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diff --git a/1603-0.txt b/1603-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0f3fa7f --- /dev/null +++ b/1603-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5933 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Blue Flower, and Others, by Henry van Dyke + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Blue Flower, and Others + +Author: Henry van Dyke + +Posting Date: September 21, 2008 [EBook #1603] +Release Date: January, 1999 +Last Updated: October 9, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLUE FLOWER, AND OTHERS *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer + + + + + +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 in +them. + +The stories in this book have been growing together for a long time. It +is at least ten years since the first of them, the story of The Other +Wise Man, came to me; and all the others I knew quite well by heart a +good while before I could find the time, in a hard-worked life, to write +them down and try to make them clear and true to others. It has been a +slow task, because the right word has not always been easy to find, and +I wanted to keep free from conventionality in the thought and close to +nature in the picture. It is enough to cause a man no little shame to +see how small is the fruit of so long labour. + +And yet, after all, when one wishes to write about life, especially +about that part of it which is inward, the inwrought experience of +living may be of value. And that is a thing which one cannot get in +haste, 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 the +doing of tasks that seem not to amount to much. So in the long run, I +suppose, while delay and failure and interruption may keep a piece of +work very small, yet in the end they enter into the quality of it and +bring it a little nearer to the real thing, which is always more or less +of 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 from +year to year, and light up the things that he sees and hears, and lead +his imagination by the hand into many wonderful and diverse regions. It +seems to me that there am two ways in which you may give unity to a book +of stories. You may stay in one place and write about different themes, +preserving always the colour of the same locality. Or you may go into +different places and use as many of the colours and shapes of life as +you 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 for +inward happiness, which all men who are really alive are following, +along what various paths, and with what different fortunes! Glimpses of +this idea, traces of this search, I thought that I could see in certain +tales that were in my mind,--tales of times old and new, of lands near +and far away. So I tried to tell them, as best as I could, hoping that +other 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 of +Winifried and the Thunder-Oak--has the slightest wisp of a foundation in +fact 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 to +show the thought and yet not too much to leave it free? I have borrowed +a symbol from the old German poet and philosopher, Novalis, to stand +instead of a name. The Blue Flower which he used in his romance of +Heinrich von Ofterdingen to symbolise Poetry, the object of his young +hero’s quest, I have used here to signify happiness, the satisfaction of +the heart. + +Reader, will you take the book and see if it belongs to you? Whether +it does or not, my wish is that the Blue Flower may grow in the garden +where 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 loudly +and lazily, as if it had time to spare. Outside the rattling windows +there was a restless, whispering wind. The room grew light, and dark, +and wondrous light again, as the moon played hide-and-seek through the +clouds. The boy, wide-awake and quiet in his bed, was thinking of the +Stranger 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. I +am not greedy for riches. But the Blue Flower is what I long for. I can +think of nothing else. Never have I felt so before. It seems as if I +had been dreaming until now--or as if I had just slept over into a new +world. + +“Who cared for flowers in the old world where I used to live? I never +heard of anyone whose whole heart was set upon finding a flower. But +now I cannot even tell all that I feel--sometimes as happy as if I were +enchanted. But when the flower fades from me, when I cannot see it in my +mind, then it is like being very thirsty and all alone. That is what the +other people could not understand. + +“Once upon a time, they say, the animals and the trees and the flowers +used to talk to people. It seems to me, every minute, as if they were +just going to begin again. When I look at them I can see what they want +to say. There must be a great many words that I do not know; if I knew +more of them perhaps I could understand things better. I used to love to +dance, but now I like better to think after the music.” + +Gradually the boy lost himself in sweet fancies, and suddenly he +found himself again, in the charmed land of sleep. He wandered in far +countries, rich and strange; he traversed wild waters with incredible +swiftness; marvellous creatures appeared and vanished; he lived with +all sorts of men, in battles, in whirling crowds, in lonely huts. He was +cast into prison. He fell into dire distress and want. All experiences +seemed to be sharpened to an edge. He felt them keenly, yet they did +not harm him. He died and came alive again; he loved to the height of +passion, and then was parted forever from his beloved. At last, toward +morning, as the dawn was stealing near, his soul grew calm, and the +pictures showed more clear and firm. + +It seemed as if he were walking alone through the deep woods. Seldom the +daylight shimmered through the green veil. Soon he came to a rocky gorge +in the mountains. Under the mossy stones in the bed of the stream, he +heard the water secretly tinkling downward, ever downward, as he climbed +upward. + +The forest grew thinner and lighter. He came to a fair meadow on the +slope of the mountain. Beyond the meadow was a high cliff, and in the +face of the cliff an opening like the entrance to a path. Dark was the +way, but smooth, and he followed easily on till he came near to a vast +cavern from which a flood of radiance streamed to meet him. + +As he entered he beheld a mighty beam of light which sprang from the +ground, shattering itself against the roof in countless sparks, falling +and flowing all together into a great pool in the rock. Brighter was the +light-beam than molten gold, but silent in its rise, and silent in its +fall. The sacred stillness of a shrine, a never-broken hush of joy and +wonder, filled the cavern. Cool was the dripping radiance that softly +trickled down the walls, and the light that rippled from them was pale +blue. + +But the pool, as the boy drew near and watched it, quivered and glanced +with the ever-changing colours of a liquid opal. He dipped his hands in +it and wet his lips. It seemed as if a lively breeze passed through his +heart. + +He felt an irresistible desire to bathe in the pool. Slipping off his +clothes he plunged in. It was as if he bathed in a cloud of sunset. A +celestial rapture flowed through him. The waves of the stream were like +a bevy of nymphs taking shape around him, clinging to him with tender +breasts, as he floated onward, lost in delight, yet keenly sensitive to +every impression. Swiftly the current bore him out of the pool, into a +hollow in the cliff. Here a dimness of slumber shadowed his eyes, while +he felt the pressure of the loveliest dreams. + +When he awoke again, he was aware of a new fulness of light, purer and +steadier than the first radiance. He found himself lying on the green +turf, in the open air, beside a little fountain, which sparkled up and +melted away in silver spray. Dark-blue were the rocks that rose at a +little distance, veined with white as if strange words were written upon +them. Dark-blue was the sky, and cloudless. + +All passion had dissolved away from him; every sound was music; every +breath was peace; the rocks were like sentinels protecting him; the sky +was like a cup of blessing full of tranquil light. + +But what charmed him most, and drew him with resistless power, was a +tall, clear-blue flower, growing beside the spring, and almost touching +him with its broad, glistening leaves. Round about were many other +flowers, of all hues. Their odours mingled in a perfect chord of +fragrance. He saw nothing but the Blue Flower. + +Long and tenderly he gazed at it, with unspeakable love. At last he felt +that he must go a little nearer to it, when suddenly it began to move +and change. The leaves glistened more brightly, and drew themselves up +closely around the swiftly growing stalk. The flower bent itself toward +him, and the petals showed a blue, spreading necklace of sapphires, +out of which the lovely face of a girl smiled softly into his eyes. His +sweet astonishment grew with the wondrous transformation. + +All at once he heard his mother’s voice calling him, and awoke in his +parents’ 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, and +by strangers the Land of the Half-forgotten, I was toiling all day long +through 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, and +the plain ran in through the gate, making a little bay of level country +among the hills. + +Now this bay was not brown and hard and dry, like the mountains above +me, neither was it covered with tawny billows of sand like the desert +along the edge of which I had wearily coasted. But the surface of it was +smooth and green; and as the winds of twilight breathed across it they +were followed by soft waves of verdure, with silvery turnings of the +under sides of many leaves, like ripples on a quiet harbour. There were +fields of corn, filled with silken rustling, and vineyards with long +rows of trimmed maple-trees standing each one like an emerald goblet +wreathed with vines, and flower-gardens as bright as if the earth +had been embroidered with threads of blue and scarlet and gold, and +olive-orchards frosted over with delicate and fragrant blossoms. +Red-roofed cottages were scattered everywhere through the sea of +greenery, and in the centre, like a white ship surrounded by a flock of +little boats, rested a small, fair, shining city. + +I wondered greatly how this beauty had come into being on the border of +the desert. Passing through the fields and gardens and orchards, I found +that they were all encircled and lined with channels full of running +water. I followed up one of the smaller channels until it came to a +larger stream, and as I walked on beside it, still going upward, it +guided me into the midst of the city, where I saw a sweet, merry river +flowing through the main street, with abundance of water and a very +pleasant 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 were +marble pools where the children might bathe and play; at the corners of +the streets and on the sides of the houses there were fountains for the +drawing of water; at every crossing a stream was turned aside to run out +to the vineyards; and the river was the mother of them all. + +There were but few people in the streets, and none of the older folk +from whom I might ask counsel or a lodging; so I stood and knocked at +the door of a house. It was opened by an old man, who greeted me +with kindness and bade me enter as his guest. After much courteous +entertainment, and when supper was ended, his friendly manner and +something of singular attractiveness in his countenance led me to tell +him of my strange journeyings in the land of Koorma and in other lands +where I had been seeking the Blue Flower, and to inquire of him the name +and 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 is +to say, Forsaken. For long ago men lived here, and the river made their +fields fertile, and their dwellings were full of plenty and peace. But +because of many evil things which have been half-forgotten, the river +was turned aside, or else it was dried up at its source in the high +place among the mountains, so that the water flowed down no more. The +channels and the trenches and the marble pools and the basins beside +the houses remained, but they were empty. So the gardens withered; the +fields were barren; the city was desolate; and in the broken cisterns +there was scanty water. + +“Then there came one from a distant country who was very sorrowful +to see the desolation. He told the people that it was vain to dig new +cisterns and to keep the channels and trenches clean; for the water had +come 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 it +without ceasing. Then the spring would rise to an outpouring, and the +water would run down plentifully to make the gardens blossom and the +city rejoice. + +“So he went forth to open the fountain; but there were few that went +with him, for he was a poor man of lowly aspect, and the path upward +was steep and rough. But his companions saw that as he climbed among the +rocks, little streams of water gushed from the places where he trod, and +pools began to gather in the dry river-bed. He went more swiftly than +they could follow him, and at length he passed out of their sight. A +little farther on they came to the rising of the river and there, beside +the overflowing Source, they found their leader lying dead.” + +“That was a strange thing,” I cried, “and very pitiful. Tell me how it +came to pass, and what was the meaning of it.” + +“I cannot tell the whole of the meaning,” replied the old man, after +a little pause, “for it was many years ago. But this poor man had many +enemies in the city, chiefly among the makers of cisterns, who hated him +for his words. I believe that they went out after him secretly and slew +him. But his followers came back to the city; and as they came the river +began to run down very gently after them. They returned to the Source +day by day, bringing others with them; for they said that their leader +was really alive, though the form of his life had changed, and that he +met them in that high place while they remembered him and prayed and +sang 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 was +revisited, the more abundant it became, and the more it filled the +river. All the channels and the basins were supplied with water, and men +made new channels which were also filled. Some of those who were diggers +of trenches and hewers of cisterns said that it was their work which had +wrought the change. But the wisest and best among the people knew that +it all came from the Source, and they taught that if it should ever +again be forgotten and left unvisited the river would fail again and +desolation return. So every day, from the gardens and orchards and +the streets of the city, men and women and children have gone up the +mountain-path with singing, to rejoice beside the spring from which the +river flows and to remember the one who opened it. We call it the River +Carita. And the name of the city is no more Ablis, but Saloma, which is +Peace. And the name of him who died to find the Source for us is so dear +that we speak it only when we pray. + +“But there are many things yet to learn about our city, and some that +seem dark and cast a shadow on my thoughts. Therefore, my son, I bid you +to be my guest, for there is a room in my house for the stranger; and +to-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 the +murmur of running water woven through my dreams; and the next day I went +out early into the streets, for I was curious to see the manner of the +visitation of the Source. + +Already the people were coming forth and turning their steps upward in +the mountain-path beside the river. Some of them went alone, swiftly and +in silence; others were in groups of two or three, talking as they went; +others were in larger companies, and they sang together very gladly and +sweetly. But there were many people who remained working in their fields +or 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 asked +him why all the people did not go to the spring, since the life of the +city depended upon it, and whether, perhaps, the way was so long and so +hard that none but the strongest could undertake it. + +“Sir,” said he, “I perceive that you are a stranger, for the way is both +short and easy, so that the children are those who most delight in +it; and if a man were in great haste he could go there and return in a +little while. But of those who remain behind, some are the busy ones who +must visit the fountain at another hour; and some are the careless ones +who take life as it comes and never think where it comes from; and some +are those who do not believe in the Source and will hear nothing about +it.” + +“How can that be?” I said; “do they not drink of the water, and does it +not make their fields green?” + +“It is true,” he said; “but these men have made wells close by the +river, and they say that these wells fill themselves; and they have +digged channels through their gardens, and they say that these channels +would always have water in them even though the spring should cease to +flow. Some of them say also that it is an unworthy thing to drink from +a source that another has opened, and that every man ought to find a new +spring for himself; so they spend the hour of the visitation, and many +more, in searching among the mountains where there is no path.” + +While I wondered over this, we kept on in the way. There was already +quite a throng of people all going in the same direction. And when we +came to the Source, which flowed from an opening in a cliff, almost like +a chamber hewn in the rock, and made a little garden of wild-flowers +around it as it fell, I heard the music of many voices and the beautiful +name of him who had given his life to find the forgotten spring. + +Then we came down again, singly and in groups, following the river. It +seemed already more bright and full and joyous. As we passed through +the gardens I saw men turning aside to make new channels through fields +which were not yet cultivated. And as we entered the city I saw the +wheels of the mills that ground the corn whirling more swiftly, and the +maidens coming with their pitchers to draw from the brimming basins at +the street corners, and the children laughing because the marble pools +were so full that they could swim in them. There was plenty of water +everywhere. + +For many weeks I stayed in the city of Saloma, going up the +mountain-path in the morning, and returning to the day of work and the +evening of play. I found friends among the people of the city, not only +among those who walked together in the visitation of the Source, but +also among those who remained behind, for many of them were kind +and generous, faithful in their work, and very pleasant in their +conversation. + +Yet there was something lacking between me and them. I came not onto +firm ground with them, for all their warmth of welcome and their +pleasant ways. They were by nature of the race of those who dwell ever +in one place; even in their thoughts they went not far abroad. But I +have 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 has +in 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, a +guest. The fixed circle of their life was like an invisible wall, and +with 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 at +peace, 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 their +feasts 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 the +depth of thought. The very quietude and fixity of their being perplexed +and estranged me. What to them was permanent, to me was transient. They +were 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, a +girl of thirteen, fair-eyed and full of joy, the wonted round of life +had not yet grown to be a matter of course. She was quick to feel and +answer the newness of every day that dawned. When a strange bird flew +down from the mountains into the gardens, it was she that saw it and +wondered at it. It was she that walked with me most often in the path to +the Source. She went out with me to the fields in the morning and almost +every day found wild-flowers that were new to me. At sunset she drew me +to happy games of youths and children, where her fancy was never tired +of weaving new turns to the familiar pastimes. In the dusk she would sit +beside me in an arbour of honeysuckle and question me about the flower +that 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 the +brook?” + +“Yes, it is as much bluer than the speedwell, as the river is deeper +than 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 than +the moon.” + +“And is it sweet,” she asked, “as sweet as the honeysuckle when the day +is warm and still?” + +“Yes, it is as much sweeter than the honeysuckle as the night is stiller +and 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 out +toward the hills, far away and at sunset softly blue against the +eastern sky. It was the day that we laid my father to rest in the little +burying-ground among the cedar-trees. There was his father’s grave, and +his father’s father’s grave, and there were the places for my mother and +for 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 the +western corner where a young elm-tree was growing,--that would be my +place, 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 and +restless,--wishing for something, I knew not what,--longing to see the +world and to taste happiness before I must sleep beneath the elm-tree. +Then I looked off to the blue hills, shadowy and dream-like, the +boundary of the little world that I knew. And there, in a cleft between +the highest peaks I saw a wondrous thing: for the place at which I was +looking seemed to come nearer and nearer to me; I saw the trees, the +rocks, the ferns, the white road winding before me; the enfolding hills +unclosed like leaves, and in the heart of them I saw a Blue Flower, so +bright, so beautiful that my eyes filled with tears as I looked. It was +like a face that smiled at me and promised something. Then I heard a +call, like the note of a trumpet very far away, calling me to come. And +as 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 on +my journey, and my home is at the end of the journey, wherever that may +be.” + +“And the flower,” she asked, “you have seen it again?” + +“Once again, when I was a youth, I saw it. After a long voyage upon +stormy seas, we came into a quiet haven, and there the friend who was +dearest to me, said good-by, for he was going back to his own country +and his father’s house, but I was still journeying onward. So as I stood +at the bow of the ship, sailing out into the wide blue water, far away +among the sparkling waves I saw a little island, with shores of silver +sand and slopes of fairest green, and in the middle of the island the +Blue Flower was growing, wondrous tall and dazzling, brighter than the +sapphire of the sea. Then the call of the distant trumpet came floating +across the water, and while it was sounding a shimmer of fog swept over +the 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 the +flower; three days before I came to Saloma. It was on the edge of the +desert, close under the shadow of the great mountains. A vast loneliness +was round about me; it seemed as if I was the only soul living upon +earth; and I longed for the dwellings of men. Then as I woke in the +morning I looked up at the dark ridge of the mountains, and there +against the brightening blue of the sky I saw the Blue Flower standing +up clear and brave. It shone so deep and pure that the sky grew pale +around it. Then the echo of the far-off trumpet drifted down the +hillsides, and the sun rose, and the flower was melted away in light. So +I rose and travelled on till I came to Saloma.” + +“And now,” said the child, “you are at home with us. Will you not stay +for a long, long while? You may find the Blue Flower here. There are +many kinds in the fields. I find new ones every day.” + +“I will stay while I can, Ruamie,” I answered, taking her hand in mine +as we walked back to the house at nightfall, “but how long that may be I +cannot tell. For with you I am at home, yet the place where I must abide +is the place where the flower grows, and when the call comes I must +follow it.” + +“Yes,” said she, looking at me half in doubt, “I think I understand. But +wherever 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 me +restless, in spite of the sweet comfort of Ruamie’s friendship and the +tranquillity of the life in Saloma. I came to see the meaning of what +the old man had said about the shadow that rested upon his thoughts. For +there were some in the city who said that the hours of visitation were +wasted, and that it would be better to employ the time in gathering +water from the pools that formed among the mountains in the rainy +season, or in sinking wells along the edge of the desert. Others had +newly come to the city and were teaching that there was no Source, and +that the story of the poor man who reopened it was a fable, and that +the hours of visitation were only hours of dreaming. There were many +who believed them, and many more who said that it did not matter whether +their words were true or false, and that it was of small moment whether +men went to visit the fountain or not, provided only that they worked +in the gardens and kept the marble pools and basins in repair and opened +new canals through the fields, since there always had been and always +would be plenty of water. + +As I listened to these sayings it seemed to me doubtful what the end of +the city would be. And while this doubt was yet heavy upon me, I heard +at midnight the faint calling of the trumpet, sounding along the crest +of 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 of +celestial blue, whose petals seemed to fall and fade as I looked. So I +bade farewell to the old man in whose house I had learned to love the +hour of visitation and the Source and the name of him who opened it; and +I kissed the hands and the brow of the little Ruamie who had entered my +heart, and went forth sadly from the land of Koorma into other lands, to +look for the Blue Flower. + + + +II + +In the Book of the Voyage without a Harbour is written the record of the +ten 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 as +I looked from a distant shoulder of the hills for the little bay full of +greenery, it was not to be seen. There was only a white town shining +far off against the brown cliffs, like a flake of mica in a cleft of +the rocks. Then I slept that night, full of care, on the hillside, and +rising before dawn, came down in the early morning toward the city. + +The fields were lying parched and yellow under the sunrise, and great +cracks gaped in the earth as if it were thirsty. The trenches and +channels were still there, but there was little water in them; and +through the ragged fringes of the rusty vineyards I heard, instead of +the cheerful songs of the vintagers, the creaking of dry windlasses and +the hoarse throb of the pumps in sunken wells. The girdle of gardens had +shrunk 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 people +kneeling around a newly opened well. I asked a man who was digging +beside the dusty path what this might mean. He straightened himself for +a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow, and answered, sullenly, “They +are worshipping the windlass: how else should they bring water into +their fields?” Then he fell furiously to digging again, and I passed on +into the city. + +There was no sound of murmuring streams in the streets, and down the +main bed of the river I saw only a few shallow puddles, joined together +by a slowly trickling thread. Even these were fenced and guarded so that +no one might come near to them, and there were men going among to the +houses with water-skins on their shoulders, crying “Water! Water to +sell!” + +The marble pools in the open square were empty; and at one of them there +was a crowd looking at a man who was being beaten with rods. A bystander +told me that the officers of the city had ordered him to be punished +because he had said that the pools and the basins and the channels were +not all of pure marble, without a flaw. “For this,” said he, “is the +evil doctrine that has come in to take away the glory of our city, and +because of this the water has failed.” + +“It is a sad change,” I answered, “and doubtless they who have caused it +should suffer more than others. But can you tell me at what hour and in +what manner the people now observe the visitation of the Source?” + +He looked curiously at me and replied: “I do not understand you. There +is no visitation save the inspection of the cisterns and the wells which +the syndics of the city, whom we call the Princes of Water, carry on +daily at every hour. What source is this of which you speak?” + +So I went on through the street, where all the passers-by seemed in +haste and wore weary countenances, until I came to the house where I had +lodged. There was a little basin here against the wall, with a slender +stream of water still flowing into it, and a group of children standing +near with their pitchers, waiting to fill them. + +The door of the house was closed; but when I knocked, it opened and a +maiden came forth. She was pale and sad in aspect, but a light of joy +dawned over the snow of her face, and I knew by the youth in her eyes +that it was Ruamie, who had walked with me through the vineyards long +ago. + +With both hands she welcomed me, saying: “You are expected. Have you +found the Blue Flower?” + +“Not yet,” I answered, “but something drew me back to you. I would +know how it fares with you, and I would go again with you to visit the +Source.” + +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 city +toward the mountain-path. So forsaken was it and so covered with stones +and overgrown with wire-grass that I could not have found it but for her +guidance. 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 I +came as a stranger. She said, softly, “He is dead.” + +“And where are the men and women, his friends, who once thronged this +pathway? Are they also dead?” + +“They also are dead.” + +“But where are the younger ones who sang here so gladly as they marched +upward? Surely they, are living?” + +“They have forgotten.” + +“Where then are the young children whose fathers taught them this way +and bade them remember it. Have they forgotten?” + +“They have forgotten.” + +“But why have you alone kept the hour of visitation? Why have you not +turned back with your companions? How have you walked here solitary day +after day?” + +She turned to me with a divine regard, and laying her hand gently over +mine, 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 the +rock. She kneeled and bent over the sleeping spring. She murmured again +and again the beautiful name of him who had died to find it. Her voice +repeated the song that had once been sung by many voices. Her tears fell +softly on the spring, and as they fell it seemed as if the water stirred +and rose to meet her bending face, and when she looked up it was as if +the dew had fallen on a flower. + +We came very slowly down the path along the river Carita, and rested +often beside it, for surely, I thought, the rising of the spring had +sent a little more water down its dry bed, and some of it must flow on +to 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 the +choosing 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 rain +which might fall in the next year. But none cared for us, as we passed +by 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 I +said 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 of +visitation is the only cause why the river has not failed altogether and +the curse of desolation returned. Let me stay with you, sweet soul of +all the flowers that are dead, and I will cherish you forever. Together +we will visit the Source every day; and we shall turn the people, by our +lives 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 come +to the city, whether its people will remember at last, or whether they +will forget forever. Its lot is mine, for I was born here, and here my +life is rooted. But you are of the Children of the Unquiet Heart, whose +feet can never rest until their task of errors is completed and their +lesson of wandering is learned to the end. Until then go forth, and do +not forget that I shall remember always.” + +Behind her quiet voice I heard the silent call that compels us, and +passed down the street as one walking in a dream. At the place where the +path turned aside to the ruined vineyards I looked back. The low sunset +made a circle of golden rays about her head and a strange twin blossom +of celestial blue seemed to shine in her tranquil eyes. + +Since then I know not what has befallen the city, nor whether it is +still called Saloma, or once more Ablis, which is Forsaken. But if +it lives at all, I know that it is because there is one there who +remembers, and keeps the hour of visitation, and treads the steep way, +and breathes the beautiful name over the spring, and sometimes I think +that 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 deeds +of arms, he rested him long with play and game in a land that is, called +Beausejour. For in that land there are neither castles nor enchantments, +but many fair manors, with orchards and fields lying about them; and the +people that dwell therein have good cheer continually. + +Of the wars and of the strange quests that are ever afoot in Northgalis +and Lionesse and the Out Isles, they hear nothing; but are well content +to till the earth in summer when the world is green; and when the autumn +changes green to gold they pitch pavilions among the fruit-trees and the +vineyards, making merry with song and dance while they gather harvest of +corn and apples and grapes; and in the white days of winter for pastime +they have music of divers instruments and the playing of pleasant games. + +But of the telling of tales in that land there is little skill, neither +do men rightly understand the singing of ballads and romaunts. For one +year there is like another, and so their life runs away, and they leave +the world to God. + +Then Sir Lancelot had great ease for a time in this quiet land, and +often he lay under the apple-trees sleeping, and again he taught the +people new games and feats of skill. For into what place soever he +came he was welcome, though the inhabitants knew not his name and great +renown, 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-spoken +and full of courtesy and a good man of his hands withal, they doted upon +him. + +So he began to tell them tales of many things that have been done in +the world by clean knights and faithful squires. Of the wars against the +Saracens and misbelieving men; of the discomfiture of the Romans when +they came to take truage of King Arthur; of the strife with the eleven +kings and the battle that was ended but never finished; of the Questing +Beast and how King Pellinore and then Sir Palamides followed it; of +Balin that gave the dolourous stroke unto King Pellam; of Sir Tor that +sought the lady’s brachet and by the way overcame two knights and smote +off the head of the outrageous caitiff Abelleus,--of these and many like +matters 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 blood +and breeding, very fair in the face and of great stature. His name was +Martimor. Strong of arm was he, and his neck was like a pillar. His legs +were as tough as beams of ash-wood, and in his heart was the hunger +of noble tatches and deeds. So when he heard of Sir Lancelot these +redoubtable 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 Sir +Lancelot had brought with him. Wherefore they made shift to fashion a +harness 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 a +helmet a round pot of iron, whereof the handle stuck down at Martimor’s +back like a tail. And for spear he got him a stout young fir-tree, the +point hardened in the fire, and Sir Lancelot lent to him the sword that +he had taken from the false knight that distressed all ladies. + +Thus was Martimor accoutred for the jousting, and when he had climbed +upon his horse, there arose much laughter and mockage. Sir Lancelot +laughed a little, though he was ever a grave man, and said, “Now must we +call 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!” he +dressed his spear beneath his arm. Right so he rushed upon Sir Lancelot, +and so marvellously did his harness jangle and smite together as he +came, that the horse of Sir Lancelot was frighted and turned aside. Thus +the point of the fir-tree caught him upon the shoulder and came near to +unhorse him. Then Martimor drew rein and shouted: “Ha! ha! has Iron-Tail +done well?” + +“Nobly hast thou done,” said Lancelot, laughing, the while he amended +his horse, “but let not the first stroke turn thy head, else will the +tail 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 on +this side and now on that, until he was aware that the youth grew hot +with 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 walloped +toward him, he lightly swerved, and with one stroke cut in twain the +young 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 Sir +Lancelot, lashing heavily as, he would hew down a tree. But the knight +guarded and warded without distress, until the other breathed hard and +was blind with sweat. Then Lancelot smote him with a mighty stroke upon +the head, but with the flat of his sword, so that Martimor’s breath went +clean out of him, and the blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell over +the croup of his horse as he were a man slain. + +Then Sir Lancelot laughed no more, but grieved, for he weened that he +had harmed the youth, and he liked him passing well. So he ran to him +and held him in his arms fast and tended him. And when the breath came +again into his body, Lancelot was glad, and desired the youth that he +would 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 hast +given me such joy of my life as never I had before. It made me glad to +feel thy might. And now am I delibred and fully concluded that I also +will become a knight, and thou shalt instruct me how and in what land I +shall 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 the +customs and vows of the noble order of knighthood, and shew how he might +become a well-ruled and a hardy knight to win good fame and renown. +For between these two from the first there was close brotherhood and +affiance, though in years and in breeding they were so far apart, and +this brotherhood endured until the last, as ye shall see, nor was the +affiance broken. + +Thus willingly learned the youth of his master; being instructed first +in the art and craft to manage and guide a horse; then to handle the +shield and the spear, and both to cut and to foin with the sword; and +last of all in the laws of honour and courtesy, whereby a man may rule +his own spirit and so obtain grace of God, praise of princes, and favour +of fair ladies. + +“For this I tell thee,” said Sir Lancelot, as they sat together under +an apple-tree, “there be many good fighters that are false knights, +breaking faith with man and woman, envious, lustful and orgulous. In +them courage is cruel, and love is lecherous. And in the end they shall +come 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 men +than they be; and with their paramours they shall have weary dole and +distress of soul and body; for he that is false, to him shall none be +true, but all things shall be unhappy about him.” + +“But how and if a man be true in heart,” said Martimor, “yet by some +enchantment, or evil fortune, he may do an ill deed and one that is +harmful to his lord or to his friend, even as Balin and his brother +Balan slew each the other unknown?” + +“That is in God’s hand,” said Lancelot. “Doubtless he may pardon and +assoil all such in their unhappiness, forasmuch as the secret of it is +with him.” + +“And how if a man be entangled in love,” said Martimor, “Yet his love be +set upon one that is not lawful for him to have? For either he must deny +his 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 of +this net he may not escape, save by falsehood on the one side, or by +treachery on the other. Therefore say I that he shall not assay to +escape, but rather right manfully to bear the bonds with which he is +bound, and to do honour to them.”’ + +“How may this be?” said Martimor. + +“By clean living,” said Lancelot, “and by keeping himself from wine +which heats the blood, and by quests and labours and combats wherein the +fierceness of the heart is spent and overcome, and by inward joy in the +pure worship of his lady, whereat none may take offence.” + +“How then shall a man bear himself in the following of a quest?” said +Martimor. “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 to +answer 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 man +must answer for himself, and not for other. True knight taketh counsel +of the time. Every day his own deed. And the winning of a quest is not +by haste, nor by hap, but what needs to be done, that must ye do while +ye are in the way.” + +Then because of the love that Sir Lancelot bore to Martimor he gave +him his own armour, and the good spear wherewith he had unhorsed many +knights, and the sword that he took from Sir Peris de Forest Savage that +distressed all ladies, but his shield he gave not, for therein his own +remembrance was blazoned. So he let make a new shield, and in the +corner was painted a Blue Flower that was nameless, and this he gave to +Martimor, saying: “Thou shalt name it when thou hast found it, and so +shalt thou have both crest and motto.” + +“Now am I well beseen,” cried Martimor, “and my adventures are before +me. Which way shall I ride, and where shall I find them?” + +“Ride into the wind,” said Lancelot, “and what chance soever it blows +thee, thereby do thy best, as it were the first and the last. Take not +thy hand from it until it be fulfilled. So shalt thou most quickly and +worthily achieve knighthood.” + +Then they embraced like brothers; and each bade other keep him well; and +Sir Lancelot in leather jerkin, with naked head, but with his shield +and sword, rode to the south toward Camelot; and Martimor rode into the +wind, 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 and +valleys rode Martimor forty days, but adventure met him none, blow the +wind never so fierce or fickle. Neither dragons, nor giants, nor false +knights, nor distressed ladies, nor fays, nor kings imprisoned could he +find. + +“These are ill times for adventure,” said he, “the world is full of meat +and sleepy. Now must I ride farther afield and undertake some ancient, +famous quest wherein other knights have failed and fallen. Either I +shall follow the Questing Beast with Sir Palamides, or I shall find +Merlin at the great stone whereunder the Lady of the Lake enchanted him +and deliver him from that enchantment, or I shall assay the cleansing +of the Forest Perilous, or I shall win the favour of La Belle Dame Sans +Merci, or mayhap I shall adventure the quest of the Sangreal. One or +other of these will I achieve, or bleed the best blood of my body.” Thus +pondering and dreaming he came by the road down a gentle hill with close +woods on either hand; and so into a valley with a swift river flowing +through it; and on the river a Mill. + +So white it stood among the trees, and so merrily whirred the wheel as +the 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 own +country. “But here is no adventure,” thought he, and made to ride by. + +Even then came a young maid suddenly through the garden crying and +wringing her hands. And when she saw him she cried him help. At this +Martimor alighted quickly and ran into the garden, where the young maid +soon led him to the millpond, which was great and deep, and made him +understand that her little hound was swept away by the water and was +near to perishing. + +There saw he a red and white brachet, caught by the swift stream that +ran into the race, fast swimming as ever he could swim, yet by no means +able to escape. Then Martimor stripped off his harness and leaped into +the water and did marvellously to rescue the little hound. But the +fierce river dragged his legs, and buffeted him, and hurtled at him, and +drew him down, as it were an enemy wrestling with him, so that he had +much ado to come where the brachet was, and more to win back again, with +the brachet in his arm, to the dry land. + +Which when he had done he was clean for-spent and fell upon the ground +as a dead man. At this the young maid wept yet more bitterly than she +had wept for her hound, and cried aloud, “Alas, if so goodly a man +should spend his life for my little brachet!” So she took his head upon +her knee and cherished him and beat the palms of his hands, and the +hound licked his face. And when Martimor opened his eyes he saw the face +of the maid that it was fair as any flower. + +Then was she shamed, and put him gently from her knee, and began to +thank him and to ask with what she might reward him for the saving of +the brachet. + +“A night’s lodging and a day’s cheer,” quoth Martimor. + +“As long as thee liketh,” said she, “for my father, the miller, will +return 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 ride +in a quest and seek great adventures to become a knight.” + +So they bestowed the horse in the stable, and went into the Mill; and +when the miller was come home they had such good cheer with eating of +venison and pan-cakes, and drinking of hydromel, and singing of pleasant +ballads, that Martimor clean forgot he was in a delay. And going to his +bed in a fair garret he dreamed of the Maid of the Mill, whose name was +Lirette. + + + +IV + +How the Mill was in Danger and the Delay Endured + + +In the morning Martimor lay late and thought large thoughts of his +quest, and whither it might lead him, and to what honour it should bring +him. As he dreamed thus, suddenly he heard in the hall below a trampling +of 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 and +drag her away to do her shame, but she fought shrewdly. Then Martimor +rushed upon the churls, shouting for joy, and there was a great medley +of breaking chairs and tables and cursing and smiting, and with his +sword he gave horrible strokes. + +One of the knaves that fought with the miller, he smote upon the +shoulder and clave him to the navel. And at the other he foined fiercely +so that the point of the sword went through his back and stuck fast in +the 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 upon +Martimor and caught him by the middle and crushed him so that his ribs +cracked. + +Thus they weltered and wrung together, and now one of them was above +and now the other; and ever as they wallowed Martimor smote him with his +dagger, but there came forth no blood, only water. + +Then the black churl broke away from him and ran out at the door of the +mill, and Martimor after. So they ran through the garden to the river, +and there the churl sprang into the water, and swept away raging and +foaming. 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 have +the Maid, thou foul, black, misbegotten churl!” So he returned to the +Mill, and there the damsel Lirette made him to understand that these +three churls were long time enemies of the Mill, and sought ever to +destroy it and to do despite to her and her father. One of them was +Ignis, and another was Ventus, and these were the twain that he had +smitten. But the third, that fled down the river (and he was ever the +fiercest and the most outrageous), his name was Flumen, for he dwelt in +the caves of the stream, and was the master of it before the Mill was +built. + +“And now,” wept the Maid, “he must have had his will with me and with +the 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 heart +and 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 for +help.” + +“Why not here?” said Martimor. + +Then Lirette looked him in the face, smiling a little sorrily. “But thou +ridest 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 knave +again,” said he, “but more than a month I may not stay, for my quest +calls 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. But +Martimor had much to do to learn the working of the Mill; and they were +busied with the grinding of wheat and rye and barley and divers kinds of +grain; and the millers hurts were mended every day; and at night there +was merry rest and good cheer; and Martimor talked with the Maid of +the great adventure that he must find; and thus the delay endured in +pleasant 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 made +Lirette to understand that it was high time he should ride farther to +follow his quest. For the miller was now recovered, and it was long that +they had heard and seen naught of Flumen, and doubtless that black +knave was well routed and dismayed that he would not come again. +Lirette prayed him and desired him that he would tarry yet one week. But +Martimor said, No! for his adventures were before him, and that he +could not be happy save in the doing of great deeds and the winning of +knightly fame. Then he showed her the Blue Flower in his shield that was +nameless, 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 may +fortune 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 came +a fierce storm with howling wind and plumping rain, and Martimor slept +ill. About the break of day he was wakened by a great roaring and +pounding; then he looked out of window, and saw the river in flood, with +black waves spuming and raving, like wood beasts, and driving before +them great logs and broken trees. Thus the river hurled and hammered +at the mill-dam so that it trembled, and the logs leaped as they would +spring 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 at +the gates that held the river back, and thrust away the logs that were +heaped over them, and cut with axes, and fought with the river. So at +last two of the gates were lifted and one was broken, and the flood ran +down ramping and roaring in great raundon, and as it ran the black face +of 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 the +life beats in my body.” + +So he came back with the miller into the Mill, and there was meat ready +for them and they ate strongly and with good heart. “Now,” said the +miller, “must I mend the gate. But how it may be done, I know not, for +surely 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 the +second gate. And when that was mended there came another flood and brake +the third gate. So when all three were mended firm and fast, being bound +with iron, still the grimly river hurled over the dam, and the voice +of Flumen muttered in the dark of winter nights, “Yet will I +mar--mar--mar--yet will I mar Mill and Maid.” + +“Oho!” said Martimor, “this is a durable and dogged knave. Art thou +feared of him Lirette?” + +“Not so,” said she, “for thou art stronger. But fear have I of the day +when thou ridest forth in thy quest.” + +“Well, as to that,” said he, “when I have overcome this false devil +Flumen, then will we consider and appoint that day.” + +So the delay continued, and Martimor was both busy and happy at the +Mill, for he liked and loved this damsel well, and was fain of her +company. 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 sweet +flowers, and Lirette wrought in the garden. With her, when the day was +spent and the sun rested upon the edge of the hill, went Martimor, and +she showed him all her flowers that were blue. But none of them was like +the 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 that +flower, 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, and +Flumen had amended him of his evil ways. But full of craft and guile was +that false foe. For now that the gates were firm and strong, he found a +way down through the corner of the dam, where a water-rat had burrowed, +and there the water went seeping and creeping, gnawing ever at the +hidden breach. Presently in the night came a mizzling rain, and far +among the hills a cloud brake open, and the mill-pond flowed over and +under, and the dam crumbled away, and the Mill shook, and the whole +river ran roaring through the garden. + +Then was Martimor wonderly wroth, because the river had blotted out +the Maid’s flowers. “And one day,” she cried, holding fast to him and +trembling, “one day Flumen will have me, when thou art gone.” + +“Not so,” said he, “by the faith of my body that foul fiend shall never +have 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 Place +among the hills. There was a great rock full of caves and hollows, and +there 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 this +rock and make a dyke with a gate in it, to let down the water another +way when the floods come, so shall I spoil him of his craft and put him +to the worse.” + +Then he toiled day and night to make the dyke, and ever by night +Flumen came and strove with him, and did his power to cast him down and +strangle him. But Martimor stood fast and drave him back. + +And at last, as they wrestled and whapped together, they fell headlong +in the stream. + +“Ho-o!” shouted Flumen, “now will I drown thee, and mar the Mill and the +Maid.” + +But Martimor gripped him by the neck and thrust his head betwixt the +leaves of the gate and shut them fast, so that his eyes stood out +like gobbets of foam, and his black tongue hung from his mouth like a +water-weed. + +“Now shalt thou swear never to mar Mill nor Maid, but meekly to serve +them,” cried Martimor. Then Flumen sware by wind and wave, by storm and +stream, by rain and river, by pond and pool, by flood and fountain, by +dyke 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 foam +floated forth from the gate, and the water-weed writhed away with the +stream, and the river flowed fair and softly, with a sound like singing. + +Then Martimor came back to the Mill, and told how Flumen was overcome +and made to swear a pact. Thus their hearts waxed light and jolly, and +they kept that day as it were a love-day. + + + +VII + +How Martimor Bled for a Lady and Lived for a Maid, and how His Great +Adventure Ended and Began at the Mill + +Now leave we of the Mill and Martimor and the Maid, and let us speak +of a certain Lady, passing tall and fair and young. This was the Lady +Beauvivante, that was daughter to King Pellinore. And three false +knights took her by craft from her father’s court and led her away to +work their will on her. But she escaped from them as they slept by a +well, and came riding on a white palfrey, over hill and dale, as fast as +ever she could drive. + +Thus she came to the Mill, and her palfrey was spent, and there she took +refuge, beseeching Martimor that he would hide her, and defend her from +those caitiff knights that must soon follow. + +“Of hiding,” said he, “will I hear naught, but of defending am I full +fain. For this have I waited.” + +Then he made ready his horse and his armour, and took both spear and +sword, and stood forth in the bridge. Now this bridge was strait, +so that none could pass there but singly, and that not till Martimor +yielded or was beaten down. + +Then came the three knights that followed the Lady, riding fiercely down +the 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 in +black, and one rode in yellow, and the third rode in black and yellow. +So they cried Martimor that he should give them passage, for they +followed a quest. + +“Passage takes, who passage makes!” cried Martimor. “Right well I know +your quest, and it is a foul one.” + +Then the knight in black rode at him lightly, but Martimor encountered +him with the spear and smote him backward from his horse, that his head +struck the coping of the bridge and brake his neck. Then came the knight +in yellow, walloping heavily, and him the spear pierced through the +midst of the body and burst in three pieces: so he fell on his back and +the life went out of him, but the spear stuck fast and stood up from his +breast as a stake. + +Then the knight in black and yellow, that was as big as both his +brethren, gave a terrible shout, and rode at Martimor like a wood +lion. But he fended with his shield that the spear went aside, and they +clapped together like thunder, and both horses were overthrown. And +lightly they avoided their horses and rushed together, tracing, rasing, +and foining. Such strokes they gave that great pieces were clipped away +from their hauberks, and their helms, and they staggered to and fro +like drunken men. Then they hurtled together like rams and each battered +other the wind out of his body. So they sat either on one side of the +bridge, 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 the +space of two hours. So the knight in black and yellow, because he was +heavier, drave Martimor backward step by step till he came to the crown +of the bridge, and there fell grovelling. At this the Lady Beauvivante +shrieked 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 abraid +upon his feet, and smote the black and yellow knight upon the helm by an +overstroke so fierce that the sword sheared away the third part of his +head, as it had been a rotten cheese. So he lay upon the bridge, and the +blood 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 that +lay dead beyond the bridge. And he cried to Flumen, “Hide me these black +eggs 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 full +sore and made great dole and unlaced his helm; and Lirette cherished him +tenderly to recover his life. + +So while they were thus busied and distressed, came Sir Lancelot with a +great company of knights and squires riding for to rescue the princess. +When he came to the bridge all bedashed with blood, and the bodies of +the knights headless, “Now, by my lady’s name,” said he, “here has +been good fighting, and those three caitiffs are slain! By whose hand I +wonder?” + +So he came into the Mill, and there he found Martimor recovered of his +swoon, and had marvellous joy of him, when he heard how he had wrought. + +“Now are thou proven worthy of the noble order of knighthood,” said +Lancelot, and forthwith he dubbed him knight. + +Then he said that Sir Martimor should ride with him to the court of King +Pellinore, to receive a castle and a fair lady to wife, for doubtless +the 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 free +will 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 of +the Mill; no doubt the King will confirm it. And now what sayest thou of +ladies?” + +“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, he +may.” + +“Well, then,” said Sir Martimor, taking Lirette by the hand, “this +Maid is to me liefer to have and to wield as my wife than any dame or +princess that is christened.” + +“What, brother,” said Sir Lancelot, “is the wind in that quarter? And +will the Maid have thee?” + +“I will well,” said Lirette. + +“Now are you well provided,” said Sir Lancelot, “with knighthood, and a +castle, and a lady. Lacks but a motto and a name for the Blue Flower in +thy shield.” + +“He that names it shall never find it,” said Sir Martimor, “and he that +finds it needs no name.” + +So Lirette rejoiced Sir Martimor and loved together during their +life-days; and this is the end and the beginning of the Story of the +Mill. + + + + +SPY ROCK + +I + +It must have been near Sutherland’s Pond that I lost the way. For there +the deserted road which I had been following through the Highlands +ran out upon a meadow all abloom with purple loose-strife and golden +Saint-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 the +celestial colour: blue of the sky seen between white clouds: blue of the +sea shimmering through faint drifts of silver mist. The hope of finding +that hue of distance and mystery embodied in a living form, the old hope +of discovering the Blue Flower rose again in my heart. But it was only +for a moment, for when I came nearer I saw that the colour which had +caught my eye came from a multitude of closed gentians--the blossoms +which never open into perfection--growing so closely together that their +blended 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 gray +birches, here and there I found a track that looked like it; but as I +tried each one, it grew more faint and uncertain and at last came to +nothing in a thicket or a marsh. While I was thus beating about the bush +the sun dropped below the western rim of hills. It was necessary to make +the most of the lingering light, if I did not wish to be benighted in +the woods. The little village of Canterbury, which was the goal of my +day’s march, must lie about to the north just beyond the edge of the +mountain, and in that direction I turned, pushing forward as rapidly as +possible through the undergrowth. + +Presently I came into a region where the trees were larger and the +travelling was easier. It was not a primeval forest, but a second growth +of chestnuts and poplars and maples. Through the woods there ran at +intervals long lines of broken rock, covered with moss--the ruins, +evidently, of ancient stone fences. The land must have been, in former +days, a farm, inhabited, cultivated, the home of human hopes and desires +and labours, but now relapsed into solitude and wilderness. What could +the life have been among these rugged and inhospitable Highlands, on +this niggard and reluctant soil? Where was the house that once sheltered +the tillers of this rude corner of the earth? + +Here, perhaps, in the little clearing into which I now emerged. A couple +of decrepit apple-trees grew on the edge of it, and dropped their +scanty and gnarled fruit to feast the squirrels. A little farther on, a +straggling 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 in +the earth, with the remains of a crumbling chimney standing sentinel +beside it, here the house must have stood. What joys, what sorrows once +centred around this cold and desolate hearth-stone? What children went +forth like birds from this dismantled nest into the wide world? What +guests 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 striking +that to this day his face and figure are as vivid in my memory as if it +were but yesterday that I had met him. + +He was dressed in black, the coat of a somewhat formal cut, a long +cravat loosely knotted in his rolling collar. His head was bare, and +the coal-black hair, thick and waving, was in some disorder. His face, +smooth and pale, with high forehead, straight nose, and thin, sensitive +lips--was it old or young? Handsome it certainly was, the face of a man +of mark, a man of power. Yet there was something strange and wild about +it. His dark eyes, with the fine wrinkles about them, had a look of +unspeakable remoteness, and at the same time an intensity that seemed +to 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 bottom +indifferent. + +But his lips were smiling, and there was no fault to be found, at +least, with his manner. He had risen from the broad stone where he +had evidently been sitting with his back against the chimney, and came +forward to greet me. + +“You will pardon the abruptness of my greeting? I thought you might not +care to make acquaintance with the present tenant of this old house--at +least not without an introduction.” + +“Certainly not,” I answered, “you have done me a real kindness, which is +better than the outward form of courtesy. But how is it that you stay +at such close quarters with this unpleasant tenant? Have you no fear of +him?” + +“Not the least in the world,” he answered, laughing. “I know the snakes +too well, better than they know themselves. It is not likely that even +an old serpent with thirteen rattles, like this one, could harm me. I +know 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 the +dwelling of such a vile creature.” + +“Fallen!” he exclaimed. Then he repeated the word with a questioning +accent--“fallen? Are you sure of that? The snake, in his way, may be +quite as honest as the people who lived here before him, and not much +more harmful. The farmer was a miser who robbed his mother, quarrelled +with his brother, and starved his wife. What she lacked in food, she +made up in drink, when she could. One of the children, a girl, was +a cripple, lamed by her mother in a fit of rage. The two boys were +ne’er-do-weels who ran away from home as soon as they were old +enough. One of them is serving a life-sentence in the State prison for +manslaughter. When the house burned down some thirty years ago, +the woman escaped. The man’s body was found with the head crushed +in--perhaps by a falling timber. The family of our friend the +rattlesnake could hardly surpass that record, I think. + +“But why should we blame them--any of them? They were only acting out +their natures. To one who can see and understand, it is all perfectly +simple, and interesting--immensely interesting.” + +It is impossible to describe the quiet eagerness, the cool glow of +fervour with which he narrated this little history. It was the manner of +the triumphant pathologist who lays bare some hidden seat of disease. +It surprised and repelled me a little; yet it attracted me, too, for I +could see how evidently he counted on my comprehension and sympathy. + +“Well,” said I, “it is a pitiful history. Rural life is not all peace +and innocence. But how came you to know the story?” + +“I? Oh, I make it my business to know a little of everything, and as +much as possible of human life, not excepting the petty chronicles of +the rustics around me. It is my chief pleasure. I earn my living by +teaching boys. I find my satisfaction in studying men. But you are on +a journey, sir, and night is falling. I must not detain you. Or perhaps +you will allow me to forward you a little by serving as a guide. Which +way were you going when you turned aside to look at this dismantled +shrine?” + +“To Canterbury,” I answered, “to find a night’s, or a month’s, lodging +at the inn. My journey is a ramble, it has neither terminus nor +time-table.” + +“Then let me commend to you something vastly better than the tender +mercies 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--purer +air, finer view, and pleasanter company. There is plenty of room in +the house, for it is vacation-time. Master Isaac Ward is always glad to +entertain guests.” + +There was something so sudden and unconventional about the invitation +that I was reluctant to accept it; but he gave it naturally and pressed +it with earnest courtesy, assuring me that it was in accordance with +Master Ward’s custom, that he would be much disappointed to lose the +chance of talking with an interesting traveller, that he would far +rather let me pay him for my lodging than have me go by, and so on--so +that at last I consented. + +Three minutes’ walking from the deserted clearing brought us into a +travelled road. It circled the breast of the mountain, and as we stepped +along it in the dusk I learned something of my companion. His name was +Edward Keene; he taught Latin and Greek in the Hilltop School; he had +studied for the ministry, but had given it up, I gathered, on account of +a certain loss of interest, or rather a diversion of interest in another +direction. He spoke of himself with an impersonal candour. + +“Preachers must be always trying to persuade men,” he said. “But what I +care about is to know men. I don’t care what they do. Certainly I have +no wish to interfere with them in their doings, for I doubt whether +anyone 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 growing +together. There is a double life in it, and the second life, the added +life, dominates the other. The stock becomes a kind of animate soil for +the graft to grow in.” + +Presently the road dipped into a little valley and rose again, breasting +the slope of a wooded hill which thrust itself out from the steeper +flank of the mountain-range. Down the hill-side a song floated to meet +us--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 it +that thrilled me. Keene’s pace quickened. And soon the singer came in +sight, stepping lightly down the road, a shape of slender whiteness on +the background of gathering night. She was beautiful even in that dim +light, with brown eyes and hair, and a face that seemed to breathe +purity and trust. Yet there was a trace of anxiety in it, or so I +fancied, that gave it an appealing charm. + +“You have come at last, Edward,” she cried, running forward and putting +her hand in his. “It is late. You have been out all day; I began to be +afraid.” + +“Not too late,” he answered; “there was no need for fear, Dorothy. I +am not alone, you see.” And keeping her hand, he introduced me to the +daughter of Master Ward. + +It was easy to guess the relation between these two young people who +walked beside me in the dusk. It needed no words to say that they were +lovers. Yet it would have needed many words to define the sense, that +came to me gradually, of something singular in the tie that bound +them together. On his part there was a certain tone of half-playful +condescension toward her such as one might use to a lovely child, which +seemed 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 of +demeanour 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 other +was different from the other’s thought of self. There could not be a +complete understanding, a perfect accord. What was the secret, of which +each knew half, but not the other half? + +Thus, with steps that kept time, but with thoughts how wide apart, we +came to the door of the school. A warm flood of light poured out to +greet us. The Master, an elderly, placid, comfortable man, gave me just +the welcome that had been promised in his name. The supper was waiting, +and the evening passed in such happy cheer that the bewilderments and +misgivings of the twilight melted away, and at bedtime I dropped into +the nest of sleep as one who has found a shelter among friends. + + + +II + + +The Hilltop School stood on a blessed site. Lifted high above the +village, it held the crest of the last gentle wave of the mountains +that filled the south with crowding billows, ragged and tumultuous. +Northward, the great plain lay at our feet, smiling in the sun; meadows +and groves, yellow fields of harvest and green orchards, white roads and +clustering towns, with here and there a little city on the bank of +the mighty river which curved in a vast line of beauty toward the blue +Catskill Range, fifty miles away. Lines of filmy smoke, like vanishing +footprints in the air, marked the passage of railway trains across +the landscape--their swift flight reduced by distance to a leisurely +transition. The bright surface of the stream was furrowed by a hundred +vessels; tiny rowboats creeping from shore to shore; knots of black +barges following the lead of puffing tugs; sloops with languid motion +tacking against the tide; white steamboats, like huge toy-houses, +crowded with pygmy inhabitants, moving smoothly on their way to the +great city, and disappearing suddenly as they turned into the narrows +between Storm-King and the Fishkill Mountains. Down there was life, +incessant, varied, restless, intricate, many-coloured--down there was +history, the highway of ancient voyagers since the days of Hendrik +Hudson, the hunting-ground of Indian tribes, the scenes of massacre and +battle, the last camp of the Army of the Revolution, the Head-quarters +of Washington--down there were the homes of legend and poetry, the +dreamlike hills of Rip van Winkle’s sleep, the cliffs and caves haunted +by the Culprit Fay, the solitudes traversed by the Spy--all outspread +before us, and visible as in a Claude Lorraine glass, in the tranquil +lucidity of distance. And here, on the hilltop, was our own life; +secluded, yet never separated from the other life; looking down upon +it, yet woven of the same stuff; peaceful in circumstance, yet ever busy +with its own tasks, and holding in its quiet heart all the elements of +joy and sorrow and tragic consequence. + +The Master was a man of most unworldly wisdom. In his youth a great +traveller, he had brought home many observations, a few views, and at +least one theory. To him the school was the most important of human +institutions--more vital even than the home, because it held the first +real experience of social contact, of free intercourse with other minds +and lives coming from different households and embodying different +strains of blood. “My school,” said he, “is the world in miniature. If I +can teach these boys to study and play together freely and with fairness +to one another, I shall make men fit to live and work together in +society. What they learn matters less than how they learn it. The great +thing is the bringing out of individual character so that it will find +its 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, to +a certain degree, the fruit of the marked quality, the obvious, the +characteristic. But of the deeper character, made up of a hundred +traits, coloured and conditioned most vitally by something secret and +in itself apparently of slight importance, he was placidly unconscious. +Classes he knew. Individuals escaped him. Yet he was a most +companionable man, a social solitary, a friendly hermit. + +His daughter Dorothy seemed to me even more fair and appealing by +daylight than when I first saw her in the dusk. There was a pure +brightness 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 every +tone and motion, yet by no means weak or uncertain. Mistress of herself +and of the house, she ruled her kingdom without an effort. Busied with +many little cares, she bore them lightly. Her spirit overflowed into the +lives around her with delicate sympathy and merry cheer. But it was +in music that her nature found its widest outlet. In the lengthening +evenings of late August she would play from Schumann, or Chopin, or +Grieg, interpreting the vague feelings of gladness or grief which lie +too deep for words. Ballads she loved, quaint old English and Scotch +airs, folk-songs of Germany, “Come-all-ye’s” of Ireland, Canadian +chansons. 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 sound +sleeper. He came back to the school, from a fishing-excursion, a +few days after my arrival. I liked the way in which he told of his +adventures, with a little frank boasting, enough to season but not to +spoil 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 in +the middle of September. I liked, more than all, his attitude to Dorothy +Ward. He loved her, clearly enough. When she was in the room the +other people were only accidents to him. Yet there was nothing of the +disappointed suitor in his bearing. He was cheerful, natural, accepting +the situation, giving her the best he had to give, and gladly taking +from her the frank reliance, the ready comradeship which she bestowed +upon him. If he envied Keene--and how could he help it--at least he +never showed a touch of jealousy or rivalry. The engagement was a fact +which he took into account as something not to be changed or questioned. +Keene was so much more brilliant, interesting, attractive. He answered +so much more fully to the poetic side of Dorothy’s nature. How could she +help preferring him? + +Thus the three actors in the drama stood, when I became an inmate of +Hilltop, and accepted the master’s invitation to undertake some of the +minor classes in English, and stay on at the school indefinitely. It was +my wish to see the little play--a pleasant comedy, I hoped--move forward +to a happy ending. And yet--what was it that disturbed me now and then +with forebodings? Something, doubtless, in the character of Keene, for +he was the dominant personality. The key of the situation lay with +him. He was the centre of interest. Yet he was the one who seemed not +perfectly in harmony, not quite at home, as if something beckoned and +urged him away. + +“I am glad you are to stay,” said he, “yet I wonder at it. You will find +the life narrow, after all your travels. Ulysses at Ithaca--you will +surely 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 is +enough to make a man happy anywhere.” + +“Yes, yes,” he answered, quickly, “but that is not what I mean. It is +not there that I look for a wider life. Love--do you think that love +broadens 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 the +tyranny of the parish, fills it with the sense of power. And love is the +opposite 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 you +don’t really care for Dorothy Ward? Do you mean that what you have won +in 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 not +live without her. But love is not the only reality. There is something +else, 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 your +books. 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, every +footpath and trail among the mountains. But he cared little for walking +in company; one companion was the most that he could abide. And, strange +to 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 to +the first ridge of Storm-King. But with me he pushed out to the farthest +pinnacle that overhangs the river, and down through the Lonely Heart +gorge, 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 outlook +a strange exhilaration seemed to come upon him. His spirit glowed like +a live coal in the wind. He overflowed with brilliant talk and curious +stories of the villages and scattered houses that we could see from our +eyries. + +But it was not with me that he made his longest expeditions. They were +solitary. Early on Saturday he would leave the rest of us, with some +slight 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 the +anxious look deepen on Dorothy’s face, and she would slip away down the +road to meet him. But he always came back in good spirits, talkable and +charming. It was the next day that the reaction came. The black fit +took him. He was silent, moody, bitter. Holding himself aloof, yet never +giving utterance to any irritation, he seemed half-unconsciously to +resent the claims of love and friendship, as if they irked him. There +was a look in his eyes as if he measured us, weighed us, analysed us all +as strangers. + +Yes, even Dorothy. I have seen her go to meet him with a flower in +her hand that she had plucked for him, and turn away with her lips +trembling, 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 up +the flower and kept it. + +There was nothing to take offence at, nothing on which one could lay a +finger; only these singular alternations of mood which made Keene now +the most delightful of friends, now an intimate stranger in the circle. +The change was inexplicable. But certainly it seemed to have some +connection, as cause or consequence, with his long, lonely walks. + +Once, when he was absent, we spoke of his remarkable fluctuations of +spirit. + +The master labelled him. “He is an idealist, a dreamer. They are always +uncertain.” + +I blamed him. “He gives way too much to his moods. He lacks +self-control. He is in danger of spoiling a fine nature.” + +I looked at Dorothy. She defended him. “Why should he be always the +same? He is too great for that. His thoughts make him restless, and +sometimes he is tired. Surely you wouldn’t have him act what he don’t +feel. Why do you want him to do that?” + +“I don’t know,” said Graham, with a short laugh. “None of us know. But +what we all want just now is music. Dorothy, will you sing a little for +us?” + +So she sang “The Coulin,” and “The Days o’ the Kerry Dancin’,” and “The +Hawthorn Tree,” and “The Green Woods of Truigha,” and “Flowers o’ the +Forest,” and “A la claire Fontaine,” until the twilight was filled with +peace. + +The boys came back to the school. The wheels of routine began to turn +again, slowly and with a little friction at first, then smoothly and +swiftly as if they had never stopped. Summer reddened into autumn; +autumn bronzed into fall. The maples and poplars were bare. The oaks +alone kept their rusted crimson glory, and the cloaks of spruce and +hemlock on the shoulders of the hills grew dark with wintry foliage. +Keene’s transitions of mood became more frequent and more extreme. The +gulf of isolation that divided him from us when the black days came +seemed wider and more unfathomable. Dorothy and John Graham were +thrown more constantly together. Keene appeared to encourage their +companionship. He watched them curiously, sometimes, not as if he +were jealous, but rather as if he were interested in some delicate +experiment. At other times he would be singularly indifferent to +everything, 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 of +disappointment that quenched the brightness of her face was pitiful. +Even he could not be blind to it. He flushed as if surprised, and +hesitated a moment, evidently in conflict with himself. Then a look of +shame and regret came into his eyes. He made some excuse for not going +with us to the picnic, at the Black Brook Falls, with which the day was +celebrated. In the afternoon, as we all sat around the camp-fire, he +came swinging through the woods with his long, swift stride, and going +at 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 lost +the train back from Newburg and walked home. I pray that you may never +know any tears but pearls, and that there may be nothing changeable +about you but the opal.” + +“Oh, Edward!” she cried, “how beautiful! Thank you a thousand times. But +I 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 to +us. Keene was at his best, a leader of friendly merriment, a master of +good-fellowship, a prince of delicate chivalry. Dorothy’s loveliness +unfolded like a flower in the sun. + +But the Indian summer of peace was brief. It was hardly a week before +Keene’s old moods returned, darker and stranger than ever. The girl’s +unconcealable bewilderment, her sense of wounded loyalty and baffled +anxiety, her still look of hurt and wondering tenderness, increased +from day to day. John Graham’s temper seemed to change, suddenly and +completely. From the best-humoured and most careless fellow in the +world, he became silent, thoughtful, irritable toward everyone except +Dorothy. With Keene he was curt and impatient, avoiding him as much as +possible, and when they were together, evidently struggling to keep down +a deep dislike and rising anger. They had had sharp words when they were +alone, I was sure, but Keene’s coolness seemed to grow with Graham’s +heat. There was no open quarrel. + +One Saturday evening, Graham came to me. “You have seen what is going on +here?” he said. + +“Something, at least,” I answered, “and I am very sorry for it. But I +don’t quite understand it.” + +“Well, I do; and I’m going to put an end to it. I’m going to have it out +with 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--poetic +type--misunderstandings sure to arise--come together after a while each +supply the other’s deficiencies.’ Cursed folly! And the girl so unhappy +that she can’t tell anyone. It shall not go on, I say. Keene is out on +the 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 the +valley we could hardly see a rod ahead of us. But higher up where the +way curved around the breast of the mountain, the woods were thin on the +left, and on the right a sheer precipice fell away to the gorge of the +brook. In the dim starlight we saw Keene striding toward us. Graham +stepped 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 step +forward. + +“Taking a long walk, Jack Graham,” he answered. “It was glorious. You +should have been with me. But why this sudden question?” + +“Because your long walk is a pretence. You are playing false. There +is some woman that you go to see at West Point, at Highland Falls, who +knows where?” + +Keene laughed again. + +“Certainly you don’t know, my dear fellow; and neither do I. Since when +has walking become a vice in your estimation? You seem to be in a fierce +mood. What’s the matter?” + +“I will tell you what’s the matter. You have been acting like a brute to +the girl you profess to love.” + +“Plain words! But between friends frankness is best. Did she ask you to +tell me?” + +“No! You know too well she would die before she would speak. You are +killing her, that is what you are doing with your devilish moods and +mysteries. 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 for +yourself. Is that it?” + +“Damn you,” cried the younger man, “let the words go! we’ll settle it +this way”----and he sprang at the other’s throat. + +Keene, cool and well-braced, met him with a heavy blow in the chest. He +recoiled, and I rushed between them, holding Graham back, and pleading +for self-control. As we stood thus, panting and confused, on the edge of +the cliff, a singing voice floated up to us from the shadows across the +valley. 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 never +deal with the matter in this way. Think of the girl who is singing down +yonder. What would happen to her, what would she suffer, from scandal, +from her own feelings, if either of you should be killed, or even +seriously 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 the +one to keep it up. I am willing to let it pass. It is but a small matter +at 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 not +the person to ask it. I wonder that he does not see the impropriety, the +absurdity of his meddling at all in this affair. Besides, he could not +understand 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 this +proposition. To-morrow is Sunday. We shall be excused from service if we +tell the master that we have important business to settle together. You +shall come with me on one of my long walks. I will tell you all about +them. 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 in +that way for the present. And to make it still more fair, I want to take +back 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 no +grudge. 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 from +below. What were you talking about?” + +“We were talking,” said Keene, “my dear Dorothy, we were talking--about +walking--yes, that was it--about walking, and about views. The +conversation was quite warm, almost a debate. Now, you know all the +view-points in this region. Which do you call the best, the most +satisfying, the finest prospect? But I know what you will say: the view +from the little knoll in front of Hilltop. For there, when you are tired +of looking far away, you can turn around and see the old school, and the +linden-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 of +summer, and a few belated daisies were blooming in the old clearing, as +Keene and I passed by the ruins of the farm-house again, early on Sunday +morning. He had been talking ever since we started, pouring out his +praise of knowledge, wide, clear, universal knowledge, as the best of +life’s joys, the greatest of life’s achievements. The practical life was +a blind, dull routine. Most men were toiling at tasks which they did not +like, by rules which they did not understand. They never looked beyond +the edge of their work. The philosophical life was a spider’s web--filmy +threads of theory spun out of the inner consciousness--it touched the +world only at certain chosen points of attachment. There was nothing +firm, nothing substantial in it. You could look through it like a veil +and see the real world lying beyond. But the theorist could see only the +web which he had spun. Knowing did not come by speculating, theorising. +Knowing came by seeing. Vision was the only real knowledge. To see the +world, the whole world, as it is, to look behind the scenes, to read +human 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 place +where we had first met, a new eagerness sounded in his voice. + +“Ever since that day I have inclined to tell you something more about +myself. I felt sure you would understand. I am planning to write a +book--a book of knowledge, in the true sense--a great book about human +life. Not a history, not a theory, but a real view of life, its hidden +motives, its secret relations. How different they are from what men +dream and imagine and play that they are! How much darker, how much +smaller, and therefore how much more interesting and wonderful. No one +has yet written--perhaps because no one has yet conceived--such a book +as I have in mind. I might call it a ‘Bionopsis.’” + +“But surely,” said I, “you have chosen a strange place to write it--the +Hilltop School--this quiet and secluded region! The stream of humanity +is very slow and slender here--it trickles. You must get out into the +busy world. You must be in the full current and feel its force. You must +take part in the active life of mankind in order really to know it.” + +“A mistake!” he cried. “Action is the thing that blinds men. You +remember Matthew Arnold’s line: + + In action’s dizzying eddy whurled. + +To know the world you must stand apart from it and above it; you must +look down on it.” + +“Well, then,” said I, “you will have to find some secret spring of +inspiration, some point of vantage from which you can get your outlook +and 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 had +hard 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 fallen +log 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 my +long walks. Well, there is only one of them. It is always the same. You +shall see where it leads, what it means. You shall share my secret--all +the wonder and glory of it! Of course I know my conduct, has seemed +strange to you. Sometimes it has seemed strange even to me. I have been +doubtful, troubled, almost distracted. I have been risking a great deal, +in danger of losing what I value, what most men count the best thing in +the world. But it could not be helped. The risk was worth while. A great +discovery, the opportunity of a lifetime, yes, of an age, perhaps of +many 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 for +yourself whether I was right or wrong. But you must judge fairly, +without haste, without prejudice. I ask you to make me one promise. You +will 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 now +taking you.” + +By this time it was clear to me that I had to do with a case lying far +outside of the common routine of life; something subtle, abnormal, hard +to measure, in which a clear and careful estimate would be necessary. If +Keene 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 some +extraordinary, reality behind his mysterious hints, it would need +patience and skill to test it. I gave him the promise for which he +asked. + +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 wildest +walks that I have ever taken. He turned aside for no obstacles; swamps, +masses of interlacing alders, close-woven thickets of stiff young +spruces, chevaux-de-frise of dead trees where wind-falls had mowed down +the forest, walls of lichen-crusted rock, landslides where heaps of +broken stone were tumbled in ruinous confusion--through everything he +pushed forward. I could see, here and there, the track of his former +journeys: broken branches of witch-hazel and moose-wood, ferns trampled +down, a faint trail across some deeper bed of moss. At mid-day we rested +for a half-hour to eat lunch. But Keene would eat nothing, except a +little pellet of some dark green substance that he took from a flat +silver box in his pocket. He swallowed it hastily, and stooping his face +to 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 bitter +gum is a tonic; it spurs the courage and doubles the strength--if you +are 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 come +on. The way, now tangled among the nameless peaks and ranges, bore +steadily southward, rising all the time, in spite of many brief downward +curves where a steep gorge must be crossed. Presently we came into a +hard-wood forest, open and easy to travel. Breasting a long slope, we +reached the summit of a broad, smoothly rounding ridge covered with a +dense growth of stunted spruce. The trees rose above our heads, about +twice the height of a man, and so thick that we could not see beyond +them. But, from glimpses here and there, and from the purity and +lightness of the air, I judged that we were on far higher ground +than any we had yet traversed, the central comb, perhaps, of the +mountain-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 was +a vast rock, rising from the crest of the ridge, lifting its top above +the 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 by +a slanting gully. + +“Be careful,” cried my companion, “there is a rattlers’ den somewhere +about here. The snakes are in their winter quarters now, almost dormant, +but they can still strike if you tread on them. Step here! Give me +your hand--use that point of rock--hold fast by this bush; it is firmly +rooted--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--five +miles east of us--on a lower ridge. Others think it is a peak just back +of Cro’ Nest. All wrong! There is but one real Spy Rock--here! This +earth holds no more perfect view-point. It is one of the rare places +from which a man may see the kingdoms of the world and all the glory of +them. Look!” + +The prospect was indeed magnificent; it was strange what a vast +enlargement of vision resulted from the slight elevation above the +surrounding peaks. It was like being lifted up so that we could +look over the walls. The horizon expanded as if by magic. The vast +circumference of vision swept around us with a radius of a hundred +miles. Mountain and meadow, forest and field, river and lake, hill and +dale, village and farmland, far-off city and shimmering water--all lay +open to our sight, and over all the westering sun wove a transparent +robe of gem-like hues. Every feature of the landscape seemed alive, +quivering, pulsating with conscious beauty. You could almost see the +world breathe. + +“Wonderful!” I cried. “Most wonderful! You have found a mount of +vision.” + +“Ah,” he answered, “you don’t half see the wonder yet, you don’t begin +to appreciate it. Your eyes are new to it. You have not learned the +power of far sight, the secret of Spy Rock. You are still shut in by the +horizon.” + +“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 beneath +it you can make out, perhaps, a vague blotch of shadow, or a tiny flash +of brightness where the sun strikes it? New York! But I can see the +great buildings, the domes, the spires, the crowded wharves, the tides +of people whirling through the streets--and beyond that, the sea, with +the ships coming and going! I can follow them on their courses--and +beyond that--Oh! when I am on Spy Rock I can see more than other men can +imagine.” + +For a moment, strange to say, I almost fancied could follow him. The +magnetism of his spirit imposed upon me, carried me away with him. Then +sober reason told me that he was talking of impossibilities. + +“Keene,” said I, “you are dreaming. The view and the air have +intoxicated you. This is a phantasy, a delusion!” + +“It pleases you to call it so,” he said, “but I only tell you my real +experience. Why it should be impossible I do not understand. There is +no 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 the +earth which makes a horizon inevitable?” + +“Who knows what a ray of light is?” said he. “Who can prove that it may +not be curved, under certain conditions, or refracted in some places +in a way that is not possible elsewhere? I tell you there is something +extraordinary about this Spy Rock. It is a seat of power--Nature’s +observatory. More things are visible here than anywhere else--more than +I have told you yet. But come, we have little time left. For half an +hour, each of us shall enjoy what he can see. Then home again to the +narrower 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 a +piece 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’s +walks, no guilt in his moods. But there is something very strange. I +cannot form a judgment yet as to what we should do. We must wait a few +days. It will do no harm to be patient. Indeed, I have promised not to +judge, 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 trust +you, I agree to wait, though I am far from satisfied.” + +Our second expedition was appointed for the following Saturday. Keene +was hungry for it, and I was almost as eager, desiring to penetrate as +quickly as possible into the heart of the affair. Already a conviction +in 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 than +he had been the first time. For a while he talked little, but scanned +view with wide, shining eyes. Then he began to tell me stories of the +places that we could see--strange stories of domestic calamity, and +social conflict, and eccentric passion, and hidden crime. + +“Do you remember Hawthorne’s story of ‘The Minister’s Black Veil?’ It +is the best comment on human life that ever was written. Everyone has +something to hide. The surface of life is a mask. The substance of +life is a secret. All humanity wears the black veil. But it is not +impenetrable. No, it is transparent, if you find the right point of +view. Here, on Spy Rock, I have found it. I have learned how to look +through the veil. I can see, not by the light-rays only, but by the +rays which are colourless, imperceptible, irresistible the rays of the +unknown quantity, which penetrate everywhere. I can see how men down in +the great city are weaving their nets of selfishness and falsehood, and +calling them industrial enterprises or political combinations. I can see +how the wheels of society are moved by the hidden springs of avarice +and greed and rivalry. I can see how children drink in the fables of +religion, without understanding them, and how prudent men repeat them +without believing them. I can see how the illusions of love appear and +vanish, and how men and women swear that their dreams are eternal, even +while they fade. I can see how poor people blind themselves and deceive +each other, calling selfishness devotion, and bondage contentment. Down +at Hilltop yonder I can see how Dorothy Ward and John Graham, without +knowing 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. Not +from Spy Rock nor from anywhere else can you see anything at Hilltop +that is not honest and pure and loyal. Come down, now, and let us go +home. You will see better there than here.” + +“I think not,” said he, “but I will come. Yes, of course, I am bound to +come. But let me have a few minutes here alone. Go you down along the +path a little way slowly. I will follow you in a quarter of an hour. And +remember 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 was +disordered at least three of us suspected already. But to me alone +was the nature and seat of the disorder known. How make the others +understand it? They might easily conceive it to be something different +from 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 a +mad-house: it would be unjust, probably it would be impossible to have +him committed. But on the other hand they might take it too lightly, as +the result of overwork, or perhaps of the use of some narcotic. To me +it was certain that the trouble went far deeper than this. It lay in the +man’s moral nature, in the error of his central will. It was the working +out, in abnormal form, but with essential truth, of his chosen and +cherished ideal of life. Spy Rock was something more than the seat of +his delusion, it was the expression of his temperament. The +solitary trail that led thither was the symbol of his search for +happiness--alone, forgetful of life’s lowlier ties, looking down upon +the world in the cold abstraction of scornful knowledge. How was such +a man to be brought back to the real life whose first condition is the +acceptance of a limited outlook, the willingness to live by trust as +much as by sight, the power of finding joy and peace in the things that +we 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 who +were bound to him? + +This was what perplexed and oppressed me. I needed all the time until +the next Saturday to think the question through, to decide what should +be done. But the matter was taken out of my hands. After our latest +expedition Keene’s dark mood returned upon him with sombre intensity. +Dull, restless, indifferent, half-contemptuous, he seemed to withdraw +into himself, observing those around him with half-veiled glances, as if +he had nothing better to do and yet found it a tiresome pastime. He was +like a man waiting wearily at a railway station for his train. Nothing +pleased him. He responded to nothing. + +Graham controlled his indignation by a constant effort. A dozen times he +was on the point of speaking out. But he restrained himself and played +fair. Dorothy’s suffering could not be hidden. Her loyalty was strained +to the breaking point. She was too tender and true for anger, but she +was wounded almost beyond endurance. + +Keene’s restlessness increased. The intervening Thursday was +Thanksgiving Day; most of the boys had gone home; the school had +holiday. Early in the morning he came to me. + +“Let us take our walk to-day. We have no work to do. Come! In this +clear, frosty air, Spy Rock will be glorious!” + +“No,” I answered, “this is no day for such an expedition. This is the +home day. Stay here and be happy with us all. You owe this to love and +friendship. You owe it to Dorothy Ward.” + +“Owe it?” said he. “Speaking of debts, I think each man is his own +preferred creditor. But of course you can do as you like about to-day. +Tomorrow or Saturday will answer just as well for our third walk +together.” + +About noon he came down from his room and went to the piano, where +Dorothy was sitting. They talked together in low tones. Then she stood +up, 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 it +fall. + +“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 of +disaster in the air. Something irretrievable had fallen from our circle. +But no one dared to name it. Night closed in upon the house with a +changing sky. All the stars were hidden. The wind whimpered and then +shouted. The rain swept down in spiteful volleys, deepening at last into +a fierce, steady discharge. Nine o’clock, ten o’clock passed, and Keene +did not return. By midnight we were certain that some accident had +befallen him. + +It was impossible to go up into the mountains in that pitch-darkness +of furious tempest. But we could send down to the village for men to +organise a search-party and to bring the doctor. At daybreak we set +out--some of the men going with the Master along Black Brook, others in +different directions to make sure of a complete search--Graham and +the doctor and I following the secret trail that I knew only too well. +Dorothy insisted that she must go. She would bear no denial, declaring +that it would be worse for her alone at home, than if we took her with +us. + +It was incredible how the path seemed to lengthen. Graham watched the +girl’s every step, helping her over the difficult places, pushing aside +the tangled branches, his eyes resting upon her as frankly, as tenderly +as a mother looks at her child. In single file we marched through the +gray morning, clearing cold after the storm, and the silence was seldom +broken, 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 arm +hanging over the edge, was the outline of Edward Keene’s form. It was as +if some monster had seized him and flung him over its shoulder to carry +away. + +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 to +the sky, his eyes blindly staring; there was no pulse, no breath; he was +already cold in death. His right hand and arm, the side of his neck +and face were horribly swollen and livid. The doctor stooped down and +examined the hand carefully. “See!” he cried, pointing to a great bruise +on his wrist, with two tiny punctures in the middle of it from which +a few drops of blood had oozed, “a rattlesnake has struck him. He must +have fairly put his hand upon it, perhaps in the dark, when he was +climbing. And, look, what is this?” + +He picked up a flat silver box, that lay open on the rock. There were +two olive-green pellets of a resinous paste in it. He lifted it to his +face, and drew a long breath. + +“Yes,” he said, “it is Gunjab, the most powerful form of Hashish, the +narcotic 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 were +waiting below. He had put his coat around her. She was shivering a +little. 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 they +will not grow, though the soil prepared for them be never so rich, the +shade of the arbour built for them never so closely and cunningly woven. +Their delicate, thread-like roots take no hold upon the earth tilled and +troubled by the fingers of man. The fine sap that steals through their +long, slender limbs pauses and fails when they are watered by human +hands. Silently the secret of their life retreats and shrinks away and +hides itself. + +But in the woods, where falling leaves and crumbling tree-trunks and +wilting ferns have been moulded by Nature into a deep, brown humus, +clean and fragrant--in the woods, where the sunlight filters green +and golden through interlacing branches, and where pure moisture of +distilling rains and melting snows is held in treasury by never-failing +banks of moss--under the verdurous flood of the forest, like sea-weeds +under the ocean waves, these three little creeping vines put forth their +hands with joy, and spread over rock and hillock and twisted tree-root +and 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 robe +of green. This is Snowberry, and if you eat of it, you will grow wise +in 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, and +the fringed gentian. You will understand how the buds trust themselves +to the spring in their unfolding, and how the blossoms trust themselves +to the winter in their withering, and how the busy bands of Nature are +ever 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 are +hidden among its foliage, and if you eat of this fruit, you will grow +wise in the wisdom of birds. You will know where the oven-bird secretes +her nest, and where the wood-cock dances in the air at night; the +drumming-log of the ruffed grouse will be easy to find, and you will +see the dark lodges of the evergreen thickets inhabited by hundreds +of warblers. There will be no dead silence for you in the forest, any +longer, 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 silver +flute of the woodthrush, and the silver harp of the veery, and the +silver bells of the hermit; and something in your heart will answer to +them all. In the frosty stillness of October nights you will see the +airy tribes flitting across the moon, following the secret call that +guides them southward. In the calm brightness of winter sunshine, +filling sheltered copses with warmth and cheer, you will watch the +lingering blue-birds and robins and song-sparrows playing at summer, +while the chickadees and the juncos and the cross-bills make merry in +the windswept fields. In the lucent mornings of April you will hear your +old 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 greet +you, you will understand that Nature knows a secret for which man has +never found a word--the secret that tells itself in song. + +The third of the forest-vines is Wood-Magic. It bears neither flower nor +fruit. Its leaves are hardly to be distinguished from the leaves of the +other vines. Perhaps they are a little rounder than the Snowberry’s, +a little more pointed than the Partridge-berry’s; sometimes you might +mistake them for the one, sometimes for the other. No marks of warning +have been written upon them. If you find them it is your fortune; if you +taste them it is your fate. + +For as you browse your way through the forest, nipping here and there a +rosy leaf of young winter-green, a fragrant emerald tip of balsam-fir, a +twig of spicy birch, if by chance you pluck the leaves of Wood-Magic and +eat them, you will not know what you have done, but the enchantment of +the tree-land will enter your heart and the charm of the wildwood will +flow through your veins. + +You will never get away from it. The sighing of the wind through the +pine-trees and the laughter of the stream in its rapids will sound +through all your dreams. On beds of silken softness you will long for +the sleep-song of whispering leaves above your head, and the smell of +a couch of balsam-boughs. At tables spread with dainty fare you will be +hungry for the joy of the hunt, and for the angler’s sylvan feast. In +proud cities you will weary for the sight of a mountain trail; in great +cathedrals you will think of the long, arching aisles of the woodland; +and in the noisy solitude of crowded streets you will hone after the +friendly forest. + +This is what will happen to you if you eat the leaves of that little +vine, 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 the +southward, broad and smooth and white. But there are no travellers +passing by. The snow that has fallen during the night is unbroken. The +pale February sunrise makes blue shadows on it, sharp and jagged, an +outline of the fir-trees on the mountain-crest quarter of, a mile away. + +In summer the highways are dissolved into three wild rivers--the River +of Rocks, which issues from the hills; the River of Meadows, which flows +from the great lake; and the River of the Way Out, which runs down from +their meeting-place to the settlements and the little world. But in +winter, 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 the +caribou, and the footprints of the marten and the mink and the fox, and +the narrow trails made by Luke Dubois on his way to and from his cabin +by the rivers. + +He leaned in the door-way, looking out. Behind him in the shadow, the +fire was still snapping in the little stove where he had cooked his +breakfast. There was a comforting smell of bacon and venison in the +room; the tea-pot stood on the table half-empty. Here in the corner were +his rifle and some of his traps. On the wall hung his snowshoes. Under +the bunk was a pile of skins. Half-open on the bench lay the book that +he had been reading the evening before, while the snow was falling. It +was a book of veritable fairy-tales, which told how men had made their +way in the world, and achieved great fortunes, and won success, by +toiling hard at first, and then by trading and bargaining and getting +ahead of other men. + +“Well,” said Luke, to himself, as he stood at the door, “I could do that +too. Without doubt I also am one of the men who can do things. They +did not work any harder than I do. But they got better pay. I am +twenty-five. For ten years I have worked hard, and what have I got for +it? This!” + +He stepped out into the morning, alert and vigorous, deep-chested and +straight-hipped. The strength of the hills had gone into him, and his +eyes were bright with health. His kingdom was spread before him. There +along the River of Meadows were the haunts of the moose and the caribou +where he hunted in the fall; and yonder on the burnt hills around the +great lake were the places where he watched for the bears; and up beside +the River of Rocks ran his line of traps, swinging back by secret ways +to many a nameless pond and hidden beaver-meadow; and all along the +streams, when the ice went out in the spring, the great trout would +be leaping in rapid and pool. Among the peaks and valleys of that +forest-clad kingdom he could find his way as easily as a merchant walks +from his house to his office. The secrets of bird and beast were known +to him; every season of the year brought him its own tribute; the woods +were his domain, vast, inexhaustible, free. + +Here was his home, his cabin that he had built with his own hands. The +roof was tight, the walls were well chinked with moss. It was snug and +warm. 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 and +bundles of skins. The door of the cabin was shut; a ghostlike wreath of +blue smoke curled from the chimney. Luke stood, in his snowshoes, on the +white surface of the River of the Way Out. He turned to look back for a +moment, 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 number +and shape of the curious pinnacles that rose from their roofs and in +the trimmings of their verandas. Yet they were all alike, too, in their +general expression of putting their best foot foremost and feeling quite +sure that they made a brave show. They had lace curtains in their front +parlour windows, and outside of the curtains were large red and yellow +pots of artificial flowers and indestructible palms and vulcanised +rubber-plants. It was a gay sight. + +But by far the bravest of these houses was the residence of Mr. Matthew +Wilson, the principal merchant of Scroll-Saw City. It stood on a corner +of Main Street, glancing slyly out of the tail of one eye, side-ways +down the street, toward the shop and the business, but keeping a bold, +complacent front toward the street-cars and the smaller houses across +the way. It might well be satisfied with itself, for it had three more +pinnacles than any of its neighbours, and the work of the scroll-saw was +looped and festooned all around the eaves and porticoes and bay-windows +in amazing richness. Moreover, in the front yard were cast-iron images +painted white: a stag reposing on a door-mat; Diana properly dressed +and returning from the chase; a small iron boy holding over his head a +parasol from the ferrule of which a fountain squirted. The paths were of +asphalt, gray and gritty in winter, but now, in the summer heat, black +and pulpy to the tread. + +There were many feet passing over them this afternoon, for Mr. and +Mrs. Matthew Wilson were giving a reception to celebrate the official +entrance of their daughter Amanda into a social life which she had +permeated unofficially for several years. The house was sizzling full +of people. Those who were jammed in the parlour tried to get into the +dining-room, and those who were packed in the dining-room struggled to +escape, holding plates of stratified cake and liquefied ice-cream high +above their neighbours’ heads like signals of danger and distress. +Everybody was talking at the same time, in a loud, shrill voice, and +nobody 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 Amanda +Wilson looks in that--” “Awfully warm day! Were you at the Tompkins’ +last--” “Wilson’s Emporium must be doing good business to keep up all +this--” “Hear he’s going to enlarge the store and take Luke Woods into +the--” + +“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 with +lilac ribbons, laid down their last plates of ice-cream and said they +thought they must be going. Amanda and her mother preened their dresses +and patted their hair. “Come into the study,” said Mr. Wilson to Luke. “I +want to have a talk with you.” + +The little bookless room, called the study, was the one that kept its +eye on the shop and the business, away down the street. You could see +the 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 whole +state, 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 hard +and 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 with +me, give you a share in the business. I want some one to help me run +it, make it larger. We can double it, easy, if we stick to it and spread +out. No reason why you shouldn’t make a fortune out of it, and have a +house just like this on the other corner, when you’re my age.” + +Luke’s thoughts were wandering a little. They went out from the stuffy +room, 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 the +office--out to the dim, cool forest, where Snowberry and Partridge-berry +and 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 in +me. Sometimes I think, perhaps--” + +“Not at all, not at all,” said the other. “It’s all right. You’re well +fitted for it. And then, there’s another thing. I guess you like my +daughter Amanda pretty well. Eh? I’ve watched you, young man. I’ve had +my eye on you! Now, of course, I can’t say much about it--never can be +sure of these kind of things, you know--but if you and she--” + +The voice went on rolling out words complacently. But something strange +was working in Luke’s blood, and other voices were sounding faintly in +his 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, the +distant drumming of the grouse on his log, the rumble of the water-fall +in the River of Rocks. The spray cooled his face. He saw the fish rising +along the pool, and a stag feeding among the lily-pads. + +“I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Wilson,” said he at last, when +the elder man stopped talking. “You have certainly treated me most +generously. The only question is, whether--But to-morrow night, I think, +with your consent, I will speak to your daughter. To-night I am going +down 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 the +street till he came to the river. + +The water-side was strangely deserted. Everybody was at supper. A couple +of schooners were moored at the wharf. The Portland steamer had gone +out. The row-boats hung idle at their little dock. Down the river, +drifting and dancing lightly over the opalescent ripples, following the +gentle turns of the current which flowed past the end of the dock where +Luke 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 left +it adrift up the river. I wonder how it floated down here without being +picked 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 there +was 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, au +large!” And stepping into the canoe he pushed out on the river. + +The saffron and golden lights in the sky diffused themselves over the +surface of the water, and spread from the bow of the canoe in deeper +waves of purple and orange, as he paddled swiftly up stream. The pale +yellow gas-lamps of the town faded behind him. The lumber-yards and +factories and disconsolate little houses of the outskirts seemed to melt +away. 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 in +the shadows, diving with a great commotion as the canoe ran upon them +suddenly. A horned owl hooted from the branch of a dead pine-tree; far +back in the forest a fox barked twice. The moon crept up behind the wall +of trees and touched the stream with silver. + +Presently the forest receded: the banks of the river grew broad and +open; the dew glistened on the tall grass; it was surely the River of +Meadows. Far ahead of him in a bend of the stream, Luke’s ear caught a +new sound: SLOSH, SLOSH, SLOSH, as if some heavy animal were crossing +the wet meadow. Then a great splash! Luke swung the canoe into the +shadow of the bank and paddled fast. As he turned the point a black bear +came out of the river, and stood on the shore, shaking the water around +him in glittering spray. Ping! said the rifle, and the bear fell. “Good +luck!” said Luke. “I haven’t forgotten how, after all. I’ll take him +into the canoe, and dress him up at the camp.” + +Yes, there was the little cabin at the meeting of the rivers. The +door 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 the +pack in the canoe. Supper never tasted better. “One more night in the +old camp,” said Luke as he rolled himself in the blanket and dropped +asleep in a moment. + +The sun shone in at the door and woke him. “I must have a trout for +breakfast,” he cried, “there’s one waiting for me at the mouth of Alder +Brook, I suppose.” So he caught up his rod from behind the door, and got +into 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, and +close beside the rapid, the mouth of the brook. He sent his fly out by +the edge of the alders. There was a huge swirl on the water, and the +great-grandfather of all the trout in the river was hooked. Up and down +the 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 of +the pool. + +“Seven pounds if it’s an ounce,” said he. “This is my lucky day. Now all +I need is some good meat to provision the camp.” + +He glanced down the river, and on the second point below the pool he saw +a great black bullmoose with horns five feet wide. + +Quietly, swiftly, the canoe went gliding down the stream; and ever as it +crept along, the moose loped easily before it, from point to point, from +bay to bay, past the little cabin, down the River of the Way Out, now +rustling unseen through a bank of tall alders, now standing out for +a moment bold and black on a beach of white sand--so all day long the +moose loped down the stream and the white canoe followed. Just as the +setting sun was poised above the trees, the great bull stopped and stood +with head lifted. Luke pushed the canoe as near as he dared, and looked +down for the rifle. He had left it at the cabin! The moose tossed his +huge antlers, grunted, and stepped quietly over the bushes into the +forest. + +Luke paddled on down the stream. It occurred to him, suddenly, that it +was near evening. He wondered a little how he should reach home in time +for his engagement. But it did not seem strange, as he went swiftly +on with the river, to see the first houses of the town, and the +lumber-yards, and the schooners at the wharf. + +He made the canoe fast at the dock, and went up the Main Street. There +was 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 in +the front yard. Diana was still returning from the chase. The fountain +still squirted from the point of the little boy’s parasol. + +On the veranda sat a stout man in a rocking chair, reading the +newspaper. At the side of the house two little girls with pig-tails were +playing croquet. Some one in the parlour was executing “After the Ball +is Over” on a mechanical piano. + +Luke accosted a stranger who passed him. “Excuse me, but can you tell me +whether this is Mr. Matthew Wilson’s house?” + +“It used to be,” said the stranger, “but old man Wilson has been dead +these ten years.” + +“And who lives here now?” asked Luke. + +“Mr. Woods: he married Wilson’s daughter,” said the stranger, and went +on his way. + +“Well,” said Luke to himself, “this is just a little queer. Woods was my +name for a while, when I lived here, but now, I suppose, I’m Luke Dubois +again. 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, and +nobody 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 they +travelled from far away to offer their gifts at the manger-cradle in +Bethlehem. But have you ever heard the story of the Other Wise Man, who +also saw the star in its rising, and set out to follow it, yet did not +arrive with his brethren in the presence of the young child Jesus? Of +the great desire of this fourth pilgrim, and how it was denied, yet +accomplished in the denial; of his many wanderings and the probations +of his soul; of the long way of his seeking and the strange way of his +finding the One whom he sought--I would tell the tale as I have heard +fragments of it in the Hall of Dreams, in the palace of the Heart of +Man. + + +I + +In the days when Augustus Caesar was master of many kings and Herod +reigned in Jerusalem, there lived in the city of Ecbatana, among the +mountains of Persia, a certain man named Artaban. His house stood close +to the outermost of the walls which encircled the royal treasury. From +his roof he could look over the seven-fold battlements of black and +white and crimson and blue and red and silver and gold, to the hill +where the summer palace of the Parthian emperors glittered like a jewel +in a crown. + +Around the dwelling of Artaban spread a fair garden, a tangle of flowers +and fruit-trees, watered by a score of streams descending from the +slopes of Mount Orontes, and made musical by innumerable birds. But all +colour was lost in the soft and odorous darkness of the late September +night, and all sounds were hushed in the deep charm of its silence, save +the plashing of the water, like a voice half-sobbing and half-laughing +under the shadows. High above the trees a dim glow of light shone +through the curtained arches of the upper chamber, where the master of +the house was holding council with his friends. + +He stood by the doorway to greet his guests--a tall, dark man of about +forty years, with brilliant eyes set near together under his broad brow, +and firm lines graven around his fine, thin lips; the brow of a dreamer +and the mouth of a soldier, a man of sensitive feeling but inflexible +will--one of those who, in whatever age they may live, are born for +inward conflict and a life of quest. + +His robe was of pure white wool, thrown over a tunic of silk; and a +white, pointed cap, with long lapels at the sides, rested on his flowing +black 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 another +entered the room--“welcome, Abdus; peace be with you, Rhodaspes and +Tigranes, and with you my father, Abgarus. You are all welcome. This +house grows bright with the joy of your presence.” + +There were nine of the men, differing widely in age, but alike in the +richness of their dress of many-coloured silks, and in the massive +golden collars around their necks, marking them as Parthian nobles, and +in the winged circles of gold resting upon their breasts, the sign of +the followers of Zoroaster. + +They took their places around a small black altar at the end of the +room, where a tiny flame was burning. Artaban, standing beside it, and +waving a barsom of thin tamarisk branches above the fire, fed it with +dry sticks of pine and fragrant oils. Then he began the ancient chant +of the Yasna, and the voices of his companions joined in the hymn to +Ahura-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 the +music, 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; pilasters +of twisted silver stood out against the blue walls; the clear-story of +round-arched windows above them was hung with azure silk; the vaulted +ceiling was a pavement of blue stones, like the body of heaven in its +clearness, sown with silver stars. From the four corners of the roof +hung four golden magic-wheels, called the tongues of the gods. At +the eastern end, behind the altar, there were two dark-red pillars of +porphyry; above them a lintel of the same stone, on which was carved the +figure of a winged archer, with his arrow set to the string and his bow +drawn. + +The doorway between the pillars, which opened upon the terrace of +the roof, was covered with a heavy curtain of the colour of a ripe +pomegranate, embroidered with innumerable golden rays shooting upward +from the floor. In effect the room was like a quiet, starry night, all +azure and silver, flushed in the cast with rosy promise of the dawn. It +was, as the house of a man should be, an expression of the character and +spirit of the master. + +He turned to his friends when the song was ended, and invited them to be +seated on the divan at the western end of the room. + +“You have come to-night,” said he, looking around the circle, “at my +call, as the faithful scholars of Zoroaster, to renew your worship and +rekindle your faith in the God of Purity, even as this fire has been +rekindled on the altar. We worship not the fire, but Him of whom it is +the chosen symbol, because it is the purest of all created things. It +speaks 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. “The +enlightened are never idolaters. They lift the veil of form and go in +to the shrine of reality, and new light and truth are coming to them +continually through the old symbols.” “Hear me, then, my father an +while I tell you of the new light and truth that have come to me +through the most ancient of all signs. We have searched the secrets of +Nature together, and studied the healing virtues of water and fire and +the plants. We have read also the books of prophecy in which the future +is dimly foretold in words that are hard to understand. But the highest +of all learning is the knowledge of the stars. To trace their course is +to untangle the threads of the mystery of life from the beginning to the +end. If we could follow them perfectly, nothing would be hidden from us. +But is not our knowledge of them still incomplete? Are there not many +stars still beyond our horizon--lights that are known only to the +dwellers in the far south-land, among the spice-trees of Punt and the +gold mines of Ophir?” + +There was a murmur of assent among the listeners. + +“The stars,” said Tigranes, “are the thoughts of the Eternal. They are +numberless. But the thoughts of man can be counted, like the years +of his life. The wisdom of the Magi is the greatest of all wisdoms on +earth, because it knows its own ignorance. And that is the secret of +power. We keep men always looking and waiting for a new sunrise. But we +ourselves understand that the darkness is equal to the light, and that +the conflict between them will never be ended.” + +“That does not satisfy me,” answered Artaban, “for, if the waiting must +be endless, if there could be no fulfilment of it, then it would not be +wisdom to look and wait. We should become like those new teachers of the +Greeks, who say that there is no truth, and that the only wise men are +those who spend their lives in discovering and exposing the lies that +have been believed in the world. But the new sunrise will certainly +appear in the appointed time. Do not our own books tell us that this +will come to pass, and that men will see the brightness of a great +light?” + +“That is true,” said the voice of Abgarus; “every faithful disciple of +Zoroaster knows the prophecy of the Avesta, and carries the word in his +heart. ‘In that day Sosiosh the Victorious shall arise out of the number +of the prophets in the east country. Around him shall shine a mighty +brightness, and he shall make life everlasting, incorruptible, and +immortal, and the dead shall rise again.’” + +“This is a dark saying,” said Tigranes, “and it may be that we shall +never understand it. It is better to consider the things that are near +at 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 must +resign our power.” + +The others seemed to approve these words. There was a silent feeling +of agreement manifest among them; their looks responded with that +indefinable expression which always follows when a speaker has uttered +the thought that has been slumbering in the hearts of his listeners. But +Artaban 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 living +fire. And now the flame has burned more brightly, and by the light of it +I 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 his +brightness.” + +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 came +into the land of Babylon, there were wise men in Chaldea, from whom the +first of the Magi learned the secret of the heavens. And of these +Balaam the son of Beor was one of the mightiest. Hear the words of his +prophecy: ‘There shall come a star out of Jacob, and a sceptre shall +arise 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 Jacob +were in bondage to our kings. The tribes of Israel are scattered through +the mountains like lost sheep, and from the remnant that dwells in Judea +under 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 wise +Belteshazzar, 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 he +wrote.” (Artaban read from the second roll:) “‘Know, therefore, and +understand that from the going forth of the commandment to restore +Jerusalem, unto the Anointed One, the Prince, the time shall be seven +and 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 their +meaning?” + +Artaban answered: “It has been shown to me and to my three companions +among the Magi--Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. We have searched the +ancient 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 the +greatest planets draw near together in the sign of the Fish, which is +the house of the Hebrews. We also saw a new star there, which shone +for one night and then vanished. Now again the two great planets are +meeting. This night is their conjunction. My three brothers are watching +by the ancient Temple of the Seven Spheres, at Borsippa, in Babylonia, +and I am watching here. If the star shines again, they will wait +ten days for me at the temple, and then we will set out together for +Jerusalem, to see and worship the promised one who shall be born King of +Israel. 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 ask +you to go with me on the pilgrimage, that we may have joy together in +finding 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 the +night sky, one redder than a ray of sunrise, and one as pure as the peak +of a snow-mountain at twilight--and laid them on the outspread scrolls +before him. + +But his friends looked on with strange and alien eyes. A veil of doubt +and mistrust came over their faces, like a fog creeping up from the +marshes to hide the hills. They glanced at each other with looks of +wonder and pity, as those who have listened to incredible sayings, the +story of a wild vision, or the proposal of an impossible enterprise. + +At last Tigranes said: “Artaban, this is a vain dream. It comes from +too much looking upon the stars and the cherishing of lofty thoughts. +It would be wiser to spend the time in gathering money for the new +fire-temple at Chala. No king will ever rise from the broken race of +Israel, and no end will ever come to the eternal strife of light and +darkness. He who looks for it is a chaser of shadows. Farewell.” + +And another said: “Artaban, I have no knowledge of these things, and my +office as guardian of the royal treasure binds me here. The quest is not +for me. But if thou must follow it, fare thee well.” + +And another said: “In my house there sleeps a new bride, and I cannot +leave her nor take her with me on this strange journey. This quest is +not 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 man +among my servants whom I will send with thee when thou goest, to bring +me word how thou farest.” + +So, one by one, they left the house of Artaban. But Abgarus, the oldest +and 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 this +sign that has appeared in the skies, and then it will surely lead to the +Prince and the mighty brightness. Or it may be that it is only a shadow +of the light, as Tigranes has said, and then he who follows it will have +a long pilgrimage and a fruitless search. But it is better to follow +even the shadow of the best than to remain content with the worst. +And those who would see wonderful things must often be ready to travel +alone. I am too old for this journey, but my heart shall be a companion +of 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, and +Artaban was left in solitude. + +He gathered up the jewels and replaced them in his girdle. For a long +time he stood and watched the flame that flickered and sank upon the +altar. Then he crossed the hall, lifted the heavy curtain, and passed +out between the pillars of porphyry to the terrace on the roof. + +The shiver that runs through the earth ere she rouses from her +night-sleep had already begun, and the cool wind that heralds the +daybreak was drawing downward from the lofty snow-traced ravines +of Mount Orontes. Birds, half-awakened, crept and chirped among the +rustling leaves, and the smell of ripened grapes came in brief wafts +from the arbours. + +Far over the eastern plain a white mist stretched like a lake. But where +the distant peaks of Zagros serrated the western horizon the sky was +clear. Jupiter and Saturn rolled together like drops of lambent flame +about to blend in one. + +As Artaban watched them, a steel-blue spark was born out of the darkness +beneath, rounding itself with purple splendours to a crimson sphere, and +spiring upward through rays of saffron and orange into a point of white +radiance. Tiny and infinitely remote, yet perfect in every part, it +pulsated in the enormous vault as if the three jewels in the Magian’s +girdle 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 meet +him.” + + + +II + +All night long, Vasda, the swiftest of Artaban’s horses, had been +waiting, saddled and bridled, in her stall, pawing the ground +impatiently, and shaking her bit as if she shared the eagerness of her +master’s purpose, though she knew not its meaning. + +Before the birds had fully roused to their strong, high, joyful chant +of morning song, before the white mist had begun to lift lazily from the +plain, the Other Wise Man was in the saddle, riding swiftly along the +high-road, which skirted the base of Mount Orontes, westward. + +How close, how intimate is the comradeship between a man and his +favourite horse on a long journey. It is a silent, comprehensive +friendship, an intercourse beyond the need of words. + +They drink at the same way-side springs, and sleep under the same +guardian stars. They are conscious together of the subduing spell of +nightfall and the quickening joy of daybreak. The master shares his +evening meal with his hungry companion, and feels the soft, moist lips +caressing 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 a +warm, sweet breath over his sleeping face, and looks up into the eyes +of his faithful fellow-traveller, ready and waiting for the toil of the +day. Surely, unless he is a pagan and an unbeliever, by whatever name he +calls upon his God, he will thank Him for this voiceless sympathy, +this dumb affection, and his morning prayer will embrace a double +blessing--God bless us both, the horse and the rider, and keep our feet +from falling and our souls from death! + +Then, through the keen morning air, the swift hoofs beat their tattoo +along the road, keeping time to the pulsing of two hearts that are moved +with the same eager desire--to conquer space, to devour the distance, to +attain the goal of the journey. + +Artaban must indeed ride wisely and well if he would keep the appointed +hour with the other Magi; for the route was a hundred and fifty +parasangs, and fifteen was the utmost that he could travel in a day. But +he knew Vasda’s strength, and pushed forward without anxiety, making the +fixed distance every day, though he must travel late into the night, and +in the morning long before sunrise. + +He passed along the brown slopes of Mount Orontes, furrowed by the rocky +courses of a hundred torrents. + +He crossed the level plains of the Nisaeans, where the famous herds +of horses, feeding in the wide pastures, tossed their heads at Vasda’s +approach, and galloped away with a thunder of many hoofs, and flocks +of wild birds rose suddenly from the swampy meadows, wheeling in great +circles with a shining flutter of innumerable wings and shrill cries of +surprise. + +He traversed the fertile fields of Concabar, where the dust from the +threshing-floors filled the air with a golden mist, half hiding the huge +temple 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 over +the road, and saw the figure of King Darius trampling upon his fallen +foes, and the proud list of his wars and conquests graven high upon the +face of the eternal cliff. + +Over many a cold and desolate pass, crawling painfully across the +wind-swept shoulders of the hills; down many a black mountain-gorge, +where the river roared and raced before him like a savage guide; across +many a smiling vale, with terraces of yellow limestone full of vines +and fruit-trees; through the oak-groves of Carine and the dark Gates of +Zagros, walled in by precipices; into the ancient city of Chala, where +the people of Samaria had been kept in captivity long ago; and out again +by the mighty portal, riven through the encircling hills, where he saw +the 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 the +entrance of the narrow defile, filled from end to end with orchards of +peaches and figs, through which the river Gyndes foamed down to meet +him; over the broad rice-fields, where the autumnal vapours spread their +deathly mists; following along the course of the river, under tremulous +shadows of poplar and tamarind, among the lower hills; and out upon +the flat plain, where the road ran straight as an arrow through the +stubble-fields and parched meadows; past the city of Ctesiphon, where +the Parthian emperors reigned, and the vast metropolis of Seleucia +which Alexander built; across the swirling floods of Tigris and the many +channels of Euphrates, flowing yellow through the corn-lands--Artaban +pressed onward until he arrived, at nightfall on the tenth day, beneath +the shattered walls of populous Babylon. + +Vasda was almost spent, and Artaban would gladly have turned into the +city to find rest and refreshment for himself and for her. But he knew +that 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 his +comrades waiting. So he did not halt, but rode steadily across the +stubble-fields. + +A grove of date-palms made an island of gloom in the pale yellow sea. As +she passed into the shadow Vasda slackened her pace, and began to pick +her way more carefully. + +Near the farther end of the darkness an access of caution seemed to fall +upon her. She scented some danger or difficulty; it was not in her heart +to fly from it--only to be prepared for it, and to meet it wisely, as a +good horse should do. The grove was close and silent as the tomb; not a +leaf rustled, not a bird sang. + +She felt her steps before her delicately, carrying her head low, and +sighing now and then with apprehension. At last she gave a quick breath +of 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 lying +across the road. His humble dress and the outline of his haggard face +showed that he was probably one of the Hebrews who still dwelt in great +numbers around the city. His pallid skin, dry and yellow as parchment, +bore the mark of the deadly fever which ravaged the marsh-lands in +autumn. The chill of death was in his lean hand, and, as Artaban +released it, the arm fell back inertly upon the motionless breast. + +He turned away with a thought of pity, leaving the body to that strange +burial which the Magians deemed most fitting--the funeral of the desert, +from which the kites and vultures rise on dark wings, and the beasts of +prey slink furtively away. When they are gone there is only a heap of +white 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 dumb +resentment 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 compassion +or his service? If he lingered but for an hour he could hardly reach +Borsippa at the appointed time. His companions would think he had given +up 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, life +might be restored. His spirit throbbed and fluttered with the urgency of +the crisis. Should he risk the great reward of his faith for the sake +of 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, the +way of wisdom which Thou only knowest.” + +Then he turned back to the sick man. Loosening the grasp of his hand, he +carried him to a little mound at the foot of the palm-tree. + +He unbound the thick folds of the turban and opened the garment above +the sunken breast. He brought water from one of the small canals near +by, and moistened the sufferer’s brow and mouth. He mingled a draught of +one of those simple but potent remedies which he carried always in his +girdle--for the Magians were physicians as well as astrologers--and +poured it slowly between the colourless lips. Hour after hour he +laboured as only a skilful healer of disease can do. At last the man’s +strength returned; he sat up and looked about him. + + “Who art thou?” he said, in the rude dialect of the +country, “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 to +Jerusalem in search of one who is to be born King of the Jews, a great +Prince and Deliverer of all men. I dare not delay any longer upon my +journey, 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 a +potion of healing herbs. When thy strength is restored thou canst find +the 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 the +journey 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 tell +thee where the Messiah must be sought. For our prophets have said that +he should be born not in Jerusalem, but in Bethlehem of Judah. May the +Lord bring thee in safety to that place, because thou hast had pity upon +the sick.” + +It was already long past midnight. Artaban rode in haste, and Vasda, +restored by the brief rest, ran eagerly through the silent plain +and swam the channels of the river. She put forth the remnant of her +strength, and fled over the ground like a gazelle. + +But the first beam of the rising sun sent a long shadow before her +as she entered upon the final stadium of the journey, and the eyes of +Artaban, anxiously scanning the great mound of Nimrod and the Temple of +the Seven Spheres, could discern no trace of his friends. + +The many-coloured terraces of black and orange and red and yellow and +green and blue and white, shattered by the convulsions of nature, and +crumbling under the repeated blows of human violence, still glittered +like a ruined rainbow in the morning light. + +Artaban rode swiftly around the hill. He dismounted and climbed to the +highest terrace, looking out toward the west. + +The huge desolation of the marshes stretched away to the horizon and the +border of the desert. Bitterns stood by the stagnant pools and jackals +skulked through the low bushes; but there was no sign of the caravan of +the Wise Men, far or near. + +At the edge of the terrace he saw a little cairn of broken bricks, and +under them a piece of papyrus. He caught it up and read: “We have waited +past 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 spent +horse? I must return to Babylon, sell my sapphire, and buy a train of +camels, and provision for the journey. I may never overtake my friends. +Only God the merciful knows whether I shall not lose the sight of the +King because I tarried to show mercy.” + + + +III + +There was a silence in the Hall of Dreams, where I was listening to the +story of the Other Wise Man. Through this silence I saw, but very dimly, +his figure passing over the dreary undulations of the desert, high upon +the back of his camel, rocking steadily onward like a ship over the +waves. + +The land of death spread its cruel net around him. The stony waste +bore no fruit but briers and thorns. The dark ledges of rock thrust +themselves above the surface here and there, like the bones of perished +monsters. Arid and inhospitable mountain-ranges rose before him, +furrowed with dry channels of ancient torrents, white and ghastly as +scars on the face of nature. Shifting hills of treacherous sand were +heaped like tombs along the horizon. By day, the fierce heat pressed its +intolerable burden on the quivering air. No living creature moved on +the dumb, swooning earth, but tiny jerboas scuttling through the parched +bushes, or lizards vanishing in the clefts of the rock. By night the +jackals prowled and barked in the distance, and the lion made the black +ravines echo with his hollow roaring, while a bitter, blighting chill +followed the fever of the day. Through heat and cold, the Magian moved +steadily onward. + +Then I saw the gardens and orchards of Damascus, watered by the streams +of Abana and Pharpar, with their sloping swards inlaid with bloom, +and their thickets of myrrh and roses. I saw the long, snowy ridge of +Hermon, 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 of +Esdraelon, and the hills of Ephraim, and the highlands of Judah. Through +all these I followed the figure of Artaban moving steadily onward, until +he arrived at Bethlehem. And it was the third day after the three Wise +Men had come to that place and had found Mary and Joseph, with the young +child, Jesus, and had laid their gifts of gold and frankincense and +myrrh at his feet. + +Then the Other Wise Man drew near, weary, but full of hope, bearing his +ruby and his pearl to offer to the King. “For now at last,” he said, “I +shall 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 prophets +had spoken, and here I shall behold the rising of the great light. But I +must inquire about the visit of my brethren, and to what house the star +directed them, and to whom they presented their tribute.” + +The streets of the village seemed to be deserted, and Artaban wondered +whether the men had all gone up to the hill-pastures to bring down their +sheep. From the open door of a cottage he heard the sound of a woman’s +voice singing softly. He entered and found a young mother hushing her +baby to rest. She told him of the strangers from the far East who had +appeared in the village three days ago, and how they said that a star +had guided them to the place where Joseph of Nazareth was lodging with +his wife and her new-born child, and how they had paid reverence to the +child and given him many rich gifts. + +“But the travellers disappeared again,” she continued, “as suddenly +as 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 his +mother, and fled away that same night secretly, and it was whispered +that they were going to Egypt. Ever since, there has been a spell upon +the village; something evil hangs over it. They say that the Roman +soldiers are coming from Jerusalem to force a new tax from us, and +the men have driven the flocks and herds far back among the hills, and +hidden themselves to escape it.” + +Artaban listened to her gentle, timid speech, and the child in her arms +looked up in his face and smiled, stretching out its rosy hands to grasp +at the winged circle of gold on his breast. His heart warmed to the +touch. It seemed like a greeting of love and trust to one who had +journeyed long in loneliness and perplexity, fighting with his own +doubts and fears, and following a light that was veiled in clouds. + +“Why might not this child have been the promised Prince?” he asked +within himself, as he touched its soft cheek. “Kings have been born ere +now in lowlier houses than this, and the favourite of the stars may rise +even from a cottage. But it has not seemed good to the God of wisdom +to reward my search so soon and so easily. The one whom I seek has gone +before me; and now I must follow the King to Egypt.” + +The young mother laid the baby in its cradle, and rose to minister to +the wants of the strange guest that fate had brought into her house. She +set 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 a +happy slumber, and murmured sweetly in its dreams, and a great peace +filled the room. + +But suddenly there came the noise of a wild confusion in the streets of +the village, a shrieking and wailing of women’s voices, a clangour of +brazen trumpets and a clashing of swords, and a desperate cry: “The +soldiers! the soldiers of Herod! They are killing our children.” The +young mother’s face grew white with terror. She clasped her child to +her 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. His +broad shoulders filled the portal from side to side, and the peak of his +white cap all but touched the lintel. + +The soldiers came hurrying down the street with bloody hands and +dripping swords. At the sight of the stranger in his imposing dress +they hesitated with surprise. The captain of the band approached the +threshold to thrust him aside. But Artaban did not stir. His face was as +calm as though he were watching the stars, and in his eyes there burned +that steady radiance before which even the half-tamed hunting leopard +shrinks, and the bloodhound pauses in his leap. He held the soldier +silently for an instant, and then said in a low voice: “I am all alone +in this place, and I am waiting to give this jewel to the prudent +captain who will leave me in peace.” + +He showed the ruby, glistening in the hollow of his hand like a great +drop of blood. + +The captain was amazed at the splendour of the gem. The pupils of his +eyes expanded with desire, and the hard lines of greed wrinkled around +his lips. He stretched out his hand and took the ruby. + +“March on!” he cried to his men, “there is no child here. The house is +empty.” + +The clamor and the clang of arms passed down the street as the headlong +fury of the chase sweeps by the secret covert where the trembling deer +is hidden. Artaban re-entered the cottage. He turned his face to the +east and prayed: + + “God of truth, forgive my sin! I have said the thing that +is not, to save the life of a child. And two of my gifts are gone. I +have spent for man that which was meant for God. Shall I ever be worthy +to 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 bless +thee and keep thee; the Lord make His face to shine upon thee and be +gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee and give +thee peace.” + + + +IV + +Again there was a silence in the Hall of Dreams, deeper and more +mysterious than the first interval, and I understood that the years of +Artaban were flowing very swiftly under the stillness, and I caught only +a glimpse, here and there, of the river of his life shining through the +mist that concealed its course. + +I saw him moving among the throngs of men in populous Egypt, seeking +everywhere for traces of the household that had come down from +Bethlehem, and finding them under the spreading sycamore-trees of +Heliopolis, and beneath the walls of the Roman fortress of New Babylon +beside the Nile--traces so faint and dim that they vanished before him +continually, as footprints on the wet river-sand glisten for a moment +with moisture and then disappear. + +I saw him again at the foot of the pyramids, which lifted their sharp +points into the intense saffron glow of the sunset sky, changeless +monuments of the perishable glory and the imperishable hope of man. He +looked up into the face of the crouching Sphinx and vainly tried to +read the meaning of the calm eyes and smiling mouth. Was it, indeed, +the mockery of all effort and all aspiration, as Tigranes had said--the +cruel jest of a riddle that has no answer, a search that never can +succeed? Or was there a touch of pity and encouragement in that +inscrutable smile--a promise that even the defeated should attain a +victory, and the disappointed should discover a prize, and the ignorant +should be made wise, and the blind should see, and the wandering should +come into the haven at last? + +I saw him again in an obscure house of Alexandria, taking counsel with a +Hebrew rabbi. The venerable man, bending over the rolls of parchment +on which the prophecies of Israel were written, read aloud the pathetic +words which foretold the sufferings of the promised Messiah--the +despised and rejected of men, the man of sorrows and acquainted with +grief. + +“And remember, my son,” said he, fixing his eyes upon the face of +Artaban, “the King whom thou seekest is not to be found in a palace, nor +among the rich and powerful. If the light of the world and the glory +of Israel had been appointed to come with the greatness of earthly +splendour, it must have appeared long ago. For no son of Abraham will +ever again rival the power which Joseph had in the palaces of Egypt, or +the magnificence of Solomon throned between the lions in Jerusalem. But +the light for which the world is waiting is a new light, the glory that +shall rise out of patient and triumphant suffering. And the kingdom +which is to be established forever is a new kingdom, the royalty of +unconquerable love. + +“I do not know how this shall come to pass, nor how the turbulent kings +and peoples of earth shall be brought to acknowledge the Messiah and pay +homage to him. But this I know. Those who seek him will do well to look +among the poor and the lowly, the sorrowful and the oppressed.” + +So I saw the Other Wise Man again and again, travelling from place to +place, and searching among the people of the dispersion, with whom the +little family from Bethlehem might, perhaps, have found a refuge. He +passed through countries where famine lay heavy upon the land, and the +poor were crying for bread. He made his dwelling in plague-stricken +cities where the sick were languishing in the bitter companionship of +helpless misery. He visited the oppressed and the afflicted in the gloom +of subterranean prisons, and the crowded wretchedness of slave-markets, +and the weary toil of galley-ships. In all this populous and intricate +world of anguish, though he found none to worship, he found many to +help. He fed the hungry, and clothed the naked, and healed the sick, +and comforted the captive; and his years passed more swiftly than the +weaver’s shuttle that flashes back and forth through the loom while the +web grows and the pattern is completed. + +It seemed almost as if he had forgotten his quest. But once I saw him +for a moment as he stood alone at sunrise, waiting at the gate of a +Roman prison. He had taken from a secret resting-place in his bosom the +pearl, 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 of +the lost sapphire and ruby. So the secret purpose of a noble life draws +into itself the memories of past joy and past sorrow. All that has +helped it, all that has hindered it, is transfused by a subtle magic +into its very essence. It becomes more luminous and precious the longer +it is carried close to the warmth of the beating heart. + +Then, at last, while I was thinking of this pearl, and of its meaning, I +heard the end of the story of the Other Wise Man. + + + +V + +Three-and-thirty years of the life of Artaban had passed away, and he +was still a pilgrim and a seeker after light. His hair, once darker +than the cliffs of Zagros, was now white as the wintry snow that covered +them. His eyes, that once flashed like flames of fire, were dull as +embers smouldering among the ashes. + +Worn and weary and ready to die, but still looking for the King, he had +come for the last time to Jerusalem. He had often visited the holy city +before, and had searched all its lanes and crowded bevels and black +prisons without finding any trace of the family of Nazarenes who had +fled from Bethlehem long ago. But now it seemed as if he must make one +more effort, and something whispered in his heart that, at last, he +might 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 the +Temple for the great feast, and there had been a confusion of tongues in +the narrow streets for many days. + +But on this day a singular agitation was visible in the multitude. The +sky was veiled with a portentous gloom. Currents of excitement seemed +to 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 bare +feet shuffling over the stones, flowed unceasingly along the street that +leads to the Damascus gate. + +Artaban joined a group of people from his own country, Parthian Jews who +had come up to keep the Passover, and inquired of them the cause of the +tumult, and where they were going. + +“We are going,” they answered, “to the place called Golgotha, outside +the city walls, where there is to be an execution. Have you not heard +what has happened? Two famous robbers are to be crucified, and with them +another, called Jesus of Nazareth, a man who has done many wonderful +works among the people, so that they love him greatly. But the priests +and elders have said that he must die, because he gave himself out to +be the Son of God. And Pilate has sent him to the cross because he said +that 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 to +him mysteriously, like a message of despair. The King had arisen, but +he had been denied and cast out. He was about to perish. Perhaps he +was already dying. Could it be the same who had been born in Bethlehem +thirty-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, doubtful +apprehension which is the excitement of old age. But he said within +himself: “The ways of God are stranger than the thoughts of men, and it +may 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 steps +toward the Damascus gate of the city. Just beyond the entrance of the +guardhouse a troop of Macedonian soldiers came down the street, dragging +a young girl with torn dress and dishevelled hair. As the Magian paused +to look at her with compassion, she broke suddenly from the hands of +her tormentors, and threw herself at his feet, clasping him around the +knees. 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 of +Purity! I also am a daughter of the true religion which is taught by +the Magi. My father was a merchant of Parthia, but he is dead, and I +am seized for his debts to be sold as a slave. Save me from worse than +death!” + +Artaban trembled. + +It was the old conflict in his soul, which had come to him in the +palm-grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem--the conflict +between the expectation of faith and the impulse of love. Twice the gift +which he had consecrated to the worship of religion had been drawn +to the service of humanity. This was the third trial, the ultimate +probation, 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 helpless +girl would be a true deed of love. And is not love the light of the +soul? + +He took the pearl from his bosom. Never had it seemed so luminous, so +radiant, so full of tender, living lustre. He laid it in the hand of the +slave. + +“This is thy ransom, daughter! It is the last of my treasures which I +kept for the King.” + +While he spoke, the darkness of the sky deepened, and shuddering tremors +ran through the earth heaving convulsively like the breast of one who +struggles with mighty grief. + +The walls of the houses rocked to and fro. Stones were loosened and +crashed into the street. Dust clouds filled the air. The soldiers fled +in terror, reeling like drunken men. But Artaban and the girl whom he +had ransomed crouched helpless beneath the wall of the Praetorium. + +What had he to fear? What had he to hope? He had given away the last +remnant of his tribute for the King. He had parted with the last hope +of finding him. The quest was over, and it had failed. But, even in that +thought, accepted and embraced, there was peace. It was not resignation. +It was not submission. It was something more profound and searching. He +knew that all was well, because he had done the best that he could from +day 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 was +all that came out of his life, doubtless that was the best that +was possible. He had not seen the revelation of “life everlasting, +incorruptible and immortal.” But he knew that even if he could live his +earthly life over again, it could not be otherwise than it had been. + +One more lingering pulsation of the earthquake quivered through the +ground. A heavy tile, shaken from the roof, fell and struck the old man +on the temple. He lay breathless and pale, with his gray head resting +on the young girl’s shoulder, and the blood trickling from the wound. As +she bent over him, fearing that he was dead, there came a voice through +the 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 to +see if some one had spoken from the window above them, but she saw no +one. + +Then the old man’s lips began to move, as if in answer, and she heard +him say in the Parthian tongue: + +“Not so, my Lord! For when saw I thee an hungered and fed thee? Or +thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger, and took thee +in? Or naked, and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison, and +came unto thee? Three-and--thirty years have I looked for thee; but I +have 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 the +words: + +“Verily I say unto thee, Inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the +least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me.” + +A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the pale face of Artaban like +the first ray of dawn, on a snowy mountain-peak. A long breath of relief +exhaled gently from his lips. + +His journey was ended. His treasures were accepted. The Other Wise Man +had found the King. + + + + +A HANDFUL OF CLAY + +There was a handful of clay in the bank of a river. It was only common +clay, coarse and heavy; but it had high thoughts of its own value, and +wonderful dreams of the great place which it was to fill in the world +when the time came for its virtues to be discovered. + +Overhead, in the spring sunshine, the trees whispered together of the +glory which descended upon them when the delicate blossoms and leaves +began to expand, and the forest glowed with fair, clear colours, as +if the dust of thousands of rubies and emeralds were hanging, in soft +clouds, above the earth. + +The flowers, surprised with the joy of beauty, bent their heads to one +another, as the wind caressed them, and said: “Sisters, how lovely you +have become. You make the day bright.” + +The river, glad of new strength and rejoicing in the unison of all its +waters, murmured to the shores in music, telling of its release from icy +fetters, its swift flight from the snow-clad mountains, and the mighty +work 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 so +long. A flat blade of iron passed beneath it, and lifted it, and tossed +it 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, nor +discouraged, for it said to itself: “This is necessary. The path to +glory is always rugged. Now I am on my way to play a great part in the +world.” + +But the hard journey was nothing compared with the tribulation and +distress that came after it. The clay was put into a trough and mixed +and beaten and stirred and trampled. It seemed almost unbearable. But +there was consolation in the thought that something very fine and noble +was 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 for +it. + +Then it was put upon a swiftly turning wheel, and whirled around until +it seemed as if it must fly into a thousand pieces. A strange power +pressed it and moulded it, as it revolved, and through all the dizziness +and pain it felt that it was taking a new form. + +Then an unknown hand put it into an oven, and fires were kindled about +it--fierce and penetrating--hotter than all the heats of summer that had +ever brooded upon the bank of the river. But through all, the clay held +itself together and endured its trials, in the confidence of a great +future. “Surely,” it thought, “I am intended for something very +splendid, since such pains are taken with me. Perhaps I am fashioned for +the 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 furnace +and set down upon a board, in the cool air, under the blue sky. The +tribulation was passed. The reward was at hand. + +Close beside the board there was a pool of water, not very deep, nor +very clear, but calm enough to reflect, with impartial truth, every +image that fell upon it. There, for the first time, as it was lifted +from the board, the clay saw its new shape, the reward of all its +patience and pain, the consummation of its hopes--a common flower-pot, +straight and stiff, red and ugly. And then it felt that it was not +destined for a king’s house, nor for a palace of art, because it was +made without glory or beauty or honour; and it murmured against the +unknown 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 and +dead-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 that +has happened to me, to be filled with dirt and rubbish. Surely I am a +failure.” + +But presently it was set in a greenhouse, where the sunlight fell warm +upon 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 new +hope. 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 a +great church. Its dream was coming true after all. It had a fine part to +play in the world. Glorious music flowed over it. It was surrounded +with flowers. Still it could not understand. So it whispered to another +vessel of clay, like itself, close beside it, “Why have they set me +here? Why do all the people look toward us?” And the other vessel +answered, “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 the +world. 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 be +stirring. Christ is born today. Peace be with you in His name. Make +haste and come down!” + + A little group of young men were standing in a street of +Antioch, in the dusk of early morning, fifteen hundred years ago--a +class of candidates who had nearly finished their years of training for +the Christian church. They had come to call their fellow-student Hermas +from his lodging. + +Their voices rang out cheerily through the cool air. They were full of +that glad sense of life which the young feel when they have risen +early and come to rouse one who is still sleeping. There was a note of +friendly triumph in their call, as if they were exulting unconsciously +in having begun the adventure of the new day before their comrade. + +But Hermas was not asleep. He had been waking for hours, and the walls +of his narrow lodging had been a prison to his heart. A nameless sorrow +and discontent had fallen upon him, and he could find no escape from the +heaviness of his own thoughts. + +There is a sadness of youth into which the old cannot enter. It seems +unreal and causeless. But it is even more bitter and burdensome than the +sadness of age. There is a sting of resentment in it, a fever of angry +surprise that the world should so soon be a disappointment, and life +so 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 man +who is oppressed by it feels dimly that it is an unnatural thing that he +should be tired of living before he has fairly begun to live. + +Hermas had fallen into the very depths of this strange self-pity. He was +out of tune with everything around him. He had been thinking, through +the dead night, of all that he had given up when he left the house of +his father, the wealthy pagan Demetrius, to join the company of the +Christians. Only two years ago he had been one of the richest young men +in 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 and +fasts, 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. His +honour, his conscience, his sense of duty, bound him. He could not go +back to the old careless pagan life again; for something had happened +within him which made a return impossible. Doubtless he had found the +true religion, but he had found it only as a task and a burden; its joy +and peace had slipped away from him. + +He felt disillusioned and robbed. He sat beside his hard couch, waiting +without expectancy for the gray dawn of another empty day, and hardly +lifting 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. I +have been awake since midnight, and waiting for the day.” + +“You hear him!” said his friends one to another. “How he puts us all to +shame! He is more watchful, more eager, than any of us. Our master, John +the Presbyter, does well to be proud of him. He is the best man in our +class.” + +While they were talking the door opened and Hermas stepped out. He was +a figure to be remarked in any company--tall, broad-shouldered, +straight-hipped, with a head proudly poised on the firm column of the +neck, and short brown curls clustering over the square forehead. It was +the perpetual type of vigorous and intelligent young manhood, such as +may be found in every century among the throngs of ordinary men, as if +to show what the flower of the race should be. But the light in his +eyes was clouded and uncertain; his smooth cheeks were leaner than they +should have been at twenty; and there were downward lines about his +mouth which spoke of desires unsatisfied and ambitions repressed. He +joined his companions with brief greetings,--a nod to one, a word to +another,--and they passed together down the steep street. + +Overhead the mystery of daybreak was silently transfiguring the sky. The +curtain of darkness had lifted along the edge of the horizon. The ragged +crests of Mount Silpius were outlined with pale saffron light. In the +central vault of heaven a few large stars twinkled drowsily. The great +city, still chiefly pagan, lay more than half-asleep. But multitudes of +the Christians, dressed in white and carrying lighted torches in their +hands, were hurrying toward the Basilica of Constantine to keep the new +holy-day of the church, the festival of the birthday of their Master. + +The vast, bare building was soon crowded, and the younger converts, who +were not yet permitted to stand among the baptised, found it difficult +to come to their appointed place between the first two pillars of the +house, just within the threshold. There was some good-humoured pressing +and jostling about the door; but the candidates pushed steadily forward. + +“By your leave, friends, our station is beyond you. Will you let us +pass? Many thanks.” + +A touch here, a courteous nod there, a little patience, a little +persistence, and at last they stood in their place. Hermas was taller +than his companions; he could look easily over their heads and survey +the sea of people stretching away through the columns, under the shadows +of the high roof, as the tide spreads on a calm day into the pillared +cavern of Staffa, quiet as if the ocean hardly dared to breathe. The +light of many flambeaux fell, in flickering, uncertain rays, over +the 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 the +readers of the Scripture, the communion-table and the table of offerings +in the middle of the church. + +The call to prayer sounded down the long aisle. Thousands of hands were +joyously lifted in the air, as if the sea had blossomed into waving +lilies, and the “Amen” was like the murmur of countless ripples in an +echoing place. + +Then the singing began, led by the choir of a hundred trained voices +which the Bishop Paul had founded in Antioch. Timidly, at first, the +music felt its way, as the people joined with a broken and uncertain +cadence: the mingling of many little waves not yet gathered into rhythm +and harmony. Soon the longer, stronger billows of song rolled in, +sweeping from side to side as the men and the women answered in the +clear 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 passed +by and left him unmoved. + +Looking out from his place at the foot of the pillar, he saw a man +standing far off in the lofty bema. Short and slender, wasted by +sickness, gray before his time, with pale cheeks and wrinkled brow, he +seemed at first like a person of no significance--a reed shaken in +the wind. But there was a look in his deep-set, poignant eyes, as he +gathered all the glances of the multitude to himself, that belied his +mean 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 was +instructing him as a son in the Christian faith, the guide and trainer +of his soul--John of Antioch, whose fame filled the city and began to +overflow Asia, and who was called already Chrysostom, the golden-mouthed +preacher. + +Hermas had felt the magic of his eloquence many a time; and to-day, as +the tense voice vibrated through the stillness, and the sentences moved +onward, growing fuller and stronger, bearing argosies of costly rhetoric +and treasures of homely speech in their bosom, and drawing the hearts +of men with a resistless magic, Hermas knew that the preacher had never +been 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, and +they wept. He spoke of the conflicts, the triumphs, the glories of their +faith, and they broke out in thunders of applause. He hushed them into +reverent 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 troubled +city, the bloodthirsty tyrant, the pomp of the world, and hasten to +Bethlehem, the sweet house of spiritual bread. For though thou be but a +shepherd, 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 profit +thee nothing. Though thou be one of the wise men, this shall be no +hindrance to thee. Only let thy coming be to honour and adore, with +trembling joy, the Son of God, to whose name be glory, on this His +birthday, and forever and forever.” + +The soul of Hermas did not answer to the musician’s touch. The strings +of his heart were slack and soundless; there was no response within +him. He was neither shepherd, nor king, nor wise man; only an unhappy, +dissatisfied, questioning youth. He was out of sympathy with the eager +preacher, the joyous hearers. In their harmony he had no part. Was it +for this that he had forsaken his inheritance and narrowed his life to +poverty and hardship? What was it all worth? + +The gracious prayers with which the young converts were blessed and +dismissed before the sacrament sounded hollow in his ears. Never had he +felt so utterly lonely as in that praying throng. He went out with his +companions like a man departing from a banquet where all but he had been +fed. + +“Farewell, Hermas,” they cried, as he turned from them at the door. But +he did not look back, nor wave his hand. He was already alone in his +heart. + + +When he entered the broad Avenue of the Colonnades, the sun had already +topped the eastern hills, and the ruddy light was streaming through the +long double row of archways and over the pavements of crimson marble. +But Hermas turned his back to the morning, and walked with his shadow +before him. + +The street began to swarm and whirl and quiver with the motley life of a +huge city: beggars and jugglers, dancers and musicians, gilded youths in +their chariots, and daughters of joy looking out from their windows, all +intoxicated with the mere delight of living and the gladness of a +new day. The pagan populace of Antioch--reckless, pleasure-loving, +spendthrift--were preparing for the Saturnalia. But all this Hermas had +renounced. He cleft his way through the crowd slowly, like a reluctant +swimmer weary of breasting the tide. + +At the corner of the street where the narrow, populous Lane of the +Camel-drivers crossed the Colonnades, a storyteller had bewitched +a circle of people around him. It was the same old tale of love and +adventure that many generations have listened to; but the lively fancy +of the hearers rent it new interest, and the wit of the improviser drew +forth 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 the +sleeve. + +“Stay,” she said, “and laugh a bit with us. I know who you are--the son +of Demetrius. You must have bags of gold. Why do you look so black? Love +is 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 am +poorer than you are.” + +But as he passed on, he felt the warm touch of her fingers through the +cloth 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 the +Emperor Titus had stolen from the ruined Temple of Jerusalem and fixed +upon the arch of triumph. He turned to the left, and climbed the hill to +the road that led to the Grove of Daphne. + +In all the world there was no other highway as beautiful. It wound for +five miles along the foot of the mountains, among gardens and villas, +plantations of myrtles and mulberries, with wide outlooks over the +valley 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 Emperor +Julian, whose vain efforts to restore the worship of the heathen gods, +some twenty years ago, had opened an easy way to wealth and power for +all who would mock and oppose Christianity. Demetrius was not a sincere +fanatic like his royal master; but he was bitter enough in his professed +scorn of the new religion, to make him a favourite at the court where +the old religion was in fashion. He had reaped a rich reward of his +policy, and a strange sense of consistency made him more fiercely loyal +to 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 the +Christians, and acknowledged the unseen God, it seemed like an insult +to his father’s success. He drove the boy from his door and disinherited +him. + +The glittering portico of the serene, haughty house, the repose of the +well-ordered garden, still blooming with belated flowers, seemed at once +to deride and to invite the young outcast plodding along the dusty road. +“This is your birthright,” whispered the clambering rose-trees by the +gate; and the closed portals of carven bronze said: “You have sold it +for a thought--a dream.”’ + + + +II + +Hermas found the Grove of Daphne quite deserted. There was no sound +in the enchanted vale but the rustling of the light winds chasing +each other through the laurel thickets, and the babble of innumerable +streams. Memories of the days and nights of delicate pleasure that +the grove had often seen still haunted the bewildered paths and broken +fountains. At the foot of a rocky eminence, crowned with the ruins of +Apollo’s temple, which had been mysteriously destroyed by fire just +after Julian had restored and reconsecrated it, Hermas sat down beside a +gushing 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 about +unreal things, these restraints and duties and sacrifices-if I were only +free from them all, and could only forget them all, then I could live my +life 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 and +smiling 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. A +friendly 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. “Perhaps +also a little to the fact that I am the oldest inhabitant here, and feel +as if all visitors were my guests, in a way.” + +“Are you, then, one of the keepers of the grove? And have you given up +your work with the trees to take a holiday as a philosopher? + +“Not at all. The robe of philosophy is a mere affectation, I must +confess. I think little of it. My profession is the care of altars. In +fact, I am the solitary priest of Apollo whom the Emperor Julian found +here when he came to revive the worship of the grove, some twenty years +ago. You have heard of the incident?” + +“Yes,” said Hermas, beginning to be interested; “the whole city must +have heard of it, for it is still talked of. But surely it was a strange +sacrifice that you brought to celebrate the restoration of Apollo’s +temple?” + +“You mean the ancient goose?” said the old man laughing. “Well, perhaps +it was not precisely what the emperor expected. But it was all that I +had, and it seemed to me not inappropriate. You will agree to that if +you 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 professional +matter, and the name of Apollo is as good as any other. How many altars +do you think there have been in this grove?” + +“I do not know.” + +“Just four-and-twenty, including that of the martyr Babylas, whose +ruined chapel you see just beyond us. I have had something to do with +most of them in my time. They are transitory. They give employment to +care-takers for a while. But the thing that lasts, and the thing that +interests me, is the human life that plays around them. The game has +been going on for centuries. It still disports itself very pleasantly +on summer evenings through these shady walks. Believe me, for I know. +Daphne and Apollo are shadows. But the flying maidens and the pursuing +lovers, 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 countenance +for 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 him +the story of his life: his luxurious boyhood in his father’s house; +the irresistible spell which compelled him to forsake it when he +heard John’s preaching of the new religion; his lonely year with the +anchorites among the mountains; the strict discipline in his teacher’s +house at Antioch; his weariness of duty, his distaste for poverty, his +discontent with worship. + +“And to-day,” said he, “I have been thinking that I am a fool. My life +is 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 that +of your father?” + +“No; I renounce nothing, I accept nothing. I do not wish to think about +it. I only wish to live.” + +“A very reasonable wish, and I think you are about to see its +accomplishment. Indeed, I may even say that I can put you in the way of +securing it. Do you believe in magic?” + +“I do not know whether I believe in anything. This is not a day on which +I care to make professions of faith. I believe in what I see. I want +what will give me pleasure.” + +“Well,” said the old man, soothingly, as he plucked a leaf from the +laurel-tree above them and dipped it in the spring, “let us dismiss the +riddles of belief. I like them as little as you do. You know this is a +Castalian fountain. The Emperor Hadrian once read his fortune here from +a leaf dipped in the water. Let us see what this leaf tells us. It is +already 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 of +that?” + +“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 you +shall enjoy it all. But you do not need to believe in my promise. I am +not in the habit of requiring faith of those whom I would serve. No such +hard conditions for me! There is only one thing that I ask. This is the +season that you Christians call the Christmas, and you have taken up the +pagan custom of exchanging gifts. Well, if I give to you, you must give +to me. It is a small thing, and really the thing you can best afford to +part with: a single word--the name of Him you profess to worship. Let me +take 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 richer +without 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, a +word, you can keep your promise, a dream.” + +The stranger laid the long, cool, wet leaf softly across the young man’s +eyes. An icicle of pain darted through them; every nerve in his body was +drawn together there in a knot of agony. + +Then all the tangle of pain seemed to be lifted out of him. A cool +languor of delight flowed back through every vein, and he sank into a +profound sleep. + + +III + +There is a slumber so deep that it annihilates time. It is like a +fragment of eternity. Beneath its enchantment of vacancy, a day seems +like 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. An +immeasurable period, an interval of life so blank and empty that he +could not tell whether it was long or short, had passed over him when +his senses began to stir again. The setting sun was shooting arrows of +gold under the glossy laurel-leaves. He rose and stretched his arms, +grasping a smooth branch above him and shaking it, to make sure that he +was alive. Then he hurried back toward Antioch, treading lightly as if +on air. + +The ground seemed to spring beneath his feet. Already his life had +changed, he knew not how. Something that did not belong to him had +dropped away; he had returned to a former state of being. He felt as if +anything might happen to him, and he was ready for anything. He was +a new man, yet curiously familiar to himself--as if he had done with +playing a tiresome part and returned to his natural state. He was +buoyant and free, without a care, a doubt, a fear. + +As he drew near to his father’s house he saw a confusion of servants in +the 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 point +of death, and has sent for you. Since the sixth hour he calls your name +continually. Come to him quickly, lord, for I fear the time is short.” + +Hermas entered the house at once; nothing could amaze him to-day. His +father lay on an ivory couch in the inmost chamber, with shrunken face +and restless eyes, his lean fingers picking incessantly at the silken +coverlet. + +“My son!” he murmured; “Hermas, my son! It is good that you have come +back to me. I have missed you. I was wrong to send you away. You +shall never leave me again. You are my son, my heir. I have changed +everything. 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’s +cold, twitching fingers in his firm, warm grasp. + +“Hermas, life is passing--long, rich, prosperous; the last sands, I +cannot stay them. My religion, a good policy--Julian was my friend. But +now he is gone--where? My soul is empty--nothing beyond--very dark--I am +afraid. But you know something better. You found something that made +you willing to give up your life for it--it, must have been almost like +dying--yet you were happy. What was it you found? See, I am giving you +everything. 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 and +love took the young man by the throat. His voice shook a little as he +answered eagerly: + +“Father, there is nothing to forgive. I am your son; I will gladly +tell you all that I know. I will give you the secret. Father, you must +believe with all your heart, and soul, and strength in--” + +Where was the word--the word that he had been used to utter night and +morning, 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 could +lay his hand upon it in a moment, but it was gone. Some one had taken +it away. Everything else was most clear to him: the terror of death; +the lonely soul appealing from his father’s eyes; the instant need of +comfort and help. But at the one point where he looked for help he could +find nothing; only an empty space. The word of hope had vanished. He +felt for it blindly and in desperate haste. + +“Father, wait! I have forgotten something--it has slipped away from +me. I shall find it in a moment. There is hope--I will tell you +presently--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, and +relaxed. The light behind the eyes went out. + +Hermas, the master of the House of the Golden Pillars, was keeping watch +by the dead. + + + +IV + +The break with the old life was as clean as if it had been cut with a +knife. Some faint image of a hermit’s cell, a bare lodging in a back +street of Antioch, a class-room full of earnest students, remained in +Hermas’ memory. Some dull echo of the voice of John the Presbyter, and +the measured sound of chanting, and the murmur of great congregations, +still lingered in his ears; but it was like something that had happened +to another person, something that he had read long ago, but of which he +had lost the meaning. + +His new life was full and smooth and rich--too rich for any sense of +loss to make itself felt. There were a hundred affairs to busy him, and +the days ran swiftly by as if they were shod with winged sandals. + +Nothing needed to be considered, prepared for, begun. Everything was +ready 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 secret +cabinets in the master’s room were full of precious stones. The stewards +were diligent and faithful. The servants of the household rejoiced at +the young master’s return. His table was spread; the rose-garland of +pleasure was woven for his head; his cup was overflowing with the spicy +wine of power. + +The period of mourning for his father came at a fortunate moment to +seclude and safeguard him from the storm of political troubles and +persecutions that fell upon Antioch after the insults offered by +the people to the imperial statues in the year 387. The friends of +Demetrius, prudent and conservative persons, gathered around Hermas and +made him welcome to their circle. Chief among them was Libanius, the +sophist, his nearest neighbour, whose daughter Athenais had been the +playmate of Hermas in the old days. + +He had left her a child. He found her a beautiful woman. What +transformation is so magical, so charming, as this? To see the uncertain +lines of youth rounded into firmness and symmetry, to discover the +half-ripe, merry, changing face of the girl matured into perfect +loveliness, and looking at you with calm, clear, serious eyes, not +forgetting the past, but fully conscious of the changed present--this is +to behold a miracle in the flesh. + +“Where have you been, these two years?” said Athenais, as they walked +together through the garden of lilies where they had so often played. + +“In a land of tiresome dreams,” answered Hermas; “but you have wakened +me, and I am never going back again.” + +It was not to be supposed that the sudden disappearance of Hermas from +among his former associates could long remain unnoticed. At first it +was a mystery. There was a fear, for two or three days, that he might be +lost. Some of his more intimate companions maintained that his devotion +had led him out into the desert to join the anchorites. But the news of +his return to the House of the Golden Pillars, and of his new life as +its 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 messengers +spoke in a strange language. As he read the letters there were words +blotted out of the writing which made the full sense unintelligible. + +His old companions came to reprove him for leaving them, to warn him of +the peril of apostasy, to entreat him to return. It all sounded vague +and 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 had +displeased, and to whom he should return--he heard nothing; there was a +blur of silence in their speech. The clock pointed to the hour, but the +bell did not strike. At last Hermas refused to see them any more. + +One day John the Presbyter stood in the atrium. Hermas was entertaining +Libanius and Athenais in the banquet-hall. When the visit of the +Presbyter was announced, the young master loosed a collar of gold and +jewels from his neck, and gave it to his scribe. + +“Take this to John of Antioch, and tell him it is a gift from his former +pupil--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 talk +together any more. I do not understand what he says. I have not gone +to the temple, nor offered sacrifice, nor denied his teaching. I have +simply forgotten. I do not think about those things any longer. I am +only living. A happy man wishes him all happiness and farewell.” + +But John let the golden collar fall on the marble floor. “Tell your +master that we shall talk together again, in due time,” said he, as he +passed sadly out of the hall. + +The love of Athenais and Hermas was like a tiny rivulet that sinks out +of sight in a cavern, but emerges again a bright and brimming stream. +The careless comradery of childhood was mysteriously changed into a +complete companionship. + +When Athenais entered the House of the Golden Pillars as a bride, all +the 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, week +after week, month after month, the bliss of the home unfolded like +a 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 the +rose was filled with overflowing fragrance. Happiness was heaped upon +happiness. Every wish brought its own accomplishment. Wealth, honour, +beauty, peace, love--it was an abundance of felicity so great that the +soul of Hermas could hardly contain it. + +Strangely enough, it began to press upon him, to trouble him with the +very excess of joy. He felt as if there were something yet needed to +complete and secure it all. There was an urgency within him, a longing +to find some outlet for his feelings, he knew not how--some expression +and culmination of his happiness, he knew not what. + +Under his joyous demeanour a secret fire of restlessness began to +burn--an expectancy of something yet to come which should put the touch +of perfection on his life. He spoke of it to Athenais, as they sat +together, one summer evening, in a bower of jasmine, with their boy +playing at their feet. There had been music in the garden; but now the +singers and lute-players had withdrawn, leaving the master and mistress +alone in the lingering twilight, tremulous with inarticulate melody of +unseen birds. There was a secret voice in the hour seeking vainly for +utterance a word waiting to be spoken. + +“How deep is our happiness, my beloved!” said Hermas; “deeper than the +sea that slumbers yonder, below the city. And yet it is not quite full +and perfect. There is a depth of joy that we have not yet known--a +repose of happiness that is still beyond us. What is it? I have no +superstitions, like the king who cast his signet-ring into the sea +because he dreaded that some secret vengeance would fall on his unbroken +good fortune. That was an idle terror. But there is something that +oppresses me like an invisible burden. There is something still undone, +unspoken, unfelt--something that we need to complete everything. Have +you not felt it, too? Can you not lead me to it?” + +“Yes,” she answered, lifting her eyes to his face; “I, too, have felt +it, Hermas, this burden, this need, this unsatisfied longing. I think +I know what it means. It is gratitude--the language of the heart, the +music of happiness. There is no perfect joy without gratitude. But we +have never learned it, and the want of it troubles us. It is like being +dumb with a heart full of love. We must find the word for it, and say +it together. Then we shall be perfectly joined in perfect joy. Come, my +dear lord, let us take the boy with us, and give thanks.” + +Hermas lifted the child in his arms, and turned with Athenais into the +depth of the garden. There was a dismantled shrine of some forgotten +fashion of worship half-hidden among the luxuriant flowers. A fallen +image lay beside it, face downward in the grass. They stood there, hand +in hand, the boy drowsily resting on his father’s shoulder. + +Silently the roseate light caressed the tall spires of the +cypress-trees; silently the shadows gathered at their feet; silently the +tranquil stars looked out from the deepening arch of heaven. The very +breath of being paused. It was the hour of culmination, the supreme +moment of felicity waiting for its crown. The tones of Hermas were clear +and low as he began, half-speaking and half-chanting, in the rhythm of +an ancient song: + +“Fair is the world, the sea, the sky, the double kingdom of day and +night, in the glow of morning, in the shadow of evening, and under the +dripping light of stars. + +“Fairer still is life in our breasts, with its manifold music and +meaning, with its wonder of seeing and hearing and feeling and knowing +and being. + +“Fairer and still more fair is love, that draws us together, mingles our +lives in its flow, and bears them along like a river, strong and clear +and swift, reflecting the stars in its bosom. + +“Wide is our world; we are rich; we have all things. Life is abundant +within us--a measureless deep. Deepest of all is our love, and it longs +to speak. + +“Come, thou final word; Come, thou crown of speech! Come, thou charm of +peace! Open the gates of our hearts. Lift the weight of our joy and bear +it upward. + +“For all good gifts, for all perfect gifts, for love, for life, for the +world, we praise, we bless, we thank--” + + +As a soaring bird, struck by an arrow, falls headlong from the sky, so +the song of Hermas fell. At the end of his flight of gratitude there was +nothing--a blank, a hollow space. + + +He looked for a face, and saw a void. He sought for a hand, and clasped +vacancy. His heart was throbbing and swelling with passion; the bell +swung to and fro within him, beating from side to side as if it would +burst; but not a single note came from it. All the fulness of his +feeling, that had risen upward like a fountain, fell back from the empty +sky, as cold as snow, as hard as hail, frozen and dead. There was no +meaning in his happiness. No one had sent it to him. There was no one to +thank 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 upon +my shoulder. We will lay him to sleep, and go into the library. The air +grows 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. Everything +moved as smoothly, as delicately, as prosperously, as before. But +inwardly there was a subtle, inexplicable transformation. A vague +discontent, a final and inevitable sense of incompleteness, overshadowed +existence from that night when Hermas realised that his joy could never +go 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 if +he had been sent for, and entered like an invited guest. + +Hermas could not but make him welcome, and at first he tried to regard +him with reverence and affection as the one through whom fortune had +come. But it was impossible. There was a chill in the inscrutable smile +of 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 its +completion, but thoroughly indifferent to the feelings of the subject; +an anatomist of life, looking curiously to see how long it would +continue, and how it would act, after the heart had been removed. + +In his presence Hermas was conscious of a certain irritation, a +resentful anger against the calm, frigid scrutiny of the eyes that +followed him everywhere, like a pair of spies, peering out over the +smiling mouth and the long white beard. + +“Why do you look at me so curiously?” asked Hermas, one morning, as they +sat 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 years +ago 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, my +curiosity 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 not +know. What is the secret?” + +“Nothing more than the wish to have one. You are growing tired of your +bargain. The play wearies you. That is foolish. Do you want to try a new +part?” + +The question was like a mirror upon which one comes suddenly in a +half-lighted room. A quick illumination falls on it, and the passer-by +is startled by the look of his own face. + +“You are right,” said Hermas. “I am tired. We have been going on +stupidly in this house, as if nothing were possible but what my father +had done before me. There is nothing original in being rich, and +well-fed, and well-dressed. Thousands of men have tried it, and have +not been satisfied. Let us do something new. Let us make a mark in the +world.” + +“It is well said,” nodded the old man; “you are speaking again like a +man after my own heart. There is no folly but the loss of an opportunity +to 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 been +attained, the highest possible point of felicity. Henceforward the +course 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, an +hour. That would be the only fatal mistake: to forfeit anything of the +bargain that he had made. He would have it, and hold it, and enjoy it +all to the full. The world might have nothing better to give than it had +already given; but surely it had many things that were new, and Marcion +should help him to find them. + +Under his learned counsel the House of the Golden Pillars took on a new +magnificence. Artists were brought from Corinth and Rome and Alexandria +to adorn it with splendour. Its fame glittered around the world. +Banquets of incredible luxury drew the most celebrated guests into its +triclinium, and filled them with envious admiration. The bees swarmed +and buzzed about the golden hive. The human insects, gorgeous moths +of pleasure and greedy flies of appetite, parasites and flatterers and +crowds of inquisitive idlers, danced and fluttered in the dazzling light +that surrounded Hermas. + +Everything that he touched prospered. He bought a tract of land in the +Caucasus, and emeralds were discovered among the mountains. He sent a +fleet of wheat-ships to Italy, and the price of grain doubled while it +was on the way. He sought political favour with the emperor, and was +rewarded with the governorship of the city. His name was a word to +conjure with. + +The beauty of Athenais lost nothing with the passing seasons, but grew +more perfect, even under the inexplicable shade of dissatisfaction +that sometimes veiled it. “Fair as the wife of Hermas” was a proverb +in Antioch; and soon men began to add to it, “Beautiful as the son of +Hermas”; for the child developed swiftly in that favouring clime. At +nine years of age he was straight and strong, firm of limb and clear of +eye. His brown head was on a level with his father’s heart. He was the +jewel of the House of the Golden Pillars; the pride of Hermas, the new +Fortunatus. + +That year another drop of success fell into his brimming cup. His black +Numidian horses, which he had been training for the world-renowned +chariot-races of Antioch, won the victory over a score of rivals. Hermas +received the prize carelessly from the judge’s hands, and turned to +drive once more around the circus, to show himself to the people. He +lifted the eager boy into the chariot beside him to share his triumph. + +Here, indeed, was the glory of his life--this matchless son, his +brighter counterpart carved in breathing ivory, touching his arm, and +balancing himself proudly on the swaying floor of the chariot. As the +horses pranced around the ring, a great shout of applause filled the +amphitheatre, and thousands of spectators waved their salutations of +praise: “Hail, fortunate Hermas, master of success! Hail, little Hermas, +prince of good luck!” + +The sudden tempest of acclamation, the swift fluttering of innumerable +garments in the air, startled the horses. They dashed violently forward, +and plunged upon the bits. The left rein broke. They swerved to the +right, swinging the chariot sideways with a grating noise, and dashing +it against the stone parapet of the arena. In an instant the wheel +was shattered. The axle struck the ground, and the chariot was dragged +onward, 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 from +his side at the first shock. His head struck the wall. And when Hermas +turned 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. For +hours the child was as quiet as death. Hermas watched the white eyelids, +folded close like lily-buds at night, even as one watches for the +morning. At last they opened; but the fire of fever was burning in the +eyes, and the lips were moving in a wild delirium. + +Hour after hour that sweet childish voice rang through the halls and +chambers of the splendid, helpless house, now rising in shrill calls +of distress and senseless laughter, now sinking in weariness and dull +moaning. The stars shone and faded; the sun rose and set; the roses +bloomed and fell in the garden; the birds sang and slept among the +jasmine-bowers. But in the heart of Hermas there was no song, no bloom, +no light--only speechless anguish, and a certain fearful looking-for of +desolation. + +He was like a man in a nightmare. He saw the shapeless terror that was +moving toward him, but he was impotent to stay or to escape it. He had +done 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 not +bear to be away from it, now turning back as if he could not endure to +be near it. The people of the house, even Athenais, feared to speak to +him, there was something so vacant and desperate in his face. + +At nightfall on the second of those eternal days he shut himself in the +library. The unfilled lamp had gone out, leaving a trail of smoke in +the air. The sprigs of mignonette and rosemary, with which the room was +sprinkled every day, were unrenewed, and scented the gloom with close +odours of decay. A costly manuscript of Theocritus was tumbled in +disorder on the floor. Hermas sank into a chair like a man in whom the +very 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 laid +over his shoulders. It was Athenais, kneeling beside him and speaking +very low: + +“Hermas--it is almost over--the child! His voice grows weaker hour by +hour. He moans and calls for some one to help him; then he laughs. It +breaks my heart. He has just fallen asleep. The moon is rising now. +Unless a change comes he cannot last till sunrise. Is there nothing we +can do? Is there no power that can save him? Is there no one to pity us +and spare us? Let us call, let us beg for compassion and help; let us +pray for his life!” + +Yes; this was what he wanted--this was the only thing that could bring +relief: to pray; to pour out his sorrow somewhere; to find a greater +strength than his own and cling to it and plead for mercy and help. To +leave this undone was to be false to his manhood; it was to be no better +than the dumb beasts when their young perish. How could he let his boy +suffer 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 of +our eyes is fading--the child is dying. Oh, the child, the child! Spare +the child’s life, thou merciful--” + +Not a word; only that deathly blank. The hands of Hermas, stretched out +in supplication, touched the marble table. He felt the cool hardness of +the polished stone beneath his fingers. A roll of papyrus, dislodged by +his touch, fell rustling to the floor. Through the open door, faint +and far off, came the footsteps of the servants, moving cautiously. The +heart of Hermas was like a lump of ice in his bosom. He rose slowly to +his feet, lifting Athenais with him. + +“It is in vain,” he said; “there is nothing for us to do. Long ago I +knew something. I think it would have helped us. But I have forgotten +it. It is all gone. But I would give all that I have, if I could bring +it back again now, at this hour, in this time of our bitter trouble.” + +A slave entered the room while he was speaking, and approached +hesitatingly. + +“Master,” he said, “John of Antioch, whom we were forbidden to admit to +the house, has come again. He would take no denial. Even now he waits in +the peristyle; and the old man Marcion is with him, seeking to turn him +away.” + +“Come,” said Hermas to his wife, “let us go to him.” + +In the central hall the two men were standing; Marcion, with disdainful +eyes and sneering lips, taunting the unbidden guest; John, silent, +quiet, patient, while the wondering slaves looked on in dismay. He +lifted his searching gaze to the haggard face of Hermas. + +“My son, I knew that I should see you again, even though you did not +send for me. I have come to you because I have heard that you are in +trouble.” + +“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 was +with you,--a word, a name,--in which we might have found hope. But +I have lost it. I gave it to this man. He has taken it away from me +forever.” + +He pointed to Marcion. The old man’s lips curled scornfully. “A word, a +name!” 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 and +fancies. Who would go about to rob any one of such a thing as that? It +is a prize that only a fool would think of taking. Besides, the young +man 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 a +trumpet, through the hall. “There is a name which none shall dare to +take 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 speak +it!” + +Marcion shrank into the shadow of one of the pillars. A lamp near him +tottered on its pedestal and fell with a crash. In the confusion he +vanished, as noiselessly as a shade. + +John turned to Hermas, and his tone softened as he said: “My son, you +have sinned deeper than you know. The word with which you parted so +lightly is the keyword of all life. Without it the world has no meaning, +existence no peace, death no refuge. It is the word that purifies +love, and comforts grief, and keeps hope alive forever. It is the most +precious word that ever ear has heard, or mind has known, or heart has +conceived. It is the name of Him who has given us life and breath and +all things richly to enjoy; the name of Him who, though we may forget +Him, never forgets us; the name of Him who pities us as you pity your +suffering 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 sent +me this night, to breathe again that forgotten name in the heart that is +perishing without it. Listen, my son, listen with all your soul to the +blessed name of God our Father.” + +The cold agony in the breast of Hermas dissolved like a fragment of ice +that melts in the summer sea. A sense of sweet release spread through +him from head to foot. The lost was found. The dew of peace fell on his +parched soul, and the withering flower of human love raised its head +again. 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 merciful +to me, for my soul trusteth in Thee. My God, Thou hast given; take not +Thy gift away from me, O my God! Spare the life of this my child, O Thou +God, 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 the +child, 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 river +Moselle; steep hill-sides blooming with mystic forget-me-not where the +glow of the setting sun cast long shadows down their eastern slope; an +arch of clearest, deepest gentian bending overhead; in the centre of the +aerial garden the walls of the cloister of Pfalzel, steel-blue to the +east, violet to the west; silence over all,--a gentle, eager, conscious +stillness, diffused through the air, as if earth and sky were hushing +themselves to hear the voice of the river faintly murmuring down the +valley. + +In the cloister, too, there was silence at the sunset hour. All day long +there had been a strange and joyful stir among the nuns. A breeze of +curiosity and excitement had swept along the corridors and through every +quiet 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; a +wonderful scholar; but, more than all, a daring traveller, a venturesome +pilgrim, a priest of romance. + +He had left his home and his fair estate in Wessex; he would not stay in +the rich monastery of Nutescelle, even though they had chosen him as +the abbot; he had refused a bishopric at the court of King Karl. Nothing +would content him but to go out into the wild woods and preach to the +heathen. + +Through the forests of Hesse and Thuringia, and along the borders +of 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 with +hardship and danger. + +What a man he was! Fair and slight, but straight as a spear and strong +as an oaken staff. His face was still young; the smooth skin was bronzed +by wind and sun. His gray eyes, clean and kind, flashed like fire when +he spoke of his adventures, and of the evil deeds of the false priests +with whom he contended. + +What tales he had told that day! Not of miracles wrought by sacred +relics; not of courts and councils and splendid cathedrals; though he +knew much of these things. But to-day he had spoken of long journeyings +by sea and land; of perils by fire and flood; of wolves and bears, and +fierce snowstorms, and black nights in the lonely forest; of dark altars +of heathen gods, and weird, bloody sacrifices, and narrow escapes from +murderous bands of wandering savages. + +The little novices had gathered around him, and their faces had grown +pale and their eyes bright as they listened with parted lips, entranced +in admiration, twining their arms about one another’s shoulders and +holding closely together, half in fear, half in delight. The older +nuns had turned from their tasks and paused, in passing by, to bear the +pilgrim’s story. Too well they knew the truth of what he spoke. Many a +one among them had seen the smoke rising from the ruins of her father’s +roof. Many a one had a brother far away in the wild country to whom +her heart went out night and day, wondering if he were still among the +living. + +But now the excitements of that wonderful day were over; the hour of the +evening meal had come; the inmates of the cloister were assembled in the +refectory. + +On the dais sat the stately Abbess Addula, daughter of King Dagobert, +looking a princess indeed, in her purple tunic, with the hood and cuffs +of her long white robe trimmed with ermine, and a snowy veil resting +like a crown on her silver hair. At her right hand was the honoured +guest, and at her left hand her grandson, the young Prince Gregor, a +big, manly boy, just returned from school. + +The long, shadowy hall, with its dark-brown rafters and beams; the +double row of nuns, with their pure veils and fair faces; the ruddy glow +of the slanting sunbeams striking upward through the tops of the windows +and painting a pink glow high up on the walls,--it was all as beautiful +as a picture, and as silent. For this was the rule of the cloister, that +at the table all should sit in stillness for a little while, and then +one should read aloud, while the rest listened. + +“It is the turn of my grandson to read to-day,” said the abbess to +Winfried; “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, and +the marked place was in the letter of St. Paul to the Ephesians,--the +passage where he describes the preparation of the Christian as a +warrior arming for battle. The young voice rang out clearly, rolling the +sonorous words, without slip or stumbling, to the end of the chapter. + +Winfried listened smiling. “That was bravely read, my son,” said he, as +the reader paused. “Understandest thou what thou readest?” + +“Surely, father,” answered the boy; “it was taught me by the masters at +Treves; and we have read this epistle from beginning to end, so that I +almost know it by heart.” + +Then he began to repeat the passage, turning away from the page as if to +show 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 He +has said to thee in the common speech. Come, give us again the message +of the warrior and his armour and his battle, in the mother-tongue, so +that all can understand it.” + +The boy hesitated, blushed, stammered; then he came around to Winfried’s +seat, bringing the book. “Take the book, my father,” he cried, “and read +it for me. I cannot see the meaning plain, though I love the sound of +the words. Religion I know, and the doctrines of our faith, and the life +of priests and nuns in the cloister, for which my grandmother designs +me, though it likes me little. And fighting I know, and the life of +warriors 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 more +of it, for it likes me much. But how the two lives fit together, or what +need 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 knows +it, I am sure it is thou.” + +So Winfried took the book and closed it, clasping the boy’s hand with +his own. + +“Let us first dismiss the others to their vespers,” said he, “lest they +should be weary.” + +A sign from the abbess; a chanted benediction; a murmuring of sweet +voices 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 away +down the corridors; the three at the head of the table were left alone +in the darkening room. + +Then Winfried began to translate the parable of the soldier into the +realities of life. + +At every turn he knew how to flash a new light into the picture out +of his own experience. He spoke of the combat with self, and of the +wrestling with dark spirits in solitude. He spoke of the demons that men +had worshipped for centuries in the wilderness, and whose malice they +invoked against the stranger who ventured into the gloomy forest. Gods, +they called them, and told weird tales of their dwelling among the +impenetrable branches of the oldest trees and in the caverns of the +shaggy hills; of their riding on the wind-horses and hurling spears of +lightning against their foes. Gods they were not, but foul spirits +of the air, rulers of the darkness. Was there not glory and honour +in fighting them, in daring their anger under the shield of faith, in +putting them to flight with the sword of truth? What better adventure +could a brave man ask than to go forth against them, and wrestle with +them, and conquer them? + +“Look you, my friends,” said Winfried, “how sweet and peaceful is this +convent 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 still +haven on the edge of a tempestuous sea. And this is what religion +means for those who are chosen and called to quietude and prayer and +meditation. + +“But out yonder in the wide forest, who knows what storms are raving +to-night in the hearts of men, though all the woods are still? who knows +what haunts of wrath and cruelty are closed tonight against the advent +of the Prince of Peace? And shall I tell you what religion means to +those who are called and chosen to dare, and to fight, and to conquer +the world for Christ? It means to go against the strongholds of the +adversary. It means to struggle to win an entrance for the Master +everywhere. What helmet is strong enough for this strife save the helmet +of salvation? What breastplate can guard a man against these fiery darts +but the breastplate of righteousness? What shoes can stand the wear of +these journeys but the preparation of the gospel of peace?” + +“Shoes?” he cried again, and laughed as if a sudden thought had struck +him. He thrust out his foot, covered with a heavy cowhide boot, laced +high about his leg with thongs of skin. + +“Look here,--how a fighting man of the cross is shod! I have seen the +boots of the Bishop of Tours,--white kid, broidered with silk; a day +in the bogs would tear them to shreds. I have seen the sandals that the +monks use on the highroads,--yes, and worn them; ten pair of them have +I worn out and thrown away in a single journey. Now I shoe my feet with +the toughest hides, hard as iron; no rock can cut them, no branches can +tear them. Yet more than one pair of these have I outworn, and many +more shall I outwear ere my journeys are ended. And I think, if God is +gracious to me, that I shall die wearing them. Better so than in a +soft bed with silken coverings. The boots of a warrior, a hunter, a +woodsman,--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 we +are called. Be strong in the Lord, a hunter of the demons, a subduer of +the wilderness, a woodsman of the faith. Come.” + +The boy’s eyes sparkled. He turned to his grandmother. She shook her +head vigorously. + +“Nay, father,” she said, “draw not the lad away from my side with these +wild 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 will +you 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 perish +with hunger in the woods.” + +“Once,” said Winfried, smiling, “we were camped on the bank of the river +Ohru. The table was set for the morning meal, but my comrades cried +that it was empty; the provisions were exhausted; we must go without +breakfast, and perhaps starve before we could escape from the +wilderness. While they complained, a fish-hawk flew up from the river +with 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 righteous +forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.” + +“But the fierce pagans of the forest,” cried the abbess,--“they may +pierce the boy with their arrows, or dash out his brains with their +axes. 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 the +hero fall early in the battle, he wears the brighter crown, not a leaf +withered, 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 as +befits the grandson of a king.” + +Gregor looked straight into her eyes. + +“Grandmother,” said he, “dear grandmother, if thou wilt not give me a +horse 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 of +Pfalzel. A little company of pilgrims, less than a score of men, were +travelling slowly northward through the wide forest that rolled over the +hills of central Germany. + +At the head of the band marched Winfried, clad in a tunic of fur, with +his long black robe girt high above his waist, so that it might not +hinder his stride. His hunter’s boots were crusted with snow. Drops of +ice sparkled like jewels along the thongs that bound his legs. There +were no other ornaments of his dress except the bishop’s cross hanging +on his breast, and the silver clasp that fastened his cloak about his +neck. He carried a strong, tall staff in his hand, fashioned at the top +into the form of a cross. + +Close beside him, keeping step like a familiar comrade, was the young +Prince Gregor. Long marches through the wilderness had stretched his +legs and broadened his back, and made a man of him in stature as well as +in spirit. His jacket and cap were of wolf-skin, and on his shoulder he +carried an axe, with broad, shining blade. He was a mighty woodsman +now, and could make a spray of chips fly around him as he hewed his way +through the trunk of a pine-tree. + +Behind these leaders followed a pair of teamsters, guiding a rude +sledge, loaded with food and the equipage of the camp, and drawn by +two big, shaggy horses, blowing thick clouds of steam from their frosty +nostrils. Tiny icicles hung from the hairs on their lips. Their flanks +were smoking. They sank above the fetlocks at every step in the soft +snow. + +Last of all came the rear guard, armed with bows and javelins. It was no +child’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 wolves +hunted in packs as if the devil drove them, and tangled thickets where +the lynx and the boar made their lairs. Fierce bears lurked among the +rocky passes, and had not yet learned to fear the face of man. The +gloomy recesses of the forest gave shelter to inhabitants who were +still more cruel and dangerous than beasts of prey,--outlaws and sturdy +robbers and mad were-wolves and bands of wandering pillagers. + +The pilgrim who would pass from the mouth of the Tiber to the mouth of +the 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 full +of endless billows, that it seemed to be pressing on every side to +overwhelm them. Gnarled oaks, with branches twisted and knotted as if +in 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 mighty +ground-swell. But most of all, the multitude of pines and firs, +innumerable and monotonous, with straight, stark trunks, and branches +woven together in an unbroken flood of darkest green, crowded through +the valleys and over the hills, rising on the highest ridges into ragged +crests, like the foaming edge of breakers. + +Through this sea of shadows ran a narrow stream of shining +whiteness,--an ancient Roman road, covered with snow. It was as if +some great ship had ploughed through the green ocean long ago, and +left behind it a thick, smooth wake of foam. Along this open track the +travellers 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 over +the dry snow, and the panting of the horses throbbed through the still +air. The pale-blue shadows on the western side of the road grew +longer. The sun, declining through its shallow arch, dropped behind the +tree-tops. Darkness followed swiftly, as if it had been a bird of prey +waiting 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, we +cannot see our steps; and will not that be against the word of the +psalmist 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 the +legs of a man.’ And so say I, for I am not minded to spare thy legs or +mine, until we come farther on our way, and do what must be done this +night. Draw thy belt tighter, my son, and hew me out this tree that is +fallen across the road, for our campground is not here.” + +The youth obeyed; two of the foresters sprang to help him; and while the +soft fir-wood yielded to the stroke of the axes, and the snow flew from +the bending branches, Winfried turned and spoke to his followers in a +cheerful voice, that refreshed them like wine. + +“Courage, brothers, and forward yet a little! The moon will light us +presently, 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 I +love are keeping feast this Christmas-eve. But we have work to do before +we feast to-night. For this is the Yuletide, and the heathen people of +the forest are gathered at the thunder-oak of Geismar to worship their +god, Thor. Strange things will be seen there, and deeds which make the +soul black. But we are sent to lighten their darkness; and we will teach +our kinsmen to keep a Christmas with us such as the woodland has never +known. Forward, then, and stiffen up the feeble knees!” + +A murmur of assent came from the men. Even the horses seemed to take +fresh heart. They flattened their backs to draw the heavy loads, and +blew the frost from their nostrils as they pushed ahead. + +The night grew broader and less oppressive. A gate of brightness was +opened secretly somewhere in the sky. Higher and higher swelled the +clear moon-flood, until it poured over the eastern wall of forest into +the road. A drove of wolves howled faintly in the distance, but they +were receding, and the sound soon died away. The stars sparkled merrily +through 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 light +through a labyrinth of darkness. + +After a while the road began to open out a little. There were spaces of +meadow-land, fringed with alders, behind which a boisterous river ran +clashing through spears of ice. + +Rude houses of hewn logs appeared in the openings, each one casting a +patch of inky shadow upon the snow. Then the travellers passed a larger +group of dwellings, all silent and unlighted; and beyond, they saw a +great house, with many outbuildings and inclosed courtyards, from which +the hounds bayed furiously, and a noise of stamping horses came from +the stalls. But there was no other sound of life. The fields around lay +naked to the moon. They saw no man, except that once, on a path that +skirted 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, and +climbing to the left, emerged suddenly upon a glade, round and level +except at the northern side, where a hillock was crowned with a huge +oak-tree. It towered above the heath, a giant with contorted arms, +beckoning to the host of lesser trees. “Here,” cried Winfried, as +his eyes flashed and his hand lifted his heavy staff, “here is the +Thunder-oak; and here the cross of Christ shall break the hammer of the +false god Thor.” + +Withered leaves still clung to the branches of the oak: torn and faded +banners of the departed summer. The bright crimson of autumn had +long since disappeared, bleached away by the storms and the cold. +But to-night these tattered remnants of glory were red again: ancient +bloodstains against the dark-blue sky. For an immense fire had been +kindled in front of the tree. Tongues of ruddy flame, fountains of +ruby sparks, ascended through the spreading limbs and flung a fierce +illumination upward and around. The pale, pure moonlight that bathed +the surrounding forests was quenched and eclipsed here. Not a beam of it +sifted through the branches of the oak. It stood like a pillar of cloud +between the still light of heaven and the crackling, flashing fire of +earth. + +But the fire itself was invisible to Winfried and his companions. A +great throng of people were gathered around it in a half-circle, their +backs to the open glade, their faces toward the oak. Seen against that +glowing 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 took +counsel together. + +“It is the assembly of the tribe,” said one of the foresters, “the great +night of the council. I heard of it three days ago, as we passed through +one 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 eat +horse-flesh to make them strong. It will be at the peril of our lives +if we approach them. At least we must hide the cross, if we would escape +death.” + +“Hide me no cross,” cried Winfried, lifting his staff, “for I have come +to show it, and to make these blind folk see its power. There is more to +be done here to-night than the slaying of a steed, and a greater evil to +be stayed than the shameful eating of meat sacrificed to idols. I have +seen 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 two +of the men to guard it, and the rest of the company moved forward across +the open ground. They approached unnoticed, for all the multitude were +looking intently toward the fire at the foot of the oak. + +Then Winfried’s voice rang out, “Hail, ye sons of the forest! A stranger +claims the warmth of your fire in the winter night.” + +Swiftly, and as with a single motion, a thousand eyes were bent upon the +speaker. The semicircle opened silently in the middle; Winfried entered +with his followers; it closed again behind them. + +Then, as they looked round the curving ranks, they saw that the hue of +the assemblage was not black, but white,--dazzling, radiant, solemn. +White, the robes of the women clustered together at the points of the +wide crescent; white, the glittering byrnies of the warriors standing in +close ranks; white, the fur mantles of the aged men who held the central +palace in the circle; white, with the shimmer of silver ornaments and +the purity of lamb’s-wool, the raiment of a little group of children who +stood close by the fire; white, with awe and fear, the faces of all who +looked at them; and over all the flickering, dancing radiance of the +flames played and glimmered like a faint, vanishing tinge of blood on +snow. + +The only figure untouched by the glow was the old priest, Hunrad, with +his long, spectral robe, flowing hair and beard, and dead-pale face, +who stood with his back to the fire and advanced slowly to meet the +strangers. + +“Who are you? Whence come you, and what seek you here?” + +“Your kinsman am I, of the German brotherhood,” answered Winfried, “and +from England, beyond the sea, have I come to bring you a greeting from +that land, and a message from the All-Father, whose servant I am.” + +“Welcome, then,” said Hunrad, “welcome, kinsman, and be silent; for +what passes here is too high to wait, and must be done before the moon +crosses the middle heaven, unless, indeed, thou hast some sign or token +from the gods. Canst thou work miracles?” + +The question came sharply, as if a sudden gleam of hope had flashed +through the tangle of the old priest’s mind. But Winfried’s voice sank +lower and a cloud of disappointment passed over his face as he replied: +“Nay, miracles have I never wrought, though I have heard of many; but +the All-Father has given no power to my hands save such as belongs to +common man.” + +“Stand still, then, thou common man,” said Hunrad, scornfully, “and +behold what the gods have called us hither to do. This night is the +death-night of the sun-god, Baldur the Beautiful, beloved of gods and +men. This night is the hour of darkness and the power of winter, of +sacrifice and mighty fear. This night the great Thor, the god of thunder +and 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. Long +is it since an offering has been laid upon his altar, long since the +roots of his holy tree have been fed with blood. Therefore its leaves +have withered before the time, and its boughs are heavy with death. +Therefore the Slavs and the Wends have beaten us in battle. Therefore +the harvests have failed, and the wolf-hordes have ravaged the folds, +and the strength has departed from the bow, and the wood of the spear +has broken, and the wild boar has slain the huntsman. Therefore the +plague has fallen on our dwellings, and the dead are more than the +living in all our villages. Answer me, ye people, are not these things +true?” + + A hoarse sound of approval ran through the circle. A +chant, in which the voices of the men and women blended, like the shrill +wind in the pinetrees above the rumbling thunder of a waterfall, rose +and 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 intense +that the crackling of the fire was heard distinctly. The old priest +stood silent for a moment. His shaggy brows swept down ever his eyes +like ashes quenching flame. Then he lifted his face and spoke. + +“None of these things will please the god. More costly is the offering +that shall cleanse your sin, more precious the crimson dew that shall +send new life into this holy tree of blood. Thor claims your dearest and +your noblest gift.” + +Hunrad moved nearer to the group of children who stood watching the fire +and the swarms of spark-serpents darting upward. They had heeded none of +the priest’s words, and did not notice now that he approached them, so +eager were they to see which fiery snake would go highest among the oak +branches. Foremost among them, and most intent on the pretty game, was +a boy like a sunbeam, slender and quick, with blithe brown eyes and +laughing lips. The priest’s hand was laid upon his shoulder. The boy +turned and looked up in his face. + +“Here,” said the old man, with his voice vibrating as when a thick rope +is strained by a ship swinging from her moorings, “here is the chosen +one, the eldest son of the Chief, the darling of the people. Hearken, +Bernhard, wilt thou go to Valhalla, where the heroes dwell with the +gods, 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 I +run quickly? Must I take my bow and arrows for the wolves?” + +The boy’s father, the Chieftain Gundhar, standing among his bearded +warriors, drew his breath deep, and leaned so heavily on the handle of +his spear that the wood cracked. And his wife, Irma, bending forward +from the ranks of women, pushed the golden hair from her forehead with +one hand. The other dragged at the silver chain about her neck until the +rough links pierced her flesh, and the red drops fell unheeded on her +breast. + +A sigh passed through the crowd, like the murmur of the forest before +the storm breaks. Yet no one spoke save Hunrad: + +“Yes, my Prince, both bow and spear shalt thou have, for the way is +long, and thou art a brave huntsman. But in darkness thou must journey +for 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 broad +stone in front of the fire. He gave him his little bow tipped with +silver, and his spear with shining head of steel. He bound the child’s +eyes with a white cloth, and bade him kneel beside the stone with his +face to the cast. Unconsciously the wide arc of spectators drew inward +toward the centre, as the ends of the bow draw together when the cord +is stretched. Winfried moved noiselessly until he stood close behind the +priest. + +The old man stooped to lift a black hammer of stone from the +ground,--the sacred hammer of the god Thor. Summoning all the strength +of his withered arms, he swung it high in the air. It poised for an +instant above the child’s fair head--then turned to fall. + +One keen cry shrilled out from where the women stood: “Me! take me! not +Bernhard!” + +The flight of the mother toward her child was swift as the falcon’s +swoop. But swifter still was the hand of the deliverer. + +Winfried’s heavy staff thrust mightily against the hammer’s handle as it +fell. 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 joy +rolled along the living circle. The branches of the oak shivered. The +flames leaped higher. As the shout died away the people saw the lady +Irma, with her arms clasped round her child, and above them, on the +altar-stone, Winfried, his face shining like the face of an angel. + + + +IV + +A swift mountain-flood rolling down its channel; a huge rock tumbling +from the hill-side and falling in mid-stream: the baffled waters broken +and confused, pausing in their flow, dash high against the rock, foaming +and murmuring, with divided impulse, uncertain whether to turn to the +right or the left. + +Even so Winfried’s bold deed fell into the midst of the thoughts and +passions of the council. They were at a standstill. Anger and wonder, +reverence and joy and confusion surged through the crowd. They knew not +which way to move: to resent the intrusion of the stranger as an insult +to their gods, or to welcome him as the rescuer of their prince. + +The old priest crouched by the altar, silent. Conflicting counsels +troubled the air. Let the sacrifice go forward; the gods must be +appeased. Nay, the boy must not die; bring the chieftain’s best horse +and slay it in his stead; it will be enough; the holy tree loves the +blood of horses. Not so, there is a better counsel yet; seize the +stranger whom the gods have led hither as a victim and make his life pay +the forfeit of his daring. + +The withered leaves on the oak rustled and whispered overhead. The fire +flared and sank again. The angry voices clashed against each other and +fell like opposing waves. Then the chieftain Gundhar struck the earth +with 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 us +judgment, whether he is to live or to die.” + +Winfried lifted himself high upon the altar, drew a roll of parchment +from his bosom, and began to read. + +“A letter from the great Bishop of Rome, who sits on a golden throne, to +the 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 the +Romans; the tongue that is heard and understood by the wise men of every +land. There is magic in it. Listen!” + +Winfried went on to read the letter, translating it into the speech of +the people. + +“We have sent unto you our Brother Boniface, and appointed him your +bishop, that he may teach you the only true faith, and baptise you, and +lead you back from the ways of error to the path of salvation. Hearken +to him in all things like a father. Bow your hearts to his teaching. He +comes not for earthly gain, but for the gain of your souls. Depart from +evil works. Worship not the false gods, for they are devils. Offer +no more bloody sacrifices, nor eat the flesh of horses, but do as our +Brother Boniface commands you. Build a house for him that he may dwell +among you, and a church where you may offer your prayers to the only +living God, the Almighty King of Heaven.” + +It was a splendid message: proud, strong, peaceful, loving. The dignity +of the words imposed mightily upon the hearts of the people. They were +quieted as men who have listened to a lofty strain of music. + +“Tell us, then,” said Gundhar, “what is the word that thou bringest to +us from the Almighty? What is thy counsel for the tribes of the woodland +on this night of sacrifice?” + +“This is the word, and this is the counsel,” answered Winfried. “Not a +drop of blood shall fall to-night, save that which pity has drawn from +the breast of your princess, in love for her child. Not a life shall be +blotted out in the darkness to-night; but the great shadow of the tree +which hides you from the light of heaven shall be swept away. For this +is the birth-night of the white Christ, son of the All-Father, and +Saviour of mankind. Fairer is He than Baldur the Beautiful, greater than +Odin the Wise, kinder than Freya the Good. Since He has come to earth +the 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 power +in 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 stirred +uneasily. Women covered their eyes. Hunrad lifted his head and muttered +hoarsely, “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 of +the oak. Their cloaks were flung aside, their heads bare. Carefully +they 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, ringing +wood. The axe-heads glittered in their rhythmic flight, like fierce +eagles circling about their quarry. + +The broad flakes of wood flew from the deepening gashes in the sides +of the oak. The huge trunk quivered. There was a shuddering in the +branches. Then the great wonder of Winfried’s life came to pass. + +Out of the stillness of the winter night, a mighty rushing noise sounded +overhead. + +Was it the ancient gods on their white battlesteeds, with their black +hounds of wrath and their arrows of lightning, sweeping through the air +to destroy their foes? + +A strong, whirling wind passed over the treetops. It gripped the oak by +its branches and tore it from the roots. Backward it fell, like a ruined +tower, groaning and crashing as it split asunder in four great pieces. + +Winfried let his axe drop, and bowed his head for a moment in the +presence of almighty power. + +Then he turned to the people, “Here is the timber,” he cried, “already +felled and split for your new building. On this spot shall rise a chapel +to the true God and his servant St. Peter. + +“And here,” said he, as his eyes fell on a young fir-tree, standing +straight and green, with its top pointing toward the stars, amid the +divided ruins of the fallen oak, “here is the living tree, with no stain +of blood upon it, that shall be the sign of your new worship. See how it +points to the sky. Call it the tree of the Christ-child. Take it up and +carry it to the chieftain’s hall. You shall go no more into the shadows +of the forest to keep your feasts with secret rites of shame. You +shall keep them at home, with laughter and songs and rites of love. The +thunder-oak has fallen, and I think the day is coming when there shall +not be a home in all Germany where the children are not gathered around +the green fir-tree to rejoice in the birth-night of Christ.” + +So they took the little fir from its place, and carried it in joyous +procession to the edge of the glade, and laid it on the sledge. The +horses tossed their heads and drew their load bravely, as if the new +burden had made it lighter. + +When they came to the house of Gundhar, he bade them throw open the +doors of the hall and set the tree in the midst of it. They kindled +lights among the branches until it seemed to be tangled full of +fire-flies. The children encircled it, wondering, and the sweet odour of +the balsam filled the house. + +Then Winfried stood beside the chair of Gundhar, on the dais at the end +of 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 midnight +song. All the people listened, charmed into stillness. + +But the boy Bernhard, on Irma’s knee, folded in her soft arms, grew +restless as the story lengthened, and began to prattle softly at his +mother’s ear. + +“Mother,” whispered the child, “why did you cry out so loud, when the +priest was going to send me to Valhalla?” + +“Oh, hush, my child,” answered the mother, and pressed him closer to her +side. + +“Mother,” whispered the boy again, laying his finger on the stains upon +her breast, “see, your dress is red! What are these stains? Did some one +hurt 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 last +words of Winfried as he spoke of the angelic messengers, flying over the +hills of Judea and singing as they flew. The child wondered and dreamed +and listened. Suddenly his face grew bright. He put his lips close to +Irma’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 the +tree.” + + +And some say that it was true; but others say that it was only Gregor +and his companions at the lower end of the hall, chanting their +Christmas 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. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Blue Flower, and Others, by Henry van Dyke + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLUE FLOWER, AND OTHERS *** + +***** This file should be named 1603-0.txt or 1603-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/0/1603/ + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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