PAUL THE MINSTREL AND OTHER STORIES

 Reprinted from _The Hill of Trouble_ and _The Isles of Sunset_

 BY

 ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

 FELLOW OF MAGDALENE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE

 LONDON

 SMITH, ELDER & CO. , 15 WATERLOO PLACE

 1911

 [All rights reserved]

 Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. 

 At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh

_"I mean by a picture a beautiful, romantic dream of something thatnever was, never will be--in a light better than any light that evershone--in a land no one can define or remember, only desire--and theforms divinely beautiful--and then I wake up with the waking ofBrynhild. "_

 SIR E. BURNE-JONES

 PREFACE

These stories were all written at a very happy time of my life, andthey were first published when I was a master at Eton with aboarding-house. A house-master is not always a happy man. It is ananxious business at best. Boys are very unaccountable creatures, andthe years between boyhood and adolescence are apt to represent anirresponsible mood. From the quiet childhood at home the boys havepassed to what is now, most happily, in the majority of cases, acarefully guarded and sheltered atmosphere--the private school. My ownprivate school was of the old-fashioned type, with a very independenttone of tradition; but nowadays private schools are smaller and muchmore domesticated. The boys live like little brothers in the companyof active and kindly young masters; and then they are plunged into therougher currents of public schools, with their strange and in manyways barbarous code of ethics, their strong and penetratingtraditions. Here the boys, who have hitherto had little temptation tobe anything but obedient, have to learn to govern themselves, and todo so among conventions which hardly represent the conventions of theworld, and where the public opinion is curiously unaffected either byparental desires, or by the wishes, expressed or unexpressed, of themasters. A house-master is often in the position of seeing a new setof boys come into power in his house whom he may distrust; but thesense of honour among the boys is so strong that he is often the lastperson to hear of practices and principles prevailing in his house ofwhich he may wholly disapprove. He may even find that many of theindividual boys in his house disapprove of them too, and yet be unableto alter a tone impressed on the place by a few boys of forcible, ifeven sometimes unsatisfactory, character. But at the time at whichthese stories were written the tone of my own house was sound, sensible, and friendly; and I had the happiness of living in anatmosphere which I knew to be wholesome, manly, and pure. I used totell or read stories on Sunday evenings to any boys who cared to cometo listen; and I remember with delight those hours when perhaps twentyboys would come and sit all about my study, filling every chair andsofa and overflowing on to the floor, to listen to long, vague storiesof adventure, with at all events an appearance of interest andexcitement. 

One wanted to do the best for the boys, to put fine ideas, if onecould, into their heads and hearts. But direct moral exhortation togrowing boys, feeling the life of the world quickening in their veins, and with vague old instincts of love and war rising uninterpreted intheir thoughts, is apt to be a fruitless thing enough. It is not thatthey do not listen; but they simply do not understand the need ofcaution and control, nor do they see the unguarded posterns by whichevil things slip smiling into the fortress of the soul. 

Every now and then I used to try to shape a tale which in a figuremight leave an arresting or a restraining thought in their minds; oreven touch with a light of romance some of the knightly virtues whichare apt to be dulled into the aspect of commonplace and uninterestingduties. 

It is very hard to make the simple choices of life assume a noble oran inspiring form. One sees long afterwards in later life how fine theright choice, the vigorous resistance, the honest perseverance mighthave been; but the worst faults of boyhood have something exciting andeven romantic about them--they would not be so alluring if they hadnot--while the homely virtues of honesty, frankness, modesty, andself-restraint appear too often as a dull and priggish abstention fromthe more daring and adventurous joys of eager living. If evil werealways ugly and goodness were always beautiful at first sight, therewould be little of the trouble and havoc in the world that is wroughtby sin and indolence. 

I chose, not deliberately but instinctively, the old romantic formfor the setting of these tales, a semi-medićval atmosphere such asbelongs to the literary epic; some of the stories are pure fantasy;but they all aim more or less directly at illustrating the sternnecessity of moral choice; the difficulty is to get children tobelieve, at the brilliant outset of life, that it will not do tofollow the delights of impulse. And one of the most pathetic parts ofa schoolmaster's life is that he cannot, however earnestly andsincerely he may wish to do so, transfer his own experience to theboys, or persuade them that, in the simple words of Browning, "It'swiser being good than bad. " It may be wiser but it is certainlyduller! and the schoolmaster has the horror, which ought never to be afaithless despair, of seeing boys drift into habits of non-resistance, and sow with eager hand the seed which must almost inevitably grow upinto the thorns and weeds of life. If the child could but grasp thebare truth, if one could but pull away the veil of the years and showhim the careless natural joy ending in the dingy, broken slovenlinessof failure! But one cannot; and perhaps life would lose all its virtueif one could. 

One does not know, one cannot dimly guess, why all these attractiveopportunities of evil are so thickly strewn about the path of theyoung in a world which we believe to be ultimately ruled by Justiceand Love. Much of it comes from our own blindness and hardness ofheart. Either we do not care enough ourselves, or we cannot risk theunpopularity of interfering with bad traditions, or we are lacking inimaginative sympathy, or we sophistically persuade ourselves into thebelief that the character is strengthened by exposure to prematureevil. The atmosphere of the boarding-school is a very artificial one;its successes are patent, its débris we sweep away into a corner; butwhatever view we take of it all, it is a life which, if one cares forvirtue at all, however half-heartedly, tries the mental and emotionalfaculties of the schoolmaster to the uttermost, and every now and thenshakes one's heart to the depths with a terrible wonder as to how onecan ever answer to the account which will be demanded. 

I do not claim to have realised my responsibilities fully, or to havedone all I could to lead my flock along the right path. But I diddesire to minimise temptations and to try to get the better side ofthe boys' hearts and minds to emphasise itself. One saw masters whoseemed to meddle too much--that sometimes produced an atmosphere ofguarded hostility--and one saw masters who seemed to be foolishlyoptimistic about it all; but as a rule one found in one's colleagues adeep and serious preoccupation with manly ideals of boy-life; and inthese stories I tried my best to touch into life the poetical andbeautiful side of virtue, to show life as a pilgrimage to a far-offbut glorious goal, with seductive bypaths turning off the narrow way, and evil shapes, both terrifying and alluring, which loitered in shadycorners, or even sometimes straddled horribly across the very road. 

The romance, then, of these stories is coloured by what may be thoughtto be a conventional and commonplace morality enough; but it is realfor all that; and life as it proceeds has a blessed way of revealingthe urgency and the unseen features of the combat. It is just becausevirtue seems dry and humdrum that the struggle is so difficult. It isso hard to turn aside from what seems so dangerously beautiful, towhat seems so plain and homely. But it is what we mostly have to do. 

I saw many years ago a strange parable of what I mean. I was walkingthrough a quiet countryside with a curious, fanciful, interesting boy, and we came to a little church off the track in a tiny churchyard fullof high-seeded grasses. On the wall of the chancel hung an old trophyof armour, a helmet and a cuirass, black with age. The boy climbedquickly up upon the choir-stalls, took the helmet down, enclosed hisown curly head in it, and then knelt down suddenly on the altar-step;after which he replaced the helmet again on its nail. "What put itinto your head to do that?" I said. "Oh, " he said lightly, "I thoughtof the old man who wore it; and they used to kneel before the altar intheir armour when they were made knights, didn't they? I wanted justto feel what it was like!"

Life was too strong for that boy, and he was worsted! He won littlecredit in the fight. But it had been a pretty fancy of his, andperhaps something more than a fancy. I have often thought of thelittle slender figure, so strangely helmeted, kneeling in the summersunlight, with Heaven knows what thoughts of what life was to be; itseems to me a sorrowful enough symbol of boyhood--so eager to share inthe fray, so unfit to bear the dinted helm. 

And yet I do not wish to be sorrowful, and it would be untrue to lifeto yield oneself to foolish pity. My own little company is broken uplong ago; I wonder if they remember the old days and the old stories. They are good citizens most of them, standing firmly and sturdily, finding out the meaning of life in their own way and contributingtheir part to the business of the world. But some of them have fallenby the way, and those not the faultiest or coarsest, but some of fineinstinct and graceful charm, who evoked one's best hopes and mostaffectionate concern. 

If one believed that life were all, that there was no experiencebeyond the dark grave and the mouldering clay, it would be a miserabletask enough to creep cautiously through life, just holding on to itstangible advantages and cautiously enjoying its delights. But I domost utterly believe that there is a truth beyond that satisfies oursharpest cravings and our wildest dreams, and that if we have lovedwhat is high and good, even for a halting minute, it will come tobless us consciously and abundantly before we have done withexperience. Many of our dreams are heavy-hearted enough; we arehampered by the old faults, and by the body that not only cannotanswer the demands of the spirit, but bars the way with its own urgentclaims and desires. But whatever hope we can frame or conceive ofpeace and truth and nobleness and light shall be wholly and purelyfulfilled; and even if we are separated by a season, as we must beseparated, from those whom we love and journey with, there is a unionahead of us when we shall remember gratefully the old dim days, andthe path which we trod in hope and fear together; when all the troublewe have wrought to ourselves and others will vanish into the shadow ofa faded dream, in the sweetness and glory of some great city of God, full of fire and music and all the radiant visions of uplifted hearts, which visited us so faintly and yet so beckoningly in the old fraildays. 

 CONTENTS

 PAGE

PAUL THE MINSTREL 1

THE ISLES OF SUNSET 70

THE WAVING OF THE SWORD 113

RENATUS 127

THE SLYPE HOUSE 138

OUT OF THE SEA 159

THE TROTH OF THE SWORD 178

THE HILL OF TROUBLE 197

THE GRAY CAT 224

THE RED CAMP 247

THE LIGHT OF THE BODY 279

THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, AND THE GREY FROST 301

BROTHER ROBERT 322

THE CLOSED WINDOW 348

THE BROTHERS 363

THE TEMPLE OF DEATH 378

THE TOMB OF HEIRI 402

CERDA 419

LINUS 428

 PAUL THE MINSTREL

 I

The old House of Heritage stood just below the downs, in the fewmeadows that were all that was left of a great estate. The houseitself was of stone, very firmly and gravely built; and roofed withthin slabs of stone, small at the roof-ridge, and increasing in sizetowards the eaves. Inside, there were a few low panelled rooms openingon a large central hall; there was little furniture, and that of asturdy and solid kind--but the house needed nothing else, and had allthe beauty that came of a simple austerity. 

Old Mistress Alison, who abode there, was aged and poor. She had butone house-servant, a serious and honest maid, whose only pride was tokeep the place sweet, and save her mistress from all care. ButMistress Alison was not to be dismayed by poverty; she was a tranquiland loving woman, who had never married; but who, as if to compensateher for the absence of nearer ties, had a simple and wholesome love ofall created things. She was infirm now, but was quite content, when itwas fine, to sit for long hours idle for very love, and look about herwith a peaceful and smiling air; she prayed much, or rather held asweet converse in her heart with God; she thought little of her latterend, which she knew could not be long delayed, but was content toleave it in the hands of the Father, sure that He, who had made theworld so beautiful and so full of love, would comfort her when shecame to enter in at the dark gate. 

There was also an old and silent man who looked after the cattle andthe few hens that the household kept; at the back of the house was athatched timbered grange, where he laid his tools; but he spent histime mostly in the garden, which sloped down to the fishpond, and wasall bordered with box; here was a pleasant homely scent, on hot days, of the good herbs that shed their rich smell in the sun; and here theflies, that sate in the leaves, would buzz at the sound of a footfall, and then be still again, cleaning their hands together in their busymanner. 

The only other member of the quiet household was the boy Paul, whowas distantly akin to Mistress Alison. He had neither father normother, and had lived at Heritage all of his life that he couldremember; he was a slender, serious boy, with delicate features, andlarge grey eyes that looked as if they held a secret; but if they had, it was a secret of his forefathers; for the boy had led a most quietand innocent life; he had been taught to read in a fashion, but he hadno schooling; sometimes a neighbouring goodwife would say to MistressAlison that the boy should be sent to school, and Mistress Alisonwould open her peaceful eyes and say, "Nay, Paul is not like otherboys--he would get all the hurt and none of the good of school; whenthere is work for him he will do it--but I am not for making all toilalike. Paul shall grow up like the lilies of the field. God made notall things to be busy. " And the goodwife would shake her head andwonder; for it was not easy to answer Mistress Alison, who indeed wasoften right in the end. 

So Paul grew up as he would; sometimes he would help the oldgardener, when there was work to be done; for he loved to serveothers, and was content with toil if it was sweetened with love; butoften he rambled by himself for hours together; he cared little forcompany, because the earth was to him full of wonder and of sweetsights and sounds. He loved to climb the down, and lie feasting hiseyes on the rich plain, spread out like a map; the farms in theircloses, the villages from which went up the smoke at evening, thedistant blue hills, like the hills of heaven, the winding river, andthe lake that lay in the winter twilight like a shield of silver. Heloved to see the sun flash on the windows of the houses so distantthat they could not themselves be seen, but only sparkled like stars. He loved to loiter on the edge of the steep hanging woods in summer, to listen to the humming of the flies deep in the brake, and to catcha sight of lonely flowers; he loved the scent of the wind blowingsoftly out of the copse, and he wondered what the trees said to eachother, when they stood still and happy in the heat of midday. Heloved, too, the silent night, full of stars, when the wood that toppedthe hill lay black against the sky. The whole world seemed to him tobe full of a mysterious and beautiful life of which he could neverquite catch the secret; these innocent flowers, these dreaming treesseemed, as it were, to hold him smiling at arm's length, while theyguarded their joy from him. The birds and the beasts seemed to him tohave less of this quiet joy, for they were fearful and careful, working hard to find a living, and dreading the sight of man; butsometimes in the fragrant eventide the nightingale would say a littleof what was in her heart. "Yes, " Paul would say to himself, "it islike that. "

One other chief delight the boy had; he knew the magic of sound, which spoke to his heart in a way that it speaks to but few; thesounds of the earth gave up their sweets to him; the musical flutingof owls, the liquid notes of the cuckoo, the thin pipe of dancingflies, the mournful creaking of the cider-press, the horn of theoxherd wound far off on the hill, the tinkling of sheep-bells--of allthese he knew the notes; and not only these, but the rhythmical swingof the scythes sweeping through the grass, the flails heard throughthe hot air from the barn, the clinking of the anvil in the villageforge, the bubble of the stream through the weir--all these had a taleto tell him. Sometimes, for days together, he would hum to himself afew notes that pleased him by their sweet cadence, and he would stringtogether some simple words to them, and sing them to himself withgentle content. The song of the reapers on the upland, or the rudechanting in the little church had a magical charm for him; andMistress Alison would hear the boy, in his room overhead, singingsoftly to himself for very gladness of heart, like a little bird ofthe dawn, or tapping out some tripping beat of time; when she wouldwonder and speak to God of what was in her heart. 

As Paul grew older--he was now about sixteen--a change came slowlyover his mind; he began to have moods of a silent discontent, alonging for something far away, a desire of he knew not what. His olddreams began to fade, though they visited him from time to time; buthe began to care less for the silent beautiful life of the earth, andto take more thought of men. He had never felt much about himselfbefore; but one day, lying beside a woodland pool at the feet of thedown, he caught a sight of his own face; and when he smiled at it, itseemed to smile back at him; he began to wonder what the world waslike, and what all the busy people that lived therein said andthought; he began to wish to have a friend, that he might tell himwhat was in his heart--and yet he knew not what it was that he wouldsay. He began, too, to wonder how people regarded him--the people whohad before been but to him a distant part of the shows of the world. Once he came in upon Mistress Alison, who sate talking with a gossipof hers; when he entered, there was a sudden silence, and a glancepassed between the two; and Paul divined that they had been speakingof himself, and desired to know what they had said. 

One day the old gardener, in a more talkative mood than was his wont, told him a tale of one who had visited the Wishing Well that lay a fewmiles away, and, praying for riches, had found the next day, indigging, an old urn of pottery, full of ancient coins. Paul was veryurgent to know about the well, and the old man told him that it mustbe visited at noonday and alone. That he that would have his wish mustthrow a gift into the water, and drink of the well, and then, turningto the sun, must wish his wish aloud. Paul asked him many morequestions, but the old man would say no more. So Paul determined thathe would visit the place for himself. 

The next day he set off. He took with him one of his few possessions, a little silver coin that a parson hard by had given him. He went hisway quickly among the pleasant fields, making towards the great bulkof Blackdown beacon, where the hills swelled up into a steep bluff, with a white road, cut in the chalk, winding steeply up their greensmooth sides. It was a fresh morning with a few white clouds racingmerrily overhead, the shadows of which fell every now and then uponthe down and ran swiftly over it, like a flood of shade leaping downthe sides. There were few people to be seen anywhere; the fields werefull of grass, with large daisies and high red sorrel. By midday hewas beneath the front of Blackdown, and here he asked at a cottage ofa good-natured woman, that was bustling in and out, the way to thewell. She answered him very kindly and described the path--it was notmany yards away--and then asked where he came from, saying briskly, "And what would you wish for? I should have thought you had all youcould desire. " "Why, I hardly know, " said Paul, smiling. "It seemsthat I desire a thousand things, and can scarcely give a name to one. ""That is ever the way, " said the woman, "but the day will come whenyou will be content with one. " Paul did not understand what she meant, but thanked her and went on his way; and wondered that she stood solong looking after him. 

At last he came to the spring. It was a pool in a field, ringed roundby alders. Paul thought he had never seen a fairer place. There grew anumber of great kingcups round the brim, with their flowers likeglistening gold, and with cool thick stalks and fresh leaves. Insidethe ring of flowers the pool looked strangely deep and black; butlooking into it you could see the sand leaping at the bottom in threeor four cones; and to the left the water bubbled away in a channelcovered with water-plants. Paul could see that there was an abundanceof little things at the bottom, half covered with sand--coins, flowers, even little jars--which he knew to be the gifts of wishers. So he flung his own coin in the pool, and saw it slide hither andthither, glancing in the light, till it settled at the dark bottom. Then he dipped and drank, turned to the sun, and closing his eyes, said out loud, "Give me what I desire. " And this he repeated threetimes, to be sure that he was heard. Then he opened his eyes again, and for a moment the place looked different, with a strange greylight. But there was no answer to his prayer in heaven or earth, andthe very sky seemed to wear a quiet smile. 

Paul waited a little, half expecting some answer; but presently heturned his back upon the pool and walked slowly away; the down lay onone side of him, looking solemn and dark over the trees which grewvery plentifully; Paul thought that he would like to walk upon thedown; so he went up a little leafy lane that seemed to lead to it. Suddenly, as he passed a small thicket, a voice hailed him; it was arich and cheerful voice, and it came from under the trees. He turnedin the direction of the voice, which seemed to be but a few yards off, and saw, sitting on a green bank under the shade, two figures. One wasa man of middle age, dressed lightly as though for travelling, andPaul thought somewhat fantastically. His hat had a flower stuck in theband. But Paul thought little of the dress, because the face of theman attracted him; he was sunburnt and strong-looking, and Paul atfirst thought he must be a soldier; he had a short beard, and his hairwas grown rather long; his face was deeply lined, but there wassomething wonderfully good-natured, friendly, and kind about his wholeexpression. He was smiling, and his smile showed small white teeth;and Paul felt in a moment that he could trust him, and that the manwas friendly disposed to himself and all the world; friendly, not in aservile way, as one who wished to please, but in a sort of prodigal, royal way, as one who had great gifts to bestow, and was liberal ofthem, and looked to be made welcome. The other figure was that of aboy rather older than himself, with a merry ugly face, who in lookingat Paul, seemed yet to keep a sidelong and deferential glance at theolder man, as though admiring him, and desiring to do as he did in allthings. 

"Where go you, pretty boy, alone in the noon-tide?" said the man. 

Paul stopped and listened, and for a moment could not answer. Then hesaid, "I am going to the down, sir, and I have been"--he hesitated fora moment--"I have been to the Wishing Well. "

"The Wishing Well?" said the man gravely. "I did not know there wasone hereabouts. I thought that every one in this happy valley had beentoo well content--and what did you wish for, if I may ask?"

Paul was silent and grew red; and then he said, "Oh, just for myheart's desire. "

"That is either a very cautious or a very beautiful answer, " said theman, "and it gives me a lesson in manners; but will you not sit alittle with us in the shade?--and you shall hear a concert of musicsuch as I dare say you shall hardly hear out of France or Italy. Doyou practise music, child, the divine gift?"

"I love it a little, " said Paul, "but I have no skill. "

"Yet you look to me like one who might have skill, " said the man; "youhave the air of it--you look as though you listened, and as though youdreamed pleasant dreams. But, Jack, " he said, turning to his boy, "what shall we give our friend?--shall he have the 'Song of the Rose'first?"

The boy at this word drew a little metal pipe out of his doublet, andput it to his lips; and the man reached out his hand and took up asmall lute which lay on the bank beside him. He held up a warningfinger to the boy. "Remember, " he said, "that you come in at the fifthchord, together with the voice--not before. " He struck four simplechords on the lute, very gently, and with a sort of daintypreciseness; and then at the same moment the little pipe and his ownvoice began; the pipe played a simple descant in quicker time, withtwo notes to each note of the song, and the man in a brisk and simpleway, as it were at the edge of his lips, sang a very sweet littlecountry song, in a quiet homely measure. 

There seemed to Paul to be nothing short of magic about it. There wasa beautiful restraint about the voice, which gave him a sense both ofpower and feeling held back; but it brought before him a suddenpicture of a garden, and the sweet life of the flowers and littletrees, taking what came, sunshine and rain, and just living andsmiling, breathing fragrant breath from morning to night, and sleepinga light sleep till they should waken to another tranquil day. Helistened as if spellbound. There were but three verses, and though hecould not remember the words, it seemed as though the rose spoke andtold her dreams. 

He could have listened for ever; but the voice made a sudden stop, not prolonging the last note, but keeping very closely to the time;the pipe played a little run, like an echo of the song, the man strucka brisk chord on the lute--and all was over. "Bravely played, Jack!"said the singer; "no musician could have played it better. Youremembered what I told you, to keep each note separate, and have nogliding. This song must trip from beginning to end, like a brisk birdthat hops on the grass. " Then he turned to Paul and, with a smile, said, "Reverend sir, how does my song please you?"

"I never heard anything more beautiful, " said Paul simply. "I cannotsay it, but it was like a door opened;" and he looked at the minstrelwith intent eyes;--"may I hear it again?" "Boy, " said the singergravely, "I had rather have such a look as you gave me during the songthan a golden crown. You will not understand what I say, but you paidme the homage of the pure heart, the best reward that the minstreldesires. "

Then he conferred with the other boy in a low tone, and struck a verysad yet strong chord upon his lute; and then, with a grave face, hesang what to Paul seemed like a dirge for a dead hero who had donewith mortal things, and whose death seemed more a triumph than asorrow. When he had sung the first verse, the pipe came softly andsadly in, like the voice of grief that could not be controlled, theweeping of those on whom lay the shadow of loss. To Paul, in a dimway--for he was but a child--the song seemed the voice of the world, lamenting its noblest, yet triumphing in their greatness, and desirousto follow in their steps. It brought before him all the naturalsorrows of death, the call to quit the sweet and pleasant things ofthe world--a call that could not be denied, and that was in itselfindeed stronger and even sweeter than the delights which it bade itslisteners leave. And Paul seemed to walk in some stately procession ofmen far off and ancient, who followed a great king to the grave, andwhose hearts were too full of wonder to think yet what they had lost. It was an uplifting sadness; and when the sterner strain came to anend, Paul said very quietly, putting into words the thoughts of hisfull heart, "I did not think that death could be so beautiful. " Andthe minstrel smiled, but Paul saw that his eyes were full of tears. 

Then all at once the minstrel struck the lute swiftly and largely, andsang a song of those that march to victory, not elated nor excited, but strong to dare and to do; and Paul felt his heart beat within him, and he longed to be of the company. After he had sung this to an end, there was a silence, and the minstrel said to Paul, yet as though halfspeaking to himself, "There, my son, I have given you a specimen of myart; and I think from your look that you might be of the number ofthose that make these rich jewels that men call songs; and should youtry to do so, be mindful of these two things: let them be perfectfirst. You will make many that are not perfect. In some the soul willbe wanting; in others the body, in a manner of speaking, will beamiss; for they are living things, these songs, and he that makes themis a kind of god. Well, if you cannot mend one, throw it aside andthink no more of it. Do not save it because it has some gracioustouch, for in this are the masters of the craft different from themere makers of songs. The master will have nothing but what is perfectwithin and without, while the lesser craftsman will save a poor songfor the sake of a fine line or phrase. 

"And next, you must do it for the love of your art, and not for thepraise it wins you. That is a poisoned wine, of which if you drink, you will never know the pure and high tranquillity of spirit thatbefits a master. The master may be discouraged and troubled oft, buthe must have in his soul a blessed peace, and know the worth andbeauty of what he does; for there is nothing nobler than to makebeautiful things, and to enlighten the generous heart. Fighting is afair trade, and though it is noble in much, yet its end is to destroy;but the master of song mars nought, but makes joy;--and that is theend of my sermon for the time. And now, " he added briskly, "I must begoing, for I have far to fare; but I shall pass by this way again, andshall inquire of your welfare; tell me your name and where you live. "So Paul told him, and then added timidly enough that he would fainknow how to begin to practise his art. "Silence!" said the minstrel, rather fiercely; "that is an evil and timorous thought. If you areworthy, you will find the way. " And so in the hot afternoon he saidfarewell, and walked lightly off. And Paul stood in wonder and hope, and saw the two figures leave the flat, take to the down, and wind upthe steep road, ever growing smaller, till they topped the ridge, where they seemed to stand a moment larger than human; and presentlythey were lost from view. 

So Paul made his way home; and when he pushed the gate of Heritageopen, he wondered to think that he could recollect nothing of the roadhe had traversed. He went up to the house and entered the hall. Theresate Mistress Alison, reading in a little book. She closed it as hecame in, and looked at him with a smile. Paul went up to her and said, "Mother" (so he was used to call her), "I have heard songs to-day suchas I never dreamt of, and I pray you to let me learn the art of makingmusic; I must be a minstrel. " "'Must' is a grave word, dear heart, "said Mistress Alison, looking somewhat serious; "but let me hear yourstory first. " So Paul told of his meeting with the minstrel. MistressAlison sate musing a long time, smiling when she met Paul's eye, tillhe said at last, "Will you not speak, mother?" "I know, " she said atlast, "whom you have met, dear child--that is Mark, the greatminstrel. He travels about the land, for he is a restless man, thoughthe king himself would have him dwell in his court, and make music forhim. Yet I have looked for this day, though it has come when I did notexpect it. And now I must tell you a story, Paul, in my turn. Manyyears ago there was a boy like you, and he loved music too and themaking of songs, and he grew to great skill therein. But it was atlast his ruin, for he got to love riotous company and feasting toowell; and so his skill forsook him, as it does those that live notcleanly and nobly. And he married a young wife, having won her by hissongs, and a child was born to them. But the minstrel fell sick andpresently died, and his last prayer was that his son might not knowthe temptation of song. And his wife lingered a little, but she soonpined away, for her heart was broken within her; and she too died. Andnow, Paul, listen, for the truth must be told--you are that child, theson of sorrow and tears. And here you have lived with me all yourlife; but because the tale was a sad one, I have forborne to tell ityou. I have waited and wondered to see whether the gift of the fatheris given to the son; and sometimes I have thought it might be yours, and sometimes I have doubted. And now, child, we will talk of this nomore to-day, for it is ill to decide in haste. Think well over what Ihave said, and see if it makes a difference in your wishes. I havetold you all the tale. "

Now the story that Mistress Alison had told him dwelt very much inPaul's mind that night; but it seemed to him strange and far off, andhe did not doubt what the end should be. It was as though the sight ofthe minstrel, his songs and words, had opened a window in his mind, and that he saw out of it a strange and enchanted country, of woodsand streams, with a light of evening over it, bounded by far-offhills, all blue and faint, among which some beautiful thing was hiddenfor him to find; it seemed to call him softly to come; the treessmiled upon him, the voice of the streams bade him make haste--it allwaited for him, like a country waiting for its lord to come and takepossession. 

Then it seemed to him that his soul slipped like a bird from thewindow, and rising in the air over that magical land, beat its wingssoftly in the pale heaven; and then like a dove that knows, by someinborn mysterious art, which way its path lies, his spirit paused uponthe breeze, and then sailed out across the tree-tops. Whither? Paulknew not. And so at last he slipped into a quiet sleep. 

He woke in the morning all of a sudden, with a kind of tranquil joyand purpose; and when he was dressed, and gone into the hall, he foundMistress Alison sitting in her chair beside the table laid for theirmeal. She was silent and looked troubled, and Paul went up softly toher, and kissed her and said, "I have chosen. " She did not need to askhim what he had chosen, but put her arm about him and said, "Then, dear Paul, be content--and we will have one more day together, thelast of the old days; and to-morrow shall the new life begin. "

So the two passed a long and quiet day together. For to the wise andloving-hearted woman this was the last of sweet days, and her soulwent out to the past with a great hunger of love; but she stilled itas was her wont, saying to herself that this dear passage of life hadhitherto only been like the clear trickling of a woodland spring, while the love of the Father's heart was as it were a great river oflove marching softly to a wide sea, on which river the very worlditself floated like a flower-bloom between widening banks. 

And indeed if any had watched them that day, it would have seemedthat she was the serener; for the thought of the life that lay beforehim worked like wine in the heart of Paul, and he could only by aneffort bring himself back to loving looks and offices of tenderness. They spent the whole day together, for the most part in a peacefulsilence; and at last the sun went down, and a cool breeze came up outof the west, laden with scent from miles and miles of grass andflowers, which seemed to bear with it the fragrant breath of myriadsof sweet living things. 

Then they ate together what was the last meal they were to take thusalone. And at last Mistress Alison would have Paul go to rest. And soshe took his hand in hers, and said, "Dear child, the good years areover now; but you will not forget them; only lean upon the Father, forHe is very strong; and remember that though the voice of melody issweet, yet the loving heart is deeper yet. " And then Paul suddenlybroke out into a passion of weeping, and kissed his old friend on handand cheek and lips; and then he burst away, ashamed, if the truth betold, that his love was not deeper than he found it to be. 

He slept a light sleep that night, his head pillowed on his hand, with many strange dreams ranging through his head. Among otherfancies, some sweet, some dark, he heard a delicate passage of melodyplayed, it seemed to him, by three silver-sounding flutes, so delicatethat he could hardly contain himself for gladness; but among hissadder dreams was one of a little man habited like a minstrel whoplayed an ugly enchanted kind of melody on a stringed lute, and smileda treacherous smile at him; Paul woke in a sort of fever of thespirit; and rising from his bed, felt the floor cool to his feet, anddrew his curtain aside; in a tender radiance of dawn he saw the barn, deep in shadow, in the little garden; and over them a little wood-endthat he knew well by day--a simple place enough--but now it had a sortof magical dreaming air; the mist lay softly about it like the breathof sleep; and the trees, stretching wistfully their leafy arms, seemedto him to be full of silent prayer, or to be hiding within them somedivine secret that might not be shown to mortal eyes. He looked longat this; and presently went back to his bed, and shivered in adelicious warmth, while outside, very gradually, came the peacefulstir of morning. A bird or two fluted drowsily in the bushes; thenanother further away would join his slender song; a cock crew cheerilyin a distant grange, and soon it was broad day. Presently the housebegan to be softly astir; and the faint fragrance of an early kindledfire of wood stole into the room. Then, worn out by his long vigil, hefell asleep again; and soon waking, knew it to be later than was hiswont, and dressed with haste. He came down, and heard voices in thehall; he went in, and there saw Mistress Alison in her chair; and onthe hearth, talking gaily and cheerily, stood Mark the minstrel. Theymade a pause when he came in. Mark extended his hand, which Paul tookwith a kind of reverence. Then Mistress Alison, with her sweet oldsmile, said to Paul, "So you made a pilgrimage to the Well of theHeart's Desire, dear Paul? Well, you have your wish, and very soon;for here is a master for you, if you will serve him. " "Not a lightservice, Paul, " said Mark gravely, "but a true one. I can take youwith me when you may go, for my boy Jack is fallen sick with a strokeof the sun, and must bide at home awhile. " They looked at Paul, to seewhat he would say. "Oh, I will go gladly, " he said, "if I may. " Andthen he felt he had not spoken lovingly; so he kissed Mistress Alison, who smiled, but somewhat sadly, and said, "Yes, Paul--I understand. "

So when the meal was over, Paul's small baggage was made ready, and hekissed Mistress Alison--and then she said to Mark with a sudden look, "You will take care of him?" "Oh, he shall be safe with me, " saidMark, "and if he be apt and faithful, he shall learn his trade, as fewcan learn it. " And then Paul said his good-bye, and walked away withMark; and his heart was so full of gladness that he stepped outlightly and blithely, and hardly looked back. But at the turn of theroad he stopped, while Mark seemed to consider him gravely. The threethat were to abide, Mistress Alison, and the maid, and the oldgardener, stood at the door and waved their hands; the old houseseemed to look fondly out of its windows at him, as though it had aheart; and the very trees seemed to wave him a soft farewell. Paulwaved his hand too, and a tear came into his eyes; but he was eager tobe gone; and indeed, in his heart, he felt almost jealous of even thegentle grasp of his home upon his heart. And so Mark and Paul set outfor the south. 

 II

Of the life that Paul lived with Mark I must not here tell; butbefore he grew to full manhood he had learned his art well. Mark was astrict master, but not impatient. The only thing that angered him wascarelessness or listlessness; and Paul was an apt and untiring pupil, and learnt so easily and deftly that Mark was often astonished. "Howdid you learn that?" he said one day suddenly to Paul when the boy waspractising on the lute, and played a strange soft cadence, of a kindthat Mark had never heard. The boy was startled by the question, forhe had not thought that Mark was listening to him. He looked up with ablush and turned his eyes on Mark. "Is it not right?" he said. "I didnot learn it; it comes from somewhere in my mind. "

Paul learnt to play several instruments, both wind and string. Sometimes he loved one sort the best, sometimes the other. The windinstruments of wood had to him a kind of soft magic, like the voice ofa gentle spirit, a spirit that dwelt in lonely unvisited places, andcommuned more with things of earth than the hearts of men. In theflutes and bassoons seemed to him to dwell the voices of airs thatmurmured in the thickets, the soft gliding of streams, the crooning ofserene birds, the peace of noonday, the welling of clear springs, thebeauty of little waves, the bright thoughts of stars. Sometimes incertain modes, they could be sad, but it was the sadness of lonelyhomeless things, old dreaming spirits of wind and wave, not thesadness of such things as had known love and lost what they had loved, but the melancholy of such forlorn beings as by their nature were shutout from the love that dwells about the firelit hearth and the oldroofs of homesteads. It was the sadness of the wind that wails indesolate places, knowing that it is lonely, but not knowing what itdesires; or the soft sighing of trees that murmur all together in aforest, dreaming each its own dream, but with no thought ofcomradeship or desire. 

The metal instruments, out of which the cunning breath could drawbright music, seemed to him soulless too in a sort, but shrill andenlivening. These clarions and trumpets spoke to him of brisk morningwinds, or the cold sharp plunge of green waves that leap in triumphupon rocks. To such sounds he fancied warriors marching out atmorning, with the joy of fight in their hearts, meaning to deal greatblows, to slay and be slain, and hardly thinking of what would comeafter, so sharp and swift an eagerness of spirit held them; but theseinstruments he loved less. 

Best of all he loved the resounding strings that could be twanged bythe quill, or swept into a heavenly melody by the finger-tips, orthrob beneath the strongly drawn bow. In all of these lay the secretsof the heart; in these Paul heard speak the bright dreams of thechild, the vague hopes of growing boy or girl, the passionate desiresof love, the silent loyalty of equal friendship, the dreariness of thedejected spirit, whose hopes have set like the sun smouldering to hisfall, the rebellious grief of the heart that loses what it loves, thedarkening fears that begin to roll about the ageing mind, like cloudsthat weep on mountain tops, and the despair of sinners, finding theevil too strong. 

Best of all it was when all these instruments could conspire togetherto weave a sudden dream of beauty that seemed to guard a secret. Whatwas the secret? It seemed so near to Paul sometimes, as if he werelike a man very near the edge of some mountain from which he may peepinto an unknown valley. Sometimes it was far away. But it was there, he doubted not, though it hid itself. It was like a dance of fairiesin a forest glade, which a man could half discern through thescreening leaves; but, when he gains the place, he sees nothing buttall flowers with drooping bells, bushes set with buds, large-leavedherbs, all with a silent, secret, smiling air, as though they said, "We have seen, we could tell. "

Paul seemed very near this baffling secret at times; in the dewysilence of mornings, just before the sun comes up, when familiar woodsand trees stand in a sort of musing happiness; at night when the skyis thickly sown with stars, or when the moon rises in a soft hush andsilvers the sleeping pool; or when the sun goes down in a rich pomp, trailing a great glow of splendour with him among cloudy islands, allflushed with fiery red. When the sun withdrew himself thus, flying andflaring to the west, behind the boughs of leafless trees, what was thehidden secret presence that stood there as it were finger on lip, inviting yet denying? Paul knew within himself that if he could butsay or sing this, the world would never forget. But he could not yet. 

Then, too, Paul learned the magic of words, the melodious accent ofletters, sometimes so sweet, sometimes so harsh; then the growingphrase, the word that beckons as it were other words to join ittrippingly; the thought that draws the blood to the brain, and setsthe heart beating swiftly--he learned the words that sound likefar-off bells, or that wake a gentle echo in the spirit, the wordsthat burn into the heart, and make the hearer ashamed of all that ishard and low. But he learned, too, that the craftsman in words mustnot build up his song word by word, as a man fetches bricks to make awall; but that he must see the whole thought clear first, in a kind ofdivine flash, so that when he turns for words to write it, he findsthem piled to his hand. 

All these things Paul learnt, and day by day he suffered all the sweetsurprises and joys of art. There were days that were not so, when thestrings jangled aimlessly, and seemed to have no soul in them; dayswhen it appeared that the cloud could not lift, as though light andmusic together were dead in the world--but these days were few; andPaul growing active and strong, caring little what he ate and drank, tasting no wine, because it fevered him at first, and then left himill at ease, knowing no evil or luxurious thoughts, sleeping lightlyand hardly, found his spirits very pure and plentiful; or if he wassad, it was a clear sadness that had something beautiful within it, and dwelt not on any past grossness of his own, but upon the thoughtthat all beautiful things can but live for a time, and must then belaid away in the darkness and in the cold. 

So Paul grew up knowing neither friendship nor love, only stirred atthe sight of a beautiful face, a shapely hand, or a slender form; by agrateful wonder for what was so fair; untainted by any desire tomaster it, or make it his own; living only for his art, and with asort of blind devotion to Mark, whom he soon excelled, though he knewit not. Mark once said to him, when Paul had made a song of some oldforgotten sorrow, "How do you know all this, boy? You have notsuffered, you have not lived!" "Oh, " said Paul gaily, knowing it to bepraise, "my heart tells me it is so. "

Paul, too, as he grew to manhood, found himself with a voice that wasnot loud, but true--a voice that thrilled those who heard it throughand through; but it seemed strange that he felt not what he made othermen feel; rather his music was like a still pool that can reflect allthat is above it, the sombre tree, the birds that fly over, the starrysilence of the night, the angry redness of the dawn. 

It was on one of his journeys with Mark that the news of MistressAlison's death reached him. Mark told him very carefully and tenderly, and while he repeated the three or four broken words in which MistressAlison had tried to send a last message to Paul--for the end had comevery suddenly--Mark himself found his voice falter, and his eyes fillwith tears. Paul had, at that sight, cried a little; but his life atthe House of Heritage seemed to have faded swiftly out of histhoughts; he was living very intently in the present, scaling, as itwere, day by day, with earnest effort, the steep ladder of song. Hethought a little upon Mistress Alison, and on all her love andgoodness: but it was with a tranquil sorrow, and not with the griefand pain of loss. Mark was very gentle with him for awhile; and thisindeed did shame Paul a little, to find himself being used so lovinglyfor a sorrow which he was hardly feeling. But he said to himself thatsorrow must come unbidden, and that it was no sorrow that was madewith labour and intention. He was a little angered with himself forhis dullness--but then song was so beautiful, that he could think ofnothing else; he was dazzled. 

A little while after, Mark asked him whether, as they were near athand, he would turn aside to see Mistress Alison's grave. And Paulsaid, "No; I would rather feel it were all as it used to be!"--andthen seeing that Mark looked surprised and almost grieved, Paul, withthe gentle hypocrisy of childhood, said, "I cannot bear it yet, " whichmade Mark silent, and he said no more, but used Paul more gently thanever. 

One day Mark said to him, very gravely, as if he had long beenpondering the matter, "It is time for me to take another pupil, Paul. I have taught you all I know; indeed you have learned far more than Ican teach. " Then he told him that he had arranged all things meetly. That there was a certain Duke who lacked a minstrel, and that Paulshould go and abide with him. That he should have his room at thecastle, and should be held in great honour, making music only when hewould. And then Mark would have added some words of love, for he lovedPaul as a son. But Paul seemed to have no hunger in his heart, nothought of the days they had spent together; so Mark said them not. But he added very gently, "And one thing, Paul, I must tell you. Youwill be a great master--indeed you are so already--and I can tell younothing about the art that you do not know. But one thing I will tellyou--that you have a human heart within you that is not yet awake: andwhen it awakes, it will be very strong; so that a great combat, Ithink, lies before you. See that it overcome you not!" And Paul saidwondering, "Oh, I have a heart, but it is altogether given to song. "And so Mark was silent. 

Then Paul went to the Duke's Castle of Wresting and abode with himyear after year. Here, too, he made no friend; he was gracious withall, and of a lofty courtesy, so that he was had in reverence; and hemade such music that the tears would come into the eyes of those whoheard him, and they would look at each other, and wonder how Paulcould thus tell the secret hopes of the heart. There were many womenin the castle, great ladies, young maidens, and those that attended onthem. Some of these would have proffered love to Paul, but theirglances fell before a certain cold, virginal, almost affronted look, that he turned to meet any smile or gesture that seemed to hold in itany personal claim, or to offer any gift but that of an equal andserene friendship. As a maiden of the castle once said, provoked byhis coldness, "Sir Paul seems to have everything to say to all of us, but nothing to any one of us. " He was kind to all with a sort of greatand distant courtesy that was too secure even to condescend. And sothe years passed away. 

 III

It was nearly noon at the Castle of Wresting, and the whole housewas deserted, for the Duke had ridden out at daybreak to the hunt; andall that could find a horse to ride had gone with him; and, for it wasnot far afield, all else that could walk had gone afoot. So bright andcheerful a day was it that the Duchess had sent out her pavilion to bepitched in a lawn in the wood, and the Duke with his friends were todine there; none were left in the castle save a few of the elderserving-maids, and the old porter, who was lame. About midday, however, it seemed that one had been left; for Paul, now a tall man, strongly built and comely, yet with a somewhat dreamful air, as thoughhe pondered difficult things within himself, and a troubled brow, under which looked out large and gentle eyes, came with a quick stepdown a stairway. He turned neither to right nor left, but passedthrough the porter's lodge. Here the road from the town came up intothe castle on the left, cut steeply in the hill, and you could see thered roofs laid out like a map beneath, with the church and the bridge;to the right ran a little terrace under the wall. Paul came throughthe lodge, nodding gravely to the porter, who returned his salute witha kind of reverence; then he walked on to the terrace, and stood for amoment leaning against the low wall that bounded it; below him lay formiles the great wood of Wresting, now all ablaze with the brave goldof autumn leaves; here was a great tract of beeches all rusty red;there was the pale gold of elms. The forest lay in the plain, here andthere broken by clearings or open glades; in one or two places couldbe seen the roofs of villages, with the tower of a church risinggravely among trees. On the horizon ran a blue line of downs, pure andfine above the fretted gold of the forest. The air was very still, with a fresh sparkle in it, and the sun shone bright in a cloudlessheaven; it was a day when the heaviest heart grows light, and when itseems the bravest thing that can be designed to be alive. 

Once or twice, as Paul leaned to look, there came from the wood, veryfar away, the faint notes of a horn; he smiled to hear it, and itseemed as though some merry thought came into his head, for he beatcheerfully with his fingers on the parapet. Presently he seemed tobethink himself, and then walked briskly to the end of the terrace, where was a little door in the wall; he pushed this open, and foundhimself at the head of a flight of stone steps, with low walls oneither hand, that ran turning and twisting according to the slope ofthe hill, down into the wood. 

Paul went lightly down the steps; once or twice he turned and lookedup at the grey walls and towers of the castle, rising from the steepgreen turf at their foot, above the great leafless trees--for thetrees on the slope lost their leaves first in the wind. The sightpleased him, for he smiled again. Then he stood for a moment, lowerdown, to watch the great limbs and roots of a huge beech that seemedto cling to the slope for fear of slipping downwards. He camepresently to a little tower at the bottom that guarded the steps. Thedoor was locked; he knocked, and there came out an old woman with amerry wrinkled face, who opened it for him with a key, saying, "Do yougo to the hunt, Sir Paul?" "Nay, " he said, smiling, "only to walk alittle alone in the wood. " "To make music, perhaps?" said the oldwoman shyly. "Perhaps, " said Paul, smiling, "if the music come--but itwill not always come for the wishing. "

As Paul walked in the deep places of the wood, little by little hisfresh holiday mood died away, and there crept upon him a shadow ofthought that had of late been no stranger to him. He asked himself, with some bitterness, what his life was tending to. There was no lossof skill in his art; indeed it was easier to him than ever; he had arich and prodigal store of music in him, music both of word and sound, that came at his call. But the zest was leaving him. He had attainedto his utmost desire, and in his art there was nothing more toconquer. But as he looked round about him and saw all the beautifulchains of love multiplying themselves about those among whom he lived, he began to wonder whether he was not after all missing life itself. He saw children born, he saw them growing up; then they, too, foundtheir own path of love, they married, or were given in marriage;presently they had children of their own; and even death itself, thatcarried well-loved souls into the dark world, seemed to forge newchains of faith and loyalty. All this he could say and did say in hismusic. He knew it, he divined it by some magical instinct; he couldput into words and sounds the secrets that others could not utter--andthere his art stopped. It could not bring him within the charmedcircle--nay, it seemed to him that it was even like a fence that kepthim outside. He looked forward to a time when his art of itself mustfade, when other minstrels should arise with new secrets of power; andwhat would become of him then?

He had by this time walked very far into the wood, and as he came downthrough a little rise, covered with leafy thickets, he saw before hima green track, that wound away among the trees. He followed itlistlessly. The track led him through a beech wood; the smooth andshapely stems, that stood free of undergrowth, thickly roofed over byfirm and glossy autumn foliage, with the rusty fallen floor of lastyear's leaves underfoot, brought back to him his delight in the sweetand fresh world--so beautiful, whatever the restless human heartdesired in its presence. 

He became presently aware that he was approaching some dwelling, heknew not what; and then the trees grew thinner; and in a minute he wasout in a little forest clearing, where stood, in a small and seemlygarden, enclosed with hedges and low walls and a moat, a forest lodge, a long low ancient building, ending in a stone tower. 

The place had a singular charm. The ancient battlemented house, overgrown with ivy, the walls green and grey with lichens, seemed tohave sprung as naturally out of the soil as the trees among which itstood, and to have become one with the place. He lingered for a momenton the edge of the moat, looking at a little tower that rose out ofthe pool, mirrored softly in the open spaces of the water, among thelily-leaves. The whole place seemed to have a wonderful peace aboutit; there was no sound but the whisper of leaves, and the dovescrooning, in their high branching fastnesses, a song of peace. 

As Paul stood thus and looked upon the garden, a door opened, andthere came out a lady, not old, but well advanced in years, with ashrewd and kindly face; and then Paul felt a sort of shame within him, for standing and spying at what was not his own; and he would havehurried away, but the lady waved her hand to him with a courtly air, as though inviting him to approach. So he came forward, and crossingthe moat by a little bridge that was hard by, he met her at the gate. He doffed his hat, and said a few words asking pardon for thusintruding on a private place, but she gave him a swift smile and said, "Sir Paul, no more of this--you are known to me, though you know menot. I have been at the Duke's as a guest; I have heard yousing--indeed, " she added smiling, "I have been honoured by having beenmade known to the prince of musical men--but he hath forgotten my poorself; I am the Lady Beckwith, who welcomes you to her poor house--theIsle of Thorns, as they call it--and will deem it an honour that youshould set foot therein; though I think that you came not for mysake. "

"Alas, madam, no, " said Paul, smiling too. "I did but walk solitary inthe forest; I am lacking in courtesy, I fear; I knew not that therewas a house here, but it pleased me to see it lie like a jewel in thewood. "

"You knew not it was here, or you would have shunned it!" said theLady Beckwith with a smile. "Well, I live here solitary enough with mydaughters--my husband is long since dead--but to-day we must have aguest--you will enter and tarry with us a little?"

"Yes, very willingly, " said Paul, who, like many men that care notmuch for company, was tenderly courteous when there was no escape. Soafter some further passages of courtesy, they went within. 

The Lady Beckwith led him into a fair tapestried room, and bade him beseated, while she went to call upon her servants to make readyrefreshments for him. Paul seated himself in an oak chair and lookedaround him. The place was but scantily furnished, but Paul hadpleasure in looking upon the old solid furniture, which reminded himof the House of Heritage and of his far-off boyhood. He was pleased, too, with the tapestry, which represented a wood of walnut-trees, anda man that sate looking upon a stream as though he listened; and thenPaul discerned the figure of a brave bird wrought among the leaves, that seemed to sing; while he looked, he heard the faint sound in aroom above of some one moving; then a lute was touched, and then thererose a soft voice, very pure and clear, that sang a short song of longsweet notes, with a descant on the lute, ending in a high drawn-outnote, that went to Paul's heart like wine poured forth, and seemed tofill the room with a kind of delicate fragrance. 

Presently the Lady Beckwith returned; and they sate and talkedawhile, till there came suddenly into the room a maiden that seemed toPaul like a rose; she came almost eagerly forward; and Paul knew inhis mind that it was she that had sung; and there passed through hisheart a feeling he had never known before; it was as though it were astring that thrilled with a kind of delicious pain at being bidden bythe touch of a finger to utter its voice. 

"This is my daughter Margaret, " said the Lady Beckwith; "she knowsyour fame in song, but she has never had the fortune to hear you sing, and she loves song herself. "

"And does more than love it, " said Paul almost tremblingly, feelingthe eyes of the maiden set upon his face; "for I heard but now a lutetouched, and a voice that sang a melody I know not, as few that I knowcould have sung it. "

The maiden stood smiling at him, and then Paul saw that she carried alute in her hand; and she said eagerly, "Will you not sing to us, SirPaul?"

"Nay, " said the Lady Beckwith, smiling, "but this is beyond courtesy!It is to ask a prince to our house, and beg for the jewels that hewears. "

The maiden blushed rosy red, and put the lute by; but Paul stretchedout his hand for it. "I will sing most willingly, " he said. "What ismy life for, but to make music for those who would hear?"

He touched a few chords to see that the lute was well tuned; and thelute obeyed his touch like a living thing; and then Paul sang a songof springtime that made the hearts of the pair dance with joy. When hehad finished, he smiled, meeting the smiles of both; and said, "Andnow we will have a sad song--for those are ever the sweetest--joyneeds not to be made sweet. "

So he sang a sorrowful song that he had made one winter day, when hehad found the body of a little bird that had died of the frost and thehard silence of the unfriendly earth--a song of sweet things brokenand good times gone by; and before he had finished he had brought thetears to the eyes of the pair. The Lady Beckwith brushed themaside--but the girl sate watching him, her hands together, and a kindof worship in her face, with the bright tears, trembling on hercheeks. And Paul thought he had never seen a fairer thing; but wishingto dry the tears, he made a little merry song, like the song of gnatsthat dance up and down in the sun, and love their silly play--so thatthe two smiled again. 

Then they thanked him very urgently, and Margaret said, "If only dearHelen could hear this"; and the Lady Beckwith said, "Helen is my otherdaughter, and she lies abed, and may not come forth. "

Then they put food before him; and they ate together, Margaretserving him with meat and wine; and Paul would have forbidden it, butthe Lady Beckwith said, "That is the way of our house--and you are ourguest and must be content--for Margaret loves to serve you. " The girlsaid little, but as she moved about softly and deftly, with thefragrance of youth about her, Paul had a desire to draw her to him, that made him ashamed and ill at ease. So the hours sped swiftly. Themaiden talked little, but the Lady Beckwith had much matter for littlespeech; she asked Paul many questions, and told him something of herown life, and how, while the good Sir Harry, her husband, lived, shehad been much with the world, but now lived a quiet life, "Like awrinkled apple-tree behind a house, " she added with a smile, "guardingmy fruit, till it be plucked from the bough. " And she went on to saythat though she had feared, when she entered the quiet life, the dayswould hang heavy, yet there never seemed time enough for all the smallbusinesses that she was fain to do. 

When the day began to fall, and the shadows of the trees out of theforest began to draw nearer across the lawn, Paul rose and said, "Come, I will sing you a song of farewell and thanks for this day ofpleasure, " and he made them a cheerful ditty; and so took his leave, the Lady Beckwith saying that they would speak of his visit for manydays--and that she hoped that if his fancy led him again through thewood, he would come to them; "For you will find an open door, and awarm hearth, and friends who look for you. " So Paul went, and walkedthrough the low red sunset with a secret joy in his heart; and neverhad he sung so merrily as he sang that night in the hall of the Duke;so that the Duke said smiling that they must often go a-hunting, andleave Sir Paul behind, for that seemed to fill him to the brim withdivine melody. 

Now Paul that night, before he laid him down to sleep, stood awhile, and made a prayer in his heart. It must be said that as a child he hadprayed night and morning, in simple words that Mistress Alison hadtaught him, but in the years when he was with Mark the custom had diedaway; for Mark prayed not, and indeed had almost an enmity to churchesand to priests, saying that they made men bound who would otherwise befree; and he had said to Paul once that he prayed the best who livednobly and generously, and made most perfect whatever gift he had; whowas kind and courteous, and used all men the same, whether old oryoung, great or little; adding, "That is my creed, and not the creedof the priests--but I would not have you take it from me thus--a manmay not borrow the secret of another's heart, and wear it for his own. All faiths are good that make a man live cleanly and lovingly andlaboriously; and just as all men like not the same music, so all menare not suited with the same faith; we all tend to the same place, butby different ways; and each man should find the nearest way for him. "Paul, after that, had followed his own heart in the matter; and it ledhim not wholly in the way of the priests, but not against them, as itled Mark. Paul took some delight in the ordered solemnities of theChurch, the dark coolness of the arched aisles, the holy smell--hefelt there the nearer to God. And to be near to God was what Pauldesired; but he gave up praying at formal seasons, and spoke with Godin his heart, as a man might speak to his friend, whenever he wasmoved to speak; he asked His aid before the making of a song; he toldHim when he was disheartened, or when he desired what he ought not; hespoke to Him when he had done anything of which he was ashamed; and hetold Him of his dreams and of his joys. Sometimes he would speak thusfor half a day together, and feel a quiet comfort, like a strong armround him; but sometimes he would be silent for a long while. 

Now this night he spoke in his heart to God, and told Him of the sweetand beautiful hope that had come to him, and asked Him to make knownto him whether it was His will that he should put forth his hand, andgather the flower of the wood--for he could not even in his secretheart bring himself that night to speak, even to God, directly aboutthe maiden; but, in a kind of soft reverence, he used gentlesimilitudes. And then he leaned from his window, and strove to sendhis spirit out like a bird over the sleeping wood, to light upon thetower; and then his thought leapt further, and he seemed to see theglimmering maiden chamber where she slept, breathing evenly. But evenin thought this seemed to him too near, as though the vision werelacking in that awful reverence, which is the herald of love. So hethought that his spirit should sit, like a white bird, on thebattlement, and send out a quiet song. 

And then he fell asleep, and slept dreamlessly till the day came inthrough the casements; when he sprang up, and joy darted into hisheart, as when a servitor fills a cup to the brim with rosy andbubbling wine. 

Now that day, and the next, and for several days, Paul thought oflittle else but the house in the wood and the maiden that dwelt there. Even while he read or wrote, pictures would flash before his eye. Hesaw Margaret stand before him, with the lute in her hand; or he wouldsee her as she had moved about serving him, or he would see her as shehad sate to hear him sing, or as she had stood at the door as he wentforth--and all with a sweet hunger of the heart; till it seemed to himthat this was the only true thing that the world held, and he would beamazed that he had missed it for so long. That he was in the sameworld with her; that the air that passed over the house in the woodwas presently borne to the castle; that they two looked upon the samesky, and the same stars--this was all to him like a delicate madnessthat wrought within his brain. And yet he could not bring himself togo thither. The greater his longing, the more he felt unable to gowithout a cause; and yet the thought that there might be other menthat visited the Lady Beckwith, and had more of the courtly anddesirable arts of life than he, was like a bitter draught--and so thedays went on; and never had he made richer music; it seemed to rushfrom his brain like the water of a full spring. 

A few days after, there was a feast at the castle and many werebidden; and Paul thought in his heart that the Lady Beckwith wouldperhaps be there. So he made a very tender song of love to sing, thesong of a heart that loves and dares not fully speak. 

When the hour drew on for the banquet, he attired himself with a carewhich he half despised, and when the great bell of the castle rang, hewent down his turret stairs with a light step. The custom was for theguests to assemble in the great hall of the castle; but they of theDuke's household, of whom Paul was one, gathered in a little chamberoff the hall. Then, when the Duke and Duchess with their children camefrom their rooms, they passed through this chamber into the hall, thehousehold following. When the Duke entered the hall, the minstrels inthe gallery played a merry tune, and the guests stood up; then theDuke would go to his place and bow to the guests, the household movingto their places; then the music would cease, and the choir sang agrace, all standing. Paul's place was an honourable one, but he satewith his back to the hall; and this night, as soon as he entered thehall, and while the grace was sung, he searched with his eyes up anddown the great tables, but he could not see her whom he desired tosee, and the joy died out of his heart. Now though the Lords andKnights of the castle honoured Paul because he was honoured by theDuke, they had little ease with him; so to-night, when Paul took hisplace, a Knight that sate next him, a shrewd and somewhat maliciousman, who loved the talk of the Court, and turned all things into ajest, said, "How now, Sir Paul? You entered to-night full of joy; butnow you are like one that had expected to see a welcome guest and sawhim not. " Then Paul was vexed that his thoughts should be so easilyread, and said with a forced smile, "Nay, Sir Edwin, we musical menare the slaves of our moods; there would be no music else; we have notthe bold and stubborn hearts of warriors born. " And at this there wasa smile, for Sir Edwin was not held to be foremost in warlikeexercise. But having thus said, Paul never dared turn his head. Andthe banquet seemed a tedious and hateful thing to him. 

But at last it wore to an end, and healths had been drunk, and gracewas sung; and then they withdrew to the Presence Chamber, where theDuke and Duchess sate upon chairs of state under a canopy, and theguests sate down on seats and benches. And presently the Duke sentcourteous word to Paul that if he would sing they would gladly hearhim. So Paul rose in his place and made obeisance, and then moved to adaďs which was set at the end of the chamber; and a page brought himhis lute. But Paul first made a signal to the musicians who were setaloft in a gallery, and they played a low descant; and Paul sang thema war-song with all his might, his voice ringing through the room. Then, as the voice made an end, there was a short silence, such asthose who have sung or spoken from a full heart best love to hear--foreach such moment of silence is like a rich jewel of praise--and then aloud cry of applause, which was hushed in a moment because of thepresence of the Duke. 

Then Paul made a bow, and stood carelessly regarding the crowd; forfrom long use he felt no uneasiness to stand before many eyes; andjust as he fell to touching his lute, his eye fell on a group in acorner; the Lady Beckwith sate there, and beside her Margaret; behindwhom sate a young Knight, Sir Richard de Benoit by name, the fairestand goodliest of all in the castle, whom Paul loved well; and heleaned over and said some words in the maiden's ear, who looked roundshyly at him with a little smile. 

Then Paul put out all his art, as though to recover a thing that hehad nearly lost. He struck a sweet chord on the lute, and the talk alldied away and left an utter silence; and Paul, looking at but oneface, and as though he spoke but to one ear, sang his song of love. Itwas like a spell of magic; men and women turned to each other and feltthe love of their youth rise in their hearts as sweet as ever. TheDuke where he sate laid a hand upon the Duchess' hand and smiled. Theythat were old, and had lost what they loved, were moved toweeping--and the young men and maidens looked upon the ground, or atthe singer, and felt the hot blood rise in their cheeks. And Paul, exulting in his heart, felt that he swayed the souls of those thatheard him, as the wind sways a field of wheat, that bends all one waybefore it. Then again came the silence, when the voice ceased; asilence into which the last chords of the lute sank, like stonesdropped into a still water. And Paul bowed again, and stepped downfrom the daďs--and then with slow steps he moved to where the LadyBeckwith sate, and bowing to her, took the chair beside her. 

Then came a tumbler and played many agile tricks before them; andthen a company of mummers, with the heads of birds and beasts, dancedand sported. But the Lady Beckwith said, "Sir Paul, I will tell you atale. A bird of the forest alighted at our window-sill some days ago, and sang very sweetly to us--and we spread crumbs and made it a littlefeast; and it seemed to trust us, but presently it spread its wingsand flew away, and it comes not again. Tell us, what shall we do totempt the wild bird back?" And Paul, smiling in her face, said, "Oh, madam, the bird will return; but he leads, maybe, a toilsome life, gathering berries, and doing small businesses. The birds, which seemso free, live a life of labour; and they may not always follow theirhearts. But be sure that your bird knows his friends; and some day, when he has opportunity, he will alight again. To him his songs seembut a small gift, a shallow twittering that can hardly please. " "Nay, "said the Lady Beckwith, "but this was a nightingale that knew thepower of song, and could touch all hearts except his own; and thus, finding love so simple a thing to win, doubtless holds it light. ""Nay, " said Paul, "he holds it not light; it is too heavy for him; heknows it too well to trifle with it. "

Then finding that the rest were silent, they too were silent. And sothey held broken discourse; and ever the young Knight spoke inMargaret's ear, so that Paul was much distraught, but dared not seemto intervene, or to speak with the maiden, when he had held aloof solong. 

Presently the Lady Beckwith said she had a boon to ask, and that shewould drop her parables. And she said that her daughter Helen, thatwas sick, had been very envious of them, because she had not heard hissongs, but only a soft echo of them through the chamber floor. "Andperhaps, Sir Paul, " she said, "if you will not come for friendship, you will come for mercy; and sing to my poor child, who has but fewjoys, a song or twain. " Then Paul's heart danced within him, and hesaid, "I will come to-morrow. " And soon after that the Duke went outand the guests dispersed; and then Paul greeted the Lady Margaret, andsaid a few words to her; but he could not please himself in what hesaid; and that night he slept little, partly for thinking of what hemight have said: but still more for thinking that he would see her onthe morrow. 

So when the morning came, Paul went very swiftly through the forestto the Isle of Thorns. It was now turning fast to winter, and thetrees had shed their leaves. The forest was all soft and brown, andthe sky was a pearly grey sheet of high cloud; but a joy as of springwas in Paul's heart, and he smiled and sang as he went, though he fellat times into sudden silences of wonder and delight. When he arrived, the Lady Beckwith greeted him very lovingly, and presently led himinto a small chamber that seemed to be an oratory. Here was a littlealtar very seemly draped, with stools for kneeling, and a chair ortwo. Near the altar, at the side, was a little door in the wall behinda hanging; the Lady Beckwith pulled the hanging aside, and bade Paulto follow; he found himself in a small arched recess, lit by a singlewindow of coloured glass, that was screened from a larger room, ofwhich it was a part, by a curtain. The Lady Beckwith bade Paul beseated, and passed beyond the curtain for an instant. The room withinseemed dark, but there came from it a waft of the fragrance offlowers; and Paul heard low voices talking together, and knew thatMargaret spake; in a moment she appeared at the entrance, and greetedhim with a very sweet and simple smile, but laid her finger on herlips; and so slipped back into the room again, but left Paul's heartbeating strangely and fiercely. Then the Lady Beckwith returned, andsaid in a whisper to Paul that it was a day of suffering for Helen, and that she could not bear the light. So she seated herself near him, and Paul touched his lute, and sang songs, five or six, gentle songsof happy untroubled things, like the voices of streams that murmur tothemselves when the woods are all asleep; and between the songs hespoke not, but played airily and wistfully upon his lute; and for allthat it seemed so simple, he had never put more art into what heplayed and sang. And at last he made the music die away to a very softclose, like an evening wind that rustles away across a woodland, andmoves to the shining west. And looking at the Lady Beckwith, he sawthat she had passed, on the wings of song, into old forgotten dreams, and sate smiling to herself, her eyes brimming with tears. And then herose, and saying that he would not be tedious, put the lute aside, andthey went out quietly together. And the Lady Beckwith took his hand inboth her own and said, "Sir Paul, you are a great magician--I couldnot believe that you could have so charmed an old and sad-heartedwoman. You have the key of the door of the land of dreams; and thinknot that I am ungrateful; that you, for whose songs princes contend invain, should deign to come and sing to a maiden that is sick--howshall I repay it?" "Oh, I am richly repaid, " said Paul, "the guerdonof the singer is the incense of a glad heart--and you may give me alittle love if you can, for I am a lonely man. " Then they smiled ateach other, the smile that makes a compact without words. 

Then they went down together, and there was a simple meal set out;and they ate together like old and secure friends, speaking little;but the Lady Beckwith told him somewhat of her daughter Helen, how shehad been fair and strong till her fifteenth year; and that since thattime, for five weary years, she had suffered under a strange andwasting disease that nothing could amend. "But she is patient andcheerful beneath it, or I think my heart would break;--but I know, "she added, and her mouth quivered as she spoke, "that she can hardlysee another spring, and I would have her last days to be sweet. Idoubt not, " she went on, "the good and wise purposes of God, and Ithink that He often sends His bright angels to comfort her--for she isnever sad--and when you sing as you sang just now, I seem tounderstand, and my heart says that it is well. "

While they spoke the Lady Margaret came into the room, with a suddenradiance; and coming to Paul she kneeled down beside him, and kissedhis hand suddenly, and said, "Helen thanks you, and I thank you, SirPaul, for giving her such joy as you could hardly believe. "

There came a kind of mist over Paul's eyes, to feel the touch of thelips that he loved so well upon his hand; but at the same time itappeared to him like a kind of sin that he who seemed to himself, inthat moment, so stained and hard, should have reverence done him byone so pure. So he raised her up, and said, "Nay, this is not meet";and he would have said many other words that rushed together in hismind, but he could not frame them right. But presently the LadyBeckwith excused herself and went; and then Paul for a sweet hoursate, and talked low and softly to the maiden, and threw such worshipinto his voice that she was amazed. But he said no word of love. Andshe told him of their simple life, and how her sister suffered. Andthen Paul feared to stay longer, and went with a mighty and tumultuousjoy in his heart. 

Then for many days Paul went thus to the Isle of Thorns--and the LadyMargaret threw aside her fear of him, and would greet him like abrother. Sometimes he would find her waiting for him at the gate, andthen the air was suddenly full of a holy radiance. And the LadyBeckwith, too, began to use him like a son; but the Lady Helen henever saw--only once or twice he heard her soft voice speak in thedark room. And Paul made new songs for her, but all the time it wasfor Margaret that he sang. 

And they at the castle wondered why Sir Paul, who used formerly to sitso much in his chamber, now went so much abroad. But he guarded hissecret, and they knew not whither he went; only he saw once, fromlooks that passed between two of the maidens, that they spoke of him;and this in times past might have made him ashamed, but now his heartwas too high, and he cared not. 

There came a day when Paul, finding himself alone with the LadyBeckwith, opened his heart suddenly to her; but he was checked, as itwere, by a sudden hand, for there came into her face a sad andtroubled look, as though she blamed herself for something. Then shesaid to him, faltering, that she knew not what to say, for she couldnot read her daughter's heart--"and I think, Sir Paul, " she added, "that she hath no thought of love--love of the sort of which youspeak. Nay, the maiden loves you well, like a dear brother; she smilesat your approach, and runs to meet you when she hears your step at thedoor"; and then seeing a look of pain and terror in the face of Paul, she said, "Nay, dear Paul, I know not. God knows how gladly I wouldhave it so, but hearts are very strangely made; yet you shall speak ifyou will, and I will give you my prayers. " And then she stooped toPaul, and kissed his brow, and said, "There is a mother's kiss, foryou are the son of my heart, whatever befall. "

So presently the maiden came in, and Paul asked her to walk a littlewith him in the garden, and she went smiling; and then he could findno words at all to tell her what was in his heart, till she said, laughing, that he looked strangely, and that it seemed he had noughtto say. So Paul took her hand, and told her all his love; and shelooked upon him, smiling very quietly, neither trembling nor amazed, and said that she would be his wife if so he willed it, and that itwas a great honour; "and then, " she added, "you need not go from us, but you can sing to Helen every day. " Then he kissed her; and therecame into his heart a great wave of tenderness, and he thanked Godvery humbly for so great a gift. Yet he somehow felt in his heart thathe was not yet content, and that this was not how he had thought itwould fall out; but he also told himself that he would yet win themaiden's closer love, for he saw that she loved not as he loved. Thenafter a little talk they went together and told the Lady Beckwith, andshe blessed them; but Paul could see that neither was she content, butthat she looked at Margaret with a questioning and wondering look. 

Then there followed very sweet days. It was soon in the springtime ofthe year; the earth was awaking softly from her long sleep, and was bygentle degrees arraying herself for her summer pomp. The primroses putout yellow stars about the tree roots; the hyacinths carpeted thewoods with blue, and sent their sweet breath down the glade; and Paulfelt strange desires stir in his heart, and rise like birds upon theair; and when he walked with the Lady Margaret among the copses, orrested awhile upon green banks, where the birds sang hidden in thethickets, his heart made continual melody, and rose in a stream ofpraise to God. But they spoke little of love; at times Paul would tryto say something of what was in his mind; but the Lady Margaret heardhim, sedately smiling, as though she were pleased that she could givehim this joy, but as though she understood not what he said. She lovedto hear of Paul's life, and the places he had visited. And Paul, forall his joy, felt that in his love he was, as it were, voyaging on astrange and fair sea alone, and as though the maiden stood upon theshore and waved her hand to him. When he kissed her or took her handin his own, she yielded to him gently and lovingly, like a child; andit was then that Paul felt most alone. But none the less was he happy, and day after day was lit for him with a golden light. 

 IV

One day there came a messenger for Paul, and brought him news thatmade him wonder: the House of Heritage had fallen, on MistressAlison's death, to a distant kinsman of her own and of his. This man, who was without wife or child, had lived there solitary, and it seemedthat he was now dead; and he had left in his will that if Sir Paulshould wish to redeem the house and land for a price, he should havethe first choice to do so, seeing his boyhood had been spent there. Now Paul was rich, for he had received many great gifts and had spentlittle; and there came into his heart a great and loving desire topossess the old house. He told the Lady Beckwith and Margaret of this, and they both advised him to go and see it. So Paul asked leave of theDuke, and told him his business. Then the Duke said very graciouslythat Paul had served him well, and that he would buy the house at hisown charges, and give it to Paul as a gift; but he added that this wasa gift for past service, and that he would in no way bind Paul; but hehoped that Paul would still abide in the castle, at least for a partof the year, and make music for them. "For indeed, " said the Duke veryroyally, "it were not meet that so divine a power should be buried ina rustic grange, but it should abide where it can give delight. Indeed, Sir Paul, it is not only delight! but through your music thereflows a certain holy and ennobling grace into the hearts of all whoattentively hear you, and tames our wild and brutish natures intosomething worthier and more seemly. " Then Paul thanked the Duke verytenderly, and said that he would not leave him. 

So Paul journeyed alone with an old man-at-arms, whom the Duke sentwith him for his honour and security; and when he arrived at theplace, he lodged at the inn. He found the House of Heritage verydesolate, inhabited only by the ancient maid of Mistress Alison, nowgrown old and infirm. So Paul purchased the house and land at theDuke's charges, and caused it to be repaired, within and without, andhired a gardener to dress and keep the ground. He was very impatientto be gone, but the matter could not be speedily settled; and thoughhe desired to return to Wresting, and to see Margaret, of whom hethought night and day, yet he found a great spring of tenderness riseup in his heart at the sight of the old rooms, in which little hadbeen changed. The thought of his lonely and innocent boyhood came backto him, and he visited all his ancient haunts, the fields, the wood, and the down. He thought much, too, of Mistress Alison and her wiseand gracious ways; indeed, sitting alone, as he often did in the oldroom at evening, it seemed to him almost as though she sate andwatched him, and was pleased to know that he was famous, and happy inhis love; so that it appeared to him as though she gave him abenediction from some far-off and holy place, where she abode and waswell satisfied. 

Then at last he was able to return; but he had been nearly six weeksaway. He had moved into the house and lived there; and it had filledhim with a kind of solemn happiness to picture how he would some day, when he was free, live there with Margaret for his wife; and perhapsthere would be children too, making the house sweet with theirlaughter and innocent games--children who should look at him with eyeslike their mother's. Long hours would pass thus while he sate holdinga book or his lute between his hands, the time streaming past in ahappy tide of thoughts. 

But the last night was sad, for he had gone early to his bed, as hewas to start betimes in the morning; and he dreamed that he had gonethrough the wood to the Isle of Thorns, and had seen the house standempty and shuttered close, with no signs of life about it. In hisdream he went and beat upon the door, and heard his knocks echo in thehall; and just as he was about to beat again, it was opened to him byan old small woman, that looked thin and sad, with grey hair and manywrinkles, whom he did not know. He had thrust past her, though sheseemed to have wished to stay him; and pushing on, had found Margaretsitting in the hall, who had looked up at him, and then covered herface with her hands, and he had seen a look of anguish upon her face. Then the dream had slipped from him, and he dreamed again that he wasin a lonely place, a bleak mountain-top, with a wide plain spread outbeneath; and he had watched the flight of two white birds, whichseemed to rise from the rocks near him, and fly swiftly away, beatingtheir wings in the waste of air. 

He woke troubled, and found the dawn peeping through the chinks ofthe shutter; and soon he heard the tramping of horses without, andknew that he must rise and go. And the thought of the dream dweltheavily with him; but presently, riding in the cool air, it seemed tohim that his fears were foolish; and his love came back to him, sothat he said the name Margaret over many times to himself, like acharm, and sent his thoughts forward, imagining how Margaret, newlyrisen, would be moving about the quiet house, perhaps expecting him. And then he sang a little to himself, and was pleased to see the oldman-at-arms smile wearily as he rode beside him. 

Three days after he rode into the Castle of Wresting at sundown, andwas greeted very lovingly; the Duke would not let him sing that night, though Paul said he was willing; but after dinner he asked him manyquestions of how he had fared. And Paul hoped that he might have heardsome talk of the Lady Margaret. But none spoke of her, and he darednot ask. One thing that he noticed was that at dinner the young SirRichard de Benoit sate opposite him, looking very pale; and Paul, morethan once, looking up suddenly, saw that the Knight was regarding himvery fixedly, as though he were questioning of somewhat; and that eachtime Sir Richard dropped his eyes as though he were ashamed. Afterdinner was over, and Paul had been discharged by the Duke, he had goneback into the hall to see if he could have speech of Sir Richard, andask if anything ailed him; but he found him not. 

Then on the morrow, as soon as he might, he made haste to go down tothe Isle of Thorns. As he was crossing a glade, not far from thehouse, he saw to his surprise, far down the glade, a figure riding ona horse, who seemed for a moment to be Sir Richard himself. He stoodawhile to consider, and then, going down the glade, he cried out tohim. Sir Richard, who was on a white horse, drew rein, and turned withhis hand upon the loins of the horse; and then he turned again, and, urging the horse forward, disappeared within the wood. There came, asit were, a chill into Paul's heart that he should be thus unkindlyused; and he vexed his brain to think in what he could have offendedthe Knight; but he quickly returned to his thoughts of love; so hemade haste, and soon came down to the place. 

Now, when he came near, he thought for a moment of his dream; andshrank back from stepping out of the trees at the corner whence hecould see the house; but chiding himself for his vain terrors, he wentswiftly out, and saw the house stand as before, with the trees alldelicate green behind it, and the smoke ascending quietly from thechimneys. 

Then he made haste; and--for he was now used to enter unbidden--wentstraight into the house; the hall and the parlours were all empty; sothat he called upon the servants; an old serving-maid came forth, andthen Paul knew in a moment that all was not well. He looked at her fora moment, and a question seemed to be choked in his throat; and thenhe said swiftly, "Is the Lady Beckwith within?" The old serving-maidsaid gravely, "She is with the Lady Helen, who is very sick. " Then SirPaul bade her tell the Lady Beckwith that he was in the house; and ashe stood waiting, there came a kind of shame into his heart, that whathe had heard was so much less than what he had for an instant feared;and while he strove to be more truly sorry, the Lady Beckwith stoodbefore him, very pale. She began to speak at once, and in a low andhurried voice told him of Helen's illness, and how that there waslittle to hope; and then she put her hand on Paul's arm, and said, "Myson, why did you leave us?" adding hastily, "Nay, it could not havebeen otherwise. " And Paul, looking upon her face, divined in somesudden way that she had not told him all that was in her mind. So hesaid, "Dear mother, you know the cause of that--but tell me all, for Isee there is more behind. " Then the Lady Beckwith put her face in herhands, and saying, "Yes, dear Paul, there is more, " fell to weepingsecretly. While they thus stood together--and Paul was aware of adeadly fear that clutched at his heart and made all his limbsweak--the Lady Margaret came suddenly into the room, looking so paleand worn that Paul for a moment did not recognise her. But he put outhis arms, and took a step towards her; then he saw that she had notknown he was in the house; for she turned first red and then verypale, and stepped backwards; and it went to Paul's heart like thestabbing of a sharp knife, that she looked at him with a look in whichthere was shame mingled with a certain fear. 

Now while Paul stood amazed and almost stupefied with what he saw, the Lady Beckwith said quickly and almost sternly to Margaret, "Goback to Helen--she may not be left alone. " Margaret slipped from theroom; and the Lady Beckwith pointed swiftly to a chair, and herselfsate down. Then she said, "Dear Paul, I have dreaded this moment andthe sight of you for some days--and though I should wish to takethought of what I am to say to you, and to say it carefully, it makesan ill matter worse to dally with it--so I will even tell you at once. You must know that some three days after you left us, the young KnightSir Richard de Benoit fell from his horse, when riding in the woodhard by this house, and was grievously hurt by the fall. They carriedhim in here and we tended him. I had much upon my hands, for dearHelen was in great suffering; and so it fell out that Margaret wasoften with the Knight--who, indeed, is a noble and generous youth, very pure and innocent of heart--and oh, Paul, though it pierces myheart to say it, he loves her--and I think that she loves him too. Itis a strange and terrible thing, this love! it is like the sword thatthe Lord Christ said that He came to bring on earth, for it dividesloving households that were else at one together; and now I must saymore--the maiden knew not before what love was; she had read of it inthe old books; and when you came into this quiet house, bringing withyou all the magic of song, and the might of a gentle and noble spirit, and offered her love, she took it gladly and sweetly, not knowing whatit was that you gave; but I have watched my child from her youth up, and the love that she gave you was the love that she would have givento a brother--she admired you and reverenced you. She knew thatmaidens were asked and given in marriage, and she took your love, as achild might take a rich jewel, and love the giver of it. And, indeed, she would have wedded you, and might have learned to love you in theother way. But God willed it otherwise; and seeing the young Knight, it was as though a door was opened in her spirit, and she came outinto another place. I am sure that no word of love has passed betweenthem; but it has leaped from heart to heart like a swift fire; and allthis I saw too late; but seeing it, I told Sir Richard how mattersstood; and he is an honourable youth; for from that moment he soughthow he might be taken hence, and made reasons to see no more of themaid. But his misery I could see; and she is no less miserable; forshe has a very pure and simple spirit, and has fought a hard conflictwith herself; yet will she hold to her word. 

"And now, dear Paul, judge between us, for the matter lies in yourhands. She is yours, if you claim her; but her heart cannot be yoursawhile, though you may win it yet. It is true that both knights andmaidens have wedded, loving another; yet they have learned to loveeach other, and have lived comfortably and happily; but whether, knowing what I have been forced to tell you, you can be content thatthings should be as before, I know not. "

Then the Lady Beckwith made a pause, and beat her hands together, watching Paul's face; Paul sate very still and pale, all the lightgone out of his eyes, with his lips pressed close together. And at thesight of him the tears came into Lady Beckwith's eyes, and she couldnot stay them. And Paul, looking darkly on her, strove to pity her, but could not; and clasping the arms of his chair, said hoarsely, "Icannot let her go. " So they sate awhile in silence; and then Paul roseand said, "Dear lady, you have done well to tell me this--I know deepdown in my heart what a brave and noble thing you have done: but Icannot yet believe it--I will see the Lady Margaret and question herof the matter. " Then the lady said, "Nay, dear Paul, you will not--youthink that you would do so; but you could not speak with her face toface of such a matter, and she could not answer you. You must think ofit alone, and to-morrow you must tell me what you decide; andwhichever way you decide it, I will help you as far as I can. " Andthen she said, "You will pity me a little, dear Paul, for I had ratherhave had a hand cut off than have spoken with you thus. " And thesesimple words brought Paul a little to himself, and he rose from hisplace and kissed the Lady Beckwith's hand, and said, "Dear mother, youhave done well; but my sorrow is greater than I can bear. " And at thatthe Lady Beckwith wept afresh; but Paul went out in a stony silence, hardly knowing what he did. 

Then it seemed to Paul as though he went down into deep waters indeed, which passed cold and silent, in horror and bitterness, over his soul. He did not contend or cry out; but he knew that the light had fallenout of his life, and had left him dark and dead. 

So he went slowly back to the castle through the wood, hating hislife and all that he was; once or twice he felt a kind of passion risewithin him, and he said to himself, "She is pledged to me, and sheshall be mine. " And then there smote upon him the thought that inthinking thus he was rather brute than man. And he fell at last intoan agony of prayer that God would lead him to the light, and show himwhat he should do. When he reached the castle he put a strongconstraint upon himself; he went down to the hall; he even sang; butit was like a dream; he seemed to be out of the body, and as it wereto see himself standing, and to hear the words falling from his ownlips. The Duke courteously praised him, and said that he was wellcontent to hear his minstrel again. 

As he left the hall, he passed through a little ante-room, that washung with arras, on the way to his chamber; and there he saw sittingon a bench, close to the door that led to the turret stair, the youngKnight, Sir Richard; and there rose in his heart a passion of anger, so strong that he felt as though a hand were laid upon his heart, crushing it. And he stood still, and looked upon the Knight, whoraised so pale and haggard a face upon him, that Paul, in spite of hisown misery, saw before him a soul as much or more vexed than his own;and then the anger died out of his heart, and left in him only thesense of the bitter fellowship of suffering; the Knight rose to hisfeet, and they stood for a moment looking at each other; and then theKnight said, pale to the lips, "Sir Paul, we are glad to welcome youback--I have heard of the Duke's gift, and rejoice that yourinheritance should thus return to you. " And Paul bowed and said, "Ay, it is a great gift; but it seems that in finding it I have lost agreater. " And then, seeing the Knight grow paler still, if that werepossible, he said, "Sir Richard, let me tell you a parable; there wasa little bird of the wood that came to my window, and made me glad--sothat I thought of no other thing but my wild bird, that trusted me:and while I was absent, one hath whispered it away, and it will notreturn. " And Sir Richard said, "Nay, Sir Paul, you are in this unjust. What if the wild bird hath seen its mate? And, for you know not theother side of the parable, its mate hath hid itself in the wood, andthe wild bird will return to you, if you bid it come. "

Then Sir Paul, knowing that the Knight had done worthily and like atrue knight, said, "Sir Richard, I am unjust; but you will pardon me, for my heart is very sore. " And so Paul passed on to his chamber; andthat night was a very bitter one, for he went down into the sad valleyinto which men must needs descend, and he saw no light there. And oncein the night he rose dry-eyed and fevered from his bed, and twitchingthe curtain aside, saw the forest lie sleeping in the cold light ofthe moon; and his thought went out to the Isle of Thorns, and he sawthe four hearts that were made desolate; and he questioned in hisheart why God had made the hard and grievous thing that men call love. 

Then he went back and fell into a sort of weary sleep; and wakingtherefrom, he felt a strange and terrible blackness seize upon hisspirit, so that he could hear his own heart beat furious and thick inthe darkness; and he prayed that God would release him from the prisonof the world. But while he lay, he heard the feet of a horse clatteron the pavement, it being now near the dawn; and presently there camea page fumbling to the door, who bore a letter from the Lady Beckwith, and it ran:--

 _"I would not write to you thus, dear Paul, unless my need were urgent; but the dear Helen is near her end, and has prayed me many times that, if it were possible, you should come and sing to her--for she fears to go into the dark, and says that your voice can give her strength and hope. Now if it be possible, come; but if you say nay to my messenger, I shall well understand it. But the dear one hath done you no hurt, and for the love of the God who made us, come and comfort us--from her who loves you as a son, these. "_

Then Paul when he had read, pondered for awhile; and then he said tothe page, "Say that I will come. " So he arrayed himself with haste, and went swiftly through the silent wood, looking neither to left orto right, but only to the path at his feet. And presently he came tothe Isle of Thorns; it lay in a sort of low silver mist, the housepushing through it, as a rock out of the sea. And then a sudden chillcame over Paul, and the very marrow of his bones shuddered; for heknew in his heart that this was nothing but the presaging of death;and he thought that the dreadful angel stood waiting at the door, andthat presently the spirit of one that lay within must arise, leavingthe poor body behind, and go with the angel. 

In the high chamber where Helen lay burnt a light behind a curtain;and Paul saw a form pass slowly to and fro. And he would fain havepitied the two who must lose her whom they loved; but there passedover his spirit a sort of bitter wind; and he could feel no pity forany soul but his own, and his heart was dry as dust; he felt in hismind nothing but a kind of dumb wonder as to why he had troubledhimself to come. 

There must have been, he saw, a servant bidden to await his coming, because, as his feet sounded on the flags, the door was opened to him;and in a moment he was within the hall. At the well-known sights andscents of the place, the scene of his greatest happiness, the oldaching came back into his stony heart, and grief, that was like asharp sword, thrust through him. Suddenly, as he stood, a door opened, and Margaret came into the hall; she saw him in a moment; and hedivined that she had not known he was within, but had meant only topass through; for she stopped short as though irresolute, and lookedat him with a wild and imploring gaze, like a forest thing caught in atrap. 

In a moment there flowed into Paul's heart a great pity andtenderness, and a strength so wonderful that he knew it was not hisown, but the immortal strength of God. And he stepped forward, forgetting all his own pain and misery, and said, "Margaret, dear one, dear sister, what is the shadow that hath fallen between us at thistime? I would not, " he went on, "speak of ourselves at such an hour asthis; but I see that there is somewhat--we minstrels have a power tolook in the heart of those we love--and I think it is this--that youcan love me, dear one, as a brother, and not as a lover. Well, I amcontent, and so it shall be. I love you too well, little one, todesire any love but what you can give me--so brother and sister wewill be. " Then he saw a light come into her face, and she murmuredwords of sorrow that he could not hear; but he put his arm about heras a brother might, and kissed her cheek. And then she put her handsupon his shoulder, and her face upon them, and broke out into apassion of weeping. And Paul, saying "Even so, " kissed and comfortedher, as one might comfort a child, till she looked up, as if toinquire somewhat of him. And he said smiling, "So this is my dearsister indeed--yes, I will be content with that--and now take me tothe dear Helen, that I may see if my art can comfort her. " Then it wasvery sweet to Paul's sore heart that she drew her arm within his ownand led him up from the room. Then there came in haste the LadyBeckwith down to meet them, with a look of pain upon her face; andPaul said, still smiling, "We are brother and sister henceforth. " Thenthe Lady Beckwith smiled too out of her grief and said, "Oh, it iswell. "

Then they passed together through the oratory and entered the chamberof death. And then Paul saw a heavenly sight. The room was a largeone, dim and dark. In a chair near the fire, all in white, sate amaiden like a lily--so frail and delicate that she seemed like a purespirit, not a thing of earth. She sate with a hand upraised betweenher and the fire; and when Paul came in, she looked at him with asmile in which appeared nothing but a noble patience, as though shehad waited long; but she did not speak. Then they drew a chair forPaul, and he took his lute, and sang soft and low, a song of one whosinks into sweet dreams, when the sounds of day are hushed--andpresently he made an end. Then she made a sign that Paul shouldapproach, and he went to her, and kneeled beside her, and kissed herhand. And Margaret came out of the dark, and put her hand on Paul'sshoulder saying, "This is our brother. " And Helen smiled in Paul'sface--and something, a kind of heavenly peace and love, seemed to passfrom her eyes and settle in Paul's heart; and it was told him in thathour, he knew not how, that this was his bride whom he had loved, andthat he had loved Margaret for her sake; and that moment seemed toPaul to be worth all his life that had gone before, and all thatshould go after. So he knelt in the silence; and then in a moment, heknew not where or whence, the whole air seemed full of a heavenlymusic about them, such music as he had never dreamed of, the very souland essence of the music of earth. But Helen laid her head back, and, smiling still, she died. And Paul laid her hand down. 

Then without a word he rose, and went from the chamber; and hestepped out into the garden, and paced there wondering; he saw thetrees stand silent in their sleep, and the flowers like stars in theirdewy beds. And he knew that God was very near him; he put all hisburdens and sorrows, his art, and all himself within the mighty hands;and he knew that he could never doubt again of the eternal goodnessand the faithful tender love of the Father. And all the while the dawnslowly brightened over the wood, and came up very slowly andgraciously out of the east. Then Paul gave word that he must return tothe castle, but would come back soon. And as he mounted the steps, hesaw that there was a man pacing on the terrace above, and knew that itwas the Knight Richard, whom he sought. So he went up on the terrace, and there he saw the young Knight looking out over the forest; Paulwent softly up to him and laid his hand upon his shoulder, and theKnight turned upon him a haggard and restless eye. Then Paul said, "Sir Richard, I come from the Isle of Thorns--but I have more to sayto you. You are a noble Knight and have done very worthily--and Iyield to you with all my heart the dear Margaret, for we are brotherand sister, and nought else, now and henceforth. " Then Sir Richard, asthough he hardly heard him aright, stood looking upon his face; andPaul took his hand very gently in both his own, and said, "Yes, it iseven so--and we will be brothers too. " Then he went within thecastle--and lying down in his chamber he slept peacefully like alittle child. 

 V

Many years have passed since that day. First Sir Richard wedded theLady Margaret, and dwelt at the Isle of Thorns. A boy was born tothem, whom they named Paul, and a daughter whom they called Helen. AndPaul was much with them, and had great content. He made, men said, sweeter music than ever he had done, in those days. Then the Dukedied; and Paul, though his skill failed not, and though the Kinghimself would have had him to his Court, went back to the House ofHeritage, and there dwelt alone, a grave and kindly man, very simpleof speech, and loving to walk and sit alone. And Sir Richard and theLady Margaret bought an estate hard by and dwelt there. 

Now Paul would make no more music, save that he sometimes played alittle on the lute for the pleasure of the Lady Margaret; but he tookinto his house a boy whom he taught the art; and when he was trainedand gone into the world, to make music of his own, Paul tookanother--so that as the years went on, he had sent out a number of hisdisciples to be minstrels; so his art was not lost; and one of these, who was a very gracious child named Percival, he loved better than therest, because he saw in him that he had a love for the art more thanfor all the rewards of art. And once when they sate together, the boyPercival said, "Dear sir, may I ask you a question?" "A dozen, if itbe your will, " said Paul, smiling; "but, dear child, I know not if Ican answer it. " Then the boy said, "Why do you not make more music, dear sir? for it seems to me like a well that holds its waters closeand deep, and will not give them forth. " Then Paul said, smiling, "Nay, I have given men music of the best. But there are two reasonswhy I make no more; and I will tell you them, if you can understandthem. The first is that many years ago I heard a music that shamed me;and that sealed the well. " Then the boy said, musing, "Tell me thename of the musician, dear Sir Paul, for I have heard that you wereever the first. " Then Paul said, "Nay, I know not the name of themaker of it. " Then the boy said, smiling, "Then, dear sir, it musthave been the music of the angels. " And Paul said, "Ay, it was that. "Then the boy was silent, and sate in awe, while Paul mused, touchinghis lute softly. Then he roused himself and said, "And the secondreason, dear child, is this. There comes a time to all that_make_--whether it be books or music or pictures--when they can makeno new thing, but go on in the old manner, working with the fingers ofage the dreams of youth. And to me this seems as it were a profane andunholy thing, that a man should use so divine an art thus unworthily;it is as though a host should set stale wine before his guests, andput into it some drug which should deceive their taste; and I thinkthat those who do this do it for two reasons: either they hanker forthe praise thereof, and cannot do without the honour--and that isunworthy--or they do it because they have formed the habit of it, andhave nought to fill their vacant hours--and that is unworthy too. Sohearing the divine music of which I spoke but now, I knew that I couldattain no further; and that there was a sweet plenty of music in thehand of God, and that He would give it as men needed it; but that myown work was done. For each man must decide for himself when to makean end. And further, dear child, mark this! The peril for us and forall that follow art is to grow so much absorbed in our handiwork, sovain of it, that we think there is nought else in the world. Into thaterror I fell, and therein abode. But we are in this world like littlechildren at school. God has many fair things to teach us, but we growto love our play, and to think of nought else, so that the holylessons fall on unheeding ears; but now I have put aside my play, andsit awhile listening to the voice of God, and to all that He may teachme; and the lesson is hard to spell; but I wait upon Him humbly andquietly, till He call me hence. And now we have talked enough, and wewill go back to our music; and you shall play me that passage over, for you played it not deftly enough before. "

Now it happened that a few days later Paul in his sleep dreamed adream; and when he woke, he could scarce contain his joy; and the boyPercival, seeing him in the morning, marvelled at the radiance thatappeared in his face; and a little later Paul bade him go across thefields to the Lady Margaret's house, and to bid her come to him, ifshe would, for he had something that he must tell her, and he mightnot go abroad. So Percival told the Lady Margaret; and she wondered atthe message, and asked if Sir Paul was sick. And the boy said, "No, Inever saw him so full of joy--so that I am afraid. "

Then the Lady Margaret went to the House of Heritage; and Paul cameto greet her at the door, and brought her in, and sate for awhile insilence, looking on her face. The Lady Margaret was now a very comelyand sedate lady, and had held her son's child in her arms; and Paulwas a grey-haired man; yet in his eyes she was still the maiden he hadknown. Then Paul, speaking very softly, said, "Dear Margaret, I havebidden you come hither, for I think I am called hence; and when Idepart, and I know not when it may be, I would close my eyes in thedear house where I was nurtured. " Then she looked at him with a suddenfear, but he went on, "Dear one, I have dreamed very oft of late ofHelen--she stands smiling in a glory, and looks upon me. But this lastnight I saw more. I know not if I slept or waked, but I heard a highand heavenly music; and then I saw Helen stand, but she stood notalone; she held by the hand a child, who smiled upon me; and the childwas like herself; but I presently discerned that the child had a lookof myself as well; and she loosed the child's hand from her own, andthe child ran to me and kissed me; and Helen seemed to beckon me; andthen I passed into sleep again. But now I see the truth. The love thatI bear her hath begotten, I think, a child of the spirit that hathnever known a mortal birth; and the twain wait for me. " And Margaret, knowing not what to say, but feeling that he had seen somewhat highand heavenly, sate in silence; and presently Paul, breaking out of amuse, began to talk of the sweet days of their youth, and of thetender mercies of God. But while he spoke, he suddenly broke off, andheld up his hand; and there came a waft of music upon the air. AndPaul smiled like a tired child, and lay back in his chair; and as hedid so a string of the lute that lay beside him broke with a sweetsharp sound. And the Lady Margaret fell upon her knees beside him, andtook his hand; and then she seemed to see a cloudy gate, and two thatstood together--a fair woman and a child; and up to the gate, out of acloud, came swiftly a man, like one that reaches his home at last; andthe three went in at the gate together, hand in hand;--and then themusic came once again, and died upon the air. 

 THE ISLES OF SUNSET

About midway between the two horns of the bay, the Isles of Sunsetpierced the sea. There was deep blue water all around them, and thesharp and fretted pinnacles of rock rose steeply up to heaven. The topof the largest was blunt, and covered with a little carpet of grassand sea-herbs. The rest were nought but cruel spires, on which no footbut that of sea-birds could go. At one place there was a small creek, into which a boat might be thrust, but only when the sea was calm; andnear the top of the rock, just over this, was the dark mouth of alittle cave. 

The bay in which the Isles lay was quite deserted; the moorland cameto the edge of the cliffs, and through a steep and rocky ravine, thesides of which were overgrown with ferns and low trees, all brushedlandward by the fierce winds, a stream fell hoarsely to the sea, through deep rock-pools. The only living things there were the wildbirds, the moorfowl in the heather, hawks that built in the rock face, and pigeons that made their nest in hollow places. Sometimes a stagpacing slowly on the cliff-top would look over, but that was seldom. 

Yet on these desolate and fearful rocks there dwelt a man, a hermitnamed David. He had grown up as a fisher-boy in the neighbouringvillage--an awkward silent boy with large eyes which looked as thoughthey were full of inward dreams. The people of the place wereChristians after a sort, though it was but seldom that a priest camenear them; and then only by sea, for there was no road to the place. But David as a boy had heard a little of the Lord Christ, and of thebitter sacrifice He made for men; and there grew up in his heart agreat desire to serve Him, and he prayed much in his heart to theLord, that He would show him what he might do. He had no parentsliving. His mother was long dead, and his father had been drowned atsea. He lived in the house of his uncle, a poor fisherman with anangry temper, where he fared very hardly; for there were many mouthsto feed, and the worst fell to the least akin. But he grew up handyand active, with strong limbs and a sure head; and he was well worthhis victual, for he was a good fisherman, patient of wind and rain;and he could scale the cliff in places where none other dared go, andbring down the eggs and feathers of the sea-birds. So they had muchuse of him, and gave him but little love in return. When he was freeof work, the boy loved to wander alone, and he would lie on theheather in the warm sun, with his face to the ground, drinking in thefragrant breath of the earth, and praying earnestly in his heart tothe Lord, who had made the earth so fair and the sea so terrible. Whenhe came to man's estate, he had thoughts of making a home of his own, but his uncle seemed to need him--so he lingered on, doing as he wasbid, very silent, but full of his own thoughts, and sure that the Lordwould call him when He had need of him; one by one the children of thefamily grew up and went their ways; then his uncle's wife died, andthen at last one day, when he was out fishing with his uncle, therecame a squall and they beat for home. But the boat was overset and hisuncle was drowned; and David himself was cast ashore in a wonderfulmanner, and found himself all alone. 

Now while he doubted what he should do, he dreamed a dream thatwrought powerfully in his mind. He thought that he was walking in thedusk beside the sea, which was running very high, when he saw a lightdrawing near to him over the waves. It was not like the light of alantern, but a diffused and pale light, like the moon labouring in acloud. The sea began to abate its violence, and then David saw afigure coming to him, walking, it seemed, upon the water as upon dryland, sometimes lower, sometimes higher, as the waves ran high or low. He stopped in a great wonder to watch the approach of the figure, andhe saw that it was that of a young man, going very slowly andtranquilly, and looking about him with a gentle and smiling air ofcommand. All about him was a light, the source of which David couldnot see, but he seemed like a man walking in the light of an openwindow, when all around is dark. As he came near, David saw that hewas clad in a rough tunic of some dark stuff, which was girt up with agirdle at the waist. His head and his feet were bare. Yet though heseemed but poorly clad, he had the carriage of a great prince, whosepower none would willingly question. But the strangest thing was thatthe sea grew calm before his feet, and though the wind was blowingfiercely, yet it did not stir the hair, which fell somewhat long onhis shoulders, or so much as ruffle his robe. And then there came intoDavid's head a verse of Scripture where it says, "_What manner of manis this, that even the winds and the sea obey him?_" And then theanswer came suddenly into David's mind, and he knelt down where he wasupon the beach, and waited in a great and silent awe; and presentlythat One drew near, and in some way that David did not understand, forhe used no form of speech, his eyes made question of David's soul, andseemed to read its depths. And then at last He spoke in words that Hehad before used to a fisherman beside another sea, and said verysoftly, "Follow Me. " But He said not how He should be followed; andpresently He seemed to depart in a shining track across the sea, tillthe light that went with Him sank like a star upon the verge. Then inhis dream David was troubled, and knew not how to follow; till hethought that it might be given him, as it was given once to Peter, towalk dry-shod over the depth; but when he set foot upon the waterthere broke so furious a wave at him, that he knew not how to follow. So he went back and kneeled upon the sand, and said aloud in hisdoubt, "What shall I do, Lord?" and as the words sounded on his tonguehe awoke. 

Then all that day he pondered how he should find the Lord; for heknew that though he had a hope in his heart, and though he leaned muchupon God, yet he had not wholly found Him yet. God was sometimes withhim and near to him, but sometimes far withdrawn; and then, for he wasa very simple man, he said to himself, "I will give myself wholly tothe search for my Lord. I will live solitary, and I will fix my mindupon Him"; for he thought within himself that his hard life, and thecares of the household in which he had dwelt, had been what hadperhaps kept him outside; and therefore he thought that God had takenthese cares away from him. And so he made up his mind. 

Then he cast about where he had best dwell; and he thought of theIsles of Sunset as a lonely place, where he might live and not bedisturbed. There was the little cave high up in the rock-face, lookingtowards the land, to which he had once scrambled up. This would givehim shelter; and there were moreover some small patches of earth, nearthe base of the rock, where he could grow a few herbs and a littlecorn. He had some money of his own, which would keep him until hisgarden was grown up; and he could fish, he thought, from the rocks, and find shell-fish and other creatures of the sea, which would givehim meat. 

So the next day he bought a few tools that he thought he would need, and rowed all over when it was dusk. He put his small stores in a caveby the water's edge. The day after, he went and made a few farewells;he told no one where he was going; but it pleased him to find a littlelove for him in the hearts of some. One parting was a strangely soreone: there was an old and poor woman that lived very meanly in theplace, who had an only granddaughter, a little maid. These two heloved very much, and had often done them small kindnesses. He keptthis good-bye to the last, and went to the house after sundown. Theold woman bade him sit down, and asked him what he meant to do, nowthat he was alone. "I am going away, mother, " he said gently. Thechild, hearing this, came over the room from where she sate, and saidto him, "No, David, do not go away. " "Yes, dear child, " he said, "Imust even go. " Then she said, "But where will you go? May I not cometo see you sometimes?" and she put her small arms round his neck, andlaid her cheek to his. Then David's heart was very full of love, andhe said, smiling, and with his arm round the child, "Dear one, I mustnot say where I am going--and it is a rough place, too, not fit forsuch tender little folk as you; but, if I can, I will come again andsee you. " Then the old grandmother, looking upon him very gravely, said, "Tell me what is in your mind. " But he said, "Nay, mother, donot ask me; I am going to a place that is near and yet far; and I amgoing to seek for one whom I know not and yet know; and the way islong and dark. " Then she forbore to ask him more, and fell topondering sadly; so after they had sate awhile, he rose up and loosedthe child's arms from him, kissing her; and the tears stood in hiseyes; and he thought in himself that God was very wise; for if he hadhad a home of his own, and children whom he loved, he could never havefound it in his heart to leave them. So he went out. 

Then he climbed up the steep path that led to the downs, and so tothe bay where the Isles lay. And just as he reached the top, the moonran out from a long bank of cloud; and he saw the village lie beneathhim, very peaceful in the moonlight; there were lights in some of thewindows; the roofs were silvered in the clear radiance of the moon, and the shadows lay dark between. He could see the little streets, every inch of which he knew, and the port below. He could see thecoast stretch away to the east, headland after headland, growingfainter; and the great spaces of the sea, with the moon glittering onthe waves. There was a holy and solemn peace about it all; and thoughhis life had not been a happy one there, he knew in a flash that theplace was very dear to his heart, and he said a prayer to God, that Hewould guard and cherish the village and those that dwelt there. Thenhe turned, and went on to the downs; and presently descended by asteep path to the sea, through the thickets. He took off his clothes, and tied them in a pack on his back; and then he stepped quietly intothe bright water, which lapped very softly against the shore, a littlewave every now and then falling gently, followed by a long rustling ofthe water on the sand, and a silence till the next wave fell. He wadedon till he could swim, and then struck out to where the Isles stood, all sharp and bright in the moon. He swam with long quiet strokes, hearing the water ripple past; and soon the great crags loomed outabove him, and he heard the waves fall among their rocky coves. Atlast he felt the ground beneath his feet; and coming out of the waterhe dressed himself, and then--for he would not venture on the cliffsin the uncertain light--gathering up some dried weeds of the sea, hemade a pillow for his head and slept, in a wonderful peace of mind, until the moon set; and not long after there came a pale light overthe sea in the east, brightening slowly, until at last the sun, like afiery ball, broke upwards from the sea; and it was day. 

Now when David awoke in the broad daylight, he found himself full ofa great joy and peace. He seemed, as it were, to have leaped over awide ditch, and to see the world across it. Now he was alone with God, and he had put all the old, mean, hateful life away from him. It didnot even so much as peep into his mind that he would have to enduremany hardships of body, rain, and chilly winds, a bed of rock, andfare both hard and scanty. This was not what had troubled him in theold days. What had vexed his heart had been unclean words and deeds, greediness, hardness, cruel taunts, the lack of love, and the meannessand baseness of the petty life. All that was behind him now; he feltfree and strong, and while he moved about to spy out his new kingdom, he sang loudly to himself a song of praise. The place pleased himmightily; over his head ran up the cliff with its stony precipices anddizzy ledges. The lower rocks all fringed with weeds, like sea-beastswith rough hair, stood out black from the deep blue water that layround the rocks. He loved to hear the heavy plunge of the great wavesaround his bastions, the thin cries of the sea-birds that sailed aboutthe precipice, or that lit on their airy perches. Everywhere was abrisk sharp scent of the sea, and the fresh breeze, most unlike theclose sour smell of the little houses. He felt himself free and strongand clean, and he thought of all the things he would say to God in thepleasant solitude, and how he would hear the low and far-off voice ofthe Father speaking gently with his soul. 

His first care was to find the cave that was to shelter him. He spentthe day in climbing very carefully and lightly all over the face ofthe rock. Never had he known his hand so strong, or his head so sure. He sate for a time on a little ledge, to which he had climbed on thecrag face, and he feasted his eyes upon the sight of the great cliffsof the mainland that ran opposite him, to left and right, in a widehalf-circle. His eyes dwelt with pleasure upon the high slopingshoulders of rock, on which the sun now shone very peacefully, thestrip of moorland at the top, the brushwood growing in the slopingcoves, the clean shingle at the base of the rocks, and the blue skyover all. That was the world as God had made it, and as He intended itto be; it was only men who made it evil, huddling together in theirsmall and filthy dens, so intent on their little ugly lives, theirfood and drink and wicked ways. 

Presently he found the cave-mouth, and noted in his mind the best waythither. The cave seemed to him a very sweet place; the mouth was allfringed with little ferns; inside it was dry and clean; and in a fewhours he had disposed all his small goods within it. There was a lowslope, on one side of the rocks, where the fern grew plentifully. Hegathered great armfuls of the dry red stalks, and made himself arustling bed. So the day wore pleasantly away. One of his cares was tofind water; but here it seemed that God blessed him very instantly, for he found a place near the sea, where a little spring soaked coolout of the rock, with a pleasant carpet of moss and yellow flowers. Hefound, too, some beds of shell-fish, which he saw would give him foodand bait for his fishing. So about sundown he cast a line from the endof the rocks and presently caught a fish, a ling, which lives roundrocky shores. This he broiled at a small fire of driftwood, for he hadbrought tinder with him; and it pleased him to think of the meal thatthe Apostles took with the risen Christ, a meal which He had made forthem, and to which He Himself called them; for that, too, was abroiled fish, and eaten by the edge of the sea. Also he ate a littleof the bread he had brought with him; and with it some of a briskjuicy herb, called samphire, that sprouted richly in the cliff, whichgave his meat an aromatic savour; and with a drink of fresh springwater he dined well, and was content; then he climbed within the cave, and fell asleep to the sound of the wind buffeting in the cliff, andthe fall of great waves on the sea beaches. 

Now I might make a book of all the things that David saw and did onthe islands, but they were mostly simple and humble things. He faredvery hard, but though he often wondered how he would find food for thenext day, it always came to him; and he kept his health in a way whichseemed to him to be marvellous; indeed he seemed to himself to be bothstronger in body and lighter in spirit than he had ever been before. He both saw and heard things that he could not explain. There weresounds the nature of which he could not divine; on certain days therewas a far-off booming, even when the waves seemed still; at times, too, there was a low musical note in the air, like the throbbing of atense string of metal; once or twice he heard a sound like softsinging, and wondered in his heart what creature of the sea it mightbe that uttered it. On stormy nights there were sad moans and cries, and he often thought that there were strange and unseen creaturesabout him, who hid themselves from sight, but whose voices hecertainly heard; but he was never afraid. One night he saw a verybeautiful thing; it had been a still day, but there was an anxioussound in the wind which he knew portended a storm; he was strangelyrestless on such days, and woke many times in the night: at last hecould bear the silence of the cave no more, and went out, descendingswiftly by the rocks, the path over which he could have now followedblindfold, down to the edge of the sea. Then he saw that the wavesthat beat against the rock were all luminous, as though lit with aninner light; suddenly, far below, how deep he knew not, he saw a greatshoal of fish, some of them very large, coming softly round the rocks;the water, as it touched their blunt snouts, burst as it were intosoft flame, and showed every twinkle of their fins and every beat oftheir tails. The shoal came swiftly round the rocks, swimmingintently, and it seemed as though there was no end of them. But atlast the crowd grew thinner and then ceased; but he could still seethe water rippling all radiant in the great sea-pools, showing themotion of broad ribbons of seaweed that swayed to and fro, andlighting up odd horned beasts that stirred upon the ledges. From thatday forth he was often filled with a silent wonder at all thesleepless life that moved beneath the vast waters, and that knewnothing of the little human lives that fretted themselves out in thethin air above. That day was to him like the opening of a door intothe vast heart of God. 

But for all his happiness, the thought weighed upon him, day afterday, of all the grief and unhappiness that there was about him. Adying bird that he found in a pool, and that rolled its filmy eye uponhim in fear, as if to ask why he must disturb it in its last sadlanguid hour, the terror in which so many of the small fish abode--hesaw once, when the sea was clear, a big fish dart like a dark shadow, with open mouth and gleaming eye, on a little shoal of fishes thatsported joyfully in the sun; they scattered in haste, but they hadlost their fellows--all this made him ponder; but most of all thereweighed on his heart the thought of the world he had left, of how menspoke evil of each other, and did each other hurt; of children whoselot was to be beaten and cursed for no fault, but to please the crueltemper of a master; of patient women, who had so much to bear--so thatsometimes he had dark thoughts of why God made the world so fair, andthen left so much that was amiss, like a foul stream that makes aclear pool turbid. And there came into his head a horror of taking thelives of creatures for his own use--the shell-worm that writhed as hepulled it from the shell; the bright fish that came up struggling andgasping from the water, and that fought under his hand--and at last hemade up his mind that he would take no more life, though how he wouldlive he knew not; and as for the world of men, he became very desirousto help a little as best he could; and there being at this time awreck in the bay, when a boat and all on board were lost, he thoughtthat he would wish, if he could, to keep a fire lit on dark nights, sothat ships that passed should see that there was a dwelling there, andso keep farther away from the dangerous rocks. 

By this time it had become known in the country where he was--hisfigure had been seen several times from the cliffs; and one day therehad come a boat, with some of those that knew him, to the island. Hehad no wish to mix again with men; but neither did he desire to avoidthem, if it was God's will that they should come. So he came downcourteously, and spoke with the master of the boat, who asked him verycuriously of his life and all that he did. David told him all; andwhen the master asked him why he had thus fled away from the world, David said simply that he had done so that he might pray to God inpeace. Then the master said that there were many waking hours in theday, and he knew not what there might be to say prayers about, "for, "he said, "you have no book to make prayers out of, like the priests, and you have no store of good-sounding words with which to catch theear of God. " Then David said that he prayed to God to guard all thingsgreat and small, and to help himself along the steep road to heaven. Then the master wondered very much, and said that a man must pleasehimself, and no doubt it was a holy work. Then he asked a littleshamefacedly for David to pray for him, that he might be kept safefrom shipwreck, and have good fortune for fishing, to which Davidreplied, "Oh, I do that already. "

Before the master went away, and he stayed not long, he asked Davidhow he lived, and offered him food. And David being then in astrait--for he had lately vowed to take no life, said gladly that hewould have anything they could give him. So the master gave him somevictual. And it happened, just at this time, that some of the boatsfrom the village had a wonderful escape from a storm, and through thatseason they caught fish in abundance; so it was soon noised abroadthat this was all because of David's prayers; and after that he neverhad need of food, for they brought him many little presents, such aseggs, fruit, and bread--for he would take no meat--giving them intohis hands when he was on the lower rocks, or leaving them on a ledgein the cove when he was aloft. And as, when the fish were plenteous, they gave him food in gratitude, and when fish were scarce, they gaveit him even more abundantly that they might have his prayers, Davidwas never in lack; in all of which he saw the wonderful hand of Godworking for him. 

Now David pondered very much how he might keep a light aloft ondangerous nights. 

His first thought was to find a sheltered place among the rocks toseaward, where his fire could burn and not be extinguished by thewind; but, though he climbed all about the rocks, he could find noplace to his mind. One day, however, he was in the furthest recess ofhis cave, when he felt that among the rocks a little thin wind blewconstantly from one corner; and feeling about with his hands, he foundthat it came out of a small crack in the rocks. The stone above itseemed to be loose; and he perceived after a while that the end of thecave must be very near to the seaward face of the crag, and that thecave ran right through the rock, and was only kept from opening on theouter side by a thin barrier of stone; so after several attempts, using all his strength, he worked the stone loose; and then with agreat effort, he thrust the stone out; it fell with a great noise, leaping among the crags, and at last plunging into the sea. The windrushed in through the gap; then he saw that he had, as it were, asmall window looking out to sea, so small that he could not passthrough it, but large enough to let a light shine forth, if there werea light set there; but though it seemed again to him like the guidinghand of God, he could not devise how he should shelter the lightwithin from the wind. Indeed the hole made the cave a far lesshabitable place for himself, for the wind whistled very shrewdlythrough; he found it easy enough to stop the gap with an oldfisherman's coat--but then the light was hidden from view. So he trieda further plan; he dug a hole in the earth at the top of the cliff, and then made a bed of dry sand at the bottom of it; and he piled updry seaweed and wood within, thinking that if he lit his beacon there, it might be sheltered from the wind, and would burn fiercely enough tothrow up the flame above the top of the pit. He saw that heavy rainwould extinguish his fire; but the nights were most dangerous when itblew too strongly for rain to fall. So one night, when the wind blewstrongly from the sea, he laid wood in order, which he had gathered onthe land, and conveyed with many toilsome journeys over to the island. Then he lighted the pile, but it was as he feared; the wind blewfiercely over the top, and drove the flames downward, so that the pitglowed with a fierce heat; and sometimes a lighted brand was caught upand whirled over the cliffs; but he saw plainly enough that the lightwould not show out at sea. He was very sad at this, and at last wentheavily down to his cave, not knowing what he should do; and ponderinglong before he slept, he could see no way out. 

In the morning he went up to the cliff-top again, and turned hissteps to the pit. The fire had burned itself out, but the sides werestill warm to the touch; all the ashes had been blown by the force ofthe wind out of the hole; but he saw some bright things lie in thesand, which he could not wholly understand, till he pulled them outand examined them carefully. They were like smooth tubes and lumps ofa clear stuff, like molten crystal or frozen honey, full of bubblesand stains, but still strangely transparent; and then, though he sawthat these must in some way have proceeded from the burning of thefire, he felt as though they must have been sent to him for some wisereason. He turned them over and over, and held them up to the light. It came suddenly into his mind how he would use these heavenlycrystals; he would make, he thought, a frame of wood, and set thesejewels in the frame. Then he would set this in the hole of his cave, and burn a light behind; and the light would thus show over the sea, and not be extinguished. 

So this after much labour he did; he fitted all the clear pieces intothe frame, and he fixed the frame very firm in the hole with woodenwedges. Then he pushed clay into the cracks between the edges of theframe and the stone. Then he told some of those who came to him thathe had need of oil for a purpose, and they brought it him inabundance, and wicks for a lamp; and these he set in an earthen bowlfilled with oil, and on a dark night, when all was finished, he lithis lamp; and then clambered out on the furthest rocks of the island, and saw his light burn in the rocks, not clearly, indeed, but like aneye of glimmering fire. Then he was very glad at heart, and he toldthe fishermen how he had found means to set a light among the cliffs, and that he would burn it on dark and stormy nights, so that theymight see the light and avoid the danger. The tidings soon spread, andthey thought it a very magical and holy device; but did not doubt thatthe knowledge of it was given to David by God. 

So David was in great happiness. For he knew that the Father hadanswered his prayer, and allowed him, however little, to help theseafaring folk. 

He made other things after that; he put up a doorway with a door ofwood in the entering of the cave; he made, too, a little boat that hemight go to and fro to the land without swimming. And now, having nocare to provide food, for they brought it him in abundance, he turnedhis mind to many small things. He made a holy carving in the cave, ofChrist upon the Cross--and he carved around it a number of creatures, not men only, but birds and beasts, looking to the Cross, for hethought that the beasts also should have their joy in the greatoffering. His fame spread abroad; and there came a priest to see him, who abode with him for some days, prayed with him, and taught him muchof the faith. The priest gave him a book, and showed him the letters;but David, though he longed to read what was within, could not holdthe letters in his head. 

He tamed, too, the wild birds of the rock, so that they came to hiscall; one was a gull, which became so fearless that it would come tohis cave, and sit silent on a rock, watching him while he worked. Hekept a fish, too, in a pool of the rocks, that would rise to the edgewhen he approached. 

But all this time he went not near to the village; for his solitudehad become very dear to him, and he prayed continually; and at eveningand morning and midday he would sing praises to God, simple words thathe had made. 

One morning he awoke in the cave, and as he bestirred himself hethought in his heart of all his happiness. It was a still morning, butthe sky was overcast. Suddenly he heard voices below him; and thinkingthat he was needed, he descended the rocks quickly, and came down alittle way from a group of sailors who were standing on the shore;there was a boat drawn up on the sand, and near at hand there lay atanchor a small ship, that seemed to be of a foreign gear, and largerthan he was wont to see. He came somewhat suddenly upon the group, andthey seemed, as it were, to be amazed to see a man there. He wentsmilingly towards them, but as he did so there came into his heart afeeling of danger, he knew not what; and he thought that it would bebetter to retire up the rocks to his cave, and wait till the men hadwithdrawn--for it was not likely that they would visit him there, orthat even if they saw the way thither, they would adventure it, as itwas steep and dangerous. But he put the thought away and came up tothem. They seemed to be conferring together in low voices, and thenearer that he drew, the less he liked their look. He spoke to them, but they seemed not to understand, and answered him back very roughlyin a tongue he did not understand. But presently they put one forward, an old man, who had some words of English, who asked him what he didthere. He tried to explain that he lived on the island, but the oldman shook his head, evidently not believing that there could be oneliving in so bare a place. Then the men conferred again together, andpresently the old man asked him, in his broken speech, whether hewould take service on the ship with them. David said, smiling, that hewould not, for he had other work to do; and the old man seemed to tryand persuade him, saying that it was a good service; that they lived afree life, wandering where they would; but that they had lost menlately, and were hardly enough to sail the ship. 

Then it came into David's mind that he had fallen in with pirates. They were not often seen in these parts, for there was little enoughthat they could get, the folk being all poor, and small trafficpassing that way. And then, for he saw the group beginning to gatherround him, he made a prayer in his heart that he should be deliveredfrom the evil, and made proffer to the men of the little stores thathe had. The old man shook his head, and spoke with the others, who nowseemed to be growing angry and impatient; and then he said to Davidthat they had need of him to help to sail the ship, and that he mustcome whether he would or no. David cast a glance round to see if hecould escape up the rocks; but the men were all about him, and seeingin his eye that he thought of flight, they laid hands upon him. Davidresisted with all his might, but they overpowered him in a moment, bound his hands and feet, and cast him with much force into theirboat. Then David was sorely disheartened; but he waited, committinghis soul to God. While he waited, he saw a strange thing; on the beachthere lay a box, tightly corded; the men raised this up very gently, and with difficulty, as it seemed to be heavy. Then they carried it upabove the tide-mark; and, making a hole among the loose stones, theyburied it very carefully, casting stones over it. Then one of themwith a chisel made a mark on the cliff behind, to show where the boxlay--and then, first looking carefully out to sea, they came into theboat, and rowed off to the ship, which seemed almost deserted; payingno more heed to David than if he had been a log of wood. 

The old man who understood English steered the boat; and David triedto say some words to him, to ask that he should be released; but theold man only shook his head; and at last bade David be silent withgreat anger. They rowed slowly out, and David could see the greatrocks, that had now been his home so long, rising, still and peaceful, in the morning light. Every rock and cranny was known to him. Therewas the place where, when he first came, he was used to fish. Therewas the cliff-top where he had made his fire; he could even see hislittle window in the front of the rocks, and he thought with griefthat it would be dark and silent henceforth. But he thought that hewas somehow in the hand of God; and that though to be dragged awayfrom his home seemed grievous, there must be some task to which theFather would presently set him, even if it were to go down to death;and though the cords that bound him were now very painful, and hisheart was full of sorrow, yet David felt a kind of peace in his spiritwhich showed him that God was still with him. 

When they got to the ship, there arose a dispute among the men as towhether they should run out to sea before it was dark, or whether theyshould lie where they were; there was but little wind, so they made uptheir minds to stay. David himself thought from the look of the skythat there was strong weather brewing. The old man who spoke Englishasked him what he thought, and he told him that there would be wind. He seemed to be disposed to believe David; but the men were tired, andit was decided to stay. 

They had unbound David that he might go on board; and the pain in hishands and feet was very great when the bonds were unloosed; and whenhe was on board they bound him again, but not so tightly, and led himdown into a cabin, close and dirty, where a foul and smoky lamp burnt. They bade him sit in a corner. The low ill-smelling place was verygrievous to David, and he thought with a sore heart of his clean coldcave, and his bed of fern. The men seemed to take no further heed ofhim, and went about preparing a meal. There seemed to be littlefriendliness among them; they spoke shortly and scowled upon eachother; and David divined that there had been some dispute aboard, andthat they were ill-content. There was little discipline, the men goingand coming when they would. 

Before long a meal was prepared; some sort of a stew with a richstrong smell, that seemed very gross and foul to David, who had beenused so long to his simple fare. The men came in and took from thedish what they desired; and a large jar was opened, which from itsfierce smell seemed to contain a hot and fiery spirit; and that it wasso David could easily discern, from the flushed faces and louder talkof the men, which soon became mingled with a gross merriment. The oldman brought a mess of the food to David, who shook his head smiling. Then the other, with more kindness than David had expected, asked ifhe would have bread; and fetched him a large piece, unbinding hishands for a little, that he might eat. Then he offered him some of thespirit; but David asked for water, which the old man gave him, bindinghis hands after he had drunk, with a certain gentleness. 

Presently the old man, after he too had eaten, came and sate downbeside David; and in his broken talk seemed to wish to win him, if hecould, to join them more willingly. He spoke of the pleasant life theylived, and of the wealth that they made, though he said not how theycame by it. He told him that he had seen some of it hidden that day, which they had done for greater security, so that, if the ship shouldbe cast away, the men might have some of their spoil waiting for them;and David understood from him, though he had but few words to explainit, that it had been that which had caused a strife among them. Forthey had come by the treasure very hardly, and they had lost some ofthe crew in so doing it--and some of the men had desired to share it, and have done with the sea for ever; but that it had been decided tomake another voyage first. 

Then David said very gently that he did not desire to join them, forhe was a man of peace; and he told him of his lonely life, and how hemade a light to keep ships off the dangerous coast; and at that theold man looked at him with a fixed air, and nodded his head as thoughhe had himself heard of the matter, or at least seen the light--allthis David told him, speaking slowly as to a child; but it seemed asthough every minute the remembrance of the language came more and moreback to the old man. 

But at last the man shook his head, and said that he was sorry sopeaceful a life must come to an end. But, indeed, David must go withthem whether he would or no; and that they would be good comrades yet;and he should have his share of whatever they got. And then he leftDavid and went on to the deck. 

Then there fell a great despair upon David; and at the same time thecrew, excited by the drink they had taken, for they drained the jar, began to dispute among themselves, and to struggle and fight; and oneof them espied David, and they gathered round and mocked him. Theymocked at his dress, his face, his hair, which had grown somewhatlong. And one of them in particular seemed most urgent, speaking longto the others, and pointing at David from time to time, while theothers fell into a great laughter. Then they fell to plucking hishair, and even to beating him--and they tried to force the spirit intohis mouth, but he kept his teeth clenched; and the very smell of thefiery stuff made his brain sick. But he could not stir hand or foot;and presently there came into his mind a great blackness of anger, sothat he seemed to be in the very grip of the evil one; and he knew inhis heart that if he had been unbound, he would have slain one or moreof them; for his heart beat thick, and there came a strange rednessinto his sight, and he gnashed his teeth for rage; at which theymocked him the more. But at last the old man came down into the cabin, and when he saw what they were at, he spoke very angrily to them, stamping his foot; and it seemed as though he alone had any authority, for they left off ill-using David, and went from him one by one. 

Then, after a while they began to nod in their places; one or two ofthem cast themselves into beds made in the wall; others fell on thefloor, and slept like beasts; and at last they all slept; and last ofall the old man came in again, bearing a lamp, and looked round theroom in a sort of angry disgust. Then he said a word to David, andopening a door went on into a cabin beyond, closing the door behindhim. 

Then, in the low light of the smoking lamp, and in the hot and reekingroom, with the foul breathing of the sleepers round him, David spent avery dreadful hour. He had never in the old days seen so ill a scene;and it was to him, exhausted by pain and by rage, as if a dark thingcame behind him, and whispered in his secret ear that God regarded notmen at all, and that the evil was stronger than the good, andprevailed. He tried to put the thought away; but it came all the moreinstantly, that what he had seen could not be, if God had indeed powerto rule. It was not only the scene itself, but the thought of whatthese men were, and the black things they had doubtless done, thedeeds of murder, cruelty, and lust that were written plainly on alltheir faces; all these came like dark shadows and gathered about him. 

David stirred a little to ease himself of his pain and stiffness; andhis foot struck against a thing. He looked down, and saw in the shadowof the table a knife lying, which had fallen from some man's belt. Athought of desperate joy came into his mind. He bent himself down withhis bound hands, and he contrived to gather up the knife. Then, veryswiftly and deftly, he thrust the haft between his knees; then heworked the rope that bound his hands to and fro over the blade; therope parted, and the blood came back into his numbed fingers with aterrible pain. But David heeded it not, and stooping down, he cut thecord that bound his feet; then he rose softly, and sate down again;for the blood, returning to his limbs, made him feel he could notstand yet awhile. All was still in the cabin, except for the slowbreathing of those that slept; save that every now and then one of thesleepers broke into a stifled cry, and muttered words, or stirred inhis sleep. 

Presently David felt that he could walk. He pondered for a momentwhether he should take the knife, if he were suddenly attacked; but heresisted the thought, and left the knife lying on the ground. 

Then stepping lightly among the sleepers, he moved like a shadow tothe door; very carefully he stepped; and at each movement or mutteredword he stopped and caught his breath. Suddenly one of the men roseup, leaning on his arm, and looked at him with a stupid stare; butDavid stood still, waiting, with his heart fit to break within hisbreast, till the man lay down again. Then David was at the door. Thecabin occupied half the ship to the bows; the rest was undecked, withhigh bulwarks; a rough ladder of steps led to the gangway. David stoodfor a moment in the shadow of the door; but there seemed no one on thewatch without. The pure air and the fresh smell of the sea came to hissenses like a breath of heaven. He stepped swiftly over a coil ofrope; then up the ladder, and plunged noiselessly into the sea. 

He swam a few strokes very strongly; and then he looked about him. Thenight was as dark as pitch. He could see a dim light from the shipbehind him; the water rose and fell in a slow heavy swell; but whichway the land lay he could not tell. But he said to himself that it wasbetter to drown and be certainly with God, than in the den of robbershe had left. So he turned himself round in the water, trying toremember where the shore lay, but it was all dark, both the sky andsea, with a pitchy blackness; only the lights of the ship glimmeredtowards him like little bright paths across the heaving tide. 

Suddenly there came a thing so wonderful that David could hardlybelieve he saw truly; a bright eye of light, as it were, opened uponhim in the dark, far off, and hung high in the heavens, like a quietstar. The radiance of it was like the moon, cold and clear. And thoughDavid could not at first divine whence it came, he did not doubt inhis heart that it was there to guide him; so he struck out towards it, with long silent strokes. He swam for a long time, the light shiningsoftly over the water, and seeming to rise higher over his head, whilethe glimmering of the ship's lights grew fainter and more murky behindhim. Then he became aware that he was drawing near to the land; greatdark shapes loomed up over his head, and he heard the soft beating ofwaves before him. Then he could see too, as he looked upon the light, that there was a glimmer around it; and he saw that it came from theedges and faces of rocks that were lit up by the radiance. So he swammore softly; and presently his foot struck a rock covered with weed;so he put his feet down, waded in cautiously, and pulling himself upby the hands found himself on a rocky shore, and knew that it was hisown island. 

Then the light above him, as though it had but waited for his safetyto be secured, died softly away, like the moon gliding into a cloud. David wondered very much at this, and cast about in his mind how itmight be; but his heart seemed to tell him that there was some holyand beautiful thing on the island very near to him. He could hardlycontain himself for gladness; and he thought that God had doubtlessgiven him this day of misery and terror, partly that he might valuehis peace truly, and partly that he might feel that he had it not ofright, but by the gracious disposition of the Father. 

So he climbed very softly and swiftly to the cave; and entered itwith a great gladness; and then he became aware of a great awe in hismind. There was somewhat there, that he could not see with his eyes, but which was more real and present than anything he had ever known;the cave seemed to shine with a faint and tender gleam that was dyingaway by slow degrees; as though the roof and walls had been chargedwith a peaceful light, which still rayed about them, though theradiance that had fed it was withdrawn. He took off his drippingclothes, and wrapped himself in his old sea-cloak. But he did notthink of sleep, or even of prayer; he only sate still on his bed offern, with his eyes open in the darkness, drinking in the strong andsolemn peace which seemed to abide there. David never had known such afeeling, and he was never to know it again so fully; but for the timehe seemed to sit at the foot of God, satisfied. While he thus sate, agreat wind sprang up outside and thundered in the rocks; fiercer andfiercer it blew, and soon there followed it the loud crying of thesea, as the great waters began to heave and rage. Then David bestirredhimself to light and trim his lamp, and set it in the window as awarning to ships. And when he had done this he felt a great and suddenweariness, and he laid himself down; and sleep closed over him atonce, as the sea closes over a stone that is flung into it. 

Once in the night he woke, with the roar of the storm in his ears, and wondered that he had slept through it. He had been through manystormy nights, but he had never heard the like of this. The wind blewwith a steady roar, like a flood of thunder outpoured; in the midst ofit, the great waves, hurled upon the rocks, uttered their voices; andbetween he heard the hiss of the water, as it rushed downwards fromthe cliff face. In the midst of all came a sharp and sudden wailingcry; and then he began to wonder what the poor ship was doing, whichhe thought of as riding furiously at her anchor, with the drunkencrew, and the old man with his sad and solemn face, who seemed sodifferent from his unruly followers, and yet was not ashamed to ruleover them and draw profit from their evil deeds. In spite of the illthey had tried to do him, he felt a great pity for them in his heart;but this was but for a moment, for sleep closed over him again, anddrew him down into forgetfulness. 

When David woke in the morning, the gale had died away, but the skywept from low and ragged clouds, as if ashamed and sullen at the wrathof the day before. Water trickled in the cracks of the rock; and whenDavid peered abroad, he looked into the thin drifting clouds. He had agreat content in his heart, but the awe and the strange peace of thenight had somehow diminished. 

He began to reflect upon the light that he had seen from the sea. Itwas not his lamp that had given out such light, for it was clear andthin, while the light his own lamp gave was angry and red. Moreover, when he had lighted the lamp before the storm, it was standing idle, not in the window-place, but on the rock-shelf where he had set it. Then he knew that some great and holy mystery had been wrought for himthat night, and that he had been very tenderly used. 

Presently he descended the cliff, and went out upon the seaward side. The waves still rose angrily under the grey sky, but were fastabating. He saw in a moment that the shore was full of wreckage; therewere spars and timbers everywhere, and all the litter of a ship. Someof the timbers were flung so high upon the rocks that he saw how greatthe violence of the storm had been. He walked along, and in a minutehe came upon the body of a man lying on his face, strangely battered. 

Then he saw another body, and yet another. He lifted them up, butthere was no sign of life in them; and he recognised with a greatsadness that they were the pirates who had dragged him from his home. He had for a moment one evil thought in his mind, a kind of triumph inhis heart that God had saved him from his enemies, and delivered themover to death; but he knew that it was a wicked thought, and thrust itfrom him. At last at the end of the rocks he found the old captainhimself. There was a kind of majesty about him, even in death, as helay looking up at the sky, with one arm flung across his breast, andthe other arm outstretched beside him. Then he saw the ribs of theship itself stick up among the rocks, and he wondered to find the hullso broken and ruinous. 

His next care was that the poor bodies should have burial. So aboutmidday he took his boat from its shelter, and rowed across to theland; and then, with a strange fear of the heart, he climbed thecliff, and walked down slowly to the village, which he had thought inhis heart he would never have seen again. 

The wind had now driven the clouds out of the sky, and the sun cameout with a strong white light, the light that shines from the sky whenthe earth has been washed clean by rain. It sparkled brightly in thelittle drops that hung like jewels in the grass and bushes. It waswith a great throb of the heart that David came out upon the end ofthe down, and saw the village beneath him. It looked as though nochange had passed over it, but as though its life must have stoodstill, since he left it; then there came tears into David's eyes atthe thought of the old hard life he had lived there, and how God hadsince filled his cup so full of peace; so with many thoughts in hisheart he came slowly down the path to the town. He first met twochildren whom he did not know; he spoke to them, but they looked for amoment in terror at his face; his hair and beard were long, and he wasall tanned by the sun; but he spoke softly to them, and presently theycame to him and were persuaded to tell their names. They were thechildren, David thought, of a young lad whom he had known as a boy;and presently, as the manner of children is when they have laid asidefear, they told him many small things, their ages and their doings, and other little affairs which seem so big to a child; and then theywould take his hands and lead him to the village, while David smiledto be so lovingly attended. He was surprised, when he entered thestreet, to see how curiously he was regarded. Even men and women, thathe had known, would hardly speak with him, but did him reverence. Thechildren would lead him to their house first; and so he went thither, not unwilling. When they were at the place, he found with a gentlewonder that it was even the house where he had himself dwelt. He wentin, and found the mother of the children within, one whom he had knownas a girl. She greeted him with the same reverence as the rest; sothat he at last took courage, and asked her why it should not be as ithad been before. And then he learned from her talk, with a strangesurprise, that it was thought that he was a very holy man, muchvisited by God, who not only had been shown how, by a kind of magicalsecret, to save ships from falling on that deadly coast, but as onewhose prayers availed to guard and keep the whole place safe. He triedto show her that this was not so, and that he was a simple person ingreat need of holiness; but he saw that she only thought him theholier for his humility, so he was ashamed to say more. 

Then he went to the chief man in the village, and told him whereforehe had come--that there was a wreck on the shore of the islands, andthat there were bodies that must be buried. One more visit he paid, and that was to the little maiden whom he had seen the last when hewent away. She was now nearly grown to a woman, and her grandmotherwas very old and weak, and near her end. David went there alone, andsaid that he had returned as he had promised; but he found that thechild had much lost her remembrance of him, and could hardly see thefriend she had known in the strong and wild-looking figure that he hadbecome. He talked a little quietly; the old grandmother, who could notmove from her chair, was easier with him, and asked him, lookingcuriously upon him, whether he had found that of which he went insearch. "Nay, mother, " he said, "not found; but I am like a man whosefeet are set in the way, and who sees the city gate across thefields. " Then she smiled at him and said, "But I am near the gate. "Then he told her that he often thought of her, and made mention of herin his prayers; and so rose to go; but she asked him to bless her, which David did very tenderly, and kissed her and departed; but hewent heavily; because he feared to be regarded as he was now regarded;and he thought in his heart that he would never return again, butdwell alone in his cave with God. For the world troubled him; and thevoices of the children, and the looks of those that he had knownbefore seemed to lay soft hands about his heart, and draw him backinto the world. 

The same day he returned to the cave; and the boats came out and tookthe bodies away, and they were laid in the burying-ground. 

Then the next day many returned to clear away the wreck; and Davidcame not out of his cave while they did this; for it went to his heartto see the joy with which they gathered what had meant the death of somany men. They asked him what they should leave for him, and heanswered, "Nothing--only a piece of plain wood, for a purpose. " Sowhen evening came they had removed all; and the island, that had rungall day with shouts and talk and the feet of men, was silent again;but before they went, David said that he had a great desire to see apriest, if a message could be sent; and this they undertook to do. ButDavid was very heavy-hearted for many days, for it seemed to him thatthe sight of the world had put all the peace out of his heart; and hisprayers came hollow and dry. 

A few days after there came a boat to the rock; the sea was runningsomewhat high, and they had much ado to make a landing. David wentdown to the water's edge, and saw that besides the fishermen, whom heknew, there was a little wizened man in a priest's dress, that seemedbewildered by the moving of the boat and the tossing of the big waveswith their heaving crests, that broke upon the rocks with a heavysound. At last they got the boat into the creek, and the little priestcame nimbly ashore, but not without a wetting. The fishermen said thatthey would return in the evening, and fetch the priest away. 

He looked a frail man, and David could not discern whether he wereyoung or old; and he felt a pity for a man who was so unhandy, and whoseemed to be so scared of the sea. But the priest came up to him andtook his hand. "I have heard much of you, my brother, " he said, "and Ihave desired to see you--but this sea of yours is a strange and wildmonster, and I trust it not, --though indeed it is God's handiwork. YetKing David, your patron, was of the same mind, I think, and wrote inone of his wise psalms how it made the heart to melt within him. "David looked at him with much attention as he spoke, and there wassomething in the priest's eye, a kind of hidden fire, joined with awise mirth, that made him, all of a sudden, feel like a child beforehim. So he said, "Where will your holiness sit? It is cold here in thewind; I have a dwelling in the rocks, but it is hard to come by exceptfor winged fowl, and for men like myself who have been used to theprecipices. "

"Well, show the way, brother, " said the priest cheerfully, "and I willadventure my best. " So David showed him the way up the crags, and wentslowly in front of him, that he might help him up; but the priestclimbed like a cat, looking blithely about him, and had no need ofhelp, though he was encumbered with his robe. 

When they were got there, the priest looked curiously about him, andpresently knelt down before the carving, and said a little prayer tohimself. 

Then he questioned David about his life, asking questions briskly, asthough he were accustomed to command; and David felt more and moreevery moment that he was as a child before this masterful and waryman. He told him of his early life, and of his visions, and of hisdesire to know God, and of the light that he set in the rocks; andthen he told him of his adventure with the pirates, not forgetting thetreasure. The priest heard him with great attention, and saidpresently that he had done well, and that God was with him. Then heasked him how he would have the treasure bestowed, and David said thathe had no design in his mind. "Then that shall be my care, " said thepriest, "and I doubt not that the Lord hath sent it us, that there maybe a church in this lonely place. "

And then, turning to David with a wonderful and piercing look, hesaid, "And this peace of spirit that you speak of, that you came hereto seek, tell me truly, brother, have you found it?"

Then David looked upon the ground a little and said, "Dear sir, Iknow not; I am indeed strangely happy in this lonely place; but tospeak all the truth, I feel like a man who lingers at a gate, and whohears the sound of joy and melody within, which rejoices his heart, but he is not yet admitted. No, " he went on, "I have not found theway. The Father is indeed very near me, and I am certain of Hislove--but there is still a barrier between me and His Heart. "

Then the priest bowed his head awhile in thought, but said nothingfor a long space; and then David said, "Dear sir, advise me. " Then thepriest looked at him with a clear gaze, and said, "Shall I advise you, O my brother?" And David said, "Yes, dear sir. " Then the priest said, "Indeed, my brother, I see in your life the gracious hand of God. Hedid redeem you, and He planted in your heart a true seed of peace. Youhave lived here a holy and an innocent life; but He withholds from youHis best gift, because you are not willing to be utterly led by Him. There have been in ancient days many such souls, who have fled fromthe wickedness of the world, and have spent themselves in prayer andpenance, and have done a holy work--for indeed there are manyvictories that may be won by prayer. But indeed, dear brother, I thinkthat God's will for you is that this lonely life of yours should havean end. I think that you have herein followed your own pleasureovermuch; and I believe that God would now have you go back to theworld, and work for Him therein. You have a great power with thissimple folk; but they are as sheep without a shepherd, and must befed, and none but you can now feed them. You will bethink you of thevisit that the Lord Christ paid to the Sisters of Bethany; Marthalaboured much to please Him, but she laboured for her own pleasingtoo; and Mary it was that had the good part, because she thought notof herself, but of the Lord. And now, dear brother, I would have youdo what will be very grievous to you. I would have you go back to yournative place, and there abide to labour for God; you may come hitherat seasons, and be alone with God, and that will refresh you; but youare now, methinks, like a man who has found a great treasure, and whospeaks no word of it to others, and neither uses it himself, but onlylooks upon it and is glad. "

Then David was very sad at the priest's words, knowing that he spokethe truth. But the priest said, "Now we will speak no more of thisawhile; and I would not have you do it, unless your heart consentsthereto; only be strong. " And then he asked if he might have somewhatto eat; and David brought him his simple fare; so they ate together, and while they ate, it came into David's mind that this was certainlythe way. All that afternoon they sate, while the wind rustled without, and the sea made a noise; and then the priest said they would go andlook at the treasure, because it was near evening, and he must return. So they went down together, and drew the rocks off from the box. Itwas a box of wood, tightly corded, and they undid it, and found withina great store of gold and silver pieces, which the priest reckoned up, and said that it would be abundant for a church. 

Then they saw the boat approach; and the priest blessed David, andDavid thanked him with tears, for showing him the truth; and thepriest said, "Not so, my brother; I did but show you what is in yourown heart, for God puts such truth in the heart of all of us as we canbear; but sometimes we keep it like a sword in its scabbard, until thebright and sharp thing, that might have wrought great deeds, be allrusted and blunted. "

And then the priest departed, taking with him the box of gold, andDavid was left alone. 

David was very heavy-hearted when he was left alone on the island. He knew that the priest had spoken the truth, but he loved hissolitary life, and the silence of the cave, the free air and the sun, and the lonely current of his own thoughts. The sun went slowly downover the waters in a great splendour of light and colour, so that theclouds in the sky seemed like purple islands floating in a golden sea;David sitting in his cave thought with a kind of terror of the smalland close houses of the village, the sound of feet, and talk of menand women. At last he fell asleep; and in his sleep he dreamed that hewas in a great garden. He looked about him with pleasure, and hepresently saw a gardener moving about at his work. He went in thatdirection, and he saw that the man, who was old and had a very wiseand tender face, was setting out some young trees in a piece ofground. He planted them carefully with deft hands, and he smiled tohimself as he worked, as though he was full of joyful thoughts. Davidwished in his heart to go and speak with him, but something held himback. Presently the gardener went away, and while he was absent, another man, of a secret aspect, came swiftly into the place, peeringabout him. His glance passed David by, and David knew that he was insome way unseen. The man looked all about him in a furtive haste, andthen plucked up one of the trees, which seemed to David to be alreadygrowing and shooting out small leaves and buds. The man smoothed downthe ground where he drew it out, and then went very quickly away. David would have wished to stop him, but he could not. Then the oldgardener came back, and looked long at the place whence the tree hadbeen drawn. Then he sighed to himself, and cast a swift look in thedirection in which the man had fled. He had brought other trees withhim, but he did not plant one in the empty space, but left it bare. Then David felt that he must follow the other, and so he did. He foundhim very speedily, but it was outside the garden, in a rough place, where thorny bushes and wild plants grew thickly. The other hadcleared a little space among them, and here he set the tree; but heplanted it ill and hastily, as though he was afraid of beingdisturbed; and then he departed secretly. David stood and watched thetree a little. It seemed at first to begin to grow again as it haddone before, but presently something ailed it and it drooped. ThenDavid saw the thorny bushes near it begin to stretch out their armsabout it, and the wild herbs round about sprang up swiftly, and soonthe tree was choked by them, and hardly appeared above the brake. David began to be sorry for the tree, which still kept some life init, and struggled as it were feebly to put out its boughs above thethicket. While he stood he saw the old gardener approaching, and as heapproached he carefully considered the ground. When he saw the tree, he smiled, and drew it out carefully, and went back to the garden, andDavid followed him; he planted it again tenderly in the ground; andthe tree which had looked so drooping and feeble began at once to putforth leaves and flowers. The gardener smiled again, and then for thefirst time looked upon David. His eyes were deep and grave like astill water; and he smiled as one might who shares a secret withanother. And then of a sudden David awoke, and found the light of dawncreeping into the cave; and he fell to considering the dream, and in amoment knew that it was sent for his learning. So he hesitated nolonger, but gave up his will to God. 

It was a sad hour for David nevertheless; he walked softly about thecave, and he put aside what he would take with him, and it seemed tohim that he was, as it were, uprooting a tree that had grown deep; hetied up what he would take with him, but he left some things behind, for he thought that he might return. And then he kneeled down andprayed, the tears running over his face; and lastly he rose and kissedthe cold wall of the cave; at the door he saw the gull that had beenwith him so oft, and he scattered some crumbs for it, and while thebird fell to picking the crumbs, David descended the rock swiftly, nothaving the heart to look about him; and then he put his things in theboat, and rowed swiftly and silently to the shore, looking back at thegreat rocks which stood up all bright and clear in the fresh light ofthe dawn, with the waves breaking softly at their feet. 

David had no fixed plan in his mind, as he rowed across to the land. He only thought that it was right for him to return, and to take uphis part in the old life again. He did not dare to look before him, but simply put, as it were, his hand in the hand of God, and hoped tobe led forward. He was soon at the shore, and he pulled his boat up onthe land, and left it lying in a little cave that opened upon thebeach; then he shouldered his pack, and went slowly, with evenstrides, across the hill and down to the village. He met no one on theway, and the street seemed deserted. He made his way to the house ofthe old woman who was his friend; he put his small pack at the doorand entered. The little house was quite silent. But he heard a soundof weeping; when he came into the outer room, he saw the maidensitting in a chair with her face bowed on the table. He called to herby name; she lifted her head and looked at him for a moment and thenrose up and came to him, as a child comes to be comforted. He saw atonce that some grievous thing had happened; and presently with sobsand tears she told him that her grandmother had died a few daysbefore, that she had been that day buried, and that she knew not whatshe was to do. There seemed more behind; and David at last made outthat she was asked in marriage by a young fisherman whom she did notlove, and she knew not how else to live. And then he said that he wascome back and would not depart from her, and that she should be adaughter to him. 

Now of the rest of the life of David I must not here speak; he livedin the village, and he did his part; a little chapel was built in theplace with the money of the pirates; and David went in and out amongthe folk of the place, and drew many to the love of God; he went onceback to the cave, but he abode not long there; but of one thing I willtell, and that is of a piece of carving that David did, working littleby little in the long winter nights at the piece of wood that camefrom the pirate ship. The carving is of a man standing on the shore ofthe sea, and holding up a lantern in his hand, and on the sea iscarved a ship. And David calls his carving "The Light of the World. "At the top of it is a scroll, with the words thereon, "He shall senddown from on high to fetch me, and shall take me out of many waters. "And beneath is another scroll on which is graven, "Thou also shaltlight my candle; the Lord my God shall make my darkness to be light. "

 THE WAVING OF THE SWORD

The things that are set down here happened in the ancient days whenthere was sore fighting in the land; the King, who was an unjust man, fighting to maintain his realm, and the barons fighting for the law;and the end was not far off, for the King was driven backwards to thesea, and at last could go no further; so he gathered all the troopsthat he might in a strong fort that lay in the midst of the downs, where the hills dipped to the plain to let the river pass through; andthe barons drew slowly in upon him, through the forest in the plain. Beyond the downs lay the sea, and there in a little port was gatheredthe King's navy, that if the last fight went ill with him, as indeedhe feared it would, he might fly for safety to another land. 

Now in a house below the down, a few miles from the King'sstronghold, dwelt a knight that was neither old nor young, and hisname was Sir Henry Strange. He lived alone and peevishly, and he didneither good nor evil. He had no skill in fighting, but neither had heskill in peaceful arts. He had tried many things and wearied of all. He had but a small estate, which was grown less by foolish waste. Hecould have made it into a rich heritage, for his land was good. But hehad no patience with his men, and confused them by his orders, whichhe would not see carried out. Sometimes he would fell timber, and thenleave it to rot in the wood; or he would plough a field, and sow itnot. At one time he had a fancy to be a minstrel, but he had notpatience to attain to skill; he would write a ballad and leave itundone; or he would begin to carve a figure of wood, and toss itaside; sometimes he would train a dog or a horse; but he would so rageif the beast, being puzzled for all its goodwill, made mistakes, thatit grew frightened of him--for nothing can be well learnt exceptthrough love and trust. He would sometimes think that he should havebeen a monk, and that under hard discipline he would have faredbetter--and indeed this was so, for he had abundant aptitude. He wasalone in the world, for he had come into his estate when young; but hehad had no patience to win him a wife. At first, indeed, his life hadnot been an unhappy one, for he was often visited by small joyfulthoughts, which made him glad; and he took much pleasure, on sunshinydays, in the brave sights and sounds of the world. But such delightshad grown less; and he was now a tired and restless man of fortyyears, who lay long abed and went not much abroad; and was for evertelling himself how happy he would be if this or that were otherwise. Far down in his heart he despised himself, and wondered how God hadcome to make so ill-contented a thing; but that was a chamber in hismind that he visited not often; but rather took pleasure in thethought of his skill and deftness, and his fitness for the many thingshe might have done. 

And now in the war he had come to a pass. He would not join himself tothe King, because the King was an evil man, and he liked not evil; yethe loved not rebellion, and feared for his safety if the King had theupper hand; but it was still more that he had grown idle andsoft-hearted, and feared the hard faring and brisk jesting of thecamp. Yet even so the thought of the war lay heavy on his heart, andhe wondered how men, whose lives were so short upon the goodly earth, should find it in their hearts to slay and be slain for such shadowythings as command and dominion; and he thought he would have made asong on that thought, but he did not. 

And now the fighting had come very near him; and he had let some ofhis men go to join the King, but he went not himself, saying that hewas sick, and might not go abroad. 

He stood on a day, at this time, by a little wall that enclosed hisgarden-ground. It was in the early summer; the trees had put on theirfresh green, and glistened in the still air, and the meadows were deepwith grass, on the top of which seemed to float unnumbered yellowflowers. In and out the swallows passed, hunting for the flies thatdanced above the grass; and he stood, knowing how fair the earth was, and yet sick at heart, wondering why he could not be as a carelessbird, that hunts its meat all day in the sun, and at evening sings asong of praise among the thickets. 

Over the trees ran the great down with its smooth green sides, as faras the eye could see. The heat winked on its velvety bluffs, and itseemed to him, as it had often seemed before, like a great beast lyingthere in a dream, with a cloth of green cast over its huge limbs. 

He was a tall lean man, somewhat stooping. His face had a certainbeauty; his hair and beard were dark and curling; he had large eyesthat looked sadly out from under heavy lids. His mouth was small, andhad a very sweet smile when he was pleased; but his brow was puckeredtogether as though he pondered; his hands were thin and delicate, andthere was something almost womanly about his whole air. 

Presently he walked into the little lane that bordered his garden. Heheard the sound of wheels coming slowly along the white chalky road;he waited to look, and saw a sad sight. In the cart was a truss ofhay, and sunk upon it sate a man, his face down on his breast, deadlypale; as the cart moved, he swayed a little from side to side. Thedriver of the cart walked beside, sullenly and slowly; and by himwalked a girl, just grown a woman, as pale as death, looking at theman that sate in the cart with a look of terror and love; sometimesshe would take his helpless hand, and murmur a word; but the manheeded not, and sate lost in his pain. As they passed him he could seea great bandage on the man's chest that was red with blood. He askedthe waggoner what this was, and he told him that it was a young man ofthe country-side that had been hurt in a fight; he was but newlymarried, and it was thought he could not live. The cart had stopped, and the woman pulled a little cup out of a jug of water that stood inthe straw, and put it to the wounded man's lips, who opened his eyes, all dark and dazed with pain, but with no look of recognition in them, and drank greedily, sinking back into his sick dream again. The girlput the cup back, and clasped her hands over her eyes, and then acrossher breast with a low moan, as though her heart would break. The tearscame into Sir Henry's eyes; and fumbling in his pockets he took outsome coins and gave them to the woman, with a kind word. "Let him bewell bestowed, " he said. The woman took the coins, hardly heeding him;and presently the cart started again, a shoot of pain darting acrossthe wounded man's face as the wheels grated on the stones. 

Sir Henry stood long looking after them; and it came into his heartthat war was a foul and evil thing; though he half envied the poorsoul that had fought his best, and was now sinking into the shadow ofdeath. 

While he thus lingered there sprang into his mind a thought that madehim suddenly grow erect. 

He walked swiftly along the lane with its high hedges and tall elms. The lane was at the foot of the down, but raised a little above theplain, so that he could see the rich woodland with its rolling lines, and far away the faint line of the northern hills. It was very still, and there seemed not a care in the great world; it seemed all peaceand happy quiet life; yet the rumbling of the cartwheels which hestill heard at a distance, now low and now loud, told him of thesorrow that lay hidden under those dreaming woods; was it all thus?And then he thought of the great armies that were so near, and of allthe death they meant to deal each other. And yet God sat throned aloftwatching all things, he thought, with a calm and quiet eye, waiting, waiting. But for what? Was His heart indeed pitiful and loving, as Hispriests said? and did He hold in His hand, for those that passed intothe forgetful gate, some secret of joyful peace that would all in amoment make amends?

He stopped beside a little stile--there, in front of him, over thetops of an orchard, the trees of which were all laden with white androsy flowers, lay a small high-shouldered church, with a low steepleof wood. The little windows of the tower seemed to regard him as withdark sad eyes. He went by a path along the orchard edge, and enteredthe churchyard, full of old graves, among which grew long tumbledgrass. He thought with a throb, that was almost of joy, of all thosethat had laid down their weary bones there in the dust, husband bywife, child by mother. They were waiting too, and how quietly! It wasall over for them, the trouble and the joy alike; and for a moment thedeath that all dread seemed to him like a simple and natural thing, the one thing certain. There at length they slept, a quiet sleep, waiting for the dawn, if dawn there were. 

He crossed the churchyard and entered the church; the coolness andthe dark and the ancient holy smell was sweet after the brightness andthe heat outside. Every line of the place was familiar to him from hischildhood. He walked slowly up the little aisle and passed within thescreen. The chancel was very dark, only lighted by two or threedeep-set windows. He made a reverence and then drew near to the altar. 

All the furniture of the church was most simple and old; but over thealtar there was a long unusual-looking shelf; he went up to it, andstood for awhile gazing upon it. Along the shelf lay a rude andancient sword of a simple design, in a painted scabbard of wood; andover it was a board with a legend painted on it. 

The legend was in an old form of French words, long since disused inthe land. But it said:

_Unsheathe me and die thyself, but the battle shall be stayed. _

He had known the look of the sword, and the words on the board from achild. The tale was that there had been in days long past a greatbattle on the hill, and that the general of one of the armies had beentold, in a dream or vision, that if he should himself be slain, thenshould his men have the victory; but that if he lived through thebattle, then should his men be worsted. Now before the armies met, while they stood and looked upon each other, the general, so said thetale, had gone out suddenly and alone, with his sword bare in hishand, and his head uncovered; and that as he advanced, one of his foeshad drawn a bow and pierced him through the brain, so that he fell inhis blood between the armies; and that then a kind of fury had fallenupon his men to avenge his death, and they routed the foe with amighty slaughter. But the sword had been set in the church with thislegend above it; and there it had lain many a year. 

So Sir Henry disengaged the sword from its place very tenderly andcarefully. It had been there so long that it was all covered withdust; and then, holding it in his hands, he knelt down and made aprayer in his heart that he might have strength for what he had a mindto do; and then he walked softly down the church, looking about himwith a sort of secret tenderness, as though he were bidding it allfarewell; his own father and mother were buried in the church; and hestopped for awhile beside their grave, and then, holding the sword byhis side--for he wished it not to be seen of any--he went back to hishouse, and put the sword away in a great chest, that no one might knowwhere it was laid. 

Then he tarried not, but went softly out; and all that afternoon hewalked about his own lands, every acre of them; for he did not thinkto see them again; and his mind went back to the old days; he had notthought that all could be so full of little memories. In this place heremembered being set on a horse by his father, who held him verylovingly and safely while he led the great beast about; he rememberedhow proud he had been, and how he had fancied himself a mightywarrior. On this little pond, with all its reeds and water-lilies, hehad sailed a boat on a summer day, his mother sitting near under atree to see that he had no danger; and thus it was everywhere; till, as he walked in the silent afternoon, he could almost have believedthat there were others that walked with him unseen, to left and right;for at every place some little memory roused itself, as the flies thatrise buzzing from the leaves when you walk in an alley, until he feltlike a child again, with all the years before him. 

Then he came to the house again, and did the same for every room. Heleft one room for the last, a room where dwelt an old and simple womanthat had nursed him; she was very frail and aged now, and went notmuch abroad, but sate and did little businesses; and it was ever adelight to her if he asked her to do some small task for him. He foundher sitting, smiling for pleasure that he should come to her thus; andhe kissed her, and sate beside her for awhile, and they talked alittle of the childish days, for he was still ever a child to her. Then he rose to leave her, and she asked him, as was her wont, ifthere was anything that she could do for him, for it shamed her, shesaid, to sit and idle, when she had been so busy once, and when therewas still so much to do. And he said, "No, dear nurse, there isnothing at this time. " And he hesitated for an instant, and then said, "There is indeed one thing; I have a business to do to-night, that ishard and difficult; and I do not know what the end will be; will yousay a prayer for your boy to-night, that he may be strong?" She lookedat him quickly and was silent; and then she said, "Yes, dear child, but I ever do that--and I have no skill to make new prayers--but Iwill say my prayer over and over if that will avail. " And he said, smiling at her, though the tears were in his eyes, "Yes, it willavail, " and so he kissed her and went away, while she fell to herprayers. 

Now the day had all this while grown stiller and hotter, till therewas not a breath stirring; and now out to the eastwards there came onan angry blackness in the sky, with a pale redness beneath it, wherethe thunder dwelt. Sir Henry sate down, for he was weary of hiswalking, and in a little he fell asleep; his thoughts still ran uponthe sword, for he dreamed that he had it with him in a wood that heknew not, that was dark with the shade of leaves; and he hung thesword upon a tree, and went on, to win out of the wood if he could, for it seemed very close and heavy in the forest; sometimes throughthe trees he saw a space of open ground, with ferns glistening in thesun; but he could not find the end of the wood; so he came back in hisdream to where he had left the sword; and while he stood watching it, he saw that something dark gathered at the scabbard end, and presentlyfell with a little sound among the leaves. Then with a shock of terrorhe saw that it was blood; and he feared to take the sword back; butlooking downwards he perceived that where the blood had fallen, therewere red flowers growing among the leaves of a rare beauty, whichseemed to be born of the blood. So he gathered a handful, and wreathedthe sword with them; and then came a gladness into his mind, withwhich he awoke, and found it evening; he came back to himself with akind of terror, and a fear darted into his breast; the windows wereopen, and there came in a scent of flowers; and he felt a great lovefor the beautiful earth, and for his quiet life; and he looked at thechest; and there came into his mind a strong desire to take the swordout, and lay it back in the church, and let things be as they hadbeen; and so he sate and mused. 

Presently his old serving-man came in and told him he had set hissupper; so Henry went into the parlour, and made some pretence to beabout to eat; sending the old man away, who babbled a little to him ofthe war, of the barons' army that drew nearer, and of how the King wassore bested. When he was gone Sir Henry ate a little bread and drank asup of wine; and then he rose up, like one who had made up his mind. He went to the chest and drew out the sword; and then he went softlyout of the house, and presently walking swiftly he came out on thedown. 

It was now nearly dusk; the sky lay clear and still, fading into asort of delicate green, but all the west was shrouded in a dimblackness, the cloud being spread out, like a great dark bird wingingits way slowly up the sky. Then far down in the west there leapt, asit were, interlacing streams of fire out of the cloud, and thenfollowed a low rolling of thunder. 

But all the while he mounted the down, up a little track that gleamedwhite in the grass; and now he could see the huge plain, with a fewlights twinkling out of farms; far down to the west there was a littleredness of light, and he thought that this was doubtless where thearmy of the barons lay; but he seemed to himself to have neitherwonder nor fear left in his mind; he only went like one that had atask to perform; and soon he came to the top. 

Here all was bare, save for some bushes of furze that grew blackly inthe gloom; he stepped through them, and he came at last to where agreat mound stood, that was held to be the highest place in all thedown, a mound that marked the place of a battle, or that was perhapsthe burying-place of some old tribe--for it was called the Barrow ofthe Seven Kings. 

He came quickly to the mound, and went to the top; and then he laidthe sword upon the turf by him, and kneeled down; once again came agreat outpouring of fire from heaven in the west, and a peal ofthunder followed hard upon it; and indeed the storm was near at hand;he could see the great wings of the cloud moving now, and a few largedrops splashed in the grass about him, and one fell upon his brow. 

And now a great fear fell upon Henry of he knew not what. He seemedto himself to be in the presence of some vast and fearful thing, thatwas passing swiftly by; and yet seemed, for all its haste, to haveespied him, and to have been, as it were, stayed by him; there cameinto his mind a recollection of how he had once, on a summer's day, joined the mowers in one of the fields, and had mowed a few swatheswith them for the pleasure of seeing the rich seeded grass fall beforethe gleaming scythe. At one of his strokes, he remembered, he haduncovered a little field-mouse, that sate in the naked field, its highcovert having been swept bare from above it, and watched him withbright eyes of fear, while he debated whether he should crush it; hehad done so, he remembered, carelessly, with his foot, and now hewished that he had spared it, for it was even so that he himself felt. 

So to strengthen himself in his purpose, he made a prayer aloud, though it was a thing that in his idle life he had much foregone; andhe said:

"Lord God, if Thou indeed hearest and seest me, make me strong to dowhat I have a mind to do; I have lived foolishly and for myself, and Ihave little to give. I have despised life, and it is as an empty huskto me. I have put love away from me, and my heart is dry; I have hadfriends and I have wearied of them. I have profited nothing; I havewasted my strength in foolish dreams of pleasure, and I have not foundit. I am as a weed that cumbers the fair earth. "

Then he stayed for a moment, for he was afraid; for it seemed to himas though somewhat stood near to listen. Then he said again:--

"But, Lord, I do indeed love my fellow-men a little; and I would havethe waste of life stayed. It is a pitiful thing that I have to offer, but it is all that I have left--an empty life, which yet I love. Iwill not promise, Lord, to yield my life to the service of men, for Ilove my ease too well, and I should not keep my word--so I offer mylife freely into Thy hand, and let it avail that which it may avail. "

Then the blackness seemed to gather all about him, and he felt withhis hand in the turf and found the sword; then he drew the scabbardoff, and flung it down beside him, and he raised the sword in hishands. 

Then it seemed as though the heavens opened above him, but he saw notthe fire, nor heard the shouting of the thunder that followed; he fellon his face in the turf without a sound and moved no more. 

Now it happened that about the time that he unsheathed the sword, itcame into the heart of the King to send a herald to the barons; for hesaw the host spread out below him on the plain, and he feared to meetthem; and the barons, too, were weary of fighting; and the King boundhimself by a great oath to uphold the law of the realm, and so theland had peace. 

The next day came a troop of men-at-arms along the hill; and theywondered exceedingly to see a man lie on the mound with a sword in hishand unsheathed, and partly molten. He lay stiff and cold, but theycould not tell how he came by his death, and they knew not what he haddone for the land; his hand was so tightly clenched upon the sword, that they took it not out, but they buried him there upon thehill-top, very near the sky, and passed on; and no man knew what hadbecome of him. But God, who made him and had need of him, knoweth. 

 RENATUS

Renatus was a Prince of Saxony that was but newly come to hisprincedom; his father had died while he was a boy, and the realm hadbeen administered by his father's brother, a Duke of high courage andprudence. The Duke was deeply anxious for the fate of the princedomand his nephew's fortunes, for they lived in troubled times; thebarons of the province were strong and haughty men, with little carefor the Prince, and no thought of obedience; each of them lived in hiscastle, upon a small realm of his own; the people were muchdiscontented with the rule of the barons, and the Duke saw plainlyenough that if a prince could arise who could win the confidence ofthe people, the barons would have but little power left. Thus his carewas so to bring up the Prince Renatus that he should understand howhard a task was before him; but the boy, though quick of apprehension, was fond of pleasure and amusement, and soon wearied of graveinstructions; so the Duke did not persist overmuch, but strove to makethe little Prince love him and confide in him, hoping that, when theday of trial came, he might be apt to ask advice rather than acthastily and perhaps foolishly; but yet in this the Duke had notperfectly succeeded, as he was by nature grave and austere, and evenhis face seemed to have in it a sort of rebuke for lively andlight-minded persons. Still the Prince, though he was not at ease withthe Duke, trusted him exceedingly, and thought him wise and good, evenmore than the Duke imagined. 

The days had been full of feasting and pageants, and Renatus wasgreatly excited and eager at finding himself in so great a place. Hehad borne himself with much courtesy and dignity in his receiving ofembassies and such compliments; he had, too, besides the sweet giftsof youth and beauty, a natural affectionateness, which led him to wishto please those about him; and the Duke's heart was full of love andadmiration for the graceful boy, though there lay in the back of hismind a shadow of fear; and this grew very dark when he saw two of themost turbulent barons speaking together in a corner, with sidelongglances at the Prince, at one of the Court assemblies, and divinedthat they thought the boy would be but a pretty puppet in their hands. 

The custom was that the Prince, on the eve of his enthroning, shouldwatch for two hours alone in the chapel of the castle, from eleven toone at night, and should there consecrate himself to God; the guestsof the evening were departed; and a few minutes before eleven the Dukesate with the Prince in a little room off the chapel, waiting till itwas time for the Prince to enter the building. Renatus was in armour, as the custom was, with a white robe over all. He sate restlessly in achair, and there was a mischievous and dancing light of pleasure inhis eye, that made the Duke doubly grave. The Duke, after somediscourse of other matters, made a pause; and then, saying that it wasthe last time that he should take the privilege of guardianship--tooffer advice unless it were sought--said: "And now, Renatus, you knowthat I love you as a dear son; and I would have you remember that allthese things are but shows, and that there sits behind them a graveand holy presence of duty; these pomps are but the signs that you aretruly the Prince of this land; and you must use your power well, andto God's glory; for it is He that makes us to be what we are, andtruly calls us thereto. " Renatus heard him with a sort of courteousimpatience, and then, with a smile, said: "Yes, dear uncle, I know it;but the shows are very brave; and you will forgive me if my head isfull of them just now. Presently, when the pageants are all over, Ishall settle down to be a sober prince enough. I think you do nottrust me wholly in the matter--but I would not seem ungrateful, " headded rather hastily, seeing the gravity in the Duke's face--"forindeed you have been as a true father to me. "

The Duke said no more at that time, for he cared not to give untimelyadvice, and a moment after, a bell began to toll in the silence, andthe chaplain came habited to conduct the Prince to his chapel. So theywent the three of them together. 

It was dark and still within the church; in front of the altar-stepswere set a faldstool and a chair, where the Duke might pray, or sit ifhe were weary; two tall wax lights stood beside, and lit up thecrimson cloth and the gold fringes, so that it seemed like a rareflower blossoming in the dark. A single light, in a silver lamp hungby a silver chain, burnt before the altar; all else was dim; but theycould see the dark stalls of the choir, with their carven canopies, over which hung the banners of old knights, that moved softly to andfro; beyond were the pillars of the aisles, glimmering faintly in arow. The roof and windows were dark, save where here and there a ribof stone or a tracery stood out very rich and dim. All about there wasa kind of holy smell, of wood and carven stone and incense-smoke. 

The chaplain knelt beneath the altar; and the Prince knelt down at thefaldstool, the Duke beside him on the floor. And just as the old bellof the castle tolled the hour, and died away in a soft hum of sound, as sweet as honey, the chaplain said an ancient prayer, the purport ofwhich was that the Christian must watch and pray; that only the pureheart might see God; and asking that the Prince might be blest withwisdom, as the Emperor Solomon was, to do according to the will of theFather. 

Then the chaplain and the Duke withdrew; but as the Duke rose up, helaid his hand on the Prince's head and said, "God be with you, dearson, and open your eyes. " And Renatus looked up at him and smiled. 

Then the Duke went back to the little room, and prayed abundantly. Itwas arranged that he should wait there until the Prince's vigil wasover, when he would go to attend him forth; and so the Prince was leftby himself. 

For a time Renatus prayed, gathering up the strength of his mind topray earnestly; but other thoughts kept creeping in, like childrenpeeping and beckoning from a door. So he rose up after a little, andlooked about him; and something of the solemnity of the night and theplace came into his mind. 

Then, after a while, he sate, his armour clinking lightly as he moved;and wrapping his robe about him--for it grew chill in the church--hethought of what had been and what should be. The time flew fast; andpresently Renatus heard the great bell ring the hour of midnight; sohe knelt and prayed again, with all his might, that God would blesshim and open his eyes. 

Then he rose again to his feet; and now the moon was risen and made avery pure and tender radiance through one of the high windows; andRenatus, looking about him, was conscious of a thrill of fear thatpassed through him, as though there were some great presence near himin the gloom; then his eyes fell on a little door on his right, opposite to the door by which they had entered, which he knew led outinto the castle court; but underneath the door, between it and thesill, there gleamed a line of very golden light, such as might comefrom a fire without. The Prince had no foolish terrors, as he was bynature courageous, and the holy place that he was in made him feelsecure. But the light, which now began to grow in clearness, and tostream, like a rippling flow of brightness, into the church, surprisedhim exceedingly. So he rose up and went to the little door, expectingthat he would find it closed; but it opened to his hand. 

He had thought to see the dark court of the castle as he had oftenseen it, with its tall chimneys and battlements, and with lights inthe windows. But to his amazement he saw that he was on the edge of avast and dizzy space, so vast that he had not thought there could beanything in the world so great. The church and he seemed to floattogether in the space, for the solid earth was all gone--and it cameinto his head that the great building in which he stood, so fair andhigh, was no larger than a mote that swims in the strong beams of thesun. The space was all misty and dim at first, but over it hung alight like the light of dawn, that seemed to gush from a place in thecloud, near at hand and yet leagues away. Then as his sight becamemore used to the place, he saw that it was all sloping upwards anddownwards, and built up of great steps or stairs, that ran across thespace and were lost at last in cloud; and that the light came from thehead of the steps. Then with a sudden shock of surprise he saw thatthere were persons kneeling on the steps; and every moment his sightbecame clearer and clearer, so that he could see the persons nearestto him, their robes and hands, and even the very lineaments of theirfaces. 

Very near him there were three figures kneeling, not together in agroup, but with some space between them. And, in some way that hecould not explain, he felt that all the three were unconscious both ofeach other and of himself. 

Looking intently upon them, he saw that they were kings, in royalrobes. The nearest to him was an ancient man, with white hair; heknelt very upright and strong; his face was like parchment, with heavylines, but his eyes glowed like a fire. Renatus thought he had neverseen so proud a look. He had an air of command, and Renatus seemed toknow that he had been a warrior in his youth. In his hands he held acrown of fine golden work, filled with jewels of great rarity andprice; and the king held the crown as though he knew its worth; heseemed, as it were, to be proffering it, but as a gift of mightyvalue, the worthiest thing that he had to offer. 

On a step below him at a little distance knelt the second; he was ayounger man, in the prime of life; he had the look more of a studentthan a warrior, of one who was busied in many affairs, and whopondered earnestly over high matters of policy and state. He had awiser face than the older man, but his brow was drawn by lines, asthough he had often doubted of himself and others; and he had a crownin one hand, which he held a little irresolutely, as though he halfloved it, and were yet half wearied of it; as though he was fain tolay it down, and yet not wholly glad to part with it. 

Then Renatus turned a little to the third; and he was more richlyapparelled than the others; his hands were clasped in prayer; and byhis knee there lay a splendid diadem, an Emperor's crown, with fewjewels, but each the price of a kingdom. And Renatus saw that he wasvery young, scarce older than himself; and that he had the mostbeautiful face he had ever seen, with large soft eyes, clear-cutfeatures, and a mouth that looked both pure and strong; but in hisface there was such a passion of holiness and surrender, that Renatusfell to wondering what it was that a man could so adore. He was theonly one of the three who looked, as it were, rapt out of himself; andthe crown lay beside him as if he had forgotten its very existence. 

Then there came upon the air a great sound of jubilant and tendermusic like the voice of silver trumpets--and the cloud began to liftand draw up on every side, and revealed at last, very far off and veryhigh, yet strangely near and clear, a Throne at the head of the steps. But Renatus dared not look thereon, for he felt that the time was notcome; but he saw, as it were reflected in the eyes of the kings, thatthey looked upon a sight of awful splendour and mystery. Then he sawthat the two that still held their crowns laid them down upon theground with a sort of fearful haste, as though they were constrained;but the youngest of the kings smiled, as though he were satisfiedbeyond his dearest wish. 

Then Renatus felt that somewhat was to be done too bright and holyfor a mortal eye to behold, and so he drew back and softly closed thedoor; and it was a pain to find himself within the dark church again;it was as though he had lost the sight of something that a man mightdesire above all things to see--but he dared look no longer; and themusic came again, but this time more urgently, in a storm of sound. 

Then Renatus went back to his place, that seemed to him very small andhumble beside what he had seen outside. And all the pride was emptiedout of his heart, for he knew that he had looked upon the truth, andthat it was wider than he had dreamed; and then he knelt and prayedthat God would keep him humble and diligent and brave; but then hegrew ashamed of his prayer, for he remembered that, after all, he wasbut still praying for himself; and he had a thought of the youngEmperor's face, and he knew that there was something deeper and betterstill than humility and diligence and courage; what it was he knewnot; but he thought that he had been, as it were, asking God for thosefair things, like flower-blooms or jewels, which a man may wear forhis own pride; but that they must rather rise and blossom, like plantsout of a rich soil. So he ended by praying that God would empty him ofall unworthy thoughts, and fill him full of that good and great thing, which, in the Gospel story, Martha went near to miss, but Marycertainly divined. 

That was a blessed hour, to the thought of which Renatus afterwardsoften turned in darker and more weary days. But it drew swiftly to anend, and as he knelt, the bell beat one, and his vigil was over. 

Presently the Duke came to attend him back; and Renatus could notspeak of the vision, but only told the Duke that he had seen awonderful thing, and he added a few words of grateful love, holdingthe Duke's hand close in his own. 

On the next day, before Renatus came to be enthroned, the barons cameto do him homage; and Renatus, asking God to give him words that hemight say what was in his heart, spoke to them, the Duke standing by;he said that he well knew that it appeared strange that one so youngas himself should receive the homage of those who were older and wiserand more strong, adding: "But I believe that I am truly called, underGod, to rule this land for the welfare of all that dwell therein, andI will rule it with diligence. Nay--for it is not well that a landshould have many masters--I purpose that none shall rule it butmyself, under God. " And at that the barons looked upon one another, but Renatus, leaning a little forward, with his hand upon hissword-hilt, said: "I think, my Lords, that there be some here that aresaying to themselves, _He hath learnt his lesson well_, and I hopethat it may be seen that it is so--but it is God and not man who hathput it into my heart to say this; it is from Him that I receive thisthrone. Counsel will I ask, and that gladly; but remembering theaccount that I must one day make, I will rule this realm for thewelfare of the people thereof, and I will have all men do their parts;so see that your homage be of the heart and not of the lips, for it isto God that you make it, and not to me, who am indeed unworthy; but Hethat hath set me in this place will strengthen my hands. I have spokenthis, " he said, "not willingly; but I would have no one mistake mypurpose in the matter. "

Then the barons came silently to do obeisance; and so Renatus came tohis own; but more of him I must not here say, save that he ruled hisrealm wisely and well, and ever gave God the glory. 

 THE SLYPE HOUSE

In the town of Garchester, close to St. Peter's Church, and near theriver, stood a dark old house called the Slype House, from a narrowpassage of that name that ran close to it, down to a bridge over thestream. The house showed a front of mouldering and discoloured stoneto the street, pierced by small windows, like a monastery; and indeed, it was formerly inhabited by a college of priests who had served theChurch. It abutted at one angle upon the aisle of the church, andthere was a casement window that looked out from a room in the house, formerly the infirmary, into the aisle; it had been so built that anypriest that was sick might hear the Mass from his bed, withoutdescending into the church. Behind the house lay a little garden, closely grown up with trees and tall weeds, that ran down to thestream. In the wall that gave on the water, was a small door thatadmitted to an old timbered bridge that crossed the stream, and had abarred gate on the further side, which was rarely seen open; though ifa man had watched attentively he might sometimes have seen a smalllean person, much bowed and with a halting gait, slip out very quietlyabout dusk, and walk, with his eyes cast down, among the shadowybyways. 

The name of the man who thus dwelt in the Slype House, as it appearedin the roll of burgesses, was Anthony Purvis. He was of an ancientfamily, and had inherited wealth. A word must be said of his childhoodand youth. He was a sickly child, an only son, his father a man ofsubstance, who lived very easily in the country; his mother had diedwhen he was quite a child, and this sorrow had been borne very heavilyby his father, who had loved her tenderly, and after her death hadbecome morose and sullen, withdrawing himself from all company andexercise, and brooding angrily over his loss, as though God haddetermined to vex him. He had never cared much for the child, who hadbeen peevish and fretful; and the boy's presence had done little butremind him of the wife he had lost; so that the child had lived alone, nourishing his own fancies, and reading much in a library of curiousbooks that was in the house. The boy's health had been too tender forhim to go to school; but when he was eighteen, he seemed stronger, andhis father sent him to a university, more for the sake of beingrelieved of the boy's presence than for his good. And there, beingunused to the society of his equals, he had been much flouted anddespised for his feeble frame; till a certain bitter ambition sprangup in his mind, like a poisonous flower, to gain power and makehimself a name; and he had determined that as he could not be loved hemight still be feared; so he bided his time in bitterness, makinggreat progress in his studies; then, when those days were over, hedeparted eagerly, and sought and obtained his father's leave to betakehimself to a university of Italy, where he fell into somewhat evilhands; for he made a friendship with an old doctor of the college, whofeared not God and thought ill of man, and spent all his time in darkresearches into the evil secrets of nature, the study of poisons thathave enmity to the life of man, and many other hidden works ofdarkness, such as intercourse with spirits of evil, and the blackinfluences that lie in wait for the soul; and he found Anthony an aptpupil. There he lived for some years till he was nearly thirty, seldomvisiting his home, and writing but formal letters to his father, whosupplied him gladly with a small revenue, so long as he kept apart andtroubled him not. 

Then his father had died, and Anthony came home to take up hisinheritance, which was a plentiful one; he sold his land, and visitingthe town of Garchester, by chance, for it lay near his home, he hadlighted upon the Slype House, which lay very desolate and gloomy; andas he needed a large place for his instruments and devices, he hadbought the house, and had now lived there for twenty years in greatloneliness, but not ill-content. 

To serve him he had none but a man and his wife, who were quiet andsimple people and asked no questions; the wife cooked his meals, andkept the rooms, where he slept and read, clean and neat; the man movedhis machines for him, and arranged his phials and instruments, havinga light touch and a serviceable memory. 

The door of the house that gave on the street opened into a hall; tothe right was a kitchen, and a pair of rooms where the man and hiswife lived. On the left was a large room running through the house;the windows on to the street were walled up, and the windows at theback looked on the garden, the trees of which grew close to thecasements, making the room dark, and in a breeze rustling their leavesor leafless branches against the panes. In this room Anthony had afurnace with bellows, the smoke of which discharged itself into thechimney; and here he did much of his work, making mechanical toys, asa clock to measure the speed of wind or water, a little chariot thatran a few yards by itself, a puppet that moved its arms andlaughed--and other things that had wiled away his idle hours; the roomwas filled up with dark lumber, in a sort of order that would havelooked to a stranger like disorder, but so that Anthony could lay hishand on all that he needed. From the hall, which was paved with stone, went up the stairs, very strong and broad, of massive oak; under whichwas a postern that gave on the garden; on the floor above was a roomwhere Anthony slept, which again had its windows to the street boardedup, for he was a light sleeper, and the morning sounds of theawakening city disturbed him. 

The room was hung with a dark arras, sprinkled with red flowers; heslept in a great bed with black curtains to shut out all light; thewindows looked into the garden; but on the left of the bed, whichstood with its head to the street, was an alcove, behind the hangings, containing the window that gave on the church. On the same floor werethree other rooms; in one of these, looking on the garden, Anthony hadhis meals. It was a plain panelled room. Next was a room where heread, filled with books, also looking on the garden; and next to thatwas a little room of which he alone had the key. This room he keptlocked, and no one set foot in it but himself. There was one more roomon this floor, set apart for a guest who never came, with a great bedand a press of oak. And that looked on the street. Above, there was arow of plain plastered rooms, in which stood furniture for whichAnthony had no use, and many crates in which his machines and phialscame to him; this floor was seldom visited, except by the man, whosometimes came to put a box there; and the spiders had it tothemselves; except for a little room where stood an optic glassthrough which on clear nights Anthony sometimes looked at the moon andstars, if there was any odd misadventure among them, such as aneclipse; or when a fiery-tailed comet went his way silently in theheavens, coming from none might say whence and going none knewwhither, on some strange errand of God. 

Anthony had but two friends who ever came to see him. One was an oldphysician who had ceased to practise his trade, which indeed was neverabundant, and who would sometimes drink a glass of wine with Anthony, and engage in curious talk of men's bodies and diseases, or look atone of Anthony's toys. Anthony had come to know him by having calledhim in to cure some ailment, which needed a surgical knife; and thathad made a kind of friendship between them; but Anthony had littleneed thereafter to consult him about his health, which indeed was nowsettled enough, though he had but little vigour; and he knew enough ofdrugs to cure himself when he was ill. The other friend was a foolishpriest of the college, that made belief to be a student but was none, who thought Anthony a very wise and mighty person, and listened withopen mouth and eyes to all that he said or showed him. This priest, who was fond of wonders, had introduced himself to Anthony by makingbelieve to borrow a volume of him; and then had grown proud of theacquaintance, and bragged greatly of it to his friends, mixing up muchthat was fanciful with a little that was true. But the result was thatgossip spread wide about Anthony, and he was held in the town to be avery fearful person, who could do strange mischief if he had a mindto; Anthony never cared to walk abroad, for he was of a shy habit, anddisliked to meet the eyes of his fellows; but if he did go about, menbegan to look curiously after him as he went by, shook their heads andtalked together with a dark pleasure, while children fled before hisface and women feared him; all of which pleased Anthony mightily, ifthe truth were told; for at the bottom of his restless and eagerspirit lay a deep vanity unseen, like a lake in woods; he hungered notindeed for fame, but for repute--_monstrari digito_, as the poet hasit; and he cared little in what repute he was held, so long as menthought him great and marvellous; and as he could not win renown bybrave deeds and words, he was rejoiced to win it by keeping up acertain darkness and mystery about his ways and doings; and this wasvery dear to him, so that when the silly priest called him Seer andWizard, he frowned and looked sideways; but he laughed in his heartand was glad. 

Now, when Anthony was near his fiftieth year, there fell on him aheaviness of spirit which daily increased upon him. He began toquestion of his end and what lay beyond. He had always made pretenceto mock at religion, and had grown to believe that in death the soulwas extinguished like a burnt-out flame. He began, too, to question ofhis life and what he had done. He had made a few toys, he had filledvacant hours, and he had gained an ugly kind of fame--and this wasall. Was he so certain, he began to think, after all, that death wasthe end? Were there not, perhaps, in the vast house of God, rooms andchambers beyond that in which he was set for awhile to pace to andfro? About this time he began to read in a Bible that had lain dustyand unopened on a shelf. It was his mother's book, and he foundtherein many little tokens of her presence. Here was a verseunderlined; at some gracious passages the page was much fingered andworn; in one place there were stains that looked like the mark oftears; then again, in one page, there was a small tress of hair, golden hair, tied in a paper with a name across it, that seemed to bethe name of a little sister of his mother's that died a child; andagain there were a few withered flowers, like little sad ghosts, stuckthrough a paper on which was written his father's name--the name ofthe sad, harsh, silent man whom Anthony had feared with all his heart. Had those two, indeed, on some day of summer, walked to and fro, orsate in some woodland corner, whispering sweet words of love together?Anthony felt a sudden hunger of the heart for a woman's love, fortender words to soothe his sadness, for the laughter and kisses ofchildren--and he began to ransack his mind for memories of his mother;he could remember being pressed to her heart one morning when she layabed, with her fragrant hair falling about him. The worst was that hemust bear his sorrow alone, for there were none to whom he could talkof such things. The doctor was as dry as an old bunch of herbs, and asfor the priest, Anthony was ashamed to show anything but contempt andpride in his presence. 

For relief he began to turn to a branch of his studies that he hadlong disused; this was a fearful commerce with the unseen spirits. Anthony could remember having practised some experiments of this kindwith the old Italian doctor; but he remembered them with a kind ofdisgust, for they seemed to him but a sort of deadly juggling; andsuch dark things as he had seen seemed like a dangerous sport withunclean and coltish beings, more brute-like than human. Yet now heread in his curious books with care, and studied the tales ofnecromancers, who had indeed seemed to have some power over the soulsof men departed. But the old books gave him but little faith, and akind of angry disgust at the things attempted. And he began to thinkthat the horror in which such men as made these books abode, was notmore than the dark shadow cast on the mirror of the soul by their owndesperate imaginings and timorous excursions. 

One day, a Sunday, he was strangely sad and heavy; he could settle tonothing, but threw book after book aside, and when he turned to somework of construction, his hand seemed to have lost its cunning. It wasa grey and sullen day in October; a warm wet wind came buffeting upfrom the west, and roared in the chimneys and eaves of the old house. The shrubs in the garden plucked themselves hither and thither asthough in pain. Anthony walked to and fro after his midday meal, whichhe had eaten hastily and without savour; at last, as though with asudden resolution, he went to a secret cabinet and got out a key; andwith it he went to the door of the little room that was ever locked. 

He stopped at the threshold for a while, looking hither and thither;and then he suddenly unlocked it and went in, closing and locking itbehind him. The room was as dark as night, but Anthony going softly, his hands before him, went to a corner and got a tinder-box which laythere, and made a flame. 

A small dark room appeared, hung with a black tapestry; the windowwas heavily shuttered and curtained; in the centre of the room stoodwhat looked like a small altar, painted black; the floor was all bare, but with white marks upon it, half effaced. Anthony looked about theroom, glancing sidelong, as though in some kind of doubt; his breathwent and came quickly, and he looked paler than was his wont. 

Presently, as though reassured by the silence and calm of the place, he went to a tall press that stood in a corner, which he opened, andtook from it certain things--a dish of metal, some small leathernbags, a large lump of chalk, and a book. He laid all but the chalkdown on the altar, and then opening the book, read in it a little; andthen he went with the chalk and drew certain marks upon the floor, first making a circle, which he went over again and again with anxiouscare; at times he went back and peeped into the book as thoughuncertain. Then he opened the bags, which seemed to hold certain kindsof powder, this dusty, that in grains; he ran them through his hands, and then poured a little of each into his dish, and mixed them withhis hands. Then he stopped and looked about him. Then he walked to aplace in the wall on the further side of the altar from the door, anddrew the arras carefully aside, disclosing a little alcove in thewall; into this he looked fearfully, as though he was afraid of whathe might see. 

In the alcove, which was all in black, appeared a small shelf, thatstood but a little way out from the wall. Upon it, gleaming very whiteagainst the black, stood the skull of a man, and on either side of theskull were the bones of a man's hand. It looked to him, as he gazed onit with a sort of curious disgust, as though a dead man had come up tothe surface of a black tide, and was preparing presently to leap out. On either side stood two long silver candlesticks, very dark withdisuse; but instead of holding candles, they were fitted at the topwith flat metal dishes; and in these he poured some of his powders, mixing them as before with his fingers. Between the candlesticks andbehind the skull was an old and dark picture, at which he gazed for atime, holding his taper on high. The picture represented a man fleeingin a kind of furious haste from a wood, his hands spread wide, and hiseyes staring out of the picture; behind him everywhere was the wood, above which was a star in the sky--and out of the wood leaned astrange pale horned thing, very dim. The horror in the man's face wasskilfully painted, and Anthony felt a shudder pass through his veins. He knew not what the picture meant; it had been given to him by theold Italian, who had smiled a wicked smile when he gave it, and toldhim that it had a very great virtue. When Anthony had asked him of thesubject of the picture, the old Italian had said, "Oh, it is asappears; he hath been where he ought not, and he hath seen somewhat hedoth not like. " When Anthony would fain have known more, andespecially what the thing was that leaned out of the wood, the oldItalian had smiled cruelly and said, "Know you not? Well, you willknow some day when you have seen him;" and never a word more would hesay. 

When Anthony had put all things in order, he opened the book at acertain place, and laid it upon the altar; and then it seemed asthough his courage failed him, for he drew the curtain again over thealcove, unlocked the door, set the tinder-box and the candle back intheir place, and softly left the room. 

He was very restless all the evening. He took down books from theshelves, turned them over, and put them back again. He addressedhimself to some unfinished work, but soon threw it aside; he paced upand down, and spent a long time, with his hands clasped behind him, looking out into the desolate garden, where a still, red sunset burntbehind the leafless trees. He was like a man who has made up his mindto a grave decision, and shrinks back upon the brink. When his foodwas served he could hardly touch it, and he drank no wine as hiscustom was to do, but only water, saying to himself that his head mustbe clear. But in the evening he went to his bedroom, and searched forsomething in a press there; he found at last what he was searchingfor, and unfolded a long black robe, looking gloomily upon it, asthough it aroused unwelcome thoughts; while he was pondering, he hearda hum of music behind the arras; he put the robe down, and steppedthrough the hangings, and stood awhile in the little oriel that lookeddown into the church. Vespers were proceeding; he saw the holy lightsdimly through the dusty panes, and heard the low preluding of theorgan; then, solemn and slow, rose the sound of a chanted psalm on theair; he carefully unfastened the casement which opened inward andunclosed it, standing for a while to listen, while the air, fragrantwith incense smoke, drew into the room along the vaulted roof. Therewere but a few worshippers in the church, who stood below him; twolights burnt stilly upon the altar, and he saw distinctly the thinhands of a priest who held a book close to his face. He had not setfoot within a church for many years, and the sight and sound drew hismind back to his childhood's days. At last with a sigh he put thewindow to very softly, and went to his study, where he made pretenceto read, till the hour came when he was wont to retire to his bed. Hesent his servant away, but instead of lying down, he sate, lookingupon a parchment, which he held in his hand, while the bells of thecity slowly told out the creeping hours. 

At last, a few minutes before midnight, he rose from his place; thehouse was now all silent, and without the night was very still, asthough all things slept tranquilly. He opened the press and took fromit the black robe, and put it round him, so that it covered him fromhead to foot, and then gathered up the parchment, and the key of thelocked room, and went softly out, and so came to the door. This heundid with a kind of secret and awestruck haste, locking it behindhim. Once inside the room, he wrestled awhile with a strong aversionto what was in his mind to do, and stood for a moment, listeningintently, as though he expected to hear some sound. But the room wasstill, except for the faint biting of some small creature in thewainscot. 

Then with a swift motion he took up the tinder-box and made a light;he drew aside the curtain that hid the alcove; he put fire to thepowder in the candlesticks, which at first spluttered, and thenswiftly kindling sent up a thick smoky flame, fragrant with drugs, burning hotly and red. Then he came back to the altar; cast a swiftglance round him to see that all was ready; put fire to the powder onthe altar, and in a low and inward voice began to recite words fromthe book, and from the parchment which he held in his hand; once ortwice he glanced fearfully at the skull, and the hands which gleamedluridly through the smoke; the figures in the picture wavered in theheat; and now the powders began to burn clear, and throw up a steadylight; and still he read, sometimes turning a page, until at last hemade an end; and drawing something from a silver box which lay besidethe book, he dropped it in the flame, and looked straight before himto see what might befall. The thing that fell in the flame burned upbrightly, with a little leaping of sparks, but soon it died down; andthere was a long silence, in the room, a breathless silence, which, toAnthony's disordered mind, was not like the silence of emptiness, butsuch silence as may be heard when unseen things are crowding quietlyto a closed door, expecting it to be opened, and as it were holdingeach other back. 

Suddenly, between him and the picture, appeared for a moment a palelight, as of moonlight, and then with a horror which words cannotattain to describe, Anthony saw a face hang in the air a few feet fromhim, that looked in his own eyes with a sort of intent fury, as thoughto spring upon him if he turned either to the right hand or to theleft. His knees tottered beneath him, and a sweat of icy coldnesssprang on his brow; there followed a sound like no sound that Anthonyhad ever dreamed of hearing; a sound that was near and yet remote, asound that was low and yet charged with power, like the groaning of avoice in grievous pain and anger, that strives to be free and yet ishelpless. And then Anthony knew that he had indeed opened the doorthat looks into the other world, and that a deadly thing that held himin enmity had looked out. His reeling brain still told him that he wassafe where he was, but that he must not step or fall outside thecircle; but how he should resist the power of the wicked face he knewnot. He tried to frame a prayer in his heart; but there swept such afury of hatred across the face that he dared not. So he closed hiseyes and stood dizzily waiting to fall, and knowing that if he fell itwas the end. 

Suddenly, as he stood with closed eyes, he felt the horror of thespell relax; he opened his eyes again, and saw that the face died outupon the air, becoming first white and then thin, like the husk thatstands on a rush when a fly draws itself from its skin, and floatsaway into the sunshine. 

Then there fell a low and sweet music upon the air, like a concert offlutes and harps, very far away. And then suddenly, in a sweet clearradiance, the face of his mother, as she lived in his mind, appearedin the space, and looked at him with a kind of heavenly love; thenbeside the face appeared two thin hands which seemed to wave ablessing towards him, which flowed like healing into his soul. 

The relief from the horror, and the flood of tenderness that came intohis heart, made him reckless. The tears came into his eyes, not in arising film, but a flood hot and large. He took a step forwards roundthe altar; but as he did so, the vision disappeared, the lights shotup into a flare and went out; the house seemed to be suddenly shaken;in the darkness he heard the rattle of bones, and the clash of metal, and Anthony fell all his length upon the ground and lay as one dead. 

But while he thus lay, there came to him in some secret cell of themind a dreadful vision, which he could only dimly remember afterwardswith a fitful horror. He thought that he was walking in the cloisterof some great house or college, a cool place, with a pleasant gardenin the court. He paced up and down, and each time that he did so, hepaused a little before a great door at the end, a huge blind portal, with much carving about it, which he somehow knew he was forbidden toenter. Nevertheless, each time that he came to it, he felt a strongwish, that constantly increased, to set foot therein. Now in the dreamthere fell on him a certain heaviness, and the shadow of a cloud fellover the court, and struck the sunshine out of it. And at last he madeup his mind that he would enter. He pushed the door open with muchdifficulty, and found himself in a long blank passage, very damp andchilly, but with a glimmering light; he walked a few paces down it. The flags underfoot were slimy, and the walls streamed with damp. Hethen thought that he would return; but the great door was closedbehind him, and he could not open it. This made him very fearful; andwhile he considered what he should do, he saw a tall and angry-lookingman approaching very swiftly down the passage. As he turned to facehim, the other came straight to him, and asked him very sternly whathe did there; to which Anthony replied that he had found the dooropen. To which the other replied that it was fast now, and that hemust go forward. He seized Anthony as he spoke by the arm, and urgedhim down the passage. Anthony would fain have resisted, but he feltlike a child in the grip of a giant, and went forward in great terrorand perplexity. Presently they came to a door in the side of the wall, and as they passed it, there stepped out an ugly shadowy thing, thenature of which he could not clearly discern, and marched softlybehind them. Soon they came to a turn in the passage, and in a momentthe way stopped on the brink of a dark well, that seemed to go down along way into the earth, and out of which came a cold fetid air, witha hollow sound like a complaining voice. Anthony drew back as far ashe could from the pit, and set his back to the wall, his companionletting go of him. But he could not go backward, for the thing behindhim was in the passage, and barred the way, creeping slowly nearer. Then Anthony was in a great agony of mind, and waited for the end. 

But while he waited, there came some one very softly down the passageand drew near; and the other, who had led him to the place, waited, asthough ill-pleased to be interrupted; it was too murky for Anthony tosee the new-comer, but he knew in some way that he was a friend. Thestranger came up to them, and spoke in a low voice to the man who haddrawn Anthony thither, as though pleading for something; and the mananswered angrily, but yet with a certain dark respect, and seemed toargue that he was acting in his right, and might not be interferedwith. Anthony could not hear what they said, they spoke so low, but heguessed the sense, and knew that it was himself of whom theydiscoursed, and listened with a fearful wonder to see which wouldprevail. The end soon came, for the tall man, who had brought himthere, broke out into a great storm of passion; and Anthony heard himsay, "He hath yielded himself to his own will; and he is mine here; solet us make an end. " Then the stranger seemed to consider; and thenwith a quiet courage, and in a soft and silvery voice like that of achild, said, "I would that you would have yielded to my prayer; but asyou will not, I have no choice. " And he took his hand from under thecloak that wrapped him, and held something out; then there came agreat roaring out of the pit, and a zigzag flame flickered in thedark. Then in a moment the tall man and the shadow were gone; Anthonycould not see whither they went, and he would have thanked thestranger; but the other put his finger to his lip as though to ordersilence, and pointed to the way he had come, saying, "Make haste andgo back; for they will return anon with others; you know not how dearit hath cost me. " Anthony could see the stranger's face in the gloom, and he was surprised to see it so youthful; but he saw also that tearsstood in the eyes of the stranger, and that something dark like bloodtrickled down his brow; yet he looked very lovingly at him. So Anthonymade haste to go back, and found the door ajar; but as he reached it, he heard a horrible din behind him, of cries and screams; and it waswith a sense of gratitude, that he could not put into words, but whichfilled all his heart, that he found himself back in the cloisteragain. And then the vision all fled away, and with a shock coming tohimself, he found that he was lying in his own room; and then he knewthat a battle had been fought out over his soul, and that the evil hadnot prevailed. 

He was cold and aching in every limb; the room was silent and dark, with the heavy smell of the burnt drugs all about it. Anthony crept tothe door, and opened it; locked it again, and made his way in the darkvery feebly to his bed-chamber; he had just the strength to get intohis bed, and then all his life seemed to ebb from him, and he lay, andthought that he was dying. Presently from without there came thecrying of cocks, and a bell beat the hour of four; and after that, inhis vigil of weakness, it was strange to see the light glimmer in thecrevices, and to hear the awakening birds that in the garden bushestook up, one after another, their slender piping song, till all thechoir cried together. 

But Anthony felt a strange peace in his heart; and he had a sense, though he could not say why, that it was as once in his childhood, when he was ill, and his mother had sate softly by him while he slept. 

So he waited, and in spite of his mortal weakness that was a blessedhour. 

When his man came to rouse him in the morning, Anthony said that hebelieved that he was very ill, that he had had a fall, and that theold doctor must be fetched to him. The man looked so strangely uponhim, that Anthony knew that he had some fear upon his mind. Presentlythe doctor was brought, and Anthony answered such questions as wereput to him, in a faint voice, saying, "I was late at my work, and Islipped and fell. " The doctor, who looked troubled, gave directions;and when he went away he heard his man behind the door asking thedoctor about the strange storm in the night, that had seemed like anearthquake, or as if a thunderbolt had struck the house. But thedoctor said very gruffly, "It is no time to talk thus, when yourmaster is sick to death. " But Anthony knew in himself that he wouldnot die yet. 

It was long ere he was restored to a measure of health; and indeed henever rightly recovered the use of his limbs; the doctor held that hehad suffered some stroke of palsy; at which Anthony smiled a little, and made no answer. 

When he was well enough to creep to and fro, he went sadly to thedark room, and with much pain and weakness carried the furniture outof it. The picture he cut in pieces and burnt; and the candles anddishes, with the book, he cast into a deep pool in the stream; thebones he buried in the earth; the hangings he stored away for his ownfuneral. 

Anthony never entered his workroom again; but day after day he satein his chair, and read a little, but mostly in the Bible; he made afriend of a very wise old priest, to whom he opened all his heart, andto whom he conveyed much money to be bestowed on the poor; there was agreat calm in his spirit, which was soon written in his face, in spiteof his pain, for he often suffered sorely; but he told the priest thatsomething, he knew not certainly what, seemed to dwell by him, waitingpatiently for his coming; and so Anthony awaited his end. 

 OUT OF THE SEA

It was about ten of the clock on a November morning in the littlevillage of Blea-on-the-Sands. The hamlet was made up of some thirtyhouses, which clustered together on a low rising ground. The place wasvery poor, but some old merchant of bygone days had built in a piousmood a large church, which was now too great for the needs of theplace; the nave had been unroofed in a heavy gale, and there was nomoney to repair it, so that it had fallen to decay, and the tower wasjoined to the choir by roofless walls. This was a sore trial to theold priest, Father Thomas, who had grown grey there; but he had no artin gathering money, which he asked for in a shamefaced way; and thevicarage was a poor one, hardly enough for the old man's needs. So thechurch lay desolate. 

The village stood on what must once have been an island; the littleriver Reddy, which runs down to the sea, there forking into twochannels on the landward side; towards the sea the ground was bare, full of sand-hills covered with a short grass. Towards the land was asmall wood of gnarled trees, the boughs of which were all brushedsmooth by the gales; looking landward there was the green flat, inwhich the river ran, rising into low hills; hardly a house was visiblesave one or two lonely farms; two or three church towers rose abovethe hills at a long distance away. Indeed Blea was much cut off fromthe world; there was a bridge over the stream on the west side, butover the other channel was no bridge, so that to fare eastward it wasrequisite to go in a boat. To seaward there were wide sands, when thetide was out; when it was in, it came up nearly to the end of thevillage street. The people were mostly fishermen, but there were a fewfarmers and labourers; the boats of the fishermen lay to the east sideof the village, near the river channel which gave some draught ofwater; and the channel was marked out by big black stakes and poststhat straggled out over the sands, like awkward leaning figures, tothe sea's brim. 

Father Thomas lived in a small and ancient brick house near thechurch, with a little garden of herbs attached. He was a kindly man, much worn by age and weather, with a wise heart, and he loved thequiet life with his small flock. This morning he had come out of hishouse to look abroad, before he settled down to the making of hissermon. He looked out to sea, and saw with a shadow of sadness theblack outline of a wreck that had come ashore a week before, and overwhich the white waves were now breaking. The wind blew steadily fromthe north-east, and had a bitter poisonous chill in it, which itdoubtless drew from the fields of the upper ice. The day was dark andoverhung, not with cloud, but with a kind of dreary vapour that shutout the sun. Father Thomas shuddered at the wind, and drew his patchedcloak round him. As he did so, he saw three figures come up to thevicarage gate. It was not a common thing for him to have visitors inthe morning, and he saw with surprise that they were old Master JohnGrimston, the richest man in the place, half farmer and halffisherman, a dark surly old man; his wife, Bridget, a timid andfrightened woman, who found life with her harsh husband a difficultbusiness, in spite of their wealth, which, for a place like Blea, wasgreat; and their son Henry, a silly shambling man of forty, who washis father's butt. The three walked silently and heavily, as thoughthey came on a sad errand. 

Father Thomas went briskly down to meet them, and greeted them withhis accustomed cheerfulness. "And what may I do for you?" he said. OldMaster Grimston made a sort of gesture with his head as though hiswife should speak; and she said in a low and somewhat husky voice, with a rapid utterance, "We have a matter, Father, we would ask youabout--are you at leisure?" Father Thomas said, "Ay, I am ashamed tobe not more busy! Let us go within the house. " They did so; and evenin the little distance to the door, the Father thought that hisvisitors behaved themselves very strangely. They peered round fromleft to right, and once or twice Master Grimston looked sharply behindthem, as though they were followed. They said nothing but "Ay" and"No" to the Father's talk, and bore themselves like people with a sorefear on their backs. Father Thomas made up his mind that it was somequestion of money, for nothing else was wont to move Master Grimston'smind. So he had them into his parlour and gave them seats, and thenthere was a silence, while the two men continued to look furtivelyabout them, and the goodwife sate with her eyes upon the priest'sface. Father Thomas knew not what to make of this, till MasterGrimston said harshly, "Come, wife, tell the tale and make an end; wemust not take up the Father's time. "

"I hardly know how to say it, Father, " said Bridget, "but a strangeand evil thing has befallen us; there is something come to our house, and we know not what it is--but it brings a fear with it. " A suddenpaleness came over her face, and she stopped, and the three exchangeda glance in which terror was visibly written. Master Grimston lookedover his shoulder swiftly, and made as though to speak, yet onlyswallowed in his throat; but Henry said suddenly, in a loud and woefulvoice: "It is an evil beast out of the sea. " And then there followed adreadful silence, while Father Thomas felt a sudden fear leap up inhis heart, at the contagion of the fear that he saw written on thefaces round him. But he said with all the cheerfulness he couldmuster, "Come, friends, let us not begin to talk of sea-beasts; wemust have the whole tale. Mistress Grimston, I must hear the story--becontent--nothing can touch us here. " The three seemed to draw a faintcontent from his words, and Bridget began:--

"It was the day of the wreck, Father. John was up betimes, before thedawn; he walked out early to the sands, and Henry with him--and theywere the first to see the wreck--was not that it?" At these words thefather and son seemed to exchange a very swift and secret look, andboth grew pale. "John told me there was a wreck ashore, and they wentpresently and roused the rest of the village; and all that day theywere out, saving what could be saved. Two sailors were found, bothdead and pitifully battered by the sea, and they were buried, as youknow, Father, in the churchyard next day; John came back about duskand Henry with him, and we sate down to our supper. John was tellingme about the wreck, as we sate beside the fire, when Henry, who wassitting apart, rose up and cried out suddenly, 'What is that?'"

She paused for a moment, and Henry, who sate with face blanched, staring at his mother, said, "Ay, did I--it ran past me suddenly. ""Yes, but what was it?" said Father Thomas trying to smile; "a dog orcat, methinks. " "It was a beast, " said Henry slowly, in a tremblingvoice--"a beast about the bigness of a goat. I never saw the like--yetI did not see it clear; I but felt the air blow, and caught a whiff ofit--it was salt like the sea, but with a kind of dead smell behind. ""Was that all you saw?" said Father Thomas; "belike you were tired andfaint, and the air swam round you suddenly--I have known the likemyself when weary. " "Nay, nay, " said Henry, "this was not likethat--it was a beast, sure enough. " "Ay, and we have seen it since, "said Bridget. "At least I have not seen it clearly yet, but I havesmelt its odour, and it turns me sick--but John and Henry have seen itoften--sometimes it lies and seems to sleep, but it watches us; andagain it is merry, and will leap in a corner--and John saw it skipupon the sands near the wreck--did you not, John?" At these words thetwo men again exchanged a glance, and then old Master Grimston, with adreadful look in his face, in which great anger seemed to strive withfear, said, "Nay, silly woman, it was not near the wreck, it was outto the east. " "It matters little, " said Father Thomas, who saw wellenough this was no light matter. "I never heard the like of it. I willmyself come down to your house with a holy book, and see if the thingwill meet me. I know not what this is, " he went on, "whether it is avain terror that hath hold of you; but there be spirits of evil in theworld, though much fettered by Christ and His Saints--we read of suchin Holy Writ--and the sea, too, doubtless hath its monsters; and itmay be that one hath wandered out of the waves, like a dog that hathstrayed from his home. I dare not say, till I have met it face toface. But God gives no power to such things to hurt those who have afair conscience. "--And here he made a stop, and looked at the three;Bridget sate regarding him with a hope in her face; but the other twosate peering upon the ground; and the priest divined in some secretway that all was not well with them. "But I will come at once, " hesaid, rising, "and I will see if I can cast out or bind the thing, whatever it be--for I am in this place as a soldier of the Lord, tofight with works of darkness. " He took a clasped book from a table, and lifted up his hat, saying, "Let us set forth. " Then he said asthey left the room, "Hath it appeared to-day?" "Yes, indeed, " saidHenry, "and it was ill content. It followed us as though it wereangered. " "Come, " said Father Thomas, turning upon him, "you speakthus of a thing, as you might speak of a dog--what is it like?" "Nay, "said Henry, "I know not; I can never see it clearly; it is like aspeck in the eye--it is never there when you look upon it--it glidesaway very secretly; it is most like a goat, I think. It seems to behorned, and hairy; but I have seen its eyes, and they were yellow, like a flame. "

As he said these words Master Grimston went in haste to the door, andpulled it open as though to breathe the air. The others followed himand went out; but Master Grimston drew the priest aside, and said likea man in a mortal fear, "Look you, Father, all this is true--the thingis a devil--and why it abides with us I know not; but I cannot liveso; and unless it be cast out it will slay me--but if money be ofavail, I have it in abundance. " "Nay, " said Father Thomas, "let therebe no talk of money--perchance if I can aid you, you may give of yourgratitude to God. " "Ay, ay, " said the old man hurriedly, "that waswhat I meant--there is money in abundance for God, if He will but setme free. "

So they walked very sadly together through the street. There were fewfolk about; the men and the children were all abroad--a woman or twocame to the house doors, and wondered a little to see them pass sosolemnly, as though they followed a body to the grave. 

Master Grimston's house was the largest in the place. It had a walledgarden before it, with a strong door set in the wall. The house stoodback from the road, a dark front of brick with gables; behind it thegarden sloped nearly to the sands, with wooden barns and warehouses. Master Grimston unlocked the door, and then it seemed that his terrorscame over him, for he would have the priest enter first. FatherThomas, with a certain apprehension of which he was ashamed, walkedquickly in, and looked about him. The herbage of the garden had mostlydied down in the winter, and a tangle of sodden stalks lay over thebeds. A flagged path edged with box led up to the house, which seemedto stare at them out of its dark windows with a sort of steady gaze. Master Grimston fastened the door behind them, and they went alltogether, keeping close one to another, up to the house, the door ofwhich opened upon a big parlour or kitchen, sparely furnished, butvery clean and comfortable. Some vessels of metal glittered on a rack. There were chairs, ranged round the open fireplace. There was no soundexcept that the wind buffeted in the chimney. It looked a quiet andhomely place, and Father Thomas grew ashamed of his fears. "Now, " saidhe in his firm voice, "though I am your guest here, I will appointwhat shall be done. We will sit here together, and talk as cheerfullyas we may, till we have dined. Then, if nothing appears to us, "--andhe crossed himself--"I will go round the house, into every room, andsee if we can track the thing to its lair: then I will abide with youtill evensong; and then I will soon return, and lie here to-night. Even if the thing be wary, and dares not to meet the power of theChurch in the day-time, perhaps it will venture out at night; and Iwill even try a fall with it. So come, good people, and be comforted. "

So they sate together; and Father Thomas talked of many things, andtold some old legends of saints; and they dined, though without muchcheer; and still nothing appeared. Then, after dinner, Father Thomaswould view the house. So he took his book up, and they went from roomto room. On the ground floor there were several chambers not used, which they entered in turn, but saw nothing; on the upper floor was alarge room where Master Grimston and his wife slept; and a furtherroom for Henry, and a guest-chamber in which the priest was to sleepif need was; and a room where a servant-maid slept. And now the daybegan to darken and to turn to evening, and Father Thomas felt ashadow grow in his mind. There came into his head a verse of Scriptureabout a spirit which found a house "empty, swept and garnished, " andcalled his fellows to enter in. 

At the end of the passage was a locked door; and Father Thomas said:"This is the last room--let us enter. " "Nay, there is no need to dothat, " said Master Grimston in a kind of haste; "it leadsnowhither--it is but a room of stores. " "It were a pity to leave itunvisited, " said the Father--and as he said the word, there came akind of stirring from within. "A rat, doubtless, " said the Father, striving with a sudden sense of fear; but the pale faces round himtold another tale. "Come, Master Grimston, let us be done with this, "said Father Thomas decisively; "the hour of vespers draws nigh. " SoMaster Grimston slowly drew out a key and unlocked the door, andFather Thomas marched in. It was a simple place enough. There wereshelves on which various household matters lay, boxes and jars, withtwine and cordage. On the ground stood chests. There were some clotheshanging on pegs, and in a corner was a heap of garments, piled up. Onone of the chests stood a box of rough deal, and from the corner of itdripped water, which lay in a little pool on the floor. MasterGrimston went hurriedly to the box and pushed it further to the wall. As he did so, a kind of sound came from Henry's lips. Father Thomasturned and looked at him; he stood pale and strengthless, his eyesfixed on the corner--at the same moment something dark and shapelessseemed to slip past the group, and there came to the nostrils ofFather Thomas a strange sharp smell, as of the sea, only that therewas a taint within it, like the smell of corruption. 

They all turned and looked at Father Thomas together, as thoughseeking a comfort from his presence. He, hardly knowing what he did, and in the grasp of a terrible fear, fumbled with his book; andopening it, read the first words that his eye fell upon, which was theplace where the Blessed Lord, beset with enemies, said that if He didbut pray to His Father, He should send Him forthwith legions of angelsto encompass Him. And the verse seemed to the priest so like a messagesent instantly from heaven that he was not a little comforted. 

But the thing, whatever the reason was, appeared to them no more atthat time. Yet the thought of it lay very heavy on Father Thomas'sheart. In truth he had not in the bottom of his mind believed that hewould see it, but had trusted in his honest life and his sacredcalling to protect him. He could hardly speak for some minutes--moreoverthe horror of the thing was very great--and seeing him so grave, theirterrors were increased, though there was a kind of miserable joy intheir minds that some one, and he a man of high repute, should sufferwith them. 

Then Father Thomas, after a pause--they were now in the parlour--said, speaking very slowly, that they were in a sore affliction of Satan, and that they must withstand him with a good courage--"and look you, "he added, turning with a great sternness to the three, "if there beany mortal sin upon your hearts, see that you confess it and beshriven speedily--for while such a thing lies upon the heart, so longhath Satan power to hurt--otherwise have no fear at all. "

Then Father Thomas slipped out to the garden, and hearing the bellpulled for vespers, he went to the church, and the three would go withhim, because they would not be left alone. So they went together; bythis time the street was fuller, and the servant-maid had told tales, so that there was much talk in the place about what was going forward. None spoke with them as they went, but at every corner you might seeone check another in talk, and a silence fall upon a group, so thatthey knew that their terrors were on every tongue. There was but ahandful of worshippers in the church, which was dark, save for thelight on Father Thomas' book. He read the holy service swiftly andcourageously, but his face was very pale and grave in the light of thecandle. When the vespers were over, and he had put off his robe, hesaid that he would go back to his house, and gather what he needed forthe night, and that they should wait for him at the churchyard gate. So he strode off to his vicarage. But as he shut to the door, he saw adark figure come running up the garden; he waited with a fear in hismind, but in a moment he saw that it was Henry, who came upbreathless, and said that he must speak with the Father alone. FatherThomas knew that somewhat dark was to be told him. So he led Henryinto the parlour and seated himself, and said, "Now, my son, speakboldly. " So there was an instant's silence, and Henry slipped on tohis knees. 

Then in a moment Henry with a sob began to tell his tale. He saidthat on the day of the wreck his father had roused him very early inthe dawn, and had told him to put on his clothes and come silently, for he thought there was a wreck ashore. His father carried a spade inhis hand, he knew not then why. They went down to the tide, which wasmoving out very fast, and left but an inch or two of water on thesands. There was but a little light, but, when they had walked alittle, they saw the black hull of a ship before them, on the edge ofthe deeper water, the waves driving over it; and then all at once theycame upon the body of a man lying on his face on the sand. There wasno sign of life in him, but he clasped a bag in his hand that washeavy, and the pocket of his coat was full to bulging; and there lay, moreover, some glittering things about him that seemed to be coins. They lifted the body up, and his father stripped the coat off from theman, and then bade Henry dig a hole in the sand, which he presentlydid, though the sand and water oozed fast into it. Then his father, who had been stooping down, gathering somewhat up from the sand, raised the body up, and laid it in the hole, and bade Henry cover itwith the sand. And so he did till it was nearly hidden. Then came ahorrible thing; the sand in the hole began to move and stir, andpresently a hand was put out with clutching fingers; and Henry haddropped the spade, and said, "There is life in him, " but his fatherseized the spade, and shovelled the sand into the hole with a kind ofsilent fury, and trampled it over and smoothed it down--and then hegathered up the coat and the bag, and handed Henry the spade. By thistime the town was astir, and they saw, very faintly, a man run alongthe shore eastward; so, making a long circuit to the west, theyreturned; his father had put the spade away and taken the coatupstairs; and then he went out with Henry, and told all he could findthat there was a wreck ashore. 

The priest heard the story with a fierce shame and anger, and turningto Henry he said, "But why did you not resist your father, and savethe poor sailor?" "I dared not, " said Henry shuddering, "though Iwould have done so if I could; but my father has a power over me, andI am used to obey him. " Then said the priest, "This is a dark matter. But you have told the story bravely, and now will I shrive you, myson. " So he gave him shrift. Then he said to Henry, "And have you seenaught that would connect the beast that visits you with this thing?""Ay, that I have, " said Henry, "for I watched it with my father skipand leap in the water over the place where the man lies buried. " Thenthe priest said, "Your father must tell me the tale too, and he mustmake submission to the law. " "He will not, " said Henry. "Then will Icompel him, " said the priest. "Not out of my mouth, " said Henry, "orhe will slay me too. " And then the priest said that he was in a straitplace, for he could not use the words of confession of one man toconvict another of his sin. So he gathered his things in haste, andwalked back to the church; but Henry went another way, saying "I madeexcuse to come away, and said I went elsewhere; but I fear my fathermuch--he sees very deep; and I would not have him suspect me of havingmade confession. "

Then the Father met the other two at the church gate; and they wentdown to the house in silence, the Father pondering heavily; and at thedoor Henry joined them, and it seemed to the Father that old MasterGrimston regarded him not. So they entered the house in silence, andate in silence, listening earnestly for any sound. And the Fatherlooked oft on Master Grimston, who ate and drank and said nothing, never raising his eyes. But once the Father saw him laugh secretly tohimself, so that the blood came cold in the Father's veins, and hecould hardly contain himself from accusing him. Then the Father hadthem to prayers, and prayed earnestly against the evil, and that theyshould open their hearts to God, if He would show them why this miserycame upon them. 

Then they went to bed; and Henry asked that he might lie in thepriest's room, which he willingly granted. And so the house was dark, and they made as though they would sleep; but the Father could notsleep, and he heard Henry weeping silently to himself like a littlechild. 

But at last the Father slept--how long he knew not--and suddenlybrake out of his sleep with a horror of darkness all about him, andknew that there was some evil thing abroad. So he looked upon theroom. He heard Henry mutter heavily in his sleep as though there was adark terror upon him; and then, in the light of the dying embers, theFather saw a thing rise upon the hearth, as though it had slept there, and woke to stretch itself. And then in the half-light it seemedsoftly to gambol and play; but whereas when an innocent beast doesthis in the simple joy of its heart, and seems a fond and prettysight, the Father thought he had never seen so ugly a sight as thebeast gambolling all by itself, as if it could not contain its owndreadful joy; it looked viler and more wicked every moment; then, too, there spread in the room the sharp scent of the sea, with the foulsmell underneath it, that gave the Father a deadly sickness; he triedto pray, but no words would come, and he felt indeed that the evil wastoo strong for him. Presently the beast desisted from its play, andlooking wickedly about it, came near to the Father's bed, and seemedto put up its hairy forelegs upon it; he could see its narrow andobscene eyes, which burned with a dull yellow light, and were fixedupon him. And now the Father thought that his end was near, for hecould stir neither hand nor foot, and the sweat rained down his brow;but he made a mighty effort, and in a voice which shocked himself, sodry and husky and withal of so loud and screaming a tone it was, hesaid three holy words. The beast gave a great quiver of rage, but itdropped down on the floor, and in a moment was gone. They Henry woke, and raising himself on his arm, said somewhat; but there broke out inthe house a great outcry and the stamping of feet, which seemed veryfearful in the silence of the night. The priest leapt out of his bedall dizzy, and made a light, and ran to the door, and went out, cryingwhatever words came to his head. The door of Master Grimston's roomwas open, and a strange and strangling sound came forth; the Fathermade his way in, and found Master Grimston lying upon the floor, hiswife bending over him; he lay still, breathing pitifully, and everynow and then a shudder ran through him. In the room there seemed astrange and shadowy tumult going forward; but the Father saw that notime could be lost, and kneeling down beside Master Grimston, heprayed with all his might. 

Presently Master Grimston ceased to struggle and lay still, like a manwho had come out of a sore conflict. Then he opened his eyes, and theFather stopped his prayers, and looking very hard at him he said, "Myson, the time is very short--give God the glory. " Then MasterGrimston, rolling his haggard eyes upon the group, twice strove tospeak and could not; but the third time the Father, bending down hishead, heard him say in a thin voice, that seemed to float from a longway off, "I slew him . .. My sin. " Then the Father swiftly gave himshrift, and as he said the last word, Master Grimston's head fell overon the side, and the Father said, "He is gone. " And Bridget broke outinto a terrible cry, and fell upon Henry's neck, who had enteredunseen. 

Then the Father bade him lead her away, and put the poor body on thebed; as he did so he noticed that the face of the dead man wasstrangely bruised and battered, as though it had been stamped upon bythe hoofs of some beast. Then Father Thomas knelt, and prayed untilthe light came filtering in through the shutters; and the cocks crowedin the village, and presently it was day. But that night the Fatherlearnt strange secrets, and something of the dark purposes of God wasrevealed to him. 

In the morning there came one to find the priest, and told him thatanother body had been thrown up on the shore, which was strangelysmeared with sand, as though it had been rolled over and over in it;and the Father took order for its burial. 

Then the priest had long talk with Bridget and Henry. He found themsitting together, and she held her son's hand and smoothed his hair, as though he had been a little child; and Henry sobbed and wept, butBridget was very calm. "He hath told me all, " she said, "and we havedecided that he shall do whatever you bid him; must he be given tojustice?" and she looked at the priest very pitifully. "Nay, nay, "said the priest. "I hold not Henry to account for the death of theman; it was his father's sin, who hath made heavy atonement--thesecret shall be buried in our hearts. "

Then Bridget told him how she had waked suddenly out of her sleep, andheard her husband cry out; and that then followed a dreadful kind ofstruggling, with the scent of the sea over all; and then he had all atonce fallen to the ground and she had gone to him--and that then thepriest had come. 

Then Father Thomas said with tears that God had shown them deep thingsand visited them very strangely; and they would henceforth live humblyin His sight, showing mercy. 

Then lastly he went with Henry to the store-room; and there, in thebox that had dripped with water, lay the coat of the dead man, full ofmoney, and the bag of money too; and Henry would have cast it backinto the sea, but the priest said that this might not be, but that itshould be bestowed plentifully upon shipwrecked mariners unless theheirs should be found. But the ship appeared to be a foreign ship, andno search ever revealed whence the money had come, save that it seemedto have been violently come by. 

Master Grimston was found to have left much wealth. But Bridget wouldsell the house and the land, and it mostly went to rebuild the churchto God's glory. Then Bridget and Henry removed to the vicarage andserved Father Thomas faithfully, and they guarded their secret. Andbeside the nave is a little high turret built, where burns a lamp in alantern at the top, to give light to those at sea. 

Now the beast troubled those of whom I write no more; but it iseasier to raise up evil than to lay it; and there are those that saythat to this day a man or a woman with an evil thought in their heartsmay see on a certain evening in November, at the ebb of the tide, agoatlike thing wade in the water, snuffing at the sand, as though itsought but found not. But of this I know nothing. 

 THE TROTH OF THE SWORD

Sir Hugh was weary, for he had ridden far and fast that day, andridden warily too, by bypaths and green forest roads, for the countrywas much harried by robbers at that time, under the grim chief thatwent by the name of the Red Hound: he was an outlaw that had been aknight; but for his cruelty and his blackness of heart and hispitiless wickedness he had been driven from his stronghold into theforest, where he lived a hunted life, rending hitherto all that weresent against him, a terror in the land; writing his anger upon brokenchurches and charred farmsteads. Sparing none but the children whom hetook to serve him, and maidens to please himself and his men. 

But Sir Hugh had been safe enough; for the Red Hound was outnorthwards; and Sir Hugh was gallantly attended by a troop of jinglinghorse, that went swiftly before and behind him, while he rode in themidst, silent as was his wont, his eyes dwelling wistfully upon thegreen and lonely places of the forest, the bright faces of theflowers, and the woodland things that slipped away into the brake. Forall his deeds of might--and Hugh though young in years was old invalour--he had a deep desire for peace and the fair and beautiful artsof life. He could sing tuneably to the lute; and he loved the delicatethings of earth with a love of which he spoke to none. 

At last they struck out of the forest into a firmer road; and here wasa wall by the wayside and a towered gate; but the wood climbed steeplywithin. At the gate they halted, and presently Sir Hugh was admitted. The road within was paved with stone, and led to the left; and hereSir Hugh dismounted, and saying that he would stretch his limbs, lefthis horse to be led by the page that rode beside him, giving him asmiling glance, which had made the boy a willing and loving servant. The troop rode off among the copses; and Sir Hugh, taught by theporter, took a grassy path that led steeply through the wood to theright, the porter telling him that he would be the first at the castlegate; for the path was steep and direct, while the road wound at aneasier slope, to the top of the hill where the Castle stood. 

Sir Hugh unlaced his helmet, for the day had been still and hot. Hewas a very gracious youth to behold. His face was beardless andclean-cut. His skin was as the skin of a child, for he had lived apure life, eating and drinking sparingly. Another might have beenmocked for this; but Sir Hugh was so gallant a fighter, so courteous, so loving, that he was let to please himself. His eyes were large andquiet; his hair rippled into short brown curls. He had no signs oftravel, save a little dust upon his brow; and this he washed off at arill that fell clear through the wood, dripping from the rocks. And sohe went up easily, and glancing about him. The oak-copse interlacedits boughs above his head; the sun had lately set, and there was asoft twilight in the forest. In the pale sky floated a few darkclouds, with rims of fire caught from the sinking sun; sometimes thewood was all about him, with close undergrowth and grassy paths. Sometimes he saw a pile of rocks, all overgrown with moss, indistinctin the gloom. Sometimes he saw a dell where a stream went murmuringdown, hidden in climbing plants; sometimes a little lawn would open inthe heart of the chase, where a deer stood to graze, leaping lightlyinto the brake at the sight of him. 

He came very suddenly to the end of the path. Through the interlacedleaves of the copse a great bulk loomed up, that seemed strangely highand dark; the wood ended, and he saw the Castle before him, with itsturrets and battlements showing black against the green sky; a lightor two burnt with a fiery redness in some of the high windows. 

He stepped out on to the wide platform of the Castle, and saw beforehim the wooded ridges of the lower hills, with light veils of mistlying among them, that had a golden hue from the setting sun; beyond, rose the shadowy shapes of mountains, that seemed to guard a sweet andsolemn secret of peace in their midst. As he looked round, his trooprode briskly out of the wood, with a sudden clatter, and a sharpringing of weapons, as they came out upon the paved space; andpresently a warder looked out, and the great doors of the Castle wereopened to them. 

Sir Hugh bore with him a letter of great import. The Lord whom heserved, the Earl Fitz-Simon, was a man of haughty strength and greatpride. His Countess was lately dead, and he had no son to bear hisname. He was old and grizzled and brought a terror about with him. Hewas as powerful indeed as the King himself, of whom the Earl spokescornfully, without concealment, doing him a scanty homage when theymet. Sir Hugh was of distant kin to him, and had been brought up inhis Castle; and the Earl went as near loving him as he had ever gone, wishing that he had him as his son, and indeed desiring that he shouldhave the Earldom after him if he had no heir of his own, and marry hisonly daughter, a grim maiden. And Hugh loved the Earl very faithfully, giving him the worship of a son. 

On the day before the Earl had sent for him; and Hugh had stoodbeside him as he sate and wrote in silence, watching his great bonyhand and his knotted brow, bristled with stiff hair. Presently theEarl had thrown down his pen, and exclaiming that he was but an illclerk, had smiled pleasantly upon Hugh, telling him in a few sourwords that he meant to take another wife, and that his choice hadfallen upon the Lady Mary, the daughter of the Lord Bigod (whoseCastle it was that Sir Hugh now approached). "A goodly maiden, apt tobear strong children to my body. " And as he said this he made a pause, and watched Hugh narrowly to see how he took the news, and whether hehad hoped for the Earldom after him. But Hugh had given him an opensmile in return, and said that he wished him much happiness, and heirsto rule after him. And the Earl had nodded well-pleased, knowing thatHugh had spoken what was in his heart, and that no other man that heknew would have so wished in Hugh's place; and then the Earl had sworna coarse oath or two, saying that he was old and spent, and if he didnot beget an heir, Hugh should come after him; but that if he didbeget a man-child, then that Hugh should have the guarding of himafter he himself was gone. And then he did up his letter roughly, splashed wax upon it, and pricked it with a signet; and bade Hugh ridein haste with a score of troopers, saying, "And I trust you with thisbecause you do not turn your eyes aside to vanity, as the priests say, and care nothing for the looks of maidens; therefore you will be asafe messenger; and you will put my ring (he gave it him) upon theLady Mary's finger before the priest, and kiss her on the lips if youhave a mind; and bid her ride within the week to the wedding; and staynot for the Lord Bigod, for he is more maid than man, and will notwillingly let his daughter go; but will fear to keep her from mybehest. "

And then he beat his hand on Hugh's shoulder, as his manner was whenhe was pleased; and then to Hugh's surprise bent and kissed his cheek, as a man might kiss his son, and then, as if ashamed, frowned uponhim, and said "with haste!"--and in an hour Hugh was gone. 

Now when they entered the Castle, which had a great court within, full of galleries, there was a great stir of people to see them; thehorses were led away to the stables; the troopers passed into theguard room; and an old seneschal with a white staff asked Hughcourteously of his business, and then led him up a flight of steps, and into a long dark room, hung with a faded green arras. 

Here sate a pale thin man at a table, looking upon a book, in avelvet gown; the seneschal cried out Hugh's name, who made anobeisance, and then advancing, put the letter in the hands of the LordBigod, saying, "From the Earl Fitz-Simon; these. " Then the Lord Bigodrent the paper, looking curiously upon it; and read therein. Hughobserved him closely; he looked more like a priest than a knight, butthere was something very sweet and noble about his air, and he lookedas a man might look who had known both sorrow and thought, and wishedwell to all the world. The Lord Bigod read the letter, and then grewsomewhat pale; then he read it again, and walked to the window, turning it in his hands. He stood so long, holding the letter behindhim, and looking out, that Hugh saw that he was wrestling in mind andill-at-ease. Then he turned, and said very courteously to Hugh, thoughhis voice trembled somewhat, "Know you what is within this letter?"And Hugh said, "Yea, sir. " And the Lord Bigod said, "It is a greatmatter. " And then, after another long silence, the Lord Bigod turnedto the seneschal who waited at the door, and said, "See that Sir Hughbe well bestowed:" and then with an inclination of the head to SirHugh he added, "I will think hereon, and you shall hear my wordsto-morrow. " Hugh turned and followed the seneschal out; and he felt agreat pity for the kind Lord whom he had left, for he saw that he wasin great sadness of mind and perplexity. The seneschal asked Hugh ifhe would join the knights, but Hugh said he was weary and would rest. So the seneschal led him to a spacious chamber, from which Hugh couldsee the tree-tops of the forest, and the mountains very black, with agreat orange glow of sunset behind; food was served him, and his pagecame to him, to do off his armour. And presently, seeing that the pagewas very weary, he bade him lie down to sleep; so the page lay downupon a little bed that was in a turret opening on the room; and soonafter Sir Hugh himself lay down upon a great pillared bed, made ofoak, and hung with tapestries. But he could not sleep, but lay wearilygazing at the glimmering window and hearing the breathing of the boyin the turret hard by, till at last he too fell asleep. 

The morning came with a great brightness and freshness, with thehoarse cries of the jackdaws that lived in the ledges of the tower;Sir Hugh dressed himself carefully and noiselessly, not to wake thepage, who still slept deeply; then he stood beside the boy's bed; theboy stretched out his arms in slumber and then awoke, ashamed to belater than his master, and to find him apparelled. 

Presently the seneschal came, and led Hugh to the Hall, where werethe two sons of the Lord Bigod, with a large company of knights, thatstood up at his appearing, and did him great honour; and then came amessage for him to go to the Lord Bigod. Hugh saw at once that he wasvery weary and had not slept; the letter lay on the table beside him;and he said to Hugh that he had given the letter great thought, andthat it was a very honourable behest: "And herewith I accept it forthe Lady Mary, " he said stammeringly, "who will do as my daughter andas the chosen of the honourable Earl should do. " Then he was silentfor a space, presently adding, "I have not told my daughter thetidings yet; I will tell her; and then you shall have speech with her;but I would, " he added, "that there was not such haste in the matter;for a maiden is a tender thing and merits tender usage; do you think, sir"--and here he looked anxiously upon Hugh--"do you think that theEarl will consent to a longer delay, that the maiden may growaccustomed to the thought? She has as yet spoken to no man but myselfand her brothers, and though she is fearless and of a high spirit"--hebroke off suddenly, and then with a wistful glance at Sir Hugh, added, "Will the Earl delay awhile?" Sir Hugh felt a great pity for the manwho stood so anxiously before him, but he hardened his heart and said, "I think that the Earl will not delay his purpose: he is swift to dohis will. " A great cloud of sadness came down on the Lord Bigod'sface, and he said very low, "That is a good way, the way of a greatwarrior--so be it then, sir, " and he softly withdrew, asking Hugh towait for him. 

Then fell a long silence; and Hugh, looking upon the folded letter onthe table, felt it to be a cruel thing; but he never wavered inloyalty to the Earl, and thought to himself that the longer the maidenwaited the more would she perchance be terrified; that great men mustwed as they would--and other things with which he sought to excusewhat seemed a harsh deed. 

Suddenly he heard a footstep; a door opened; and the Lord Bigodappeared, leading a maiden into the room, who encircled his arm withher hands. She was tall and slender, apparelled all in white, with agirdle of gold. She was very pale, but bore herself with a gentle andsimple grace; and there fell upon Hugh a thought that he cast from himas it were with both his hands. He had never known love, and his heartwas as pure as snow; the maidens that he had seen had appeared to himbut as distant visions of tenderness and grace, stirring in his heartnothing but a sort of brotherly compassion for things so delicate andfrail, and unfit for the hard world in which men must live. But at thesight of the Lady Mary, her great eyes, in which there seemed a traceof swimming tears, he felt suddenly a deep passionate hunger of theheart, as though a sweet and deep mystery, lying far-off, had beenbrought suddenly near to him. Was this love, that great power of whichthe poets sung; the power which had lost kingdoms and wrought thedestruction of men? He feared it was so indeed. He felt as a poor manmight, who had lived in pinching want, and had suddenly found a greattreasure of gold, at the stroke of a mattock in his field. One glancepassed between them; and it seemed as though some other thing hadpassed; as though their souls had leapt together. Then he dropped hiseyes and stood waiting, while a faint fragrance seemed to pass uponthe air. Then the Lord Bigod said very gravely, "Sir Hugh, I have toldthe Lady Mary of your errand; and she will do the bidding of the Earlin every point. To-day we will make preparation; to-morrow shall thebetrothal be; and on the third day the Lady Mary shall ride with you;and now I will leave you together for awhile; for the Lady Mary wouldask you many things, and you will be courteous and tell her all. " Thenhe kissed his daughter, and led her to a chair before the table, andmotioned to Sir Hugh to be seated at the table-side; and then he wentout of the room in haste. 

Then the Lady Mary began to speak in a low clear voice that had notrembling in it; but her hands that were clasped together on the tabletrembled; and Hugh took courage, and told her of the greatness of theEarl and his high courage, praising him generously and nobly; he spokeof the Earl's daughter, and of the kinsfolk that abode there; and ofthe priest of the Castle, and of the knights; and of the Castleitself, and its great woodland chase; and the Lady Mary heard himattentively, her eyes fixed upon his face, and her lips parted. Andthen she asked him one or two questions, but broke off, and said, "SirHugh, you will know that all this is very new and strange to me; butit is not the newness and strangeness that is most in my heart; but itis the thought of what I leave behind, this house and my kin; and myfather who is above all things dear to me--for I know no other placebut this, and no other faces have I seen. " Then Sir Hugh felt hiswhole heart melted within him at the sight both of her grief and ofher high courage. And the thought that she should thus pass in all herstainless grace to the harsh embrace of the old and grim Earl, camelike a horror into his heart; but he only said, "Lady, I have dweltall my life with the Earl and he has ever used me gently andgraciously, and he is as a father to me; I know that men fear him; yetI can but say that he has a true heart full of wisdom and might. " Andthe Lady Mary smiled faintly, and said, "I will be sure it is soindeed. " And so she rose, and presently withdrew. 

The day passed like a swift dream for Sir Hugh. He could think ofnothing but the Lady Mary, with a strange leaping of the heart; thatshe was in the Castle above him, hidden somewhere like a flower in thedark walls; that he would stand before her to plight his Lord's troth;that he would ride with her through the forest; and that he would haveher near him through the months, when she was wedded to the Earl--allthis was a secret and urgent joy to him; not that he thought ever towin her love--such a traitorous imagining never even crossed hismind--but he thought that she would be as a sweet sister to him, whomhe would guard as he could from every shadow of care; the thought ofher sadness, and of her fear of the Earl worked strongly in his heart;but he saw no way out of that; and indeed believed, or tried tobelieve in his heart, that she would love the Earl for his might, andthat he would love her for her grace, and that so all would be well. 

The next day he rose very early, and was soon summoned to the chapel. There were few present; there seemed indeed, from soft movements andwhisperings, to be ladies in a gallery beside the altar, but they werehidden in a lattice. The sons of the Lord Bigod were there, lookingfull of joyful excitement; other lords and knights sate within thechapel, and an old priest, in stiff vestments, with a worn and patientface, knelt by the altar, his lips moving as in prayer. Presently theLord Bigod came in, as pale as death and sore troubled, and with himwalked the Lady Mary, who seemed to bring the very peace of God withher. She was pale, but clear of complexion, and with a greatbrightness in her eyes, as of one whose will was strong. Then Hughdrew near to the altar, and plighted the Earl's troth to her, puttingthe great ring, with its ruby as red as blood, upon her finger. Henoticed, as he waited to put the ring upon her hand, that a ray oflight from the window darted through the signet, and cast a light, like a drop of blood, upon the maiden's white palm; and then the voiceof the priest, raised softly in blessing, fell upon his ear with atender hope; and at the end he knelt down very gently, and kissed theLady Mary's hand in token of fealty; and the thought of the Earl'sjest about bidding him to kiss her on the lips came like a shamefulthought into his mind. 

Then the day passed slowly and sadly; but he saw not the Lady Marysave once, when, as he walked in the wood, trying to cool his hotbrain with the quiet, he saw her stand on a balcony looking out overthe forest with an infinite and patient sadness of air, as of one thatbade farewell. 

And again the sun went down, and the night passed; and at daybreak heheard the clatter of horsehoofs in the court, the jingling of thestirrups, and the voices of his troop, who made merry adieux to theirnew comrades. 

Then he came down himself; and saw beside his horse a smaller horserichly caparisoned; then in a moment, very swiftly, came the Lady Marydown the stairs, with the Lord Bigod and her brothers; she kissed herbrothers, who looked smilingly at her; and then her father, hangingfor a moment on his neck, and whispering a word into his ear; and Hughcould see the Lord Bigod's face working, as he restrained his tears, in anguish of heart. Then she smiled palely upon Hugh; her fatherlifted her to her horse; and they rode out with a great waving ofhandkerchiefs and crying of farewells, the bell of the Castle ringingas sweet as honey in the tower. 

They rode all day in the green forest, with a troop in front and atroop behind. The air was cool and fresh, and the sun lay sweetly uponthe glades and woodpaths. All things seemed to rejoice together; thebirds sang out of their simple joy, and the doves cooed, hidden in theheart of great green trees; and the joy of being with the maidenoutweighed all other thoughts in the mind of Sir Hugh. Sometimes theywere silent, and sometimes they talked softly together like brotherand sister. What pleased him best was that she seemed to have put allcare and anxiety away from her mind; once or twice, after a silence, he saw a tear glisten on her cheek; but she spoke, with no show ofcourage, but as though she had formed a purpose, and would takewhatever befel her with a gentle tranquillity. The little servicesthat he was enabled to do her seemed to him like a treasure that helaid up for the days to come; and the love which he felt in his hearthad no shadow in it; it was simply as the worship of a pure spirit forthe most delicate and beautiful thing that the world could hold. 

At last the sun set when they were yet some miles from the Earl'sCastle; and while Hugh was still counting up the minutes that remainedto him, he saw the troop in front come to a halt; and presently one ofthem rode back, and told him with an uneasy air that there was a greatsmoke in the wood to the left; and that they thought they were not farfrom the haunts of the Red Hound. But Hugh said lightly, not toterrify the maiden, that the Red Hound was far to the north; to whichthe trooper replied with a downcast look, "It was so said, sir. " "Rideon then warily!" said Hugh--and he bade the troop behind come upnearer. The Lady Mary presently asked him what the matter was; andthough by this time a dreadful anxiety had sprung into Hugh's mind, hetold her who the Red Hound was, and she replied that she had heard ofhim; but seeing that he was somewhat troubled she forbore to speakmore of that, but pointed out to him a little tuft of red flowers thatgrew daintily in the crevice of a rock beside the path. He turned tolook at it; and suddenly became aware that something, he could notclearly say what, had slipped away at that moment from the bushesbeside the road; the thought came into his mind that this was a spyset to watch them; and so he bade the men draw their swords, and closeabout them in a ring. 

They were now in the thickest of the wood. The green road in whichthey were riding dipped down to a low marshy place, where a streamsoaked through the path. The rock, which seemed like a littlepinnacle, rose sharply on their left clear of the bushes: all else wasforest, except that a little path or clearing led up to the left, among the trees. There was an utter stillness in the air, which wasall full of a golden light. The swords came merrily out of thescabbards with a sudden clang. The troopers closed in about them; butthen, with a sudden dark rush out of the wood, there swept down theclearing a number of horsemen, roughly clad with leather cuirasses andgaiters, all armed with long pointed spears. It seemed as though theymust have been ambushed there against them, they came on with suchsuddenness. 

In a moment there was a scene of fierce confusion; swords flashedhigh; there were groans and shouts; a trooper, pierced by a lance, fell writhing at their feet; one of the enemy, cut down by a swordblow, fell to the earth and crouched there, blood dripping from hishead and shoulder; but the armoured troopers, well drilled andtrained, would have prevailed, had not a flight of arrows sung with asharp rattle out of the thicket, and four of the men behind him fell, two of them instantly slain, and two grievously wounded. The riderlesshorses, wounded too, rushed snorting down the road, and another troopof men on foot poured out of the forest behind them. 

In the middle of the enemies' lancers rode a tall man, red-haired andscowling, with yet something of a knightly air. Hugh recognised him atonce as none other than the Red Hound himself, whom he had seen longago before the days of his outlawry. He did not join in the fight, butsate on his horse a little apart, shouting a command from moment tomoment. 

Hugh cast a swift glance round; the men on foot were yet some littleway off, running down the road; the troopers in front had pushed thelancemen a little way up the clearing; and Hugh determined to attempta desperate rush with the Lady Mary up the road: desperate indeed itwas, but he saw that if he could but get clear of the fight, therewere none that could follow, except perhaps the chief himself; Hughleant across his horse's neck; the Lady Mary sate still and silent, like the daughter of a line of knights, looking at the combat with asteady and unblenching look. He laid his hand on her bridle rein, andshe turned and looked in his eyes; and he saw that therein which madehim glad in the midst of the dangers--though he was too muchaccustomed to battle to have fear for himself--it was as a man, thathad been long voyaging, might see, in a clear dawn, the cliffs of hishome across the leaping seas. 

He pointed, and said a word in her ear; she glanced at him, nodded, and drew up her rein; but at that moment his horse gave a short upwardjerk, and then fell grovelling on his knees, an arrow sticking in hisside, close to Sir Hugh's knee. He flung his foot clear, and leapt tothe Lady's side; and then in a moment he saw that the battle was goneagainst him past mending. Another flight of arrows sang from thethicket, and four of the troopers in the glade fell from their horses, and the lancers, who were drawing back, pressed down upon them. ThenSir Hugh signed swiftly to the Lady that she should ride clear; but inthat moment the Lady's horse fell too. Sir Hugh caught her in hisarms, and dragged her free of the horse, tearing her gown by the knee, for the arrow that had slain the horse had pierced through the Lady'sgarment, though without wounding her. Then he saw that they were veryhard beset, and that there was no way out; so he hastened to the rock, laid his hands upon a little ledge about as high as his head; leaptup, set his sword beside him, and then, stooping down, drew the Ladyup beside him. Then he shouted to his men to come back to the rock;there were but a handful left; but they drew back slowly, and made alittle ring about the base of the rock, while the others drew slowlyin around them, but halted at a little distance, fearing the flashingswords. 

The Red Hound himself stood near at hand; Hugh heard him shout hiscommands aloud, and heard him say that they should save the girlalive, and take the Knight captive if they could--and the Lady Maryheard it too, for she turned to Sir Hugh, and with a sudden look ofentreaty, said, "Hugh, I must not fall into his hands. " He looked ather smiling, and said, "Nay, dear, you shall not. "

And then Hugh saw that it was indeed the end, and that his death wasat hand; he had seen men in abundance die, and had often wondered howit was that death should come to him at the last. But now, instead offear, there came to him a sort of fierce joy that he should die withher whom he was now not ashamed to love; and in the midst of theshouting and the tumult, he had a sudden vision of himself and herwandering away, two happy spirits, hand in hand, from the place oftheir passion. 

And now the last of his troopers had fallen. Then the Lady Mary drewclose to him, and said, "Is it time?" And he said, "Yes, dear, it isthe time; fear nought--you will feel nothing--and you will wait forme, for I shall follow you close. And now, dear one, turn your facefrom me lest it unman me--there is nought to fear. " So she smiledagain, and he kissed her on the lips, and she turned from him; and hestruck one stroke with his sword; she quivered once, and sinking downmoved no more. 

Then Sir Hugh prayed a prayer; and looking upon his sword, off whichthe blood now dripped, he poised it in his hand like a lance. Thespearmen had closed in to the rock. But Hugh hurled his sword pointforemost at the Red Hound, and saw it sink through his skull, till thehilt clattered on his brow; and then he cast one look upon the Lady;and, as a man might enter the gates of his home, he leapt veryjoyfully down among the spears. 

 THE HILL OF TROUBLE

There was once a great scholar, Gilbert by name, who lived atCambridge, and was Fellow of St. Peter's College there. He was stillyoung, and yet he had made himself a name for learning, and still morefor wisdom, which is a different thing, though the two are oftenconfused. Gilbert was a slender, spare man, but well-knit andwell-proportioned. He loved to wear old scholarly garments, but he hadthat sort of grace in wearing them that made him appear betterapparelled than most men in new clothes. His hair was thick andcurling, and he had small features clearly cut. His lips were somewhatthin, as though from determined thought. He carried his eyes a littlewrinkled up, as though to spare them from the light; but he had agracious look which he turned on those with whom he spoke; and when heopened his eyes upon you, they were large and clear, as though chargedwith dreams; and he had a very sweet smile, trustful and gentle, thatseemed to take any that spoke with him straight to his heart, and madehim many friends. He had the look rather of a courtier than of apriest, and he was merry and cheerful in discourse, so that you mightbe long with him and not know him to be learned. It may be said thathe had no enemies, though he did not conceal his beliefs and thoughts, but stated them so courteously and with such deference to oppositeviews, that he drew men insensibly to his side. It was thought by manythat he ought to go into the world and make a great name for himself. But he loved the quiet College life, the familiar talk with those heknew. He loved the great plenty of books and the discourse of simpleand wise men. He loved the fresh bright hours of solitary work, theshady College garden, with its butts and meadows, bordered by ancientwalls. He loved to sit at meat in the cool and spacious hall; and heloved too the dark high-roofed College Church, and his own canopiedstall with the service-books in due order, the low music of the organ, and the sweet singing of the choir. He was not rich, but hisFellowship gave him all that he desired, together with a certainseemly dignity of life that he truly valued; so that his heart wasvery full of a simple happiness from day to day, and he thought thathe would be more than content to live out his life in the peacefulCollege that he loved so well. 

But he was ambitious too; he was writing a great book full of holylearning; and he had of late somewhat withdrawn himself from the lifeof the College; he sate longer at his studies and he was seen lessoften in other Colleges. Ten years he gave himself to finish his task, and he thought that it would bring him renown; but that was only afar-off dream, gilding his studies with a kind of peaceful glory; andindeed he loved the doing of his work better than any reward he mightget for it. 

One summer he felt he wanted some change of life; the sultry Cambridgeair, so dry and low, seemed to him to be heavy and lifeless. He beganto dream of fresh mountain breezes, and the sound of leaping streams;so at last he packed his books into a box, and set off a long journeyinto the hills of the West, to a village where an old friend of hiswas the priest, who he knew would welcome him. 

On the sixth day he arrived at the place; he had enjoyed the journey;much of the time he had ridden, but he often walked, for he was verystrong and active of body; he had delighted in seeing the places hehad passed through, the churches and the towns and the castles thatlay beside the way; he had been pleased with the simple friendly inns, and as his custom was had talked with all travellers that he met. Andmost of all he had loved, as he drew nearer the West, to see the greatgreen slopes of hills, the black heads of mountains, the steep woodedvalleys, where the road lay along streams, that dashed among mossyboulders into still pools. 

At last he came to the village which he sought, which lay with itsgrey church and low stone houses by a bridge, in a deep valley. Thevicarage lay a little apart in a pleasant garden; and his friend theVicar had made him greatly welcome. The Vicar was an old man andsomewhat infirm, but he loved the quiet life of the country, and knewall the joys and sorrows of his simple flock. A large chamber was setapart for Gilbert, who ranged his books on a great table, and preparedfor much quiet work. The window of the chamber looked down the valley, which was very still. There was no pattering of feet in the road, asthere was at Cambridge; the only sounds were the crying of cocks orthe bleating of sheep from the hill-pastures, the sound of the wind inthe woods, and the falling of water from the hills. So Gilbert waswell content. 

For the first few days he was somewhat restless; he explored thevalley in all directions. The Vicar could not walk much, and onlycrept to and fro in the town, or to church; and though he sometimesrode to the hills, to see sick folk on upland farms, yet he toldGilbert that he must go his walks alone; and Gilbert was not loth; foras he thus went by himself in the fresh air, a stream of pleasantfancies and gentle thoughts passed lightly through his head, and hiswork shaped itself in his brain, like a valley seen from a height, where the fields and farms lie out, as if on a map, with the roadwinding among them that ties them with the world. 

One day Gilbert walked alone to a very solitary place among thehills, a valley where the woods grew thickly; the valley was anestuary, where the sea came up blue and fresh twice in the day, covering the wide sandbanks with still water that reflected the faceof the sky; in the midst of the valley, joined with the hillside by achain of low mounds, there rose a large round hill, covered withbushes which grew thickly over the slopes, and among little crags, haunted by hawks and crows. It looked a very solitary, peaceful hill, and he stopped at a farm beside the road to inquire of the waythither, because he was afraid of finding himself unable to cross thestreams. 

At his knock there came out an ancient man, with whom Gilbert enteredinto simple travellers' talk of the weather and the road; Gilbertasked him the name of the place, and the man told him that it wascalled the Gate of the Old Hollow. Then Gilbert pointing to the hillthat lay in the midst, asked him what that was. The old man looked athim for a moment without answering, and then said in a low voice, "That, sir, is the Hill of Trouble. " "That is a strange name!" saidGilbert. "Yes, " said the old man, "and it is a strange place, where noone ever sets foot--there is a cruel tale about it; there is somethingthat is not well about the place. "

Gilbert was surprised to hear the other speak so gravely; but the oldman, who was pleased with his company, asked him if he would not restawhile and eat; and Gilbert said that he would do so gladly, and themore gladly if the other would tell him the story of the place. Theold man led him within into a large room, with plain oak furniture, and brought him bread and honey and milk; and Gilbert ate, while theold man told him the legend of the Hill. 

He said that long years ago it was a place of heathen worship, andthat there stood a circle of stones upon it, where sacrifice was done;and that men, it was said, were slain there with savage rites; andthat when the Christian teachers came, and the valley became obedientto the faith, it was forbidden the villagers to go there, and for longyears it was desolate; but there had dwelt in the manor-house hard bya knight, fearless and rough, who regarded neither God nor man, whohad lately wedded a wife whom he loved beyond anything in the world. And one day there was with the knight a friend who was a soldier, andafter dinner, in foolish talk, the knight said that he would go to theHill, and he made a wager on it. The knight's lady besought him not togo, but he girded on his sword and went laughing. Now at the time, theold man said, there was much fighting in the valley, for the peoplewere not yet subject to the English king, but paid tribute to theirown Lords; and the knight had been one that fought the best. What theknight saw on the hill no one ever knew, but he came back at sundown, pale, and like a man that has been strangely scared, looking behindhim as though he expected to be followed by something; and from thatday he kept his chamber, and would not go abroad, or if he went out, he went fearfully, looking about him; and the English men-at-arms cameto the valley, but the knight that had ever been foremost in the fightwould not ride out to meet them, but kept his bed. The manor lay offthe road, and he ordered a boy to lie in the copse beside the way, andto come up to the house to tell him if any soldiers went by. But atroop of horse came secretly over the hill; and seeing the place lieso solitary and deserted, and being in haste, they came not in, butone of them shot a bolt at a venture; but the knight, it seemed, musthave stolen from his bed, and have been peeping through the shutters;for the knight's lady who sate below in sore shame and grief for herhusband's cowardice, heard a cry, and coming up found him in hisbedgown lying by the window, and a bolt sticking in his brain. 

Her grief and misery were so sore at this, that she was for a timenearly mad; they buried the knight in secret in the churchyard; butthe lady sate for many days speaking to no one, beating with her handupon the table and eating little. 

One day it seems that she had the thought to go herself to the Hillof Trouble, so she robed herself in haste, and went at early dawn; shewent in secret, and came back at noon, smiling to herself, with allher grief gone; and she sate for three days thus with her handsfolded, and from her face it was plain that there was joy in herheart; and on the third evening they found her cold and stiff in herchair, dead an hour since, but she was still smiling. And the landspassed to a distant kinsman. And since that day, said the old man, noone had ever set foot on the Hill, except a child not long since thatstrayed thither, and came back in a great fear, saying that he hadseen and spoken with an old man, that had seemed to be angry, but thatanother person, all in white, had come between them, and had led himby the hand to the right road; it could not be known why the child wasfrightened, but he said that it was the way the old man looked, andthe suddenness with which he came and went; but of the other he had nofear, though he knew him not. "And that, sir, is the tale. "

Gilbert was very much astonished at the tale, and though he was notcredulous, the story dwelt strongly in his mind. It was now too lateto visit the Hill, even if he had wished; and he could not have sovexed the old man as to visit it from his house. He stood for awhileat the gate looking down at it. It was hot and still in the valley. The tide was out and the warm air quivered over the sandbanks. But theHill had a stillness of its own, as though it guarded a secret, andlay looking out towards the sea. He could see the small crags upon it, in the calm air, and the bushes that grew plentifully all over it, with here and there a little green lawn, or a glade sloping down tothe green flat in which it stood. The old man was beside him and saidin his shrill piping voice, "You are not thinking of going to theHill, sir?" "Not now, at all events, " said Gilbert, smiling. But theold man said, "Ah, sir, you will not go--there are other things inthis world of ours, beside the hills and woods and farms; it would bestrange if that were all. The spirits of the dead walk at noonday inthe places they have loved; and I have thought that the souls of thosewho have done wickedness are sometimes bound to a place where theymight have done good things, and while they are vexed at all the eviltheir hands have wrought, they are drawn by a kind of evil habit to dowhat they chose to do on earth. Perhaps those who are faithful canresist them--but it is ill to tempt them. "

Gilbert was surprised at this wise talk from so simple a man; and hesaid, "How is it that these thoughts come into your mind?" "Oh, sir, "said the other, "I am old and live much alone; and these are some ofthe thoughts that come into my head as I go about my work, but whosends them to me I cannot tell. "

Then Gilbert said farewell, and would have paid for his meal, but theold man courteously refused, and said that it was a pleasure to see astranger in that lonely place; and that it made him think more kindlyof the world to talk so simply with one who was, he was sure, so greata gentleman. 

Gilbert smiled, and said he was only a simple scholar; and then hewent back to the vicarage house. He told the Vicar of his adventure, and the Vicar said he had heard of the Hill, and that there wassomething strange in the dread which the place inspired. Then Gilbertsaid, half impatiently, that it was a pity that people were so riddenby needless superstition, and made fears for themselves when there wasso much in the world that it was well to fear. But the old Vicar shookhis head. "They are children, it is true, " he said, "but children, Ioften think, are nearer to heaven than ourselves, and perhaps haveglimpses of things that it is harder for us to see as we get older andmore dull. "

But Gilbert made up his mind as they talked that he would see theplace for himself; and that night he dreamed of wandering over lonelyplaces with a fear upon him of he knew not what. And waking veryearly, after a restless night, and seeing the day freshly risen, andthe dewy brightness of the valley, he put on his clothes in haste, andtaking with him a slice of bread from the table, he set out blithelyfor the Hill, with an eagerness of spirit that he had been used tofeel as a child. 

He avoided the farm, and took a track that seemed to lead into thevalley, which led him up and down through little nooks and pastures, till he came to the base of the Hill. It was all skirted by a low wallof piled stones covered with grey lichens, where the brambles grewfreely; but the grass upon the Hill itself had a peculiar richness andluxuriance, as though it was never trodden or crushed underfoot. Gilbert climbed the wall, but the brambles clung to him as though tokeep him back; he disentangled them one by one, and in a moment hefound himself in a little green glade, among small crags, that seemedto lead to the top of the Hill. He had not gone more than a few paceswhen the pleasure and excitement died out of his mind, and left himfeeling weary and dispirited. But he said to himself that it was histroubled night, and the walk at the unusual hour, and the lack offood; so he took out his bread and ate it as he walked, and presentlyhe came to the top. 

Then he suddenly saw that he was at the place described; in front ofhim stood a tall circle of stones, very grey with age. Some of themwere flung down and were covered with bushes, but several of themstood upright. The place was strangely silent; he walked round thecircle, and saw that it occupied the top of the Hill; below him weresteep crags, and when he looked over he was surprised to see all downthe rocks, on ledges, a number of crows that sate silent in the sun. At the motion he made, a number of them, as though surprised to bedisturbed, floated off into the air, with loud jangling cries; and ahawk sailed out from the bushes and hung, a brown speck, withtrembling wings. Gilbert saw the rich plain at his feet and thewinding creek of the sea, and the great hills on left and right, in ablue haze. Then he stepped back, and though he had a feeling that itwould be wiser not to go, he put it aside and went boldly into thecircle of stones. He stood there for a moment, and then feeling veryweary, sate down on the turf, leaning his back against a stone; thencame upon him a great drowsiness. He was haunted by a sense that itwas not well to sleep there, and that the dreaming mind was an illdefence against the powers of the air--yet he put the thought asidewith a certain shame and fell asleep. 

He woke with a sudden start some time after; there was a chill inhis limbs, not from the air which glowed bright in the steady sun, buta chill of the spirit that made his hair prickle in an unusual way. Heraised himself up and looked round him, for he knew by a certain sensethat he was not alone; and then he saw leaning against one of thestones and watching him intently, a very old and weary-looking man. The man was pale and troubled; he had a rough cloak such as thepeasants wore, the hood of which was pulled over his head; his hairwas white and hung about his ears; he had a staff in his hand. Butthere was a dark look about him, and Gilbert divined in some swiftpassage of the spirit that he did not wish him well. Gilbert rose tohis feet, and at the same moment the old man drew near; and though helooked so old and feeble, Gilbert had the feeling that he was strongand even dangerous. But Gilbert showed no surprise; he doffed his hatto the old man, and said courteously that he hoped he had not wanderedto some private place, where he ought not to be. "The heat was great, and I slept unawares, " he said. The old man at first made no answer, and then said in a very low and yet clear voice, "Nay, sir, you arewelcome. The Hill is free to all; but it has an evil name, I know, andI see but few upon it. " Then Gilbert said courteously that he was buta passer-by, and that he must set off home again, before the sun washigh. And at that the old man said, "Nay, sir, but as you have come, you will surely wait awhile and speak with me. I see, " he added, "sofew of humankind, that my mind and tongue are alike stiff with disuse;but you can tell me something of your world--and I, " he added, "cantell you something of mine. " Then there came suddenly on Gilbert agreat fear, and he looked round on the tall stones of the circle thatseemed to be like a prison. Then he said, "I am but a simple scholarfrom Cambridge, and my knowledge of the world is but small; we work, "he said, "we write and read, we talk and eat together, and sometimeswe pray. " The old man looked at him with a sudden look, under hisbrows, as he said the words; and then he said, "So, sir, you are apriest; and your faith is a strong one and avails much; but there is atext about the strong man armed who is overcome of the stronger. Andthough the faith you teach is like a fort in an enemy's country, inwhich men may dwell safely, yet there is a land outside; and a fortcannot always hold its own. " He said this in so evil and menacing atone that Gilbert said, "Come, sir, these are wild words; would youspeak scorn of the faith that is the light of God and the victory thatovercometh?" Then the old man said, "Nay, I respect the faith--andfear it even, " he added in a secret tone--"but I have grown up in adifferent belief, and the old is better--and this also is a littlestronghold, which holds its own in the midst of foes; but I would notbe disputing, " he added--and then with a smile, "Nay, sir, I know whatis in your mind; you like not this place--and you are right; it is notfit for you to set your holy feet in; but it is mine yet; and so youmust even accept the hospitality of the place; you shall look thricein my glass, and see if you like what you shall see. " And he held outto Gilbert a small black shining thing. Gilbert would have wished torefuse it, but his courtesy bade him take it--and indeed he did notknow if he could have refused the old man, who looked so sternly uponhim. So he took it in his hand. It was a black polished stone like asphere, and it was very cold to the touch--so cold that he would fainhave thrown it down; but he dared not. So he said with such spirit ashe could muster, "And what shall I see beside the stone?--it seems afair and curious jewel--I cannot give it a name. " "Nay, " said the oldman sharply, "it is not the stone; the stone is naught; but it hides amystery. You shall see it in the stone. "

And Gilbert said, "And what shall I see in the stone?" And the old mansaid, "What shall be. "

So Gilbert looked upon the stone; the sun shone upon it in a brightpoint of light--and for an instant he saw nothing but the gleamingsides of the ball. But in a moment there came upon him a dizzinesslike that which comes upon a man who, walking on a hill-top, findshimself on the edge of a precipice. He seemed to look into a greatdepth, into the dark places of the earth--but in the depth there hunga mist like a curtain. Now while he looked at it he saw a commotion inthe mist; and looking closer, he saw that it seemed to be somethingwaving to and fro that drove the mist about; and presently he saw thetwo arms of a man; and then the mist parted, and he saw the figure ofa man standing and waving with his arms, like a man who would fansmoke aside; and the smoke fled from the waving arms and rolled away;and the man stepped aside. 

Then Gilbert looked beyond, and he saw a room with a low ceiling and amullioned window; and he knew it at once for his room in St. Peter'sCollege. There were books on the table; and he saw what seemed likehimself, risen to his feet, as though at a sound; and then he saw thedoor open and a man come in who made an obeisance, and the two seemedto talk together, and presently Gilbert saw the other man pullsomething from a cloth and put it in his own hands. And the figure ofhimself seemed to draw near the window to look at the thing; andthough it was all very small and distant, yet Gilbert could see thathe held in his hands a little figure that seemed a statue. And thenthe mist rolled in again and all was hid. 

He came to himself like a man out of a dream, he had been so intent onwhat appeared; and he saw the hill-top and the circle of stones, andthe old man who stood watching him with a secret smile upon his face. Then Gilbert made as though he would give the stone back, but beforehe could speak, the old man pointed to the stone again--and Gilbertlooked again and saw the deep place, and the cloud, and the man partthe cloud. 

Then he saw within a garden, and he knew it at once to be the gardenof St. Peter's; it seemed to be summer, for the trees were in leaf. Hesaw himself stand, carrying something in his hand, and looking at aplace in the garden wall. There was something on the wall, a patch ofwhite, but he could not see what it was; and beneath it there stood asmall group of men in scholars' dress who looked upon the wall, but hecould not see their faces; but one whom he recognised as the Master ofthe College stood with a stick in his hand, and pointed to the whitepatch on the wall--and then something seemed to run by, a cat or dog, and all at once the cloud flowed in over the picture; and again hecame to himself and saw the hill-top, and the stones, and the old man, who had drawn a little nearer, and looked at him with a strange smile. And again he pointed to the stone; and Gilbert looked again and sawthe cloud work very swiftly and part, and the man who swept the cloudsoff came forth for an instant, and then was lost to view. 

And Gilbert saw a very dark place, with something long and white, that glimmered faintly, lying in the midst; and he bent down to lookat it, but could not discern what it was. Then he saw in the darknesswhich surrounded the glimmering thing some small threads of duskywhite, and some small round things; and he looked at them long; andpresently discerned that the round things were pebbles, and that thewhite threads were like the roots of trees; and then he perceived thathe was looking into the earth; and then with a sickly chill of fear hesaw that the long and glimmering thing was indeed the body of a man, wrapped in grave-clothes from head to foot. And he could nowdistinguish--for it grew more distinct--the sides of a coffin aboutit, and some worms that moved to and fro in their dark burrows; butthe corpse seemed to shine with a faint light of its own--and then hecould see the wasted feet, and the thin legs and arms of the bodywithin; the hands were folded over the breast; and then he looked atthe face; and he saw his own face, only greatly sunk and fallen, witha bandage that tied up the chin, and leaden eyes; and then the cloudsswept in upon it; and he came to himself like a drowning man, and sawthat he was in the same place; and his first thought was a thrill ofjoy to know that he was alive; but then he groaned aloud, and he sawthe old man stand beside him with a very terrible look upon his face, holding out his hand for the stone in silence; so Gilbert gave himback the stone, and then with a fierce anger said, "Why have you shownme this? for this is the trickery of hell. " And the old man looked athim very sternly and said, "Why then did you come to this place? Youwere not called hither, and they that pry must be punished. A man whopulls open the door which leads from the present into the future mustnot be vexed if he sees the truth--and now, sir, " he added veryangrily, "depart hence in haste; you have seen what you have seen. " SoGilbert went slowly from the circle, and very heavily, and as hestepped outside he looked back. But there was nothing there but theturf and the grey stones. 

Gilbert went slowly down the Hill with a shadow upon him, like a manwho has passed through a sudden danger, or who has had a suddenglimpse into the dark realities of life. But the whole experience wasso strange and dreamlike, so apart from the wholesome current of hislife, that his fears troubled him less than he had supposed; still, akind of hatred for the quiet valley began to creep over him, and hefound himself sitting long over his books, looking down among thehills, and making no progress. If he was not silent when in companywith the old Vicar, it was because he made a strong effort, andbecause his courtesy came to his assistance. Indeed the old Vicarthought that he had never known Gilbert so tender or thoughtful as hehad been in the last week of his visit. The truth was that it was aneffort to Gilbert to talk about himself, and he therefore drew the oldpriest on to talk about the details of his own life and work. Thus, though Gilbert talked less himself, he was courteously attentive, sothat the old man had a sense that there had been much pleasantinterchange of feeling, whereas he had contributed the most of thetalk himself. Gilbert, too, found a great comfort in the offices ofthe Church in these days, and prayed much that, whatever should befallhim, he might learn to rest in the mighty will of God for himself, whatever that will might be. 

Soon after this he went back to Cambridge, and there, among his oldfriends and in his accustomed haunts, the whole impression of thevision on the Hill of Trouble grew faint and indistinct, especially asno incident occurred to revive it. He threw himself into his work, andthe book grew under his hands; and he seemed to be more eager to fillhis hours than before, and avoided solitary meditation. 

Some three years after the date of his vision, there was announced tohim by letter the advent of a great scholar to Cambridge, who had readone of Gilbert's books, and was desirous to be introduced to him. Gilbert was sitting one day in his rooms, after a happy quiet morning, when the porter came to the door and announced the scholar. He was atall eager man, who came forward with great friendliness, and saidsome courteous words about his pleasure at having met one whom he wasso desirous to see. He carried something in his hand, and after thefirst compliments, said that he had ventured to bring Gilbert a littlecuriosity that had lately been dug up at Rome, and which he had beenfortunate in securing. He drew off a wrapper, and held out to Gilberta little figure of a Muse, finely sculptured, with an inscription onthe pedestal. Gilbert stepped to the window to look at it, and as hedid so it flashed across his mind that this was surely the scene thathe had observed in the black stone. He stood for a moment with thestatue in his hand, with such a strange look in his face, that thenew-comer thought for an instant that his gift must have aroused somesad association. But Gilbert recovered himself in a moment andresolutely put the thought out of his mind, praised the statue, andthereupon entered into easy talk. 

The great scholar spent some days at Cambridge, and Gilbert was muchwith him. They talked of learned matters together, but the greatscholar said afterwards that though Gilbert was a man of high geniusand of great insight into learning, yet he felt in talking with him asthough he had some further and deeper preoccupation of thought. 

Indeed when Gilbert, by laying of dates together, became aware that itwas three years to a day since he had seen the vision in the stone, hewas often haunted by the thought of his visit to the Hill. But thislasted only a few days; and he took comfort at the thought that he hadseen a further vision in the stone which seemed at least to promisehim three more peaceful years of unchanged work, before he need giveway to the heaviness that the third vision had caused him. Yet it laylike a dark background in his thoughts. 

He kept very much to his work after this event, and became graver andsterner in face, so that his friends thought that his application tostudy was harmful. But when they spoke of it to Gilbert, he used tosay laughingly that nothing but work made life worthy, and that he wasmaking haste; and indeed the great book grew so fast that he waswithin sight of the end. He had many wrestles within himself, aboutthis time, as to the goodness and providence of God. He argued tohimself that he had been led very tenderly beside the waters ofcomfort, that he had served God as faithfully as he could--and indeedhe had little to reproach himself with, though he began to blamehimself for living a life that pleased him, and for not going aboutmore in the world helping weak brethren along the way, as the LordChrist had done. Yet again he said to himself that the great doctorsand fathers of the Church had deemed it praiseworthy that a man shoulddevote all the power of his brain to making the divine oracle clear, and that the apostle Paul had spoken of a great diversity of giftswhich could be used faithfully in the service of Christ. Still, hereflected that the truest glimpse into the unknown that he had everreceived--for he doubted no longer of the truth of the vision--hadcome to him from one that was, he thought, outside the mercies of God, an unhallowed soul, shut off by his own will and by his wickednessfrom the fold; and this was a sore burden to him. 

At last the book was done; and he went with it to a friend he had atOxford, a mighty scholar, to talk over some difficult passages. Theopinion of the scholar had been cordial and encouraging; he had saidthat the book was a very great and sound work, useful for doctrine andexhortation, and that many men had given their whole lives to workwithout achieving such a result. Gilbert had some of the happinesswhich comes to one who has completed a lengthy task; and though thetime drew nigh at which he might expect a further fulfilment of thevision, he was so filled with gratitude at the thought of the greatwork he had done, that there was little fear or expectation in hismind. 

He returned one summer afternoon to Cambridge, and the porter toldhim that the Master and several of the Fellows were in the garden, andwould fain see him on his arrival. So Gilbert, carrying a littlebundle which contained his precious book, went out there at once. TheMaster had caused to be made a new sundial, which he had affixed insuch a way to the wall that those whose chambers gave on the gardencould read the time of day without waiting to hear the bells. 

When Gilbert came out he saw the little group of Fellows standing bythe wall, while the Master with a staff pointed out the legend on thedial, which said that the only hours it told were the hours ofsunshine. It came upon Gilbert in a moment that this was the secondvision, and though two or three of the group saw him and turned to himwith pleasant greetings, he stood for a moment lost in the strangenessof the thing. One of them said, "He stands amazed at the novelty ofthe design;" and as he said the words, an old gray cat that belongedto the College, and lodged somewhere in the roofs, sprang from a bushand ran past him. One of the Fellows said, "Aha, cats do not lovechange!" and then Gilbert came forward, and greeted his friends; butthere lay a cold and terrible thought in the background of his mind, and he could not keep it out of his face; so that one of the Fellows, drawing him aside, asked if he had a good verdict on the book, for heseemed as one that was ill-pleased. And the Master, fearing thatGilbert did not like the dial, came and said to him courteously thathe knew it was a new-fangled thing, but that it was useful, and initself not unpleasant, and that it would soon catch a grace ofcongruity from the venerable walls around. "But, " he added, "if you donot like it, it shall be put in some other place. " Then Gilbertbestirred himself and said that he liked the dial very well, so thatthe Master was content. 

But Gilbert, as soon as he was by himself, delivered his mind up toheavy contemplation; the vision had twice fulfilled itself, and it washardly to be hoped that it would fail the third time. He sent his bookto be copied out fair, and when it was gone it was as though he hadlost his companion. The hours passed very slowly and drearily; hewrote a paper, to fill the time, of his wishes with regard to whatshould be done with his books and little property after his death, andwas half minded to tear it up again. And then after a few days ofpurposeless and irresolute waiting, he made up his mind that he mustgo again to the West, and see his friend the old priest. And though hedid not say it to himself in words, yet a purpose slowly shaped itselfin his mind that he must at all cost go to the Hill, and learn againwhat should be, and that thus alone could he break the spell. 

He spent a morning in making his farewells; he tried to speak to hisfriends as usual, but they noticed long afterwards that he had used aspecial tenderness and wistfulness in all he said; he sate long in hisown room, with a great love in his heart for the beautiful and holypeace of the place, and for all the happiness he had known there; andthen he prayed very long and earnestly in the chapel, kneeling in hisstall; and his heart was somewhat lightened. 

Then he set off; but before he mounted his horse he looked verylovingly at the old front of the College, and his servant saw that hiseyes were full of tears and that his lips moved; and so Gilbert rodealong to the West. 

His journey was very different from the same journey taken six yearsbefore; he spoke with none, and rode busily, like one who is anxiousto see some sad errand through. He found the old Vicar still moreinfirm and somewhat blind; but the Vicar said that he was very happyto see him, as he himself was near the end of life, and that he couldhope for but few years, --adding that it was far different for Gilbert, who, he supposed, would very soon be a Dean with a Cathedral of hisown, and would forget his humble friend the old Vicar. But Gilbert putthe wit aside, and talked earnestly with the Vicar about the end oflife and what might be hereafter. But the old Vicar said solemnly thathe knew not, and indeed cared little. But that he would go into thedark like a child holding a loving hand, and would have no need tofear. 

That night Gilbert lay in his bed awake, and very strange thoughtspassed through his mind, which he strove to quiet by prayers; and sofell asleep; till at last in the dim dawn he awoke. Then after amoment's thought he took a paper and wrote on it, saying that he wasgone out and knew not when he would return; but he prayed the Vicarthat when he should find the paper, he should at once fall to prayerfor him, for there was a sore conflict before him to fight out, bothin soul and body, and what would be the issue he knew not. "And if, "the end of the writing ran, "I must depart hence, then pray that mypassage may be easy, and that I may find the valley bright. " And helaid the paper upon the table. Then he dressed himself, and went outalone into the valley, walking swiftly and intently--so intently thatwhen he passed the farm he marked not that the old farmer was sittingin an arbour in the garden, who called shrilly to him; but Gilbertheard not, and the old farmer was too weak to follow; so Gilbert wentdown to the Hill of Trouble. 

It lay, as it had lain six years before, very still and beautiful inthe breathless sunshine. The water was in the creek, a streak ofsapphire blue; the birds called in the crags, and the bushes and lawnsglistened fresh with dew. 

But Gilbert, very pale and with his heart beating fast, came to thewall and surmounted it, and went swiftly up the Hill, till he foundhimself near the stones; then he looked once round upon the hills andthe sea, and then with a word of prayer he stepped within the circle. 

This time he had not long to wait. As he entered the circle he sawthe old man enter from the opposite side and come to meet him, with astrange light of triumph in his eyes. Then Gilbert looked him in theface with a rising horror, and said, "Sir, I have come again; and Idoubt the truth of your vision no longer; I have done my work, and Ihave twice seen the fulfilment--now therefore tell me of my end--thatI may be certified how long I have to live. For the shadow of thedoubt I cannot bear. "

And the old man looked at him with something of compassion and said, "You are young, and you fear the passage hence, knowing not what maybe on the other side of the door; but you need not fear. Even I, whohave small ground of hope, am ashamed that I feared it so much. Butwhat will you give me if I grant your boon?"

Then Gilbert said, "I have nothing to give. "

Then the old man said, "Think once more. " Then was there a silence;and Gilbert said:

"Man, I know not what or who thou art; but I think that thou art alost soul; one thing I can give thee. .. . I will myself intercede forthee before the Throne. "

Then the old man looked at him for a moment, and said, "I have waitedlong . .. And have received no comfort till now;" and then he said, "Wilt thou promise?"

And Gilbert said, "In the name of God, Amen. "

Then the old man stretched out his hand and said, "Art thou ready? forthe time is come; and thou art called now;" and he touched Gilbert onthe breast. 

Gilbert looked into the old man's eyes, and seemed to see there anunfathomable sadness, such as he had never seen; but at the touch apain so fierce and agonising passed through him, that he sank upon theground and covered his face with his hands. 

Just at this time the old priest found the paper; and he divined thetruth. So he called his servant and bade him saddle his horse inhaste; and then he fell to prayer. 

Then he rode down the valley; and though he feared the place, yet herode to the Hill of Trouble; and though his sight was dim and hislimbs feeble, it seemed to him that some one walked beside the horseand guided him; and as he prayed he knew that all was over, and thatGilbert had peace. 

He came soon to the place; and there he found Gilbert lying on theturf; and his sight was so dim that it seemed to him as though someone slipped away from Gilbert's side. He put Gilbert on his horse, andheld the poor helpless body thereon, but there was so gentle a smileon the face of the dead that he could not fear. 

The body of Gilbert lies in the little churchyard; his great bookkeeps his memory bright; and on the top of the Hill of Trouble standsa little chapel, built out of the stones of the circle; and on thewall, painted at the old priest's charge, is a picture of the LordChrist, with wounded hands and side, preaching to the disobedientspirits in prison; and they hear him and are glad. 

 THE GRAY CAT

The knight Sir James Leigh lived in a remote valley of the WelshHills. The manor house, of rough grey stone, with thick walls andmullioned windows, stood on a rising ground; at its foot ran a littleriver, through great boulders. There were woods all about; but abovethe woods, the bare green hills ran smoothly up, so high, that in thewinter the sun only peeped above the ridge for an hour or two; beyondthe house, the valley wound away into the heart of the hills, and atthe end a black peak looked over. The place was very sparselyinhabited; within a close of ancient yew trees stood a little stonechurch, and a small parsonage smothered in ivy, where an old priest, acousin of the knight, lived. There were but three farms in the valley, and a rough track led over the hills, little used, except by drovers. At the top of the pass stood a stone cross; and from this point youcould see the dark scarred face of the peak to the left, streaked withsnow, which did not melt until the summer was far advanced. 

Sir James was a silent sad man, in ill-health; he spoke little andbore his troubles bitterly; he was much impoverished, through his ownearly carelessness, and now so feeble in body that he had small hopeof repairing the fortune he had lost. His wife was a wise and lovingwoman, who, though she found it hard to live happily in so lonely aplace with a sickly husband, met her sorrows with a cheerful face, visited her poorer neighbours, and was like a ray of sunlight in thegloomy valley. They had one son, a boy Roderick, now about fifteen; hewas a bright and eager child, who was happy enough, taking his life ashe found it--and indeed he had known no other. He was taught a littleby the priest; but he had no other schooling, for Sir James wouldspend no money except when he was obliged to do so. Roderick had noplaymates, but he never found the time to be heavy; he was fond oflong solitary rambles on the hills, being light of foot and strong. 

One day he had gone out to fish in the stream, but it was bright andstill, and he could catch nothing; so at last he laid his rod aside ina hollow place beneath the bank, and wandered without any certain aimalong the stream. Higher and higher he went, till he found, lookingabout him, that he was as high as the pass; and then it came into hismind to track the stream to its source. The Manor was now out ofsight, and there was nothing round him but the high green hills, withhere and there a sheep feeding. Once a kite came out and circledslowly in the sun, pouncing like a plummet far down the glen; andstill Roderick went onwards till he saw that he was at the top of thelower hills, and that the only thing higher than him was the peakitself. He saw now that the stream ran out of a still black pool someway in front of him, that lay under the very shadow of the darkprecipice, and was fed by the snows that melted from the face. It wassurrounded by rocks that lay piled in confusion. But the whole placewore an air that was more than desolate; the peak itself had a cruellook, and there was an intent silence, which was only broken, as hegazed, by the sound of rocks falling loudly from the face of the hilland thundering down. The sun warned him that he had gone far enough;and he determined to go homewards, half pleased at his discovery, andhalf relieved to quit so lonely and grim a spot. 

That evening, when he sate with his father and mother at their simplemeal, he began to say where he had been. His father heard him withlittle attention, but when Roderick described the dark pool and thesharp front of the peak he asked him abruptly how near he had gone tothe pool. Roderick said that he had seen it from a distance, and thenSir James said somewhat sharply that he must not wander so far, andthat he was not to go near that place again. Roderick was surprised atthis, for his father as a rule interfered little with what he did; buthe did not ask his father the reason, for there was something peevish, even harsh, in his tone. But afterwards, when he went out with hismother, leaving the knight to his own gloomy thoughts, as his will andcustom was, his mother said with some urgency, "Roderick, promise menot to go to the pool again; it has an evil name, and is better leftto itself. " Roderick was eager to know the story of the place, but hismother would not tell him--only she would have him promise; so hepromised, but complained that he would rather have had a reason givenfor his promise; but his mother, smiling and holding his hand, saidthat it should be enough for him to please her by doing her will. SoRoderick gave his promise again, but was not satisfied. 

The next day Roderick was walking in the valley and met one of thefarmers, a young good-humoured man, who had always been friendly withthe boy, and had often been to fish with him; Roderick walked besidehim, and told him that he had followed the stream nearly to the pool, when the young farmer, with some seriousness, asked him how near hehad been to the water. Roderick was surprised at the same questionthat his father had asked him being asked again, and told him that hehad but seen it from a hill-top near, adding, "But what is amiss withthe place, for my father and mother have made me promise not to gothere again?"

The young farmer said nothing for a moment, but seemed to reflect;then he said that there were stories about the place, stories thatperhaps it was foolish to believe, but he went on to say that it wasbetter to be on the safe side in all things, and that the place had anevil fame. Then Roderick with childish eagerness asked him what thestories were; and little by little the farmer told him. He said thatsomething dwelt near or in the pool, it was not known what, that hadan enmity to the life of man; that twice since he was a boy a strangething had happened there; a young shepherd had come by his death atthe pool, and was found lying in the water, strangely battered; that, he said, was long before Roderick was born; then he added, "Youremember old Richard the shepherd?" "What!" said Roderick, "the oldstrange man that used to go about muttering to himself, that the boysthrew stones at?" "Yes, " said the farmer, "the very same. Well, he wasnot always so--I remember him a strong and cheerful man; but once whenthe sheep had got lost in the hills, he would go to the pool becausehe thought he heard them calling there, though we prayed him not togo. He came back, indeed, bringing no sheep, but an altered and brokenman, as he was thenceforth and as you knew him; he had seen somethingby the pool, he could not say what, and had had a sore strife to getaway. " "But what sort of a thing is this?" said Roderick. "Is it abeast or a man, or what?"

"Neither, " said the farmer very gravely. "You have heard them read inthe church of the evil spirits who dwelt with men, and entered theirbodies, and it was sore work even for the Lord Christ to cast themforth; I think it is one of these who has wandered thither; they sayhe goes not far from the pool, for he cannot abide the cross on thepass, and the church bell gives him pains. " And then the farmer lookedat Roderick and said, "You know that they ring the bell all night onthe feast of All Souls?" "Yes, " said Roderick, "I have heard it ring. ""Well, on that night alone, " said the farmer, "they say that spiritshave power upon men, and come abroad to do them hurt; and so they ringthe bell, which the spirits cannot listen to--but, young master, it isill to talk of these things, and Christian men should not even thinkof them; but as I said, though Satan has but little power over thebaptized soul, yet even so, says the priest, he can enter in, if thesoul be willing to admit him, --and so I say, avoid the place! it maybe that these are silly stories to affright folk, but it is ill totouch pitch; and no good can be got by going to the pool, and perhapsevil;--and now I think I have told you enough and more than enough. "For Roderick was looking at him pale and with wide open eyes. 

Is it strange that from that day the thing that Roderick most desiredwas to see the pool and what dwelt there? I think not; when hearts areyoung and before trouble has laid its heavy hand upon them, the hardand cruel things of life, wounds, blows, agonies, terrors, seen onlyin the mirrors of another spirit, are but as a curious and livelyspectacle that feeds the mind with wonder. The stories to whichRoderick had listened in church of men that were haunted by demonsseemed to him but as dim and distant experiences on which he wouldfain look; and the fainter the thought of his promise grew, thestronger grew his desire to see for himself. 

In the month of June, when the heart is light, and the smell of thewoods is fresh and sharp, Roderick's father and mother were called togo on a journey, to see an ancient friend who was thought to be dying. The night before they set off Roderick had a strange dream; it seemedto him that he wandered over bare hillsides, and came at last to thepool; the peak rose sharp and clear, and the water was very black andstill; while he gazed upon it, it seemed to be troubled; the waterbegan to spin round and round, and bubbling waves rose and broke onthe surface. Suddenly a hand emerged from the water, and then a head, bright and unwetted, as though the water had no power to touch it. Roderick saw that it was a man of youthful aspect and commanding mien;he waded out to the shore and stood for a moment looking round him;then he beckoned Roderick to approach, looking at him kindly, andspoke to him gently, saying that he had waited for him long. Theywalked together to the crag, and then, in some way that Roderick couldnot clearly see, the man opened a door into the mountain, and Rodericksaw a glimmering passage within. The air came out laden with a richand heavy fragrance, and there was a faint sound of distant music inthe hill. The man turned and looked upon Roderick as though invitinghim to enter; but Roderick shook his head and refused, saying that hewas not ready; at which the man stepped inside with a smile, half ofpity, and the door was shut. 

Then Roderick woke with a start and wished that he had been boldenough to go within the door; the light came in serenely through thewindow, and he heard the faint piping of awakening birds in the dewytrees. He could not sleep, and presently dressed himself and wentdown. Soon the household was awake, for the knight was to startbetimes; Roderick sate at the early meal with his father and mother. His father was cumbered with the thought of the troublesome journey, and asked many questions about the baggage; so Roderick said little, but felt his mother's eyes dwell on his face with love. Soon afterthey rode away; Roderick stood at the door to see them go, and therewas so eager and bright a look in his face that his mother was somehowtroubled, and almost called him to her to make him repeat his promise, but she feared that he would feel that she did not trust him, andtherefore put the thought aside; and so they rode away, his motherwaving her hand till they turned the corner by the wood and were outof sight. 

Then Roderick began to consider how he would spend the day, with ahalf-formed design in his mind; when suddenly the temptation to visitthe pool came upon him with a force that he had neither strength norinclination to resist. So he took his rod, which might seem to be anexcuse, and set off rapidly up the stream. He was surprised to findhow swiftly the hills rose all about him, and how easily he went; verysoon he came to the top; and there lay the pool in front of him, within the shadow of the peak, that rose behind it very clear andsharp. He hesitated no longer, but ran lightly down the slope, andnext moment he was on the brink of the pool. It lay before him verybright and pure, like a jewel of sapphire, the water being of a deepazure blue; he went all round it. There was no sign of life in thewater; at the end nearest the cliff he found a little cool runnel ofwater that bubbled into the pool from the cliffs. No grass grew roundabout it, and he could see the stones sloping down and becoming morebeautiful the deeper they lay, from the pure tint of the water. 

He looked all around him; the moorland quivered in the bright hot air, and he could see far away the hills lie like a map, with bluemountains on the horizon, and small green valleys where men dwelt. Hesate down by the pool, and he had a thought of bathing in the water;but his courage did not rise to this, because he felt still as thoughsomething sate in the depths that would not show itself, but mightcome forth and drag him down; so he sate at last by the pool, andpresently he fell asleep. 

When he woke he felt somewhat chilly; the shadow of the peak had comeround, and fell on the water; the place was still as calm as ever, butlooking upon the pool he had an obscure sense as though he were beingwatched by an unclosing eye; but he was thirsting with the heat; so hedrew up, in his closed hands, some of the water, which was very cooland sweet; and his drowsiness came upon him, and again he slept. 

When next he woke it was with a sense of delicious ease, and thethought that some one who loved him was near him stroking his hand. Helooked up, and there close to his side sate very quietly what gave hima shock of surprise. It was a great gray cat, with soft abundant fur, which turned its yellow eyes upon him lazily, purred, and licked hishand; he caressed the cat, which arched its back and seemed pleased tobe with him, and presently leapt upon his knee. The soft warmth of thefur against his hands, and the welcoming caresses of this fearlesswild creature pleased him greatly; and he sate long in quiet thought, taking care not to disturb the cat, which, whenever he took his handaway, rubbed against him as though to show that it was pleased at histouch. But at last he thought that he must go homewards, for the daybegan to turn to the west. So he put the cat off his knee and began towalk to the top of the pass, as it was quicker to follow the road. Forawhile the cat accompanied him, sometimes rubbing against his leg andsometimes walking in front, but looking round from time to time asthough to consult his pleasure. 

Roderick began to hope that it would accompany him home, but at acertain place the cat stopped, and would go no farther. Rodericklifted it up, but it leapt from him as if displeased, and at last heleft it reluctantly. In a moment he came within sight of the cross inthe hilltop, so that he saw the road was near. Often he looked roundand saw the great cat regarding him as though it were sorry to beleft; till at last he could see it no more. 

He went home well pleased, his head full of happy thoughts; he hadgone half expecting to see some dreadful thing, but had found insteada creature who seemed to love him. 

The next day he went again; and this time he found the cat sitting bythe pool; as soon as it saw him, it ran to him with a glad andyearning cry, as though it had feared he would not return; to-day itseemed brighter and larger to look upon; and he was pleased that whenhe returned by the stream it followed him much farther, leapinglightly from stone to stone; but at a certain place, where the valleybegan to turn eastward, just before the little church came in sight, it sate down as before and took its leave of him. 

The third day he began to go up the valley again; but while he restedin a little wood that came down to the stream, to his surprise anddelight the cat sprang out of a bush, and seemed more than ever gladof his presence. While he sate fondling it, he heard the sound offootsteps coming up the path; but the cat heard the sound too, and ashe rose to see who was coming, the cat sprang lightly into a treebeside him and was hidden from his sight. It was the old priest on hisway to an upland farm, who spoke fondly to Roderick, and asked him ofhis father and mother. Roderick told him that they were to return thatnight, and said that it was too bright to remain indoors and yet toobright to fish; the priest agreed, and after a little more talk roseto go, and as his manner was, holding Roderick by the hand, he blessedhim, saying that he was growing a tall boy. When he was gone--andRoderick was ashamed to find how eager he was that the priest shouldgo--he called low to the cat to come back; but the cat came not, andthough Roderick searched the tree into which it had sprung, he couldfind no sign of it, and supposed that it had crept into the wood. 

That evening the travellers returned, the knight seeming cheerful, because the vexatious journey was over; but Roderick was half ashamedto think that his mind had been so full of his new plaything that hewas hardly glad to see his parents return. Presently his mother said, "You look very bright and happy, dear child, " and Roderick, knowingthat he spoke falsely, said that he was glad to see them again; hismother smiled and asked him what he had been doing, and he said thathe had wandered on the hills, for it was too bright to fish; hismother looked at him for a moment, and he knew in his heart that shewondered if he had kept his promise; but he thought of his secret, andlooked at her so straight and full that she asked him no furtherquestions. 

The next day he woke feeling sad, because he knew that there would beno chance to go to the pool. He went to and fro with his mother, forshe had many little duties to attend to. At last she said, "What areyou thinking of, Roderick? You seem to have little to say to me. " Shesaid it laughingly; and Roderick was ashamed, but said that he wasonly thinking; and so bestirred himself to talk. But late in the dayhe went a little alone through the wood, and reaching the end of it, looked up to the hill, kissing his hand towards the pool as a greetingto his friend; and as he turned, the cat came swiftly and lovingly outof the wood to him; and he caught it up in his arms and clasped itclose, where it lay as if contented. 

Then he thought that he would carry it to the house, and say nothingas to where he had found it; but hardly had he moved a step when thecat leapt from him and stood as though angry. And it came intoRoderick's mind that the cat was his secret friend, and that theirfriendship must somehow be unknown; but he loved it even the betterfor that. 

In the weeks that followed, the knight was ill and the lady much athome; from time to time Roderick saw the cat; he could never tell whenit would visit him; it came and went unexpectedly, and always in somelonely and secret place. But gradually Roderick began to care fornothing else; his fishing and his riding were forgotten, and he beganto plan how he might be alone, so that the cat would come to him. Hebegan to lose his spirits and to be dull without it, and to hate thehours when he could not see it; and all the time it grew or seemed togrow stronger and sleeker; his mother soon began to notice that he wasnot well; he became thin and listless, but his eyes were large andbright; she asked him more than once if he were well, but he onlylaughed. Once indeed he had a fright; he had been asleep under ahawthorn in the glen on a hot July day; and waking saw the cat closeto him, watching him intently with yellow eyes, as though it wereabout to spring upon him; but seeing him awake, it came wheedling andfondling him as often before; but he could not forget the look in itseyes, and felt grave and sad. 

Then he began to be troubled with dreams; the man whom he had seen inhis former dream rising from the pool was often with him--sometimes heled him to pleasant places; but one dream he had, that he was bathingin the pool, and caught his foot between the rocks and could not drawit out. Then he heard a rushing sound, and looking round saw that agreat stream of water was plunging heavily into the pool, so that itrose every moment, and was soon up to his chin. Then he saw in hisdream that the man sate on the edge of the pool and looked at him witha cold smile, but did not offer to help; till at last when the watertouched his lips, the man rose and held up his hand; and the streamceased to run, and presently his foot came out of the rock easily, andhe swam ashore but saw no one. 

Then it came to the autumn, and the days grew colder and shorter, andhe could not be so much abroad; he felt, too, less and less disposedto stir out, and it now began to be on his mind that he had broken hispromise to his mother; and for a week he saw nothing of the cat, though he longed to see it. But one night, as he went to bed, when hehad put out his light, he saw that the moon was very bright; and heopened the window and looked out, and saw the gleaming stream and thegrey valley; he was turning away, when he heard a light sound of thescratching of claws, and presently the cat sprang upon the window-silland entered the room. It was now cold and he got into bed, and the catsprang upon his pillow; and Roderick was so glad that the cat hadreturned that while he caressed it he talked to it in low tones. Suddenly came a step at the door, and a light beneath it, and hismother with a candle entered the room. She stood for a moment looking, and Roderick became aware that the cat was gone. Then his mother camenear, thinking that he was asleep, and he sate up. She said to him, "Dear child, I heard you speaking, and wondered whether you were in adream, " and she looked at him with an anxious gaze. And he said, "WasI speaking, mother? I was asleep and must have spoken in a dream. "Then she said, "Roderick, you are not old enough yet to sleep souneasily--is all well, dear child?" and Roderick, hating to deceivehis mother, said, "How should not all be well?" So she kissed him andwent quietly away, but Roderick heard her sighing. 

Then it came at last to All Souls' Day; and Roderick, going to hisbed that night, had a strange dizziness and cried out, and found theroom swim round him. Then he got up into his bed, for he thought thathe must be ill, and soon fell asleep; and in his sleep he dreamed adreadful dream. He thought that he lay on the hills beside the pool;and yet he was out of the body, for he could see himself lying there. The pool was very dark, and a cold wind ruffled the waves. And againthe water was troubled, and the man stepped out; but behind him cameanother man, like a hunchback, very swarthy of face, with long thinarms, that looked both strong and evil. Then it seemed as if the firstman pointed to Roderick where he lay and said, "You can take himhence, for he is mine now, and I have need of him, " adding, "Who couldhave thought it would be so easy?" and then he smiled very bitterly. And the hunchback went towards himself; and he tried to cry out inwarning, and straining woke; and in the chilly dawn he saw the cat sitin his room, but very different from what it had been. It was gauntand famished, and the fur was all marred; its yellow eyes gleamedhorribly, and Roderick saw that it hated him, he knew not why; andsuch fear came upon him that he screamed out, and as he screamed thecat rose as if furious, twitching its tail and opening its mouth; buthe heard steps without, and screamed again, and his mother came inhaste into the room, and the cat was gone in a moment, and Roderickheld out his hands to his mother, and she soothed and quieted him, andpresently with many sobs he told her all the story. 

She did not reproach him, nor say a word of his disobedience, thefear was too urgent upon her; she tried to think for a little that itwas the sight of some real creature lingering in a mind that waswrought upon by illness; but those were not the days when menpreferred to call the strange afflictions of body and spirit, the sadscars that stain the fair works of God, by reasonable names. She didnot doubt that by some dreadful hap her own child had somehow creptwithin the circle of darkness, and she only thought of how to help andrescue him; that he was sorry and that he did not wholly consent washer hope. 

So she merely kissed and quieted him, and then she told him that shewould return anon and he must rest quietly; but he would not let herleave him, so she stood in the door and called a servant softly. SirJames was long abed, for he had been in ill-health that day, and shegave word that some one must be found at once and go to call thepriest, saying that Roderick was ill and she was uneasy. Then she cameback to the bed, and holding Roderick's hand she said, that he musttry to sleep. Roderick said to her, "Mother, say that you forgive me. "To which she only replied, "Dear child, do I not love you better thanall the world? Do not think of me now, only ask help of God. " So shesate with his hand in both of her own, and presently he fell asleep;but she saw that he was troubled in his dreams, for he groaned andcried out often; and now through the window she heard the soft tollingof the bell of the church, and she knew that a contest must be foughtout that night over the child; but after a sore passage of misery, anda bitter questioning as to why one so young and innocent should thusbe bound with evil bonds, she found strength to leave the matter inthe Father's hands, and to pray with an eager hopefulness. 

But the time passed heavily and still the priest did not arrive; andthe ghostly terror was so sore on the child that she could bear it nolonger and awakened him. And he told her in broken words of theterrible things that had oppressed him; sore fightings and struggles, and a voice in his ear that it was too late, and that he had yieldedhimself to the evil. And at last there came a quiet footfall on thestair, and the old priest himself entered the room, looking anxious, yet calm, and seeming to bring a holy peace with him. 

Then she bade the priest sit down; and so the two sate by the bedside, with the solitary lamp burning in the chamber; and she would have hadRoderick tell the tale, but he covered his face with his hands andcould not. So she told the tale herself to the priest, saying, "Correct me, Roderick, if I am wrong;" and once or twice the boycorrected her, and added a few words to make the story plain, and thenthey sate awhile in silence, while the terrified looks of the motherand her son dwelt on the old priest's strongly lined face; yet theyfound comfort in the smile with which he met them. 

At length he said, "Yes, dear lady and dear Roderick, the case isplain enough--the child has yielded himself to some evil power, butnot too far, I think; and now must we meet the foe with all our might. I will abide here with the boy; and, dear lady, you were better inyour own chamber, for we know not what will pass; if there were need Iwould call you. " Then the lady said, "I will do as you direct me, Father, but I would fain stay. " Then he said, "Nay, but there arethings on which a Christian should not look, lest they should daunthis faith--so go, dear lady, and help us with your prayers. " Then shesaid, "I will be below; and if you beat your foot thrice upon thefloor, I will come. Roderick, I shall be close at hand; only bestrong, and all shall be well. " Then she went softly away. 

Then the priest said to Roderick, "And now, dear son, confess yoursin and let me shrive you. " So Roderick made confession, and thepriest blessed him: but while he blessed him there came the angrycrying of a cat from somewhere in the room, so that Roderick shudderedin his bed. Then the priest drew from his robe a little holy book, andwith a reverence laid it under Roderick's hand; and he himself tookhis book of prayers and said, "Sleep now, dear son, fear not. " SoRoderick closed his eyes, and being very weary slept. And the oldpriest in a low whisper said the blessed psalms. And it came near tomidnight; and the place that the priest read was, _Thou shalt not beafraid for any terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day;for the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor for the sickness thatdestroyeth in the noonday_; and suddenly there ran as it were a shiverthrough his bones, and he knew that the time was come. He looked atRoderick, who slept wearily on his bed, and it seemed to him as thoughsuddenly a small and shadowy thing, like a bird, leapt from the boy'smouth and on to the bed; it was like a wren, only white, with duskyspots upon it; and the priest held his breath: for now he knew thatthe soul was out of the body, and that unless it could returnuninjured into the limbs of the child, nothing could avail the boy;and then he said quietly in his heart to God that if He so willed Heshould take the boy's life, if only his soul could be saved. 

Then the priest was aware of a strange and horrible thing; theresprang softly on to the bed the form of the great gray cat, very leanand angry, which stood there, as though ready to spring upon the bird, which hopped hither and thither, as though careless of what might be. The priest cast a glance upon the boy, who lay rigid and pale, hiseyes shut, and hardly seeming to breathe, as though dead and preparedfor burial. Then the priest signed the cross and said "_In Nomine_";and as the holy words fell on the air, the cat looked fiercely at thebird, but seemed to shrink into itself; and then it slipped away. 

Then the priest's fear was that the bird might stray further outsideof his care; and yet he dared not try and wake the boy, for he knewthat this was death, if the soul was thrust apart from the body, andif he broke the unseen chain that bound them; so he waited and prayed. And the bird hopped upon the floor; and then presently the priest sawthe cat draw near again, and in a stealthy way; and now the priesthimself was feeling weary of the strain, for he seemed to be wrestlingin spirit with something that was strong and strongly armed. But hesigned the cross again and said faintly "_In Nomine_"; and the catagain withdrew. 

Then a dreadful drowsiness fell upon the priest, and he thought thathe must sleep. Something heavy, leaden-handed, and powerful seemed tobe busy in his brain. Meanwhile the bird hopped upon the window-silland stood as if preparing its wings for a flight. Then the priest beatwith his foot upon the floor, for he could no longer battle. In amoment the lady glided in, and seemed as though scared to find thescene of so fierce an encounter so still and quiet. She would havespoken, but the priest signed her to be silent, and pointed to the boyand to the bird; and then she partly understood. So they stood insilence, but the priest's brain grew more numb; though he was aware ofa creeping blackness that seemed to overshadow the bird, in the midstof which glared two bright eyes. So with a sudden effort he signed thecross, and said "_In Nomine_" again; and at the same moment the ladyheld out her hand; and the priest sank down on the floor; but he sawthe bird raise its wings for a flight, and just as the dark thingrose, and, as it were, struck open-mouthed, the bird sailed softlythrough the air, alighted on the lady's hand, and then with a lightflutter of wings on to the bed and to the boy's face, and was seen nomore; at the same moment the bells stopped in the church and left asweet silence. The black form shrank and slipped aside, and seemed tofall on the ground; and outside there was a shrill and bitter crywhich echoed horribly on the air; and the boy opened his eyes, andsmiled; and his mother fell on his neck and kissed him. Then thepriest said, "Give God the glory!" and blessed them, and was gone sosoftly that they knew not when he went; for he had other work to do. Then mother and son had great joy together. 

But the priest walked swiftly and sternly through the wood, and to thechurch; and he dipped a vessel in the stoup of holy water, turning hiseyes aside, and wrapped it in a veil of linen. Then he took a lanternin his hand, and with a grave and fixed look on his face he walkedsadly up the valley, putting one foot before another, like a man whoforced himself to go unwilling. There were strange sounds on thehillside, the crying of sad birds, and the beating of wings, andsometimes a hollow groaning seemed to come down the stream. But thepriest took no heed, but went on heavily till he reached the stonecross, where the wind whistled dry in the grass. Then he struck offacross the moorland. Presently he came to a rise in the ground; andhere, though it was dark, he seemed to see a blacker darkness in theair, where the peak lay. 

But beneath the peak he saw a strange sight; for the pool shone with afaint white light, that showed the rocks about it. The priest neverturned his head, but walked thither, with his head bent, repeatingwords to himself, but hardly knowing what he said. 

Then he came to the brink; and there he saw a dreadful sight. In thewater writhed large and luminous worms, that came sometimes up to thesurface, as though to breathe, and sank again. The priest knew wellenough that it was a device of Satan's to frighten him; so he delayednot; but setting the lantern down on the ground, he stood. In a momentthe lantern was obscured as by the rush of bat-like wings. But thepriest took the veil off the vessel; and holding it up in the air, helet the water fall in the pool, saying softly, "Lord, let them bebound!"

But when the holy water touched the lake, there was a strange sight;for the bright worms quivered and fell to the depth of the pool; and ashiver passed over the surface, and the light went out like aflickering lamp. Then there came a foul yelling from the stones; andwith a roar like thunder, rocks fell crashing from the face of thepeak; and then all was still. 

Then the priest sate down and covered his face with his hands, for hewas sore spent; but he rose at length, and with grievous pain made hisslow way down the valley, and reached the parsonage house at last. 

Roderick lay long between life and death; and youth and a quiet mindprevailed. 

Long years have passed since that day; all those that I have spokenof are dust. But in the window of the old church hangs a picture inglass which shows Christ standing, with one lying at his feet fromwhom he had cast out a devil; and on a scroll are the words, DEABYSSIS ˇ TERRAE ˇ ITERUM ˇ REDUXISTI ˇ ME, the which may be writtenin English, _Yea, and broughtest me from the deep of the earth again_. 

 THE RED CAMP

It was a sultry summer evening in the old days, when Walter Wyattcame to the house of his forefathers. It was in a quiet valley ofSussex, with the woods standing very steeply on the high hillsides. Among the woods were pleasant stretches of pasture, and a littlestream ran hidden among hazels beside the road; here and there werepits in the woods, where the men of ancient times had dug for iron, pits with small sandstone cliffs, and full to the brim of saplings andwoodland plants. Walter rode slowly along, his heart full of a happycontent. Though it was the home of his family he had never even seenRestlands--that was the peaceful name of the house. Walter's fatherhad been a younger son, and for many years the elder brother, a moroseand selfish man, had lived at Restlands, often vowing that none of hiskin should ever set foot in the place, and all out of a native maliceand churlishness, which discharged itself upon those that were nearestto him. Walter's father was long dead, and Walter had lived a veryquiet homely life with his mother. But one day his uncle had diedsuddenly and silently, sitting in his chair; and it was found that hehad left no will. So that Restlands, with its orchards and woods andits pleasant pasture-lands, fell to Walter; and he had ridden down totake possession. He was to set the house in order, for it was muchdecayed in his uncle's time; and in a few weeks his mother was tofollow him there. 

He turned a corner of the road, and saw in a glance a house that heknew must be his; and a sudden pride and tenderness leapt up withinhis heart, to think how fair a place he could call his own. 

An avenue of limes led from the road to the house, which was built ofancient stone, the roof tiled with the same. The front was low andmany-windowed. And Walter, for he was a God-fearing youth, made aprayer in his heart, half of gratitude and half of hope. 

He rode up to the front of the house, and saw at once that it wassadly neglected; the grass grew among the paving-stones, and severalof the windows were broken. He knocked at the door, and an oldserving-man came out, who made an obeisance. Walter sent his horse tothe stable; his baggage was already come; and his first task was tovisit his new home from room to room. It was a very beautiful solidlybuilt house, finely panelled in old dry wood, and had an abundance ofsolid oak furniture; there were dark pictures here and there; and thatnight Walter sate alone at his meat, which was carefully served him bythe old serving-man, his head full of pleasant plans for his new life;he slept in the great bedroom, and many times woke wondering where hewas; once he crept to the window, and saw the barns, gardens, andorchards lie beneath, and the shadowy woods beyond, all bathed in acold clear moonlight. 

In the morning when he had breakfasted, the lawyer who had charge ofhis business rode in from the little town hard by to see him; and whenWalter's happiness was a little dashed; for though the estate broughtin a fair sum, yet it was crippled by a mortgage which lay upon it;and Walter saw that he would have to live sparely for some yearsbefore he could have his estate unembarrassed; but this troubled himlittle, for he was used to a simple life. The lawyer indeed hadadvised him to sell a little of the land; but Walter was very proud ofthe old estate, and of the memory that he was the tenth Wyatt that haddwelt there, and he said that before he did that he would wait awhileand see if he could not arrange otherwise. When the lawyer was gonethere came in the bailiff, and Walter went with him all over theestate. The garden was greatly overgrown with weeds, and the yewhedges were sprawling all uncut; they went through the byre, where thecattle stood in the straw; they visited the stable and the barn, thegranary and the dovecote; and Walter spoke pleasantly with the menthat served him; then he went to the ploughland and the pastures, theorchard and the woodland; and it pleased Walter to walk in thewoodpaths, among the copse and under great branching oaks, and to feelthat it was all his own. 

At last they came out on the brow of the hill, and saw Restlands liebeneath them, with the smoke of a chimney going up into the quiet air, and the doves wheeling about the cote. The whole valley was full ofwestering sunshine, and the country sounds came pleasantly up throughthe still air. 

They stood in a wide open pasture, but in the centre of it rose asmall, dark, and thickly grown square holt of wood, surrounded by ahigh green bank of turf, and Walter asked what that was. The oldbailiff looked at him a moment without speaking and then said, "Thatis the Red Camp, sir. " Walter said pleasantly, "And whose camp is it?"but it came suddenly into his head that long ago his father had toldhim a curious tale about the place, but he could not remember what thetale was. The old man answering his question said, "Ah, sir, who cansay? perhaps it was the old Romans who made it, or perhaps older menstill; but there was a sore battle hereabouts. " And then he went on ina slow and serious way to tell him an old tale of how a few warriorshad held the place against an army, and that they had all been put tothe sword there; he said that in former days strange rusted weaponsand bones had been ploughed up in the field, and then he added thatthe Camp had ever since been left desolate and that no one cared toset foot within it; yet for all that it was said that a great treasurelay buried within it, for that was what the men were guarding, thoughthose that took the place and slew them could never find it; "and thatwas all long ago, " he said. 

Walter, as the old man spoke, walked softly to the wood and peered atit over the mound; it was all grown up within, close and thick, anevil tangle of plants and briars. It was dark and even cold lookingwithin the wood, though the air lay warm all about it. The mound wasabout breast high, and there was a grass-grown trench all round out ofwhich the earth had been thrown up. It came into Walter's head thatthe place had seen strange things. He thought of it as all rough andnewly made, with a palisade round the mound, with spears and helmetsshowing over, and a fierce wild multitude of warriors surging allround; the Romans, if they had been Romans, within, grave and anxious, waiting for help that never came. All this came into his mind with apleasant sense of security, as a man who is at ease looks on a pictureof old and sad things, and finds it minister to his content. Yet theplace kept a secret of its own, Walter felt sure of that. And thetreasure, was that there all the time? buried in some corner of thewood, money lying idle that might do good things if it could but getforth? So he mused, tapping the bank with his stick. And presentlythey went on together. Walter said as they turned away, "I should liketo cut the trees down, and throw the place into the pasture, " but theold bailiff said, "Nay, it is better left alone. "

The weeks passed very pleasantly at first; the neighbours came to seehim, and he found that an old name wins friends easily; he spent muchof the day abroad, and he liked to go up to the Red Camp and see itstand so solitary and dark, with the pleasant valley beneath it. Hismother soon came, and they found that with her small jointure theycould indeed live at the place, but that they would have to live verysparely at first; there must be no horses in the stable, nor coach todrive abroad; there must be no company at Restlands for many a year, and Walter saw too that he must not think awhile of marriage, but thathe must give all his savings to feed the estate. 

After awhile, when the first happy sense of possession had gone off, and then life had settled down into common and familiar ways, thisbegan to be very irksome to Walter; and what made him feel even morekeenly his fortune was that he made acquaintance with a squire thatlived hard by, who had a daughter Marjory, who seemed to Walter thefairest and sweetest maiden he had ever seen; and he began to carryher image about with him; and his heart beat very sharply in hisbreast if he set eyes on her unexpectedly; and she too, seemed to havedelight in seeing Walter, and to understand even the thoughts that laybeneath his lightest word. But the squire was a poor man, and Walterfelt bound to crush the thought of love and marriage down in hisheart, until he began to grow silent and moody; and his mother saw allthat was in his heart and pitied him, but knew not what to do; andWalter began even to talk of going into the world to seek his fortune;but it was little more than talk, for he already loved Restlands verydeeply. 

Now one day when Walter had been dining with the Vicar of the parish, he met at his table an old and fond man, full of curious wisdom, whotook great delight in all that showed the history of the old racesthat had inhabited the land; and he told Walter a long tale of thedigging open of a great barrow or mound upon the downs, which itseemed had been the grave of a great prince, and in which they hadfound a great treasure of gold, cups and plates and pitchers all ofgold, with bars of the same, and many other curious things. He saidthat a third of such things by rights belonged to the King; but thatthe King's Grace had been contented to take a rich cup or two, and hadleft the rest in the hands of him whose land it was. Then the oldscholar asked Walter if it were not true that he had in his own landan ancient fort or stronghold, and Walter told him of the Red Camp andthe story, and the old man heard him with great attention saying, "Ay, ay, " and "Ay, so it would be, " and at the last he said that the storyof the treasure was most likely a true one, for he did not see how itcould have grown up otherwise; and that he did not doubt that it was agreat Roman treasure, perhaps a tribute, gathered in from the peopleof the land, who would doubtless have been enraged to lose so much andwould have striven to recover it. "Ay, it is there, sure enough, " hesaid. 

Walter offered to go with him to the place; but the old Vicar, seeingWalter's bright eye, and knowing something of the difficulties, saidthat the legend was that it would be ill to disturb a thing that hadcost so many warriors their lives; and that a curse would rest uponone that did disturb it. The old scholar laughed and said that thecurses of the dead, and especially of the heathen dead, would break nobones--and he went on to say that doubtless there was a wholehen-roost of curses hidden away in the mound upon the downs; but thatthey had hurt not his friend who had opened it; for he lived verydelicately and plentifully off the treasure of the old prince, whoseemed to bear him no grudge for it. "Nay, doubtless, " he said, "if webut knew the truth, I dare say that the old heathen man, pining insome dark room in hell, is glad enough that his treasure should berichly spent by a good Christian gentleman. "

They walked together to the place; and the old gentleman talked verylearnedly and showed him where the gates and towers of the fort hadbeen--adding to Walter, "And if I were you, Mr. Wyatt, I would havethe place cleared and trenched, and would dig the gold out; for it isthere as sure as I am a Christian man and a lover of the old days. "

Then Walter told his mother of all that had been said; and she hadheard of the old tales, and shook her head; indeed when Walter spoketo the old bailiff of his wish to open the place, the old man almostwept; and then, seeing that he prevailed nothing, said suddenly thatneither he nor any of the men that dwelt in the village would put outa hand to help for all the gold of England. So Walter rested forawhile; and still his impatience and his hunger grew. 

Walter did not decide at once; he turned the matter over in his mindfor a week. He spoke no more to the bailiff, who thought he hadchanged his mind; but all the week the desire grew; and at last itcompletely overmastered him. He sent for the bailiff and told him hehad determined to dig out the Camp; the bailiff looked at him withoutspeaking. Then Walter said laughing that he meant to deal very fairly;that no one should bear a hand in the work who did not do sowillingly; but that he should add a little to the wages of every manwho worked for him at the Camp while the work was going on. Thebailiff shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. Walter went andspoke to each of his men and told them his offer. "I know, " he said, "that there is a story about the place, and that you do not wish totouch it; but I will offer a larger wage to every man who works therefor me; and I will force no man to do it; but done it shall be; and ifmy own men will not do it, then I will get strangers to help me. " Theend of it was that three of his men offered to do the work, and thenext day a start was made. 

The copse and undergrowth was first cleared, and then the big treeswere felled and dragged off the place; then the roots were stubbed up. It was a difficult task, and longer than Walter had thought; and hecould not disguise from himself that a strange kind of ill-luck hungabout the whole affair. One of his men disabled himself by a cut froman axe; another fell ill; the third, after these two mishaps, came andbegged off. Walter replaced them with other workers; and the workproceeded slowly, in spite of Walter's great impatience and haste. Hehimself was there early and late; the men had it in their minds thatthey were searching for treasure and were well-nigh as excited ashimself; and Walter was for ever afraid that in his absence some richand valuable thing might be turned up, and perhaps concealed orconveyed away secretly by the finder. But the weeks passed and nothingwas found; and it was now a bare and ugly place with miry pools ofdirt, great holes where the trees had been; there were cart tracks allover the field in which it lay, the great trunks lay outside themound, and the undergrowth was piled in stacks. The mound and ditchhad all been unturfed; and the mound was daily dug down to the level, every spadeful being shaken loose; and now they came upon some fewtraces of human use. In the mound was found a short and dinted swordof bronze, of antique shape. A mass of rusted metal was found in acorner, that looked as if it had been armour. In another corner werefound some large upright and calcined stones, with abundance ofwood-ashes below, that seemed to have been a rude fireplace. And inone part, in a place where there seemed to have been a pit, was aquantity of rotting stuff, that seemed like the remains of bones. Walter himself grew worn and weary, partly with the toil and stillmore with the deferred hope. And the men too became sullen andill-affected. It surprised Walter too that more than one of hisneighbours spoke with disfavour of what he was doing, as of a thingthat was foolish or even wrong. But still he worked on savagely, sleptlittle, and cared not what he ate or drank. 

At last the work was nearly over; the place had been all trenchedacross, and they had come in most places to the hard sandstone, whichlay very near the surface. In the afternoon had fallen a heavydrenching shower, so that the men had gone home early, wet anddispirited; and Walter stood, all splashed and stained with mud, sickat heart and heavy, on the edge of the place, and looked very gloomilyat the trenches, which lay like an ugly scar on the green hilltop. Thesky was full of ragged inky clouds, with fierce lights on the horizon. 

As he paced about and looked at the trenches, he saw in one placethat it seemed as if the earth was of a different colour at the sideof the trench; he stepped inside to look at this, and saw that thedigging had laid bare the side of a place like a pit, that seemed tohave been dug down through the ground; he bent to examine it, and thensaw at the bottom of the trench, washed clear by the rain, somethingthat looked like a stick or a root, that projected a little into thetrench; he put his hand down to it, and found it cold and hard andheavy, and in a moment saw that it was a rod of metal that ran intothe bank. He took up a spade, and threw the earth away in haste; andpresently uncovered the rod. It was a bar, he saw, and very heavy; butexamining it closely he saw that there was a stamp of some sort uponit; and then in a moment looking upon a place where the spade hadscratched it, he saw that it was a bright yellow metal. It came overhim all at once, with a shock that made him faint, that he hadstumbled upon some part of the treasure; he put the bar aside, andthen, first looking all round to see that none observed him, he duginto the bank. In a moment his spade struck something hard; and hepresently uncovered a row of bars that lay close together. He draggedthem up one by one, and underneath he found another row, laidcrosswise; and another row, and another, till he had uncovered sevenrows, making fifty bars in all. Beneath the lowest row his spadeslipped on something round and smooth; he uncovered the earth, andpresently drew out a brown and sodden skull, which thus lay beneaththe treasure. Below that was a mass of softer earth, but out of itcame the two thigh-bones of a man. 

The sky was now beginning to grow dark; but he dug out the whole ofthe pit, working into the bank; and he saw that a round hole had beendug straight down from the top, to the sandstone. The bones lay uponthe sandstone; but he found other bones at the sides of where the goldhad lain; so that it seemed to him as though the gold must have beenplaced among dead bodies, and have rested among corruption. This was adim thought that lurked in an ugly way in his mind. But he had now dugout the whole pit, and found nothing else, except a few large blurredcopper coins which lay among the bodies. He stood awhile looking atthe treasure; but together with the exultation at his discovery theremingled a dark and gloomy oppression of spirit, which he could notexplain, which clouded his mind. But presently he came to himselfagain, and gathering the bones together, he threw them down to thebottom of the pit, as he was minded to conceal his digging from themen. While he did so, it seemed to him that, as he was bending to thepit, something came suddenly behind him and stood at his back, closeto him, as though looking over his shoulder. For a moment the horrorwas so great that he felt the hair of his head prickle and his heartthump within his breast; but he overcame it and turned, and sawnothing but the trenches, and above them the ragged sky; yet he hadthe thought that something had slipped away. But he set himselfdoggedly to finish his task; he threw earth into the holes, working ina kind of fury; and twice as he did so, the same feeling came againthat there was some one at his back; and twice turning he saw nothing;but the third time, from the West came a sharp thunder-peal; and hehad hardly finished his work when the rain fell in a sheet, andsplashed in the trenches. 

Then he turned to the treasure which lay beside him. He found that hecould not carry more than a few of the bars at a time; and he darednot leave the rest uncovered. So he covered them with earth and wentstealthily down to the house; and there he got, with much precaution, a barrow from the garden. But the fear of discovery came upon him; andhe determined to go into the house and sup as usual, and late at nightconvey the treasure to the house. For the time, his trove gave him nojoy; he could not have believed it would have so weighed on him--hefelt more like one who had some guilty secret to conceal, than a manto whom had befallen a great joy. 

He went to the house, changed his wet clothes, and came to supper withhis mother. To her accustomed questions as to what they had found, hetook out the coins and showed them her, saying nothing of the gold, but with a jesting word that these would hardly repay him for histrouble. He could scarcely speak at supper for thinking of what he hadfound; and every now and then there came upon him a dreadful fear thathe had been observed digging, and that even now some thief had stolenback there and was uncovering his hoard. His mother looked at himoften, and at last said that he looked very weary; to which he repliedwith some sharpness, so that she said no more. 

Then all at once, near the end of the meal, he had the same dreadfulfear that he had felt by the pit. It seemed to him as though some onecame near him and stood close behind him, bending over his shoulder;and a kind of icy coldness fell on him. He started and looked quicklyround. His mother looked anxiously at him, and said, "What is it, dearWalter?" He made some excuse; but presently feeling that he must bealone, he excused himself and went to his room, where he sate, makingpretence to read, till the house should be silent. 

Then when all were abed, at an hour after midnight, he forced himselfto rise and put on his rough clothes, though a terror lay very soreupon him, and go out to the garden, creeping like a thief. He had withhim a lantern; and he carried the barrow on his shoulders for fearthat the creaking of the wheel should awake some one; and thenstumbling and sweating, and in a great weariness, he went by woodpathsto the hilltop. He came to the place, and having lit his lantern heuncovered the bars, and laid them on the barrow; they were as he hadleft them. When he had loaded them, the same fear struck him suddenlycold again, of something near him; and he thought for a moment hewould have swooned; but sitting down on the barrow in the cool air hepresently came to himself. Then he essayed to wheel the barrow in thedark. But he stumbled often, and once upset the barrow and spilled hisload. Thus, though fearing discovery, he was forced to light thelantern and set it upon the barrow, and so at last he came to thehouse; where he disposed the bars at the bottom of a chest of which hehad the key, covering them with papers, and then went to bed in a kindof fever, his teeth chattering, till he fell into a wretched sleepwhich lasted till dawn. 

In his sleep he dreamed a fearful dream; he seemed to be sitting onthe ground by the Camp, holding the gold in his arms; the Camp, in hisdream was as it was before he had cleared it, all grown up with trees. Suddenly out from among the trees there came a man in rusty tarnishedarmour, with a pale wild face and a little beard, which seemed allclotted with moisture; he held in his hand a pike or spear, and hecame swiftly and furiously upon Walter as though he would smite him. But it seemed as though his purpose changed; for standing aside hewatched Walter with evil and piercing eyes, so that it seemed toWalter that he would sooner have been smitten. And then he woke, butin anguish, for the man still seemed to stand beside him; until hemade a light and saw no one. 

He arose feeling broken and ill; but he met his mother with a smile, and told her that he had determined to do what would please her, andwork no more at the Camp. And he told the men that he would dig nomore, but that they were to level the place and so leave it. And sothey did, murmuring sore. 

The next week was a very miserable one for Walter; he could not havebelieved that a man's heart should be so heavy. It seemed to him thathe lay, like the poor bones that he had found beneath the treasure, crushed and broken and stifled under the weight of it. He was temptedto do wild things with the gold; to bury it again in the Camp, to dropit into the mud of the pool that lay near the house. In fevered dreamshe seemed to row himself in a boat upon a dark sea, and to throw thebars one by one into the water; the reason of this was not only hisfear for the treasure itself, but the dreadful sense that he had ofbeing followed by some one, who dogged his footsteps wherever he went. If ever he sate alone, the thing would draw near him and bend abovehim; he often felt that if he could but look round swiftly enough hewould catch a glimpse of the thing, and that nothing that he could seewould be so fearful as that which was unseen; and so it came to passthat, as he sate with his mother, though he bore the presence longthat he might not startle her, yet after a time of patient agony hecould bear it no more, but looked swiftly behind him; he grew pale andill, and even the men of the place noticed how often he turned roundas he walked; till at last he would not even walk abroad, except earlyand late when there would be few to see him. 

He had sent away his labourers; but once or twice he noticed, as hewent by the Camp, that some one had been digging and grubbing in themire. Sometimes for an hour or two his terrors would leave him, tillhe thought that he was wholly cured; but it was like a cat with amouse, for he suffered the worse for his respite, till at last he fellso low that he used to think of stories of men that had destroyedthemselves, and though he knew it to be a terrible sin to dally withsuch thoughts, he could not wholly put them from him, but used to planin his mind how he could do the deed best, that it might appear to bean accident. Sometimes he bore his trouble heavily, but at others hewould rage to think that he had been so happy so short a while ago;and even the love that he bore to Marjory was darkened and destroyedby the evil thing, and he met her timid and friendly glances sullenly;his mother was nearly as miserable as himself, for she knew thatsomething was very grievously amiss, but could not divine what it was. Indeed, she could do nothing but wish it were otherwise, and pray forher son, for she knew not where the trouble lay, but thought that hewas ill or even bewitched. 

At last, after a day of dreadful gloom, Walter made up his mind thathe would ride to London and see to the disposing of the treasure. Hehad a thought often in his mind that if he replaced it in the Camp, hewould cease to be troubled; but he could not bring himself to that; heseemed to himself like a man who had won a hard victory, and was askedto surrender what he had won. 

His intention was to go to an old and wise friend of his father's, whowas a Canon of a Collegiate Church in London, and was much about thecourt. So he hid the treasure in a strong cellar and padlocked thedoor; but he took one bar with him to show to his friend. 

It was a doleful journey; his horse seemed as dispirited as himself;and his terrors came often upon him, till he was fearful that he mightbe thought mad; and indeed what with the load at his heart and theshort and troubled nights he spent, he believed himself that he wasnot very far from it. 

It was with a feeling of relief and safety, like a ship coming intoport, that he stayed his horse at the door of the college, which stoodin a quiet street of the city. He carried a valise of clothes in whichthe bar was secured. He had a very friendly greeting from the oldCanon, who received him in a little studious parlour full of books. The court was full of pleasant sunshine, and the city outside seemedto make a pleasant and wholesome stir in the air. 

But the Canon was very much amazed at Walter's looks; he was used toread the hearts of men in their faces like a wise priest, and he sawin Walter's face a certain desperate look such as he had seen, he saidto himself, in the faces of those who had a deadly sin to confess. Butit was not his way to make inquisition, and so he talked courteouslyand easily, and when he found that Walter was inclined to be silent, he filled the silence himself with little talk of the news of thetown. 

After the meal, which they took in the Canon's room--for Walter saidthat he would prefer that to dining in the Hall, when the Canon gavehim the choice--Walter said that he had a strange story to tell him. The Canon felt no surprise, and being used to strange stories, addressed himself to listen carefully; for he thought that in the mostdifficult and sad tales of sin the words of the sufferer most oftensupplied the advice and the way out, if one but listened warily. 

He did not interrupt Walter except to ask him a few questions to makethe story clear, but his face grew very grave; and at the end he satesome time in silence. Then he said very gently that it was a heavyjudgment, but that he must ask Walter one question. "I do not ask youto tell me, " he said very courteously, "what it may be; but is thereno other thing in which you have displeased God? For these grievousthoughts and fears are sometimes sent as a punishment for sin, and toturn men back to the light. "

Then Walter said that he knew of no such sin by which he could havevexed God so exceedingly. "Careless, " he said, "I am and have been;and, father, I would tell you anything that was in my heart; I wouldhave no secrets from you--but though I am a sinner, and do not serveGod as well as I would, yet I desire to serve Him, and have no sinthat is set like a wall between Him and me. " He said this so honestlyand bravely, looking so full at the priest, that he did not doubt him, and said, "Then, my son, we must look elsewhere for the cause; andthough I speak in haste, and without weighing my words, it seems to methat, to speak in parables, you are like a man who has come by chanceto a den and carried off for his pleasure the cubs of some forestbeast, who returns and finds them gone, and tracks the robber out. Thesouls of these poor warriors are in some mansion of God, we know notwhere; if they did faithfully in life they are beaten, as theScripture says, with few stripes; but they may not enjoy His blessedrest, nor the sweet sleep of the faithful souls who lie beneath thealtar and wait for His coming. And now though they cannot slay you, they can do you grievous hurt. The Holy Church hath power indeed overthe spirits of evil, the devils that enter into men. But I have notheard that she hath power over the spirits of the dead, and least ofall over those that lived and died outside the fold. It seems to me, though I but grope in darkness, that these poor spirits grudge thetreasure that they fought and died for to the hands of a man who hathnot fought for it. We may think that it is a poor and childish thingto grudge that which one cannot use; but no discourse will make achild think so; and I reckon that these poor souls are as childrenyet. And it seems to me, speaking foolishly, as though they would notbe appeased until you either restored it to them, or used it for theirundoubted benefit; but of one thing I am certain, that it must not beused to enrich yourself. But I must ponder over the story, for it is astrange one, and not such as has ever yet come before me. "

Then Walter found fresh courage at these wary and wise words, andtold him of his impoverished estate and the love he had to Marjory;and the priest smiled, and said that love was the best thing to win inthe world. And then he said that as it was now late, they must sleep;and that the night often brought counsel; and so he took Walter to hischamber, a little precise place with a window on the court; and therehe left him; but he first knelt down and prayed, and then laid hishand on Walter's head, and blessed him, and commended him to themerciful keeping of God; and Walter slept sweetly, and was scared thatnight by no dismal dreams; and in the morning the priest took him tothe church, and Walter knelt in a little chapel while the old man saidhis mass, commending therein the burden of Walter's suffering into themerciful hands of God; so that Walter's heart was greatly lightened. 

Then after the mass the priest asked Walter of his health, and whetherhe had suffered any visitation of evil that night; he said "no, " andthe priest then said that he had pondered long over the story, whichwas strange and very dark. But he had little doubt now as to whatWalter should do. He did not think that the treasure should bereplaced now that it was got up, because it was only flying before theevil and not meeting it, but leaving the sad inheritance for someother man. The poor spirit must be laid to rest, and the treasure usedfor God's glory. "And therefore, " he said, "I think that a church mustbe built, and dedicated to All Souls; and thus your net will be wideenough to catch the sad spirit. And you must buy a little estate forthe support of the chaplain thereof, and so shall all be content. "

"All but one, " said Walter sadly, "for there goes my dream of settingup my own house that tumbles down. "

"My son, " said the old priest very gravely, "you must not murmur; itwill be enough for you if God take away the sore chastening of yourspirit; and for the rest, He will provide. "

"But there is more behind, " he said after a pause. "If you, with animpoverished estate, build a church and endow a priest, there will bequestions asked; it will needs be known that you have found atreasure, and it will come, perhaps, to the ears of the King's Grace, and inquisition will be made; so I shall go this morning to a Lord ofthe Court, an ancient friend of mine, a discreet man; and I will laythe story before him, if you give me leave; and he will advise. "

Walter saw that the priest's advice was good; and so he gave himleave; and the priest departed to the Court; but while he was away, asWalter sate sadly over a book, his terrors came upon him with freshforce; the thing drew near him and stood at his shoulder, and he couldnot dislodge it; it seemed to Walter that it was more malign thanever, and was set upon driving him to some desperate deed; so he roseand paced in the court; but it seemed to move behind him, till hethought he would have gone distraught; but finding the church doorsopen, he went inside and, in a corner, knelt and prayed, and got somekind of peace; yet he felt all the while as though the presence waitedfor him at the door, but could not hurt him in the holy shrine; andthere Walter made a vow and vowed his life into the hands of God; forhe had found the world a harder place than he had thought, and itseemed to him as though he walked among unseen foes. Presently he sawthe old priest come into the church, peering about; so Walter rose andcame to him; the priest had a contented air, but seemed big with news, and he told Walter that he must go with him at once to the Court. Forhe had seen the Lord Poynings, that was his friend, who had taken himat once to the king; and the king had heard the story very curiously, and would see Walter himself that day. So Walter fetched the bar ofgold and they went at once together; and Walter was full of awe andfear, and asked the priest how he should bear himself; to which thepriest said smiling, "As a man, in the presence of a man. " And as theywent Walter told him that he had been visited by the terror again, buthad found peace in the church; and the priest said, "Ay, there ispeace to be had there. "

They came down to the palace, and were at once admitted; the priestand he were led into a little room, full of books, where a man waswriting, a venerable man in a furred gown, with a comely face; thiswas the Lord Poynings, who greeted Walter very gently but with asecret attention; Walter shewed him the bar of gold, and he looked atit long, and presently there came a page who said that the king was atleisure, and would see Mr. Wyatt. 

Walter had hoped that the priest, or at least the Lord Poynings, wouldaccompany him; but the message was for himself alone; so he was ledalong a high corridor with tall stands of arms. The king had been agreat warrior in his manhood, and had won many trophies. They came toa great doorway, where the page knocked; a voice cried within, and thepage told Walter he must enter alone. 

Walter would fain have asked the page how he should make hisobeisance; but there was no time now, for the page opened the door, and Walter went in. 

He found himself in a small room, hung with green arras. The king wassitting in a great chair, by a table spread out with parchments. Walter first bowed low and then knelt down; the king motioned him torise, and then said in a quiet and serene voice, "So, sir, you are thegentleman that has found a treasure and would fain be rid of itagain. " At these gentle words Walter felt his terrors leave him; theking looked at him with a serious attention; he was a man just passinginto age; his head was nearly hairless, and he had a thin face with along nose, and small lips drawn together. On his head was a loosevelvet cap, and he wore his gown furred; round his neck was a jewel, and he had great rings on his forefingers and thumbs. 

The king, hardly pausing for an answer, said, "You look ill, MasterWyatt, and little wonder; sit here in a chair and tell me the tale ina few words. "

Walter told his story as shortly as he could with the king's kind eyeupon him; the king once or twice interrupted him; he took the bar fromWalter's hands, and looked upon it, weighing it in his fingers, andsaying, "Ay, it is a mighty treasure. " Once or twice he made himrepeat a few sentences, and heard the story of the thing that stoodnear him with a visible awe. 

At last he said with a smile, "You have told your story well, sir, and plainly; are you a soldier?" When Walter said "no, " he said, "Itis a noble trade, nevertheless. " Then he said, "Well, sir, thetreasure is yours, to use as I understand you will use it for theglory of God and for the peace of the poor spirit, which I doubt notis that of a great knight. But I have no desire to be visited of him, "and here he crossed himself. "So let it be thus bestowed--and I willcause a quittance to be made out for you from the Crown, which willtake no part in the trove. How many bars did you say?" And when Waltersaid "fifty, " the king said, "It is great wealth; and I wish for yoursake, sir, that it were not so sad an inheritance. " Then he added, "Well, sir, that is the matter; but I would hear the end of this, forI never knew the like; when your church is built and all things are inorder, and let it be done speedily, you shall come and visit meagain. " And then the king said, with a kindly smile, "And as for themaiden of whom I have heard, be not discouraged; for yours is anancient house, and it must not be extinguished--and so farewell; andremember that your king wishes you happiness;" and he made a sign thatWalter should withdraw. So Walter knelt again and kissed the king'sring, and left the chamber. 

When Walter came out he seemed to tread on air; the king's graciouskindness moved him very greatly, and loyalty filled his heart to thebrim. He found the priest and the Lord Poynings waiting for him; andpresently the two left the palace together, and Walter told the priestwhat the king had said. 

The next day he rode back into Sussex; but he was very sorely besetas he rode, and reached home in great misery. But he wasted no time, but rather went to his new task with great eagerness; the foundationsof the church were laid, and soon the walls began to rise. MeanwhileWalter had the gold conveyed to the king's Mint; and a message came tohim that it would make near upon twenty thousand pounds of gold, afortune for an earl. So the church was built very massive and great, and a rich estate was bought which would support a college of priests. But Walter's heart was very heavy; for his terrors still came over himfrom day to day; and he was no nearer settling his own affairs. 

Then there began to come to him a sore temptation; he could build hischurch, and endow his college with lands, and yet he could savesomething of the treasure to set him free from his own poverty; andday by day this wrought more and more in his mind. 

At last one day when he was wandering through the wood, he foundhimself face to face in the path with Marjory herself; and there wasso tender a look in her face that he could no longer resist, so heturned and walked with her, and told her all that was in his heart. "It was all for the love of you, " he said, "that I have thus beenpunished, and now I am no nearer the end;" and then, for he saw thatshe wept, and that she loved him well, he opened to her his heart, andsaid that he would keep back part of the treasure, and would save hishouse, and that they would be wed; and so he kissed her on the lips. 

But Marjory was a true-hearted and wise maiden, and loved Walterbetter than he knew; and she said to him, all trembling for pity, "Dear Walter, it cannot be; this must be given faithfully, because youare the king's servant, and because you must give the spirit back hisown, and because you are he that I love the best; and we will wait;for God tells me that it must be so; and He is truer even than love. "

So Walter was ashamed; and he threw unworthy thoughts away; and withthe last of the money he caused a fair screen to be made, and windowsof rich glass; and the money was thus laid out. 

Now while the church was in building--and they made all the hastethey could--Walter had days when he was very grievously troubled; butit seemed to him a different sort of trouble. In the first place helooked forward confidently to the day when the dark presence would bewithdrawn; and a man who can look forward to a certain ending to hispain can stay himself on that; but, besides that, it seemed to himthat he was not now beset by a foe, but guarded as it were by asentinel. There were days when the horror was very great, and when thething was always near him whether he sate or walked, whether he wasalone or in company; and on those days he withdrew himself from men, and there was a dark shadow on his brow. So that there grew up a kindof mystery about him; but, besides that, he learnt things in thosebitter hours that are not taught in any school. He learnt to sufferwith all the great company of those who bear heavy and unseen burdens, who move in the grip of fears and stumble under the load of darknecessities. He grew more tender and more strong. He found in his handthe key to many hearts. Before this he had cared little about thethoughts of other men; but now he found himself for ever wonderingwhat the inner thoughts of the hearts of others were, and ready ifneed were to help to lift their load; he had lived before in carelessfellowship with light-hearted persons, but now he was rather drawn tothe old and wise and sad; and there fell on him some touch of the holypriesthood that falls on all whose sadness is a fruitful sadness, andwho instead of yielding to bitter repining would try to make othershappier. If he heard of a sorrow or a distress, his thought was nolonger how to put it out of his mind as soon as he might, but of howhe might lighten it. So his heart grew wider day by day. 

And at last the day came when the church was done; it stood, a fairwhite shrine with a seemly tower, on the hill-top, and a little wayfrom it was the college for the priests. The Bishop came to consecrateit, and the old Canon came from London, and there was a littlegathering of neighbours to see the holy work accomplished. 

The Bishop blessed the church very tenderly; he was an old infirm man, but he bore his weakness lightly and serenely. He made Walter thenight before tell him the story of the treasure, and found much towonder at in it. 

There was no part of the church or its furniture that he did notsolemnly bless; and Walter from his place felt a grave joy to see allso fair and seemly. The priests moved from end to end with the Bishop, in their stiff embroidered robes, and there was a holy smell ofincense which strove with the sharp scent of the newly-chiselled wood. The Bishop made them a little sermon and spoke much of the gatheringinto the fold of spirits that had done their work bravely, even ifthey had not known the Lord Christ on earth. 

After all was over, and the guests were departed, the old Canon saidthat he must return on the morrow to London, and that he had a messagefor Walter from the king, --who had not failed to ask him how the workwent on, --that Walter was to return with him and tell the king of thefulfilment of the design. 

That night Walter had a strange dream; he seemed to stand in a darkplace all vaulted over, like a cave that stretched far into the earth;he himself stood in the shadow of a rock, and he was aware of some onepassing by him. He looked at him, and saw that he was the warrior thathe had seen before in his dream, a small pale man, with a short beard, with rusty armour much dinted; he held a spear in his hand, and walkedrestlessly like a man little content. But while Walter watched him, there seemed to be another person drawing near in the oppositedirection. This was a tall man, all in white, who brought with him ashe came a strange freshness in the dark place, as of air and light, and the scent of flowers; this one came along in a different fashion, with an assured and yet tender air, as though he was making search forsome one to whom his coming would be welcome; so the two met and wordspassed between them; the warrior stood with his hands clasped upon hisspear seeming to drink in what was said--he could not hear the wordsat first, for they were spoken softly, but the last words he heardwere, "And you too are of the number. " Then the warrior kneeled downand laid his spear aside, and the other seemed to stoop and bless him, and then went on his way; and the warrior knelt and watched him goingwith a look in his face as though he had heard wonderful and beautifulnews, and could hardly yet believe it; and so holy was the look thatWalter felt as though he intruded upon some deep mystery, and movedfurther into the shadow of the rock; but the warrior rose and came tohim where he stood, and looked at him with a half-doubting look, asthough he asked pardon, stretching out his hands; and Walter smiled athim, and the other smiled; and at the moment Walter woke in the dawnwith a strange joy in his heart, and rising in haste, drew the windowcurtain aside, and saw the fresh dawn beginning to come in over thewoods, and he knew that the burden was lifted from him and that he wasfree. 

In the morning as the old Canon and Walter rode to London, Waltertold him the dream; and when he had done, he saw that the old priestwas smiling at him with his eyes full of tears, and that he could notspeak; so they rode together in that sweet silence which is worth morethan many words. 

The next day Walter came to see the king: he carried with him a paperto show the king how all had been expended; but he went with no fear, but as though to see a true friend. 

The king received him very gladly, and bade Walter tell him all thathad been done; so Walter told him, and then speaking very softly toldthe king the dream; the king mused over the story, and then said, "Sohe has his heart's desire. "

Then there was a silence; and then the king, as though breaking out ofa pleasant thought, drew from the table a parchment, and said toWalter that he had done well and wisely, and therefore for the trustthat he had in him he made him his Sheriff for the County of Sussex, to which was added a large revenue; and there was more to come, forthe king bade Walter unhook a sword from the wall, his own sword thathe had borne in battle; and therewith he dubbed him knight, and saidto him, "Rise up, Sir Walter Wyatt. " Then before he dismissed him, hesaid to him that he would see him every year at the Court; and thenwith a smile he added, "And when you next come, I charge you to bringwith you my Lady Wyatt. "

And Walter promised this, and kept his word. 

 THE LIGHT OF THE BODY

It was high noon in the little town of Parbridge; the streets werebright and silent, and the walls of the houses were hot to the touch. The limes in the narrow avenue leading to the west door of the greatchurch of St. Mary stood breathless and still. The ancient churchitself looked as if it pondered gravely on what had been and what wasto be; and the tall windows of the belfry, with their wooden louvres, seemed to be solemn half-shut eyes. At the south side of the church, connected with it by a wooden cloister, stood a tall house of greystone. In a room looking out upon the graveyard sate two men. The roomhad an austere air; its plain whitened walls bore a single picture, soold and dark that it was difficult to see what was represented in it. On some shelves stood a few volumes; near the window was a tall blackcrucifix of plain wood, the figure white. There was an oak table withwriting materials. The floor was paved with squares of wood. 

The two men sate close together. One was an old and weather-worn manin a secular dress of dark material; the other a young priest in acassock, whose pale face, large eyes and wasted hands betokenedillness, or the strain of some overmastering thought. It seemed asthough they had been holding a grave conversation of strange or sadimport, and had fallen into a momentary silence. 

The priest was the first to speak. "Well, beloved physician, " he said, in a slow and languid voice, though with a half-smile, "I have toldyou my trouble; and I would have your most frank opinion. "

"I hardly know what to say, " said the Doctor. "I have prescribed formany years and do not know that I ever heard the like; I must tell youplainly that such things are not written in our medical books. "

The priest said nothing, but looked sadly out of the window; presentlythe Doctor said, "Let me hear the tale from the first beginning, dearHerbert;--it is well to have the whole complete. I would consult witha learned friend of mine about this dark matter, a physician who ismore skilled than I am in maladies of the mind--for I think that moreails the mind than the body. "

"Well, " said the priest a little wearily, "I will tell it you. 

"Almost a year ago, on one of the hottest days of the early summer, Iwent abroad as usual, about noon, to visit Mistress Dennis who wasill. I do not think I felt myself to be unwell, and was full to thebrim of little joyous businesses; I stood for a time at the porch tospeak with Master Dennis himself, who came in just as I left thehouse, and I stood uncovered at the door; suddenly the sun stabbed andstruck me, as with a scythe, and I saw a whirling blackness before myeyes and staggered. Master Dennis was alarmed, and would have had mego within; but I would not, for I had other work to do; so he led mehome; that afternoon I sate over my book; but I could neither read northink; I was in pain, I remember, and felt that some strange thing hadhappened to me; I recall, too, rising from my chair, and I am told Ifainted and fell. 

"Then I remember nothing more but fierce and wild dreams of pain. Sometimes I heard my own voice crying out; at last the pain died away, and left me very weak and sad; but I was still pent up, it seemed tome, in some dark dungeon of the mind, and the view of the room I layin and the sight of those who visited me only came to me in shortglimpses. I am told I babbled strangely; then one morning I came outsuddenly, like a man rising from a dive in a pool, and knew that I wasmyself again; that day was a day of quiet joy; I was weak and silent, but it seemed good to be alive. It was not till the next day that Inoticed the thing that I have tried to tell you, that haunts meyet--and I can hardly put it into words. 

"It seemed to me that I noticed round about those who came to me athin veil, as it were of vapour, but it was not dense like smoke ormist; I could see them as well through it as before; it was more likea light that played about them, and it was brightest over the heartand above the brow; at first I thought it was some effect of my weakstate, but as I grew stronger I saw it still more clearly. 

"And then comes the strangest part of all; the light changedaccording to the thoughts that were passing in the mind of the personon whom my eyes were set--the thought that it was so came suddenlyinto my mind and bewildered me; but in a little I was sure of it. Ineed not give long instances--but I saw, or thought I saw, that whenthe mind of the man or woman was pure and pitiful, the light was pureand clear, but that when the thoughts were selfish, or covetous, orangry, or unclean, there came a darkness into the light, as when youdrop a little ink into clear water. Few came to see me; and I supposethat they were full of pity and perhaps a little love for me in myhelpless state, so that the light about them was pure and even; butone day the good dame Ann, who tended me, in stooping to give medrink, thrust a dish off the table, which broke, and spilled itscontents, and a dark flush came into the light that was round her fora moment. 

"Then too as I got better, and was able to see and speak with mypeople, there came to me several in trouble of different kinds, andthe light was sullen and wavering; one, whose name I will not tellyou, came to me with a sin upon his mind, and the vapour was all darkand stained; and so it has been till now; and these last weeks it hasbeen even stranger; because by a kind of practice I have been led toinfer what the thoughts in the mind of each person are, at firstseeing them. It is true that they have not always told me in wordswhat the light would seem to suggest; but I have good reason tobelieve that the thoughts are there behind. 

"Now, " he went on, "this is a sad and dreadful gift, and I do notdesire it. It is horrible that the thoughts of men should be mademanifest to a man, the thoughts that should be read only by God; and Igo to and fro in the world with this cruel horror upon me, and so I amin evil case. "

He ceased, as if tired of speaking, and the old Doctor mused, lookingon the floor--then he shook his head and said, "My dear friend, I ampowerless at present; such a thing has never come to me before--youare as it were in a chamber of life that I have never visited, and Ican but stand on the threshold and listen at a closed door. " Then hewas silent for a little, but presently he said, "This light that youspeak of--does it envelop every one?--do you see it about _me_ as Ispeak with you?" "Yes, " said Herbert, turning his eyes upon theDoctor, "it is round you, very pure and clean; you are giving all yourheart to my story; and it is a good and tender heart. You have notmany sorrows except the sorrows of others, " and then suddenly Herbertbroke off with a vague gesture of the hand and looked at the Doctorwith a bewildered look. "Finish what you were saying, " said the Doctorwith a grave look. "Nay, nay, " said Herbert with a sad air, "you havesorrows indeed--the light changes and darkens--but they are not allfor yourself. "

"This is a strange thing, " said the Doctor very seriously--"tell mewhat you mean. "

"Then you must keep from thoughts on your trouble, whatever it is, "said Herbert. "I would read no man's secrets; but let this prove toyou that I am not speaking of a mere sick fancy--turn not yourthoughts on me. " Then there was a pause and then Herbert said slowly, "As far as I can read the light, you did a wrong once, long ago, inyour youth, and bear the burden of it yet; and you have striven toamend it; and now it is not a selfish fear;"--the priest mused amoment--"How, if the deed has borne fruit in another, for whom yousorrow, for you think that your wrongdoing was the seed of his?"

The Doctor grew pale to the lips, and said in a low voice, "This is avery fearful gift, dear friend. You have indeed laid your finger onthe sore spot--it is a thing I have never spoken of to any but God. "

Then there was a silence again; and then Herbert said, "But there isanother thing of which I have not told you; it is this; you know whatI was before my illness--simple, I think, and humble, and with a heartthat for all its faults was tender and faithful. Well, with this gift, that has all departed from me; I seem to care neither for man nor God;I see the trouble in another heart, and it moves me not. I feel as ifI would not put out a finger to heal another's grief, except thathabit has made it hard for me to do otherwise. " And then with a suddenburst of passion, "Oh, my heart of stone!" he said. 

The Doctor looked at him very sadly and lovingly, and then he rose. "I must be gone, " he said, "but by your leave I will consult, withoutany mention of name, an old friend of mine, the wise physician of whomI spoke; and meanwhile, dear friend, rest and be still. God has sentyou a very strange and terrible gift, but He sends not His gifts invain; and you must see how you may use it for His service. "

"Yes, yes, I doubt not, " said Herbert wearily--"but the will to serveis gone from me--I would I were sleeping quietly out yonder--the worldis poisoned for me, and yet I loved it once. "

Then the old physician went away, lost in thought, and Herbert madeattempt to address himself to his book, but he could not; he lookedback over his life, and saw himself a simple child, very innocent andloving; he saw his eager and clean boyhood, and how the thought hadcome into his mind to be a priest--it was not for a noble reason, Herbert thought; he had loved the beauty of the dark rich church, theslow and delicate music of the organ, the singing of the choir, thefaint sweetness of the incense smoke, the solemn figures of thepriests as they moved about the altar--it had been but a love ofbeauty and solemnity; no desire to save others, and very little loveto the Father, though a strange uplifted desire of heart toward theLord Christ; but as he thought of it now, sitting in the afternoonsunshine, it seemed to him as though he had loved the Saviour more forthe beauty of worship which surrounded Him, throned as it were sopiteously upon the awful Cross, lifted up, the desire of the world, inall His stainless strength and adorable suffering, to draw souls toHim. 

Then he had gone to Oxford, and he thought of his time there, hissmall bare rooms, the punctual vivid life, so repressed, yet so fullof human movement. Herbert had won friends very easily there, and thegood fathers had loved him; but all this love, looking back, seemed tohim to have been called out not by the lovingness of his own heart, but by a certain unconscious charm, a sweet humility of manner, areadiness to please and be pleased, a desire to do what should win hiscompanion, whoever it might chance to be. 

Then he went for a time as a young priest to the cathedral, as avicar, and there again life had been easy for him; he had gained famefor a sort of easy and pathetic eloquence, that allowed him to makewhat he spoke of seem beautiful to those who heard it, but now Herbertthought sadly that he had not done this for love of the thoughts ofwhich he spoke, but for the pleasure of arraying them so that theymoved and pleased others; and yet he had won some power over soulstoo, he had himself been so courteous, so gentle, so seeming tender, that others spoke easily to him of their troubles and seemed to findhelp in his words; then had come the day when the Bishop had sent himto St. Mary's, and there too everything had been as easy to him asbefore. Yes, that had been the fault all through! he had won by acertain grace what ought to have been won by deep purity and eagerdesire and great striving. 

And this too had at last begun to come home to him; and then he hadhalf despaired of changing himself. He had been like a shallowrippling brook, yet seemed to others like a swift and patient river;and he had prayed very earnestly to God to change his heart; to deepenand widen it, to make it strong and sincere and faithful. And wasthis, thought Herbert, the terrible answer? was he who had loved easeand beauty on all sides, had loved the surface and the seeming ofthings, to be thrust violently into the deep places of the humanheart, to be shown by a dreadful clearness of vision the stain, thehorror, the shadow of the world?

But what was to him the most despairing thought of all was this--andthinking quietly over it, it seemed to him that if this clearness ofvision had quickened his zeal to serve, if it had shown him how trueand fierce was the battle to be waged in life, and how few men walkedin the peace that was so near them that they could have taken it bystretching out their hand--if it had taught him this, had nerved hisheart, had sent him speeding into the throng to heal the secretsorrows that his quickened sight could see, then the reason of thegift would have been plain to him; but with the clearer vision hadcome this deadly apathy, this strange and bitter loathing for a worldwhere all seemed so sweet outwardly and was so heavy-hearted within. And Herbert thought of how once as a child he had seen a beautifulrose-bush just bursting into bloom; and he had gone near to draw thesweet scent into his nostrils, and had recognised a dreadful heavyodour below and behind the delicate scent of the roses, and there, when he put the bush aside, was the swollen body of a dog that hadcrept into the very heart of the bush to die, and tainted all the airwith the horror of death. He had hated roses long after, and now itseemed to him that all the world was like that. 

He came suddenly out of his sad reverie with a start; the bell of thechurch began to toll for vespers, and he rose up wearily enough to go. His work, he hardly dared confess to himself, was a heavy burden tohim; of old he had found great peace, day by day, in the quietevensong in the dark cool church, the few worshippers, the graciouspleading of the ancient psalms, so sweet in themselves, and sofragrant with the incense of immemorial prayer; and he thought that, besides the actual worshippers, there were round him a great companyof faithful souls, unseen yet none the less present--all this had beento him a deep refreshment, a draught of the waters of comfort; but nowthere was never a gathering when the dark trouble of thought in othersouls was not visibly revealed to him. 

He went slowly across the little garden in front of the house; thereby the road grew a few flowers--for Herbert loved to have all thingstrim and bright about him. A boy was leaning over the rail looking atthe flowers; and Herbert saw, in the secret light that hung round thechild, the darkening flush that told of the presence of someconscience-stricken wish. The child got hurriedly down from the railat the sight of Herbert, who stopped and called him. "Little one, " hesaid, "come hither. " The child stood a moment absorbed, finger on lip, and presently came up to Herbert, who gathered a few of the flowersand put them into the child's hands. "Here is a posy for you, " hesaid, "but, dear one, remember this--the flowers were mine, and youdid desire them. God sends us gifts sometimes and sometimes not; whenHe sends them, it is well to take them gratefully, thus--but if Hegives them not, and the voice within says, 'Then will I take them, ' wemust fly from temptation. Do you understand that, little one?" Thechild stood considering a moment, and then shyly gave the flowersback. "Ay, that is right, " said Herbert, "but you may take themnow--God gives them to you!" and he stooped and kissed the child onthe forehead. 

A few days after the old physician came again to see Herbert, evidently troubled. He told Herbert that he had consulted his friend, who could make nothing of the case. "He said--" he added, and thenstopped short. "Nay, I will tell you, " he went on, "for in such amatter we may not hesitate. He said that it was a delusion of themind, not of the eye--and that it was more a case for a priest thanfor a doctor. " "He is right, " said Herbert. "I had even thought ofthat--and I will do what I ought to have done before. I will take mystory to my lord the Bishop and I will ask his advice; he is myfriend, and he has been a true father to my spirit--and he is a goodand holy man as well. "

So Herbert wrote to the Bishop, and the Bishop appointed a day to seehim. The cathedral city was but a few miles from Parbridge, andHerbert went thither by boat because he was not strong enough to walk. The river ran through a flat country, with distant hills on a farhorizon; the clear flowing of the water, the cool weedy bowers andgravelled spaces seen beneath, and the green and glistening rushesthat stood up so fresh and strong out of the ripple pleased Herbert'stired mind; he tried much to think what he would say to the Bishop;but he could frame no arguments and thought it best to leave it, andto say what God might put in his mouth to say. 

He found the Bishop writing in a little panelled room that gave on agarden. He was in his purple cassock; he rose at Herbert's entrance, and greeted him very kindly. The Bishop's face was smooth andfresh-coloured and lit with a pleasant light of benevolence. He was anactive man, and loved little businesses, which he did with all hismight. He, like all that knew Herbert, loved him and found pleasure inhis company. So Herbert took what courage he might--though he sawsomewhat that he was both grieved and surprised to see--and told hisstory, though his heart was heavy, and he thought somehow that theBishop would not understand him. While he spoke the Bishop's face grewvery grave, for he did not love things out of the common; but he askedhim questions from time to time--and when Herbert said that thetrouble had come upon him after a stroke of the sun, the Bishop's facelightened a little, and he said that the sun at its hottest had greatpower. 

When Herbert had quite finished, the Bishop said courteously that hethought it was a case for a physician, and Herbert said that he hadhimself thought so, but that the doctors could do nothing, but hadsent him back to the priests. Then the Bishop made as though he wouldspeak, and cleared his throat, but spake nothing. At last he said, "Dear son, this is a strange and heavy affliction; but I think it willgive way to rest and quiet--and prayer, " he added a littleshamefacedly. "These bodies of ours are delicate instruments, and ifwe work them too hard--as methinks you have done--they getoverstrained in the place in which we drive them; and just as ascholar who has been disordered dreams of books, and as a doctor thusafflicted would have grievous fancies of diseases, so you, my dearson, who have been a very faithful priest, are thus sadly concernedwith the souls of the flock of Christ--and so my advice is that you goand rest; and if you will, I will send you a little priest to help youfor awhile--or you may travel abroad for a time, and see fresh things;and, dear son, if there be any narrowness of means, I will myselfsupply your necessities, and deem the money well lent to the Lord--andso be comforted!"--and he put out his hand to bless him. 

Herbert was moved by the Bishop's kindness; but he felt that theBishop did not see the matter aright, but thought it all a saddelusion; and he made up his mind to speak. So he said, "Dear fatherand my lord, forgive me if I speak yet further--for I am greatly movedby your kindness, but in this case there is need of great frankness. It is not indeed as your goodness thinks; indeed there is no delusion, but a real and yet grievous power of sight--which I pray God wouldremove from me--and that as He took the scales off the eyes of theblessed Paul, so I pray that He would put them back on mine. For I seethe things I would not, and to me is revealed what ought to behidden. "

Then the Bishop looked a little angered by Herbert's insistence, andsaid, "Dear son, if this were a gift of God to you, it would be morethan He gave even to the blessed Apostles, for we read of no such giftbeing given to man. Some He made apostles, and some evangelists, butwe hear not that He made any to see the very secrets of the soul--suchsight is given to God alone--and indeed, dear son, for I will use thesame frankness as yourself, it seems to me but a chastening from God. He delivers even those He loves (like the blessed Paul himself, andAustin, and others whom I need not name) to Satan to be buffeted; andthough I have myself no fault to find with your ministration, it isplain to me that God is not satisfied, and by His chastening wouldlead you higher yet. "

"But come, for I will ask you a question. This light that you speakof, that plays about the heads (is it so?) of other men, is it alwaysthere? Has it, to ask an instance, appeared to you with _me_? I chargeyou to speak to me with entire freedom in this matter. " So Herbertraised his eyes, and looked the Bishop in the face, and said verygravely, "Yes, dear father, it doth appear. "

Then the Bishop's face changed a little, and Herbert saw that he wasmoved; then the Bishop said with a kind of smile, as though he forcedhimself, "And what is it like?" And Herbert said, looking shamefacedlyupon the ground, "Must I answer the question truly?" And the Bishopsaid, "Yes, upon your vows. " Then Herbert said, "Dear father, it isstrangely dark and angry. " Then the Bishop, knitting his brows, said, "Does it seem so? And how is this a true light? My son, I speak to youplainly; I am a sinner indeed--we are all such--but my whole life isspent in labour for God's Church, and I can truly say that from hourto hour I think not of carnal things, but all my desire is to feed andkeep the flock. How dost thou interpret that?" And Herbert, very low, said, "My lord, must I speak?" And the Bishop said, "Yes, upon yourvows. " Then Herbert said very slowly and sadly, "My lord, I knowindeed that your heart is with the work of the Lord, and that youlabour abundantly. But can it be--I speak as a faithful son, and soreunwilling--that you have your pleasure in this work, and think ofyourself as a profitable servant?"

Then the Bishop looked very blackly upon him and said, "You take toomuch upon yourself, my son. This is indeed the messenger of Satan thathath you in his grip; but I will pray for you if the Lord will healyou--it may be that there is some dark sin upon your mind; and if sopluck it out of the heart. But we will talk no more; I will only tellyou to rest and pray, and think not of these lights and flashes, whichare never told of in Holy Church, except in the case of those who areheld of evil. " And he rose and made a gesture that Herbert should go;so Herbert kissed the Bishop's hand and went very sadly out, for itseemed as though his burden was too great for him to bear. 

There followed very sad and weary days when Herbert hardly knew howhe could bear the sorrow that pressed upon him. But he preacheddiligently, and went in and out among his people. And in that time hehelped many sad souls and set struggling feet upon the right road, though he knew it not and even cared not. 

One day he was walking in the street, and came past a little meanhouse that lay on the outskirts of the town. There was a small andpitiful garden, sadly disordered, that lay in front of the house. Herethere dwelt a wretched man named John, who had done an evil deed inhis youth. He had robbed his mother, it was said, a poor and crippledwoman, of her little savings; she had struggled hard for her all, buthe had beaten her off, and done her violence, and she, between griefand disease, had died. In her last hour she had told the tale; her sonhad been driven from his employment, and the hearts of all had turnedagainst him. He had left the place, but a few years after he hadreturned, a man old before his time, with a sore disease upon him, inwhich all readily saw the wise judgment of God. 

He had settled in the little house which had been his mother's beforehim, and had stood vacant. But none would admit him to their houses orgive him work. Occasionally, when labour was short, he had a taskgiven him; but he was slow and feeble, and those that worked with himmocked and derided him. He bore all mockeries patiently and silently, with a kind of hunted look; but none pitied him, and the very childrenof the street would point at him, call him murderer, and throw stonesat him. He would seek at times to do a kindness to the poor andsorrowful by stealth, but his help was often refused even with anger. 

Herbert had seen a little sight a few days before that stuck in hismind. He had been passing along the road that led into the country, and had seen some way ahead of him a little child, a girl, with aheavy burden. She had put it down by the wood to rest, when John camesuddenly upon her from a lane, where he had been wandering, as hismanner was. The girl had seemed frightened, but Herbert, making hasteto join them--for he too had a great suspicion of the man--saw himspeak gently to her and lift up her burden, and walk on with her. Herbert followed afar off, but gained on the pair, and as he came upheard him speaking to her, and as Herbert thought, telling her asimple story about the birds and flowers. The child was listening halftimidly, when from a gate beside the road, which led to the farm towhich the child was bound, came out her mother, a tall good-humouredwoman, who snatched the burden out of the hands of John, and dusted itover with her apron, as though his touch had polluted it. Then shescolded the child and then fell to rating John with very cruel words. 

Herbert came up and from a distance saw John stand very meekly withbowed head; and presently he turned away when the angry womandeparted, and Herbert heard him sigh very heavily. He had then halfformed a purpose to speak with the man, but he trusted him little, andthe old story of his crime chased pity out of Herbert's mind. 

Now to-day the sight of the neglected house and wretched garden drewhis mind to the outcast; Herbert could not think how the man lived, and his heart smote him for not having tried to comfort him. 

So he turned aside and lifted the latch, and went up under an oldapple tree that hung over the path, and knocked at the door. Presentlyit was opened by John himself, who stood there, a wretched figure of aman, bowed with disease, and his face all ugly and scarred. Herbert, who loved things beautiful, was strangely touched with disgust at thesight of him, but he overcame it, and spoke gently to him, and askedif he might come in and rest awhile. 

The man, although he hardly seemed to understand, made way for him, and Herbert entered a room that he thought the meanest and ugliest hehad ever seen. The walls were green with mould, and the paved floorwas all sunken and cracked. There was no table, nothing but a bench bythe fireplace, on which lay coarse roots and the leaves of some bitterherb. 

Herbert went on talking quietly about the fine summer and the pleasantseason of the year, and sate down upon the bench. And then he had agreat surprise. All about the miserable man who stood before him shonethe clearest and purest radiance of light he had ever beheld about ahuman being, gushing in a pure fountain over his head and heart, untouched by the least spot of darkness. It came into Herbert's mindthat he had found a man who was very near to God; and so he put allother things aside, and saying that he was truly sorry that he had notsought him out before, asked him in gentle and loving words to tellhim all the old sad story. And there, sitting in the mean room, heheard the tale. 

John spoke slowly and haltingly, as one who had little use of speech;and the story was far different from what Herbert had believed. Thehoard was not that of John's mother, but John's own, which he hadentrusted to her. He had asked it of her for a purpose that seemedgood enough, to buy a little garden where he thought he could rearfruits and flowers; but she had had the money so long that sheconsidered it to be her own. In telling the story, John laid no blameupon her, but found much to say against himself, and he seemed boweddown with utter contrition that he had ever asked it of her. She hadstruck him, it seemed, and so his wrath had overmastered him, and hehad torn the money from her hands and gone out. Then she had fallensick, and died before his return, and after that no one had beenwilling to listen to him. Herbert had asked him what had become of themoney, and John told him, with a sort of shame, that he had thrust itinto the church-box--"I could not touch the price of blood, " he said. 

Then Herbert spoke very lovingly to him and tried to comfort him, butJohn said that he knew himself to be the most miserable of sinners, and that he could not be forgiven, and that he deserved his chastisingevery whit. And he told Herbert a tale of secret suffering and hungerand cold and weariness, such as had never fallen on Herbert's ears, but all without any thought of pity for himself--indeed, he said, Godwas very good to him; for He let him live, and even allowed him totake pleasure in the green trees, and the waving grass, and the voicesof birds. "And some day, " said John, "when I have suffered enough, Ithink the Father will forgive me, for I am sorry for my sin. "

The water stood in Herbert's eyes, but he found some words of comfort, and knelt and prayed with the outcast, telling him that indeed he wasforgiven. And he saw a look of joy strike like sunlight across thepoor face, when he said that he would not fail to visit him. And hefurther told him that he should come to the Parsonage next day, and hewould give him work to do; and then he shook his hand and departed, alittle gladder than he had been for a month. 

But on the next day he was bidden early to the cottage; John had beenfound sitting on the little bench outside his door, cold and dead, with a strange and upturned look almost as though he had seen theheaven opened. 

He was buried a few days after; none were found to stand at the gravebut Herbert, and the clerk who came unwillingly. 

Then, on the next Sunday, Herbert made a little sermon at Evensongand told them all the story of John's life, and his atonement. "Mybrothers and sisters, " he said very softly, making a pause, thesilence in the church being breathless below him, "here was a truesaint of God among us, and we knew it not. He sinned, though not sogrievously as we thought, he suffered grievously, and he took hissuffering as meekly as the little child of whom the dear Lord saidthat of such was the Kingdom. Dear friends, I tell you a truth from myheart; that in the day when we stand, if we are given to stand, beneath the Throne of God, this our poor brother will be nearer to theThrone than any of us, in robes of light, and very close to theFather's heart. May the Father forgive us all, and let us be pitifuland merciful, if by any means we may obtain mercy. "

That night, in a dream, it seemed as if some one came suddenly out ofa dark place like a grave, and stood before Herbert, exceedinglyglorious to behold. How the change had passed upon him Herbert couldnot tell, for it was John himself, the same, yet transformed into aspirit of purest light. And he smiled upon Herbert and said, "It iseven so, dear brother; and now am I comforted in glory--and now thatyou have seen the truth, the Father would have me visit you to tellyou that the trouble laid upon you is departed. Only be true andfaithful, and lead souls the nearest way. " And in a moment he wasgone, but seemed to leave a shining track upon the darkness. 

The next morning Herbert awoke with a strange stirring of the heart. He looked abroad from his window, and saw the dew upon the grass, andthe quiet trees awakening. And he could hardly contain himself forgladness. When he went to the church, he knew all at once that hissorrow had departed from him, and that he saw no deeper into the heartthan other men. The lights that had seemed to shine round others weregone, and his heart was full of love and pity again. 

His first visit was to the house of the old physician, who greetedhim very kindly; and Herbert with a kind of happy radiance told himthat the trouble was departed from him as suddenly as it came; "and, "he added, "dear friend, God has shown me marvellous things--I haveseen a soul in glory. " The old physician's eyes filled with tears andhe said, "This is very wonderful and gracious. "

The same day came a carriage from the Bishop to fetch Herbert, for theBishop desired to see him. He went in haste, and was amazed to seethat when the carriage came to the door of the Bishop's house, theBishop himself came out to receive him as though he had waited forhim. 

The Bishop greeted him very lovingly and took him into his room, andwhen the door was shut, he said, "Dear son, I sent you from me theother day in bitterness of heart; for you had spoken the truth to me, and I could not bear it; and now I ask your forgiveness; you found asit were the key to my spirit, and flung the door open; and God hasshown me that you were right, and that the most secret shrine of myheart, where the fire should burn clearest, was dark and bare. I gavenot God the glory, but laid violent hands upon it for myself; and now, if God will, all shall be changed, and I will do my work for God andnot for myself, and strive to be humble of heart, " and the Bishop'seyes were full of tears. And he held out his hand to Herbert, who tookit; and so they sate for a while. Then Herbert said, "Dear father, Iwill also tell you something. God has taken away from me the terriblegift; also He has shown me the sight of a human spirit, made perfectin suffering and patience; and I am very joyful thereat. " So they heldsweet converse together, and were very glad at heart. 

 THE SNAKE, THE LEPER, AND THE GREY FROST

In the heart of the Forest of Seale lay the little village ofBirnewood Fratrum, like a lark's nest in a meadow of tall grass. Itwas approached by green wood-ways, very miry in winter. The folk thatlived there were mostly woodmen. There was a little church, the stonesof which seemed to have borrowed the hue of the forest, and closebeside it a small timbered house, the Parsonage, with a garden ofherbs. Those who saw Birnewood in the summer, thought of it as a placewhere a weary man might rest for ever, in an ancient peace, with thefresh mossy smell of the wood blowing through it, and the dark coolbranching covert to muse in on every side. But it was a differentplace in winter, with ragged clouds rolling overhead and the bareboughs sighing in the desolate gales; though again in a frosty winterevening it would be fair enough, with the red sun sinking over milesof trees. 

From the village green a little track led into the forest, and, afurlong or two inside, ended in an open space thickly overgrown withelders, where stood the gaunt skeleton of a ruined tower staring withbare windows at the wayfarer. The story of the tower was sad enough. The last owner, Sir Ralph Birne, was on the wrong side in a rebellion, and died on the scaffold, his lands forfeited to the crown. The towerwas left desolate, and piece by piece the villagers carried away allthat was useful to them, leaving the shell of a house, though at thetime of which I speak the roof still held, and the floors, thoughrotting fast, still bore the weight of a foot. 

In the Parsonage lived an old priest, Father John, as he was called, and with him a boy who was held to be his nephew, Ralph by name, noweighteen years of age. The boy was very dear to Father John, who was awise and loving man. To many it might have seemed a dull life enough, but Ralph had known no other, having come to the Parsonage as a child. Of late indeed Ralph had begun to feel a strange desire grow and stirwithin him, to see what the world was like outside the forest; such adesire would come on him at early morning, in the fresh spring days, and he would watch some lonely traveller riding slowly to the southwith an envious look; though as like as not the wayfarer would beenvying the bright boy, with his background of quiet woods. But suchfancies only came and went, and he said nothing to the old priestabout them, who nevertheless had marked the change for himself withthe instinct of love, and would sometimes, as he sate with hisbreviary, follow the boy about with his eyes, in which the wish tokeep him strove with the knowledge that the bird must some day leavethe nest. 

One summer morning, the old priest shut his book, with the air of aman who has made up his mind in sadness, and asked Ralph to walk withhim. They went to the tower, and there, sitting in the ruins, FatherJohn told Ralph the story of the house, which he had often heardbefore. But now there was so tender and urgent a tone in the priest'svoice that Ralph heard him wonderingly; and at last the priest verysolemnly, after a silence, said that there was something in his mindthat must be told; and he went on to say that Ralph was indeed theheir of the tower; he was the grandson of Sir Ralph, who died upon thescaffold; his father had died abroad, dispossessed of his inheritance;and the priest said that in a few days he himself would set out on ajourney, too long deferred, to see a friend of his, a Canon of aneighbouring church, to learn if it were possible that some part ofthe lands might be restored to Ralph by the king's grace. For theyoung king that had newly come to the throne was said to be verymerciful and just, and punished not the sins of the fathers upon thechildren; but Father John said that he hardly dared to hope it; andthen he bound Ralph to silence; and then after a pause he added, taking one of the boy's hands in his own, "And it is time, dear son, that you should leave this quiet place and make a name for yourself;my days draw to an end; perhaps I have been wrong to keep you here tomyself, but I have striven to make you pure and simple, and if I wasin fault, why, it has been the fault of love. " And the boy threw hisarms round the priest's neck and kissed him, seeing that tearstrembled in his eyes, and said that he was more than content, and thathe should never leave his uncle and the peaceful forest that he loved. But the priest saw an unquiet look in his eye, as of a sleeperawakened, and knew the truth. 

A few days after, the priest rode away at sunrise; and Ralph was leftalone. In his head ran an old tale, which he had heard from thewoodmen, of a great treasure of price, which was hidden somewhere inthe tower. Then it came into his mind that there dwelt not far away inthe wood an ancient wise man who gave counsel to all who asked for it, and knew the virtues of plants, and the courses of buried springs, andmany hidden things beside. Ralph had never been to the house of thewise man, but he knew the direction where it lay; so with the secretin his heart, he made at once for the place. The day was very hot andstill, and no birds sang in the wood. Ralph walked swiftly along thesoft green road, and came at last upon a little grey house of plaster, with beams of timber, that stood in a clearing near a spring, with agarden of its own; a fragrant smell came from a sprawling bush of box, and the bees hummed busily over the flowers. There was no smoke fromthe chimney, and the single window that gave on the road, in a gable, looked at him like a dark eye. He went up the path, and stood beforethe door waiting, when a high thin voice, like an evening wind, calledfrom within, "Come in and fear not, thou that tarriest on thethreshold. " Ralph, with a strange stirring of the blood at the silversound of the voice, unlatched the door and entered. He found himselfin a low dark room, with a door opposite him; in the roof hung bundlesof herbs; there was a large oak table strewn with many things of dailyuse, and sitting in a chair, with his back to the light, sate a veryold thin man, with a frosty beard, clad in a loose grey gown. Over thefireplace hung a large rusty sword; the room was very clean and cool, and the sunlight danced on the ceiling, with the flicker of movingleaves. 

"Your name and errand?" said the old man, fixing his grey eyes, likeflint stones, upon the boy, not unkindly. "Ralph, " said the boy. "Ralph, " said the old man, "and why not add Birne to Ralph? that makesa fairer name. "

Ralph was so much bewildered at this strange greeting, that he stoodconfused--at which the old man pointed to a settle, and said, "Andnow, boy, sit down and speak with me; you are Ralph from BirnewoodParsonage, I know--Father John is doubtless away--he has no love forme, though I know him to be a true man. "

Then little by little he unravelled the boy's desire, and the storyof the treasure. Then he said, kindly enough, "Yes, it is everthus--well, lad, I will tell you; and heed my words well. The treasureis there; and you shall indeed find it; but prepare for strange soundsand sights. " And as he said this, he took the young hand in his ownfor a moment and a strange tide of sensation seemed to pass along theboy's veins. "Look in my face, " the old man went on, "that I may seethat you have faith--for without faith such quests are vain. " Ralphraised his eyes to those of the old man, and then a sensation such ashe had never felt before came over him; it was like looking from awindow into a wide place, full of darkness and wonder. 

Then the old man said solemnly, "Child, the time is come--I havewaited long for you, and the door is open. "

Then he said, with raised hand, "The journey is not long, but it mustbe done in a waking hour; sleep not on the journey; that first. And ofthree things beware--the Snake, and the Leper, and the Grey Frost; forthese three things have brought death to wiser men than yourself. There, " he added, "that is your note of the way; now make the journey, if you have the courage. "

"But, sir, " said Ralph in perplexity, "you say to me, make thejourney; and you tell me not whither to go. And you tell me to bewareof three things. How shall I know them to avoid them?"

"You will know them when you have seen them, " said the old man sadly, "and that is the most that men can know; and as for the journey, youcan start upon it wherever you are, if your heart is pure and strong. "

Then Ralph said, trembling, "Father, my heart is pure, I think; but Iknow not whether I am strong. "

Then the old man reached out his hand, and took up a staff that leantby the chair; and from a pocket in his gown he took a small metalthing shaped like a five-pointed star; and he said, "Ralph, here is astaff and a holy thing; and now set forth. " So Ralph rose, and tookthe staff and the star, and made a reverence, and murmured thanks; andthen he went to the door by which he had entered; but the old mansaid, "Nay, it is the other door, " and then he bent down his head uponhis arms like one who wept. 

Ralph went to the other door and opened it; he had thought it led intothe wood; but when he opened it, it was dark and cold without; andsuddenly with a shock of strange terror he saw that outside was aplace like a hill-top, with short strong grass, and clouds sweepingover it. He would have drawn back, but he was ashamed; so he steppedout and closed the door behind him; and then the house was gone in amoment like a dream, and he was alone on the hill, with the windwhistling in his ears. 

He waited for a moment in the clutch of a great fear; but he felt hewas alive and well, and little by little his fear disappeared and lefthim eager. He went a few steps forward, and saw that the hill slopeddownward, and downward he went, by steep slopes of turf and scatteredgrey stones. Presently the mist seemed to blow thinner, and through agap he saw a land spread out below him; and soon he came out of thecloud, and saw a lonely forest country, all unlike his own, for thetrees seemed a sort of pine, with red stems, very tall and sombre. Helooked round, and presently he saw that a little track below himseemed to lead downward into the pines, so he gained the track; andsoon he came down to the wood. 

There was no sign as yet of any habitation; he heard the crying ofbirds, and at one place he saw a number of crows that stood roundsomething white that lay upon the ground, and pecked at it; and heturned not aside, thinking, he knew not why, that there was some evilthing there. But he did not feel alone, and he had a thought whichdwelt with him that there were others bound upon the same quest ashimself, though he saw nothing of them. Once indeed he thought he sawa man walking swiftly, his face turned away, among the pines; but thetrees blotted him from his sight. Then he passed by a great open marshwith reeds and still pools of water, where he wished to rest; but hepushed on the faster, and suddenly, turning a corner, saw that thetrack led him straight to a large stone house, that stood solitary inthe wood. He knew in a moment that this was the end of his journey, and marvelled within himself at the ease of the quest; he wentstraight up to the house, which seemed all dark and silent, and smoteloudly and confidently on the door; some one stirred within, and itwas presently opened to him. He thought now that he would bequestioned, but the man who opened to him, a grave serving-man, made amotion with his hand, and he went up a flight of stone steps. 

As he went up, there came out from a door, as though to meet him withhonour, a tall and noble personage, very cheerful and comely, and witha courteous greeting took him into a large room richly furnished;Ralph began to tell his story, but the man made a quiet gesture withhis hand as though no explanation was needed, and went at once to apress, which he opened, and brought out from it a small coffer, whichseemed heavy, and opened it before him; Ralph could not see clearlywhat it contained, but he saw the sparkle of gold and what seemed likejewels. The man smiled at him, and as though in reply to a questionsaid, "Yes, this is what you came to seek; and you are well worthy ofit; and my lord"--he bowed as he spoke--"is glad to bestow his richesupon one who found the road so easy hither, and who came from sohonoured a friend. " Then he said very courteously that he wouldwillingly have entertained him, and shown him more of the treasures ofthe house; "but I know, " he added, "that your business requires hasteand you would be gone;" and so he conducted him very gently down tothe door again, and presently Ralph was standing outside with theprecious coffer under his arm, wondering if he were not in a dream;because he had found what he sought so soon, and with so littletrouble. 

The porter stood at the door, and said in a quiet voice, "The way isto the left, and through the wood. " Ralph thanked him, and the portersaid, "You know, young sir, of what you are to beware, for the foresthas an evil name?" And when Ralph replied that he knew, the portersaid that it was well to start betimes, because the way was somewhatlong. So Ralph went out along the road, and saw the porter standing atthe door for a long time, watching him, he thought, with a kind oftender gaze. 

Ralph took the road that led to the left, very light-hearted; it waspleasant under the pines, which had made a soft brown carpet ofneedles; and the scent of the pine-gum was sharp and sweet. He wentfor a mile or two thus, while the day darkened above him, and the windwhispered like a falling sea among the branches. At last he came toanother great marsh, but a path led down to it from the road, and inthe path were strange marks as though some heavy thing had beendragged along, with footprints on either side. Ralph went a few stepsdown the path, when suddenly an evil smell passed by him; he had beenthinking of a picture in one of Father John's books of a man fightingwith a dragon, and the brave horned creature, with its red mouth andwhite teeth, with ribbed wings and bright blue burnished mail, and atail armed with a sting, had seemed to him a curious and beautifulsight, that a man might well desire to see; the thought of danger washardly in his heart. 

Suddenly he heard below him in the reeds a great routing andsplashing; the rushes parted, and he saw a huge and ugly creature, with black oily sides and a red mane of bristles, raise itself up andregard him. Its sides dropped with mud, and its body was wrapped withclinging weeds. But it moved so heavily and slow, and drew itself outon to the bank with such pain, that Ralph saw that there was littledanger to one so fleet as himself, if he drew not near. The beastopened its great mouth, and Ralph saw a blue tongue and a pale throat;it regarded him hungrily with small evil eyes; but Ralph sprangbackwards, and laughed to see how lumberingly the brute trailed itselfalong. Its hot and fetid breath made a smoke in the still air;presently it desisted, and as though it desired the coolness, itwrithed back into the water again. And Ralph saw that it was only abeast that crept upon its prey by stealth, and that though if he hadslept, or bathed in the pool, it might have drawn him in to devourhim, yet that one who was wary and active need have no fear; so hewent on his way; and blew out great breaths to get the foul waterysmell of the monster out of his nostrils. 

Suddenly he began to feel weary; he did not know what time of day itwas in this strange country, where all was fresh like a dewy morning;he had not seen the sun, though the sky was clear, and he fell towondering where the light came from; as he wondered, he came to astone bench by the side of the road where he thought he would sit alittle; he would be all the fresher for a timely rest; he sate down, and as though to fill the place with a heavenly peace, he heard atonce doves hallooing in the thicket close at hand; while he satedrinking in the charm of the sound, there was a flutter of wings, anda dove alighted close to his feet; it walked about crooning softly, with its nodding neck flashing with delicate colours, and its pinkfeet running swiftly on the grass. He felt in his pocket and foundthere a piece of bread which he had taken with him in the morning andhad never thought of tasting; he crumbled it for the bird, who fell topicking it eagerly and gratefully, bowing its head as though incourteous acknowledgment. Ralph leant forwards to watch it, and theground swam before his weary eyes. He sate back for a moment, and thenhe would have slept, when he saw a small bright thing dart from acrevice of the stone seat on to his knee. He bent forward to look atit, and saw that it was a thing like a lizard, but without legs, of apowdered green, strangely bright. It nestled on his knee in a littlecoil and watched him with keen eyes. The trustfulness of these wildcreatures pleased him wonderfully. Suddenly, very far away and yetnear him, he heard the sound of a voice, like a man in prayer; itreminded him, he knew not why, of the Wise Man's voice, and he rose tohis feet ashamed of his drowsiness. The little lizard darted from hisleg and on to the ground, as though vexed to be disturbed, and he sawit close to his feet. The dove saw it too, and went to it as thoughinquiringly; the lizard showed no fear, but coiled itself up, and asthe dove came close, made a little dart at its breast, and the dovedrew back. Ralph was amused at the fearlessness of the little thing, but in a moment saw that something ailed the dove; it moved as thoughdizzy, and then spread its wings as if for flight, but dropped themagain and nestled down on the ground. In a moment its pretty head fellforwards and it lay motionless. Then with a shock of fear Ralph sawthat he had been nearly betrayed; that this was the Snake itself ofwhich he had been warned; he struck with his staff at the littlevenomous thing, which darted forward with a wicked hiss, and Ralphonly avoided it with a spring. Then without an instant's thought heturned and ran along the wood-path, chiding himself bitterly for hisfolly. He had nearly slept; he had only not been stung to death; andhe thought of how he would have lain, a stiffening figure, till thecrows gathered round him and pulled the flesh from his bones. 

After this the way became more toilsome; the track indeed was plainenough, but it was strewn with stones, and little thorny plants greweverywhere, which tripped his feet and sometimes pierced his skin; itgrew darker too, as though night were coming on. Presently he came toa clearing in the forest; on a slope to his right hand, he saw alittle hut of boughs, with a few poor garden herbs about it. A man wascrouched among them, as though he were digging; he was only somethirty paces away; Ralph stopped for a moment, and the man rose up andlooked at him. Ralph saw a strangely distorted face under a hairlessbrow. There were holes where the eyes should have been, and in thesethe eyes were so deeply sunk that they looked but like pits of shade. Presently the other began to move towards him, waving a largemisshapen hand which gleamed with a kind of scurfy whiteness; and hecried out unintelligible words, which seemed half angry, half piteous. Ralph knew that the Leper was before him, and though he loathed to flybefore so miserable a wretch, he turned and hurried on into theforest; the creature screamed the louder, and it seemed as though hewere asking an alms, but he hobbled so slowly on his thick legs, foully bandaged with rags, that Ralph soon distanced him, and he heardthe wretch stop and fall to cursing. This sad and fearful encountermade Ralph sick at heart; but he strove to thank God for anotherdanger escaped, and hastened on. 

Gradually he became aware by various signs that he was approachingsome inhabited place; all at once he came upon a fair house in a pieceof open ground, that looked to him at first so like the house of thetreasure, that he thought he had come back to it. But when he lookedmore closely upon it, he saw that it was not the same; it was somewhatmore meanly built, and had not the grave and solid air that the otherhad; presently he heard a sound of music, like a concert of lutes andtrumpets, which came from the house, and when it ceased there wasclapping of hands. 

While he doubted whether to draw near, he saw that the door wasopened, and a man, richly dressed and of noble appearance, came outupon the space in front of the house. He looked about him with a graveand serene air, like a prince awaiting guests. And his eyes fallingupon Ralph, he beckoned him to draw near. Ralph at first hesitated. But it seemed to him an unkindly thing to turn his back upon thisgallant gentleman who stood there smiling; so he drew near. And thenthe other asked him whither he was bound. Ralph hardly knew what toreply to this, but the gentleman awaited not his answer, but said thatthis was a day of festival, and all were welcome, and he would havehim come in and abide with them. Ralph excused himself, but thegentleman smiled and said, "I know, sir, that you are bound upon ajourney, as many are that pass this way; but you carry no burden withyou, as is the wont of others. " And then Ralph, with a start ofsurprise and anguish, remembered that he had left his coffer on theseat where he had seen the Snake. He explained his loss to thegentleman, who laughed and said that this was easily mended, for hewould send himself a servant to fetch it. And then he asked whether hehad been in any peril, and when Ralph told him, he nodded his headgravely, and said it was a great danger escaped. And then Ralph toldhim of the Leper, at which the gentleman grew grave, and said that itwas well he had not stopped to speak with him, for the contagion ofthat leprosy was sore and sudden. And then he added, "But while I sendto recover your coffer, you will enter and sit with us; you lookweary, and you shall eat of our meat, for it is good meat thatstrengtheneth; but wine, " he said, "I will not offer you, though Ihave it here in abundance, for it weakeneth the knees of those thatwalk on a journey; but you shall delight your heart with music, suchas the angels love, and set forth upon your way rejoicing; for indeedit is not late. "

And so Ralph was persuaded, and they drew near to the door. Then thegentleman stood aside to let Ralph enter; and Ralph saw within a hallwith people feasting, and minstrels in a gallery; but just as he setfoot upon the threshold he turned; for it seemed that he was pluckedby a hand; and he saw the gentleman, with the smile all faded from hisface, and his robe had shifted from his side; and Ralph saw that hisside was swollen and bandaged, and then his eye fell upon thegentleman's knee, which was bare, and it was all scurfed and scarred. And he knew that he was in the hands of the Leper himself. 

He drew back with a shudder, but the gentleman gathered his robe abouthim, and said with a sudden sternness, "Nay, it were discourteous todraw back now; and indeed I will compel you to come in. " Then Ralphknew that he was betrayed; but he bethought him of the little starthat he carried with him, and he took it out and held it before him, and said, "Here is a token that I may not halt. " And at that thegentleman's face became evil, and he gnashed with his teeth, and movedtowards him, as though to seize him. But Ralph saw that he feared thestar. So he went backwards holding it forth; and as the Leper pressedupon him, he touched him with the star; and at that the Leper criedaloud, and ran within the house; and there came forth a waft ofdoleful music like a dirge for the dead. 

Then Ralph went into the wood and stood there awhile in dreadfulthought; but it came into his mind that there could be no turningback, and that he must leave his precious coffer behind, "andperhaps, " he thought, "the Wise Man will let me adventure again. " Sohe went on with a sad and sober heart, but he thanked God as he wentfor another danger hardly escaped. 

And it grew darker now; so dark that he often turned aside among thetrees; till at last he came out on the edge of the forest, and knewthat he was near the end. In front of him rose a wide hillside, thetop of which was among the clouds; and he could see the track faintlyglimmering upwards through the grass; the forest lay like a black wallbehind him, and he was now deathly weary of his journey, and could butpush one foot before the other. 

But for all his weariness he felt that it grew colder as he wenthigher; he gathered his cloak around him, but the cold began to piercehis veins; so that he knew that he was coming to the Grey Frost, andhow to escape from it he knew not. The grass grew crisp with frost, and the tall thistles that grew there snapped as he touched them. Bythe track there rose in several places tall tussocks of grass, andhappening to pass close by one of these, he saw something gleam whiteamid the grass; so he looked closer upon it, and then his heart grewcold within him, for he saw that the grass grew thick out of the bonesof a skeleton, through the white ribs and out of the sightless eyes. And he saw that each of the tussocks marked the grave of a man. 

Then he came higher still, and the ground felt like iron below hisfeet; and over him came a dreadful drowsiness, till his only thoughtwas to lie down and sleep; his breath came out like a white cloud andhung round him, and yet he saw the hill rising in front. Then hemarked something lie beside the track; and he saw that it was a mandown upon his face, wrapped in a cloak. He tried to lift him up, butthe body seemed stiff and cold, and the face was frozen to the ground;and when he raised it the dirt was all hard upon the face. So he leftit lying and went on. At last he could go no farther; all was grey andstill round him, covered with a bleak hoar-frost. To left and right hesaw figures lying, grey and frozen, so that the place was like abattlefield; and still the mountain towered up pitilessly in front; hesank upon his knees and tried to think, but his brain was allbenumbed. Then he put his face to the ground, and his breath made akind of warmth about him, while the cold ate into his limbs; but as helay he heard a groan, and looking up he saw a figure that lay close tothe track rise upon its knees and sink down again. 

So Ralph struggled again to his feet with the thought that if he mustdie he would like to die near another man; and he came up to thefigure; and he saw that it was a boy, younger than himself, wrapped ina cloak. His hat had fallen off, and he could see his curls allfrosted over a cheek that was smooth and blue with cold. By his sidelay a little coffer and a staff, like his own. And Ralph, speakingwith difficulty through frozen lips, said, "And what do you here? Youare too young to be here. " The other turned his face upon him, alldrawn with anguish, and said, "Help me, help me; I have lost my way. "And Ralph sate down beside him and gathered the boy's body into hisarms; and it seemed as though the warmth revived him, for the boylooked gratefully at him and said, "So I am not alone in this dreadfulplace. "

Then Ralph said to him that there was no time to be lost, and thatthey were near their end. "But it seems to me, " he added, "that alittle farther up the grass looks greener, as if the cold were not sobitter there; let us try to help each other a few paces farther, if wemay avoid death for a little. " So they rose slowly and painfully, andnow Ralph would lead the boy a step or two on; and then he would leanupon the boy, who seemed to grow stronger, for a pace or two; tillsuddenly it came into Ralph's mind that the cold was certainly less;and so like two dying men they struggled on, step by step, until theground grew softer under their feet and the grass darker, and then, looking round, Ralph could see the circle of the Grey Frost belowthem, all white and hoary in the uncertain light. 

Presently they struggled out on to a ridge of the long hill; and herethey rested on their staves, and talked for a moment like old friends;and the boy showed Ralph his coffer, and said, "But you have none?"And Ralph shook his head and said, "Nay, I left it on the seat of theSnake. " And then Ralph asked him of the Leper's house, and the boytold him that he had seen it indeed, but had feared and made a circuitin the wood, and that he had there seen a fearful sight; for at theback of the Leper's house was a cage, like a kennel of hounds, and init sate a score of wretched men with their eyes upon the ground, whohad wandered from the way; and that he had heard a barking of dogs, and men had come out from the house, but that he had fled through thewoods. 

While they thus talked together, Ralph saw that hard by them was arock, and in the rock a hole like a cave; so he said to the boy, "Letus stand awhile out of the wind; and then will we set out again. " Sothe boy consented; and they came to the cave; but Ralph wonderedexceedingly to see a door set in the rock-face; and he put out hishand and pulled the door; and it opened; and a voice from withincalled him by name. 

Then in a moment Ralph saw that he was in the house of the Wise Man, who sate in his chair, regarding him with a smile, like a fatherwelcoming a son. All seemed the same; and it was very grateful toRalph to see the sun warm on the ceiling, and to smell the honeyed airthat came in from the garden. 

Then he went forward, and fell on his knees and laid the staff and thestar down, and would have told the Wise Man his tale; but the Wise Mansaid, "Went not my heart with thee, my son?"

Then Ralph told him how he had left his treasure, expecting to bechidden. But the Wise Man said, "Heed it not, for thou hast a bettertreasure in thy heart. "

Then Ralph remembered that he had left his companion outside, andasked if he might bring him in; but the Wise Man said, "Nay, he hasentered by another way. " And presently he bade Ralph return home inpeace, and blessed him in a form of words which Ralph could notafterwards remember, but it sounded very sweet. And Ralph askedwhether he might come again, but the Wise Man said, "Nay, my son. "

Then Ralph went home in wonder; and though the journey had seemed verylong, he found that it was still morning in Birnewood. 

Then he returned to the Parsonage; and the next day Father Johnreturned, and told him that the lands would be restored to him; and asthey talked, Father John said, "My son, what new thing has come toyou? for there is a light in your eye that was not lit before. " ButRalph could not tell him. 

So Ralph became a great knight, and did worthily; and in his hallthere hang three pictures in one frame; to the left is a little greensnake on a stone bench; to the right a leprous man richly clad; and inthe centre a grey mist, with a figure down on its face. And some folkask Ralph to explain the picture, and he smiles and says it is avision; but others look at the picture in a strange wonder, and thenlook in Ralph's face, and he knows that they understand, and that theytoo have been to the Country of Dreams. 

 BROTHER ROBERT

The castle of Tremontes stands in a wood of oaks, a little way offthe high-road; it takes its name from the three mounds that rise inthe castle yard, covered now with turf and daisies, but piled togetherwithin of stones, which cover, so the legend says, the bodies of threeDanish knights killed in a skirmish long ago; the river that runs inthe creek beside the castle is joined to the sea but a little below, and the tide comes up to Tremontes; when the sea is out, there arebare and evil-smelling mudbanks, with a trickle of brackish water inthe midst. But at the time of which I write, the channel was deeper, and little ships with brown sails could be seen running before thewind among the meadows, to discharge their cargoes at the water-gateof the castle. It was a strong place with its leaded roofs and itstower of squared stone, very white and smooth. There was a moat allround the wall, full of water-lilies, where the golden carp could beseen basking on hot days; there was a barbican with a drawbridge, thechains of which rattled and groaned when the bridge was drawn up atsunset, and let down at sunrise; the byre came up to the castle wallson one side; on the other was a paved walk or terrace, and below, alittle garden of herbs and sweet flowers; within, was a hall on theground floor, with a kitchen and buttery; above that, a little chapeland a solar; above that again, a bower and some few bedrooms, and atthe top, under the leads, a granary, to which the sacks used to bedrawn up by a chain, swung from a projecting penthouse on the top. From the castle leads you could see the wide green flat, with darkpatches of woodland, with lines of willows marking the streams; hereand there a church tower rose from the trees; to the east a line ofwolds, and to the south a glint of sea from the estuary. 

Inside, the castle was a sad place enough, dreary and neglected. Marmaduke, the Lord of Tremontes, had been a great soldier in histime, but he had received a grievous wound in the head, and had beencarried to Tremontes to die, and yet lingered on; his wife had longbeen dead, and he had but one son, a boy of ten years old, Robert byname, who was brought up roughly and evilly enough; he played with thevillage boys, he lived with the half-dozen greedy and idle men-at-armswho loitered in the castle, grumbling at their lack of employment, andkilling the time with drinking and foolish games and gross talk. Therewas an old chaplain in the house, a lazy and gluttonous priest, whoknew enough of his trade to mumble his mass, and no more; women therewere none, except an old waiting-woman, a silent faithful soul, wholoved the boy and petted him, and mourned in secret over his miserableupbringing, but who, having no store of words to tell her thoughts, could only be dumbly kind to him, and careful of his childish hurtsand ailments; the boy ate and drank with the men, and aped theirswaggering and blasphemous ways, which made them laugh and praise hiscunning. The Lord Marmaduke had been nursed back into a sort of poorlife, and sate all day in a fur gown in the solar, with a velvet capon his head to hide his wound, which broke out afresh in the month ofMay, when he had been wounded; when he was in ill case, he sate silentand frowning, beating his hands on the table; when he was well hemuttered to himself, and laughed at Heaven knows what cheerfulthoughts, and would sing in a broken voice, fifty times on end, averse of a foul song; and he would suddenly smite those that tendedhim, and laugh; sometimes he would wander into the chapel, and kneelpeeping through his fingers; and sometimes he would go and stroke hisarmour, which lay where he had put it off, and cry. The only thing hecared for was to have his keys beside him, and he would tell them oneby one, and curse if he could not tell them right. And so the daysdragged slowly by. He cared nothing for his son, who never entered thesolar except for his own ends. And one of these was to steal away hisfather's keys, and to unlock every door in the castle; for he wasinquisitive and bold; he knew the use of all the keys but one; thiswas a small strong key, with a head like a quatrefoil; and though hetried to fit it to every cupboard and door in the house, he couldnever find its place. 

But one day when his father was ill and lay abed, staring at theflies on the ceiling, the boy came to the solar, and slipped in behindthe dusty arras that hung round the room, making believe that he was arabbit in its burrow; he went round with his face to the wall, feelingwith his hands; and when he came to the corner of the room, the wallwas colder to his touch, like iron; and feeling at the place, heseemed to discover hinges and a door. So he dived beneath the arras, and then lifted it up; and he saw that in the wall was a small irondoor like a cupboard. Something in his heart held him back, but beforehe had time to listen to it he had opened the little door, for thekeys lay on the table to his hand; and he was peering into a smalldark recess of stone, which seemed, for the wail that the little doormade on its hinges, not to have been opened for many years. 

In the cupboard, which had no shelves, lay some dark objects. 

The boy took out the largest, looping the arras up over the littledoor; it was a rudely made spiked crown or coronet of iron, with odddevices chased upon it; the boy replaced it and drew out the next;this was a rusted iron dagger with torn leather on the hilt. The boydid not care for this--there were many better in the castle armoury. There seemed to be nothing else in the cupboard. But feeling with hishand in the dark corners, he drew out a stone about the size of ahen's egg. This he thought he would take, so he locked the cupboard, let the arras fall, and stood awhile to consider. On the arrasopposite him, over the door, was the figure of a man embroidered ingreen tunic and leggings with a hat drawn over his face and with afinger laid on his lip, as though he had cause to be silent, or towish others so. The man had a forked beard and a kind of secret smile, as if he mocked the onlooker; and he seemed unpleasantly natural tothe boy, as though he divined his thought. He was half minded to putthe stone back; but the secrecy of the thing pleased him. Moreover ashe held the stone to the light, it seemed half transparent, and sentout a dull red gleam. 

So the boy put the stone in his pouch, and soon loved it exceedingly, and desired to keep it with him. He often thrust it in secret placesinside and outside the castle, in holes in a hollow elder tree, orchinks of the wall, and it pleased him when he lay in bed on windyrainy nights, to think of the stone lying snug and warm in its smallhouse. Soon he began to attribute a kind of virtue to the thing; hethought that events went better when he had it with him; and he namedit in his mind _The Wound_, because it seemed to him like the red andjewelled wound in the side of the figure of Our Saviour that hung incoloured glass over the chapel altar. 

One day he had a terrible shock; he was lying on the terrace, spinning the stone, and watching the little whirling gleams of redlight it made on the flags, when a man-at-arms stole upon him, and inwantonness seized the stone, and flung it far into the moat, where itfell with a splash. The boy was angry and smote the man upon the facewith all his might, and was sorely beaten for it--for they had norespect for the heir, and indeed there was no one to whom he couldcomplain--but he held his peace; and a week after the stone wasrestored to him in a way that seemed miraculous; for they ran thewater of the moat off, to mend the sluice, so that the water-liliessank in tangles to the bottom and the carp flapped in the mud; but theboy found the stone lying on the pavement of the sluice. 

But the fancy for the stone soon came to an end, as a boy's fancieswill; and he carried it with him, or put it into one of hishiding-places and thought no more of _The Wound_. 

Suddenly the peaceful, idle and evil life came to a close. One day hehad heard the tinkle of the sacring bell in the chapel, and hadslipped in and found the priest at mass--the boy had a curious lovefor the mass; he liked to see the quaint movements of the priest inhis embroidered robe, and a sort of peace settled upon his spirit--andthis day he knelt near the screen and sniffed the incense, when heheard a sound behind him, and turning, saw a man booted and cloaked asthough from a journey, standing in the door with a paper in his hand, beckoning him. Even as he rose and went out, it came into his mindthat this was in some way a summons for him; the letter was from hismother's brother, the Lord Ralph of Parbury, a noble knight; he hadbeen long away fighting in many wars, but on his return heard tell ofthe illness of Marmaduke, and wrote to bid him send his son to him, and he would train him for a soldier. They had great ado to read theletter, and there was much putting of heads together over it; but themessenger knew the purport, and the boy made up his mind to go, for hefelt, he had said to himself, like one of the silly and lazy carpsweltering in the castle moat; so he dressed himself in his best andwent. The men-at-arms were sorry to see their playmate go, though theyhad done him little but evil; and the old priest, half in tears, brought a small book and gave it to the boy; the old nurse clung tohim and cried bitterly; but the boy felt nothing but a kind of shameat the thought how glad he was to go; indeed he would hardly have goneto wish farewell to his father, who was in one of his fits, and laymuttering on his bed; but the boy went, and, the door being ajar, helooked in and saw him, pale and fat, gibbering at his fingers, andalmost hated him. And so he mounted and rode away, on a hot stillsummer afternoon, and was glad to see the castle tower sink down amongthe oaks, as they rode by green tracks and open heaths, little bylittle into the unknown land to the south. 

The years flew fast away with the Lord Ralph; and Robert learnt to bea noble knight. It was hard at first to change from the old sluggishlife, when he had none but himself to please; but something caughtfire within Robert's soul, and he submitted willingly and eagerly tothe discipline of Parbury, which was severe. He grew up strong andstraight and fearless, and worthy of fame, so that Ralph was proud ofhis nephew; two things alone made him anxious; Robert was, he thought, too desirous of praise, too much bent upon excelling others, thoughRalph tried to make him learn that it is the doing of noble things ina noble way, for the love of the deed done, and for the honour of it, that makes a worthy knight--and not the desire to be held worthy. Moreover, Robert had but little chivalry or tenderness of spirit; hewas not cruel, for he disdained it; but he was hard, and despisedweakness and grace; cared not for child, or even horse or hound, andheld the love of women in contempt, saying that a soldier should haveno time to marry until he was old and spent; and that then it was toolate. It even made Ralph sorry that Robert had no love for Tremontesor for his father, or for any of those whom he had left behind; for aknight's face, said Ralph, should be set forward in gladness, but heshould look backward in love and recollection. But Robert understoodnothing of such talk; or cared not; and indeed there was little toblame in him; for he was courteous and easy in peace; and he wasstrong and valiant and joyful in war. He made no friend, but he wasadmired by many and feared by some. 

Then, when Robert was within a few days of twenty-five, came amessenger, an old and gross man-at-arms with rusty armour, riding on abroken horse; he was one of the merry comrades of Robert's childhood;but Robert seemed hardly to know him, though he acknowledged hisgreeting courteously, and stayed not to talk, but opened the letter hehad brought, and read gravely; and when he had read he said to themessenger, "So my lord is dead. " And the messenger would have babbledabout the end that the Lord Marmaduke had made, which indeed had beena bitter one, but Robert cut him short, and asked him a plain questionor two about affairs, and frowned at his stumbling answers; and thenRobert went to his uncle, and after due obeisance said, "Sir, myfather, it seems, is dead, and with your leave I must ride toTremontes and take my inheritance. " And the Lord Ralph, seeing no signof sorrow, said, "Your father was a great knight. " "Ay, once, " saidRobert, "doubtless, but as I knew him more tree than man. " Andpresently he took horse and rode all night to Tremontes; and when theold man-at-arms would have ridden beside him, and reminded him with apoor smile of some passages of his childhood, Robert said sourly, "Man, I hate my childhood, and will hear no word of it; and you andyour fellow-knaves treated me ill; and your kindness was worse thanyour anger. Ride behind me. "

So they rode sadly enough, until at evening, with a great red sunsetglowing in the west, and smouldering behind the tree-trunks, he sawthe dark tower of Tremontes looking solemnly out above the oaks. Thenthe man-at-arms asked humbly that he might ride forward and announcethe new lord's coming; but Robert forbade him, and rode alone into thecourt. 

He gave his horse to the man-at-arms and walked into the house; inthe hall he found a drunken company and much ugly mirth. He surveyedthe scene awhile in disgust, for they cried out at first for him tojoin them, till it came upon them who it was that looked upon them; sothey stumbled to their feet and did him obeisance, and slunk out oneby one upon some pretence of business, leaving him alone with the oldpriest, who was heavier and grosser than before. But he had his witsas well as he ever had, and would have told Robert how his father hadmade a blessed end, with holy oil and sacraments and all due comfortof Mother Church, but Robert cut him short; and after a lonely meal inthe great hall, turned to look at such few parchments that there werein the house, and sent for the steward to see how his inheritancestood. It was a miserable tale he had to tell of neglect andthriftlessness; and Robert said very soon that he could only hope tosave his estate by living poorly and giving diligence--and that he hadno mind to do; so he resolved that if he could find a purchaser, hewould sell the home of his fathers, and himself set out into the worldhe loved, to carve out a fortune, if he might, with his sword. 

Among the parchments was one that was closely sealed; it bore a datebefore his birth; he read it at first listlessly enough, but presentlyhe caught sight of words that made his heart beat faster. It seemedfrom the script that his father, as a young man, had served for awhilewith a great Duke of Spain, the prince of a little kingdom, and thathe had even saved his life in battle, and would have been promoted tohigh honour, but that he had been recalled home to take hisinheritance; but the Duke, so said the writing, had given him the ironcrown and dagger that the Lord of the Marches wore, and with them thegreat ruby of the dukedom, that was worth a king's ransom. And theparchment said that it was pledged by the Duke, by all the most sacredrelics of Spain, bones of saints and wood of the True Cross, thatshould he or any of his heirs come before the Duke with these tokens, the Duke would promote him to chief honour. 

Here then was the secret of the iron door and his father's constantfingering of the keys; and this was the plaything of his youth, _TheWound_, as he had called it. Robert bowed his head upon his hands andtried to recollect where he had thrust it last; but though he thoughtof a score of hiding-places where it might be, he could not rememberwhere it certainly lay. Could he have thrown away by his childishfolly a thing which would give him, if he cared to claim it, highhonour and great place?--and if he cared not to claim that boon, butonly sold the jewel, which was undoubtedly his own, he might be agreat lord, among the wealthiest in the land. 

Robert sate long in thought in the silent solar, with a candle burningbeside him; once or twice his old nurse came in upon him, and longedto kiss him and clasp her child close; but he looked coldly upon herand seemed hardly to remember her. 

At last the day began to brighten in the east; and Robert casthimself for awhile upon his father's bed to sleep, and slept a brokensleep. In the morning he first went to the cupboard and found thecrown and dagger as he had left them; but though he searched high andlow for the jewel, he could not find it in any of the secret placeswhere he used to lay it; and at last he took the crown and dagger indespair, turned adrift the men-at-arms, and left none but the oldnurse in the house. The priest asked for some gift or pension thatwould not leave him destitute, but Robert said, "Go to, you have livedin gluttony and sloth all the years at the expense of my estate; andnow that you have nearly beggared me, you ask for more--you are nearyour end; live cleanly and wisely for a few years, ere you depart toyour own place. "

"Nay, " said the priest whimpering, and with a miserable smile, "but Iam old, and it is hard to change. "

"So said the carp, " quoth Robert with a hard smile, "when they dangledhim up with a line out of the moat. Change and adventure are meet forall men. And I look that I do a good deed, when I restore a recreantshepherd to the fold. " The priest went off, crying unworthy tears andcursing the new lord, to try and find a priest's office if he could;and Robert rode grimly away, back to his uncle, and told him all thetale. 

His uncle sate long in thought, and then said that his resolve to sellthe castle of Tremontes and the estate was, he believed, a wise one;and it should be his care to find a purchaser. "I myself, " he said, "have none nearer than yourself to whom to leave my lands;" and thenhe advised Robert, if he would try his fortune, to take the crown anddagger, and to seek out the Duke or his heir, and to tell him thewhole story, and how the precious jewel was lost. 

So Robert rode away to London; and his uncle was sad to see him go sostonily and sullenly, with a mind so bent upon himself, and, itseemed, without love for a living thing; and as Robert rode hepondered; and it seemed to him a useless quest, because he thoughtthat the giving back of the jewel was part of the terms, and that theDuke would not promote a man who brought him nothing but a memory ofold deeds; and moreover, he thought that the Duke would not believethe story, but would think that he had the jewel safe at home, andwished to gain fortune in Spain, and keep the wealth as well. And ashe rode into London, it seemed to him as though some wise power put itinto his heart what he should do; for he rode by the sign of a makerof rich glass for church windows; and at once a thought darted intohis mind; and going in, he sought out the master of the shop, and toldhim that he had lost a jewel from a crown, a jewel of price, and thathe was ashamed that the crown should lack it; and he asked if he couldmake him a jewel of glass to set in its place; and he described thejewel, how large it was and how dull outside, and its fiery heart; andthe craftsman smiled shrewdly and foxily, and told him to return onthe third day, and he should have his will. On the third day he cameagain; and the craftsman, opening a box, took from it a jewel so like_The Wound_, that he thought for a moment that he must have recoveredit; so he paid a mighty price for it, and set off light-hearted forSpain. 

After weary wandering, and many strange adventures by sea and land, he rode one day to the Duke's palace gate. It was a great bare houseof stone, within a wall, at the end of a little town. It was farlarger and greater than he had dreamed; he was stayed at the gate, forhe knew as yet but a few words of the language; but he had written ona parchment who he was, and that he desired to see the Duke. Andpresently there came out a seneschal in haste, and he was led withinhonourably, and soon he was had into a small room, richly furnished. He was left alone, and the seneschal showed him through which door theDuke would come. 

Presently a door opened, and there came in an old shrunken man, in afurred gown, very stately and noble, holding the paper in his hand. Robert did obeisance, but the Duke raised him, and spoke courteouslyto him in the English tongue, and desired to see his tokens. 

Then Robert brought forth the crown and the dagger and the jewel, andthe Duke looked at them in silence for awhile, shading his eyes. Andthen he praised the Lord Marmaduke very nobly, saying that he owed hislife to him. And then he told Robert that he would be true to hisword, and promote him to honour; but he said that first he must abidewith him many days, and go in and out with his knights, and learn theSpanish tongue and the Spanish way of life; so Robert abode with himin great content, and was treated with honour by all, but especiallyby the Duke, who often sent for him and spoke much of former days. 

Then at last there came a day when the Duke sent for him and in thepresence of all his lords told them the story and passed the crown andthe dagger and the jewel from hand to hand; and the lords eyed thestone curiously and handled it tenderly; and then the Duke said thatthe knight who could, for the sake of honour, restore a jewel thatcould buy a county--there was not the like of it in the world, save inthe Emperor's crown--was a true knight indeed; and therefore he madeRobert Lord of the Marches, put the crown on his head, and a purplerobe with a cape of miniver on his shoulders, and commanded that heshould be used by all as if of royal birth. 

The greatness of his reward was a surprise to Robert, and he had it inhis heart to tell the Duke the truth. But the lords passed before himand did obeisance, and he put the good hour aside. 

Very soon Robert set out for the Castle of the Marches; and he foundit a marvellous house, fit for a king, with wide lands. And there heabode for several years, and did worthily; for he was an excellentknight, and a prudent general; moreover he was just and kind; and thepeople feared and obeyed his rule, and lived in peace, though noneloved Robert; but he made the land prosperous and great, and clearedit of robbers, and raised a mighty revenue for the Duke, who praisedhim and made him great presents. 

One day he heard that the Duke was ill; the next a courier came inhaste to summon him to the Duke's presence; he wondered at this; butwent with a great retinue. He found the Duke feeble and bent, but witha bright eye; he kissed Robert, like a brother prince, and as theysate alone he opened his heart to him and told him that he had doneworthily; he had none of his kin, or none fit to hold his dukedomafter him; but that all he desired was that his people should be wellruled, and that he had determined that Robert should succeed him. "There will be envious and grasping hands, " he said, "held out--butyou are strong and wise, and the people will be content to be ruled byyou, " and then he showed him a paper that made him a prince in title, and that gave him the Dukedom on his own death. 

Now there lived in the Duke's house a wise and learned man namedPaul, an alchemist, who knew the courses of the stars and the virtuesof plants, and many other secret things; and the Duke delighted muchin his conversation, which was ingenious and learned. But Robert heardhim vacantly, thinking that such studies were fit only for children. And Paul being old and gentle, loved not Robert, but held that theDuke trusted him overmuch. And one night, when Robert and other lordswere sitting with the Duke, Paul being present, the talk turned on thevirtues of gems; and Paul, as if making an effort that he had longprepared for, told the Duke of a curious liquor, an _aqua fortis_, that he had distilled, which was a marvellous thing to test the worthof gems, and would tell the true from the false; and the Duke bade himbring the liquor and show him how the spirit worked. And it seemed toRobert that, as Paul spoke, a shadowy hand came from the darkness andclutched at his heart, enveloping him in blackness, so that he sate ina cold dream. And Paul went out, and presently returned bringing asmall phial of gold--for the liquor, he said, would eat its waythrough any baser metal--and in the other hand a little dish of gems. Some of them, he said, were true gems, others of them less precious, and others naught but sparkling glass; and he poured a drop on each;the true gems sparkled unhurt in the clear liquid, the less preciousthrew off little flakes of impurity, and the glass hissed and meltedin the potent venom. And Robert, contrary to his wont, came and stood, sick at heart, feeling the old man's eyes fixed on him with a steadygaze. At last Paul said, "The Prince Robert"--for the Duke had toldthe lords of the honour he had given him--"seems to wonder more thanhis wont at these simple toys and tricks; shall not the Duke let ustest the great ruby, that its worth may be the better proven? perhapstoo it has some small impurity to be purged away, and will shine morebravely, like a noble heart under affliction. " And the Duke said, "Yes, let the ruby be brought. "

So the lord that had the charge of the Duke's jewels brought a casket, and there in its place lay the great ruby, red as blood. And Robertwould have spoken, but the words died upon his tongue, and he saw theshadow of the end. 

Then Paul took the ruby and laid it on his dish; and as he raised thephial to pour, he looked at Robert, and said "But perhaps it is shameto treat so great a gem so discourteously?" And the Duke being old andcurious said, "Nay, but pour. " But then, as Paul raised the phial, theDuke lifted his hand, and said very pleasantly, "Yet after all, I holdnot the jewel my own, but the Lord Robert's, who hath so faithfullyrestored it to me. What will you, my lord?" he said, turning with asmile to Robert. And Robert, looking and smiling very stonily, said, in a voice that he could scarcely command, "Pour, sir, pour!" So Paulpoured the liquor. 

The great ruby flashed for a moment, and then a thin white steamfloated up, while the gem rose in a blood-stained foam, hissing andbubbling. Then there was a silence; and then Robert put his hand tohis heart and stood still; the Duke looked at him, and Paul said inhis ear, "Now, Lord Robert, play the man!--I knew the secret. "

Then Robert rising from his place said that he would ask the Duke'sleave to speak to him in private on this matter, and the Duke, coldlybut courteously, led the way into an inner room, and there Robert toldhim all the story. Perhaps a younger man might have been more ready toforgive; but the Duke was old; and when Robert had done the story, hesate looking so aged and broken, that a kind of pity came intoRobert's mind, and crushed the pity he felt for himself. But at lastthe Duke spoke. "You have deceived me, " he said, "and I do not knowthat I can even think that your story is true; you can serve me nolonger, for you have done unworthily. " And with that he tore theparchment across, and dropped it on the ground, and then made agesture of dismissal; and Robert rose, hoping that the Duke would yetrelent, and said at last, "May I hope that your Grace can say that youforgive me? I do not ask to be restored--but in all other things Ihave served you well. " "No, my Lord Robert, " said the Duke at lastcoldly and severely, "I cannot forgive; for I have trusted one who hasdeceived me. "

So Robert went slowly out of the room through the hall; and no manspoke to him and he spoke to none. Only Paul came to join him, andlooked at him awhile, and then said, "Lord Robert, I have been themeans of inflicting a heavy blow upon you; but it was not I whostruck, but God, to whom I think you give no allegiance. " And Robertsaid, "Nay, Sir Paul, trouble not yourself; you have done as afaithful servant of the Duke should do to a faithless servant; I bearyou no malice; as you say, it is not you who strike. "

Then the old man said, "Believe me, Lord Robert, that the day willcome, and I think it is not far distant, when you will be grateful tothe stroke which, at the cost of grievous pain to yourself, hasrevealed your soul to yourself. All men know the worst that can beknown of you; the cup is emptied to the dregs; it is for you to fillit. " Then he put out his hand, and Robert grasped it, and went outinto the world alone. That night he sent a courier to his castle tosay that he would return no more, and that all things were the Duke's;and he sent back to the Duke, by a private messenger, the crown andthe dagger; and the Duke mourned over the loss of his trusty servant, but could not forgive him nor hear him spoken of. 

Robert only kept for himself the sum of gold with which he had cometo the Duke's court; and he travelled into France, for he knew that hewould find fighting there, and took service in the army of Burgundy;he was surprised within himself to find how little he cared for theloss of his greatness; indeed he felt that a certain secret heavinessand blackness of spirit had left him, and that he was almostlight-hearted; but in one of the first battles he fought in he wasstricken from his horse, and trampled under foot. And they took himfor tendance to a monastery near the field; and in a few weeks, whenhe came slowly back to life, he knew that he could fight no more. 

Then indeed he fell into a great despair and darkness of spirit. Itseemed as though some cruel and secret enemy had struck him blow afterblow, and not content with visiting him with shame, had rent from himall that made him even wish to live. But in the monastery lived a wiseold monk, with whom he had much talk, and in his weakness told him allhis life and his fall. And one day the two sate together in thecloister, on a day in spring, while a bird sang very blithely in abush that was all pricked with green points and shoots. And the oldmonk said, "This is a strange tale, Lord Robert, that you have toldme; and the wonder grows as I think of it; but it seems to me that Godhas led you in a wonderful manner; He made you strong and bold andself-sufficient; and then He has taken these things from you, notgently, because you were strong to bear, but very sternly; He has ledyou through deep waters and yet you live; and He will set you upon therock that is higher, so that you may serve Him yet. "

And then it seemed, in a silence made beautiful by the sweet pipingof the bird, that a little flower rose and blossomed in Robert's soul;he saw, in a sudden way that cannot be told in words, that he wasindeed in stronger hands than his own; and there came into his mindthat in following after strong things, he had missed the thing thatwas stronger than all--Love, that holds the world in his grasp. 

So it came to pass that the Lord Robert became the thing that he hadmost despised--a monk. And he found here that his courage, which hehad thought the strongest thing he had, was yet hardly strong enoughto bear the doing of mean and sordid tasks, such as a monk must oftendo; but it became to him a kind of fierce pleasure to trample onhimself, and to do humbly and severely all menial things. He swept thechurch, he dug in the garden, he fetched and carried burdens, andspared himself in nothing. 

But after a time he fell ill; he missed, no doubt, the old activitiesof life; his days had been full of business and occupation, and thoughhe did not look back--indeed a deep trench seemed to have been dugacross his life, and he saw himself across it like a different man, and he could often hardly believe that he was the same--yet it seemedas though some spring had been broken in his spirit. He fell into longsad musings, and waters of bitterness flowed across his soul. Themonks thought that he would die, he became so wan and ghost-like; buthe never failed in his duty, and though his life stretched before himlike a weary road, he knew that it would be long before he reached theend, and that he had many leagues yet to traverse, before the nightfell cold on the hills. 

Now, there was business to be done for the House in England, andRobert was sent there, the Prior hoping that the change and stir mightlighten the load upon his spirit. 

It happened at last that he found himself, in the course of hisjourneyings, not far from Tremontes. His uncle, the Lord Ralph, heheard, was dead, and his lands had gone to the nearest of his kin. Heknew nothing of what had befallen Tremontes, but he made enquiries, saying that he had seen the Lord Robert in Spain; he found that therewas great curiosity about him; he was plied with questions, and he wasforced to speak of himself, as in a strange dream, and to hear thestory of his disgrace told with many wild imaginings. It seemed thatRalph had himself undertaken the care of Tremontes, and had turned itby diligence into a rich estate, hoping, it was said, to hand it overto the Lord Robert on his return; but that as he had disappeared andmade no sign, it was supposed that he had died fighting, and the LordRalph having died suddenly, Tremontes had passed with the rest of hisestate. 

Early one summer morning Robert set off across the broad green flat, and trudged to Tremontes. The country had hardly altered, and it waswith a strange thrill of delight that one by one the familiarlandmarks came into view; and at last he saw the castle itself overthe oaks. He had learnt that there was a priest there as chaplain, awise and sad man, to whom he bore a letter. Twenty years had passedsince he saw the castle last, but it looked to his eyes no older; thehens picked and cried in the byre; the sun shone pleasantly as everupon the lilied pool and the warm terrace. Robert felt no sadness, buta kind of hunger to be remembered, to be welcomed, to be received withloving looks. The porter led him in, up into the familiar hall, wheresate a few sober men-at-arms, who rose and made a seemly obeisance;and he was presently sitting in a little parlour that opened on thechapel, talking quietly to the old priest, who seemed glad enough tohave his company. Robert told him that he had known Tremontes in hisyouth; and after he had spoken of many indifferent things, he askedthat he might withdraw for a little into the chapel, and say a silentprayer for those who were departed. 

The old priest understood him and led the way; and in a moment Robertfound himself seated by the little arcade, looking at the dim figurethat hung in the window, where he had sate as a boy, when themessenger had come to summon him away. How it all came back to him!The years were obliterated in a flash; he put out his hand idly to thearcade, where the pillars stood out from the wall, and his fingerstouched a small dusty thing that lay between a pillar and the stones. It was hardly with surprise that he raised it, and saw that he heldthe ruby, where he had put it in that careless hour. 

Then there beat upon his mind a great wave of thought, and he saw howgentle had been the hand that led him, and how surely he had beenguided; he looked into the depth of his soul, and saw the very secretcounsels of God. That was an hour full of a strange and marvelloushappiness, when he felt like a child leaning against a father's knee. He had no longer any repining or any questioning; but he knelt, fullof a mysterious peace, resigning himself utterly into the mighty handsof the Father. 

Presently the waning light warned him that the day was turning to theevening; and he came out and spoke to the priest, but with such asolemn and tranquil radiance of mien that the priest said to him, "Ithought, brother, when you came to me, that you had a strange thing totell me; but now you seem like one who has laid his very self down atthe foot of the Cross. " And Robert smiled and said, "I think I have. "

Presently he set off; and a foolish fancy came and fluttered in hismind for a moment, that he ought not to come like a thief and steal sorich a thing away; till he reflected in himself that he had but tospeak the word and the whole was his. 

The old priest had told him that the Lord of Tremontes, Richard, was ajust man, and ruled the estate well and bountifully; that he wouldhave none but honest men to labour for him, and that he was liberaland kind. Just as Robert went out of the gate he met a grave man, inrich but sober attire, riding in, who drew aside to let the monk passand put off his hat to him. Then it came into Robert's mind to speakto him, and he said, "Do I speak with the Lord Richard of Tremontes?"

"Richard of Parbury, father, " said the Lord. "Tremontes is indeedheld by me, but I have no lordship here. The Lord Robert of Tremontesmay yet be living; we know not if he be alive or dead; and I but holdthe estate for him and administer it for him; and if he returns hewill find it, I believe, not worse than he left it. "

Then Robert made up his mind and said, "Lord Richard, I have a messagefor you from the Lord Robert--but for your ears alone. I have seen himand know him. You have doubtless heard of his disgrace and his fall;and he will not return. He was but anxious to know that the estate wasjustly ruled and administered, and he resigns it into your hands. "

Then the Lord Richard dismounted from his horse, and bade the monkenter and speak with him at large; but he would not. Then the LordRichard said, "This is not a light matter, father; a great estate, craving your pardon, cannot thus pass by word of mouth. "

"And it shall not, " said the monk, "the Lord Robert shall send you duequittance. "

Then the Lord Richard said, "Father, be it so, then; but should theLord Robert return and claim the estate, it is his. "

Then the monk said, "He will not return; he is dead to the world. " Andthen he added, for he saw that the Lord Richard was pondering thematter, "I that speak with you am he. " Then he blessed the LordRichard, and departed in haste--and so solemn was his face and manner, that the Lord Richard did not stay him, but went within in wonder andawe. 

Then Robert returned to the monastery, with a quiet joy in his heart;and he made a quittance of the estate, and sent it secretly to theLord Richard by a faithful hand; and when the Lord Richard came inhaste to see the monk and speak with him, he had departed for Spain. 

Robert journeyed many days and came at last again to the house of theDuke. And he was then admitted, and bidden to dinner; so he sate inthe hall that he knew, and no man recognised him in the thin andsunburnt monk that sate and spoke so low and courteously; andafterwards he asked audience of the Duke, who still lived, but wasvery near his end; and when he was alone with him, he drew out thestone and said, "My lord, your faithful and loving servant has foundthe ruby and herewith restores it; and he asks your forgiveness, forhe loves you truly;" and Robert knelt beside him, and wept, but notfor bitterness of heart. 

Then said the Duke, speaking low, "My son, I have need to be forgivenand not to forgive. " And they had great joy together, and Robert toldhim all that was in his heart. 

"My lord, " he said, "God hath led me by a strange path into peace; Hesaw the evil strength of my heart, and smote me in my pride; and Hemade me as a little child that He might receive me; and I am His. "

And it came that the Duke was sick unto death; and he sent for Robert, who abode in the city, and would have given him the stone; but Robertsaid with a smile that he would not have it, for he had learnt atleast the meaning of one text, that the price of wisdom is aboverubies. And he kissed the hand of the Duke. 

And the Duke died and was buried; but of Robert's life and death Iknow no more; but in the High Church, near the altar, is a stonegrave, on which are the words "Brother Robert, " and underneath thecrown of a prince. So I think he lies there, all of him that dothfade. 

 THE CLOSED WINDOW

The Tower of Nort stood in a deep angle of the downs; formerly an oldroad led over the hill, but it is now a green track covered with turf;the later highway choosing rather to cross a low saddle of the ridge, for the sake of the beasts of burden. The tower, originally built toguard the great road, was a plain, strong, thick-walled fortress. Tothe tower had been added a plain and seemly house, where the young SirMark de Nort lived very easily and plentifully. To the south stretchedthe great wood of Nort, but the Tower stood high on an elbow of thedown, sheltered from the north by the great green hills. The villagershad an odd ugly name for the Tower, which they called the Tower ofFear; but the name was falling into disuse, and was only spoken, andthat heedlessly, by ancient men, because Sir Mark was vexed to hear itso called. Sir Mark was not yet thirty, and had begun to say that hemust marry a wife; but he seemed in no great haste to do so, and lovedhis easy, lonely life, with plenty of hunting and hawking on the down. With him lived his cousin and heir, Roland Ellice, a heedlessgood-tempered man, a few years older than Sir Mark; he had come on avisit to Sir Mark, when he first took possession of the Tower; andthere had seemed no reason why he should go away; the two suited eachother; Sir Mark was sparing of speech, fond of books and of rhymes. Roland was different, loving ease and wine and talk, and finding inMark a good listener. Mark loved his cousin, and thought itpraiseworthy of him to stay and help to cheer so sequestered a house, since there were few neighbours within reach. 

And yet Mark was not wholly content with his easy life; there weremany days when he asked himself why he should go thus quietly on, dayby day, like a stalled ox; still, there appeared no reason why heshould do otherwise; there were but few folk on his land, and theywere content; yet he sometimes envied them their bondage and theirround of daily duties. The only place where he could else have beenwas with the army, or even with the Court; but Sir Mark was nosoldier, and even less of a courtier; he hated tedious gaiety, and itwas a time of peace. So because he loved solitude and quiet he livedat home, and sometimes thought himself but half a man; yet was hehappy after a sort, but for a kind of little hunger of the heart. 

What gave the Tower so dark a name was the memory of old Sir James deNort, Mark's grand-father, an evil and secret man, who had dwelt atNort under some strange shadow; he had driven his son from his doors, and lived at the end of his life with his books and his own closethoughts, spying upon the stars and tracing strange figures in books;since his death the old room in the turret top, where he came by hisend in a dreadful way, had been closed; it was entered by aturret-door, with a flight of steps from the chamber below. It hadfour windows, one to each of the winds; but the window which lookedupon the down was fastened up, and secured with a great shutter ofoak. 

One day of heavy rain, Roland, being wearied of doing nothing, andvexed because Mark sat so still in a great chair, reading in a book, said to his cousin at last that he must go and visit the old room, inwhich he had never set foot. Mark closed his book, and smilingindulgently at Roland's restlessness, rose, stretching himself, andgot the key; and together they went up the turret stairs. The keygroaned loudly in the lock, and, when the door was thrown back, thereappeared a high faded room, with a timbered roof, and with a close, dull smell. Round the walls were presses, with the doors fast; a largeoak table, with a chair beside it, stood in the middle. The walls wereotherwise bare and rough; the spiders had spun busily over the windowsand in the angles. Roland was full of questions, and Mark told him allhe had heard of old Sir James and his silent ways, but said that heknew nothing of the disgrace that had seemed to envelop him, or of thereasons why he had so evil a name. Roland said that he thought it ashame that so fair a room should lie so nastily, and pulled one of thecasements open, when a sharp gust broke into the room, with so angry aburst of rain, that he closed it again in haste; little by little, asthey talked, a shadow began to fall upon their spirits, till Rolanddeclared that there was still a blight upon the place; and Mark toldhim of the death of old Sir James, who had been found after a day ofsilence, when he had not set foot outside his chamber, lying on thefloor of the room, strangely bedabbled with wet and mud, as though hehad come off a difficult journey, speechless, and with a look ofanguish on his face; and that he had died soon after they had foundhim, muttering words that no one understood. Then the two young mendrew near to the closed window; the shutters were tightly barred, andacross the panels was scrawled in red, in an uncertain hand, the wordsCLAUDIT ET NEMO APERIT, which Mark explained was the Latin for thetext, _He shutteth and none openeth_. And then Mark said that thestory went that it was ill for the man that opened the window, andthat shut it should remain for him. But Roland girded at him for hiswant of curiosity, and had laid a hand upon the bar as though to openit, but Mark forbade him urgently. "Nay, " said he, "let it remainso--we must not meddle with the will of the dead!" and as he said theword, there came so furious a gust upon the windows that it seemed asthough some stormy thing would beat them open; so they left the roomtogether, and presently descending, found the sun struggling throughthe rain. 

But both Mark and Roland were sad and silent all that day; for thoughthey spake not of it, there was a desire in their minds to open theclosed window, and to see what would befall; in Roland's mind it waslike the desire of a child to peep into what is forbidden; but inMark's mind a sort of shame to be so bound by an old and weak tale ofsuperstition. 

Now it seemed to Mark, for many days, that the visit to theturret-room had brought a kind of shadow down between them. Roland waspeevish and ill-at-ease; and ever the longing grew upon Mark, sostrongly that it seemed to him that something drew him to the room, some beckoning of a hand or calling of a voice. 

Now one bright and sunshiny morning it happened that Mark was leftalone within the house. Roland had ridden out early, not saying wherehe was bound. And Mark sat, more listlessly than was his wont, andplayed with the ears of his great dog, that sat with his head upon hismaster's knee, looking at him with liquid eyes, and doubtlesswondering why Mark went not abroad. 

Suddenly Sir Mark's eye fell upon the key of the upper room, whichlay on the window-ledge where he had thrown it; and the desire to goup and pluck the heart from the little mystery came upon him with astrength that he could not resist; he rose twice and took up the key, and fingering it doubtfully, laid it down again; then suddenly he tookit up, and went swiftly into the turret-stair, and up, turning, turning, till his head was dizzy with the bright peeps of the worldthrough the loophole windows. Now all was green, where a window gaveon the down; and now it was all clear air and sun, the warm breezecoming pleasantly into the cold stairway; presently Mark heard thepattering of feet on the stair below, and knew that the old hound haddetermined to follow him; and he waited a moment at the door, halfpleased, in his strange mood, to have the company of a living thing. So when the dog was at his side, he stayed no longer, but opened thedoor and stepped within the room. 

The room, for all its faded look, had a strange air about it, andthough he could not say why, Mark felt that he was surely expected. Hedid not hesitate, but walked to the shutter and considered it for amoment; he heard a sound behind him. It was the old hound who sat withhis head aloft, sniffing the air uneasily; Mark called him and heldout his hand, but the hound would not move; he wagged his tail asthough to acknowledge that he was called, and then he returned to hisuneasy quest. Mark watched him for a moment, and saw that the old doghad made up his mind that all was not well in the room, for he laydown, gathering his legs under him, on the threshold, and watched hismaster with frightened eyes, quivering visibly. Mark, no lighter ofheart, and in a kind of fearful haste, pulled the great staple off theshutter and set it on the ground, and then wrenched the shutters back;the space revealed was largely filled by old and dusty webs ofspiders, which Mark lightly tore down, using the staple of theshutters to do this; it was with a strange shock of surprise that hesaw that the window was dark, or nearly so; it seemed as though therewere some further obstacle outside; yet Mark knew that from below theleaded panes of the window were visible. He drew back for a moment, but, unable to restrain his curiosity, wrenched the rusted casementopen. But still all was dark without; and there came in a gust of icywind from outside; it was as though something had passed him swiftly, and he heard the old hound utter a strangled howl; then turning, hesaw him spring to his feet with his hair bristling and his teeth bare, and next moment the dog turned and leapt out of the room. 

Mark, left alone, tried to curb a tide of horror that swept throughhis veins; he looked round at the room, flooded with the southerlysunlight, and then he turned again to the dark window, and putting astrong constraint upon himself, leaned out, and saw a thing whichbewildered him so strangely that he thought for a moment his senseshad deserted him. He looked out on a lonely dim hillside, covered withrocks and stones; the hill came up close to the window, so that hecould have jumped down upon it, the wall below seeming to be builtinto the rocks. It was all dark and silent, like a clouded night, witha faint light coming from whence he could not see. The hill slopedaway very steeply from the tower, and he seemed to see a plain beyond, where at the same time he knew that the down ought to lie. In theplain there was a light, like the firelit window of a house; a littlebelow him some shape like a crouching man seemed to run and slip amongthe stones, as though suddenly surprised, and seeking to escape. Sideby side with a deadly fear which began to invade his heart, came anuncontrollable desire to leap down among the rocks; and then it seemedto him that the figure below stood upright, and began to beckon him. There came over him a sense that he was in deadly peril; and, like aman on the edge of a precipice, who has just enough will left to tryto escape, he drew himself by main force away from the window, closedit, put the shutters back, replaced the staple, and, his limbs alltrembling, crept out of the room, feeling along the walls like apalsied man. He locked the door, and then, his terror overpoweringhim, he fled down the turret-stairs. Hardly thinking what he did, hecame out on the court, and going to the great well that stood in thecentre of the yard, he went to it and flung the key down, hearing itclink on the sides as it fell. Even then he dared not re-enter thehouse, but glanced up and down, gazing about him, while the cloud offear and horror by insensible degrees dispersed, leaving him weak andmelancholy. 

Presently Roland returned, full of talk, but broke off to ask if Markwere ill. Mark, with a kind of surliness, an unusual mood for him, denied it somewhat sharply. Roland raised his eyebrows, and said nomore, but prattled on. Presently after a silence he said to Mark, "What did you do all the morning?" and it seemed to Mark as thoughthis were accompanied with a spying look. An unreasonable anger seizedhim. "What does it matter to you what I did?" he said. "May not I dowhat I like in my own house?"

"Doubtless, " said Roland, and sate silent with uplifted brows; then hehummed a tune, and presently went out. 

They sate at dinner that evening with long silences, contrary totheir wont, though Mark bestirred himself to ask questions. When theywere left alone, Mark stretched out his hand to Roland, saying, "Roland, forgive me! I spoke to you this morning in a way of which Iam ashamed; we have lived so long together--and yet we came nearer toquarrelling to-day than we have ever done before; and it was myfault. "

Roland smiled, and held Mark's hand for a moment. "Oh, I had not givenit another thought, " he said; "the wonder is that you can bear with anidle fellow as you do. " Then they talked for awhile with the pleasantglow of friendliness that two good comrades feel when they have beenreconciled. But late in the evening Roland said, "Was there any story, Mark, about your grandfather's leaving any treasure of money behindhim?"

The question grated somewhat unpleasantly upon Mark's mood; but hecontrolled himself and said, "No, none that I know of--except that hefound the estate rich and left it poor--and what he did with hisrevenues no one knows--you had better ask the old men of the village;they know more about the house than I do. But, Roland, forgive me oncemore if I say that I do not desire Sir James's name to be mentionedbetween us. I wish we had not entered his room; I do not know how toexpress it, but it seems to me as though he had sate there, waitingquietly to be summoned, and as though we had troubled him, and--asthough he had joined us. I think he was an evil man, close and evil. And there hangs in my mind a verse of Scripture, where Samuel said tothe witch, 'Why hast thou disquieted me to bring me up?' Oh, " he wenton, "I do not know why I talk wildly thus"; for he saw that Roland waslooking at him with astonishment, with parted lips; "but a shadow hasfallen upon me, and there seems evil abroad. "

From that day forward a heaviness lay on the spirit of Mark that couldnot be scattered. He felt, he said to himself, as though he hadmeddled light-heartedly with something far deeper and more dangerousthan he had supposed--like a child that has aroused some evil beastthat slept. He had dark dreams too. The figure that he had seen amongthe rocks seemed to peep and beckon him, with a mocking smile, overperilous places, where he followed unwilling. But the heavier he grewthe lighter-hearted Roland became; he seemed to walk in some brightvision of his own, intent upon a large and gracious design. 

One day he came into the hall in the morning, looking so radiant thatMark asked him half enviously what he had to make him so glad. "Glad, "said Roland, "oh, I know it! Merry dreams, perhaps. What do you thinkof a good grave fellow who beckons me on with a brisk smile, and showsme places, wonderful places, under banks and in woodland pits, whereriches lie piled together? I am sure that some good fortune ispreparing for me, Mark--but you shall share it. " Then Mark, seeing inhis words a certain likeness, with a difference, to his own darkvisions, pressed his lips together and sate looking stonily beforehim. 

At last, one still evening of spring, when the air was intolerablylanguid and heavy for mankind, but full of sweet promises for treesand hidden peeping things, though a lurid redness of secret thunderhad lain all day among the heavy clouds in the plain, the two dinedtogether. Mark had walked alone that day, and had lain upon the turfof the down, fighting against a weariness that seemed to be poisoningthe very springs of life within him. But Roland had been brisk andalert, coming and going upon some secret and busy errand, with afragment of a song upon his lips, like a man preparing to set off fora far country, who is glad to be gone. In the evening, after they haddined, Roland had let his fancy rove in talk. "If we were rich, " hesaid, "how we would transform this old place!"

"It is fair enough for me, " said Mark heavily; and Roland had chiddenhim lightly for his sombre ways, and sketched new plans of life. 

Mark, wearied and yet excited, with an intolerable heaviness ofspirit, went early to bed, leaving Roland in the hall. After a shortand broken sleep, he awoke, and lighting a candle, read idly andgloomily to pass the heavy hours. The house seemed full of strangenoises that night. Once or twice came a scraping and a faint hammeringin the wall; light footsteps seemed to pass in the turret--but thetower was always full of noises, and Mark heeded them not; at last hefell asleep again, to be suddenly awakened by a strange and desolatecrying, that came he knew not whence, but seemed to wail upon the air. The old dog, who slept in Mark's room, heard it too; he was sitting upin a fearful expectancy. Mark rose in haste, and taking the candle, went into the passage that led to Roland's room. It was empty, but alight burned there and showed that the room had not been slept in. Full of a horrible fear, Mark returned, and went in hot haste up theturret steps, fear and anxiety struggling together in his mind. Whenhe reached the top, he found the little door broken forcibly open, anda light within. He cast a haggard look round the room, and then thecrying came again, this time very faint and desolate. 

Mark cast a shuddering glance at the window; it was wide open andshowed a horrible liquid blackness; round the bar in the centre thatdivided the casements, there was something knotted. He hastened to thewindow, and saw that it was a rope, which hung heavily. Leaning out hesaw that something dangled from the rope below him--and then came thecrying again out of the darkness, like the crying of a lost spirit. 

He could see as in a bitter dream the outline of the hateful hillside;but there seemed to his disordered fancy to be a tumult of some kindbelow; pale lights moved about, and he saw a group of forms whichscattered like a shoal of fish when he leaned out. He knew that he waslooking upon a scene that no mortal eye ought to behold, and it seemedto him at the moment as though he was staring straight into hell. 

The rope went down among the rocks and disappeared; but Mark clenchedit firmly and using all his strength, which was great, drew it up handover hand; as he drew it up he secured it in loops round the great oaktable; he began to be afraid that his strength would not hold out, andonce when he returned to the window after securing a loop, a greathooded thing like a bird flew noiselessly at the window and beat itswings. 

Presently he saw that the form which dangled on the rope was clear ofthe rocks below; it had come up through them, as though they were butsmoke; and then his task seemed to him more sore than ever. Inch bypainful inch he drew it up, working fiercely and silently; his muscleswere tense, and drops stood on his brow, and the veins hammered in hisears; his breath came and went in sharp sobs. At last the form wasnear enough for him to seize it; he grasped it by the middle and drewRoland, for it was Roland, over the window-sill. His head dangled anddrooped from side to side; his face was dark with strangled blood andhis limbs hung helpless. Mark drew his knife and cut the rope that wastied under his arms; the helpless limbs sank huddling on the floor;then Mark looked up; at the window a few feet from him was a face, more horrible than he had supposed a human face, if it was humanindeed, could be. It was deadly white, and hatred, baffled rage, and asort of devilish malignity glared from the white set eyes, and thedrawn mouth. There was a rush from behind him; the old hound, who hadcrept up unawares into the room, with a fierce outcry of rage sprangon to the window-sill; Mark heard the scraping of his claws upon thestone. Then the hound leapt through the window, and in a moment therewas the sound of a heavy fall outside. At the same instant thedarkness seemed to lift and draw up like a cloud; a bank of blacknessrose past the window, and left the dark outline of the down, with asky sown with tranquil stars. 

The cloud of fear and horror that hung over Mark lifted too; he feltin some dim way that his adversary was vanquished; he carried Rolanddown the stairs and laid him on his bed; he roused the household, wholooked fearfully at him, and then his own strength failed; he sankupon the floor of his room, and the dark tide of unconsciousnessclosed over him. 

Mark's return to health was slow. One who has looked into the Unknownfinds it hard to believe again in the outward shows of life. His firstconscious speech was to ask for his hound; they told him that the bodyof the dog had been found, horribly mangled as though by the teeth ofsome fierce animal, at the foot of the tower. The dog was buried inthe garden, with a slab above him, on which are the words:--

 EUGE SERVE BONE ET FIDELIS

A silly priest once said to Mark that it was not meet to writeScripture over the grave of a beast. But Mark said warily that aninscription was for those who read it, to make them humble, and not toincrease the pride of what lay below. 

When Mark could leave his bed, his first care was to send forbuilders, and the old tower of Nort was taken down, stone by stone, tothe ground, and a fair chapel built on the site; in the wall there wasa secret stairway, which led from the top chamber, and came out amongthe elder-bushes that grew below the tower, and here was found acoffer of gold, which paid for the church; because, until it wasfound, it was Mark's design to leave the place desolate. Mark iswedded since, and has his children about his knee; those who come tothe house see a strange and wan man, who sits at Mark's board, andwhom he uses very tenderly; sometimes this man is merry, and tells along tale of his being beckoned and led by a tall and handsome person, smiling, down a hillside to fetch gold; though he can never rememberthe end of the matter; but about the springtime he is silent ormutters to himself: and this is Roland; his spirit seems shut upwithin him in some close cell, and Mark prays for his release, buttill God call him, he treats him like a dear brother, and with thereverence due to one who has looked out on the other side of Death, and who may not say what his eyes beheld. 

 THE BROTHERS

There was once a great Lord of Yorkshire, the Baron de Benoit, who hadtwo sons named Henry and Christopher. Their mother was long dead;Henry was a bold and careless boy, courageous and fearless, outspokento every one, yet loving none; fond of the chase, restless, and neverweary; but Christopher was a timid and weakly child, with a heart forall; dreaming of great deeds which he feared to do; while Henrydreamed not, but did whatever he undertook, great things or small. Christopher sate much with the old priest, or with the women; when theminstrels played in the hall, his heart was lifted up within him; andhe loved to loiter alone in the woods in springtime, to look in theopen faces of the flowers, and to listen for the songs of birds. TheBaron was a rough good-natured man, who ruled his estates diligently;and he loved Henry well, but Christopher he despised in his heart, andoften said that he was a girl spoiled in the making. 

Now how different were the boys in character let the following talewitness:

Once the huntsmen caught a wolf, and brought it to the castle yard tomake sport; the wolf blinked and snarled in the pen where they put it;and the boys were called to kill it. Christopher bent over to look atit, and thought that the wolf was doubtless wondering why men wishedit evil, and was longing for the deep woods and for its warm lair. Henry thrust a spear into Christopher's hand and bade him slay it. Thewolf rose at his approach, hobbling on his pinioned feet, hating todie, thought Christopher, among laughter and jests. And he threw thespear down and said, "I will not. " "Nay, you dare not, " said Henry;and he thrust the spear into the wolf's side; the wolf struggled hard, and as Henry pushed close, tore his hand; but Henry only laughed andthrust again; and then he daubed Christopher's face with the bloodthat ran from his hand, and said, "Go and tell the maidens that youhave slain a wolf in single combat. "

But, for all that, Christopher loved his brother exceedingly, andthought him the brightest and goodliest treasure in the world. 

There came to stay at the castle an Abbot, a wise and brave man, before whom even the Baron was awed; and he had much talk withChristopher, who opened his heart to him. The Abbot found that hecould read, and knew the stories of the saints and the answers of theMass, and had discernment of good and evil. So the Abbot sought outthe Baron, and told him that Christopher would make a very wisepriest, and that he was apt to be ruled, and therefore, said he, hewill be apt to rule; and he added that he thought that the boy wouldmake a great counsellor, and even bishop; and then the Baron said thatChristopher had no courage and endurance. The Abbot replied that hebelieved he had both, but that they were of a different nature to thecourage and endurance of a man-at-arms; that he was of the stuff ofwhich holy men, martyrs and saints, were made; but that it was ill tonurture a dove in the nest of an eagle. So the Baron said that heshould take Christopher, and make a priest of him, if the boy would. 

Then Christopher was called, and the Baron asked him bluntly whetherhe would be a priest; and Christopher, seeing the Abbot's kind glanceupon him, took courage and said that he would obey his father in allthings. But he looked so wan and gentle, and so like his mother, thatthe Baron put his arm about him and said kindly that he would have himchoose for himself, and kissed his cheek. But Christopher burst outweeping and hid his face on his father's shoulder; and then he said, "I will go. " And the Abbot said, "Baron, you are a man of war, and yetshall you be proud of this your son; he shall win victories indeed, but in his own field--nay, I doubt not that he will do your housegreat service and honour. " And so it was arranged that the Abbot, whowas on a journey, should return in a week and take the boy. 

So Christopher had a week to make his farewells, and he made themfaithfully and tenderly, though he thought his heart would break. Butthe Abbot had told him on parting that God indeed called men, when Hewould have them to serve Him, and that he too was surely bidden. AndChristopher, young though he was, felt that he was like a boat thatmust battle through a few breakers to reach a quiet haven; and hespake with all and each, and said farewell, until even the roughestwere sorry that the boy should go. But the last night was the sorest, for he must part with his brother; the boys slept together in a greatbed in a room in the tower; and Christopher dared that night toencircle his brother with his arms, and tell him that he loved him, and that he wished there were something small or great that he coulddo for him. And Henry, who loved not caresses, said laughing, that heshould not need his services for a long time. "But when I am old andweary and have done many deeds of blood, then you may pray for me ifyou will. " Then Christopher would have had him talk awhile, but Henrysaid he was weary and must sleep, and turned away, adding that hewould wake betimes in the morning and that they would talk then. AndChristopher lay and heard him breathe softly, and at last, weariedout, he slept. But Henry woke in the dawn, and thinking of a stag thatcame down to pull the hay from the ricks, and half fearing, too, hisbrother's tears and sighs, dressed himself quietly and stole awaywhile Christopher slept, thinking that he would return to see him go. And when Christopher woke and found his brother gone, he fell intosuch a passion of grief that he heeded nothing else, but went throughhis farewells so stonily and dumbly that the Baron made haste to sethim on his journey; and Henry did not return. 

So Christopher passed into the holy life, but choosing not to be apriest, he became a monk of the strictest discipline, so that themonks wondered at his holiness. But they at the Castle soon forgot himand thought no more of the frail child. 

Then it happened that the Baron rode one day in the sun, and cominghome, dismounted, and fell dizzily upon his face; they laid him in hischamber, but he never spoke, only breathed heavily; and that night hedied. And Henry, who was now of age, thought but little of hisfather's death because of the respect that all paid him, and of thewealth and power that thus flowed suddenly into his hands. And hemarried a fair maiden called the Lady Alice, who bore him a son; andhe ruled diligently in his lands, and rode to battle, and lived such alife as he best loved. 

But one day there fell upon him a heaviness of limb and a loathing forfood; and though they daily tended him, he grew no better; soon hecould not even sit upon his horse, but became so pale and wasted thathe could hardly rise from his chair. And some thought that a spell wascast upon him, but that mended not matters at all; the king's ownleech came to visit him, and shook his head, saying that no art couldavail, since the spring of life was somehow broken within him and hemust die unless God were good to him and healed him. 

Now the Lady Alice feared God, and knew what wonders were wrought byHim at the prayers of saints, so she took counsel with the priests ofthe Castle, but said no word of it to the Lord Henry, because hejested at sacred things; and the priest told her that three days'journey away was a house of holy monks, where many miracles of healingwere wrought, and he advised her to go secretly and ask counsel of thePrior. So under pretence of seeking for another leech, the Lady Alicerode south, and on the third day she came to the place. The monasterystood very solitary in a valley with much wood about it; the wallsrose fair and white, with a tall church in the midst, all lit with aheavenly light of evening. And the Lady Alice felt in her burdenedheart that God would be gracious and hear her prayers. 

They rode to the gate, and Alice asked that she might see the Prior;she would not tell her name, but the porter seeing her attended by twomen-at-arms, admitted her; and presently the Lady Alice was had into asmall bare room, and in a moment the Prior stood before her. He was anold man, very lean and grim, but with a kindly face; she told him thather husband, a great knight, was sick unto death, but she told him nother name, and the Prior spared to ask her; when she had done herstory, the Prior said that there was in the monastery a young monk, Brother Lawrence, of such steadfast life and holiness that his prayerswould almost avail to give life to the dead; and that he woulddispense him leave, if he were willing to go with her awhile; for thePrior saw that she was a great lady, and he was moved by her grief andpurity. 

So Brother Lawrence was fetched, and soon stood before them; and thePrior told the lady's tale, and Brother Lawrence said that he wouldgo, if he was permitted. So in the morning they rode away. Then theLady Alice told him all the tale, saying that the sick man was theBaron de Benoit, and that he loved not God, though he served himfaithfully, though knowing not that it was God whom he served. And themonk said, "Ay, and there be many such;" but she wondered that he grewso strangely pale, yet thought that it was his long fasting, and thebitter morning air. Then the monk questioned her very nearly about allher life, saying that in such cases it was needful to know all things, "that our prayers, " he said, "beat not in vain against a closed gate. "And she told him of all she knew. 

Then at last, in a still twilight, they drew near to the Castle, andthe lady saw that the monk kept his eyes fixed on the ground, andlooked not to left nor right, like a man in a sore conflict; and sheknew that he prayed. 

That night the monk was laid in a chamber in the tower; and all nighthis lamp burned, till the dawn came up. And the watchman thought heprayed late; but if they could have seen the monk they would havewondered that he paced softly up and down, looking lovingly about him, the tears welling to his eyes; once he kissed the bedpost of the bed;and then he knelt and wrestled in prayer, until the priest called himto the Mass. And there seemed such a radiance about him, worn and thinthough he was, that the priest marvelled to see him. 

Then the Lady Alice came to fetch him in a great fearfulness, for sheknew that the Lord Henry hated monks; but the monk said to her thatshe need not fear; and she took comfort. 

Then she brought him to the great room where the Baron lay; and shewent in, and said, "Henry, I have brought one who works many wondersof healing--and dear husband, be not angry, though he is a monk; forthe monks know many things; and perhaps God will be gracious, and givemy dear one back to me, to cherish me and our son. "

The Lord Henry looked at her very sternly; but the pale and tearfulface of his wife, and her loving grief moved him, and he said, "Well, I will see him; and let it testify in how evil a case I am, that monksare brought to my bedside, and I have not even the strength to saythem nay. " He spoke roughly, but he took the Lady Alice's hand in hisown and said to her, "Dear one, make haste. I will not refuse youthis, for I think it is the last request that I shall have power togrant--I am past the help of man. "

For since the Lady Alice's departure, the Lord Henry had been in veryevil case; till then he had hoped; but his sleep had gone from him, and a great blackness came over him, and seemed to part his life, aswith a dark chasm, from what lay before him. There in those lonelyhours he went through the scenes of his past life; he saw himself abright and bold boy, and all the joy of his early years came beforehim, and he saw that his joy had been the greater because he had notknown he was more glad than others. He thought of his father and ofhis frail brother Christopher; and he wished he had been kinder toboth; then he had the thought of his wife and his helpless child, andall that might befall them. And he thought, too, of God, whom he mustnow meet, who seemed to sit like a Judge, in a pavilion of clouds at aladder's fiery head, with no smile or welcome for him. 

So the Lady Alice went out and brought Brother Lawrence to thechamber; and at the door he prayed for strength that he might comforthim that was sick; and Lady Alice pulled the door to and departed; andthe two were left alone. 

Then Brother Lawrence murmured a Latin salutation, as the custom ofhis order was; and Henry fixed his eyes, large with sickness, on him, and made a reverence of the head. Then he said, "I wish, sir, I couldgive you a better welcome; but I am sick, as you see; indeed, I thinkI am very near my end. The Lady Alice would have me see you, for shesays you have wrought wonderful cures. Well, here is a man who is morethan willing to be cured; but I am no saint. I believe in God and HolyChurch; but--I will speak openly--not much in monks and priests. "

"As though, " said the monk with a smile, "a man should say 'I believein food, but not in the eating of it'--yet let that pass, my LordBaron; I am no foe to plain speaking--it was ever the mark of Christand the holy saints; but let me ask you first about your disease, forthat is my duty now. "

Henry was well pleased with the shrewdness of the monk's words; andhe answered the Brother's questions about his illness with a goodgrace. When he had done, the monk shook his head. "I must warn you, "he said, "that it is a sore case; but I have known such recover. Iwould have time to consider; let me abide to-night under your roof, and I will tell you to-morrow what shall be given to me to say;" andthe monk made as though he would have withdrawn. 

But Henry said, "One question I would ask of you. I had a brother, Christopher by name; he is a monk--but he hath sent me no word ofhimself for many years--indeed, he may be dead. Can you give metidings of him?"

The other grew pale to the lips; then he said, as with an effort, "Iknow your brother, my Lord Baron, but the rules of our order--he is ofthe same order indeed as myself--are strict, and it is forbidden us tospeak of our brethren to those that are without. Be assured, however, that he is alive and well; and perhaps you shall have tidings fromhimself anon. "

Then he went out; and presently the Lady Alice came in to see herhusband. Henry seemed to her a little brighter already, and a hopeflickered up in her heart. He smiled at her and said, "My Alice, Ithink well of your monk; he is a shrewd fellow, and knows his trade. Ithink somewhat better of his kind--he seems to me, indeed, in some wayfamiliar, or reminds me of one that I know; let him be well bestowed, and to-morrow he will tell me, as he said, what he thinks of my case. "

But the monk went to the chapel, and there he wrestled sore inprayer; and then he fasted and watched; but at last, wearied out, hefell asleep just before the dawn, and there came a dream to him. Hedreamed that he stood in the castle yard, and he had in his hand twopots of flowers, one of lilies and one of roses; and there came to hima tall and strange man, with a look of command in his face, yet fullof love; and the monk thought that he turned to the stranger andoffered him the flowers, and the man laid his hand upon the roses; butthe monk said, "Nay, my lord, rather take the lilies;" and the othersaid, "The roses are mine and the lilies are mine; one will I take andleave the other awhile; but at thy prayer I will take the liliesfirst, because thou hast been faithful in a few things. " Then the monkgave him the lilies, but with a sore pang; and the other laid his handupon them, and the lilies withered away. Then the monk said, "And now, my lord, they are not worthy to be given thee, " but the other said, "They shall revive and bloom, " and then he smiled. 

Then the monk awoke, and the dawn came faintly in at the east: and heshivered in his vigil, and fell to pondering on his dream; for hedoubted not that it came from God. So, when he had pondered a little, he was amazed and said in his prayer, "Woe is me that I cannot seelight. " And as he said the words the sun brightened up the sky, and ina moment the monk saw what the Lord would have him to do. 

Then, when it was day, he sought the Lady Alice, and she came andstood before him, and he said, "Lady, God will give back your lord toyou--for a time; only believe!" Then she fell to weeping for joy, andthe monk checked her not, but said, "These be gracious tears. " Then hesaid, "And now I must return in haste; I must not linger. " And sheprayed him to go with her to the Baron; but he said he must not; butone thing he said he would have her promise, that if it were needfulfor him to see the Baron, when he should be healed of his disease, hewould come to his summons; and the Lady Alice promised and pledged herword. Then he blessed her and departed and rode away, looking neitherto left nor right. And the Lady Alice went to her husband, and theBaron said, wondering, that he was better already, and he called forfood and ate with appetite; and from that day he revived, climbingback slowly into life again. And there was great rejoicing in theCastle. 

And when he was nearly well, and could walk and ride, and his strengthincreased day by day, giving him exceeding joy, there rode a monk inhaste to the Castle, and said to the Lady Alice that Brother Lawrencewould see the Baron; and he added that he must not fail to comespeedily if he would see him alive, for he was in sore case. Then theLady Alice asked how it was with him, and the monk said that eversince he had visited the Castle he had been in the chastening of God;his strength ebbed from him day by day. Then the Lady Alice told herhusband of his promises, and he said, "Right gladly will I go and seethe Brother, for he hath brought me back to life again, and he is atrue man. "

So the Baron rode away, and as he rode the spring was coming in allthe lanes; the trees stood in a cloud of green; the woods were sweetwith flowers, and the birds sang loud and clear, and the Baron hadsuch joy in his heart as he had not believed a heart could hold; andhe found it in his spirit to thank God for the gift of life restoredto him, and as he went he sang softly to himself. 

And he came to the house, and because he was a great Baron, the Priorcame out to do him honour, and the Baron lighted off his horse and didhim great reverence, saying, "Lord Prior, I have lived carelessly andthought little of God and served Him little; but He hath rewarded methough I am unworthy; and now I will serve Him well. " Then the Priorrejoiced, and said, "Lord Baron, thou speakest wisely, and the Lordshall increase thee mightily. "

Then the Prior led him to the infirmary, for he said that the BrotherLawrence was near to death; and the Baron found him lying in a littlebed in a corner of the great room which was all full of light. Therestood two monks beside him; but when the Baron entered, BrotherLawrence, who lay in a swoon, raised himself up, and said smiling, "Sothou hast come, my brother. " And the Baron kneeled down beside him, and said, "Yes, Brother, I have come to show my thanks to you for yourprayers and good offices. For God has heard them and given me life. "Then Brother Lawrence said, "Give the glory to God, my brother, " andthe baron said, "Ay, I do that!" and Brother Lawrence smiled and badethe monks depart from him and leave him with the Baron alone. And thenBrother Lawrence looked upon him for a while in silence, and his eyeswere full of a heavenly light and great joy. And presently he said, "Ihave a thing that I must tell you, my brother. You asked of me whetherI knew your brother Christopher, and I answered you shortly enough, but now I have leave to tell you; and I am he. "

Then there was a long silence, and the Baron drew near and kissed himon the cheek. 

Then Brother Lawrence said, "And now, dear brother, I will tell youall the truth; for the hand of God is laid upon me, and to-day I mustdepart;" and then he told him of the vision and interpreted it saying, "The Lord was merciful and let me give my life for thine; and I giveit, O how gladly; and I tell you not this for your pity or for yourpraise, but that you may know that your life is not given you fornought; God had good works prepared for me to walk in, and now mustyou walk in them--and be not dismayed. He calls you not to the life ofprayer; but be loving and just and merciful to the poor and theoppressed; for God has deeds fit for all to do; and though I couldhave served Him faithfully in the cloister, you will serve Him betterin the world; only remember this, that life is lent you, and notgiven, and you must increase it, that you may give it back moreworthily. "

Then the Baron was full of heaviness, and said that he could not takelife on these terms; that both should live, or that if his brothermust die, he would die too. Then Brother Lawrence rebuked himlovingly; and then began to talk of their childish days, saying with asmile, "When I last saw you, dear brother, you promised me that youwould talk with me in the morning, and the morning is come now, andyou will keep your promise. " And then presently he said, "Henry, weare frail things, and it is a pitiful thing that so much of vanity ismingled with our flesh; but I used to think as a child that I wouldcompel you some day to think me brave, and would make you grateful tome for a service done you--and I think of this now and am glad; butnow I grow weak and can speak no more; but tell me of your life and ofall that I loved in the old days, that I may have you in my mind whenI sleep beneath the altar, if God will have one so unworthy to sleepthere. " And the Baron told him all things, struggling with his tears. 

Then said Brother Lawrence: "The hour is come; call my brethren andlet me go; He calleth me. "

Then the monks came in and made the cross of ashes, and did the ritesof death; and Brother Lawrence smiled with closed eyes, but openedthem once again upon his brother, who stood to see the end. Andpresently Brother Lawrence sighed like a weary child and died. 

Many years have passed since that day; the Baron is a grey-haired manand has his grandchildren about him; and he has done worthily, knowingthat life is lent him for this end. And every year he rides with aman-at-arms or two to stand beside the grave of Christopher, and torenew the vow which he made when his brother died. 

 THE TEMPLE OF DEATH

It was late in the afternoon of a dark and rainy day when Paullinusleft the little village where he had found shelter for the night. Thevillage lay in a great forest country in the heart of Gaul. Thescattered folk that inhabited it were mostly heathens, and verystrange and secret rites were still celebrated in lonely sanctuaries. Christian teachers, of whom Paullinus was one, travelled alone or inlittle companies along the great high roads, turning aside to visitthe woodland hamlets, and labouring patiently to make the good news ofthe Word known. 

They were mostly unmolested, for they travelled under the powerfulname of Romans, and in many places they were kindly received. Paullinus had been for months slowly faring from village to village, without any fixed plan of journeying, but asking his way from place toplace, as the Spirit led him. He was a young man, a very faithfulChristian, and with a love of adventure and travel which stood him ingood stead. He carried a little money, but he had seldom need to useit, for the people were simple and hospitable; he did not try to holdassemblies, for he believed that the Gospel must spread like leavenfrom quiet heart to quiet heart. Indeed he did not purpose to proclaimthe Word, but rather to prepare the way for those that should comeafter. He was of a strong habit, spare and upright; when he was alonehe walked swiftly, looking very eagerly about him. He loved the aspectof the earth, the green branching trees, the wild creatures of thewoodland, the voices of birds and the sound of streams. And he had tooa great and simple love for his own kind, and though he had littleeloquence he had a plentiful command of friendly and shrewd talk, andeven better than he loved to speak he loved to listen. He had a sweetand open smile, that drew the hearts of all whom he met to him, especially of the children. And he loved his wandering life in thefree air, without the daily cares of settled habit. 

He had spent the night with an old and calm man, who had been awarrior in his youth, but who could now do little but attend to hisfarm. Paullinus had spoken to him of the love of the Father and thetender care that Jesus had to His brothers on earth; the old man hadlistened courteously, and had said that it sounded fair enough, butthat he was too old to change, and must stand in the ancient ways. Paullinus did not press him; his custom was never to do that. In themorning he had gone to and fro in the village, and it was late beforehe thought of setting out; the old man had pressed him to stay anothernight, but something in Paullinus' heart had told him that he must notwait, for it seemed to him that there was work to be done. The old mancame with him to the edge of the forest, and gave him very particulardirections to the village he was bound for, which lay in the heart ofthe wood. "Of one thing I must advise you, " he said. "There is, in thewood, some way off the track, a place to which I would not have yougo--it is a temple of one of our gods, a dark place. Be certain, dearsir, to pass it by. No one would go there willingly, save that we aresometimes compelled. " He broke off suddenly here and looked about himfearfully; then he went on in a low voice: "It is called the Temple ofthe Grey Death, and there are rites done there of which I may notspeak. I would it were otherwise, but the gods are strong--and thepriest is a hard and evil man, who won his office in a terrible way, and shall lose it no less terribly. Oh, go not there, dear stranger;"and he laid his hand upon his arm. 

"Dear brother, " said Paullinus, "I have no mind to go there--but yourwords seem to have a dark meaning behind them. What are these rites ofwhich you speak?" But the old man shook his head. 

"I may not speak of them, " he said, "it is better to be silent. "

Then they took a kind leave of each other, and Paullinus said that hewould pass again that way to see his friend, "for we are friends, Iknow. " And so he went into the wood. It was a wood of very ancienttrees, and the dark leaves roofed over the grassy track making atunnel. The heavens too grew dark above, and Paullinus heard the dropspatter upon the leaves. Generally he loved well enough to walk in thewoodways, but here it seemed different. He would have liked acompanion. Something sinister and terrible seemed to him to hidewithin those gloomy avenues, and the feeling grew stronger everymoment. But he said to himself some of the simple hymns with which heoften cheered his way, and felt again that he was in the hands of God. 

Presently he passed a little forest pool that was one of the marks ofhis way. Upon the further bank he was surprised to see a man sitting, with a rod or spear in his hand, looking upon the water. He was gladto see another man in this solitude, and hailed him cheerfully, askingif he was in the right way. The man looked up at the sound. Paullinussaw that he was of middle age, very strong and muscular--butundoubtedly he had an evil face. He scowled, as though he were vexedto be interrupted, and with an odd and angry gesture of the hand hestepped quickly within the wood and disappeared. Paullinus felt in hismind that the man wished him evil, and went on his way somewhatheavily. And now the sun began to go down and it was darker than everin the forest; Paullinus came to a place where the road forked, andthinking over his note of the way, struck off to the left, but as hedid so he felt a certain misgiving which he could not explain. He nowbegan to hurry, for the light failed every moment, and the colour wassoon gone out of the grass beneath his feet, leaving all a dark andindistinguishable brown. Soon the path forked again, and then came aroad striking across the one that he had pursued of which he did notthink he had been told. He went straight forward, but it was now grownso dark that he could no longer see his way, and stumbled very sadlyalong the wet path, feeling with his hand for the trees. He thoughtthat he must by this time have gone much further than the distancebetween the villages, and it was clear to him that he had somehowmissed the road. 

He at last determined that he would try to return, and went slowlyback the way that he had come, till at last the night came down uponhim. Then Paullinus was struck with a great fear. There were wolves inthose forests he knew, though they lived in the unvisited depths ofthe wood and came not near the habitations of men unless they werefierce with famine. But he had heard several times a strange snarlingcry some way off in the wood, and once or twice he had thought he wasbeing softly followed. So he determined to go no further, but to climbup into a tree, if he could find one, and there to spend an uneasynight. 

He felt about for some time, but could discover nothing but smallsaplings, when he suddenly saw through the trees a light shine, and itcame across him that he had stumbled as it were by accident upon thevillage. So he went forward slowly towards the light--there was notrack here--often catching his feet among brambles and low plants, till the gloom lifted somewhat and he felt a freer air, and saw thathe was in a clearing in the wood. Then he discerned, in front of him, a space of deeper darkness against the sky, what he thought to be theoutline of the roofs of buildings; then the light shone out of awindow near the ground; but presently he came to a stop, for he sawthe light flash and gleam in the ripples of a water that lay in hispath and blocked his way. 

Then he called aloud once or twice; something seemed to stir in thehouse, and presently the light in the window was obscured by the headand shoulders of a man, who pressed to the opening; but there was noanswer. Then Paullinus spoke very clearly, and said that he was aRoman, a traveller who had lost his way. Then a harsh voice told himto walk round the water to the left and wait awhile; which Paullinusdid. 

Soon he heard steps come out of the house and come to the water'sedge. Then he heard sounds as though some one were walking on a hollowboard--then with a word of warning there fell the end of a plank nearhim on the bank, and he was bidden to come across. He did so, thoughthe bridge was narrow and he was half afraid of falling; but in amoment he was at the other side, a dark figure beside him. He wasbidden to wait again, and the figure went out over the water andseemed to pull in the plank that had served as a bridge; and then theman returned and bade him to come forward. Paullinus followed thefigure, and in a moment he could see the dark eaves of a long, lowhouse before him, very rudely but strongly built; then a door wasopened showing a lighted room within, and he was bidden to stepforward and enter. 

He found himself in a large, bare chamber, the walls and ceiling of adark wood. A pine torch flared and dripped in a socket. There were oneor two rough seats and a table spread with a meal. At the end of theroom there were some bricks piled for a fireplace with charred ashesand a smouldering log among them, for though it was still summer thenights began to be brisk. On the walls hung some implements; a spadeand a hoe, a spear, a sword, some knives and javelins. He thatinhabited it seemed to be part a tiller of the soil and part ahuntsman; but there were other things of which Paullinus could notguess the use--hooks and pronged forks. There were skins of beasts onthe floor, and on the ceiling hung bundles of herbs and dried meats. The air was pungent with pine-smoke. He recognised the man at once asthe same that he had seen beside the pool; and he looked to Paullinuseven stranger and more dangerous than he had seemed before. He seemedtoo to be on his guard against some terror, and held in his hand aclub, as though he were ready to use it. 

Presently he said a few words in a harsh voice: "You are a Roman, " heasked; "how may I know it?" "I do not know, " said Paullinus, trying tosmile, "unless you will believe my word. " "What is your businesshere?" said the man; "are you a merchant?" "No, " said Paullinus, "Ihave no business, I travel, and I talk with those I meet--perhaps I ama teacher--a Christian teacher. " At this the man's sternness seemed alittle to relax. "Oh, the new faith?" he said, rather contemptuously;"well, I have heard of it--and it will never spread; but I am curiousto know what it really is, and you shall tell me of it. " But suddenlyhis angry terrors came upon him again, and he said, with a frown, "Butwhere were you bound, and whence come you?"

Paullinus, with such calmness as he could muster, for he felt himselfto be in some danger, he scarcely knew what, mentioned the names ofthe villages. "Well, you have missed your way, " said the man. "Why didyou come here to the Temple of Death?" Paullinus had a sudden accessof dread at the words. "Is this the Temple?" he said; "it is the placeI was bidden to avoid. " At this the man gave a fearful kind of smile, like a flash of lightning out of a sombre cloud, and he said, with acertain dark pride, "Ay, there are few that come willingly; but nowyou must abide with me to-night--unless, " he added, with a savagelook, "you have a mind to be eaten by wolves. " "I will certainlystay, " said Paullinus, "I am not afraid--I serve a very mighty Godmyself, who guards his servants if they guard themselves. " "Ay, doesHe?" said the man, with a flash of anger, "then He must needs bestrong;--but I wish you no evil, " he added in a moment. "I think youare a brave man, perhaps a good one--I fear you not. " "There is noneed for you to fear me, " said Paullinus, "my God is a God of peaceand love--and indeed, " he added with a smile, looking at the man'sgreat frame, "I should have thought there was little need for you tofear any one. " This last word seemed to dissolve the man's evil moodall at once, for he put away the club he held, in a corner of theroom, and bade Paullinus eat and drink, which he did gladly. The meatwas a strongly flavoured kind of venison, and there was a rough bread, and a drink that seemed both sweet and strong, and had the taste ofsummer flowers. He praised the food, and the man said to him, "Ay, Ihave learnt to suit it to my taste. I live here in much loneliness, and there is none to help me. "

After the meal the man asked him to tell him something of the newfaith, and Paullinus very willingly told him as simply as he could ofthe Way of Christ. 

The man listened with a sort of gloomy attention. "So it is this, " hesaid at last, "which is taking hold of the world! well, it is prettyenough--a good faith for such as live in ease and security, for womenand children in fair houses; but it suits not with these forests. Thegod who made these great lonely woods, and who dwells in them, is verydifferent, "--he rose and made a strange obeisance as he talked. "Heloves death and darkness, and the cries of strong and furious beasts. There is little peace here, for all that the woods are still--and asfor love, it is of a brutish sort. Nay, stranger, the gods of theselands are very different; and they demand very different sacrifices. They delight in sharp woes and agonies, in grinding pains, in drippingblood and death-sweats and cries of despair. If these woods were allcut down, and the land ploughed up, and peaceful folk lived here inquiet fields and farms, then perhaps your simple, easy-going God mightcome and dwell with them--but now, if he came, he would flee interror. "

"Nay, " said Paullinus, but somewhat sadly, for the man's words seemedto have a fearful truth about them, "the Father waits long and iskind; the victory of love is slow, but it is sure. "

"It is slow enough!" said the man; "these forests have grown herebeyond the memory of man, and they will stand long after you and Ihave been turned to a handful of dust--and so I will serve my godswhile I live. But you are weary, " he added, "and may sleep; fear notany hurt from me; and as for the way you speak of, well, I will saythat I should be content if it had the victory. I am sick at heart ofthe hard rule of these gods--but I fear them, and will serve themfaithfully till I die. "

And then he brought some skins of beasts and heaped them in a cornerof the room for Paullinus, who lay down gladly, and from mereweariness fell asleep. But the priest sat long before the fire inthought; and twice he went to the door and looked out, as if he werewaiting for some tidings. 

Once the opening of the door aroused Paullinus; and he saw the darkfigure of the priest stand in the doorway, and over his head andshoulders a dark still night, pierced with golden stars; and onceagain, when he opened the door a second time, the pure gush of airinto the close room woke Paullinus from a deep sleep; again he saw thepriest stand silent in the door, with his hands clasped behind him;and through the door Paullinus could see the dim ring of dewy woods, that seemed to sleep in quiet dreams; and over the woods a great palelight of dawn that was coming slowly up out of the east. 

But Paullinus fell back into sleep again from utter weariness, as aman might dive into a pool. And when at last he opened his eyes, hesaw that day was come with an infinite sweetness and freshness; thebirds called faintly in the thickets; and the priest was going slowlyabout his daily task, preparing food; and Paullinus, from where helay, smiled at him, and the priest smiled back, as though halfashamed, and presently said, "You have slept deeply, sir; and to sleepas you have done shows that a man is brave and innocent. "

Then Paullinus rose, and would have helped him, but the man said, "Nay, you are my guest; and besides, I do things in a certain order, as all do who live alone, and I would not have any one to meddle withme. " He spoke gruffly, but there was a certain courtesy in his manner. 

Presently the priest asked him to come and eat, and they sat togethereating in a friendly way. The priest was silent, but Paullinus talkedof many things--and at last the priest said, "I thought I loved myloneliness, but it seems that I am pleased to have a companion. Ibelieve, " he added, "that I would be content if you would dwell withme. " And Paullinus smiled in answer, and said, "Ay, it is not good tolive alone. "

A little while after Paullinus said that he must set out on his way, and that he was very grateful for so gentle a welcome; but the priestsaid, "Nay, but you must see the sights of my house and of the temple. Few folk have seen it, and never a foreign man. It is not a merryplace, " he added, "but it will do to make a traveller's tale. "

So he led him to the door, and they went out. Paullinus saw that thehouse where he had spent the night stood on a little square island, with a deep moat all round it, filled with water; the island was allovergrown with bushes and tall plants, except that in one place therewere some pens where sheep and goats were kept; and a path led down tothe landing-place where he had crossed it the night before. But whatat once seized and held the eyes and mind of Paullinus was the temple. He thought he had never seen so grim a place; it rose above the bushesand above the house. It was of very rough stone, all blank of windows, with a roof of stone; the blocks were very large, and Paullinuswondered how they had been brought there. In front there was a lowdoor, and over it a hideous carving, that seemed to Paullinus to bethe work of devils. Apart from the temple, rising among the bushes, stood a rude sculptured figure, with a leering evil face, very roughlybut vigorously cut, with an arm raised as though beckoning people tothe temple. This figure, of a kind of reddish stone, seemed horriblebeyond words to Paullinus. It seemed to him like a servant of Satan, if not Satan himself, frozen into stone. 

The priest looked at Paullinus, who could not help showing hishorror, with a kind of pride. Then he said, "Will you go further? Willyou enter the temple with me, and see what is therein? Perhaps youwill after all bow your head to the gods of the forest. " And Paullinussaid, "Yes, I will go, " and he said a silent prayer to the Lord Christthat He would guard him well. Another path paved with stone led fromthe landing-place to the temple, along which they went slowly; thepriest leading. Arrived at the door, the priest made another strangeobeisance, lifting his hands slowly above his head and closing hiseyes; then he opened the door into the temple itself. There came out afoul and heavy smell that shuddered in the nostrils of Paullinus andleft him gasping somewhat for breath. The priest looked at him with asort of curious wonder, which made Paullinus determine to go further. 

The temple itself was large and dark, a sickly light only filtering inthrough a hole in the roof. The floor was paved, and the roof wassupported by great wooden columns, the trunks of large forest trees. The greater part of the building was shut off by a large woodenscreen, about the height of a man, close to them, so that they stoodin a kind of vestibule. The whole of the building, walls, roof, andfloor, had been painted at some time or other a black colour, whichwas now faded and looked a dark slaty grey. Over the screen in thecentre was seen the head of what seemed an image, very great andhorrible. The light, which came from an opening immediately above theimage, showed a horned and bearded head, misshapen and grotesque. Possibly at another time and place Paullinus might have smiled at theugly thing; but here, peering at them over the screen, in the fetidgloom, it froze the blood in his veins. 

And now behind the screen were strange sounds as well, a kind ofheavy breathing or snorting, and what seemed the scratching of somebeast. The priest went up to the screen and opened a sort of panel init; this was followed by a hoarse and hideous outcry within, half offear and half of rage. The priest took from an angle of the wall along pole shod with iron, and leaned within the opening, saying in astern tone some words that Paullinus did not understand. Presently thenoises ceased, and the priest, using a great effort, seemed to pull orpush at something with the pole, and there was the sound as of a greatgate turning on its hinges. Then he drew his head and arms out, andsaid to Paullinus, "We may enter. " He then threw a door open in themiddle of the screen and went in. Paullinus followed. 

In front of them stood a great statue on a pedestal; the figure of athing, half-man half-goat, crouched as though to spring. The smell wasstill more horrible within, and it became clear to Paullinus that hewas in the lair of some ravenous and filthy beast. There lay a mess ofbones underneath the statue. To the left, in the wall, there was astrong oaken door, made like a portcullis, which seemed to close theentrance of a den; something seemed to move and stir in the blackness, and Paullinus heard the sound of heavy breathing within. The priest, still holding the pole in his hand, led the way round to the back ofthe statue. Here, set into the wall, were a number of stone slabs, with what seemed to be a name upon each, rudely carved. 

The priest pointed to these and said, "Those are the names of thepriests of this shrine. And now, " he went on, "I will tell you a thingwhich is in my mind--I know not why I should wish to say it--but itseems to me that I have a great desire to tell you all and keepnothing back; and I tell you this, though you may turn from me withshame and horror. We have a law that if a man be condemned to deathfor a certain crime--if he have slain one of his kin--he is bound to atree in the forest to be devoured piecemeal by the wolves. But ifthere seem to be cause or excuse for the deed that he has done, thenhe is allowed to purchase his life on one condition--he may come tothis place and slay the priest who serves here, if he can, or himselfbe slain. And if he slay him he reigns in his stead until he himselfbe slain. And the rites of this place are these: all of this tribe whomay be guilty of the slaying of a man by secret or open violencewithout due cause are offered here a sacrifice to the god--and that isthe task that I have done and must do till I am myself slain. And herein a den dwells a savage beast--I know not its name and its age isvery great--that slays and devours the guilty. What wonder if a man'sheart grows dark and cruel here; I can only look into my own heart, black as it is, and wonder that it is not blacker. But the gods aregood to me, and have not cursed me utterly. 

"And now I will tell you that when I saw you by the pool, and whenyou called to me in the night, I thought that perchance you had cometo slay me--and then I saw that you were alone, and not guarded as aprisoner would be; but even then my heart was dark, because the godhas had no sacrifice for many a month, and seems to call upon me for avictim--so I had it in my heart to slay you here. And now, " he said, "I have opened the door of my heart, and you have seen all that is tobe seen. "

And then he looked upon Paullinus as if to know his judgment; andPaullinus, turning to the priest, and seeing that in his heart hedesired what was better, and abode not willingly in the ways of death, said, "Brother, with all my heart I am sorry for you--and I would haveyou turn your heart away from these dark and evil gods--who areindeed, I think, the very spirits of hell--and turn to the Father ofmercy of whom I spoke, with whom there is forgiveness and love for allHis sons, when once they turn to Him and ask His help. "

The priest looked very gently at Paullinus as he spoke; but there camea horrible roaring out of the den, and the beast flung himself againstthe bars as if in rage. 

Then the priest said, "For twenty years I have heard no speech likethis; for twenty years I have lived with death and done wickedness, and all men turn from me with fear and loathing, and speak not anyword to me: I have never looked in a kindly human eye, nor felt thehand of a friend within my own. Judge between me and my sin. I had abrother, an evil man, who made it his pleasure to trouble me. I wasstronger than he, and he feared me. I loved a maiden of our tribe, andshe loved me; and when my brother knew it he went about to do her ahurt, that it might grieve me. One day she went through the forestalone, and never returned, and I, in madness ranging the wood to findher, found the mangled bones of her body. I knew it by the poor tornhair--she had been devoured by wolves--but burying the bones I sawthat the feet were tied together with a cord, and then I knew thatsome one had bound her by violence and left her to be devoured. 

"Then as I returned from burying her, I came upon my brother in aglade of the wood; and he looked upon me with an evil smile, and said, 'Hast thou found her?' And I knew in my heart what he had done, and Islew him where he stood--and then I returned and said what I had done. Then they imprisoned me--for my brother was older than myself, and myenemies said that I had done it to win his inheritance--and at last, after long consulting, they gave me the choice to be devoured ofwolves or to become the priest of Death. I chose the latter, because Iwas mad and hated all mankind. I came to this place at sundown, and myguards left me. I swam the ditch, and knocked at the priest's door; hewas an old man and piteous, who abhorred his trade--and there I seizedhim and slew him with my hands--he was weak and made noresistance--and I flung his body to the beast and carved his name. That is my bitter story--and since then I have lived, accursed anddreaded. These gods are hard taskmasters. " He made a wild gesture ofthe hand and turned his bright eyes upon Paullinus, who stood aghast. 

"The tale is told, " said the priest. "I who have kept silence allthese years have babbled my story to a stranger. Why did I tell you? Ithought that with all your talk of mercy and forgiveness you mighthave a message for my bitter and tired heart--but you shrink from me, and are silent. "

"Nay, " said Paullinus, "shrink from you!--not so--nay, I cling to youmore than ever; come and claim your part in the forgiveness that waitsfor all--you have suffered, you have repented--and the God whom Iserve has comfort and peace for you and for all; His love is wide anddeep--claim your share in it. " And he took the priest's hand in bothof his own. 

There was a horrible roaring behind them as they stood: the greatbeast behind them struck at the bars, but the priest took no heed. 

"If I could, " he said, with his eyes fixed on Paullinus' face. 

"Nay then, " said Paullinus, "if you would it is done already, for Hereads the very secrets of the heart. "

There broke out a loud fierce crashing sound behind them; the greatoaken gate heaved and splintered, and a monstrous beast as huge as ahorse appeared at the mouth of the den; his small head was laid backon his hairy shoulders, his little eyes gleamed wickedly, and his redmouth opened snarling fiercely. The priest turned, and met the rush ofthe beast full. In a moment he was flung to the ground with a dreadfulrending sound. "Save yourself!" he cried. The huge brute glared, withhis foot upon the fallen form, and seemed to hesitate whether toattack his second foe. Paullinus, hardly knowing what he did, seizedthe great iron-pointed pole, and with a firmness of strength which hehad not known himself to possess drove it full into the monster'sgreat throat as it opened its mouth towards him. It made a wild andsickening cry; it raised one foot as though to strike, then it beatthe air and struck once at the head of the prostrate form; then, witha gurgling sound, spitting out a flood of hot blood, it collapsed, rolled slowly on one side. Paullinus, watching it intently and stillholding the pole, thrust it further in with all his might. It quiveredall over, and in a moment lay still. Paullinus made haste to drag thepriest out from beneath--but he saw that all was over; the last blowof the beast had battered in the skull--and besides that the body washorribly mangled and crushed. The limbs of the priest were heavy andrelaxed; his hands were folded together as though in prayer, and hedrew one or two little fluttering breaths, but never opened his eyes. 

Paullinus was like one in a dream at this sudden horror; but he kepthis senses; once or twice the great beast moved, and drummed on thepavement with a horny paw. So Paullinus drew the prostrate body of thepriest outside the screen and closed the door. Then he went with swiftsteps out of the temple and to the water's edge; he drew up a littlewater in his hand, looking into the dark and cool moat. Then he cameback with a purpose in his mind. He sprinkled the water on the poormangled brow; and then, choosing the name of the Apostle whom Jesusmost loved, he said, "John, I baptize thee, _in nomine_, &c. " It waslike a prisoner's release; the straining hands relaxed, and with asigh the new-made Christian presently died. "I doubt I have doneright, " said Paullinus to himself. "He was coming to the Saviour veryswiftly, and I think was at His feet; and if he was not in heart aChristian, the Lord will know when he meets Him in the heavenlyplaces. "

When Paullinus went back to the hut he found a rough mattock. First hedug a great hole; the earth was black and soft, and water oozed sooninto the depths; then with much painful labour he dragged the greatbeast thither, and covered him in from the eye of day; and then hetoiled to dig a grave for the priest--once he stopped to eat a littlefood, but he worked with unusual ease and lightness. But the nightcame down on the forest as he finished the grave--for he did not wishthat the priest should lie within the dreadful temple. 

Then he went back, very weary but not sad; his terrors and distresseshad drawn slowly off from his mind, as he worked in the stillafternoon, under the clear sky, all surrounded by woods; the earthseemed like one who had come from a bath, washed through and throughby the drench of wholesome rains, and the smell of the woods was sharpand sweet. 

Paullinus slept quietly that night, feeling very close to God; but inthe morning, when the dawn was coming up, he was awakened by ashouting outside. His sleep had been so deep and still that he hardlyknew at first where he was, but it all came swiftly back to him; andthen the shouting was repeated. Paullinus rose to his feet and wentslowly out. 

On the edge of the water, where the causeway crossed it, he saw twomen standing, that from their dress seemed to be great chiefs. Behindthem, with his hands bound, and attached by a rope held in the hand ofone of the chiefs, was a young man of a wild and fierce aspect, in thedress of a serf, a rough tunic and leggings. His head was bare, and helooked around him in dismay, like a beast in a trap. Behind, at theedge of the clearing, stood four soldiers silent, with bows strung andarrows fitted to the string. Over the whole group there seemed to bethe shadow of a stern purpose. At the appearance of Paullinus, the twochiefs hurriedly bent together in talk, and looked at him withastonishment. Paullinus came down to the water's edge, when one of thechiefs said, "We have come for the priest; where is he? For he must dohis office upon this man, who hath slain one of his kin by stealth. "

"It is too late, " said Paullinus; "he is dead, and waits for burial. "

Then the chiefs seemed again to confer together, and one of them, witha strange reverence, said, "Then you are the new priest of the temple?And yet it seems strange, for you are not of our nation. "

"Nay, " said Paullinus, "I am a wanderer, a Roman. It was not I whoslew him--it was the great beast who lived in the den yonder; and thebeast have I slain--but come over and let me tell you all the tale. "

So he made haste to put out the bridge, and the two chiefs came overin silence, leaving the prisoner in the hands of the guards whosurrounded him. Paullinus led them to the temple, which he couldhardly prevail upon them to enter, and showed them the dead body, which was a fearful sight enough; then he showed them the broken gateand the empty den, and then he led them to the mound where the beastlay buried, and offered if they would to uncover the body. "Nay, wewould not see him, " said the elder chief in a low voice; "it isenough. "

Paullinus then led them to the hut and told them the story frombeginning to end. The chiefs looked at him with surprise when he toldthem of the beast's death, and one of them said, "I doubt, sir, youslew him by Roman magic--for he was exceedingly strong, and you looknot much of a warrior. " "Nay, " said Paullinus, smiling, "I doubt hewas his own death, as is often the end of evil--he leapt upon thepole: I did but hold it, and the Lord made my hand strong. "

When he had done the story the chiefs spoke together a little in a lowtone. Then one of them said, "This is a strange tale, sir. And itseems to us that you must be a man whom the gods love, for you stayedhere a night with the priest--who was a fierce man and no friend ofstrangers--and received no hurt. And then you have slain the Hound ofDeath, unarmed. But we will ask you to go with us, for we cannotdecide so grave a matter until we have taken counsel with our tribe. Be assured that you shall be used courteously. "

"I will go very willingly, " said Paullinus. "My God did indeed send mehither to do a work which He had prepared for me to do, and I wouldserve His will in all things. "

So they first buried the body of the priest in his grave, and thenthey went together to the village, and messages were sent to thechiefs of the tribe, who came in haste, ten great warriors; and theysat and debated long in low voices. And Paullinus sat withoutwondering that he could feel so calm, for he knew that he was injeopardy. 

So when they had talked a long while they called Paullinus into thecouncil, and the oldest chief, an ancient warrior with silver hair, much bowed with age, told him that they saw that he was a man favouredof God. "I hide it not from you, " he said, "that some of my brethrenhere would have it that death should be your portion, because you havemeddled with sacred and secret things. But I think that it is clearthat you have done no wrong, or otherwise you would have been slain;you spoke but now of the God you serve, and we would hear of Him; fornow that the priest is dead and the beast dead, we say with reverencethat a cloud is lifted from us, and that we have served dark gods toolong. "

So Paullinus spoke of the Father's love and the coming of the Saviouron to the earth; and when he had finished the chiefs thanked him verycourteously, and then they asked him to abide with them and speakagain of the matter. So Paullinus abode there and made many friends, as his manner was. 

Then came a day when the chiefs again held council, and they toldPaullinus that if he would, he should be the priest of the temple andteach what he would there, and that the temple should be cleansed; andthey said that they would not ask him to be the slayer of such as hadkilled a man, for that, they said, seems to belong rather to a warriorthan a priest. 

So Paullinus said that he would abide with them, but that he mustfirst go and be made a priest after his own order; and he departed, but soon returned, and the Temple of Death was made a Church ofChristians. 

Paullinus is an old man now; you may see him walk at evening besidethe water, under the shadow of the church. The images have been brokenand defaced; but Paullinus often stops beside a mound, and thinks ofthe bones of the great beast that lie whitening below--and then hestands beside a grave which bears the name of John, and knows that hisbrother, that did evil in the days of his ignorance, but that sufferedsore, will be the first to meet him in the heavenly country, with thelight of God about him; "and perhaps, " says Paullinus to himself, "hewill bear a palm in his hand. "

 THE TOMB OF HEIRI

In the old days, when the Romans were taking Britain for their own, there lived in Cambria a great prince called Heiri. He was fortysummers old; he had long been wed, but had no son to reign after him. Many times had he fought with the Romans, but his tribe had beendriven slowly backward to the northern mountains; here for a time hedwelt in some peace, but the Romans crept ever nearer; and Heiri, whowas a brave and generous prince and a great warrior, was soreafflicted, seeing the end that must come. He dwelt in a high valley ofmoorland, where his tribe kept such herds as yet remained to them. Heiri often asked himself in what he and his people had wronged thegods, that they should be thus vexed; for he was, as it seemed, like awild beast with his back to a wall, fighting with innumerable foes; tothe north and east and south and west lay great mountains, and behindthem to west and north lay the sea; to south and east the Romans heldthe land, so that the Cambrians were penned in a corner. 

One day heavy news came; a great army of the Romans had come by seato the estuary in the south. The next day the scouts saw them marchingup the pass, like ants, in countless numbers, with a train of baggage;and the day after, when the sun went down, the watch-fires burnt in along line across the southern moorland, and the sound of the horns theRomans blew came faintly upon the wind; all day the tribesmen drove intheir cattle up to the great camp, that lay on a low hill in thecentre of the vale. Heiri held a council with his chiefs, and it wasdetermined that next day they should give them battle. 

That night, when Heiri was sitting in his hut, his beloved wifebeside him, there came to see him the chief priest of the tribe; hewas an old man, hard and cruel, and Heiri loved him not; and he hatedHeiri secretly, being jealous of his power; he came in, his whitepriestly robe bound about the waist with a girdle of gold; and Heirirose to do him honour, making a sign to his wife that she should leavethem. So she withdrew softly; then the priest sat down. He asked firstof Heiri whether it was determined to fight on the morrow; and Heirisaid that it was so determined. Then the priest said, "Lord Heiri, to-morrow is the feast of the God of Death; and he claims a victim, ifwe are to be victorious. " Now Heiri hated the sacrifice of men, andthe priest knew it; and so for a while Heiri sat in silence, frowning, and beating his foot upon the ground, while the priest watched himwith bright and evil eyes. Then Heiri said, "To-morrow must many men, both valiant and timid, die; surely that were enough for the god!" Butthe priest said, "Nay, my lord, it is not enough; the law saith thatunless a victim should offer himself, the priests should choose avictim; and the victim must be goodly; for we are in an evil case. "Then Heiri looked at the priest and said, "Whom have ye chosen?" forhe saw that the priests had named a victim among themselves. So thepriest said, "We have named Nefri--be content. "

Now Nefri was a lad of fifteen summers, cousin to Heiri; his fatherwas long dead, and Heiri loved the boy, who was brave and gracious, and had hoped in his heart that Nefri would succeed him as prince ofthe tribe. Then Heiri was very wroth, and said, "Lord priest, that maynot be; Nefri is next of kin to myself, and will grow up a mightywarrior; and he shall be chief after me, if the gods grant him life;look you, to-morrow we shall lose many mighty men; and it may be thatI shall myself fall; for I have been heavy-hearted for many days, andI think that the gods are calling me--and Nefri we cannot spare. "

Then the priest said, "Lord Heiri, the gods choose whom they will bythe mouth of their priests; it were better that Nefri should perishthan that the people should be lost; and, indeed, the gods havespoken; for I prayed that the victim should be shown me, hoping thatit might be some common man; but hardly had I done my prayer, whenNefri came to my hut to bring an offering; and my heart cried out, 'Arise, for this is he. ' The gods have chosen him, not I; and Nefrimust die for the people. "

Then Heiri was grievously troubled; for he reverenced the gods andfeared the priests. And he rose up, with anger and holy fear strivingwithin him; and he said, "Prepare then for the sacrifice; only tellnot Nefri--I myself will bring him--it may be that the gods willprovide another victim. " For he hoped within his heart that the Romansmight attack at dawn, so that the sacrifice should tarry. 

Then the priest rose up and said, "Lord Heiri, I would it wereotherwise; but we must in all things obey the gods; the sacrifice isheld at dawn, and I will go and set all things in order. " So Heirirose and bowed to the priest; but he knew in his heart that the priestsorrowed not, but rather exulted in the victim he had chosen. ThenHeiri sent word that Nefri should come to him, and presently Nefricame in haste, having risen from his bed, with the warm breath ofsleep about him. And there went as it were a sword through Heiri'sheart, to see the boy so fair and gracious and so full of love andbravery. 

Then Heiri made the boy sit beside him, and embraced him with hisarm; and then he said, "Nefri, I have sent for you in haste, for thereis a thing that I must tell you; to-morrow we fight the Romans, andsomething tells me in my heart that it will be our last fight; whetherwe shall conquer or be conquered I know not, but it is a day of doomfor many--and now hearken. I have prayed many times in my heart for ason, but no son is given me; but I hoped that you would reign afterme, if indeed there shall be any people left to rule; and if it sofall out, remember that I spoke with you to-night, and bade you bebrave and just, loving your people and fearing the gods; and forgetnot that I loved you well. "

And Nefri, half in awe and half in eager love for the great prince hiscousin, said, "I will not forget. " Then Heiri kissed him on the cheekand said, "Dear lad, I know it. And now you must sleep, for there is asacrifice at dawn, and you must be there with me; but before yousleep--and I would have you sleep here in my hut to-night--pray to thefather of the gods to guide and strengthen me--for we are as naught inhis hands, and I have a grievous choice to make--a choice betweenhonour and love--and I know not which is the stronger. "

Then Heiri spread a bearskin on the floor and bade Nefri sleep, and hehimself sat long in thought looking upon the embers. And it was quietin the hut--only he saw by the firelight the boy's bright eye watchinghim, till he chid him lovingly, saying, "Sleep, Nefri, sleep. " AndHeiri himself lay down to sleep, for he knew that a weary day offighting lay before him. 

But the priest went to the other chiefs and spake with each of them, saying that the gods had chosen Nefri for the victim of the sacrifice, but that Heiri would fain forbid it. But the priest did worse thanthat, for he told many of the tribesmen the same story, and thoughthey were sorry that Nefri should die, yet they feared the godsexceedingly, and did not think to dispute their will. 

About an hour before the dawn, when there was a faint light in theair, and the breeze began to blow chill from the hills, and the starswent out one by one, the chiefs began to gather their men; and therewas sore discontent in the camp; all night had the rumour spreadbeside the fires and in the huts that Heiri would resist the will ofthe gods and save Nefri from death; and many of the soldiers told thechiefs that if this were so they would not fight; so the chiefsassembled in silence before the hut of Heiri, for they feared himgreatly, but they feared the gods more, and they had resolved thatNefri should die. 

While they stood together Heiri came suddenly out among them. Hecarried a brand in his hand, which lit up his pale face and brightarmour; and he came like a man risen from the dead. 

Then the oldest chief, by name Gryf, drew near, and Heiri asked him ofthe Romans; and the chief said that they were not stirring yet. ThenHeiri held up his hand; every now and then came the crying of cocksout of the camp, but in the silence was heard the faint sound oftrumpets from the moorland, and Heiri said, "They come. "

Then Gryf, the chief, said, "Then must the sacrifice be made inhaste, " and he turned to Heiri and said, "Lord Heiri, it is rumouredin the camp that Nefri is the chosen victim, but that you seek to savehim. " And Heiri looked sternly at him and said, "And wherefore are thepurposes of the gods revealed? Lo, I will bring Nefri myself to thesacrifice, and we shall see what will befall. "

Then the chiefs were glad in their hearts and said, "Lord Heiri, itis well. The ways of the gods are dark, but they rule the lives ofmen, and who shall say them nay?" And Heiri said, "Ay, they are darkenough. "

Then he made order that the scouts should go forth from the camp; andwhile he yet spake the procession of priests in their white robespassed like ghosts through the huts on their way to the temple. AndHeiri said, "We must follow, " and he called to Nefri; but the boy didnot answer. Then Heiri went within and found him sleeping very softly, with his face upon his hand; and he looked upon him for a moment, andthen he put his hand upon his head; and the boy rose up, and Heirisaid, "It is time, dear Nefri--and pray still for me, for the godshave not showed me light. " So Nefri marvelled, and tried to make aprayer; but he was filled with wonder at the thought of the sacrifice, for he had never been present at a sacrifice before--and he wascurious to see a man slain--for the sight of death in those grievousyears of battle had lost its terrors even for children. So Nefri roseup; and Heiri smiled upon him and took the boy's hand, and the twowent out together. 

Then they came with the chiefs through the camp. The precinct of thegoddess was at the upper end, to the north; it was a thick grove ofalders, through which no eye could pierce; and it was approached by aslanting path so that none could see into the precinct. 

So presently they came to the place and entered in; and Heiri felt theboy's hand cold within his own; but it was not fear, for Nefri wasfearless, but only eagerness to see what would be done. 

They passed inside the precinct; none was allowed to enter except thepriests and the chiefs and certain captains. It was a dolorous placein truth. All round ran a wall of high slabs of slate. At the upperend, on a pedestal, stood the image of the god, a rude and evil pieceof handiwork. It was a large and shapeless figure, with handsoutspread; in the head of it glared two wide and cruel eyes, paintedwith paint, red-rimmed and horrible. The pedestal was stained withrusty stains; and at the foot lay a tumbled heap that was like thebody of a man, as indeed it was--for the victim was left lying wherehe fell, until another victim was slain. All around the body sproutedrank grasses out of the paved floor. The priests stood round theimage; the chief priest in front holding a bowl and a long thin knife. Two of them held torches which cast a dull glare on the image. Thechiefs arranged themselves in lines on each side; and Heiri, stillholding Nefri by the hand, walked up to within a few feet of theimage, and there stood silent. 

Then the chief priest made a sign, and at that two other priests cameout with a large box of wood and shovels; and they took the bones ofthe victim up and laid them in the box, in which they clattered asthey fell--and Nefri watched them curiously, but shuddered not; andwhen the poor broken body was borne away, then Nefri began to lookround for the victim, but the priests began a hymn; their loud sadvoices rang out very strangely on the chilly air--and the tribesmenwithout, hearing the sound, trembled for fear and cast themselves uponthe ground. 

Then there was a silence; and the chief priest came forward, and madesigns to Heiri to draw near, and Heiri advanced, and said to Nefri ashe did so, "Now, child, be brave. " And Nefri looked up at Heiri withparted lips; and then it came suddenly into his mind that he wasindeed to be the victim; but he only looked up with a piteous andinquiring glance at Heiri; and Heiri drew him to the pedestal. Thenthere was a terrible silence, and the hearts of the chiefs beat fastfor fear and horror; and some of them turned away their faces, and thetears came to their eyes. 

Then the priest raised his knife, while Nefri watched him; but Heiristepped forward and said, "Lord priest, I have chosen. Hold thy hand. The law saith that a victim must die, and that one may offer himselfto die; ye have chosen Nefri, for none has offered himself. But I bidthee hold; for here I offer myself as a victim to the god. "

Then there was an awful silence, and the priest looked fiercely andevilly upon Nefri, and made as though he would have smitten him; butHeiri seized the priest's hand in both his own, and with greatstrength drove the knife into his own breast, stood for a moment, thenswayed and fell. And as he lay he said, "My father, I come, the lastvictim at the shrine;" and then he drew out the knife, sobbed anddied. But the chiefs crowded round to look upon him; and Gryf said, "We are undone; our king is dead, and who shall lead us?"

Then he scowled evilly upon the priests, and said, "This is yourwork, men of blood--and as ye have slain our king, ye shall fight forus to-day, and see if the god will protect you; then, if he saves you, we shall know that you have spoken truly--and if he saves you not thenye are false priests. " And the chiefs cried assent; and Gryf, theeldest chief, commanded that weapons should be given them, and thatthey should be guarded and fight with the vanguard. But Nefri casthimself upon the body of Heiri and wept sore. But while they stoodcame a scout in terror, and told them that the Romans were indeedadvancing. So the temple was emptied in a moment; and Nefri sat by thebody of the dead and looked upon it. But the chiefs hastened to thewall of the camp; and it was now day; in the light that fell pale andcold from the eastern hills they saw the Romans creeping across themoor, in black dots and patches, and the sound of the horns drewnearer. 

Then they arrayed themselves, and went out in the white morning; andthe women watched from the wall. But Heiri's wife was told the tale, and went to the temple, but dared not enter, for no woman might setfoot therein; and she wailed sitting at the gate, calling upon Heirito come forth; but Heiri lay on his back before the image, the bloodflowing from his breast, while Nefri held his head upon his knee. 

Then went the battle very evilly for the tribe; little by little theywere driven back upon the camp; and they were like sheep without ashepherd--and still the chiefs hoped in the help of the god; but thepriests were smitten down one by one, and last of all the chief priestfell, his bowels gushing from a wound in his side, and cursed the godand died cursing. 

Then the heavens overclouded: blacker and blacker the clouds gathered, with a lurid redness underneath like copper; till a mighty storm fellupon them, just as the Cambrians broke and fled back to the camp, andwatched the steady advance of the Roman line, with the eagles bowingand nodding as they swept over the uneven moor. 

Then suddenly they were aware of a strange thing. Whence it came theyknew not, but suddenly under the camp wall there appeared the figureof a man in armour, on a white horse; it was the form of Heiri as theyhad often seen him ride forth on his white charger to battle; andbehind him seemed to be a troop of dark and shadowy horsemen. Heiriseemed to turn round, and raise his sword in the air, as he had oftendone in life; and then, with a great rending of the heavens, and amighty crash of thunder, the troop of horse swept down upon the Romanline. Then came a fearful sound from the moorland; and those who gazedfrom the wall saw the Romans waver and turn; and in a moment they werein flight, melting away in the moor, as stones that roll from a cliffafter a frost; and all men held their breath in silence; for they sawthe Romans flying and none to pursue, except that some thought thatthey saw the white horse ride hither and thither, and the flash of thewaving sword of Heiri. 

There followed a strange and dreadful night; the list of warriors wascalled and many were absent; from hour to hour a few wounded mencrawled in; and in the morning, seeing that the Romans were not nearat hand, they sent out a party with horses to bring in the wounded andthe dead; all the priests were among the slain; those of the chiefsthat were alive held a meeting and resolved that the camp must now beheld, for the Romans would attack the next day; and they sent thewomen and children, with the herds, away to a secret place in themountains, all but Heiri's wife, who would not leave the camp. 

Then the other chiefs would have made Gryf, the old chief, prince ofthe tribe; but he refused it, saying that Heiri had wished Nefri to bechief, and that none but Nefri should succeed. So search was made forNefri, and he was found in Heiri's hut with Heiri's wife; he hadstayed beside the body till it grew stiff and cold and the eyes hadglazed; and then he had feared to be alone with it, and had creptaway. So they put a crown upon Nefri's head, and each of the chiefs inturn knelt before him and kissed his hand; and Nefri bore himselfproudly but gently, as a prince should, rising as each chiefapproached; and then he was led out before the people, and they weretold that Nefri was prince by the wish of Heiri; and no one disputedthe matter. 

Then in the grey dawn a scout came in haste and said that threeRomans were approaching the camp, and that one was a herald; and theold chief asked Nefri what his will was; and the boy looked him in theface, and said, "Let them be brought hither. " So the chiefs were againsummoned, and the Romans came slowly into the camp. The herald came infront, and he was followed by an officer of high rank, as could beseen from his apparel and the golden trappings of the horse that borehim; and another officer followed behind; and the herald, who knewsomething of the Cambrian language, said that this was the Lord Legatehimself, and that he was come to make terms. 

The chiefs looked at each other in silence, for they knew that theRomans must needs have taken the camp that day if they had assaultedit. The Legate was a young man with a short beard, very much burnt bythe sun, and bearing himself like a great gentleman. He looked abouthim with a careless and lordly air; and when they came into thepresence of the chiefs, the three dismounted; and the Legate lookedround to see which was the prince; then the old chief put Nefriforward, and said to the herald, "Here is our king. " And the Legatebowed to Nefri, and looked at him in surprise; and the herald said inthe Cambrian language to Nefri that the Legate was fain to arrange atruce, or indeed a lasting peace, if that were possible. 

Then the old chief said to Nefri, "My lord, ask him wherefore theLegate has come;" and Nefri asked the herald, and the herald asked theLegate; then the Legate said, smiling, to the herald, "Tell himanything but the truth--say that it is our magnanimity;" and then headded in a lower tone, turning to the other officer, "though the truthis that the men will not dare to attack the place after the rout ofyesterday;" and the Legate added to the herald, "Say that the Romansrespect courage, and have seen that the Cambrians are worthy foes, andwe would not press them hard; it is a peaceful land of allies that wedesire, and not a land conquered and made desolate. " So the heraldrepeated the words. 

Then the old chief bade Nefri say that they must have time toconsider, adding that it would not be well to seem eager for peace. Then he said to the other chiefs, "Yet this is our salvation. " So theyconferred together, and at last it was decided to tell the Legate thatthey would be friends and allies, but that the boundaries of the landmust be respected, and that the Romans must withdraw beyond theboundaries. And this the Legate accepted, and it was determined thatall the land that could be seen from the camp should be left to theCambrians, and that the mountains should be as a wall to them; andthis too the Legate approved. 

So in the space of an hour the Cambrians were relieved of their foes, and were in peace in their own land. And the Legate was royallyentertained; but before he went he asked, through the herald, wherethe great warrior was who had led the last charge on the day before, for he had taken him to be the prince of the land. Then the old chiefsaid, "He is sick and may not come forth. " Then the Legate rode away, and Nefri rode a little way with him to do him honour, and aftercourteous greetings they departed. 

Then the old chief and Nefri talked long together, and they determinedwhat they would do. 

Then the people were assembled, and Nefri spoke first, and said thathe was young and could not put words together; but he added that theold chief knew his will and would announce it. 

Then the old chief stood forward and told the people the story ofHeiri's death and how he had died for the people; and then he toldthem that he had made the priests fight, and that the gods had surelyshown that they were false priests, for they were slain, and the godshad not protected them, and that Nefri was prince by the will ofHeiri. 

And then he said that Heiri with his latest breath had said that heshould be the last victim--and that thus it should be; "for Heiri, " hesaid, "has become a god indeed and fought for us, and has conqueredthe Romans, and, therefore, " he said, "the Lord Nefri has decreed thatthe precinct of the god should not indeed be destroyed--for that wereimpious; but that a great mound should be raised over the place, andthat it should be the tomb of Heiri, and that peaceful offeringsshould be made there, and that it should be kept as a day of festival;and that Nefri himself should be priest as well as prince, and hissuccessors for ever. "

And the people all applauded, for they had dreaded the bloodysacrifices; and the next day and for many days they laboured untilover the whole precinct they had raised a mighty mound, burying theimage of the god; and for Heiri's body they made a chamber of stone, and they laid him therein, with his face upward to the sky, and madegreat lamentation over him. 

When all things were in order a solemn feast was held; and Nefri onthe top of the mound made a sacrifice of fruits and milk, and blessedthe people in the name of Heiri; and he made order that to make theplace more blessed, all weddings should thenceforth be celebrated uponthe mound, so that it should be the precinct of life and not of death. And the people rejoiced. 

That night Nefri slept in the hut of Heiri; and at the dead time ofdarkness, when all was silent in the camp, except for the pacing ofthe sentry to and fro, Nefri awoke, and saw in the hut the form ofHeiri standing, only brighter and fairer than when he lived; and helooked upon Nefri with a smile as though his heart was full of joy;then he came near and said, in a voice like the voice of a distantfall of water, "Nefri, dear child, thou hast done well and wisely; bejust and merciful and loving to all; and rule with diligence, andgrieve not. "

Then Nefri would have asked him of the place wherein his spirit abode, but could not find words; for he was full of wonder, though notafraid. But Heiri smiled again, as though he knew his thoughts, andsaid, "Ask me not that, for I may not tell; but only this I may tellyou, that no man who has lived wisely and bravely need fear thepassage; it is but a flying shadow on the path, like a cloud on thehill; and then he stands all at once in a fairer place; neither needhe fear that he lays aside with the body the work and labour of life;for he works and labours more abundantly, and his labour is done injoy, without fear or heaviness; and for all such spirits is there highand true labour waiting. Therefore, Nefri, fear not; and though Icannot come to thee again--for thou shalt live and be blest--yet willI surely await thee yonder. "

And then there came a darkness, and the form of Heiri seemed to fadegradually away, as though he were withdrawn along some secret path;and there went others with him. And Nefri slept. 

And in the morning came Heiri's wife, and said to Nefri that Heiri hadstood beside her in the night and comforted her; "and I know, " shesaid, "that he lives and waits for me. "

So the land had peace; and Nefri ruled wisely and did justice amongthe mountains by the sea. 

 CERDA

There was once a city of Gaul named Ilitro, a heathen city. It wasencircled by a strong wall, with towers and a moat. There was adrawbridge, for carts to enter the city, which was drawn up at night, for the country was often disturbed by warlike bands; beside the greatdrawbridge was a little bridge, which could be lowered and drawn up aswell; the great bridge was hauled up at sundown, and no cart mightenter the city after that time; but the little bridge could be loweredtill midnight for a traveller, if he was honest. 

The tower was kept by a porter named Cerda, a rough, strong man, whohad an impediment in his speech, and spake with few; he lived allalone in the tower. There were two rooms; in the lower room were theweights which drew up the bridge, and a wheel which wound up thechains, with another wheel for the smaller bridge, and a fireplacewhere the porter cooked his food; in the room above, which wasapproached by a ladder, there was a table and a chair, and a bed ofboards with straw upon it, where he slept. The windows were guarded byshutters, and in winter time it was sorely cold in the tower; but theporter heeded it not, for he was a strong and rough man; he had a wildair, and his long shaggy locks fell on his shoulders. But though hespake little and few spoke to him, he had a loving heart full oftender thoughts which he could not put into words. He was fond offlowers and green trees, and would sometimes walk in the woods thatcame up to the castle wall, in springtime, with a secret joy in thescent of the flowers and their soft bright heads; he liked to watchthe wild animals, and the birds had no fear of him, for he fed themoften with crumbs and grain; and they would come on his window-ledgeand chirp for food. Sometimes a child who passed the bridge wouldsmile at him, and he would smile back and be glad; to some childrenwhom he knew he would shyly give simple presents--carts carved out ofwood, or a wooden sword; but he was so rough and uncouth a man thattheir elders were not pleased that he should speak with them; andindeed most people spoke of him as of one who could be trusted indeedto do hard toil punctually like a beast of burden, but whose mind wasnot wholly sound, but like that of a dog or ox. But he did his duty sofaithfully, and was moreover so strong and fearless, if there was anytroublesome comer to deal with, that he was held to be useful in hisplace. He had no courtesy for grown men, who heeded him no more thanif he had been a machine; but he was kind and gentle with women andmaidens, and would carry their burdens for them into the city, as faras he might--for he was forbidden to go out of sight of the bridge. 

One day, indeed, he had some talk to a grave, quiet man, a traveller, who came like a merchant to the city, and yet seemed to have nobusiness to do. He was indeed a Christian priest, who was on his wayto the West; for there were then a few scattered congregations ofChristians in Gaul, though the faith was not yet known through theland. And the priest, seeing something wistful in the rude porter'seye, something that seemed dumbly to ask for love, asked him if heprayed; and the porter with a stammering tongue said some words of thegods of the land; but the priest, who loved to let the good seed falleven by the wayside, told him of the Father of all, and of the DivineSon who came to teach the world the truth, and was slain by wickedmen. 

Cerda felt a strange hope in his heart, half pity and half joy; andthe priest told him that any man in any place could speak to theFather when he would, and he repeated to him a prayer that he mightsay; but Cerda forgot all the prayer except the first two words, _OurFather_, and, indeed, he did not understand the rest. But he would saythose words over and over as he went about his work, and he would add, out of his own mind, a wish that he might see the Father; for hethought that He might some day come to the city, to see His sonsthere--for the priest had told him that all men were His sons. So theporter kept watch for the Father's coming; and he hoped that he mightknow Him if He came. 

Now one day there was a great storm of rain and wind. The wind beaton the tower, and the rain rustled in the moat; and Cerda at sundowndrew up the dripping bridges, and made all safe, knowing that he wouldnot be disturbed again that night. He sat long that night listening tothe wind, which seemed to have a sad and homeless voice in it, andthen he remembered suddenly that he had not eaten, and he began toprepare his food. He had a little piece of meat in the house, which acitizen had given him, and bread, and a few berries which he hadgathered in the wood; so he began to cook the meat; and it was aboutmidnight, and the storm was fiercer than ever; when in a pause in thegust he thought he heard a cry out of the wood across the moat. Helistened, but it came not again, and so he fell to his cooking. Thenall at once the wind stopped, and he heard the rain whisper on thewall, when suddenly came the cry again, a very faint cry, like thecrying of a child. He threw open the shutter of the window that lookedto the wood, and in the glimmering dark, for there was a sickly lightfrom the moon which laboured among the clouds, he thought he saw alittle figure stand on the edge of the moat. It was dreary enoughoutside, but he went to the wheel and let the small bridge down, andthen he went to the little gate and crossed the slippery plank withcare. 

There, near the lip of the moat, stood a little child, a boy thatseemed to be about ten years old, all drenched and shivering, with hisface streaming with rain. Cerda did not know the child, but asked him, as well as he could for his stammering speech, what he was doing thereand what he desired. The child seemed frightened, and covered his facewith his hands; but Cerda drew his hands away, not unkindly, and felthow cold and wet the little arms were. Then the child said that he hadwandered from the way, and that seeing a light he had come near, andhad found himself on the edge of the moat, and had cried out in caseany one might hear him. Then Cerda asked him again what he was doing;and the child said timidly that he was about his father's business. Cerda was vexed that a father should be so careless of his child, buthe could not understand from the child what the business might be. 

So at last he said that the child must come into the tower with him, and that he would give him shelter for the night, and that in themorning he would make search for his father. But it was not with avery good grace that he said it, because he was now himself wetted;moreover, he was weary, and would fain have eaten his meal and sleptundisturbed. Then the child shrank back from the slippery plank, soCerda lifted him in his arms and carried him across. Then he pulled upthe bridge again and shut the door, but the child seemed ill at ease. So Cerda did what he could to cheer him, wrung the water from hisclothes and hair and covered him with a cloak and made him sit by thefire. Then he gave him of his own meat and drink, and brought theberries, bidding him see how fair they were. And the child ate anddrank, looking at Cerda with wide open eyes and saying nought. 

He looked to Cerda a frail and weakly child, and his wonder and evenanger increased at those that had let such a child be about at thathour; and then he saw that the child was weary, so he carried him upthe ladder, still wrapped in the cloak, and laid him on his bed andbid him sleep; and then he went down softly to satisfy his own hunger, and was surprised to see that the food was not diminished but ratherseemed increased. So Cerda ate and drank, once or twice ascending theladder to see if the child slept. And when at last he seemed to sleep, then Cerda himself went up and sat in his chair and thought that hewould sleep too; but before sleep came upon him he said his words ofprayer many times over, and added his further prayer that he might seethe Father. 

But while he did so it came into his mind how often he had said thesame thing, and yet that nothing had happened to bless him; and hethought that the old priest had told him that the Father alwayslistened to the voice of His sons; but then he bethought him that theFather had so many sons, and so wide a land to see to--though he onlypictured the world as a few villages and towns like his own, with agreater town called Rome somewhere in the East--that he comfortedhimself by thinking that the Father had not had time to visit hiscity, and still less to visit one so humble as himself; and then afear came into his mind that among the travellers who had passed theFather might have passed and he had not recognised him. 

Then at last Cerda slept, his head down upon his breast, and the winddied down outside and left a breathless stillness, save for the dropsthat fell from the eaves of the tower; and then he dreamed a verystrange dream. He thought that he was walking in a wood, and came upona great open space, down into which descended a wide staircase out ofthe sky. It was all dark and cloudy at the top, but the clouds werelit with a fierce inner light that touched the edges, as in a wintersunset, with a hue of flame. From the cloud emerged a figure, at firstdim, like a wreath of cloud, but slowly defining itself into the shapeof a man, who came down slowly and serenely, looking about him as hestepped with a quiet greatness; when he came near the bottom of theladder he beckoned Cerda to approach, who came trembling; but theother smiled so tenderly that Cerda forgot his fears and fell on hisknees at the staircase foot; and the man went down to him and said, "Cerda, thy prayers are heard, and thy patience is noted; and thoushalt indeed see the Father. " And as he said the words a great ray oflight came from the cloud and seemed to brighten all the place. 

Cerda woke with a start, the voice still sounding in his ears; woketo find the room all alight--and he thought for a moment that it wasbroad day, and that he had for the first time neglected his duty andleft the bridge unclosed. But in a moment he saw that it was not thelight of day, but a very pure and white radiance, such as the moonmakes on the face of a still pool in woods, seen afar from a height. The whole room was lit by it, so that he could see the beams of theroof and the rough stones of the wall. Then he saw that the child hadrisen from the bed, and that the radiance seemed brightest all abouthim; it was the same face, but all brightened and glorified; and thechild seemed to be clad in a dim white robe of a soft and cloudliketexture. And then all at once Cerda felt that he was in the presenceof a very high and holy mystery, such as he had hardly dreamed theworld contained, and it came strangely into his mind, with a shock ofawe and almost horror, that this was the child to whom he had spokenimpatiently, whom he had fed and tended, and whose body he had carriedin his arms; and he fell on his knees and hid his face and could notlook on the child's face. 

Then he heard a very low voice that was yet so clear that Cerda feltit would be heard all through the city, that said, "Cerda, good andfaithful servant of God, thou hast believed and therefore hast thouseen, " and "He that hath seen Me hath seen the Father. "

Then there came into Cerda's mind a great rush of beautiful thoughts;it was as though the tower had burst forth into bloom and was allfilled with lilies and roses. He knew that all men were sons of theFather, and that the Father waited for them to come to Him; and he sawthat each man's life was a path which led to the Father, and that therougher the path was the more surely did it conduct them; and he sawtoo, though he could not have said it to another, that it mattered nothow or where a man lived, or how humble or even hateful his task mightbe, since the Father knew best what each of His sons needed, andplaced him where he could best find the way; and he saw, too, thatthose who seemed to wander in misery or even wickedness, were beingsecretly drawn to the Father's heart all the time; all this he saw, and many other high and holy things which it is not possible for humanlips to speak. But he knew in his heart that a peace was given himwhich nothing, not even the heaviest affliction, could ever troubleagain. And then the light died out; and looking up he saw the childonce more, but now very faintly, as though far off but yet near; andthen all was dark. And Cerda slept the sleep of a little child. And inthe morning when he woke, he knew at once that the world was adifferent place. Hunger, cold, and weariness were but like clouds thathid the sun for a season; but the vision was the truth. And he wentabout his daily toil with so joyful a heart that it seemed as thoughhis feet were winged. 

And that day there came by an old citizen, whom Cerda had heard byreport was held to be a Christian; and he looked upon Cerda for amoment in silence, with a kind of wonder in his face. But Cerda couldfind no words to tell him what had befallen him, till the old mansaid, "Can it be, Cerda, that you know the truth? for there seems tobe something in your face which makes me ask you. " And Cerda foundwords to say that though he knew but little of Christ, yet he believedin Him. "Oh, it matters not, " said the other, "what we know _of_Christ, so long as we know _Him_; but you, my brother, " he added, "look as you might look if you had seen the Lord face to face. " "Ithink I have, " said Cerda. And the old man doubted not, but went awaypondering, knowing that the wise and prudent might not know what wasrevealed unto babes. But no man ever knew why for the rest of his days(for he died as a porter) Cerda slept only in his chair, and never laydown upon his bed; or why, before he closed the little gate, he alwaysknelt for a moment to pray where the feet of the child had stood uponthe brink of the moat. 

 LINUS

In the old days there was a rich city of Asia, Cibyra by name, aprosperous place of wealthy merchants, full of large stone houses, with towers to catch the breeze, cloisters full of shadow andcoolness, looking upon garden-closes set with little branching trees, very musical with clear fountains. The land was not yet whollyChristian, but persecution had long ceased, and those in high placescalled themselves by the Saviour's name; but still there were many whowere heathen in all but name, and did not follow the Way, but spoke orthought of the faith as a heavy burden bound on the backs of men. Andthere was much wickedness in such cities as Cibyra, men and womenfollowing the desires of their hearts, and only when sick or tired, orsometimes ashamed, looking fearfully to judgment. 

In Cibyra lived a young man called Linus; he was an orphan; hisfather had been a Greek merchant, struck down in youth by a mysteriousdisease, already a dying man when his little son was born; he hadnamed him Linus, thinking in his heart of an old sad song, sung byreapers, about a young shepherd who had to suffer death, and had beenunwilling to leave the beautiful free life, the woods and hills thathe loved. And his mother had approved the name, partly to please thedying man, and partly because the name had been borne by holy men;soon afterwards she, too, had died, leaving her son to the care of herbrother, a strict and stern Christian, but with a loving heart; sothat Linus had been brought up in simple and faithful ways; and theonly thing that had given anxious thoughts to his uncle was that thechild's great inheritance had become yearly greater, many streets andhouses having been built on the land which belonged to him. But theboy was simple and pure, very docile and dutiful, apt to learn, lovingbeauty in all things, fond of manly exercise, hating riot and eviltalk, generous and noble in body and mind. 

Now just when Linus came of age, his uncle had fallen sick and foundhimself near his end; he had accustomed Linus to the knowledge of hisriches, and had made him understand that his wealth was not only forshow and pleasure, but was to be used generously and wisely, to helpthe humble and poor; and this in his last days was much in histhoughts and often on his lips--though he concealed his coming deathfrom Linus, until at last the boy was roused at night to take leave ofhis uncle, who had been both father and mother to him; and the dyingman's last words had been a prayer for the boy that he might be pureand loving; and then he had sighed and turning to Linus he took hishand and kissed it, and said, "Remember"; and then with another sighhad died, quietly as he had lived; and the boy had known what he meanthim to keep in mind, and that it was a charge to him to be careful andgenerous. 

So Linus was left to himself; he was master of a great house and manyservants, and with the revenues of a prince; and when his grief was alittle abated, and memory was more sweet than sad, he made many planshow to use his wealth; but it is not easy to spend money wisely, andas yet, though he gave a large sum to the deacons for the poorerbrethren, he had not been able to decide how to bestow his wealthbest, and still his inheritance increased. 

Meanwhile his life began to be very full of happiness and pleasure;he loved friendship and merry talk, and music and the sight ofbeautiful things, rich houses and fair men and women; and he had too, besides his wealth and his beauty, much of the fine and fragrant thingthat the Greeks called charm; it was a pleasure to see him move andspeak; in his presence life became a more honourable and delightfulthing, full of far-off echoes and old dreams, and the charm was thegreater because Linus did not know it himself; all men were kindly andgracious to him, wherever he went, and so he thought that it was thesame for all others; he was modest, and he had been brought up not toturn his thoughts upon himself, but to give others their due, and toshow courtesy and respect to all persons, high or low, so that theworld was very tender to him; and in the long summer days, with alittle business, to make, as it were, a solid core to life, withbanquets, and hunting, and military exercises, and the company of theyoung, the days sped very quickly away, divided one from another bydreamless sleep. And his friends became more and more numerous, andthe plans which he had made to use his wealth were put aside for awhile. Sometimes he heard a word spoken or saw glances exchanged whichsomehow cast a little shadow across his mind; but still, men andwomen, knowing his bringing-up, and awed perhaps by his instinctivepurity, put their best side forward for Linus. So that he remainedinnocent, and thought others so. And when sometimes an old friend ofhis uncle's said a grave word to him, or warned him against some ofthose with whom he spent his days, Linus said lightly that he judgedno one, and indeed that he had seen nothing to judge. 

One evening he found himself at a banquet at the house of a rich manwhom for some reason he did not wholly trust. He had hesitated to go, but had put the thought aside, saying to himself that he must not besuspicious. The company had assembled, all being men, and werelistening from an open gallery to a concert of lutes and viols, theplayers being skilfully concealed among the trees of the garden. Itwas twilight, and the blue sky, with a few bright stars, died into aline of pure green, the sharp tops of the cypresses showing very blackagainst it, and the towers of a neighbouring house looking gravelyover. 

Somehow Linus did not wholly like the music; it seemed to him asthough some bright and yet dangerous beast was walking in the darkalleys of the garden, his eyes sparkling; the music, after a lowdescant, rose in a delicious wail of sorrow and sank again, and Linusfelt something wild and passionate stir in his heart and rise inyearning for he knew not what. He looked round at the guests who sator stood in little groups, and he felt again that he had not been wiseto come. There were several persons there who were not well spoken of, luxurious and effeminate men, whom Linus knew only by repute; but atthat moment his host came up and spoke so gently and courteously toLinus, asking him whether he was pleased with the unseen music, thatLinus grew ashamed of his secret thoughts. 

Presently the banquet was ready, and the guests went in little groupsinto a large vaulted hall, kept deliciously cool by a fountain, thatpoured into a marble trough like an altar at the end, with a whitestatue above it of a boy looking earnestly at the water. At the otherend the great doors were open to the garden, and the breeze, heavilyladen with the scent of flowers, came wandering in and stirred theflames of the lamps which stood on high stone brackets along thewalls. Each side of the room was supported by an arcade of stone builtout upon the wall. 

Linus lingered behind a little, looking out into the garden, where heheard the soft talk and laughter of the musicians who were dispersing, and in a moment found himself the last to go in, except for a tallthin man, whom Linus knew only by sight and name, and who had thereputation of eccentricity in the town; he was a secret, silent man, tall and lean, with bright dark eyes. He was seen everywhere, butlived alone in a melancholy tower, where he was said to study much andobserve the courses of the stars, and it was hinted by some peoplethat he was versed in magical books, though he passed for a Christian. He spoke but little in company, and watched others quietly andgravely, with something of a smile, as one might watch a child atplay. But as he belonged to an ancient family, and had a certain fame, he was a welcome guest at many houses. 

This man, whose name was Dion, came up to Linus, and with a courteousgesture asked if he might have the honour to place himself next tohim--"We have many friends in common, " he added; and Linus, who lovedto make a new friend, assented; and so they went in together, and tooktheir places side by side about the middle of the great table; on theother side of Linus sat a man, with an uneasy smile, whom he did notknow, to whom Linus bowed; at first the conversation was low andfitful; the table was abundantly furnished, and the servants were deftand assiduous; Linus was soon satisfied with meat and drink, whichwere circulated almost too plentifully; so that he contented himselfwith refusing the constant proffer of food, kept his full cupuntasted, and found pleasure in the talk of Dion, who told him somecurious legends. 

Soon the talk became louder and more insistent, and frequent laughterbroke out in all directions, but Linus felt more and more in a kind ofpleasant solitude with his new friend. After a pause in the talk, inwhich their thoughts seemed to grapple together, Linus took courage, and said that he was surprised to meet Dion in this company. "Yes, "said Dion, with a slight smile, "and I confess that I was even moresurprised to meet you here; and, moreover, I saw when you came in thatyou were surprised to be here yourself. You thought that you hadtravelled a long way from where you began. "

At those words, which seemed as though his inmost thoughts had beenread, and still more at the glance which accompanied them, Linus felta strange sensation, almost of fear; and in the silence that followedhe heard higher up the table the end of a tale told that seemed to himto be both evil and shameful, and the laugh that followed it brought ablush from his heart to his cheek. "Yes, " said Dion, gravely, asthough answering a question, "you are right to hate that story, andyou feel, I do not doubt, as if it would be well for you to rise andfly such contact. But it would not be well; we must be in the world, but not of it; and if a man can but be sure of keeping his heart clearand bright, he does better to mix with the world; we need not forgetthat the Master Himself was accused of loving the company of publicansand sinners more than that of the scrupulous Pharisees. " These wordsgave Linus a kind of courage and filled him with wonder, and he lookedup at Dion, who was regarding him with dark eyes. 

"Yes, " went on Dion, "the only thing is that a man should not bedeceived by these shows, but should be able to look through and behindthem. This room seems bright and solid enough to us; the laughter isloud; it is all very real and true to us; but I think that you havethe power to see further; look in my eyes for a moment and tell mewhat you see. "

Linus looked at Dion's eyes, and all at once he seemed to stand in alonely and misty place; it seemed like a hill swept with clouds; itwas but for a moment, and then the bright room and the table cameback; but it swam before his eyes. 

"This is very strange, " said Linus. "I do not think that I ever feltthis before. "

Then Dion said, "Look at the wall there opposite to us, between thearches, and tell me what you see. "

The wall between the arches was a plain wall of stone that gave, Linusknew, upon the street; he looked for a moment at the wall and thejoints of the masonry. "I see nothing, " he said, "but the wall and thejointed stones. "

"Look again, " said Dion. 

Linus looked again, and suddenly the wall became blurred, as though asmoke passed over it; then the stones seemed to him to melt into akind of mist, which moved this way and that; all at once the mistsdrew up, rolling off in ragged fringes, and showed him a dark roomwithin, plainly furnished with tall presses; in the centre of the roomwas a table at which a man sat writing in a book, a large volume, writing busily, his hand moving swiftly and noiselessly over thepaper. At the far end of the room was an archway which seemed to leadinto a corridor; but the man never raised his head. He was an old manwith grey hair, clad in a cloudy kind of gown; his face seemed sternand sad; over his head played a curious radiance, as though from someunseen source, which brightened into two clear centres or points oflight over his brows. 

While he still wrote, some one whom Linus could not see verydistinctly came quietly into the room through the archway, carrying inhis arms another volume like the one in which the man was writing; thewriter never raised his head, but Linus saw that he was finishing thelast page of the book; as he finished he pushed it aside withsomething of impatience in his gesture; the other laid the new volumebefore him, and the man began at once to write, as though eager tomake up for the moment's interruption; the other took up the finishedbook, clasped it, and went silently out. 

"This is a very strange thing, " said Linus faltering. "Who would havesupposed there was a room in there? I had thought it gave upon thestreet. "

"There are hidden rooms everywhere, " said Dion; "but I see that youare not satisfied; you may go in and look closer; you cannot interrupthim who writes; he has no eyes but for his task--and no one here willnotice you. "

Linus looked round; it seemed to him indeed as though by some strangeattraction the party had been drawn into two groups right and left ofhim, and that he and Dion were left alone; the merriment was louderand wilder, and frequent peals of laughter indicated to him thetelling of some tale--wicked it seemed to him from the glistening eyesand disordered looks of some of the guests; but the laughter seemed tocome to him far off as through a veil of water. So he rose from hisplace and went into the room. 

It was very plain and severe; the presses round the room seemed tocontain volumes like that in which the man was writing. It was litwith a low radiance of its own, very pure and white. He looked intothe door that led into the corridor; it seemed to be brighter inthere. He stood waiting, undecided. He looked first at the man whowrote; his hand moved with great rapidity, and his face seemedfurrowed and grave; and Linus felt a fear of him, which was increasedby the curious light which seemed to well in fountains from his brow, lighting the grey hair, the book, and the strong white hands. Helooked back and could see the room he had left. The talk fell on hisear with a dreadful clearness, and the laughter sounded not cheerful, but intolerably hateful and evil; he could see Dion, and in his ownplace there sat some one half turned away from him, whom he did notrecognise, though the form seemed somehow familiar. 

While he waited, doubtful as to what he should do, he heard amovement close beside him; and turning saw the messenger who hadbrought the book, a tall serene-looking man, young of feature, butwith a look of age and wisdom about his face. He seemed in some wayfamiliar to him, and this was increased by the half-smiling look whichmet his own. Then the messenger said in a low distinct tone, but asthough sparing of his words, as a man will talk in the presence of onewho is at work, and as though answering a question, "Yes, you maylook--the book is open to all. " And as he said the words he made alittle gesture with his hand as though to indicate that he might drawnearer. Linus at once without hesitation went and stood beside thewriter and looked upon the book. 

For a moment he did not understand, it seemed a record of some talk orother. Then in a moment he saw words which made his cheeks burn, andin another moment it flashed upon him that this was a record of allthat was said in the room he had left. The strangeness of the thoughtscarcely crossed his mind, for he was lost in a kind of terror, ahorror of the thought that what was said so lightly and thoughtlesslyshould be so strictly preserved; he stood for a moment, his eyesfastened on the paper on which the sad syllables shaped themselves, and with his terror there mixed a kind of wild pity for the unhappypeople who were talking thus, thinking that each word died as it fellfrom their lips, and little knew that the record was thus intentlymade. 

He looked up, and at the other side of the writer stood the young manwho had bidden him take his place, who made a gesture, laying hisfinger on his lips as if for silence, while there rang through thehall without the wild laughter which greeted the end of thestory--then he motioned him away. As they went softly away together afew paces, Linus looked at him as though to make sure that what he hadseen was true; the other gave a mournful motion of the head, sayingsoftly, "Yes! every word;" and added, as if to himself, "every idleword. "

Linus stood for a moment as if irresolute; he had an intense longingto go back to the room he had left and tell the guests what he hadseen, to silence by any means in his power the talk, and yet halfaware that he would not be believed, when the other led him quicklyacross the room, and pointed to the door that led to the corridor, laying his hand lightly on his arm. Not knowing what he did, and stilllost in his miserable doubt, Linus obeyed the gentle touch. Theypassed through the door and entered a long silent vaulted corridor, with plain round arches; on one side there were presses which Linusknew in himself were full of similar records; on the right were doors, but all closed. They went on to the end; it was all lit with a solemnholy light, the source of which Linus could not see, and the placeseemed to grow brighter as they advanced, brighter and cooler--for theair of the room they had left was hot and still. 

They went through a door, and Linus found himself in a long largeroom, with arches open to the daylight. He looked through one ofthose, and saw a landscape unfamiliar to him and strangely beautiful. It was a great open flat country, full of lawns and thickets andwinding streams. It seemed to be uninhabited, and had a quiet peacelike a land in which the foot of man had never trodden; far away overthe plain he saw a range of blue hills, very beautiful and still, likethe hills a man may see in dreams. There were buildings there, for hesaw towers and walls, the whole lit with a clear and pearly light, butit was all too distant for him to distinguish anything, and indeedwould have been hardly visible but for the surpassing brightness ofthe air; the breeze that came in was fresh and fragrant, like thebreeze of dawn; and far away to the left he saw what looked like theglint of light on a sea or some wide water, where the day seemed to bebreaking, and coming up with a tranquil joy. 

Linus' heart was so lightened at this sweet place that he only dimlywondered what this strange country was that lay so near the city wherehe dwelt and yet in which he had never set foot. While he stood therehe heard a faint noise of wings, and a bird such as he had never seenappeared flying; but beating its wings and stretching out its feetlike a bird coming home, it alighted for a moment on the parapet, andseemed to Linus' eye like a dove, with sparkling lights upon its headand neck, and with a patient eye; but this was only for a moment; asif it had finished its work, it rose again in the air, and in aninstant was out of sight; but the next moment, another bird appeared;this was a black bird, strong and even clumsy, but it alighted in thesame way on the balustrade, a little further off, and Linus could seeits sparkling eye and strong claws. Then came a little bird like awren, which went as noiselessly as it came; then several birds all atonce. Linus was so much surprised at the sight of these birds that hehad no eyes for anything else, till his guide touched him on the arm, and he looked up and saw that the room was not unoccupied. 

There was a large table of some dark wood in the centre, and by itstood a man who seemed to be reading in a book which lay open on thetable, following the lines with his finger; and Linus thought, thoughhe could not see the face, that as he read he wept. And at the sametime he knew that this was the master of the house, though how he knewit he could hardly explain, except for the awed and reverent look inthe face of his guide; in the presence of the former writer, whom theyhad just left, his guide had borne himself, he now reflected, as theson of a house might bear himself in the presence of an old andtrusted servant, who was valued more for his honesty than for hiscourtesy. 

But here all was different, and Linus too felt a silent awe stealinginto his mind, he knew not why, at the sight of the still and graciousfigure. 

The messenger made a movement with his hand as though Linus were to goforward, so he stepped towards the table; and then he waited, but theman drew a little aside and put the book towards Linus, as though hewere to look at it. Linus looked, and saw that it was one of theformer books of records; and something of the same wistful sadnesscame over him at the thought of all the evil words and deeds that werehere noted. But now there came a great and wonderful surprise; for, asthe man ran his fingers along the lines, they became faint andblurred, and presently the page seemed clean, just as the water diesout of a cloth which is put before a hot fire; it seemed to Linus asthough the writing vanished most speedily when one of the birds lit onthe railing; and presently he was sure of this, for each time that abird came on the ledge the man raised his head a little and seemed toconsider--and all the while the dawn brightened over the sea. 

Then Linus saw that the hand which moved over the page, a beautifulyet strong hand, was strangely scarred; and at this he caught hisbreath, for a thought too deep for utterance came into his heart; andthen, as though the unasked question was answered, came a clear lowvoice which said, "These are the wounds with which I was wounded inthe house of my friends. "

And then, unbidden, but because he could not do otherwise, Linus kneltsoftly down; and the man, tenderly and gently, as a father might tella child a secret by slow degrees, fearful that it might be too hardfor the tender spirit, turned and looked at him, and Linus felt theeyes sink as it were into his soul, and it seemed to him at thatmoment that he had said without the need of speech all that had everbeen in his heart; he felt himself in one instant understood and caredfor, utterly and perfectly, so that he should have no need ever tofear or doubt again; and Linus said softly the only words that cameinto his mind, the words of one who had doubted and was strengthened, "My Lord and my God. "

So he knelt for a moment, and then knew that he was to rise and go, and it seemed to him that the other looked back upon the book withsomewhat of a sigh, as one who was content to work, but had waitedlong. 

So Linus went back down the corridor and through the little room, where the man still sat writing, and stepped into the hall again. 

The hall seemed very dark and fiery after the radiance of that othermorning; the guests were as Linus had left them; Dion sat in hisplace; and just as Linus came to his own chair, it seemed to him thatsome one slipped quietly away; and Dion looked at him with a verytender and inquiring gaze. "Yes, " said Linus, "I have seen. " "And youunderstand?" said Dion. "Yes, " said Linus, "in part--I understandenough. "

When Linus looked round the hall again, he was surprised to find thatwhat had distressed and almost terrified him before, the uproar, theevil mirth, the light-hearted wickedness moved him now more with atender and wondering sorrow; and he asked Dion how it was. "Because, "said Dion, "you have seen the end; and you know that though the way isdark and long, we shall arrive. " "Yes, " he went on, "we shall arrive;there is no doubting that; the Father's heart is wide, and He willbring His sons even from afar. "

 ENVOI

 _Let those whose Hearts and Hands are strong Tell eager Tales of mighty Deeds; Enough if my sequestered Song To hush'd and twilight Gardens leads!_

 _Clear Waters, drawn from secret Wells, Perchance may fevered Lips assuage; The Tales an elder Pilgrim tells To such as go on Pilgrimage. _

 _I wander by the Waterside, In that cool Hour my Soul loves best, When trembles o'er the rippling Tide A golden Stairway to the West. _

 _Such the soft Path my Words would trace, Thus with the moving Waters move; So weave, across the Ocean's Face, A glimmering Stair to Hope and Love. _

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