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diff --git a/44091-0.txt b/44091-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..11bc652 --- /dev/null +++ b/44091-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5689 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44091 *** + + GREEN FIRE + + A Romance + + BY + + FIONA MACLEOD + + "_While still I may, I write for you + The love I lived, the dream I knew_" + + + + NEW YORK + HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS + 1896 + + + + + Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. + + _All rights reserved._ + + + + + TO + + ESCLARMOUNDO + + "_Nec sine te nec tecum vivere possum._"--OVID + + + +"_There are those of us who would rather be with Cathal of the Woods, +and be drunken with green fire, than gain the paradise of the holy +Molios who banned him, if in that gain were to be heard no more the +earth-sweet ancient song of the blood that is in the veins of youth...._ + +"_O green fire of life, pulse of the world! O Love, O Youth, O Dream of +Dreams!_ + + "THE ANNIR CHOILLE." + + + + + CONTENTS + + + + BOOK FIRST + + THE BIRDS OF ANGUS OGUE + + CHAP. PAGE + + I. EUCHARIS 3 + + II. THE HOUSE OF KERIVAL 22 + + III. STORM 37 + + IV. THE DREAM AND THE DREAMERS 53 + + V. THE WALKER IN THE NIGHT 69 + + VI. VIA OSCURA 99 + + VII. "DEIREADH GACH COGAIDH, SITH" (THE + END OF ALL WARFARE, PEACE) 114 + + VIII. THE UNFOLDING OF THE SCROLL 125 + + + BOOK SECOND + + THE HERDSMAN + + IX. RETROSPECTIVE: FROM THE HEBRID ISLES 149 + + X. AT THE EDGE OF THE SHADOW 175 + + XI. MYSTERY 195 + + XII. IN THE GREEN ARCADES 208 + + XIII. THE MESSAGE 224 + + XIV. THE LAUGHTER OF THE KING 239 + + + BOOK THIRD + + XV. THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD 259 + + + + GREEN FIRE + + + + + BOOK FIRST + + _THE BIRDS OF ANGUS OGUE_ + + + + Hither and thither, + And to and fro, + They thrid the Maze + Of Weal and Woe: + O winds that blow + For golden weather + Blow me the birds, + All white as snow + On the hillside heather-- + Blow me the birds + That Angus know: + Blow me the birds, + Be it Weal or Woe! + + + + +CHAPTER I + +EUCHARIS + + + _Then, in the violet forest, all a-bourgeon, Eucharis said to me: "It + is Spring."_--ARTHUR RIMBAUD. + + +After the dim purple bloom of a suspended spring, a green rhythm ran +from larch to thorn, from lime to sycamore; spread from meadow to +meadow, from copse to copse, from hedgerow to hedgerow. The blackthorn +had already snowed upon the nettle-garths. In the obvious nests among +the bare boughs of ash and beech the eggs of the blackbird were +blue-green as the sky that March had bequeathed to April. For days +past, when the breath of the equinox had surged out of the west, the +missel-thrushes had bugled from the wind-swayed topmost branches of the +tallest elms. Everywhere the green rhythm ran. + +In every leaf that had uncurled there was a delicate bloom, that which +is upon all things in the first hours of life. The spires of the grass +were washed in a green, dewy light. Out of the brown earth a myriad +living things thrust tiny green shafts, arrow-heads, bulbs, spheres, +clusters. Along the pregnant soil keener ears than ours would have +heard the stir of new life, the innumerous whisper of the bursting +seed; and, in the wind itself, shepherding the shadow-chased sunbeams, +the voice of that vernal gladness which has been man's clarion since +Time began. + +Day by day the wind-wings lifted a more multitudinous whisper from +the woodlands. The deep hyperborean note, from the invisible ocean +of air, was still audible: within the concourse of bare boughs which +lifted against it, that surging voice could not but have an echo of its +wintry roar. In the sun-havens, however, along the southerly copses, +in daisied garths of orchard-trees, amid the flowering currant and +guelder and lilac bushes in quiet places where the hives were all +a-murmur, the wind already sang its lilt of spring. From dawn till +noon, from an hour before sundown till the breaking foam along the +wild cherry flushed fugitively because of the crimson glow out of the +west, there was a ceaseless chittering of birds. The starlings and the +sparrows enjoyed the commune of the homestead; the larks and fieldfares +and green and yellow linnets congregated in the meadows, where, too, +the wild bee already roved. Among the brown ridgy fallows there was +a constant flutter of black, white-gleaming, and silver-gray wings, +where the stalking rooks, the jerking pewets, and the wary, uncertain +gulls from the neighboring sea, feasted tirelessly from the teeming +earth. Often, too, the wind-hover, that harbinger of the season of the +young broods, quivered his curved wings in his arrested flight, while +his lance-like gaze penetrated the whins, beneath which a new-born +rabbit crawled, or discerned in the tangle of a grassy tuft the brown, +watchful eyes of a nesting quail. + +In the remoter woodlands the three foresters of April could be heard: +the woodpecker tapping on the gnarled boles of the oaks; the wild-dove +calling in low, crooning monotones to his silent mate; the cuckoo +tolling his infrequent peals from skyey belfries built of sun and mist. + +In the fields, where the thorns were green as rivulets of melted snow +and the grass had the bloom of emerald, and the leaves of docken, +clover, cinquefoil, sorrel, and a thousand plants and flowers, were +wave-green, the ewes lay, idly watching with their luminous amber +eyes the frisking and leaping of the close-curled, tuft-tailed, +woolly-legged lambs. In corners of the hedgerows, and in hollows in +the rolling meadows, the primrose, the celandine, the buttercup, the +dandelion, and the daffodil spilled little eddies of the sun-flood +which overbrimmed them with light. All day long the rapture of the +larks filled the blue air with vanishing spirals of music, swift and +passionate in the ascent, repetitive and less piercing in the narrowing +downward gyres. From every whin the poignant, monotonous note of the +yellow-hammer reëchoed. Each pastoral hedge was alive with robins, +chaffinches, and the dusky shadows of the wild-mice darting here and +there among the greening boughs. + +Whenever this green fire is come upon the earth, the swift contagion +spreads to the human heart. What the seedlings feel in the brown +mould, what the sap feels in the trees, what the blood feels in every +creature from the newt in the pool to the nesting bird--so feels the +strange, remembering ichor that runs its red tides through human hearts +and brains. Spring has its subtler magic for us, because of the dim +mysteries of unremembering remembrance and of the vague radiances of +hope. Something in us sings an ascendant song, and we expect, we know +not what; something in us sings a decrescent song, and we realize +vaguely the stirring of immemorial memories. + +There is none who will admit that spring is fairer elsewhere than in +his own land. But there are regions where the season is so hauntingly +beautiful that it would seem as though Angus Ogue knew them for his +chosen resting-places in his green journey. + +Angus Og, Angus MacGreine, Angus the Ever Youthful, the Son of +the Sun, a fair god he indeed, golden-haired and wonderful as Apollo +Chrusokomes. Some say that he is Love; some, that he is Spring; some, +even, that in him, Thanatos, the Hellenic Celt that was his far-off +kin, is reincarnate. But why seek riddles in flowing water? It may +well be that Angus Ogue is Love, and Spring, and Death. The elemental +gods are ever triune; and in the human heart, in whose lost Eden an +ancient tree of knowledge grows wherefrom the mind has not yet gathered +more than a few windfalls, it is surely sooth that Death and Love are +oftentimes one and the same, and that they love to come to us in the +apparel of Spring. + +Sure, indeed, Angus Ogue is a name above all sweet to lovers, for is +he not the god--the fair youth of the Tuatha-de-Danann, the Ancient +People, with us still, though for ages seen of us no more--from the +meeting of whose lips are born white birds, which fly abroad and nest +in lovers' hearts till the moment come when, on the yearning lips of +love, their invisible wings shall become kisses again? + +Then, too, there is the old legend that Angus goes to and fro upon the +world, a weaver of rainbows. He follows the spring, or is its herald. +Often his rainbows are seen in the heavens; often in the rapt gaze of +love. We have all perceived them in the eyes of children, and some of +us have discerned them in the hearts of sorrowful women and in the dim +brains of the old. Ah! for sure, if Angus Og be the lovely Weaver +of Hope he is deathless comrade of the spring, and we may well pray +to him to let his green fire move in our veins, whether he be but the +Eternal Youth of the World, or be also Love, whose soul is youth, or +even though he be likewise Death himself, Death to whom Love was wedded +long, long ago. + + * * * * * + +But nowhere was spring more lovely, nowhere was the green fire of +life so quick with impulsive ardors, as, one year of the years, in a +seaward region to the north of the ancient forest of Broceliande, in +what of old was Armorica and now is Brittany. + +Here spring often comes late, but ever lingers long. Here, too, in the +dim green avenues of the oak-woods of Kerival, the nightingales reach +their uttermost western flight. Never has the shepherd, tending his +scant flock on the upland pastures of Finistère, nor the fisherman +lying a-dream amid the sandy thickets of Ushant, heard that quaint +music--that primeval and ever young song of the passionate heart which +Augustine might well have had in mind when he exclaimed "Sero te amavi, +Pulchritudo, tam antiqua et tam nova, sero te amavi." But, each April, +in the woods of Kerival, the nightingales congregate from afar, and +through May their songs make the forest like a sanctuary filled with +choristers swinging incense of a delicate music. + +It is a wonderful region, that which lies betwixt Ploumaliou on the +east and Kerloek on the west; the oldest, remotest part of an ancient, +remote land. Here the few hamlets and fewer scattered villages are, +even in externals, the same as they were a hundred or three hundred +years ago. In essentials, there is no difference since St. Hervé +or St. Ronan preached the new faith, or indeed since Ahès the Pale +rode through the forest aisles in the moonlight and heard the Nains +chanting, or since King Gradlon raced his horse against the foam when +his daughter let the sea in upon the fair city of Ys. The good _curés_ +preach the religion of Christ and of Mary to the peasants; but in the +minds of most of these there lingers much of the bygone faith that +reared the menhirs. Few indeed there are in whose ears is never an echo +of the old haunted world, when every wood and stream, every barren +moor and granite wilderness, every sea-pasture and creek and bay had +its particular presence, its spirit of good or ill, its menace, its +perilous enchantment. The eyes of the peasants by these shores, these +moors, these windy hill-slopes of the south, are not fixed only on the +meal-chest and the fallow-field, or, on fête-days, upon the crucifix +in the little church; but often dwell upon a past time, more sacred now +than ever in this bitter relinquishing age. On the lips of many may be +heard lines from that sad folk-song, "Ann Amzer Dremenet" (In the Long +Ago): + + Eur c'havel kaer karn olifant, + War-n-han tachou aour hag arc' hant. + + Daelou a ver, daelou c'houero: + Neb a zo enn han zo maro! + + Zo maro, zo maro pell-zo, + Hag hi luskel, o kana 'to, + + Hag hi luskel, luskel ato, + Kollet ar skiand-vad gant-ho. + + Ar skiand-vad ho deuz kollet; + Kollet ho deuz joaiou ar bed. + + * * * * * + + [But when they had made the cradle + Of ivory and of gold, + Their hearts were heavy still + With the sorrow of old. + + And ever as they rocked, the tears + Ran down, sad tears: + Who is it lieth dead therein, + Dead all these weary years? + + + And still they rock that cradle there + Of ivory and gold; + For in their brains the shadow is + The Shadow of Old. + + They weep, and know not what they weep; + They wait a vain rebirth: + Vanity of vanities, alas! + For there is but one birth + On the wide, green earth.] + +Old sayings they have, too; who knows how old? The charcoal-burner in +the woods above Kerloek will still shudder at the thought of death +on the bleak, open moor, because of the carrion-crow that awaits his +sightless eyes, the fox that will tear his heart out, and the toad +that will swallow his soul. Long, long ago Gwenc'hlan the Bard sang +thus of his foe and the foes of his people, when every battle field +was a pasture for the birds and beasts of prey, and when the Spirit of +Evil lurked near every corpse in the guise of a toad. And still the +shrimper, in the sands beyond Ploumaliou, will cry out against the +predatory sea fowl _A gas ar Gall--a gas ar Gall!_ (Chase the Franks!) +and not know that, ages ago, this cry went up from the greatest of +Breton kings, when Nomenoë drove the Frankish invaders beyond the Oust +and the Vilaine, and lighted their flight by the flames of Nantes and +Rennes. + +Near the northern frontier of the remotest part of this ancient region, +the Manor of Kerival was the light-house of its forest vicinage. It +was and is surrounded by woods, for the most part of oak and chestnut +and beech. Therein are trees of an age so great that they may have +sheltered the flight of Jud Mael, when Ahès chased him on her white +stallion from glade to glade, and one so venerably old that its roots +may have been soaked in the blood of their child Judik, whom she forced +her betrayer to slay with the sword before she thrust a dagger into +his heart. Northward of the manor, however, the forest is wholly of +melancholy spruce, of larch and pine. The pines extend in a desolate +disarray to the interminable dunes, beyond which the Breton sea lifts +its gray wave against a gray horizon. On that shore there are few +rocks, though here and there fang-like reefs rise, ready to tear and +devour any boat hurled upon them at full tide in days of storm. At +Kerival Haven, too, there is a wilderness of granite rock; a mass of +pinnacles, buttresses, and inchoate confusion, ending in long, smooth +ledges of black basalt, these forever washed by the green flow of the +tides. + +None of the peasants knew the age of the House of Kerival, or how long +the Kerival family had been there. Old Yann Hénan, the blind brother of +the white-haired _curé_, Père Alain, who was the oldest man in all the +countryside, was wont to say that Kerival woods had been green before +ever there was a house on the banks of the Seine, and that a Kerival +had been lord of the land before ever there was a king of France. All +believed this, except Père Alain, and even he dissented only when +Yann spoke of the seigneur's ancestor as the Marquis of Kerival; for, +as he explained, there were no marquises in those far-off days. But +this went for nothing; for, unfortunately, Père Alain had once in his +youth preached against the popular belief in Korrigans and Nains, and +had said that these supernatural beings did not exist, or at any +rate were never seen of man. How, then, could much credence be placed +on the testimony of a man who could be so prejudiced? Yann had but +to sing a familiar snatch from the old ballad of "Aotru Nann Hag ar +Gorrigan"--the fragment beginning + + Ken a gavas eur waz vihan + E-kichen ti eur Gorrigan, + +and ending + + Met gwell eo d'in mervel breman + 'Get dimizi d' eur Gorrigan!-- + + [The Lord Nann came to the Kelpie's Pool + And stooped to drink the water cool; + + But he saw the kelpie sitting by, + Combing her long locks listlessly. + + "O knight," she sang, "thou dost not fear + To draw these perilous waters near! + + Wed thou me now, or on a stone + For seven years perish all alone, + Or three days hence moan your death-moan!" + + "I will not wed you, nor alone + Perish with torment on a stone, + Nor three days hence draw my death-moan-- + + + For I shall die, O Kelpie fair, + When God lets down the golden stair, + And so my soul thou shalt not share-- + + But, if my fate is to lie dead, + Here, with thy cold breast for my bed, + Death can be mine, I will not wed!"] + +When Yann sang this, or told for the hundredth time the familiar story +of how Paskou-Hir the tailor was treated by the Nains when he sought to +rifle the hidden treasure in the grotto, every one knew that he spoke +what was authentic, what was true. As for Père Alain--well, priests are +told to say many things by the good, wise Holy Father, who rules the +world so well but has never been in Brittany, and so cannot know all +that happens there, and has happened from time immemorial. Then, again, +was there not the evidence of the alien, the strange, quiet man called +Yann the Dumb, because of his silence at most times--him that was the +servitor-in-chief to the Lady Lois, the beautiful paralyzed wife of the +Marquis of Kerival, and that came from the far north, where the kindred +of the Armorican race dwell among the misty isles and rainy hills +of Scotland? Indeed Yann had been heard to say that he would sooner +disbelieve in the Pope himself than in the kelpie, for in his own land +he had himself heard her devilish music luring him across a lonely +moor, and he had known a man who had gone fey because he had seen the +face of a kelpie in a hill-tarn. + +In the time of the greening, even the Korrigans are unseen of walkers +in the dusk. They are busy then, some say, winding the white into +the green bulbs of the water-lilies, or tinting the wings within the +chrysalis of the water-fly, or weaving the bright skins for the newts; +but however this may be, the season of the green flood over the brown +earth is not that wherein man may fear them. + +No fear of Korrigan or Nain, or any other woodland creature or haunter +of pool or stream, disturbed two who walked in the green-gloom of a +deep avenue in the midst of the forest beyond the Manor of Kerival. +They were young, and there was green fire in their hearts; for they +moved slow, hand claspt in hand, and with their eyes dwelling often +on the face of each other. And whenever Ynys de Kerival looked at +her cousin Alan she thought him the fairest and comeliest of the sons +of men; and whenever Alan turned the longing of his eyes upon Ynys he +wondered if anywhere upon the green earth moved aught so sweet and +winsome, if anywhere in the green world was another woman so beautiful +in body, mind, and spirit, as Ynys--Ynys the Dark, as the peasants +called her, though Ynys of the dusky hair and the hazel-green eyes +would have been truer of her whom Alan de Kerival loved. Of a truth, +she was fair to see. Tall she was, and lithe; in her slim, svelt body +there was something of the swift movement of the hill-deer, something +of the agile abandon of the leopard. She was of that small clan, the +true daughters of the sun. Her tanned face and hands showed that she +loved the open air, though indeed her every movement proved this. The +sun-life was even in that shadowy hair of hers, which had a sheen of +living light wrought into its fragrant dusk; it was in her large, deep, +translucent eyes, of a soft, dewy twilight-gray often filled with +green light, as of the forest-aisles or as the heart of a sea-wave as +it billows over sunlit sand; it was in the heart and in the brain of +this daughter of an ancient race--and the nostalgia of the green world +was hers. For in her veins ran the blood not only of her Armorican +ancestors but of another Celtic strain, that of the Gael of the Isles, +Through her mother, Lois Macdonald, of the remote south isles of the +Outer Hebrides, the daughter of a line as ancient as that of Tristran +de Kerival, she inherited even more than her share of the gloom, the +mystery, the sea-passion, the vivid oneness with nature which have +disclosed to so many of her fellow-Celts secret sources of peace. + +Everywhere in that region the peasant poets sang of Ynys the Dark or +of her sister Annaik. They were the two beautiful women of the world, +there. But, walking in the fragrant green-gloom of the beeches, Alan +smiled when he thought of Annaik, for all her milk-white skin and +her wonderful tawny hair, for all her strange, shadowy amber-brown +eyes--eyes often like dark hill-crystals aflame with stormy light. She +was beautiful, and tall too, and with an even wilder grace than Ynys; +yet--there was but one woman in the world, but one Dream, and her name +was Ynys. + +It was then that he remembered the line of the unfortunate boy-poet of +the Paris that has not forgotten him; and looking at Ynys, who seemed +to him the very spirit of the green life all around him, muttered: +"Then in the violet forest, all a-bourgeon, Eucharis said to me: 'It is +Spring.'" + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE HOUSE OF KERIVAL + + +It was with a sudden beating of the heart that, midway in Easter, Alan +de Kerival received in Paris two letters: one from the Marquis de +Kerival, and the other from his cousin Ynys, whom he loved. + +At all times he was ill at ease in the great city; or at all times save +when he was alone in his little study in the Tour de l'Ile, or in the +great circular room where the master astronomer, Daniel Darc, wrought +unceasingly. On rare occasions, golden afternoons these, he escaped to +the green places near Paris--to Rambouillet or St. Germain, or even +to Fontainebleau. There, under the leafless trees of winter or at the +first purpling of spring, he was wont to walk for hours, dreaming his +dream. For Alan was a poet, and to dream was his birthright. + +And for dream, what had he? There was Ynys above all, Ynys whom he +loved with ever deepening joy and wonder. More and more she had become +to him his real life; he lived in her, for her, because of her. More +and more, too, he realized that she was his strength, his inspiration. +But besides this abiding delight, which made his heart leap whenever +he saw a Breton name above a shop or on a volume on the bookstalls, +he was ever occupied by that wonderful past of his race which was to +him a living reality. It was perhaps because he so keenly perceived +the romance of the present--the romance of the general hour, of the +individual moment--that he turned so insatiably to the past with its +deathless charm, its haunting appeal. The great astronomer whom he +loved and served knew the young man well, and was wont to say that his +favorite assistant was born a thousand years too late. + +One day a Breton neighbor of the Marquis de Kerival questioned Daniel +Darc as to who the young man's friends were. "Nomenoë, Gradlon-Maur, +Gwenc'hlan, Taliésin, Merlin, and Oisin," was the reply. And it was +true. Alan's mind was as irresistibly drawn to the Celtic world of the +past as the swallow to the sun-way. In a word, he was not only a poet, +but a Celtic poet; and not only a Celtic poet, but a dreamer of the +Celtic dream. + +Perhaps this was because of the double strain in his veins. Doubtless, +too, it was continuously enhanced by his intimate knowledge of two of +the Celtic languages, that of the Breton and that of the Gael. It is +language that is the surest stimulus to the remembering nerves. We have +a memory within memory, as layers of skin underlie the epidermis. With +most of us this anterior remembrance remains dormant throughout life; +but to some are given swift ancestral recollections. Alan de Kerival +was of these few. + +His aunt, the Marquise, true Gael of the Hebrid Isles as she was, loved +the language of her people, and spoke it as she spoke English, even +better than French. Of Breton, save a few words and phrases, she knew +almost nothing--though Armorican was exclusively used throughout the +whole Kerival region, was the common tongue in the Manor itself, and +was habitually affected even by the Marquis de Kerival--on the few +occasions when Tristran the Silent, as the old nobleman was named, +cared to speak. But with two members of the household she invariably +spoke in Gaelic; with her nephew Alan, the child of her sister Silis +Macdonald, and her old servitor, Ian Macdonald, known among his fellows +as Yann the Dumb, mainly because he seldom spoke to them, having +no language but his own. Latterly, her daughter Ynys had become as +familiar with the one Celtic tongue as the other. + +With this double key, Alan unlocked many doors. All the wonderful +romance of old Armorica and of ancient Wales was familiar to him, and +he was deeply versed in the still more wonderful and magical lore of +the Gaelic race. In his brain ran ever that Ossianic tide which has +borne so many marvellous argosies through the troubled waters of the +modern mind. Old ballads of his native isles, with their haunting +Gaelic rhythms and idioms and their frequent reminiscences of the +Norse viking and the Danish summer-sailor, were often in his ears. He +had lived with his hero Cuchullin from the days when the boy showed his +royal blood at Emain-Macha till that sad hour when his madness came +upon him and he died. He had fared forth with many a Lifting of the +Sunbeam, and had followed Oisin step by step on that last melancholy +journey when Malvina led the blind old man along the lonely shores of +Arran. He had watched the _crann-tara_ flare from glen to glen, and at +the bidding of that fiery cross he had seen the whirling of swords, the +dusky flight of arrow-rain, and, from the isles, the leaping forth of +the war _birlinns_ to meet the viking galleys. How often, too, he had +followed Nial of the Nine Hostages, and had seen the Irish Charlemagne +ride victor through Saxon London, or across the Norman plains, or with +onward sword direct his army against the white walls of the Alps! +How often he had been with the great king Nomonoë, when he with his +Armoricans chased the Frankish wolves away from Breton soil, or had +raced with Gradlon-Maur from the drowning seas which overwhelmed Ys, +where the king's daughter had at the same moment put her hands on the +Gates of Love and Death! How often he had heard Merlin and Taliésin +speak of the secret things of the ancient wisdom, or Gwenc'hlan chant +upon his wild harp, or the fugitive song of Vivien in the green woods +of Broceliande, where the enchanted seer sleeps his long sleep and +dreams his dream of eternal youth. + +It was all this marvellous life of old which wrought upon Alan de +Kerival's life as by a spell. Often he recalled the words of a Gaelic +_sian_ he had heard Yann croon in his soft, monotonous voice--words +which made a light shoreward eddy of the present and were solemn with +the deep-sea sound of the past, that is with us even as we speak. + +He was himself, too, a poet, and loved to tell anew, in Breton, to the +peasants of Kerival, some of the wild north tales, or to relate in +Gaelic to his aunt and to Ynys the beautiful folk-ballads of Brittany, +which Annaik knew by heart and chanted with the strange, wailing music +of the forest-wind. + +In that old Manor, moreover, another shadow put a gloom into his +mind--this was another shadow than that which made the house so silent +and chill, the inviolate isolation of the paralyzed but still beautiful +Marquise Lois from her invalid husband, limb-useless from his thighs +because of a hurt done in the war into which he had gone brown-haired +and strong, and whence he had come broken in hope, shattered in health, +and gray with premature age. And this other shadow was the mystery of +his birth. + +It was in vain he had tried to learn the name of his father. Only three +people knew it: the Marquis Tristran, the Marquise Lois, and Yann the +Dumb. From none of these could he elicit more than what he had long +known. All was to be made clear on his twenty-fifth birthday; till then +he had to be content with the knowledge that he was Alan de Kerival by +courtesy only; that he was the son of Silis Macdonald, of an ancient +family whose ancestral home was in one of the isles of the Southern +Hebrides, of Silis, the dead sister of Lois de Kerival; and that he +was the adopted child of the Marquis and Marquise who bore that old +Armoric name. + +That there was tragedy inwrought with his story he knew well. From +fugitive words, too, he had gained the idea that his father, in common +with the Marquis Tristran, had been a soldier in the French army; +though as to whether this unknown parent was Scottish or Breton or +French, or as to whether he was alive or dead, there was no homing clew. + +To all his enquiries of the Marquise he received no answer, or was +told simply that he must wait. The Marquis he rarely saw, and never +spoke with. If ever he encountered the stern, white-haired man as he +was wheeled through the garden ways or down one of the green alleys, +or along the corridors of the vast, rambling château, they passed in +silence. Sometimes the invalid would look at him with the fierce, +unwavering eyes of a hawk; but for the most part the icy, steel-blue +eyes ignored the young man altogether. + +Yann, too, could not, or would not confide any thing more than Alan had +already learned from the Marquise. The gaunt old Hebridean--whose sole +recreation, when not sitting pipe in mouth before the flaming logs, was +to wander along the melancholy dunes by the melancholy gray sea, and +mutter continuously to himself in his soft island-Gaelic--would talk +slowly by the hour on old legends, and ballad-lore, and on seanachas of +every kind. When, however, Alan asked him about the sisters Lois and +Silis Macdonald, or how Lois came to marry a Breton, and as to the man +Silis loved, and what the name was of the isle whereon they lived,--or +even as to whether Ian himself had kith or kin living,--Yann would +justify his name. He took no trouble in evasion: he simply became dumb. + +Sometimes Alan asked the old man if he cared to see the Isles again. At +that, a look ever came into Ian Macdonald's eyes which made his young +clansman love him. + +"It will never, never be forgetting my own place I will be," he replied +once, "no, never. I would rather be hearing the sea on the shores there +than all the hymns of heaven, and I would rather be having the canna +and the heather over my head than be under the altar of the great +church at Kerloek. No, no, it is the pain I have for my own place, and +the isle where my blood has been for hundreds of years, and where for +sure my heart is, Alan Mac----" + +With eager ears Alan had hoped for the name whereat the old man had +stopped short. It would have told him much. "Alan, son of----!" Even +that baptismal name would probably have told him if his father were a +Gael or a Breton, an Englishman or a Frenchman. But Yann said no more, +then or later. + +Alan had hoped, too, that when he came back, after his first long +absence from Kerival, his aunt would be more explicit with him. A vain +hope, for when once more he was at the château he found the Marquise +even less communicative than was her wont. Her husband was more than +ever taciturn, and a gloom seemed to have descended upon the house. +For the first time he noticed a change in the attitude of Annaik. Her +great, scornful, wild-bird eyes looked at him often strangely. She +sought him, and then was silent. If he did not speak, she became +morose; if he spoke, she relapsed into her old scornful quiescence. +Sometimes, when they were alone, she unbent, and was his beautiful +cousin and comrade again; but in the presence of Ynys she bewildered +him by her sudden ennui or bitterness or even shadowy hostility. As for +Ynys, she was unhappy, save in Alan's love--a love that neither her +father nor mother knew, and of which she never spoke to Annaik. + +If Alan were a dreamer, Ynys was even more so. Then, too, she had what +Annaik had not, though she lacked what her sister had. For she was +mystical as that young saint of the Bretons who saw Christ walking by +night upon the hills, and believed that he met there a new Endymion, +his Bride of the Church come to him in the moonshine. Ynys believed in +St. Guennik, as she believed in Jeanne d'Arc, and no legend fascinated +her more than that strange one she had heard from Yann, of how Arthur +the Celtic hero would come again out of Flath-innis, and redeem his +lost, receding peoples. But, unlike Annaik, she had little of the +barbaric passion, little of that insatiate nostalgia for the life +of the open moor and the windy sea, though these she loved not less +whole-heartedly than did her sister. The two both loved Nature as +few women love her; but to Annaik the forest and the moorland were +home, while to Ynys they were rather sanctuaries or realms of natural +romance. This change to an unwelcome taciturnity had been noted by Alan +on his home visit at Christmas. Still, he had thought little of it +after his return to Paris, for the Noël-tide had been sweetened by the +word given to him by Ynys. + + * * * * * + +Then Easter had come, and with it the two letters of such import. That +from the Marquise was short and in the tongue he and she loved best: +but even thus it was written guardedly. The purport was that, now his +twenty-fifth birthday was at hand, he would soon learn what he had so +long wished to know. + +That from Ynys puzzled him. Why should dispeace have arisen between +Ynys and Annaik? Why should an already gloomy house have been made +still more sombre? + +One day, Ynys wrote, she had come upon Annaik riding Sultan, the black +stallion, and thrashing the horse till the foam flew from the champed +bit. When she had cried to Annaik to be merciful, and asked her why she +punished Sultan so, her sister had cried mockingly, "It is my love! +_Addio, Amore! Addio! Addio! Addio!_"--and at each _addio_ had brought +her whip so fiercely upon the stallion's quivering flanks that he had +reared, and all but thrown her, till she swung him round as on a pivot +and went at a wild gallop down a long beech-alley that led into the +heart of the forest. + +Well, these things would be better understood soon. In another week +he would be out of Paris, possibly never to return. And then ... +Brittany--Kerival--Ynys! + +Nevertheless his heart was not wholly away from his work. The great +astronomer had known and loved Hersart de Kerival, the younger brother +of Tristran, and it was for his sake that he had taken the young man +into his observatory. Soon he had discovered that the youth loved the +beautiful science, and was apt, eager, and yet patient to learn. In +the five years which Alan spent--with brief Brittany intervals--in +the observatory of the Tour de l'Ile, he had come to delight in the +profession which he had chosen, and of which the Marquise had approved. + +He was none the less close and eager a student because that he brought +to this enthralling science that spirit of the poetry of the past, +which was the habitual atmosphere wherein his mind dwelt. Even the +most eloquent dissertations of Daniel Darc failed to move him so much +as some ancient strain wherein the stars of heaven were hailed as +kindred of men; and never had any exposition of the lunar mystery so +exquisitely troubled him as that wonderful cry of Ossian which opens +the poem of "Darthula": + +"Daughter of heaven, fair art thou! the silence of thy face is +pleasant. Thou comest forth in loveliness; the stars attend thy +blue steps in the east. The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O moon, +and brighten their dark-brown sides. Who is like thee in heaven, +daughter of the night? The stars are ashamed in thy presence, and turn +aside their green sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy +course, when the darkness of thy countenance grows? Hast thou thy hall +like Ossian? Dwellest thou in the shadow of grief? Have thy sisters +fallen from heaven? Are they who rejoiced with thee, at night, no +more?--Yes!--They have fallen, fair light! and thou dost often retire +to mourn. But thou thyself shalt fail, one night; and leave thy blue +path in heaven. The stars will then lift their green heads; they, who +were ashamed in thy presence, will rejoice." + + + + +CHAPTER III + +STORM + + +Yes, he was glad to leave Paris, although that home of lost +causes--thus designate in a far truer sense than is the fair city by +the Isis--had a spell for him. But not Paris, not even what, night +after night, he beheld from the Tour de l'Ile, held him under a spell +comparable with that which drew him back to the ancient land where his +heart was. + +In truth, it was with relief at last that he saw the city recede from +his gaze, and merge into the green alleys north-westward. With a sigh +of content, he admitted that it was indeed well to escape from that +fevered life--a life that, to him, even in his lightest mood, seemed +far more phantasmal than that which formed the background to all his +thoughts and visions. Long before the cherry orchards above Rouen +came into view he realized how glad he was even to be away from the +bare, gaunt room where so many of his happiest hours had been spent; +that windy crow's-nest of a room at the top of the Tour de l'Ile, +whence nightly he had watched the procession of the stars, and nightly +had opened the dreamland of his imagination to an even more alluring +procession out of the past. + +His one regret was in having to part from Daniel Darc, that strange +and impressive personality who had so fascinated him, and the spell +of whose sombre intellect, with its dauntless range and scope, had +startled the thought of Europe, and even given dreams to many to whom +all dreams had become the very Fata Morgana of human life. + +Absorbed as he was, Daniel Darc realized that Alan was an astronomer +primarily because he was a poet rather than an astronomer by inevitable +bias. He saw clearly into the young man's mind, and certainly did not +resent that his favorite pupil loved to dwell with Merlin rather than +with Kepler, and that even Newton or his own master Arago had no such +influence over him as the far-off, nigh inaudible music of the harp of +Aneurin. + +And, in truth, below all Alan's passion for science--of that science +which is at once the oldest, the noblest, and the most momentous; +the science of the innumerous concourse of dead, dying, and flaming +adolescent worlds, dust about the threshold of an unfathomable and +immeasurable universe, wherein this Earth of ours is no more than a +mere whirling grain of sand--below all this living devotion lay a +deeper passion still. + +Truly, his soul must have lived a thousand years ago. In him, at least, +the old Celtic brain was reborn with a vivid intensity which none +guessed, and none except Ynys knew--if even she, for Alan himself only +vaguely surmised the extent and depth of this obsession. In heart and +brain that old world lived anew. Himself a poet, all that was fair and +tragically beautiful was forever undergoing in his mind a marvellous +transformation--a magical resurrection rather, wherein what was remote +and bygone, and crowned with oblivious dust, became alive again with +intense and beautiful life. + + * * * * * + +It did not harmonize ill with Alan's mood that, on the afternoon of the +day he left Rouen, great, bulbous storm-clouds soared out of the west +and cast a gloom upon the landscape. + +That is a strange sophistry which registers passion according to its +nearness to the blithe weal symbolized in fair weather. Deep passion +instinctively moves toward the shadow rather than toward the golden +noons of light. Passion hears what love at the most dreams of; passion +sees what love mayhap dimly discerns in a glass darkly. A million of +our fellows are "in love" at any or every moment; and for these the +shadowy way is intolerable. But for the few, in whom love is, the eyes +are circumspect against the dark hour which comes when heart and brain +and blood are aflame with the paramount ecstasy of life. + +Deep passion is always in love with death. The temperate solicitudes of +affection know not this perverse emotion, which is simply the darker +shadow inevitable to a deeper joy--as the profundity of an Alpine lake +is to be measured by the height of the remote summits which rise sheer +from its marge. + +When Alan saw this gloom slowly absorb the sunlight, and heard below +the soft spring cadences of the wind the moan of coming tempest, his +melancholy lightened. Soon he would see the storm crushing through the +woods of Kerival; soon feel the fierce rain come sweeping inland from +Ploumaliou; soon hear, confusedly obscure, the noise of the Breton Sea +along the reef-set sands. Already he felt the lips of Ynys pressed +against his own. + + * * * * * + +The sound of the sea called through the dusk, now with the muffled +under roar of famished lions, now with a loud, continuous baying like +that of eager hounds. + +Seaward, the deepening shadows passed intricately from wave to wave. +The bays and sheltered waters were full of a tumult as of baffled +flight, of fugitives jostling each other in a wild and fruitless +evasion. Along the interminable reach of the Dunes of Kerival the +sea's lips writhed and curled; while out of the heart of the turbulent +waste beyond issued a shrill, intermittent crying, followed by stifled +laughter. Ever and again tons of whirling water, meeting, disparted +with a hoarse thunder. This ever-growing and tempestuous violence was +reiterated in a myriad raucous, clamant voices along the sands and +among the reefs and rocks and weed-covered wave-hollowed crags. + +Above the shore a ridge of tamarisk-fringed dune suspended, hanging +there dark and dishevelled, like a gigantic eyebrow on the forehead of +a sombre and mysterious being. Beyond this, again, lay a stretch of +barren moor, caught and claspt a mile away by a dark belt of pines, +amid which the incessant volume of the wind passed with a shrill +whistling. Further in among the trees were oases of a solemn silence, +filled only at intervals with a single flute-like wind-eddy, falling +there as the song of a child lost and baffled in a waste place. + +Over and above the noise of the sea was a hoarse cry thridding it +as a flying shuttle in a gigantic loom. This was the wind, which +continuously swept from wave to wave--shrewd, salt, bitter with the +sterile breath of the wilderness whereon it roamed, crying and moaning, +baying, howling, insatiate. + +The sea-fowl, congregating from afar, had swarmed inland. Their wailing +cries filled the spray-wet obscurities. The blackness that comes before +the deepest dark lay in the hollow of the great wings of the tempest. +Peace nowhere prevailed, for in those abysmal depths where the wind was +not even a whisper, there was listless gloom only, because no strife is +there, and no dream lives amid those silent apathies. + +Neither upon the waters nor on the land was there sign of human life. +In that remote region, solitude was not a dream but a reality. An +ancient land, this loneliest corner of sea-washed Brittany; an ancient +land, with ever upon it the light of olden dreams, the gloom of +indefinable tragedy, the mystery of a destiny long ago begun and never +fulfilled. + +Lost like a rock in a forest, a weather-worn, ivy-grown château stood +within sound, though not within sight, of this tempestuous sea. All +about it was the deep, sonorous echo of wind and wave, transmuted into +a myriad cries among the wailing pines and oaks and vast beeches of the +woods of Kerival. Wind and wave, too, made themselves audible amid the +gables and in the huge chimneys of the old manor-house; even in the +draughty corridors an echo of the sea could be heard. + +The pathways of the forest were dank with sodden leaves, the _débris_ +of autumn which the snows of winter had saved from the whirling gales +of January. Underneath the brushwood and the lower boughs these lay in +brown, clotted masses, emitting a fugitive, indefinite odor, as though +the ghost of a dead year passed in that damp and lifeless effluence. +But along the frontiers of the woods there was an eddying dust of +leaves and small twigs, and part at least of the indeterminate rumor +which filled the air was caused by this frail lapping as of innumerable +minute wings. + +In one of those leaf-quiet alleys, shrouded in a black-green darkness +save where in one spot the gloom was illumined into a vivid brown, +because of a wandering beam of light from a turret in the château, a +man stood. The head was forwardly inclined, the whole figure intent as +a listening animal. He and his shadow were as those flowers of darkness +whose nocturnal bloom may be seen of none save in the shadowy land of +dream. + +When for a moment the wind-wavered beam of light fell athwart his +face--so dark and wild that he might well have been taken for a +nameless creature of the woods--he moved. + +With a sudden gesture he flung his arms above his head. His shadow +sprang to one side with fantastic speed, leaping like a diver into the +gulf of darkness. + +"Annaik," he cried, "Annaik, Annaik!" + +The moan of the wind out of the sea, the confused noise of the wind's +wings baffling through the woods; no other answer than these, no other +sound. + +"Annaik, Annaik!" + +There was pain as of a wounded beast in the harsh cry of this haunter +of the dark; but the next moment it was as though the lost shadow had +leapt back, for a darkness came about the man, and he lapsed into the +obscurity as a wave sinks into a wave. + +But, later, out of the silence came a voice. + +"Ah, Annaik!" it cried, "ah, Annaik, forsooth! It is Annaik of Kerival +you are, and I the dust upon the land of your fathers--but, by the +blood of Ronan, it is only a woman you are; and, if I had you here it +is a fall of my fist you would be having--aye, the stroke and the blow, +for all that I love you as I do, white woman, aye, and curse you and +yours for that loving!" + +Then, once again, there was silence. Only the screeching of the +wind among the leaves and tortured branches; only the deep roar of +the tempest at the heart of the forest; only the thunder of the sea +throbbing pulse-like through the night. Nor when, a brief while later, +a white owl, swifter but not less silent than a drift of vapor, swooped +that way, was there living creature in that solitary place. + +The red-yellow beam still turned into brown the black-green of that +windy alley; but the man, and the shadow of him, and the pain of the +beast that was in him, and the cry of the baffled soul, the cry that +none might know or even guess--of all this sorrow of the night, nothing +remained save the red light lifting and falling through the shadowy +hair of what the poets of old called The Dark Woman ... Night. + +Only, who may know if, in that warmth and glow within the House of +Kerival, some sudden menace from the outside world of life did not +knock at the heart of Annaik, where she, tall and beautiful in her +cream-white youth and with her mass of tawny hair, stood by Ynys, +whose dusky loveliness was not less than her own--both radiant in the +fire-light, with laughter upon the lips and light within their eyes. + +Oh, flame that burns where fires of home are lit! and oh, flame that +burns in the heart to whom life has not said, Awake! and oh, flame that +smoulders from death to life, and from life to death, in the dumb lives +of those to whom the primrose way is closed! Everywhere the burning +of the burning, the flame of the flame; pain and the shadow of pain, +joy and the rapt breath of joy, flame of the flame that, burning, +destroyeth not till the flame is no more! + + * * * * * + +It was the night of the home-coming of Alan. So long had Ynys and +Annaik looked forward to this hour, that now hardly could they believe +the witness of their eyes when with eager glances they scrutinized the +new-comer--their Alanik of old. + +He stood before the great fire of logs. Upon his face the sharp, +damp breath of the storm still lingered, but in his eyes was a light +brighter than any dancing flame would cause, and in his blood a pulse +that leapt because of another reason than that swift ride through the +stormy woods of Kerival. + +At the red and stormy break of that day Ynys had awaked with a song +of joy in her heart that from hour to hour had found expression in +bird-like carollings, little words and fugitive phrases which rippled +from her lips, the sunshine-spray from the fount of life whereon her +heart swam as a nenuphar on an upwelling pool. Annaik also had waked +at that dawn of storm. She had risen in silence, and in silence had +remained all day; giving no sign that the flame within her frayed the +nerves of her heart. + +Throughout the long hours of tempest, and into that dusk wherein the +voice of the sea moved, moaning, across the land, laughter and dream +had alternated with Ynys. Annaik looked at her strangely at times, but +said nothing. Once, standing in the twilight of the dark-raftered room, +Ynys clasped her hands across her bosom and murmured, "Oh, heart be +still! My heaven is come." And in that hour, and in that place, she who +was twin to her--strange irony of motherhood, that should give birth in +one hour to Day and Night, for even as day and night were these twain, +so unlike in all things--in that hour and in that place Annaik also +clasped her hands across her bosom, and the words that died across the +shadow of her lips were, "Oh, heart be still! My hell is near." + +And now he for whom both had waited stood, flooded in the red fire glow +which leaped from panel to panel, and from rafter to rafter, while, +without, the howling of the wind rose and fell in prolonged, monotonous +cadences,--anathemas, rather,--whirled through a darkness full of +bewilderment and terror. + +As for Alan, it was indeed for joy to him to stand there, home once +more, with not only the savagery of the tempest behind him, but also +left behind, that unspeakably far-off, bewilderingly remote city of +Paris whence he had so swiftly come. + +It is said of an ancient poet of the Druid days that he had the power +to see the lives of the living, and these as though they were phantoms, +separate from the body. Was there not a young king of Albainn who, in a +perilous hour, discovered this secret of old time, and knew how a life +may be hidden away from the body so that none may know of it, save the +wind that whispers all things, and the tides of day and night that bear +all things upon their dark flood? + +King of Albainn, poet of the old time, not alone three youthful +dreamers would you have seen, there, in that storm-beset room. For +there you would have seen six figures standing side by side. Three of +these would have been Alan de Kerival, and Ynys the Dark, and Annaik +the Fair; and of the other three, one would be of a dusky-haired woman +with starry, luminous eyes; and one a pale woman with a wealth of tawny +hair, with eyes aflame, meteors in a desert place; and one a man, +young and strong and fair to see as Alan de Kerival, but round about +him a gloom, and through that gloom his eyes as stars seen among the +melancholy hills. + +Happy laughter of the world that is always young--happy, in that we are +not all seers of old or kings of Albainn! For who, looking into the +mirrors of Life and seeing all that is to be seen, would look again, +save those few to whom Life and Death have come sisterly and whispered +the secret that some have discerned, how these twain are one and the +same. + +Nevertheless, in that happy hour for him, Alan saw nothing of what Ynys +feared. Annaik had abruptly yielded to a strange gayety, and her swift +laugh and gypsy smile made his heart glad. + +Never had he seen, even in Paris, women more beautiful. Deep-set as +his heart was in the beauty of Ynys, he found himself admiring that of +Annaik with new eyes. Truly, she was just such a woman as he had often +imagined when Ian had recited to him the ballad of the Sons of Usna or +that of how Dermid and Graine fled from the wrath of Fionn. + +And they, too, looking at their tall cousin, with his wavy brown hair, +broad, low brows, gray-blue eyes, and erect carriage, thought him the +comeliest man to be seen in France; and each in her own way was proud +and glad, though one, also, with killing pain. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE DREAM AND THE DREAMERS + + +Soon after supper Annaik withdrew. Ynys and Alan were glad to be alone, +and yet Annaik's absence perturbed them. In going she bade good-night +to her cousin, but took no notice of her sister. + +At first the lovers were silent though they had much to say, and in +particular Alan was anxious to know what it was that Ynys had alluded +to in her letter when she warned him that unforeseen difficulties were +about their way. + +It was pleasant to sit in that low-roofed, dark old room, and feel the +world fallen away from them. Hand in hand they looked at each other +lovingly, or dreamed into the burning logs, seeing there all manner of +beautiful visions. Outside, the wind still moaned and howled, though +with less of savage violence, and the rain had ceased. + +For a time Ynys would have no talk of Kerival; Alan was to tell all +he could concerning his life in Paris, what he had done, what he had +dreamed of, and what he hoped for now. But at last he laughingly +refused to speak more of himself, and pressed her to reveal what had +been a source of anxiety. + +"You know, dear," she said, as she rose and leaned against the +mantel-piece, her tall figure and dusky hair catching a warm glow from +the fire--"you know how pitiable is this feud between my father and +mother--how for years they have seen next to nothing of each other; +how they live in the same house and yet are strangers? You know, too, +how more than ever unfortunate this is, for themselves, and for Annaik +and me, on account of our mother being an invalid, and of our father +being hardly less frail. Well, I have discovered that the chief, if not +indeed the only abiding source of misunderstanding is _you_, dear Alan!" + +"But why, Ynys?" + +"Ah, why? That is, of course, what I cannot tell you. Have you no +suspicion, no idea?" + +"None. All I know is that M. de Kerival allows me to bear his name, +but that he dislikes, if, indeed, he does not actually hate me." + +"There is some reason. I came upon him talking to my mother a short +time ago. She had told him of your imminent return. + +"'I never wish to see his face,' my father cried, with fierce +vehemence; then, seeing me, he refrained." + +"Well, I shall know all the day after to-morrow. Meanwhile, Ynys, we +have the night to ourselves. Dear, I want to learn one thing. What +does Annaik know? Does she know that we love each other? Does she know +that we have told each other of this love, and that we are secretly +betrothed?" + +"She _must_ know that I love you; and sometimes I think she knows that +you love me. But ... oh, Allan! I am so unhappy about it.... I fear +that Annaik loves you also, and that this will come between us all. It +has already frozen her to me and me to her." + +Alan looked at Ynys with startled eyes. He knew Annaik better than +any one did; and he dreaded the insurgent bitterness of that wild +and wayward nature. Moreover, in a sense he loved her, and it was for +sorrow to him that she should suffer in a way wherein he could be of no +help. + +At that moment the door opened, and Matieu, a white-haired old servant, +bowing ceremoniously, remarked that M. le Marquis desired to see +Mamzelle Ynys immediately. + +Ynys glanced round, told Matieu that she would follow, and then turned +to Alan. How beautiful she was! he thought; more and more beautiful +every time he saw her. Ah! fair mystery of love, which puts a glory +about the one loved; a glory that is no phantasmal light, but the +realized beauty evoked by seeing eyes and calling heart. On her face +was a wonderful color, a delicate flush that came and went. Again and +again she made a characteristic gesture, putting her right hand to her +forehead and then through the shadowy, wavy hair which Alan loved so +well and ever thought of as the fragrant dusk. How glad he was that she +was tall and lithe, graceful as a young birch; that she was strong and +kissed brown and sweet of sun and wind; that her beauty was old as the +world, and fresh as every dawn, and new as each recurrent spring! No +wonder he was a poet, since Ynys was the living poem who inspired all +that was best in his life, all that was fervent in his brain. + +Thought, kindred to this, kept him a long while by the fire in deep +revery, after Ynys had thrilled him by her parting kisses and had gone +to her father. He realized, then, how it was she gave him the sense of +womanhood as no other woman had done. In her, he recognized the symbol +as well as the individual. All women shared in his homage because of +her. His deep love for her, his ever growing passion, could evoke from +him a courtesy, a chivalry, toward all women which only the callous or +the coarse failed to note. She was his magic. The light of their love +was upon every thing: everywhere he found synonyms and analogues of +"Ynys." Deeply as he loved beauty, he had learned to love it far more +keenly and understandingly, because of her. He saw now through the +accidental, and everywhere discerned the eternal beauty, the echoes of +whose wandering are in every heart and brain, though few discern the +white vision or hear the haunting voice. + +And with his love had come knowledge of many things hidden from him +before. Sequences were revealed, where he had perceived only blind +inconsequence. Nature became for him a scroll, a palimpsest with daily +mutations. With each change he found a word, a clew, leading to the +fuller elucidation of that primeval knowledge which, fragmentarily, +from age to age has been painfully lost, regained, and lost again, +though never yet wholly irrecoverable. + +Through this new knowledge, too, he had come to understand the supreme +wonder and promise, the supreme hope of our human life in the mystery +of motherhood. All this and much more he owed to Ynys, and to his love +for her. She was all that a woman can be to a man. In her he found +the divine abstractions which are the beacons of the human soul in +its obscure wayfaring--Romance, Love, Beauty. It was not enough that +she gave him romance, that she gave him love, that she was the most +beautiful of women in his eyes. When he thought of the one, it was to +see the starry eyes and to hear the charmed voice of Romance herself, +in the voice and in the eyes of Ynys: when he thought of Love it was to +hear Ynys's heart beating, to listen to the secret rhythms in Ynys's +brain, to feel the life-giving sun-flood that was in her pure but +intense and glowing passion. + +Thus it was that she had for him that immutable attraction which a +few women have for a few men; an appeal, a charm, that atmosphere of +romance, that air of ideal beauty, wherein lies the secret of all +passionate art. The world without wonder, the world without mystery! +That, indeed, is the rainbow without colors, the sunrise without living +gold, the noon void of light. + +To him, moreover, there was but one woman. In Ynys he had found her. +This exquisite prototype was at once a child of nature, a beautiful +pagan, a daughter of the sun; was at once this and a soul alive with +the spiritual life, intent upon the deep meanings lurking everywhere, +wrought to wonder even by the common habitudes of life, to mystery +even by the familiar and the explicable. Indeed, the mysticism which +was part of the spiritual inheritance come with her northern strain was +one of the deep bonds which united them. + +What if both at times were wrought too deeply by this beautiful dream? +What if the inner life triumphed now and then, and each forgot the +deepest instinct of life, that here the body is overlord and the soul +but a divine consort? There are three races of man. There is the myriad +race which loses all, through (not bestiality, for the brute world is +clean and sane) perverted animalism; and there is the myriad race which +denounces humanity, and pins all its faith and joy to a life the very +conditions of whose existence are incompatible with the law to which we +are subject--the sole law, the law of Nature. Then there is that small +untoward clan, which knows the divine call of the spirit through the +brain, and the secret whisper of the soul in the heart, and forever +perceives the veils of mystery and the rainbows of hope upon our human +horizons; which hears and sees, and yet turns wisely, meanwhile, +to the life of the green earth, of which we are part; to the common +kindred of living things, with which we are at one--is content, in a +word, to live, because of the dream that makes living so mysteriously +sweet and poignant; and to dream, because of the commanding immediacy +of life. + +As yet, of course, Alan and Ynys had known little of the vicissitudes +of aroused life. What they did know, foresee, was due rather to +the second-sight of the imagination than to the keen knowledge of +experience. + +In Alan Ynys found all that her heart craved. She discovered this +nearly too late. A year before this last home-coming of her cousin, +she had been formally betrothed to Andrik de Morvan, the friend of her +childhood and for whom she had a true affection, and in that betrothal +had been quietly glad. When, one midwinter day, she and Alan walked +through an upland wood and looked across the snowy pastures and the +white slopes beyond, all aglow with sunlight, and then suddenly turned +toward each other, and saw in the eyes of each a wonderful light, and +the next moment were heart to heart, it was all a revelation. + +For long she did not realize what it meant. On that unforgettable day, +when they had left the forest ridge and were near Kerival again, she +had sat for a time on one of the rude cattle-gates which are frequent +in these woodlands, while Alan had leant beside her, looking up +with eyes too eloquent, and speaking of what he dreamed, with sweet +stammering speech of new found love. + +How she had struggled, mentally, with her duty, as she conceived it, +toward Andrik. She was betrothed to him; he loved her; she loved him +too, although even already she realized that there is a love which is +not only invincible and indestructible but that comes unsought, has no +need for human conventions, is neither moral nor immoral but simply +all-potent and thenceforth sovereign. To yield to that may be wrong; +but, if so, it is wrong to yield to the call of hunger, the cry of +thirst, the whisper of sleep, the breath of ill, the summons of death. +It comes, and that is all. The green earth may be another Endymion, +and may dream that the cold moonshine is all in all; but when the sun +rises, and a new heat and glory and passion of life are come, then +Endymion simply awakes. + +It had been a sadness to her to have to tell Andrik she no longer loved +him as he was fain to be loved. He would have no finality, then; he +held her to the bond--and in Brittany there is a pledge akin to the +"hand-fast" of the north, which makes a betrothal almost as binding as +marriage. + +Andrik de Morvan had gone to the Marquis de Kerival, and told him what +Ynys had said. + +"She is but a girl," the seigneur remarked coldly. "And you are wrong +in thinking she can be in love with any one else. There is no one for +whom she can care so much as for you; no one whom she has met with whom +she could mate; no one with whom I would allow her to mate." + +"But that matters little, if she will not marry me!" the young man had +urged. + +"My daughter is my daughter, De Morvan. I cannot compel her to marry +you. I know her well enough to be sure that she would ignore any +command of this kind. But women are fools; and one can get them to do +what one wants, in one way if not in another. Let her be a while." + +"But the betrothal!" + +"Let it stand. But do not press it. Indeed, go away for a year. You are +heir to your mother's estates in Touraine. Go there, work, learn all +you can. Meanwhile, write occasionally to Ynys. Do not address her as +your betrothed, but at the same time let her see that it is the lover +who writes. Then, after a few months, confide that your absence is due +solely to her, that you cannot live without her; and that, after a +vain exile, you write to ask if you may come and see her. They are all +the same. It is the same thing with my mares, for which Kerival is so +famous. Some are wild, some are docile, some skittish, some vicious, +some good, a few flawless--but.... Well, they are all mares. One knows. +A mare is not a sphinx. These complexities of which we hear so much, +what are they? Spindrift. The sea is simply the sea, all the same. The +tide ebbs, though the poets reverse nature. Ebb and flow, the lifting +wind, the lifted wave; we know the way of it all. It has its mystery, +its beauty; but we don't really expect to see a nereid in the hollow of +the wave, or to catch the echo of a triton in the call of the wind. As +for Venus Anadyomene, the foam of which she was made is the froth in +poets' brains. Believe me, Annaik, my friend, women are simply women; +creatures not yet wholly tamed, but tractable in the main, delightful, +valuable often, but certainly not worth the tribute of passion and pain +they obtain from foolish men like yourself." + +With this worldly wisdom Andrik de Morvan had gone home, unconvinced. +He loved Ynys; and sophistries were an ineffectual balm. + +But as for Ynys, she had long made up her mind. Betrothal or no +betrothal, she belonged now only to one man, and that man, Alan de +Kerival. She was his and his alone, by every natural right. How could +she help the accident by which she had cared for Andrik before she +loved Alan? Now, indeed, it would be sacrilege to be other than wholly +Alan's. Was her heart not his, and her life with her heart, and with +both her deathless devotion? + +Alan, she knew, trusted her absolutely. Before he went back to Paris, +after their love was no longer a secret, he had never once asked her to +forfeit any thing of her intimacy with Andrik, nor had he even urged +the open cancelling of the betrothal. But she was well aware his own +absolute loyalty involved for him a like loyalty from her; and she knew +that forgiveness does not belong to those natures which stake all upon +a single die. + +And so the matter stood thus still. Ynys and Andrik de Morvan were +nominally betrothed; and not only the Marquis and the Marquise de +Kerival, but Andrik himself, looked upon the bond as absolute. + +Perhaps Lois de Kerival was not without some suspicion as to how +matters were between the betrothed pair. Certainly she knew that Ynys +was not one who would give up any real or imagined happiness because of +a conventional arrangement or on account of any conventional duty. + +In Alan, Ynys found all that he found in her. When she looked at him, +she wondered how she could ever have dreamed of Andrik as a lover, +for Alan was all that Andrik was not. How proud and glad she felt +because of his great height and strength, his vivid features with their +gray-blue eyes and spirituel expression, his wavy brown hair, a very +type of youthful and beautiful manhood! Still more she revered and +loved the inner Alan whom she knew so well, and recognized with a proud +humility that this lover of hers, whom the great Daniel Darc had spoken +of as a man of genius, was not only her knight, but her comrade, her +mate, her ideal. + +Often the peasants of Kerival had speculated if the young seigneur +would join hands with her or with Annaik. Some hoped the one, some the +other; but those who knew Alan otherwise than merely by sight felt +certain that Ynys was the future bride. + +"They are made for each other," old Jeanne Mael, the village authority, +was wont to exclaim; "and the good God will bring them together soon or +late. 'Tis a fair, sweet couple they are; none so handsome anywhere. +That tall, dark lass will be a good mother when her hour comes; an' the +child o' him an' her should be the bonniest in the whole wide world." + +With that all who saw them together agreed. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE WALKER IN THE NIGHT + + +It was an hour from midnight when Alan rose, opened a window, and +looked out. The storm was over. He could see the stars glistening like +silver fruit among the upper branches of the elms. Behind the great +cypress known as the Fate of Kerival there was a golden radiance, as +though a disk of radiant bronze were being slowly wheeled round and +round, invisible itself but casting a quivering gleam upon the fibrous +undersides of the cypress spires. Soon the moon would lift upward, and +her paling gold become foam-white along the wide reaches of the forest. + +The wind had suddenly fallen. In this abrupt lapse into silence there +was something mysterious. After so much violence, after that wild, +tempestuous cry, such stillness! There was no more than a faint +rustling sound, as though invisible feet were stealthily flying along +the pathway of the upper boughs and through the dim defiles in the +dense coverts of oak and beech in the very heart of the woods. Only, +from hitherward of the unseen dunes floated a melancholy, sighing +refrain, the echo of the eddying sea-breath among the pines. Beyond the +last sands, the deep, hollow boom of the sea itself. + +To stay indoors seemed to Alan a wanton forfeiture of beauty. The +fragrance of the forest intoxicated him. Spring was come, indeed. +This wild storm had ruined nothing, for at its fiercest it had swept +overhead; and on the morrow the virginal green world would be more +beautiful than ever. Everywhere the green fire of spring would be +litten anew. A green flame would pass from meadow to hedgerow, from +hedgerow to the tangled thickets of bramble and dog-rose, from the +underwoods to the inmost forest glades. Everywhere song would be to +the birds, everywhere young life would pulse, everywhere the rhythm +of a new rapture would run rejoicing. The miracle of spring would be +accomplished in the sight of all men, of all birds and beasts, of all +green life. Each, in its kind, would have a swifter throb in the red +blood or the vivid sap. + +No, he could not wait. No, Alan added to himself with a smile, not even +though to sleep in the House of Kerival was to be beneath the same roof +as Ynys--to be but a few yards, a passage, a corridor away. Ah! for +sure, he could dream his dream as well out there among the gleaming +boughs, in the golden sheen of the moon, under the stars. Was there not +the silence for deep peace, and the voice of the unseen sea for echo +to the deep tides of love which surged obscurely in his heart? Yes, he +would go out to that beautiful redemption of the night. How often, in +fevered Paris, he had known that healing, either when his gaze was held +by the quiet stars, as he kept his hours-long vigil, or when he escaped +westward along the banks of the Seine, and could wander undisturbed +across grassy spaces or under shadowy boughs! + +In the great hall of the Manor he found white-haired Matieu asleep in +his wicker chair. The old man silently opened the heavy oaken door, +and, with a smile which somewhat perplexed Alan, bowed to him as he +passed forth. + +Could it be a space only of a few hours that divided him from his +recent arrival, he wondered. The forest was no longer the same. Then it +was swept by the wind, lashed by the rains, and was everywhere tortured +into a tempestuous music. Now it was so still, save for a ceaseless +faint dripping from wet leaves and the conduits of a myriad sprays +and branches, that he could hear the occasional shaking of the wings +of hidden birds, ruffling out their plumage because of the moonlit +quietudes that were come again. + +And then, too, he had seen Ynys; had held her hand in his; had looked +in her beautiful, hazel-green eyes, dusky and wonderful as a starlit +gloaming because of the depth of her dear love; had pressed his +lips to hers, and felt the throbbing of her heart against his own. +There, in the forest-edge, it was difficult to realize all this. It +would be time to turn soon, to walk back along the sycamore-margined +Seine embankment, to reach the Tour de l'Ile and be at his post in +the observatory again. Then he glanced backward, and saw a red light +shining from the room where the Marquis de Kerival sat up late night +after night, and he wondered if Ynys were still there, or if she were +now in her room and asleep, or if she lay in a waking dream. + +For a time he stared at this beacon. Then, troubled by many thoughts, +but most by his love, he moved slowly into one of the beech avenues +which radiated from the fantastic mediæval sun-dial at the end of the +tulip garden in front of the château. + +While the moon slowly lifted from branch to branch a transient stir of +life came into the forest. + +Here and there he heard low cries, sometimes breaking into abrupt +eddies of arrested song; thrushes, he knew, ever swift to slide their +music out against any tide of light. Once or twice a blackcap, in one +of the beeches near the open, sang so poignantly a brief strain that he +thought it that of a nightingale. Later, in an oak glade, he heard the +unmistakable song itself. + +The sea sound came hollowly under the boughs like a spent billow. +Instinctively he turned that way, and so crossed a wide glade that +opened on the cypress alley to the west of the château. + +Just as he emerged upon this glade he thought he saw a stooping figure +glide swiftly athwart the northern end of it and disappear among the +cypresses. Startled, he stood still. + +No one stirred. Nothing moved. He could hear no sound save the faint +sighing of the wind-eddy among the pines, the dull rhythmic beat of the +sea falling heavily upon the sands. + +"It must have been a delusion," he muttered. Yet, for the moment, he +had felt certain that the crouching figure of a man had moved swiftly +out of the shadow of the solitary wide-spreading thorn he knew so well, +and had disappeared into the darker shadow of the cypress alley. + +After all, what did it matter? It could only be some poor fellow +poaching. With a smile, Alan remembered how often he had sinned +likewise. He would listen, however, and give the man a fright, for +he knew that Tristran de Kerival was stern in his resentment against +poachers, partly because he was liberal in certain woodland-freedom +he granted, on the sole condition that none of the peasants ever came +within the home domain. + +Soon, however, he was convinced that he was mistaken. Deep silence +prevailed everywhere. Almost, he fancied, he could hear the soft fall +of the dew. A low whirring sound showed that a night-jar had already +begun his summer wooing. Now that, as he knew from Ynys, the cuckoo +was come, and that the swallows had suddenly multiplied from a score +of pioneers into a battalion of ever-flying darts; now that he had +listened to the nightingales calling through the moonlit woods and had +heard the love-note of the night-jar, the hot weather must be come at +last--that glorious tide of golden life which flows from April to June +and makes them the joy of the world. + +Slowly he walked across the glade. At the old thorn he stopped, and +leaned a while against its rugged, twisted bole, recalling incident +after incident associated with it. + +It was strangely restful there. Around him was the quiet sea of +moonlight; yonder, behind the cypresses and the pine-crowned dunes, +was the quiet sea of moving waters; yet, in the one, there was scarce +less of silence than in the other. Ah! he remembered abruptly, on just +such a night, years ago, he and Annaik had stood long there, hand in +hand, listening to a nightingale. What a strange girl she was, even +then! Well he recalled how, at the end of the song and when the little +brown singer had slipped from its bough, like a stone slung from a +sling, Annaik had laughed, though he knew not at what, and had all at +once unfastened her hair, and let its tawny bronze-red mass fall about +her shoulders. She was so beautiful and wild that he had clasped her +in his arms, and had kissed her again and again. And Annaik ... oh, he +remembered, half shyly, half exultantly ... she had laughed again, but +more low, and had tied the long drifts of her hair around his neck like +a blood-red scarf. + +It gave him a strange emotion to recall all this. Did Annaik also think +of it ever, he wondered? Then, too, had they not promised somewhat to +each other? Yes ... Annaik had said: "One night we shall come here +again, and then, if you do not love me as much as you do now, I shall +strangle you with my hair: and if you love me more we shall go away +into the forest, and never return, or not for long, long; but if you do +not love me at all, then you are to tell me so, and I will----" + +"What?" he had asked, when she stopped abruptly. + +At that, however, she had said no more as to what was in her mind, but +had asked him to carve upon the thorn the "A" of her name and the "A" +of his into a double "A." Yes, of course, he had done this. Where was +it? he pondered. Surely midway on the southward side, for then as now +the moonlight would be there. + +With an eagerness of which he was conscious he slipped from where he +leaned, and examined the bole of the tree. A heavy branch intervened. +This he caught and withheld, and the light flooded upon the gnarled +trunk. + +With a start, Alan almost relinquished the branch. There, unmistakable, +was a large carven "A," but not only was it the old double "A" made +into a single letter, but clearly the change had been made quite +recently, apparently within a few hours. Moreover, it was now linked to +another letter. The legend ran: "_A & J_." + +Puzzled, he looked close. There could be no mistake. The cutting was +recent. The "_J_," indeed, might have been that moment done. Suddenly +an idea flashed into his mind. He stooped and examined the mossed +roots. Yes, there were the fragments. He took one and put it between +his teeth; the wood was soft, and had the moisture of fibre recently +severed. + +Who was "J"? Alan pondered over every name he could think of. He +knew no one whose baptismal name began thus, with the exception of +Jervaise de Morvan, the brother of Andrik, and he was married and +resident in distant Pondicherry. Otherwise there was but Jak Bourzak, +the woodcutter--a bent, broken-down old man who could not have cut +the letters for the good reason that he was unable to write and was +so ignorant that, even in that remote region, he was called Jak the +Stupid. Alan was still pondering over this when suddenly the stillness +was broken by the loud screaming of peacocks. + +Kerival was famous for these birds, of which the peasantry stood in +superstitious awe. Indeed, a legend was current to the effect that +Tristran de Kerival maintained those resplendent creatures because +they were the souls of his ancestors, or such of them as before death +had not been able to gain absolution for their sins. When they were +heard crying harshly before rain or at sundown, or sometimes in the +moonlight, the hearers shuddered. "The lost souls of Kerival" became a +saying, and there were prophets here and there who foreboded ill for +Tristran the Silent, or some one near and dear to him, whenever that +strange clamor rang forth unexpectedly. + +Alan himself was surprised, startled. The night was so still, no +further storm was imminent, and the moon had been risen for some time. +Possibly the peacocks had strolled into the cypress alley, to strut to +and fro in the moonshine, as their wont was in their wooing days, and +two of them had come into jealous dispute. + +Still that continuous harsh tumult seemed rather to have the note of +alarm than of quarrel. Alan walked to the seaward side of the thorn, +but still kept within its shadow. + +The noise was now not only clamant but startling. The savage screaming, +like that of barbaric trumpets, filled the night. + +Swiftly the listener crossed the glade, and was soon among the +cypresses. There, while the dull thud of the falling seas was more than +ever audible, the screams of the peacocks were so insistent that he had +ears for these alone. + +At the eastern end of the alley the glade broke away into scattered +pines, and from these swelled a series of low dunes. Alan could see +them clearly from where he stood, under the boughs of a huge yew, one +of several that grew here and there among their solemn, columnar kin. + +His gaze was upon this open space when, abruptly, he started. A tall, +slim figure, coming from the shore, moved slowly inland across the +dunes. + +Who could this walker in the dark be? The shadowy Walker in the Night +herself, mayhap; the dreaded soulless woman who wanders at dead of +night through forests, or by desolate shores, or by the banks of the +perilous _marais_. + +Often he had heard of her. When any man met this woman, his fate +depended on whether he saw her before she caught sight of him. If she +saw him first, she had but to sing her wild, strange song, and he would +have to go to her; and when he was before her two flames would come out +of her eyes, and one flame would burn up his life as though it were dry +tinder, and the other would wrap round his soul like a scarlet shawl, +and she would take it and live with it in a cavern underground for a +year and a day. And on that last day she would let it go, as a hare is +let go a furlong beyond a greyhound. Then it would fly like a windy +shadow from glade to glade or from dune to dune, in the vain hope to +reach a wayside Calvary; but ever in vain. Sometimes the Holy Tree +would almost be reached; then, with a gliding swiftness, like a flood +racing down a valley, the Walker in the Night would be alongside the +fugitive. Now and again unhappy night-farers--unhappy they, for sure, +for never does weal remain with any one who hears what no human ear +should hearken--would be startled by a sudden laughing in the darkness. +This was when some such terrible chase had happened, and when the +creature of the night had taken the captive soul, in the last moments +of the last hour of the last day of its possible redemption, and rent +it this way and that, as a hawk scatters the feathered fragments of its +mutilated quarry. + +Alan thought of this wild legend, and shuddered. Years ago he had been +foolhardy enough to wish to meet the phantom, to see her before she saw +him, and to put a spell upon her. For, if this were possible, he could +compel her to whisper some of her secret lore, and she could give him +spells to keep him scathless till old age. + +But as, with fearful gaze, he stared at the figure which so leisurely +moved toward the cypress alley, he was puzzled by some vague +resemblance, by something familiar. The figure was that of a woman, +unmistakably; and she moved as though she were in a dream. + +But who could it be, there, in that lonely place, at that hour of the +night? Who would venture or care.... + +In a flash all was clear. It was Annaik! + +There was no room for doubt. He might have known her lithe walk, her +wildwood grace, her peculiar carriage; but before recognition of these +had come, he had caught a glimpse of her hair in the moonlight. It was +like burnished brass, in that yellow shine. There was no other such +hair in the world, he believed. + +But ... Annaik! What could she be doing there? How had she been able to +leave the château; when had she stolen forth; where had she wandered; +whither was she going; to what end? + +These and other thoughts stormed through Alan's mind. Almost--he +muttered below his breath--almost he would rather have seen the Walker +in the Night. + +As she drew nearer he could see her as clearly as though it were +daylight. She appeared to be thinking deeply, and ever and again be +murmuring disconnected phrases. His heart smote him when he saw her, +twice, raise her arms and then wring her hands as if in sore straits of +sorrow. + +He did not stir. He would wait, he thought. It might add to Annaik's +strange grief, if grief it were, to betray his presence. Again, was +it possible that she was there to meet some one--to encounter the "J" +whose initial was beside her own on the old thorn? How pale she was! +he noticed. A few yards away her dress caught; she hesitated, slowly +disengaged herself, but did not advance again. For the third time she +wrung her hands. + +What could it mean? Alan was about to move forward when he heard her +voice: + +"Oh, Alan, Alan, Alan!" + +What ... had she seen him? He flushed there in the shadow, and words +rose to his lips. Then he was silent, for she spoke again: + +"I hate her ... I hate her ... not for herself, no, no, no ... but +because she has taken you from me. Why does Ynys have you, all of you, +when I have loved you all along? None of us knew any thing--none, till +last Noël. Then we knew; only, neither you nor Ynys knew that I loved +you as a soul in hell loves the memory of its earthly joy." + +Strange words, there in that place, at that hour; but far stranger +the passionless voice in which the passionate words were uttered. +Bewildered, Alan leaned forward, intent. The words had waned to a +whisper, but were now incoherent. Fragmentary phrases, irrelevant +words, what could it all mean? + +Suddenly an idea made him start. He moved slightly, so as to catch the +full flood of a moonbeam as it fell on Annaik's face. + +Yes, he was right. Her eyes were open, but were fixed in an unseeing +stare. For the first time, too, he noted that she was clad simply in +a long dressing-gown. Her feet were bare, and were glistening with the +wet they had gathered; on her lustrous hair, nothing but the moonlight. + +He had remembered. Both Annaik and Ynys had a tendency to somnambulism, +a trait inherited from their father. It had been cured years ago, he +had understood. But here--here was proof that Annaik at any rate was +still subject to that mysterious malady of sleep. + +That she was absolutely trance-bound he saw clearly. But what he should +do--that puzzled, that bewildered him. + +Slowly Annaik, after a brief hesitancy when he fancied she was about to +awake, moved forward again. + +She came so close that almost she brushed against him; would have done +so, indeed, but that he was hidden from contact as well as from sight +by the boughs of the yew, which on that side swept to the ground. + +Alan put out his hand. Then he withdrew it. No, he thought, he would +let her go unmolested, and, if possible, unawaked: but he would follow +her, lest evil befell. She passed. His nerves thrilled. What was this +strange emotion, that gave him a sensation almost as though he had seen +his own wraith? But different ... for, oh--he could not wait to think +about that, he muttered. + +He was about to stoop and emerge from the yew-boughs when he heard a +sound which made him stop abruptly. + +It was a step; of that he felt sure. And at hand, too. The next moment +he was glad he had not disclosed himself, for a crouching figure +stealthily followed Annaik. + +Surely that was the same figure he had seen cross the glade, the figure +that had slipped from the thorn? + +If so, could it be the person who had cut the letter "J" on the bark of +the tree? The man kept so much in the shadow that it was difficult to +obtain a glimpse of his face. Alan waited. In a second or two he would +have to pass the yew. + +Just before the mysterious pursuer reached the old tree, he stopped. +Alan furtively glanced to his left. He saw that Annaik had suddenly +halted. She stood intent, as though listening. Possibly she had awaked. +He saw her lips move. She spoke, or called something; what, he could +not hear because of the intermittent screaming of the peacocks. + +When he looked at the man in the shadow he started. A moonbeam had +penetrated the obscurity, and the face was white against the black +background of a cypress. + +Alan recognized the man in a moment. It was Jud Kerbastiou, the +forester. What ... was it possible: could _he_ be the "J" who had +linked his initial with that of Annaik? + +It was incredible. The man was not only a boor, but one with rather +an ill repute. At any rate, he was known to be a poacher as well as a +woodlander of the old Breton kind--men who would never live save in the +forest, any more than a gypsy would become a clerk and live in a street. + +It was said among the peasants of Kerival that his father, old Iouenn +Kerbastiou, the charcoal burner, was an illegitimate brother of the +late Marquis--so that Jud, or Judik, as he was generally called, was +a blood-relation of the great folk at the château. Once this had been +hinted to the Marquis Tristran. It was for the first and last time. +Since then, Jud Kerbastiou had become more morose than ever, and was +seldom seen among his fellows. When not with his infirm old father, at +the hut in the woods that were to the eastward of the forest-hamlet +of Ploumael, he was away in the densely wooded reaches to the south. +Occasionally he was seen upon the slopes of the Black Hills, but this +was only in winter, when he crossed over into Upper Brittany with a +mule-train laden with cut fagots. + +That he was prowling about the home domain of Kerival was itself +ominous; but that in this stealthy manner he should be following Annaik +was to Allan a matter of genuine alarm. Surely the man could mean no +evil against one of the Big House, and one, too, so much admired, and +in a certain way loved, as Annaik de Kerival? And yet, the stealthy +movements of the peasant, his crouching gait, his patient dogging of +her steps--and this, doubtless, ever since _she_ had crossed the glade +from the forest to the cypresses--all this had a menacing aspect. + +At that moment the peacocks ceased their wild miaulling. Low and clear, +Annaik's voice same thrillingly along the alley: + +"_Alan! Alan! Oh, Alan, darling, are you there?_" + +His heart beat. Then a flush sprang to his brow, as with sudden anger +he heard Jud Kerbastiou reply, in a thick, muffled tone: + +"Yes, yes, ... and, and I love you, Annaik!" + +Possibly the sleeper heard and understood. Even at that distance Alan +saw the light upon her face, the light from within. + +Judik the peasant slowly advanced. His stealthy tread was light as that +of a fox. He stopped when he was within a yard of Annaik. "Annaik," he +muttered hoarsely, "Annaik, it was I who was out among the beeches in +front of the château while the storm was raging. Sure you must have +known it; else, why would you come out? I love you, white woman. I am +only a peasant ... but I love you, Annaik de Kerival, I love you--I +love you--I love you!" + +Surely she was on the verge of waking! The color had come back to her +white face, her lips moved, as though stirred by a breath from within. +Her hands were clasped, and the fingers intertwisted restlessly. + +Kerbastiou was so wrought that he did not hear steps behind him as Alan +moved swiftly forward. + +"Sure, you will be mine at last," the man cried hoarsely, "mine, and +none to dispute ... ay, and this very night, too." + +Slowly Jud put out an arm. His hand almost touched that of Annaik. +Suddenly he was seized from behind, and a hand was claspt firmly upon +his mouth. He did not see who his unexpected assailant was, but he +heard the whisper that was against his ear: + +"If you make a sound, I will strangle you to death." + +With a nod, he showed that he understood. "If I let go for the moment, +will you come back under the trees here, where she cannot see or hear +us?" + +Another nod. + +Alan relaxed his hold, but did not wholly relinquish his grip. +Kerbastiou turned and looked at him. + +"Oh, it's _you_!" he muttered, as he followed his assailant into the +shadow some yards back. + +"Yes, Judik Kerbastiou, it is I, Alan de Kerival." + +"Well, what do you want?" + +"What do I want? How dare you be so insolent, fellow? you, who have +been following a defenceless woman!" + +"What have _you_ been doing?" + +"I ... oh, of course I have been following Mlle. Annaik also ... but +that was ... that was ... to protect her." + +"And is it not possible I might follow her for the same reason?" + +"It is not the same thing at all, Judik Kerbastiou, and you know it. In +the first place you have no right to be here at all. In the next, I am +Mlle. Annaik's cousin, and----" + +"And I am her lover." + +Alan stared at the man in sheer amaze. He spoke quietly and assuredly, +nor seemed in the least degree perturbed. + +"But ... but ... why, Kerbastiou, it is impossible!" + +"What is impossible?" + +"That Annaik could love _you_." + +"I did not say she loved me. I said I was her lover." + +"And you believe that you, a peasant, a man held in ill repute even +among your fellow-peasants, a homeless woodlander, can gain the love of +the daughter of your seigneur, of a woman nurtured as she has been?" + +"You speak like a book, as the saying is, M. de Kerival." Judik uttered +the words mockingly, and with raised voice. Annaik, who was still +standing as one entranced, heard it: for she whispered again, "_Alan! +Alan! Alan!_" + +"Hush, man! she will hear. Listen, Judik, I don't want to speak +harshly. You know me. Every one here does. You must be well aware that +I am the last person to despise you or any man because you are poor +and unfortunate. But you _must_ see that such a love as this of yours +is madness." + +"All love is madness." + +"Oh, yes; of course! But look you, Judik, what right have you to be +here at all, in the home domain, in the dead of night?" + +"You love Ynys de Kerival?" + +"Yes ... well, yes, I do love her; but what then? What is that to you?" + +"Well, I love Annaik. I am here by the same right as you are." + +"You forget. _I_ am welcome. You come by stealth. Do you mean for a +moment to say that you are here to meet Mlle. Annaik by appointment?" + +The man was silent. + +"Judik Kerbastiou!" + +"Yes?" + +"You are a coward. You followed this woman whom you say you love with +intent to rob her." + +"You are a fool, Alan de Kerival." + +Alan raised his arm. Then, ashamed, he let it fall. + +"Will you go? Will you go now, at once, or shall I wake Mlle. Annaik, +and tell her what I have seen--and from what I believe I have saved +her?" + +"No, you need not wake her, nor tell her any thing. I know she has +never even given me a thought." + +Suddenly the man bowed his head. A sob burst through the dark. + +Alan put his hand on his shoulder. + +"Judik! Judik Kerbastiou! I am sorry for you from my heart. But go ... +go now, at once. Nothing shall be said of this. No one shall know any +thing. If you wish me to tell my cousin, I will. Then she can see you +or not, as she may wish." + +"I go. But ... yes, tell her. To-morrow. Tell her to-morrow. Only I +would not have hurt her. Tell her that. I go now. _Adiou._" + +With that Judik Kerbastiou lifted his shaggy head, and turned his great +black, gypsy-wild eyes upon Alan. + +"She loves _you_," he said simply. Then he stepped lightly over the +path, passed between the cypresses, and moved out across the glade. +Alan watched his dark figure slide through the moonlight. He traversed +the glade to the right of the thorn. For nearly half a mile he was +visible; then he turned and entered the forest. + + * * * * * + +An hour later two figures moved, in absolute silence, athwart the +sand-dunes beyond the cypress alley. + +Hand in hand they moved. Their faces were in deep shadow, for the +moonlight was now obscured by a league-long cloud. + +When they emerged from the scattered pines to the seaward of the +château, the sentinel peacocks saw them, and began once more their +harsh, barbaric screams. + +The twain unclasped their hands, and walked steadily forward, speaking +no word, not once looking one at the other. + +As they entered the yew-close at the end of the old garden of the +château they were as shadows drowned in night. For some minutes they +were invisible; though, from above, the moon shone upon their white +faces and on their frozen stillness. The peacocks sullenly ceased. + +Once more they emerged into the moon-dusk. As they neared the ivied +gables of the west wing of the Manor the cloud drifted from the moon, +and her white flood turned the obscurity into a radiance wherein every +object stood forth as clear as at noon. + +Alan's face was white as are the faces of the dead. His eyes did not +once lift from the ground. But in Annaik's face was a flush, and her +eyes were wild and beautiful as falling stars. + +It was not an hour since she had wakened from her trance; not an hour, +and yet already had Alan forgotten--forgotten her, and Ynys, and the +storm, and the after calm. Of one thing he thought only, and that +was of what Daniel Darc had once said to him laughingly: "If the old +fables of astrology were true, your horoscope would foretell impossible +things." + +In absolute silence they moved up the long flight of stone stairs that +led to the château; in absolute silence, they entered by the door which +old Matieu had left ajar; in silence, they passed that unconscious +sleeper; in silence, they crossed the landing where the corridors +diverged. + +Both stopped, simultaneously. Alan seemed about to speak, but his lips +closed again without utterance. + +Abruptly he turned. Without a word he passed along the corridor to the +right, and disappeared in the obscurity. + +Annaik stood a while, motionless, silent. Then she put her hand to her +heart. On her impassive face the moonlight revealed nothing; only in +her eyes there was a gleam as of one glad unto death. + +Then she too passed, noiseless and swift as a phantom. Outside, on the +stone terrace, Ys, the blind peacock, strode to and fro, uttering his +prolonged, raucous screams. When, at last, he was unanswered by the +peacocks in the cypress alley, his clamant voice no longer tore the +silence. + +The moon trailed her flood of light across the earth. It lay upon the +waters, and was still a glory there when, through the chill quietudes +of dawn, the stars waned one by one in the soft graying that filtered +through the morning dusk. The new day was come. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +VIA OSCURA + + +The day that followed this quiet dawn marked the meridian of spring. +Thereafter the flush upon the blossoms would deepen; the yellow pass +out of the green; and a deeper green involve the shoreless emerald sea +of verdure which everywhere covered the brown earth, and swelled and +lapsed in endlessly receding billows of forest and woodland. Up to that +noon-tide height Spring had aspired, ever since she had shaken the dust +of snow from her primrose-sandals; now, looking upon the way she had +come, she took the hand of Summer--and both went forth as one, so that +none should tell which was still the guest of the greenness. + +This was the day when Alan and Ynys walked among the green alleys of +the woods of Kerival, and when, through the deep gladness that was his +for all the strange, gnawing pain in his mind, in his ears echoed the +haunting line of Rimbaud, "Then, in the violet forest all a-bourgeon, +Eucharis said to me: 'It is Spring.'" + +Through the first hours of the day Alan had been unwontedly silent. +Ynys had laughed at him with loving eyes, but had not shown any shadow +of resentment. His word to the effect that his journey had tired him, +and that he had not slept at all, was enough to account for his lack of +buoyant joy. + +But, in truth, Ynys did not regret this, since it had brought a still +deeper intensity of love into Alan's eyes. When he looked at her, there +was so much passion of longing, so pathetic an appeal, that her heart +smote her. Why should she be the one chosen to evoke a love such as +this, she wondered; she, who was but Ynys, while Alan was a man whom +all women might love, and had genius that made him as one set apart +from his fellows, and was brow-lit by a starry fate? + +And yet, in a sense she understood. They were so much at one, so like +in all essential matters, and were in all ways comrades. It would +have been impossible for each not to love the other. But, deeper than +this, was the profound and intimate communion of the spirit. In some +beautiful, strange way, she knew she was the flame to his fire. At that +flame he lit the torch of which Daniel Darc and others had spoken. She +did not see why or wherein it was so, but she believed, and indeed at +last realized the exquisite actuality. + +In deep love, there is no height nor depth between two hearts, no +height nor depth, no length nor breadth. There is simply love. + +The birds of Angus Ogue are like the wild-doves of the forest: when +they nest in the heart they are as one. And her life, and Alan's, were +not these one? + +Nevertheless, Ynys was disappointed as the day went on, and her lover +did not seem able to rouse himself from his strange despondency. + +Doubtless this was due largely to what was pending. That afternoon he +was to have his long anticipated interview with the Marquise, and +would perhaps learn what might affect his whole life. On the other +hand, each believed that nothing would be revealed which was not of the +past solely. + +Idly, Ynys began to question her companion about the previous night. +What had he done, since he had not slept; had he read, or dreamed at +the window, or gone out, as had once been his wont on summer nights, +to walk in the cypress alley or along the grassy dunes? Had he heard +a nightingale singing in the moonlight? Had he noticed the prolonged +screaming of the peacocks--unusually prolonged, now that she thought of +it, Ynys added. + +"I wonder, dear, if you would love me whatever happened--whatever I +was, or did?" + +It was an inconsequent question. She looked up at him, half perturbed, +half pleased. + +"Yes, Alan." + +"But do you mean what you say, knowing that you are not only using a +phrase?" + +"I have no gift of expression, dearest. Words come to me without their +bloom and their fragrance, I often think. But ... Alan, _I love you_." + +"That is sweetest music for me, Ynys, my fawn. All words from you have +both bloom and fragrance, though you may not know it, shy flower. But +tell me again, do you mean what you say, _absolutely_?" + +"Absolutely. In every way, in all things, at all times. Dear, how +could _any thing_ come between us? It is _possible_, of course, that +circumstances might separate us. But nothing could really come between +us. My heart is yours." + +"What about Andrik de Morvan?" + +"Ah, you are not in earnest, Alan!" + +"Yes; I am more than half in earnest, Ynys, darling. Tell me!" + +"You cannot possibly believe that I care, that I could care, for Andrik +as I care for you, Alan." + +"Why not?" + +"Why not? Oh, have you so little belief, then, in women--in me? Alan, +do you not know that what is perhaps possible for a man, though I +cannot conceive it, is _impossible_ for a woman. That is the poorest +sophistry which says a woman may love two men at the same time. That +is, if by love is meant what you and I mean. Affection, the deepest +affection, is one thing; the love of man and woman, as _we_ mean it, is +a thing apart!" + +"You love Andrik?" + +"Yes." + +"Could you wed your life with his?" + +"I could have done so ... but for you." + +"Then, by your true heart, is there no possibility that he can in any +way ever come between us?" + +"None." + +"Although he is nominally your betrothed, and believes in you as his +future wife?" + +"That is not my fault. I drifted into that conditional union, as you +know. But after to-day he and every one shall know that I can wed no +man but you. But why do you ask me these things, Alan?" + +"I want to know. I will explain later. But tell me; could you be happy +with Andrik? You say you love him?" + +"I love him as a friend, as a comrade." + +"As an intimately dear comrade?" + +"Alan, do not let us misunderstand each other. There can only be +one supreme comrade for a woman, and that is the man whom she loves +supremely. Every other affection, the closest, the dearest, is as +distinct from that as day from night." + +"If by some malign chance you and Andrik married--say, in the event of +my supposed death--would you still be as absolutely true to me as you +are now?" + +"What has the accident of marriage to do with truth between a man and a +woman, Alan?" + +"It involves intimacies that would be a desecration otherwise. Oh, +Ynys, do you not understand?" + +"It is a matter of the inner life. Men so rarely believe in the hidden +loyalty of the heart. It is possible for a woman to fulfil a bond and +yet not be a bondswoman. Outer circumstances have little to do with the +inner life, with the real self." + +"In a word, then, if you married Andrik you would remain absolutely +mine, not only if I were dead, but if perchance the rumor were untrue +and I came back, though too late?" + +"Yes." + +"Absolutely?" + +"Absolutely." + +"And you profoundly know, Ynys, that in no conceivable circumstances +can Andrik be to you what I am, or any thing for a moment approaching +it?" + +"I do know it." + +"Although he were your husband?" + +"Although he were my husband." + +The worn lines that were in Alan's face were almost gone. Looking into +his eyes Ynys saw that the strange look of pain which had alarmed her +was no longer there. The dear eyes had brightened; a new hope seemed to +have arisen in them. + +"Do you believe me, Alan, dear?" she whispered. + +"If I did not, it would kill me, Ynys." + +And he spoke truth. The bitter sophistications of love play lightly +with the possibilities of death. Men who talk of suicide are likely to +be long-livers; lovers whose hearts are easily broken can generally +recover and astonish themselves by their heroic endurance. The human +heart is like a wave of the sea; it can be lashed into storm, it can +be calmed, it can become stagnant--but it is seldom absorbed from the +ocean till in natural course the sun takes up its spirit in vapor. +Yet, ever and again, there is one wave among a myriad which a spiral +wind-eddy may suddenly strike. In a moment it is whirled this way and +that; it is involved in a cataclysm of waters; and then cloud and sea +meet, and what a moment before had been an ocean wave is become an idle +skyey vapor. + +Alan was of the few men of whom that wave is the symbol. To him, death +could come at any time, if the wind-eddy of a certain unthinkable +sorrow struck him at his heart. + +In this sense, his life was in Ynys's hands as absolutely as though he +were a caged bird. He knew it, and Ynys knew it. + +There are a few men, a few women, like this. Perhaps it is well that +these are so rare. Among the hills of the north, at least, they may +still be found; in remote mountain valleys and in lonely isles, where +life and death are realized actualities and not the mere adumbrations +of the pinions of that lonely fugitive, the human mind, along the +endless precipices of Time. + +Alan knew well that both he and Ynys were not so strong as each +believed. Knowing this, he feared for both. And yet, there was but +one woman in the world for him--Ynys; as for her, there was but one +man--Alan. Without her, he could do nothing, achieve nothing. She was +his flame, his inspiration, his strength, his light. Without her, he +was afraid to live; with her, death was a beautiful dream. To her, Alan +was not less. She lived in him and for him. + +But we are wrought of marsh-fire as well as of stellar light. Now, as +of old, the gods do not make of the fairest life a thornless rose. A +single thorn may innocently convey poison; so that everywhere men and +women go to and fro perilously, and not least those who move through +the shadow and shine of an imperious passion. + +For a time, thereafter, Alan and Ynys walked slowly onward, hand in +hand, each brooding deep over the thoughts their words had stirred. + +"Do you know what Yann says, Alan?" Ynys asked in a low voice, after +both had stopped instinctively to listen to a thrush leisurely +iterating his just learned love carol, where he swung on a greening +spray of honeysuckle under a yellow-green lime. "Do you know what Yann +says?... He says that you have a wave at your feet. What does that +mean?" + +"When did he tell you that, Ynys, mo-chree?" + +"Ah, Alan, dear, how sweet it is to hear from your lips the dear Gaelic +we both love so well! And does that not make you more than ever anxious +to learn all that you are to hear this afternoon?" + +"Yes ... but that, that Ian Macdonald said; what else did he say?" + +"Nothing. He would say no more. I asked him in the Gaelic, and he +repeated only, 'I see a wave at his feet.'" + +"What Ian means by that I know well. It means I am going on a far +journey." + +"Oh, no, Alan, no!" + +"He has the sight upon him, at times. Ian would not say that thing, did +he not mean it. Tell me, my fawn, has he ever said any thing of this +kind about _you_?" + +"Yes. Less than a month ago. I was with him one day on the dunes near +the sea. Once, when he gave no answer to what I asked, I looked at him, +and saw his eyes fixt. 'What do you see, Yann?' I asked. + +"'I see great rocks, strange caverns. Sure, it is well I am knowing +what they are. They are the Sea-caves of Rona.' + +"There were no rocks visible from where we stood, so I knew that Ian +was in one of his visionary moods. I waited, and then spoke again, +whisperingly: + +"'Tell me, Ian MacIain, what do you see?' + +"'I see two whom I do not know. And they are in a strange place, they +are. And on the man I see a shadow, and on the woman I see a light. But +what that shadow is, I do not know; nor do I know what that light is. +But I am for thinking that it is of the Virgin Mary, for I see the +dream that is in the woman's heart, and it is a fair wonderful dream +_that_.' + +"That is all Yann said, Alan. As I was about to speak, his face changed. + +"'What is it, Ian?' I asked. + +"At first he would answer nothing. Then he said: 'It is a dream. It +means nothing. It was only because I was thinking of you and Alan +MacAlasdair.'" + +"Oh, Ynys!"--Alan interrupted with an eager cry--"that is a thing +I have long striven to know; that which lies in the words 'Alan +MacAlasdair.' My father, then, was named Alasdair! And was it Rona, you +said, was the place of the Sea-caves? Rona ... that must be an island. +The only Rona I know of is that near Skye. It may be the same. Now, +indeed, I have a clew, lest I should learn nothing to-day. Did Ian say +nothing more?" + +"Nothing. I asked him if the man and woman he saw were you and I, +but he would not speak. I am certain he was about to say yes, but +refrained." + +For a while they walked on in silence, each revolving many speculations +aroused by the clew given by the words of "Yann the Dumb." Suddenly +Ynys tightened her clasp of Alan's hand. + +"What is it, dear?" + +"Alan, some time ago you asked me abruptly what I knew about the +forester, Judik Kerbastiou. Well, I see him in that beech-covert +yonder, looking at us." + +Alan started. Ynys noticed that for a moment he grew pale as foam. His +lips parted, as though he were about to call to the woodlander: when +Judik advanced, making at the same time a sign of silence. + +The man had a wild look about him. Clearly, he had not slept since he +and Alan had parted at midnight. His dusky eyes had a red light in +them. His rough clothes were still damp; his face, too, was strangely +white and dank. + +Alan presumed that he came to say something concerning Annaik. He did +not know what to do to prevent this, but while he was pondering, Judik +spoke in a hoarse, tired voice: + +"Let the Lady Ynys go back to the château at once. She is needed there." + +"Why, what is wrong, Judik Kerbastiou?" + +"Let her go back, I say. No time for words now. Be quick. I am not +deceiving you. Listen ..." and with that he leaned toward Alan, and +whispered in his ear. + +Alan looked at him with startled amaze. Then, turning toward Ynys, he +asked her to go back at once to the château. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +"DEIREADH GACH COGAIDH, SITH" (THE END OF ALL WARFARE, PEACE) + + +Alan did not wait till Ynys was out of sight, before he demanded the +reason of Judik's strange appearance and stranger summons. + +"Why are you here again, Judik Kerbastiou? What is the meaning of this +haunting of the forbidden home domain? And what did you mean by urging +Mlle. Ynys to go back at once to the château?" + +"Time enough later for your other questions, young sir. Meanwhile come +along with me, and as quick as you can." + +Without another word the woodlander turned and moved rapidly along a +narrow path through the brushwood. + +Alan saw it would be useless to ask further questions at the moment; +moreover, he was now vaguely alarmed. What could all this mystery +mean? Could an accident have happened to the Marquis Tristran? It was +hardly likely, for he seldom ventured into the forest, unless when the +weather had dried all the ways: for he had to be wheeled in his chair, +and, as Alan knew, disliked to leave the gardens or the well-kept yew +and cypress alleys near the château. + +In a brief while, however, he heard voices. Judik turned, and waved to +him to be wary. The forester bent forward, stared intently, and then +beckoned to Alan to creep up alongside. + +"Who is it? What is it, Judik?" + +"Look!" + +Alan disparted a bough of underwood which made an effectual screen. In +the glade beyond were four figures. + +One of these he recognized at once. It was the Marquis de Kerival. He +was, as usual, seated in his wheeled chair. Behind him, some paces to +the right, was Raif Kermorvan, the steward of Kerival. The other two +men Alan had not seen before. + +One of these strangers was a tall, handsome man, of about sixty. His +close-cropped white hair, his dress, his whole mien, betrayed the +military man. Evidently a colonel, Alan thought, or perhaps a general; +at any rate an officer of high rank, and one to whom command and +self-possession were alike habitual. Behind this gentleman, one of the +most distinguished and even noble-looking men he had ever seen, and +again some paces to the right, was a man, evidently a groom, and to all +appearances an orderly in mufti. + +The first glance revealed that a duel was imminent. The duellists, of +course, were the military stranger and the Marquis de Kerival. + +"Who is that man?" Alan whispered to Kerbastion. "Do you know?" + +"I do not know his name. He is a soldier--a general. He came to Kerival +to-day; an hour or more ago. I guided him through the wood, for he and +his man had ridden into one of the winding alleys and had lost their +way. I heard him ask for the Marquis de Kerival. I waited about in the +shrubbery of the rose garden to see if ... if ... some one for whom +I waited ... would come out. After a time, half an hour or less, this +gentleman came forth, ushered by Raif Kermorvan, the steward. His man +brought around the two horses again. They mounted, and rode slowly +away. I joined them, and offered to show them a shorter route than that +which they were taking. The General said they wished to find a glade +known as Merlin's Rest. Then I knew what he came for, I knew what was +going to happen." "What, Judik?" + +"Hush! not so loud. They will hear us! I knew it was for a duel. It was +here that Andrik de Morvan, the uncle of him whom you know, was killed +by a man--I forget his name." + +"Why did the man kill Andrik de Morvan?" + +"Oh, who knows? Why does one kill any body? Because he was tired of +enduring the Sieur Andrik longer; he bored him beyond words to tell, I +have heard. Then, too, the Count, for he was a count, loved Andrik's +wife." + +Alan glanced at Judik. For all his rough wildness, he spoke on occasion +like a man of breeding. Moreover, at no time was he subservient in his +manner. Possibly, Alan thought, it was true what he had heard: that +Judik Kerbastiou was by moral right Judik de Kerival. + +While the onlookers were whispering, the four men in the glade had +all slightly shifted their position. The Marquis, it was clear, had +insisted upon this. The light had been in his eyes. Now the antagonists +and their seconds were arranged aright. Kermorvan, the steward, was +speaking slowly: directions as to the moment when to fire. + +Alan knew it would be worse than useless to interfere. He could but +hope that this was no more than an affair of honor of a kind not meant +to have a fatal issue; a political quarrel, perhaps; a matter of +insignificant social offence. + +Before Raif Kermorvan--a short, black-haired, bull-necked man, with +a pale face and protruding light blue eyes--had finished what he had +to say, Alan noticed what had hitherto escaped him: that immediately +beyond the glade, and under a huge sycamore, already in full leaf, +stood the Kerival carriage. Alain, the coachman, sat on the box, and +held the two black horses in rein. Standing by the side of the carriage +was Georges de Rohan, the doctor of Kerloek, and a personal friend of +the Marquis Tristran. + +Suddenly Kermorvan raised his voice. + +"M. le Général, are you ready?" + +"I am ready," answered a low, clear voice. + +"M. le Marquis, are you ready?" + +Tristran de Kerival did not answer, but assented by a slight nod. + +"Then raise your weapons, and fire the moment I say 'thrice.'" + +Both men raised their pistols. + +"You have the advantage of me, sir," said the Marquis coldly, in a +voice as audible to Alan and Judik as to the others. "I present a good +aim to you here. Nevertheless, I warn you once more that you will not +escape me ... this time." + +The General smiled; scornfully, Alan thought. Again, when suddenly +he lowered his pistol and spoke, Alan fancied he detected if not a +foreign accent, at least a foreign intonation. + +"Once more, Tristran de Kerival, I tell you that this duel is a crime; +a crime against me, a crime against Mme. la Marquise, a crime against +your daughters, and a crime against...." + +"That will do, General. I am ready. Are you?" + +Without further word the stranger slowly drew himself together. He +raised his arm, while his opponent did the same. + +"_Once! Twice! Thrice!_" There was a crack like that of a cattle-whip. +Simultaneously some splinters of wood were blown from the left side of +the wheeled chair. + +The Marquis Tristran smiled. He had reserved his fire. He could aim now +with fatal effect + +"It is murder!" muttered Alan, horrified; but at that moment the +Marquis spoke. Alan leaned forward, intent to hear. + +"_At last!_" That was all. But in the words was a concentrated longing +for revenge, the utterance of a vivid hate. + +Tristran de Kerival slowly and with methodical malignity took aim. +There was a flash, the same whip-like crack. + +For a moment it seemed as though the ball had missed its mark. Then, +suddenly, there was a bubbling of red froth at the mouth of the +stranger. Still, he stood erect. + +Alan looked at the Marquis de Kerival. He was leaning back, deathly +white, but with the bitter, suppressed smile which every one at the +château knew and hated. + +All at once the General swayed, lunged forward, and fell prone. + +Dr. de Rohan ran out from the sycamore, and knelt beside him. After a +few seconds he looked up. + +He did not speak, but every one knew what his eyes said. To make it +unmistakable, he drew out his handkerchief and put it over the face of +the dead man. + +Alan was about to advance when Judik Kerbastiou plucked him by the +sleeve. + +"Hst! M'sieur Alan! There is Mamzelle Ynys returning! She will be here +in another minute. She must not see what is there." + +"You are right, Judik. I thank you." + +With that he turned and moved swiftly down the leaf-hid path which +would enable him to intercept Ynys. + +"What is it, Alan?" she asked, with wondering eyes, the moment he was +at her side. "What is it? Why are you so pale?" + +"It is because of a duel that has been fought here. You must go back at +once, dear. There are reasons why you...." + +"Is my father one of the combatants? I know he is out of the château. +Tell me quick! Is he wounded? Is he dead?" + +"No, no, darling heart! He is unhurt. But I can tell you nothing more +just now. Later ... later. But why did you return here?" + +"I came with a message from my mother. She is in sore trouble, I fear. +I found her, on her couch in the Blue Salon, with tears streaming down +her face and sobs choking her." + +"And she wants me ... now?" + +"Yes. She told me to look for you, and bring you to her at once." + +"Then go straightway back, dear, and tell her that I shall be with her +immediately. Yes, go--go--at once." + +But by the time Ynys had moved into the alley which led her to the +château, and Alan had returned to the spot where he had left Judik, +rapid changes had occurred. + +The wheeled chair had gone. Alan could see it nearing the South Yews; +with the Marquis Tristran in it, leaning backward and with head erect. +At its side walked Raif Kermorvan. He seemed to be whispering to the +Seigneur. The carriage had disappeared; with it Georges de Rohan, the +soldier orderly, and, presumably, the dead man. + +Alan stood hesitant, uncertain whether to go first to the Marquise, +or to follow the man whom he regarded now with an aversion infinitely +deeper than he had ever done hitherto; with whom, he felt, he never +wished to speak again, for he was a murderer, if ever man was, and, +from Alan's standpoint, a coward as well. Tristran de Kerival was the +deadliest shot in all the country-side, and he must have known that, +when he challenged his victim, he gave him his death sentence. + +It did not occur to Alan that possibly the survivor was the man +challenged. Instinctively he knew that this was not so. + +Judik suddenly touched his arm. + +"Here," he said; "this is the name of the dead man. I got the servant +to write it down for me." + +Alan took the slip of paper. On it was: "_M. le Général Carmichael_." + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +THE UNFOLDING OF THE SCROLL + + +When Alan reached the château he was at once accosted by old Matieu. + +"Mme. la Marquise wishes to see you in her private room, M'sieu Alan, +and without a moment's delay." + +In a few seconds he was on the upper landing. At the door of the room +known as the Blue Salon he met Yann the Dumb. + +"What is it, Ian? Is there any thing wrong?" + +In his haste he spoke in French. The old islander looked at him, but +did not answer. + +Alan repeated his question in Gaelic. + +"Yes, Alan MacAlasdair, I fear there is gloom and darkness upon us all." + +"Why?" + +"By this an' by that. But I have seen the death-cloth about Lois nic +Alasdair bronnach for weeks past. I saw it about her feet, and then +about her knees, and then about her breast. Last night, when I looked +at her, I saw it at her neck. And to-day, the shadow-shroud is risen to +her eyes." + +"But your second-sight is not always true, you know, Ian. Why, you told +me when I was here last that I would soon be seeing my long dead father +again, and, more than that, that I should see him, but he never see me. +But of this and your other dark sayings, no more now. Can I go in at +once and see my aunt?" + +"I will be asking that, Alan-mo-caraid. But what you say is not true. +I have never yet 'seen' any thing that has not come to pass; though I +have had the sight but seldom, to Himself be the praise." With that Ian +entered, exchanged a word or two, and ushered Alan into the room. + +On a couch beside a great fireplace, across the iron brazier of which +were flaming pine-logs, an elderly woman lay almost supine. That she +had been a woman of great beauty was unmistakable, for all her gray +hair and the ravages that time and suffering had wrought upon her +face. Even now her face was beautiful; mainly from the expression of +the passionate dusky eyes which were so like those of Annaik. Her long, +inert body was covered with a fantastic Italian silk-cloth whose gay +pattern emphasized her own helpless condition. Alan had not seen her +for some months, and he was shocked at the change. Below the eyes, as +flamelike as ever, were purplish shadows, and everywhere, through the +habitual ivory of the delicate features, a gray ashiness had diffused. +When she held out her hand to him, he saw it as transparent as a fan, +and perceived within it the red gleam of the fire. + +"Ah, Alan, it is you at last! How glad I am to see you!" The voice was +one of singular sweetness, in tone and accent much like that of Ynys. + +"Dear Aunt Lois, not more glad than I am to see you"--and, as he spoke, +Alan kneeled at the couch and kissed the frail hand that had been held +out to him. + +"I would have so eagerly seen you at once on my arrival," he resumed, +"but I was given your message--that you had one of your seasons of +suffering, and could not see me. You have been in pain, Aunt Lois?" + +"Yes, dear, I am dying." + +"Dying! Oh, no, no, no! You don't mean _that_. And besides----" + +"Why should I not mean it? Why should I fear it, Alan? Has life meant +so much to me of late years that I should wish to prolong it?" + +"But you have endured so long!" + +"A bitter reason truly!... and one too apt to a woman! Well, enough of +this. Alan, I want to speak to you about yourself. But first tell me +one thing. Do you love any woman?" + +"Yes, with all my heart, with all my life, I love a woman." + +"Have you told her so? Has she betrothed herself to you?" + +"Yes." + +"Is it Annaik?" + +"Annaik ... Annaik?" + +"Why are you so surprised, Alan? Annaik is beautiful; she has long +loved you, I am certain; and you, too, if I mistake not, care for her?" + +"Of course, I do; of course I care for her, Aunt Lois. I love her. But +I do not love her as you mean." + +The Marquise looked at him steadily. + +"I do not quite understand," she said gravely. "I must speak to you +about Annaik, later. But now, will you tell me who the woman is?" + +"Yes. It is Ynys." + +"_Ynys!_ But, Alan, do you not know that she is betrothed to Andrik de +Morvan?" + +"I know." + +"And that such a betrothal is, in Brittany, almost as binding as a +marriage?" + +"I have heard that said." + +"And that the Marquis de Kerival wishes that union to take place?" + +"The Marquis Tristran's opinion, on any matter, does not in any way +concern me." + +"That may be, Alan; but it concerns Ynys. Do you know that I also wish +her to marry Andrik; that his parents wish it; and that every one +regards the union as all but an accomplished fact?" + +"Yes, dear Aunt Lois, I have known or presumed all you tell me. But +nothing of it can alter what is a vital part of my existence." + +"Do you know that Ynys herself gave her pledge to Andrik de Morvan?" + +"It was a conditional pledge. But, in any case, she will formally +renounce it." + +For a time there was silence. + +Alan had risen, and now stood by the side of the couch, with folded +arms. The Marquise Lois looked up at him, with her steadfast, shadowy +eyes. When she spoke again she averted them, and her voice was so low +as almost to be a whisper. + +"Finally, Alan, let me ask you one question. It is not about you and +Ynys. I infer that both of you are at one in your determination to take +every thing into your own hands. Presumably you can maintain her and +yourself. Tristran--the Marquis de Kerival--will not contribute a franc +toward her support. If he knew, he would turn her out of doors this +very day." + +"Well, Aunt Lois, I wait for your final question?" + +"It is this. _What about Annaik?_" + +Startled by her tone and sudden lifted glance, Alan stared in silence; +then recollecting himself, he repeated dully: + +"'What about Annaik?' ... Annaik, Aunt Lois, why do you ask me about +Annaik?" + +"She loves you." + +"As a brother; as the betrothed of Ynys; as a dear comrade and friend." + +"Do not be a hypocrite, Alan. You know that she loves you. What of your +feeling toward _her_?" + +"I love her ... as a brother loves a sister ... as any old playmate and +friend ... as ... as the sister of Ynys." + +A faint, scornful smile came upon the white lips of the Marquise. + +"Will you be good enough, then, to explain about last night?" + +"About last night?" + +"Come, be done with evasion. Yes, about last night. Alan, I know that +you and Annaik were out together in the cypress avenue, and again, on +the dunes, after midnight; that you were seen walking hand in hand; and +that, stealthily, you entered the house together." + +"Well?" + +"Well! The inference is obvious. But I will let you see that I know +more. Annaik went out of the house late. Old Matieu let her out. +Shortly after that you went out of the château. Later, you and she came +upon Judik Kerbastiou prowling about in the woods. It was more than an +hour after he left you that you returned to the château. Where were you +during that hour or more?" + +Alan flushed. He unfolded his arms; hesitated; then refolded them. + +"How do you know this?" he asked simply. + +"I know it, because...." + +But before she finished what she was about to say, the door opened and +Yann entered. + +"What is it, Ian?" + +"I would be speaking to you alone for a minute, Bantighearna." + +"Alan, go to the alcove yonder, please. I must hear in private what +Yann has to say to me." + +As soon as the young man was out of hearing, Yann stooped and spoke in +low tones. The Marquise Lois grew whiter and whiter, till not a vestige +of color remained in her face, and the only sign of life was in the +eyes. Suddenly she made an exclamation. + +Alan turned and looked at her. He caught her agonized whisper: "_Oh, my +God!_" + +"What is it--oh, what is it, dear Aunt Lois?" he cried, as he advanced +to her side. + +He expected to be waved back, but to his surprise the Marquise made no +sign to him to withdraw. Instead, she whispered some instructions to +Yann and then bade him go. + +When they were alone once more, she took a small silver flagon from +beneath her coverlet and poured a few drops upon some sugar. + +Having taken this, she seemed to breathe more easily. It was evident, +at the same time, that she had received some terrible shock. + +"Alan, come closer. I cannot speak loud. I have no time to say more to +you about Annaik. I must leave that to you and to her. But lest I die, +let me say at once that I forbid you to marry Ynys, and that I enjoin +you to marry Annaik, and that without delay." + +A spasm of pain crossed the speaker's face. She stopped, and gasped +for breath. When at last she resumed, it was clear she considered as +settled the matter on which she had spoken. + +"Alan, I am so unwell that I must be very brief. And now listen. You +are twenty-five to-day. Such small fortune as is yours comes now into +your possession. It has been administered for you by a firm of lawyers +in Edinburgh. See, here is the address. Can you read it? Yes?... Well, +keep the slip. This fortune is not much. To many, possibly to you, it +may not seem enough to provide more than the bare necessities of life, +not enough for its needs. Nevertheless, it is your own, and you will be +glad. It will, at least, suffice to keep you free from need if ever +you fulfil your great wish to go back to the land of your fathers, to +your own place." + +"That is still my wish and my hope." + +"So be it! You will have also an old sea castle, not much more than a +keep, on a remote island. It will at any rate be your own. It is on an +island where few people are; a wild and precipitous isle far out in the +Atlantic at the extreme of the Southern Hebrides." + +"Is it called Rona?" Alan interrupted eagerly. + +Without noticing, or heeding, his eagerness, she assented. + +"Yes, it is called Rona. Near it are the isles of Mingulay and Borosay. +These three islands were once populous, and it was there that for +hundreds of years your father's clan, of which he was hereditary chief, +lived and prospered. After the evil days, the days when the young King +was hunted in the west as though a royal head were the world's desire, +and when our brave kinswoman, Flora Macdonald, proved that women as +well as men could dare all for a good cause--after those evil days the +people melted away. Soon the last remaining handful were upon Borosay; +and there, too, till the great fire that swept the island a score of +years ago, stood the castle of my ancestors, the Macdonalds of Borosay. + +"My father was a man well known in his day. The name of Sir Kenneth +Macdonald was as familiar in London as in Edinburgh; and in Paris he +was known to all the military and diplomatic world, for in his youth he +had served in the French army with distinction, and held the honorary +rank of general. + +"Not long before my mother's death he came back to our lonely home in +Borosay, bringing with him a kinsman of another surname, who owned +the old castle of Rona on the Isle of the Sea-caves, as Rona is often +called by the people of the Hebrides. Also there came with him a young +French officer of high rank. After a time I was asked to marry this +man. I did not love him, did not even care for him, and I refused. In +truth ... already, though unknowingly, I loved your father--he that was +our kinsman and owned Rona and its old castle. But Alasdair did not +speak; and, because of that, we each came to sorrow. + +"My father told me he was ruined. If I did not marry Tristran de +Kerival, he would lose all. Moreover, my dying mother begged me to save +the man she had loved so well and truly, though he had left her so much +alone. + +"Well, to be brief, I agreed. My kinsman Alasdair was away at the time. +He returned on the eve of the very day on which I was suddenly married +by Father Somerled Macdonald. We were to remain a few weeks in Borosay +because of my mother's health. + +"When Alasdair learned what had happened he was furious. I believe he +even drew a riding whip across the face of Tristran de Kerival. Fierce +words passed between them, and a cruel taunt that rankled. Nor would +Alasdair have any word with me at all. He sent me a bitter message, but +the bitterest word he could send was that which came to me: that he and +my sister Silis had gone away together. + +"From that day I never saw Silis again, till the time of her death. +Soon afterward our mother died, and while the island-funeral was being +arranged our father had a stroke, and himself died, in time to be +buried along with his wife. It was only then that I realized how more +than true had been his statements as to his ruin. He died penniless. +I was reminded of this unpleasant fact at the time, by the Marquis de +Kerival; and I have had ample opportunity since for bearing it in vivid +remembrance. + +"As soon as possible we settled all that could be settled, and left for +Brittany. I have sometimes thought my husband's love was killed when he +discovered that Alasdair had loved me. He forbade me even to mention +his name, unless he introduced it; and he was wont to swear that a +day would come when he would repay in full what he believed to be the +damning insult he had received. + +"We took with us only one person from Borosay, an islander of Rona. He +is, in fact, a clansman both of you and me. It is of Ian I speak, of +course; him that soon came to be called here Yann the Dumb. My husband +and I had at least this to unite us: that we were both Celtic, and had +all our racial sympathies in common. + +"I heard from Silis that she was married and was happy. I am afraid +this did not add to my happiness. She wrote to me, too, when she +was about to bear her child. Strangely enough, Alasdair, who, like +his father before him, was an officer in the French army, was then +stationed not far from Kerival, though my husband knew nothing of this +at first. My own boy and Silis's were born about the same time. My +child died; that of Silis and Alasdair lived. You are that child. +No ... wait, Alan ... I will tell you his name shortly.... You, I say, +are that child. Soon afterward, Silis had a dangerous relapse. In her +delirium she said some wild things; among them, words to the effect +that the child which had died was hers, and that the survivor was +mine--that, somehow or other, they had been changed. Then, too, she +cried out in her waywardness--and, poor girl, she must have known then +that Alasdair had loved me before he loved her--that the child who +lived, he who had been christened Alan, was the child of Alasdair and +myself. + +"All this poor delirium at the gate of death meant nothing. But in some +way it came to Tristran's ears, and he believed. After Silis's death I +had brought you home, Alan, and had announced that I would adopt you. I +promised Silis this, in her last hour, when she was in her right mind +again; also that the child, you, should be brought up to speak and +think in our own ancient language, and that in all ways you should grow +up a true Gael. I have done my best, Alan?" + +"Indeed, indeed you have. I shall never, never forget that you have +been my mother to me." + +"Well, my husband never forgave that. He acquiesced, but he never +forgave. For long, and I fear to this day, he persists in his belief +that you are really my illegitimate child, and that Silis was right +in thinking that I had succeeded in having my own new-born babe +transferred to her arms, while her dead offspring was brought to me, +and, as my own, interred. It has created a bitter feud, and that is +why he hates the sight of you. That, too, Alan, is why he would never +consent to your marriage with either Ynys or Annaik." + +"But you yourself urged me a little ago to ... to ... marry Annaik." + +"I had a special reason. Besides, I of course know the truth. In his +heart, God knows, my husband cannot doubt it." + +"Then tell me this: is my father dead also, as I have long surmised?" + +"No ... yes, yes, Alan, he is dead." + +Alan noticed his aunt's confusion, and regarded her steadily. + +"Why do you first say 'no' and then 'yes'?" + +"Because...." + +But here again an interruption occurred. The portière moved back, and +then the wide doors disparted. Into the salon was wheeled a chair, in +which sat the Marquis de Kerival. Behind him was his attendant; at his +side, Kermorvan the steward. The face of the seigneur was still deathly +pale, and the features were curiously drawn. The silky hair, too, +seemed whiter than ever, and white as foam-drift on a dark wave were +the long thin hands which lay on the lap of the black velvet shooting +jacket he wore. + +"Ah, Lois, is this a prepared scene?" he exclaimed in a cold and +sneering voice, "or, has the young man known all along?" + +"Tristan, I have not yet told him what I now know. Be merciful." + +"Alan MacAlasdair, as the Marquise here calls you,--and she ought to +know,--have you learned yet the name and rank of your father?" + +"No." + +"Tell him, Lois." + +"Tristran, listen. All is over now. Soon I, too, shall be gone. In +the name of God I pray you to relent from this long cruelty, this +remorseless infamy. You know as well as I do that our first-born is +dead twenty-five years ago, and that this man here is truly the son of +Silis, my sister. And here is one overwhelming proof for you: _I have +just been urging him to marry Annaik._" + +At that Tristran the Silent was no longer silent. With a fierce laugh +he turned to the steward. + +"I call you to witness, Raif Kermorvan, that I would kill Annaik, or +Ynys either for that matter, before I would allow such an unnatural +union. Once and for all I absolutely ban it. Besides.... Listen, you +there with your father's eyes! You are sufficiently a Gael to feel that +you would not marry the daughter of a man who killed your father?" + +"God forbid!" + +"Well, then, God does forbid. Lois, tell this man what you know." + +"Alan," began the Marquise quaveringly, her voice fluttering like +a dying bird, "the name of your father is ... is ... Alasdair ... +Alasdair Carmichael!" + +"_Carmichael!_" + +For a moment he was dazed, bewildered. When, recently, had he heard +that name? + +Then it flashed upon him. He turned with flaming eyes to where the +Marquis sat, quietly watching him. + +"Oh, my God!" That was all. He could say no more. His heart was in his +throat. + +Then, hoarse and trembling, he put out his hands. + +"Tell me it is not true! Tell me it is not true!" + +"_What_ is not true, Alan Carmichael?" + +"That that was he who died in the wood yonder." + +"That was General Alasdair Carmichael." + +"My father?" + +"Your father!" + +"But, you devil, you murdered him! I saw you do it! You knew it was +he--and you killed him. You knew he would not try to kill you, and you +waited; then, when he had fired, you took careful aim and killed him!" + +"You reiterate, my friend. These are facts with which I am familiar." + +The cool, sneering tone stung Alan to madness. He advanced menacingly. + +"Murderer, you shall not escape!" + +"A fitting sentiment, truly, from a man who wants to marry my daughter!" + +"Marry your daughter! Marry the daughter of my father's murderer! I +would sooner never see the face of woman again than do this thing." + +"Good! I am well content. And now, young man, you are of age; you have +come into your patrimony, including your ruined keep on the island of +Rona; and I will trouble you to go--to leave Kerival for good and all." + +Suddenly, without a word, Alan moved rapidly forward. With a light +touch he laid his hand for a moment on the brow of the motionless man +in the wheeled chair. + +"There! I lay upon you, Tristran de Kerival, the curse of the newly +dead and of the living! May the evil that you have done corrode your +brain, and may your life silt away as sand, and may your soul know the +second death!" + +As he turned to leave the room he saw Kerbastiou standing in the +doorway. + +"Who are you, to be standing there, Judik Kerbastiou?" demanded the +steward angrily. + +"I am Rohan de Kerival. Ask this man here if I am not his son. Three +days ago the woman who was my mother died. She died a vagrant, in the +forest. But, nigh upon thirty years ago, she was legally married to +the young Marquis Tristran de Kerival. I am their child." + +Alan glanced at the man he had cursed. A strange look had come into his +ashy face. + +"Her name?" was all Tristran the Silent said. + +"Annora Brizeux." + +"You have proofs?" + +"I have all the proofs." + +"You are only a peasant, I disown you. I know nothing of you or of the +wanton that was your mother." + +Without a word Judik strode forward and struck him full in the face. At +that moment the miraculous happened. The Marquise, who had not stood +erect for years, rose to her full height. + +She, too, crossed the room. + +"Alan," she cried, "see! He has killed me as well as your father," and +with that she swayed, and fell dead, at the feet of the man who had +trampled her soul in the dust and made of her blossoming life a drear +and sterile wilderness. + + +BOOK SECOND + +_THE HERDSMAN_ + + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +RETROSPECTIVE: FROM THE HEBRID ISLES + + +At the end of the third month after that disastrous day when Alan +Carmichael knew that his father had been slain, and before his +unknowing eyes, by Tristran de Kerival, a great terror came upon him. + + * * * * * + +On that day itself he had left the Manor of Kerival. With all that +blood between him and his enemy he could not stay a moment longer in +the house. To have done so would have been to show himself callous +indeed to the memory of his father. + +Nor could he see Ynys. He could not look at her, innocent as she was. +She was her father's child, and her father had murdered his father. +Surely a union would be against nature; he must fly while he had the +strength. + +When, however, he had gained the yew close he turned, hesitated, and +then slowly walked northward to where the long brown dunes lay in a +golden glow over against the pale blue of the sea. There, bewildered, +wrought almost to madness, he moved to and fro, unable to realize all +that had happened, and with bitter words cursing the malign fate which +had overtaken him. + +The afternoon waned, and he was still there, uncertain as ever, still +confused, baffled, mentally blind. + +Then suddenly he saw the figure of Yann the Dumb, his friend and +clansman, Ian Macdonald. The old man seemed to understand at once that, +after what had happened, Alan Carmichael would never go back to Kerival. + +"Why do you come to see me here, Ian?" Alan had asked wearily. + +When Ian began, "_Thiginn gu d'choimhead_ ... I would come to see you, +though your home were a rock-cave," the familiar sound of the Gaelic +did more than any thing else to clear his mind of the shadows which +overlay it. + +"Yes, Alan MacAlasdair," Ian answered, in response to an eager +question, "whatever I know is yours now, since Lois nic Choinneach is +dead, poor lady; though, sure, it is the best thing she could be having +now, that death." + +As swiftly as possible Alan elicited all he could from the old man; all +that there had not been time to hear from the Marquise. He learned what +a distinguished soldier, what a fine man, what a true Gael, Alasdair +Carmichael had been. When his wife had died he had been involved in +some disastrous lawsuit, and his deep sorrow and absolute financial +ruin came to him at one and the same moment. It was at this juncture, +though there were other good reasons also, that Lois de Kerival had +undertaken to adopt and bring up Silis's child. When her husband +Tristran had given his consent, it was with the stipulation that Lois +and Alasdair Carmichael should never meet, and that the child was not +to learn his surname till he came into the small fortune due to him +through his mother. + +This and much else Alan learned from Ian. Out of all the pain grew a +feeling of bitter hatred for the cold, hard man who had wrought so much +unhappiness, and were it not for Ynys and Annaik he would, for the +moment, have rejoiced that, in Judik Kerbastiou, Nemesis had appeared. +At his first mention of the daughters, Ian had looked at him closely. + +"Will you be for going back to that house, Alan MacAlasdair?" he asked, +and in a tone so marked that, even in his distress, Alan noticed it. + +"Do you wish me to go back, Ian?" + +"God forbid! I hear the dust on the threshold rising at the thought." + +"We are both in an alien land, Ian." + +"_Och is diombuan gach cas air tìr gun eòlas_--Fleeting is the foot in +a strange land," said the islander, using a phrase familiar to Gaels +away from the isles. + +"But what can I do?" + +"Sure you can go to your own place, Alan MacAlasdair. There you can +think of what you will do. And before you go I must tell you that your +father's brother Uilleam is dead, so that you have no near kin now +except the son of the brother of your father, Donnacha Bàn as he is +called--or was called, for I will be hearing a year or more ago that +he, too, went under the wave. He would be your own age, and that close +as a month or week, I am thinking." + +"Nevertheless, Ian, I cannot go without seeing my cousin Ynys once +more." + +"You will never be for marrying the daughter of the man that murdered +your father?" Ian spoke in horrified amaze, adding, "Sure, if that +were so, it would indeed mean that they may talk as they like of this +southland as akin to Gaeldom, though that is not a thought that will +bring honey to the hive of my brain;--for no man of the isles would +ever forget _there_ that the blood of a father cries up to the stars +themselves." + +"Have you no message for me, from ... from ... her?" + +"Ay," answered the old islesman reluctantly. "Here it is. I did not +give it to you before, for fear you should be weak." + +Without a word, Alan snatched the pencilled note. It had no beginning +or signature, and ran simply: "My mother is dead, too. After all that +has happened to-day I know we cannot meet. I know, too, that I love +you with all my heart and soul; that I have given you my deathless +devotion. But, unless you say 'Come,' it is best that you go away at +once, and that we never see each other again." + +At that, Alan had torn off the half sheet, and written a single word +upon it. + +It was "_Come._" + +This he gave to Ian, telling him to go straightway with it, and hand +the note to Ynys in person. "Also," he added, "fulfil unquestioningly +every thing she may tell you to do or not to do." + +An hour or more after Ian had gone, and when a dark, still gloaming +had begun, he came again, but this time with Ynys. He and she walked +together; behind them came four horses, led by Ian. When the lovers +met, they had stood silent for some moments. Then Ynys, knowing what +was in Alan's mind, asked if she were come for life or death. + +"I love you, dear," was his answer; "I cannot live without you. If you +be in truth the daughter of the man who slew my father, why should his +evil blood be our undoing also? God knows but that even thus may his +punishment be begun. All his thoughts were upon you and Annaik." + +"Annaik is gone." + +"Gone! Annaik gone! Where has she gone?" + +"I know nothing. She sent me a line to say that she would never sleep +in Kerival again; that something had changed her whole life; that +she would return three days hence for our mother's funeral; and that +thereafter she and I would never meet." + +In a flash Alan saw many things; but deepest of all he saw the working +of doom. On the very day of his triumph Tristran de Kerival had lost +all, and found only that which made life more bitter than death. +Stammeringly now, Alan sought to say something about Annaik; that there +was a secret, an unhappiness, a sorrow, which he must explain. + +But at that Ynys had pointed to the dim gray-brown sea. + +"There, Alan, let us bury it all there; every thing, every thing! +Either you and I must find our forgetfulness there, or we must drown +therein all this terrible past which has an inexplicable, a menacing +present. Dear, I am ready. Shall it be life or death?" + +"Life." + +That was all that was said. Alan leaned forward, and tenderly kissing +her, took her in his arms. Then he turned to Ian. + +"Ian mac Iain, I call you to witness that I take Ynys de Kerival as +my wife; that in this taking all the blood-feud that lies betwixt us +is become as nought; and that the past is past. Henceforth I am Alan +Carmichael, and she here is Ynys Carmichael." + + * * * * * + +At that, Ian had bowed his head. It was against the tradition of his +people; but he loved Ynys as well as Alan, and secretly he was glad. + +Thereafter, Alan and Ynys had mounted, and ridden slowly southward +through the dusk; while Ian followed on the third horse, with, in rein, +its companion, on which were the apparel and other belongings which +Ynys had hurriedly put together. + +They were unmolested in their flight. Indeed, they met no one, till, at +the end of the Forest of Kerival, they emerged near the junction with +the high-road at a place called Trois Chênes. Then a woman, a gypsy +vagrant, insisted disaster would ensue if they went over her tracks +that night without first doing something to avert evil. They must cross +her hand with silver, she said. + +Impatient as he was, Alan stopped, and allowed the gypsy to have her +will. + +She looked at the hand Ynys held out through the obscurity, and almost +immediately dropped it. + +"Beware of crossing the sea," she said. "I see your death floating on a +green wave." + +Ynys shuddered, but said nothing. When Alan put out his hand the woman +held it in hers for a few seconds, and then pondered it intently. + +"Be quick, my good woman," he urged, "we are in a hurry." + +"It will be behind the shadow when we meet again," was all her reply: +enigmatical words, which yet in his ears had a sombre significance. But +he was even more perturbed by the fact that, before she relinquished +his hand, she stooped abruptly and kissed it. + +As the fugitives rode onward along the dusky high-road, Alan whispered +to Ynys that he could not forget the gypsy; that in some strange way +she haunted him; and even seemed to him to be linked to that disastrous +day. + +"That may well be," Ynys had answered, "for the woman was Annaik." + + * * * * * + +Onward they rode till they came to Haut-Kerloek, the ancient village +on the slope of the hill above the little town. There, at the Gloire +de Kerival they stopped for the night. Next morning they resumed their +journey, and the same afternoon reached St. Blaise-sur-Loise, where +they knew they would find the body of General Alasdair Carmichael. + +And it was thus that, by the strange irony of fate, Alasdair +Carmichael, who had never seen his son, who in turn had unknowingly +witnessed his father's tragic death, was followed to the grave-side by +that dear child for whom he had so often longed, and that by Alan's +side was the daughter of the man who had done so much to ruin his +life and had at the last slain him. At the same hour, on the same +day, Lois de Kerival was laid to her rest, with none of her kith and +kin to lament her; for Tristran the Silent was alone in his austere +grief. Two others were there, at whom the Curé looked askance: the rude +woodlander, Judik Kerbastiou, and another forest estray, a gypsy woman +with a shawl over her head. The latter must have known the Marquise's +charity, for the good woman wept quietly throughout the service of +committal, and, when she turned to go, the Curé heard a sob in her +throat. + +It took but a brief while for Alan to settle his father's few affairs. +Among the papers he found one addressed to himself: a long letter +wherein was set forth not only all necessary details concerning Alan's +mother and father, but also particulars about the small fortune that +was in keeping for him in Edinburgh, and the lonely house on the lonely +Isle of Rona among the lonely Hebrides. + +In St. Blaise Alan and Ynys went before the civil authorities, and were +registered as man and wife. The next day they resumed their journey +toward that exile which they had in view. + +Thereafter, slowly, and by devious ways, they fared far north. At +Edinburgh Alan had learned all that was still unexplained. He found +that there would be enough money to enable Ynys and himself to live +quietly, particularly at so remote a place as Rona. The castle or +"keep" there was unoccupied, and had, indeed, long been untenanted save +by the widow-woman Kirsten Macdonald, Ian's sister. In return for this +home, she had kept the solitary place in order. All the furniture that +had been there, when Alasdair Carmichael was last in Rona, remained. In +going thither, Alan and Ynys would be going home. + +The westward journey was a revelation to them. Never had there been so +beautiful a May, they were told. They had lingered long at the first +place where they heard the sweet familiar sound of the Gaelic. Hand in +hand, they wandered over the hill-sides of which the very names had a +poignant home-sweetness; and long, hot hours they spent together on +lochs of which Lois de Kerival had often spoken with deep longing in +her voice. + +As they neared the extreme of the mainland, Alan's excitement deepened. +He spoke hardly a word on the day the steamer left the Argyle coast +behind, and headed for the dim isles of the sea, Coll and Tiree; and +again on the following day Ynys saw how distraught he was, for, about +noon, the coast-line of Uist loomed, faintly blue, upon the dark +Atlantic horizon. + +At Loch Boisdale, where they disembarked, and whence they had to sail +the remainder of their journey in a fishing schooner, which by good +fortune was then there and disengaged, Ian was for the first time +recognized. All that evening Alan and Ynys talked with the islesmen; +Alan finding, to his delight, his Gaelic was so good that none for a +moment suspected he had not lived in the isles all his life. That of +Ynys, however, though fluent, had a foreign sound in it which puzzled +the admiring fishermen. + +It was an hour after sunrise when the _Blue Herring_ sailed out of +Loch Boisdale, and it was an hour before sunset when the anchor dropped +in Borosay Haven. + +On this night Alan perceived the first sign of aloofness among his +fellow Gaels. Hitherto every one had been cordial, and he and Ynys +had rejoiced in the courtesy and genial friendliness which they had +everywhere encountered. + +But in Balnaree ("Baille'-na-Righ"), the little village wherein was +focussed all that Borosay had to boast of in the way of civic life, he +could not disguise from himself that again and again he was looked at +askance. + +Rightly or wrongly he took this to be resentment because of his having +wed Ynys, the daughter of the man who had murdered Alasdair Carmichael. +So possessed was he by this idea that he did not remember how little +likely the islanders were to know aught concerning Ynys, or indeed any +thing beyond the fact that Alasdair MacAlasdair Rhona had died abroad. + +The trouble became more than an imaginary one when, on the morrow, he +tried to find a boat for the passage to Rona. But for the Frozen Hand, +as the triple-peaked hill to the south of Balnaree was called, Rona +would have been visible; nor was it, with a fair wind, more than an +hour's sail distant. + +Nevertheless, every one to whom he spoke showed a strange reluctance. +At last, in despair, he asked an old man of his own surname why there +was so much difficulty. + +In the island way, Sheumas Carmichael replied that the people on +Elleray, the island adjacent to Rona, were incensed. + +"But incensed at what?" + +"Well, at this and at that. But for one thing they are not having +any dealings with the Carmichaels. They are all Macdonalds, there, +Macdonalds of Barra. There is a feud, I am thinking; though I know +nothing of it; no, not I." + +"But Seumas mac Eachainn, you know well yourself that there are almost +no Carmichaels to have a feud with! There are you and your brother, and +there is your cousin over at Sgòrr-Bhan on the other side of Borosay. +Who else is there?" + +To this the man could say nothing. Distressed, Alan sought Ian and +bade him find out what he could. He, also, however, was puzzled and +even seriously perturbed. That some evil was at work could not be +doubted; and that it was secret boded ill. + +Ian was practically a stranger in Borosay because of his long absence. +But though this, for a time, shut him off from his fellow islanders, +and retarded his discovery of what strange reason accounted for the +apparently inexplicable apathy shown by the fishermen of Balnaree,--an +apathy, too, so much to their own disadvantage,--it enabled him, on the +other hand, to make a strong appeal to the clan-side of the islanders' +natures. After all, Ian mac Iain mhic Dhonuill was one of them, and +though he came there with a man in a shadow (though this phrase was not +used in Ian's hearing), that was not his fault. + +Suddenly Ian remembered a fact that he should have thought of at once. +There was the old woman, his sister Kirsten. He would speak of her, and +of their long separation, and of his desire to see her again before he +died. + +This made a difficult thing easy. Within an hour a boat was ready +to take the travellers to the Isle of the Caves--as Rona was called +locally. Before the hour was gone, they, with the stores of food and +other things they had been advised to take with them, were slipping +seaward out of Borosay Haven. + +The moment the headland was rounded the heights of Rona came into +view. Great gaunt cliffs they are, precipices of black basalt; though +on the south side they fall away in grassy declivities which hang a +greenness over the wandering wave forever sobbing round that desolate +shore. But it was not till the Sgòrr-Dhu, a conical black rock at the +southeast end of the island, was reached that the stone keep, known as +Caisteal-Rhona, came in sight. + +It stands at the landward extreme of a rocky ledge, on the margin of +a green _airidh_. Westward is a small dark-blue sea loch, no more +than a narrow haven. To the northwest rise sheer the ocean-fronting +precipitous cliffs; northward, above the green pasture and a stretch of +heather, is a woodland-belt of some three or four hundred pine-trees. +It might well be called I-monair, as Aodh the Islander sang of it; for +it is ever echoing with murmurous noises. If the waves dash against it +from the south or east, a loud crying is upon the faces of the rocks; +if from the north or north-east, there is a dull iteration, and amid +the pines a continual soughing sea voice. But when the wind blows from +the south-west, or the huge Atlantic billows surge out of the west, +Rona is a place filled with an indescribable tumult. Through the whole +island goes the myriad echo of a hollow booming, with an incessant +sound as though waters were pouring through vast hidden conduits in the +heart of every precipice, every rock, every bowlder. This is because of +the arcades of which it consists, for from the westward the island has +been honeycombed by the sea. No living man has ever traversed all those +mysterious, winding sea galleries. Many have perished in the attempt. +In the olden days the Uisteans and Barrovians sought refuge there from +the marauding Danes and other pirates out of Lochlin; and in the time +when the last Scottish king took shelter in the west many of his +island followers found safety among these perilous arcades. + +Some of them reach to an immense height. These are filled with a pale +green gloom which in fine weather, and at noon or toward sundown, +becomes almost radiant. But most have only a dusky green obscurity, and +some are at all times dark with a darkness that has seen neither sun +nor moon nor star for unknown ages. Sometimes, there, a phosphorescent +wave will spill a livid or a cold blue flame, and for a moment a vast +gulf of dripping basalt be revealed; but day and night, night and day, +from year to year, from age to age, that awful wave-clamant darkness +prevails unbroken. + +To the few who know some of the secrets of the Passages, it is +possible, except when a gale blows from any quarter but the north, +to thrid these dim arcades in a narrow boat, and so to pass from the +Hebrid Seas to the outer Atlantic. But to one unaware of the clews +there might well be no return to the light of the open day; for in that +maze of winding galleries and dim, sea-washed, and forever unlitten +arcades, there is only a hopeless bewilderment. Once bewildered, there +is no hope; and the lost adventurer will remain there idly drifting +from barren corridor to corridor, till he perish of hunger and thirst, +or, maddened by the strange and appalling gloom and the unbroken +silence,--for there the muffled voice of the sea is no more than a +whisper,--he leap into the green waters which forever slide stealthily +from ledge to ledge. + +From Ian mac Iain Alan had heard of such an isle, though he had not +known it to be Rona. Now, as he approached his wild, remote home he +thought of these death-haunted corridors, avenues of the grave as they +are called in the "Cumha Fhir-Mearanach Aonghas mhic Dhonuill--the +Lament of mad Angus Macdonald." + +When, at last, the unwieldy brown coble sailed into the little haven it +was to create unwonted excitement among the few fishermen who put in +there frequently for bait. A group of eight or ten was upon the rocky +ledge beyond Caisteal-Rhona, among them the elderly woman who was +sister to Ian mac Iain. + +At Alan's request, Ian went ashore in advance, in a small punt. He +was to wave his hand if all were well, for Alan could not but feel +apprehensive on account of the strange ill-will that had shown itself +at Borosay. + +It was with relief that he saw the signal when, after Ian had embraced +his sister, and shaken hands with all the fishermen, he had explained +that the son of Alasdair Carmichael was come out of the south, and +with a beautiful young wife, too, and was henceforth to live at +Caisteal-Rhona. + +All there uncovered and waved their hats. Then a shout of welcome went +up, and Alan's heart was glad, and that of Ynys. But the moment he +had set foot on land he saw a startled look come into the eyes of the +fishermen--a look that deepened swiftly into one of aversion, almost of +fear. + +One by one the men moved away, awkward in their embarrassment. Not one +came forward with outstretched hand, nor said a word of welcome. + +At first amazed, then indignant, Ian reproached them. They received his +words in ashamed silence. Even when with a bitter tongue he taunted +them, they answered nothing. + +"Giorsal," said Ian, turning in despair to his sister, "what is the +meaning of this folly?" + +But even she was no longer the same. Her eyes were fixed upon Alan +with a look of dread and indeed of horror. It was unmistakable, and +Alan himself was conscious of it, with a strange sinking of the heart. +"Speak, woman!" he demanded. "What is the meaning of this thing? Why do +you and these men look at me askance?" + +"God forbid!" answered Giorsal Macdonald with white lips; "God forbid +that we look at the son of Alasdair Carmichael askance. But...." + +"But what?" + +With that the woman put her apron over her head and moved away, +muttering strange words. + +"Ian, what is this mystery?" + +It was Ynys who spoke now, for on Alan's face was a shadow, and in his +eyes a deep gloom. She, too, was white, and had fear in her eyes. + +"How am I for knowing, Ynys-nighean-Lhois? It is all a darkness to me +also. But I will find out." + +That, however, was easier for Ian to say than to do. Meanwhile, the +brown cobble tacked back to Borosay, and the fishermen sailed away to +the Barra coasts, and Alan and Ynys were left solitary in their wild +and remote home. + +But in that very solitude they found healing. From what Giorsal hinted, +they came to believe that the fishermen had experienced one of those +strange dream-waves which, in remote isles, occur at times, when whole +communities will be wrought by the selfsame fantasy. When day by day +went past, and no one came nigh them, at first they were puzzled and +even resentful, but this passed and soon they were glad to be alone. +Only, Ian knew that there was another cause for the inexplicable +aversion that had been shown. But he was silent, and he kept a patient +watch for the hour that the future held in its dim shroud. As for +Giorsal, she was dumb; but no more looked at Alan askance. + +And so the weeks went. Occasionally, a fishing smack came with the +provisions for the weekly despatch of which Alan had arranged at Loch +Boisdale, and sometimes the Barra men put in at the haven, though they +would never stay long, and always avoided Alan as much as was possible. + +In that time Alan and Ynys came to know and love their strangely +beautiful island home. Hours and hours at a time they spent exploring +the dim, green winding sea galleries, till at last they knew the main +corridors thoroughly. They had even ventured into some of the narrow +snake-like passages, but never for long, because of the awe and dread +these held, silent estuaries of the grave. + +There, too, they forgot all the sorrow that had been theirs, forgot the +shadow of death which lay between them. They buried all in the deep sea +of love that was about the rock of their passion. For, as of another +Alan and another woman, the _mirdhei_ was upon them: the dream-spell of +love. + +Day by day, with them as with that Alan and Sorcha of whom they had +often heard, their joy had grown, like a flower moving ever to the sun; +and as it grew the roots deepened, and the tendrils met and intertwined +round the two hearts, till at last they were drawn together and became +one, as two moving rays of light will converge into one beam, or the +song of two singers blend and become as the song of one. + +As the weeks passed the wonder of the dream became at times a brooding +passion, at times almost an ecstasy. Ossian and the poets of old speak +of a strange frenzy that came upon the brave; and, sure, there is a +_mircath_ of another kind now and again in the world, in the green, +remote places at least. Aodh the islander, and Ian-Ban of the hills, +and other dreamer-poets know of it--the _mirdhei_, the passion that is +deeper than passion, the dream that is beyond the dream. This that was +once the fair doom of another Alan and Sorcha, of whom Ian had often +told him with hushed voice and dreaming eyes, was now upon himself and +Ynys. + +They were Love to each other. In each the other saw the beauty of the +world. Hand in hand they wandered among the wind-haunted pines, or +along the thyme and grass of the summits of the precipices; or they +sailed for hours upon the summer seas, blue lawns of moving azure, +glorious with the sun-dazzle and lovely with purple cloud-shadows and +amethystine straits of floating weed; or, by noontide, or at the full +of the moon, they penetrated far into the dim, green arcades, and were +as shadows in a strange and fantastic but ineffably sweet and beautiful +dream. + +Day was lovely and desirable to each, for day dreamed to night; and +night was sweet as life because it held the new day against its dark, +beating heart. Week after week passed, and to Ynys as to Alan it was as +the going of the gray owl's wing, swift and silent. + + * * * * * + +Then it was that, on a day of the days, Alan was suddenly stricken with +a new and startling dread. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +AT THE EDGE OF THE SHADOW + + +In the hour that this terror came upon him Alan was alone upon the +high slopes of Rona, where the grass fails and the moor purples at an +elevation of close on a thousand feet above the sea. + +The day had been cloudless since sunrise. The immeasurable range of +ocean expanded like the single petal of an azure flower; all of one +unbroken blue save for the shadows of the scattered isles and for the +fugitive amethyst where floating weed suspended. An immense number of +birds congregated from every quarter. Guillemots and skuas and puffins, +cormorants and northern divers, everywhere darted, swam, or slept +upon the listless sea, whose deep suspiration no more than lifted a +league-long calm here and there, to lapse insensibly, even as it rose. +Through the not less silent quietudes of air the sea-gulls swept with +curving flight, and the narrow-winged terns made a constant shimmer. +At remote altitudes the gannet motionlessly drifted. Oceanward the +great widths of calm were rent now and again by the shoulders of the +porpoises which followed the herring trail, their huge, black revolving +bodies looming large above the silent wave. Not a boat was visible +anywhere; not even upon the most distant horizons did a brown sail +fleck itself duskily against the skyward wall of steely blue. + +In the great stillness which prevailed, the noise of the surf beating +around the promontory of Aonaig was audible as a whisper; though even +in that windless hour the indescribable rumor of the sea, moving +through the arcades of the island, filled the hollow of the air +overhead. Ever since the early morning Alan had moved under a strange +gloom. Out of that golden glory of midsummer a breath of joyous life +should have reached his heart, but it was not so. For sure, there +is sometimes in the quiet beauty of summer an air of menace, a +breath, a suspicion, a dream-premonition, of suspended force--a force +antagonistic and terrible. All who have lived in these lonely isles +know the peculiar intensity of this summer melancholy. No clamor of +tempestuous wind, no prolonged sojourn of untimely rains, and no long +baffling of mists in all the drear inclemencies of that remote region, +can produce the same ominous and even paralyzing gloom which sometimes +can be born of ineffable peace and beauty. Is it that in the human soul +there is mysterious kinship with the outer soul which we call Nature; +and that in these few supreme hours which come at the full of the year +we are, sometimes, suddenly aware of the tremendous forces beneath and +behind us, momently quiescent? + +Standing with Ynys upon a grassy headland, Alan had looked long at +the dream-blue perspectives to the southward, seeing there at first +no more than innumerable hidden pathways of the sun, with blue-green +and silver radiance immeasurable, and the very breath and wonder +and mystery of ocean life suspended as in a dream. In the hearts of +each deep happiness brooded. Perhaps it was out of these depths that +rose the dark flower of this sudden apprehension that came upon him. +It was no fear for Ynys, nor for himself, not for the general weal: +but a profound disquietude, a sense of inevitable ill. Ynys felt the +tightening of his hand; and saw the sudden change in his face. It was +often so with him. The sun-dazzle, at which he would look with endless +delight, finding in it a tangible embodiment of the fugitive rhythms of +cosmic music which floated everywhere, would sometimes be a dazzle also +in his brain. In a moment a strange bewilderment would render unstable +those perilous sands of the human brain which are forever laved by +the strange waters of the unseen life. When this mood or fantasy, or +uncalculable accident occurred, he was often wrought either by vivid +dreams, or creative work, or else would lapse into a melancholy from +which not even the calling love of Ynys would arouse him. When she +saw in his face and in his eyes this sudden bewildered look, and knew +that in some mysterious way the madness of the beauty of the sea had +enthralled him, she took his hand and moved with him inland. In a +brief while the poignant fragrance from the trodden thyme and short +hill-grass, warmed by the sun, rose as an intoxication. For that hour +the gloom went. But when, later, he wandered away from Caisteal-Rhona, +once more the sense of foreboding was heavy upon him. Determined to +shake it off, he wandered high among the upland solitudes. There a cool +air forever moved even in the noons of August; and there, indeed, at +last, there came upon him a deep peace. With joy his mind dwelled over +and over again upon all that Ynys had been and was to him; upon the +depth and passion of their love; upon the mystery and wonder of that +coming life which was theirs and yet was not of them, itself already no +more than an unrisen wave or an unbloomed flower, but yet as inevitable +as they, but dowered with the light which is beyond where the mortal +shadows end. Strange, this passion of love for what is not; strange, +this deep longing of the woman--the longing of the womb, the longing +of the heart, the longing of the brain, the longing of the soul--for +the perpetuation of the life she shares in common with one whom she +loves; strange, this longing of the man, a longing deep-based in his +nature as the love of life or the fear of death, for the gaining from +the woman he loves this personal hostage against oblivion. For indeed +something of this so commonplace, and yet so divine and mysterious +tide of birth, which is forever at the flow upon this green world, is +due to an instinctive fear of cessation. The perpetuation of life is +the unconscious protest of humanity against the destiny of mortality. +Thoughts such as these were often with Alan now; often, too, with Ynys, +in whom, indeed, all the latent mysticism which had ever been a bond +between them had latterly been continually evoked. Possibly it was the +mere shadow of his great love; possibly it was some fear of the dark +way wherein the sunrise of each new birth is involved; possibly it was +no more than the melancholy of the isles, that so wrought him on this +perfect day. Whatsoever the reason, a deeper despondency prevailed +as noon waned into afternoon. An incident, deeply significant to him, +in that mood, at that time, happened then. A few hundred yards away +from where he stood, half hidden in a little glen where a fall of +water made a continual spray among the shadows of the rowan and birch, +was the bothie of a woman, the wife of Neil MacNeill, a fisherman of +Aonaig. She was there, he knew, for the summer pasturing, and even as +he recollected this, he heard the sound of her voice as she sang down +somewhere by the burnside. Moving slowly toward the corrie, he stopped +at a mountain ash which overhung a deep pool. Looking down, he saw the +woman, Morag MacNeill, washing and peeling potatoes in the clear brown +water. And as she washed and peeled, she sang an old-time shealing +hymn of the Virgin-Shepherdess, of Michael the White, and of Coluaman +the Dove. It was a song that, far away in Brittany, he had heard Lois, +the mother of Ynys, sing in one of those rare hours when her youth +came back to her with something of youth's passionate intensity. He +listened now to every word of the doubly familiar Gaelic, and when +Morag finished the tears were in his eyes, and he stood for a while as +one entranced.[A] + + [Footnote A: This hymn is taken down in the Gaelic and translated by + Mr. Alexander Carmichael of South Uist.] + + "A Mhicheil mhin! nan steud geala, + A choisin cios air Dragon fala, + Air ghaol Dia' us Mhic Muire, + Sgaoil do sgiath oirnn dian sinn uile, + Sgaoil do sgiath oirnn dian sinn uile. + + "A Mhoire ghradhach! Mathair Uain-ghil, + Cohhair oirnne, Oigh na h-uaisle; + A rioghainn uai'reach! a bhuachaille nan treud! + Cum ar cuallach cuartaich sinn le cheil, + Cum ar cuallach cuartaich sinn le cheil. + + "A Chalum-Chille! chairdeil, chaoimh, + An ainm Athar, Mic, 'us Spioraid Naoimh, + Trid na Trithinn! trid na Triath! + Comraig sinne, gleidh ar trial, + Comraig sinne, gleidh ar trial. + + "Athair! A Mhic! A Spioraid Naoimh! + Bi'eadh an Tri-Aon leinn, a la 's a dh-oidhche! + 'S air chul nan tonn, no air thaobh nam beann, + Bi'dh ar Mathair leinn, 's bith A lamh fo'r ceann, + Bi'dh ar Mathair leinn, 's bith A lamh fo'r ceann." + + + [Thou gentle Michael of the white steed, + Who subdued the Dragon of blood, + For love of God and the Son of Mary, + Spread over us thy wing, shield us all! + Spread over us thy wing, shield us all! + + Mary Beloved! Mother of the White Lamb, + Protect us, thou Virgin of nobleness, + Queen of beauty! Shepherdess of the flocks! + Keep our cattle, surround us together, + Keep our cattle, surround us together. + + Thou Columba, the friendly, the kind, + In name of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit Holy, + Through the Three-in-One, through the Three, + Encompass us, guard our procession, + Encompass us, guard our procession. + + Thou Father! thou Son! thou Spirit Holy! + Be the Three-One with us day and night. + And on the crested wave, or on the mountain side, + Our Mother is there, and her arm is under our head, + Our Mother is there, and her arm is under our head.] + +After she had ceased Alan found himself repeating whisperingly, and +again and again: + + "Bi'eadh an Tri-Aon leinn, a la 's a dh-oidhche! + 'S air chul nan tonn, no air thaobh nam beann." + +Suddenly the woman glanced upward, perhaps because of the shadow that +moved against the green bracken below. With a startled gesture she +sprang to her feet. Alan looked at her kindly, saying with a smile, +"Sure, Morag nic Tormaid, it is not fear you need be having of one who +is your friend." Then, seeing that the woman stared at him with an +intent gaze, wherein was terror as well as surprise, he spoke to her +again. + +"Sure, Morag, I am no stranger that you should be looking at me with +those foreign eyes." He laughed as he spoke, and made as though he were +about to descend to the burnside. Unmistakably, however, the woman did +not desire his company. He saw that with the pain and bewilderment +which had come upon him whenever the like happened, as so often it had +happened since he had come to Rona. + +"Tell me, Bean Neil MacNeill, what is the meaning of this strangeness +that is upon you? Why do you not speak? Why do you turn away your +head?" + +Suddenly the woman flashed her black eyes upon him. + +"Have you ever heard of _am Buchaille Bàn--am Buchaille Buidhe_?" + +He looked at her in amaze. _Am Buchaille Bàn!_ ... The fair-haired +Herdsman, the yellow-haired Herdsman! What could she mean? In days gone +by, he knew, the islanders had, in the evil time after Culloden, so +named the fugitive Prince who had sought shelter in the Hebrides; and +in some of the runes of an older day still the Saviour of the World +was sometimes so called, just as Mary was called _Bhuachaille nan +treud_--Shepherdess of the Flocks. But as Alan knew well, no allusion +to either of these was intended. + +"Who is the Herdsman of whom you speak, Morag?" + +"Is it no knowledge you have of him at all, Alan MacAlasdair?" + +"None. I know nothing of the man, nothing of what is in your mind. Who +is the Herdsman?" + +"You will not be putting evil upon me because that you saw me here by +the pool before I saw you?" + +"Why should I, woman? Why do you think that I have the power of the +evil eye? Sure, I have done no harm to you or yours, and wish none. But +if it is for peace to you to know it, it is no evil I wish you, but +only good. The Blessing of Himself be upon you and yours and upon your +house." + +The woman looked relieved, but still cast her furtive gaze upon Alan, +who no longer attempted to join her. + +"I cannot be speaking the thing that is in my mind, Alan MacAlasdair. +It is not for me to be saying that thing. But if you have no knowledge +of the Herdsman, sure it is only another wonder of the wonders, and God +has the sun on that shadow, to the Stones be it said." + +"But tell me, Morag, who is the Herdsman of whom you speak?" + +For a minute or more the woman stood regarding him intently. Then +slowly, and as with difficulty, she spoke: + +"Why have you appeared to the people upon the isle, sometimes by +moonlight, sometimes by day or in the dusk? and have foretold upon one +and all who dwell here black gloom and the red flame of sorrow?--Why +have you, who are an outcast because of what lies between you and +another, pretended to be an emissary of the Son--ay, for sure, even, +God forgive you, to be the Son himself?" + +Alan stared at the woman in blank amaze. For a time he could utter no +word. Had some extraordinary delusion spread among the islanders, and +was there in the insane accusation of this woman the secret of that +inexplicable aversion which had so troubled him? + +"This is all an empty darkness to me, Morag. Speak more plainly, woman. +What is all this madness that you say? When have I uttered aught of +having any mission, or of being other than I am? When have I foretold +evil upon you or yours, or upon the isles beyond? What man has ever +dared to say that Alan MacAlasdair of Rona is an outcast? and what sin +is it that lies between me and another of which you know?" + +It was impossible for Morag MacNeill to doubt the sincerity of the man +who spoke to her. She crossed herself, and muttered the words of a +_sian_ for the protection of the soul against the demon powers. Still, +even while she believed in Alan's sincerity, she could not reconcile it +with that terrible and strange mystery with which rumor had filled her +ears. So, having nothing to say in reply to his eager questions, she +cast down her eyes and kept silence. + +"Speak, Morag, for Heaven's sake! Speak if you are a true woman; you +that see a man in sore pain, in pain, too, for that of which he knows +nothing, and of the ill of which he is guiltless!" + +But, keeping her face averted, the woman muttered simply: "I have no +more to say." With that she turned and moved slowly along the pathway +which led from the pool to her hillside bothie. + +With a sigh, Alan turned and moved across the moor. What wonder, he +thought, that deep gloom had been upon him that day? Here, in the +woman's mysterious words, was the shadow of that shadow. + +Slowly, brooding deep over what he had heard, he traversed the +Mona-nan-Con, as the hill-tract there was called, till he came to the +rocky wilderness known as the Slope of the Caverns. + +There for a time he leaned against a high bowlder, idly watching a few +sheep nibbling the short grass which grew about the apertures of some +of the many caves which disclosed themselves in all directions. Below +and beyond, he saw the illimitable calm beauty of the scene; southward +with no break anywhere; eastward, a sun-blaze void; south-westward, +the faint, blue film of the coast of Ulster; westward, the same +immeasurable windless expanse. From where he stood he could just hear +the murmur of the surge whispering all round the isle; the surge that, +even on days of profoundest calm, makes a murmurous rumor among the +rocks and shingle of the island shores. Not upon the moor side, but +in the blank hollows of the caves around him he heard, as in gigantic +shells, the moving of a strange and solemn rhythm: wave haunted-shells +indeed, for the echo that was bruited from one to the other came from +beneath, from out of those labyrinthine corridors and dim, shadowy +arcades, where through the intense green glooms the Atlantic waters +lose themselves in a vain wandering. + +For long he leaned there, revolving in his mind the mystery of Morag +MacNeill's words. Then, abruptly, the stillness was broken by the sound +of a dislodged stone. So little did he expect the foot of a fellow that +he did not turn at what he thought to be the slip of a sheep. But when +upon the slope of the grass, just beyond where he stood, a dusky blue +shadow wavered fantastically, he swung round with a sudden instinct of +dread. + +And this was the dread which, at the end of the third month after he +and Ynys had come to Rona, was upon Alan Carmichael. + +For there, standing quietly by another bowlder, at the mouth of another +cave, stood a man who was in all appearance identical with himself. +Looking at this apparition, he beheld one of the same height as +himself, with hair of the same hue, with eyes the same, and features +the same, with the same carriage, the same smile, even the same +expression. No, it was there, and there alone, that a difference was. + +Sick at heart, Alan wondered if he looked upon his own wraith. Familiar +as he was with the legends of his people, it would be no strange thing +to him that there, upon the hillside, should appear the phantasm of +himself. Had not old Ian MacIain--and that, too, though far away in a +strange land--seen the death of Lois Macdonald moving upward from her +feet to her knees, from her knees to her waist, from her waist to her +neck and, just before the end, how the shroud darkened along the face +until it hid the eyes? Had he not often heard from her, from Ian, of +the second self which so often appears beside the living when already +the shadow of doom is upon him whose hours are numbered? Was this, +then, the reason of what had been his inexplicable gloom? Was he indeed +at the extreme of life; was his soul amid shallows, already a rock upon +a blank, inhospitable shore? If not, who or what was this second self +which leaned there negligently; looking at him with scornfully smiling +lips, but with intent, unsmiling eyes. + +Then, slowly, there came into his mind this thought: How could a +phantom, that was itself intangible, throw a shadow upon the grass, +as though it were a living corporeal being? Sure, a shadow there was +indeed. It lay between the apparition and himself. A story heard in +boyhood came back to him; instinctively he stooped and lifted a stone +and flung it midway into the shadow. + +"Go back into the darkness," he cried, "if out of the darkness you +came; but, if you be a living thing, put out your hands!" + +The shadow remained motionless; though when Alan looked again at his +second self, he saw that the scorn which had been upon the lips was now +in the eyes also. Ay, for sure, that was scornful laughter that lay +in those cold wells of light. No phantom that; a man he, even as Alan +himself. His heart pulsed like that of a trapped bird, but, even in the +speaking, his courage came back to him. + +"Who are you?" he asked in a low voice that was strange even in his own +ears. + +"Am Buchaille", replied the man in a voice as low and strange. "I am +the Herdsman." + +A new tide of fear surged in upon Alan. That voice, was it not his +own; that tone, was it not familiar in his ears? When the man spoke, +he heard himself speak; sure, if he were am Buchaille Bàn, Alan, too, +was the Herdsman--though what fantastic destiny might be his was all +unknown to him. + +"Come near," said the man, and now the mocking light in his eyes was +lambent as cloud-fire--"come near, oh, Buchaille Bàn!" + +With a swift movement Alan leapt forward, but as he leaped his foot +caught in a spray of heather and he stumbled and nigh fell. When he +recovered himself, he looked in vain for the man who had called him. +There was not a sign, not a trace of any living being. For the first +few moments he believed it had all been a delusion. Mortal being did +not appear and vanish in that ghostly way. Still, surely he could not +have mistaken the blank of that place for a speaking voice, nor out +of nothingness have fashioned the living phantom of himself? Or could +he? With that, he strode forward and peered into the wide arch of +the cavern by which the man had stood. He could not see far into it, +but so far as it was possible to see, he discerned neither man nor +shadow of man, nor any thing that stirred; no, not even the dust of a +bearnan-Bride, that grew on a patch of grass a yard or two within the +darkness, had lost one of its aërial pinions. He drew back, dismayed. +Then, suddenly, his heart leapt again, for, beyond all question, all +possible doubt, there, in the bent thyme, just where the man had stood, +was the imprint of his feet. Even now the green sprays were moving +forward. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +MYSTERY + + +An hour passed, and Alan Carmichael still stood by the entrance to +the cave. So immovable was he that a ewe, listlessly wandering there +in search of cooler grass, lay down after a while, drowsily regarding +him with her amber-colored eyes. All his thought was intent upon the +mystery of what he had seen. No delusion this, he was sure. That was a +man whom he had seen. It might well have been some one whom he did not +know, though that were unlikely, of course, for on so small an island, +inhabited by less than a score of crofters, it was scarcely possible +for one to live there for many weeks and not know the name and face of +every soul upon the isle. Still, a stranger might have come. Only, if +this were so, why should he call himself the Herdsman? There was but +one herdsman on Rona, and he Angus MacCormic, who lived at Einaval on +the north side. In these outer isles, the shepherd and the herdsman +are appointed by the community, and no man is allowed to be one or the +other at will, any more than to be _maor_ or _constabal_. Then, too, +if this man were indeed herdsman, where was his _imir ionailt_, his +browsing tract? Looking round him, Alan could perceive nowhere any +fitting pasture. Surely no herdsman would be content with such an _imir +a bhuchaille_--rig of the herdsman--as that rocky wilderness where the +soft green grass grew in patches under this or that bowlder, on the +sun side of this or that mountain ash. Again, he had given no name, +but called himself simply _Am Buchaille_. This was how the woman Morag +had spoken; did she indeed mean this very man, and if so what import +lay in her words? But far beyond all other bewilderment for him was +that strange, that indeed terrifying likeness to himself; a likeness +so absolute, so convincing, that he knew he might himself easily have +been deceived, had he beheld the apparition in any place where it was +possible that a reflection could have misled him. + +Brooding thus, eye and ear were both intent for the faintest sight or +sound. But, from the interior of the cavern, not a breath came. Once, +from among the jagged rocks high on the west slope of Ben Einaval +he fancied he heard an unwonted sound: that of human laughter, but +laughter so wild, so remote, so unmirthful, that fear was in his heart. +It could not be other than imagination, he said to himself; for in that +lonely place there was none to wander idly at that season, and none +who, wandering, would laugh there, solitary. + +It was with an effort that Alan at last determined to probe the +mystery. Stooping, he moved cautiously into the cavern, and groped his +way along a narrow ledge which led, as he thought, into another larger +cave. But this proved to be one of the innumerable hollow corridors +which intersect the honeycombed slopes of this Isle of Caves. To wander +far in these lightless passages would be to court inevitable death. +Long ago, the piper whom the Prionnsa-Ban, the Fair Prince, loved to +hear in his exile,--he that was called Rory McVurich,--penetrated one +of the larger hollows to seek there for a child that had idly wandered +into the dark. Some of the clansmen, with the father and mother of +the little one, waited at the entrance to the cave. For a time there +was silence; then, as agreed upon, the sound of the pipes was heard, +to which a man named Lachlan McLachlan replied from the outer air. +The skirl of the pipes within grew fainter and fainter. Louder and +louder Lachlan played upon his _chantar_; shriller and shriller grew +the wild cry of the _feadan_; but for all that, fainter and fainter +waned the sound of the pipes of Rory McVurich. Generations have come +and gone upon the isle, and still no man has heard the returning air +which Rory was to play. He may have found the little child, but he +never found his backward path, and in the gloom of that honeycombed +hill he and the child and the music of the pipes lapsed into the same +stillness. Remembering this legend, familiar to him since his boyhood, +Alan did not dare to venture farther. At any moment, too, he knew he +might fall into one of the innumerable crevices which opened into the +sea-corridors hundreds of feet below. Ancient rumor had it that there +were mysterious passages from the upper heights of Ben Einaval, which +led into the intricate heart mazes of these perilous arcades. But for +a time he lay still, straining every sense. Convinced at last that the +man whom he sought had evaded all possible quest, he turned to regain +the light. Brief way as he had gone, this was no easy thing to do. For +a few moments, indeed, Alan lost his self-possession, when he found a +uniform dusk about him, and could scarce discern which of the several +branching narrow corridors was that by which he had come. But following +the greener light, he reached the cave, and soon, with a sigh of +relief, was upon the sun-sweet warm earth again. + +How more than ever beautiful the world seemed to him; how sweet upon +the eyes were cliff and precipice, the wide stretch of ocean, the +flying birds, the sheep grazing on the scanty pastures, and, above all, +the homely blue smoke curling faintly upward from the fisher crofts on +the headland east of Aonaig! + +Purposely he retraced his steps by the way of the glen. He would see +the woman, Morag MacNeill again, and insist on some more explicit word; +but when he reached the burnside once more, the woman was not there. +Possibly she had seen him coming, and guessed his purpose; half he +surmised this, for the peats in the hearth were brightly aglow, and +on the hob beside them the boiling water hissed in a great iron pot +wherein were potatoes. In vain he sought, in vain called. Impatient +at last he walked around the bothie and into the little byre beyond. +The place seemed deserted. The matter, small as it was, added to his +profound disquietude. Resolved to sift the mystery, he began to walk +swiftly down the slope. By the old shealing of Cnoc-na-Monie, now +forsaken, his heart leaped at sight of Ynys coming to meet him. At +first he thought he would say nothing of what had happened. But with +Ynys his was ever an impossible silence, for she knew every change +in his mind as a seaman knows the look of the sky and sea. Moreover, +she had herself been all day oppressed by something of the same +inexplicable apprehension. + +When they met, she put her hands on his shoulders and looked at him +lovingly with questioning eyes. Ah! he found rest and hope in those +deep pools of quiet light whence the dreaming love rose comfortingly to +meet his own yearning gaze. + +"What is it, Alan, mo-ghray; what is the trouble that is upon you?" + +"It is a trouble, Ynys, but one of which I can speak little, for it is +little I know." + +"Have you heard or seen aught that gives you fear?" + +"I have seen a man here upon Rona whom I have not seen or met before, +and it is one whose face is known to me, and whose voice too, and one +whom I would not meet again." + +"Did he give you no name, Alan?" + +"None." + +"Whence did he come? Whither did he go?" + +"He came out of the shadow, and into the shadow he went." + +Ynys looked steadfastly at her husband; her wistful gaze searching deep +into his unquiet eyes, and thence from feature to feature of the face +which had become strangely worn, for all the joy that lay between them. + +But she said no more upon what he had told her. + +"I, too, Alan mo rùn, have heard a strange thing to-day. You know old +Marsail Macrae? She is ill now with a slow fever, and she thinks that +the shadow which she saw lying upon her hearth last Sabbath, when +nothing was there to cause any shadow, was her own death, come for her, +and now waiting there. I spoke to the old woman comfortingly, but she +would not have peace, and her eyes looked at me strangely. + +"'What is it, Marsail?' I asked at last. To which she replied +mysteriously: + +"'Ay, ay, for sure, it was I who saw you first.' + +"'Saw me first, Marsail?' + +"'Ay, you and Alan MacAlasdair.' + +"'When and where was this sight upon you that you speak of?' + +"'It was one month before you and he came to Rona.' + +"This startled me, and I asked her to tell me her meaning. At first, I +could make little of what was said, for she muttered low, and moved her +head idly this way and that; moaning in her pain. But on my taking her +hand, she looked at me again; and then, apparently without an effort, +told me this thing: + + * * * * * + +"'On the seventh day of the month before you came--and by the same +token it was on the seventh day of the month following that you and +Alan MacAlasdair came to Caisteal-Rhona--I was upon the shore at +Aonaig, listening to the crying of the wind against the great precipice +of Biolacreag. With me were Roderick Macrea and Neil MacNeill, Morag +MacNeill, and her sister Elsa; and we were singing the hymn for those +who were out on the wild sea that was roaring white against the cliffs +of Berneray; for some of our people were there, and we feared for them. +Sometimes one sang, and sometimes another. And sure, it is remembering +I am, how, when I had called out with my old wailing voice: + + "'Boidh an Tri-aon leinn, a la 's a dh-oidche; + 'S air chul nan tonn, no air thaobh nam beann. + + [Be the Three-in-One with us day and night; + On the crested wave, when waves run high.] + +"'I had just sung this, and we were all listening to the sound of it +caught by the wind and whirled up against the black face of Biolacreag, +when suddenly I saw a boat come sailing quite into the haven. I called +out to those about me, but they looked at me with white faces, for no +boat was there, and it was a rough, wild sea it was in that haven. + +"'And in that boat I saw three people sitting, and one was you, Ynys +nighean Lhois, and one was Alan MacAlasdair, and one was a man who had +his face in shadow, and his eyes looked into the shadow at his feet. I +knew not who you were, nor whence you came, nor whether it was for Rona +you were, nor any thing at all; but I saw you clear, and I told those +about me what I saw. And Seumas MacNeill, him that is dead now, and +brother to Neil here at Aonaig, he said to me, "Who was that whom you +saw walking in the dusk the night before last?" "Alasdair MacAlasdair +Carmichael," answered one at that. Seumas muttered, looking at those +about him, "Mark what I say, for it is a true thing; that Alasdair +Carmichael of Rona is dead now, because Marsail here saw him walking in +the dusk when he was not upon the island; and now, you Neil, and you +Roderick, and all of you will be for thinking with me that the man and +the woman in the boat whom Marsail sees now will be the son and the +daughter of him who has changed." + +"'Well, well, it is a true thing that we each of us thought that +thought, but when the days went and nothing more came of it, the memory +of the seeing went too. Then there came the day when the cobble of +Aulay MacAulay came out of Borosay into Caisteal-Rhona haven. Glad we +were to see the face of Ian mac Iain again, and to hear the sob of joy +coming out of the heart of Kirsten, his sister: but when you and Alan +MacAlasdair came on shore, it was my voice that then went from mouth +to mouth, for I whispered to Morag MacNeill who was next me, that you +were the twain that I had seen in the boat.' + + * * * * * + +"Well, Alan," Ynys added, with a grave smile, "I spoke gently to old +Marsail, and told her that after all there was no evil in that seeing, +and that for sure it was nothing at all, at all, to see two people in +a boat, and nothing coming of that, save happiness for those two, and +glad content to be here, with hope like a white swallow nesting for aye +under the eaves of our house. + +"Marsail looked at me with big eyes. + +"'It is no white swallow that builds there, Ynys Bean Alan,' she said. + +"But when I asked her what she meant by that, she would say no more. +No asking of mine would bring the word to her lips; only she shook +her head and averted her gaze from my face. Then, seeing that it was +useless, I said to her: + +"'Marsail, tell me this: was that sight of yours the sole thing that +made the people here on Rona look askance at Alan MacAlasdair?' + +"For a time she stared at me with the dim, unrecognizing eyes of those +who are ill and in the shadow of death; then, suddenly they brightened, +and she spoke: + +"'It is not all.' + +"'Then what more is there, Marsail Macrae?' + +"'That is not for the saying. I have no more to say. Let you, or your +man, go elsewhere; that which is to be, will be. To each his own end.' + +"'Then tell me this at least,' I asked; 'is there peril for Alan or for +me in this island?' + +"But from that moment Marsail would say no more, and indeed I saw that +a swoon was upon the old woman, and that she heard not or saw not." + +After this, Ynys and Alan walked slowly home together, hand in hand, +both silent and revolving in their mind as in a dim dusk, that mystery +which, vague and unreal at first, had now become a living presence, and +haunted them by day and night. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +IN THE GREEN ARCADES + + +"In the shadow of pain, one may hear the footsteps of joy." So runs a +proverb of old. + +It was a true saying for Alan and Ynys. That night they lay down in +pain, their hearts heavy with the weight of some burden which they +felt and did not know. On the morrow they woke to the rapture of a +new day--a day of absolute beauty, when the stars grew pale in the +cloudless blue sky before the uprising of the sun, while the last vapor +lifted a white wing from the sea, and a dim spiral mist carried skyward +the memory of inland dews. The whole wide wilderness of ocean was of +living azure, aflame with gold and silver. Around the promontories of +the isles the brown-sailed fish-boats of Barra and Berneray, of Borosay +and Seila, moved blithely hither and thither. Everywhere the rhythm of +life pulsed swift and strong. The first sound which had awakened the +sleepers was of a loud singing of fishermen who were putting out from +Aonaig. The coming of a great shoal of mackerel had been signalled, and +every man and woman of the near isles was alert for the take. The first +sign had been the swift congregation of birds, particularly the gannets +and skuas. And as the men pulled at the oars, or hoisted the brown +sails, they sang a snatch of an old-world tune, wont to be chanted at +the first coming of the birds when spring-tide is on the flow again. + + "Bui' cheas dha 'n Ti thaine na Gugachan + Thaine 's na h-Eoin-Mhora cuideriu, + Cailin dugh ciaru bo 's a chro! + Bo dhonn! bo dhonn! bo dhonn bheadarrach! + Bo dhonn a ruin a bhlitheadh am baine dhuit + Ho ro! mo gheallag! ni gu rodagach! + Cailin dugh ciaru bo 's a chro-- + Na h-eoin air tighinn! cluinneam an ceol!" + + [Thanks to the Being, the Gannets have come. + Yes! and the Great Auks along with them. + Dark-haired girl!--a cow in the fold! + + + Brown cow! brown cow! brown cow, beloved ho! + Brown cow! my love! the milker of milk to thee! + Ho ro! my fair-skinned girl--a cow in the fold, + And the birds have come!--glad sight, I see!] + +Eager to be of help, Alan put off in his boat and was soon among the +fishermen, who in their new excitement were forgetful of all else than +that the mackerel were come, and that every moment was precious. For +the first time Alan found himself no unwelcome comrade. Was it, he +wondered, because that, there upon the sea, whatever of shadow dwelled +about him on the land was no longer visible? + +All through that golden noon, he and the others worked hard. From isle +to isle went the chorus of the splashing oars and splashing nets; of +the splashing of the fish and the splashing of gannets and gulls; of +the splashing of the tide leaping blithely against the sun-dazzle, and +the innumerous rippling wash moving out of the west--all this blent +with the loud, joyous cries, the laughter, and the hoarse shouts of the +men of Barra and the adjacent islands. It was close upon dusk before +the Rona boats put into the haven of Aonaig again; and by that time +none was blither than Alan Carmichael, who in that day of happy toil +had lost all the gloom and apprehension of the day before, and now made +haste to Caisteal-Rhona to add to his joy by a sight of Ynys in their +home. + +When, however, he got there, there was no Ynys to see. "She had gone," +said Kirsten Macdonald, "she had gone out in the smaller boat midway in +the afternoon, and had sailed around to Aoidhu, the great scaur which +ran out beyond the precipices at the south-west of Rona." + +This Ynys often did; and, of late, more and more often. Ever since she +had come to the Hebrid Isles, her love of the sea had deepened, and +had grown into a passion for its mystery and beauty. Of late, too, +something impelled to a more frequent isolation; a deep longing to +be where no eye could see, and no ear hearken. Those strange dreams +which, in a confused way, had haunted her mind in her far Breton home, +came oftener now and more clear. Sometimes, when she had sat in the +twilight at Kerival, holding her mother's hand and listening to tales +of that remote North to which her heart had ever yearned, she had +suddenly lost all consciousness of the speaker, or of the things said, +and had let her mind be taken captive by her uncontrolled imagination, +till in spirit she was far away, and sojourned in strange places, +hearing a language that she did not know, and yet which she understood, +and dwelt in a past or a present which she had never seen and which yet +was familiar. + +Since Ynys had known she was with child, this visionariness had been +intensified, this longing had become more and more a deep need. Even +with Alan she felt at times the intrusion of an alien influence. If +in her body was a mystery, a mystery also was in her brain and in her +heart. + +Alan knew this, and knowing, understood. It was for gladness to him +that Ynys should do as she would; that in these long hours of solitude +she drank deep of the elixir of peace; and that this way of happiness +was open to her as to him. Never did these isolations come between +them; indeed they were sometimes more at one then than when they were +together, for all the deep happiness which sustained both upon the +strong waters of their love. + +So, when Alan heard from Kirsten that Ynys had sailed westward, he +was in no way alarmed. But when the sun had set, and over the faint +blue film of the Isle of Tiree the moon had risen, and still no sign +of Ynys, he became restless and uneasy. Kirsten begged him in vain to +eat of the supper she had prepared. Idly he moved to and fro along the +rocky ledge, or down by the pebbly shore, or across the green _airidh_; +eager for a glimpse of her whom he loved so passing well. + +At last, unable longer to endure a growing anxiety, he put out in his +boat, and sailed swiftly before the slight easterly breeze which had +prevailed since moonrise. So far as Aoidhu, all the way from Aonaig, +there was not a haven anywhere, nor even one of the sea caverns which +honeycombed the isle beyond the headland. A glance, therefore, showed +him that Ynys had not yet come back that way. It was possible, though +unlikely, that she had sailed right round Rona; unlikely because in +the narrow straits to the north, between Rona and the scattered islets +known as the Innse-mhara, strong currents prevailed, and particularly +at the full of the tide, when they swept north-eastward, dark and swift +as a mill-race. + +Once the headland was passed and the sheer precipitous westward cliffs +loomed black out of the sea, he became more and more uneasy. As yet, +there was no danger; but he saw that a swell was moving out of the +west, and whenever the wind blew that way the sea arcades were filled +with a lifting, perilous wave, and escape from them was difficult +and often impossible. Out of the score or more great corridors which +opened between Aoidhu and Ardgorm, it was difficult to know into which +to hazard entry in quest of Ynys. Together they had examined all of +them. Some twisted but slightly; others wound sinuously till the green, +serpentine alleys, flanked by basalt walls hundreds of feet high, lost +themselves in an indistinguishable maze. + +But that which was safest, and wherein a boat could most easily make +its way against wind or tide, was the huge, cavernous corridor known +locally as the Uamh-nan-roin, the Cave of the Seals. + +For this opening Alan steered his boat. Soon he was within the wide +corridor. Like the great cave at Staffa, it was wrought as an aisle +in some natural cathedral; the rocks, too, were fluted columnarly and +rose in flawless symmetry as though graven by the hand of man. At the +far end of this gigantic aisle, there diverges a long, narrow arcade, +filled by day with the green shine of the water, and by night, when +the moon is up, with a pale froth of light. It is one of the few where +there are open gateways for the sea and the wandering light, and, by +its spherical shape, almost the only safe passage in a season of heavy +wind. Half-way along this arched arcade a corridor leads to a round +cup-like cavern, midway in which stands a huge mass of black basalt, in +shape suggestive of a titanic altar. Thus it must have impressed the +imagination of the islanders of old, for by them, even in a remote day, +it was called Teampull-nan-Mhara, the Temple of the Sea. Owing to the +narrowness of the corridor, and to the smooth, unbroken walls which +rise sheer from the green depths into an invisible darkness, the Strait +of the Temple is not one wherein to linger long, save in a time of calm. + +Instinctively, however, Alan quietly headed his boat along this narrow +way. When, silently, he emerged from the arcade, he could just discern +the mass of basalt at the far end of the cavern. But there, seated in +her boat, was Ynys; apparently idly adrift, for one oar floated in the +water alongside, and the other suspended listlessly from the tholes. + +His heart had a suffocating grip as he saw her whom he had come to +seek. Why that absolute stillness, that strange, listless indifference? +For a dreadful moment he feared that death had indeed come to her in +that lonely place where, as an ancient legend had it, a woman of old +time had perished, and ever since had wrought death upon any who came +thither solitary and unhappy. + +But at the striking of the shaft of his oar against a ledge, Ynys gave +a low cry and looked at him with startled eyes. Half rising from where +she crouched in the stern, she called to him in a voice that had in it +something strangely unfamiliar. + +"I will not hear!" she cried. "I will not hear! Leave me! Leave me!" + +Fearing that the desolation of the place had wrought upon her mind, +Alan swiftly moved toward her. The very next moment his boat glided +along hers. Stepping from the one to the other, he kneeled beside her. + +"_Ynys-ghaolaiche_, Ynys, my darling, what is it? what gives you dread? +There is no harm here. All is well. Look! See, it is I, Alan; Alan, +whom you love! Listen, dear; do you not know me; do you not know who I +am? It is I, Alan; Alan who loves you!" + +Even in that obscure light he could clearly discern her pale face, and +his heart smote him as he saw her eyes turn upon him with a glance wild +and mournful. Had she indeed succumbed to the sea madness which ever +and again strikes into a terrible melancholy one here and there among +those who dwell in the remote isles? But even as he looked, he noted +another expression come into the beautiful eyes, and almost before he +realized what had happened, Ynys's head was on his breast, and she +sobbing with a sudden gladness and passion of relief. + +The dusk deepened swiftly. In those serpentine arcades darkness grows +from hour to hour, even on nights when the moon makes the outer sea a +blaze of silver fire. But sweet it was to lie there in that solitary +place, where no sound penetrated save the low, soughing sigh of ocean, +audible there only as the breath of a sleeper: to lie there in each +other's arms, and to feel the beating of heart against heart, knowing +that whether in the hazard of life or death, all was well, since they +two were there and together. + +For long Ynys could say no word. And as for Alan--too glad was he to +have her again, to know that she lived indeed, and that his fear of the +sea madness was an idle fantasy; too glad was he to urge her to speak, +when her recovered joy was still sweet in her heart. But at last she +whispered to him how that she had sailed westward from Caisteal-Rhona, +having been overcome by the beauty of the day, and longing to be among +those mysterious green arcades where thought rose out of the mind +like a white bird and flew among shadows in strange places, bringing +back with it upon its silent wings the rumor of strange voices, and +oftentimes singing a song of what ears hear not. Deeply upon the two +had lain the thought of what was to be; the thought of the life she +bore within her, that was the tangible love of her and of Alan, and yet +was so strangely and remotely dissociate from either. Happy in happy +thoughts, and strangely wrought by vague imaginings, she had sailed +past precipice after precipice, and so at last into the Strait of the +Temple. Just before the last light of day had begun to glide out of +the pale green water, she had let her boat drift idly alongside the +Teampull-Mhara. There, for a while, she had lain, drowsily content, +dreaming her dream. Then, suddenly her heart had given a leap like a +doe in the bracken, and the pulses in her veins swung like stars on a +night of storm. + +For there, in that nigh unreachable and forever unvisited solitude was +the figure of a man. He stood on the summit of the huge basalt altar, +and appeared to have sprung from out the rock, or, himself a shadowy +presence, to have grown out of the obscure unrealities of the darkness. +She had stared at him, fascinated, speechless. + +When she had said this Ynys stopped abruptly, for she felt the +trembling of Alan's hand. + +"Go on," he said hoarsely, "go on. Tell me all!" + +To his amaze, she did not seem perturbed in the way he had dreaded when +she began to tell what she had seen. + +"But did you notice nothing about him, Ynys ... about his face, his +features?" + +"Yes. His eyes filled me with strange joy." + +"With joy? Oh, Ynys! Ynys! do you know whom--_what_--it was you saw? It +was a vision, a nothingness, a mere phantom; and that phantom was ... +was ... myself!" + +"You, Alan! Oh, no, Alan-aghray! dear, you do not know whom I saw--nor +do I, though I know it was not you!" + +"We will talk of this later, my fawn," Alan muttered. "Meanwhile, hold +on to this ledge, for I wish to examine this mass of rock that they +call the Altar." + +With a spring he was on the ledge. Then, swift and sure as a wild-cat, +he scaled the huge bowlder. + +Nothing; no one! There was not a trace of any human being. Not a bird, +not a bat; nothing. Moreover, even in that slowly blackening darkness +he could see that there was no direct connection between the summit or +side with the blank, precipitous wall of basalt beyond. Overhead there +was, so far as he could discern, a vault. No human being could have +descended through that perilous gulf. + +Was the island haunted? he wondered, as slowly he made his way back to +the boat. Or had he been startled into some wild fantasy, and imagined +a likeness where none had been? Perhaps, even, he had not really seen +any one. He had read of similar strange delusions. The nerves can soon +chase the mind into the dark zone wherein it loses itself. + +Or was Ynys the vain dreamer? That, indeed, might well be, and she +with child, and ever a visionary. Mayhap she had heard some fantastic +tale from Morag MacNeill or from old Marsail Macrae; the islanders had +_sgeul_ after _sgeul_ of a wild strangeness. + +In silence he guided the boats back into the outer arcade, where a +faint sheen of moonlight glistered on the water. Thence, in a few +minutes, he oared that wherein he and Ynys sat, with the other fastened +astern, into the open. + +When the moonshine lay full on her face, he saw that she was thinking +neither of him nor of where she was. Her eyes were heavy with dream. + +What wind there was blew against their course, so Alan rowed +unceasingly. In silence they passed once again the headland of Aoidhu; +in silence they drifted past a single light gleaming in a croft near +Aonaig--a red eye staring out into the shadow of the sea, from the +room where the woman Marsail lay dying; and in silence their keels +grided on the patch of shingle in Caisteal-Rhona haven. + +But when, once more, Alan found himself with Ynys in the safe quietudes +of the haven, he pressed her eagerly to give him some clear description +of the figure she had seen. + +Ynys, however, had become strangely reticent. All he could elicit from +her was that the man whom she had seen bore no resemblance to him, +except in so far as he was fair. He was taller, slimmer, and seemed +older. + +He thought it wiser not to speak to her on what he himself had seen, or +concerning his conviction that it was the same mysterious stranger who +had appeared to both. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +THE MESSAGE + + +For days thereafter Alan haunted that rocky, cavernous wilderness where +he had seen the Herdsman. + +It was in vain he had everywhere sought to find word of this mysterious +dweller in those upland solitudes. At times he believed that there was +indeed some one upon the island of whom, for inexplicable reasons, none +there would speak; but at last he came to the conviction that what he +had seen was an apparition, projected by the fantasy of overwrought +nerves. Even from the woman, Morag MacNeill, to whom he had gone with +a frank appeal that won its way to her heart, he learned no more than +that an old legend, of which she did not care to speak, was in some way +associated with his own coming to Rona. + +Ynys, too, never once alluded to the mysterious incident of the green +arcades which had so deeply impressed them both; never, that is, +after the ensuing day which followed, when, simply and spontaneously, +she told Alan that she believed that she had seen a vision. When he +reminded her that she had been convinced of its reality, Ynys answered +that for days past she had been dreaming a strange dream, and that +doubtless this had possessed her so that her nerves played her false, +in that remote and shadowy place. What this dream was she would not +confide, nor did he press her. + +But as the days went by and as no word came to either of any unknown +person who was on the island, and as Alan, for all his patient +wandering and furtive quest, both among the upland caves and in the +green arcades, found absolutely no traces of him whom he sought, the +belief that he had been duped by his imagination deepened almost to +conviction. + +As for Ynys, day after day, soft veils of dream obscured the bare +realities of life. But she, unlike Alan, became more and more convinced +that what she had seen was indeed no apparition. Whatever lingering +doubt she had was dissipated on the eve of the night when old Marsail +Macrae died. It was dusk when word came to Caisteal-Rhona that Marsail +felt the cold wind on the soles of her feet. Ynys went to her at once, +and it was in the dark hour which followed that she heard once more and +more fully the strange story which, like a poisonous weed, had taken +root in the minds of the islanders. Already from Marsail she had heard +of the Prophet, though, strangely enough, she had never breathed word +of this to Alan, not even when, after the startling episode of the +apparition in the Teampull-Mhara, she had, as she believed, seen the +Prophet himself. But there in the darkness of the low, turfed cottage, +with no light in the room save the dull red gloom from the heart of the +smoored peats, Marsail, in the attenuated, remote voice of those who +have already entered into the vale of the shadow, told her this thing. + + * * * * * + +"Yes, Ynys, wife of Alan MacAlasdair, I will be telling you this +thing before I change. You are for knowing, sure, that long ago +Uilleam, brother of him who was father to your man, had a son? Yes, +you know that, you say, and also that he was called Donnacha Bàn? +No, mo-run-geal, that is not a true thing that you have heard, that +Donnacha Bàn went under the wave years ago. He was the seventh son, +and was born under the full moon; 'tis Himself will be knowing whether +that was for or against him. Of these seven none lived beyond childhood +except the two youngest, Kenneth and Donnacha. Kenneth was always frail +as a February flower, but he lived to be a man. He and his brother +never spoke, for a feud was between them, not only because that each +was unlike the other and that the younger hated the older because thus +he was the penniless one--but most because both loved the same woman. +I will not be telling you the whole story now, for the breath in my +body will soon blow out in the draught that is coming upon me; but +this I will say to you: darker and darker grew the gloom between these +brothers. When Kirsteen Macdonald gave her love to Kenneth, Donnacha +disappeared for a time. Then, one day, he came back to Borosay, and +smiled quietly with his cold eyes when they wondered at his coming +again. Now, too, it was noticed that he no longer had an ill-will +upon his brother, but spoke smoothly with him and loved to be in his +company. But, to this day, no one knows for sure what happened. For +there was a gloaming when Donnacha Bàn came back alone, in his sailing +boat. He and Kenneth had sailed forth, he said, to shoot seals in the +sea arcades to the west of Rona; but in these dark and lonely passages, +they had missed each other. At last he had heard Kenneth's voice +calling for help, but when he had got to the place, it was too late, +for his brother had been seized with the cramps, and had sunk deep into +the fathomless water. There is no getting a body again that sinks in +these sea galleries. The crabs know that. + +"Well, this and much more was what Donnacha Bàn told to his people. +None believed him; but what could any do? There was no proof; none had +ever seen them enter the sea caves together. Not that Donnacha Bàn +sought in any way to keep back those who would fain know more. Not +so; he strove to help to find the body. Nevertheless, none believed; +and Kirsteen nic Dugall Mòr least of all. The blight of that sorrow +went to her heart. She had death soon, poor thing! but before the cold +grayness was upon her, she told her father, and the minister that was +there, that she knew Donnacha Bàn had murdered his brother. One might +be saying these were the wild words of a woman; but, for sure, no one +said that thing upon Borosay or Rona, or any of these isles. When all +was done, the minister told what he knew, and what he thought, to the +Lord of the South Isles, and asked what was to be put upon Donnacha +Bàn. 'Exile forever,' said the Chief, 'or if he stays here, the doom of +silence. Let no man or woman speak to him or give him food or drink; or +give him shelter, or let his shadow cross his or hers.' + +"When this thing was told to Donnacha Bàn Carmichael, he laughed at +first; but as day slid over the rocks where all days fall, he laughed +no more. Soon he saw that the Chief's word was no empty word; and +yet he would not go away from his own place. He could not stay upon +Borosay, for his father cursed him; and no man can stay upon the +island where a father's curse moves this way and that, forever seeking +him. Then, some say a madness came upon him, and others that he took +wildness to be his way, and others that God put upon him the shadow of +loneliness, so that he might meet sorrow there and repent. Howsoever +that may be, Donnacha Bàn came to Rona, and, by the same token, it +was the year of the great blight, when the potatoes and the corn came +to naught, and when the fish in the sea swam away from the isles. +In the autumn of that year there was not a soul left on Rona except +Kirsten Macdonald and the old man Ian, her father, who had guard of +Caisteal-Rhona for him who was absent. When, once more, smoke rose +from the crofts, the rumor spread that Donnacha Bàn, the murderer, had +made his home among the caves of the upper part of the isle. None knew +how this rumor rose, for he was seen of none. The last man who saw +him--and that was a year later--was old Padruic McVurich, the shepherd. +Padruic said that, as he was driving his ewes across the north slope of +Ben Einaval in the gloaming, he came upon a silent figure seated upon a +rock, with his chin in his hands, and his elbows on his knees--with the +great, sad eyes of him staring at the moon that was lifting itself out +of the sea. Padruic did not know who the man was. The shepherd had few +wits, poor man! and he had known, or remembered, little about the story +of Donnacha Bàn Carmichael, so, when he spoke to the man, it was as to +a stranger. The man looked at him and said: + +"'You are Padruic McVurich, the shepherd.' + +"At that a trembling was upon old Padruic, who had the wonder that this +stranger should know who and what he was. + +"'And who will you be, and forgive the saying?' he asked. + +"'_Am Faidh_--the Prophet,' the man said. + +"'And what prophet will you be, and what is your prophecy?' asked +Padruic. + +"'I am here because I wait for what is to be, and that will be for the +birth of a child that is to be a king.' + +"And with that the man said no more, and the old shepherd went silently +down through the hillside gloaming, and, heavy with the thoughts that +troubled him, followed his ewes down into Aonaig. But after that +neither he nor any other saw or heard aught of the shadowy stranger; +so that all upon Rona felt sure that Padruic had beheld no more than a +vision. There were some who thought that he had seen the ghost of the +outlaw Donnacha Bàn; and mayhap one or two who wondered if the stranger +that had said he was a prophet was not Donnacha Bàn himself, with a +madness come upon him; but at last these rumors went out to sea upon +the wind, and men forgot. But, and it was months and months afterward, +and three days before his own death, old Padruic McVurich was sitting +in the sunset on the rocky ledge in front of his brother's croft, +where then he was staying, when he heard a strange crying of seals. He +thought little of that; only, when he looked closer, he saw, in the +hollow of the wave hard by that ledge, a drifting body. + +"_Am Faidh--Am Faidh!_" he cried; "the Prophet, the Prophet!" + +At that his brother and his brother's wife ran to see; but it was +nothing that they saw. "It would be a seal," said Pol McVurich; but at +that Padruic had shook his head, and said no, for sure, he had seen +the face of the dead man, and it was of him whom he had met on the +hillside, and that had said he was the Prophet who was waiting there +for the birth of a king. + +"And that is how there came about the echo of the thought, that +Donnacha Bàn had at last, after his madness, gone under the green wave +and was dead. For all that, in the months which followed, more than one +man said he had caught a glimpse of a figure high up on the hill. The +old wisdom says that when Christ comes again, or the Prophet who will +herald Christ, it will be as a herdsman on a lonely isle. More than +one of the old people on Rona and Borosay remembered that _sgeul_ out +of the _seanachas_ that the tale-tellers knew. There were some who +said that Donnacha Bàn had never been drowned at all, and that he was +this Prophet, this Herdsman. Others would not have that saying at all, +but believed that the mysterious herdsman was indeed Am Buchaille Bàn, +the Fair-haired Shepherd, who had come again to redeem the people out +of their sorrow. There were even those who said that the Herdsman who +haunted Rona was no other than Kenneth Carmichael himself, who had not +died, but had had the mind-dark there in the sea caves where he had +been lost, and there had come to the knowledge of secret things, and so +was at last _Am Faidh Chriosd_." + + * * * * * + +A great weakness came upon the old woman when she had spoken thus +far. Ynys feared that she would have breath for no further word, but +after a thin gasping, and a listless fluttering of weak hands upon +the coverlet, whereon her trembling fingers plucked aimlessly at the +invisible blossoms of death, she opened her eyes once more and stared +in a dim questioning at her who sat by her bedside. + +"Tell me," whispered Ynys, "tell me, Marsail, what thought it is that +is in your own mind?" + +But already the old woman had begun to wander, though Ynys did not know +this. + +"For sure, for sure," she muttered, "_Am Faidh_ ... _Am Faidh_ ... an' +a child will be born ... an' a king he will be, an' ... that will be +the voice of Domhuill, my husband, I am hearing ... an' dark it is, an' +the tide comin' in ... an'----" + +Then, sure, the tide came in, and if in that darkness old Marsail +Macrae heard any voice at all, it was that of Domhuill who years agone +had sunk into the wild seas off the head of Barra. + +An hour later, with tears still in her eyes, Ynys walked slowly home +through the cloudy night. All she had heard came back to her with a +strange familiarity. Something of this, at least, she had known before. +Some hints of this mysterious Herdsman had reached her ears. In some +inexplicable way his real or imaginary presence there upon Rona seemed +a preordained thing for her. All that dreaming mysticism, which had +wrought so much of beauty and wonder into her girlhood in Brittany, +had expanded into a strange flower of the imagination--a flower whose +subtle fragrance affected her inward life. Sometimes she had wondered +if all the tragic vicissitudes which happened at Kerival, with the +strange and dreamlike life which she and Alan had led since, had so +wrought upon her that the unreal became real, and the actual merely +phantasmal; for now she felt more than ever assured that some hidden +destiny had controlled all this disastrous mischance, had led her and +Alan there to that lonely island. + +She knew that the wild imaginings of the islanders had woven the legend +of the Prophet, or at any rate of his message, out of the loom of the +longing and the deep nostalgia whereon is woven that larger tapestry, +the shadow-thridden life of the island Gael. Laughter and tears, +ordinary hopes and pleasures, and even joy itself, and bright gayety, +and the swift, spontaneous imagination of susceptible natures--all +this, of course, is to be found with the island Gael as with his +fellows elsewhere. But every here and there are some who have in +their minds the inheritance from the dim past of their race, and are +oppressed as no other people are oppressed by the gloom of a strife +between spiritual emotion and material facts. It is the brains of +dreamers such as these which clear the mental life of the community; +and it is in these brains are the mysterious looms which weave the +tragic and sorrowful tapestries of Celtic thought. It were a madness +to suppose that life in the isles consists of nothing but sadness or +melancholy. It is not so, or need not be so, for the Gael is a creature +of shadow and shine. But whatever the people is, the brain of the Gael +hears a music that is sadder than any music there is, and has for its +cloudy sky a gloom that shall not go, for the end is near, and upon the +westernmost shores of these remote isles, the Voice--as has been truly +said by one who has beautifully interpreted his own people--the Voice +of Celtic Sorrow may be heard crying, "_Cha till, cha till, cha till mi +tuille_"--I will return, I will return, I will return no more. + +Ynys knew all this well; and yet she too dreamed her Celtic +dream--that, even yet, there might be redemption for the people. She +did not share the wild hope which some of the older islanders held, +that Christ himself shall come again to redeem an oppressed race; but +might not another saviour arise, another redeeming spirit come into the +world? And if so, might not that child of joy be born out of suffering +and sorrow and crime; and if so, might not that child be born of her? + +With startled eyes she crossed the thyme-set ledge whereon stood +Caisteal-Rhona. Was it, after all, a message she had received from him +who appeared to her in that lonely cavern of the sea; was he indeed _Am +Faidh_, the mysterious Prophet of the isles? + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE LAUGHTER OF THE KING + + +What are dreams but the dust of wayfaring thoughts? Or whence are they, +and what air is upon their shadowy wings? Do they come out of the +twilight of man's mind; are they ghosts of exiles from vanished palaces +of the brain; or are they heralds with proclamations of hidden tidings +for the soul that dreams? + +It was a life of dream that Ynys and Alan lived; but Ynys the more, +for, as week after week went by, the burden of her motherhood wrought +her increasingly. Ever since the night of Marsail's death, Alan had +noticed that Ynys no longer doubted but that in some way a special +message had come to her, a special revelation. On the other hand, he +had himself swung back to his former conviction, that the vision he +had seen upon the hillside was, in truth, that of a living man. From +fragments here and there, a phrase, a revealing word, a hint gleaming +through obscure allusions, he came at last to believe that some one +bearing a close, and even extraordinary, resemblance to himself lived +upon Rona. Although upon the island itself he could seldom persuade any +one to speak of the Herdsman, the islanders of Seila and Borosay became +gradually less reticent. He ascertained this, at least: that their fear +and aversion, when he first came, had been occasioned by the startling +likeness between him and the mysterious being whom they called Am +Buchaille Bàn. On Borosay, he was told, the fishermen believed that +the _aonaran nan chreag_, the recluse of the rocks, as commonly they +spoke of him, was no other than Donnacha Bàn Carmichael, survived there +through these many years, and long since mad with his loneliness and +because of the burden of his crime. It was with keen surprise that Alan +learned how many of the fishermen of Borosay and Berneray, and even +of Barra, had caught a glimpse of the outcast. It was this relative +familiarity, indeed, that was at the root of the fear and aversion +which had met him upon his arrival. Almost from the moment he had +landed in Borosay, the rumor had spread that he was indeed no other +than Donnacha Bàn, and that he had chosen this way, now both his father +and Alasdair Carmichael were dead, to return to his own place. So like +was Alan to the outlaw who had long since disappeared from touch with +his fellow men, that many were convinced that the two could be no other +than one and the same. What puzzled him hardly less was the fact that, +on the rare occasions when Ynys had consented to speak of what she had +seen, the man she described bore no resemblance to himself. From one +thing and another, he came at last to the belief that he had really +seen Donnacha Bàn, his cousin; but that the vision of Ynys's mind was +born of her imagination, stimulated by all the tragedy and strange +vicissitudes she had known, and wrought by the fantastic tales of +Marsail and Morag MacNeill. + +By this time, too, the islanders had come to see that Alan MacAlasdair +was certainly not Donnacha Bàn. Even the startling likeness no longer +betrayed them in this way. The ministers and the priests laughed at the +whole story and everywhere discouraged the idea that Donnacha Bàn could +still be among the living. But for the unfortunate superstition that +to meet the Herdsman, whether the lost soul of Donnacha Bàn or indeed +the strange phantom of the hills of which the old legends spoke, was to +meet inevitable disaster; but for this, the islanders might have been +persuaded to make such a search among the caves of Rona as would almost +certainly have revealed the presence of any who dwelt therein. + +But as summer lapsed into autumn, and autumn itself through its golden +silences waned into the shadow of the equinox, a quiet happiness came +upon both Alan and Ynys. True, she was still wrought by her strange +visionary life, though of this she said little or nothing; and, as +for himself, he hoped that with the birth of the child this fantastic +dream life would go. Whoever the mysterious Herdsman was--if he indeed +existed at all except in the imaginations of those who spoke of him +either as the Buchaille Bàn, or as the _aonaran nan chreag_--Alan +believed that at last he had passed away. None saw him now: and even +Morag MacNeill, who had often on moonlight nights caught the sound of a +voice chanting among the upper solitudes, admitted that she now heard +nothing unusual. + +St. Martin's summer came at last, and with it all that wonderful, +dreamlike beauty which bathes the isles in a flood of golden light, and +puts upon sea and land a veil as of ineffable mystery. + +One late afternoon Ynys, returning to Caisteal-Rhona after an +unexplained absence of several hours, found Alan sitting at a table. +Spread before him were the sheets of one of the strange old Gaelic +tales which he had ardently begun to translate. She took up the page +which he had just laid down. It was from the _Eachdaireachd Challum +mhic cruimein_, and the last words that Alan had translated were these: + +"And when that king had come to the island, he lived there in the +shadow of men's eyes; for none saw him by day or by night, and none +knew whence he came or whither he fared; for his feet were shod with +silence, and his way with dusk. But men knew that he was there, and all +feared him. Months, even years, tramped one on the heels of the other, +and perhaps the king gave no sign, but one day he would give a sign; +and that sign was a laughing that was heard somewhere, be it upon the +lonely hills, or on the lonely wave, or in the heart of him who heard. +And whenever the king laughed, he who heard would fare ere long from +his fellows to join that king in the shadow. But sometimes the king +laughed only because of vain hopes and wild imaginings, for upon these +he lives as well as upon the strange savors of mortality." + + * * * * * + +Ynys read the page over and over; and when Alan saw how she brooded +upon it, he regretted that he had left it for her to see. + +He the more regretted this when he learned that that very afternoon she +had again been among the sea caves. She would not say what she had +seen or heard, if indeed she had heard or seen any thing unusual. But +that night she woke suddenly, and taking Alan by the hand, made him +promise to go with her on the morrow to the Teampull-Mhara. + +In vain he questioned her as to why she asked this thing. All she +would say was that she must go there once again, and with him, for +she believed that a spirit out of heaven had come to reveal to her a +wonder. Distressed by what he knew to be a madness, and fearful that it +might prove to be no passing fantasy, Alan would fain have persuaded +her against this intention. Even as he spoke, however, he realized +that it might be better to accede to her wishes, and, above all, to be +there with her, so that it might not be one only who heard or saw the +expected revelation. + +And it was a strange faring indeed, that which occurred on the morrow. +At noon, when the tide was an hour turned in the ebb, they sailed +westward from Caisteal-Rhona. It was in silence they made that strange +journey together; for, while Alan steered, Ynys lay down in the hollow +of the boat, with her head against his knees, and he saw that she +slept, or at least lay still with her eyes closed. + +When, at last, they passed the headland and entered the first of the +sea arcades, she rose and sat beside him. Hauling down the now useless +sail, he took an oar and, standing at the prow, urged the boat inward +along the narrow corridor which led to the huge sea cave of the Altar. + +In the deep gloom--for even on that day of golden light and beauty the +green air of the sea cave was heavy with shadow--there was a deathly +chill. What dull light there was came from the sheen of the green water +which lay motionless along the black basaltic ledges. When at last the +base of the Altar was reached, Alan secured the boat by a rope passed +around a projecting spur; and then lay down in the stern beside Ynys. + +"Tell me, dear, what is this thing that you expect to hear or see?" + +She looked at him strangely for a while, but, though her lips moved, +she said nothing. + +"Tell me, dear," he urged again, "who is it you expect to see or hear?" + +"_Am Buchaille Bàn_," she answered, "the Herdsman." + +For a moment he hesitated. Then, taking her hand in his, and raising it +to his lips, he whispered in her ear: + +"Dearest, all this is a vain dream. There is no Herdsman upon Rona. If +ever there was a man there who lived solitary--if ever, indeed, there +was an _aonaran nan chreag_--he is dead long since. What you have seen +and heard has been a preying upon you of wild thoughts. Think no more +of this vision. We have both suffered too much, and the knowledge of +what is behind us has wrought upon us too hardly. It is a mistake to be +here, on Rona, now. Ynys, darling, you and I are young, and we love; +let us leave this melancholy isle--these melancholy isles--and go back +into the green, sunny world wherein we had such joy before; yes, let +us even go back to Kerival; anywhere where we may live our life with +joy and glad content--but not here, not in these melancholy, haunted +isles, where our dreams become more real than our life, and life +itself, for us at least, the mere shadow of being. Ynys, will you come? +Will you go?" + +"All shall be as you will, Alan--_afterward_. But first, I must wait +here till our child is born, for I have heard that which is a message. +And one part of that message concerns you and me; and one concerns +others. And that which concerns you and me is that in this way, in this +child, to be born here in this place, lies the redemption of that evil +by which your father was slain by my father. It is not enough that you +and I have forgotten the past; the past remains. What we cannot do, +or no man or woman can do, the powers that are beyond the grave can +accomplish. Not our love, not even ours, can redeem that crime. But if, +born of us, one will come, who will be dowered with our love and free +from the blood shadow which lies upon us, then all will be well and the +evil shall be done with forever more. But also, has not the Prophet +said that one shall be born upon this island who will redeem his +oppressed people? And this Prophet, Alan, I have seen and heard. Never +have I seen his face aright, for it has ever been in the shadow; but I +have heard his voice, for he has spoken to me, and what he has said is +this: that in the fulness of time the child I shall bear will be he of +whom men have dreamed in the isles for ages past. Sure, dear, you and I +must be believing that thing, since he who tells it is no mere erring +_Faidh_, but himself an immortal spirit." + +Alan looked at the speaker in amaze. There could be no question of +her absolute sincerity; for the beautiful face was lit with a strange +light, and in her eyes was a proud gleam of conscious sacrifice. That +it was all a madness, a fantasy, he knew well. Long ago had Lois de +Kerival spoken of the danger that lay for Ynys; she being the inheritor +of a strange brooding spirit which belonged to her people. Now, in this +remote place, the life of dream and the life of reality had become one; +and Ynys was as a drifted ship among unknown seas and mists. + +But on one point he believed he might convince her. + +"Why do you speak of the Herdsman as a spirit, Ynys? What proof have +you of this? If you or I have seen any one at all, be sure it is a +mortal man and no spirit; nay, I know who it must be, if any one it +is, for throughout the isles men say that Donnacha Bàn, the son of the +brother of my father, was an outlaw here, and has lived long among the +caves." + +"This man," she said quietly, "is not Donnacha Bàn, but the Prophet of +whom the people speak. He himself has told me this thing. Yesterday I +was here, and he bade me come again. He spoke out of the shadow that is +about the Altar, though I saw him not. I asked him if he were Donnacha +Bàn, and he said 'No.' I asked him if he were _Am Faidh_, and he said +'Yes.' I asked him if he were indeed an immortal spirit, and herald of +that which was to be, and he said 'Even so.'" + +For a long while after this, no word was spoken betwixt the twain. The +chill of that remote place began to affect Ynys, and she shivered +slightly at times. But more she shivered because of the silence which +prevailed, and because that he who had promised to be there gave +no sign. Sure, she thought, it could not be all a dream; sure, the +Herdsman would come again. + +Then, at last, turning to Alan, she said, "We must come on the morrow; +for to-day he is not here." + +"No, dear; never, never shall we come here again. This is for the last +time. Henceforth, we shall dwell here in Rona no more." + +"You will do this thing for me, Alan, that I ask?" + +"I will do what you ask, Ynys." + +"Then take this written word, and leave it upon the top of the great +rock there that is called the Altar." + +With that she placed in his hand a slip of paper whereon she had +already written certain words. What they were, Alan could not discern +in that shadowy light; but, taking the slip in his hand, he stepped +on the black ledges at the base of the Altar, and slowly mounted the +precipitous rock. + +Ynys watched him till he became himself a shadow in that darkness. Her +heart leaped when suddenly she heard a cry fall to her out of the gloom. + +"Alan, Alan!" she cried, and a great fear was upon her when no answer +came; but at last, with passionate relief, she heard him clambering +slowly down the perilous slope of that obscure place. When he reached +the ledge, he stood still, regarding her. + +"Why do you not come into the boat, Alan?" she asked. + +"Dear, I have that to tell you which will let you see that I spoke +truth." + +She looked at him with parted lips, her breath coming and going like +that of a caged bird. + +"What is it, Alan?" she whispered. + +"Ynys, when I reached the top of the Altar, and in the dim light that +was there, I saw the dead body of a man lying upon the rock. His head +was lain back so that the gleam from a crevice in the cliff overhead +fell upon it. The man has been dead many hours. He is a man whose +hair has been grayed by years and sorrow, but the man is he who is of +my blood; he whom I resemble so closely; he that the fishermen call +_aonaran nan chreag_; he that is the Herdsman." + +Ynys made no reply; still she looked at him with large, wondering eyes. + +"Ynys, darling, do you not understand what it is that I say? This man, +that they call the Buchaille Bàn--this man whom you believe to be the +Herdsman of the old legend--is no other than Donnacha Bàn, he who years +and years ago slew his brother and has been an exile ever since on this +lonely island. How could he, then, a man as I am, though with upon him +a worse blood-shadow than lies upon us--how could he tell you aught of +what is to be? What message could he give you that is himself a lost +soul? + +"Would you be for following a herdsman who could lead you to no fold? +This man is dead, Ynys; and it is well that you brought me here to-day. +That is a good thing, and for sure God willed it. Out of this all our +new happiness may come. For now we know what is this mysterious shadow +that has darkened our lives ever since we came to Rona. Now we have +knowledge that it was no mere phantom I saw upon the hillside; and now +also we know that he who told you these strange, wild things of which +you speak was no prophet with a message from the world of the spirit, +but a man wrought to madness, a man who for all these years had lived +his lonely, secretive life upon the hills, or among these caves of the +sea. Come, then, dear, and let us go hence. Sure, at the last, it is +well that we have found this way. Come, Ynys, we will go now and never +come here again." + +He looked eagerly for her assenting eyes. With pain in his heart, +however, he saw that the dream--the strange, inexplicable fantasy--had +not yet gone out of them. With a sigh, he entered the boat and took her +hand. + +"Let us go," she said, and that was all. + +Slowly Alan oared the boat across the shadowy gulf of the cave, along +the narrow passage which led therefrom, and out into the pale green +gloom of the arched arcade wherein the sight and sound of the sea made +a music in his ears. + +But the short November day was already passing to its end. All the sea +westward was aflame with gold and crimson light, and in the great dome +of the sky a wonderful radiance lifted above the paleness of the clouds +whose pinnacled and bastioned heights towered in the south-west. + +A faint wind blew eastwardly; so, raising the sail, Alan made it fast +and then sat down beside Ynys. But she, rising, moved along the boat to +the mast, and leaned there with her face against the setting sun. + +Idly they drifted onward. Deep silence prevailed betwixt them; deep +silence was all about them, save for the endless, inarticulate murmur +of the sea, the splash of low waves against the rocks of Rona, and the +sigh of the surf at the base of the basalt precipices. + +And this was their homeward sailing on that day of revelation; Ynys, +with her back against the mast, and her face irradiated by the light of +the setting sun; he, steering, with his face in shadow. + +On a night of rain and amid the rumor of tempest, three weeks later, +Ynys heard the Laughter of the King, when the child who was to be the +bearer of so fair a destiny lay by her side, white and chill as the +foam thrown up for a brief while upon the rocks by the unheeding sea. + + +BOOK THIRD + +_THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD_ + + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD + + +When, once more, the exquisite mystery of spring came upon the world, +there was a not less wonderful rebirth in the heart of Ynys. + +With the coming of that child upon whom such high hopes had been +set--its birth, still and quiet as a snowdrop fallen before an icy wind +upon the snow which nurtured it--all the fear of a mysterious Nemesis, +because of her union with Alan despite the shadow of tragic crime which +made that union ominous of evil destiny; all the vague forebodings +which had possessed her ever since she left Kerival; and, at the last, +all the mystic elation with which her mind had become a winged and +wandering spirit, passed from her. + +The gloom of that northern winter was tonic to them both. As soon as +her weakness was past, and once more she was able to go about with +Alan, her old joyousness returned. In her eyes it was almost as though +the islanders shared her recovered happiness. For one thing, they +no more avoided her and Alan. With the death of the man who had so +long sustained a mysterious existence upon Rona, their superstitious +aversion went; they ceased to speak of _Am Buchaille Bàn_ and, whether +Donnacha Bàn had found on Rona one of the hidden ways to heaven or had +only dallied upon one of the byways to hell, it was commonly held that +he had paid his death-eric by his lonely and even appalling life of +unredeemed solitude. Now that there was no longer any possibility of +confusion between the outcast who had come to his tragic end, among the +sea caves of Rona, and his kinsman who bore to him so extraordinary a +resemblance, a deep sense of the injustice that had been done to Alan +Carmichael prevailed among the islanders. In many ways they showed +their regret; but most satisfactorily, so far as Alan was concerned, by +taking him as one of themselves; as a man no longer under the shadow +of doom or in any way linked to a disastrous fate. + +True, there were still some of the isle folk on Borosay and Barra who +maintained that the man who had been found in the sea cave, whether +Donnacha Bàn or some other, had nothing to do with the mysterious +Herdsman, whose advent, indeed, had long been anticipated by a +section of the older inhabitants. It was only seven years since Murdo +Macphail--better known as Murdo-Bronnach-namhara, Brown Murdoch of +the Sea, from his habit of preaching to the islanders from where he +stood waist-deep in the water--had prophesied that the Herdsman who +was Shepherd of Israel would indeed come again, and that within seven +years. And had he not added that if the Fair Lonely One were not +accepted of the people, there would be deep sorrow for one and all, and +a bitter wrong upon all the isles of the west? + +These murmurers now shook their heads and whispered often. Of a truth, +they said, the Herdsman was come as foretold, and Alan Carmichael +was blind indeed not to see that Ynys, his wife, had received a +vision, and, because of her silence, been punished in the death of her +first-born. + +But with the white growth of winter, the pleasant, familiar intercourse +that everywhere prevailed wrought finally against the last threadbare +fabric of superstition. Before the glow of the peats the sadness and +gloom slowly dissipated. It was a new delight to both Alan and Ynys to +find that the islanders could be so genial and almost gay, with a love +of laughter and music and grotesque humor which, even in the blithe +little fishing haven of Ploumaliou, they had never seen surpassed. + +The cold months passed for them in a quiet content. That could not be +happiness upon which was the shadow of so much pain; but there was +something akin to it in the sweet serenity which came like calm after +storm. + +Possibly they might have been content to remain in Rona; to find in +the island their interest and happiness. Ynys, indeed, often longed +to leave the place where she had been so sadly disillusioned; and yet +she did not urge that the home at Caisteal-Rhona should be broken up. +While they were still in this state of quiet suspense, news came that +affected them strangely. + +They had had no word from Kerival since they left, but one windy March +day a boat from Borosay put into the haven with letters from Alan's +agents in Edinburgh. Among them was one from the Abbé Cæsar de La +Bruyère, from Kerloek. From this Alan learned strange news. + + * * * * * + +On the very day that he and Ynys had left Kerival, Annaik had +disappeared. None knew where she had gone. At first it was thought +that Judik Kerbastiou had something to do with her absence, but two +days after she had gone he was again at Kerival. The house was a place +of anarchy. No one knew whom to obey; what to do. With the Marquise +Lois in her grave, with both Ynys and Annaik mysteriously absent and +apparently with no intention to return, and with Tristran the Silent +more morosely taciturn than his wont, and more than ever an invalid, +with all this it was difficult for those in authority to exact the +habitual duties. But in addition to this there were the imperious +claims of Judik Kerbastiou, emphasized by his refusal to be addressed +by any other name than the Sieur Jud de Kerival. + +When, suddenly, and while quietly dictating a letter, the Marquis +Tristran died, it seemed at last as though Judik's triumph had come. +For a brief while he was even addressed as M. le Marquis. But on +the noon following that day he had a rude awakening. A notary from +Ploumaliou arrived with the family lawyers, and produced a written and +signed confession on the part of the woman whom he had called mother, +that he was not her child at all, that her own child was dead, and +that Kerbastiou was really a forest foundling. As if this were not +enough, the notary also proved, even to the conviction of Judik, that +the written marriage testimony from the parish books was an impudent +forgery. + +So the man who had made so abrupt and dramatic an appearance on the +threshold of Kerival had, in the very moment of his triumph, to retreat +once more to his obscurity as a homeless woodlander. + +The sole heirs now were Annaik and Ynys, but of neither was any thing +known. The difficulty was partially solved by the abrupt appearance of +Annaik on the day of the second conclave. + +For a time thereafter all went well at Kerival. Then rumor began to +spread mysterious whispers about the Lady Annaik. She would see none of +her neighbors, whether from far or near, and even the Sieur de Morvan +and his kith or kin were denied. Then, too, she disappeared for days at +a time. Some thought she went to Ploumaliou or Kerloek, some that she +had gone as far away as Rennes or St. Brieuc, and a few even imagined +the remote Paris to be her goal. None dreamed that she had gone no +further than the forest of Kerival. + +But as the autumn waned, rumors became more explicit. Strange things +were said of Annaik de Kerival. At last the anxious Curé of Ploumaliou +took it upon himself to assure all who spoke to him about the Lady of +Kerival that he had good reason to believe she was privately married. +This, at least, drew some of the poison out of the gossip that had +arisen. + +Then a day came when the Lady Annaik dismissed the servants at Kerival, +and left none in the house save an old gardener and his wife. She was +going away for a time, she said. She went, and from that day was not +seen again. + +Then came, in the Abbé Cæsar de La Bruyère's letter, the strangest part +of the mystery. + +Annaik, ever since the departure of Alan and Ynys, had been living the +forest life. All her passionate sylvan and barbaric instincts had been +suddenly aroused. For the green woods and the forest ways she suffered +an intolerable nostalgia. But over and above this was another reason. +It seemed, said the Abbé Cæsar, that she must have returned the rude +love of Judik Kerbastiou. However this might be, she lived with him for +days at a time, and he himself had a copy of their marriage certificate +made out at a registrar's in a remote little hill-town in the Montagnes +Noires. + +This union with the morose and strange Judik Kerbastiou had not been +known to any of the peasants until her trouble came to her. When the +day was near she did not return to Kerival, but kept to the gypsy tent +which she shared with Judik. After the birth of the child, every one +knew, and every one marvelled. It was a madness: that was what all +said, from Kerloek to Ploumaliou. + +But neither the union nor the child brought happiness to these twain, +so much at one in their woodland life, so hopelessly alien in all else. +One day a man named Iouenn Kerbac'h, passing by the tent where Judik +and Annaik had taken shelter from a violent thunder-storm, overheard a +savage upbraiding on the part of Kerbastiou. Annaik was his wife, it +was true--so he cried--but a wife who had in nothing short of madness +renounced every thing, and now would claim nothing of her own nor allow +him to claim aught; a wife whom he loved with another madness, and yet +hated because she was so hopelessly remote from himself; a wife who +had borne a child, but a child that had nothing of the gypsy eyes and +swarthy darkness of Judik Kerbastiou, but was fair, and with skin as +white and eyes as blue as those of Alan de Kerival. + +It was this, and the terrible words that were said, which made Iouenn +Kerbac'h hurry onward, dreading to listen further. Yet nothing that he +overheard gave him so strange a fear as the laugh with which Annaik +de Kerival greeted a savage, screaming threat of death, hurled at her +because of her silence after the taunting accusation he had made ... +had made, and defied her to refute. + +None heard or saw Annaik Kerbastiou after that day, till the night of +the evening when Judik came into Haut-Kerloek and went straight to +Jehan Rusgol, the Maire. + +When asked what he had come for he had replied simply: "The woman +Annaik is dead." It was commonly thought that he had killed her, but +there was no evidence of this, and the end of the inevitable legal +procedure was the acquittal of the woodlander. From that day the man +was rarely seen of his fellows, and even then, for the most part, only +by charcoal-burners and others who had forest business. A few peasants +knew where his hut was, and now and again called to speak with him, or +to drink a cup of cider; but oftener than not he was absent, and always +with the child. The boy had survived his mother's death, and in some +strange way had suddenly become so dear to Judik Kerbastiou that the +two were inseparable. + +This, then, was the tidings which startled Alan and Ynys out of their +remote quiescence. + +The unexpected news, coupled with the urgent request that both should +return to Kerival, if only for a brief while, so as to prevent the +property falling into absolute ruin, came as a whip upon Alan's mind. +To all he said Ynys agreed, and was even glad to leave Rona and return +to Brittany. + + * * * * * + +So it was that, with the first days of April, they bade farewell to Ian +and his sister, whom they left at Caisteal-Rhona, which was henceforth +to be their home, and to all upon the island, and set forth in a +fishing smack for Borosay. + +It was not till the last of the precipices of Rona was lost to view +behind the south headland of Borosay that Ynys clearly realized the +deep gladness with which she left the lonely Isle of the Caves. That it +would have been impossible for her to live there long she was now well +assured; and for Alan, too, the life was not suitable. For the north, +and for the islands, they would ever have a deep feeling, almost sacred +in its intensity; but all that had happened made living there a thing +difficult and painful for them, and moreover each, though Ynys most, +missed that green woodland beauty, the ceaseless forest charm, which +made the very memory of Kerival so fragrant. + +They went away, then, not as travellers who fare far with no thought of +return, but rather as pilgrims returning homeward from a shrine sacred +to them by profound and intimate associations. + +That was, indeed, for them a strange home-going. From the first there +was something dreamlike, unreal, about that southward flight; in the +long sail across Hebrid seas, calm as glass until the south headlands +of Mull were passed, and then storm-swept; in the rapid journey across +Scotland and through England; and in the recrossing of that narrow sea +which had once seemed to them a gulf of ultimate division. + +But when once more they saw the grotesque bulbous spire of Ploumaliou +rising above the sand-dunes by which, from St. Malo, they approached +the dear, familiar country, all this uncertainty went from them. With +light hearts they realized it was indeed true; that they were free at +last of a life for which they were now unfitted, and that the lost +threads in the maze had been found. + +By their own wish the home-coming was so private that none knew of +it save the doctor, the Curé, the lawyer who accompanied them from +Ploumaliou, and the old gardener and his wife. As they neared the +château from the north, Alan and Ynys alighted from the dishevelled +carriage which was the sole vehicle of which Ploumaliou could boast. M. +Auriol could drive on alone; for themselves, they chose to reach their +home by the dunes and scattered pines, and thence by the yew close +behind the manor-house. + +The day was windless and of a serene beauty. Ever since noon the few +clouds, suspensive in the azure flood like islets of snow, had waned +till they were faint and light as blown swan's-down, then filmy as +vapor lifted against the sun, and at last were no more visible; there +had been the same unfathomable depths of azure, through which the +tides of light imperceptibly ebbed from the zenith. The sea, too, was +of a vivid though motionless blue, save where luminous with a white +sheen or wrought with violet shadows and straits of amethyst. Upon the +land lay a golden peace. A richer glow involved the dunes, where the +pine-shadows cast long, motionless blue shapes. As, hand in hand, Ynys +and Alan moved athwart the pine glade whence they could pass at once +either westward into the cypress alley or eastward through the yew +close, they stopped instinctively. Beyond them rose the chimneys and +gables of the House of Kerival, strangely still and remote, for all +their familiar look. What a brief while ago it seemed since he and she +had walked under these pines, wrought by the first ecstasy of their +virginal love. Then, those who now lay quiet in the darkness of the +earth were alive; Lois de Kerival, with her repressed, passionate heart +still at last; the Marquis Tristran, with the young grass growing soft +and green over his bitterness; Alasdair Carmichael, with the echo of +the island waves stilled under the quiet bells of the little church +which guarded the grave-yard of St. Blaise; and Annaik--poor lost waif +of beautiful womanhood, submerged forever in the green woods she loved +so well, and sleeping so sound a sleep at last in an unmarked hollow +beneath an ancient tree in some obscure glade or alley. + +A shadow was in Alan's eyes--a deeper shadow than that caused by +thought of the dead who lay heedless and listless, at once so near and +such depths away--a deeper shadow than that cast by memory of the crime +which overlay the past. + +As his eyes wandered to the cypress alley, his heart knew again a +pain almost beyond endurance; a pain that only the peace of Rona had +translated into a strong acquiescence in the irrevocable past--a pain +become less haunting under the stress of all which had happened in +connection with the Herdsman, till it knew a bitter resurrection when +Alan came to read of the tragic fate of the woman who had loved him. + +Through some wayward impulse Ynys abruptly asked him to go with her +through the cypress alley, so that they should approach the château +from the forest. + +Silently, and with downcast eyes, he walked by her side, his hand +still in hers. But his thoughts were with the dead woman, on the +bitter hazard of love, and on what lay, forever secret, between Annaik +and himself. And as he communed with himself, in an austere pain of +remembrance, he came to see more and more clearly that in some strange +way the Herdsman episode, with all involved therein, was no arbitrary +chance in the maze of life, but a definite working out of destiny. None +could ever know what Annaik had foretold, had known, on that terrible +night when the silence of the moonlit peace was continuously rent by +the savage screams of the peacocks; nor could any other than himself +discern, against the dark tapestries of what veiled his inner life, the +weaving of an inextricable web. + +It was difficult for him to believe that she was dead--Annaik, who had +always been so radiantly, superbly alive. Now there was dust upon that +wonderful bronze hair; darkness upon those lambent eyes; no swift pulse +beating in the red tide in the veins; a frost against the heart. What +a burden it had carried, poor heart! "Oh, Annaik, Annaik!" he muttered +below his breath, "what a hard wayfaring because of a passion crucified +upon the bitter tree of despair; what a fierce, silent, unwavering +tyranny over the rebellious voices crying unceasingly from every nerve, +or swept this way and that on every stormy tide of blood." + +That Annaik who loved the forest so passing well, and in whom the green +fire of life flamed consumingly, should no longer be alive to rejoice +in the glory of spring, now once again everywhere involving the brown +earth and the purple branches, was an almost unrealizable thing. To +walk in that cypress alley once more; to cross that open glade with its +single hawthorn; to move in the dark green shadow of that yew close; to +do this and remember all that Annaik had suffered, and that now she lay +quiet and beyond all pain or joy to touch her, was to Alan a thought +almost too poignant to be borne. + +It was with an effort he answered Ynys when she spoke, and it was in +silence that they entered the house which was now their home, and +where--years ago, as it seemed--they had been young and happy. + +But that night he sat alone for a time in the little room in the tower +which rose from the east wing of Kerival--the room he had fitted up as +an observatory, similar, on a smaller scale, to that in the Tour de +l'Ile where he had so deeply studied the mystery of the starry world. +Here he had dreamed many dreams, and here he dreamed yet another. + +For out of his thoughts about Annaik and Ynys arose a fuller, a deeper +conception of Womanhood. How well he remembered a legend that Ynys had +told him on Rona: a legend of a fair spirit which goes to and fro +upon the world, the Weaver of Tears. He loves the pathways of sorrow. +His voice is low and sweet, with a sound like the bubbling of waters +in that fount whence the rainbows rise. His eyes are in quiet places, +and in the dumb pain of animals as in the agony of the human brain: +but most he is found, oftenest are the dewy traces of his feet, in the +heart of woman. + +Tears, tears! They are not the saltest tears which are on the lids of +those who weep. Fierce tears there are, hot founts of pain in the mind +of many a man, that are never shed, but slowly crystallize in furrows +on brow and face, and in deep weariness in the eyes; fierce tears, +unquenchable, in the heart of many a woman, whose brave eyes look +fearlessly at life; whose dauntless courage goes forth daily to die, +but never to be vanquished. + +In truth the Weaver of Tears abides in the heart of Woman. O Mother of +Pity, of Love, of deep Compassion! with thee it is to yearn forever +for the ideal human; to bring the spiritual love into fusion with +human desire; endlessly to strive, endlessly to fail; always to hope +in spite of disillusion; to love unswervingly against all baffling +and misunderstanding, and even forgetfulness! O Woman, whose eyes are +always stretched out to her erring children, whose heart is big enough +to cover all the little children in the world, and suffer with their +sufferings, and joy with their joys! Woman, whose other divine names +are Strength and Patience, who is no girl, no Virgin, because she has +drunk too deeply of the fount of Life to be very young or very joyful. +Upon her lips is the shadowy kiss of death; in her eyes is the shadow +of birth. She is the veiled interpreter of the two mysteries. Yet what +joyousness like hers, when she wills; because of her unwavering hope, +her inexhaustible fount of love? + +So it was that, just as Alan had long recognized as a deep truth how +the spiritual nature of man has been revealed to humanity in many +divine incarnations, so he had come to believe that the spiritual +nature of woman has been revealed in the many Marys, sisters of the +Beloved, who have had the keys of the soul and the heart in their +unconscious keeping. In this exquisite truth he knew a fresh and vivid +hope. Was it all a dream that Ynys had dreamed, far away among the +sea arcades of Rona? Had the Herdsman, the Shepherd of Souls, indeed +revealed to her that a child was to be born who would be one of the +redeemers of the world? A Woman Saviour, who would come near to all of +us, because in her heart would be the blind tears of the child, and the +bitter tears of the man, and the patient tears of the woman; who would +be the Compassionate One, with no end or aim but compassion--with no +doctrine to teach, no way to show, but only deep, wonderful, beautiful, +inalienable, unquenchable compassion? + +For, in truth, there is the divine, eternal feminine counterpart to the +divine, eternal male, and both are needed to explain the mystery of the +dual Spirit within us--the mystery of the Two in One, so infinitely +stranger and more wonderful than that triune life which the blind +teachers of the blind have made a rock of stumbling and offence out of +a truth clear and obvious as noon. + +We speak of Mother Nature, but we do not discern the living truth +behind our words. How few of us have the vision of this great brooding +Mother, whose garment is the earth and sea, whose head is pillowed +among the stars; she who, with Death and Sleep as her familiar shapes, +soothes and rests all the weariness of the world, from the waning leaf +to the beating pulse; from the brief span of a human heart to the +furrowing of granite brows by the uninterrupted sun, the hounds of rain +and wind, and the untrammelled airs of heaven. + +Not cruel, relentless, impotently anarchic, chaotically potent, this +Mater Genetrix. We see her thus, who are flying threads in the loom she +weaves. But she is patient, abiding, certain, inviolate, and silent +ever. It is only when we come to this vision of her whom we call +Isis or Hera or Orchil, or one of a hundred other names, our unknown +Earth-Mother, that men and women will know each other aright, and go +hand in hand along the road of Life without striving to crush, to +subdue, to usurp, to retaliate, to separate. + +Ah, fair vision of humanity to come! man and woman side by side, sweet, +serene, true, simple, natural, fulfilling Earth's and Heaven's behests; +unashamed, unsophisticated, unaffected, each to each and for each; +children of one mother, inheritors of a like destiny, and, at the last, +artificers of an equal fate. + +Pondering thus, Alan rose and looked out into the night. In that great +stillness, wherein the moonlight lay like the visible fragrance of the +earth, he gazed long and intently. How shadowy, now, were these lives +that had so lately palpitated in this very place; how strange their +silence, their incommunicable knowledge, their fathomless peace! + +Was it all lost ... the long endurance of pain, the pangs of sorrow? If +so, what was the lesson of life? Surely, to live with sweet serenity +and gladness, content against the inevitable hour. There is solace of a +kind in the idea of a common end, of that terrible processional march +of life wherein the myriad is momentary, and the immeasurable is but a +passing shadow. But, alas! it is only solace of a kind; for what heart +that has beat to the pulse of love can relinquish the sweet dream of +life, and what coronal can philosophy put upon the brows of youth in +place of eternity? + +No, no! of this he felt sure. In the Beauty of the World lies the +ultimate redemption of our mortality. When we shall become at one with +nature, in a sense profounder even than the poetic imaginings of most +of us, we shall understand what now we fail to discern. The arrogance +of those who would have the stars as candles for our night, and the +universe as a pleasaunce for our thought, will be as impossible as the +blind fatuity of those who say we are of dust, briefly vitalized, that +shall be dust again, with no fragrance saved from the rude bankruptcy +of life, no beauty raised up against the sun to bloom anew. + +It is no idle dream, this; no idle dream that we are a perishing clan +among the sons of God, because of this slow waning of our joy, of our +passionate delight in the Beauty of the World. We have been unable to +look out upon the shining of our star, for the vision overcomes us; and +we have used veils which we call "scenery," "picturesqueness," and the +like--poor, barren words that are so voiceless and remote before the +rustle of leaves and the lap of water; before the ancient music of the +wind, and all the sovran eloquence of the tides of light. But a day may +come--nay, shall surely come--when indeed the poor and the humble shall +inherit the earth; they who have not made a league with temporal evils, +and out of whose heart shall arise the deep longing, that shall become +universal, of the Renewal of Youth. + + * * * * * + +Often, in the days that followed their return to Kerival, Alan and Ynys +talked of these hopes and fears. And, gradually, out of the beauty +of the spring, out of the intensity of the green fire of life which +everywhere flamed in the brown earth, on the hills, in the waters, in +the heart and brain of man, in the whole living, breathing world, was +born of them a new joy. They were as the prince and princess of the +fairy tales, for whom every thing was wonderful. Hand in hand they +entered into the kingdom of youth. It was theirs, thenceforth; and all +the joy of the world. + +To live, and love, and be full of a deep joy, a glad content, a +supporting hope! What destiny among the stars fairer than this? + +They would be harbingers of joy. That was what they said, one to +another. They would be so glad with sweet life that others would +rejoice; out of their strength they would strengthen, out of their joy +they would gladden, out of their peace they would comfort, out of their +knowledge they would be compassionate. + +Nor was their dream an unfulfilled vision. As the weeks slipped into +months, and the months lapsed into years, Alan and Ynys realized all +that it is possible for man and woman to know of happiness. Happiness, +duties, claims held them to Kerival; but there they lived in fair +comradeship with their fellows, with the green forest, with all that +nature had to give them for their delight through wind and wave, +through shadow and shine, through changing seasons and the exquisite +hazard of every passing hour. + +To them both, too, came the added joy which they feared had been +forfeited at Rona. When Ynys felt the child's hands on her breast, +she was as one transformed by a light out of heaven. Alan, looking at +mother and child, understood, with all his passion for the intimate +wonder and mystery of nature, the deeper truth in the words of one of +the greatest of men ... "the Souls of the Living are the Beauty of the +World." + +That sometimes a shadow fell was inevitable. None ever so dusked the +sun-way of Alan's mind as when, remote in the forest of Kerival, he +came upon the unkempt figure of Judik Kerbastiou, often carrying upon +his shoulder a little child whose happy laughter was sweet to hear, in +whose tawny hair was a light such as had gleamed in Annaik's, and whose +eyes were blue as the north seas and as Alan's were. + +Often, too, Alan, alone in his observatory, where he was wont to +spend much of his time, knew that strange nostalgia of the mind for +impossible things. Then, wrought for a while from his vision of green +life, and flamed by another green fire than that born of the earth, +he dreamed his dream. With him, the peopled solitude of night was a +concourse of confirming voices. He did not dread the silence of the +stars--the cold remoteness of the stellar fire. + +In that other watch-tower in Paris, where he had spent the best hours +of his youth, he had loved that nightly watch of the constellations. +Now, as then, in the pulse of the planets he found assurances which +Faith had not given him. In the vast, majestic order of that nocturnal +march, that diurnal retreat, he had learned the law of the whirling +leaf and the falling star; of the slow, æon-delayed comet and of the +slower wane of solar fires. Looking with visionary eyes into that +congregation of stars, he realized, not the littleness of the human +dream but its divine impulsion. It was only when, after long vigils +into the quietudes of night, he turned his gaze from the palaces of the +unknown, and thought of the baffled, fretful swarming in the cities of +men, that his soul rose in revolt against the sublime ineptitude of +man's spiritual leaguer against destiny. + +Destiny--_An Dan_--it was a word familiar to him since childhood, +when first he had heard it on the lips of old Ian Macdonald. And +once, on the eve of the Feast of Paschal, when Alan had asked Daniel +Darc what was the word which the stars spelled from zenith to nadir, +the astronomer had turned and answered simply, "_C'est le Destin_." +But Alan was of the few to whom this talismanic word opens lofty +perspectives, even while it obscures those paltry vistas which we deem +unending and dignify with vain hopes and void immortalities. + + +THE END + + Transcriber's Note + + Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained + except in obvious cases of typographical errors. + + Italics are shown thus _italic_. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Green Fire, by Fiona Macleod + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44091 *** |