him 
 then ; he must dance and sing his mad inarticulate 
 songs, roll on the ground, laugh and leap and shout, 
 until he was quite, quite tired out. 
 
 Hildgart on such occasions stood helplessly by. 
 She had not strength to seize him and keep him 
 quiet, though he was but a few years old; and in 
 those moments he seemed not to understand anything 
 she said to him. So, when his elfish humor and the 
 bewildering din he made had thoroughly alarmed and 
 annoyed her, she could but sit down and cry. Tears 
 of hers always brought the child back to her side, 
 sobered as if by charm. He rubbed his black head
 
 SYLVANUS. 69 
 
 against her arm, and pushed his face up to hers until 
 she had forgiven him. 
 
 She was not long learning her power over him, 
 and then these accesses of uncontrolled animal spirits 
 became more and more rare. The wind might hum 
 among the chimneys ; only a dancing, restless light 
 came into Sylvanus's bronze-brown eyes. He turned 
 them speculatively upon his foster-mother ; seemed to 
 hesitate, reflect, and remember; then the restless 
 light went out of his eyes, because he lowered the 
 lids over them ; and he sat stone-still, getting paler 
 and paler with effort, as he listened to the wind 
 shouting out its mad suggestions. 
 
 So Hildgart contrived at last to make quite a 
 decent little boy of him, a little boy, except in 
 appearance, almost like other little boys. He spoke 
 politely, and did not tear his clothes more than oth 
 ers of his age. He was obliging ; he never cried. He 
 even learned lessons, though that was a slow and 
 sorely trying experience. 
 
 But as Hildgart was able with a better conscience 
 to boast of his improvement to Lothrich, her hus 
 band, to call him honestly an obedient, dutiful child, 
 his splendid strength, which had been her pride, 
 seemed to wane. As he grew older, too, and gentler, 
 he fell into a habit of moping. 
 
 Lothrich, finding him with his dispirited head 
 buried on his knees, would shake him roughly, and 
 say, " What is the matter, lad ? " " Nothing," Syl- 
 vanus answered. " Of what are you thinking ? " 
 " Of nothing ! " which always made Lothrich as in 
 dignant as he was capable of getting. He would
 
 70 SYLVANUS. 
 
 have wished to beat the stupid boy, but did not dare, 
 because his wife was so insane as to have a regard 
 for him. Yet nothing was the matter that Sylvanus 
 knew; and he said truly that he was thinking of 
 nothing. 
 
 And now when his mother's tyrannical tenderness 
 would leave him a little leisure, a little time to be 
 spent out of the reach of her idolatrous eyes, he 
 would wander through the house from attic to cellar. 
 He would stand, a strange, melancholy little figure, 
 in a crimson velvet coat stitched with gold flowers, 
 and stare for long minutes through the leaded panes 
 that let in the daylight so tempered it seemed to 
 come through a thick sheet of water ; if the window 
 were open, he would lean out over the river, listlessly 
 watching the crowding boats, the motley crowd, the 
 black water. But it was not what he wanted. He 
 drew back, and let his eyes roam over the rich silver 
 things on the dresser, and the painted plates, and the 
 carved wood. He went up into the garret, and looked 
 out over the city, roofs, steeples, smoke, pigeons. 
 He went down among the clerks and wares ; saw 
 the busy looks, the shining money. Lothrich, catch 
 ing sight of him, shouted, " What do you want ? " 
 " Nothing," replied Sylvanus at once, and withdrew. 
 And it was true ; he did not want anything, or 
 rather, he did not know what it was he wanted. 
 But he went up and down the dark, ancient bur 
 gher's dwelling as if it had been a cage, and he a bird 
 seeking some way to get out from it, only that he 
 sought for nothing. He did not care to get out into 
 the narrow streets ; he went there often enough with
 
 SYLVANUS. 71 
 
 Hildgart. They were no better to him than the 
 interior of the house. 
 
 Once, spurred by his unrest, he got on to the roof 
 and climbed to the very top of the chimney. 
 
 Then he saw, stretching beyond the commercial 
 city huddled greedily on the banks of the murky 
 river, the green, green country, and far away the 
 blue hills. A breath came straight from them to 
 him that lifted the hair backward away from his 
 pointed ears and budding horns ; and with his curv 
 ing nostrils expanded in a sort of frenzy to seize all 
 the balmy meaning of the breeze, with his kindling 
 eyes wide in fascinated w r onder, he did not look any 
 more like the respectable citizen's son his garb would 
 denote him to be, but like just what he was. 
 
 More and more thirstily still he gazed and drank 
 in the wind ; and the clouds sailed over his head, 
 and the sunshine poured down upon him, and he 
 saw slow sweet changes come over the dreaming 
 hills. 
 
 Then he heard Hildgart's frightened, anguished 
 voice calling him from below. And he descended, 
 and was properly scolded and wept over, and for 
 bidden ever to do sucli a thing again ; and he never 
 did, because it gave that loving woman pain. 
 
 But Hildgart's trials with her foster-child were 
 not yet at an end. Soon after that he was missing : 
 he had run away. When, after a few hours, he was 
 brought home, he seemed unable to explain. He was 
 dull and dejected ; not even his foster-mother's shrill 
 reproofs, mingled with hysterical rejoicing at his res-
 
 72 SYLVAN US. 
 
 toration, served to rouse him. Moved with a tender 
 dread, Hildgart would have him by her side at every 
 hour of the weeks that followed ; but he eluded her 
 vigilance once again, and one fine late summer even 
 ing was nowhere to be found. 
 
 When all search for him had proved vain, when 
 three long days and sleepless nights had not brought 
 him, Hildgart, who did love him as if he had been 
 her very own, fell ill, and lay on her bed quite dis 
 tracted, moaning for Sylvan us. 
 
 They had given her a potion, and she had become 
 quiet at last ; the woman who attended her had 
 shaded the light and fallen asleep in her big chair. 
 Hildgart lay turned toward the open window, be 
 yond which was night. She did not know if she 
 were awake or dreaming, when she saw a face peer 
 ing into the room, the face that of all the world 
 she wanted most to see. She held her arms out 
 noiselessly, afraid to startle it. Then it vanished, 
 and she thought it had been a dream, and her tears 
 fell in heavy drops on to her pillow. 
 
 Behold ! the face again, still nearer. Was it really 
 Sylvanus's face, though ? 
 
 She half rose and held out her hands as before, in 
 dumb invitation. The dream, if it were one, shook 
 its head roguishly; she saw then that the altered 
 outline was due to a fantastic head-gear. It with 
 drew ; but after a moment she saw, or dreamed she 
 saw, it far outside dancing in one long moonbeam 
 that dropped suddenly from a cleft in the clouds. 
 The moonbeam faded away, and the little dancing 
 figure was lost.
 
 SYLVANUS. 73 
 
 Hildgart's heart ached within her, and her sob 
 bing must be heard even out in the hushed night. 
 Had it been heard ? The face was again at the win 
 dow, peering in with a curiously saddened expres 
 sion. Hildgart this time -made no luring gesture ; 
 but the faint, heart-broken sound of her weeping fell 
 shuddering on the heart of the night. And presently 
 the figure she had seen leaping so joyously in the 
 slanting silvery light was at her side ; a cool cheek 
 was crushed against her own. 
 
 But how altered, how altered was her boy ! He 
 looked so suddenly grown strong and beautiful, she 
 could scarcely think he was the same. His face was 
 flushed with the sun. His eyes, that under the 
 strange, sharply upward-tending brows shone ever 
 with the color of a sunlit woodland stream flow 
 ing without ripple over a bed of brown leaves, had 
 doubled their lustre and light. His full, upward- 
 curving lips, that some undefined ailing had before 
 dried and paled, were like soft glossy satin, stained 
 with a vivid crimson fruit ; his sharp teeth flashed 
 white between them ; his breath came as a southern 
 breeze that has blown through the vineyards in 
 bloom. His wild hair, thick and strong as a black 
 sheep's fleece, had leaves in it, and tendrils mixed 
 with clusters of grapes, and little pine-cones gleam 
 ing with resin, a mad wreath, falling off over one 
 ear. He had lost most of his garments ; his shoul 
 ders were bare and brown, and cold with dew. He 
 brought in with him the balmy freshness of the open 
 night, a vivifying odor of pine and earth, of hay and 
 rich roses.
 
 74 SYLVAN US. 
 
 Hildgart clasped her arms tightly around him. 
 " Oh, my bad, bad darling, you have broken my 
 heart ! " 
 
 He struggled a second, and drew back as far as her 
 hand closed about his own would allow him, look 
 ing at her ruefully. " Ah," he said, " I remembered 
 that, and that is why I came." And as her tears 
 flowed more stormily than before, he came nearer 
 again and sat on the edge of the bed, glancing softly at 
 her from under his dewy, disordered locks. " Don't 
 cry," he said, " dearest one, dearest ! I will not go 
 away again." And he lifted his hands to his hair, 
 and in silent passion tore from its tangles the fra 
 grant leaves and fruits, and let them drop on to the 
 floor. 
 
 Then his mother, quite comforted, must make him 
 relate all he had done in those days. And the old 
 woman, who had awakened, heard, too, with deep 
 wonder. 
 
 " It was evening," he said, while the golden light 
 that had ebbed from his great eyes when lie displaced 
 his woodland crown began glowing again as a coal 
 under a steady breath ; " I ran, I ran until the 
 streets were far behind me ; then I stopped to breathe. 
 Oh, mother, mother, what the wind is like out yon 
 der ! It came over seas of yellow light and leagues 
 of red and violet clouds, across endless fields of fresh 
 green grass, through thousands of trees. It called out, 
 ' Dance ! dance ! ' I was not my old self any more, 
 but had a new life. The blood rushed like wind 
 through my veins ; it swelled my heart like a sail. I 
 was lighter than a leaf, I danced. I tore up the
 
 SYLVANUS. 75 
 
 grass, and threw it in the air with clumps of sweet, 
 cold earth. How good it smells, the earth ! Then 
 I stretched upon the ground, and laid my ear to it, 
 and heard things grow. Oh, a subdued, immense, 
 unceasing rustle, like a great, gentle breathing ! I 
 ran on and on, dancing. There was a stream ; tall 
 reeds grew on its edges ; the wind passed through 
 them, and they sang, they sang ! Broad flowers 
 floated on the stream, so pale in the moonlight. I 
 leaped in the water. I felt it rush deliciously all 
 through my hair, and close over me. I caught at the 
 long, smooth stems of the lilies, and dragged them up, 
 dripping sheaves of them. I frolicked among the 
 reeds ; dear small, cool green things, with eyes like 
 jewels, lighted on my shoulders, they were not 
 afraid of me. Ah, I spent a happy night." 
 
 Hildgart gazed stupidly at his excited eyes. The 
 attendant shrugged her shoulders, and thought, " He 
 is crazy ; he delights in frogs ! " 
 
 " And I came to fertile fields," said Sylvanus, 
 " and vineyards. The branches of the vines were 
 weighed down with fruits, some purple and some 
 green. I tore them from the stems. I crushed them 
 and drank. My head swam. A sad-souled, patient 
 bird was singing ; its notes fell through the silvery 
 night like drops of dew. I slept, and dreamed a 
 wonderful, wonderful dream " 
 
 " And then ? " questioned Hildgart, for he had 
 stopped, and was looking far away, beyond the walls 
 of the house, farther than those of the city. 
 
 " Then I came out of a grove to the edge of a pas 
 ture. There was feeding a herd of beautiful quiet
 
 76 SYLVANUS. 
 
 animals. A graybeard sat under a tree and played 
 on a reed. I listened. The music seemed to speak ; 
 it said a thousand new things, that however as soon 
 as I heard them I seemed to have always known. I 
 lay in the grass, and scarcely breathed. I crept nearer 
 and nearer. Then the herdsman looked around sud 
 denly, and saw me lifting my head above the tall 
 grasses to hear better. He dropped his instrument 
 and fled. I leaped up and rushed among the beauti 
 ful beasts. They plunged and ran ; their great eyes 
 rolled. I sprang on to the back of one ; I seized his 
 shining horns, and we galloped swiftly over the plain. 
 Then I left him and sprang on to another. Clots of 
 earth were dashed up from his hoofs, we tore so 
 stormily over the ground. And the herd, all lifting 
 their mighty deep voices, thundered by our side. 
 The earth trembled beneath us. When I excited the 
 brave, panting creatures with my voice, they lashed 
 their silken flanks with their tasselled tails. That was 
 sport ! When I had played enough, I went into the 
 grove again and rested among the ferns. Then, as I 
 was half asleep, the wind blew through the tree-tops ; 
 it came from the hills, those blue hills one can see 
 from our chimney. It called out, ' Come away into 
 the hills ! Come away into the hills !' I rose and 
 was following, oh, mother, how beautiful it must 
 be out there ! when I thought of you." 
 
 " Sylvanus, Sylvan us, how could you be so cruel as 
 to leave me ? " complained Hildgart ; " you have 
 made me so ill and unhappy. I see that you are a 
 wild, heartless boy with evil instincts. You will 
 come to no good. My affection is wasted on you."
 
 SYLVANUS. 77 
 
 Sylvanus looked exceedingly patient and sorrowful 
 then. He lowered his head, while his eyes filled with 
 tears of shame and remorse. 
 
 " What could I do more for you than I do ? " que 
 ried Hildgart, still reproachful. " I love you from 
 the deepest of my heart ; I care for you most ten 
 derly ; I seek your good in all things. Are you not 
 clad and fed daintily ? And when we die will not 
 all we possess become yours ? You will be powerful 
 and honored. You will have this goodly house, and 
 heavy silver, and fine linen." 
 
 Sylvanus, as she spoke, was looking at her intently, 
 as she at him. He could not understand her any 
 better than she could him. His unformed thought 
 was, " Silver and fine linen, indeed ! " And that of 
 the old woman, who was again falling asleep in her 
 chair, " Water-lilies, forsooth ! Smell of the earth, 
 bah ! " 
 
 Years passed, and Sylvanus grew at Hildgart's 
 side. He was now quite a tall lad, and had a suit 
 able demeanor. He had been instructed in polite 
 manners and learning among other wealthy burghers' 
 sons, and had gained even a measure of the mer 
 chant's good-will by becoming like other people. 
 
 " As the lad is no discredit to us," the merchant 
 came at last to saying, almost reconciled with him 
 self after years of dumb rage at his unpardonable 
 blunder in meddling with the woodland family, 
 " and we have no children of our own, he shall 
 some day inherit of us; for my wife has set her 
 heart upon it."
 
 78 SYLVANUS. 
 
 But it was not destined that Sylvanus should be 
 an heir. There now came upon the vast scene of 
 the world a new actor, a tiny, fair-haired child, a 
 brother to that little Otto over whom the rosebush 
 had grown luxuriant. 
 
 Sylvanus saw it sleeping on Hildgart's fair bosom. 
 He saw her face bend over it, so beautiful and soft 
 ened as never before ; a wild, trembling paiii shot 
 through his heart. 
 
 It was the dear, fair face that had accompanied 
 him all through his life : he had seen it on awaken 
 ing, he had seen it in falling asleep; it had had 
 brooding, loving glances for him alone. And now 
 it appeared to him more lovely than ever : the eyes 
 looked bluer and sweeter from its having grown so 
 pale ; the flaxen hair he was used to see neatly 
 braided and fastened fell loosely all about it and 
 upon the pillows. And she was not thinking of 
 him ; she was drifting away, away from him, on her 
 love for the little new-comer, the baby white and 
 soft like herself, and like the long-ago, the unfor- 
 gotteu child Otto. 
 
 Sylvanus felt how he was too big now to nestle up 
 to her as he had used to do ; but he crept near, and 
 laid his rough head against her arm. Then, as she 
 was scarcely aware of him at first, he laid his hand 
 on the baby under her eyes ; but his hand looked so 
 brown, so darkly brown and sinewy, that he drew it 
 back quickly, almost frightened. 
 
 " Is not he a pretty child ? " said Hildgart. " See 
 how fat and white his little dimpled fists are ! " 
 
 Sylvanus fled from her presence and into the
 
 SYLVANUS. 79 
 
 street. He wandered haphazard for several hours. 
 He chanced upon a crowd; there floated to him, 
 over the heads of men and women, the sound of a 
 musical instrument. He stopped to listen, too, to 
 the street-singer. 
 
 " Oh, ho ! " sang the street-singer, " the joyous life 
 in the woodland hills ! There live Pan and his strong 
 faun-sons ; there live the dryads and the light-footed 
 oreades. These twist long leaves in the coils of their 
 sweet-smelling hair, and dance with the brown fauns ; 
 while Pan sits on a mossy rock and pipes to them a 
 lay, never twice the same. He pipes on a green 
 reed, and the curious deer come tripping over the 
 rustling leaves; and the spotted hinds, the light little 
 fawns draw near to listen, with one glistening black 
 hoof lifted from the ground. The wild beasts come 
 too, made harmless as the deer are fearless, because 
 the music has charmed them. They lie in circle, 
 with their heavy muzzles resting on their paws, and 
 their tawny eyes fixed upon the god. And the fauns 
 and dryads dance. Oh, ho ! " sang the street-singer, 
 " the free life in the woodland hills ! " 
 
 And on and on he sang to the staring city-folk of 
 the deep-breathing wind in mid-forest, of the hidden 
 crystal fountains, of the joyous chase, the spotted 
 skins hung over a young faun's shoulders, the chest 
 nuts bursting from their burrs. 
 
 He moved on. The crowd followed him awhile as 
 he went singing down the street, but soon grew thin 
 ner and melted away. The sun had set, the air was 
 becoming chill, the good citizens must be about their 
 business.
 
 80 SYLVANUS. 
 
 Sylvanus followed still; his heart was throbbing 
 as once of old. He caught up with the singer, a 
 slender, agreeable, hungry-looking young mortal, with 
 flowing locks, a tattered cloak that hung down to the 
 dust, and a bunch of ribbons fastened on to the 
 stringed instrument he carried by a strap over his 
 shoulder. He had ceased singing, and was walking 
 along with his head thrown back, staring up at a 
 melting sunset cloud. 
 
 "Sing more!" pleaded Sylvanus, laying his hand 
 on the bard's shabby sleeve, " more, more about the 
 woods and the wind ! " 
 
 The bard stopped and looked at Sylvanus. The 
 light was becoming uncertain, but he could still dis 
 tinguish the citizen's rich garb, the silver clasps on his 
 mantle, the plume in his cap ; he could see his strange, 
 dark face. He broke out laughing, and said : " You 
 are a faun yourself, are n't you ? You have only to 
 show me the pointed ears for me to be able to affirm 
 that here, in a civilized country, in this late century, 
 so long since the old gods passed away ! I saw 
 one evening (and not on a door-knocker either, nor 
 a gargoyle, but in a crimson cloth suit right prettily 
 slashed) a faun, a real, sunburned, belated child 
 of Pan ! " 
 
 In this wise was first hinted to Sylvanus the secret 
 of his birth. 
 
 " Yes, I think you may be a faun," said Hildgart ; 
 " though I had thought they were a pure invention 
 of the poets. I have said so many times that you 
 are a child of gypsies, found on our doorstep on a
 
 SYLVANUS. 81 
 
 day after that dark, wandering people had been seen 
 passing through the city, that I truly believe it, ex 
 cept I stop to think. But the truth is you were 
 brought from the deep woods, Sylvanus, where Loth- 
 rich found you in a cave at the foot of a tree. That 
 day I had noticed the reflection of my face in the 
 mirror, how ill I looked and likely to die, and I had 
 been pleased at the thought. But when you came I 
 cared to live, for I loved you like my own flesh and 
 blood. And I have been a good mother to you ; and 
 it has been much better for you than the woods, 
 where everything is wild. Yes, I have loved you 
 dearly. Still, I am glad to have a child of my own 
 too. One loves that like nothing else ; and when it 
 is passionate and sullen, as you sometimes are, dear, 
 though on the whole such a dutiful child, one for 
 gives it more easily, because one is obliged to think 
 perhaps it inherits its defects from one's self. But I 
 don't imagine this child will be anything but gentle 
 and sweet, do you ? Look at it now ! " And she 
 kissed it adoringly. " Why are you so troubled ? If 
 it is Lothrich and his manner to you lately, you need 
 not care for that, dear child. He is jealous for Otto. 
 He is afraid that my affection for you will make me 
 unjust to our own son. But as long as I am here to 
 uphold your rights, you need not fear but he will 
 treat you as he should. Many a struggle have we 
 had already on your account ; but I have always pre 
 vailed, and shall still have my way. You are my 
 son, too, after all, and will be a good elder brother to 
 this little one. Dear me ! it will be so delightful 
 when I get well again ! " 
 
 6
 
 82 SYLVANUS. 
 
 Yes, Sylvanus thought it would be delightful in 
 deed when she got well. But day after day went by, 
 and still she was not well, still not strong nor rosy. 
 An added shade of anxiety came into Lothrich's face 
 on seeing her so transparent and languid while the 
 second Otto throve and grew; but he had much 
 anxiety beside in those days. 
 
 And now came a time when Hildgart might be 
 glad of Sylvanus's dark strong hands to uphold her 
 gently in the days of declining. They lengthened 
 themselves into several long years, but came no less 
 surely to an end. 
 
 " Dear God ! " she sighed, " to leave my little child 
 like this, and no one to love him as I should, with 
 his own father gone mad, and imperilling his sub 
 stance in distracted ventures ! Oh, Sylvanus, do you 
 promise to be faithful and tender to my poor little 
 Otto, as you have ever been to me ; for he will need 
 friends, I much fear." 
 
 So she went away from among the living, and Syl 
 vanus must continue in the house where she had 
 dwelt. 
 
 He was not an honored and cherished son now ; 
 he was only tolerated, and at such a price ! He 
 might be seen carrying the bales from the boats up 
 the slimy stone stairs, and doing all that was required 
 of a servant. Early and late he worked to deserve 
 bread and the shelter of that roof which had covered 
 her, patient of everything, so he might be in easy 
 reach of her child, to do him service. 
 
 No less, every night, lying on his poor pallet, lie 
 dreamed of the distant hills.
 
 SYLVANUS. 83 
 
 Years went by, many years. 
 
 Otto himself was a youth now, a slender, hand 
 some youth, with curling hair that caught the sunshine 
 and flashed it back. He was light-hearted, he was gay. 
 He had many companions, and a jolly life they made 
 of it. One little drawback there was, however, to his 
 full enjoyment of this earth's pleasures, and it was 
 that dark, melancholy servant of his father's, God 
 rest his soul, poor father ! though he was a foolish 
 man, who in his ambition to double his son's fortune 
 came near wrecking it, that dark servant, with his 
 continual good counsel and his untiring attempts to 
 keep him, Otto, out of mischief. Why was he young, 
 good-looking, and had his purse full of gold, if he was 
 not to amuse himself? As for poor Sylvanus, he had 
 been devoted to Sylvanus when he was still a little 
 boy, one must own that Sylvanus was more oblig 
 ing than any one else, but it really seemed pre 
 sumptuous in the fellow to suppose that he could 
 influence one when he was almost getting a beard. 
 Sylvanus was becoming a bore, and Otto must let 
 him know what he thought of it. 
 
 Oh the blue hills far away, how inviting they 
 looked ! Why should one not flee to them, and rest 
 from drudgery for a thankless world ; feel one's youth 
 come back to one with every fresh inspiration of the 
 pure wind ; feel one's strength, wasted with home 
 sickness and nightly longing, return with every 
 draught from the ice-cold springs ; find one's own 
 kin, perhaps, strong, brown brothers ? Oh the 
 beckoning hills ! Oh, what the wind said in its sing 
 ing over the house !
 
 84 SYLVANUS. 
 
 " But I cannot leave him now ! " replied Sylvanus's 
 sick heart ; " he is fast bringing on ruin to himself, 
 he will need me then. There are a thousand duties 
 to tie me down here. O wind, I cannot come ! " 
 
 Once, indeed, it seemed too much to bear that 
 stripling's wrong-hearted insolence, and the old-grown 
 faun had almost forsaken him. But when he had 
 passed through the city gate on his way to the hills, 
 the hills ever calling him with their powerful, still 
 voices, ever drawing him to themselves with chains 
 as subtle as those by which the sky draws back from 
 earth the rain, a sense came to him, as if he were 
 his old childish self fleeing once more as long ago 
 from the merchant's house, the narrowness of which 
 cramped him so, oppressed him for breath ; and 
 through his extravagant delight at freedom returned 
 the haunting pain of something left behind, some one 
 needing him, grieving while he made himself merry. 
 
 Ah, Hildgart, so long now in her grave ! 
 
 So the faun turned back. He passed under the 
 city gate bowed and dragging his foot. He would re 
 member how young and foolish Otto was, how dear he 
 had been ; he would not think of him that he was un 
 grateful, but that his eyes were very like those that 
 once looked so kindly upon himself. For the sake 
 of being able to serve him when the day came that 
 Hildgart's child should need him, and the day was 
 near, he feared ! he must be very patient. Why 
 had they quarrelled that morning ? He had tried to 
 save the mad young man from the serpent-charmer's 
 daughter, who would be his bane if he believed her.
 
 SYLVANUS. 85 
 
 Well, he must return and make other efforts to save 
 him ; but not forsake him, even if all attempts to 
 clear his vision proved vain. How much more would 
 he need a stanch adherent when fallen irremediably 
 into the hands of that heartless girl ! 
 
 But Sylvanus ill calculated his power in opposition 
 to the serpent-charmer's daughter. When she came 
 to the reign, full of arts and wiles as she was, beauti 
 ful as a crimson-flowering weed, and determined that 
 the unfriendly faun who had accused her should go, 
 his term of service, spite of his long-suffering, his 
 selfless devotion, was indeed over. It was Otto him 
 self who bade him go. 
 
 And now once more he passed through the city 
 gates. As he came farther into the open country, the 
 bitterness lessened from his soul. Farewell, old life ! 
 all was said and done with it. Let him forget it all, 
 but most the ingratitude of man. Let Otto find 
 what compensation he might for the loss of a friend 
 in the sea-green eyes of his bride, away with all 
 sorrow for Otto ! 
 
 For the hills ! for the hills ! And he hurried 
 toward them. 
 
 How often had he dreamed of this, this freedom 
 to return whither he chose ! He had not the strength 
 now nor the lightness of foot to speed on as once he 
 could have sped ; it would take longer to reach that 
 faint-blue mass against the horizon and his home 
 beyond ; but once there, would it not seem as good 
 as it could ever have seemed before ? Would he not 
 revel in it all, then ? Would he not join madly in
 
 86 SYLVANUS. 
 
 those scenes the strolling poet had described, dance 
 and leap with the other fauns and the playful 
 nymphs, satiate himself at last with sun and air and 
 green shadow, smells of the forest, music, chill crystal 
 streams, freedom ? 
 
 Dance and leap and enjoy ? Could he do that 
 still, could he ? 
 
 He dropped down to rest with his face to the sky 
 streaked with bars of rosy vapor, beautiful sky ! 
 How tired he was ! He had been travelling so many 
 hours, and the hills looked as distant as ever. Ah ! 
 but he had all his life before him now in which to 
 reach them, and after a brief station among them for 
 rest, the southern land that lay beyond them, the 
 land of his birth. There was no need of hurrying so 
 breathlessly. 
 
 All his life, all that was left over of a faun's life 
 after so many years spent away from all his nature 
 required ; spent in a narrow house without air, in a 
 warehouse without sunlight, over tasks that made 
 the irritated nerves sicken and twitch, under con 
 ditions that made the heart, subdued, rankle in its 
 chains. Was he not stunted, wasted, and bowed 
 already, like the aged and ailing ? 
 
 The faun rose hurriedly, and travelled on at once 
 in the fading day. 
 
 It was well for those who had an abundance of 
 time to sit down in pleasant grassy places and rest. 
 He should rest only afterward, when he sat among 
 his own, in the heart of the hills. Would not the 
 nymphs then plait him a wreath of ivy and bay that 
 should lie on his temples coolly, and Pan himself give
 
 SYLVANUS. 87 
 
 him from his striped gourd a draught that should 
 restore him ? What happy laughter then, what care 
 less ease on a bed of ferns! 
 
 But there was need for turning every faculty to 
 haste, for was he not pursued ? Was it not ad 
 vancing with long, swift, silent strides, the name 
 less fear, the unknown foe ? If it should overtake 
 him before ho gained the hills ! How far they were 
 still, those hills ! how blue still, so that one could 
 never believe, no, that they were really clothed with 
 green waving trees ! 
 
 Tt overtook him before he reached them, even 
 while they were still quite blue. 
 
 " But it is not I alone," sighed Sylvauus, lying in 
 the grass with eyes fixed upon the beloved hills, when 
 the bitterness of -the struggle was past, and the 
 enemy after he had overcome him had smoothed the 
 frown of pain and anger away from his brow and set 
 there peace instead, as if almost he had been a friend. 
 " I have seen it many times in that city where I 
 lived. The faces of the men and women told it. 
 They were not fauns, like me, but their story was like 
 mine." 
 
 The sun looked down most gently and mournfully 
 into his face. It seemed as if the grass, when the 
 wind blew it against his cheek, were a caress from a 
 hand as loving as Hildgart's. 
 
 "Would it seem a sweeter or a bitterer story," 
 went on Sylvanus vaguely, still with his dark sad 
 eyes fixed upon the hills, the never to be reached, 
 " if the fauns should tell it to one another when the
 
 88 SYLVANUS. 
 
 nightingale's song has made them serious, sweeter 
 or bitterer than stories of fauns who could do their 
 own pleasure ? " 
 
 A fine sigh passed through the grass, and died 
 across his lips. A brown bird flew down and nestled 
 fearlessly against him, its little heart fluttering warm 
 on liis throat ; the sunlight cooled, and grew dim, and 
 went out. 
 
 Then, oh, hark ! the voice of the wind from the 
 hills, or, no, not really the wind's voice, but Pan's 
 reed. 
 
 Is he not sitting among the fauns, piping to them ? 
 Have they not paused in their frolics to listen ? Just 
 as the strolling poet said, the little does come 
 through the rustling leaves, and stare with their 
 great moist eyes ; the fiercest brutes lie about with 
 their heads on their harmless paws ; the dryads draw 
 nearer as he tells them of it in his song. Their faces 
 are uplifted ; tear-drops run over their lashes, down 
 the thornless roses of their cheeks paled with tender- 
 est pity : not a faun but has ceased to laugh. " Is it 
 a sweeter or a bitterer story ? " says the music at 
 last. " Is it a sweeter or a bitterer story ? " as it grows 
 fainter, and all fades. 
 
 Hark ! Did not the answer come as through tears, 
 "Oh, sweeter! oh, sweeter!"
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON.
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 'THWO women who had long been absent from 
 
 -L each other sat in the deepening light of the 
 afternoon, going over old common memories to 
 gether, and relating the events of the latter years. 
 
 They had not been loving friends nor even well 
 known to each other before. The difference in years 
 had seemed greater ; yet now each proved a calm 
 sweetness in the neighborhood of one who had seen 
 her younger, fairer, who had been familiar, perhaps, 
 with friends long dead. 
 
 Both women were past their best youth. Auge, 
 the older, was growing gray ; her face showed lines 
 of fretful care ; she stooped a little, and her voice in 
 talking of any matter, even cheerful, had a faintly 
 complaining ring. She leaned forward, both hands 
 on the head of her staff. Her garments were of a 
 sober color ; one end of her mantle was cast over 
 her head and framed her face, shading it as a hood. 
 
 Antiope's hair was still dark and thick. Her age 
 was divined more from the noble serenity of her face 
 than from any trace on it of Time's deflowering finger. 
 She was tall and straight and powerfully moulded. 
 Her face was severe in its purity of line and color ; 
 its only softness dwelt in the broad, dark, fine eye,
 
 92 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 when that listened, encouraged, invited to confi 
 dence. Her whole bearing breathed a culm and 
 seemly pride. 
 
 Sitting on the stone seat near her own threshold, 
 she was bareheaded and without mantle. Her white 
 garment fell in close, straight folds down over her 
 feet. The mellowing sunshine was full on her smooth, 
 bronzed face ; she shaded her eyes, and looked in 
 quiringly down in the valley where Auge's finger 
 directed. 
 
 The citadel gleamed white on its rock ; between 
 olives and cypress-trees showed the little city, 
 red and white ; the river was a narrow, silvery 
 ribbon. 
 
 " Do you see the house ? " asked Auge, still point 
 ing. " I cannot see it myself, but it should be there, 
 there, a little outside the crowd, near the river. 
 No ? Well, it is a fair enough house within, if it 
 were well ordered ; with a large, cool court, if it 
 were not that doves are suffered in the court, and are 
 forever drinking at the basin, and green vines are al 
 lowed to grow up the little white pillars, alluring 
 insects. Well, so it will be ever when the whims of 
 the young are consulted before the experience of the 
 old." 
 
 "The young Philotis is mistress in her father's 
 house ? " asked Antiope. 
 
 " Well-a-day ! But this is not the beginning of it. 
 She has been mistress since the hour her mother 
 was carried out of it, and then she stood scarce thus 
 high. She governs her father, and is herself gov 
 erned oh, not by me, as you, perhaps, might think ;
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 93 
 
 me, who nursed her and reared her, watching her in 
 illness as never a mother, not by me, but fancies 
 light as the little clouds you see a moment, then they 
 are gone, or else when you look again they have 
 grown into huge things big with bad weather, you 
 can never tell. Her father is to blame. If he would 
 but listen to me ! Judge yourself, my Antiope, of 
 that man's weakness. We lived by the sea, the 
 proper place for us, where his heavy-laden ships come 
 in. Our days went sweetly, one much like another, 
 among good neighbors, with plenty. My affections 
 had twined around every stone of our dwelling. One 
 day Philotis says she suffers from bad dreams, it 
 must be the fault of the sea, she would wish not to 
 hear any more of its solemn sighing and sobbing. 
 Lycaon comforts her ; gives her lavishly of things too 
 fine, unfit for a young maid. The next day she tells 
 again of bad dreams, and wishes to go elsewhere, 
 anywhere, away from the tiresome voice of the sea. 
 So every day she complains, and looks longingly at 
 the hills ; she grows pale with ill-temper and discon 
 tent. And in the end she has her will, as she has 
 had since she could frame words. And now we dwell 
 down yonder in the house you cannot see, though it 
 should be plain enough." 
 
 " And the girl has recovered ? " 
 Auge made a slight sound of contempt. 
 "She was never ill. But if you mean does she 
 laugh and talk all day, and is she full of foolish 
 pranks as a young cat, I warrant you ! This new life 
 pleases her vastly. She is ever dragging me forth 
 with her when I would wish to be quiet at home.
 
 94 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 To the market-place, to the temple, to look on at the 
 racers and the wrestlers, not but that I, too, love 
 that, and disc-casting. But to be tripping after 
 her like an old dog, pantiug to keep pace with her 
 light young feet (and it is not seemly that a young 
 girl be seen abroad so much, as I have told her father 
 a thousand times) ; to be sent on mad errands " 
 
 " On mad errands ? Now, that seems too much. 
 Why do you go when she bids you ? Father and 
 daughter surely owe you for all your kind offi 
 ces consideration enough to take account of your 
 objections." 
 
 Antiope had thought to do a thing agreeable to 
 Auge in taking her part against Philotis and that 
 spoiled girl's father. But, 
 
 " You do not understand, Antiope," said Auge, 
 promptly^ " You do not understand at all. It is be 
 cause she knows how much I love her, because she 
 knows that I willingly do whatever may please her. 
 Ah, these children of ours ! Those who have no 
 children will never understand how it is with us ! " 
 
 Antiope could not buc smile a little scornfully at 
 these words. Her sons were her own, bone of her 
 bone. Her face assumed its expression of contented 
 mother-pride. 
 
 " Where are your sons ? " asked Auge, suddenly, 
 after a silence during which each woman had been 
 looking over the valley, thinking the thoughts 
 nearest her heart. 
 
 " A-hunting." 
 
 " Will they not soon be home ? I would wish to 
 see them nearer and speak to them. The image of
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 95 
 
 Philemon still lives in my eye. Tell me, Antiope, if 
 your griefs have so healed over that you can speak 
 of his death with patience, how did he come, the 
 strong and goodly man, to die as he did in the flower 
 of life ? " 
 
 " An adder stung him in the foot," Antiope re 
 plied briefly, and without visible emotion. Then 
 she proceeded in measured tones, as if she were say 
 ing aloud a thing that she had said over many times 
 to herself : " He has perished ; his flesh is ashes. Yet 
 he lives, on and on. That which was best in him 
 
 his justice, his integrity, his kindliness I meet 
 with every day in my sons. Even his goodliness of 
 feature and form is not lost. Biton looks at me 
 with his deep, cairn eye ; Attys speaks to me with 
 his voice. Both have his dauntless heart. So is a 
 good man immortal even on earth : his spns' sons 
 shall tell the world of him. I am blessed in my 
 children," she added, with a tender interruption in 
 her even voice. 
 
 " Yes, they are goodly and strong, like their father, 
 as you say," owned Auge ; " I hear reports of them 
 wherever I go. They are foremost in every contest, 
 
 swiftest in the race, most enduring in the march ; 
 they overcome the stoutest wrestlers ; they cast the 
 disc and spear farthest of any ; their honor is truly 
 great." 
 
 " And to such prowess they unite such gentleness," 
 said Antiope, with eager fervor ; " they so love me, 
 and so love each other. You think, perhaps, that 
 being so full of valor and skill, they are proud and 
 testy, many brave youths are. Not so. Bitou
 
 96 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 obeys my least behest ; Attys reads my wish in my 
 eye." And the proud, reserved Antiope, betrayed by 
 Auge's sympathetic, listening face into the weakness 
 of the commonest woman, related untiringly in 
 stances of her sons' virtues, their frankness, gener 
 osity, filial and brotherly devotion. She told touching 
 stories of their childhood, the reckless ventures and 
 escapes of their growing days ; said her hopes and 
 fears, quoted golden opinions uttered by such as were 
 not prejudiced, as perhaps Auge would think her. 
 
 The sun declined to the hill while she spoke. 
 
 " Happy ! happy ! " exclaimed Auge, who had 
 drawn nearer and nearer, as if warming herself at 
 the heat of Antiope's great mother-love. " And tell 
 me, does not your heart fail you," she said, dropping 
 her voice, " when they go forth to war ? as in these 
 days every man does frequently in these parts, I am 
 told, and chiefly against redoubted Charpedon beyond 
 these mountains. I should think that the day they 
 set forth would be for you an evil day to bear. The 
 thought of that day would almost persuade me, if I 
 had a sou, to bring him up as a maiden. Are yo'u not 
 tempted, Antiope, to wish away from their ears all 
 dangerous rumors of war ? " 
 
 " Not so," replied Antiope, constant!}' ; " I would 
 rather they were dead than inglorious. But it seems 
 to me when they are away as if my never-sleeping 
 love brooding over them must be a charm to keep 
 them safe. I do not believe, Auge, but that all will 
 be well with them until my eyes are closed. I have 
 no fears. I have asked nothing of the gods but my 
 sons' good, and the just gods owe me somewhat for
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 97 
 
 many pious offerings and several afflictions patiently 
 endured." 
 
 " You think that to ask for your sons' good is to 
 ask little for yourself," spoke Auge, with a doubtful 
 laugh. " Perhaps that is more than long life with 
 peace and plenty and health. The value of a gift is 
 measured by the receiver's need. You are too fortu 
 nate, Antiope, though perhaps you do not know it : 
 you possess your sons' undivided love. What shall 
 you do now when they take wives ? " 
 
 She listened curiously. 
 
 " That has to come. I have felt it coming," said 
 Antiope. "I have schooled myself to accept the 
 thought. I shall always have been their first and 
 greatest friend. They will not forget it. Nothing 
 can change that. Their wives shall be welcome. 
 Whom they love must be dear also to me." 
 
 "My wise, wise Antiope, I vow that was well 
 spoken, though I could not be so patient myself. 
 Now, since I see your mind so disposed, I will tell 
 you something, something," she added with a mys 
 terious smile, "that may perhaps pertain to this ques 
 tion. Perhaps, I said. Has Biton spoken to you of 
 any maiden ? No. Well, it was but a little thing. 
 A few days ago, when he carried off the prize for 
 running, we were watching the contest. As the 
 runners passed us, Philotis, looking in rapt attention, 
 opened her hand, and the wind blew a red flower she 
 held into the path. Biton, though hard pressed, bent, 
 not hurriedly to snatch, but easily with a touch 
 full of grace and respect, and gathered up the blos 
 som, winning the goal first, nevertheless. Since that 
 
 7
 
 98 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 Philotis can talk of nothing but Biton, Biton, Biton ; 
 and when she heard me boast that I knew his mother 
 of old, nothing would satisfy her but that I should 
 corne to-day and renew the acquaintance. Do not 
 think, however, that I would not have come unbidden. 
 I can value an old friendship." 
 
 "Biton said nothing," spoke Antiope, dreamily; 
 then, with assurance : " He saw but a crimson flower, 
 and not the maiden who dropped it. He stopped for 
 it only to show his fleetness thereafter. I am sorry 
 if your charge thinks of him overmuch. Auge, it 
 were good advice, bid her look at men who look 
 at her." 
 
 " That was not quite all," said Auge, with rising 
 indignation. "He had the flower in his hand long 
 after, smelling of it, and casting on the one from 
 whose small fair hand it fell long glances. A bold 
 and steady eye has your son, an eye that knows 
 its mind ; and when a pink-footed dove, Philotis' 
 favorite, flew out over the court, and she came forth 
 to lure it back, Bitou was there where mayhap he 
 had been keeping lover's watch to assist her in re 
 capturing it ; and that no later than yesterday." 
 
 "Auge," replied Antiope, with recovered serenity, 
 " let us not speak bitterly. If Biton loves, I have no 
 fear but he will tell his mother of it. Then will be 
 time to provide further. What you have said of 
 Philotis makes me think but lightly of her ; yet I 
 will not rashly judge." 
 
 " To say that she is fanciful and of a merry dis 
 position ! Youth is the sweeter for not being serious 
 and sad. I never fear that speaking of Philotis as
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 99 
 
 she is will do her injury. She bears what justifies 
 all her deeds even in her blooming face, the fairest 
 in all the isles. You have but to see her to fall 
 a-yearuing for a daughter-iu-law." 
 
 " That may be as it may. When Biton shall have 
 opened to me his heart, and told me of his choice, 
 then I will descend without delay into the city, and 
 formally arrive at your house to see the maiden. 
 Until then, allow me to retain my belief that chance 
 brought my son near your door as the dove flew over 
 the wall. And be cautious how you inflame a young 
 maiden's imagination with feeding to it the praises 
 of my son, as I have unsuspectingly spoken them 
 from my heart." 
 
 "Have no concern," said Auge, rising, "that the 
 gem of the earth should not dazzle, but rather be 
 dazzled by a shining pebble, of such as the seashore 
 is full. Well, I thought rather to be thanked than 
 draw on myself dry words. My girl is fair, your son 
 is brave, and I was ever an old fool wishing to see 
 the young happy. Philotis did not bid me come. 
 I doubt if her glance declined on your son long 
 enough to tell him from another. I said what I did, 
 looking for a different issue to our talk, for she 
 is fair, and he, to all seeming, brave ; and I hope 
 you may find a daughter-in-law fit to fasten on her 
 sandals." 
 
 With that, old Auge took her departure. 
 
 Antiope watched her down the hillside, and as 
 she was lost to view, fell to half pitying the good 
 soul's delusions. Then her mind dropped lovingly 
 and naturally back again on the thought of her sons.
 
 100 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 Bringing up old sweet memories of their childhood 
 had given new life to her pride in them. It was 
 as if the love that lay like still, deep waters in the 
 bottom of her heart had been stirred to bring up 
 the pearls sunken in them, made to tremble and 
 shine and feel themselves be. It seemed a long time 
 since she had parted from Biton and Attys at break 
 of day ; she yearned to see them turn the hill-road, 
 coming toward her. Her thought caressed the image 
 she called up of them as she had often seen them, 
 emerging from behind the rock that shut off the far 
 ther view of the road, equally fair and well-grown, 
 Attys with one arm cast across Biton's shoulders, both 
 smiling to meet her welcoming smile. She had never 
 felt more keenly how blessed she was in them ; her 
 heart was beset with tenderness, and to throw off its 
 oppression she went quickly into the house to busy 
 herself about their evening meal. 
 
 " They are late," she thought, and repeatedly came 
 outside to look up the road. "They promised to 
 return at sundown. They cannot be far." With a 
 restless impulse to have them near her soon, a little 
 sooner, she walked forth, up along the road they were 
 sure to pass, thinking of them incessantly. 
 
 The sky was fading, and all the valley blurred with 
 a violet mist. The light dew fell. Antiope walked 
 slowly with upturned face ; and the peace of the 
 perfect evening stole upon her. 
 
 Shepherds and flocks passed her, returning to the 
 white farms thinly scattered over the hillside. These, 
 forcing her to the side of the road and sometimes 
 jostling her, broke up the skein of her thought. The
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 101 
 
 sharpness died from her longing to look upon the faces 
 of her children, her disappointment at their delay; 
 and with this release Fate being busy at work with 
 the threads of her life came a half-formed desire to 
 prove to herself her independence by prolonging her 
 walk so long as it gave her pleasure, even though her 
 sons might reach home in her absence. 
 
 She turned from the road into a field, and strayed 
 through a vineyard, then on through a little grove, 
 careless whither her feet took her, being well ac 
 quainted with the region. 
 
 So the divine night approached; the half-moon 
 brightened in mid-heaven, it could only just make 
 a shadow, while a glimmer of sunset light lingered 
 above the hills. 
 
 Now Antiope paused to see where she stood, before 
 beginning to retrace her steps. 
 
 The light was dim, but her good eyes served her. 
 It was a pasture she knew, avoided by shepherds 
 since a brown sylvan god was said to have been seen 
 there sitting and fantastically piping. The ground 
 was uneven, broken up by rocks into hills and hol 
 lows ; once, as she remembered, dotted with sheep. 
 
 As she stood still to observe, a sound met her ear, 
 a faint sound as of struggling. 
 
 Her first thought was that a stray lamb must be 
 caught in a thorn. She listened and moved toward 
 the sound, pausing at every few steps to listen 
 again. 
 
 It led her to climb over a ledge of rock fringed in 
 every crease with short bushes and grass, tufted at 
 the top with trees. The sound of struggling came to
 
 102 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 her distinct as she stood among the trees. Beyond 
 them the ground dropped to a hollow, a nearly 
 circular hollow, at the bottom of which gleamed 
 a small sheet of water, bluish in the first faint moon 
 light. Against that she caught the outline of a dark 
 swaying object. 
 
 The last light of day was at her back; no ray of 
 it reached the hollow, only a doubtful whiteness rain 
 ing down from the young moon. By that she could 
 scarcely for a moment tell if the forms were of man 
 or brute. 
 
 She held her breath and strained her eyes. Then 
 she perceived it to be two men struggling. At first 
 she thought two shepherds settling their claims or 
 differences ; then a superstitious terror crept through 
 her, and she feared it might be two sylvan gods 
 ready to punish a mortal with blindness or madness 
 should they discover themselves to be spied upon. 
 Panic seized her; she dared not fly. She crouched 
 among the trees with a loud-beating heart, and did 
 not stir. 
 
 It seemed a bitter, bitter fight. Antiope could dis 
 tinguish between the sounds now : the stamp of the 
 foot taking fresh hold upon the ground, or the thud 
 of the arm closing with a recovered advantage, the 
 harsh hiss of lips gathering in wind, the crack of 
 joints bending under the straining weight of the ad 
 versary ; then the groan of effort as the knees were 
 straightened, and the weight was lifted and held 
 swaying a moment and violently cast. 
 
 But never did either of the combatants more than 
 touch knee to the ground. Now and then the two
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 103 
 
 parted for a second to get a full breath, then closed 
 with fresh fury, never uttering a word. The moon 
 touched them with a wild effect, just suggesting their 
 discomposed locks and garments. 
 
 Long minutes passed ; the breath of both came 
 labored and loud ; they fought spasmodically, with 
 greater display both of strength and weakness. 
 
 Suddenly, before Antiope knew how it had hap 
 pened, they were on the ground, still desperately 
 struggling, rolling and writhing; then one lay mo 
 tionless under the other. 
 
 There was a long, long silence, cut only by hard 
 breathing. Antiope could hear her heart. 
 
 Presently the topmost figure rose and held out his 
 hand to the prostrate enemy, who grasped it and got 
 to his feet tottering. Then the echoes were surprised 
 with a double peal of laughter, strange and harsh, 
 yet sufficiently human, at which Antiope's heart 
 stood still. 
 
 No sylvan gods were these, as she knew by that 
 sound. She gathered strength, and came stumbling 
 down the side of the rock, impelled by a terror more 
 insane than she had yet felt. 
 
 She had almost reached the wrestlers before they 
 became aware of her. 
 
 " Biton ! Attys ! " she gasped ; " is it you ? " 
 
 The two men shrank back a step, and were still, 
 struck dumb with amazement. Then through the 
 gloom came a familiar voice attempting to subdue 
 and soften itself : " Mother, how have you come to 
 this place?" 
 
 "In good time I came, it seems," said Antiope,
 
 104 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 trembling with a passion of wrath and grief, " in 
 time to know your hearts better ! Oh, me deceived ! 
 Would I had not been born ! Would I had borne no 
 sons ! Oh, wicked, unnatural, abominable ! " 
 
 " Hush, mother ! Do not chide. Wait but a mo 
 ment and I will tell you. I cannot stand nor speak, 
 for pure weariness. Wait but a little, or Biton, if 
 you by any chance have breath left, make our deeds 
 clear to our mother." And Attys dropped to the 
 ground, stretching himself his full size out on the 
 trampled grass to rest. 
 
 Biton stooped over the spring and drank, and 
 dashed his head with water. When he rose, bright 
 drops rolled from his hair. 
 
 Then he turned to his mother, and spoke briefly 
 and moderately, as was Biton's way : " Not as ene 
 mies, mother, were we contending. We have no 
 cause for quarrel. But we have been fighting since 
 daybreak, and I am at last the victor. We were 
 equally reputed above all others in the region for 
 strength and endurance, and we could not live longer 
 without knowing which of the two were the better 
 man. Now we are satisfied. And that is all. Attys 
 bears me no grudge," he added, "as I owe him no 
 scorn. Do you, Attys ? " 
 
 Attys laughed, a laugh broken and discordant 
 from desperate weariness. " No ; no grudge, no 
 scorn, loving brothers as ever. One had to yield, 
 or we should have fought till we dropped dead. All 
 happened as it should ; the younger was overcome." 
 
 Antiope groaned, and hid her face to shut out the 
 changed world.
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 105 
 
 "Don't grieve, mother," said Biton. "You are a 
 woman ; you cannot understand. Then trust your 
 sons when we tell you it was good, as it was un 
 avoidable. No evil is done; nothing is changed. 
 A little water to wash off this dust and blood and 
 sweat, a long sleep, and there will be no trace left of 
 this." 
 
 " gods ! " moaned Antiope, foreboding nameless 
 disasters. 
 
 " Attys, you are more cunning with words. Per 
 suade you our mother as we go homeward. The 
 chill dew will stiffen us if we lie here longer." 
 
 Unsteadily the three regained the road, the men 
 reeling as if drunk, in turns upholding and upheld 
 by their mother ; frequently laughing a jarring, ex 
 cited laugh at their missteps. 
 
 At last they reached the house, and cleared them 
 selves with water of all outward signs of the fight ; 
 clothed themselves in fresh fragrant linen, and with 
 composed locks sat down to the fairly spread board 
 beside their pale and solemn mother. 
 
 Their faces were warmly flushed, their eyes bright 
 as the eyes of immortals ; the excitement of the day's 
 strife increased their beauty tenfold. 
 
 Antiope gazed in silence from Biton to Attys, and 
 Attys to Biton, while they talked in a frank and 
 friendly way, no else than as if they had returned 
 after good sport from the ordinary chase. 
 
 They were as much alike almost as if they had 
 been twins ; with the same straight brows and clus 
 tering hair. But if thev had been as near like as 
 
 o / 
 
 dew-drops, one familiar with them could have told
 
 106 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 them apart from nothing but the look in the eye, 
 that in Biton's reserved, calm, secure, suggesting 
 repose in power, not referring to other eyes for 
 praise or blame ; that in Attys' quick, smiling, 
 beaming friendliness, appealing to all for favor, 
 sympathy, approval. 
 
 As the brothers warmed with food and wine, 
 their words flowed freely, more than usual grateful 
 to hear, generous, eloquent words. Autiope, watch 
 ing and listening, felt a measure of comfort creep 
 back into her heart. 
 
 When they had eaten, they declared they were 
 dropping with sleep; and Antiope herself lighted 
 them to their chambers, receiving cheerful good 
 night greetings. 
 
 Then she went to rest herself, but could not 
 sleep. She was haunted in spite of her reasonings 
 by a sense of something broken that could never 
 be made whole, something gone, not to be restored. 
 She saw the long line of future days unfolding be 
 fore her, and never one among them bright as the 
 days that were dead, not one purely golden, but 
 all imperfect, chilled and overshadowed by this 
 day's action. Her heart burned and ached. In 
 her arms was awakened with a yearning pang the 
 old feeling of holding children; and she sighed, 
 " Oh that they were still little, and I were walk 
 ing with one on each arm, able in myself to make 
 both quite happy ! " 
 
 Her couch was hot and comfortless. She arose 
 at last and went out upon the roof, as she had 
 done before on sleepless nights, to breathe the pure
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 107 
 
 dark air a minute, and see if the sight of the stars 
 might not cairn her. 
 
 As she looked out over the valley, something 
 stirred near, below. On the pale stone bench 
 where she had sat with Auge that day she dimly 
 discerned a figure reclining. Her prophetic heart 
 warned her unerringly. Casting her mantle about 
 her, noiselessly she crept down the stairs into 
 the shadowy odorous garden, moved to the bench, 
 and touched the figure on the shoulder, saying } 
 " Attys ! " 
 
 The young man lifted his face from his arm 
 with a start. 
 
 " Attys," said his mother again, in a tender tone 
 that of itself questioned him, bade him lighten 
 his heart to her, promised consolation. 
 
 "Nothing," he replied in a thick voice, unlike 
 his own, a voice that shut her out, forbade her, 
 as plainly as did his slight gesture to remove her 
 hand from him. 
 
 And she knew that he was struggling with his 
 first man-sorrow, and that he refused to let her 
 share it. 
 
 On the next day and the days that followed all 
 was to all seeming as before. The brothers went 
 forth together or with their companions, shepherds 
 and huntsmen, on their various adventures and 
 pleasures. No one noted a change in their man 
 ner to each other. Only Antiope, grown in her 
 anxious watching wonderfully keen of sight, and 
 in her deep sympathy morbidly alive to impres-
 
 108 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 sions, was ever saying to herself: "Attys chafes. 
 How will he make shift to be reconciled ? He is 
 casting about in his mind how to redeem himself. 
 What will Attys do?" 
 
 But when after a time she saw the full light 
 returned to Attys' eye, and caught the true ring 
 in his mirth, her fears were hushed; she almost 
 forgot them. 
 
 And as days went by, she had to wonder what 
 agreeable circumstance Attys might be musing on 
 when his face lighted in that unusual way, Attys 
 with this new whim" of exquisite precision about 
 his body's adornment. Biton's face did not breathe 
 a quiet satisfaction like that; Biton's, on the con 
 trary, was almost stern when he was not speaking. 
 Though Antiope said to herself that she loved her 
 sons equally, she owned she was always more glad 
 of a joy for Attys than grieved at a cross for Biton. 
 Biton disposed easily of annoyance, hardly showed 
 signs of feeling it ; and Attys could be so exuber 
 antly happy, so tender when he was pleased. 
 
 At last she was enlightened. One evening Attys 
 knelt by her side, and turning his confident face up 
 to her, confessed, " Mother, I love." 
 
 Biton, who was present, rose to leave. But Attys 
 said quickly : " Stay, brother. From you I have no 
 secrets. I love, mother, and I am loved. She is 
 young and good, and most, most beautiful. You will 
 see her, you will make her welcome." 
 
 " Who is she ? " faltered Antiope, confused she 
 knew not whether with joy or fear. 
 
 " It is Philotis, Lycaon's daughter."
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 109 
 
 Antiope felt herself turn cold with alarm as a swift 
 suspicion crossed her mind. She looked at Biton ; 
 he sat in his place with the calm face of every day. 
 She looked again at Attys. His face glowed and 
 beamed with a triumphant happiness. It warmed 
 her to look on it ; and the last lingering resentment 
 for that night when he had suffered alone in the gar 
 den thawed before it. She could not but understand 
 how a young girl, though not his mother, must pre 
 fer this radiant Attys to yonder cold, undemonstrative 
 Biton, though Auge had said But she had no reason 
 whatever for saying it, as had been clear at the time. 
 
 After abundance of confessions and long discus 
 sion, Autiope rose at last, intent on preparing to 
 set forth early and seek Lycaon. As she passed 
 through the door, again that swift suspicion shot 
 through her heart. It had seemed to her she heard 
 Attys call out to Biton in his clear, gay accents 
 something that sounded like, " Not in every contest 
 is the victory thine, brother." 
 
 " Be silent ! " commanded Biton, without raising 
 his voice. 
 
 " You mean by your tone," spoke Attys, with lit 
 tle of the earlier sweetness left in his voice, " that 
 you think yourself able to enforce your will." 
 
 But Antiope did not hear this, only, as she 
 withdrew, something indistinct, that she decided 
 afterward could scarcely have been, "Not in every 
 contest is the victory thine, brother." 
 
 So the days went by, in their appointed measure 
 golden and gray. The moon grew more and less,
 
 110 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 the seasons changed, and in their course brought 
 the afternoon when happened what shall here be set 
 forth. 
 
 On the same semicircular seat, out in the ter 
 raced garden, where Auge and Antiope had tarried 
 talking of the past, and where Attys had wept, sat 
 Phil otis holding her little son. 
 
 The citadel gleamed white on its rock. The little 
 city at its base showed white and red among the 
 trees; the river wound like a silver ribbon. 
 
 Philotis had gathered her feet up on the smooth 
 marble, and was playing with the baby, who sat 
 astride her making clutches at her hair, which she 
 in turns pulled over her eyes, concealing them, and 
 pushed back, laughing out at him suddenly. 
 
 Against the stone that took on a dazzling white 
 ness from the deep blue of the sky, Philotis looked 
 wonderfully rosy, her hair gleamed warm. She 
 was in the perfection of youth ; her face had still 
 moments of touching childishness, and sometimes 
 already that mature, experienced look of a woman 
 satisfied with love and life. 
 
 The baby's playing was now and then stopped 
 short, when the mother caught its little head be 
 tween her hands to kiss indiscriminately with laugh 
 ing, inarticulate, loving murmurs. 
 
 " Small Itylus, small Itylus, it is unseemly to pull 
 thy mother's hair. When thy father comes, he shall 
 know of it. I will say to him a bold, bold person 
 in his absence pulled the hair he loves. He will 
 take down his ponderous, bronze-headed spear, and 
 say, shaking it while his big eyes roll, 'Where is
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. Ill 
 
 that person ? ' And thou canst not flee yet on these 
 dumpy legs that shall stride over such brave miles 
 one day ; but perhaps mother will stand before thee. 
 I will spread out my gown to hide thee, and say, ' I 
 don't know what has become of that ruffian ; he was 
 here but a moment ago.' Then thy father " Her 
 face lost a shade of its brightness as she stopped on 
 that word to think a moment, looking away from the 
 baby off over the peaceful valley. " Where is thy 
 father now, small Itylus ? Ask that bird, and tell 
 me what he says. Thou art almost as little as a 
 big, big bird, and thy conversation resembles that of 
 the wood-pigeons ; thou shouldst understand them. 
 Ask the birds, they fly so far, they see so much, 
 ask where thy father is, and tell me. Goo-goo 
 Ah, I see, I understand ! Goo-goo, that means that 
 he is well and on his way home to us. Goo-goo, 
 of course, my wise, small Itylus ! " and the frolics 
 of the happy pair began again. 
 
 Suddenly, with a glad cry, Philotis jumped to her 
 feet, and clutching the baby made a few steps for 
 ward, her face wreathed with smiles, though the 
 man, to meet whom she was running, was still too 
 far to seize their welcome. 
 
 Then as suddenly she stopped, turned, and slowly 
 went back to the bench, seated herself in a corner of 
 it, composed the folds of her crocus-yellow gown 
 over her little feet, set the serious grown baby 
 straight on her knee, and watched the approach of 
 the man with a calm, almost sulky face. 
 
 He advanced slowly, looking about for signs of 
 life. Philotis was the only one in sight, except
 
 112 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 servants about their various offices in the farm- 
 buildings beyond the fair dwelling-house. 
 
 He came to her side. She had not readjusted her 
 hair; the blooming face she lifted at his greeting 
 was like a glorified sunflower, framed in delicate 
 flame-like, gold-red locks. 
 
 " Is my mother within ? " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Is my brother at home ? " 
 
 She shook it again without speaking. 
 
 The man laughed, and took a seat at the other end 
 of the bench, flinging his arm across the sun-warmed 
 back. " Perhaps Itylus will tell me what has be 
 come of them, and where I must go to find them. 
 Say thou, my promising nephew " 
 
 But Philotis did not wish to be playful. " Your 
 mother and Auge," she answered with curt direct 
 ness, "have gone to a neighbor. And he, I do 
 not know myself where he is. I took you for him a 
 moment ago," she added resentfully. 
 
 " That must have been bitter ; and I am rewarded 
 for looking like him by that exceedingly weary, dis 
 appointed look which politeness in the family forbid 
 you should be at trouble to disguise. Another time 
 I will send before me a messenger to shout, ' It is 
 only Biton ! ' " 
 
 " Now you are making me still sorrier that it was 
 you," said Philotis. "If you had come with pleasant 
 words to tell me the news in the city, and how your 
 fields and flocks prosper, I should only have quite 
 naturally regretted that it was not Attys, whom I 
 have not seen it seems for a hundred years. But if
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 113 
 
 you speak in that disagreeable, thorny way you have, 
 I shall be sorry it was not some one else, oh, with 
 out any choice whatever, you know, any one but 
 you ; even Dauriius, the goat-herd, with the wen on 
 his nose." 
 
 Biton listened calmly, without apology or attempt 
 at justification, or reminder that she first had offended. 
 "What Philotis did or said did not seem to him to 
 matter very much. Being reasonable or just seemed 
 out of her province. She filled her part sufficiently 
 by being simply beautiful and sweet. There was felt 
 a kinship between her and such things in inanimate 
 nature as give one a reposeful, unreflecting joy from 
 their irresponsible scent and warmth, June roses 
 spreading themselves to the brooding noonday light, 
 balsam-dropping trees exuding fragrance in the sun, 
 warm wind breathing from over hay-fields. Having 
 come within the circle of the light and heat that 
 radiated from her soft, full-colored, perfect person, 
 it would have seemed churlish to require of her 
 deep and various wisdom and sympathetic under 
 standing and fine impersonal judgments. Every one 
 since she had been born had given her her wish ; 
 and now she took it with no thought but that all 
 must be pleased with what pleased her. Since she 
 had been born all had deferred to her, and at this 
 hour she was not given to doubts of herself. Yet 
 these things seemed almost no fault at all by light of 
 those sweet, changeful, limpid eyes. 
 
 " Is my speech thorny ? " Biton said at last, when 
 Philotis had finished, and mother and child sat look 
 ing at him from their corner with great, sweet, hostile 
 
 8
 
 114 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 eyes. " I must believe it is. I forget how to speak 
 to women. But I will try to mend. So give me 
 Itylus a moment, and I will go and find my mother." 
 
 She looked ready to refuse ; then gave up the child 
 grudgingly, and watched it jealously in Biton's hands. 
 The child kicked, and Biton restored it to its mother 
 before she had snatched it. 
 
 " What, Itylus ! " he said. " You share your little 
 mother's prejudices to-day. You are in an ill-humor 
 with me. Wherefore ? If I am a disagreeable uncle, 
 like the wolf, of course, and the bear and the hornet, 
 I do not come often, nor do I stay long. And 
 while I am here I try to be better than usual, I vow 
 I do, though with the effect you see. I make great 
 efforts to emulate the harmless woolly lamb and the 
 unaggressive dove and the domestic cat. I frequently 
 bring you gifts too, Itylus, though as soon as you 
 have swallowed or broken them you try to put your 
 fist in my eye. Why do you treat me as an enemy, 
 sturdy little Itylus ? " 
 
 " I will tell you," said Philotis, with eyes kindling 
 at the opportunity to say what she had often chafed to 
 repress. " Because he knows you are his enemy ! " 
 
 " I ? " asked Biton, after a pause during which he 
 had turned a shade paler. 
 
 " Yes, yes, you are his enemy. You are my enemy ; 
 it is all the same. Where is Attys to-day ? Why do 
 you not leave Attys alone ? We are happy enough 
 as we are." 
 
 Biton stared at her. 
 
 " Yes, yes, that is what I say," she proceeded, a 
 little fiercely now she thought of her wrongs. " What
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 115 
 
 does Attys want more than me, more than Itylus, 
 and all his pastures and sheep and vineyards and 
 bee-hives and servants, and his mother, and my old 
 nurse to look after every want of his, for Auge 
 worships the shadow he casts on the ground. Why 
 should you spoil all ? " 
 
 " Spoil ? How do I interfere, Philotis ? This was 
 my father's house, my home once. I have gone to 
 live elsewhere ; I have taken nothing from you, not 
 even my mother, though I confess I tried at one time 
 to induce her to go with me. It seemed to me I 
 needed her most." 
 
 " That has nothing to do with it. No one wanted 
 you to go. It was you who became insufferable as 
 soon as I had come to the house. They all said you 
 were not so before, silent and hard as a stone, speak 
 ing only to sneer. Then you wished to go and to 
 take your mother far from us all, high up in the hills 
 to a solitary farmhouse. But she saw that in your 
 quarrels with Attys you only were to blame. Oh, it 
 was not as you feigned to believe, that she loved 
 Attys best. But she was too just to leave Attys 
 a good son ! for you, the one who offended. You 
 know full well that you might have stayed with us, 
 and that it is your own fault now if you are lonely, 
 and are falling into the manners of a savage." 
 
 " And how am I your enemy, Philotis ? " 
 
 "I have said already: AVhy can you not leave 
 Attys alone ? He is satisfied, he is happy. Then 
 you come back from your expeditions, and you tell 
 him of them, and you show him wounds, and talk of 
 dangers, and enlarge upon your prowesses, and you
 
 116 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 say that his companions missed him ; you prate of 
 glory " 
 
 " Yes, I do ! " cried Biton, flushing crimson. " I 
 tell him that his former brothers-at-arins ask if Phi 
 lemon had not two sons, and if one of them is not 
 perhaps bedridden, or grown too fat for action. I 
 tell him that half of the fair name we won together 
 in many adventures and encounters is rusting like a 
 knife unused in the sheath. Soon it will not be the 
 sous of Philemon spoken of whenever fair and 
 knightly deeds are cited, but Biton, son of Philemon. 
 For a sluggard is not esteemed, even though his youth 
 gained a measure of glory ; he is forgotten, who would 
 have been long remembered if he had died in the 
 flush of his fame. Yearly the youth of this city and 
 these hills goes forth to meet the enemies, to prove 
 its strength and courage. Twice Attys has been 
 absent. Things that poets shall make immortal have 
 been done, and he knows nothing of them but their 
 report." 
 
 " I kept him," said Philotis, promptly and proudly, 
 " I would not let him go. I beguiled his attention 
 from. wars. I made him forget. I I I " 
 
 " I know," spoke Biton, sadly. " You are a woman ; 
 you do not understand some things. And there is a 
 pulse in me that feels for you, that apprehends your 
 way of looking. But Itylus here, this soft white 
 bundle helpless now in your woman's hands, that is 
 yet the germ of a man and Philemon's grandson, 
 he, when he is grown to his full heritage of strength 
 and intelligence and finds it a dishonor to be called 
 the son of Attys, he will not have patience to seek
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 117 
 
 your point of view. Attys sleeps, I would wish to 
 wake him." 
 
 " No, he does not sleep. I would the gods he did ! 
 After you have been here with your goading words, 
 he is restless, ill at ease ; he does not fully listen to 
 me. If I am a woman, so is your mother, whom you 
 respect nevertheless, who says too that the duties of 
 husband and father are not the same as a bachelor's ; 
 that he should risk his life no doubt if his country 
 were in danger, but not for a freak, not in pursuit of 
 every wandering fire of glory. No, Attys does not 
 sleep ; and it is my spite toward you that you will 
 not leave him in peace." 
 
 " I give praise that there is so much of his father 
 left in him ! I thought myself that he lay asleep 
 sunk in a thick idle fleece, and with ears stopped up 
 fast to the sound of the trumpet." 
 
 " I tell you, I wish he were at home now, and asleep, 
 or that I knew where he is." 
 
 There was a ring of sincere anxiety in her voice. 
 " He may have gone just a-hunting he took his 
 spear and bow. But he spoke mysteriously when he 
 left, and told me not to be alarmed if he stayed away 
 somewhat longer than usual. He charged me spe 
 cially when he kissed me at parting not to make 
 myself unhappy ; he would remain rather than that 
 I should suffer, yet wished for my good word on his 
 going. He hinted at its making me glad hereafter, 
 and being for Itylus' best, and would not answer all 
 my questions openly. His eyes shone in a way I do 
 not like, as I have seen them when you and he 
 have been talking together of a time when I had no
 
 118 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 part in his life. Biton, I feel as if I had you to thank 
 that I have slept alone these three nights and moped 
 three days. I have tried to make myself happy with 
 the baby," she sighed ; " but my heart when I let 
 myself stop to think is very heavy. Oh, Biton, try 
 to be friendly ! " she suddenly exclaimed, after a 
 space of gazing pensively over the valley, turning to 
 him with wet eyes. " Tell me where you think he is, 
 and why he stays so long." 
 
 Not a trace of her resentment remained in her face. 
 It was soft and forlorn, tender with its great helpless, 
 undisciplined love. Her tears grew and fell over 
 her lashes, gleamed a moment on her cheek, and 
 were frankly brushed away with the back of her 
 hand. 
 
 Biton did not know what to say. His heart had 
 warmed, by an old habit not quite outgrown of pride 
 in his brother, at thought that her worst fears were 
 perhaps realized, that Attys had awakened at last 
 from the insensibility to glory that got him his con 
 tempt and made him ashamed to own him. But her 
 sweet distress hurt him to see. And on second 
 thought his first conjecture seemed to him rash. 
 Attys was past hoping better things of. He encour 
 aged her to look for the best, what she held to be 
 the best; he assured her of his firm belief that Attys 
 would prove to have gone on some simple enough 
 errand importing nothing more than worldly gain, 
 to acquire another farm, perhaps, or herds ; he would 
 come back to her shortly on his two feet in as bloom 
 ing condition as he had left her. 
 
 He broke off from his speech with a burst of
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 119 
 
 laughter, and pointed where the hill-road emerged 
 from behind the great rock. The figure of a man 
 had appeared there. 
 
 "Was I not -a diviner?" laughed Biton, harshly. 
 " See where he comes ! " 
 
 He followed with his eyes the bounding figure 
 of Philotis, who though burdened with Itylus was 
 hurrying with blowing hair and flying robe. 
 
 Attys for a moment did not seem to see her. He 
 dragged his foot as if weary. He walked with his 
 eyes on the ground. At the sound of the glad voice 
 he looked up quickly, and Biton discreetly turned 
 his face toward the valley, and in his cold eyes were 
 reflected the beauties of the sunset sky. 
 
 He turned again at their approaching footsteps. It 
 was Attys now held Itylus, steadying him on his 
 shoulder with one hand. Philotis had possession of 
 his other arm ; she clasped her small hands above his 
 shoulder, and so half hung, talking to him rapidly, 
 laughing, rubbing her flushed, dimpling cheek against 
 him. 
 
 The brothers faced each other. Attys' garments 
 were travel-stained ; his buskins were covered with 
 dust. 
 
 Biton's eyes searched Attys' with a sort of hope, 
 and lost for a moment the half-contemptuous look 
 they had of late worn when turned upon his brother. 
 Attys' eyes gazed back at him for a moment as they 
 had used when they two were youths together, and 
 the younger relied on the elder for encouragement, 
 perhaps, or approval, or understanding, or assistance. 
 
 Then, as if recollecting himself, Attys assumed the
 
 120 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 look of cold civility he kept for his brother; and 
 Biton retreated within his ordinary stolid indiffer 
 ence. But once more Biton was smitten with a sense 
 of the pitiableness of his folly, the smallness of man's 
 nature. He wished his pride would allow him to 
 put a question that burned on his tongue ; but that 
 stern master forbade. And they two had grown to 
 gether, shared pleasures and pains and dangers, been 
 without a secret one from the other ! 
 
 " Biton said you would be back," babbled Philotis ; 
 " he assured me you had gone to buy sheep or some 
 thing. I need not be alarmed, he said ; something 
 without the least, least danger." 
 
 " Biton is always wise ; but when he assumes to 
 read my heart, and finds motives for me, then his 
 wisdom truly shines, and his generosity reaches its 
 highest point." 
 
 " Why were you so long, my Attys ? Where did 
 you go ? What did you do ? " 
 
 Attys made a motion touched with weariness, and 
 smiled with effort, yet making an attempt, too, to 
 conceal both weariness and effort, which did not 
 escape Bitoii, not engrossed like Philotis by pure joy 
 at his return. " Later, my curious little wife. I 
 will tell you all later, when w r e have eaten." 
 
 " Are you so tired ? " Philotis asked, sobering. 
 " Sit down at once and I will take him. Come, small 
 Itylus. Yes, dearest love, you look weary. I was 
 so glad I did not notice ; but your eyes are dark 
 around as if you had not slept. You are not weary ? 
 Then why do you look like that ? Attys, you are 
 not ill?"
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 121 
 
 She put her hand to his forehead, full of wifely 
 solicitude. 
 
 He laughed impatiently, saying he was well as 
 ever; and when she, unconvinced, passed her hand 
 over his brow through his thick curls, in an undis 
 guised caress that yet had a medical purpose, he 
 caught the hand and drew it down, still laughing 
 faintly, and kept it prisoner in his own, while 
 he asked concerning the events of the last few 
 days. 
 
 The day was going; the sky above was delicate 
 green, and over the farther little hills warm golden. 
 The citadel, the pillars of the temples along the iri 
 descent river, seemed to have absorbed the last sun 
 shine, and still for a moment glowed rosily, though 
 the sun was gone. 
 
 Attys, while Philotis narrated to him in full every 
 trifle that had come to her ken since his departure, 
 looked out over the earth, and cast his head back to 
 look at the sky, as if something in both struck him 
 more nearly than usual. He sat turned to his wife, but 
 looked away from her over his shoulder ; while she, 
 leaning forward aud stroking with one hand his hand 
 that held her other, Itylus wedged in between 
 them and fallen asleep, was satisfied to chatter on 
 uninterruptedly. Biton stood at the other end of 
 the bench, behind Attys, with one foot upon the 
 seat and his arm resting on his lifted knee, con 
 templating now the group, now mechanically looking 
 off and up to see what it was Attys saw. To him 
 there was only the empty evening sky, the ordinary 
 landscape.
 
 122 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 Antiope and Auge returned to find them so. Attys 
 leaped up with more than his usual eagerness to meet 
 his mother ; Biton approached her gravely, and she 
 blessed both, and sat down with them and asked of 
 their concerns. But most in spite of her wish she 
 had to converse with Attys, for they lived together ; 
 she could not speak with the same knowledge, in 
 quire with the same pertinence, of Biton's affairs, for 
 he lived at a distance, and came none too often, and 
 his answers at best were curt. 
 
 "Later, later, I pray, mother!" replied Attys to 
 Antiope, as to Philotis, when she inquired of his ab 
 sence. Then irrelevantly he broke fortli : "A fair 
 evening, mother! This is a goodly country, is it 
 not ? fertile and beautiful. A good soil to have 
 been born on. By the gods, I love it ! " 
 
 " Yes, beautiful," said Antiope, looking out over it 
 too. "I think there is not on earth a fairer spot. 
 Once in thy father's day we went abroad in a ship, 
 and visited kinsfolk of his on other isles, and a great 
 city on the mainland. But though every one praised 
 its splendor and wealth, it never seemed to me as 
 fair to the eye, as good to be near, as that small city 
 in the valley that yet no traveller comes afar to be 
 hold. I was sick with longing to return, and vowed 
 not to leave it again." 
 
 "Ah, we know we know that you are, above 
 other women, faithful to your first affections ! " said 
 Biton. 
 
 Antiope turned to him a face full of displeasure. 
 She knew that wounding tone he had assumed with 
 her of late, and that in her dignity she had chosen to
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 123 
 
 ignore. It was his grievance that she had preferred 
 Attys to him in her choice of a home. But she had 
 been merely just, not partial. Now he was pleased 
 to affect believing that she loved him the first 
 born ! less than his brother, and he allowed himself 
 in indirect speeches to reproach l\er. A resentful 
 word was on her tongue ; but a sudden, intelligent, 
 impersonal pity checked it. If he were indeed so 
 mad as to believe that his place was usurped in her 
 large love, she could well understand the fund of 
 bitterness from which sprung those unfilial words. 
 The flash died in her eyes. She said, with more 
 than usual gentleness : " You say well. I bear the 
 changeless heart, Biton. Once loved with me is 
 loved ever, though the object prove ungrateful and 
 unworthy of my lasting kindness." 
 
 And seeing his unmoved face, there came over her 
 once more a sense of dull despair at the barrier that 
 was rising ever higher between them, and that she 
 seemed unable to cross. She, the justly incensed 
 one, to whom his attitude was an insult, could not 
 be the one to take the first step. And he, he did not 
 seem to care that they were estranged, more than 
 to let drop occasionally words that bit and seared. 
 Where would it end ? Surely, surely, she loved him 
 now as at every moment since the first of his exist 
 ence ; but out of her love all that made it a sweet 
 ness to her heart was departing, it was remaining 
 to be only a dull, never-sleeping pain. 
 
 As she was reflecting on one son's hardness, the 
 other softly put his hand in hers, as if appreciating 
 her pain. All her heart went out to him. Here was
 
 124 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 one at least would never so poorly reward her, one 
 meeting her love with an equal, candid, undoubting 
 love, never scanting the demonstration of it. 
 
 She pressed Attys' hand ; and he, moved by a sud 
 den impulse, as if having divined the hunger for ten 
 derness born in Jier soul of Biton's repulse, dropped 
 his head against her shoulder, as if he had been a boy 
 again, and had come to her with some childish trouble. 
 Only for a second; for Auge approached to take Itylus 
 to put him to bed. 
 
 " Oh, leave him ! " Attys begged. " He does no 
 harm, and can take none. He leans against me ; 
 he is warm, poor little mouse ! I will cast the end 
 of my cloak over him " 
 
 Philotis interposed, but he insisted. 
 
 " It will give him bad habits," said the very youth 
 ful mother, seriously. 
 
 " Oh, habits ! I shall not ask it more than this 
 once ! " said Attys ; and as he seemed so unreason 
 ably bent on it, the child was left him, and Auge 
 retired, grumbling, with orders to hurry the supper. 
 
 " Have everything the best to-night ! " Attys called 
 out after her. " Honey and wine and fruits, and the 
 flesh of a young kid. We will feast and be joyful. 
 You will remain, Biton, I pray you will; I humbly 
 beseech ! What ! you are not curious of my journey ? 
 Yet it may not have been what you thought; there 
 may be a circumstance or so of interest to you too. 
 Come, stay. I want you all, all about me ; even 
 this small, sleepy copy of myself. And if this whim 
 of mine stunts his growth, as by your great reluc 
 tance I judge you fear it may, Philotis, you will
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 125 
 
 explain to him, when he "bewails himself on his in 
 ferior stature, that his poor, fond father one fateful 
 night refused to be parted from him ; that he loved 
 the feel of his baby weight against the fatherly 
 knee" 
 
 Now through the dewy air came Auge's voice 
 calling them in. 
 
 They rose and turned toward the house. Attys 
 stopped half-way, and lingering cast his eyes over 
 the fair dwelling, through whose open door streamed 
 light, and over the farm-buildings beyond, the 
 meadows and vineyards and olive-groves all losing 
 the strength of their color in the oncoming night, 
 but still dreamily green and gray, and the walls a 
 cool, ghostly white under the glass-clear darkening 
 sky, stabbed by the first star's point of crystal. 
 
 " That house," he said, " if that house which our 
 father built so strong and well had been dear to you, 
 Biton, as to me, I swear you could not have lightly 
 left it. Look at it ! If a footsore, homeless trav 
 eller were passing, bent he knew not whither, con 
 ceive, now, how warm and safe and peaceful it must 
 seem to him ! And it is fair, too, to the eye, very 
 fair of shape and proportion, and meet for every 
 season ; but, more than all, endearing itself to the 
 heart by a special indescribable grace that it has not 
 in common with any other house. Is it, perhaps, 
 that its walls stand around the memories of our 
 childhood, mother ; and, Biton, of our youth ; 
 and the first days of our wedded love, Sweetness, 
 Philotis?" 
 
 "I love you for your pious love for it," said
 
 126 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 Antiope, softly. They ascended the steps that led 
 to the door, and entered the hall. 
 
 The triple-llamed lamps were burning, each high 
 on its slender three-footed stand. On the higher end 
 of the hall the tables were spread with fair vessels 
 on a spotless cloth ; burnished dishes, from which 
 rose curling the savory steam ; baskets with wheaten 
 bread ; broad leaves full of dried fruits and fresh ; 
 olives of last year, and the season's earliest gift of 
 green and violet grapes. By the table that up 
 held the broad, shallow, ivy-wreathed cups and the 
 slender water-pitchers, leaned the tall red earth jar 
 sealed with pitch. To make festive the house for 
 the master's return, the maids of the household had 
 hastily twined a great garland of green, sweet- 
 smelling laurel and cedar ; and that they had fas 
 tened to each well-carved white beam, so that it hung 
 from one to the other all around the hall, dropping 
 gracefully across the clear spaces between. 
 
 " No hand shall wait on me to-night but this," said 
 Attys, pressing Philotis' hand before he dropped it ; 
 " I will have no music but of this mouth's making. 
 You, my dear ones, shall be all my pleasure. Auge 
 shall stay with my boy ; she may walk with him to 
 and fro. Shut out the others. We will be merry 
 among ourselves." 
 
 So the brothers sat on fleeces spread over polished 
 chairs for them ; and the women served them famil 
 iarly, at the same time eating, they too. 
 
 Auge, who walked at the low end of the hall, 
 where the light was least, stilling Itylus, who as soon 
 as she stopped crooning to him broke forth in com-
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 127 
 
 plaints, between her snatches of song and her ruffled 
 reflections upon Attys' interference with the estab 
 lished order of baby management, cast her eyes 
 toward the little group at the tables, and followed 
 their talk with half an ear. 
 
 Never for a long time had she seen them merrier ; 
 insensibly it charmed even her, vexed as she was for 
 the moment at being left out of their joy. Attys, 
 flushed in the face, with brilliant eyes, now that the 
 hour for wine had come, splashed the marble floor 
 with abundant libations to every god, and was drink 
 ing mad toasts, to youth, then to beauty, to life, to 
 love, to the light of day, to the light in Philotis' 
 eyes. Philotis was laughing and teasing and playing, 
 and giving him mad answers, affecting to sing only 
 and dance only, not to be able that night to speak 
 and walk like other mortals. She mixed him wine 
 and water, poised on one foot like an airy goddess, 
 holding her curved arm high, and letting the liquid 
 flow in a long lucent stream bubbling over the edges 
 of the cup. Then she knelt, and took from his hand 
 like one of her own tame doves. 
 
 "I thought she had grown less like a young cat 
 on a windy evening," mused Auge. " This innocent 
 bit of flesh and blood would seem heavy enough to 
 have steadied her, to have put a little lead in her 
 hands and feet. But no, ever the same, laughing 
 and taking no thought. So she was when a green 
 bud of a maid ; so she will be, I mistrust, till the red 
 rose-leaves have dropped around the ripe cup, and 
 the frosts set in. Well, a light heart is a good thing 
 to have. I could wish one with a good will to
 
 128 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 Biton, who can look on with scarcely a smile while 
 she plays those pretty pranks. I praise the gods who 
 determined that of the two it should be Attys ; 
 though at first There, there " and she devoted 
 herself to the son and heir, humming to him a homely 
 ditty that she made up as she went, casting her eyes 
 about to help her simple imagination : " If he will 
 lie still and sleep, to-morrow I will give to him a 
 fig, with a clear honey-tear in his eye. No ? Then if 
 he sleeps without another wail, I give to him what 
 he would like, a piece of the sun, a large, gold, 
 honey-dripping slice. No ? Then if he is a man, 
 and does not kick, I teach him a charm to make him 
 grow tall and red in the cheeks : and that is just 
 to sleep and sleep. What ? What ? No ? Hush, 
 Itylus, Itylus, my joy, and we go together to gather 
 the stones by the sea, little stones of every color; 
 we get nests with eggs, and cones with winged nuts 
 dropping out on every side." And so on, so on. At 
 last he was lulled ; and she went softly to sit on the 
 steps that divided the hall, with the child on her lap, 
 covered over with the hem of her gown, drowsy 
 herself, wondering what hour of the night it might 
 be, seeing the tapering flames but hazily. 
 
 " Now tell us, Attys," spoke Autiope, a little weary 
 spite of herself with the unusual merriment, of which 
 she had been rather a smiling spectator than a sharer, 
 " tell us the events of your journey. We have been 
 very patient, Biton and I, while you two played the 
 madcaps. And part of your audience, which you 
 kept out of bed, I must suppose, to be improved, is 
 dropped to sleep, and part is now likewise dropping.
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 129 
 
 You too are tired and overwrought ; this extravagant 
 conduct I have suspected to have its root in an ec 
 stasy of weariness. Dear son, you require rest. Tell 
 us, then we will separate ; for the night is wearing 
 on. See already how many shining constellations are 
 dropped behind the hill ; " and she pointed where 
 between the doorposts was seen the nocturnal sky. 
 
 "Yes, dearest of mothers," said Attys, "it is time 
 to part ; yet you cannot know how loath I am to 
 end this happy hour." 
 
 " I understand the joy at returning which makes 
 you so frank in your tenderness to us all to-night. 
 We feel equally the sweetness of reunion; but we 
 must not- forget altogether for that the limits of night 
 and day," she added with her good smile. 
 
 " Then pledge me in one more cup," said Attys, 
 laying hand on the foot of his cup, and looking 
 away from them all out through the door at the sky 
 that the rosy light within made look pale and far 
 away, full of dim swarming stars. " Here is to that 
 possible homeless traveller that came into my mind 
 before, who passes outside bent on a journey of which 
 he does not know the end, and sees the fair lights 
 shining here, and has a glimpse of this golden-haired 
 beauty, and these fruits, this wine, that rosy child, 
 this gracious mother, this brother so noble in appear 
 ance, so kind until one day that faithful servant, 
 this happy home in fine, then must turn his back on 
 it ; go on, on, into the darkness " 
 
 "Attys," said Biton, starting up and placing his 
 hand over his brother's, that was unsteadily lifting 
 the cup, " say at once the worst there is to say ! I 
 
 9
 
 130 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 have watched you; me you do not deceive. You 
 have strange and awful news that you fear to tell 
 Search my brain as I will, I cannot divine. Man, do 
 not keep me dreading what it may be ! " 
 
 Attys' hand fell to trembling under Biton's, as if a 
 needed support were taken from under it; he still 
 looked away with a composed face, but the irrepres 
 sible tears came slowly in his eyes. 
 
 All were hushed, wide-eyed, breathless, as if spell 
 bound ; until Philotis jumped upon her husband, and 
 cried out trenchantly, " Attys, is this true ? " 
 
 He dropped into his seat, pale, and made a silent 
 struggle for his speech ; while Philotis, shaking his 
 arm, pressed on him incessantly her question, sharp 
 with fright : " Attys, is it true ? What does Bitoii 
 mean ? Bad news ? What bad, since you are here 
 laughing like a boy all the evening ? Attys, Attys, 
 answer me." 
 
 " Philotis, it has to come ! " he said despairingly. 
 " Sweetness, I would keep up this pretence a little 
 longer to see you laughing back at me, but I have no 
 time left to be gentle. I must find the courage, and 
 that quickly, to say what will alter this poor happy 
 face to what I shall dread to look on. Sweetness, I 
 have not an hour's life to give you." 
 
 Then, before any one could frame a question, he 
 went on quickly, while all the sickness of his heart 
 became evident in the altered, uncontrolled lines of 
 his face : " I am pledged to return to Charpedon. 
 I think I must have been mad ! I staked all on 
 my strength and alertness. Blindman ! I forgot 
 the gods, that they deny to mortals strength and
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 131 
 
 cunning equal to their own. Charpedon is their tool 
 to punish my presumption ! " 
 
 "But, my Attys, be plain," urged the little wife, 
 impatiently. " I do not understand. Tell me what 
 threatens you. Do not speak of the gods." 
 
 " Charpedon ? " inquired Biton, breathlessly. 
 
 Attys turned to him with a sort of bitter exulta 
 tion piercing through his dismay. " You will not be 
 ashamed of me now, Biton. You will be forced to 
 do me right in your mind. Great good may your be 
 lated praise do my memory ! Ears of mine will not 
 find it sweet. I failed ; but if I had succeeded I 
 should have left behind such a heritage of honor ! 
 Biton, no man single-handed ever achieved such a 
 thing as I hoped to have done. The fell of the en 
 chanted roe, golden-horned and golden-hoofed, that 
 Charpedon inadvertently shot and afterward hung in 
 the temple to appease the powers, my quest was 
 to bring home that. Such a trophy ! worth more in 
 glory than all your petty victories over that arrogant 
 king." 
 
 "Oh, rash !" gasped Biton. 
 
 " Not rash if I had succeeded," said Attys, quickly. 
 " Then it would have been bold, brave, not rash. I 
 thought of it night after night. My plan was grow 
 ing in ray head by day even while, like a good, dull- 
 mettled householder, I talked with my steward of 
 gains and losses, sheep fleeces and seedlings. So deli 
 cate was my stratagem it seemed that my hand was 
 already closing on the prize. I thought by one blow 
 to clear my name, to force you to respect it, all you 
 who have affected lately to look on me from a height ;
 
 132 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 you, Biton, most of all, who should have known me. 
 I wished to do what none of you scornful ones would 
 dare ; and I did it. But it will not avail my good 
 name much. Foolhardy and vain and weak of judg 
 ment will be all I get, because instead of bringing 
 home the golden-horned roe, the enemy's best treasure, 
 for us to hang in our temple, I return to perish for 
 sacrilege." 
 
 " Beturn ? " breathed Philotis, with a blank, puzzled 
 face, terrified without understanding the danger, and 
 instinctively laying her hands fast on his arm to 
 assure herself that she had him and could keep 
 him. 
 
 Attys nodded drearily. " It would have been more 
 beseeming the man I was attempting to be, to have 
 perished scornfully, without asking for reprieve, de 
 fying them to the last. I humbled myself to sue for 
 time to take one poor farewell of this, and this, and 
 this. It seemed I could not die unsatisfied. The 
 longing to see you once more, Philotis, my unhappy 
 girl, was stronger than shame. Blame me not. The 
 mad selfish thirst for the sweetness of your grieving 
 for me was mixed with a wish too to spare you, who 
 have never known a grief. This is hard, oh, hard ! 
 But think, poor Sweetness, if it had come to you 
 through a stranger perhaps when you were spinning, 
 singing to yourself, without a thought of care, that 
 Attys had perished, that your eyes should never find 
 him, that already he was gathered with yesterday's 
 sunsets, with last year's snow, that he had gone 
 whither the empty shades I had orders, too, to 
 leave behind me. Biton," he turned to his brother
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 133 
 
 with a face that dismissed all softness, his eyes ex 
 pressing between a threat and a command, " once 
 we vied together, and you overcame. Again we 
 vied, and I outrivalled you. That strife was fair. 
 Your gifts equalled mine. You were at hand to 
 protect your rights. It was not my blame that you 
 lacked ardor and confidence, and fortune perhaps. 
 But there is no fair strife with the dead. When I 
 am blind and deaf, helpless and unsightly, held well 
 down in my place by the earth heaped on me, while 
 you have your magnificent strength, your supple 
 motion, and warm color, the light in your eyes, music 
 at will in your tongue, then if you strive with me 
 again for the prize I frankly not insidiously won 
 from you, then I say you do what a coward does. 
 You understand me, Biton ; do not measure strength 
 with me when I am dead." 
 
 " But, dead ? " said Philotis, after long tormenting 
 his arm to gain his full attention, " why do you say 
 when you are dead ? Why can I not be made to un 
 derstand ? It seems to me I am dreaming. You are 
 here. I am holding you. Charpedon cannot get 
 you, here, on your own land, in your house, among 
 your people. There is Biton too; and then all the 
 huntsmen. Charpedon " 
 
 " I must go to him, of myself, alone. Philotis, 
 I took a solemn oath, by Philemon, my father. I 
 had to swear so that they should know I would not 
 break my word, else I could not have been here." 
 
 " Attys," cried out Philotis, beside herself with 
 terror, " you are never going back ! Are you 
 mad?"
 
 134 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 Antiope, whom dismay seemed to have turned to 
 an image of stone, here lifted her hands and clasped 
 them with a moan, full of pity and pain for what she 
 felt coming. Auge wailed in echo. 
 
 " Attys, Attys," insisted Philotis, trying to speak 
 plainly and in a moderate voice, " are you leaving 
 me ? Do you mean that you, free now, whole, are 
 going where they will kill you ? Don't turn your 
 face away like that. Don't cry, I have no time to 
 cry. I must understand this thing at once. Attys, 
 do you mean Oh, immortal gods," she screamed 
 aloud, " he has said it, and I have understood ! He 
 wishes to forsake me." 
 
 She shrank from him, and looked wildly about for 
 a moment, then stared at Attys with a strange cold 
 ness, as if doubtful that he could be the man she 
 knew ; and finding something in the familiar sweet 
 ness of his features to reassure her of his being in 
 deed the man who worshipped her, who had never 
 willingly caused her even a little sorrow, she flung 
 herself on his breast, and closed her arms around his 
 neck, dragging down his head to her cheek ; then she 
 half laughed, with white lips, as she crushed him with 
 all the strength of her arms. " No, that would not be 
 eas y, to leave me. We are safe. Attys cannot go; 
 he must kill me first, kill his love, Philotis, who has 
 given him everything, and would have given him a 
 thousand times more, and a thousand thousand times 
 over. Now, that would be grateful ! Philotis, who 
 he says it himself never knew a grief; who 
 sang for him, and danced for him, and did up her 
 hair to please him, and had not a thought in the
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 135 
 
 world but to do him good and pleasure ; who loved 
 him, beside, with such madness that it seemed the 
 effect of a charm. All her thoughts were knit to 
 him ; she did not draw breath but in some reference 
 to him. And now I will tell you, dear. When I was 
 a girl I was truly happy. Everything was a joy to 
 me all day long, the sky, the trees, the birds, the 
 flowers, the faces; my heart was light as the air. 
 But since we were wedded it is strange I have 
 never been happy as before. I would not have 
 changed back again, oh, no ! but my heart was 
 never once light again. That was because I loved 
 you so. I have looked out into the sky sometimes as 
 I sang one of my foolish songs people laugh at, and 
 wished I could for a moment stop thinking of you, 
 stop. being aware of you, stop yearning for you with 
 every fibre of my being, for I was so tired that it 
 was almost pain ; but I could never stop. I began 
 at once to think, instead, how to make you love me 
 always more, always more. Was it so with you too, 
 dear ? At first I know you loved me most. It came 
 slowly to me. I could have made you suffer then 
 if I had chosen. Instead And now you wish to 
 reward me, me, who But Itylus, even though 
 you have forgotten his mother, and bitterly hate her, 
 as it seems, you could not wish to wrong him, our 
 Itylus ! " 
 
 " Unhappy woman," cried Bitou, laying hands on 
 her shoulders, and trying with as gentle firmness 
 as he could command to separate her from Attys, 
 " that man is as much dead as if he had died at 
 the moment when he took his oath ! Leave him his
 
 136 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 strength. Do not tempt him to consider even the 
 course of never-ending shame. Be a little brave, if 
 you can, for his sake." 
 
 " Biton," denounced Philotis, furiously, turning her 
 face to him without losing her hold on Attys, " be 
 silent, you at least, or I shall say such things ! 
 You have always hated him, you ! " 
 
 " Mother, speak to this blind creature ! " said Bi 
 ton. " Make her understand. You bear witness for 
 me that I cannot be hating Attys. Though you do 
 not love me as you do him, you must do ine justice 
 to believe that. You know that we fought ; you 
 have seen that we have never been the same since. 
 If we had been but a little greater of heart, he would 
 have forgiven my victory, and I forgiven his revenge. 
 But at this moment how can any hate of mine speak 
 or be alive ? " 
 
 " Bred of love or hate, you will have your wish, 
 Biton," said Attys. " My time grows short. I should 
 even now be on my way over the hills. I must be 
 at the appointed spot before the temple at dawn of 
 the third day from my leaving. Oh, Philotis, take 
 comfort, take comfort ! Mother, speak to her, you ! 
 Auge, place little Itylus in her arms. Oh, be good to 
 her, all ! She lias never known a grief." 
 
 " Attys," said Philotis, clinging and refusing to be 
 put aside, while ever-growing terror painted her face 
 with mortal hues, and her voice came strained, " you 
 shall not go ; that is all. I refuse, refuse. You 
 think it a great and meritorious thing, perhaps, to 
 leave wife and child, as Biton counsels, who has no 
 heart, no human bowels ; but you shall listen to me.
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 137 
 
 Charpedon may wait, he and his bloodthirsty dogs, 
 in the dawn by the temple. We shall not come ; we 
 shall be far. No one shall know where ; no one see 
 us again. And whoever cries out on Attys, who 
 swore by his father's shade and did not keep his oath, 
 might as well be rating the empty wind ; that shall 
 not disturb us. I am ready. Give me the child, 
 my sandals, my cloak. There are deep woods w r here 
 we can live in caves. Ah, thank the heavens, a ray 
 of light ! My father, we can go to him ; it is not 
 far. I know the way, by the sea. There lie his 
 ships. We will hide in the dark hold, and sail away, 
 away, and not be heard of again. In a foreign place 
 we will obscurely live, and still be warm in the sun, 
 and love again, and grow old, secure, serene, in spite 
 of them all." 
 
 Auge, sobbing, had approached ; and now, kneel 
 ing, held out his child to him, to aid her mistress in 
 softening his heart. Antiope sat like a statue, star 
 ing ahead with dilated, darkening eyes, saying no 
 word. 
 
 The sweat stood on Attys' brow. 
 
 Philotis prayed on incoherently, breaking her 
 spirit against his resistance, as a hapless, captured 
 lark against the bars, interspersing her prayers with 
 moans, her voice growing fainter, her hold less 
 sure. 
 
 At last her passion-given strength was gone ; her 
 arms relaxed and dropped across his lap, her dis 
 ordered head between them. She lay still, unable 
 to contend any more, only vaguely shaken by long 
 tremors.
 
 138 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 Now Attys could escape. There was only to lift 
 her, to lay her easily down where Auge would have 
 ministered to her, restored her while he sped to 
 his doom. 
 
 Attys turned up the poor sweet face, around which 
 the light of its gay red-gold hair looked harsh and 
 unnatural now that it was all dead white like silver. 
 Her lips were without color or breath ; under each 
 drooping eyelid shone a scant tear. 
 
 Attys pushed back the light lovely locks with a 
 tender, shaking hand ; bent, and pressed his moaning 
 lips to her temples and eyes ; then drew away, and 
 took her cold round arms to lift her by and put her 
 from him ; then kissed the helpless arms, and feel 
 ing a strange madness come over him, went back 
 with hungry lips to her eyes and hair. He could not 
 steal away from her like a thief. He kissed her to 
 bring her back; he must see her soul in her eyes 
 again, like a desolate face in the window to watch 
 him on his way with love and blessings. She did 
 not move. For a moment the awful thought sub 
 dued him that she was dead already, killed by his 
 unkindness ; and he kissed her mouth madly, utter 
 ing a cry of terror when it would not respond, and 
 applying himself with a sort of frenzy to giving it 
 warmth from his own. At last it stirred ; then, his 
 madness complete, he said recklessly, in her ear, 
 speaking sharply so as to reach her soul through her 
 languid returning senses : " Sweetness, do you hear 
 me ? Awake ! Well you said. It is all folly, 
 direst folly ! Be glad again : I have chosen. To your 
 father's, the ship, flight ! "
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 139 
 
 Antiope stirred as one awaking. 
 Biton uttered a great oath, and dashed across the 
 floor through the open door out into the night. 
 
 " Son of Philemon," spoke Charpedon, " the third 
 day no more than dawns, and you are here. No less 
 was expected of you. Still, I rejoice now with a 
 freer mind that I found it in my honor to trust to 
 the honor of an enemy. Your audacious crime is 
 punishable by death. My grace to you in respect of 
 your father's great name and your faith preserved, is 
 the choice of your means of death." 
 
 " I choose," said the doomed man, coldly, " to leap, 
 myself, from the rock there into the sea." 
 
 " The cliff is high ; the sea below is fretted with 
 foam from sunken rocks. You have your wish." 
 
 One side of the white round temple on the cliff 
 shone rosy with reflection of the kindling east ; the 
 other was cool and blue. Against the wall, among 
 the pillars, were the grave priests with flowing robes 
 and chapleted hair, the white-clothed priestesses who 
 bore in woven baskets the fruits and flowers of sacri 
 fice. On the polished marble steps stood the soldiers 
 gathered on either side of the gray king, who leaned 
 on his spear looking down on the man who had come 
 to give up himself. In the open space before the 
 temple crowded the curious people. The air was 
 dewy, full of the smell and vague murmur of the sea 
 that stretched a darkly blue barren plain as far as 
 eye could distinguish. 
 
 " Have you anything to say ? " asked Charpedon. 
 
 " Nothing, but that these events should not be kept
 
 140 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 secret; that the name of Attys, son of Philemon, 
 when his fate is known, should be duly honored 
 among his own." 
 
 " Your punishment will not be hidden from them. 
 It shall duly discourage the bold and sacrilegious. 
 Look your last at the sun." 
 
 "King, were it not well," spoke to the sovereign 
 a gaunt, large-eyed young priest who stood by his 
 right shoulder, "to hold a moment, until we shall 
 have heard what brings yonder man, who comes over 
 the ground swiftly as a messenger bringing news of 
 importance ? " 
 
 The king looked along the cliff where the priest 
 pointed, and saw indeed a man advancing with 
 such speed as must impress the on-looker with the 
 importance of his mission. 
 
 Every eye was turned to him, but that of the one 
 who was taking his last look at the sun as it lifted 
 itself placidly out of the band of pearly and rosy 
 vapor, cleared its glance, and spread its broad smile 
 over the quickening waters. 
 
 The messenger now reached the steps of the tem 
 ple, and cried, panting with speed, " Late ? Am I 
 late ? I was hindered ; but I have not rested on the 
 way. I am here, and the day has not much more 
 than dawned." 
 
 Charpedon looked in wonder from him to the 
 captive who stood unguarded in the clear space the 
 crowd made for him at the foot of the steps. The 
 captive, at the new-comer's voice, had looked up 
 with a strange face. 
 
 " Who is this ? " asked Charpedon.
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 141 
 
 " My brother, Biton," said the prisoner. 
 
 Then the messenger turned and faced him. 
 
 The two brothers looked in each other's eyes 
 without words. The crowd was silent with wonder ; 
 and" the king stared from one to the other brother, 
 unable to say now which had been taken three days 
 before. 
 
 " I am not Biton," said the messenger at last, the 
 color coming back to his face. " I am Attys, Phile 
 mon's second son." 
 
 " So declares of himself the other man. And it 
 is wondrous strange ; I could believe either, were his 
 companion not in sight. Men, is one here that can 
 tell which of the two it was we took in the act ? " 
 
 " I am Attys, I ! " said one of the brothers, eagerly. 
 " Cannot you remember the trick of my face, as dif 
 ferent from his as my mother's face from my father's ? 
 I can give proofs too. It was by the third pillar 
 there I was taken." 
 
 " His brotherly love makes him over-eager," spoke 
 the other. " Can you not tell the accent of truth 
 from madness ? I will describe the interior of the 
 temple." 
 
 "King," said to his perplexed majesty the priest 
 who had spoken before, " do you see yon dark figure 
 advancing ? I would counsel that we suspend judg 
 ment until it has come to us and delivered its errand. 
 My spirit warns me it will be of moment. See with 
 what solemn dignity it approaches or is it weari 
 ness ? It is a woman." 
 
 The crowd opened before the tall dark figure. 
 
 " Mother ! " escaped the lips of one brother.
 
 142 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 
 
 Antiope looked, faltered. Then with a fire of 
 terrible, anguished joy, her face lighted from within. 
 She moved toward the temple, and knelt at the 
 feet of the king. " Ransom, O King ! I hring 
 ransom ! " 
 
 " Noble lady," said Charpedon, his stern face 
 softening a shade at sight of her solemn mourning, 
 " in good time you come to preserve to your age 
 a son. Which of these two is Attys the offender, 
 which Biton?" 
 
 Antiope turned her still, strong face to the crowd, 
 looked at Biton and Attys. Biton's face, as her 
 glance dwelt on it, melted for the first time in many 
 months, and their eyes recognized and greeted each 
 other back across the long misunderstanding; Bitou's 
 eyes brightened and grew wet, but no tear fell from 
 them ; his eyelids did not tremble. He looked away 
 over the sea, and the fresh wind dried them. 
 
 And Attys' burning face trembled and glowed and 
 shone with repentance, with gladness that he had 
 vindicated himself in his brother's thought, with 
 assurance of a love that is stronger than jealousy. 
 He smiled at the death he saw near, suddenly recon 
 ciled. He lifted his head as if the wreathing curls 
 had been a crown of glory, and waited his mother's 
 word to take his rights. 
 
 From Attys to Biton Antiope looked, while all 
 waited breathless. She met the strong compulsion 
 of Biton's eye and the prayer in Attys' that she 
 should pronounce quickly. She made as if to speak ; 
 then the strength failed completely from her face. 
 The two men leaned to her, intent on her lips.
 
 THE SONS OF PHILEMON. 143 
 
 She looked at the king with all her mother-soul 
 in her eyes ; she put out her hands and cried, " O 
 king, I cannot cannot choose between them ! " 
 
 And godlike Charpedon so the story ends 
 forgave.
 
 THEODOLIND. 
 
 10
 
 THEODOLIND. 
 
 the harsh, triumphant shout that 
 -L shook the rafters at entrance of the captive 
 sons of Hortewein, no ear but one caught the sound 
 of a half-stifled moan of pity. That was Cynric's. 
 He turned his eyes quickly on the queen. The lips 
 that had involuntarily cried out were still parted ; 
 the queen's eyes were fixed, staring and anguished, 
 upon the wretches that had been brutally dragged 
 and driven in, and now stood opposing their fierce, 
 proud, bloody faces to the taunts of the sons of Ulf, 
 the mocking of the earls. 
 
 They were seven, each with his arms fastened 
 behind him, bound together monstrously in a sheaf. 
 
 The youngest was little more than a boy. The 
 blood from a broad gash in his head had flowed over 
 his hair and face ; it had settled darkly around one 
 eye, that glared grimly bright and blue from its tragic 
 setting. He showed his teeth like a wolf; all his 
 young muscles were swollen with the impotent effort 
 to burst the thongs that held him. 
 
 His brothers, bleeding and torn, like him were fit 
 fully struggling, all but one, whose shoulder an axe 
 had nigh severed from his trunk. This one's knees 
 bent under him ; twice and thrice he stiffened them
 
 148 TIIEODOLIND. 
 
 by an effort that made the blood rain freshly down 
 his side. He tried to raise his head, clothed with long 
 red-gold locks, once more to breathe back hatred and 
 defiance at his enemies ; but it had grown too heavy, 
 it dropped on his breast, and rolled helplessly from 
 side to side with the violent motions of his fellow- 
 prisoners. 
 
 The last of Ulf s sons, the younger Ulf, shook his 
 fiery mane, and pointing to the wound in the dying 
 man's shoulder, boasted loudly : " 'T was I did that ! 
 A handsome hole ! " 
 
 The appearance of the victors was little less grace 
 less than that of the vanquished : they had sat down 
 without attempt to remove the signs of the fight ; the 
 hands that grasped the ale-horns were a grewsome 
 purple. It was but the fever of triumph, the flush of 
 drink, kept the young men as yet from feeling the 
 smart of their bare wounds. 
 
 The elder Ulf looked from the sons of Hortewein 
 to his own wild brood, and his deep-set eyes warmed 
 with the pleasure he had in the sight. 
 
 And Cynric, while the storm kept up its din out 
 side, and the drunken warriors again, after the pris 
 oners had been removed, filled the smoky hall with 
 their savage songs, sat observing the unconscious 
 queen. 
 
 This man was not so rough as his companions. 
 Not often did he drink till his brain was drowned ; 
 he could fight as well as the best of Ulf s sons, slay 
 ing with as scant remorse, but battle was not to him 
 the breath of his lungs. 
 
 His garb betrayed a hint of research : the hides
 
 THEODOLIND. 149 
 
 that formed his tunic were not the shaggy fells that 
 covered the greater number of his fellows ; the skins 
 were dressed and stained in a dark blue color with 
 rude designs of dragons. His left arm, lying near 
 Ulfs and showing slender beside it, was adorned 
 with heavy bracelets, both of gold and iron. He 
 was darker of hair and cheek and eye than any 
 present. The expression of his features was subtler 
 than the others' ; his smile was intelligent, cunning ; 
 his locks fell composedly along the sides of his narrow 
 face. He was said to have travelled far, to have seen 
 men and manners, visited even great Eome. He was 
 reputed wise ; the king considered him, took counsel 
 with him. On occasions he had been the king's 
 envoy : when the British Gortimer, weary of war, 
 sued for peace, and offered as pledge of good faith his 
 child Theodolind to be Ulf's wife, Cynric was mes 
 senger between the kings; and when Ulf, secretly 
 weary too of thankless warfare against a beggared 
 people, dwellers in a hard mountainous region, ac 
 cepted, it had been Cynric's to bring the bride to 
 her new lord's home. 
 
 He thought of it now as he looked at her, and took 
 account of the change in her face since the day it 
 first shone on his sight. 
 
 He recalled the slow journeying over the moun 
 tains ; in memory again he turned back from a high 
 point to observe the procession moving up the steep 
 road, the men, swinging bucklers clashing with 
 each stride, helping themselves with their spears that 
 rang against the rock ; the slaves of the conquered 
 bending beneath their burdens ; and lower, on an
 
 150 THEODOLIND. 
 
 uncovered litter borne by stout-limbed carles, Gor- 
 tiiner's daughter, motionless, with eyes closed, save 
 when perhaps at sight of an eagle the men gave a 
 shout. 
 
 Well he remembered the face as it then appeared, 
 white, sad, but the long oval of the cheek sweetly 
 curved ; the outlines soft, maidenish ; the eyes full 
 of that dewy light young eyes retain while sorrow 
 is new. 
 
 Now the bloom was forgotten from her cheek ; its 
 growing hollowness could not be hidden by the two 
 large, fair braids that fell on either side of her face 
 down her bosom. Her lips were no more than a 
 very humble, sickly-red rose. In the instinct of her 
 face to express nothing, all of its life had incontrol- 
 lably taken refuge in the eyes ; when the shadowy 
 lids shut these in, the face became as an effigy hewn 
 delicately in pure stone. 
 
 And Cynric at his leisure studying it unnoticed, 
 while all around him were noisily occupied with 
 wassail and song, thought long thoughts. 
 
 The disorderly clamor gradually died away. The 
 lights went out, burned down to the end. The rosy 
 glare from the hearth served but very dimly to reveal 
 the revellers sleeping. 
 
 The storm had passed. No sound was heard but 
 heavy breathing, with now and then an uneasy moan 
 from some hero who felt the stab of his wound 
 through his sleep. 
 
 Then Ulf, who sat nearest the fire with his head 
 dropped on his breast and his great legs thrust out 
 among his dogs, dreamed a dream. A snow-flake
 
 THEODOLIND. 151 
 
 isettled on his hand, lingered a brief space, and melted, 
 leaving a light, chill impression. Then a cold, soft 
 bird dropped against his breast, fluttered there an 
 instant half frightened, pressed closer, closer against 
 him as if seeking warmth. 
 
 Such sharpness of reality belonged to his dream 
 that he unclosed his eyes to see what manner of 
 bird it was ; dimly he perceived a face not far from 
 his own, and a hand laid on his breast. 
 
 He blinked sleepily a few times, scarce knowing 
 if he were awake ; at last strained his eyes wide, and 
 through the gloom had a darkling, dubious vision of 
 his wife. 
 
 The dying firelight just touched her hair, and fol 
 lowed the line of her robe down her shoulder. She 
 seemed to be kneeling, and touching his breast. 
 
 Assured then that he dreamed, he closed his eyes 
 again, dropped his head so that the locks of his hair 
 and beard mingled, and was relapsing into leaden 
 unconsciousness, when he thought the bird stirred 
 impatiently, and he heard himself called in smothered 
 tones, "Ulf! Ulf!" 
 
 "Ha!" he answered aloud, starting and tossing 
 back his hair. 
 
 He bent forward and peered into the face. It re 
 coiled a little, then offered itself steadily to be 
 scanned. His breath swept it. He could but see 
 two great shadows that were the woman's eyes, and a 
 glint of gold where the light faintly smote her hair. 
 He leaned back, full of a drowsy wonder. 
 
 Then, afraid lest he should be off in slumber again, 
 she called low, "Ulf! Ulf!"
 
 152 THEODOLIND. 
 
 " What wilt thou ? " he asked aloud. 
 
 He felt both of her hands clasping his, her fore 
 head pressed against it. His dazed astonishment 
 grew, to discover that she wept. 
 
 " That they may not die ! " she murmured. 
 
 " Die, woman ? " And he cast about in his slow, 
 clouded mind for an interpretation of her words. 
 " Who dieth ? " 
 
 " Those unfortunate souls, Hortewein's sons." 
 
 The king made a sound, as if the lion should 
 laugh, and thrust back the kneeling figure. 
 
 " Yea, they die to-morrow betimes. So we crush 
 the dragon's brood," he growled ; " so we stamp out 
 the nest of young adders ! " 
 
 " Ulf," pleaded Theodolind, seizing his hand again 
 in the earnest clutch of her slender fingers. " Dost 
 thou not know what pity is ? Hast never heard of 
 mercy ? So will God do to thee as thou dost to other 
 men." 
 
 ' Yea, good. And if I am taken in battle I shall 
 not look for life." 
 
 " Ulf, Ulf, think for a breathing-while that thou 
 art taken ; nay, think that thy best-beloved is taken, 
 thy dearest son, the image of thee, perpetuator of 
 thy name, the younger Ulf. He is wounded sore. 
 His heart is faint with the blood he hath spilled : 
 courage oozeth out with the crimson stream. He 
 hath been haled by the gory hair before the enemy ; 
 cruelly mocked hath he been, heavy blows hath he 
 endured " 
 
 " Ha ! " exclaimed Ulf, through shut teeth. 
 
 "They have cast him in a cold keep, in black dark-
 
 THEODOLIND. 153 
 
 ness, to await death. And there must he not think 
 a little of the fair earth he leaveth, the good life in 
 the sunshine ? Must not his green youth yearn for 
 the delights that had been promised him, and that 
 he shall exchange for a joyless bed of earth wet in 
 the wintry rain, or the maws of kites and eagles ? 
 Think that the younger Ulf is at his death ! and 
 that even when there is no hope more for him, com 
 passion moveth the heart of his enemy, thy Ulf 
 may go ! Wilt thou not bless the pity that saved him ? 
 Oh, pity is fair, mercy is good ; pity thy own soul, 
 Ulf, have mercy on thyself. God will remember that 
 thou didst spare others, when he judgeth thee " 
 
 "Thy God shall not judge me at all," cried Ulf, 
 weary of her words. " My gods shall praise me for 
 those I slew, and give me the old gray fox, Horte- 
 wein, his skull for me to drink from. Merrily will I 
 quaff" 
 
 " Oh, think not so, my husband ! Thy gods shall 
 then long have perished, faded in the twilight that 
 hath no end. It shall surely be the Prince of Peace 
 calleth thee to account for thy blood-red hands, the 
 mild Shepherd of Men. It will not be enough in 
 that day that with all my breaking heart I plead for 
 thee." 
 
 " Lovest then thou me ? " asked Ulf, in stupid 
 wonder. 
 
 " I love thy soul, all human souls," said 
 Theodolind. 
 
 The king leaned back, possessed with a dreaminess 
 that was not all of returning sleep. He no more 
 heeded her words, foolish woman's babble ; but
 
 154 THEODOLIND. 
 
 in the half-waking condition of his spirit he was 
 soothed by the sobbing murmur of her voice: it 
 gave him a luxurious sense of his strength, to feel 
 her imploring, as it were an eager wave beating and 
 foaming, chafing and lapping, at the base of a rock. 
 But most he was pleased yet in an unformed, slug 
 gish sort with the unused sensation of her silken 
 fingers curling like obstinate tendrils of the vine 
 around his strong forefinger and thumb. 
 
 The barbarian's mind moved slowly. Did the 
 woman think, he hazily mused, that Ulf could be 
 softened by the falling of a little clear, bitter water, 
 tears; or yet moved by awe at thought of a time 
 when he should stand for judgment before a foreign 
 god not friends with him ? Nay, by the Thunderer, 
 he would fight that peace-loving god and overthrow 
 him ! And if his own heroic masters must in the 
 end be merged in twilight, as indeed a solemn 
 prophecy had whispered, he should himself sleep 
 in the starless shade along with them, his battle-axe 
 at his side, his hollow shield over his heart. What 
 might she think of him, this puny daughter of Gor- 
 tinier ? Six moons had she lived under his roof, a 
 little-valued hostage. Had he shown her one small 
 sign of favor, that she should presume on his indul 
 gence ? Nay, he had not even so done that he should 
 become endeared to her as to his dogs, by harsh 
 ness and blows. He had seen her but as a bit of his 
 household furnishing until he got used to the sight, 
 and then been aware of her no more. 
 
 He looked down for her through his half-closed 
 eyes ; the fire had so sunken that all was but shad-
 
 THEOPOLIND. 155 
 
 ows. He stretched out his hand doubtfully ; it 
 brushed her hair, and met the soft, thin outline of 
 her cheek. She was still disconnectedly pleading: 
 "Ulf! Ulf! I do conjure thee that thou grant their 
 lives to the sons of Horteweiu. And having given 
 them life, how not give freedom ? without which life 
 is ashes, I know it well enough. Faithful, loving 
 servants will they become of thine, owing thee more 
 than children to their father ; and the bright angels 
 will set it in their golden book. I too will bless 
 thee. Oh, it is good, good for him who hath power 
 to hurt to heal instead. It is like God. The soul 
 remembereth it gladly in moments of desolation, in 
 the weary watches of sickness, the declining of age. 
 So tasteth the draught of cold water to the fever- 
 smitten man as the remembrance of a merciful deed 
 Woe 's me ! He heedeth me not, he heedeth me 
 not ! " she suddenly, softly wailed, and shrank away. 
 A whisper of stifled grieving reached him through 
 the dark, as if from the ground at his feet. 
 
 A softer sense overcame him, a feeling remotely 
 kin to gratitude ; such as he had proved once when a 
 beautiful, unknown bird his javelin missed came and 
 fearlessly settled upon his hand. He had not harmed 
 that bird, but flattered its rainbow wings and let it 
 go, yet with a yearning at losing the bright, trusting 
 creature. 
 
 And if he should release the sons of Hortewein ? ^ 
 
 A swift image of his sons' indignation leaped in his 
 
 mind. As by light of noon, he viewed their angry 
 
 faces ; he heard high, rebellious words. Instant wrath 
 
 fired him. He drew himself up with his grimmest
 
 156 TIIEODOLIND. 
 
 look, as if fronting them all ; clinched his iron hands, 
 and bringing his right violently down upon his knee, 
 shouted, " Ha ! the master am I ! " 
 
 There was a scattered movement of disturbed 
 sleepers. 
 
 " What happeneth ? " drawled a voice or two. 
 
 After a space the questioners, had they not 
 promptly resigned themselves to their interrupted 
 business of sleeping, might have heard in the royal 
 voice these words delivered : " I give thee the seven 
 lives, nay, I fear me they are now but six." 
 
 The sun had sunk. The coppery flush, still warm 
 at one point of the horizon above the far, far moun 
 tains, told where he had last shown his glowing face. 
 
 The sky was soft and vaporous. A wave of pale 
 gold slowly rolled back from the west to the zenith. 
 The motionless bars of delicate mist drank it un- 
 eagerly; languidly they brightened. Then, as all 
 insensibly faded, there rose from the square stone 
 tower where it was the queen's habit to pace at 
 evening, a low sound of women's voices singing in 
 unison : 
 
 " To Thee ere daylight dieth, 
 Maker of all things, 
 We pray, that in Thy mercy 
 Thou keep our souls from harm. 
 No evil dream affright us, 
 Nor phantom of the night. 
 Our Enemy be baffled. 
 That when the new day breaketh, 
 We praise Thee unpolluted."
 
 THEODOLIND. 157 
 
 The queen stood against the parapet, her clasped 
 hands on the stone, her face piously lifted. 
 
 A group of her women tarried near. Of these 
 most had accompanied her from her home, com 
 panions in misfortune; a few, whose voices still 
 followed tentatively when the evening hymn was 
 chanted, were of the pagans, who lately with great 
 wonder had heard of the Cross, and won over to 
 hope good for their souls, craved to join in praising 
 the Christians' God. 
 
 Her devotions finished, Theodolind remained gaz 
 ing toward the mountains. Between her and them 
 lay great stretches of rolling forest, standing since 
 the beginning of the world. The green of these was 
 turning gray ; thin mists rose from them. 
 
 The women spoke in whispers : their mistress 
 thought of her youth's home beyond that purpling 
 boundary. 
 
 Suddenly all eyes were lifted to the same point. 
 Several voices exclaimed. A large white bird flew 
 by on slow, tired wings; returned, flew farther. 
 
 The women stood quite still, to encourage this 
 poor creature to stop among them. It came low 
 and seemed about to settle, when, alarmed at their 
 human faces, it rose again painfully. Then an arrow 
 shot up from below pierced it unerringly in the heart. 
 It dropped fluttering, and the distressed women gath 
 ered about it. 
 
 Theodolind took it up in her hands ; it lay on them 
 warm and heavy. The tears came in her eyes before 
 she could think to harden herself. The women mur 
 mured sympathetically. She felt a warm moisture
 
 158 THEODOLIND. 
 
 slipping through her fingers. She laid the bird down 
 on the stone and knelt near it, smoothing it as if it 
 still could feel. 
 
 In that posture she saw a man's head and shoul 
 ders appear above the turret stairway. She rose. 
 Cynric came toward her, bow in hand. The queen 
 pointed to the bird at her feet 
 
 He stooped to recover his arrow. In the act of 
 withdrawing it from the wound, he looked up sud 
 denly, having heard her catch her breath. He paused, 
 observing her pained frown ; for a second seemed at 
 a loss, then, with a determined jerk, possessed him 
 self of his weapon. 
 
 " I did not think to offend thee, lady," he said, ris 
 ing. Then, finding himself near enough to speak 
 without being overheard, he added, under voice : " I 
 came to serve thee. Bid these withdraw a step. 
 I have words of weight to speak." 
 
 Theodolind let her eyes dwell on his face a mo 
 ment in silence, and without making any motion to 
 comply. He smiled faintly under the continued seri 
 ous scrutiny of her eyes, acknowledging the presence 
 of her distrust. 
 
 In a glance she had realized the vanity of trying 
 to read that comely, guarded, politic face ; with which 
 the sun too had made himself accomplice, lending it 
 a smooth bronze mask to cover all possible revelation 
 of the tell-tale blood. 
 
 She felt helpless before it, yet void of any fear. 
 She motioned to her attendants, who withdrew to 
 the farther side of the tower. She returned to the 
 westward parapet, and Cynric followed her.
 
 THEODOLIND. 159 
 
 " Speak ! " she said. 
 
 He did not obey at once, but watched her cold 
 half-face turned as earlier to the fading mountains, 
 seeking a hint from it how to proceed ; but her 
 face was to him as blank of counsel as his own was 
 to her. 
 
 "Hast thou taken account of the storm-black 
 looks the athelings cast on thee ? " he spoke at 
 last. "Thou hast incensed them; thou hast made 
 them hate thee. It is not wise, believe me, to brave 
 such cruel men." 
 
 " I saw their black looks. But they were never 
 friends of mine, though I have never wished them 
 evil, nor shall. So I have lost no friend ; and seven 
 I have gained, nay, six. Alas ! that cruel wound 
 in his shoulder fordid the other ! Even as worldly 
 prudence would have me count, I have been no 
 loser." 
 
 " Thou countest thy gains. But thou hast not thy 
 seven new friends for long, I fear. Not if I know 
 Stuf, and Eadel, Thankworth, Eotherloew, and our 
 little Ulf. Not if I have learned well the meaning 
 of that stilly smile which goeth with a frown in one 
 honored family. Hortewein's sons are not doomed 
 long to rejoice; not if I know my good blood 
 hounds." 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! oh ! " moaned Theodolind, turning to 
 him and gazing piteously. "Are they such hard 
 men ? But Ulf can govern them : he is the strongest 
 of all ; to him I will appeal ; he may listen to me 
 once again." 
 
 "Wilt thou set father and children against one
 
 160 THEODOLIND. 
 
 another ? Wilt thou bring about such, unnatural 
 strife ? " 
 
 Theodolind could not answer, but faltered: 
 "Wouldst thou have the poor souls taken again 
 and butchered ? " 
 
 "Not so! But there are other ways than that 
 Gortimer's daughter should abase herself to the 
 king." 
 
 Something in those words made the queen, who 
 in this trouble had bowed her head, quietly re 
 sume her full stately height, and look the minis 
 ter in the eyes, all trace of emotion gone from her 
 countenance. 
 
 "Forgive my bluntness," pursued Cynric; "but 
 indeed it hurteth to think of a great king's child, 
 beautiful and delicate too, kneeling at those feet, 
 making petition with tears, with persuasive hands. 
 Thou knowest him not, or thy pride could not abide 
 such humiliation. I feel it no disloyalty to my king 
 to speak of him as he is, he gloiieth in himself. 
 Beside, lovest thou not truth ? Should not truth be 
 spoken ? He is rough and hard within as without, 
 a coarse, cruel, rugged animal. Build no great thing 
 upon his having once heeded thee, granted thee some 
 what. It was not for love of thee or for mercy's 
 sake, not from any softening of the soul, it was his 
 whim ; it was to make his power felt over his wild 
 lads. He will not gall them overmuch, trust that: 
 he knoweth his own part in them too well. When 
 thou pleadest again, there is a king's daughter in the 
 land may be spurned with his foot. Or beware lest 
 he should fancy thee ! Thou hadst best efface thyself,
 
 THEODOLIND. 161 
 
 cower and lie low, make thyself as like a shadow as 
 thou canst in this house, quench thy alluring gold 
 hair altogether in thy veil. It is not that in thy 
 tender beauty which rnaketh thee like angels, that 
 before which a man of heart and understanding is 
 subdued to reverent adoration, can appeal to this 
 giant simpleton. Thou couldst never be more to him 
 than a hedge-rose, to be brutally breathed a moment. 
 Forgive me. What I have wished to say is that thou 
 canst spare thyself the abjectness of fawning on such 
 a boor. That which thou wouldst obtain is to be had 
 by other means, and easier." 
 
 " Thy means ? " asked Theodolind, in a quiet voice. 
 
 " There is a man whom the king deemeth wise 
 and prudent, a man whose voice hath weight with 
 the royal counsel, a man whose thought travelleth 
 swiftly and findeth many expedients." 
 
 " Thou speakest of thyself," said the queen. 
 
 " Yea ; hadst thou desired of me the lives of those 
 captives, I could have got them thee, and without 
 the rancor of the athelings. I could have found such 
 reasons for clemency that T should have been thanked 
 by the lion's whelps for rescuing from them their 
 prey. Hast not thou seen enough to have faith in 
 my influence ? " 
 
 " Oh, I have." 
 
 " Prove it. Is it not easier, Theodolind, to say 
 ' Cynric, do this thing or that thing,' to a faithful 
 friend, upon whom not one of thy gentle, wonderful 
 graces or virtues is lost, than demean thyself at the 
 feet of an unfeeling block, the foe of thy father and 
 of all thy race, by whom thou art less prized than any 
 
 11
 
 162 THEODOLIND. 
 
 of his dogs ? Through me thou mayst yet reign, 
 secretly for a time ; but when the order of things 
 changeth," he added, dropping liis voice still lower, 
 " opeuly, it may be." 
 
 He paused, and looked keenly in her face, to meas 
 ure her understanding of his words, and their effect. 
 
 But the gathering shadow baffled him. He could 
 distinguish still the faint, thin flash of the golden 
 circlet across her forehead ; her mantle was vaguely 
 blue in the lingering light, and her white robe just 
 gray with the growing darkness ; but he could not 
 satisfy himself from looking at her eyes what they 
 betokened. 
 
 He felt an uneasy despite that he must speak 
 further without surely knowing. 
 
 " Wilt thou trust me ? " he ventured ; and as she 
 did not speak at once, he went on more urgently, 
 risking much to overtake what might be escaping : 
 " Thou must have divined how from the day I saw 
 thee first, I have pitied thee, king's daughter, oh, 
 more than ever thou those tortured captives yester 
 night ! and had but the wish to serve thee. Hast 
 thou not felt my eyes following thee devotedly ? 
 Now it is for thee to speak." 
 
 " Cynric," said the queen, in a passionless, slow 
 voice, " if thou meanest well, I thank thee ; or if 
 thou but think that thou meanest well, still I 
 thank thee. It is only thy understanding, of which 
 I think thou hast boasted to me once or twice 
 this hour, that misleadeth thee. Thou dost not 
 know me well." 
 
 She paused ; then went on most simply,
 
 TIIEODOLIND. 163 
 
 "I have no pride to humble when I kneel at 
 Ulfs feet, a suppliant for his pity. If he spurn 
 me, no vanity is hurt. From his anger, from the 
 revenge of his sons, however bitter it be, I have 
 nothing to fear. Thirst for vengeance there is none 
 in me. And thou thou hast nothing to give that 
 were my gain. Helpless as thou, as any one might 
 deem me, thou must see how yet I am very strong. 
 I have nothing, nothing," she repeated, with a 
 vague gesture toward the great world, opposing to 
 all its possible wealth and power her two naked 
 palms, " nothing to lose." 
 
 There was an absence of feeling in her voice 
 that made it mournful to hear in one so young. 
 
 " And it is not, I will tell thee for thy further 
 instruction," she pursued, "since thou valuest un 
 derstanding of the human heart, that griefs have 
 frozen mine. It was still alive when that tired 
 bird who sought a refuge fell shot, though the 
 worst that it can suffer it hath already long sub 
 mitted to. But I have chosen my part, to endure 
 with dignity all that can be put upon me, leaving 
 the issue to my God ; trusting, since I cannot un 
 derstand. There was, I think, some treason in what 
 thou saidst of my lord, as well as some dishonor. 
 It is well thou shouldst learn that I am his loyal 
 wife. The good of his soul lieth near to my soul. 
 Thou knewest when thou spokest to me how un 
 defended I am, how powerless to avenge an insult 
 to my womanly delicacy, had I any of such refined 
 pride left in me. The helpless have an instinct to 
 guide them : that telleth me, it were wiser to trust
 
 164 THEODOLIXD. 
 
 Ulf, fierce and cruel as the lion, than thee, that art 
 a serpent." 
 
 She could hear in the twilight Cynric's breath 
 coming quick ; but when he spoke it was in a voice 
 as measured and calm as her own, almost as if he 
 were subtly mocking her manner : 
 
 " Thy understanding no more than mine warneth 
 thee infallibly. I have uttered no treason, nor have 
 I meant any offence. I have but tendered service to 
 my queen. There are rumors whispers as yet 
 that a time approacheth when a friend might stand 
 thee in good stead. Thy father is not all content 
 with peace ; keeping faith wearieth him. He hath 
 grown used to missing thy face from his world ; he 
 chafeth, he bestirreth himself. Well, naught may 
 come of it ; but if it have results, thou wilt mayhap 
 remember that I offered thee service. And I, it is 
 possible, may have then forgotten that when I did 
 so thou saidst unto me, ' Serpent ! ' Yet I call thee 
 a rash lady," he added in a more natural voice, swift 
 and bitter, " an ignorant, unused girl, to say that thou 
 hast endured already the worst " 
 
 What more he may Lave spoken was drowned in 
 the blare of horns, the approaching tramp of hoofs up 
 the rocky road, a command given in a shout by Ulf. 
 
 Theodolind and Cynric leaned over to see far below 
 the confused movement of the earls returning. 
 
 Cyuric took his leave. 
 
 From the end of the hall, where she sat spinning 
 among the women, the queen looked at the faces of 
 Ulf's sons to see if these might tell her anything of
 
 THEODOLIND. 165 
 
 the Horteweinings' fate. She argued well from their 
 frank good-humor toward their father, and from their 
 total carelessness of herself. 
 
 They had had good sport. In a corner as they 
 entered they had flung down the wolves slain that 
 day. The light was reflected dimly here and there 
 on a glassy eye, a row of sharp teeth, and caught 
 darkly by the narrow stream that crept from under 
 the heavy heap. 
 
 Stuf alone of the men made not merry, who had 
 not been forth with the others. He had placed 
 himself near the blazing hearth, and stooped moping, 
 with his head bent and his hair falling over his face, 
 shivering in spite of the great heat. His wounds 
 were afflicting him. He had repulsed Theodolind 
 when she craved to ease him. 
 
 Through the noise of rough table-talk, she heard 
 him suddenly cry out and curse when he attempted 
 to shift his position. She moved softly toward him, 
 murmuring, " Let me help thee," and laid her hand 
 on his feverish arm. 
 
 He started angrily to draw it back ; but the hand 
 felt so gratefully soft and cool, he eyed her suspi 
 ciously, then suddenly without a word bared his hurt 
 side to her, and surrendered his aching limb. Deftly 
 she ministered to him. 
 
 She had but returned to her place and resumed 
 her distaff, thinking a good thought of big-bodied, 
 ungracious Stuf, when a great commotion, and 
 UK's furious voice rising over all, stopped her 
 breathing. He was rating the keeper of his dogs for 
 the death of a boar-hound he loved.
 
 166 THEODOLIND. 
 
 " Ha ! I tell thee that the blame is thine ! " he 
 roared, rising and upsetting his settle, while he 
 brought down his list so that the ale splashed from 
 the flagons. " A dog dieth not of so little. He had 
 but a small hurt from a young boar's tusk. Thou hast 
 given him no water, or thou hast neglected to give 
 him meat, or thou hast given him overmuch meat. 
 Ha ! my brave brindled hound ! used no better than 
 a churl's mongrel cur ! Ha ! but thou shalt answer 
 for it. I valued him more than I do thee, and I will 
 prove him that on thy body. Thou shalt hang, 
 nay, thou shalt be flayed ! " 
 
 Theodolind had risen, trembling. Each burst of 
 his voice was like a blow. She had never seen the 
 king like that, never so unreasonable, so unjust. 
 He was not cruel habitually to his own men. 
 
 Even the earls seemed to feel a novelty in this : 
 consternation was painted on their faces ; they were 
 gloomily silent. Eadel frowned in disapproval at 
 his father, moving uneasily as if making ready to 
 oppose him. 
 
 The keeper, an old man, was ashen with fear, and 
 trembled visibly. 
 
 Another storm of words broke from Ulf. It seemed 
 almost as if he were lashing himself into this un 
 natural fury, or that he were gone mad. 
 
 Theodolind, looking amazed ly from him to the 
 offending old man, caught Cynric's eye. She could 
 not fail to see that his glance was full of significance, 
 but she did not understand. 
 
 "Drag him forth!" shouted Ulf. "Whip him in 
 stantly till his wrinkled hide drop off him " But
 
 THEODOLIND. 167 
 
 Theodolind had fallen at his feet and clasped his 
 knees with her arms, imploring, and not to be 
 thrown off. 
 
 A vague hope made eager the old man's terrified 
 face. The king had squared himself in his chair, 
 with the pale queen at his feet. 
 
 One day, not long after the keeper-of-hounds' re 
 turn to favor, Cynric witnessed a thing such as he 
 had never seen happen before. 
 
 In the hottest excitement of the chase, when the 
 enormous mother-boar brought to bay had turned 
 upon her assailants, and the dogs rushed against her 
 with yells, he saw Ulf abruptly turn his back on the 
 beloved sport, and plunge into the forest. 
 
 He reasoned rapidly, and followed in his footsteps. 
 
 The king crashed through the underbrush, with 
 lifted arms snapping the interfering boughs, tearing 
 down the wild linking vines ; now ducking to clear a 
 slanting tree-bole ; where he could not, overleaping it. 
 
 Cynric kept him in view. 
 
 Long the two travelled, yet made not much road 
 by reason of the many obstacles. 
 
 Ulf came to the spot where a dark stream was 
 gathered in a deep basin. He stopped, measured it 
 with his eye, and sprang to the farther bank. 
 
 Cynric, reaching it, felt himself insufficient, and 
 was vexed at thought of now losing sight of the king. 
 
 But hazard favored him : Ulf went no farther. 
 
 The light there was peculiarly soft and cool, falling 
 through the thinned roof of leaves that screened the 
 stream. The sun sparsely strewed the bronze mirror
 
 168 THEODOLIND. 
 
 with winking golden eyes. There was a good smell 
 of wet inoss from the stones that edged the water ; a 
 soothing gurgling sound from beyond the point where 
 the great trunk of a lightning-smitten tree had 
 dammed in the flood. 
 
 Ulf threw back his head and sniffed the dead- 
 leaf-scented air. Then he flung himself down by 
 the stream on a bed of leaves centuries deep, with 
 his arm over a gray rock. In so doing he saw 
 Cynric. 
 
 " I too be weary and heated," said the latter ; " I 
 too would fain sleep through the noontide." And 
 he stretched himself on the opposite side of the 
 stream, composing his arms under his head. 
 
 Ulf looked at him through his eyebrows, and said 
 nothing. He rolled over upon his broad back, with 
 his spear and silver horn beside him, and lay looking 
 upward, in the trees whose tops were far, far removed 
 from their gnarled roots. 
 
 Now and then a little creature ran along a bough, 
 leaped to another, and vanished in the hushed gloom. 
 Winged beings glistened for a moment, sapphire and 
 ruby, as they happened to cross a shaft of sunshine, 
 then seemed to have melted away. Far up in the 
 air a few twigs caught the uninterrupted sun : they 
 flickered a burning green, and made everything else 
 dim as a dream. 
 
 After long remaining motionless, Ulf with a short, 
 thick sigh, as if impatient of a burden on his breast, 
 moved on to his side, propped his head on his hand, 
 the tawny locks flowing through his fingers over his 
 wrist, and watched his companion.
 
 THEODOLIND. 169 
 
 Cynric slept. 
 
 Ulf bent over the water, and looked musingly at 
 himself. His leonine head was reflected clearly and 
 darkly on the glassy, gliding plane. Thoughtfully 
 he smoothed out with his hand the stern furrows on 
 his brow. He stooped lower curiously to examine 
 how silver began to streak the hair on his temples. 
 
 He lay back again against the rock; and as he 
 pillowed his head on his arm, something in the hand 
 that fell under his eyes seemed to strike him. 
 
 He held it up and looked, opening and closing it, 
 making the sinews stand out. It was large and hard 
 and rough. A young tree stood in reach. Cynric 
 heard a ripping sound, lifted his head, and saw how 
 Ulf without moving from his reclining posture up 
 rooted the sapling. 
 
 " Such strength is good ! " he commented, nodding, 
 with his courtier smile. 
 
 Ulf looked at him again through his eyebrows 
 and said nothing, but glanced sheepishly at his big 
 shapely hand and down his mighty bulk. 
 
 After another space of staring up into the trees, he 
 spoke, as if to himself, with the frown he wore when 
 pondering some difficult question : " Wherefore good ? 
 What can it do ? Yea, I know : it can seize, and 
 hold fast, crush," he proceeded, with a sort of ex 
 asperation, " hurt, slay, what more ? What can it 
 gain for me but to make me dreaded ? How would 
 it avail me, I pray thee, with that painted thing ? " 
 He pointed at a flashing, blue-mailed creature that 
 hung poised in a sunbeam. " I can catch it and hold 
 it struggling, and end its pretty life 'twixt thumb and
 
 170 THEODOLIND. 
 
 finger ; that is all. I could by no means woo it to 
 settle on my hand of itself, and let me have joy of 
 its dainty form." 
 
 He watched the ethereal insect with an expression 
 at once of pleasure and displeasure, until it had 
 darted away. Then he remained gazing where it 
 had been with eyes that looked strangely in his con 
 queror's head, eyes undangerous, almost wistful, 
 full of quiet sylvan reflections. 
 
 " Just the body, it giveth me just the body ! " 
 he slowly, dreamily grumbled. " That I can im 
 prison, compel, make cringe. I can teach it every 
 pang, make it fear and loathe me. But while I have 
 my will easily of the frail, helpless clay, that which 
 smileth, that which answereth back, which dwelleth 
 deep in the beaming eye, shall set me at naught. 
 That goeth whither it listeth, that swingeth itself up 
 beyond my reach, and mocketh at me from among 
 the icy stars. Over that I have no power, not 
 though I could uproot all these." 
 
 He moved uneasily, as if a thorn were rankling in 
 his flesh ; his head sank between his shoulders, his 
 face clouded over. 
 
 Cynric watched him in mingled contempt and re 
 spect, much as if he were looking on a sick lion. 
 
 " Scorn not thy strength," he said finally ; " it hath 
 availed thee much with men." 
 
 " Who spoke of women ? " growled the king, angrily 
 looking up. 
 
 "Nay, none. I but thought in reference to thy 
 strength of one to whom thou hast of late conceded 
 many things when she sued for them. Remember
 
 THEODOLIND. 171 
 
 the Horteweinings. Without thy power to hurt, 
 couldst thou have made good thy right to spare ? " 
 
 " Gifts had I too to give, good acres and gold," 
 muttered Ulf; and to Cynric was explained the 
 docility of the athelings on a remembered occasion. 
 " Gold, land," pursued the king, his brow darken 
 ing at a memory. "And what have they bought 
 me ? What but " He checked himself, becoming 
 mindful of Cynric's curious attention, and finished 
 his musings along that line within his head. 
 
 ''But that is at an end," he exclaimed at last, 
 starting up with the lavish display of strength of one 
 ashamed of a weakness ; and he waved his arms as 
 a man fighting with a swarm of goading insects. " I 
 have enough of being wept over with an end in view. 
 I am by nature, thou knowest, not soft of heart, and 
 this thing hath ceased to be good sport. Nay, I 
 grant nothing more for all the tears that be ! " 
 
 " Thy resolution, I think, will be shortly sorely 
 tested," said Cynric. 
 
 Ulf looked him fixedly between the eyes. 
 
 " It was to tell thee somewhat I followed thee 
 here. Be not angry if it like thee not, remembering 
 that I speak but as duty to my king would have me. 
 There were men taken yesterday 
 
 " I know what thou wouldst tell me. They be 
 Gortimer's men, spies. They perish. The ancient 
 wolf hath grown him new fangs, and whetteth them. 
 Yet he will not dare much, I trow, while his child 
 lieth under my thumb." 
 
 " Nay, thou sayest wisely as ever. But seemeth it 
 to thee impossible that these men, whereof one I
 
 172 THEODOLIND. 
 
 have it from good source, the maid Ursula told me 
 privily, who recognized his face, having known him 
 of old canst thou doubt that these, one among 
 whom was less than a year gone the lover of Theo- 
 dolind and her promised lord, were bringing her a 
 warning and help to flee ? " 
 " Ha ! " roared the king. 
 
 " Then spoke the hero, the leader of men : Narrow is 
 this land for my desires ; cramped is my big spirit. Every 
 weary blade of green my foot hath trod ; every tree I 
 once have seen. Seek we broader acres, my fellows, 
 where the breast can freely swell, and the eye rove like 
 an eagle. Then loosed they the great sea-steeds, gave 
 them bridle. The hoarse gray sea writhed in his wrath. 
 The sea-steeds, the strong-winded, bravely galloped, 
 straining up the slippery, crumbling glass-hills, the tu 
 multuous water-mountains. Saw the hero in the pale- 
 red daybreak white shores gleaming, white as milk-curd. 
 Cried the leader to his warriors : Behold the land I 
 promised to my faithful ! But there be work for keen- 
 edged axes ere we shall wash our hands in fair well-water. 
 Take each man his good crest-crasher ; the wolves shall 
 have hot meat." 
 
 The singer stopped to moisten his throat and 
 "breathe himself, before rehearsing the battle that 
 ensued, when Sagfrith, Ulfs renowned father, set 
 foot on land. 
 
 The earls listened with never completely dulled 
 emotion to the oft-heard tale of carnage, unable to 
 repress a battle-cry now and then when the onset 
 of armed men was described. Some of the older 
 men nodded excitedly, frequently saying to the
 
 THEODOLIND. 173 
 
 younger, " It was so, I can swear, for I myself was 
 there ! " 
 
 When he had finished, the singer gave the harp 
 into the hands of his neighbor. 
 
 Cynric felt the strings reflectively a moment with 
 out rousing them to sound, while the earls composed 
 themselves to hear. His abstracted, roving eye lighted 
 a moment, casually, on the queen. 
 
 She sat spinning. None of the women gathered 
 about her spun so untiringly as she, who never 
 stopped, as did the others, to bestow a moment's 
 attention on any of the guests. Her eyes were low 
 ered, her face a blank. 
 
 He glanced swiftly at the king. Ulf leaned back, 
 gazing up among the rafters ; so he had been sitting 
 since the harp resounded, forgetting to drink 
 
 Cynric smote the strings softly, and thereupon, 
 sang in the manner of another people than these, to 
 whom blows were at once work and pastime. He 
 had learned in a sunnier land to utter more soothing 
 songs. His voice was high and ripe, truly a pleas 
 ant gift of Nature, evoking a golden atmosphere 
 about the sensitive listener's thought, pressing insist 
 ently on the deep source of tears. 
 
 " The wind is now sweet and warm as breath of kine ; 
 the smell of the early rose is blown abroad from the 
 garden. Now, since the leaves are grown thick to shelter 
 the nests from rain, pair the feathered hosts of the wood. 
 Upon the hills there is no vestige left of that white 
 shield the crocus bold had to pierce with his blue spear. 
 The wayfarer, whom weariness overtakes, may lie upon a 
 bed of primroses, diversified with little violets.
 
 174 THEODOLIND. 
 
 " It is the season when the blooming youth cannot 
 withhold his feet, but they will lead him where maidens 
 are assembled bleaching linen, or playing lightly with 
 the bounding ball. He spieth shyly through the blos 
 soming branches ; then walketh lonely, sighing at a 
 vision. 
 
 " Now in his frozen bosom who hath lost a tender 
 mate, his sorrow waketh newly, as putteth forth the 
 hoary bark new leaves. 
 
 "Now they who may not love but it is disaster, in 
 treacherous dreams begotten of the spring, do feed their 
 eyes on a forbidden face, and moan in slumber, waking to 
 find the pillow damp with tears." 
 
 Theodolind's hands, like those of the other women, 
 had become listless at their spinning ; she fingered 
 the implements mechanically, looking fixedly over 
 and beyond Cynric's head, seeing no one might 
 know what vision there, unconscious of herself as 
 of her lord, who was watching her unfairly through 
 fingers that made a feint to shield his eyes from the 
 light. 
 
 So absorbed she was, she did not start for a mo 
 ment, even slightly, when a face filled the vacant 
 space at which she was staring, no more than as 
 if that face had been a part of her dream. 
 
 The door at the farther end of the hall had opened 
 quietly while Cynric still sang, and a man had en 
 tered preceded and followed by a handful of Ulfs 
 inen-of-arrns bearing pikes. The lights bent and 
 flared a moment in the gust, then burned brighter, 
 showing a stranger's face. 
 
 He was in the first flower of manhood, of com-
 
 THEODOLIND. 175 
 
 mandiug height and princely carriage, yet light and 
 slender of shape. His lip and cheek were clothed as 
 with golden light. His features, of a type that dis 
 tinguished him from the rugged occupants of the 
 hall, were informed with a noble and proud beauty ; 
 his steadfast eyes expressed at the same time scorn 
 and patience. The dark-red, close-fitting tunic that 
 lie wore was delicately stitched with small gold 
 lilies ; his gold-studded belt supported an empty 
 dirk-sheath. 
 
 He moved up the hall between his guards with 
 measured tread, casting his eye calmly over the 
 company. 
 
 Cynric had not ceased singing. As he passed be 
 hind him, the prisoner caught sight of a pale face 
 softly staring at him from the side where the women 
 sat, with the sad, tender eye he knew. His foot 
 faltered ; he paused, suddenly gone pale himself. 
 
 On the queen's awakening face then grew a look 
 that those who beheld it were haunted by through 
 weary years. 
 
 The young man's hesitation lasted only for the 
 space of a lightning-flash. He averted his face, 
 frozen and still, and passed on. 
 
 Theodolind's eyes followed him, fascinated, horror- 
 struck. 
 
 But when she saw him bent toward the door that 
 led to the mysterious depths of the castle, she could 
 no more. She staggered to her feet, and would have 
 shrieked his name, but only a broken gasp reached 
 the air, " Arthur ! " For even as the door fell heav 
 ily to, Ulf had leaped to his wife's side. She had a
 
 176 THEODOLIND. 
 
 brief, terrible vision of a face breathing hard into her 
 face; blazing, pitiless eyes pressing, searching into 
 her own ; a confused thought that Stuf and Cynric, 
 kind souls, would not wish to see her ill-used ; then 
 a moment of insufferable anguish, and black night 
 overcame her. 
 
 And for this man she would not once lift her voice 
 in intercession ? 
 
 That question Cynric put to himself a hundred 
 times during the space of three days allowed Arthur 
 to reflect if he would confess Gortiiner's connivance 
 in his coming. 
 
 As the hours of Arthur's life grew fewer, Cynric 
 asked it with a sort of impatience, almost indigna 
 tion, and felt an inexplicable discomfort increasing 
 about his centre of consciousness. Was it that he 
 felt defrauded ? 
 
 The queen, the distributer of bread, moved about 
 her duties as before. She made no attempt at speech 
 with the king. As he never lost trace of the one or 
 the other, Cynric was assured of that. 
 
 For this man alone, who had loved her, would she 
 not intercede, she whose voice had sometimes won 
 grace for a common wretch condemned to die ? What 
 was the secret of her silence ? He could not hold 
 himself from once more searching her expressionless 
 face to see if he might not discover. In that moment 
 it was revealed to him. Had he, indeed, supposed 
 that she was making no appeal ? The more doltish 
 his judgment ! It was with those speaking eyes she 
 did her pleading.
 
 THEODOLIND. 177 
 
 Then he watched her constantly, in that way he 
 had, without directly looking or seeming to see. 
 
 He perceived how her insistent glance dogged 
 Ulfs, imploring ever, more than if she had been 
 prone before him with her forehead on his feet. 
 
 The king could not look up from the floor, which 
 in the mood now on him he studied at length, but he 
 met her eyes, and they began their despairing prayer, 
 like those of a dumb, drowning creature. If he did 
 not at once withdraw his own, nor gather his brows 
 in the forbidding folds that came so easy to them, 
 they stole nearer a little, encouraged ; it seemed al 
 most as if the parted lips were about to speak, 
 but they did not. 
 
 The king lived his usual life, with a black frown 
 thereto added, and an unaccustomed, ugly suddenness 
 of temper that made his people look to their ways. 
 To his wife he spoke never a word. But it was per 
 ceived by one who watched him keenly Cynric 
 that he now and then would turn his eyes on her 
 reluctantly, as if compelled to it. Then would be re 
 newed that mute argument of hers. Ulfs face hard 
 ened : he would seem to his spy trying to beat back 
 and break her glance on the steely anger of his own ; 
 then suddenly sometimes he looked away almost as 
 if putting up a shield, taking flight. 
 
 It was in the cold first glimmer of dawn Ulf woke 
 with a sick start from leaden sleep succeeding long 
 hours of waking, woke with a sense that the eyes 
 were again with him. They seemed to pierce through 
 the gloom, and find him there disarmed. His hands 
 were weak as water ; he could not control the mo- 
 
 12
 
 178 THEODOL1ND. 
 
 tions of his blood. He held his breath ; he remem 
 bered and seemed to remember not with the spirit 
 only, but with every fibre of his thrilled frame a 
 night not long gone when he had dreamed of a cold 
 bird dropping against his breast. If again His 
 heart beat thick ; the blood surged fiery in his eyelids. 
 He felt strangely, recklessly ready for a moment to 
 do whatever a small chill hand laid on his own 
 should desire of him. There was no stir, but a sound 
 of the wind rising outside. He strained his eyes to 
 explore the shade ; his breast ached with the long- 
 pent breath. He saw nothing, yet was unmanned 
 by the sense of a presence. He did not move, to find 
 if a hand would not suddenly touch him, and a voice 
 say in a whisper his name. As he gazed he thought 
 yet was never sure there rose, without a sound, 
 from the floor a black, formless, misty shadow ; lifted 
 its arms on high, wringing them, and melted away, 
 while the wind gave a shudder. The king ground his 
 teeth, battling to repossess himself, hardening again his 
 melting heart, cursing it and the night and dreams. 
 
 So the third day dawned, and wore to its close. 
 
 The queen found herself sitting at her usual place 
 in the hall, in sight of the men at their evening meal, 
 with the familiar faces of her companions about her, 
 distaff and spindle in her hands. 
 
 She spun, but not so steadily as once ; her hands 
 would drop on her lap, and lie palms upward for 
 minutes, while she looked one after another in all 
 the faces present. No help in any of them. They 
 were as uncaring of her as ever ; they could laugh in 
 such an hour, those, too, to whom she had sought
 
 THEODOLIND. 179 
 
 to do some little good. Then she remembered that 
 these men were not likely to be aware of her grievous 
 trouble. They could know nothing more than that 
 one of her race lay in danger. Would she have suf 
 fered so much for just a countryman ? Ulf knew ; 
 his face had said so plainly enough in that terrible 
 hour. And probably Cynric. Yes, he avoided her 
 eye. There was a distant sort of consolation at this 
 moment when her grief seemed to have spent 
 itself and to lie dazed, so that she could think 
 clearly and observe almost indifferently in the 
 thought that they did not know. The bitter world 
 would have seemed by so much bitterer if she had had 
 to believe that Stuf, for instance, whose face for an 
 instant had looked gratitude and respect into hers, 
 could appear like that contented, lazy while she 
 was proving a thousand agonies. If, now, she were 
 to confess to Stuf and implore his aid, could he do 
 aught in her cause ? She considered the question 
 calmly, and on reflection set it aside. She looked 
 then at the face next to his, asking herself the same 
 question concerning it, perpending with a clearness 
 of judgment that had come to her only since the 
 nerves of pain were so deadened. 
 
 At last she looked at Cynric. This man could 
 perhaps be of use ; but she had once called him ser 
 pent, and he had promised to remember. Oh, if it 
 were possible to efface the impression of that cruel, 
 impatient word ! She had thought often since, in 
 the stilly hour when she arraigned her conscience, 
 how she had no right to judge him at any time ; he 
 had acted according to other lights than hers, and
 
 180 THEODOLIND. 
 
 she might by a gentle word have turned away hate 
 that injured his soul But she had not found the 
 humility to express her regret ; she had been proud, 
 obstinate, and much to blame. And now oh, if 
 he might but be generous to her in her extreme 
 need! The power to suffer that three days of an 
 guish seemed to have utterly killed, regained a flut 
 tering existence from this spark of hope. 
 
 Cynric looked over at her, answering her mute 
 summons. She could not know what he saw to 
 shake him so. 
 
 Cynric looked up, and was smitten by a thought 
 foreign to all that he knew of himself. Never before 
 had she referred to him ; she had not seemed since 
 that evening on the tower to know that he lived. 
 Now she turned to him for assistance; she trusted 
 him to have forgiven her. Her face was such that 
 he felt no triumph in her defeat. Is that a thing to 
 persecute ? said his new thought. And in the revul 
 sion of feeling wrought in this cynic by the first 
 glance he had had from her that was not cold or 
 simply unseeing, he fell to wondering tumultuously 
 why he had hated and sought to do her harm. He 
 had feared lest, grown in credit, she should expose his 
 ambitious and disloyal dreams. Yet, so gentle, so 
 strong a creature, suffering all things, living out 
 daily that strange gospel of her faith that bade 
 render good for evil! How how to undo what 
 was done ? His thought beat swiftly at every door 
 of help. He blanched; he looked at her with an 
 expression of unfeigned dismay, and bent his eyes 
 elsewhere, become cowardly.
 
 THEODOLIND. 181 
 
 " He meaneth," said Theodolind to herself, falling 
 from that last hope and lapsing again into dull in 
 sensibility, " that he would help me if he dared. But 
 he is afraid, afraid lest his power not being suffi 
 cient, he should altogether lose it. God reward him ; 
 he is a prudent man." 
 
 Only the cumbrous being at the head of the board 
 could help her. 
 
 She considered him coldly, impersonally, as never 
 before, and calculated again the chances of a spoken 
 petition to him, taking fully into account his bar 
 barous passions. She feared him, oh, she feared 
 him ! Why did he hate Arthur more than another 
 foe? Not for love of herself. Yet she could not 
 doubt that rage and jealousy had burned in his eye 
 when he stopped her from crying out. Ah, God ! it 
 was his brutish nature that took on easily all harsh, 
 wild ^ feelings. It was his tiger's play. It had been 
 sport before to make her beg for men's lives ; now it 
 was but crueller sport to see how he could frighten a 
 creature who had never done him wrong, so that for 
 the man whose life was dearest she dare not pray. 
 And she had hoped good for this monster's soul. 
 She had thought to redeem him, forgetting to hate 
 him as was proper for her father's sake, seeing in 
 him only a human soul that must not be let to so 
 burden itself with crimes that it could never see 
 God. She had been true to him from the hour of 
 entering under his roof, having renounced herself, 
 closed the past in a secret chamber of her heart not 
 to be gazed on wilfully again, only in treacherous 
 dreams sometimes revisited.
 
 182 THEODOLIND. 
 
 It seemed to her that she had asked so little of 
 life since the day she came to these halls. She had 
 thought that she asked nothing for herself whatever 
 but patience and the power still to do a little good 
 in this disastrous earthly prison-house. But, then, 
 she had not contemplated this chance. She had 
 thought nevermore until the eternal day had 
 dawned for them both to look upon the face that 
 had once so sweetly glowed through all her medita 
 tions. She had believed that the worst was endured 
 when she took leave of it. And he should find the 
 eternal day to-morrow. But before that, the pain of 
 death to be passed in the full vigor of healthy man 
 hood, Christ! the human heart is not framed to 
 endure the thought of painful death to those it 
 loves ; and again her heart began its agonized 
 struggles against it. 
 
 Oh, that Ulf ! that Ulf! She had an impulse to 
 cast herself before him, and vent her trepidation in 
 headlong supplications. He might know that at his 
 feet was a miserable woman praying for her lover's 
 life. Such an object deserved pity. Pity ! A vision 
 of a mutilated face rose before her. It was that had, 
 at every impulse to speak, given her pause. No phy 
 sical dishonor had so far been laid upon the noble 
 body of Arthur. But such a face she had seen on an 
 enemy taken captive by Ulf, also a person unable to 
 resist. There was no pity anywhere, on earth or in 
 heaven, she thought irresponsibly, her soul smitten 
 with utter blindness. Then the charitable vesture 
 that, in a holy thirst to find each God-made thing a 
 little worthy of love or pity, she had been long weav-
 
 THEODOLIND. 183 
 
 ing about all the persons and objects in that hall, 
 dropped into tatters. She saw them in a lurid light 
 that showed them to her in every detail sordid, mon 
 strous, loathsome. How had she, nurtured in a noble 
 palace, among men whose words and deeds were those 
 of dignity, been able to endure these in patience, 
 these barbarians, lower than brutes ! There flashed 
 through all her veins the mad desire for power to 
 blot them from the face of the earth. And taking 
 up her spinning, she spun diligently, feeling confus 
 edly that in a world where none had care or pity, 
 one might as well spin. Nothing mattered much in 
 such a world. 
 
 At last, in the stillness of midnight, she found her 
 self alone in the small stone chamber high in the 
 turret where she came to pray. In a hollow of the 
 wall stood a rough stone cross, secretly hewn for her 
 there. A lamp burned dimly. She dropped before 
 the symbol, and clasping her hands about it, bent 
 her face on her arms, faint and dizzy with fasting 
 and lack of sleep, stupid with grief. 
 
 She began praying wanderiugly, mixing her im 
 perious demand for justice, for a miracle, with 
 humble pleas for patience, forgiveness, and grace 
 to forgive, falling, in mere exhaustion of spirit, 
 from her passionate conjurations to disconnected, 
 helpless telling over to herself a golden time, 
 blessed, before these crosses; recalling glimpses of 
 summer woods where the condemned man had rid 
 den with her, May in their hearts ; impressions of 
 things seen and felt together: glittering musters 
 of knights, stars coming out above them, sitting
 
 184 THEODOLIND. 
 
 side by side, unreproved, in her father's house ; the 
 feel of his hand, the way of his familiar speech ; 
 then brought back to thought of the horror im 
 pending, fervently beseeching God for him and for 
 herself. 
 
 At last, as morning neared, it seemed that God had 
 heard : a strange comfort came to her, a sense of ex 
 altation that lifted her beyond the morrow. From 
 the shadowy corners faces looked down on her, each 
 set in its tremulous glory, compassionate, courage- 
 giving, tranquillizing faces of many who had long 
 overcome pain ; smells of Paradise, incense and lilies, 
 filled all the cold, dark place, crept through her brain, 
 numbing it to human fears. She lay long rapt in 
 a vision. Softly her hands loosened, slipped. She 
 bent upon herself before the stone altar, and lay 
 motionless. 
 
 A maid found her so. She stooped, frightened, 
 and with many pains roused her. The newly risen 
 sun flung through the narrow chink of the window a 
 bar of yellow light across her robe. She smiled 
 faintly, dazzled, as she opened her eyes. Then she 
 sat up, gently rubbing her forehead ; and as she 
 came to herself, there grew again in her face the 
 white fixed look it had worn when she looked on 
 the vision. 
 
 She took up early her station at the window com 
 manding the court through which it was known that 
 the spy must pass. The window was high. She 
 prayed a maid push a stool under it, and stood on 
 the raised place looking through the bars, careless 
 that her face should be seen of all ; as if scornful of
 
 THEODOLIND. 185 
 
 appearances, grown so bold as to have no desire fur 
 ther to conceal from the husband the face of a wife 
 whose lover is about to die. Yet it was not bold 
 ness : only, her brain seemed to have limited its 
 functions to framing a single thought. 
 
 Ulf did not approach the window; but from his 
 post on the hearth with the dogs cast now and 
 then from under his bent brows a glance toward 
 Theodolind. 
 
 A feeling of constraint prevailed among the earls. 
 All felt something impending; all had been con 
 scious of a heaviness in the air these last few days, 
 and knew not for what to be prepared. A man, it 
 was supposed an emissary of the queen's father, was 
 to die that morning by the king's command : stern 
 passions must play about that issue. They looked 
 from the queen's colorless, waiting face to the king's, 
 which wore an expression not seen on it by them 
 before, of overwrought attention, repression ; and one 
 by one they went from the hall, until few persons 
 were left in it. 
 
 Ulf watched the queen now unswervingly: 
 
 The starved outline of her motionless face showed 
 rigidly clear against the light. It was a face that 
 smote the beholder, that unavoidably brought up an 
 image of what it must have been under less ill- 
 starred conditions, how singularly sweet to look 
 upon, with ever so little a smile to quicken that 
 ghostly suggestion of a long-disused dimple, with 
 health and hope and natural joys to flush and round 
 out that untimely aged cheek. 
 
 Once and twice the king made a step toward her,
 
 186 THEODOLIND. 
 
 then stopped, and drew back to his place, moving 
 restlessly. 
 
 Now there rose a murmur, a scuffling in the court. 
 It grew. It told him that Arthur had appeared. He 
 watched the queen tremulously. A smile distorted 
 his mouth. 
 
 Theodolind pressed her sharp face to the bars a 
 moment, every tense line giving witness of the su 
 preme reaching out of the spirit, her eyes widened 
 by an effort that completely ringed the intent gray 
 iris with white. Then, suddenly, while he with 
 hands involuntarily outheld was breathlessly expect 
 ing, he saw her withdraw with a start, catching at 
 the iron, her head with its harvest of pale hair bent 
 backward over her shoulders, the face a moment be 
 fore stonily calm, frowning, convulsed. She hung so 
 a breathing-while, swaying, and her grasp loosened. 
 
 He had reached her with a bound, and received 
 the light body in his arms. 
 
 He was himself laughing in a strange, shaken way, 
 and speaking with a tongue almost unintelligible, 
 while his whole great body trembled with the effort 
 to control himself from crushing the slight form he 
 held savagely, insanely, against his breast. 
 
 " Dost not see ? '' he blundered. " He goeth free ! 
 Understandest ? Free ! Yet indeed thou shouldst 
 have asked me, knowing all I would do for thy sake. 
 Shalt reward me a little for this, sweet one, for never 
 before was conquered so mad a thirst for man's 
 blood." 
 
 She lay impassive, unresisting, like a child across 
 his arms ; her sweet gold head meekly pillowed on
 
 THEODOLIND. 187 
 
 his neck among rough, red locks ; her hands hanging, 
 without will ; her lips open, her eyes showing a 
 leaden gleam between the drooping lashes. 
 
 " Speak ! " Ulf said, shaking her in his passion no 
 more roughly than he could help, yet imperiously, 
 " Thank me ! O heart of my heart, white bird, snow- 
 flower, wilt not say a little word ? " 
 
 " Fool ! " cried out hard at his side Cynric, gray in 
 the face, finding it relief to dare the worst in turning 
 all his bitter rage toward himself and the world 
 against his master, " Ass ! Kuffian ! Art satisfied ? 
 Thou hast done her to death ! " 
 
 Ulf deigned no answer, did not look round, pushed 
 him aside, and again spoke to Theodolind, as softly 
 as he might, ordering her to answer him. Then 
 again he shook her, violently this time ; and then 
 still more violently. 
 
 Afterward, with a sudden subjugation of spirit 
 and signal loss of color in his lips, having approached 
 his mouth to hers so that the faintest breath might 
 be felt, he held his own breath, and for a long, long 
 moment was absolutely still, ghastly, waiting for a 
 sign. 
 
 And Cynric was still as he. 
 
 And presently Cynric echoed the hoarse cry that 
 escaped his king, and shuddering and sickening and 
 cursing, cast himself forward to the body that Ulf 
 with an abrupt, mad gesture had let drop from his 
 arms heavily down on the ringing stone. 
 
 Then was seen the wily courtier on his knees, sob 
 bing tearlessly, and with an unsteady hand striving 
 to compose the features of Theodolind, to smooth
 
 188 THEODOLIND. 
 
 away from them the unbearable look of reproach and 
 horror that death was fixing there, as if in so doing 
 he might efface his own remorse. 
 
 He stopped short in his pious task, unstrung, 
 quivering, making himself small, at the blast of a 
 voice outside in the court, more like the bellow of a 
 wounded bull than anything human, 
 
 " Seize him again, seize him ! Kill him ! kill, kill, 
 kill ! Hurry him off the battlements, that he dash 
 down from crag to crag, into the torrent, down ! 
 down ! "
 
 SERVIROL.
 
 SERVIROL. 
 
 TWO weary gentlemen warmed themselves at the 
 fire in the forester's hut, and in the intervals 
 between their doses contemplated each other. 
 
 Each felt a sleepy interest in a man so different 
 from himself. 
 
 When the gentleman who lay on the floor with his 
 shoulders raised by an old portmanteau burst in sev 
 eral places, and his legs spread wide, was brought 
 back to consciousness by the disagreeable sensation 
 of heat in his right side, or the sharpened activity of 
 the downpour on the roof, his eyes for a few seconds 
 wandered puzzled over the black figure in the chair 
 opposite and above him. Ten years before he had 
 known a face like that; but ten years must work 
 changes in a face : this one seemed to him still too 
 youthful to belong to the man he had known. 
 
 It was a long, delicately thin face, the noble struc 
 ture of the bone just indicating itself under the 
 smooth-shaven, pale-bronze skin. Everything in it 
 while it reposed drooped a little, the line of the 
 black eyebrows fell at the corners ; the aquiline nose 
 curved over the almost womanish downward-arching 
 mouth ; the long, black locks hung straight and soft 
 as willow-leaves over the forehead and cheeks.
 
 192 SERVIROL. 
 
 It was a face just vaguely touched with beauty, 
 and conveying at once even in sleep an impression of 
 austerity and sweetness. The character of the young 
 man's head was in a measure carried out in his body 
 leaning back in the high wooden elbow-chair, with 
 shapely legs outstretched and crossed, and high-bred 
 brown hands hanging out across the arm-rests. It was 
 slender and lightly built, yet not suggestive of weak 
 ness ; rather of a delicate hardihood, constitutional 
 gracility, perhaps, overcome by simple and wholesome 
 living. 
 
 The man on the floor let his eye run curiously over 
 the other's garments, still in the fashion of the last 
 reign, as the long hair and smooth cheek. He felt 
 superior amusement at the coarse black woollen tunic 
 and hose, the rough creamy linen of the shirt against 
 which the hanging head looked so brown, the mantle 
 of primitive cut thrown over a stool to dry and 
 steaming quietly before the fire. 
 
 But he could not observe long enough to conjec 
 ture more than a very little ; a languor bred by his 
 ride, by the heat after a drenching, the long drink 
 after drought, as well as a beginning of fever in his 
 veins, soon weighed down his eyelids ; and he slept 
 with his head thrown back over the sum of his 
 worldly possessions, breathing hard, and occasionally 
 grunting with a dreamy realization of various 
 discomforts. 
 
 Then perhaps the horses stamping under the shed 
 outside, or the muddy white hound yapping impa 
 tiently when he had stretched his shaggy legs too near 
 to the blaze and it scorched him, roused the man in
 
 SERVIROL. 193 
 
 the chair to take a few minutes' further survey of 
 the stranger at his feet. 
 
 The face awakened in him no memory of any one 
 seen before, but brought to his mind effigies of a well- 
 known personage. The reflection of the fire kindled 
 a sunny color in the sleeper's short, curly beard and 
 on his solid, close-cropped round head, smooth as a 
 gilt morion. His rather large face with the upward- 
 slanting line of the eye, the nose broad of nostril and 
 thick at the base, the full underlip, gave one to think 
 that its waking expression might be one of not ill- 
 natured irony combined with boldness. 
 
 The stranger's clothes originally rich and showy 
 in the extreme were sorely weather-stained, frayed 
 in many places, and splashed with mud. His doublet 
 and trunks were of the finest velvet, at one time 
 green, elaborately slashed in every part with satin, 
 once of a warm rose-color. His open coat was edged 
 with dark fur, and boasted still a battered gold clasp. 
 The hat that lay on the floor beside his long sword 
 was a broad round thing of velvet adorned with 
 feathers, the saddest-looking feathers, dingy and 
 wet and straggling. 
 
 The man looked ill. From the fit of his garments 
 one would have judged his powerfully built, soldierly 
 body to have lost in size since the day of their glory. 
 His face was pale under its coat of sunburn ; now and 
 then it twitched in his sleep. 
 
 The man in the chair, at last feeling sufficiently re 
 stored, sat up and looked toward the window. The 
 rain was still falling, but less violently ; such gray 
 light as could reach the interior of the hut through 
 
 13
 
 194 SERVIROL. 
 
 the trees and the dull little window was beginning 
 to fail. While in thought he was going over the 
 miles still dividing him from home, he perceived his 
 neighbor's respiration becoming decidedly more sub 
 dued. He turned to him, and met the glance of his 
 opening eyes. 
 
 The prostrate man looked in silence awhile ; then 
 half smiled and said audibly, yet as if saying 
 it to himself, " Etieime de Servirol ! Etienne de 
 Servirol ! " 
 
 The black-clad gentleman smiled in response, and 
 stared frankly in the other's face, plainly with the 
 endeavor to recognize him. 
 
 " You know my name, Monsieur. We have 
 met?" 
 
 " Met ? We 've been even friends, even ene 
 mies. I think, indeed, we have enough of the same 
 blood to be able to call ourselves kinsmen." 
 
 " Now that you speak, I seem to feel that you are 
 not a stranger. Yet, I hope you will pardon me, 
 your name does not offer itself. May I not try to 
 make my stupidity just conceivable to myself by 
 supposing that you have greatly changed ? " 
 
 " It is likely, very likely. But you you have 
 not changed. Until you awoke I could almost have 
 believed that the last ten years had not been." 
 
 " Ten years," mused Servirol, with speculative eyes 
 on his neighbor's face. " What was I doing ten 
 years ago ? " 
 
 Then it flashed upon him. He leaped to his feet 
 and seized the other's hand, extorting from him an ir 
 repressible howl and shudder of pain, which, however,
 
 SERVIEOL. 195 
 
 turned into a forced laugh as Servirol precipitately 
 retreating let him go. 
 
 " Nothing, or not much. It opened again while 
 I was riding. I got .it long ago. Every now and 
 then it becomes as good as new. Never mind." 
 
 Servirol, after hesitating over tenders of help, feel 
 ing that his friend would for the moment prefer it so, 
 refrained from making any reference to his wound ; 
 he took his seat again, eying him with a sympathy 
 he could not conceal. 
 
 "Then it has dawned on you who I am. Well, 
 who am I ? " 
 
 "Oh, I make no mistake now, Andre*. You are 
 not so much changed, after all. It was your beard 
 and your hair." 
 
 " The absence of my hair, you mean." 
 
 "As you will. But excuse me, my dear friend, 
 are you not suffering ? I fear you are," said Servirol, 
 uneasy with compassion. " Pray do not be proud with 
 an old playmate. Can I not assist you ? Without 
 modesty, I am deft at dressing a hurt." 
 
 Andre' waived him off with a smile, to all seeming 
 perfectly unconcerned. 
 
 " Let be ; it does not matter. I laid myself down 
 here because there was more room. I can sit up 
 well enough." And before Servirol could effectively 
 oppose himself, Andre*, without a catching of the 
 breath, had got to his feet, and stood before him 
 in the attitude of a gallant gentleman on whom is 
 fixed the attention of many beautiful ladies. He 
 looked strong enough then, and even elegant in his 
 faded finery. He squared his shoulders with a brave,
 
 196 SERVIROL. 
 
 careless air, threw back his head with a light-hearted 
 swagger, and unceremoniously dropped upon the seat 
 across which the other man's cloak had been drying. 
 He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, 
 and scanned Servirol's face with his much-knowing 
 blue eyes. 
 
 " How did you do it, man, to stay so young ? If 
 you had become a priest, as I thought you would 
 have long done But you are evidently no priest. 
 How did your projects come to fail, may one hear ? 
 I never knew a man more bent upon cutting himself 
 off from every chance of enjoyment call it sinful 
 pleasure if you prefer than you once were. Ah, but 
 that was long ago ! Now, perhaps perhaps 
 
 " I am even married ! " laughed Servirol. " I will 
 tell you ; but first let me hear about yourself. What 
 good wind brings you in these parts ? " 
 
 Andre* shrugged his shoulders, and spoke like a 
 person lip-deep in misfortunes, but who does not care 
 to be bothered with thinking about them. 
 
 " Here or there, it does not much matter now. I 
 can't fight with an accursed hole interfering with 
 my sword-play. Besides, though it seems a detail 
 without importance so late in the time of the world, 
 at the moment I should be embarrassed to know 
 for whom to be fighting, and against whom. My 
 royal brother-at-arms in captivity ; his royal mother, 
 for bad reasons of her own, no friend to me, in fact 
 almost seeming to view my person with antipathy, 
 I seem to see long leisure stretching out before me. 
 I thought I should like to do a few of the things one 
 is always wishing he had time for ; for one, to re-
 
 SERVIROL. 197 
 
 visit the haunts of my extreme youth, it is thought 
 to be a touching performance, and to afford the most 
 arid soul some degree of comfort, to see again old 
 friendly faces " 
 
 " But you knew," interrupted Servirol, " surely 
 you had been informed " 
 
 "Of the poverty I am reduced to in the way of 
 kinsfolk and everything else that one has without 
 working ? Yes ; still, I thought I might meet some 
 one who remembered me ; and you see I was not to 
 be disappointed." 
 
 " Ah, had you thought of me ? " inquired Servirol, 
 holding out his hand with a grateful impulse. 
 
 Andre* wondered why he showed pleasure, but took 
 the hand, replying without embarrassment : " Frankly, 
 I had not with any degree of precision formulated 
 the thought of seeking you out. Still, I knew your 
 whereabouts. It was among the chances that we 
 should fall in with each other." 
 
 " You must come and make our roof yours, while 
 your wound is closing," said Servirol, whose large- 
 orbed, mild-looking eye took in more than the other 
 thought apparent. Andre* could not imagine himself 
 a painful object behind his smiles and his indiffer 
 ence, nor know how the rich misery of his apparel 
 roused pity in the man whose orderly simplicity 
 quickened mockery in himself. " I will not allow 
 you to refuse. I claim the right to take posses 
 sion of you as seventh cousin, if old friend is not 
 sufficient." 
 
 " Oh, I was not thinking of a refusal," replied 
 Andre*, with cool ease. It seemed as if an unex-
 
 198 SERVIROL. 
 
 pected prospect of peace made all his muscles relax ; 
 a warmth passed through his pale face, and he looked 
 simpler, better-uatured than before. "It is kind of 
 you, though," he owned aloud, in spite of himself; 
 " for I am an incumbrance now. I am scarcely 
 amusing. I am a trifle broken in health, I confess ; 
 I need not say, in fortune. But Fortune is a lady, 
 my dear sir," he added in brighter tones. "If I 
 show a sufficient contempt for her, she will come 
 back, if only to see what manner of man it is who 
 could, without one sign of agitation, resign her most 
 esteemed favors. She is a woman, yes; and so 
 bound to change ! 
 
 'Souvent femme varie, 
 Bien fol qui s'y fie,' " 
 
 he lightly sang. 
 
 " But, ah, I believe you told me you were married ? " 
 he said, cutting short the song, as he saw in Servirol's 
 face no true appreciation of the sentiment it ex 
 pressed. "You look appropriately prosperous and 
 well nourished. Have you been married long ? " 
 
 " Not long, no." 
 
 " Do you know, frankly, I cannot become used to 
 the idea ? In the old days you were so excuse me 
 for the expression thin-blooded. You lived with 
 your head in the clouds; you had no eyes but for 
 holy books. I thought you despised the fair ones." 
 
 " Oh, no ; never that ! God forbid I should have 
 been such a poor creature ! I only did not know," 
 said Servirol, warmly. " But if I had been an unbe 
 liever, my wife is fit to convert the most obdurate."
 
 SERVIROL. 199 
 
 " Beautiful ? " 
 
 " Oh, beautiful and good, most perfectly sweet 
 and good ! But beautiful, as you asked it first, must 
 have seemed to you first in importance. And so it 
 is : because perfection of beauty in the face cannot 
 but be an expression, an emblem, of the heart's 
 beauty. You will be impressed, I cannot doubt, 
 with the loveliness that breathes in iny dear lady's 
 every line, every gesture, every glance." 
 
 It came back to Andre*, as a forgotten tune is 
 revived when one bar of it is heard again, that also 
 in the old times this was one of Servirol's traits, 
 to open his heart freely to the first-comer, endowing 
 Lira with every gift of the good listener, charity, 
 understanding, discretion. No wonder the man had 
 kept young, with that trusting spirit ! Andre" could 
 not help an amused contempt at him. At the same 
 time he wondered what the woman could be like whom 
 a Servirol should so praise. He, Andre", had seen the 
 great and shining beauties of the day; he might 
 boast of knowing what beauty was. The picture he 
 made to himself of his friend's lady bore no relation 
 to those much-besung ones of the court he loved; 
 his imagination sketched him something simple, raw, 
 ordinary, beneath his own educated attention. 
 
 " Fitly she is called Aurore ; for she seems made 
 of like elements with the dawn, pearl and rose- 
 color, and dew, and soft light, and pure gold," said 
 Servirol, unconsciously using caressing intonations 
 as he spoke of his lady. " I thank God that I found 
 her ! Else I should have died ignorant of this world's 
 best happiness."
 
 200 SEEVIROL. 
 
 " You would have, perhaps, maiTied some other," 
 remarked Andre*. 
 
 Servirol blushed dark. " I think not." He then 
 added with simple sincerity : " At least I hope not. 
 Yet I will not conceal from you that already before 
 I had the blessedness to see her, the thought of be 
 coming a priest had lost its first heavenly enchant 
 ment. When we were together can it be that ten 
 years have passed since those days? my brother 
 lived, and it was my father's desire that I should en 
 ter the Church. But when his eldest son died, my 
 brother is dead, yes, there ceased in his mind to 
 be a reason for my forswearing the world. Then he 
 wished me rather to fill my brother's place. I did 
 my best for a time. But when my father, too, had 
 gone, yes, he too ! came over me the old thirst for 
 quiet, and days sweetly ordered between serene stud 
 ies and contemplation. I went back to the monas 
 tery, to the man who has ever been my best friend, 
 Father Euphrasius, decided when the days of 
 my novitiate should be accomplished to transfer all 
 my worldly responsibilities to the Servirol nearest of 
 kin, that 's Didier. Several months went by in 
 preparation. I had hours of feeling myself ripening 
 toward the happy end, becoming sanctified in an 
 absence of all earthly desires. But again came hours 
 when that very complacency in my easy fate filled 
 me with doubt. I feared that I must be a coward to 
 find myself so willingly out of the battle while yet 
 strong and unhurt. And that thought never struck 
 me as having the character of a temptation, because 
 the thought of a world of men and action was hard
 
 SERVIROL. 201 
 
 to me ; while the thought of monkhood, of renunci 
 ation, of dedication, was smooth, gratifying, and in 
 so far partook of the signs of temptation. 
 
 " Then came springtime over the earth ; and I do 
 not know how to describe what came to be all 
 through my being. It was akin, it seems to me, to 
 the spirit in the trees when after the bleak bareness 
 of winter they begin to break into leaves and blos 
 soms. I knew it for a spirit not of evil, for I felt 
 friends with God, and could not believe that he would 
 mislead me, make traps for me out of the natural 
 outreachings of my heart. Yet I did not clearly per 
 ceive what was happening in my soul. I was rest 
 less without understanding whither I wished to go, 
 unsatisfied without knowing what I wanted. 
 
 " One night, unable to sleep, I went into the chapel 
 to read by the little lamp that burns incessantly be 
 fore the image of Mary. I think I was in the mood 
 wherein men see visions ; alive in every fibre, with 
 every sense intensified almost to pain. I unfolded 
 the scroll and tried to gather my broadly flying 
 thoughts and fix them upon the text. Then in the 
 mysterious light became clear to my wonderfully 
 sharpened sight letters that I had never seen before : 
 between the severe black lines flame-tinted shadowy 
 letters, letters that had been blotted out so that the 
 parchment could be used again to a different purpose. 
 How had I never seen them before ? Now, though 
 the light was insufficient almost to distinguish the 
 ex voti hanging about the Queen of Heaven, I could 
 read wonderful words, of love, of love, of happy 
 love, partaking as much of heaven as of earth, yet
 
 202 SEUV1ROL. 
 
 sweetly earthly, too, as flowers are earthly and yet 
 must be grateful to a kind God, who hates not the 
 world he made, and are allowed to grow and fulfil 
 themselves. It seemed as if I were reading in my 
 own souL ' Oh, not to be shut out from love ! ' I 
 cried ; and nothing rose to reprove me, my friend 
 made no sign. ' If I am a tree, not to pluck off every 
 budding leaf and rosy bud, but to be myself and 
 drink in the warm light, and trust to God that the 
 thing he framed be not evil in his sight. If I am a 
 stream, to leap down the hills in search of the deep, 
 and not to stagnate in a dark basin.' And the next 
 day I bared my heart to Father Euphrasius, who loved 
 me as a son, yet had always vowed mine was no true 
 vocation, only a vast love of dreaming. And the 
 day after that, when I was almost repenting my de 
 cision to resume the unsheltered life in my own hall, 
 I saw her, she came to the church in accomplish 
 ment of a vow made in sickness, and I thanked 
 God that I was alive." 
 
 " And you still feel the same gratitude ? " asked 
 Andre* after a time, willing to break the spell of his 
 friend's emotion, which indefinably jarred upon him, 
 " all your gilding is good, all your links hold ? " 
 
 Servirol opened his lips to reply, then hesitated 
 a second. He could have answered with enthusiasm 
 that his gratitude endured ; but at the question had 
 flashed back on him a sense of occasions, just a few, 
 when it had seemed to him in a half-formed way 
 that the best reality fell a little short of the dream. 
 But that only meant that the earth is still the earth, 
 and a little worse than heaven. So he answered
 
 SEEVIROL. 203 
 
 with full conscience of truthfulness : "I am grateful 
 now as then, Andre*. May God refuse me forgiveness 
 when I cease to be grateful to the loveliest among 
 women for the happiness that has most made me 
 believe in the gentleness of God." 
 
 " But whence comes that you are at this moment 
 not at the feet of the worshipped beauty, counting off 
 to her these amenities, as I could fancy you once 
 counting off on your rosary prayers to the Maiden 
 Immaculate ? What may so good a husband be 
 doing far from home ? " 
 
 " Your words seem a just reproach. I have been 
 four days absent. But truly the storm of itself would 
 not have been enough to break my homeward jour 
 ney. I hoped to find the forester here. I have 
 waited for him. The business I have been about in 
 terests him. The account of that, if you are patient, 
 I will keep until we reach home ; for I must tell 
 it to my wife, and it would be tedious for you to hear 
 twice over. Are you inclined to ride ? Or, will it 
 not be better for you to wait until I have reached the 
 hamlet, when I will direct men with a litter " 
 
 Andre* interrupted him with a sound of scorn, and 
 got to his feet. 
 
 Presently the two gentlemen rode slowly side by 
 side, through the gathering shadow, out of the drip 
 ping woods, toward the seat of the Servirols. 
 
 The hall appeared very plain, very bare ; but the 
 greater part of it was lost to sight, the rays of the 
 iron lamp reaching little beyond the table on which 
 it stood, and the fire which earlier had leaped up
 
 204 SERVIROL. 
 
 under the ample hood having sunk into a glowering 
 heap. 
 
 Andre* sat with his back to that, facing the lady of 
 the house. Such weariness had overtaken him, and 
 temporary abstraction from himself, that he forgot to 
 preserve his affected demeanor of a man in full health 
 and spirits. Now that the meal was done, he sat 
 collapsed in his large chair, with his head sunk be 
 tween his shoulders, staring quietly at the vacant 
 dark space between Servirol and his wife; so he 
 could see both. 
 
 Little was changed in the old house since the day 
 of his brief sojourning there, a wild lad sent from 
 a home whence the father who could have controlled 
 him was missing. Only, then it had seemed a prison, 
 and he had at the first opportunity run away from 
 it to join the adolescent king whose fame fired his 
 fancy; while now it seemed, if a prison at all, a 
 pleasing one, with a warder such as the eyes could 
 not easily become tired of gazing upon. 
 
 The ascete had proved himself no such mean judge 
 of beauty. Andre* felt an impersonal spite against 
 Nature for her wastefulness. The plain creature 
 whom he had pictured as Servirol's wife would have 
 been far more befitting these poor surroundings, this 
 simple man, than the actual woman with her super 
 fluous perfections. 
 
 She was a spot of light on the dark room. Her 
 gown was white, so thickly covered with violet silk 
 needlework that it showed like a rich brocade ; her 
 coif, that fitted the sides of her head closely, and 
 came well behind the small rosy ears, falling in a
 
 SERVIROL. 205 
 
 fold down the back of her neck, was violet ; but from 
 under the edge of it, against her hair, came a band 
 of black that helped the hair to its vivid gold, and 
 the skin to its excessive fairness. She wore no jewels 
 save a single little ring. 
 
 Her face had in line and hue and texture all the 
 beauty of youth in its bloom. Her features were 
 very delicately and perfectly cut : the nose narrow, 
 the lips thin, the chin round ; her small head turned 
 on a large milk-white throat faintly marked with a 
 Venus-collar. Her body had reached just such har 
 moniously generous proportions as made seemly in 
 her a certain slowness of movement, something 
 between majesty and a pretty pensive laziness. 
 
 She sat in a high-backed chair ; her face outlined 
 itself delightfully to the two men's eyes against the 
 carved black wood. 
 
 She looked at Servirol while he spoke, through the 
 lowered fringe of her lashes ; stone-colored eyes she 
 had, never fully open, nobly overhung by broad, 
 smooth lids : one could not surely say whether she 
 were listening to him or following thoughts of her 
 own. 
 
 A maid stood behind her in the shadow, ready to 
 wait on her. The servant's head was just seen above 
 Aurore's chair, a pale, youthful face under a dark 
 coif that completely covered the hair. 
 
 " I will tell you first," said Servirol, turning, as he 
 told his story, now to Andre*, now to his wife, help 
 ing his speech with abundant gesture of his expres- 
 sive hands, " that my errand was entirely successful. 
 I will not keep you in suspense, as a better story-
 
 206 SERVIROL. 
 
 teller would think himself bound to do. Pierre, my 
 dear Aurore, is forgiven ! Was it not worth the four 
 days' absence, disagreeable as they in themselves 
 were ? This Pierre, you must know, Andre*, is a poor 
 lad on our neighbor De Gueldre's estate, a young 
 vine-dresser for whose broad brown face one must 
 have a liking. He is a wild, but not a bad fellow. 
 He got himself into trouble : he is always getting 
 himself into trouble ; but this time it was much 
 worse than ever before. He was caught deer-stealing 
 in De Mirolune's forest. De Mirolune, you perhaps 
 remember, is rather more distantly our neighbor. 
 Now, your king, I speak respectfully, he is my 
 king as well, and I am his loyal subject; yet I 
 declare it, he has made the game laws cruel. Yes, 
 they are cruel. A man, before God ! is worth a little 
 more than a spotted deer; and a man without his 
 right hand is a thing the king should weep over 
 where he is found, and not himself make a common 
 sight. De Mirolune, who does not seem to know 
 very well what he does, taking advantage of the 
 king's law, was for having Pierre's hand off. I heard 
 of it through his sweetheart, who, not knowing where 
 else to turn for help, came in mortal terror to cast 
 herself at my feet, praying that I should interfere. 
 It would have hurt you to see the poor, pretty face, 
 white as linen. I rode immediately to De Miro 
 lune's on a ceremonious visit. He is slightly my 
 wife's cousin. There I found out how matters stood ; 
 and (I will spare you a long account of our conver 
 sations ; some of them animated, I can promise) 
 finally persuaded him to surrender the satisfaction of
 
 SERVIKOL. 207 
 
 seeing how a poacher's hand looks severed, and what 
 face the wretch makes who has to do without it. 
 Praise me a little, Aurore," he said boyishly, bending 
 forward toward her ; " I have done nothing good, but 
 through me a bad action has been prevented, and I 
 love your praise " 
 
 " Did you say," asked Aurore, when she spoke 
 were discovered through her narrow smile rows of 
 beautiful, even pearl, " did I understand that our 
 cousin the Seigneur de Mirolune gave up the 
 manant like that, simply for nothing but your 
 eloquence ? " 
 
 Servirol for a second looked ever so little embar 
 rassed. " No ; I was not eloquent enough for that. I 
 confess he is not easy to argue with. Eeasons that 
 to me seem better than good scarcely affect him 
 at all. I tried to make him put himself in the 
 offender's place, and see how the rigidity of the game 
 laws impressed him from that point ; but he found 
 it impossible to do. He could be no one, even in 
 thought, but the great De Mirolune, with the right 
 from the king to maim and disfigure ; the king having 
 received that same right from God, I must suppose. 
 So, as Pierre's hand had to be saved at any price, 
 and poor Gnon's tears dried, I offered him, if he 
 would oblige me, that bit of vine-land he has so often 
 wished were his, and that I had still not been in 
 clined to gratify him with " 
 
 "Our manants in these parts, as you see," said 
 Aurore, turning to Andre* with her fine small smile, 
 " are worth not only a spotted deer ; they are worth 
 each beside a yearly dozen casks of fragrant amber
 
 208 SERVIROL. 
 
 wine. Etienne will tell you how much else. My 
 self, I do not know." 
 
 " Ah, do not jest, dear," cried Servirol. " In your 
 heart you feel the same as I do. We are all poor 
 things," he said rapidly, warmly, " put on this hard 
 earth together, sorely needing one another. God 
 made us all, all. How can we hurt a brother ? Life 
 is too short to accomplish more than a very little 
 good ; how shall we waste time doing evil ? My 
 self, I wonder that one can harm any being, it 
 hurts oneself so much more, one suffers so from pain 
 one inflicts ! Ah, you said in jest that you did not 
 know how much more than a deer and various casks 
 of wine a peasant is worth. I do not know how 
 much he may be worth, but he is worth as much as 
 I am. He is framed like me, he too has loves and 
 dreams and powers, powers, yes, until they take 
 his hand from him. Our souls when we are dead 
 will stand side by side, or his be lifted before mine, 
 as he was the humbler of heart. Oh, that boy ! if 
 you had heard his despair when he still thought 
 himself doomed. All his courage had died, he 
 sobbed. He could not work any more like other 
 men, he would be an object of pity, if not derision, 
 everything in the world was become a bitterness 
 to him, he cursed his Maker! Then, suddenly, 
 the danger had passed like a bad dream. He was to 
 take up life at the point before it had turned horrible. 
 Gnon hung round his neck, laughing and crying and 
 kissing. They will marry and have children, God 
 bless them ! work and be happy " 
 
 " Oh, my friend, cease ! " said Aurore, in a tone that
 
 SERVIKOL. 209 
 
 made contrast with his emotion and checked at once 
 the flow of it. " The Seigneur La Jouvence does not, 
 I suspect, interest himself as you do in these vileins. 
 He may in that resemble me," she added lower, yet 
 making every syllable distinct. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Servirol, with compunc 
 tion, " Aurore is right. I let myself go. I say it all 
 aloud instead of merely thinking it. I forget that it 
 goes without saying." 
 
 There was a short silence. Then Andre* bent for 
 ward, leaned his elbow on the table, his chin on his 
 palm, and gazed at Aurore with undisguisedly enliv 
 ened interest. 
 
 " The features of the noble Dame de Servirol," he 
 said to her presently, with the smile and the tone 
 of old and better days, "if the liberty of speaking 
 of them may be accorded a cousin, bring insistently 
 to the mind those of Diane, Duchesse de Mortclaire, 
 whose presence graced the court on many occasions 
 ever to be remembered." 
 
 " The Duchesse Diane ? " asked Aurore. " I know 
 of whom you speak. Echoes of the world reach us 
 even here among the peasants and the wolves, mon 
 Seigneur. And was it not to her that his Majesty 
 himself addressed a madrigal in which she was set 
 above the goddess her namesake ? " 
 
 " You have been well informed ; it was to 
 herself." 
 
 " Tell me of that great lady and of the king ; de 
 scribe to us the life among those renowned ones. It 
 is not often we have occasion to speak with one who 
 has in his own person witnessed the battles and the 
 
 14
 
 210 SERV1ROL. 
 
 pageants, the tourneys and parleys and councils that 
 shall live in history." 
 
 And La Jouvence launched into bright-colored 
 descriptions. 
 
 Servirol after his apology had leaned back in his 
 chair, feeling a shade lost, not knowing exactly what 
 had happened. One thing was borne upon him, and 
 it filled him with a vague pain : Aurore felt no sym 
 pathy with his joy at Pierre's deliverance. She had 
 been vexed with himself, but why ? He could not 
 imagine; only she had been somehow vexed, and 
 that had made her choose not to seem to care about 
 Pierre. He could find no response in her face. For 
 the first time, as his loving, questioning eyes 
 swept it, it made on him the impression of a shut 
 book. 
 
 For the first time ? Suddenly, strangely, he 
 felt as if it were not the first time, there had not 
 been a first time ; and this pain, it was not the 
 first time either. 
 
 Her eyes were dropped on her hands : she was 
 playing with her gold ring while the awkward little 
 silence lasted. She would not look up. With a 
 feeling of dim despair he lifted his eyes from her 
 face, deaf and blind at that moment to a peasant's 
 joys and woes ; they chanced upon the face that 
 rose behind her chair, and rested upon it with grow 
 ing wonder. The servant, could it be ? her eyes 
 seemed to him swimming with tears. 
 
 It was Barberine, a poor orphan taken from the 
 convent to be Aurore's handmaid. She moved noise 
 lessly ; she was always silent, always in the shadow,
 
 SERVIROL. 211 
 
 one was never aware of her presence except one 
 needed her service. Yet she was young, he saw it 
 at this moment for the first time ; her face had al 
 most a sort of sweetness in that nun-like coif that 
 came down over the forehead and covered the ears. 
 She might be graceful under the straight dark gown 
 that disguised her form. She was pale and a little 
 thin; it made her gray eyes with their tears look 
 large. 
 
 Her glance met his full of comprehension ; she did 
 not seem aware that she was staring hard at the 
 master. She had heard him tell of the rescued Irac- 
 conier ; it had moved her, and she had forgotten her 
 self, expressing her joy at what he had done with 
 those tears. Suddenly his pain had increased, had 
 become almost keen. He took his eyes from her and 
 listened to Andre", who even at this moment had bent 
 forward to break the silence by his remark on the 
 resemblance between Aurore and the Duchesse de 
 Mortclaire. 
 
 He followed the conversation that ensued with 
 determined attention, occasionally putting in his 
 word. His friend was without doubt delightful ; he 
 was pleased that he could so well entertain Aurore, 
 for whom their quiet life must sometimes be dull. 
 He was also pleased that Aurore could show so much 
 esprit ; it was good in her to exert herself to make 
 their poor house pleasant for his unfortunate wounded 
 friend. His pride in her and his gratitude to her 
 crowded into the background those other feelings. 
 He gave himself up to the enjoyment of Andre"s 
 vivid tales.
 
 212 SERVIROL. 
 
 The sick man with ever increasing feverish excite 
 ment was describing to them nothing less than a 
 camp prepared for the meeting of two young kings, 
 the tents being all of golden cloth, when he broke 
 in the rnid of a phrase, his pale head dropped on 
 his breast ; he must be carried to bed and restored. 
 
 When Servirol had seen his friend made easy 
 and dosing off under the watch of Modeste, the 
 ancient nurse of the family, he did not at once 
 retire to sleep. 
 
 The moon had risen in full splendor, triumphing 
 over the storm clouds. Servirol looked out at it 
 a moment. The night did not give him the usual 
 joy. He turned from it ; but now to his eyes filled 
 with the pure light, his lungs filled with the dewy 
 air, the house seemed dark and close like the tomb, 
 and the sleep that could have made him oblivious 
 was far from his eyes. He went out into the moon 
 light to walk down his unrest. 
 
 Why this misery ? He could not examine into 
 it; he only wished to turn from it without defini 
 tion, to make as if it had never been, to be the 
 man he was before. It was only a little thing. It 
 would pass ; pass it must. 
 
 And he walked on, farther and farther, attaining 
 as he went a due increase of the desired calm. 
 
 He passed the sleeping hamlet that lay below 
 the hall He was himself again and went com 
 posedly, meditating a return on his steps, when at 
 a certain point in the road skirting the hill he 
 came suddenly in sight of the monastery walls,
 
 SERVIROL. 213 
 
 gleaming high up, far away, white in the moon 
 light. 
 
 He must have known that he should see them, 
 yet the sight gave him a pang. Something within 
 him for the first time since he had left them cried 
 out irrepressibly, " Oh that I were within them, 
 again, that I had never left them ! " 
 
 This homesickness was too strong to be at once 
 overcome. He stood in the road staring at the 
 walls, swept by the tide of his memories back 
 along the old quiet days when Heaven had seemed 
 so near, when at dusk sometimes the picture of 
 Mary he had been praying before till he was faint 
 seemed to become alive : the stars that crowned 
 her darted long rays, and she bent down from the 
 cloudy background and whispered him promises of 
 good to the world. He longed to see the friend 
 of his youth, Father Euphrasius, to confess to him 
 many things, to be helped by him. He could have 
 cast himself face downward in the drenched grass 
 by the roadside, weeping endlessly. 
 
 He turned quickly, and ran homeward, with a 
 sense of guiltiness. 
 
 The night-air coming swiftly against him did 
 much to dispel the mists in his brain. The glory 
 of the moon had at last wooed him from himself. 
 
 He reached his door and there stopped irresolute, 
 still loath to go within. He stood looking upward, 
 taking on his face the benison of moon and stars. 
 Not far from the hall was a little wood divided by a 
 straight grassy road leading to a small open chapel. 
 He would walk just so much farther and pray, then
 
 214 SERVIROL. 
 
 home again and to sleep. He turned his steps to 
 ward the chapel. 
 
 The moon fretted the ground with softly swinging 
 spots of light. At the end of the avenue rose the 
 shrine. The high moon whitened its roof and steps ; 
 darkness filled the sheltered chamber, at the back of 
 which was painted the image at whose feet the de 
 vout placed sheaves of flowers. Servirol was almost 
 at the steps, when he stopped. Some one had come 
 before him. How strange that another than he 
 should have chosen this hour ! He could barely dis 
 tinguish, now that he looked searchingly, a shade 
 within the shade in the interior of the chapel. It 
 was a half-stifled voice that warned him of a human 
 presence. What poor soul came to importune the 
 Queen of Heaven so late, and with what petition ? 
 It must be one of the peasants from his hamlet, 
 a woman, he thought, with some secret sorrow that 
 would not let her sleep, but made her wander forth 
 as he had wandered, seeking healing from the night. 
 The peasants often came there. Even at this moment 
 lay on the steps a limp knot of field-flowers, washed 
 pearly- white with moonshine. Perhaps, if he but 
 knew, he could help this creature that sighed so 
 heavily while praying, the Virgin might answer 
 her prayer through him. He stood still, scarcely dis 
 cernible in the shadow under the trees, his black 
 garments and bare black head faintly freckled with 
 the sifted white light. 
 
 The voice rose now and then to something more 
 than a murmur, and he caught a phrase meant for 
 Heaven's ear. The one who prayed was not repeat-
 
 SERVIROL. 215 
 
 ing the ordinary established orisons, but talking to 
 God's mother from the heart, with entreaties, con 
 fessions, self-accusations. He listened with wonder. 
 The words would suddenly come in a passionate 
 flood, to end in unintelligible smothered babblings 
 that brought before the mind a face buried on the 
 arms stretched over the altar. 
 
 He understood at last what the poor creature was 
 praying ; and then he did not, as he had intended, 
 make known his presence, speak softly to her and 
 offer aid. He had stumbled upon a heart's secret ; it 
 was safe with him, and he was so full of a vast fellow- 
 feeling that it did not occur to him he must flee at 
 once from further hearing, he had no right to be 
 there. His heart itself held him there. 
 
 " Mary, Mary, Mary ! " went the voice, with inter 
 ruptions and long pauses, " it is not a sin to so love 
 him. You can look into my heart and assure your 
 self that I cannot help it ! The blind-born could 
 more easily see, than I, having seen, not love him. 
 Have you the heart of a woman ? Then grant me 
 somewhat. So little I ask ! But something I must 
 have or everlastingly despair. It is not that he 
 should love me, such a thing could never be : the 
 stars are nailed up fast in the skies, I know it ; they 
 do not change for any asking of ours. It is not that 
 he should give me pity, I should not want him to 
 know how fit an object for pity I am. I would only 
 wish that in some strange way Mary, to whom all 
 things are possible ! I might be near him, that he 
 might even unknowingly softly touch me. I am so 
 lowly that I could be content. The other day, I con-
 
 216 SERVIROL. 
 
 fess it to you alone, I tangled in the embroidery on 
 his collar one of my long hairs ; and all day I was 
 happy because I saw that it went with him. Can 
 you not make me his hound ? I could stay at his 
 feet, I should be something to him. Or, less than 
 that, any dumb object that he should dignify by 
 using I could content myself to be. Make me but 
 his book of hours, Mary, Mary, that I may feel his 
 eyes ! nothing but his cup, his riding- whip, the 
 brooch in his cap Ah, Mother of God ! this is mad 
 ness. Is it wickedness too ? Deal with me, then : I 
 submit. But consider the pain, the heavy punish 
 ment already, of feeling that where I would give my 
 life gladly to the last drop, not a little of it is wanted, 
 none needed, none of the smallest use or pleasure. 
 Oh, good mother of the afflicted, make me to suffer 
 less ! I hurt no one, I do what I can to comfort the 
 afflicted, I too, wherever I find them. Comfort 
 me ! It is not to take this love away, I pray you, 
 you never could, and I could not bear it to go, but 
 sanctify it, if so it may be. Make it to lie still in 
 my heart, like an imprisoned dove with wings folded, 
 and be silent always, and ask for nothing. Lift from 
 it, if it displeases God, every earthly yearning. If it 
 be wrong for me to have my wish, make me no 
 more so madly to want it ! " 
 
 Now, as the prayer continued, it was less frequently 
 interrupted ; the voice was less broken, as if the one 
 who prayed had already gained a little courage. It 
 must be coming to an end, when she would emerge 
 from the shadow, and pass over the brightly illumined 
 steps.
 
 SERVIROL. 217 
 
 Servirol felt that he must not be seen, but even 
 more strongly that he must not see. Softly he slipped 
 among the trees, and sought home by a way she 
 would be sure not to follow; for it led by a dark 
 tarn, near which had at some time been seen a 
 wandering flame that the peasants invested with a 
 weird quality, and preferred not exposing them 
 selves to meet. He passed the sheet of black, 
 stilly, mantled water, unimpressed, though he 
 was superstitious too, so was his mind on this oc 
 casion preoccupied with wonder over what he had 
 heard. 
 
 That strange love-lament woke a thousand echoes 
 in his breast. He knew all that so well ! Only, he 
 was happy in love, as that poor one was evidently 
 hapless; and he was a full-grown man, while that 
 seemed to him the utterance of some very young 
 thing. But he recognized a sister soul : that was his 
 own way of love, that unreserved dedication of 
 flesh and spirit. Ah, did not he love his love, then, 
 all her soul as he divined it through her eyes, her 
 thoughts, whether she said them or they only passed 
 like reflections of sunshine or shadows of angel-wings 
 across her face ! But not only her immortal part he 
 loved : every perishable golden hair of her was dear 
 to him, every word and smile, the dimple too 
 that deepened when she laughed, the play of shadow 
 round her mouth when she spoke. He was pene 
 trated through and through with his worship of 
 her ; the common touch of her hand could never 
 become an old, stale story. The poor child that 
 prayed, might God grant her joy, as to him ! He
 
 218 SERVIROL. 
 
 should remember always to -petition for her when 
 thanking God for himself. 
 
 He wondered which of the woman-faces he knew 
 could conceal such a heart, and which of the men 
 could have aroused such passion ; but there was 
 nothing to assist him in conjecturing. 
 
 His own triumphant love, arising to declare itself 
 anew, had drowned all vestige of his earlier uneasy 
 mood. He stopped a moment at Aurore's door be 
 fore going to rest, and silently conjured the angels to 
 keep her, good dreams to visit her. 
 
 Aurore spent most of the day seated before her 
 great embroidery-frame in the deep embrasure of a 
 window, leisurely working flowers on smooth reaches 
 of pale silken stuff, fantastic flowers, always of such 
 color and design as subsequently used in her attire 
 with masterly aptness set off her beauty. In the 
 window, against the small sun-warm panes, spread 
 themselves green plants, tempering the light, and 
 making the nook pleasantly like a woodland bower. 
 
 There, while his sickness lasted, La Jouvence, 
 grown chilly, came to sit in the soft warm light, 
 and watch the white hands busy with brilliant 
 silks. 
 
 Time was heavy with him. News was rare in that 
 remote spot ; and the chance unreliable news one 
 derived from those who had been in the city, at best, 
 disheartening, long-dragging negotiations for the 
 king's liberty, that ever and ever came to nothing. 
 Andre* would have despaired, had he not been Andre*. 
 He bravely subdued his fretfulness, and did what he
 
 SERVIKOL. 219 
 
 could to lighten his enforced leisure, and make his 
 intrusion light to his hostess. 
 
 Servirol was often with them, and listened to 
 Andre"s never exhausted tales, charmed with the 
 sparkling flow of his words. The court, those early 
 brilliant foreign wars, the king's good fortunes and 
 his misfortunes, furnished the ordinary topics of con 
 versation. And Andre"s own adventures, for he 
 was part of history, one of the blocks that make the 
 pedestal on which stand those whom the rays of glory 
 illumine. He himself had as a stripling been one 
 that helped in the swift erection of the famous 
 bridges over which the guns were dragged ; with his 
 own ears he had heard the clear notes of the trum 
 peter rallying the men all through the night. Ah, 
 that gallant time of the world, when the kings of the 
 earth were young and athirst for fame and pleasure, 
 and all things were done with such careless magnifi 
 cence ! Ah, those days when heroes were the rule ; 
 and what heroes, grand, beautiful, splendid ! " 
 
 Aurore listened, slowly stitching, never satisfied 
 with hearing. Servirol listened, unfailingly interested 
 too. But he could not remain so long as he would 
 have wished; other things called him. The master 
 has many responsibilities, and he took his peasants 
 greatly to heart in these hard, heavily taxed days. 
 He was glad that in leaving Aurore and Andre" he 
 left each in such good company. 
 
 In his rides and walks, whither his various affairs 
 took him, he often found himself puzzling over Andre* 
 and the men Andre* told of. So brave they were, so 
 keen for honor, so unsparing of body and blood, so
 
 220 SERVIROL. 
 
 true to their word given under certain circumstances ! 
 And then again these same men seemed to him in 
 stories that Andre" told freely, as if they had been 
 to the credit of those concerned, so cruel and so 
 false, such dishonored gentlemen ! The story of 
 that unfortunate mayor's daughter, who came in pro 
 cession with her flower-wreathed, white-clad com 
 panions to give up the keys of a city, and thought 
 fittest to spoil the beauty of her face because she 
 had seen in the king's eyes that he found it fair, 
 made him sick to the soul What strange period 
 of its development had the race of men in courts 
 reached, when it could be at once so fine and so 
 fantastically bad ! His heart was often heavy over 
 it. He was glad to think that this removed quiet 
 spot had not been touched yet with a corruption like 
 that, all mantled over with pleasing colors ; that his 
 guest himself had escaped, though he spoke toler 
 antly of it, exposed it laughingly. Certainly one 
 should not judge harshly ; yet he almost wished that 
 Andre" had shown a more definite sense of it. 
 
 Andre" slowly progressed toward health ; the color 
 came back into his pale face ; he was able to join 
 Servirol in his rides, but not often, as there would 
 long be danger of his hurt opening at any more than 
 ordinary exertion. 
 
 From the old portmanteau appeared a wonderful 
 gala-costume to take the place of the faded green and 
 rose, an azure satin, gold embroidered, and abun 
 dantly slashed with white. This intensified the 
 point to many of Andre's stories; it seemed to re 
 vive about him fugitively the atmosphere of the fes-
 
 SERVIROL. 221 
 
 tivities at which it had shone. When he leaned far 
 back with crossed legs, touching the lute and singing 
 the chansons in vogue in his day at court, some 
 composed by no less than royalty ! one seemed to 
 have gained a comprehension of what the king himself 
 might be singing and touching the lute, so elegantly 
 was it done, so gallantly were the lines, always on 
 love, delivered. 
 
 " Souvent femme varie, 
 Bien fol qui s'y fie," 
 
 he sang one evening when asked for a song. 
 
 It was a fair evening, a little after sunset at the end 
 of a warm day. They sat at table on a terrace at the 
 head of a broad flight of steps, they often supped 
 like that in the open air, and lingered long enjoying 
 the serene oncoming of the shadow, the soft, slow bud 
 ding of the stars. 
 
 " Souvent femme varie, 
 Bien fol qui s'y fie." 
 
 The words brought back to Servirol the circum 
 stances under which he had first heard them. He 
 could but contrast the Andre* before him with the 
 Andre* of that rainy day in the forester's hut. His 
 heart was gladdened at his friend's improvement. 
 In connection with the remembrance of that after 
 noon, while the song was developing its melody, 
 came the thought of what had indirectly brought 
 about his meeting with Andre*, the thought of 
 Pierre ; then, by a natural sequence, the thought of 
 the night following his return home, when Aurore 
 had seemed when he had had strange, unjust
 
 222 SERVIROL. 
 
 thoughts of Aurore. It made him ashamed to 
 remember them. 
 
 He looked over at her, asking in his heart her for 
 giveness for an old unconfessed offence. She sat 
 with her soft cheek on her soft hand watching An 
 dre' while he sang, with her steady, half-closed eyes, 
 - beautiful, completely beautiful. Behind her, even 
 as on that night, stood the servant in the clumsy 
 gown and the dark coif. 
 
 " Behold the audience ! " laughed Andre* as he 
 stopped. " I had heard that piping might charm a 
 lizard. Orpheus charmed tigers ; I, vermine ! David 
 charmed a king ; La Jouvence, a pauvresse!" 
 
 Servirol turned to the point Andre"s eyes referred 
 to. He saw at the foot of the steps an unknown 
 beggar-woman with a baby in her arms. These steps, 
 at the back of the dwelling, led to an unenclosed 
 space, hillside, with knolls and groups of uncul 
 tivated trees ; the woman might have strayed there 
 from the road. 
 
 Her appearance was most miserable ; she was ugly 
 and hollow-cheeked, in rags ; her thinness made her 
 eyes look wistfully large. The little baby was thin, 
 too, and his eyes looked wistfully large. 
 
 They were, perhaps, listening to La Jouvence's 
 song, well worth listening to, it must be said ; but 
 they were more certainly looking at the remains of 
 the meal on the table. Their eyes hurt the master. 
 Before moving, in the flash of thought that precedes 
 action, he was gathering up the fragments and taking 
 them to those poor ones, bidding them sit and rest, 
 giving them wine and good words, when Aurore's
 
 SERVIROL. 223 
 
 voice fell on his ear : " Drive them away, I pray you. 
 They are too bold, these crasseux ; they annoy me 
 with their great, hungry eyes." 
 
 He looked at her. She had spoken in a sweet 
 voice ; she was soft and beautiful, beautiful as be 
 fore. It seemed like the return of a bad dream. He 
 felt himself standing in the same place as once be 
 fore, saying to himself, " I have always known it, 
 always suffered from it." 
 
 Involuntarily, by an association, his eyes lifted 
 themselves to the face of the pale servant. Her eyes 
 answered his, full of understanding, of sympathy, as 
 before ; her whole face breathed pity and goodness. 
 Again a wave of strange intense pain swept through 
 him. 
 
 " They shall go farther if the sight of them dis 
 pleases you," he said gently ; " Barberine will help 
 me. Help me, Barberine." 
 
 She stepped forward. He placed in her hands one 
 of the old silver cups marked with the ancient crest, 
 and the flagon with what remained in it of wine. 
 He took the loaf of bread and the broken pasty, 
 and master and maid went down the steps. They 
 and the wondering beggar-girl, bidden to follow, 
 then climbed the slope and vanished behind the 
 trees. 
 
 Aurore looked at Andre*, and a subtle little smile 
 just narrowed her long eyes. 
 
 Andre* looked at her with those shrewd eyes of his, 
 that respected nothing, that unhesitatingly took 
 height and depth and breadth of the person under 
 review. His glance said that he made no mistake
 
 224 SERVIROL. 
 
 about her ; but such as she was, thought her worth a 
 gallant knight's pains in time of peace. 
 
 Often after this came back to Servirol that sense 
 of anguish in looking at Aurora's face. He strove 
 with it, disposed of it, quite put it out of sight ; then 
 insidiously it was again upon him, insisting upon 
 itself. 
 
 And a superfluous bitterness was added to his sor 
 row when his wife fell below his idolized ideal of her, 
 by the fatality that brought the pale servant always 
 in contrast with her. His eyes, turning from Aurore 
 in those moments when his failure to find in her face 
 what he sought made life like a bad dream to him, 
 were drawn by an inexplicable fascination to fix 
 themselves on Barberine's ; and there he found what 
 he had sought before elsewhere. 
 
 When an illness declared itself in the hamlet and 
 several died of it, Aurore showed a vast dread of 
 contagion, and fortified herself against it by many 
 precautions, reasonable and easily forgiven a lovely 
 woman ; he thought nothing of it, she did right. 
 But one evening he found Barberine, escaped from 
 her duties a moment, with a dying child in her arms. 
 It was Barberine seen in the distance crumbling 
 bread to the birds, such a small, merciful thing to 
 do ! Barberine casually discovered tending a lame 
 cur : things not expected of a clidtdaine ; it is more 
 befitting, perhaps, if her husband be poor, that she 
 be embroidering wherewith to fitly adorn her lovely 
 body and do his house honor. But yet, but yet 
 He began to wish uneasily that Barberine were gone ;
 
 SERVIROL. 225 
 
 that she were not standing always silent, pale, simple, 
 behind Aurore's chair at meals. It was selfish, un 
 just, he could not help it: he wished not to see 
 her any more with her good face that answered him 
 too readily, that seemed to make itself the accom 
 plice of those unnatural thoughts of his, thoughts, 
 was it possible ? that arraigned the soul's queen, 
 Aurore ! 
 
 These thoughts, this pain, were not uninterrupted. 
 The magician had it in her power when she chose 
 to efface all feeling in him but one of gratitude to 
 her, unreserved love ; to lull to rest for a time the 
 bitter, ruffled waters in his heart. 
 
 He rode from her quite happy one morning, bent 
 on a journey to the city, where he had business to 
 keep him a day or two. Her words on parting had 
 been more than her wont tender. She had so softly 
 said that though she should miss him, yet he must 
 take his time and his pleasure, and give no thought 
 to her ; she should be vexed if she must think he 
 came home the sooner for her. 
 
 He regretted nothing in his life. A melody fitted 
 itself to his light heart-beats as he rode, turning now 
 and then in the saddle while his house was in sight. 
 He saw on his cuff the gleam of a gold hair caught 
 in the embroidery. The accident touched and pleased 
 him. He remembered the prayer of the unknown 
 that moonlit night; he discerned great good-sense 
 in the poor child's bit of folly shamefacedly whis 
 pered to the good Mother. He was glad to have 
 this gold hair of Aurore's for company. 
 
 In the city he heard a report at which his heart 
 
 15
 
 226 SERVIROL. 
 
 leaped within him. It caused him to abridge his 
 affairs, and ride home with all speed. 
 
 He found Aurore and Andre* at table ; they had 
 not expected him so soon. They wondered at his 
 flushed cheek, his lighted eye, as he took his seat 
 with them. 
 
 " Andre* ! " he said, with ringing voice, " in the 
 city it is rumored that the king is free!" 
 
 Andre* sprang to his feet, the stirred blood flying 
 to his face, and shouted : " If it be true, if he have 
 set foot on his own land, then the Lord of Armies 
 be praised ! Andre* la Jouvence is himself again 1 " 
 
 He could not contain his excitement: he ques 
 tioned, and could scarcely listen to answers ; he could 
 think of nothing but his king's home-coming. He 
 must ride to the city, he declared, next day at the 
 latest, to ascertain what was really known. Servirol 
 might have taken his information carelessly. 
 
 " See our friend ! " spoke Servirol, playfully, to 
 Aurore. "These demonstrations of unbounded joy 
 are at the thought of leaving his musty friends of 
 the province, and their great empty barn of a place. 
 Ah, ma belle ! I must think you have badly employed 
 your time, when I was relying on you to keep him 
 at our side by inspiring him with a taste amounting 
 to passion for embroidering flowers on silk ! " 
 
 Aurore did not look at him, but kept her eyes on 
 the table, following a little lady-bird that had crept 
 from a rose lying near her plate. It struck him that 
 she might not be feeling well. The muscles of her 
 cheek suddenly rippled under the smooth skin, 
 twitched as if she had clinched her teeth ; and with
 
 SERVIROL. 227 
 
 a quick gesture and more force than was necessary 
 for the easy act, she crushed the scarlet insect. 
 
 " Poor little bete a Bon Dieu ! " involuntarily ex 
 claimed ServiroL 
 
 Aurore then looked at him straight, with eyes 
 even less wide open than usual, eyes that scarcely 
 seemed to him her own. He felt for a second, 
 strangely, as if the coup de grdce to the lady-bird 
 in some vague way had relation to himself. His 
 heart slackened. 
 
 But no : why think Aurore ill or angry ? Some 
 women dislike insects. The blood showed itself 
 rosily in her cheek again ; and she took up his own 
 light tone to tease Andrd about his prompt projected 
 desertion of themselves. He was almost afraid lest 
 she might wound him, so sharp seemed to him her 
 playful assumption of bitterness. 
 
 His eyes at this point sought the face of Barberine. 
 She stood behind the chair as usual. He knew what 
 he should see, and that it would hurt ; but always he 
 must look and be hurt. His eyes opened large. It 
 was Barberine's gown, her coif, but not her face. 
 This girl had small, quick black eyes under jetty 
 brows. 
 
 " Barberine ! " faltered Servirol, " what has be 
 come of Barberine ? " 
 
 " I put her to the door," replied Aurore, with pro 
 found calm. 
 
 "Barberine put to the door!" stammered Ser 
 virol. "For what reason, cMre?" 
 
 " She displeased me ; that is also a reason." 
 
 " But where will she go ? She has no home,
 
 228 SERVIROL. 
 
 she is an orphan ! Oh, my dear, did she displease 
 you so heavily ? What was it she had done ? " 
 
 " I could not suffer the sight of her. Furthermore, 
 she was a thief ! " 
 
 " Barberine thief ? Oh, oh ! are you convinced 
 of what you say ? " 
 
 " I pray you, my friend," said Aurore, with a touch 
 of sharpness, " say no more ! I did as seemed to me 
 best. One would think that wenches are rare in 
 these parts. I have already, as you see, more than 
 adequately replaced her." 
 
 Servirol spoke no word further. He felt his 
 heart fail. He did not listen any more to what 
 was said, though mechanically trying to preserve 
 a look of courteous attention. Many thoughts 
 swarmed through his brain, confused ; gradually 
 one became very clear, and resolved itself into a 
 definite intention ; and the excitement that filled 
 him calmed itself. 
 
 " Aurore," he said, breaking into her conversation 
 without apology, "1 saw to-day, in riding home, a 
 solitary yellow lily by the roadside ; and it brought 
 back to my mind that open glade, up behind the 
 hill, whither we rode together one day soon after 
 our marriage. Have you the place in mind ? It 
 was paved with those little lilies. I thought how 
 it must at this very time be as it was that day, all 
 lilies, and had a longing to revisit it. As Andre* to 
 morrow leaves us to go to the city, will you accom 
 pany me there ? I thank you. And now, if you 
 permit it, I leave you. A malaise has come over me 
 that makes me wish for the air."
 
 SERVIROL. 229 
 
 He went out into the twilight, and wandered 
 aimlessly, not as sometimes before trying to get 
 away from himself. A definite, settled pain now 
 possessed his heart ; he recognized that it would not 
 be trodden down, escaped from, and put out of sight 
 again. He mused on the morrow, and tried to shape 
 its features. When great glows of heat would invade 
 his heart and make it ache, stirred with passionate 
 love and grief till he was filled with a longing to 
 weep aloud, he would crush down the rising storm, 
 determined to think temperately and resolve wisely. 
 So he walked slowly, with head bent, hands clasped 
 behind him. 
 
 He happened upon the avenue that led to the 
 chapel ; there was a good clear path to walk, where 
 he would not be distracted from his thoughts by the 
 necessity of looking where he put his feet. 
 
 He paced up and down, up and down, in the gloom 
 under the trees. 
 
 It was a sad evening, gray and damp. A mourn 
 ful, monotonous noise came through the air from a 
 swamp somewhere, like painful labored breathing. 
 The leaves hung lifelessly. Now and then a faint 
 light leaped with a shudder from the horizon, and 
 immediately was gone, as if a great lurid eye had 
 opened, glared a second, then shut. 
 
 Servirol suddenly stopped in his pacing. He had 
 become aware of a figure slipping among the trees. 
 It seemed to him trying to avoid attention. He 
 called to it. It did not answer, but stopped at once, 
 and stood still while he approached. He could hear 
 its sharp, uneven breathing.
 
 230 SERVIROL. 
 
 "Who is it? "he asked. 
 
 "It is I, Seigneur," said a voice scarcely above breath. 
 
 " Barberine ! " 
 
 " Yes, Seigneur. I am going. I implore your par 
 don for being still found here. I did not go into the 
 house after I was commanded to leave it. I have 
 been among the trees. I had a fancy for waiting till 
 I had seen the Seigneur ride home from the city." 
 
 " Ah, my poor child ! you thought I should inter 
 cede for you." 
 
 " No, no, I had no hope." 
 
 " But it would only be right that I should inter 
 cede for you ! It is my duty not to allow that you 
 be falsely accused and unjustly punished, I see 
 that so plainly ! But oh, my poor child, it is better 
 that you go ! My conscience rises against me at this 
 moment, and calls me coward and base. But yet I 
 feel I feel that I must say it is better that you go ! 
 Barberine, forgive me ! " 
 
 " Oh, my master, let your soul rest. I accuse my 
 self, I am much to blame, you do not know. But 
 I will atone, atone ; all my guilt shall be washed 
 out!" she added in a stifled voice. 
 
 They were speaking in whispers. Her accent was 
 unsteady, as if she had been in prey to some violent 
 excitement and scarcely knew what she said. 
 
 "Guilt? My sister, do not exaggerate. Be just 
 to yourself; to others I have ever seen you mer 
 ciful. I know you are good, good, good. Where 
 shall you go ? " 
 
 " I know not. But yes, home." 
 
 " To the convent, Barberine ? "
 
 SERVIUOL. 231 
 
 " No, no, to my mother." 
 
 " Your mother ? But are you not an orphan, 
 Barberine, left on the convent steps and brought 
 up among the good sisters with the orphans ? " 
 
 " That is true. I said mother ! " replied Barberine, 
 with a jerky, suffocated laugh. He had never heard 
 her laugh before. " I never knew my mother ; yet 
 I find natural to call mother that which will be good 
 to us, more good than anything has ever been." 
 
 " You have friends, then ? " 
 
 "Yes, friends, who will receive me with open 
 arms." 
 
 " You are going to your friends ? Where ? " 
 
 " Oh, not far." 
 
 " Wait for me but a moment, Barberine, and I will 
 return with money for your voyage and your needs. 
 And old Juste shall see you on your way." 
 
 She caught at his cloak to stop him. " Oh, no ! " 
 she murmured anxiously, " I could not take I want 
 nothing I shall not need ! The journey is short." 
 
 " But will you let rne know that you have arrived 
 safely, that you do well ? " 
 
 She hesitated, then laughed again, a little wildly : 
 "Ah, if I could send a message back ! I shall soon 
 know if it be possible. I promise that I will try. 
 But it may not be what you think. You may see a 
 shut rose open at you suddenly like a red human 
 mouth, and speak. You may look at your hound, and 
 find yourself thinking, ' Truly, it has a woman's eyes.' 
 God ! what am I saying ? I do not know, myself. I 
 have cried so much since yesterday that my head is 
 light."
 
 232 SERVIROL. 
 
 "My poor girl, you are overwrought. Take 
 patience, my poor girl. All will be well with 
 you. Night and morning I will think of you ear 
 nestly when I pray, and implore angels to guard 
 you." 
 
 " You will pray for me, you ! I bless you, and 
 conjure you, master, not to forget Pray that my 
 sins be forgiven." 
 
 " And you, my sister," said Servirol, eagerly, " pray 
 the same for me. I feel sinful enough, weak ; 
 yet I cannot, cannot but repeat, ' It is better that 
 you go ! " 
 
 There was a silence. They stood in the almost 
 darkness. He thought that she was going. Suddenly 
 she said pointlessly, in a colorless tone, as one who 
 speaks in sleep : " The day of your marriage, you 
 remember ? " 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 " It was in the little church. The orphans in 
 white frocks and veils scattered flowers before the 
 bridal couple as they came to the altar. One girl 
 dropped a little rose. The bridegroom was taking 
 no heed ; he set his foot on it" 
 
 "What is this?" 
 
 " What was I saying ? Ah, something that came 
 back to my mind. You crushed it underfoot without 
 knowing. I remember well. It was my first glimpse 
 of the world, and every little feature of it is painted 
 fiery bright on my brain." 
 
 " I am sorry," said Servirol, wonderingly, " that I 
 trod on a rose." 
 
 " What does it matter ? I do not know what I
 
 SERVIROL. 233 
 
 have been saying. Let me go before uttering folly. 
 Adieu, mon Seigneur " 
 
 "Adieu, Barberine. God go with you, give you 
 peace I " 
 
 " God I God ! " She repeated the name softly, like 
 a syllable without meaning. " Ah, well, my head is too 
 hot now but it will cool. Adieu, mou Seigneur ! " 
 
 " Adieu, my sister ! God go with you ! " he said 
 again. He impulsively took her head in his hands, 
 kissed her forehead, and let her go. 
 
 She took a step or two uncertainly. He heard her 
 gather breath in a convulsive sob, and she had fled 
 among the trees. 
 
 Early, in the coolness of the day, set forth Servirol 
 and Aurore. She was mounted on a palfrey whose 
 swinging trappings brushed the tops of the wild 
 grasses along the climbing road. He walked beside 
 her, sometimes supporting her in the saddle with his 
 encircling arm, sometimes leading the beast, for 
 the path was at best rough and undefined. Often 
 there was no path; then Servirol could only find 
 the way by stopping and taking account of the 
 landscape. 
 
 The man and his wife did not speak much; the 
 exertion of climbing excused him from making more 
 than occasional efforts at an exchange of thoughts; 
 and she, sitting easily in her saddle, with her hand 
 that held the reins resting idly on her knee, began 
 singing softly an interminable ditty, a legend with 
 verse after verse on the adventures of a noble 
 dragon-slayer.
 
 234 SERVIROL. 
 
 His heart was veiy still; it was strange to bimself 
 that it should be so very still. 
 
 It was a fair day, not cloudless ; but the drifting 
 clouds, like thin floating veils over the faces of ladies, 
 did not deter from the sky's beauty. The sun was 
 not importunately hot, just so hot as to draw sweet 
 smells from the mountain herbs crushed by the small 
 hoofs of the palfrey, and the drops of resin on the 
 pines they passed among. There was in the air a 
 long acute tremor of insect voices. 
 
 While she sang, he turned back now and then and 
 looked at her. 
 
 Her face was like a delicate rose in shadow ; the 
 upcast reflection of the sun under the brim of her 
 hat sweetly lighted it, and warmed to a deeper red 
 her mouth listlessly uttering the foolish old words. 
 She looked the same as on that day it seemed a 
 long time ago when they had come over this road 
 together before, just the same. 
 
 His heart lost something of its torpor every time 
 he turned back and watched her, listening to her 
 singing. She looked just the same, nay, she was 
 the same ! He declared to himself that she was the 
 same, and his faith rose phoenix-like again over its 
 own wreck. 
 
 Then he began to talk to her in his old vein, abun 
 dantly, excitedly, of many things, commenting on 
 all they passed, speaking from a deep love of nature, at 
 once spiritual and sensuous, and a light happy fancy. 
 
 She replied readily ; but presently started another 
 ditty, longer than the one before, on the miracles of 
 the six days, rude lines, fit to impress themselves
 
 SEEVIROL. 235 
 
 easily on the memories of children, describing the 
 making of light, of plants and beasts, of man and 
 woman ; verse evenly divided from verse by a quaint, 
 elaborate, senseless refrain. It sounded to him pretty 
 from her mouth, tender, womanly. He could think 
 of her humming it so, rocking a cradle. There was 
 such patience, it seemed to him, in that song, the 
 story with its vivid, diverting representation of the 
 Ion Dieu making ruby-edged frills for the daisies and 
 rainbow necklets for the turtle-doves and silver armor 
 for the fishes, to please the little one if he would not 
 sleep ; then the cooed empty refrain to lull the wake 
 ful little brain, and make the eyes shut; but if it 
 failed, then another picture to charm the child's 
 vigil, then another weary little attempt to impose on 
 him sleep. He was touched to hear her sing it, and 
 listened to every word, caressing the picture it built 
 up before him. 
 
 At last they had reached the spot he sought. It 
 was a sheltered fold in the hills, a small cup-like 
 hollow. The wind brushed around it, and discour 
 aged the grass above its rim ; but its breath was 
 spent before it could sweep down into it. There the 
 grass was thick and soft, and at this season made 
 beautiful by myriad tiptoeing lilies. One part of it 
 was already in shadow. Servirol helped the lady to 
 dismount, found her the pleasantest spot to rest, then 
 eased the palfrey, and let it loose to feed. He spread 
 on the grass by his lady food and wine that he had 
 taken from the saddle-bag, and sat beside her, glad 
 of the coolness, the repose, the beauty around them 
 with its tender association.
 
 236 SERVIROL. 
 
 While they ate he spoke with a gentle emotion of 
 that last time; he rehearsed many things that had 
 happened to them since their marriage, common 
 they might have seemed to others, but to him each 
 had its significance, its price. 
 
 They spent what was to him a sweet hour. 
 
 Then, as Aurore expressed a desire to sleep, he 
 spread his mantle for her where the grass was softest, 
 and saw her lain down in slumber, the bright braids 
 of her hair uncovered and let fall, her gown opened 
 at the throat. 
 
 Himself he did not sleep, but lay not far with his 
 head on his bended arm, his face turned toward her, 
 a long light branch in his hand to wave over her at 
 need, waiting till she should wake to speak at last of 
 what had been weighing on his heart 
 
 He lost himself in vague dreaming. 
 
 But how long she slept ! It seemed to him hours 
 since she had closed her eyes. He could not calcu 
 late time by his reverie ; but the appearance of the 
 sky spoke of a day already on the decline. They 
 must descend the hill while the light was sufficient, 
 the more that a sadness was invading the sky, clouds 
 seemed gathering for storm. 
 
 He must speak now. The thought made his heart 
 beat harder. He looked at her still a little while 
 in her sleep. One of her hands was stretched out 
 through the grass, with the sea-shell palm upward, 
 such a womanish, small hand ! And it belonged 
 to him ; it wore the ring with the words engraved 
 inside that made her his. He looked for the gleam 
 of the gold, and was a little hurt at not seeing it; a
 
 SERVIROL. 237 
 
 wife should not put off such a ring. But she would 
 have no doubt a trifling reason to give. He ap 
 proached her noiselessly over the grass without 
 rising, took her hand between his, and softly, re 
 peatedly kissed it. 
 
 She half opened her eyes. He had meant to speak 
 at once ; but now he did not know how to do it. He 
 felt clumsy and foolish; he sought time, and took 
 refuge in a commonplace. 
 
 " Where is the little ring I gave you, Aurore ? " 
 
 She made the pouting face that meant she did not 
 know. 
 
 " I took it off' because it had grown small, and 
 fretted me. Now I cannot find it again. I assure 
 you I did not lose it. But you will understand, 
 when one has always a thief beside one " 
 
 He dropped her hand then, and looked at her with 
 a troubled, sorrowful face. He could speak now. 
 
 " Barberine was not a thief," he said ; " you can 
 not think it. O Aurore, my dear soul ! " he cried, 
 stretching as he knelt his hands toward her with a 
 gesture of yearning deprecation, his face full of the 
 utmost tenderness for her, a desire while hurting 
 not to hurt, " I do not wish to grieve you. But, O 
 Aurore, O my dear soul, are you not afraid that 
 you sometimes think too little ? I know how deeply 
 sweet you are. I feel assured that you would always 
 wish to be kind. Yet sometimes I think without 
 knowing it you give pain. Sometimes you make 
 suffer where you need not, and sometimes where 
 you might give comfort, you forget, dear, you for 
 get. You are young, and so beautiful, and so
 
 238 SERVIROL. 
 
 blessed with every charming gift, there were a 
 peculiar grace, a more than common praise attached 
 to your being generous to those whom Heaven one 
 knows not wherefore has made miserable. You are 
 so lovely that if you would stop to say a good word 
 to the cripple at the church-door he must form a 
 conception of what angels in Paradise are, and it 
 would give him courage to hobble on a little farther 
 in life. Ah, my dear soul," he poured forth from 
 his full heart, " we are God's children all, and there 
 is not great and small with him ; and I know he 
 is grieved when a little, harmless, happy life is put 
 out wantonly, yes, dear, even a bete & bon Dieu's. 
 You cannot think how it hurt me to see you kill 
 that pretty thing ! " 
 
 He stopped a moment. Aurore lay with her face 
 away from him, turned straight to the skies, per 
 fectly composed, as if she neither saw nor heard. 
 
 " You are young now," Servirol pursued fer 
 vently, " and so lovely ! And I so love you, so 
 love you, that I tremble if your hand but brushes 
 me, that I would suffer anything to save you a 
 little, little suffering. You have a face like a flower, 
 and hair like gold ; but your face will fade, dearest 
 one, your hair will be gray. I will love you then 
 as now. But if you have not done good, if there 
 is no memory of merciful actions to make a lasting 
 springtime in your heart, if you cannot hope that 
 the poor world is ever so little less to be pitied 
 for your passing through it, in those wintry days 
 when you will have long leisure to think (for the 
 time of pleasures and works will be past) it will
 
 SEEVIROL. 239 
 
 surely come to you to understand a little tha 
 meaning of life : angels have large opportunity of 
 whispering to those near to die ! It will come to 
 you to think, ' If only I could have it over again, 
 have a little time and strength to do the things 
 I see now we were meant to do ; to succor, to 
 console, to teach, to be good, in fine ! ' Oh, save 
 yourself that bitter moment, my Aurore ! My heart 
 breaks for you. Oh, my beloved one, be good now, 
 be good, be good ! " 
 
 She lay still as before, with a face empty of all 
 expression, turned up to the sky, unseeing, un- 
 hearing. 
 
 In the earnestness of his last words he had sud 
 denly laid hold of her arm and shaken it to make her 
 respond. She started at his touch as if a serpent 
 had stung her. She writhed to a sitting posture, and 
 thrust toward him suddenly her set face, all the 
 dregs of her soul risen to her eyes. She stared at 
 him fixedly a second ; then, unable further to repress 
 herself, through her shut teeth spat at him the word, 
 "Monk!" 
 
 Servirol had let go her arm and drawn back as if 
 struck, turning mortally pale. He could not take his 
 eyes from hers ; he regarded her breathlessly, and a 
 dark fire dried the moisture that had come into his 
 eyes as he conjured her to be good, to be good ! 
 Then he heard a strange, hard, intense voice say, 
 it did not seem to him as if he himself were speaking, 
 but something within him that he could not prevent 
 or control : " I know you well enough, Aurore ; I 
 only pretend to myself and to others. You have a
 
 240 SERVIKOL. 
 
 heart of stone, nothing can touch it ; and I have 
 long known it, almost from the first. You are bad. 
 You never loved me. You married me I know not 
 why, but yes, I do. For a number of reasons, not 
 over-noble. I built up my happiness out of my own 
 fancy, I have an accursed powerful fancy. Woman, 
 don't move ! " he heard the voice rave with an in 
 crease of fierceness. " Never have I seen you do one 
 little thing that denoted a heart. I have only seen 
 you in various ways embroider flowers for the adorn 
 ment of your beautiful person. Beautiful, be satis 
 fied, it is beautiful, and its beauty has enslaved me. 
 It deserves that with these two hands I should for 
 ever spoil it ! " 
 
 He could not but groan aloud at the show of un 
 feigned terror with which she hurried to her feet. 
 He covered his face with trembling hands. " For 
 God's sake," he gasped, " don't be afraid of me. You 
 know that I could never hurt a hair of your head. 
 Only, I have long been going mad, and now it has 
 come completely upon me. Aurore, Aurore, my poor 
 girl, you need not be afraid of me. Come, we will 
 go home." 
 
 He climbed to the top of the hollow, and whistled 
 for the palfrey. It came at his call. In silence and 
 with strange composure he put on its trappings, and 
 helped the lady on to its back ; then seized it by the 
 bridle and led it down the homeward way. 
 
 The sky had become overcast ; a rising storm-wind 
 bent the grasses all one way. They said not one 
 word in all the journey. He never looked back. 
 Three or four times he, the steady-footed, stumbled
 
 SERVIROL. 241 
 
 and fell. He got to his feet again promptly, rub 
 bing his forehead, as if the cause of his fall had 
 been there. The darkness had almost closed in 
 when they reached home. 
 
 Andre" met them with joyful words. 
 
 " It is true ! He is in his own land again. When 
 he had come to the frontier where the exchange was 
 made, he leaped upon an arabian and galloped break 
 neck, the gallant king ! till he reached the city 
 where his noble mother awaited him. Ah, my good 
 Etienne, I cannot wait. You will understand. I 
 must go at once. I must go to-night, and gallop 
 break-neck as he did until I have reached him. 
 What will you have, my good Etienne, for the kindly 
 hospitality you have afforded me ? Is it gold, hon 
 ors, a place at court ? Speak now, friend, for you 
 are like to get what you ask for." 
 
 "Nay," said Servirol, with a pale simulation of a 
 smile, " I am repaid already by your trusty friend 
 ship. Farewell, Andre. God accompany you ! I do 
 not urge your staying further, for I appreciate the 
 strength of your desire to go. Again, God be with 
 you ! I beg you will ever call our house your own, 
 and I salute you now. Forgive a sudden distemper 
 that makes me unfit for anything but solitude and 
 silence." 
 
 His farewell greetings to Andrd over, he got to his 
 chamber, small and simple as a cell. He bolted the 
 door ; he dropped into his chair, and with his elbows 
 on the table and his temples between his fists, sat 
 staring at the little flame of the lamp. 
 
 He did not reflect ; he felt thoughts seething 
 
 16
 
 242 SERVIROL. 
 
 through his brain, with no power to control and 
 order them, and no definite attempt at such a thing. 
 
 The night wore on, as he sat with this burning, 
 confused head. 
 
 The house was very still; but, outside, the wind 
 now and then caine like a giant night-bird beat 
 ing its wings against the windows, and hustling off 
 lamely with a hoarse complaint that it had hurt 
 itself. 
 
 And the silent house presently seemed to its 
 master to have become alive with whispers, fine 
 hissing sounds, stifled confessions of secrets, insults 
 unspeakable just suggested in a soft, unseizable sibi- 
 lation. And when he lent ear with a sick, hammer 
 ing heart, the dusk beyond the little circle of light 
 from his lamp seemed to him full of fugitive shapes 
 that crumbled, slunk away when he looked fixedly, 
 and let the familiar walls be seen through them, 
 round eyes, not human, but wheel within wheel of 
 glow-worm fire, darting tongues and whisking dra 
 peries of a sombre red. Ah, it was only the spangled 
 blood in his eyes ! He pressed his hands over them ; 
 but at once the air seemed so thick with these pres 
 ences that it could not be breathed. He staggered 
 to his feet, suffocated. To Aurore ! He must get to 
 Aurore, forgive, and implore forgiveness. It was 
 impossible to live if they were not friends. 
 
 He reached her door. From the shadow of the 
 curtain, as he was pushing it aside, stepped Durande, 
 the new maid, with the eyes like beads glittering 
 through their inky loop-holes. She stood in his 
 way.
 
 SERVIROL. 243 
 
 He motioned her aside ; but she remained in her 
 place and said, " My mistress has begged that for an 
 hour she be not disturbed." 
 
 He looked at her; in that moment he hated her 
 face, it seemed to him evil, one with the voices 
 and shadows of this God-forgotten night. Without 
 speaking he withdrew, and tried to arm himself with 
 patience till the hour should have passed. 
 
 Now he paced his room unceasingly, only stopping 
 to see how far the sands had run. He felt desper 
 ately ill and shaken, not from the effect of that 
 day alone ; long a sorrow had been gnawing at his 
 heart, and he had striven to deal with it by secret 
 vigil and fast, and his body was worn and unfitted 
 for strain. 
 
 He was forced at last to sit ; he listened intently 
 then for the sounds of the storm, to keep himself 
 from becoming a prey to the delusions of before. 
 The wind was now like an enemy charging the 
 house. It gathered itself together in the distance, 
 and came on, gaining in speed and violence till it 
 battered the walls, made them groan, shake, rock, 
 it almost seemed, then it dropped, baffled, and 
 drew itself off to repeat the assault. At one moment 
 its approach sounded so like a cavalry charge that 
 Servirol involuntarily started to his feet. Sounds of 
 hoofs ? Folly ! But, no, through the wind as he 
 listened came certainly the sound of galloping. Ah, 
 yes, La Jouvence starting on his way to the king. 
 A good journey to him ! 
 
 When the hour had nearly passed, Servirol went 
 again to his wife's door. Durande stood there still.
 
 244 SERVIROL. 
 
 " Let me pass ! " he ordered. 
 
 " If the Seigneur please," she said with a shrug 
 of her shoulders ; she looked pale in the draught- 
 tormented light. " But my mistress is not within ; 
 she went forth to take a little air near an hour 
 ago." 
 
 " Out of doors in this weather ! " faltered Servi- 
 rol, staring stupidly at the maid's face, the expression 
 of which now started him on a strange track of 
 thinking. 
 
 Then he remembered the sound of galloping horses, 
 and suddenly, as by a great flash of hell-light, came 
 back to his mind a thousand things, things seen 
 only with the superficial eye and never before this 
 instant questioned, interpreted. 
 
 He choked, ineffectually struggling for the words 
 of a curse, his uplifted arm convulsively laboring 
 the air in the direction they must have taken. Du- 
 rande saw his terrible face turn black ; then some 
 thing strange seemed to have happened in his head. 
 He dropped heavily on to the ground, and lay like 
 dead. 
 
 The little flame of the lamp sputtered a moment 
 in the spilt oil, and showed the servant fleeing down 
 the corridor. It went out, and an irrepressible shriek 
 for help tore the darkness. 
 
 Another season possessed the earth, the sad, 
 dead season : no flowers, no birds, little of beauty 
 save in the sallow sunset lingering behind the dark 
 network of the trees. 
 
 In the quiet monastery, whither Servirol had been
 
 SERVIROL. 245 
 
 taken for skilful nursing, Father Euphrasius in these 
 days studying the face of his patient felt assured that 
 he saw intelligence returning to the great hollow eyes 
 continually fixed upon the ceiling. 
 
 One day, himself unseen, he saw tears overcloud 
 ing them. Then he spoke softly as he bent over 
 Servirol's bed and took his hand, 
 
 " How is it with thee, my son ? " 
 
 " Well, well, father ! " replied Servirol, in the 
 echo of his old voice, and with the shadow of his old 
 courteous manner and smile. "Your affectionate 
 care has prevailed. It were ungracious to wish that 
 you had been less successful." 
 
 He lay still awhile, with his upturned face like a 
 worn white wedge between the scattered inky strands 
 of his hair ; then in his faint, gentle voice he said : " I 
 can think now, I can think clearly ; but it is strange 
 to myself how little I suffer. Perhaps it was coming 
 back to myself in my old cell, and seeing about me 
 the dear well-known faces that have no association 
 with pain; but the strange year that I spent away 
 from these walls seems almost as if it had not been, 
 as if it were a dream, and the impression of it 
 on the way to fading. No, 1 do not suffer, I cannot 
 suffer, I think I shall never feel again. I I only 
 wish that the world were green ! " he added with a 
 touch of a sick man's querulousness. "I want the 
 trees to have leaves ! " 
 
 And Father Euphrasius was prompted not to tell 
 him yet, since he was not suffering. 
 
 But as his strength came back to him, Servirol's 
 heart was evidently less at rest. He said no more
 
 246 SEEVIKOL. 
 
 than before ; but his face, still staring up at the ceil 
 ing, reflected the workings of a tormented iniiid. 
 Then one day again Father Euphrasius touched his 
 hand and said to him, " My son, how is it with thee ? 
 Unburden thy heart to me ! " 
 
 " My father," broke forth Servirol, shaken with a 
 cruel emotion, " what canst thou of the quiet, holy 
 experiences have to say to a man who has found 
 friendship past conception hollow, love past be 
 lieving false ? What consolation is there to offer 
 such a man ? Oh, spend not reasonable, well-calcu 
 lated, soothing words on me, my good, good father, 
 the occasion for thy holy office is not now. For the 
 hatred, the thirst for blood that made me mad are 
 past Yes, I could hear myself raving out aloud in 
 the frenzied period of my illness. Then my soul 
 was torn with all sinful passions ; but now I swear 
 I feel sorrow ou^ly, oh, sorrow, sorrow, never-end 
 ing sorrow ! And while my heart breaks," he added 
 bitterly, humanly, "she is smiling perhaps at the 
 court of the king ! " 
 
 " At the court of the King ! " repeated Father 
 Euphrasius, solemnly. 
 
 Servirol turned on him his great dull eyes. The 
 old man's voice shook. 
 
 " My son, my son, thrust not back on me my ten 
 ders of comfort, for I have a helpful message indeed. 
 Thy wife, I tell thee truly, did not forsake thee. 
 When thou thoughtst her flying in guilt, disaster 
 had overtaken her." 
 
 And while Servirol listened with breathless open 
 lips, he pursued : " Take courage to hear, and God
 
 SERVIROL. 247 
 
 inspire me ! Thy wife is dead, has been num 
 bered with the dead these long, long weeks. One 
 will never know how it happened. Old Modeste, 
 the crone, seeking herbs that grow by water, dis 
 covered in the dark tarn that lies behind the chapel 
 not far from thy house We knew her by these 
 tokens, the little gold ring with the words inside, 
 and the great gold hair." 
 
 And he drew from his bosom and laid softly on 
 the coverlet beside the widower a little shining hoop, 
 and a handful of shining hair. 
 
 " Dead ! only dead ! " thought Servirol, finding in 
 that thought after the first horror of it the courage to 
 live. 
 
 Dead loving him, too ; for she had placed on her 
 hand again the ring carelessly put off, and had put 
 off the flowered gown he in his anger cast reproach 
 upon, to don a plain dark garb, they told him, the 
 garb it must be he had first seen and loved her in 
 when she came to the church in fulfilment of her 
 vow. He had spoken to her rash, hard words, and 
 to her in her suffering, as to him, the house that 
 night had seemed oppressive. She had but gone 
 forth for a little air, as Durande had said, and had 
 met death. Had she sought it, in her despair at his 
 understanding her so ill, or in a moment of rashly 
 morbid penitence ? All his life then given to atone 
 ment, spent good-doing in her name, would be too 
 little. He prostrated himself to her memory, he 
 made her his saint ; and gradually peace crept 
 back into his heart, and the little year of his
 
 248 SERVIROL. 
 
 double life found again its soft, shining, perfect 
 colors. 
 
 And Barberine taken from the black water rested 
 in the toinb of the Servirols. At her side one day he 
 should be laid for his long sleep, with the lock of her 
 hair on his heart.
 
 SHEPHEEDS.
 
 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 was once a king's sou, but at his father's 
 -1- death he did not himself become a king. The 
 land was filled with commotion ; and one black night 
 he was urged by friends who had remained faithful 
 to him in a time of discord and rebellion, to mount 
 horse and fly for his life. 
 
 He spent long years in exile ; there he grew to be 
 a man. 
 
 From time to time came to him in the solitary 
 place among the hills where he lived in retirement 
 given up to quiet studies, a messenger bringing news 
 of his kingdom, and keeping him informed of the 
 movements of his adherents, who had never aban 
 doned the hope of setting him on the throne. 
 
 The messenger returning from the young prince 
 was always narrowly questioned by those who sent 
 him concerning every particular relating to the 
 noble exile. What the grave intriguers gathered 
 from his answers was sufficiently depressing to their 
 hopes. The prince appeared contented with his ob 
 scure condition. He was found ever with a book 
 in his hand, or known to be rambling over the 
 hills without so much as the excuse of sport. He 
 was dreamy and sweet-tempered ; not apparently
 
 252 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 in any degree adventurous, ambitious, or even de 
 finitely resentful of the fact that another held sway 
 in his place. 
 
 Therefore it seemed advisable to those wise poli 
 ticians that something should be done to rouse this 
 unpromising nursling of royalty before he became 
 fixed in his lamentable indifference to greatness. 
 
 So, before the good moment had really arrived he 
 was sent for and brought back into his own country 
 to head the war against the usurping powers. 
 
 He proved himself able and brave beyond all ex 
 pectation. But the good moment, as I said, had not 
 arrived ; every scheme was immature ; defeat followed 
 upon defeat to the arms of the loyal ; to fly and wait 
 still longer seemed the only thing left their leader to 
 do. But flight delayed until the last necessity had 
 become more than difficult. 
 
 The prince, with a price on his head, and in a 
 region continually scoured by the enemy in search 
 of him, remained safe within easy reach of those 
 who required his blood, almost at the door of his 
 great foe. For months he lived as a shepherd 
 among shepherds, who never suspected that they 
 were harboring a king. 
 
 Now and then came to him at fall of day a 
 shepherd friend, ostensibly bringing him news of 
 his home over the hills ; and one day hinting 
 homesickness, he took his leave and returned with 
 his old companion to their former haunts, and that 
 was the end of his relations with the shepherds. 
 
 Then again blazed civil war. But the days now 
 were ripe ; the good moment had come. Soon, though
 
 SHEPHERDS. 253 
 
 after much desperate warfare, the country was re 
 duced to order, the rightful heir was placed on the 
 throne; it was the turn of the traitor to hide his 
 endangered head. 
 
 Peace smiled. The blackened battle-fields were 
 filled with corn. Upon the ruins of burned villages 
 rose other villages ; and as soon as the grass was thick 
 on the green there was dancing to the music of pipes. 
 Great swords hung idle in the armories ; young knights 
 bethought themselves of forgotten roundelays. 
 
 But the climax to the public joy was reached when 
 the young king took a bride from over the sea. 
 Then truly there were festivities worth writing about, 
 were it not that one feast is so like another, and 
 easily imagined. 
 
 Indeed, one might well be tired before the end of 
 all the gayeties pertaining to a king's nuptials ; but 
 it were improper in the king himself to show signs 
 of weariness. However, if at the end of a feast un 
 duly prolonged, all the guests were genuinely enjoy 
 ing themselves, if the new queen and the ladies 
 who had accompanied her from over the water were 
 so remarkable for beauty and sprightliness that they 
 could enthrall the attention of all within eye or ear 
 shot, it would not be a subject of great wonder that 
 the king a silent, morose person at best could 
 grow pale with tedium unnoticed, even that he could 
 slip away and for a moment be unmissed. 
 
 He passed quickly from room to room of the palace, 
 seeking quiet ; but all the chambers were lighted, all 
 were bedecked in honor of this great occasion. The 
 garden, even that was lit with lamps suspended
 
 254 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 among the trees ; he could see holiday figures moving 
 among them. And to leave the palace, the seat of 
 joy, he must pass the sentinels, who would naturally 
 wonder. The poor great king, sickened by a sense 
 of his captivity, stepped into the deep recess of a 
 window ; there at least the heavy hangings could be 
 so drawn as to shut from his eyes the lights of the 
 interior. He leaned against the side of the casement, 
 and cast back his head so that he could forget the 
 idle, colored lights swinging below, see only through 
 the tops of the trees the severe stars, the tranquil 
 clouds. 
 
 And this it was to be a king ! God knew he had 
 not wished for greatness. He had undertaken to 
 uphold the right, which had happened in his case to 
 mean reconquering a throne for himself; now that 
 the struggle was over, that he had played his part 
 of a man, disappointing no one who relied on him, 
 and there was time to think, to be a very person, 
 God might know that power was not what he wanted, 
 power over people who were nothing to him, to 
 whom he was nothing. 
 
 With yearning fondness his thought reverted to 
 the days of his exiled youth. 
 
 Good days ! but there had been even better ; and 
 his thought brooded on the days when he had tended 
 sheep. 
 
 As an exile, those who surrounded him he felt 
 now with a sense become morbid since he had lived 
 among these flatterers had not seen in him only a 
 man ; he had still been to them a king's son, a pos 
 sible sovereign. And as such, when fortune favored
 
 SHEPHERDS. 255 
 
 him, he had remembered them with gifts and honors. 
 It had become a title of distinction to have sheltered 
 him ; they had their reward. 
 
 But the shepherds had not known. He had been 
 only a shepherd among them, just himself, un 
 adorned man. And he had never given them any 
 thing ; they were not aware to this day that he was 
 other than a poor lad. And they had been kind to 
 him in their rude way ; they had seemed to like him, 
 not surpassingly well, but he found value in that 
 moderation ; they had expressed no more, no less, 
 than they felt. And one among them 
 
 This bride of his, now, this political exigency, 
 of another race, from a foreign place, beautiful she 
 should be called ; but what was beauty to him ? 
 Her shallow light-brown eyes, full of the restless 
 sparkling of wit, had no language to his eyes; her 
 graceful, mannered mouth, that he was assured would 
 at some time think itself obliged to utter various lies 
 such as he could with ease imagine, repelled him 
 before it had spoken them. He looked her over in 
 his mind with a cold dislike for her, with her civil 
 grace, her fastuous habiliments, and the nerve-vexing 
 perfume that escaped from, their every shining fold. 
 He repeated to himself that she had taken him, as he 
 her, a necessary evil. She had gained already what 
 she wanted, power, position. The gift of his heart, 
 had he been moved to spend it on her, was among 
 her least requirements. She had nothing to do with 
 his real life ; to her, too, he was only the king. His 
 wife made one of the crowd who by their exaggerated, 
 never-neglected deference to something that was not
 
 256 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 he not the love-hungry, human thing keenly con 
 scious of his little worth, his little importance 
 would contribute to give him this unutterably forsaken 
 feeling of being nothing at all, no one, a simulacrum, 
 a hollow mask, a ghost, having himself, the part 
 of him that was not king, no place in the world, no 
 home whatever, no state, prospect, hope. 
 
 To the shepherds alone he was a man ; therefore he 
 loved them. And it seemed to him that in all the 
 world none but they had ever loved him. And one 
 among them 
 
 How refreshing to think of those days at the end 
 of a day such as this had been, full of noise and 
 empty display, and the pretence of joy ! He thought 
 himself back on the hill-side in the spring of the 
 year. The sheep grazed in little groups among the 
 blooming gorse. Scattered through the patches of 
 new grass were violets ; primroses too in little clumps. 
 And under the thin-clad trees, among last year's 
 leaves, the hosts of the blue-bells. The wavy plain 
 below was pearly green, faintly spotted and striped 
 here and there with the darker trees, firs and pines. 
 The little hills at the horizon were opal-colored with 
 mist, each successive line milkier as it was farther, 
 till they blended with the sky. The shadows of the 
 clouds sailed slowly across the valley, sweet to watch 
 through half-closed eyes. The air quivered and 
 shimmered up from the ground. He lay on his back 
 with the welcome sun in his face. In those perfect 
 morning hours the struggle seemed so far away. He 
 could almost dream that it was the youth of the 
 world, and he the first man, not lonesome yet.
 
 SHEPHERDS. 257 
 
 Sometimes after lying long, aimlessly thinking, 
 for he found it possible under the influence of sun- 
 warmth and sounds of bees in the broom to cut 
 himself off from all unprofitable thinking over of 
 difficulties past and to come, he would wish for a 
 book, one of the many that had kept him company 
 in former hours of idleness. There were passages in 
 some showing forth just quiet scenes like this under 
 his eyes, and in words that would have added still 
 a grace to its grace. As he could not obtain books, 
 nor yet remember any more than vaguely, he did his 
 best to satisfy himself with framing in his mind what 
 some page might have contained. He found in that 
 occupation a peculiar solace. 
 
 Sometimes Elizabeth, the daughter of the old 
 shepherd whose hut he shared, came to him on 
 the hill-side with a message, as often without, 
 and tarried awhile sitting on the grass beside 
 him. 
 
 She was a sweet creature, with quiet, slowly 
 moving eyes. She fixed them on him while he 
 spoke, wide and limpid, and he almost fancied he 
 could see the thought he awakened dawning and 
 growing in them ; and when he ceased she half- 
 dropped her eyelids and looked away sidewise, 
 pondering with parted lips, fingering the end of 
 one of her brown braids. 
 
 It was plain that she did not always understand 
 when he amused himself with telling her what he 
 had been thinking, and repeated to her the harmo 
 nious phrases he had built ; but surely she liked to 
 hear them. With that same look perhaps she would 
 
 17
 
 258 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 have listened to a bird's singing, receiving just an 
 impression of sweetness. 
 
 But something of it all she did understand. He 
 knew it when she softly nodded to herself at some 
 reference he made to the things with which she was 
 familiar, the changing colors of the landscape as 
 the day declined, the summer sounds in the air, the 
 pleasures and hardships of shepherds' lives. 
 
 She hardly ever laughed, and she seldom spoke, 
 from no deliberate reserve, nor shyness that he could 
 discover; she seemed to feel no restless need for 
 expression. Yet she fitly filled the horizon of his 
 shepherd-life, just sitting as she did in the daisied 
 grass with that peculiar not ungraceful stoop of her 
 still rather angular young- woman shoulders, that were 
 only half-hidden by her rough brown gown. Balm 
 seemed to flow on him from her presence. She gave 
 him peace, by example, by contagion. There was in 
 her no effort to reveal or to conceal; she was as she hap 
 pened to be, and thought not of it. She was akin in 
 his thought of her to the little stolid serene hills that 
 bounded his world for the time, shut him in from 
 trouble and peril, and that he had grown so to love. 
 
 Not very often had she been with him where he 
 fed his flock, but he did not think of the hill-side nor 
 any pasture without her. The moments he recalled 
 were always those in which her simple form had been 
 outlined against his sky. In his imagination there 
 could be no pastoral picture without her. 
 
 He could see her at this moment as if she had 
 verily been before him as in the past. So dark she 
 looked in the great air, though no doubt Nature
 
 SHEPHERDS. 259 
 
 meant her to be fair. The sun had gilded her skin 
 over and over, season after season, but not unkindly, 
 smoothly and warmly, as if with an interest in 
 preserving its clear tone. From the sunburned face 
 her eyes looked out strangely light, the same misty 
 gray-blue as the sky. Sun and wind and weather had 
 roughened and faded her brown hair, yet not made 
 it unbeautiful ; it drooped heavy and sheenless over 
 her ears, and lay down her bosom in braids ; he re 
 membered how it had an unexpected dull light streak 
 along the forehead and ears. He always saw her 
 with her mouth a little open, like a person who has 
 wholly forgotten himself. 
 
 Nor did the hut ever rise in his mind but she was 
 in it : sometimes resting on the low bench by the 
 hearth, sometimes coming and going about such 
 simple household duties as were hers, neither awk 
 wardly nor dexterously, briskly nor languidly, but 
 in complete unconsciousness of herself, with no pur 
 pose but that the thing she was about should be 
 done. 
 
 Once he had allowed his sheep to stray, he had 
 been thinking of other things, and the night had 
 closed in. The old shepherd had rated him roundly. 
 Then she had gone forth with him, and had found 
 the sheep ; and she had brought the youngest lamb 
 home in her arms. Most gracious of all the images 
 that returned to him of her, was that image with a 
 young lamb in her arms. 
 
 The shepherds ? The shepherds ? When he thought 
 of the friendly shepherds, it was perhaps most of her 
 he thought ; she seemed to represent them to him, to
 
 260 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 embody all that good part of his life, when in the 
 midst of a threatening sea he had come upon a little 
 island, and resting there had grown strong for further 
 battle with the never-resting deep. 
 
 They only in all the world the shepherds only 
 had ever loved him ? Did he not perhaps mean 
 that she alone among all women from her heart had 
 loved him ? The shepherds, the men, had treated 
 him as one of themselves, had jested with him and 
 roughly used him, as no one beside had ever dared ; 
 and that had rejoiced his manly heart. But had they 
 loved him so much that he should yearn back over 
 them ? Had they not long forgotten him ? And if 
 they had, did it greatly matter ? But she, had she 
 forgotten him ? 
 
 And then he asked himself why he should think 
 that she had loved him ; for never in the days when 
 they were near had the thought clearly formed itself 
 in his mind. Was it not this overwhelming loneli 
 ness, this sense of the shallowness and vanity of the 
 world, this heartsickness, that made him create out 
 of his own vast need for feeling himself beloved the 
 illusion that Elizabeth had loved him ? 
 
 He thought of it long, long. No, he could not 
 make himself believe it an illusion. In a deep, un 
 explored chamber of his heart, the knowledge must 
 have always lain ; but there had seemed no need for 
 clear thought, still less for speech. She had not 
 spoken her love, but she had not disguised it. The 
 very remembrance of her that set him back in the 
 past created about him an atmosphere of frank, still 
 tenderness. Why, he wondered now in his heart-
 
 SHEPHEKDS. 261 
 
 hunger, looking back almost impatiently, why had 
 he not made it more, brought it to utterance, fixed 
 this floating sweetness ? Why not given himself 
 something to remember in the days of dearth ? 
 
 Then he recollected how they were ; how he was 
 himself in those days grown so simple, perhaps with 
 living out under the simple skies, returned to the 
 first man, reduced almost to being like a tree, that 
 lets the leaves and blossoms take their own time to 
 bud, ripen when they are ready. 
 
 And while all the wonderful harvest of flower and 
 fruit was still only sap darkly flowing within the 
 bark that gave no sign, the quiet time had ended. 
 He had been forced to leap from the isle of truce 
 back again into the troubled sea. 
 
 During the fight for life he had scarcely had leisure 
 for regrets. But now that the desired haven was 
 attained, and the fulfilment of his proudest worldly 
 hopes left his soul unsatisfied, awakened in it noth 
 ing but longings for something different, altogether 
 different, he looked back to the island that a soft 
 mist beautified, and resolved that there without 
 knowing it he had been happy. He reproached 
 himself that though Fate had forbidden he should 
 stay, yet he had left lightly, without sufficiently 
 feeling what he lost. He could find it in himself 
 to grieve over it in due measure now. 
 
 But even as before on the doubt that his past 
 happiness might be the creation of his own fancy, 
 had risen the conviction of its reality ; now on his 
 attempt to treat it in his mind as a reality, and derive 
 comfort from it, rose the disquieting doubt that he
 
 262 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 might after all have been building out of his imagi 
 nation this with which to console himself ; and if it 
 were a dream, he was indeed poor, poor as no beggar 
 in his kingdom. 
 
 While he was suffering with this fear, a door open 
 ing let a gush of music to his ear. It brought to him 
 the scene he had fled, the remembrance that civil 
 courtiers must by this be searching for him with many 
 a whispered, fertile comment on his ill-timed caprice. 
 It filled him with loathing, mad longing for escape, 
 a tumult of feelings so angry and bitter and wretched 
 that they could not be repressed. They shook him, 
 they clamored for expression. They crowded upward 
 until recognizing that the only expression of such 
 hateful passions must be petty violence, unmanly 
 lamentation, what dignity survived in him revolted. 
 He called upon all his strength ; and he fought the 
 tiger-furies one by one, conquered them right royally, 
 and chained them down back in the dark dens of 
 the heart. He arose strong from strife : all could 
 be endured. 
 
 But once for an hour he should return among the 
 shepherds as a shepherd, not to satisfy any weak 
 longing to look again on the face of Elizabeth : as a 
 punishment he would do it, as a medicine. 
 
 A rage of severity toward himself made him in 
 wishing to tear up the weeds from his heart uproot 
 too the harmless flowers. If he saw the shepherds 
 again, he said to himself with stern reasonableness, 
 they would not seem to him as before. They would 
 correct in him this distorted vision of themselves. 
 He should not be haunted after that with this sense
 
 SHEPHERDS. 263 
 
 of them that made the rest of the world cheap and 
 distasteful ; he should find that they had amply for 
 gotten him ; he should behold Elizabeth joined to a 
 boor. He would come away and be at rest concern 
 ing them ; they would fade then from his mind, and 
 the remembrance of days spent among them, accu 
 rately revived, would no longer by seeming so good 
 make the rest of life so bad. 
 Once, for an hour ! 
 
 It was long, however, before he went. He made 
 himself accustomed to that thought of his delusion ; 
 and when he had involuntarily slipped back into a 
 sentimental musing over that time set apart from the 
 rest of his life, he would pityingly scorn himself for 
 self-indulgence. 
 
 He was young, that king. It still mattered to 
 him not in so many words said to himself, it was 
 his manner of being that it mattered to him that a 
 certain symmetry, harmony, should be established in 
 his life. Symmetry, harmony, were not approached ; 
 but the desire for them, the effort after them, never 
 wholly slept. 
 
 It was perhaps not so much a sense that he was 
 accountable for his use of himself, as an instinct, in 
 nate, toward things straight and seemly that created 
 his necessity for feeling that he was in the measure 
 of his powers worthy the reverence of spirits that he 
 revered. 
 
 This esthetic aspiration so worked that he could 
 not bear to halt, to go bowed and groaning, to be a 
 grotesque figure; he must finally adjust himself to
 
 264 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 his burden, whatever it were, and contrive to stand 
 straight under it, making no concession to its power 
 of galling, and this to his own eyes more particu 
 larly than to the world's, which at this point of his 
 life he felt to be incapable of understanding him or 
 sympathizing with his thirst for abstract dignity. 
 
 Having said so much, I have to add that what I 
 have said was not true of this king in an abundant 
 measure. You will gather how far it was true from 
 what remains of the story. For he was not a strong 
 man ; only, the same sense that commended to his 
 admiration the stories of heroes, the noble sights 
 of nature, the soul-stirring words of poets, and the 
 beauty of pure, simple lives, made him wish to be 
 strong and morally stately. 
 
 His life now was full of business ; he had not much 
 time left in which to feel himself happy or unhappy. 
 The poignancy passed from his misery ; as the man 
 became more and more merged in the king, engrossed 
 in cares of state, he felt less and still less that he 
 was lonely, unmated, unfriended. He became used 
 to the flatteries he heard, so that they did not offend 
 him each like a sneer; they seemed a matter of course, 
 like the blazons in the windows. Also, he became 
 interested in the great game he played. 
 
 Still, at moments, without a reason but that the 
 sky looked in such a way, the sadness that seemed 
 ever lying in wait for him crept from its hiding, and 
 took possession of his soul. Then all against his 
 will, his shepherd days shone out fair and quiet and 
 freshly green among the gray desolateness of his life ; 
 but he thought of them, when he did not condemn
 
 SHEPHEKDS. 265 
 
 his regret for them as arising from a conscious self- 
 deceit, as if they had been an incident in the life of 
 another man, as if those hills had long been swept 
 from the face of the earth. 
 
 It was the young knight who had been his mes 
 senger when among the shepherds, and who knew 
 his heart better than any other, who once divining 
 his secret melancholy, anxious to suggest something 
 that should divert him, asked if they should not 
 as a pastime one day revisit the shepherds' little 
 settlement. 
 
 The king at first set the suggestion aside; but with 
 the satisfaction that another should have thought it 
 a natural suggestion to make, grew the desire to seize 
 on it. The thought came again and again, each time 
 more importunate, till an emotion became attached 
 to it, then a faint throb, like the echo of an old 
 pulsation. 
 
 And at last he resolved to do what he had fully 
 resolved once before ; but not with the same end in 
 view, to punish and cure himself. Even the state 
 of things in which that should be necessary seemed 
 far behind. He would go in a contemplative, reason 
 able, philosophical mood. He would give himself 
 this satisfaction as a recompense for having grown 
 indifferent. 
 
 So he and his friend absented themselves on some 
 plausible ground for a day or two, and disguised in 
 the clothes which he had saved, early in the twilight, 
 having begged his companion to remain behind, he 
 climbed the little hill on the hip of which stood 
 the hut.
 
 266 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 So familiar, yet so unfamiliar all seemed. A hun 
 dred memories came rushing back upon him, mem 
 ories of common, frequently uncomfortable things that 
 he had half forgotten. Not so easy a life had it been 
 except on those fair mornings which had stuck in his 
 memory to the blotting-out of all else. He felt retro 
 spectively the chill of the rain which he had so often 
 endured, the scorching of the sun, the anxiety con 
 cerning the number of his sheep, the fear of the 
 wolf ; also, which he had forgotten entirely, the 
 continuous disquiet of dreading discovery, the never 
 sleeping suspicion that among the faces about him 
 might be one of a traitor and spy. 
 
 And as he came in sight of the hut it seemed to 
 him meaner and smaller than he had remembered. 
 What lack of air must be in the tiny sleeping- 
 places ! How one would suffer of it coming from 
 the lofty kingly chambers, large and cool and per 
 fumed ! How had he forgotten these things ? 
 
 Nevertheless bis heart beat, his heart, which was 
 invincibly young, and could not take all quietly as 
 his mind would have commanded. His heart beat 
 unreasonably, and a mist came over his eyes, and he 
 was forced to stop still and gather himself together, 
 for his nerves seemed on the verge of falling into 
 uncontrollable quivering. 
 
 The sky was gray, with a hint of soft sunset violet 
 through it ; a hint of violet was in the fading green 
 of the grass and trees. Stillness lay over all ; just 
 a confused faint sound of animal life thrilled the 
 cooling air. 
 
 The little hut looked at him from the distance as 

 
 SHEPHERDS. 267 
 
 with a human face; its two windows peering like 
 eyes through the hanging fringe of thatch ; its door- 
 mouth closed, a feather of smoke curling up from its 
 crown. 
 
 He was relieved at that sign, the smoke. 
 
 He waited to see if no one would come out. He 
 found himself confusedly preparing words with which 
 to meet the shepherds, stories to tell them. 
 
 He went a few steps, strong with his inventions, 
 then stopped again, overwhelmed with an unaccus 
 tomed timidity. It was as if he had really been the 
 shepherd they believed him, and embarrassed at not 
 having made himself alive to them in so long. 
 
 His imagination offered him the probable scene of 
 meeting, the questions which he should meet with 
 lies, for the idea of making himself known was far 
 from him, he could not have endured a change in 
 their relations, and a repugnance so great overcame 
 him that he was on the point of turning upon his 
 heels, heart-sick, and returning thence without at 
 tempt at seeing them. 
 
 While he still hesitated, a dog rushed toward him, 
 sniffed, and immediately recognizing him, gave such, 
 signs of unfeigned joy that he would have wished 
 to catch the faithful animal in his arms and thank 
 him. 
 
 He quieted the dog ; then strangely moved, and 
 with an emotion ever increasing, he went toward 
 the hut. 
 
 When he was quite near he stopped again; he 
 could not face them all at once, at first. 
 
 He leaned against a tree, one of a clump near
 
 268 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 the hut, and waited to see if no one would come out ; 
 hoping in turn that some one would come, and that 
 no one would come, glad that he was still free to 
 withdraw unseen, loath to give up that freedom, yet 
 wishing that independently of his own will might be 
 cut off the possibility of his returning as he came. 
 
 He waited some time, unsatisfied, surprised at the 
 stillness. He knew that at this hour some of them 
 had returned ; the smoke showed that one at least 
 was at home. 
 
 His excitement subsided as he waited. At last he 
 was possessed of himself, and able to reflect. If they 
 had moved elsewhere ? His heart sank. But no, 
 it was their dog. 
 
 The twilight had faded still more ; the violet had 
 ebbed from the gray ; a solemn whiteness dropped 
 from the even single-colored clouds. 
 
 Once at such an hour Elizabeth and he had heard 
 together standing there a bird unknown to them and 
 never heard again after. It had a strange, plaintive 
 note. When its voice had faded up the hill, they 
 had tried to imitate it. The scene and the hour and 
 the looks of the sky brought back to his mind vividly 
 that incident. He whistled the bird-note tentatively, 
 then with more assurance, once, twice 
 
 The door opened ; a figure that he could never 
 mistake came toward him. He stepped to the edge 
 of the shadow of the trees, and stopped, no more 
 than a gray blot, his shepherd's cloak about him, 
 the shepherd's hood drawn over his face. She came 
 nearer. He was half aware of an aching pain of 
 suspense.
 
 SHEPHERDS. 269 
 
 She approached with a step less free than he knew 
 of her, as if almost she feared, one hand doubtfully 
 outheld. He could hear her breathing as she pushed 
 forward her face, trying to pierce the darkness of his 
 hood. He did not know what kept him motionless. 
 
 "Is it thy ghost ?" she asked huskily. "William ! 
 William ! " 
 
 The old name ! That was his name to them. 
 
 He caught her uncertain, groping hand, chill as 
 stone, into his two warm ones, and for all answer 
 laughed his living laugh. 
 
 Then there was silence, a long troubled silence ; 
 and a great dismay grew in him, and a tender, un 
 bounded, yearning pity. He knew that she was cry 
 ing, crying with all her soul, so that she could not 
 speak, that still, simple, inexpressive Elizabeth. 
 
 " Come where there is more light," he said abruptly, 
 greatly troubled, he too, his heart trembling as the 
 earth of old with the saints that were asleep rising 
 from their graves ; " I long to see thy face." 
 
 She let him lead her away from the trees to the 
 rough barriers of an empty sheepfold. They leaned 
 against that, facing the west; and turned to one 
 another, undisguisedly feeding their eyes upon each 
 other's long-lacked features. She presented her face 
 shamelessly, all wet as it was. He saw how it had 
 grown thin ; it shocked him with its look of inex 
 pressible want. It was easy to read in it what stood 
 written so plain. 
 
 She said nothing ; she only looked at him as if not 
 daring to remove her eyes from his, lest he should 
 have vanished.
 
 270 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 " Didst thou think I should not come again ? " he 
 asked at last. 
 
 " How could I think ? " she said, with that same 
 voice roughened by her crying, so unlike the voices 
 he heard the polished, unctuous, courtly voices 
 yet sweet in his ears. " Thou hadst not told 
 me. Each day in the morning when I rose, I said, 
 'He may come to-day;' and at night I said, 'He 
 has not come.'" 
 
 "So many mornings! So many nights!" he ex 
 claimed wonderingly, with a novel, subtle sweetness 
 creeping through all his veins. 
 
 " It has been a longer year than ever any before." 
 She stopped at that. There was in her tone neither 
 reproach for him nor suggestion of self-pity ; and still 
 they looked at each other. 
 
 His hood had dropped back, and she might see 
 how he was different. A' dusky beard blurred the 
 lines of his mouth and chin, which she must remem 
 ber smooth ; his face, formerly bronzed like her own, 
 might well seem to her spectral in its present refined 
 pallor. 
 
 A long silence fell on them again. 
 
 At last he said softly, " Tell me all." 
 
 She replied : " There 's naught but what thou 
 knowest. Yes, this They bid me wed Jude 
 Thou rememberest. But, Father in heaven ! how 
 should I wed?" 
 
 After a moment she pursued in a sharper voice, 
 more like other people's, other women's, with a 
 first vague intimation in it of doubts, self-torment, 
 complaint, " Perhaps thou perhaps "
 
 SHEPHERDS. 271 
 
 But she got no further. After a pitiful, ineffectual 
 struggle for the word that should express her, she 
 seemed to give up all hope in speech. For a moment 
 her head drooped on her breast, then suddenly was 
 lifted back ; she unfolded her arms that had lain 
 upon the barrier, and opened them fully, and let 
 them drop heavily at her sides, turning to him with 
 that helpless movement of baring her heart. 
 
 It was a gesture full of speech ; it put words to 
 shame. 
 
 "Fear not," said the king then, casting his arm 
 across her shoulders, and bringing his shepherd's 
 cloak about her with a large gesture of taking pos 
 session as a very king, and shutting his capture in 
 away from all the world, " fear not, but that I 
 too love thee ! " 
 
 And again there was silence, long silence. 
 
 She stood against him, quiet, his great cloak half 
 across her face. 
 
 Life for a little space was to him absolutely good. 
 All the movement of life, in thought, in sensation, 
 seemed brought to a wondrous stand-still ; he seemed 
 to hang poised as a broad-winged eagle, effortless, 
 irresponsible, over an infinite, blissful, supporting ele 
 ment. His heart was as a goblet, neither wanting 
 liquor nor yet overflowing, a goblet at the moment 
 in which the divine draught swells smoothly up above 
 the brim, before its surface trembles and breaks, and 
 one knows that the cup has been over-full. Yes, 
 for a space life was to him absolutely, absolutely 
 good. 
 
 They stood ; they looked away toward the west,
 
 272 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 that was still a little white. It had become too dark 
 to see their faces. 
 
 The clouds with an insensible motion had flattened 
 themselves out, had worn thin in places ; at the point 
 whereon the king's eyes were fixed now gleamed a 
 star, watery and dim, then brighter ; it kindled a 
 faint reflection in the king's silent tears. For the 
 eagle had felt its weight, and dropped a little; 
 the goblet had brimmed over by a crimson drop 
 or two. 
 
 The king gazed and gazed, standing motionless, 
 with life still intense, greatly good, if no more per 
 fect; and all that passed through his mind in that 
 hour I will not describe. 
 
 The hills grew black ; the clouds broke softly 
 apart, and here and there let a star be seen as 
 through a veil ; a moist wind rose, and made in the 
 trees a soft hushing noise, and brought a vague smell 
 of freshly cut grass. The night was still and cool, 
 and not very dark. 
 
 The king, in his fixed thought, forgot to breathe 
 sometimes, and took up the function again with a 
 long unconscious sigh. 
 
 Now and then he believed himself ready to speak, 
 and his nerves stiffened ; but they relaxed again as 
 he said to himself, " Not yet, not quite yet." And 
 his heart let itself melt back into bliss, and his arm 
 pressed heavier over Elizabeth's neck, and on her 
 shoulder she felt his strong hand reassuring itself 
 that it still held her. 
 
 The clouds softly closed again, and shut out every 
 glimmer. How still she leaned, how contented and
 
 SHEPHERDS. 273 
 
 still ! If earth could but pass away while they stood 
 so, silent, and perfectly at one. But life is not made 
 like that, he thought, reawakened to pain. A sense 
 of life's struggles and sadnesses was again upon him ; 
 but he felt courage to meet them, an exalted cour 
 age that he seemed to have gained from the solemn 
 night, the beautiful star, the contact of such heavenly 
 goodness and purity and love as seemed to him hers. 
 
 And he said and his own voice startled him, falling 
 upon his ears harshly as the knell to those supreme 
 moments in which he seemed to have risen to a place 
 where human speech was a thing done with, out 
 grown, become superfluous he said : " For a year 
 I have been away from thee, and thou hast not ceased 
 loving me. Nor have I ever for a moment ceased 
 loving thee ; it is clear to me now. None, none have 
 I loved but thee. And we are together again, and it 
 makes us happy. Thou understandest all I say ? " 
 
 He heard no answer, but felt the slight movement 
 of her head. 
 
 "But not all men were born to be happy," he 
 went on, feeling an increasing difficulty in framing 
 his thought so that it should be plain to her at 
 once, " not William ! And not all women, not 
 Elizabeth!" 
 
 " Thou art going away again ! " he heard her say, 
 scarcely above a whisper. She did not move from 
 him ; he felt her shoulders lifted sharply, but there 
 came no sound of a groan. 
 
 He caught her closer, unendurably hurt with hurt 
 ing her, and broke out with passionate raournfulness : 
 "There is a curse upon me, my girl! Trust me, 
 
 18
 
 274 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 there is, though I cannot tell thee of it ! It is as a wall 
 lying between us. We can never pass it over and 
 reach each other, and have joy like others in simple 
 earthly fashion. We were born to lives of sorrow, of 
 renunciation, thou and I 
 
 " Yet not all of sorrow," he said with recovered 
 calm at last, turning his face up to the blank sky. 
 He pursued with broad serenity : " Whatever come to 
 thy William hereafter, whatever of bitter and burn 
 ing, arid there can come to him little else than 
 things bitter and burning, there will always be 
 this thought to sweeten and cool the anguish : Eliza 
 beth loves me. Life cannot be all bad while the 
 greatest gift is mine, thy woman's love. Love me, 
 love me, love me, my girl ! never cease, never fail 
 me. Let me know that this is sure as that the 
 stars are shining somewhere, and I can make shift to 
 endure most things." 
 
 She turned her head a little inward, and kissed the 
 garment over his breast. 
 
 " I ought perhaps to bid thee forget me, to wed 
 another as they wish thee to. But I will not believe 
 that thou couldst forget me, I will not insult thy 
 dear love. No, I bid thee love me always, and never 
 doubt but wherever I am and however long I tarry, 
 
 and perhaps, my Elizabeth, I may not come again, 
 
 I too am loving thee with the best that is in me. 
 Canst thou do so, until the end of everything ? " 
 
 " Thou knowest," she said ; and her voice gave him 
 a vision of her face, trembling yet brave. 
 
 " Take courage, for my sake, because I bid thee, 
 and fix thy mind on the good end. There are moments
 
 SHEPHEKDS. 275 
 
 when we seem to behold life as if we stood on a high 
 hill, and it were a hamlet below that we could take 
 in at a glance ; seeing all clear that was intricate, 
 the little paths, the sudden turns. I am standing 
 so ; and the place which was large enough for me to 
 lose myself while I wandered among its dark tortuous 
 ways, seems to me such a little place, the station for 
 a day. We can be patient easily," he asserted with 
 large, grave confidence, " since we shall so soon be 
 out of it ! Then I will claim thee, thou shalt be 
 my own ; for in this moment is made sure to me 
 our immortality. Thou dost not understand me at 
 all. Through the darkness I feel thy great light 
 eyes wondering. Ah, thy understanding or not lit 
 tle matters. I shall have time to teach thee. And 
 thou wilt understand the more easily, that this 
 night's good thoughts are derived only from thee : 
 the neighborhood of thy simple goodness has so 
 lifted me above myself and all in me that is com 
 mon man that I could reach and lay hold of them. 
 So it is truly thou that teachest me, thou of the 
 fruitful silences." 
 
 Silence again fell on them. Then he tried to find 
 the simplest words for her. " Thou wilt live on 
 as thou hast lived, feeding thy sheep, caring for 
 thy little lambs, doing thy duties. Will it seem 
 so very hard now that thou knowest my heart ? 
 But thou must not pine, thou must not watch for 
 me, and feel when I do not come this anguish that 
 wastes the face I love. Thou must hold fast to 
 this : My love loves me. And I will do the same. 
 And if there should come an upheaval, a great
 
 276 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 change in the order of things, it might be that I 
 returned to thee even before our earthly days are 
 passed, and that we fed flocks together. But we 
 may not hope for that 
 
 " Oh, life is hard ! " he exclaimed. " Oh, it is hard 
 to part But let us thank God for this one thing," 
 he added almost solemnly, " that we do love. This 
 golden hour has held wealth for a lifetime, and I shall 
 bless God whatever else he do to me." 
 
 He bent, crushing her more than ever close to him, 
 and kissed her before releasing her. 
 
 She shivered when he put her from him, finding 
 the world cold. He took the cloak from himself and 
 folded it around her. 
 
 Then he pointed in the direction of the hut and 
 asked, " Are they within ? " 
 
 She shook her head. "They are gone forth to 
 destroy a wolf." 
 
 It was a relief that he should not meet them. He 
 could not descend from his high mood yet awhile. 
 
 He turned toward the cottage, and she followed 
 him. 
 
 When they were inside, she bent over the embers 
 and kindled a rushlight at them. He looked about : 
 nothing had changed, it was as if he had been gone 
 no more than overnight. 
 
 He dropped on the settle by the hearth, and she 
 brought him goat's milk in a wooden bowL 
 
 Then he saw her as if for the first time, and she 
 appeared to him the most lovable being the world 
 contained. He wondered if she appeared beautiful 
 to others, and could not in the least judge if she were
 
 SHEPHERDS. 277 
 
 such as must please the common eye, she had so 
 supremely the gift of pleasing him. To him she 
 seemed to be conforming in every line and hue and 
 movement to some deep, simple, sacred, eternal law 
 of beauty. 
 
 She had changed a little. Her dumb sorrow had 
 moulded her features to a more expressive purpose. 
 At the same time her body had attained an added 
 grace of womanliness. He joyed in the sight of her. 
 Those light steady eyes looking out of her dark face 
 had to him the cool dewy sweetness of dawn ; that 
 drooping hair shone on by the sun, stroked by the 
 wind, and rained on by the heavens, seemed to him 
 to have retained some quality of those pure elements, 
 
 a glint of light, a freshness of rain, a bitter-sweet 
 fragrance of air that has been stirring among fruit- 
 trees in blossom, over wet moss. 
 
 The rest of womankind was set to shame by her, 
 
 all the well-born ladies with their mincing graces, 
 their reds and whites and civet-cat perfumes, and 
 artfully curled hair, shamed by a shepherdess who 
 did not seem to feel herself be, who never knew of 
 beauty, whose breath lifted her coarse gown all un 
 disturbed by envious dreams of their elegance. She 
 was the only woman on earth, all the others pre 
 tences, emptiness, she only real as the rocks with 
 the pale green and purple lichens on them, she only 
 worth counting. And she loved him without ques 
 tion, without consideration, not knowing what he 
 was. His heart exulted particularly over that last ; 
 and his soul went out in blessings on her for living, 
 gratitude to her for loving him.
 
 278 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 He had almost feared to see in her face her grief at 
 their parting. But something she had caught from 
 his words that set her in a mood akin to his own. 
 Her face shone too as if she were coming from some 
 high conversation ; her eyes were filled with a noble 
 light of faith, those clear ignorant eyes from which 
 not only evil but all knowledge of evil seemed to him 
 absent ; her lips now softly sealed expressed to him 
 infinite obedience, patience for a lifetime. She was 
 not weak, she was his peer, nay, she was above 
 him, though she could not talk of these things, per 
 haps not even to herself. 
 
 They sat for a long time on the opposite sides of 
 the hearth without speaking, taking with their eyes 
 a last cognizance of eacli other's face, not relenting, 
 though he grew pale and paler. 
 
 At last he shook himself and rose; for a great 
 numbing fatigue was creeping over him, and he felt 
 his heroism ebbing. She too rose and followed him 
 to the door, and a little way into the darkness ; then 
 suddenly she stopped short without a word, and let 
 him go his way alone. 
 
 For a long time the impression of that scene re 
 mained clear-cut and vivid in his consciousness, and 
 helped to make his life better. 
 
 The thought of her was as a flawless gem that he 
 could draw forth when he was alone, and gaze on, 
 feeling himself inestimably rich. 
 
 But his was a king's life, full of business and the 
 work of pleasure ; and wave after wave of sensation 
 flowing in over that treasured impression blurred the
 
 SHEPHERDS. 279 
 
 lines of it a little, then more, altered its face a 
 little, then more. 
 
 We know how painfully, when he first came to his 
 inheritance, he was impressed by the falseness of his 
 relation to other men ; how he hated the flatteries of 
 the court, the pretences, the machinations ; how the 
 untruth of those about him offended, the unreality of 
 his splendid-seeming life oppressed him, how alto 
 gether the atmosphere of the court was difficult for 
 him to breathe. He was a gentle and an honest man, 
 and sufficiently brave too ; but he had not the in 
 cisive strength to hew into a shape he preferred the 
 things he found fault with. In his heart he shrank 
 from harsh measures, from giving surprise and pain 
 even to the evil. He was doubtful of himself, tem 
 porizing. Now the things one cannot change, or 
 that one will not fight against to change, one must 
 end by countenancing ; and after patience comes 
 reconcilement, and after that, presently, indifference. 
 
 The air of the court ceased to offend the king's 
 lungs; it became his natural breathing-stuff. Custom 
 laid hold of him with a thousand insidious meshes> 
 and tied him down passive, agreeing, among those 
 whom he had despised when he first came in his 
 zealous youth from among the hills where had been 
 fostered his ideals. 
 
 At last he looked back upon those times almost 
 with pity, and smiled to himself wisely, " That was 
 poetry." 
 
 Now there is no reason for a man's being a hero, 
 except a reason I cannot well define, what know I ? 
 a standard that lives within himself, an adoring
 
 280 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 reverence for dead heroes perhaps, and a wish not to 
 disclaim them by his own deeds. There is no reason 
 for a man's being holy except a sense within himself 
 of the beauty of holiness. No one outside required 
 of the king to be heroic or to be holy; it rested 
 with his own soul. And as that got further from his 
 early youth, its ideals, no longer nourished by quiet 
 communion with spirits beautiful, dwindled, became 
 dimmed ; he looked upon old reserves of his thought 
 as idle sentiment, " dreams ! " he called many of 
 the things he had worshipped. He thought that he 
 was waking to a sense of real life, when perhaps he 
 was only going" to sleep to a part of life. He tried 
 to apply the wisdom recently gained from things and 
 people about him in this noisy, unrestful life to old 
 experiences, persons formerly known, and judged 
 anew many things once deemed high were degraded. 
 
 There had been in his life a shepherdess ; that 
 remained one of the chief points in his history. She 
 had loved him so truly, without knowing of his power 
 and wealth, his power to give her power and wealth. 
 He laughed a little at the curious adventure, but only 
 superficially: in his deep heart that remembrance 
 had always power to move him. A silent, beautiful 
 girl, who still loved him, perhaps ! He wondered, 
 did she ? But that also only superficially. 
 
 He regarded her differently from before. He had 
 thought of her as a creature of a character almost 
 unfeatured, rude, large perfection, without detail, 
 without intricacy. Now from his knowledge of 
 others he ventured retrospectively to study her, to 
 suppose true of her something like what was truth
 
 SHEPHERDS. 281 
 
 of the mass. He realized that he did not know her ; 
 that she was built out of his imagination, made up 
 of attributes that belong to divinity. He drew her 
 from her simple setting ; he made history for her. 
 A certain case given, would she do this, would she 
 do that ? So he had in thought finally dragged her 
 from her heights to the level of his present ; he had 
 become reasonable, discriminating about her, in fact, 
 he had become incapable of believing in his earlier 
 conception of her. 
 
 A poor shepherdess had loved him as a poor shep 
 herd. Would she love the same man less as king ? 
 Why not more, with awakened ambition and vanity 
 gratified in addition to tenderer passions ? A king 
 must seem so great and splendid to a shepherdess ! 
 How easy is everything to a king ! He has but to 
 command. Why should he suffer for want of a thing 
 not out of reach ? And as the old way of thinking 
 about Elizabeth was weakened, his need for her 
 presence seemed to increase. 
 
 He was less happy truly than even before, when 
 he had been so unhappy. Then he had known what 
 it was that distressed him, and he had set himself to 
 bearing it; now he suffered from a carking melan 
 choly, in itself the affliction, which he did not ex 
 amine, and find resolve itself into a deep, restless 
 self-dissatisfaction, survival of his better self, but 
 merely tried to get away from. He was ever wishing 
 for something, whatever it might be, that would make 
 him happy, a little happier. And in this search, 
 still disappointed, more and more often his thought 
 turned to Elizabeth. For she, after all, was the
 
 282 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 being he loved, the one whose thought was best to 
 him ; and she remained the only one whom he could 
 trust to have loved him. A desire to reward her for 
 that went hand in hand with his desire to seek an 
 alleviation to his unhappiness in seeing her again. 
 He told himself that it would only be just; he was 
 a great king, and could richly reward. She knew 
 nothing of splendors ; but was there a reason to sup 
 pose that she would not care for them when known ? 
 It was part of every woman, however unformed, to 
 love ease and splendor ; he had seen that enough. 
 
 Sometimes, at the first of them, he pulled himself 
 up in these thoughts of her with a feeling of shame, 
 and tried to restore her to her summits. But soon 
 again that seemed to him the fool's part ; and he 
 took up the thread of his thoughts where he had 
 broken it off. 
 
 " Would she not conie to him ? " he asked at last, 
 and was abashed at the desperate boldness of the 
 idea. 
 
 But he became used to it, and asked it again. 
 
 " Would she not come to him ? " The thought 
 that she might, that the world might so all be 
 changed, kept sleep from his eyes many an hour. 
 What might not life become if at the end of the 
 weary day spent among these people who were none 
 of his own, he could find her, the gentle, bounteous, 
 kindred creature, who alone for some mysterious rea 
 son could completely please him, and forget at her 
 side his annoyances ! He remembered well what 
 healing had always flowed on him from her vicinity, 
 how she could soothe and lull by the unconscious
 
 SHEPHERDS. 283 
 
 spell of those quiet eyes. What inexplicable well- 
 being he had always felt at her side ! No need for 
 speech ; repose, content, as of a monumental summer- 
 cloud slowly moving across the sky, silently absorb 
 ing sunlight. Would she refuse him this ? 
 
 He overleaped in his picturings all explanations, 
 revelations, for the sight was still full of stabs and 
 discomforts ; he placed her at once in the palace he 
 should adorn for her, clothed her regally, and saw 
 her shine and bloom among the women who should 
 surround her to do her bidding, her silence passing 
 for pride, her slowness for dignity. Would she not 
 be fair to behold with the golden circlet in her hair, 
 and the great jewel gleaming on her forehead, with 
 heavy silk and fur hanging from her shoulders ? The 
 wind from heaven should not touch her freely any 
 more, so she would grow fair as the lily, her hair 
 would become like burnished bronze; and no one 
 who saw her divine that she was a poor shepherdess. 
 
 But would she come ? When the thought of her 
 being near him had become so dear that he could 
 not give it up and bear his life, the question of sum 
 moning her must be faced and studied. His ultimate 
 thought was always that what he wished she must 
 inevitably do, that his will was hers, that she trusted 
 him entirely. But that in itself, instead of giving him 
 undivided joy, held a peculiar pang. She trusted 
 him to love her ; perhaps loving to the simple un 
 derstood wanting the best for the beloved, and was 
 this that shone before his eyes, this that meant, he 
 believed, such bliss to him, the best for her ? Her 
 little dream of love, if she dreamed, must have
 
 284 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 been that her dear shepherd-lad should come to her, 
 and that they should live together in peace and inno 
 cence, a sight pleasing to God, have all their 
 simple joys and sorrows in common, be each the other's 
 world. Would he not be preparing in her world the 
 way to strange sorrows ? disturbing that deep 
 peace, undoing all that made her Elizabeth ? 
 
 He had moments, sometimes waking, sometimes 
 sleeping, when his interview with Elizabeth became 
 a horror to him ; when she looked at him with great 
 eyes in the depths of which had grown a fear of him, 
 a vast unspeakable trouble, a bewilderment, as if 
 the earth had failed beneath her feet, the sun proved 
 untrue, God forgotten her, and he wished to get away 
 from her gaze, feeling small. Oppressed by the an 
 guish that crept through him when he had faced such 
 a vision, he seemed to be crying out to her : " Only 
 forget ! only let all be as before ! " 
 
 But again he would think of her as taking what 
 ever came to her from him with unquestioning sub 
 mission, with eagerness only to show him love, 
 more love, no thought of herself or abstract things, 
 only gratitude to be with him, only gladness to see 
 his eyes, to feel his hand. He could fancy her joy 
 ing that he had thought to do as lie had, not to leave 
 her lonely forever on her hills, but to take her to 
 him and show her all life might have for them both. 
 He made her in that mood even delight in her new 
 surrounding ; he watched her unfolding appreciation 
 of things rich and beautiful, and felt her happiness 
 to be a justification to him. He vowed that she 
 should never repent a thing done for love of him.
 
 SHEPHERDS. 285 
 
 No one who could cast blame upon her should be 
 suffered near. He would protect her well. 
 
 But which of these visions forecast the future ? 
 One presented itself as often as the other, and long 
 he could not choose either for its probability. And 
 dismay followed one, joy followed the other. But 
 sometimes a sort of exultation in her mixed with his 
 agonized humiliation at the first vision ; and some 
 times a sort of humiliation, an anguish mixed with 
 his exultation in the second. 
 
 Which ? Which ? He was haunted by the 
 question. 
 
 But as time went, the second vision, which in his 
 earthly yearning appealed to him more, became more 
 frequent ; and the need for assuring himself that his 
 surmise of its greater likelihood was correct, more 
 imperative. If he should not venture to brave de 
 feat, he could never gain the joy of triumph ; and 
 this triumph seemed to him every day more the best 
 that earth contained, the only thing that could as 
 suage his unrest, quell his never-sleeping yearning 
 after happiness. And his days from the outside were 
 becoming so full of disquiet, of tumult, that he needed 
 indeed that something should be good to him ; he 
 needed a faithful pillow for his head tired every day 
 more with the cares of a kingdom. For the Usurper 
 had gained strength, and the land was again full of 
 dissent. Once he could have resigned his great 
 office readily ; once he did not wish to be king ; 
 but he could no more : the thirst for power had 
 grown upon him, the success of his darling schemes 
 moreover depended upon it. He could not return
 
 286 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 to be a shepherd, that dream belonged to his out 
 grown self. He must haste to obtain his ends before 
 the times should become too unquiet, he must haste 
 to eujoy while he might. 
 
 A disused manse, hid in the depths of a great park, 
 was secretly prepared with every care he could de 
 vise for the coming of his love. He had moments of 
 almost forgetting his troubles in planning perfection 
 for it. Unused as her eyes were to magnificence, she 
 should yet have the most splendid dwelling of all ; 
 he would not slight her, but do her more honor than 
 to any, yet secretly, for her own sake. 
 
 And the times became more unquiet before he 
 could make up his mind to the last step. And feel 
 ing his courage still unequal to satisfying himself as 
 to which of the two visions should work itself out in 
 life, he said that he had best wait until the turmoil 
 was over. He would crush all his opposers, then give 
 himself to his happiness undisturbed. He could find 
 strength unconquerable to hew his path through 
 those who stood between him and his love, if be 
 yond the struggle lay quiet life with her. 
 
 So when the time came he buckled himself into 
 his sable armor with high courage, with grim deter 
 mination to overcome. 
 
 And he fought several battles, and he felt himself 
 invincible, until the very moment in which he was 
 vanquished. 
 
 A casual steel point wielded by an obscure hand 
 changed the face of the earth for him. At morning 
 he had felt himself the match for any giant, and had
 
 SHEPHERDS. 287 
 
 sat proudly erect on his war-horse, with flashing eye 
 and swelling nostril, a magnificent terror. At night 
 fall he lay undistinguished, little to be feared, half 
 under a heap of other men. His soul would not 
 leave his body. It seemed to him a century since he 
 had dropped. There had been lapses in his conscious 
 ness that could not have lasted less than years. He 
 opened his eyes once, and saw nothing but blue above 
 him, cool, delicate, swimming blue; he seemed to 
 float upward and melt away into it. Again he opened 
 his eyes. He saw long purple islands hemmed in 
 with burning red rocks in a golden sea ; they were 
 darkened, and he neither saw nor knew. 
 
 Then again he opened his eyes, and for a time 
 was in utter darkness, and wondered, till he found 
 gold-dust raining down upon him; when the shower 
 ceased, little fixed points of gold studded all above 
 him. It came back to him like a forgotten story that 
 it was the firmament ; and he remembered vaguely 
 things that had happened to some one some time, 
 probably himself. Thank God that the din and 
 dust were over, and all quite still at last ! 
 
 He could not stir, but he did not wish to stir. 
 The end of the story, the short, little, unimportant 
 story. Amen ! Why should one make such an ado, 
 want so many things so much, fight for them so hard 
 with these tired muscles strained to breaking, and 
 this the end ! Only water he wanted now, enough 
 to wet lips and throat. But even that he did not 
 want much, not so much as he had wanted less im 
 portant things, his crown for one. Still, a little, 
 just a little water. There was so much water in the
 
 288 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 world ! The image of a well-known spring under 
 arching trees rose in his mind. He heard it gurgle ; 
 he saw it tremble lucid over the pale round stones, 
 and Elizabeth was near it as she had been. She 
 bent and drank ; and he saw himself bending and 
 setting his mouth to it. But what a delusion ! She 
 was not there. That was long ago, and he was 
 parched as before drinking. She was in her splendid 
 chamber ; she drank wine from chiselled gold. If he 
 could but get to her, and she would pour him wine 
 in the cup set with cool gems. If she would take 
 his head on her shoulder, and help him let his soul 
 smoothly loose, his soul that could not get past his 
 throat. Elizabeth ! What would become of her in 
 her gorgeous palace without him ? God ! would not 
 they drive her forth, now that she was not a great 
 king's love any more, and take all from her, and treat 
 her with scorn ? No, no ! what was he thinking of ? 
 All that had never happened, all that was in the 
 future, and there were no more to-morrows to make 
 up a future. Elizabeth would not even know that 
 he was dead. She would only hear perhaps that 
 the king had been slain, and would go on waiting for 
 William patiently from dawn to eve, with her quiet 
 eyes, her quiet bosom. He would like to see her, 
 to tell her not to wait any more. It wearied him 
 to think of day after day, with soul half out of 
 body, hiccoughing in the throat. He would like to 
 be with her, and that she should give him a bowl 
 of goat's milk, as that last time. If he could but get 
 to her now ! to the devoted one who once had given 
 up all to come to him ! Ah, no ! there was his brain
 
 SHEPHERDS. 289 
 
 again, with that insane new trick of distorting things. 
 She had not come ; she only would have coine if he 
 had had time to implore her. He had not had time. 
 Nay, but would she ? The old tormenting question I 
 With its teasing insistence, it made his poor soul sick. 
 In this extremity, when no joy could come to him 
 any more of anything, it seemed as if by a fore- 
 glimmer of the strange new dawn coming to cast 
 over all its dreadful clearness an awful responsi 
 bility to have helped another soul to remorse ; he 
 wished he might believe that if he had lived he 
 would have tempted no one, not, above all, one who 
 loved him. He would wish to go forth into the vast, 
 dim after-world, where the hues and proportions of 
 all things would be changed, and the invisible, only 
 half-realized God, whom one lightly disobeyed while 
 blood was hot in the veins, become to the chilly out 
 cast ghost the great reality, clean at least of that. 
 He wished he might believe that she would have 
 had wisdom, sainted wisdom to refuse. Was she not 
 such that God might prompt her in her ignorance ? 
 But alas, alas, he had grown so used, having so ar 
 dently wished it true, to the thought that she would 
 come for his asking ! 
 
 Now, while with his eyes up to the heavens he was 
 thinking ever more wauderingly of these things, suf 
 fering nothing much, scarcely even thirst and cold, 
 and those less and less, he felt himself disturbed, 
 dazzled a moment, lifted. He felt his weight pain 
 fully; he suffered inexpressibly, without power to 
 sob, as the thing he rested upon moved and rolled 
 beneath him. He lay forward on his face, with limbs 
 
 19
 
 290 SHEPHERDS. 
 
 hanging. He weakly longed for the earth to lie still ; 
 then he was lost to all sensation. 
 
 Suddenly a voice saying in a husky whisper, 
 " William ! William ! " brought him back from very 
 far. He opened his eyes ; his head was so propped 
 that for a minute he only saw by the glimmer of a 
 rushlight his own body, strangely magnified, stretch 
 ing out before him, the mailed feet, the quartered 
 tunic, blue and crimson, with gold dragons in the 
 crimson and red roses in the blue, a different red 
 spread horridly about the great rent cleaving the 
 dragons in two. He saw faces peering at him, fami 
 liar faces, but with an unfamiliar look to them. He 
 knew that old man staring awed through his bushy 
 white eyebrows, muttering, " The King, say ye ! " 
 
 A whisper, "The King! The Kiug!" passed like a 
 gust of wind in the trees. 
 
 Then a subdued voice said, " He is to lie hidden 
 here again until he recover of his hurt. The leech 
 will not be long coming. God help him ! " the voice 
 ended choking. 
 
 His brain was clear now, his eyes sharper than 
 ever in health, his hearing keener. He could see the 
 flash of every little link and plate of his armor lying 
 near on the floor ; he could distinguish between the 
 breathings of the watchers about him. He knew it 
 was an arm beneath his neck, a shoulder under his 
 cheek. If he could but lift his heavy, heavy eyes, 
 he knew what face he should see above him. As if 
 his struggle to look up had been felt, the face bent 
 and looked into his, while the breath that had been 
 fanning him stopped.
 
 SHEPHERDS. 291 
 
 His eyes seemed to svviin up into her eyes, and 
 lose themselves there : the same eyes, the eyes of 
 his utmost .love, filled with anguish, but the same 
 eyes, through which Heaven made itself understood, 
 tender, knowing nothing of evil, of treason, of snares, 
 of troubled love, of temptation, of repentance. All the 
 time since he had parted from her of a sudden seemed 
 a dream, a bad dream. What was all that about: 
 Would she come to him ? Would she not come to 
 him ? What need to revolve the question, since 
 it was never to be asked ? From the first it was 
 never to have been ! God had amply provided. Such 
 struggles, such doubts, and all so simple in the end ! 
 He could not grieve that he was leaving her; for 
 the something that could have gfieved seemed dead 
 already. His eyes became stony upon her face. He 
 saw the brows drawn together over the widened eyes 
 shadowily bending over him. He could see nothing 
 but those eyes, to his sense growing larger and larger ; 
 he saw terrible tears crowd over their fixed stare. 
 
 He smiled faintly at the feeling of relief that had 
 passed over him like a pleasant wind ; all his body 
 relaxed with the comfort of it. She saw his mouth 
 move, and brought the eyes still nearer. A little 
 gasp, almost like a laugh, came from his lips; it made 
 itself into the irrelevant words, showing that he was 
 already past taking account, "And I shall never 
 know " Then the smile died, and he murmured 
 more peacefully, "Praise God !" 
 
 THE END.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 A QUESTION OF LOVE. 
 
 of 
 
 Translated by ANNIE R. RAMSEY, from the French of 
 
 T. COMBE. 
 
 i6mo. Cloth, price, $1.00; paper, 50 cents. 
 
 The scene is laid in Switzerland, and the narrative has to do with a delight 
 fully original family, consisting of two old men (one of them almost a centenarian) ; 
 a spinster housekeeper of quaint, undemonstrative manners ; an elderly servant, 
 always ready to speak her mind on the slightest provocation ; and last, but by no 
 means least, a beautiful girl of eighteen, whose loneliness amid these surroundings, 
 cut off from all companionship with persons of her own age, is forcibly depicted. 
 Pretty little Zoe, with her shy ways and her tender heart, is a most attractive 
 character, and the reader will not wonder that Samuel, the honest son of the 
 neighboring former, falls head over heels in love with her. But Samuel's hopes are 
 doomed to disappointment. All the characters are well drawn, and among them 
 old Brutus Romanel is not the least delightful. His one ambition is that he may 
 live to be a hundred, and he comments on the obituary list in the newspaper with 
 a glee that would be disgusting if it were not so artless. Miss Ramsey's transla 
 tion deserves the highest praise for its freedom from Gallic idioms. Here, evi 
 dently, is one translator who believes that a translation into English ought to be 
 written in the English language, and not in that droll Anglo-French flatois which 
 so often does duty for English at the hands of the ignorant and incompetent 
 The Beacon. 
 
 It is a clean, sweet-smelling story, a great relief after the quantities of realistic 
 stuff produced by the modern French school. The characterization is excellent, 
 and the style and treatment deserve special commendation. It is a pretty and 
 wholesome love story that recommends itself specially to the attention of the 
 maidens. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, mailed on receipt of price by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 A BOOK O'NINE TALES, 
 
 BY ARLO BATES, 
 
 Author of " A Lad's Love" " Albrecht? " Berries 
 of the Brier" etc. 
 
 i6mo. Cloth, price, $1.00; paper, 50 cents. 
 
 Certainly had he done nothing else the present volume should go far toward 
 making him a permanent reputation. 
 
 " His stories are bright and clever, but they have higher qualities than wit and 
 cleverness. They have the enchantments of the magician, the pathos and passion 
 of the poet. The plan of the volume is ingenious. There are the ' Nine Tales,' 
 and they are separated by eight 'Interludes.' These 'Interludes' are, practi 
 cally, bright little social comedies," says Mrs. Moulton in the Boston Herald. 
 
 Mr. Bates writes smoothly and pleasantly. His stories and sketches make 
 very entertaining reading. 
 
 " A Book o' Nine Tales," by Ar!o Bates, whose writing has been familiar in 
 magazines and newspapers for several years, is a readable volume of short stories 
 suited to the light leisure of summer days in the country. There are really seven 
 teen stories, although to make the title appropriate Mr. Bates makes every second 
 one an interlude. They are simple, gracefully written, unambitious tales, not 
 calculated to move the emotions more than will be comfortable in holiday hours. 
 They are short and interesting, with all kinds of motives, dealing with love in 
 every-day, pretty, tasteful fashion. A weird tale is " The Tuberose," which 
 startles one a little and leaves a great deal to the imagination. The book will be 
 a popular seaside and country volume. San Francisco Chronicle. 
 
 " A Book o' Nine Tales," by Arlo Bates, who has become very popular as a 
 writer of love stories, will attract much attention this season from the great army 
 of readers who wish for "vacation books." These nine stories are capitally told, 
 and are arranged in a novel manner with interludes between. These interludes 
 take the shape of short scenes, arranged as if in a play, the dialogue sustained by 
 two persons, a lady and gentleman, which give an opportunity to portray and 
 satirize in a very effective manner many queer society customs, superstitions, and 
 characters familiar to every one who mingles with the world. They make a most 
 amusing array of characters, that seem to live, so true they are to human nature. 
 " Mere Marchette " is a gem in this unusually good collection of literary jewels. 
 Hartford Times. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, mailed, postpaid, on receipt of price by the 
 publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 A VIOLIN OBLIGATO 
 
 BY MARGARET CROSBY. 
 i6mo. Cloth, price, $1.00; paper, 50 cents. 
 
 A noteworthy dramatic purpose, acute insight into the recesses of individual 
 character, ready command of the motives that govern the relations of allied or 
 contradictory natures, a persistent recognition of the essential pathos of life to 
 those who look beneath its surface, and a versatility of style that easily ranges 
 from grave to gay, these, with an underlying sense of humor that now and then 
 blossoms out into ample radiance, are the traits and qualifications displayed by 
 Margaret Crosby in " A Violin Obligate and Other Stories." The strength and 
 scope of the tales brought together in this volume are indeed remarkable; they 
 touch on many phases of human existence, and they appeal to something more 
 than a mere desire for mental distraction. Most of the productions included in 
 this book have a clear ethical purport ; one cannot read them without getting new 
 light upon personal duty and realizing the force of the decree that renders every 
 man and every woman responsible for the influence he or she brings to bear on 
 others. The first story, " A Violin Obligate," deals with the fate of a poor 
 musician in whom the artistic impulse overbalanced artistic capability. " On the 
 South Shore " and "An Islander" have their scenes laid in Nantucket, a region 
 where Miss Crosby is apparently very much at home. The woman whose face is 
 her fortune is the central figure in " A Complete Misunderstanding," and the 
 way in which she wrecks the happiness of two men is related with no attempt at 
 melodramatic exaggeration, but with a straightforward vigor that is always effec 
 tive. "The Copeland Collection" has a delightful savor of romance ; "Last 
 Chance Gulch " unfolds exciting episodes in the life of a Western mining camp ; 
 a liaison between a high-born youth and a beautiful gypsy is the theme of " A 
 Mad Englishman " ; it is a humble fisherman in a New England village who 
 turns out to be " A Child of Light ; " and in the " Passages from the Journal of 
 a Social Wreck" there is a comedy of the first order. It is seldom that one 
 encounters a collection of short stories from the pen of a single writer where the 
 interest is so diversified and yet so well sustained as in this volume by Miss 
 Crosby. The talent displayed in every one of these essays in fiction is incontest 
 able. They will take rank at once with the representative work of the foremost 
 American authors in this important field of contemporary literature. The 
 Beacon. 
 
 Sold everywhere, mailed, postpaid, on receipt of the price by the 
 publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 THE TRUTH 
 ABOUT CLEMENT KER. 
 
 BY GEORGE FLEMING, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " KISMBT," "MIRAGK," "ANDROMEDA," "THE HEAD or 
 MEDUSA," AND "VESTIGIA." 
 
 One volume. i6mo. Cloth. Price, 75 cents. 
 
 George Fleming, the author of " Kismet " and " Mirage," never disappoints 
 us in her literary work. Although she has not yet written a great novel, all her 
 stories are bright, clever, and readable. " The Truth about Clement Ker " is an 
 artistic ghost story. It is interesting from beginning to end ; it is a delightful 
 mixture of the natural and the supernatural, of fiction and of fact. It is full of a 
 weird mysterious suggestiveness which keeps the reader's imagination on the alert, 
 and yet never develops into the sensational or absurd. There is a harmony about 
 all the incidents in the story before us, which is a strong evidence of the writer's 
 literary taste. No one part is treated with any more realism than another. But 
 characters and incidents find their places in a shadowy atmosphere whose very 
 indistinctness is a part of its charm. In these days of realism, psychology and 
 hypnotism must have their part in our ghost stories ; the occult forces of the uni 
 verse must at least seem to be in sympathy with any attempt to portray the super 
 natural. Nor has the present writer been ignorant of this truth. The book 
 before us is one of the best short stories of the day ; a brilliant sketch, admirably 
 conceived and executed. Transcript. 
 
 Miss Fletcher introduces into her new story psychological and supernatural 
 elements. It is especially notable for the atmosphere of mystery which envelops 
 it, and for the skill with which startling incidents are dealt. "The characters 
 are strongly drawn, and the whole book bears witness to the closeness of Miss 
 Fletcher's observation and her insight into the real natures of men and women," 
 says MRS. LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 To their excellent little " Handy Library," which, in spite of its extreme youth, 
 already promises to attain a good and honored old age, Messrs. Roberts Brothers 
 have just added " The Truth about Clement Ker." A novel by George Fleming 
 stands in little need of newspaper comment to insure its popularity, and certainly 
 this already widely known story is no exception. The straightforward unfolding 
 of its rather unusual plot, its capital character sketching, and above all, the fresh 
 ness and vigor with which the old and ever new subject is treated, recommend to 
 the most jaded novel reader. H'ashington Capitol. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price, by the 
 publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 A WEEK AWAY FROM TIME. 
 
 lamo, Cloth, Price, $i 25; Paper Covers, 50 cents. 
 
 The scene of this novel is Fair Harbor, which, by the way, is a little nook on 
 the Buzzard's Bay shore of Cape Cod, in the town of Falmouth. The book 
 deals not so much with Cape Cod life as with life on Cape Cod, the life, how 
 ever, of the summer visitor, of the seeker after pleasure, not the life of us "to the 
 manner born." Of the scenery on Cape Cod, of the drives to Barnstable Great 
 Marshes, of cranberry picking, of the sea, the author writes delicately and affec 
 tionately. We, who are so used to the ordinary sights of the Cape, will read with 
 pleasure of the beauties that our too accustomed eyes have failed to perceive in 
 our surroundings. Provincetown A dvocate. 
 
 A week spent by a happy party at " Fair Harbor," a place located somewhere 
 between Falmouth and Woods Holl, " at the very tip end of the heel of Cape 
 Cod." Margaret Temple, a young widow, with a " supremely fortunate nature," 
 finds this place, which is a " fairy inlet where the voices of sirens singing to your 
 soul would bid you stay and be at rest" She purchases "The White House," a 
 quaint old mansion, for a summer home, and here it is that the principal action of 
 the story is laid. A half-dozen or more of congenial friends gather for a week's 
 rest, and employ the time in quiet diversions, devoting the evenings to the read 
 ing of original stories prepared by members of the party in turn. The party is 
 admirably adapted to the development of romance ; and although in one case an 
 athletic young Apollo sails away with a broken heart, the sum total is so much 
 happiness that the conclusion is very satisfactory. New Bedford Mercury. 
 
 Anonymous though it be, there are too many marks and crosses, tracks and 
 trails, in this little volume for an observant reader to remain long in doubt as to 
 birthplace and parentage. The conversations alone betray Boston, and the sto 
 ries the highest circle of literary society there. Imitating the refined tone of the 
 company writing, invidious selections and comparisons are avoided ; and if especial 
 mention is made of the exquisite prelude, it is only in indorsement of the taste 
 that placed it conspicuously, where it should be, to arrest the eye of the reader and 
 give the key-note of the charming motif to follow. Hartford Courant. 
 
 The charm of the book and it has a charm lies in the hospitable way in 
 which the reader is allowed to share the confidences of this clever little group. 
 " A Week Away from Time " enlarges agreeably our list of friends, and we find 
 ourselves half wishing that the week were lengthened into a fortnight. Boston 
 Trantcript. __^_____ 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
 price, by the publishers, 
 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
 Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications. 
 
 Miss EYRE FROM BOSTON, 
 
 AND OTHERS. 
 
 By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, 
 
 Author of " Some Women's Hearts," " Random Rambles " "In th<! 
 Garden of Dreams" " Bed-Time Stories," etc. 
 
 One Vol., lOmo, cloth. Price, $1.26. Paper covers, 60 cts. 
 
 THESE stories are marked with an exquisite touch throughout, and while 
 they belong to the region of sentiment, they escape happily the bogs of sen 
 timentality. There are several which touch upon the supernatural, and it is 
 pleasing to see with what taste and cleverness Mrs. Moulton has handled 
 these difficult themes. They have just the right touch to hold them be 
 tween the credible and the impossible, and they are all in some way 
 suggestive of unexplored regions lying almost palpably behind them. The 
 book is one to have at hand for hours when one wishes to be soothed and 
 cheered, and to be inspired with new life, for it is full of good inspirations. 
 It is a book one would be glad to see young girls read, and one, too, which 
 there is no doubt that young girls will be glad to read. Sunday Courier. 
 
 THOSE who are fond of Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton's writings will 
 find this delightful collection of fourteen short stories no less enjoyable 
 than that charming companion volume of last year, entitled " Ourselves and 
 Our Neighbors," or the still more exquisite collection of novelettes, 
 " Some Women's Hearts." There is in this latest volume a very strong 
 flavor of the finest and most attractive features of New England city and 
 country life, but there are also bits of foreign experiences and even two 
 ghost, or " spirits," stories which give a spice of variety to the contents. 
 Mrs. Moulton's sympathies are only with that which is lovable and uplift 
 ing in human nature, and she has the rare faculty of discovering fine 
 qualities even in the commonest souls. She has a rare insight into the 
 depths of human passion and emotion, and in her stories we never find other 
 than noble and beautiful ideals of love. The same sympathetic instincts, 
 delicacy of perception, refinement of thought, and beauty of expression, 
 which characterized so distinctively the works of the gifted H. H.,arefound 
 also in Mrs. Moulton's stories, and upon her has fallen the mantle of a 
 story-teller, which her late sister wore so exquisitely. This little book of 
 stories, which is dedicated to five talented girls of Boston, is good not only 
 for summer reading, but for all the year round. Public Ofinion. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, by the Pub- 
 ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
 
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