THE BLUE FLOWER

By Henry Van Dyke

 The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion for something afar From the sphere of our sorrow. --SHELLEY. 

 To THE DEAR MEMORY OF BERNARD VAN DYKE 1887-1897 AND THE LOVE THAT LIVES BEYOND THE YEARS

PREFACE

Sometimes short stories are brought together like parcels in a basket. Sometimes they grow together like blossoms on a bush. Then, of course, they really belong to one another, because they have the same life inthem. 

The stories in this book have been growing together for a long time. Itis at least ten years since the first of them, the story of The OtherWise Man, came to me; and all the others I knew quite well by heart agood while before I could find the time, in a hard-worked life, to writethem down and try to make them clear and true to others. It has been aslow task, because the right word has not always been easy to find, andI wanted to keep free from conventionality in the thought and close tonature in the picture. It is enough to cause a man no little shame tosee how small is the fruit of so long labour. 

And yet, after all, when one wishes to write about life, especiallyabout that part of it which is inward, the inwrought experience ofliving may be of value. And that is a thing which one cannot get inhaste, neither can it be made to order. Patient waiting belongs to it;and rainy days belong to it; and the best of it sometimes comes in thedoing of tasks that seem not to amount to much. So in the long run, Isuppose, while delay and failure and interruption may keep a piece ofwork very small, yet in the end they enter into the quality of it andbring it a little nearer to the real thing, which is always more or lessof a secret. 

But the strangest part of it all is the way in which a single thought, an idea, will live with a man while he works, and take new forms fromyear to year, and light up the things that he sees and hears, and leadhis imagination by the hand into many wonderful and diverse regions. Itseems to me that there am two ways in which you may give unity to a bookof stories. You may stay in one place and write about different themes, preserving always the colour of the same locality. Or you may go intodifferent places and use as many of the colours and shapes of life asyou can really see in the light of the same thought. 

There is such a thought in this book. It is the idea of the search forinward happiness, which all men who are really alive are following, along what various paths, and with what different fortunes! Glimpses ofthis idea, traces of this search, I thought that I could see in certaintales that were in my mind, --tales of times old and new, of lands nearand far away. So I tried to tell them, as best as I could, hoping thatother men, being also seekers, might find some meaning in them. 

There are only little, broken chapters from the long story of life. None of them is taken from other books. Only one of them--the story ofWinifried and the Thunder-Oak--has the slightest wisp of a foundation infact or legend. Yet I think they are all true. 

But how to find a name for such a book, --a name that will tell enough toshow the thought and yet not too much to leave it free? I have borroweda symbol from the old German poet and philosopher, Novalis, to standinstead of a name. The Blue Flower which he used in his romance ofHeinrich von Ofterdingen to symbolise Poetry, the object of his younghero's quest, I have used here to signify happiness, the satisfaction ofthe heart. 

Reader, will you take the book and see if it belongs to you? Whetherit does or not, my wish is that the Blue Flower may grow in the gardenwhere you work. 

AVALON, December 1, 1902. 

CONTENTS

 I. The Blue Flower II. The Source III. The Mill IV. Spy Rock V. Wood-Magic VI. The Other Wise Man VII. I Handful of Clay VIII. The Lost Word IX. The First Christmas-Tree

THE BLUE FLOWER

The parents were abed and sleeping. The clock on the wall ticked loudlyand lazily, as if it had time to spare. Outside the rattling windowsthere was a restless, whispering wind. The room grew light, and dark, and wondrous light again, as the moon played hide-and-seek through theclouds. The boy, wide-awake and quiet in his bed, was thinking of theStranger and his stories. 

"It was not what he told me about the treasures, " he said to himself, "that was not the thing which filled me with so strange a longing. Iam not greedy for riches. But the Blue Flower is what I long for. I canthink of nothing else. Never have I felt so before. It seems as if Ihad been dreaming until now--or as if I had just slept over into a newworld. 

"Who cared for flowers in the old world where I used to live? I neverheard of anyone whose whole heart was set upon finding a flower. Butnow I cannot even tell all that I feel--sometimes as happy as if I wereenchanted. But when the flower fades from me, when I cannot see it in mymind, then it is like being very thirsty and all alone. That is what theother people could not understand. 

"Once upon a time, they say, the animals and the trees and the flowersused to talk to people. It seems to me, every minute, as if they werejust going to begin again. When I look at them I can see what they wantto say. There must be a great many words that I do not know; if I knewmore of them perhaps I could understand things better. I used to love todance, but now I like better to think after the music. "

Gradually the boy lost himself in sweet fancies, and suddenly hefound himself again, in the charmed land of sleep. He wandered in farcountries, rich and strange; he traversed wild waters with incredibleswiftness; marvellous creatures appeared and vanished; he lived withall sorts of men, in battles, in whirling crowds, in lonely huts. He wascast into prison. He fell into dire distress and want. All experiencesseemed to be sharpened to an edge. He felt them keenly, yet they didnot harm him. He died and came alive again; he loved to the height ofpassion, and then was parted forever from his beloved. At last, towardmorning, as the dawn was stealing near, his soul grew calm, and thepictures showed more clear and firm. 

It seemed as if he were walking alone through the deep woods. Seldom thedaylight shimmered through the green veil. Soon he came to a rocky gorgein the mountains. Under the mossy stones in the bed of the stream, heheard the water secretly tinkling downward, ever downward, as he climbedupward. 

The forest grew thinner and lighter. He came to a fair meadow on theslope of the mountain. Beyond the meadow was a high cliff, and in theface of the cliff an opening like the entrance to a path. Dark was theway, but smooth, and he followed easily on till he came near to a vastcavern from which a flood of radiance streamed to meet him. 

As he entered he beheld a mighty beam of light which sprang from theground, shattering itself against the roof in countless sparks, fallingand flowing all together into a great pool in the rock. Brighter was thelight-beam than molten gold, but silent in its rise, and silent in itsfall. The sacred stillness of a shrine, a never-broken hush of joy andwonder, filled the cavern. Cool was the dripping radiance that softlytrickled down the walls, and the light that rippled from them was paleblue. 

But the pool, as the boy drew near and watched it, quivered and glancedwith the ever-changing colours of a liquid opal. He dipped his hands init and wet his lips. It seemed as if a lively breeze passed through hisheart. 

He felt an irresistible desire to bathe in the pool. Slipping off hisclothes he plunged in. It was as if he bathed in a cloud of sunset. Acelestial rapture flowed through him. The waves of the stream were likea bevy of nymphs taking shape around him, clinging to him with tenderbreasts, as he floated onward, lost in delight, yet keenly sensitive toevery impression. Swiftly the current bore him out of the pool, into ahollow in the cliff. Here a dimness of slumber shadowed his eyes, whilehe felt the pressure of the loveliest dreams. 

When he awoke again, he was aware of a new fulness of light, purer andsteadier than the first radiance. He found himself lying on the greenturf, in the open air, beside a little fountain, which sparkled up andmelted away in silver spray. Dark-blue were the rocks that rose at alittle distance, veined with white as if strange words were written uponthem. Dark-blue was the sky, and cloudless. 

All passion had dissolved away from him; every sound was music; everybreath was peace; the rocks were like sentinels protecting him; the skywas like a cup of blessing full of tranquil light. 

But what charmed him most, and drew him with resistless power, was atall, clear-blue flower, growing beside the spring, and almost touchinghim with its broad, glistening leaves. Round about were many otherflowers, of all hues. Their odours mingled in a perfect chord offragrance. He saw nothing but the Blue Flower. 

Long and tenderly he gazed at it, with unspeakable love. At last he feltthat he must go a little nearer to it, when suddenly it began to moveand change. The leaves glistened more brightly, and drew themselves upclosely around the swiftly growing stalk. The flower bent itself towardhim, and the petals showed a blue, spreading necklace of sapphires, out of which the lovely face of a girl smiled softly into his eyes. Hissweet astonishment grew with the wondrous transformation. 

All at once he heard his mother's voice calling him, and awoke in hisparents' room, already flooded with the gold of the morning sun. 

From the German of Novalis. 

THE SOURCE

I

In the middle of the land that is called by its inhabitants Koorma, andby strangers the Land of the Half-forgotten, I was toiling all day longthrough heavy sand and grass as hard as wire. Suddenly, toward evening, I came upon a place where a gate opened in the wall of mountains, andthe plain ran in through the gate, making a little bay of level countryamong the hills. 

Now this bay was not brown and hard and dry, like the mountains aboveme, neither was it covered with tawny billows of sand like the desertalong the edge of which I had wearily coasted. But the surface of it wassmooth and green; and as the winds of twilight breathed across it theywere followed by soft waves of verdure, with silvery turnings of theunder sides of many leaves, like ripples on a quiet harbour. There werefields of corn, filled with silken rustling, and vineyards with longrows of trimmed maple-trees standing each one like an emerald gobletwreathed with vines, and flower-gardens as bright as if the earthhad been embroidered with threads of blue and scarlet and gold, andolive-orchards frosted over with delicate and fragrant blossoms. Red-roofed cottages were scattered everywhere through the sea ofgreenery, and in the centre, like a white ship surrounded by a flock oflittle boats, rested a small, fair, shining city. 

I wondered greatly how this beauty had come into being on the border ofthe desert. Passing through the fields and gardens and orchards, I foundthat they were all encircled and lined with channels full of runningwater. I followed up one of the smaller channels until it came to alarger stream, and as I walked on beside it, still going upward, itguided me into the midst of the city, where I saw a sweet, merry riverflowing through the main street, with abundance of water and a verypleasant sound. 

There were houses and shops and lofty palaces and all that makes a city, but the life and joy of all, and the one thing that I remember best, was the river. For in the open square at the edge of the city there weremarble pools where the children might bathe and play; at the corners ofthe streets and on the sides of the houses there were fountains for thedrawing of water; at every crossing a stream was turned aside to run outto the vineyards; and the river was the mother of them all. 

There were but few people in the streets, and none of the older folkfrom whom I might ask counsel or a lodging; so I stood and knocked atthe door of a house. It was opened by an old man, who greeted mewith kindness and bade me enter as his guest. After much courteousentertainment, and when supper was ended, his friendly manner andsomething of singular attractiveness in his countenance led me to tellhim of my strange journeyings in the land of Koorma and in other landswhere I had been seeking the Blue Flower, and to inquire of him the nameand the story of his city and the cause of the river which made it glad. 

"My son, " he answered, "this is the city which was called Ablis, that isto say, Forsaken. For long ago men lived here, and the river made theirfields fertile, and their dwellings were full of plenty and peace. Butbecause of many evil things which have been half-forgotten, the riverwas turned aside, or else it was dried up at its source in the highplace among the mountains, so that the water flowed down no more. Thechannels and the trenches and the marble pools and the basins besidethe houses remained, but they were empty. So the gardens withered; thefields were barren; the city was desolate; and in the broken cisternsthere was scanty water. 

"Then there came one from a distant country who was very sorrowfulto see the desolation. He told the people that it was vain to dig newcisterns and to keep the channels and trenches clean; for the water hadcome only from above. The Source must be found again and reopened. The river would not flow unless they traced it back to the spring, and visited it continually, and offered prayers and praises beside itwithout ceasing. Then the spring would rise to an outpouring, and thewater would run down plentifully to make the gardens blossom and thecity rejoice. 

"So he went forth to open the fountain; but there were few that wentwith him, for he was a poor man of lowly aspect, and the path upwardwas steep and rough. But his companions saw that as he climbed among therocks, little streams of water gushed from the places where he trod, andpools began to gather in the dry river-bed. He went more swiftly thanthey could follow him, and at length he passed out of their sight. Alittle farther on they came to the rising of the river and there, besidethe overflowing Source, they found their leader lying dead. "

"That was a strange thing, " I cried, "and very pitiful. Tell me how itcame to pass, and what was the meaning of it. "

"I cannot tell the whole of the meaning, " replied the old man, aftera little pause, "for it was many years ago. But this poor man had manyenemies in the city, chiefly among the makers of cisterns, who hated himfor his words. I believe that they went out after him secretly and slewhim. But his followers came back to the city; and as they came the riverbegan to run down very gently after them. They returned to the Sourceday by day, bringing others with them; for they said that their leaderwas really alive, though the form of his life had changed, and that hemet them in that high place while they remembered him and prayed andsang songs of praise. More and more the people learned to go with them, and the path grew plainer and easier to find. The more the Source wasrevisited, the more abundant it became, and the more it filled theriver. All the channels and the basins were supplied with water, and menmade new channels which were also filled. Some of those who were diggersof trenches and hewers of cisterns said that it was their work which hadwrought the change. But the wisest and best among the people knew thatit all came from the Source, and they taught that if it should everagain be forgotten and left unvisited the river would fail again anddesolation return. So every day, from the gardens and orchards andthe streets of the city, men and women and children have gone up themountain-path with singing, to rejoice beside the spring from which theriver flows and to remember the one who opened it. We call it the RiverCarita. And the name of the city is no more Ablis, but Saloma, which isPeace. And the name of him who died to find the Source for us is so dearthat we speak it only when we pray. 

"But there are many things yet to learn about our city, and some thatseem dark and cast a shadow on my thoughts. Therefore, my son, I bid youto be my guest, for there is a room in my house for the stranger; andto-morrow and on the following days you shall see how life goes with us, and read, if you can, the secret of the city. "

That night I slept well, as one who has heard a pleasant tale, with themurmur of running water woven through my dreams; and the next day I wentout early into the streets, for I was curious to see the manner of thevisitation of the Source. 

Already the people were coming forth and turning their steps upward inthe mountain-path beside the river. Some of them went alone, swiftly andin silence; others were in groups of two or three, talking as they went;others were in larger companies, and they sang together very gladly andsweetly. But there were many people who remained working in their fieldsor in their houses, or stayed talking on the corners of the streets. Therefore I joined myself to one of the men who walked alone and askedhim why all the people did not go to the spring, since the life of thecity depended upon it, and whether, perhaps, the way was so long and sohard that none but the strongest could undertake it. 

"Sir, " said he, "I perceive that you are a stranger, for the way is bothshort and easy, so that the children are those who most delight init; and if a man were in great haste he could go there and return in alittle while. But of those who remain behind, some are the busy ones whomust visit the fountain at another hour; and some are the careless oneswho take life as it comes and never think where it comes from; and someare those who do not believe in the Source and will hear nothing aboutit. "

"How can that be?" I said; "do they not drink of the water, and does itnot make their fields green?"

"It is true, " he said; "but these men have made wells close by theriver, and they say that these wells fill themselves; and they havedigged channels through their gardens, and they say that these channelswould always have water in them even though the spring should cease toflow. Some of them say also that it is an unworthy thing to drink froma source that another has opened, and that every man ought to find a newspring for himself; so they spend the hour of the visitation, and manymore, in searching among the mountains where there is no path. "

While I wondered over this, we kept on in the way. There was alreadyquite a throng of people all going in the same direction. And when wecame to the Source, which flowed from an opening in a cliff, almost likea chamber hewn in the rock, and made a little garden of wild-flowersaround it as it fell, I heard the music of many voices and the beautifulname of him who had given his life to find the forgotten spring. 

Then we came down again, singly and in groups, following the river. Itseemed already more bright and full and joyous. As we passed throughthe gardens I saw men turning aside to make new channels through fieldswhich were not yet cultivated. And as we entered the city I saw thewheels of the mills that ground the corn whirling more swiftly, and themaidens coming with their pitchers to draw from the brimming basins atthe street corners, and the children laughing because the marble poolswere so full that they could swim in them. There was plenty of watereverywhere. 

For many weeks I stayed in the city of Saloma, going up themountain-path in the morning, and returning to the day of work and theevening of play. I found friends among the people of the city, not onlyamong those who walked together in the visitation of the Source, butalso among those who remained behind, for many of them were kindand generous, faithful in their work, and very pleasant in theirconversation. 

Yet there was something lacking between me and them. I came not ontofirm ground with them, for all their warmth of welcome and theirpleasant ways. They were by nature of the race of those who dwell everin one place; even in their thoughts they went not far abroad. But Ihave been ever a seeker, and the world seems to me made to wander in, rather than to abide in one corner of it and never see what the rest hasin store. Now this was what the people of Saloma could not understand, and for this reason I seemed to them always a stranger, an alien, aguest. The fixed circle of their life was like an invisible wall, andwith the best will in the world they knew not how to draw me within it. And I, for my part, while I understood well their wish to rest and be atpeace, could not quite understand the way in which it found fulfilment, nor share the repose which seemed to them all-sufficient and lasting. In their gardens I saw ever the same flowers, and none perfect. At theirfeasts I tasted ever the same food, and none that made an end of hunger. In their talk I heard ever the same words, and none that went to thedepth of thought. The very quietude and fixity of their being perplexedand estranged me. What to them was permanent, to me was transient. Theywere inhabitants: I was a visitor. 

The one in all the city of Saloma with whom was most at home was Ruamie, the little granddaughter of the old man with whom I lodged. To her, agirl of thirteen, fair-eyed and full of joy, the wonted round of lifehad not yet grown to be a matter of course. She was quick to feel andanswer the newness of every day that dawned. When a strange bird flewdown from the mountains into the gardens, it was she that saw it andwondered at it. It was she that walked with me most often in the path tothe Source. She went out with me to the fields in the morning and almostevery day found wild-flowers that were new to me. At sunset she drew meto happy games of youths and children, where her fancy was never tiredof weaving new turns to the familiar pastimes. In the dusk she would sitbeside me in an arbour of honeysuckle and question me about the flowerthat I was seeking, --for to her I had often spoken of my quest. 

"Is it blue, " she asked, "as blue as the speedwell that grows beside thebrook?"

"Yes, it is as much bluer than the speedwell, as the river is deeperthan the brook. "

"And is it, " she asked, "as bright as the drops of dew in the moonlight?"

"Yes, it is brighter than the drops of dew as the sun is clearer thanthe moon. "

"And is it sweet, " she asked, "as sweet as the honeysuckle when the dayis warm and still?"

"Yes, it is as much sweeter than the honeysuckle as the night is stillerand more sweet than the day. "

"Tell me again, " she asked, "when you saw it, and why do you seek it?"

"Once I saw it when I was a boy, no older than you. Our house looked outtoward the hills, far away and at sunset softly blue against theeastern sky. It was the day that we laid my father to rest in the littleburying-ground among the cedar-trees. There was his father's grave, andhis father's father's grave, and there were the places for my mother andfor my two brothers and for my sister and for me. I counted them all, when the others had gone back to the house. I paced up and down alone, measuring the ground; there was room enough for us all; and in thewestern corner where a young elm-tree was growing, --that would be myplace, for I was the youngest. How tall would the elm-tree be then?I had never thought of it before. It seemed to make me sad andrestless, --wishing for something, I knew not what, --longing to see theworld and to taste happiness before I must sleep beneath the elm-tree. Then I looked off to the blue hills, shadowy and dream-like, theboundary of the little world that I knew. And there, in a cleft betweenthe highest peaks I saw a wondrous thing: for the place at which I waslooking seemed to come nearer and nearer to me; I saw the trees, therocks, the ferns, the white road winding before me; the enfolding hillsunclosed like leaves, and in the heart of them I saw a Blue Flower, sobright, so beautiful that my eyes filled with tears as I looked. It waslike a face that smiled at me and promised something. Then I heard acall, like the note of a trumpet very far away, calling me to come. Andas I listened the flower faded into the dimness of the hills. "

"Did you follow it, " asked Ruamie, "and did you go away from your home?How could you do that?"

"Yes, Ruamie, when the time came, as soon as I was free, I set out onmy journey, and my home is at the end of the journey, wherever that maybe. "

"And the flower, " she asked, "you have seen it again?"

"Once again, when I was a youth, I saw it. After a long voyage uponstormy seas, we came into a quiet haven, and there the friend who wasdearest to me, said good-by, for he was going back to his own countryand his father's house, but I was still journeying onward. So as I stoodat the bow of the ship, sailing out into the wide blue water, far awayamong the sparkling waves I saw a little island, with shores of silversand and slopes of fairest green, and in the middle of the island theBlue Flower was growing, wondrous tall and dazzling, brighter than thesapphire of the sea. Then the call of the distant trumpet came floatingacross the water, and while it was sounding a shimmer of fog swept overthe island and I could see it no more. "

"Was it a real island, " asked Ruamie. "Did you ever find it?"

"Never; for the ship sailed another way. But once again I saw theflower; three days before I came to Saloma. It was on the edge of thedesert, close under the shadow of the great mountains. A vast lonelinesswas round about me; it seemed as if I was the only soul living uponearth; and I longed for the dwellings of men. Then as I woke in themorning I looked up at the dark ridge of the mountains, and thereagainst the brightening blue of the sky I saw the Blue Flower standingup clear and brave. It shone so deep and pure that the sky grew palearound it. Then the echo of the far-off trumpet drifted down thehillsides, and the sun rose, and the flower was melted away in light. SoI rose and travelled on till I came to Saloma. "

"And now, " said the child, "you are at home with us. Will you not stayfor a long, long while? You may find the Blue Flower here. There aremany kinds in the fields. I find new ones every day. "

"I will stay while I can, Ruamie, " I answered, taking her hand in mineas we walked back to the house at nightfall, "but how long that may be Icannot tell. For with you I am at home, yet the place where I must abideis the place where the flower grows, and when the call comes I mustfollow it. "

"Yes, " said she, looking at me half in doubt, "I think I understand. Butwherever you go I hope you will find the flower at last. "

In truth there were many things in the city that troubled me and made merestless, in spite of the sweet comfort of Ruamie's friendship and thetranquillity of the life in Saloma. I came to see the meaning of whatthe old man had said about the shadow that rested upon his thoughts. Forthere were some in the city who said that the hours of visitation werewasted, and that it would be better to employ the time in gatheringwater from the pools that formed among the mountains in the rainyseason, or in sinking wells along the edge of the desert. Others hadnewly come to the city and were teaching that there was no Source, andthat the story of the poor man who reopened it was a fable, and thatthe hours of visitation were only hours of dreaming. There were manywho believed them, and many more who said that it did not matter whethertheir words were true or false, and that it was of small moment whethermen went to visit the fountain or not, provided only that they workedin the gardens and kept the marble pools and basins in repair and openednew canals through the fields, since there always had been and alwayswould be plenty of water. 

As I listened to these sayings it seemed to me doubtful what the end ofthe city would be. And while this doubt was yet heavy upon me, I heardat midnight the faint calling of the trumpet, sounding along the crestof the mountains: and as I went out to look where it came from, I saw, through the glimmering veil of the milky way, the shape of a blossom ofcelestial blue, whose petals seemed to fall and fade as I looked. So Ibade farewell to the old man in whose house I had learned to love thehour of visitation and the Source and the name of him who opened it; andI kissed the hands and the brow of the little Ruamie who had entered myheart, and went forth sadly from the land of Koorma into other lands, tolook for the Blue Flower. 

II

In the Book of the Voyage without a Harbour is written the record of theten years which passed before I came back again to the city of Saloma. 

It was not easy to find, for I came down through the mountains, and asI looked from a distant shoulder of the hills for the little bay full ofgreenery, it was not to be seen. There was only a white town shiningfar off against the brown cliffs, like a flake of mica in a cleft ofthe rocks. Then I slept that night, full of care, on the hillside, andrising before dawn, came down in the early morning toward the city. 

The fields were lying parched and yellow under the sunrise, and greatcracks gaped in the earth as if it were thirsty. The trenches andchannels were still there, but there was little water in them; andthrough the ragged fringes of the rusty vineyards I heard, instead ofthe cheerful songs of the vintagers, the creaking of dry windlasses andthe hoarse throb of the pumps in sunken wells. The girdle of gardens hadshrunk like a wreath of withered flowers, and all the bright embroidery, of earth was faded to a sullen gray. 

At the foot of an ancient, leafless olive-tree I saw a group of peoplekneeling around a newly opened well. I asked a man who was diggingbeside the dusty path what this might mean. He straightened himself fora moment, wiping the sweat from his brow, and answered, sullenly, "Theyare worshipping the windlass: how else should they bring water intotheir fields?" Then he fell furiously to digging again, and I passed oninto the city. 

There was no sound of murmuring streams in the streets, and down themain bed of the river I saw only a few shallow puddles, joined togetherby a slowly trickling thread. Even these were fenced and guarded so thatno one might come near to them, and there were men going among to thehouses with water-skins on their shoulders, crying "Water! Water tosell!"

The marble pools in the open square were empty; and at one of them therewas a crowd looking at a man who was being beaten with rods. A bystandertold me that the officers of the city had ordered him to be punishedbecause he had said that the pools and the basins and the channels werenot all of pure marble, without a flaw. "For this, " said he, "is theevil doctrine that has come in to take away the glory of our city, andbecause of this the water has failed. "

"It is a sad change, " I answered, "and doubtless they who have caused itshould suffer more than others. But can you tell me at what hour and inwhat manner the people now observe the visitation of the Source?"

He looked curiously at me and replied: "I do not understand you. Thereis no visitation save the inspection of the cisterns and the wells whichthe syndics of the city, whom we call the Princes of Water, carry ondaily at every hour. What source is this of which you speak?"

So I went on through the street, where all the passers-by seemed inhaste and wore weary countenances, until I came to the house where I hadlodged. There was a little basin here against the wall, with a slenderstream of water still flowing into it, and a group of children standingnear with their pitchers, waiting to fill them. 

The door of the house was closed; but when I knocked, it opened and amaiden came forth. She was pale and sad in aspect, but a light of joydawned over the snow of her face, and I knew by the youth in her eyesthat it was Ruamie, who had walked with me through the vineyards longago. 

With both hands she welcomed me, saying: "You are expected. Have youfound the Blue Flower?"

"Not yet, " I answered, "but something drew me back to you. I wouldknow how it fares with you, and I would go again with you to visit theSource. "

At this her face grew bright, but with a tender, half-sad brightness. 

"The Source!" she said. "Ah, yes, I was sure that you would remember it. And this is the hour of the visitation. Come, let us go up together. "

Then we went alone through the busy and weary multitudes of the citytoward the mountain-path. So forsaken was it and so covered with stonesand overgrown with wire-grass that I could not have found it but for herguidance. But as we climbed upward the air grew clearer, and more sweet, and I questioned her of the things that had come to pass in my absence. I asked her of the kind old man who had taken me into his house when Icame as a stranger. She said, softly, "He is dead. "

"And where are the men and women, his friends, who once thronged thispathway? Are they also dead?"

"They also are dead. "

"But where are the younger ones who sang here so gladly as they marchedupward? Surely they, are living?"

"They have forgotten. "

"Where then are the young children whose fathers taught them this wayand bade them remember it. Have they forgotten?"

"They have forgotten. "

"But why have you alone kept the hour of visitation? Why have you notturned back with your companions? How have you walked here solitary dayafter day?"

She turned to me with a divine regard, and laying her hand gently overmine, she said, "I remember always. "

Then I saw a few wild-flowers blossoming beside the path. 

We drew near to the Source, and entered into the chamber hewn in therock. She kneeled and bent over the sleeping spring. She murmured againand again the beautiful name of him who had died to find it. Her voicerepeated the song that had once been sung by many voices. Her tears fellsoftly on the spring, and as they fell it seemed as if the water stirredand rose to meet her bending face, and when she looked up it was as ifthe dew had fallen on a flower. 

We came very slowly down the path along the river Carita, and restedoften beside it, for surely, I thought, the rising of the spring hadsent a little more water down its dry bed, and some of it must flow onto the city. So it was almost evening when we came back to the streets. The people were hurrying to and fro, for it was the day before thechoosing of new Princes of Water; and there was much dispute about them, and strife over the building of new cisterns to hold the stores of rainwhich might fall in the next year. But none cared for us, as we passedby like strangers, and we came unnoticed to the door of the house. 

Then a great desire of love and sorrow moved within my breast, and Isaid to Ruamie, "You are the life of the city, for you alone remember. Its secret is in your heart, and your faithful keeping of the hours ofvisitation is the only cause why the river has not failed altogether andthe curse of desolation returned. Let me stay with you, sweet soul ofall the flowers that are dead, and I will cherish you forever. Togetherwe will visit the Source every day; and we shall turn the people, by ourlives and by our words, back to that which they have forgotten. "

There was a smile in her eyes so deep that its meaning cannot be spoken, as she lifted my hand to her lips, and answered, "Not so, dear friend, for who can tell whether life or death will cometo the city, whether its people will remember at last, or whether theywill forget forever. Its lot is mine, for I was born here, and here mylife is rooted. But you are of the Children of the Unquiet Heart, whosefeet can never rest until their task of errors is completed and theirlesson of wandering is learned to the end. Until then go forth, and donot forget that I shall remember always. "

Behind her quiet voice I heard the silent call that compels us, andpassed down the street as one walking in a dream. At the place where thepath turned aside to the ruined vineyards I looked back. The low sunsetmade a circle of golden rays about her head and a strange twin blossomof celestial blue seemed to shine in her tranquil eyes. 

Since then I know not what has befallen the city, nor whether it isstill called Saloma, or once more Ablis, which is Forsaken. But ifit lives at all, I know that it is because there is one there whoremembers, and keeps the hour of visitation, and treads the steep way, and breathes the beautiful name over the spring, and sometimes I thinkthat long before my seeking and journeying brings me to the Blue Flower, it will bloom for Ruamie beside the still waters of the Source. 

THE MILL

I

How the Young Martimor would Become a Knight and Assay Great Adventure

When Sir Lancelot was come out of the Red Launds where he did many deedsof arms, he rested him long with play and game in a land that is, calledBeausejour. For in that land there are neither castles nor enchantments, but many fair manors, with orchards and fields lying about them; and thepeople that dwell therein have good cheer continually. 

Of the wars and of the strange quests that are ever afoot in Northgalisand Lionesse and the Out Isles, they hear nothing; but are well contentto till the earth in summer when the world is green; and when the autumnchanges green to gold they pitch pavilions among the fruit-trees and thevineyards, making merry with song and dance while they gather harvest ofcorn and apples and grapes; and in the white days of winter for pastimethey have music of divers instruments and the playing of pleasant games. 

But of the telling of tales in that land there is little skill, neitherdo men rightly understand the singing of ballads and romaunts. For oneyear there is like another, and so their life runs away, and they leavethe world to God. 

Then Sir Lancelot had great ease for a time in this quiet land, andoften he lay under the apple-trees sleeping, and again he taught thepeople new games and feats of skill. For into what place soever hecame he was welcome, though the inhabitants knew not his name and greatrenown, nor the famous deeds that he had done in tournament and battle. Yet for his own sake, because he was a very gentle knight, fair-spokenand full of courtesy and a good man of his hands withal, they doted uponhim. 

So he began to tell them tales of many things that have been done inthe world by clean knights and faithful squires. Of the wars against theSaracens and misbelieving men; of the discomfiture of the Romans whenthey came to take truage of King Arthur; of the strife with the elevenkings and the battle that was ended but never finished; of the QuestingBeast and how King Pellinore and then Sir Palamides followed it; ofBalin that gave the dolourous stroke unto King Pellam; of Sir Tor thatsought the lady's brachet and by the way overcame two knights and smoteoff the head of the outrageous caitiff Abelleus, --of these and many likematters of pith and moment, full of blood and honour, told Sir Lancelot, and the people had marvel of his words. 

Now, among them that listened to him gladly, was a youth of good bloodand breeding, very fair in the face and of great stature. His name wasMartimor. Strong of arm was he, and his neck was like a pillar. His legswere as tough as beams of ash-wood, and in his heart was the hungerof noble tatches and deeds. So when he heard of Sir Lancelot theseredoubtable histories he was taken with desire to assay his strength. And he besought the knight that they might joust together. 

But in the land of Beausejour there were no arms of war save such as SirLancelot had brought with him. Wherefore they made shift to fashion aharness out of kitchen gear, with a brazen platter for a breast-plate, and the cover of the greatest of all kettles for a shield, and for ahelmet a round pot of iron, whereof the handle stuck down at Martimor'sback like a tail. And for spear he got him a stout young fir-tree, thepoint hardened in the fire, and Sir Lancelot lent to him the sword thathe had taken from the false knight that distressed all ladies. 

Thus was Martimor accoutred for the jousting, and when he had climbedupon his horse, there arose much laughter and mockage. Sir Lancelotlaughed a little, though he was ever a grave man, and said, "Now must wecall this knight, La Queue de Fer, by reason of the tail at his back. "

But Martimor was half merry and half wroth, and crying "'Ware!" hedressed his spear beneath his arm. Right so he rushed upon Sir Lancelot, and so marvellously did his harness jangle and smite together as hecame, that the horse of Sir Lancelot was frighted and turned aside. Thusthe point of the fir-tree caught him upon the shoulder and came near tounhorse him. Then Martimor drew rein and shouted: "Ha! ha! has Iron-Taildone well?"

"Nobly hast thou done, " said Lancelot, laughing, the while he amendedhis horse, "but let not the first stroke turn thy head, else will thetail of thy helmet hang down afore thee and mar the second stroke!"

So he kept his horse in hand and guided him warily, making feint now onthis side and now on that, until he was aware that the youth grew hotwith the joy of fighting and sought to deal with him roughly and bigly. Then he cast aside his spear and drew sword, and as Martimor wallopedtoward him, he lightly swerved, and with one stroke cut in twain theyoung fir-tree, so that not above an ell was left in the youth's hand. 

Then was the youth full of fire, and he also drew sword and made at SirLancelot, lashing heavily as, he would hew down a tree. But the knightguarded and warded without distress, until the other breathed hard andwas blind with sweat. Then Lancelot smote him with a mighty stroke uponthe head, but with the flat of his sword, so that Martimor's breath wentclean out of him, and the blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell overthe croup of his horse as he were a man slain. 

Then Sir Lancelot laughed no more, but grieved, for he weened that hehad harmed the youth, and he liked him passing well. So he ran to himand held him in his arms fast and tended him. And when the breath cameagain into his body, Lancelot was glad, and desired the youth that hewould pardon him of that unequal joust and of the stroke too heavy. 

At this Martimor sat up and took him by the hand. "Pardon?" he cried. "No talk of pardon between thee and me, my Lord Lancelot! Thou hastgiven me such joy of my life as never I had before. It made me glad tofeel thy might. And now am I delibred and fully concluded that I alsowill become a knight, and thou shalt instruct me how and in what land Ishall seek great adventure. "

II

How Martimor was Instructed of Sir Lancelot to Set Forth Upon His Quest

So right gladly did Sir Lancelot advise the young Martimor of all thecustoms and vows of the noble order of knighthood, and shew how he mightbecome a well-ruled and a hardy knight to win good fame and renown. For between these two from the first there was close brotherhood andaffiance, though in years and in breeding they were so far apart, andthis brotherhood endured until the last, as ye shall see, nor was theaffiance broken. 

Thus willingly learned the youth of his master; being instructed firstin the art and craft to manage and guide a horse; then to handle theshield and the spear, and both to cut and to foin with the sword; andlast of all in the laws of honour and courtesy, whereby a man may rulehis own spirit and so obtain grace of God, praise of princes, and favourof fair ladies. 

"For this I tell thee, " said Sir Lancelot, as they sat together underan apple-tree, "there be many good fighters that are false knights, breaking faith with man and woman, envious, lustful and orgulous. Inthem courage is cruel, and love is lecherous. And in the end they shallcome to shame and shall be overcome by a simpler knight than themselves;or else they shall win sorrow and despite by the slaying of better menthan they be; and with their paramours they shall have weary dole anddistress of soul and body; for he that is false, to him shall none betrue, but all things shall be unhappy about him. "

"But how and if a man be true in heart, " said Martimor, "yet by someenchantment, or evil fortune, he may do an ill deed and one that isharmful to his lord or to his friend, even as Balin and his brotherBalan slew each the other unknown?"

"That is in God's hand, " said Lancelot. "Doubtless he may pardon andassoil all such in their unhappiness, forasmuch as the secret of it iswith him. "

"And how if a man be entangled in love, " said Martimor, "Yet his love beset upon one that is not lawful for him to have? For either he must denyhis love, which is great shame, or else he must do dishonour to the law. What shall he then do?"

At this Sir Lancelot was silent, and heaved a great sigh. Then said he:"Rest assured that this man shall have sorrow enough. For out ofthis net he may not escape, save by falsehood on the one side, or bytreachery on the other. Therefore say I that he shall not assay toescape, but rather right manfully to bear the bonds with which he isbound, and to do honour to them. "'

"How may this be?" said Martimor. 

"By clean living, " said Lancelot, "and by keeping himself from winewhich heats the blood, and by quests and labours and combats wherein thefierceness of the heart is spent and overcome, and by inward joy in thepure worship of his lady, whereat none may take offence. "

"How then shall a man bear himself in the following of a quest?" saidMartimor. "Shall he set his face ever forward, and turn not to right, or left, whatever meet him by the way? Or shall he hold himself ready toanswer them that call to him, and to succour them that ask help of him, and to turn aside from his path for rescue and good service?"

"Enough of questions!" said Lancelot. "These are things whereto each manmust answer for himself, and not for other. True knight taketh counselof the time. Every day his own deed. And the winning of a quest is notby haste, nor by hap, but what needs to be done, that must ye do whileye are in the way. "

Then because of the love that Sir Lancelot bore to Martimor he gavehim his own armour, and the good spear wherewith he had unhorsed manyknights, and the sword that he took from Sir Peris de Forest Savage thatdistressed all ladies, but his shield he gave not, for therein his ownremembrance was blazoned. So he let make a new shield, and in thecorner was painted a Blue Flower that was nameless, and this he gave toMartimor, saying: "Thou shalt name it when thou hast found it, and soshalt thou have both crest and motto. "

"Now am I well beseen, " cried Martimor, "and my adventures are beforeme. Which way shall I ride, and where shall I find them?"

"Ride into the wind, " said Lancelot, "and what chance soever it blowsthee, thereby do thy best, as it were the first and the last. Take notthy hand from it until it be fulfilled. So shalt thou most quickly andworthily achieve knighthood. "

Then they embraced like brothers; and each bade other keep him well; andSir Lancelot in leather jerkin, with naked head, but with his shieldand sword, rode to the south toward Camelot; and Martimor rode into thewind, westward, over the hill. 

III

How Martimor Came to the Mill a Stayed in a Delay

So by wildsome ways in strange countries and through many waters andvalleys rode Martimor forty days, but adventure met him none, blow thewind never so fierce or fickle. Neither dragons, nor giants, nor falseknights, nor distressed ladies, nor fays, nor kings imprisoned could hefind. 

"These are ill times for adventure, " said he, "the world is full of meatand sleepy. Now must I ride farther afield and undertake some ancient, famous quest wherein other knights have failed and fallen. Either Ishall follow the Questing Beast with Sir Palamides, or I shall findMerlin at the great stone whereunder the Lady of the Lake enchanted himand deliver him from that enchantment, or I shall assay the cleansingof the Forest Perilous, or I shall win the favour of La Belle Dame SansMerci, or mayhap I shall adventure the quest of the Sangreal. One orother of these will I achieve, or bleed the best blood of my body. " Thuspondering and dreaming he came by the road down a gentle hill with closewoods on either hand; and so into a valley with a swift river flowingthrough it; and on the river a Mill. 

So white it stood among the trees, and so merrily whirred the wheel asthe water turned it, and so bright blossomed the flowers in the garden, that Martimor had joy of the sight, for it minded him of his owncountry. "But here is no adventure, " thought he, and made to ride by. 

Even then came a young maid suddenly through the garden crying andwringing her hands. And when she saw him she cried him help. At thisMartimor alighted quickly and ran into the garden, where the young maidsoon led him to the millpond, which was great and deep, and made himunderstand that her little hound was swept away by the water and wasnear to perishing. 

There saw he a red and white brachet, caught by the swift stream thatran into the race, fast swimming as ever he could swim, yet by no meansable to escape. Then Martimor stripped off his harness and leaped intothe water and did marvellously to rescue the little hound. But thefierce river dragged his legs, and buffeted him, and hurtled at him, anddrew him down, as it were an enemy wrestling with him, so that he hadmuch ado to come where the brachet was, and more to win back again, withthe brachet in his arm, to the dry land. 

Which when he had done he was clean for-spent and fell upon the groundas a dead man. At this the young maid wept yet more bitterly than shehad wept for her hound, and cried aloud, "Alas, if so goodly a manshould spend his life for my little brachet!" So she took his head uponher knee and cherished him and beat the palms of his hands, and thehound licked his face. And when Martimor opened his eyes he saw the faceof the maid that it was fair as any flower. 

Then was she shamed, and put him gently from her knee, and began tothank him and to ask with what she might reward him for the saving ofthe brachet. 

"A night's lodging and a day's cheer, " quoth Martimor. 

"As long as thee liketh, " said she, "for my father, the miller, willreturn ere sundown, and right gladly will he have a guest so brave. "

"Longer might I like, " said he, "but longer may I not stay, for I ridein a quest and seek great adventures to become a knight. "

So they bestowed the horse in the stable, and went into the Mill; andwhen the miller was come home they had such good cheer with eating ofvenison and pan-cakes, and drinking of hydromel, and singing of pleasantballads, that Martimor clean forgot he was in a delay. And going to hisbed in a fair garret he dreamed of the Maid of the Mill, whose name wasLirette. 

IV

How the Mill was in Danger and the Delay Endured

In the morning Martimor lay late and thought large thoughts of hisquest, and whither it might lead him, and to what honour it should bringhim. As he dreamed thus, suddenly he heard in the hall below a tramplingof feet and a shouting, with the voice of Lirette crying and shrieking. With that he sprang out of his bed, and caught up his sword and dagger, leaping lightly and fiercely down the stair. 

There he saw three foul churls, whereof two strove with the miller, beating him with great clubs, while the third would master the Maid anddrag her away to do her shame, but she fought shrewdly. Then Martimorrushed upon the churls, shouting for joy, and there was a great medleyof breaking chairs and tables and cursing and smiting, and with hissword he gave horrible strokes. 

One of the knaves that fought with the miller, he smote upon theshoulder and clave him to the navel. And at the other he foined fiercelyso that the point of the sword went through his back and stuck fast inthe wall. But the third knave, that was the biggest and the blackest, and strove to bear away the Maid, left bold of her, and leaped uponMartimor and caught him by the middle and crushed him so that his ribscracked. 

Thus they weltered and wrung together, and now one of them was aboveand now the other; and ever as they wallowed Martimor smote him with hisdagger, but there came forth no blood, only water. 

Then the black churl broke away from him and ran out at the door of themill, and Martimor after. So they ran through the garden to the river, and there the churl sprang into the water, and swept away raging andfoaming. And as he went he shouted, "Yet will I put thee to the worse, and mar the Mill, and have the Maid!"'

Then Martimor cried, "Never while I live shalt thou mar the Mill or havethe Maid, thou foul, black, misbegotten churl!" So he returned to theMill, and there the damsel Lirette made him to understand that thesethree churls were long time enemies of the Mill, and sought ever todestroy it and to do despite to her and her father. One of them wasIgnis, and another was Ventus, and these were the twain that he hadsmitten. But the third, that fled down the river (and he was ever thefiercest and the most outrageous), his name was Flumen, for he dwelt inthe caves of the stream, and was the master of it before the Mill wasbuilt. 

"And now, " wept the Maid, "he must have had his will with me and withthe Mill, but for God's mercy, thanked be our Lord Jesus!"

"Thank me too, " said Mlartimor. 

"So I do, " said Lirette, and she kissed him. "Yet am I heavy at heartand fearful, for my father is sorely mishandled and his arm is broken, so that he cannot tend the Mill nor guard it. And Flumen is escaped;surely he will harm us again. Now I know not, where I shall look forhelp. "

"Why not here?" said Martimor. 

Then Lirette looked him in the face, smiling a little sorrily. "But thouridest in a quest, " quoth she, "thou mayst not stay from thy adventures. "

"A month, " said he. 

"Till my father be well?" said she. 

"A month, " said he. 

"Till thou hast put Flumen to the worse?" said she. 

"Right willingly would I have to do with that base, slippery knaveagain, " said he, "but more than a month I may not stay, for my questcalls me and I must win worship of men or ever I become a knight. "

So they bound up the miller's wounds and set the Mill in order. ButMartimor had much to do to learn the working of the Mill; and they werebusied with the grinding of wheat and rye and barley and divers kinds ofgrain; and the millers hurts were mended every day; and at night therewas merry rest and good cheer; and Martimor talked with the Maid ofthe great adventure that he must find; and thus the delay endured inpleasant wise. 

THE MILL

V

Yet More of the Mill, and of the Same Delay, also of the Maid

Now at the end of the third month, which was November, Martimor madeLirette to understand that it was high time he should ride farther tofollow his quest. For the miller was now recovered, and it was long thatthey had heard and seen naught of Flumen, and doubtless that blackknave was well routed and dismayed that he would not come again. Lirette prayed him and desired him that he would tarry yet one week. ButMartimor said, No! for his adventures were before him, and that hecould not be happy save in the doing of great deeds and the winning ofknightly fame. Then he showed her the Blue Flower in his shield that wasnameless, and told her how Sir Lancelot had said that he must find it, then should he name it and have both crest and motto. 

"Does it grow in my garden?" said Lirette. 

"I have not seen it, " said he, "and now the flowers are all faded. "

"Perhaps in the month of May?" said she. 

"In that month I will come again, " said he, "for by that time it mayfortune that I shall achieve my quest, but now forth must I fare. "

So there was sad cheer in the Mill that day, and at night there camea fierce storm with howling wind and plumping rain, and Martimor sleptill. About the break of day he was wakened by a great roaring andpounding; then he looked out of window, and saw the river in flood, withblack waves spuming and raving, like wood beasts, and driving beforethem great logs and broken trees. Thus the river hurled and hammeredat the mill-dam so that it trembled, and the logs leaped as they wouldspring over it, and the voice of Flumen shouted hoarsely and hungrily, "Yet will I mar the Mill and have the Maid!"

Then Martimor ran with the miller out upon the dam, and they laboured atthe gates that held the river back, and thrust away the logs that wereheaped over them, and cut with axes, and fought with the river. So atlast two of the gates were lifted and one was broken, and the flood randown ramping and roaring in great raundon, and as it ran the black faceof Flumen sprang above it, crying, "Yet will I mar both Mill and Maid. "

"That shalt thou never do, " cried Martimor, "by foul or fair, while thelife beats in my body. "

So he came back with the miller into the Mill, and there was meat readyfor them and they ate strongly and with good heart. "Now, " said themiller, "must I mend the gate. But how it may be done, I know not, forsurely this will be great travail for a man alone. "

"Why alone?" said Martimor. 

"Thou wilt stay, then?" said Lirette. 

"Yea, " said he. 

"For another month?" said she. 

"Till the gate be mended, " said he. 

But when the gate was mended there came another flood and brake thesecond gate. And when that was mended there came another flood and brakethe third gate. So when all three were mended firm and fast, being boundwith iron, still the grimly river hurled over the dam, and the voiceof Flumen muttered in the dark of winter nights, "Yet will Imar--mar--mar--yet will I mar Mill and Maid. "

"Oho!" said Martimor, "this is a durable and dogged knave. Art thoufeared of him Lirette?"

"Not so, " said she, "for thou art stronger. But fear have I of the daywhen thou ridest forth in thy quest. "

"Well, as to that, " said he, "when I have overcome this false devilFlumen, then will we consider and appoint that day. "

So the delay continued, and Martimor was both busy and happy at theMill, for he liked and loved this damsel well, and was fain of hercompany. Moreover the strife with Flumen was great joy to him. 

VI

How the Month of May came to the Mill, and the Delay was Made Longer

Now when the month of May came to the Mill it brought a plenty of sweetflowers, and Lirette wrought in the garden. With her, when the day wasspent and the sun rested upon the edge of the hill, went Martimor, andshe showed him all her flowers that were blue. But none of them was likethe flower on his shield. 

"Is it this?" she cried, giving him a violet. "Too dark, " said he. 

"Then here it is, " she said, plucking a posy of forget-me-not. 

"Too light, " said he. 

"Surely this is it, " and she brought him a spray of blue-bells. 

"Too slender, " said he, "and well I ween that I may not find thatflower, till I ride farther in my quest and achieve great adventure. "

Then was the Maid cast down, and Martimor was fain to comfort her. 

So while they walked thus in the garden, the days were fair and still, and the river ran lowly and slowly, as it were full of gentleness, andFlumen had amended him of his evil ways. But full of craft and guile wasthat false foe. For now that the gates were firm and strong, he found away down through the corner of the dam, where a water-rat had burrowed, and there the water went seeping and creeping, gnawing ever at thehidden breach. Presently in the night came a mizzling rain, and faramong the hills a cloud brake open, and the mill-pond flowed over andunder, and the dam crumbled away, and the Mill shook, and the wholeriver ran roaring through the garden. 

Then was Martimor wonderly wroth, because the river had blotted outthe Maid's flowers. "And one day, " she cried, holding fast to him andtrembling, "one day Flumen will have me, when thou art gone. "

"Not so, " said he, "by the faith of my body that foul fiend shall neverhave thee. I will bind him, I will compel him, or die in the deed. "

So he went forth, upward along the river, till he came to a strait Placeamong the hills. There was a great rock full of caves and hollows, andthere the water whirled and burbled in furious wise. "Here, " thought he, "is the hold of the knave Flumen, and if I may cut through above thisrock and make a dyke with a gate in it, to let down the water anotherway when the floods come, so shall I spoil him of his craft and put himto the worse. "

Then he toiled day and night to make the dyke, and ever by nightFlumen came and strove with him, and did his power to cast him down andstrangle him. But Martimor stood fast and drave him back. 

And at last, as they wrestled and whapped together, they fell headlongin the stream. 

"Ho-o!" shouted Flumen, "now will I drown thee, and mar the Mill and theMaid. "

But Martimor gripped him by the neck and thrust his head betwixt theleaves of the gate and shut them fast, so that his eyes stood outlike gobbets of foam, and his black tongue hung from his mouth like awater-weed. 

"Now shalt thou swear never to mar Mill nor Maid, but meekly to servethem, " cried Martimor. Then Flumen sware by wind and wave, by storm andstream, by rain and river, by pond and pool, by flood and fountain, bydyke and dam. 

"These be changeable things, " said Martimor, "swear by the Name of God. "

So he sware, and even as the Name passed his teeth, the gobbets of foamfloated forth from the gate, and the water-weed writhed away with thestream, and the river flowed fair and softly, with a sound like singing. 

Then Martimor came back to the Mill, and told how Flumen was overcomeand made to swear a pact. Thus their hearts waxed light and jolly, andthey kept that day as it were a love-day. 

VII

How Martimor Bled for a Lady and Lived for a Maid, and how His GreatAdventure Ended and Began at the Mill

Now leave we of the Mill and Martimor and the Maid, and let us speakof a certain Lady, passing tall and fair and young. This was the LadyBeauvivante, that was daughter to King Pellinore. And three falseknights took her by craft from her father's court and led her away towork their will on her. But she escaped from them as they slept by awell, and came riding on a white palfrey, over hill and dale, as fast asever she could drive. 

Thus she came to the Mill, and her palfrey was spent, and there she tookrefuge, beseeching Martimor that he would hide her, and defend her fromthose caitiff knights that must soon follow. 

"Of hiding, " said he, "will I hear naught, but of defending am I fullfain. For this have I waited. "

Then he made ready his horse and his armour, and took both spear andsword, and stood forth in the bridge. Now this bridge was strait, so that none could pass there but singly, and that not till Martimoryielded or was beaten down. 

Then came the three knights that followed the Lady, riding fiercely downthe hill. And when they came about ten spear-lengths from the bridge, they halted, and stood still as it had been a plump of wood. One rode inblack, and one rode in yellow, and the third rode in black and yellow. So they cried Martimor that he should give them passage, for theyfollowed a quest. 

"Passage takes, who passage makes!" cried Martimor. "Right well I knowyour quest, and it is a foul one. "

Then the knight in black rode at him lightly, but Martimor encounteredhim with the spear and smote him backward from his horse, that his headstruck the coping of the bridge and brake his neck. Then came the knightin yellow, walloping heavily, and him the spear pierced through themidst of the body and burst in three pieces: so he fell on his back andthe life went out of him, but the spear stuck fast and stood up from hisbreast as a stake. 

Then the knight in black and yellow, that was as big as both hisbrethren, gave a terrible shout, and rode at Martimor like a woodlion. But he fended with his shield that the spear went aside, and theyclapped together like thunder, and both horses were overthrown. Andlightly they avoided their horses and rushed together, tracing, rasing, and foining. Such strokes they gave that great pieces were clipped awayfrom their hauberks, and their helms, and they staggered to and frolike drunken men. Then they hurtled together like rams and each batteredother the wind out of his body. So they sat either on one side of thebridge, to take their breath, glaring the one at the other as two owls. Then they stepped together and fought freshly, smiting and thrusting, ramping and reeling, panting, snorting, and scattering blood, for thespace of two hours. So the knight in black and yellow, because he washeavier, drave Martimor backward step by step till he came to the crownof the bridge, and there fell grovelling. At this the Lady Beauvivanteshrieked and wailed, but the damsel Lirette cried loudly, "Up! Martimor, strike again!"

Then the courage came into his body, and with a great might he abraidupon his feet, and smote the black and yellow knight upon the helm by anoverstroke so fierce that the sword sheared away the third part of hishead, as it had been a rotten cheese. So he lay upon the bridge, and theblood ran out of him. And Martimor smote off the rest of his head quite, and cast it into the river. Likewise did he with the other twain thatlay dead beyond the bridge. And he cried to Flumen, "Hide me these blackeggs that hatched evil thoughts. " So the river bore them away. 

Then Martimor came into the Mill, all for-bled; "Now are ye free, lady, "he cried, and fell down in a swoon. Then the Lady and the Maid wept fullsore and made great dole and unlaced his helm; and Lirette cherished himtenderly to recover his life. 

So while they were thus busied and distressed, came Sir Lancelot with agreat company of knights and squires riding for to rescue the princess. When he came to the bridge all bedashed with blood, and the bodies ofthe knights headless, "Now, by my lady's name, " said he, "here hasbeen good fighting, and those three caitiffs are slain! By whose hand Iwonder?"

So he came into the Mill, and there he found Martimor recovered of hisswoon, and had marvellous joy of him, when he heard how he had wrought. 

"Now are thou proven worthy of the noble order of knighthood, " saidLancelot, and forthwith he dubbed him knight. 

Then he said that Sir Martimor should ride with him to the court of KingPellinore, to receive a castle and a fair lady to wife, for doubtlessthe King would deny him nothing to reward the rescue of his daughter. 

But Martimor stood in a muse; then said he, "May a knight have his freewill and choice of castles, where he will abide?"

"Within the law, " said Lancelot, "and by the King's word he may. "

"Then choose I the Mill, " said Martimor, "for here will I dwell. "

"Freely spoken, " said Lancelot, laughing, "so art thou Sir Martimor ofthe Mill; no doubt the King will confirm it. And now what sayest thou ofladies?"

"May a knight have his free will and choice here also?" said he. 

"According to his fortune, " said Lancelot, "and by the lady's favour, hemay. "

"Well, then, " said Sir Martimor, taking Lirette by the hand, "thisMaid is to me liefer to have and to wield as my wife than any dame orprincess that is christened. "

"What, brother, " said Sir Lancelot, "is the wind in that quarter? Andwill the Maid have thee?"

"I will well, " said Lirette. 

"Now are you well provided, " said Sir Lancelot, "with knighthood, and acastle, and a lady. Lacks but a motto and a name for the Blue Flower inthy shield. "

"He that names it shall never find it, " said Sir Martimor, "and he thatfinds it needs no name. "

So Lirette rejoiced Sir Martimor and loved together during theirlife-days; and this is the end and the beginning of the Story of theMill. 

SPY ROCK

I

It must have been near Sutherland's Pond that I lost the way. For therethe deserted road which I had been following through the Highlandsran out upon a meadow all abloom with purple loose-strife and goldenSaint-John's wort. The declining sun cast a glory over the lonely field, and far in the corner, nigh to the woods, there was a touch of thecelestial colour: blue of the sky seen between white clouds: blue of thesea shimmering through faint drifts of silver mist. The hope of findingthat hue of distance and mystery embodied in a living form, the old hopeof discovering the Blue Flower rose again in my heart. But it was onlyfor a moment, for when I came nearer I saw that the colour which hadcaught my eye came from a multitude of closed gentians--the blossomswhich never open into perfection--growing so closely together that theirblended promise had seemed like a single flower. 

So I harked back again, slanting across the meadow, to find the road. But it had vanished. Wandering among the alders and clumps of graybirches, here and there I found a track that looked like it; but as Itried each one, it grew more faint and uncertain and at last came tonothing in a thicket or a marsh. While I was thus beating about the bushthe sun dropped below the western rim of hills. It was necessary to makethe most of the lingering light, if I did not wish to be benighted inthe woods. The little village of Canterbury, which was the goal of myday's march, must lie about to the north just beyond the edge of themountain, and in that direction I turned, pushing forward as rapidly aspossible through the undergrowth. 

Presently I came into a region where the trees were larger and thetravelling was easier. It was not a primeval forest, but a second growthof chestnuts and poplars and maples. Through the woods there ran atintervals long lines of broken rock, covered with moss--the ruins, evidently, of ancient stone fences. The land must have been, in formerdays, a farm, inhabited, cultivated, the home of human hopes and desiresand labours, but now relapsed into solitude and wilderness. What couldthe life have been among these rugged and inhospitable Highlands, onthis niggard and reluctant soil? Where was the house that once shelteredthe tillers of this rude corner of the earth?

Here, perhaps, in the little clearing into which I now emerged. A coupleof decrepit apple-trees grew on the edge of it, and dropped theirscanty and gnarled fruit to feast the squirrels. A little farther on, astraggling clump of ancient lilacs, a bewildered old bush of sweetbrier, the dark-green leaves of a cluster of tiger-lilies, long past blooming, marked the grave of the garden. And here, above this square hollow inthe earth, with the remains of a crumbling chimney standing sentinelbeside it, here the house must have stood. What joys, what sorrows oncecentred around this cold and desolate hearth-stone? What children wentforth like birds from this dismantled nest into the wide world? Whatguests found refuge----

"Take care! stand back! There is a rattlesnake in the old cellar. "

The voice, even more than the words, startled me. I drew away suddenly, and saw, behind the ruins of the chimney, a man of an aspect so strikingthat to this day his face and figure are as vivid in my memory as if itwere but yesterday that I had met him. 

He was dressed in black, the coat of a somewhat formal cut, a longcravat loosely knotted in his rolling collar. His head was bare, andthe coal-black hair, thick and waving, was in some disorder. His face, smooth and pale, with high forehead, straight nose, and thin, sensitivelips--was it old or young? Handsome it certainly was, the face of a manof mark, a man of power. Yet there was something strange and wild aboutit. His dark eyes, with the fine wrinkles about them, had a look ofunspeakable remoteness, and at the same time an intensity that seemedto pierce me through and through. It was as if he saw me in a dream, yet measured me, weighed me with a scrutiny as exact as it was at bottomindifferent. 

But his lips were smiling, and there was no fault to be found, atleast, with his manner. He had risen from the broad stone where hehad evidently been sitting with his back against the chimney, and cameforward to greet me. 

"You will pardon the abruptness of my greeting? I thought you might notcare to make acquaintance with the present tenant of this old house--atleast not without an introduction. "

"Certainly not, " I answered, "you have done me a real kindness, which isbetter than the outward form of courtesy. But how is it that you stayat such close quarters with this unpleasant tenant? Have you no fear ofhim?"

"Not the least in the world, " he answered, laughing. "I know the snakestoo well, better than they know themselves. It is not likely that evenan old serpent with thirteen rattles, like this one, could harm me. Iknow his ways. Before he could strike I should be out of reach. "

"Well, " said I, "it is a grim thought, at all events, that this house, once a cheerful home, no doubt, should have fallen at last to be thedwelling of such a vile creature. "

"Fallen!" he exclaimed. Then he repeated the word with a questioningaccent--"fallen? Are you sure of that? The snake, in his way, may bequite as honest as the people who lived here before him, and not muchmore harmful. The farmer was a miser who robbed his mother, quarrelledwith his brother, and starved his wife. What she lacked in food, shemade up in drink, when she could. One of the children, a girl, wasa cripple, lamed by her mother in a fit of rage. The two boys werene'er-do-weels who ran away from home as soon as they were oldenough. One of them is serving a life-sentence in the State prison formanslaughter. When the house burned down some thirty years ago, the woman escaped. The man's body was found with the head crushedin--perhaps by a falling timber. The family of our friend therattlesnake could hardly surpass that record, I think. 

"But why should we blame them--any of them? They were only acting outtheir natures. To one who can see and understand, it is all perfectlysimple, and interesting--immensely interesting. "

It is impossible to describe the quiet eagerness, the cool glow offervour with which he narrated this little history. It was the manner ofthe triumphant pathologist who lays bare some hidden seat of disease. It surprised and repelled me a little; yet it attracted me, too, for Icould see how evidently he counted on my comprehension and sympathy. 

"Well, " said I, "it is a pitiful history. Rural life is not all peaceand innocence. But how came you to know the story?"

"I? Oh, I make it my business to know a little of everything, and asmuch as possible of human life, not excepting the petty chronicles ofthe rustics around me. It is my chief pleasure. I earn my living byteaching boys. I find my satisfaction in studying men. But you are ona journey, sir, and night is falling. I must not detain you. Or perhapsyou will allow me to forward you a little by serving as a guide. Whichway were you going when you turned aside to look at this dismantledshrine?"

"To Canterbury, " I answered, "to find a night's, or a month's, lodgingat the inn. My journey is a ramble, it has neither terminus nortime-table. "

"Then let me commend to you something vastly better than the tendermercies of the Canterbury Inn. Come with me to the school on Hilltop, where I am a teacher. It is a thousand feet above the village--purerair, finer view, and pleasanter company. There is plenty of room inthe house, for it is vacation-time. Master Isaac Ward is always glad toentertain guests. "

There was something so sudden and unconventional about the invitationthat I was reluctant to accept it; but he gave it naturally and pressedit with earnest courtesy, assuring me that it was in accordance withMaster Ward's custom, that he would be much disappointed to lose thechance of talking with an interesting traveller, that he would farrather let me pay him for my lodging than have me go by, and so on--sothat at last I consented. 

Three minutes' walking from the deserted clearing brought us into atravelled road. It circled the breast of the mountain, and as we steppedalong it in the dusk I learned something of my companion. His name wasEdward Keene; he taught Latin and Greek in the Hilltop School; he hadstudied for the ministry, but had given it up, I gathered, on account ofa certain loss of interest, or rather a diversion of interest in anotherdirection. He spoke of himself with an impersonal candour. 

"Preachers must be always trying to persuade men, " he said. "But what Icare about is to know men. I don't care what they do. Certainly I haveno wish to interfere with them in their doings, for I doubt whetheranyone can really change them. Each tree bears its own fruit, you see, and by their fruits you know them. "

"What do you say to grafting? That changes the fruit, surely?"

"Yes, but a grafted tree is not really one tree. It is two trees growingtogether. There is a double life in it, and the second life, the addedlife, dominates the other. The stock becomes a kind of animate soil forthe graft to grow in. "

Presently the road dipped into a little valley and rose again, breastingthe slope of a wooded hill which thrust itself out from the steeperflank of the mountain-range. Down the hill-side a song floated to meetus--that most noble lyric of old Robert Herrick:

 Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee. 

It was a girl's voice, fresh and clear, with a note of tenderness in itthat thrilled me. Keene's pace quickened. And soon the singer came insight, stepping lightly down the road, a shape of slender whiteness onthe background of gathering night. She was beautiful even in that dimlight, with brown eyes and hair, and a face that seemed to breathepurity and trust. Yet there was a trace of anxiety in it, or so Ifancied, that gave it an appealing charm. 

"You have come at last, Edward, " she cried, running forward and puttingher hand in his. "It is late. You have been out all day; I began to beafraid. "

"Not too late, " he answered; "there was no need for fear, Dorothy. Iam not alone, you see. " And keeping her hand, he introduced me to thedaughter of Master Ward. 

It was easy to guess the relation between these two young people whowalked beside me in the dusk. It needed no words to say that they werelovers. Yet it would have needed many words to define the sense, thatcame to me gradually, of something singular in the tie that boundthem together. On his part there was a certain tone of half-playfulcondescension toward her such as one might use to a lovely child, whichseemed to match but ill with her unconscious attitude of watchful care, of tender solicitude for him--almost like the manner of an elder sister. Lovers they surely were, and acknowledged lovers, for their frankness ofdemeanour sought no concealment; but I felt that there must be

 A little rift within the lute, though neither of them might know it. Each one's thought of the otherwas different from the other's thought of self. There could not be acomplete understanding, a perfect accord. What was the secret, of whicheach knew half, but not the other half?

Thus, with steps that kept time, but with thoughts how wide apart, wecame to the door of the school. A warm flood of light poured out togreet us. The Master, an elderly, placid, comfortable man, gave me justthe welcome that had been promised in his name. The supper was waiting, and the evening passed in such happy cheer that the bewilderments andmisgivings of the twilight melted away, and at bedtime I dropped intothe nest of sleep as one who has found a shelter among friends. 

II

The Hilltop School stood on a blessed site. Lifted high above thevillage, it held the crest of the last gentle wave of the mountainsthat filled the south with crowding billows, ragged and tumultuous. Northward, the great plain lay at our feet, smiling in the sun; meadowsand groves, yellow fields of harvest and green orchards, white roads andclustering towns, with here and there a little city on the bank ofthe mighty river which curved in a vast line of beauty toward the blueCatskill Range, fifty miles away. Lines of filmy smoke, like vanishingfootprints in the air, marked the passage of railway trains acrossthe landscape--their swift flight reduced by distance to a leisurelytransition. The bright surface of the stream was furrowed by a hundredvessels; tiny rowboats creeping from shore to shore; knots of blackbarges following the lead of puffing tugs; sloops with languid motiontacking against the tide; white steamboats, like huge toy-houses, crowded with pygmy inhabitants, moving smoothly on their way to thegreat city, and disappearing suddenly as they turned into the narrowsbetween Storm-King and the Fishkill Mountains. Down there was life, incessant, varied, restless, intricate, many-coloured--down there washistory, the highway of ancient voyagers since the days of HendrikHudson, the hunting-ground of Indian tribes, the scenes of massacre andbattle, the last camp of the Army of the Revolution, the Head-quartersof Washington--down there were the homes of legend and poetry, thedreamlike hills of Rip van Winkle's sleep, the cliffs and caves hauntedby the Culprit Fay, the solitudes traversed by the Spy--all outspreadbefore us, and visible as in a Claude Lorraine glass, in the tranquillucidity of distance. And here, on the hilltop, was our own life;secluded, yet never separated from the other life; looking down uponit, yet woven of the same stuff; peaceful in circumstance, yet ever busywith its own tasks, and holding in its quiet heart all the elements ofjoy and sorrow and tragic consequence. 

The Master was a man of most unworldly wisdom. In his youth a greattraveller, he had brought home many observations, a few views, and atleast one theory. To him the school was the most important of humaninstitutions--more vital even than the home, because it held the firstreal experience of social contact, of free intercourse with other mindsand lives coming from different households and embodying differentstrains of blood. "My school, " said he, "is the world in miniature. If Ican teach these boys to study and play together freely and with fairnessto one another, I shall make men fit to live and work together insociety. What they learn matters less than how they learn it. The greatthing is the bringing out of individual character so that it will findits place in social harmony. "

Yet never man knew less of character in the concrete than Master Ward. To him each person represented a type--the scientific, the practical, the poetic. From each one he expected, and in each one he found, toa certain degree, the fruit of the marked quality, the obvious, thecharacteristic. But of the deeper character, made up of a hundredtraits, coloured and conditioned most vitally by something secret andin itself apparently of slight importance, he was placidly unconscious. Classes he knew. Individuals escaped him. Yet he was a mostcompanionable man, a social solitary, a friendly hermit. 

His daughter Dorothy seemed to me even more fair and appealing bydaylight than when I first saw her in the dusk. There was a purebrightness in her brown eyes, a gentle dignity in her look and bearing, a soft cadence of expectant joy in her voice. She was womanly in everytone and motion, yet by no means weak or uncertain. Mistress of herselfand of the house, she ruled her kingdom without an effort. Busied withmany little cares, she bore them lightly. Her spirit overflowed into thelives around her with delicate sympathy and merry cheer. But it wasin music that her nature found its widest outlet. In the lengtheningevenings of late August she would play from Schumann, or Chopin, orGrieg, interpreting the vague feelings of gladness or grief which lietoo deep for words. Ballads she loved, quaint old English and Scotchairs, folk-songs of Germany, "Come-all-ye's" of Ireland, Canadianchansons. She sang--not like an angel, but like a woman. 

Of the two under-masters in the school, Edward Keene was the elder. The younger, John Graham, was his opposite in every respect. Sturdy, fair-haired, plain in the face, he was essentially an every-day man, devoted to out-of-door sports, a hard worker, a good player, and a soundsleeper. He came back to the school, from a fishing-excursion, afew days after my arrival. I liked the way in which he told of hisadventures, with a little frank boasting, enough to season but not tospoil the story. I liked the way in which he took hold of his work, helping to get the school in readiness for the return of the boys inthe middle of September. I liked, more than all, his attitude to DorothyWard. He loved her, clearly enough. When she was in the room theother people were only accidents to him. Yet there was nothing of thedisappointed suitor in his bearing. He was cheerful, natural, acceptingthe situation, giving her the best he had to give, and gladly takingfrom her the frank reliance, the ready comradeship which she bestowedupon him. If he envied Keene--and how could he help it--at least henever showed a touch of jealousy or rivalry. The engagement was a factwhich he took into account as something not to be changed or questioned. Keene was so much more brilliant, interesting, attractive. He answeredso much more fully to the poetic side of Dorothy's nature. How could shehelp preferring him?

Thus the three actors in the drama stood, when I became an inmate ofHilltop, and accepted the master's invitation to undertake some of theminor classes in English, and stay on at the school indefinitely. It wasmy wish to see the little play--a pleasant comedy, I hoped--move forwardto a happy ending. And yet--what was it that disturbed me now and thenwith forebodings? Something, doubtless, in the character of Keene, forhe was the dominant personality. The key of the situation lay withhim. He was the centre of interest. Yet he was the one who seemed notperfectly in harmony, not quite at home, as if something beckoned andurged him away. 

"I am glad you are to stay, " said he, "yet I wonder at it. You will findthe life narrow, after all your travels. Ulysses at Ithaca--you willsurely be restless to see the world again. "

"If you find the life broad enough, I ought not to be cramped in it. "

"Ah, but I have compensations. "

"One you certainly have, " said I, thinking of Dorothy, "and that one isenough to make a man happy anywhere. "

"Yes, yes, " he answered, quickly, "but that is not what I mean. It isnot there that I look for a wider life. Love--do you think that lovebroadens a man's outlook? To me it seems to make him narrower--happier, perhaps, within his own little circle--but distinctly narrower. Knowledge is the only thing that broadens life, sets it free from thetyranny of the parish, fills it with the sense of power. And love is theopposite of knowledge. Love is a kind of an illusion--a happy illusion, that is what love is. Don't you see that?"

"See it?" I cried. "I don't know what you mean. Do you mean that youdon't really care for Dorothy Ward? Do you mean that what you have wonin her is an illusion? If so, you are as wrong as a man can be. "

"No, no, " he answered, eagerly, "you know I don't mean that. I could notlive without her. But love is not the only reality. There is somethingelse, something broader, something----"

"Come away, " I said, "come away, man! You are talking nonsense, treason. You are not true to yourself. You've been working too hard at yourbooks. There's a maggot in your brain. Come out for a long walk. "

That indeed was what he liked best. He was a magnificent walker, easy, steady, unwearying. He knew every road and lane in the valleys, everyfootpath and trail among the mountains. But he cared little for walkingin company; one companion was the most that he could abide. And, strangeto say, it was not Dorothy whom he chose for his most frequent comrade. With her he would saunter down the Black Brook path, or climb slowly tothe first ridge of Storm-King. But with me he pushed out to the farthestpinnacle that overhangs the river, and down through the Lonely Heartgorge, and over the pass of the White Horse, and up to the peak of Cro'Nest, and across the rugged summit of Black Rock. At every wider outlooka strange exhilaration seemed to come upon him. His spirit glowed likea live coal in the wind. He overflowed with brilliant talk and curiousstories of the villages and scattered houses that we could see from oureyries. 

But it was not with me that he made his longest expeditions. They weresolitary. Early on Saturday he would leave the rest of us, with someslight excuse, and start away on the mountain-road, to be gone all day. Sometimes he would not return till long after dark. Then I could see theanxious look deepen on Dorothy's face, and she would slip away down theroad to meet him. But he always came back in good spirits, talkable andcharming. It was the next day that the reaction came. The black fittook him. He was silent, moody, bitter. Holding himself aloof, yet nevergiving utterance to any irritation, he seemed half-unconsciously toresent the claims of love and friendship, as if they irked him. Therewas a look in his eyes as if he measured us, weighed us, analysed us allas strangers. 

Yes, even Dorothy. I have seen her go to meet him with a flower inher hand that she had plucked for him, and turn away with her lipstrembling, too proud to say a word, dropping the flower on the grass. John Graham saw it, too. He waited till she was gone; then he picked upthe flower and kept it. 

There was nothing to take offence at, nothing on which one could lay afinger; only these singular alternations of mood which made Keene nowthe most delightful of friends, now an intimate stranger in the circle. The change was inexplicable. But certainly it seemed to have someconnection, as cause or consequence, with his long, lonely walks. 

Once, when he was absent, we spoke of his remarkable fluctuations ofspirit. 

The master labelled him. "He is an idealist, a dreamer. They are alwaysuncertain. "

I blamed him. "He gives way too much to his moods. He lacksself-control. He is in danger of spoiling a fine nature. "

I looked at Dorothy. She defended him. "Why should he be always thesame? He is too great for that. His thoughts make him restless, andsometimes he is tired. Surely you wouldn't have him act what he don'tfeel. Why do you want him to do that?"

"I don't know, " said Graham, with a short laugh. "None of us know. Butwhat we all want just now is music. Dorothy, will you sing a little forus?"

So she sang "The Coulin, " and "The Days o' the Kerry Dancin', " and "TheHawthorn Tree, " and "The Green Woods of Truigha, " and "Flowers o' theForest, " and "A la claire Fontaine, " until the twilight was filled withpeace. 

The boys came back to the school. The wheels of routine began to turnagain, slowly and with a little friction at first, then smoothly andswiftly as if they had never stopped. Summer reddened into autumn;autumn bronzed into fall. The maples and poplars were bare. The oaksalone kept their rusted crimson glory, and the cloaks of spruce andhemlock on the shoulders of the hills grew dark with wintry foliage. Keene's transitions of mood became more frequent and more extreme. Thegulf of isolation that divided him from us when the black days cameseemed wider and more unfathomable. Dorothy and John Graham werethrown more constantly together. Keene appeared to encourage theircompanionship. He watched them curiously, sometimes, not as if hewere jealous, but rather as if he were interested in some delicateexperiment. At other times he would be singularly indifferent toeverything, remote, abstracted, forgetful. 

Dorothy's birthday, which fell in mid-October, was kept as a holiday. In the morning everyone had some little birthday gift for her, except Keene. He had forgotten the birthday entirely. The shadow ofdisappointment that quenched the brightness of her face was pitiful. Even he could not be blind to it. He flushed as if surprised, andhesitated a moment, evidently in conflict with himself. Then a look ofshame and regret came into his eyes. He made some excuse for not goingwith us to the picnic, at the Black Brook Falls, with which the day wascelebrated. In the afternoon, as we all sat around the camp-fire, hecame swinging through the woods with his long, swift stride, and goingat once to Dorothy laid a little brooch of pearl and opal in her hand. 

"Will you forgive me?" he said. "I hope this is not too late. But I lostthe train back from Newburg and walked home. I pray that you may neverknow any tears but pearls, and that there may be nothing changeableabout you but the opal. "

"Oh, Edward!" she cried, "how beautiful! Thank you a thousand times. ButI wish you had been with us all day. We have missed you so much!"

For the rest of that day simplicity and clearness and joy came back tous. Keene was at his best, a leader of friendly merriment, a master ofgood-fellowship, a prince of delicate chivalry. Dorothy's lovelinessunfolded like a flower in the sun. 

But the Indian summer of peace was brief. It was hardly a week beforeKeene's old moods returned, darker and stranger than ever. The girl'sunconcealable bewilderment, her sense of wounded loyalty and baffledanxiety, her still look of hurt and wondering tenderness, increasedfrom day to day. John Graham's temper seemed to change, suddenly andcompletely. From the best-humoured and most careless fellow in theworld, he became silent, thoughtful, irritable toward everyone exceptDorothy. With Keene he was curt and impatient, avoiding him as much aspossible, and when they were together, evidently struggling to keep downa deep dislike and rising anger. They had had sharp words when they werealone, I was sure, but Keene's coolness seemed to grow with Graham'sheat. There was no open quarrel. 

One Saturday evening, Graham came to me. "You have seen what is going onhere?" he said. 

"Something, at least, " I answered, "and I am very sorry for it. But Idon't quite understand it. "

"Well, I do; and I'm going to put an end to it. I'm going to have it outwith Ned Keene. He is breaking her heart. "

"But are you the right one to take the matter up?"

"Who else is there to do it?"

"Her father. "

"He sees nothing, comprehends nothing. 'Practical type--poetictype--misunderstandings sure to arise--come together after a while eachsupply the other's deficiencies. ' Cursed folly! And the girl so unhappythat she can't tell anyone. It shall not go on, I say. Keene is out onthe road now, taking one of his infernal walks. I'm going to meet him. "

"I'm afraid it will make trouble. Let me go with you. "

"The trouble is made. Come if you like. I'm going now. "

The night lay heavy upon the forest. Where the road dipped through thevalley we could hardly see a rod ahead of us. But higher up where theway curved around the breast of the mountain, the woods were thin on theleft, and on the right a sheer precipice fell away to the gorge of thebrook. In the dim starlight we saw Keene striding toward us. Grahamstepped out to meet him. 

"Where have you been, Ned Keene?" he cried. The cry was a challenge. Keene lifted his head and stood still. Then he laughed and took a stepforward. 

"Taking a long walk, Jack Graham, " he answered. "It was glorious. Youshould have been with me. But why this sudden question?"

"Because your long walk is a pretence. You are playing false. Thereis some woman that you go to see at West Point, at Highland Falls, whoknows where?"

Keene laughed again. 

"Certainly you don't know, my dear fellow; and neither do I. Since whenhas walking become a vice in your estimation? You seem to be in a fiercemood. What's the matter?"

"I will tell you what's the matter. You have been acting like a brute tothe girl you profess to love. "

"Plain words! But between friends frankness is best. Did she ask you totell me?"

"No! You know too well she would die before she would speak. You arekilling her, that is what you are doing with your devilish moods andmysteries. You must stop. Do you hear? You must give her up. "

"I hear well enough, and it sounds like a word for her and two foryourself. Is that it?"

"Damn you, " cried the younger man, "let the words go! we'll settle itthis way"----and he sprang at the other's throat. 

Keene, cool and well-braced, met him with a heavy blow in the chest. Herecoiled, and I rushed between them, holding Graham back, and pleadingfor self-control. As we stood thus, panting and confused, on the edge ofthe cliff, a singing voice floated up to us from the shadows across thevalley. It was Herrick's song again:

 A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free Is in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee. 

"Come, gentlemen, " I cried, "this is folly, sheer madness. You can neverdeal with the matter in this way. Think of the girl who is singing downyonder. What would happen to her, what would she suffer, from scandal, from her own feelings, if either of you should be killed, or evenseriously hurt by the other? There must be no quarrel between you. "

"Certainly, " said Keene, whose poise, if shaken at all, had returned, "certainly, you are right. It is not of my seeking, nor shall I be theone to keep it up. I am willing to let it pass. It is but a small matterat most. "

I turned to Graham--"And you?"

He hesitated a little, and then said, doggedly "On one condition. "

"And that is?"

"Keene must explain. He must answer my question. "

"Do you accept?" I asked Keene. 

"Yes and no!" he replied. "No! to answering Graham's question. He is notthe person to ask it. I wonder that he does not see the impropriety, theabsurdity of his meddling at all in this affair. Besides, he could notunderstand my answer even if he believed it. But to the explanation, I say, Yes! I will give it, not to Graham, but to you. I make you thisproposition. To-morrow is Sunday. We shall be excused from service if wetell the master that we have important business to settle together. Youshall come with me on one of my long walks. I will tell you all aboutthem. Then you can be the judge whether there is any harm in them. "

"Does that satisfy you?" I said to Graham. 

"Yes, " he answered, "that seems fair enough. I am content to leave it inthat way for the present. And to make it still more fair, I want to takeback what I said awhile ago, and to ask Keene's pardon for it. "

"Not at all, " said Keene, quickly, "it was said in haste, I bear nogrudge. You simply did not understand, that is all. "

So we turned to go down the hill, and as we turned, Dorothy met us, coming out of the shadows. 

"What are you men doing here?" she asked. "I heard your voices frombelow. What were you talking about?"

"We were talking, " said Keene, "my dear Dorothy, we were talking--aboutwalking--yes, that was it--about walking, and about views. Theconversation was quite warm, almost a debate. Now, you know all theview-points in this region. Which do you call the best, the mostsatisfying, the finest prospect? But I know what you will say: the viewfrom the little knoll in front of Hilltop. For there, when you are tiredof looking far away, you can turn around and see the old school, and thelinden-trees, and the garden. "

"Yes, " she answered gravely, "that is really the view that I love best. I would give up all the others rather than lose that. "

III

There was a softness in the November air that brought back memories ofsummer, and a few belated daisies were blooming in the old clearing, asKeene and I passed by the ruins of the farm-house again, early on Sundaymorning. He had been talking ever since we started, pouring out hispraise of knowledge, wide, clear, universal knowledge, as the best oflife's joys, the greatest of life's achievements. The practical life wasa blind, dull routine. Most men were toiling at tasks which they did notlike, by rules which they did not understand. They never looked beyondthe edge of their work. The philosophical life was a spider's web--filmythreads of theory spun out of the inner consciousness--it touched theworld only at certain chosen points of attachment. There was nothingfirm, nothing substantial in it. You could look through it like a veiland see the real world lying beyond. But the theorist could see only theweb which he had spun. Knowing did not come by speculating, theorising. Knowing came by seeing. Vision was the only real knowledge. To see theworld, the whole world, as it is, to look behind the scenes, to readhuman life like a book, that was the glorious thing--most satisfying, divine. 

Thus he had talked as we climbed the hill. Now, as we came by the placewhere we had first met, a new eagerness sounded in his voice. 

"Ever since that day I have inclined to tell you something more aboutmyself. I felt sure you would understand. I am planning to write abook--a book of knowledge, in the true sense--a great book about humanlife. Not a history, not a theory, but a real view of life, its hiddenmotives, its secret relations. How different they are from what mendream and imagine and play that they are! How much darker, how muchsmaller, and therefore how much more interesting and wonderful. No onehas yet written--perhaps because no one has yet conceived--such a bookas I have in mind. I might call it a 'Bionopsis. '"

"But surely, " said I, "you have chosen a strange place to write it--theHilltop School--this quiet and secluded region! The stream of humanityis very slow and slender here--it trickles. You must get out into thebusy world. You must be in the full current and feel its force. You musttake part in the active life of mankind in order really to know it. "

"A mistake!" he cried. "Action is the thing that blinds men. Youremember Matthew Arnold's line:

 In action's dizzying eddy whurled. 

To know the world you must stand apart from it and above it; you mustlook down on it. "

"Well, then, " said I, "you will have to find some secret spring ofinspiration, some point of vantage from which you can get your outlookand your insight. "

He stopped short and looked me full in the face. 

"And that, " cried he, "is precisely what I have found!"

Then he turned and pushed along the narrow trail so swiftly that I hadhard work to follow him. After a few minutes we came to a little stream, flowing through a grove of hemlocks. Keene seated himself on the fallenlog that served for a bridge and beckoned me to a place beside him. 

"I promised to give you an explanation to-day--to take you on one of mylong walks. Well, there is only one of them. It is always the same. Youshall see where it leads, what it means. You shall share my secret--allthe wonder and glory of it! Of course I know my conduct, has seemedstrange to you. Sometimes it has seemed strange even to me. I have beendoubtful, troubled, almost distracted. I have been risking a great deal, in danger of losing what I value, what most men count the best thing inthe world. But it could not be helped. The risk was worth while. A greatdiscovery, the opportunity of a lifetime, yes, of an age, perhaps ofmany ages, came to me. I simply could not throw it away. I must use it, make the best of it, at any danger, at any cost. You shall judge foryourself whether I was right or wrong. But you must judge fairly, without haste, without prejudice. I ask you to make me one promise. Youwill suspend judgment, you will say nothing, you will keep my secret, until you have been with me three times at the place where I am nowtaking you. "

By this time it was clear to me that I had to do with a case lying faroutside of the common routine of life; something subtle, abnormal, hardto measure, in which a clear and careful estimate would be necessary. IfKeene was labouring under some strange delusion, some disorder of mind, how could I estimate its nature or extent, without time and study, perhaps without expert advice? To wait a little would be prudent, for his sake as well as for the sake of others. If there was someextraordinary, reality behind his mysterious hints, it would needpatience and skill to test it. I gave him the promise for which heasked. 

At once, as if relieved, he sprang up, and crying, "Come on, follow me!"began to make his way up the bed of the brook. It was one of the wildestwalks that I have ever taken. He turned aside for no obstacles; swamps, masses of interlacing alders, close-woven thickets of stiff youngspruces, chevaux-de-frise of dead trees where wind-falls had mowed downthe forest, walls of lichen-crusted rock, landslides where heaps ofbroken stone were tumbled in ruinous confusion--through everything hepushed forward. I could see, here and there, the track of his formerjourneys: broken branches of witch-hazel and moose-wood, ferns trampleddown, a faint trail across some deeper bed of moss. At mid-day we restedfor a half-hour to eat lunch. But Keene would eat nothing, except alittle pellet of some dark green substance that he took from a flatsilver box in his pocket. He swallowed it hastily, and stooping his faceto the spring by which he had halted, drank long and eagerly. 

"An Indian trick, " said he, shaking the drops of water from his face. "On a walk, food is a hindrance, a delay. But this tiny taste of bittergum is a tonic; it spurs the courage and doubles the strength--if youare used to it. Otherwise I should not recommend you to try it. Faugh!the flavour is vile. "

He rinsed his mouth again with water, and stood up, calling me to comeon. The way, now tangled among the nameless peaks and ranges, boresteadily southward, rising all the time, in spite of many brief downwardcurves where a steep gorge must be crossed. Presently we came into ahard-wood forest, open and easy to travel. Breasting a long slope, wereached the summit of a broad, smoothly rounding ridge covered with adense growth of stunted spruce. The trees rose above our heads, abouttwice the height of a man, and so thick that we could not see beyondthem. But, from glimpses here and there, and from the purity andlightness of the air, I judged that we were on far higher groundthan any we had yet traversed, the central comb, perhaps, of themountain-system. 

A few yards ahead of us, through the crowded trunks of the dwarf forest, I saw a gray mass, like the wall of a fortress, across our path. It wasa vast rock, rising from the crest of the ridge, lifting its top abovethe sea of foliage. At its base there were heaps of shattered stones, and deep crevices almost like caves. One side of the rock was broken bya slanting gully. 

"Be careful, " cried my companion, "there is a rattlers' den somewhereabout here. The snakes are in their winter quarters now, almost dormant, but they can still strike if you tread on them. Step here! Give meyour hand--use that point of rock--hold fast by this bush; it is firmlyrooted--so! Here we are on Spy Rock! You have heard of it? I thought so. Other people have heard of it, and imagine that they have found it--fivemiles east of us--on a lower ridge. Others think it is a peak just backof Cro' Nest. All wrong! There is but one real Spy Rock--here! Thisearth holds no more perfect view-point. It is one of the rare placesfrom which a man may see the kingdoms of the world and all the glory ofthem. Look!"

The prospect was indeed magnificent; it was strange what a vastenlargement of vision resulted from the slight elevation above thesurrounding peaks. It was like being lifted up so that we couldlook over the walls. The horizon expanded as if by magic. The vastcircumference of vision swept around us with a radius of a hundredmiles. Mountain and meadow, forest and field, river and lake, hill anddale, village and farmland, far-off city and shimmering water--all layopen to our sight, and over all the westering sun wove a transparentrobe of gem-like hues. Every feature of the landscape seemed alive, quivering, pulsating with conscious beauty. You could almost see theworld breathe. 

"Wonderful!" I cried. "Most wonderful! You have found a mount ofvision. "

"Ah, " he answered, "you don't half see the wonder yet, you don't beginto appreciate it. Your eyes are new to it. You have not learned thepower of far sight, the secret of Spy Rock. You are still shut in by thehorizon. "

"Do you mean to say that you can look beyond it?"

"Beyond yours--yes. And beyond any that you would dream possible--See!Your sight reaches to that dim cloud of smoke in the south? And beneathit you can make out, perhaps, a vague blotch of shadow, or a tiny flashof brightness where the sun strikes it? New York! But I can see thegreat buildings, the domes, the spires, the crowded wharves, the tidesof people whirling through the streets--and beyond that, the sea, withthe ships coming and going! I can follow them on their courses--andbeyond that--Oh! when I am on Spy Rock I can see more than other men canimagine. "

For a moment, strange to say, I almost fancied could follow him. Themagnetism of his spirit imposed upon me, carried me away with him. Thensober reason told me that he was talking of impossibilities. 

"Keene, " said I, "you are dreaming. The view and the air haveintoxicated you. This is a phantasy, a delusion!"

"It pleases you to call it so, " he said, "but I only tell you my realexperience. Why it should be impossible I do not understand. There isno reason why the power of sight should not be cultivated, enlarged, expanded indefinitely. "

"And the straight rays of light?" I asked. "And the curvature of theearth which makes a horizon inevitable?"

"Who knows what a ray of light is?" said he. "Who can prove that it maynot be curved, under certain conditions, or refracted in some placesin a way that is not possible elsewhere? I tell you there is somethingextraordinary about this Spy Rock. It is a seat of power--Nature'sobservatory. More things are visible here than anywhere else--more thanI have told you yet. But come, we have little time left. For half anhour, each of us shall enjoy what he can see. Then home again to thenarrower outlook, the restricted life. "

The downward journey was swifter than the ascent, but no less fatiguing. By the time we reached the school, an hour after dark, I was very tired. But Keene was in one of his moods of exhilaration. He glowed like apiece of phosphorus that has been drenched with light. 

Graham took the first opportunity of speaking with me alone. 

"Well?" said he. 

"Well!" I answered. "You were wrong. There is no treason in Keene'swalks, no guilt in his moods. But there is something very strange. Icannot form a judgment yet as to what we should do. We must wait a fewdays. It will do no harm to be patient. Indeed, I have promised not tojudge, not to speak of it, until a certain time. Are you satisfied?"

"This is a curious story, " said he, "and I am puzzled by it. But I trustyou, I agree to wait, though I am far from satisfied. "

Our second expedition was appointed for the following Saturday. Keenewas hungry for it, and I was almost as eager, desiring to penetrate asquickly as possible into the heart of the affair. Already a convictionin regard to it was pressing upon me, and I resolved to let him talk, this time, as freely as he would, without interruption or denial. 

When we clambered up on Spy Rock, he was more subdued and reserved thanhe had been the first time. For a while he talked little, but scannedview with wide, shining eyes. Then he began to tell me stories of theplaces that we could see--strange stories of domestic calamity, andsocial conflict, and eccentric passion, and hidden crime. 

"Do you remember Hawthorne's story of 'The Minister's Black Veil?' Itis the best comment on human life that ever was written. Everyone hassomething to hide. The surface of life is a mask. The substance oflife is a secret. All humanity wears the black veil. But it is notimpenetrable. No, it is transparent, if you find the right point ofview. Here, on Spy Rock, I have found it. I have learned how to lookthrough the veil. I can see, not by the light-rays only, but by therays which are colourless, imperceptible, irresistible the rays of theunknown quantity, which penetrate everywhere. I can see how men down inthe great city are weaving their nets of selfishness and falsehood, andcalling them industrial enterprises or political combinations. I can seehow the wheels of society are moved by the hidden springs of avariceand greed and rivalry. I can see how children drink in the fables ofreligion, without understanding them, and how prudent men repeat themwithout believing them. I can see how the illusions of love appear andvanish, and how men and women swear that their dreams are eternal, evenwhile they fade. I can see how poor people blind themselves and deceiveeach other, calling selfishness devotion, and bondage contentment. Downat Hilltop yonder I can see how Dorothy Ward and John Graham, withoutknowing it, without meaning it--"

"Stop, man!" I cried. "Stop, before you say what can never be unsaid. You know it is not true. These are nightmare visions that ride you. Notfrom Spy Rock nor from anywhere else can you see anything at Hilltopthat is not honest and pure and loyal. Come down, now, and let us gohome. You will see better there than here. "

"I think not, " said he, "but I will come. Yes, of course, I am bound tocome. But let me have a few minutes here alone. Go you down along thepath a little way slowly. I will follow you in a quarter of an hour. Andremember we are to be here together once more!"

 Once more! Yes, and then what must be done?

How was this strange case to be dealt with so as to save all the actors, as far as possible, from needless suffering? That Keene's mind wasdisordered at least three of us suspected already. But to me alonewas the nature and seat of the disorder known. How make the othersunderstand it? They might easily conceive it to be something differentfrom the fact, some actual lesion of the brain, an incurable insanity. But this it was not. As yet, at least, he was no patient for amad-house: it would be unjust, probably it would be impossible to havehim committed. But on the other hand they might take it too lightly, asthe result of overwork, or perhaps of the use of some narcotic. To meit was certain that the trouble went far deeper than this. It lay in theman's moral nature, in the error of his central will. It was the workingout, in abnormal form, but with essential truth, of his chosen andcherished ideal of life. Spy Rock was something more than the seat ofhis delusion, it was the expression of his temperament. Thesolitary trail that led thither was the symbol of his search forhappiness--alone, forgetful of life's lowlier ties, looking down uponthe world in the cold abstraction of scornful knowledge. How was sucha man to be brought back to the real life whose first condition is theacceptance of a limited outlook, the willingness to live by trust asmuch as by sight, the power of finding joy and peace in the things thatwe feel are the best, even though we cannot prove them nor explain them?How could he ever bring anything but discord and sorrow to those whowere bound to him?

This was what perplexed and oppressed me. I needed all the time untilthe next Saturday to think the question through, to decide what shouldbe done. But the matter was taken out of my hands. After our latestexpedition Keene's dark mood returned upon him with sombre intensity. Dull, restless, indifferent, half-contemptuous, he seemed to withdrawinto himself, observing those around him with half-veiled glances, as ifhe had nothing better to do and yet found it a tiresome pastime. He waslike a man waiting wearily at a railway station for his train. Nothingpleased him. He responded to nothing. 

Graham controlled his indignation by a constant effort. A dozen times hewas on the point of speaking out. But he restrained himself and playedfair. Dorothy's suffering could not be hidden. Her loyalty was strainedto the breaking point. She was too tender and true for anger, but shewas wounded almost beyond endurance. 

Keene's restlessness increased. The intervening Thursday wasThanksgiving Day; most of the boys had gone home; the school hadholiday. Early in the morning he came to me. 

"Let us take our walk to-day. We have no work to do. Come! In thisclear, frosty air, Spy Rock will be glorious!"

"No, " I answered, "this is no day for such an expedition. This is thehome day. Stay here and be happy with us all. You owe this to love andfriendship. You owe it to Dorothy Ward. "

"Owe it?" said he. "Speaking of debts, I think each man is his ownpreferred creditor. But of course you can do as you like about to-day. Tomorrow or Saturday will answer just as well for our third walktogether. "

About noon he came down from his room and went to the piano, whereDorothy was sitting. They talked together in low tones. Then she stoodup, with pale face and wide-open eyes. She laid her hand on his arm. 

"Do not go, Edward. For the last time I beg you to stay with us to-day. "

He lifted her hand and held it for an instant. Then he bowed, and let itfall. 

"You will excuse me, Dorothy, I am sure. I feel the need of exercise. Absolutely I must go; good-by--until the evening. "

The hours of that day passed heavily for all of us. There was a sense ofdisaster in the air. Something irretrievable had fallen from our circle. But no one dared to name it. Night closed in upon the house with achanging sky. All the stars were hidden. The wind whimpered and thenshouted. The rain swept down in spiteful volleys, deepening at last intoa fierce, steady discharge. Nine o'clock, ten o'clock passed, and Keenedid not return. By midnight we were certain that some accident hadbefallen him. 

It was impossible to go up into the mountains in that pitch-darknessof furious tempest. But we could send down to the village for men toorganise a search-party and to bring the doctor. At daybreak we setout--some of the men going with the Master along Black Brook, others indifferent directions to make sure of a complete search--Graham andthe doctor and I following the secret trail that I knew only too well. Dorothy insisted that she must go. She would bear no denial, declaringthat it would be worse for her alone at home, than if we took her withus. 

It was incredible how the path seemed to lengthen. Graham watched thegirl's every step, helping her over the difficult places, pushing asidethe tangled branches, his eyes resting upon her as frankly, as tenderlyas a mother looks at her child. In single file we marched through thegray morning, clearing cold after the storm, and the silence was seldombroken, for we had little heart to talk. 

At last we came to the high, lonely ridge, the dwarf forest, the huge, couchant bulk of Spy Rock. There, on the back of it, with his right armhanging over the edge, was the outline of Edward Keene's form. It was asif some monster had seized him and flung him over its shoulder to carryaway. 

We called to him but there was no answer. The doctor climbed up with me, and we hurried to the spot where he was lying. His face was turned tothe sky, his eyes blindly staring; there was no pulse, no breath; he wasalready cold in death. His right hand and arm, the side of his neckand face were horribly swollen and livid. The doctor stooped down andexamined the hand carefully. "See!" he cried, pointing to a great bruiseon his wrist, with two tiny punctures in the middle of it from whicha few drops of blood had oozed, "a rattlesnake has struck him. He musthave fairly put his hand upon it, perhaps in the dark, when he wasclimbing. And, look, what is this?"

He picked up a flat silver box, that lay open on the rock. There weretwo olive-green pellets of a resinous paste in it. He lifted it to hisface, and drew a long breath. 

"Yes, " he said, "it is Gunjab, the most powerful form of Hashish, thenarcotic hemp of India. Poor fellow, it saved him from frightful agony. He died in a dream. "

"You are right, " I said, "in a dream, and for a dream. "

We covered his face and climbed down the rock. Dorothy and Graham werewaiting below. He had put his coat around her. She was shivering alittle. There were tear-marks on her face. 

"Well, " I said, "you must know it. We have lost him. "

"Ah!" said the girl, "I lost him long ago. "

WOOD-MAGIC

There are three vines that belong to the ancient forest. Elsewhere theywill not grow, though the soil prepared for them be never so rich, theshade of the arbour built for them never so closely and cunningly woven. Their delicate, thread-like roots take no hold upon the earth tilled andtroubled by the fingers of man. The fine sap that steals through theirlong, slender limbs pauses and fails when they are watered by humanhands. Silently the secret of their life retreats and shrinks away andhides itself. 

But in the woods, where falling leaves and crumbling tree-trunks andwilting ferns have been moulded by Nature into a deep, brown humus, clean and fragrant--in the woods, where the sunlight filters greenand golden through interlacing branches, and where pure moisture ofdistilling rains and melting snows is held in treasury by never-failingbanks of moss--under the verdurous flood of the forest, like sea-weedsunder the ocean waves, these three little creeping vines put forth theirhands with joy, and spread over rock and hillock and twisted tree-rootand mouldering log, in cloaks and scarves and wreaths of tiny evergreen, glossy leaves. 

One of them is adorned with white pearls sprinkled lightly over its robeof green. This is Snowberry, and if you eat of it, you will grow wisein the wisdom of flowers. You will know where to find the yellow violet, and the wake-robin, and the pink lady-slipper, and the scarlet sage, andthe fringed gentian. You will understand how the buds trust themselvesto the spring in their unfolding, and how the blossoms trust themselvesto the winter in their withering, and how the busy bands of Nature areever weaving the beautiful garment of life out of the strands of death, and nothing is lost that yields itself to her quiet handling. 

Another of the vines of the forest is called Partridge-berry. Rubies arehidden among its foliage, and if you eat of this fruit, you will growwise in the wisdom of birds. You will know where the oven-bird secretesher nest, and where the wood-cock dances in the air at night; thedrumming-log of the ruffed grouse will be easy to find, and you willsee the dark lodges of the evergreen thickets inhabited by hundredsof warblers. There will be no dead silence for you in the forest, anylonger, but you will hear sweet and delicate voices on every side, voices that you know and love; you will catch the key-note of the silverflute of the woodthrush, and the silver harp of the veery, and thesilver bells of the hermit; and something in your heart will answer tothem all. In the frosty stillness of October nights you will see theairy tribes flitting across the moon, following the secret call thatguides them southward. In the calm brightness of winter sunshine, filling sheltered copses with warmth and cheer, you will watch thelingering blue-birds and robins and song-sparrows playing at summer, while the chickadees and the juncos and the cross-bills make merry inthe windswept fields. In the lucent mornings of April you will hear yourold friends coming home to you, Phoebe, and Oriole, and Yellow-Throat, and Red-Wing, and Tanager, and Cat-Bird. When they call to you and greetyou, you will understand that Nature knows a secret for which man hasnever found a word--the secret that tells itself in song. 

The third of the forest-vines is Wood-Magic. It bears neither flower norfruit. Its leaves are hardly to be distinguished from the leaves of theother vines. Perhaps they are a little rounder than the Snowberry's, a little more pointed than the Partridge-berry's; sometimes you mightmistake them for the one, sometimes for the other. No marks of warninghave been written upon them. If you find them it is your fortune; if youtaste them it is your fate. 

For as you browse your way through the forest, nipping here and there arosy leaf of young winter-green, a fragrant emerald tip of balsam-fir, atwig of spicy birch, if by chance you pluck the leaves of Wood-Magic andeat them, you will not know what you have done, but the enchantment ofthe tree-land will enter your heart and the charm of the wildwood willflow through your veins. 

You will never get away from it. The sighing of the wind through thepine-trees and the laughter of the stream in its rapids will soundthrough all your dreams. On beds of silken softness you will long forthe sleep-song of whispering leaves above your head, and the smell ofa couch of balsam-boughs. At tables spread with dainty fare you will behungry for the joy of the hunt, and for the angler's sylvan feast. Inproud cities you will weary for the sight of a mountain trail; in greatcathedrals you will think of the long, arching aisles of the woodland;and in the noisy solitude of crowded streets you will hone after thefriendly forest. 

This is what will happen to you if you eat the leaves of that littlevine, Wood-Magic. And this is what happened to Luke Dubois. 

I

The Cabin by the Rivers

Two highways meet before the door, and a third reaches away to thesouthward, broad and smooth and white. But there are no travellerspassing by. The snow that has fallen during the night is unbroken. Thepale February sunrise makes blue shadows on it, sharp and jagged, anoutline of the fir-trees on the mountain-crest quarter of, a mile away. 

In summer the highways are dissolved into three wild rivers--the Riverof Rocks, which issues from the hills; the River of Meadows, which flowsfrom the great lake; and the River of the Way Out, which runs down fromtheir meeting-place to the settlements and the little world. But inwinter, when the ice is firm under the snow, and the going is fine, there are no tracks upon the three broad roads except the paths of thecaribou, and the footprints of the marten and the mink and the fox, andthe narrow trails made by Luke Dubois on his way to and from his cabinby the rivers. 

He leaned in the door-way, looking out. Behind him in the shadow, thefire was still snapping in the little stove where he had cooked hisbreakfast. There was a comforting smell of bacon and venison in theroom; the tea-pot stood on the table half-empty. Here in the corner werehis rifle and some of his traps. On the wall hung his snowshoes. Underthe bunk was a pile of skins. Half-open on the bench lay the book thathe had been reading the evening before, while the snow was falling. Itwas a book of veritable fairy-tales, which told how men had made theirway in the world, and achieved great fortunes, and won success, bytoiling hard at first, and then by trading and bargaining and gettingahead of other men. 

"Well, " said Luke, to himself, as he stood at the door, "I could do thattoo. Without doubt I also am one of the men who can do things. Theydid not work any harder than I do. But they got better pay. I amtwenty-five. For ten years I have worked hard, and what have I got forit? This!"

He stepped out into the morning, alert and vigorous, deep-chested andstraight-hipped. The strength of the hills had gone into him, and hiseyes were bright with health. His kingdom was spread before him. Therealong the River of Meadows were the haunts of the moose and the caribouwhere he hunted in the fall; and yonder on the burnt hills around thegreat lake were the places where he watched for the bears; and up besidethe River of Rocks ran his line of traps, swinging back by secret waysto many a nameless pond and hidden beaver-meadow; and all along thestreams, when the ice went out in the spring, the great trout wouldbe leaping in rapid and pool. Among the peaks and valleys of thatforest-clad kingdom he could find his way as easily as a merchant walksfrom his house to his office. The secrets of bird and beast were knownto him; every season of the year brought him its own tribute; the woodswere his domain, vast, inexhaustible, free. 

Here was his home, his cabin that he had built with his own hands. Theroof was tight, the walls were well chinked with moss. It was snug andwarm. But small--how pitifully small it looked to-day--and how lonely!

His hand-sledge stood beside the door, and against it leaned the axe. He caught it up and began to split wood for the stove. "No!" he cried, throwing down the axe, "I'm tired of this. It has lasted long enough. I'm going out to make my way in the world. "

A couple of hours later, the sledge was packed with camp-gear andbundles of skins. The door of the cabin was shut; a ghostlike wreath ofblue smoke curled from the chimney. Luke stood, in his snowshoes, on thewhite surface of the River of the Way Out. He turned to look back for amoment, and waved his hand. 

"Good-bye, old cabin! Good-bye, the rivers! Good-bye, the woods!"

II

The House on the Main Street

All the good houses in Scroll-Saw City were different, in the numberand shape of the curious pinnacles that rose from their roofs and inthe trimmings of their verandas. Yet they were all alike, too, in theirgeneral expression of putting their best foot foremost and feeling quitesure that they made a brave show. They had lace curtains in their frontparlour windows, and outside of the curtains were large red and yellowpots of artificial flowers and indestructible palms and vulcanisedrubber-plants. It was a gay sight. 

But by far the bravest of these houses was the residence of Mr. MatthewWilson, the principal merchant of Scroll-Saw City. It stood on a cornerof Main Street, glancing slyly out of the tail of one eye, side-waysdown the street, toward the shop and the business, but keeping a bold, complacent front toward the street-cars and the smaller houses acrossthe way. It might well be satisfied with itself, for it had three morepinnacles than any of its neighbours, and the work of the scroll-saw waslooped and festooned all around the eaves and porticoes and bay-windowsin amazing richness. Moreover, in the front yard were cast-iron imagespainted white: a stag reposing on a door-mat; Diana properly dressedand returning from the chase; a small iron boy holding over his head aparasol from the ferrule of which a fountain squirted. The paths were ofasphalt, gray and gritty in winter, but now, in the summer heat, blackand pulpy to the tread. 

There were many feet passing over them this afternoon, for Mr. AndMrs. Matthew Wilson were giving a reception to celebrate the officialentrance of their daughter Amanda into a social life which she hadpermeated unofficially for several years. The house was sizzling fullof people. Those who were jammed in the parlour tried to get into thedining-room, and those who were packed in the dining-room struggled toescape, holding plates of stratified cake and liquefied ice-cream highabove their neighbours' heads like signals of danger and distress. Everybody was talking at the same time, in a loud, shrill voice, andnobody listened to what anybody else was saying. But it did not matter, for they all said the same things. 

"Elegant house for a party, so full of--" "How perfectly lovely AmandaWilson looks in that--" "Awfully warm day! Were you at the Tompkins'last--" "Wilson's Emporium must be doing good business to keep up allthis--" "Hear he's going to enlarge the store and take Luke Woods intothe--"

"Shouldn't wonder if there might be a wedding here before next--"

The tide of chatter rose and swelled and ebbed and suddenly sank away. At six o'clock, the minister and two maiden ladies in black silk withlilac ribbons, laid down their last plates of ice-cream and said theythought they must be going. Amanda and her mother preened their dressesand patted their hair. "Come into the study, " said Mr. Wilson to Luke. "Iwant to have a talk with you. "

The little bookless room, called the study, was the one that kept itseye on the shop and the business, away down the street. You could seethe brick front, and the plate-glass windows, and part of the gilt sign. 

"Pretty good store, " said Mr. Wilson, jingling the keys in his pocket, "does the biggest trade in the county, biggest but one in the wholestate, I guess. And I must say, Luke Woods, you've done your share, these last five years, in building it up. Never had a clerk work so hardand so steady. You've got good business sense, I guess. "

"I'm glad you think so, " said Luke. "I did as well as I could. "

"Yes, " said the elder man, "and now I'm about ready to take you in withme, give you a share in the business. I want some one to help me runit, make it larger. We can double it, easy, if we stick to it and spreadout. No reason why you shouldn't make a fortune out of it, and have ahouse just like this on the other corner, when you're my age. "

Luke's thoughts were wandering a little. They went out from the stuffyroom, beyond the dusty street, and the jangling cars, and the gilt sign, and the shop full of dry-goods and notions, and the high desks in theoffice--out to the dim, cool forest, where Snowberry and Partridge-berryand Wood-Magic grow. He heard the free winds rushing over the tree-tops, and saw the trail winding away before him in the green shade. 

"You are very kind, " said he, "I hope you will not be disappointed inme. Sometimes I think, perhaps--"

"Not at all, not at all, " said the other. "It's all right. You're wellfitted for it. And then, there's another thing. I guess you like mydaughter Amanda pretty well. Eh? I've watched you, young man. I've hadmy eye on you! Now, of course, I can't say much about it--never can besure of these kind of things, you know--but if you and she--"

The voice went on rolling out words complacently. But something strangewas working in Luke's blood, and other voices were sounding faintly inhis ears. He heard the lisping of the leaves on the little poplar-trees, the whistle of the black duck's wings as he circled in the air, thedistant drumming of the grouse on his log, the rumble of the water-fallin the River of Rocks. The spray cooled his face. He saw the fish risingalong the pool, and a stag feeding among the lily-pads. 

"I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Wilson, " said he at last, whenthe elder man stopped talking. "You have certainly treated me mostgenerously. The only question is, whether--But to-morrow night, I think, with your consent, I will speak to your daughter. To-night I am goingdown to the store; there is a good deal of work to do on the books. "

But when Luke came to the store, he did not go in. He walked along thestreet till he came to the river. 

The water-side was strangely deserted. Everybody was at supper. A coupleof schooners were moored at the wharf. The Portland steamer had goneout. The row-boats hung idle at their little dock. Down the river, drifting and dancing lightly over the opalescent ripples, following thegentle turns of the current which flowed past the end of the dock whereLuke was standing, came a white canoe, empty and astray. 

III

The White Canoe

"That looks just like my old canoe, " said he. "Somebody must have leftit adrift up the river. I wonder how it floated down here without beingpicked up. " He put out his hand and caught it, as it touched the dock. 

In the stern a good paddle of maple-wood was lying; in the middle therewas a roll of blankets and a pack of camp-stuff; in the bow a rifle. 

"All ready for a trip, " he laughed. "Nobody going but me? Well, then, aularge!" And stepping into the canoe he pushed out on the river. 

The saffron and golden lights in the sky diffused themselves over thesurface of the water, and spread from the bow of the canoe in deeperwaves of purple and orange, as he paddled swiftly up stream. The paleyellow gas-lamps of the town faded behind him. The lumber-yards andfactories and disconsolate little houses of the outskirts seemed to meltaway. In a little while he was floating between dark walls of forest, through the heart of the wilderness. 

The night deepened around him and the sky hung out its thousand lamps. Odours of the woods floated on the air: the spicy fragrance of the firs;the breath of hidden banks of twin-flower. Muskrats swam noiselessly inthe shadows, diving with a great commotion as the canoe ran upon themsuddenly. A horned owl hooted from the branch of a dead pine-tree; farback in the forest a fox barked twice. The moon crept up behind the wallof trees and touched the stream with silver. 

Presently the forest receded: the banks of the river grew broad andopen; the dew glistened on the tall grass; it was surely the River ofMeadows. Far ahead of him in a bend of the stream, Luke's ear caught anew sound: SLOSH, SLOSH, SLOSH, as if some heavy animal were crossingthe wet meadow. Then a great splash! Luke swung the canoe into theshadow of the bank and paddled fast. As he turned the point a black bearcame out of the river, and stood on the shore, shaking the water aroundhim in glittering spray. Ping! said the rifle, and the bear fell. "Goodluck!" said Luke. "I haven't forgotten how, after all. I'll take himinto the canoe, and dress him up at the camp. "

Yes, there was the little cabin at the meeting of the rivers. Thedoor was padlocked, but Luke knew how to pry off one of the staples. Squirrels had made a litter on the floor, but that was soon swept out, and a fire crackled in the stove. There was tea and ham and bread in thepack in the canoe. Supper never tasted better. "One more night in theold camp, " said Luke as he rolled himself in the blanket and droppedasleep in a moment. 

The sun shone in at the door and woke him. "I must have a trout forbreakfast, " he cried, "there's one waiting for me at the mouth of AlderBrook, I suppose. " So he caught up his rod from behind the door, and gotinto the canoe and paddled up the River of Rocks. There was the broad, dark pool, like a little lake, with a rapid running in at the head, andclose beside the rapid, the mouth of the brook. He sent his fly out bythe edge of the alders. There was a huge swirl on the water, and thegreat-grandfather of all the trout in the river was hooked. Up and downthe pool he played for half an hour, until at last the fight was over, and for want of a net Luke beached him on the gravel bank at the foot ofthe pool. 

"Seven pounds if it's an ounce, " said he. "This is my lucky day. Now allI need is some good meat to provision the camp. "

He glanced down the river, and on the second point below the pool he sawa great black bullmoose with horns five feet wide. 

Quietly, swiftly, the canoe went gliding down the stream; and ever as itcrept along, the moose loped easily before it, from point to point, frombay to bay, past the little cabin, down the River of the Way Out, nowrustling unseen through a bank of tall alders, now standing out fora moment bold and black on a beach of white sand--so all day long themoose loped down the stream and the white canoe followed. Just as thesetting sun was poised above the trees, the great bull stopped and stoodwith head lifted. Luke pushed the canoe as near as he dared, and lookeddown for the rifle. He had left it at the cabin! The moose tossed hishuge antlers, grunted, and stepped quietly over the bushes into theforest. 

Luke paddled on down the stream. It occurred to him, suddenly, that itwas near evening. He wondered a little how he should reach home in timefor his engagement. But it did not seem strange, as he went swiftlyon with the river, to see the first houses of the town, and thelumber-yards, and the schooners at the wharf. 

He made the canoe fast at the dock, and went up the Main Street. Therewas the old shop, but the sign over it read, "Wilson and Woods Company, The Big Store. " He went on to the house with the white iron images inthe front yard. Diana was still returning from the chase. The fountainstill squirted from the point of the little boy's parasol. 

On the veranda sat a stout man in a rocking chair, reading thenewspaper. At the side of the house two little girls with pig-tails wereplaying croquet. Some one in the parlour was executing "After the Ballis Over" on a mechanical piano. 

Luke accosted a stranger who passed him. "Excuse me, but can you tell mewhether this is Mr. Matthew Wilson's house?"

"It used to be, " said the stranger, "but old man Wilson has been deadthese ten years. "

"And who lives here now?" asked Luke. 

"Mr. Woods: he married Wilson's daughter, " said the stranger, and wenton his way. 

"Well, " said Luke to himself, "this is just a little queer. Woods was myname for a while, when I lived here, but now, I suppose, I'm Luke Duboisagain. Dashed if I can understand it. Somebody must have been dreaming. "

So he went back to the white canoe, and paddled away up the river, andnobody in Scroll-Saw City ever set eyes on him again. 

THE OTHER WISE MAN

You know the story of the Three Wise Men of the East, and how theytravelled from far away to offer their gifts at the manger-cradle inBethlehem. But have you ever heard the story of the Other Wise Man, whoalso saw the star in its rising, and set out to follow it, yet did notarrive with his brethren in the presence of the young child Jesus? Ofthe great desire of this fourth pilgrim, and how it was denied, yetaccomplished in the denial; of his many wanderings and the probationsof his soul; of the long way of his seeking and the strange way of hisfinding the One whom he sought--I would tell the tale as I have heardfragments of it in the Hall of Dreams, in the palace of the Heart ofMan. 

I

In the days when Augustus Caesar was master of many kings and Herodreigned in Jerusalem, there lived in the city of Ecbatana, among themountains of Persia, a certain man named Artaban. His house stood closeto the outermost of the walls which encircled the royal treasury. Fromhis roof he could look over the seven-fold battlements of black andwhite and crimson and blue and red and silver and gold, to the hillwhere the summer palace of the Parthian emperors glittered like a jewelin a crown. 

Around the dwelling of Artaban spread a fair garden, a tangle of flowersand fruit-trees, watered by a score of streams descending from theslopes of Mount Orontes, and made musical by innumerable birds. But allcolour was lost in the soft and odorous darkness of the late Septembernight, and all sounds were hushed in the deep charm of its silence, savethe plashing of the water, like a voice half-sobbing and half-laughingunder the shadows. High above the trees a dim glow of light shonethrough the curtained arches of the upper chamber, where the master ofthe house was holding council with his friends. 

He stood by the doorway to greet his guests--a tall, dark man of aboutforty years, with brilliant eyes set near together under his broad brow, and firm lines graven around his fine, thin lips; the brow of a dreamerand the mouth of a soldier, a man of sensitive feeling but inflexiblewill--one of those who, in whatever age they may live, are born forinward conflict and a life of quest. 

His robe was of pure white wool, thrown over a tunic of silk; and awhite, pointed cap, with long lapels at the sides, rested on his flowingblack hair. It was the dress of the ancient priesthood of the Magi, called the fire-worshippers. 

"Welcome!" he said, in his low, pleasant voice, as one after anotherentered the room--"welcome, Abdus; peace be with you, Rhodaspes andTigranes, and with you my father, Abgarus. You are all welcome. Thishouse grows bright with the joy of your presence. "

There were nine of the men, differing widely in age, but alike in therichness of their dress of many-coloured silks, and in the massivegolden collars around their necks, marking them as Parthian nobles, andin the winged circles of gold resting upon their breasts, the sign ofthe followers of Zoroaster. 

They took their places around a small black altar at the end of theroom, where a tiny flame was burning. Artaban, standing beside it, andwaving a barsom of thin tamarisk branches above the fire, fed it withdry sticks of pine and fragrant oils. Then he began the ancient chantof the Yasna, and the voices of his companions joined in the hymn toAhura-Mazda:

 We worship the Spirit Divine, all wisdom and goodness possessing, Surrounded by Holy Immortals, the givers of bounty and blessing; We joy in the work of His hands, His truth and His power confessing. 

 We praise all the things that are pure, for these are His only Creation The thoughts that are true, and the words and the deeds that have won approbation; These are supported by Him, and for these we make adoration. Hear us, O Mazda! Thou livest in truth and in heavenly gladness; Cleanse us from falsehood, and keep us from evil and bondage to badness, Pour out the light and the joy of Thy life on our darkness and sadness. 

 Shine on our gardens and fields, shine on our working and waving; Shine on the whole race of man, believing and unbelieving; Shine on us now through the night, Shine on us now in Thy might, The flame of our holy love and the song of our worship receiving. 

The fire rose with the chant, throbbing as if the flame responded to themusic, until it cast a bright illumination through the whole apartment, revealing its simplicity and splendour. 

The floor was laid with tiles of dark blue veined with white; pilastersof twisted silver stood out against the blue walls; the clear-story ofround-arched windows above them was hung with azure silk; the vaultedceiling was a pavement of blue stones, like the body of heaven in itsclearness, sown with silver stars. From the four corners of the roofhung four golden magic-wheels, called the tongues of the gods. Atthe eastern end, behind the altar, there were two dark-red pillars ofporphyry; above them a lintel of the same stone, on which was carved thefigure of a winged archer, with his arrow set to the string and his bowdrawn. 

The doorway between the pillars, which opened upon the terrace ofthe roof, was covered with a heavy curtain of the colour of a ripepomegranate, embroidered with innumerable golden rays shooting upwardfrom the floor. In effect the room was like a quiet, starry night, allazure and silver, flushed in the cast with rosy promise of the dawn. Itwas, as the house of a man should be, an expression of the character andspirit of the master. 

He turned to his friends when the song was ended, and invited them to beseated on the divan at the western end of the room. 

"You have come to-night, " said he, looking around the circle, "at mycall, as the faithful scholars of Zoroaster, to renew your worship andrekindle your faith in the God of Purity, even as this fire has beenrekindled on the altar. We worship not the fire, but Him of whom it isthe chosen symbol, because it is the purest of all created things. Itspeaks to us of one who is Light and Truth. Is it not so, my father?"

"It is well said, my son, " answered the venerable Abgarus. "Theenlightened are never idolaters. They lift the veil of form and go into the shrine of reality, and new light and truth are coming to themcontinually through the old symbols. " "Hear me, then, my father anwhile I tell you of the new light and truth that have come to methrough the most ancient of all signs. We have searched the secrets ofNature together, and studied the healing virtues of water and fire andthe plants. We have read also the books of prophecy in which the futureis dimly foretold in words that are hard to understand. But the highestof all learning is the knowledge of the stars. To trace their course isto untangle the threads of the mystery of life from the beginning to theend. If we could follow them perfectly, nothing would be hidden from us. But is not our knowledge of them still incomplete? Are there not manystars still beyond our horizon--lights that are known only to thedwellers in the far south-land, among the spice-trees of Punt and thegold mines of Ophir?"

There was a murmur of assent among the listeners. 

"The stars, " said Tigranes, "are the thoughts of the Eternal. They arenumberless. But the thoughts of man can be counted, like the yearsof his life. The wisdom of the Magi is the greatest of all wisdoms onearth, because it knows its own ignorance. And that is the secret ofpower. We keep men always looking and waiting for a new sunrise. But weourselves understand that the darkness is equal to the light, and thatthe conflict between them will never be ended. "

"That does not satisfy me, " answered Artaban, "for, if the waiting mustbe endless, if there could be no fulfilment of it, then it would not bewisdom to look and wait. We should become like those new teachers of theGreeks, who say that there is no truth, and that the only wise men arethose who spend their lives in discovering and exposing the lies thathave been believed in the world. But the new sunrise will certainlyappear in the appointed time. Do not our own books tell us that thiswill come to pass, and that men will see the brightness of a greatlight?"

"That is true, " said the voice of Abgarus; "every faithful disciple ofZoroaster knows the prophecy of the Avesta, and carries the word in hisheart. 'In that day Sosiosh the Victorious shall arise out of the numberof the prophets in the east country. Around him shall shine a mightybrightness, and he shall make life everlasting, incorruptible, andimmortal, and the dead shall rise again. '"

"This is a dark saying, " said Tigranes, "and it may be that we shallnever understand it. It is better to consider the things that are nearat hand, and to increase the influence of the Magi in their own country, rather than to look for one who may be a stranger, and to whom we mustresign our power. "

The others seemed to approve these words. There was a silent feelingof agreement manifest among them; their looks responded with thatindefinable expression which always follows when a speaker has utteredthe thought that has been slumbering in the hearts of his listeners. ButArtaban turned to Abgarus with a glow on his face, and said:

"My father, I have kept this prophecy in the secret place of my soul. Religion without a great hope would be like an altar without a livingfire. And now the flame has burned more brightly, and by the light of itI have read other words which also have come from the fountain of Truth, and speak yet more clearly of the rising of the Victorious One in hisbrightness. "

He drew from the breast of his tunic two small rolls of fine parchment, with writing upon them, and unfolded them carefully upon his knee. 

"In the years that are lost in the past, long before our fathers cameinto the land of Babylon, there were wise men in Chaldea, from whom thefirst of the Magi learned the secret of the heavens. And of theseBalaam the son of Beor was one of the mightiest. Hear the words of hisprophecy: 'There shall come a star out of Jacob, and a sceptre shallarise out of Israel. '"

The lips of Tigranes drew downward with contempt, as he said:

"Judah was a captive by the waters of Babylon, and the sons of Jacobwere in bondage to our kings. The tribes of Israel are scattered throughthe mountains like lost sheep, and from the remnant that dwells in Judeaunder the yoke of Rome neither star nor sceptre shall arise. "

 "And yet, " answered Artaban, "it was the Hebrew Daniel, the mighty searcher of dreams, the counsellor of kings, the wiseBelteshazzar, who was most honoured and beloved of our great King Cyrus. A prophet of sure things and a reader of the thoughts of the Eternal, Daniel proved himself to our people. And these are the words that hewrote. " (Artaban read from the second roll:) "'Know, therefore, andunderstand that from the going forth of the commandment to restoreJerusalem, unto the Anointed One, the Prince, the time shall be sevenand threescore and two weeks. "'

"But, my son, " said Abgarus, doubtfully, "these are mystical numbers. Who can interpret them, or who can find the key that shall unlock theirmeaning?"

Artaban answered: "It has been shown to me and to my three companionsamong the Magi--Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. We have searched theancient tablets of Chaldea and computed the time. It falls in this year. We have studied the sky, and in the spring of the year we saw two of thegreatest planets draw near together in the sign of the Fish, which isthe house of the Hebrews. We also saw a new star there, which shonefor one night and then vanished. Now again the two great planets aremeeting. This night is their conjunction. My three brothers are watchingby the ancient Temple of the Seven Spheres, at Borsippa, in Babylonia, and I am watching here. If the star shines again, they will waitten days for me at the temple, and then we will set out together forJerusalem, to see and worship the promised one who shall be born King ofIsrael. I believe the sign will come. I have made ready for the journey. I have sold my possessions, and bought these three jewels--a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl--to carry them as tribute to the King. And I askyou to go with me on the pilgrimage, that we may have joy together infinding the Prince who is worthy to be served. "

While he was speaking he thrust his hand into the inmost fold of his, girdle and drew out three great gems--one blue as a fragment of thenight sky, one redder than a ray of sunrise, and one as pure as the peakof a snow-mountain at twilight--and laid them on the outspread scrollsbefore him. 

But his friends looked on with strange and alien eyes. A veil of doubtand mistrust came over their faces, like a fog creeping up from themarshes to hide the hills. They glanced at each other with looks ofwonder and pity, as those who have listened to incredible sayings, thestory of a wild vision, or the proposal of an impossible enterprise. 

At last Tigranes said: "Artaban, this is a vain dream. It comes fromtoo much looking upon the stars and the cherishing of lofty thoughts. It would be wiser to spend the time in gathering money for the newfire-temple at Chala. No king will ever rise from the broken race ofIsrael, and no end will ever come to the eternal strife of light anddarkness. He who looks for it is a chaser of shadows. Farewell. "

And another said: "Artaban, I have no knowledge of these things, and myoffice as guardian of the royal treasure binds me here. The quest is notfor me. But if thou must follow it, fare thee well. "

And another said: "In my house there sleeps a new bride, and I cannotleave her nor take her with me on this strange journey. This quest isnot for me. But may thy steps be prospered wherever thou goest. So, farewell. "

And another said: "I am ill and unfit for hardship, but there is a manamong my servants whom I will send with thee when thou goest, to bringme word how thou farest. "

So, one by one, they left the house of Artaban. But Abgarus, the oldestand the one who loved him the best, lingered after the others had gone, and said, gravely: "My son, it may be that the light of truth is in thissign that has appeared in the skies, and then it will surely lead to thePrince and the mighty brightness. Or it may be that it is only a shadowof the light, as Tigranes has said, and then he who follows it will havea long pilgrimage and a fruitless search. But it is better to followeven the shadow of the best than to remain content with the worst. And those who would see wonderful things must often be ready to travelalone. I am too old for this journey, but my heart shall be a companionof thy pilgrimage day and night, and I shall know the end of thy quest. Go in peace. "

Then Abgarus went out of the azure chamber with its silver stars, andArtaban was left in solitude. 

He gathered up the jewels and replaced them in his girdle. For a longtime he stood and watched the flame that flickered and sank upon thealtar. Then he crossed the hall, lifted the heavy curtain, and passedout between the pillars of porphyry to the terrace on the roof. 

The shiver that runs through the earth ere she rouses from hernight-sleep had already begun, and the cool wind that heralds thedaybreak was drawing downward from the lofty snow-traced ravinesof Mount Orontes. Birds, half-awakened, crept and chirped among therustling leaves, and the smell of ripened grapes came in brief waftsfrom the arbours. 

Far over the eastern plain a white mist stretched like a lake. But wherethe distant peaks of Zagros serrated the western horizon the sky wasclear. Jupiter and Saturn rolled together like drops of lambent flameabout to blend in one. 

As Artaban watched them, a steel-blue spark was born out of the darknessbeneath, rounding itself with purple splendours to a crimson sphere, andspiring upward through rays of saffron and orange into a point of whiteradiance. Tiny and infinitely remote, yet perfect in every part, itpulsated in the enormous vault as if the three jewels in the Magian'sgirdle had mingled and been transformed into a living heart of light. 

He bowed his head. He covered his brow with his hands. 

"It is the sign, " he said. "The King is coming, and I will go to meethim. "

II

All night long, Vasda, the swiftest of Artaban's horses, had beenwaiting, saddled and bridled, in her stall, pawing the groundimpatiently, and shaking her bit as if she shared the eagerness of hermaster's purpose, though she knew not its meaning. 

Before the birds had fully roused to their strong, high, joyful chantof morning song, before the white mist had begun to lift lazily from theplain, the Other Wise Man was in the saddle, riding swiftly along thehigh-road, which skirted the base of Mount Orontes, westward. 

How close, how intimate is the comradeship between a man and hisfavourite horse on a long journey. It is a silent, comprehensivefriendship, an intercourse beyond the need of words. 

They drink at the same way-side springs, and sleep under the sameguardian stars. They are conscious together of the subduing spell ofnightfall and the quickening joy of daybreak. The master shares hisevening meal with his hungry companion, and feels the soft, moist lipscaressing the palm of his hand as they close over the morsel of bread. In the gray dawn he is roused from his bivouac by the gentle stir of awarm, sweet breath over his sleeping face, and looks up into the eyesof his faithful fellow-traveller, ready and waiting for the toil of theday. Surely, unless he is a pagan and an unbeliever, by whatever name hecalls upon his God, he will thank Him for this voiceless sympathy, this dumb affection, and his morning prayer will embrace a doubleblessing--God bless us both, the horse and the rider, and keep our feetfrom falling and our souls from death!

Then, through the keen morning air, the swift hoofs beat their tattooalong the road, keeping time to the pulsing of two hearts that are movedwith the same eager desire--to conquer space, to devour the distance, toattain the goal of the journey. 

Artaban must indeed ride wisely and well if he would keep the appointedhour with the other Magi; for the route was a hundred and fiftyparasangs, and fifteen was the utmost that he could travel in a day. Buthe knew Vasda's strength, and pushed forward without anxiety, making thefixed distance every day, though he must travel late into the night, andin the morning long before sunrise. 

He passed along the brown slopes of Mount Orontes, furrowed by the rockycourses of a hundred torrents. 

He crossed the level plains of the Nisaeans, where the famous herdsof horses, feeding in the wide pastures, tossed their heads at Vasda'sapproach, and galloped away with a thunder of many hoofs, and flocksof wild birds rose suddenly from the swampy meadows, wheeling in greatcircles with a shining flutter of innumerable wings and shrill cries ofsurprise. 

He traversed the fertile fields of Concabar, where the dust from thethreshing-floors filled the air with a golden mist, half hiding the hugetemple of Astarte with its four hundred pillars. 

At Baghistan, among the rich gardens watered by fountains from the rock, he looked up at the mountain thrusting its immense rugged brow out overthe road, and saw the figure of King Darius trampling upon his fallenfoes, and the proud list of his wars and conquests graven high upon theface of the eternal cliff. 

Over many a cold and desolate pass, crawling painfully across thewind-swept shoulders of the hills; down many a black mountain-gorge, where the river roared and raced before him like a savage guide; acrossmany a smiling vale, with terraces of yellow limestone full of vinesand fruit-trees; through the oak-groves of Carine and the dark Gates ofZagros, walled in by precipices; into the ancient city of Chala, wherethe people of Samaria had been kept in captivity long ago; and out againby the mighty portal, riven through the encircling hills, where he sawthe image of the High Priest of the Magi sculptured on the wall of rock, with hand uplifted as if to bless the centuries of pilgrims; past theentrance of the narrow defile, filled from end to end with orchards ofpeaches and figs, through which the river Gyndes foamed down to meethim; over the broad rice-fields, where the autumnal vapours spread theirdeathly mists; following along the course of the river, under tremulousshadows of poplar and tamarind, among the lower hills; and out uponthe flat plain, where the road ran straight as an arrow through thestubble-fields and parched meadows; past the city of Ctesiphon, wherethe Parthian emperors reigned, and the vast metropolis of Seleuciawhich Alexander built; across the swirling floods of Tigris and the manychannels of Euphrates, flowing yellow through the corn-lands--Artabanpressed onward until he arrived, at nightfall on the tenth day, beneaththe shattered walls of populous Babylon. 

Vasda was almost spent, and Artaban would gladly have turned into thecity to find rest and refreshment for himself and for her. But he knewthat it was three hours' journey yet to the Temple of the Seven Spheres, and he must reach the place by midnight if he would find hiscomrades waiting. So he did not halt, but rode steadily across thestubble-fields. 

A grove of date-palms made an island of gloom in the pale yellow sea. Asshe passed into the shadow Vasda slackened her pace, and began to pickher way more carefully. 

Near the farther end of the darkness an access of caution seemed to fallupon her. She scented some danger or difficulty; it was not in her heartto fly from it--only to be prepared for it, and to meet it wisely, as agood horse should do. The grove was close and silent as the tomb; not aleaf rustled, not a bird sang. 

She felt her steps before her delicately, carrying her head low, andsighing now and then with apprehension. At last she gave a quick breathof anxiety and dismay, and stood stock-still, quivering in every muscle, before a dark object in the shadow of the last palm-tree. 

Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man lyingacross the road. His humble dress and the outline of his haggard faceshowed that he was probably one of the Hebrews who still dwelt in greatnumbers around the city. His pallid skin, dry and yellow as parchment, bore the mark of the deadly fever which ravaged the marsh-lands inautumn. The chill of death was in his lean hand, and, as Artabanreleased it, the arm fell back inertly upon the motionless breast. 

He turned away with a thought of pity, leaving the body to that strangeburial which the Magians deemed most fitting--the funeral of the desert, from which the kites and vultures rise on dark wings, and the beasts ofprey slink furtively away. When they are gone there is only a heap ofwhite bones on the sand. 

But, as he turned, a long, faint, ghostly sigh came from the man's lips. The bony fingers gripped the hem of the Magian's robe and held him fast. 

Artaban's heart leaped to his throat, not with fear, but with a dumbresentment at the importunity of this blind delay. 

How could he stay here in the darkness to minister to a dying stranger?What claim had this unknown fragment of human life upon his compassionor his service? If he lingered but for an hour he could hardly reachBorsippa at the appointed time. His companions would think he had givenup the journey. They would go without him. He would lose his quest. 

But if he went on now, the man would surely die. If Artaban stayed, lifemight be restored. His spirit throbbed and fluttered with the urgency ofthe crisis. Should he risk the great reward of his faith for the sakeof a single deed of charity? Should he turn aside, if only for a moment, from the following of the star, to give a cup of cold water to a poor, perishing Hebrew?

"God of truth and purity, " he prayed, "direct me in the holy path, theway of wisdom which Thou only knowest. "

Then he turned back to the sick man. Loosening the grasp of his hand, hecarried him to a little mound at the foot of the palm-tree. 

He unbound the thick folds of the turban and opened the garment abovethe sunken breast. He brought water from one of the small canals nearby, and moistened the sufferer's brow and mouth. He mingled a draught ofone of those simple but potent remedies which he carried always in hisgirdle--for the Magians were physicians as well as astrologers--andpoured it slowly between the colourless lips. Hour after hour helaboured as only a skilful healer of disease can do. At last the man'sstrength returned; he sat up and looked about him. 

 "Who art thou?" he said, in the rude dialect of thecountry, "and why hast thou sought me here to bring back my life?"

"I am Artaban the Magian, of the city of Ecbatana, and I am going toJerusalem in search of one who is to be born King of the Jews, a greatPrince and Deliverer of all men. I dare not delay any longer upon myjourney, for the caravan that has waited for me may depart without me. But see, here is all that I have left of bread and wine, and here is apotion of healing herbs. When thy strength is restored thou canst findthe dwellings of the Hebrews among the houses of Babylon. "

The Jew raised his trembling hand solemnly to heaven. 

"Now may the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob bless and prosper thejourney of the merciful, and bring him in peace to his desired haven. Stay! I have nothing to give thee in return--only this: that I can tellthee where the Messiah must be sought. For our prophets have said thathe should be born not in Jerusalem, but in Bethlehem of Judah. May theLord bring thee in safety to that place, because thou hast had pity uponthe sick. "

It was already long past midnight. Artaban rode in haste, and Vasda, restored by the brief rest, ran eagerly through the silent plainand swam the channels of the river. She put forth the remnant of herstrength, and fled over the ground like a gazelle. 

But the first beam of the rising sun sent a long shadow before heras she entered upon the final stadium of the journey, and the eyes ofArtaban, anxiously scanning the great mound of Nimrod and the Temple ofthe Seven Spheres, could discern no trace of his friends. 

The many-coloured terraces of black and orange and red and yellow andgreen and blue and white, shattered by the convulsions of nature, andcrumbling under the repeated blows of human violence, still glitteredlike a ruined rainbow in the morning light. 

Artaban rode swiftly around the hill. He dismounted and climbed to thehighest terrace, looking out toward the west. 

The huge desolation of the marshes stretched away to the horizon and theborder of the desert. Bitterns stood by the stagnant pools and jackalsskulked through the low bushes; but there was no sign of the caravan ofthe Wise Men, far or near. 

At the edge of the terrace he saw a little cairn of broken bricks, andunder them a piece of papyrus. He caught it up and read: "We have waitedpast the midnight, and can delay no longer. We go to find the King. Follow us across the desert. "

Artaban sat down upon the ground and covered his head in despair. 

"How can I cross the desert, " said he, "with no food and with a spenthorse? I must return to Babylon, sell my sapphire, and buy a train ofcamels, and provision for the journey. I may never overtake my friends. Only God the merciful knows whether I shall not lose the sight of theKing because I tarried to show mercy. "

III

There was a silence in the Hall of Dreams, where I was listening to thestory of the Other Wise Man. Through this silence I saw, but very dimly, his figure passing over the dreary undulations of the desert, high uponthe back of his camel, rocking steadily onward like a ship over thewaves. 

The land of death spread its cruel net around him. The stony wastebore no fruit but briers and thorns. The dark ledges of rock thrustthemselves above the surface here and there, like the bones of perishedmonsters. Arid and inhospitable mountain-ranges rose before him, furrowed with dry channels of ancient torrents, white and ghastly asscars on the face of nature. Shifting hills of treacherous sand wereheaped like tombs along the horizon. By day, the fierce heat pressed itsintolerable burden on the quivering air. No living creature moved onthe dumb, swooning earth, but tiny jerboas scuttling through the parchedbushes, or lizards vanishing in the clefts of the rock. By night thejackals prowled and barked in the distance, and the lion made the blackravines echo with his hollow roaring, while a bitter, blighting chillfollowed the fever of the day. Through heat and cold, the Magian movedsteadily onward. 

Then I saw the gardens and orchards of Damascus, watered by the streamsof Abana and Pharpar, with their sloping swards inlaid with bloom, and their thickets of myrrh and roses. I saw the long, snowy ridge ofHermon, and the dark groves of cedars, and the valley of the Jordan, and the blue waters of the Lake of Galilee, and the fertile plain ofEsdraelon, and the hills of Ephraim, and the highlands of Judah. Throughall these I followed the figure of Artaban moving steadily onward, untilhe arrived at Bethlehem. And it was the third day after the three WiseMen had come to that place and had found Mary and Joseph, with the youngchild, Jesus, and had laid their gifts of gold and frankincense andmyrrh at his feet. 

Then the Other Wise Man drew near, weary, but full of hope, bearing hisruby and his pearl to offer to the King. "For now at last, " he said, "Ishall surely find him, though I be alone, and later than my brethren. This is the place of which the Hebrew exile told me that the prophetshad spoken, and here I shall behold the rising of the great light. But Imust inquire about the visit of my brethren, and to what house the stardirected them, and to whom they presented their tribute. "

The streets of the village seemed to be deserted, and Artaban wonderedwhether the men had all gone up to the hill-pastures to bring down theirsheep. From the open door of a cottage he heard the sound of a woman'svoice singing softly. He entered and found a young mother hushing herbaby to rest. She told him of the strangers from the far East who hadappeared in the village three days ago, and how they said that a starhad guided them to the place where Joseph of Nazareth was lodging withhis wife and her new-born child, and how they had paid reverence to thechild and given him many rich gifts. 

"But the travellers disappeared again, " she continued, "as suddenlyas they had come. We were afraid at the strangeness of their visit. We could not understand it. The man of Nazareth took the child and hismother, and fled away that same night secretly, and it was whisperedthat they were going to Egypt. Ever since, there has been a spell uponthe village; something evil hangs over it. They say that the Romansoldiers are coming from Jerusalem to force a new tax from us, andthe men have driven the flocks and herds far back among the hills, andhidden themselves to escape it. "

Artaban listened to her gentle, timid speech, and the child in her armslooked up in his face and smiled, stretching out its rosy hands to graspat the winged circle of gold on his breast. His heart warmed to thetouch. It seemed like a greeting of love and trust to one who hadjourneyed long in loneliness and perplexity, fighting with his owndoubts and fears, and following a light that was veiled in clouds. 

"Why might not this child have been the promised Prince?" he askedwithin himself, as he touched its soft cheek. "Kings have been born erenow in lowlier houses than this, and the favourite of the stars may riseeven from a cottage. But it has not seemed good to the God of wisdomto reward my search so soon and so easily. The one whom I seek has gonebefore me; and now I must follow the King to Egypt. "

The young mother laid the baby in its cradle, and rose to minister tothe wants of the strange guest that fate had brought into her house. Sheset food before him, the plain fare of peasants, but willingly offered, and therefore full of refreshment for the soul as well as for the body. Artaban accepted it gratefully; and, as he ate, the child fell into ahappy slumber, and murmured sweetly in its dreams, and a great peacefilled the room. 

But suddenly there came the noise of a wild confusion in the streets ofthe village, a shrieking and wailing of women's voices, a clangour ofbrazen trumpets and a clashing of swords, and a desperate cry: "Thesoldiers! the soldiers of Herod! They are killing our children. " Theyoung mother's face grew white with terror. She clasped her child toher bosom, and crouched motionless in the darkest corner of the room, covering him with the folds of her robe, lest he should wake and cry. 

But Artaban went quickly and stood in the doorway of the house. Hisbroad shoulders filled the portal from side to side, and the peak of hiswhite cap all but touched the lintel. 

The soldiers came hurrying down the street with bloody hands anddripping swords. At the sight of the stranger in his imposing dressthey hesitated with surprise. The captain of the band approached thethreshold to thrust him aside. But Artaban did not stir. His face was ascalm as though he were watching the stars, and in his eyes there burnedthat steady radiance before which even the half-tamed hunting leopardshrinks, and the bloodhound pauses in his leap. He held the soldiersilently for an instant, and then said in a low voice: "I am all alonein this place, and I am waiting to give this jewel to the prudentcaptain who will leave me in peace. "

He showed the ruby, glistening in the hollow of his hand like a greatdrop of blood. 

The captain was amazed at the splendour of the gem. The pupils of hiseyes expanded with desire, and the hard lines of greed wrinkled aroundhis lips. He stretched out his hand and took the ruby. 

"March on!" he cried to his men, "there is no child here. The house isempty. "

The clamor and the clang of arms passed down the street as the headlongfury of the chase sweeps by the secret covert where the trembling deeris hidden. Artaban re-entered the cottage. He turned his face to theeast and prayed:

 "God of truth, forgive my sin! I have said the thing thatis not, to save the life of a child. And two of my gifts are gone. Ihave spent for man that which was meant for God. Shall I ever be worthyto see the face of the King?"

But the voice of the woman, weeping for joy in the shadow behind him, said very gently:

"Because thou hast saved the life of my little one, may the Lord blessthee and keep thee; the Lord make His face to shine upon thee and begracious unto thee; the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee and givethee peace. "

IV

Again there was a silence in the Hall of Dreams, deeper and moremysterious than the first interval, and I understood that the years ofArtaban were flowing very swiftly under the stillness, and I caught onlya glimpse, here and there, of the river of his life shining through themist that concealed its course. 

I saw him moving among the throngs of men in populous Egypt, seekingeverywhere for traces of the household that had come down fromBethlehem, and finding them under the spreading sycamore-trees ofHeliopolis, and beneath the walls of the Roman fortress of New Babylonbeside the Nile--traces so faint and dim that they vanished before himcontinually, as footprints on the wet river-sand glisten for a momentwith moisture and then disappear. 

I saw him again at the foot of the pyramids, which lifted their sharppoints into the intense saffron glow of the sunset sky, changelessmonuments of the perishable glory and the imperishable hope of man. Helooked up into the face of the crouching Sphinx and vainly tried toread the meaning of the calm eyes and smiling mouth. Was it, indeed, the mockery of all effort and all aspiration, as Tigranes had said--thecruel jest of a riddle that has no answer, a search that never cansucceed? Or was there a touch of pity and encouragement in thatinscrutable smile--a promise that even the defeated should attain avictory, and the disappointed should discover a prize, and the ignorantshould be made wise, and the blind should see, and the wandering shouldcome into the haven at last?

I saw him again in an obscure house of Alexandria, taking counsel with aHebrew rabbi. The venerable man, bending over the rolls of parchmenton which the prophecies of Israel were written, read aloud the patheticwords which foretold the sufferings of the promised Messiah--thedespised and rejected of men, the man of sorrows and acquainted withgrief. 

"And remember, my son, " said he, fixing his eyes upon the face ofArtaban, "the King whom thou seekest is not to be found in a palace, noramong the rich and powerful. If the light of the world and the gloryof Israel had been appointed to come with the greatness of earthlysplendour, it must have appeared long ago. For no son of Abraham willever again rival the power which Joseph had in the palaces of Egypt, orthe magnificence of Solomon throned between the lions in Jerusalem. Butthe light for which the world is waiting is a new light, the glory thatshall rise out of patient and triumphant suffering. And the kingdomwhich is to be established forever is a new kingdom, the royalty ofunconquerable love. 

"I do not know how this shall come to pass, nor how the turbulent kingsand peoples of earth shall be brought to acknowledge the Messiah and payhomage to him. But this I know. Those who seek him will do well to lookamong the poor and the lowly, the sorrowful and the oppressed. "

So I saw the Other Wise Man again and again, travelling from place toplace, and searching among the people of the dispersion, with whom thelittle family from Bethlehem might, perhaps, have found a refuge. Hepassed through countries where famine lay heavy upon the land, and thepoor were crying for bread. He made his dwelling in plague-strickencities where the sick were languishing in the bitter companionship ofhelpless misery. He visited the oppressed and the afflicted in the gloomof subterranean prisons, and the crowded wretchedness of slave-markets, and the weary toil of galley-ships. In all this populous and intricateworld of anguish, though he found none to worship, he found many tohelp. He fed the hungry, and clothed the naked, and healed the sick, and comforted the captive; and his years passed more swiftly than theweaver's shuttle that flashes back and forth through the loom while theweb grows and the pattern is completed. 

It seemed almost as if he had forgotten his quest. But once I saw himfor a moment as he stood alone at sunrise, waiting at the gate of aRoman prison. He had taken from a secret resting-place in his bosom thepearl, the last of his jewels. As he looked at it, a mellower lustre, a soft and iridescent light, full of shifting gleams of azure and rose, trembled upon its surface. It seemed to have absorbed some reflection ofthe lost sapphire and ruby. So the secret purpose of a noble life drawsinto itself the memories of past joy and past sorrow. All that hashelped it, all that has hindered it, is transfused by a subtle magicinto its very essence. It becomes more luminous and precious the longerit is carried close to the warmth of the beating heart. 

Then, at last, while I was thinking of this pearl, and of its meaning, Iheard the end of the story of the Other Wise Man. 

V

Three-and-thirty years of the life of Artaban had passed away, and hewas still a pilgrim and a seeker after light. His hair, once darkerthan the cliffs of Zagros, was now white as the wintry snow that coveredthem. His eyes, that once flashed like flames of fire, were dull asembers smouldering among the ashes. 

Worn and weary and ready to die, but still looking for the King, he hadcome for the last time to Jerusalem. He had often visited the holy citybefore, and had searched all its lanes and crowded bevels and blackprisons without finding any trace of the family of Nazarenes who hadfled from Bethlehem long ago. But now it seemed as if he must make onemore effort, and something whispered in his heart that, at last, hemight succeed. 

It was the season of the Passover. The city was thronged with strangers. The children of Israel, scattered in far lands, had returned to theTemple for the great feast, and there had been a confusion of tongues inthe narrow streets for many days. 

But on this day a singular agitation was visible in the multitude. Thesky was veiled with a portentous gloom. Currents of excitement seemedto flash through the crowd. A secret tide was sweeping them all one way. The clatter of sandals and the soft, thick sound of thousands of barefeet shuffling over the stones, flowed unceasingly along the street thatleads to the Damascus gate. 

Artaban joined a group of people from his own country, Parthian Jews whohad come up to keep the Passover, and inquired of them the cause of thetumult, and where they were going. 

"We are going, " they answered, "to the place called Golgotha, outsidethe city walls, where there is to be an execution. Have you not heardwhat has happened? Two famous robbers are to be crucified, and with themanother, called Jesus of Nazareth, a man who has done many wonderfulworks among the people, so that they love him greatly. But the priestsand elders have said that he must die, because he gave himself out tobe the Son of God. And Pilate has sent him to the cross because he saidthat he was the 'King of the Jews. '"

How strangely these familiar words fell upon the tired heart of Artaban!They had led him for a lifetime over land and sea. And now they came tohim mysteriously, like a message of despair. The King had arisen, buthe had been denied and cast out. He was about to perish. Perhaps hewas already dying. Could it be the same who had been born in Bethlehemthirty-three years ago, at whose birth the star had appeared in heaven, and of whose coming the prophets had spoken?

Artaban's heart beat unsteadily with that troubled, doubtfulapprehension which is the excitement of old age. But he said withinhimself: "The ways of God are stranger than the thoughts of men, and itmay be that I shall find the King, at last, in the hands of his enemies, and shall come in time to offer my pearl for his ransom before he dies. "

So the old man followed the multitude with slow and painful stepstoward the Damascus gate of the city. Just beyond the entrance of theguardhouse a troop of Macedonian soldiers came down the street, dragginga young girl with torn dress and dishevelled hair. As the Magian pausedto look at her with compassion, she broke suddenly from the hands ofher tormentors, and threw herself at his feet, clasping him around theknees. She had seen his white cap and the winged circle on his breast. 

"Have pity on me, " she cried, "and save me, for the sake of the God ofPurity! I also am a daughter of the true religion which is taught bythe Magi. My father was a merchant of Parthia, but he is dead, and Iam seized for his debts to be sold as a slave. Save me from worse thandeath!"

Artaban trembled. 

It was the old conflict in his soul, which had come to him in thepalm-grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem--the conflictbetween the expectation of faith and the impulse of love. Twice the giftwhich he had consecrated to the worship of religion had been drawnto the service of humanity. This was the third trial, the ultimateprobation, the final and irrevocable choice. 

Was it his great opportunity, or his last temptation? He could not tell. One thing only was clear in the darkness of his mind--it was inevitable. And does not the inevitable come from God?

One thing only was sure to his divided heart--to rescue this helplessgirl would be a true deed of love. And is not love the light of thesoul?

He took the pearl from his bosom. Never had it seemed so luminous, soradiant, so full of tender, living lustre. He laid it in the hand of theslave. 

"This is thy ransom, daughter! It is the last of my treasures which Ikept for the King. "

While he spoke, the darkness of the sky deepened, and shuddering tremorsran through the earth heaving convulsively like the breast of one whostruggles with mighty grief. 

The walls of the houses rocked to and fro. Stones were loosened andcrashed into the street. Dust clouds filled the air. The soldiers fledin terror, reeling like drunken men. But Artaban and the girl whom hehad ransomed crouched helpless beneath the wall of the Praetorium. 

What had he to fear? What had he to hope? He had given away the lastremnant of his tribute for the King. He had parted with the last hopeof finding him. The quest was over, and it had failed. But, even in thatthought, accepted and embraced, there was peace. It was not resignation. It was not submission. It was something more profound and searching. Heknew that all was well, because he had done the best that he could fromday to day. He had been true to the light that had been given to him. He had looked for more. And if he had not found it, if a failure wasall that came out of his life, doubtless that was the best thatwas possible. He had not seen the revelation of "life everlasting, incorruptible and immortal. " But he knew that even if he could live hisearthly life over again, it could not be otherwise than it had been. 

One more lingering pulsation of the earthquake quivered through theground. A heavy tile, shaken from the roof, fell and struck the old manon the temple. He lay breathless and pale, with his gray head restingon the young girl's shoulder, and the blood trickling from the wound. Asshe bent over him, fearing that he was dead, there came a voice throughthe twilight, very small and still, like music sounding from a distance, in which the notes are clear but the words are lost. The girl turned tosee if some one had spoken from the window above them, but she saw noone. 

Then the old man's lips began to move, as if in answer, and she heardhim say in the Parthian tongue:

"Not so, my Lord! For when saw I thee an hungered and fed thee? Orthirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger, and took theein? Or naked, and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison, andcame unto thee? Three-and--thirty years have I looked for thee; but Ihave never seen thy face, nor ministered to thee, my King. "

He ceased, and the sweet voice came again. And again the maid heard it, very faint and far away. But now it seemed as though she understood thewords:

"Verily I say unto thee, Inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of theleast of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me. "

A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the pale face of Artaban likethe first ray of dawn, on a snowy mountain-peak. A long breath of reliefexhaled gently from his lips. 

His journey was ended. His treasures were accepted. The Other Wise Manhad found the King. 

A HANDFUL OF CLAY

There was a handful of clay in the bank of a river. It was only commonclay, coarse and heavy; but it had high thoughts of its own value, andwonderful dreams of the great place which it was to fill in the worldwhen the time came for its virtues to be discovered. 

Overhead, in the spring sunshine, the trees whispered together of theglory which descended upon them when the delicate blossoms and leavesbegan to expand, and the forest glowed with fair, clear colours, asif the dust of thousands of rubies and emeralds were hanging, in softclouds, above the earth. 

The flowers, surprised with the joy of beauty, bent their heads to oneanother, as the wind caressed them, and said: "Sisters, how lovely youhave become. You make the day bright. "

The river, glad of new strength and rejoicing in the unison of all itswaters, murmured to the shores in music, telling of its release from icyfetters, its swift flight from the snow-clad mountains, and the mightywork to which it was hurrying--the wheels of many mills to be turned, and great ships to be floated to the sea. 

Waiting blindly in its bed, the clay comforted itself with lofty hopes. "My time will come, " it said. "I was not made to be hidden forever. Glory and beauty and honour are coming to me in due season. "

One day the clay felt itself taken from the place where it had waited solong. A flat blade of iron passed beneath it, and lifted it, and tossedit into a cart with other lumps of clay, and it was carried far away, as it seemed, over a rough and stony road. But it was not afraid, nordiscouraged, for it said to itself: "This is necessary. The path toglory is always rugged. Now I am on my way to play a great part in theworld. "

But the hard journey was nothing compared with the tribulation anddistress that came after it. The clay was put into a trough and mixedand beaten and stirred and trampled. It seemed almost unbearable. Butthere was consolation in the thought that something very fine and noblewas certainly coming out of all this trouble. The clay felt sure that, if it could only wait long enough, a wonderful reward was in store forit. 

Then it was put upon a swiftly turning wheel, and whirled around untilit seemed as if it must fly into a thousand pieces. A strange powerpressed it and moulded it, as it revolved, and through all the dizzinessand pain it felt that it was taking a new form. 

Then an unknown hand put it into an oven, and fires were kindled aboutit--fierce and penetrating--hotter than all the heats of summer that hadever brooded upon the bank of the river. But through all, the clay helditself together and endured its trials, in the confidence of a greatfuture. "Surely, " it thought, "I am intended for something verysplendid, since such pains are taken with me. Perhaps I am fashioned forthe ornament of a temple, or a precious vase for the table of a king. "

At last the baking was finished. The clay was taken from the furnaceand set down upon a board, in the cool air, under the blue sky. Thetribulation was passed. The reward was at hand. 

Close beside the board there was a pool of water, not very deep, norvery clear, but calm enough to reflect, with impartial truth, everyimage that fell upon it. There, for the first time, as it was liftedfrom the board, the clay saw its new shape, the reward of all itspatience and pain, the consummation of its hopes--a common flower-pot, straight and stiff, red and ugly. And then it felt that it was notdestined for a king's house, nor for a palace of art, because it wasmade without glory or beauty or honour; and it murmured against theunknown maker, saying, "Why hast thou made me thus?"

Many days it passed in sullen discontent. Then it was filled with earth, and something--it knew not what--but something rough and brown anddead-looking, was thrust into the middle of the earth and covered over. The clay rebelled at this new disgrace. "This is the worst of all thathas happened to me, to be filled with dirt and rubbish. Surely I am afailure. "

But presently it was set in a greenhouse, where the sunlight fell warmupon it, and water was sprinkled over it, and day by day as it waited, a change began to come to it. Something was stirring within it--a newhope. Still it was ignorant, and knew not what the new hope meant. 

One day the clay was lifted again from its place, and carried into agreat church. Its dream was coming true after all. It had a fine part toplay in the world. Glorious music flowed over it. It was surroundedwith flowers. Still it could not understand. So it whispered to anothervessel of clay, like itself, close beside it, "Why have they set mehere? Why do all the people look toward us?" And the other vesselanswered, "Do you not know? You are carrying a royal sceptre of lilies. Their petals are white as snow, and the heart of them is like pure gold. The people look this way because the flower is the most wonderful in theworld. And the root of it is in your heart. "

Then the clay was content, and silently thanked its maker, because, though an earthen vessel, it held so great a treasure. 

THE LOST WORD

"Come down, Hermas, come down! The night is past. It is time to bestirring. Christ is born today. Peace be with you in His name. Makehaste and come down!"

 A little group of young men were standing in a street ofAntioch, in the dusk of early morning, fifteen hundred years ago--aclass of candidates who had nearly finished their years of training forthe Christian church. They had come to call their fellow-student Hermasfrom his lodging. 

Their voices rang out cheerily through the cool air. They were full ofthat glad sense of life which the young feel when they have risenearly and come to rouse one who is still sleeping. There was a note offriendly triumph in their call, as if they were exulting unconsciouslyin having begun the adventure of the new day before their comrade. 

But Hermas was not asleep. He had been waking for hours, and the wallsof his narrow lodging had been a prison to his heart. A nameless sorrowand discontent had fallen upon him, and he could find no escape from theheaviness of his own thoughts. 

There is a sadness of youth into which the old cannot enter. It seemsunreal and causeless. But it is even more bitter and burdensome than thesadness of age. There is a sting of resentment in it, a fever of angrysurprise that the world should so soon be a disappointment, and lifeso early take on the look of a failure. It has little reason in it, perhaps, but it has all the more weariness and gloom, because the manwho is oppressed by it feels dimly that it is an unnatural thing that heshould be tired of living before he has fairly begun to live. 

Hermas had fallen into the very depths of this strange self-pity. He wasout of tune with everything around him. He had been thinking, throughthe dead night, of all that he had given up when he left the house ofhis father, the wealthy pagan Demetrius, to join the company of theChristians. Only two years ago he had been one of the richest young menin Antioch. Now he was one of the poorest. The worst of it was that, though he had made the choice willingly and with a kind of enthusiasm, he was already dissatisfied with it. 

The new life was no happier than the old. He was weary of vigils andfasts, weary of studies and penances, weary of prayers and sermons. He felt like a slave in a treadmill. He knew that he must go on. Hishonour, his conscience, his sense of duty, bound him. He could not goback to the old careless pagan life again; for something had happenedwithin him which made a return impossible. Doubtless he had found thetrue religion, but he had found it only as a task and a burden; its joyand peace had slipped away from him. 

He felt disillusioned and robbed. He sat beside his hard couch, waitingwithout expectancy for the gray dawn of another empty day, and hardlylifting his head at the shouts of his friends. 

"Come down, Hermas, you sluggard! Come down! It is Christmas morn. Awake, and be glad with us!"

"I am coming, " he answered listlessly; "only have patience a moment. Ihave been awake since midnight, and waiting for the day. "

"You hear him!" said his friends one to another. "How he puts us all toshame! He is more watchful, more eager, than any of us. Our master, Johnthe Presbyter, does well to be proud of him. He is the best man in ourclass. "

While they were talking the door opened and Hermas stepped out. He wasa figure to be remarked in any company--tall, broad-shouldered, straight-hipped, with a head proudly poised on the firm column of theneck, and short brown curls clustering over the square forehead. It wasthe perpetual type of vigorous and intelligent young manhood, such asmay be found in every century among the throngs of ordinary men, as ifto show what the flower of the race should be. But the light in hiseyes was clouded and uncertain; his smooth cheeks were leaner than theyshould have been at twenty; and there were downward lines about hismouth which spoke of desires unsatisfied and ambitions repressed. Hejoined his companions with brief greetings, --a nod to one, a word toanother, --and they passed together down the steep street. 

Overhead the mystery of daybreak was silently transfiguring the sky. Thecurtain of darkness had lifted along the edge of the horizon. The raggedcrests of Mount Silpius were outlined with pale saffron light. In thecentral vault of heaven a few large stars twinkled drowsily. The greatcity, still chiefly pagan, lay more than half-asleep. But multitudes ofthe Christians, dressed in white and carrying lighted torches in theirhands, were hurrying toward the Basilica of Constantine to keep the newholy-day of the church, the festival of the birthday of their Master. 

The vast, bare building was soon crowded, and the younger converts, whowere not yet permitted to stand among the baptised, found it difficultto come to their appointed place between the first two pillars of thehouse, just within the threshold. There was some good-humoured pressingand jostling about the door; but the candidates pushed steadily forward. 

"By your leave, friends, our station is beyond you. Will you let uspass? Many thanks. "

A touch here, a courteous nod there, a little patience, a littlepersistence, and at last they stood in their place. Hermas was tallerthan his companions; he could look easily over their heads and surveythe sea of people stretching away through the columns, under the shadowsof the high roof, as the tide spreads on a calm day into the pillaredcavern of Staffa, quiet as if the ocean hardly dared to breathe. Thelight of many flambeaux fell, in flickering, uncertain rays, overthe assembly. At the end of the vista there was a circle of clearer, steadier radiance. Hermas could see the bishop in his great chair, surrounded by the presbyters, the lofty desks on either side for thereaders of the Scripture, the communion-table and the table of offeringsin the middle of the church. 

The call to prayer sounded down the long aisle. Thousands of hands werejoyously lifted in the air, as if the sea had blossomed into wavinglilies, and the "Amen" was like the murmur of countless ripples in anechoing place. 

Then the singing began, led by the choir of a hundred trained voiceswhich the Bishop Paul had founded in Antioch. Timidly, at first, themusic felt its way, as the people joined with a broken and uncertaincadence: the mingling of many little waves not yet gathered into rhythmand harmony. Soon the longer, stronger billows of song rolled in, sweeping from side to side as the men and the women answered in theclear antiphony. 

Hermas had often been carried on those

 Tides of music's golden sea Selling toward eternity. 

But to-day his heart was a rock that stood motionless. The flood passedby and left him unmoved. 

Looking out from his place at the foot of the pillar, he saw a manstanding far off in the lofty bema. Short and slender, wasted bysickness, gray before his time, with pale cheeks and wrinkled brow, heseemed at first like a person of no significance--a reed shaken inthe wind. But there was a look in his deep-set, poignant eyes, as hegathered all the glances of the multitude to himself, that belied hismean appearance and prophesied power. Hermas knew very well who it was:the man who had drawn him from his father's house, the teacher who wasinstructing him as a son in the Christian faith, the guide and trainerof his soul--John of Antioch, whose fame filled the city and began tooverflow Asia, and who was called already Chrysostom, the golden-mouthedpreacher. 

Hermas had felt the magic of his eloquence many a time; and to-day, asthe tense voice vibrated through the stillness, and the sentences movedonward, growing fuller and stronger, bearing argosies of costly rhetoricand treasures of homely speech in their bosom, and drawing the heartsof men with a resistless magic, Hermas knew that the preacher had neverbeen more potent, more inspired. 

He played on that immense congregation as a master on an instrument. He rebuked their sins, and they trembled. He touched their sorrows, andthey wept. He spoke of the conflicts, the triumphs, the glories of theirfaith, and they broke out in thunders of applause. He hushed them intoreverent silence, and led them tenderly, with the wise men of the East, to the lowly birthplace of Jesus. 

"Do thou, therefore, likewise leave the Jewish people, the troubledcity, the bloodthirsty tyrant, the pomp of the world, and hasten toBethlehem, the sweet house of spiritual bread. For though thou be but ashepherd, and come hither, thou shalt behold the young Child in an inn. Though thou be a king, and come not hither, thy purple robe shall profitthee nothing. Though thou be one of the wise men, this shall be nohindrance to thee. Only let thy coming be to honour and adore, withtrembling joy, the Son of God, to whose name be glory, on this Hisbirthday, and forever and forever. "

The soul of Hermas did not answer to the musician's touch. The stringsof his heart were slack and soundless; there was no response withinhim. He was neither shepherd, nor king, nor wise man; only an unhappy, dissatisfied, questioning youth. He was out of sympathy with the eagerpreacher, the joyous hearers. In their harmony he had no part. Was itfor this that he had forsaken his inheritance and narrowed his life topoverty and hardship? What was it all worth?

The gracious prayers with which the young converts were blessed anddismissed before the sacrament sounded hollow in his ears. Never had hefelt so utterly lonely as in that praying throng. He went out with hiscompanions like a man departing from a banquet where all but he had beenfed. 

"Farewell, Hermas, " they cried, as he turned from them at the door. Buthe did not look back, nor wave his hand. He was already alone in hisheart. 

When he entered the broad Avenue of the Colonnades, the sun had alreadytopped the eastern hills, and the ruddy light was streaming through thelong double row of archways and over the pavements of crimson marble. But Hermas turned his back to the morning, and walked with his shadowbefore him. 

The street began to swarm and whirl and quiver with the motley life of ahuge city: beggars and jugglers, dancers and musicians, gilded youths intheir chariots, and daughters of joy looking out from their windows, allintoxicated with the mere delight of living and the gladness of anew day. The pagan populace of Antioch--reckless, pleasure-loving, spendthrift--were preparing for the Saturnalia. But all this Hermas hadrenounced. He cleft his way through the crowd slowly, like a reluctantswimmer weary of breasting the tide. 

At the corner of the street where the narrow, populous Lane of theCamel-drivers crossed the Colonnades, a storyteller had bewitcheda circle of people around him. It was the same old tale of love andadventure that many generations have listened to; but the lively fancyof the hearers rent it new interest, and the wit of the improviser drewforth sighs of interest and shouts of laughter. 

A yellow-haired girl on the edge of the throng turned, as Hermas passed, and smiled in his face. She put out her hand and caught him by thesleeve. 

"Stay, " she said, "and laugh a bit with us. I know who you are--the sonof Demetrius. You must have bags of gold. Why do you look so black? Loveis alive yet. "

Hermas shook off her hand, but not ungently. 

"I don't know what you mean, " he said. "You are mistaken in me. I ampoorer than you are. "

But as he passed on, he felt the warm touch of her fingers through thecloth on his arm. It seemed as if she had plucked him by the heart. 

He went out by the Western Gate, under the golden cherubim that theEmperor Titus had stolen from the ruined Temple of Jerusalem and fixedupon the arch of triumph. He turned to the left, and climbed the hill tothe road that led to the Grove of Daphne. 

In all the world there was no other highway as beautiful. It wound forfive miles along the foot of the mountains, among gardens and villas, plantations of myrtles and mulberries, with wide outlooks over thevalley of Orontes and the distant, shimmering sea. 

The richest of all the dwellings was the House of the Golden Pillars, the mansion of Demetrius. He had won the favor of the apostate EmperorJulian, whose vain efforts to restore the worship of the heathen gods, some twenty years ago, had opened an easy way to wealth and power forall who would mock and oppose Christianity. Demetrius was not a sincerefanatic like his royal master; but he was bitter enough in his professedscorn of the new religion, to make him a favourite at the court wherethe old religion was in fashion. He had reaped a rich reward of hispolicy, and a strange sense of consistency made him more fiercely loyalto it than if it had been a real faith. He was proud of being called"the friend of Julian"; and when his son joined himself to theChristians, and acknowledged the unseen God, it seemed like an insultto his father's success. He drove the boy from his door and disinheritedhim. 

The glittering portico of the serene, haughty house, the repose of thewell-ordered garden, still blooming with belated flowers, seemed at onceto deride and to invite the young outcast plodding along the dusty road. "This is your birthright, " whispered the clambering rose-trees by thegate; and the closed portals of carven bronze said: "You have sold itfor a thought--a dream. "'

II

Hermas found the Grove of Daphne quite deserted. There was no soundin the enchanted vale but the rustling of the light winds chasingeach other through the laurel thickets, and the babble of innumerablestreams. Memories of the days and nights of delicate pleasure thatthe grove had often seen still haunted the bewildered paths and brokenfountains. At the foot of a rocky eminence, crowned with the ruins ofApollo's temple, which had been mysteriously destroyed by fire justafter Julian had restored and reconsecrated it, Hermas sat down beside agushing spring, and gave himself up to sadness. 

"How beautiful the world would be, how joyful, how easy to live in, without religion! These questions about unseen things, perhaps aboutunreal things, these restraints and duties and sacrifices-if I were onlyfree from them all, and could only forget them all, then I could live mylife as I pleased, and be happy. "

"Why not?" said a quiet voice at his back. 

He turned, and saw an old man with a long beard and a threadbare cloak(the garb affected by the pagan philosophers) standing behind him andsmiling curiously. 

"How is it that you answer that which has not been spoken?" said Hermas;"and who are you that honour me with your company?"

"Forgive the intrusion, " answered the stranger; "it is not ill meant. Afriendly interest is as good as an introduction. "

"But to what singular circumstance do I owe this interest?"

"To your face, " said the old man, with a courteous inclination. "Perhapsalso a little to the fact that I am the oldest inhabitant here, and feelas if all visitors were my guests, in a way. "

"Are you, then, one of the keepers of the grove? And have you given upyour work with the trees to take a holiday as a philosopher?

"Not at all. The robe of philosophy is a mere affectation, I mustconfess. I think little of it. My profession is the care of altars. Infact, I am the solitary priest of Apollo whom the Emperor Julian foundhere when he came to revive the worship of the grove, some twenty yearsago. You have heard of the incident?"

"Yes, " said Hermas, beginning to be interested; "the whole city musthave heard of it, for it is still talked of. But surely it was a strangesacrifice that you brought to celebrate the restoration of Apollo'stemple?"

"You mean the ancient goose?" said the old man laughing. "Well, perhapsit was not precisely what the emperor expected. But it was all that Ihad, and it seemed to me not inappropriate. You will agree to that ifyou are a Christian, as I guess from your dress. "

"You speak lightly for a priest of Apollo. "

"Oh, as for that, I am no bigot. The priesthood is a professionalmatter, and the name of Apollo is as good as any other. How many altarsdo you think there have been in this grove?"

"I do not know. "

"Just four-and-twenty, including that of the martyr Babylas, whoseruined chapel you see just beyond us. I have had something to do withmost of them in my time. They are transitory. They give employment tocare-takers for a while. But the thing that lasts, and the thing thatinterests me, is the human life that plays around them. The game hasbeen going on for centuries. It still disports itself very pleasantlyon summer evenings through these shady walks. Believe me, for I know. Daphne and Apollo are shadows. But the flying maidens and the pursuinglovers, the music and the dances, these are realities. Life is a game, and the world keeps it up merrily. But you? You are of a sad countenancefor one so young and so fair. Are you a loser in the game?" The words a key fits the lock. He opened his heart to the old man, and told himthe story of his life: his luxurious boyhood in his father's house;the irresistible spell which compelled him to forsake it when heheard John's preaching of the new religion; his lonely year with theanchorites among the mountains; the strict discipline in his teacher'shouse at Antioch; his weariness of duty, his distaste for poverty, hisdiscontent with worship. 

"And to-day, " said he, "I have been thinking that I am a fool. My lifeis swept as bare as a hermit's cell. There is nothing in it but a dream, a thought of God, which does not satisfy me. "

The singular smile deepened on his companion's face. "You are ready, then, " he suggested, "to renounce your new religion and go back to thatof your father?"

"No; I renounce nothing, I accept nothing. I do not wish to think aboutit. I only wish to live. "

"A very reasonable wish, and I think you are about to see itsaccomplishment. Indeed, I may even say that I can put you in the way ofsecuring it. Do you believe in magic?"

"I do not know whether I believe in anything. This is not a day on whichI care to make professions of faith. I believe in what I see. I wantwhat will give me pleasure. "

"Well, " said the old man, soothingly, as he plucked a leaf from thelaurel-tree above them and dipped it in the spring, "let us dismiss theriddles of belief. I like them as little as you do. You know this is aCastalian fountain. The Emperor Hadrian once read his fortune here froma leaf dipped in the water. Let us see what this leaf tells us. It isalready turning yellow. How do you read that?"

"Wealth, " said Hermas, laughing, as he looked at his mean garments. 

"And here is a bud on the stem that seems to be swelling. What is that?"

"Pleasure, " answered Hermas, bitterly. 

"And here is a tracing of wreaths upon the surface. What do you make ofthat?"

"What you will, " said Hermas, not even taking the trouble to look. "Suppose we say success and fame?"

"Yes, " said the stranger; "it is all written here. I promise that youshall enjoy it all. But you do not need to believe in my promise. I amnot in the habit of requiring faith of those whom I would serve. No suchhard conditions for me! There is only one thing that I ask. This is theseason that you Christians call the Christmas, and you have taken up thepagan custom of exchanging gifts. Well, if I give to you, you must giveto me. It is a small thing, and really the thing you can best afford topart with: a single word--the name of Him you profess to worship. Let metake that word and all that belongs to it entirely out of your life, so that you shall never hear it or speak it again. You will be richerwithout it. I promise you everything, and this is all I ask in return. Do you consent?"

"Yes. I consent, " said Hermas, mocking. "If you can take your price, aword, you can keep your promise, a dream. "

The stranger laid the long, cool, wet leaf softly across the young man'seyes. An icicle of pain darted through them; every nerve in his body wasdrawn together there in a knot of agony. 

Then all the tangle of pain seemed to be lifted out of him. A coollanguor of delight flowed back through every vein, and he sank into aprofound sleep. 

III

There is a slumber so deep that it annihilates time. It is like afragment of eternity. Beneath its enchantment of vacancy, a day seemslike a thousand years, and a thousand years might well pass as one day. 

It was such a sleep that fell upon Hermas in the Grove of Daphne. Animmeasurable period, an interval of life so blank and empty that hecould not tell whether it was long or short, had passed over him whenhis senses began to stir again. The setting sun was shooting arrows ofgold under the glossy laurel-leaves. He rose and stretched his arms, grasping a smooth branch above him and shaking it, to make sure that hewas alive. Then he hurried back toward Antioch, treading lightly as ifon air. 

The ground seemed to spring beneath his feet. Already his life hadchanged, he knew not how. Something that did not belong to him haddropped away; he had returned to a former state of being. He felt as ifanything might happen to him, and he was ready for anything. He wasa new man, yet curiously familiar to himself--as if he had done withplaying a tiresome part and returned to his natural state. He wasbuoyant and free, without a care, a doubt, a fear. 

As he drew near to his father's house he saw a confusion of servants inthe porch, and the old steward ran down to meet him at the gate. 

"Lord, we have been seeking you everywhere. The master is at the pointof death, and has sent for you. Since the sixth hour he calls your namecontinually. Come to him quickly, lord, for I fear the time is short. "

Hermas entered the house at once; nothing could amaze him to-day. Hisfather lay on an ivory couch in the inmost chamber, with shrunken faceand restless eyes, his lean fingers picking incessantly at the silkencoverlet. 

"My son!" he murmured; "Hermas, my son! It is good that you have comeback to me. I have missed you. I was wrong to send you away. Youshall never leave me again. You are my son, my heir. I have changedeverything. Hermas, my son, come nearer--close beside me. Take my hand, my son!"

The young man obeyed, and, kneeling by the couch, gathered his father'scold, twitching fingers in his firm, warm grasp. 

"Hermas, life is passing--long, rich, prosperous; the last sands, Icannot stay them. My religion, a good policy--Julian was my friend. Butnow he is gone--where? My soul is empty--nothing beyond--very dark--I amafraid. But you know something better. You found something that madeyou willing to give up your life for it--it, must have been almost likedying--yet you were happy. What was it you found? See, I am giving youeverything. I have forgiven you. Now forgive me. Tell me, what is it?Your secret, your faith--give it to me before I go. "

At the sound of this broken pleading a strange passion of pity andlove took the young man by the throat. His voice shook a little as heanswered eagerly:

"Father, there is nothing to forgive. I am your son; I will gladlytell you all that I know. I will give you the secret. Father, you mustbelieve with all your heart, and soul, and strength in--"

Where was the word--the word that he had been used to utter night andmorning, the word that had meant to him more than he had ever known?What had become of it?

He groped for it in the dark room of his mind. He had thought he couldlay his hand upon it in a moment, but it was gone. Some one had takenit away. Everything else was most clear to him: the terror of death;the lonely soul appealing from his father's eyes; the instant need ofcomfort and help. But at the one point where he looked for help he couldfind nothing; only an empty space. The word of hope had vanished. Hefelt for it blindly and in desperate haste. 

"Father, wait! I have forgotten something--it has slipped away fromme. I shall find it in a moment. There is hope--I will tell youpresently--oh, wait!"

The bony hand gripped his like a vice; the glazed eyes opened wider. "Tell me, " whispered the old man; "tell me quickly, for I must go. "

The voice sank into a dull rattle. The fingers closed once more, andrelaxed. The light behind the eyes went out. 

Hermas, the master of the House of the Golden Pillars, was keeping watchby the dead. 

IV

The break with the old life was as clean as if it had been cut with aknife. Some faint image of a hermit's cell, a bare lodging in a backstreet of Antioch, a class-room full of earnest students, remained inHermas' memory. Some dull echo of the voice of John the Presbyter, andthe measured sound of chanting, and the murmur of great congregations, still lingered in his ears; but it was like something that had happenedto another person, something that he had read long ago, but of which hehad lost the meaning. 

His new life was full and smooth and rich--too rich for any sense ofloss to make itself felt. There were a hundred affairs to busy him, andthe days ran swiftly by as if they were shod with winged sandals. 

Nothing needed to be considered, prepared for, begun. Everything wasready and waiting for him. All that he had to do was to go on. 

The estate of Demetrius was even greater than the world had supposed. There were fertile lands in Syria which the emperor had given him, marble-quarries in Phrygia, and forests of valuable timber in Cilicia;the vaults of the villa contained chests of gold and silver; the secretcabinets in the master's room were full of precious stones. The stewardswere diligent and faithful. The servants of the household rejoiced atthe young master's return. His table was spread; the rose-garland ofpleasure was woven for his head; his cup was overflowing with the spicywine of power. 

The period of mourning for his father came at a fortunate moment toseclude and safeguard him from the storm of political troubles andpersecutions that fell upon Antioch after the insults offered bythe people to the imperial statues in the year 387. The friends ofDemetrius, prudent and conservative persons, gathered around Hermas andmade him welcome to their circle. Chief among them was Libanius, thesophist, his nearest neighbour, whose daughter Athenais had been theplaymate of Hermas in the old days. 

He had left her a child. He found her a beautiful woman. Whattransformation is so magical, so charming, as this? To see the uncertainlines of youth rounded into firmness and symmetry, to discover thehalf-ripe, merry, changing face of the girl matured into perfectloveliness, and looking at you with calm, clear, serious eyes, notforgetting the past, but fully conscious of the changed present--this isto behold a miracle in the flesh. 

"Where have you been, these two years?" said Athenais, as they walkedtogether through the garden of lilies where they had so often played. 

"In a land of tiresome dreams, " answered Hermas; "but you have wakenedme, and I am never going back again. "

It was not to be supposed that the sudden disappearance of Hermas fromamong his former associates could long remain unnoticed. At first itwas a mystery. There was a fear, for two or three days, that he might belost. Some of his more intimate companions maintained that his devotionhad led him out into the desert to join the anchorites. But the news ofhis return to the House of the Golden Pillars, and of his new life asits master, filtered quickly through the gossip of the city. 

Then the church was filled with dismay and grief and reproach. Messengers and letters were sent to Hermas. They disturbed him a little, but they took no hold upon him. It seemed to him as if the messengersspoke in a strange language. As he read the letters there were wordsblotted out of the writing which made the full sense unintelligible. 

His old companions came to reprove him for leaving them, to warn him ofthe peril of apostasy, to entreat him to return. It all sounded vagueand futile. They spoke as if he had betrayed or offended some one;but when they came to name the object of his fear--the one whom he haddispleased, and to whom he should return--he heard nothing; there was ablur of silence in their speech. The clock pointed to the hour, but thebell did not strike. At last Hermas refused to see them any more. 

One day John the Presbyter stood in the atrium. Hermas was entertainingLibanius and Athenais in the banquet-hall. When the visit of thePresbyter was announced, the young master loosed a collar of gold andjewels from his neck, and gave it to his scribe. 

"Take this to John of Antioch, and tell him it is a gift from his formerpupil--as a token of remembrance, or to spend for the poor of the city. I will always send him what he wants, but it is idle for us to talktogether any more. I do not understand what he says. I have not goneto the temple, nor offered sacrifice, nor denied his teaching. I havesimply forgotten. I do not think about those things any longer. I amonly living. A happy man wishes him all happiness and farewell. "

But John let the golden collar fall on the marble floor. "Tell yourmaster that we shall talk together again, in due time, " said he, as hepassed sadly out of the hall. 

The love of Athenais and Hermas was like a tiny rivulet that sinks outof sight in a cavern, but emerges again a bright and brimming stream. The careless comradery of childhood was mysteriously changed into acomplete companionship. 

When Athenais entered the House of the Golden Pillars as a bride, allthe music of life came with her. Hermas called the feast of her welcome"the banquet of the full chord. " Day after day, night after night, weekafter week, month after month, the bliss of the home unfolded likea rose of a thousand leaves. When a child came to them, a strong, beautiful boy, worthy to be the heir of such a house, the heart of therose was filled with overflowing fragrance. Happiness was heaped uponhappiness. Every wish brought its own accomplishment. Wealth, honour, beauty, peace, love--it was an abundance of felicity so great that thesoul of Hermas could hardly contain it. 

Strangely enough, it began to press upon him, to trouble him with thevery excess of joy. He felt as if there were something yet needed tocomplete and secure it all. There was an urgency within him, a longingto find some outlet for his feelings, he knew not how--some expressionand culmination of his happiness, he knew not what. 

Under his joyous demeanour a secret fire of restlessness began toburn--an expectancy of something yet to come which should put the touchof perfection on his life. He spoke of it to Athenais, as they sattogether, one summer evening, in a bower of jasmine, with their boyplaying at their feet. There had been music in the garden; but now thesingers and lute-players had withdrawn, leaving the master and mistressalone in the lingering twilight, tremulous with inarticulate melody ofunseen birds. There was a secret voice in the hour seeking vainly forutterance a word waiting to be spoken. 

"How deep is our happiness, my beloved!" said Hermas; "deeper than thesea that slumbers yonder, below the city. And yet it is not quite fulland perfect. There is a depth of joy that we have not yet known--arepose of happiness that is still beyond us. What is it? I have nosuperstitions, like the king who cast his signet-ring into the seabecause he dreaded that some secret vengeance would fall on his unbrokengood fortune. That was an idle terror. But there is something thatoppresses me like an invisible burden. There is something still undone, unspoken, unfelt--something that we need to complete everything. Haveyou not felt it, too? Can you not lead me to it?"

"Yes, " she answered, lifting her eyes to his face; "I, too, have feltit, Hermas, this burden, this need, this unsatisfied longing. I thinkI know what it means. It is gratitude--the language of the heart, themusic of happiness. There is no perfect joy without gratitude. But wehave never learned it, and the want of it troubles us. It is like beingdumb with a heart full of love. We must find the word for it, and sayit together. Then we shall be perfectly joined in perfect joy. Come, mydear lord, let us take the boy with us, and give thanks. "

Hermas lifted the child in his arms, and turned with Athenais into thedepth of the garden. There was a dismantled shrine of some forgottenfashion of worship half-hidden among the luxuriant flowers. A fallenimage lay beside it, face downward in the grass. They stood there, handin hand, the boy drowsily resting on his father's shoulder. 

Silently the roseate light caressed the tall spires of thecypress-trees; silently the shadows gathered at their feet; silently thetranquil stars looked out from the deepening arch of heaven. The verybreath of being paused. It was the hour of culmination, the suprememoment of felicity waiting for its crown. The tones of Hermas were clearand low as he began, half-speaking and half-chanting, in the rhythm ofan ancient song:

"Fair is the world, the sea, the sky, the double kingdom of day andnight, in the glow of morning, in the shadow of evening, and under thedripping light of stars. 

"Fairer still is life in our breasts, with its manifold music andmeaning, with its wonder of seeing and hearing and feeling and knowingand being. 

"Fairer and still more fair is love, that draws us together, mingles ourlives in its flow, and bears them along like a river, strong and clearand swift, reflecting the stars in its bosom. 

"Wide is our world; we are rich; we have all things. Life is abundantwithin us--a measureless deep. Deepest of all is our love, and it longsto speak. 

"Come, thou final word; Come, thou crown of speech! Come, thou charm ofpeace! Open the gates of our hearts. Lift the weight of our joy and bearit upward. 

"For all good gifts, for all perfect gifts, for love, for life, for theworld, we praise, we bless, we thank--"

As a soaring bird, struck by an arrow, falls headlong from the sky, sothe song of Hermas fell. At the end of his flight of gratitude there wasnothing--a blank, a hollow space. 

He looked for a face, and saw a void. He sought for a hand, and claspedvacancy. His heart was throbbing and swelling with passion; the bellswung to and fro within him, beating from side to side as if it wouldburst; but not a single note came from it. All the fulness of hisfeeling, that had risen upward like a fountain, fell back from the emptysky, as cold as snow, as hard as hail, frozen and dead. There was nomeaning in his happiness. No one had sent it to him. There was no one tothank for it. His felicity was a closed circle, a wall of ice. 

"Let us go back, " he said sadly to Athenais; "the child is heavy uponmy shoulder. We will lay him to sleep, and go into the library. The airgrows chilly. We were mistaken. The gratitude of life is only a dream. There is no one to thank. "

And in the garden it was already night. 

V

No outward change came to the House of the Golden Pillars. Everythingmoved as smoothly, as delicately, as prosperously, as before. Butinwardly there was a subtle, inexplicable transformation. A vaguediscontent, a final and inevitable sense of incompleteness, overshadowedexistence from that night when Hermas realised that his joy could nevergo beyond itself. 

The next morning the old man whom he had seen in the Grove of Daphne, but never since, appeared mysteriously at the door of the house, as ifhe had been sent for, and entered like an invited guest. 

Hermas could not but make him welcome, and at first he tried to regardhim with reverence and affection as the one through whom fortune hadcome. But it was impossible. There was a chill in the inscrutable smileof Marcion, as he called himself, that seemed to mock at reverence. He was in the house as one watching a strange experiment--tranquil, interested, ready to supply anything that might be needed for itscompletion, but thoroughly indifferent to the feelings of the subject;an anatomist of life, looking curiously to see how long it wouldcontinue, and how it would act, after the heart had been removed. 

In his presence Hermas was conscious of a certain irritation, aresentful anger against the calm, frigid scrutiny of the eyes thatfollowed him everywhere, like a pair of spies, peering out over thesmiling mouth and the long white beard. 

"Why do you look at me so curiously?" asked Hermas, one morning, as theysat together in the library. "Do you see anything strange in me?"

"No, " answered Marcion; "something familiar. "

"And what is that?"

"A singular likeness to a discontented young man that I met some yearsago in the Grove of Daphne. "

"But why should that interest you? Surely it was to be expected. "

"A thing that we expect often surprises us when we see it. Besides, mycuriosity is piqued. I suspect you of keeping a secret from me. "

"You are jesting with me. There is nothing in my life that you do notknow. What is the secret?"

"Nothing more than the wish to have one. You are growing tired of yourbargain. The play wearies you. That is foolish. Do you want to try a newpart?"

The question was like a mirror upon which one comes suddenly in ahalf-lighted room. A quick illumination falls on it, and the passer-byis startled by the look of his own face. 

"You are right, " said Hermas. "I am tired. We have been going onstupidly in this house, as if nothing were possible but what my fatherhad done before me. There is nothing original in being rich, andwell-fed, and well-dressed. Thousands of men have tried it, and havenot been satisfied. Let us do something new. Let us make a mark in theworld. "

"It is well said, " nodded the old man; "you are speaking again like aman after my own heart. There is no folly but the loss of an opportunityto enjoy a new sensation. "

From that day Hermas seemed to be possessed with a perpetual haste, an uneasiness that left him no repose. The summit of life had beenattained, the highest possible point of felicity. Henceforward thecourse could only be at a level--perhaps downward. It might be brief;at the best it could not be very long. It was madness to lose a day, anhour. That would be the only fatal mistake: to forfeit anything of thebargain that he had made. He would have it, and hold it, and enjoy itall to the full. The world might have nothing better to give than it hadalready given; but surely it had many things that were new, and Marcionshould help him to find them. 

Under his learned counsel the House of the Golden Pillars took on a newmagnificence. Artists were brought from Corinth and Rome and Alexandriato adorn it with splendour. Its fame glittered around the world. Banquets of incredible luxury drew the most celebrated guests into itstriclinium, and filled them with envious admiration. The bees swarmedand buzzed about the golden hive. The human insects, gorgeous mothsof pleasure and greedy flies of appetite, parasites and flatterers andcrowds of inquisitive idlers, danced and fluttered in the dazzling lightthat surrounded Hermas. 

Everything that he touched prospered. He bought a tract of land in theCaucasus, and emeralds were discovered among the mountains. He sent afleet of wheat-ships to Italy, and the price of grain doubled while itwas on the way. He sought political favour with the emperor, and wasrewarded with the governorship of the city. His name was a word toconjure with. 

The beauty of Athenais lost nothing with the passing seasons, but grewmore perfect, even under the inexplicable shade of dissatisfactionthat sometimes veiled it. "Fair as the wife of Hermas" was a proverbin Antioch; and soon men began to add to it, "Beautiful as the son ofHermas"; for the child developed swiftly in that favouring clime. Atnine years of age he was straight and strong, firm of limb and clear ofeye. His brown head was on a level with his father's heart. He was thejewel of the House of the Golden Pillars; the pride of Hermas, the newFortunatus. 

That year another drop of success fell into his brimming cup. His blackNumidian horses, which he had been training for the world-renownedchariot-races of Antioch, won the victory over a score of rivals. Hermasreceived the prize carelessly from the judge's hands, and turned todrive once more around the circus, to show himself to the people. Helifted the eager boy into the chariot beside him to share his triumph. 

Here, indeed, was the glory of his life--this matchless son, hisbrighter counterpart carved in breathing ivory, touching his arm, andbalancing himself proudly on the swaying floor of the chariot. As thehorses pranced around the ring, a great shout of applause filled theamphitheatre, and thousands of spectators waved their salutations ofpraise: "Hail, fortunate Hermas, master of success! Hail, little Hermas, prince of good luck!"

The sudden tempest of acclamation, the swift fluttering of innumerablegarments in the air, startled the horses. They dashed violently forward, and plunged upon the bits. The left rein broke. They swerved to theright, swinging the chariot sideways with a grating noise, and dashingit against the stone parapet of the arena. In an instant the wheelwas shattered. The axle struck the ground, and the chariot was draggedonward, rocking and staggering. 

By a strenuous effort Hermas kept his place on the frail platform, clinging to the unbroken rein. But the boy was tossed lightly fromhis side at the first shock. His head struck the wall. And when Hermasturned to look for him, he was lying like a broken flower on the sand. 

VI

They carried the boy in a litter to the House of the Golden Pillars, summoning the most skilful physician of Antioch to attend him. Forhours the child was as quiet as death. Hermas watched the white eyelids, folded close like lily-buds at night, even as one watches for themorning. At last they opened; but the fire of fever was burning in theeyes, and the lips were moving in a wild delirium. 

Hour after hour that sweet childish voice rang through the halls andchambers of the splendid, helpless house, now rising in shrill callsof distress and senseless laughter, now sinking in weariness and dullmoaning. The stars shone and faded; the sun rose and set; the rosesbloomed and fell in the garden; the birds sang and slept among thejasmine-bowers. But in the heart of Hermas there was no song, no bloom, no light--only speechless anguish, and a certain fearful looking-for ofdesolation. 

He was like a man in a nightmare. He saw the shapeless terror that wasmoving toward him, but he was impotent to stay or to escape it. He haddone all that he could. There was nothing left but to wait. 

He paced to and fro, now hurrying to the boy's bed as if he could notbear to be away from it, now turning back as if he could not endure tobe near it. The people of the house, even Athenais, feared to speak tohim, there was something so vacant and desperate in his face. 

At nightfall on the second of those eternal days he shut himself in thelibrary. The unfilled lamp had gone out, leaving a trail of smoke inthe air. The sprigs of mignonette and rosemary, with which the room wassprinkled every day, were unrenewed, and scented the gloom with closeodours of decay. A costly manuscript of Theocritus was tumbled indisorder on the floor. Hermas sank into a chair like a man in whom thevery spring of being is broken. Through the darkness some one drew near. He did not even lift his head. A hand touched him; a soft arm was laidover his shoulders. It was Athenais, kneeling beside him and speakingvery low:

"Hermas--it is almost over--the child! His voice grows weaker hour byhour. He moans and calls for some one to help him; then he laughs. Itbreaks my heart. He has just fallen asleep. The moon is rising now. Unless a change comes he cannot last till sunrise. Is there nothing wecan do? Is there no power that can save him? Is there no one to pity usand spare us? Let us call, let us beg for compassion and help; let uspray for his life!"

Yes; this was what he wanted--this was the only thing that could bringrelief: to pray; to pour out his sorrow somewhere; to find a greaterstrength than his own and cling to it and plead for mercy and help. Toleave this undone was to be false to his manhood; it was to be no betterthan the dumb beasts when their young perish. How could he let his boysuffer and die, without an effort, a cry, a prayer?

He sank on his knees beside Athenais. 

"Out of the depths--out of the depths we call for pity. The light ofour eyes is fading--the child is dying. Oh, the child, the child! Sparethe child's life, thou merciful--"

Not a word; only that deathly blank. The hands of Hermas, stretched outin supplication, touched the marble table. He felt the cool hardness ofthe polished stone beneath his fingers. A roll of papyrus, dislodged byhis touch, fell rustling to the floor. Through the open door, faintand far off, came the footsteps of the servants, moving cautiously. Theheart of Hermas was like a lump of ice in his bosom. He rose slowly tohis feet, lifting Athenais with him. 

"It is in vain, " he said; "there is nothing for us to do. Long ago Iknew something. I think it would have helped us. But I have forgottenit. It is all gone. But I would give all that I have, if I could bringit back again now, at this hour, in this time of our bitter trouble. "

A slave entered the room while he was speaking, and approachedhesitatingly. 

"Master, " he said, "John of Antioch, whom we were forbidden to admit tothe house, has come again. He would take no denial. Even now he waits inthe peristyle; and the old man Marcion is with him, seeking to turn himaway. "

"Come, " said Hermas to his wife, "let us go to him. "

In the central hall the two men were standing; Marcion, with disdainfuleyes and sneering lips, taunting the unbidden guest; John, silent, quiet, patient, while the wondering slaves looked on in dismay. Helifted his searching gaze to the haggard face of Hermas. 

"My son, I knew that I should see you again, even though you did notsend for me. I have come to you because I have heard that you are introuble. "

"It is true, " answered Hermas, passionately; "we are in trouble, desperate trouble, trouble accursed. Our child is dying. We are poor, we are destitute, we are afflicted. In all this house, in all the world, there is no one that can help us. I knew something long ago, when I waswith you, --a word, a name, --in which we might have found hope. ButI have lost it. I gave it to this man. He has taken it away from meforever. "

He pointed to Marcion. The old man's lips curled scornfully. "A word, aname!" he sneered. "What is that, O most wise man and holy Presbyter?A thing of air, a thing that men make to describe their own dreams andfancies. Who would go about to rob any one of such a thing as that? Itis a prize that only a fool would think of taking. Besides, the youngman parted with it of his own free will. He bargained with me cleverly. I promised him wealth and pleasure and fame. What did he give in return?An empty name, which was a burden--"

"Servant of demons, be still!" The voice of John rang clear, like atrumpet, through the hall. "There is a name which none shall dare totake in vain. There is a name which none can lose without being lost. There is a name at which the devils tremble. Go quickly, before I speakit!"

Marcion shrank into the shadow of one of the pillars. A lamp near himtottered on its pedestal and fell with a crash. In the confusion hevanished, as noiselessly as a shade. 

John turned to Hermas, and his tone softened as he said: "My son, youhave sinned deeper than you know. The word with which you parted solightly is the keyword of all life. Without it the world has no meaning, existence no peace, death no refuge. It is the word that purifieslove, and comforts grief, and keeps hope alive forever. It is the mostprecious word that ever ear has heard, or mind has known, or heart hasconceived. It is the name of Him who has given us life and breath andall things richly to enjoy; the name of Him who, though we may forgetHim, never forgets us; the name of Him who pities us as you pity yoursuffering child; the name of Him who, though we wander far from Him, seeks us in the wilderness, and sent His Son, even as His Son has sentme this night, to breathe again that forgotten name in the heart that isperishing without it. Listen, my son, listen with all your soul to theblessed name of God our Father. "

The cold agony in the breast of Hermas dissolved like a fragment of icethat melts in the summer sea. A sense of sweet release spread throughhim from head to foot. The lost was found. The dew of peace fell on hisparched soul, and the withering flower of human love raised its headagain. He stood upright, and lifted his hands high toward heaven. 

"Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord! O my God, be mercifulto me, for my soul trusteth in Thee. My God, Thou hast given; take notThy gift away from me, O my God! Spare the life of this my child, O ThouGod, my Father, my Father!"

A deep hush followed the cry. "Listen!" whispered Athenais, breathlessly. 

Was it an echo? It could not be, for it came again--the voice of thechild, clear and low, waking from sleep, and calling: "Father!"

THE FIRST CHRISTMAS-TREE

I

The day before Christmas, in the year of our Lord 722. 

Broad snow-meadows glistening white along the banks of the riverMoselle; steep hill-sides blooming with mystic forget-me-not where theglow of the setting sun cast long shadows down their eastern slope; anarch of clearest, deepest gentian bending overhead; in the centre of theaerial garden the walls of the cloister of Pfalzel, steel-blue to theeast, violet to the west; silence over all, --a gentle, eager, consciousstillness, diffused through the air, as if earth and sky were hushingthemselves to hear the voice of the river faintly murmuring down thevalley. 

In the cloister, too, there was silence at the sunset hour. All day longthere had been a strange and joyful stir among the nuns. A breeze ofcuriosity and excitement had swept along the corridors and through everyquiet cell. A famous visitor had come to the convent. 

It was Winfried of England, whose name in the Roman tongue was Boniface, and whom men called the Apostle of Germany. A great preacher; awonderful scholar; but, more than all, a daring traveller, a venturesomepilgrim, a priest of romance. 

He had left his home and his fair estate in Wessex; he would not stay inthe rich monastery of Nutescelle, even though they had chosen him asthe abbot; he had refused a bishopric at the court of King Karl. Nothingwould content him but to go out into the wild woods and preach to theheathen. 

Through the forests of Hesse and Thuringia, and along the bordersof Saxony, he had wandered for years, with a handful of companions, sleeping under the trees, crossing mountains and marshes, now here, now there, never satisfied with ease and comfort, always in love withhardship and danger. 

What a man he was! Fair and slight, but straight as a spear and strongas an oaken staff. His face was still young; the smooth skin was bronzedby wind and sun. His gray eyes, clean and kind, flashed like fire whenhe spoke of his adventures, and of the evil deeds of the false priestswith whom he contended. 

What tales he had told that day! Not of miracles wrought by sacredrelics; not of courts and councils and splendid cathedrals; though heknew much of these things. But to-day he had spoken of long journeyingsby sea and land; of perils by fire and flood; of wolves and bears, andfierce snowstorms, and black nights in the lonely forest; of dark altarsof heathen gods, and weird, bloody sacrifices, and narrow escapes frommurderous bands of wandering savages. 

The little novices had gathered around him, and their faces had grownpale and their eyes bright as they listened with parted lips, entrancedin admiration, twining their arms about one another's shoulders andholding closely together, half in fear, half in delight. The oldernuns had turned from their tasks and paused, in passing by, to bear thepilgrim's story. Too well they knew the truth of what he spoke. Many aone among them had seen the smoke rising from the ruins of her father'sroof. Many a one had a brother far away in the wild country to whomher heart went out night and day, wondering if he were still among theliving. 

But now the excitements of that wonderful day were over; the hour of theevening meal had come; the inmates of the cloister were assembled in therefectory. 

On the dais sat the stately Abbess Addula, daughter of King Dagobert, looking a princess indeed, in her purple tunic, with the hood and cuffsof her long white robe trimmed with ermine, and a snowy veil restinglike a crown on her silver hair. At her right hand was the honouredguest, and at her left hand her grandson, the young Prince Gregor, abig, manly boy, just returned from school. 

The long, shadowy hall, with its dark-brown rafters and beams; thedouble row of nuns, with their pure veils and fair faces; the ruddy glowof the slanting sunbeams striking upward through the tops of the windowsand painting a pink glow high up on the walls, --it was all as beautifulas a picture, and as silent. For this was the rule of the cloister, thatat the table all should sit in stillness for a little while, and thenone should read aloud, while the rest listened. 

"It is the turn of my grandson to read to-day, " said the abbess toWinfried; "we shall see how much he has learned in the school. Read, Gregor; the place in the book is marked. "

The lad rose from his seat and turned the pages of the manuscript. It was a copy of Jerome's version of the Scriptures in Latin, andthe marked place was in the letter of St. Paul to the Ephesians, --thepassage where he describes the preparation of the Christian as awarrior arming for battle. The young voice rang out clearly, rolling thesonorous words, without slip or stumbling, to the end of the chapter. 

Winfried listened smiling. "That was bravely read, my son, " said he, asthe reader paused. "Understandest thou what thou readest?"

"Surely, father, " answered the boy; "it was taught me by the masters atTreves; and we have read this epistle from beginning to end, so that Ialmost know it by heart. "

Then he began to repeat the passage, turning away from the page as if toshow his skill. 

But Winfried stopped him with a friendly lifting of the hand. 

"Not so, my son; that was not my meaning. When we pray, we speak to God. When we read, God speaks to us. I ask whether thou hast heard what Hehas said to thee in the common speech. Come, give us again the messageof the warrior and his armour and his battle, in the mother-tongue, sothat all can understand it. "

The boy hesitated, blushed, stammered; then he came around to Winfried'sseat, bringing the book. "Take the book, my father, " he cried, "and readit for me. I cannot see the meaning plain, though I love the sound ofthe words. Religion I know, and the doctrines of our faith, and the lifeof priests and nuns in the cloister, for which my grandmother designsme, though it likes me little. And fighting I know, and the life ofwarriors and heroes, for I have read of it in Virgil and the ancients, and heard a bit from the soldiers at Treves; and I would fain taste moreof it, for it likes me much. But how the two lives fit together, or whatneed there is of armour for a clerk in holy orders, I can never see. Tell me the meaning, for if there is a man in all the world that knowsit, I am sure it is thou. "

So Winfried took the book and closed it, clasping the boy's hand withhis own. 

"Let us first dismiss the others to their vespers, " said he, "lest theyshould be weary. "

A sign from the abbess; a chanted benediction; a murmuring of sweetvoices and a soft rustling of many feet over the rushes on the floor;the gentle tide of noise flowed out through the doors and ebbed awaydown the corridors; the three at the head of the table were left alonein the darkening room. 

Then Winfried began to translate the parable of the soldier into therealities of life. 

At every turn he knew how to flash a new light into the picture outof his own experience. He spoke of the combat with self, and of thewrestling with dark spirits in solitude. He spoke of the demons that menhad worshipped for centuries in the wilderness, and whose malice theyinvoked against the stranger who ventured into the gloomy forest. Gods, they called them, and told weird tales of their dwelling among theimpenetrable branches of the oldest trees and in the caverns of theshaggy hills; of their riding on the wind-horses and hurling spears oflightning against their foes. Gods they were not, but foul spiritsof the air, rulers of the darkness. Was there not glory and honourin fighting them, in daring their anger under the shield of faith, inputting them to flight with the sword of truth? What better adventurecould a brave man ask than to go forth against them, and wrestle withthem, and conquer them?

"Look you, my friends, " said Winfried, "how sweet and peaceful is thisconvent to-night! It is a garden full of flowers in the heart of winter;a nest among the branches of a great tree shaken by the winds; a stillhaven on the edge of a tempestuous sea. And this is what religionmeans for those who are chosen and called to quietude and prayer andmeditation. 

"But out yonder in the wide forest, who knows what storms are ravingto-night in the hearts of men, though all the woods are still? who knowswhat haunts of wrath and cruelty are closed tonight against the adventof the Prince of Peace? And shall I tell you what religion means tothose who are called and chosen to dare, and to fight, and to conquerthe world for Christ? It means to go against the strongholds of theadversary. It means to struggle to win an entrance for the Mastereverywhere. What helmet is strong enough for this strife save the helmetof salvation? What breastplate can guard a man against these fiery dartsbut the breastplate of righteousness? What shoes can stand the wear ofthese journeys but the preparation of the gospel of peace?"

"Shoes?" he cried again, and laughed as if a sudden thought had struckhim. He thrust out his foot, covered with a heavy cowhide boot, lacedhigh about his leg with thongs of skin. 

"Look here, --how a fighting man of the cross is shod! I have seen theboots of the Bishop of Tours, --white kid, broidered with silk; a dayin the bogs would tear them to shreds. I have seen the sandals that themonks use on the highroads, --yes, and worn them; ten pair of them haveI worn out and thrown away in a single journey. Now I shoe my feet withthe toughest hides, hard as iron; no rock can cut them, no branches cantear them. Yet more than one pair of these have I outworn, and manymore shall I outwear ere my journeys are ended. And I think, if God isgracious to me, that I shall die wearing them. Better so than in asoft bed with silken coverings. The boots of a warrior, a hunter, awoodsman, --these are my preparation of the gospel of peace. 

"Come, Gregor, " he said, laying his brown hand on the youth's shoulder, "come, wear the forester's boots with me. This is the life to which weare called. Be strong in the Lord, a hunter of the demons, a subduer ofthe wilderness, a woodsman of the faith. Come. "

The boy's eyes sparkled. He turned to his grandmother. She shook herhead vigorously. 

"Nay, father, " she said, "draw not the lad away from my side with thesewild words. I need him to help me with my labours, to cheer my old age. "

"Do you need him more than the Master does?" asked Winfried; "and willyou take the wood that is fit for a bow to make a distaff?"

"But I fear for the child. Thy life is too hard for him. He will perishwith hunger in the woods. "

"Once, " said Winfried, smiling, "we were camped on the bank of the riverOhru. The table was set for the morning meal, but my comrades criedthat it was empty; the provisions were exhausted; we must go withoutbreakfast, and perhaps starve before we could escape from thewilderness. While they complained, a fish-hawk flew up from the riverwith flapping wings, and let fall a great pike in the midst of the camp. There was food enough and to spare! Never have I seen the righteousforsaken, nor his seed begging bread. "

"But the fierce pagans of the forest, " cried the abbess, --"they maypierce the boy with their arrows, or dash out his brains with theiraxes. He is but a child, too young for the danger and the strife. "

"A child in years, " replied Winfried, "but a man in spirit. And if thehero fall early in the battle, he wears the brighter crown, not a leafwithered, not a flower fallen. "

The aged princess trembled a little. She drew Gregor close to her side, and laid her hand gently on his brown hair. "I am not sure that he wa there is no horse in the stable to give him, now, and he cannot go asbefits the grandson of a king. "

Gregor looked straight into her eyes. 

"Grandmother, " said he, "dear grandmother, if thou wilt not give me ahorse to ride with this man of God, I will go with him afoot. "

II

Two years had passed since that Christmas-eve in the cloister ofPfalzel. A little company of pilgrims, less than a score of men, weretravelling slowly northward through the wide forest that rolled over thehills of central Germany. 

At the head of the band marched Winfried, clad in a tunic of fur, withhis long black robe girt high above his waist, so that it might nothinder his stride. His hunter's boots were crusted with snow. Drops ofice sparkled like jewels along the thongs that bound his legs. Therewere no other ornaments of his dress except the bishop's cross hangingon his breast, and the silver clasp that fastened his cloak about hisneck. He carried a strong, tall staff in his hand, fashioned at the topinto the form of a cross. 

Close beside him, keeping step like a familiar comrade, was the youngPrince Gregor. Long marches through the wilderness had stretched hislegs and broadened his back, and made a man of him in stature as well asin spirit. His jacket and cap were of wolf-skin, and on his shoulder hecarried an axe, with broad, shining blade. He was a mighty woodsmannow, and could make a spray of chips fly around him as he hewed his waythrough the trunk of a pine-tree. 

Behind these leaders followed a pair of teamsters, guiding a rudesledge, loaded with food and the equipage of the camp, and drawn bytwo big, shaggy horses, blowing thick clouds of steam from their frostynostrils. Tiny icicles hung from the hairs on their lips. Their flankswere smoking. They sank above the fetlocks at every step in the softsnow. 

Last of all came the rear guard, armed with bows and javelins. It was nochild's play, in those days, to cross Europe afoot. 

The weird woodland, sombre and illimitable, covered hill and vale, table-land and mountain-peak. There were wide moors where the wolveshunted in packs as if the devil drove them, and tangled thickets wherethe lynx and the boar made their lairs. Fierce bears lurked among therocky passes, and had not yet learned to fear the face of man. Thegloomy recesses of the forest gave shelter to inhabitants who werestill more cruel and dangerous than beasts of prey, --outlaws and sturdyrobbers and mad were-wolves and bands of wandering pillagers. 

The pilgrim who would pass from the mouth of the Tiber to the mouth ofthe Rhine must trust in God and keep his arrows loose in the quiver. 

The travellers were surrounded by an ocean of trees, so vast, so fullof endless billows, that it seemed to be pressing on every side tooverwhelm them. Gnarled oaks, with branches twisted and knotted as ifin rage, rose in groves like tidal waves. Smooth forests of beech-trees, round and gray, swept over the knolls and slopes of land in a mightyground-swell. But most of all, the multitude of pines and firs, innumerable and monotonous, with straight, stark trunks, and brancheswoven together in an unbroken flood of darkest green, crowded throughthe valleys and over the hills, rising on the highest ridges into raggedcrests, like the foaming edge of breakers. 

Through this sea of shadows ran a narrow stream of shiningwhiteness, --an ancient Roman road, covered with snow. It was as ifsome great ship had ploughed through the green ocean long ago, andleft behind it a thick, smooth wake of foam. Along this open track thetravellers held their way, --heavily, for the drifts were deep; warily, for the hard winter had driven many packs of wolves down from the moors. 

The steps of the pilgrims were noiseless; but the sledges creaked overthe dry snow, and the panting of the horses throbbed through the stillair. The pale-blue shadows on the western side of the road grewlonger. The sun, declining through its shallow arch, dropped behind thetree-tops. Darkness followed swiftly, as if it had been a bird of preywaiting for this sign to swoop down upon the world. 

"Father, " said Gregor to the leader, "surely this day's march is done. It is time to rest, and eat, and sleep. If we press onward now, wecannot see our steps; and will not that be against the word of thepsalmist David, who bids us not to put confidence in the legs of a man?"

Winfried laughed. "Nay, my son Gregor, " said he, "thou hast tripped, even now, upon thy text. For David said only, 'I take no pleasure in thelegs of a man. ' And so say I, for I am not minded to spare thy legs ormine, until we come farther on our way, and do what must be done thisnight. Draw thy belt tighter, my son, and hew me out this tree that isfallen across the road, for our campground is not here. "

The youth obeyed; two of the foresters sprang to help him; and while thesoft fir-wood yielded to the stroke of the axes, and the snow flew fromthe bending branches, Winfried turned and spoke to his followers in acheerful voice, that refreshed them like wine. 

"Courage, brothers, and forward yet a little! The moon will light uspresently, and the path is plain. Well know I that the journey is weary;and my own heart wearies also for the home in England, where those Ilove are keeping feast this Christmas-eve. But we have work to do beforewe feast to-night. For this is the Yuletide, and the heathen people ofthe forest are gathered at the thunder-oak of Geismar to worship theirgod, Thor. Strange things will be seen there, and deeds which make thesoul black. But we are sent to lighten their darkness; and we will teachour kinsmen to keep a Christmas with us such as the woodland has neverknown. Forward, then, and stiffen up the feeble knees!"

A murmur of assent came from the men. Even the horses seemed to takefresh heart. They flattened their backs to draw the heavy loads, andblew the frost from their nostrils as they pushed ahead. 

The night grew broader and less oppressive. A gate of brightness wasopened secretly somewhere in the sky. Higher and higher swelled theclear moon-flood, until it poured over the eastern wall of forest intothe road. A drove of wolves howled faintly in the distance, but theywere receding, and the sound soon died away. The stars sparkled merrilythrough the stringent air; the small, round moon shone like silver;little breaths of dreaming wind wandered across the pointed fir-tops, as the pilgrims toiled bravely onward, following their clew of lightthrough a labyrinth of darkness. 

After a while the road began to open out a little. There were spaces ofmeadow-land, fringed with alders, behind which a boisterous river ranclashing through spears of ice. 

Rude houses of hewn logs appeared in the openings, each one casting apatch of inky shadow upon the snow. Then the travellers passed a largergroup of dwellings, all silent and unlighted; and beyond, they saw agreat house, with many outbuildings and inclosed courtyards, from whichthe hounds bayed furiously, and a noise of stamping horses came fromthe stalls. But there was no other sound of life. The fields around laynaked to the moon. They saw no man, except that once, on a path thatskirted the farther edge of a meadow, three dark figures passed them, running very swiftly. 

Then the road plunged again into a dense thicket, traversed it, andclimbing to the left, emerged suddenly upon a glade, round and levelexcept at the northern side, where a hillock was crowned with a hugeoak-tree. It towered above the heath, a giant with contorted arms, beckoning to the host of lesser trees. "Here, " cried Winfried, ashis eyes flashed and his hand lifted his heavy staff, "here is theThunder-oak; and here the cross of Christ shall break the hammer of thefalse god Thor. "

Withered leaves still clung to the branches of the oak: torn and fadedbanners of the departed summer. The bright crimson of autumn hadlong since disappeared, bleached away by the storms and the cold. But to-night these tattered remnants of glory were red again: ancientbloodstains against the dark-blue sky. For an immense fire had beenkindled in front of the tree. Tongues of ruddy flame, fountains ofruby sparks, ascended through the spreading limbs and flung a fierceillumination upward and around. The pale, pure moonlight that bathedthe surrounding forests was quenched and eclipsed here. Not a beam of itsifted through the branches of the oak. It stood like a pillar of cloudbetween the still light of heaven and the crackling, flashing fire ofearth. 

But the fire itself was invisible to Winfried and his companions. Agreat throng of people were gathered around it in a half-circle, theirbacks to the open glade, their faces toward the oak. Seen against thatglowing background, it was but the silhouette of a crowd, vague, black, formless, mysterious. 

The travellers paused for a moment at the edge of the thicket, and tookcounsel together. 

"It is the assembly of the tribe, " said one of the foresters, "the greatnight of the council. I heard of it three days ago, as we passed throughone of the villages. All who swear by the old gods have been summoned. They will sacrifice a steed to the god of war, and drink blood, and eathorse-flesh to make them strong. It will be at the peril of our livesif we approach them. At least we must hide the cross, if we would escapedeath. "

"Hide me no cross, " cried Winfried, lifting his staff, "for I have cometo show it, and to make these blind folk see its power. There is more tobe done here to-night than the slaying of a steed, and a greater evil tobe stayed than the shameful eating of meat sacrificed to idols. I haveseen it in a dream. Here the cross must stand and be our rede. "

At his command the sledge was left in the border of the wood, with twoof the men to guard it, and the rest of the company moved forward acrossthe open ground. They approached unnoticed, for all the multitude werelooking intently toward the fire at the foot of the oak. 

Then Winfried's voice rang out, "Hail, ye sons of the forest! A strangerclaims the warmth of your fire in the winter night. "

Swiftly, and as with a single motion, a thousand eyes were bent upon thespeaker. The semicircle opened silently in the middle; Winfried enteredwith his followers; it closed again behind them. 

Then, as they looked round the curving ranks, they saw that the hue ofthe assemblage was not black, but white, --dazzling, radiant, solemn. White, the robes of the women clustered together at the points of thewide crescent; white, the glittering byrnies of the warriors standing inclose ranks; white, the fur mantles of the aged men who held the centralpalace in the circle; white, with the shimmer of silver ornaments andthe purity of lamb's-wool, the raiment of a little group of children whostood close by the fire; white, with awe and fear, the faces of all wholooked at them; and over all the flickering, dancing radiance of theflames played and glimmered like a faint, vanishing tinge of blood onsnow. 

The only figure untouched by the glow was the old priest, Hunrad, withhis long, spectral robe, flowing hair and beard, and dead-pale face, who stood with his back to the fire and advanced slowly to meet thestrangers. 

"Who are you? Whence come you, and what seek you here?"

"Your kinsman am I, of the German brotherhood, " answered Winfried, "andfrom England, beyond the sea, have I come to bring you a greeting fromthat land, and a message from the All-Father, whose servant I am. "

"Welcome, then, " said Hunrad, "welcome, kinsman, and be silent; forwhat passes here is too high to wait, and must be done before the mooncrosses the middle heaven, unless, indeed, thou hast some sign or tokenfrom the gods. Canst thou work miracles?"

The question came sharply, as if a sudden gleam of hope had flashedthrough the tangle of the old priest's mind. But Winfried's voice sanklower and a cloud of disappointment passed over his face as he replied:"Nay, miracles have I never wrought, though I have heard of many; butthe All-Father has given no power to my hands save such as belongs tocommon man. "

"Stand still, then, thou common man, " said Hunrad, scornfully, "andbehold what the gods have called us hither to do. This night is thedeath-night of the sun-god, Baldur the Beautiful, beloved of gods andmen. This night is the hour of darkness and the power of winter, ofsacrifice and mighty fear. This night the great Thor, the god of thunderand war, to whom this oak is sacred, is grieved for the death of Baldur, and angry with this people because they have forsaken his worship. Longis it since an offering has been laid upon his altar, long since theroots of his holy tree have been fed with blood. Therefore its leaveshave withered before the time, and its boughs are heavy with death. Therefore the Slavs and the Wends have beaten us in battle. Thereforethe harvests have failed, and the wolf-hordes have ravaged the folds, and the strength has departed from the bow, and the wood of the spearhas broken, and the wild boar has slain the huntsman. Therefore theplague has fallen on our dwellings, and the dead are more than theliving in all our villages. Answer me, ye people, are not these thingstrue?"

 A hoarse sound of approval ran through the circle. Achant, in which the voices of the men and women blended, like the shrillwind in the pinetrees above the rumbling thunder of a waterfall, roseand fell in rude cadences. 

 O Thor, the Thunderer Mighty and merciless, Spare us from smiting! Heave not thy hammer, Angry, aginst us; Plague not thy people. Take from our treasure Richest Of ransom. Silver we send thee, Jewels and javelins, Goodliest garments, All our possessions, Priceless, we proffer. Sheep will we slaughter, Steeds will we sacrifice; Bright blood shall bathe O tree of Thunder, Life-floods shall lave thee, Strong wood of wonder. Mighty, have mercy, Smile as no more, Spare us and save us, Spare us, Thor! Thor!

With two great shouts the song ended, and stillness followed so intensethat the crackling of the fire was heard distinctly. The old prieststood silent for a moment. His shaggy brows swept down ever his eyeslike ashes quenching flame. Then he lifted his face and spoke. 

"None of these things will please the god. More costly is the offeringthat shall cleanse your sin, more precious the crimson dew that shallsend new life into this holy tree of blood. Thor claims your dearest andyour noblest gift. "

Hunrad moved nearer to the group of children who stood watching the fireand the swarms of spark-serpents darting upward. They had heeded none ofthe priest's words, and did not notice now that he approached them, soeager were they to see which fiery snake would go highest among the oakbranches. Foremost among them, and most intent on the pretty game, wasa boy like a sunbeam, slender and quick, with blithe brown eyes andlaughing lips. The priest's hand was laid upon his shoulder. The boyturned and looked up in his face. 

"Here, " said the old man, with his voice vibrating as when a thick ropeis strained by a ship swinging from her moorings, "here is the chosenone, the eldest son of the Chief, the darling of the people. Hearken, Bernhard, wilt thou go to Valhalla, where the heroes dwell with thegods, to bear a message to Thor?"

The boy answered, swift and clear:

"Yes, priest, I will go if my father bids me. Is it far away? Shall Irun quickly? Must I take my bow and arrows for the wolves?"

The boy's father, the Chieftain Gundhar, standing among his beardedwarriors, drew his breath deep, and leaned so heavily on the handle ofhis spear that the wood cracked. And his wife, Irma, bending forwardfrom the ranks of women, pushed the golden hair from her forehead withone hand. The other dragged at the silver chain about her neck until therough links pierced her flesh, and the red drops fell unheeded on herbreast. 

A sigh passed through the crowd, like the murmur of the forest beforethe storm breaks. Yet no one spoke save Hunrad:

"Yes, my Prince, both bow and spear shalt thou have, for the way islong, and thou art a brave huntsman. But in darkness thou must journeyfor a little space, and with eyes blindfolded. Fearest thou?"

"Naught fear I, " said the boy, "neither darkness, nor the great bear, nor the were-wolf. For I am Gundhar's son, and the defender of my folk. "

Then the priest led the child in his raiment of lamb's-wool to a broadstone in front of the fire. He gave him his little bow tipped withsilver, and his spear with shining head of steel. He bound the child'seyes with a white cloth, and bade him kneel beside the stone with hisface to the cast. Unconsciously the wide arc of spectators drew inwardtoward the centre, as the ends of the bow draw together when the cordis stretched. Winfried moved noiselessly until he stood close behind thepriest. 

The old man stooped to lift a black hammer of stone from theground, --the sacred hammer of the god Thor. Summoning all the strengthof his withered arms, he swung it high in the air. It poised for aninstant above the child's fair head--then turned to fall. 

One keen cry shrilled out from where the women stood: "Me! take me! notBernhard!"

The flight of the mother toward her child was swift as the falcon'sswoop. But swifter still was the hand of the deliverer. 

Winfried's heavy staff thrust mightily against the hammer's handle as itfell. Sideways it glanced from the old man's grasp, and the black stone, striking on the altar's edge, split in twain. A shout of awe and joyrolled along the living circle. The branches of the oak shivered. Theflames leaped higher. As the shout died away the people saw the ladyIrma, with her arms clasped round her child, and above them, on thealtar-stone, Winfried, his face shining like the face of an angel. 

IV

A swift mountain-flood rolling down its channel; a huge rock tumblingfrom the hill-side and falling in mid-stream: the baffled waters brokenand confused, pausing in their flow, dash high against the rock, foamingand murmuring, with divided impulse, uncertain whether to turn to theright or the left. 

Even so Winfried's bold deed fell into the midst of the thoughts andpassions of the council. They were at a standstill. Anger and wonder, reverence and joy and confusion surged through the crowd. They knew notwhich way to move: to resent the intrusion of the stranger as an insultto their gods, or to welcome him as the rescuer of their prince. 

The old priest crouched by the altar, silent. Conflicting counselstroubled the air. Let the sacrifice go forward; the gods must beappeased. Nay, the boy must not die; bring the chieftain's best horseand slay it in his stead; it will be enough; the holy tree loves theblood of horses. Not so, there is a better counsel yet; seize thestranger whom the gods have led hither as a victim and make his life paythe forfeit of his daring. 

The withered leaves on the oak rustled and whispered overhead. The fireflared and sank again. The angry voices clashed against each other andfell like opposing waves. Then the chieftain Gundhar struck the earthwith his spear and gave his decision. 

"All have spoken, but none are agreed. There is no voice of the council. Keep silence now, and let the stranger speak. His words shall give usjudgment, whether he is to live or to die. "

Winfried lifted himself high upon the altar, drew a roll of parchmentfrom his bosom, and began to read. 

"A letter from the great Bishop of Rome, who sits on a golden throne, tothe people of the forest, Hessians and Thuringians, Franks and Saxons. In nomin Domini, sanctae et individuae Trinitatis, amen!"

A murmur of awe ran through the crowd. "It is the sacred tongue of theRomans; the tongue that is heard and understood by the wise men of everyland. There is magic in it. Listen!"

Winfried went on to read the letter, translating it into the speech ofthe people. 

"We have sent unto you our Brother Boniface, and appointed him yourbishop, that he may teach you the only true faith, and baptise you, andlead you back from the ways of error to the path of salvation. Hearkento him in all things like a father. Bow your hearts to his teaching. Hecomes not for earthly gain, but for the gain of your souls. Depart fromevil works. Worship not the false gods, for they are devils. Offerno more bloody sacrifices, nor eat the flesh of horses, but do as ourBrother Boniface commands you. Build a house for him that he may dwellamong you, and a church where you may offer your prayers to the onlyliving God, the Almighty King of Heaven. "

It was a splendid message: proud, strong, peaceful, loving. The dignityof the words imposed mightily upon the hearts of the people. They werequieted as men who have listened to a lofty strain of music. 

"Tell us, then, " said Gundhar, "what is the word that thou bringest tous from the Almighty? What is thy counsel for the tribes of the woodlandon this night of sacrifice?"

"This is the word, and this is the counsel, " answered Winfried. "Not adrop of blood shall fall to-night, save that which pity has drawn fromthe breast of your princess, in love for her child. Not a life shall beblotted out in the darkness to-night; but the great shadow of the treewhich hides you from the light of heaven shall be swept away. For thisis the birth-night of the white Christ, son of the All-Father, andSaviour of mankind. Fairer is He than Baldur the Beautiful, greater thanOdin the Wise, kinder than Freya the Good. Since He has come to earththe bloody sacrifice must cease. The dark Thor, on whom you vainly call, is dead. Deep in the shades of Niffelheim he is lost forever. His powerin the world is broken. Will you serve a helpless god? See, my brothers, you call this tree his oak. Does he dwell here? Does he protect it?"

A troubled voice of assent rose from the throng. The people stirreduneasily. Women covered their eyes. Hunrad lifted his head and mutteredhoarsely, "Thor! take vengeance! Thor!"

Winfried beckoned to Gregor. "Bring the axes, thine and one for me. Now, young woodsman, show thy craft! The king-tree of the forest must fall, and swiftly, or all is lost!"

The two men took their places facing each other, one on each side ofthe oak. Their cloaks were flung aside, their heads bare. Carefullythey felt the ground with their feet, seeking a firm grip of the earth. Firmly they grasped the axe-helves and swung the shining blades. 

"Tree-god!" cried Winfried, "art thou angry? Thus we smite thee!"

"Tree-god!" answered Gregor, "art thou mighty? Thus we fight thee!"

Clang! clang! the alternate strokes beat time upon the hard, ringingwood. The axe-heads glittered in their rhythmic flight, like fierceeagles circling about their quarry. 

The broad flakes of wood flew from the deepening gashes in the sidesof the oak. The huge trunk quivered. There was a shuddering in thebranches. Then the great wonder of Winfried's life came to pass. 

Out of the stillness of the winter night, a mighty rushing noise soundedoverhead. 

Was it the ancient gods on their white battlesteeds, with their blackhounds of wrath and their arrows of lightning, sweeping through the airto destroy their foes?

A strong, whirling wind passed over the treetops. It gripped the oak byits branches and tore it from the roots. Backward it fell, like a ruinedtower, groaning and crashing as it split asunder in four great pieces. 

Winfried let his axe drop, and bowed his head for a moment in thepresence of almighty power. 

Then he turned to the people, "Here is the timber, " he cried, "alreadyfelled and split for your new building. On this spot shall rise a chapelto the true God and his servant St. Peter. 

"And here, " said he, as his eyes fell on a young fir-tree, standingstraight and green, with its top pointing toward the stars, amid thedivided ruins of the fallen oak, "here is the living tree, with no stainof blood upon it, that shall be the sign of your new worship. See how itpoints to the sky. Call it the tree of the Christ-child. Take it up andcarry it to the chieftain's hall. You shall go no more into the shadowsof the forest to keep your feasts with secret rites of shame. Youshall keep them at home, with laughter and songs and rites of love. Thethunder-oak has fallen, and I think the day is coming when there shallnot be a home in all Germany where the children are not gathered aroundthe green fir-tree to rejoice in the birth-night of Christ. "

So they took the little fir from its place, and carried it in joyousprocession to the edge of the glade, and laid it on the sledge. Thehorses tossed their heads and drew their load bravely, as if the newburden had made it lighter. 

When they came to the house of Gundhar, he bade them throw open thedoors of the hall and set the tree in the midst of it. They kindledlights among the branches until it seemed to be tangled full offire-flies. The children encircled it, wondering, and the sweet odour ofthe balsam filled the house. 

Then Winfried stood beside the chair of Gundhar, on the dais at the endof the hall, and told the story of Bethlehem; of the babe in the manger, of the shepherds on the hills, of the host of angels and their midnightsong. All the people listened, charmed into stillness. 

But the boy Bernhard, on Irma's knee, folded in her soft arms, grewrestless as the story lengthened, and began to prattle softly at hismother's ear. 

"Mother, " whispered the child, "why did you cry out so loud, when thepriest was going to send me to Valhalla?"

"Oh, hush, my child, " answered the mother, and pressed him closer to herside. 

"Mother, " whispered the boy again, laying his finger on the stains uponher breast, "see, your dress is red! What are these stains? Did some onehurt you?"

The mother closed his mouth with a kiss. "Dear, be still, and listen!"

The boy obeyed. His eyes were heavy with sleep. But he heard the lastwords of Winfried as he spoke of the angelic messengers, flying over thehills of Judea and singing as they flew. The child wondered and dreamedand listened. Suddenly his face grew bright. He put his lips close toIrma's cheek again. 

"Oh, mother!" he whispered very low, "do not speak. Do you hear them?Those angels have come back again. They are singing now behind thetree. "

And some say that it was true; but others say that it was only Gregorand his companions at the lower end of the hall, chanting theirChristmas hymn:

 All glory be to God on high, And on the earth be peace! Good-will, henceforth, from heaven to man, Begin and never cease.