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Title: The Roots of the Mountains

Author: William Morris

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</pre>
<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p>
<p>Transcribed from the 1896 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by David
Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h1>THE ROOTS OF THE MOUNTAINS WHEREIN IS TOLD SOMEWHAT OF THE LIVES
OF THE MEN OF BURGDALE THEIR FRIENDS THEIR NEIGHBOURS THEIR FOEMEN AND
THEIR FELLOWS IN ARMS<br />BY WILLIAM MORRIS</h1>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<p>Whiles carried o&rsquo;er the iron road,<br />We hurry by some fair
abode;<br />The garden bright amidst the hay,<br />The yellow wain upon
the way,<br />The dining men, the wind that sweeps<br />Light locks
from off the sun-sweet heaps -<br />The gable grey, the hoary roof,<br />Here
now - and now so far aloof.<br />How sorely then we long to stay<br />And
midst its sweetness wear the day,<br />And &rsquo;neath its changing
shadows sit,<br />And feel ourselves a part of it.<br />Such rest, such
stay, I strove to win<br />With these same leaves that lie herein.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER I.&nbsp; OF BURGSTEAD AND ITS FOLK AND ITS NEIGHBOURS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Once upon a time amidst the mountains and hills and falling streams
of a fair land there was a town or thorp in a certain valley.&nbsp;
This was well-nigh encompassed by a wall of sheer cliffs; toward the
East and the great mountains they drew together till they went near
to meet, and left but a narrow path on either side of a stony stream
that came rattling down into the Dale: toward the river at that end
the hills lowered somewhat, though they still ended in sheer rocks;
but up from it, and more especially on the north side, they swelled
into great shoulders of land, then dipped a little, and rose again into
the sides of huge fells clad with pine-woods, and cleft here and there
by deep ghylls: thence again they rose higher and steeper, and ever
higher till they drew dark and naked out of the woods to meet the snow-fields
and ice-rivers of the high mountains.&nbsp; But that was far away from
the pass by the little river into the valley; and the said river was
no drain from the snow-fields white and thick with the grinding of the
ice, but clear and bright were its waters that came from wells amidst
the bare rocky heaths.</p>
<p>The upper end of the valley, where it first began to open out from
the pass, was rugged and broken by rocks and ridges of water-borne stones,
but presently it smoothed itself into mere grassy swellings and knolls,
and at last into a fair and fertile plain swelling up into a green wave,
as it were, against the rock-wall which encompassed it on all sides
save where the river came gushing out of the strait pass at the east
end, and where at the west end it poured itself out of the Dale toward
the lowlands and the plain of the great river.</p>
<p>Now the valley was some ten miles of our measure from that place
of the rocks and the stone-ridges, to where the faces of the hills drew
somewhat anigh to the river again at the west, and then fell aback along
the edge of the great plain; like as when ye fare a-sailing past two
nesses of a river-mouth, and the main-sea lieth open before you.</p>
<p>Besides the river afore-mentioned, which men called the Weltering
Water, there were other waters in the Dale.&nbsp; Near the eastern pass,
entangled in the rocky ground was a deep tarn full of cold springs and
about two acres in measure, and therefrom ran a stream which fell into
the Weltering Water amidst the grassy knolls.&nbsp; Black seemed the
waters of that tarn which on one side washed the rocks-wall of the Dale;
ugly and aweful it seemed to men, and none knew what lay beneath its
waters save black mis-shapen trouts that few cared to bring to net or
angle: and it was called the Death-Tarn.</p>
<p>Other waters yet there were: here and there from the hills on both
sides, but especially from the south side, came trickles of water that
ran in pretty brooks down to the river; and some of these sprang bubbling
up amidst the foot-mounds of the sheer-rocks; some had cleft a rugged
and strait way through them, and came tumbling down into the Dale at
diverse heights from their faces.&nbsp; But on the north side about
halfway down the Dale, one stream somewhat bigger than the others, and
dealing with softer ground, had cleft for itself a wider way; and the
folk had laboured this way wider yet, till they had made them a road
running north along the west side of the stream.&nbsp; Sooth to say,
except for the strait pass along the river at the eastern end, and the
wider pass at the western, they had no other way (save one of which
a word anon) out of the Dale but such as mountain goats and bold cragsmen
might take; and even of these but few.</p>
<p>This midway stream was called the Wildlake, and the way along it
Wildlake&rsquo;s Way, because it came to them out of the wood, which
on that north side stretched away from nigh to the lip of the valley-wall
up to the pine woods and the high fells on the east and north, and down
to the plain country on the west and south.</p>
<p>Now when the Weltering Water came out of the rocky tangle near the
pass, it was turned aside by the ground till it swung right up to the
feet of the Southern crags; then it turned and slowly bent round again
northward, and at last fairly doubled back on itself before it turned
again to run westward; so that when, after its second double, it had
come to flowing softly westward under the northern crags, it had cast
two thirds of a girdle round about a space of land a little below the
grassy knolls and tofts aforesaid; and there in that fair space between
the folds of the Weltering Water stood the Thorp whereof the tale hath
told.</p>
<p>The men thereof had widened and deepened the Weltering Water about
them, and had bridged it over to the plain meads; and athwart the throat
of the space left clear by the water they had built them a strong wall
though not very high, with a gate amidst and a tower on either side
thereof.&nbsp; Moreover, on the face of the cliff which was but a stone&rsquo;s
throw from the gate they had made them stairs and ladders to go up by;
and on a knoll nigh the brow had built a watch-tower of stone strong
and great, lest war should come into the land from over the hills.&nbsp;
That tower was ancient, and therefrom the Thorp had its name and the
whole valley also; and it was called Burgstead in Burgdale.</p>
<p>So long as the Weltering Water ran straight along by the northern
cliffs after it had left Burgstead, betwixt the water and the cliffs
was a wide flat way fashioned by man&rsquo;s hand.&nbsp; Thus was the
water again a good defence to the Thorp, for it ran slow and deep there,
and there was no other ground betwixt it and the cliffs save that road,
which was easy to bar across so that no foemen might pass without battle,
and this road was called the Portway.&nbsp; For a long mile the river
ran under the northern cliffs, and then turned into the midst of the
Dale, and went its way westward a broad stream winding in gentle laps
and folds here and there down to the out-gate of the Dale.&nbsp; But
the Portway held on still underneath the rock-wall, till the sheer-rocks
grew somewhat broken, and were cumbered with certain screes, and at
last the wayfarer came upon the break in them, and the ghyll through
which ran the Wildlake with Wildlake&rsquo;s Way beside it, but the
Portway still went on all down the Dale and away to the Plain-country.</p>
<p>That road in the ghyll, which was neither wide nor smooth, the wayfarer
into the wood must follow, till it lifted itself out of the ghyll, and
left the Wildlake coming rattling down by many steps from the east;
and now the way went straight north through the woodland, ever mounting
higher, (because the whole set of the land was toward the high fells,)
but not in any cleft or ghyll.&nbsp; The wood itself thereabout was
thick, a blended growth of diverse kinds of trees, but most of oak and
ash; light and air enough came through their boughs to suffer the holly
and bramble and eglantine and other small wood to grow together into
thickets, which no man could pass without hewing a way.&nbsp; But before
it is told whereto Wildlake&rsquo;s Way led, it must be said that on
the east side of the ghyll, where it first began just over the Portway,
the hill&rsquo;s brow was clear of wood for a certain space, and there,
overlooking all the Dale, was the Mote-stead of the Dalesmen, marked
out by a great ring of stones, amidst of which was the mound for the
Judges and the Altar of the Gods before it.&nbsp; And this was the holy
place of the men of the Dale and of other folk whereof the tale shall
now tell.</p>
<p>For when Wildlake&rsquo;s Way had gone some three miles from the
Mote-stead, the trees began to thin, and presently afterwards was a
clearing and the dwellings of men, built of timber as may well be thought.&nbsp;
These houses were neither rich nor great, nor was the folk a mighty
folk, because they were but a few, albeit body by body they were stout
carles enough.&nbsp; They had not affinity with the Dalesmen, and did
not wed with them, yet it is to be deemed that they were somewhat akin
to them.&nbsp; To be short, though they were freemen, yet as regards
the Dalesmen were they well-nigh their servants; for they were but poor
in goods, and had to lean upon them somewhat.&nbsp; No tillage they
had among those high trees; and of beasts nought save some flocks of
goats and a few asses.&nbsp; Hunters they were, and charcoal-burners,
and therein the deftest of men, and they could shoot well in the bow
withal: so they trucked their charcoal and their smoked venison and
their peltries with the Dalesmen for wheat and wine and weapons and
weed; and the Dalesmen gave them main good pennyworths, as men who had
abundance wherewith to uphold their kinsmen, though they were but far-away
kin.&nbsp; Stout hands had these Woodlanders and true hearts as any;
but they were few-spoken and to those that needed them not somewhat
surly of speech and grim of visage: brown-skinned they were, but light-haired;
well-eyed, with but little red in their cheeks: their women were not
very fair, for they toiled like the men, or more.&nbsp; They were thought
to be wiser than most men in foreseeing things to come.&nbsp; They were
much given to spells, and songs of wizardry, and were very mindful of
the old story-lays, wherein they were far more wordy than in their daily
speech.&nbsp; Much skill had they in runes, and were exceeding deft
in scoring them on treen bowls, and on staves, and door-posts and roof-beams
and standing-beds and such like things.&nbsp; Many a day when the snow
was drifting over their roofs, and hanging heavy on the tree-boughs,
and the wind was roaring through the trees aloft and rattling about
the close thicket, when the boughs were clattering in the wind, and
crashing down beneath the weight of the gathering freezing snow, when
all beasts and men lay close in their lairs, would they sit long hours
about the house-fire with the knife or the gouge in hand, with the timber
twixt their knees and the whetstone beside them, hearkening to some
tale of old times and the days when their banner was abroad in the world;
and they the while wheedling into growth out of the tough wood knots
and blossoms and leaves and the images of beasts and warriors and women.</p>
<p>They were called nought save the Woodland-Carles in that day, though
time had been when they had borne a nobler name: and their abode was
called Carlstead.&nbsp; Shortly, for all they had and all they had not,
for all they were and all they were not, they were well-beloved by their
friends and feared by their foes.</p>
<p>Now when Wildlake&rsquo;s Way was gotten to Carlstead, there was
an end of it toward the north; though beyond it in a right line the
wood was thinner, because of the hewing of the Carles.&nbsp; But the
road itself turned west at once and went on through the wood, till some
four miles further it first thinned and then ceased altogether, the
ground going down-hill all the way: for this was the lower flank of
the first great upheaval toward the high mountains.&nbsp; But presently,
after the wood was ended, the land broke into swelling downs and winding
dales of no great height or depth, with a few scattered trees about
the hillsides, mostly thorns or scrubby oaks, gnarled and bent and kept
down by the western wind: here and there also were yew-trees, and whiles
the hillsides would be grown over with box-wood, but none very great;
and often juniper grew abundantly.&nbsp; This then was the country of
the Shepherds, who were friends both of the Dalesmen and the Woodlanders.&nbsp;
They dwelt not in any fenced town or thorp, but their homesteads were
scattered about as was handy for water and shelter.&nbsp; Nevertheless
they had their own stronghold; for amidmost of their country, on the
highest of a certain down above a bottom where a willowy stream winded,
was a great earthwork: the walls thereof were high and clean and overlapping
at the entering in, and amidst of it was a deep well of water, so that
it was a very defensible place: and thereto would they drive their flocks
and herds when war was in the land, for nought but a very great host
might win it; and this stronghold they called Greenbury.</p>
<p>These Shepherd-Folk were strong and tall like the Woodlanders, for
they were partly of the same blood, but burnt they were both ruddy and
brown: they were of more words than the Woodlanders but yet not many-worded.&nbsp;
They knew well all those old story-lays, (and this partly by the minstrelsy
of the Woodlanders,) but they had scant skill in wizardry, and would
send for the Woodlanders, both men and women, to do whatso they needed
therein.&nbsp; They were very hale and long-lived, whereas they dwelt
in clear bright air, and they mostly went light-clad even in the winter,
so strong and merry were they.&nbsp; They wedded with the Woodlanders
and the Dalesmen both; at least certain houses of them did so.&nbsp;
They grew no corn; nought but a few pot-herbs, but had their meal of
the Dalesmen; and in the summer they drave some of their milch-kine
into the Dale for the abundance of grass there; whereas their own hills
and bents and winding valleys were not plenteously watered, except here
and there as in the bottom under Greenbury.&nbsp; No swine they had,
and but few horses, but of sheep very many, and of the best both for
their flesh and their wool.&nbsp; Yet were they nought so deft craftsmen
at the loom as were the Dalesmen, and their women were not very eager
at the weaving, though they loathed not the spindle and rock.&nbsp;
Shortly, they were merry folk well-beloved of the Dalesmen, quick to
wrath, though it abode not long with them; not very curious in their
houses and halls, which were but little, and were decked mostly with
the handiwork of the Woodland-Carles their guests; who when they were
abiding with them, would oft stand long hours nose to beam, scoring
and nicking and hammering, answering no word spoken to them but with
aye or no, desiring nought save the endurance of the daylight.&nbsp;
Moreover, this shepherd-folk heeded not gay raiment over-much, but commonly
went clad in white woollen or sheep-brown weed.</p>
<p>But beyond this shepherd-folk were more downs and more, scantily
peopled, and that after a while by folk with whom they had no kinship
or affinity, and who were at whiles their foes.&nbsp; Yet was there
no enduring enmity between them; and ever after war and battle came
peace; and all blood-wites were duly paid and no long feud followed:
nor were the Dalesmen and the Woodlanders always in these wars, though
at whiles they were.&nbsp; Thus then it fared with these people.</p>
<p>But now that we have told of the folks with whom the Dalesmen had
kinship, affinity, and friendship, tell we of their chief abode, Burgstead
to wit, and of its fashion.&nbsp; As hath been told, it lay upon the
land made nigh into an isle by the folds of the Weltering Water towards
the uppermost end of the Dale; and it was warded by the deep water,
and by the wall aforesaid with its towers.&nbsp; Now the Dale at its
widest, to wit where Wildlake fell into it, was but nine furlongs over,
but at Burgstead it was far narrower; so that betwixt the wall and the
wandering stream there was but a space of fifty acres, and therein lay
Burgstead in a space of the shape of a sword-pommel: and the houses
of the kinships lay about it, amidst of gardens and orchards, but little
ordered into streets and lanes, save that a way went clean through everything
from the tower-warded gate to the bridge over the Water, which was warded
by two other towers on its hither side.</p>
<p>As to the houses, they were some bigger, some smaller, as the housemates
needed.&nbsp; Some were old, but not very old, save two only, and some
quite new, but of these there were not many: they were all built fairly
of stone and lime, with much fair and curious carved work of knots and
beasts and men round about the doors; or whiles a wale of such-like
work all along the house-front.&nbsp; For as deft as were the Woodlanders
with knife and gouge on the oaken beams, even so deft were the Dalesmen
with mallet and chisel on the face of the hewn stone; and this was a
great pastime about the Thorp.&nbsp; Within these houses had but a hall
and solar, with shut-beds out from the hall on one side or two, with
whatso of kitchen and buttery and out-bower men deemed handy.&nbsp;
Many men dwelt in each house, either kinsfolk, or such as were joined
to the kindred.</p>
<p>Near to the gate of Burgstead in that street aforesaid and facing
east was the biggest house of the Thorp; it was one of the two abovesaid
which were older than any other.&nbsp; Its door-posts and the lintel
of the door were carved with knots and twining stems fairer than other
houses of that stead; and on the wall beside the door carved over many
stones was an image wrought in the likeness of a man with a wide face,
which was terrible to behold, although it smiled: he bore a bent bow
in his hand with an arrow fitted to its string, and about the head of
him was a ring of rays like the beams of the sun, and at his feet was
a dragon, which had crept, as it were, from amidst of the blossomed
knots of the door-post wherewith the tail of him was yet entwined.&nbsp;
And this head with the ring of rays about it was wrought into the adornment
of that house, both within and without, in many other places, but on
never another house of the Dale; and it was called the House of the
Face.&nbsp; Thereof hath the tale much to tell hereafter, but as now
it goeth on to tell of the ways of life of the Dalesmen.</p>
<p>In Burgstead was no Mote-hall or Town-house or Church, such as we
wot of in these days; and their market-place was wheresoever any might
choose to pitch a booth: but for the most part this was done in the
wide street betwixt the gate and the bridge.&nbsp; As to a meeting-place,
were there any small matters between man and man, these would the Alderman
or one of the Wardens deal with, sitting in Court with the neighbours
on the wide space just outside the Gate: but if it were to do with greater
matters, such as great manslayings and blood-wites, or the making of
war or ending of it, or the choosing of the Alderman and the Wardens,
such matters must be put off to the Folk-mote, which could but be held
in the place aforesaid where was the Doom-ring and the Altar of the
Gods; and at that Folk-mote both the Shepherd-Folk and the Woodland-Carles
foregathered with the Dalesmen, and duly said their say.&nbsp; There
also they held their great casts and made offerings to the Gods for
the Fruitfulness of the Year, the ingathering of the increase, and in
Memory of their Forefathers.&nbsp; Natheless at Yule-tide also they
feasted from house to house to be glad with the rest of Midwinter, and
many a cup drank at those feasts to the memory of the fathers, and the
days when the world was wider to them, and their banners fared far afield.</p>
<p>But besides these dwellings of men in the field between the wall
and the water, there were homesteads up and down the Dale whereso men
found it easy and pleasant to dwell: their halls were built of much
the same fashion as those within the Thorp; but many had a high garth-wall
cast about them, so that they might make a stout defence in their own
houses if war came into the Dale.</p>
<p>As to their work afield; in many places the Dale was fair with growth
of trees, and especially were there long groves of sweet chestnut standing
on the grass, of the fruit whereof the folk had much gain.&nbsp; Also
on the south side nigh to the western end was a wood or two of yew-trees
very great and old, whence they gat them bow-staves, for the Dalesmen
also shot well in the bow.&nbsp; Much wheat and rye they raised in the
Dale, and especially at the nether end thereof.&nbsp; Apples and pears
and cherries and plums they had in plenty; of which trees, some grew
about the borders of the acres, some in the gardens of the Thorp and
the homesteads.&nbsp; On the slopes that had grown from the breaking
down here and there of the Northern cliffs, and which faced the South
and the Sun&rsquo;s burning, were rows of goodly vines, whereof the
folk made them enough and to spare of strong wine both white and red.</p>
<p>As to their beasts; swine they had a many, but not many sheep, since
herein they trusted to their trucking with their friends the Shepherds;
they had horses, and yet but a few, for they were stout in going afoot;
and, had they a journey to make with women big with babes, or with children
or outworn elders, they would yoke their oxen to their wains, and go
fair and softly whither they would.&nbsp; But the said oxen and all
their neat were exceeding big and fair, far other than the little beasts
of the Shepherd-Folk; they were either dun of colour, or white with
black horns (and those very great) and black tail-tufts and ear-tips.&nbsp;
Asses they had, and mules for the paths of the mountains to the east;
geese and hens enough, and dogs not a few, great hounds stronger than
wolves, sharp-nosed, long-jawed, dun of colour, shag-haired.</p>
<p>As to their wares; they were very deft weavers of wool and flax,
and made a shift to dye the thrums in fair colours; since both woad
and madder came to them good cheap by means of the merchants of the
plain country, and of greening weeds was abundance at hand.&nbsp; Good
smiths they were in all the metals: they washed somewhat of gold out
of the sands of the Weltering Water, and copper and tin they fetched
from the rocks of the eastern mountains; but of silver they saw little,
and iron they must buy of the merchants of the plain, who came to them
twice in the year, to wit in the spring and the late autumn just before
the snows.&nbsp; Their wares they bought with wool spun and in the fleece,
and fine cloth, and skins of wine and young neat both steers and heifers,
and wrought copper bowls, and gold and copper by weight, for they had
no stamped money.&nbsp; And they guested these merchants well, for they
loved them, because of the tales they told them of the Plain and its
cities, and the manslayings therein, and the fall of Kings and Dukes,
and the uprising of Captains.</p>
<p>Thus then lived this folk in much plenty and ease of life, though
not delicately nor desiring things out of measure.&nbsp; They wrought
with their hands and wearied themselves; and they rested from their
toil and feasted and were merry: to-morrow was not a burden to them,
nor yesterday a thing which they would fain forget: life shamed them
not, nor did death make them afraid.</p>
<p>As for the Dale wherein they dwelt, it was indeed most fair and lovely,
and they deemed it the Blessing of the Earth, and they trod its flowery
grass beside its rippled streams amidst its green tree-boughs proudly
and joyfully with goodly bodies and merry hearts.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER II.&nbsp; OF FACE-OF-GOD AND HIS KINDRED</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Tells the tale, that on an evening of late autumn when the weather
was fair, calm, and sunny, there came a man out of the wood hard by
the Mote-stead aforesaid, who sat him down at the roots of the Speech-mound,
casting down before him a roe-buck which he had just slain in the wood.&nbsp;
He was a young man of three and twenty summers; he was so clad that
he had on him a sheep-brown kirtle and leggings of like stuff bound
about with white leather thongs; he bore a short-sword in his girdle
and a little axe withal; the sword with fair wrought gilded hilts and
a dew-shoe of like fashion to its sheath.&nbsp; He had his quiver at
his back and bare in his hand his bow unstrung.&nbsp; He was tall and
strong, very fair of fashion both of limbs and face, white-skinned,
but for the sun&rsquo;s tanning, and ruddy-cheeked: his beard was little
and fine, his hair yellow and curling, cut somewhat close, but for its
length so plenteous, and so thick, that none could fail to note it.&nbsp;
He had no hat nor hood upon his head, nought but a fillet of golden
beads.</p>
<p>As he sat down he glanced at the dale below him with a well-pleased
look, and then cast his eyes down to the grass at his feet, as though
to hold a little longer all unchanged the image of the fair place he
had just seen.&nbsp; The sun was low in the heavens, and his slant beams
fell yellow all up the dale, gilding the chestnut groves grown dusk
and grey with autumn, and the black masses of the elm-boughs, and gleaming
back here and there from the pools of the Weltering Water.&nbsp; Down
in the midmost meadows the long-horned dun kine were moving slowly as
they fed along the edges of the stream, and a dog was bounding about
with exceeding swiftness here and there among them.&nbsp; At a sharply
curved bight of the river the man could see a little vermilion flame
flickering about, and above it a thin blue veil of smoke hanging in
the air, and clinging to the boughs of the willows anear; about it were
a dozen menfolk clear to see, some sitting, some standing, some walking
to and fro, but all in company together: four of were brown-clad and
short-skirted like himself, and from above the hand of one came a flash
of light as the sun smote upon the steel of his spear.&nbsp; The others
were long-skirted and clad gayer, and amongst them were red and blue
and green and white garments, and they were clear to be seen for women.&nbsp;
Just as the young man looked up again, those of them who were sitting
down rose up, and those that were strolling drew nigh, and they joined
hands together, and fell to dancing on the grass, and the dog and another
one with him came up to the dancers and raced about and betwixt them;
and so clear to see were they all and so little, being far away, that
they looked like dainty well-wrought puppets.</p>
<p>The young man sat smiling at it for a little, and then rose up and
shouldered his venison, and went down into Wildlake&rsquo;s Way, and
presently was fairly in the Dale and striding along the Portway beside
the northern cliffs, whose greyness was gilded yet by the last rays
of the sun, though in a minute or two it would go under the western
rim.&nbsp; He went fast and cheerily, murmuring to himself snatches
of old songs; none overtook him on the road, but he overtook divers
folk going alone or in company toward Burgstead; swains and old men,
mothers and maidens coming from the field and the acre, or going from
house to house; and one or two he met but not many.&nbsp; All these
greeted him kindly, and he them again; but he stayed not to speak with
any, but went as one in haste.</p>
<p>It was dusk by then he passed under the gate of Burgstead; he went
straight thence to the door of the House of the Face, and entered as
one who is at home, and need go no further, nor abide a bidding.</p>
<p>The hall he came into straight out of the open air was long and somewhat
narrow and not right high; it was well-nigh dark now within, but since
he knew where to look, he could see by the flicker that leapt up now
and then from the smouldering brands of the hearth amidmost the hall
under the luffer, that there were but three men therein, and belike
they were even they whom he looked to find there, and for their part
they looked for his coming, and knew his step.</p>
<p>He set down his venison on the floor, and cried out in a cheery voice:
&lsquo;Ho, Kettel!&nbsp; Are all men gone without doors to sleep so
near the winter-tide, that the Hall is as dark as a cave?&nbsp; Hither
to me!&nbsp; Or art thou also sleeping?&rsquo;</p>
<p>A voice came from the further side of the hearth: &lsquo;Yea, lord,
asleep I am, and have been, and dreaming; and in my dream I dealt with
the flesh-pots and the cake-board, and thou shalt see my dream come
true presently to thy gain.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Quoth another voice: &lsquo;Kettel hath had out that share of his
dream already belike, if the saw sayeth sooth about cooks.&nbsp; All
ye have been away, so belike he hath done as Rafe&rsquo;s dog when Rafe
ran away from the slain buck.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He laughed therewith, and Kettel with him, and a third voice joined
the laughter.&nbsp; The young man also laughed and said: &lsquo;Here
I bring the venison which my kinsman desired; but as ye see I have brought
it over-late: but take it, Kettel.&nbsp; When cometh my father from
the stithy?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Quoth Kettel: &lsquo;My lord hath been hard at it shaping the Yule-tide
sword, and doth not lightly leave such work, as ye wot, but he will
be here presently, for he has sent to bid us dight for supper straightway.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said the young man: &lsquo;Where are there lords in the dale, Kettel,
or hast thou made some thyself, that thou must be always throwing them
in my teeth?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Son of the Alderman,&rsquo; said Kettel, &lsquo;ye call me
Kettel, which is no name of mine, so why should I not call thee lord,
which is no dignity of thine, since it goes well over my tongue from
old use and wont?&nbsp; But here comes my mate of the kettle, and the
women and lads.&nbsp; Sit down by the hearth away from their hurry,
and I will fetch thee the hand-water.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The young man sat down, and Kettel took up the venison and went his
ways toward the door at the lower end of the hall; but ere he reached
it it opened, and a noisy crowd entered of men, women, boys, and dogs,
some bearing great wax candles, some bowls and cups and dishes and trenchers,
and some the boards for the meal.</p>
<p>The young man sat quiet smiling and winking his eyes at the sudden
flood of light let into the dark place; he took in without looking at
this or the other thing the aspect of his Fathers&rsquo; House, so long
familiar to him; yet to-night he had a pleasure in it above his wont,
and in all the stir of the household; for the thought of the wood wherein
he had wandered all day yet hung heavy upon him.&nbsp; Came one of the
girls and cast fresh brands on the smouldering fire and stirred it into
a blaze, and the wax candles were set up on the da&iuml;s, so that between
them and the mew-quickened fire every corner of the hall was bright.&nbsp;
As aforesaid it was long and narrow, over-arched with stone and not
right high, the windows high up under the springing of the roof-arch
and all on the side toward the street; over against them were the arches
of the shut-beds of the housemates.&nbsp; The walls were bare that evening,
but folk were wont to hang up hallings of woven pictures thereon when
feasts and high-days were toward; and all along the walls were the tenter-hooks
for that purpose, and divers weapons and tools were hanging from them
here and there.&nbsp; About the da&iuml;s behind the thwart-table were
now stuck for adornment leavy boughs of oak now just beginning to turn
with the first frosts.&nbsp; High up on the gable wall above the tenter-hooks
for the hangings were carven fair imagery and knots and twining stems;
for there in the hewn atone was set forth that same image with the rayed
head that was on the outside wall, and he was smiting the dragon and
slaying him; but here inside the house all this was stained in fair
and lively colours, and the sun-like rays round the head of the image
were of beaten gold.&nbsp; At the lower end of the hall were two doors
going into the butteries, and kitchen, and other out-bowers; and above
these doors was a loft upborne by stone pillars, which loft was the
sleeping chamber of the goodman of the house; but the outward door was
halfway between the said loft and the hearth of the hall.</p>
<p>So the young man took the shoes from his feet and then sat watching
the women and lads arraying the boards, till Kettel came again to him
with an old woman bearing the ewer and basin, who washed his feet and
poured the water over his hands, and gave him the towel with fair-broidered
ends to dry them withal.</p>
<p>Scarce had he made an end of this ere through the outer door came
in three men and a young woman with them; the foremost of these was
a man younger by some two years than the first-comer, but so like him
that none might misdoubt that he was his brother; the next was an old
man with a long white beard, but hale and upright; and lastly came a
man of middle-age, who led the young woman by the hand.&nbsp; He was
taller than the first of the young men, though the other who entered
with him outwent him in height; a stark carle he was, broad across the
shoulders, thin in the flank, long-armed and big-handed; very noble
and well-fashioned of countenance, with a straight nose and grey eyes
underneath a broad brow: his hair grown somewhat scanty was done about
with a fillet of golden beads like the young men his sons.&nbsp; For
indeed this was their father, and the master of the House.</p>
<p>His name was Iron-face, for he was the deftest of weapon-smiths,
and he was the Alderman of the Dalesmen, and well-beloved of them; his
kindred was deemed the noblest of the Dale, and long had they dwelt
in the House of the Face.&nbsp; But of his sons the youngest, the new-comer,
was named Hall-face, and his brother the elder Face-of-god; which name
was of old use amongst the kindred, and many great men and stout warriors
had borne it aforetime: and this young man, in great love had he been
gotten, and in much hope had he been reared, and therefore had he been
named after the best of the kindred.&nbsp; But his mother, who was hight
the Jewel, and had been a very fair woman, was dead now, and Iron-face
lacked a wife.</p>
<p>Face-of-god was well-beloved of his kindred and of all the Folk of
the Dale, and he had gotten a to-name, and was called Gold-mane because
of the abundance and fairness of his hair.</p>
<p>As for the young woman that was led in by Iron-face, she was the
betrothed of Face-of-god, and her name was the Bride.&nbsp; She looked
with such eyes of love on him when she saw him in the hall, as though
she had never seen him before but once, nor loved him but since yesterday;
though in truth they had grown up together and had seen each other most
days of the year for many years.&nbsp; She was of the kindred with whom
the chiefs and great men of the Face mostly wedded, which was indeed
far away kindred of them.&nbsp; She was a fair woman and strong: not
easily daunted amidst perils she was hardy and handy and light-foot:
she could swim as well as any, and could shoot well in the bow, and
wield sword and spear: yet was she kind and compassionate, and of great
courtesy, and the very dogs and kine trusted in her and loved her.&nbsp;
Her hair was dark red of hue, long and fine and plenteous, her eyes
great and brown, her brow broad and very fair, her lips fine and red:
her cheek not ruddy, yet nowise sallow, but clear and bright: tall she
was and of excellent fashion, but well-knit and well-measured rather
than slender and wavering as the willow-bough.&nbsp; Her voice was sweet
and soft, her words few, but exceeding dear to the listener.&nbsp; In
short, she was a woman born to be the ransom of her Folk.</p>
<p>Now as to the names which the menfolk of the Face bore, and they
an ancient kindred, a kindred of chieftains, it has been said that in
times past their image of the God of the Earth had over his treen face
a mask of beaten gold fashioned to the shape of the image; and that
when the Alderman of the Folk died, he to wit who served the God and
bore on his arm the gold-ring between the people and the altar, this
visor or face of God was laid over the face of him who had been in a
manner his priest, and therewith he was borne to mound; and the new
Alderman and priest had it in charge to fashion a new visor for the
God; and whereas for long this great kindred had been chieftains of
the people, they had been, and were all so named, that the word Face
was ever a part of their names.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER III.&nbsp; THEY TALK OF DIVERS MATTERS IN THE HALL</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Now Face-of-god, who is also called Gold-mane, rose up to meet the
new-comers, and each of them greeted him kindly, and the Bride kissed
him on the cheek, and he her in likewise; and he looked kindly on her,
and took her hand, and went on up the hall to the da&iuml;s, following
his father and the old man; as for him, he was of the kindred of the
House, and was foster-father of Iron-face and of his sons both; and
his name was Stone-face: a stark warrior had he been when he was young,
and even now he could do a man&rsquo;s work in the battlefield, and
his understanding was as good as that of a man in his prime.&nbsp; So
went these and four others up on to the da&iuml;s and sat down before
the thwart-table looking down the hall, for the meat was now on the
board; and of the others there were some fifty men and women who were
deemed to be of the kindred and sat at the endlong tables.</p>
<p>So then the Alderman stood up and made the sign of the Hammer over
the meat, the token of his craft and of his God.&nbsp; Then they fell
to with good hearts, for there was enough and to spare of meat and drink.&nbsp;
There was bread and flesh (though not Gold-mane&rsquo;s venison), and
leeks and roasted chestnuts of the grove, and red-cheeked apples of
the garth, and honey enough of that year&rsquo;s gathering, and medlars
sharp and mellow: moreover, good wine of the western bents went up and
down the hall in great gilded copper bowls and in mazers girt and lipped
with gold.</p>
<p>But when they were full of meat, and had drunken somewhat, they fell
to speech, and Iron-face spake aloud to his son, who had but been speaking
softly to the Bride as one playmate to the other: but the Alderman said:
&lsquo;Scarce are the wood-deer grown, kinsman, when I must needs eat
sheep&rsquo;s flesh on a Thursday, though my son has lain abroad in
the woods all night to hunt for me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And therewith he smiled in the young man&rsquo;s face; but Gold-mane
reddened and said: &lsquo;So is it, kinsman, I can hit what I can see;
but not what is hidden.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Iron-face laughed and said: &lsquo;Hast thou been to the Woodland-Carles?
are their women fairer than our cousins?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Face-of-god took up the Bride&rsquo;s hand in his and kissed it and
laid it to his cheek; and then turned to his father and said: &lsquo;Nay,
father, I saw not the Wood-carles, nor went to their abode; and on no
day do I lust after their women.&nbsp; Moreover, I brought home a roebuck
of the fattest; but I was over-late for Kettel, and the flesh was ready
for the board by then I came.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Well, son,&rsquo; quoth Iron-face, for he was merry, &lsquo;a
roebuck is but a little deer for such big men as are thou and I.&nbsp;
But I rede thee take the Bride along with thee the next time; and she
shall seek whilest thou sleepest, and hit when thou missest.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god smiled, but he frowned somewhat also, and he said:
&lsquo;Well were that, indeed!&nbsp; But if ye must needs drag a true
tale out of me: that roebuck I shot at the very edge of the wood nigh
to the Mote-stead as I was coming home: harts had I seen in the wood
and its lawns, and boars, and bucks, and loosed not at them: for indeed
when I awoke in the morning in that wood-lawn ye wot of, I wandered
up and down with my bow unbent.&nbsp; So it was that I fared as if I
were seeking something, I know not what, that should fill up something
lacking to me, I know not what.&nbsp; Thus I felt in myself even so
long as I was underneath the black boughs, and there was none beside
me and before me, and none to turn aback to: but when I came out again
into the sunshine, and I saw the fair dale, and the happy abode lying
before me, and folk abroad in the meads merry in the eventide; then
was I full fain of it, and loathed the wood as an empty thing that had
nought to give me; and lo you! all that I had been longing for in the
wood, was it not in this House and ready to my hand? - and that is good
meseemeth.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he drank of the cup which the Bride put into his hand after
she had kissed the rim, but when he had set it down again he spake once
more:</p>
<p>&lsquo;And yet now I am sitting honoured and well-beloved in the
House of my Fathers, with the holy hearth sparkling and gleaming down
there before me; and she that shall bear my children sitting soft and
kind by my side, and the bold lads I shall one day lead in battle drinking
out of my very cup: now it seems to me that amidst all this, the dark
cold wood, wherein abide but the beasts and the Foes of the Gods, is
bidding me to it and drawing me thither.&nbsp; Narrow is the Dale and
the World is wide; I would it were dawn and daylight, that I might be
afoot again.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And he half rose up from his place.&nbsp; But his father bent his
brow on him and said: &lsquo;Kinsman, thou hast a long tongue for a
half-trained whelp: nor see I whitherward thy mind is wandering, but
if it be on the road of a lad&rsquo;s desire to go further and fare
worse.&nbsp; Hearken then, I will offer thee somewhat!&nbsp; Soon shall
the West-country merchants be here with their winter truck.&nbsp; How
sayest thou? hast thou a mind to fare back with them, and look on the
Plain and its Cities, and take and give with the strangers?&nbsp; To
whom indeed thou shalt be nothing save a purse with a few lumps of gold
in it, or maybe a spear in the stranger&rsquo;s band on the stricken
field, or a bow on the wall of an alien city.&nbsp; This is a craft
which thou mayst well learn, since thou shalt be a chieftain; a craft
good to learn, however grievous it be in the learning.&nbsp; And I myself
have been there; for in my youth I desired sore to look on the world
beyond the mountains; so I went, and I filled my belly with the fruit
of my own desires, and a bitter meat was that; but now that it has passed
through me, and I yet alive, belike I am more of a grown man for having
endured its gripe.&nbsp; Even so may it well be with thee, son; so go
if thou wilt; and thou shalt go with my blessing, and with gold and
wares and wain and spearmen.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;I thank thee, for it
is well offered; but I will not go, for I have no lust for the Plain
and its Cities; I love the Dale well, and all that is round about it;
therein will I live and die.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he fell a-musing; and the Bride looked at him anxiously,
but spake not.&nbsp; Sooth to say her heart was sinking, as though she
foreboded some new thing, which should thrust itself into their merry
life.</p>
<p>But the old man Stone-face took up the word and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Son Gold-mane, it behoveth me to speak, since belike I know
the wild-wood better than most, and have done for these three-score
and ten years; to my cost.&nbsp; Now I perceive that thou longest for
the wood and the innermost of it; and wot ye what?&nbsp; This longing
will at whiles entangle the sons of our chieftains, though this Alderman
that now is hath been free therefrom, which is well for him.&nbsp; For,
time was this longing came over me, and I went whither it led me: overlong
it were to tell of all that befell me because of it, and how my heart
bled thereby.&nbsp; So sorry were the tidings that came of it, that
now meseemeth my heart should be of stone and not my face, had it not
been for the love wherewith I have loved the sons of the kindred.&nbsp;
Therefore, son, it were not ill if ye went west away with the merchants
this winter, and learned the dealings of the cities, and brought us
back tales thereof.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But Gold-mane cried out somewhat angrily, &lsquo;I tell thee, foster-father,
that I have no mind for the cities and their men and their fools and
their whores and their runagates.&nbsp; But as for the wood and its
wonders, I have done with it, save for hunting there along with others
of the Folk.&nbsp; So let thy mind be at ease; and for the rest, I will
do what the Alderman commandeth, and whatso my father craveth of me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;And that is well, son,&rsquo; said Stone-face, &lsquo;if what
ye say come to pass, as sore I misdoubt me it will not.&nbsp; But well
it were, well it were!&nbsp; For such things are in the wood, yea and
before ye come to its innermost, as may well try the stoutest heart.&nbsp;
Therein are Kobbolds, and Wights that love not men, things unto whom
the grief of men is as the sound of the fiddle-bow unto us.&nbsp; And
there abide the ghosts of those that may not rest; and there wander
the dwarfs and the mountain-dwellers, the dealers in marvels, the givers
of gifts that destroy Houses; the forgers of the curse that clingeth
and the murder that flitteth to and fro.&nbsp; There moreover are the
lairs of Wights in the shapes of women, that draw a young man&rsquo;s
heart out of his body, and fill up the empty place with desire never
to be satisfied, that they may mock him therewith and waste his manhood
and destroy him.&nbsp; Nor say I much of the strong-thieves that dwell
there, since thou art a valiant sword; or of them who have been made
Wolves of the Holy Places; or of the Murder-Carles, the remnants and
off-scourings of wicked and wretched Folks - men who think as much of
the life of a man as of the life of a fly.&nbsp; Yet happiest is the
man whom they shall tear in pieces, than he who shall live burdened
by the curse of the Foes of the Gods.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The housemaster looked on his son as the old carle spake, and a cloud
gathered on his face a while; and when Stone-face had made an end he
spake:</p>
<p>&lsquo;This is long and evil talk for the end of a merry day, O fosterer!&nbsp;
Wilt thou not drink a draught, O Redesman, and then stand up and set
thy fiddle-bow a-dancing, and cause it draw some fair words after it?&nbsp;
For my cousin&rsquo;s face hath grown sadder than a young maid&rsquo;s
should be, and my son&rsquo;s eyes gleam with thoughts that are far
away from us and abroad in the wild-wood seeking marvels.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then arose a man of middle-age from the top of the endlong bench
on the east side of the hall: a man tall, thin and scant-haired, with
a nose like an eagle&rsquo;s neb: he reached out his hand for the bowl,
and when they had given to him he handled it, and raised it aloft and
cried:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Here I drink a double health to Face-of-god and the Bride,
and the love that lieth between them, and the love betwixt them twain
and us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He drank therewith, and the wine went up and down the hall, and all
men drank, both carles and queens, with shouting and great joy.&nbsp;
Then Redesman put down the cup (for it had come into his hands again),
and reached his hand to the wall behind him, and took down his fiddle
hanging there in its case, and drew it out and fell to tuning it, while
the hall grew silent to hearken: then he handled the bow and laid it
on the strings till they wailed and chuckled sweetly, and when the song
was well awake and stirring briskly, then he lifted up his voice and
sang:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p><i>The Minstrel saith:</i></p>
<p>&lsquo;O why on this morning, ye maids, are ye tripping<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Aloof
from the meadows yet fresh with the dew,<br />Where under the west wind
the river is lipping<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The fragrance of mint, the
white blooms and the blue?</p>
<p>For rough is the Portway where panting ye wander;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;On
your feet and your gown-hems the dust lieth dun;<br />Come trip through
the grass and the meadow-sweet yonder,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And forget
neath the willows the sword of the sun.</p>
<p><i>The Maidens answer:</i></p>
<p>Though fair are the moon-daisies down by the river,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
soft is the grass and the white clover sweet;<br />Though twixt us and
the rock-wall the hot glare doth quiver,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
the dust of the wheel-way is dun on our feet;</p>
<p>Yet here on the way shall we walk on this morning<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Though
the sun burneth here, and sweet, cool is the mead;<br />For here when
in old days the Burg gave its warning,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Stood
stark under weapons the doughty of deed.</p>
<p>Here came on the aliens their proud words a-crying,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
here on our threshold they stumbled and fell;<br />Here silent at even
the steel-clad were lying,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And here were our
mothers the story to tell.</p>
<p>Here then on the morn of the eve of the wedding<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We
pray to the Mighty that we too may bear<br />Such war-walls for warding
of orchard and steading,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That the new days be
merry as old days were dear.&rsquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Therewith he made an end, and shouts and glad cries arose all about
the hall; and an old man arose and cried: &lsquo;A cup to the memory
of the Mighty of the Day of the Warding of the Ways.&rsquo;&nbsp; For
you must know this song told of a custom of the Folk, held in memory
of a time of bygone battle, wherein they had overthrown a great host
of aliens on the Portway betwixt the river and the cliffs, two furlongs
from the gate of Burgstead.&nbsp; So now two weeks before Midsummer
those maidens who were presently to be wedded went early in the morning
to that place clad in very fair raiment, swords girt to their sides
and spears in their hands, and abode there on the highway from morn
till even as though they were a guard to it.&nbsp; And they made merry
there, singing songs and telling tales of times past: and at the sunsetting
their grooms came to fetch them away to the Feast of the Eve of the
Wedding.</p>
<p>While the song was a-singing Face-of-god took the Bride&rsquo;s hand
in his and caressed it, and was soft and blithe with her; and she reddened
and trembled for pleasure, and called to mind wedding feasts that had
been, and fair brides that she had seen thereat, and she forgot her
fears and her heart was at peace again.</p>
<p>And Iron-face looked well-pleased on the two from time to time, and
smiled, but forbore words to them.</p>
<p>But up and down the hall men talked with one another about things
long ago betid: for their hearts were high and they desired deeds; but
in that fair Dale so happy were the years from day to day that there
was but little to tell of.&nbsp; So deepened the night and waned, and
Gold-mane and the Bride still talked sweetly together, and at whiles
kindly to the others; and by seeming he had clean forgotten the wood
and its wonders.</p>
<p>Then at last the Alderman called for the cup of good-night, and men
drank thereof and went their ways to bed.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER IV.&nbsp; FACE-OF-GOD FARETH TO THE WOOD AGAIN</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>When it was the earliest morning and dawn was but just beginning,
Face-of-god awoke and rose up from his bed, and came forth into the
hall naked in his shirt, and stood by the hearth, wherein the piled-up
embers were yet red, and looked about and could see nothing stirring
in the dimness: then he fetched water and washed the night-tide off
him, and clad himself in haste, and was even as he was yesterday, save
that he left his bow and quiver in their place and took instead a short
casting-spear; moreover he took a leathern scrip and went therewith
to the buttery, and set therein bread and flesh and a little gilded
beaker; and all this he did with but little noise; for he would not
be questioned, lest he should have to answer himself as well as others.</p>
<p>Thus he went quietly out of doors, for the door was but latched,
since no bolts or bars or locks were used in Burgstead, and through
the town-gate, which stood open, save when rumours of war were about.&nbsp;
He turned his face straight towards Wildlake&rsquo;s Way, walking briskly,
but at whiles looking back over his shoulder toward the East to note
what way was made by the dawning, and how the sky lightened above the
mountain passes.</p>
<p>By then he was come to the place where the Maiden Ward was held in
the summer the dawn was so far forward that all things had their due
colours, and were clear to see in the shadowless day.&nbsp; It was a
bright morning, with an easterly air stirring that drave away the haze
and dried the meadows, which had otherwise been rimy; for it was cold.&nbsp;
Gold-mane lingered on the place a little, and his eyes fell on the road,
as dusty yet as in Redesman&rsquo;s song; for the autumn had been very
dry, and the strip of green that edged the outside of the way was worn
and dusty also.&nbsp; On the edge of it, half in the dusty road, half
on the worn grass, was a long twine of briony red-berried and black-leaved;
and right in the midst of the road were two twigs of great-leaved sturdy
pollard oak, as though they had been thrown aside there yesterday by
women or children a-sporting; and the deep white dust yet held the marks
of feet, some bare, some shod, crossing each other here and there.&nbsp;
Face-of-god smiled as he passed on, as a man with a happy thought; for
his mind showed him a picture of the Bride as she would be leading the
Maiden Ward next summer, and singing first among the singers, and he
saw her as clearly as he had often seen her verily, and before him was
the fashion of her hands and all her body, and the little mark on her
right wrist, and the place where her arm whitened, because the sleeve
guarded it against the sun, which had long been pleasant unto him, and
the little hollow in her chin, and the lock of red-brown hair waving
in the wind above her brow, and shining in the sun as brightly as the
Alderman&rsquo;s cunningest work of golden wire.&nbsp; Soft and sweet
seemed that picture, till he almost seemed to hear her sweet voice calling
to him, and desire of her so took hold of the youth, that it stirred
him up to go swiftlier as he strode on, the day brightening behind him.</p>
<p>Now was it nigh sunrise, and he began to meet folk on the way, though
not many; since for most their way lay afield, and not towards the Burg.&nbsp;
The first was a Woodlander, tall and gaunt, striding beside his ass,
whose panniers were laden with charcoal.&nbsp; The carle&rsquo;s daughter,
a little maiden of seven winters, riding on the ass&rsquo;s back betwixt
the panniers, and prattling to herself in the cold morning; for she
was pleased with the clear light in the east, and the smooth wide turf
of the meadows, as one who had not often been far from the shadow of
the heavy trees of the wood, and their dark wall round about the clearing
where they dwelt.&nbsp; Face-of-god gave the twain the sele of the day
in merry fashion as he passed them by, and the sober dark-faced man
nodded to him but spake no word, and the child stayed her prattle to
watch him as he went by.</p>
<p>Then came the sound of the rattle of wheels, and, as he doubled an
angle of the rock-wall, he came upon a wain drawn by four dun kine,
wherein lay a young woman all muffled up against the cold with furs
and cloths; beside the yoke-beasts went her man, a well-knit trim-faced
Dalesman clad bravely in holiday raiment, girt with a goodly sword,
bearing a bright steel helm on his head, in his hand a long spear with
a gay red and white shaft done about with copper bands.&nbsp; He looked
merry and proud of his wain-load, and the woman was smiling kindly on
him from out of her scarlet and fur; but now she turned a weary happy
face on Gold-mane, for they knew him, as did all men of the Dale.</p>
<p>So he stopped when they met, for the goodman had already stayed his
slow beasts, and the goodwife had risen a little on her cushions to
greet him, yet slowly and but a little, for she was great with child,
and not far from her time.&nbsp; That knew Gold-mane well, and what
was toward, and why the goodman wore his fine clothes, and why the wain
was decked with oak-boughs and the yoke-beasts with their best gilded
bells and copper-adorned harness.&nbsp; For it was a custom with many
of the kindreds that the goodwife should fare to her father&rsquo;s
house to lie in with her first babe, and the day of her coming home
was made a great feast in the house.&nbsp; So then Face-of-god cried
out: &lsquo;Hail to thee, O Warcliff!&nbsp; Shrewd is the wind this
morning, and thou dost well to heed it carefully, this thine orchard,
this thy garden, this thy fair apple-tree!&nbsp; To a good hall thou
wendest, and the Wine of Increase shall be sweet there this even.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then smiled Warcliff all across his face, and the goodwife hung her
head and reddened.&nbsp; Said the goodman: &lsquo;Wilt thou not be with
us, son of the Alderman, as surely thy father shall be?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;though I were fain of
it: my own matters carry me away.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;What matters?&rsquo; said Warcliff; &lsquo;perchance thou
art for the cities this autumn?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Face-of-god answered somewhat stiffly: &lsquo;Nay, I am not;&rsquo;
and then more kindly, and smiling, &lsquo;All roads lead not down to
the Plain, friend.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;What road then farest thou away from us?&rsquo; said the goodwife.</p>
<p>&lsquo;The way of my will,&rsquo; he answered.</p>
<p>&lsquo;And what way is that?&rsquo; said she; &lsquo;take heed, lest
I get a longing to know.&nbsp; For then must thou needs tell me, or
deal with the carle there beside thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay, goodwife,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;let not that
longing take thee; for on that matter I am even as wise as thou.&nbsp;
Now good speed to thee and to the new-comer!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he went close up to the wain, and reached out his hand
to her, and she gave him hers and he kissed it, and so went his ways
smiling kindly on them.&nbsp; Then the carle cried to his kine, and
they bent down their heads to the yoke; and presently, as he walked
on, he heard the rumble of the wain mingling with the tinkling of their
bells, which in a little while became measured and musical, and sounded
above the creaking of the axles and the rattle of the gear and the roll
of the great wheels over the road: and so it grew thinner and thinner
till it all died away behind him.</p>
<p>He was now come to where the river turned away from the sheer rock-wall,
which was not so high there as in most other places, as there had been
in old time long screes from the cliff, which had now grown together,
with the waxing of herbs and the washing down of the earth on to them,
and made a steady slope or low hill going down riverward.&nbsp; Over
this the road lifted itself above the level of the meadows, keeping
a little way from the cliffs, while on the other side its bank was somewhat
broken and steep here and there.&nbsp; As Face-of-god came up to one
of these broken places, the sun rose over the eastern pass, and the
meadows grew golden with its long beams.&nbsp; He lingered, and looked
back under his hand, and as he did so heard the voices and laughter
of women coming up from the slope below him, and presently a young woman
came struggling up the broken bank with hand and knee, and cast herself
down on the roadside turf laughing and panting.&nbsp; She was a long-limbed
light-made woman, dark-faced and black-haired: amidst her laughter she
looked up and saw Gold-mane, who had stopped at once when he saw her;
she held out her hands to him, and said lightly, though her face flushed
withal:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Come hither, thou, and help the others to climb the bank;
for they are beaten in the race, and now must they do after my will;
that was the forfeit.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He went up to her, and took her hands and kissed them, as was the
custom of the Dale, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hail to thee, Long-coat! who be they, and whither away this
morning early?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She looked hard at him, and fondly belike, as she answered slowly:
&lsquo;They be the two maidens of my father&rsquo;s house, whom thou
knowest; and our errand, all three of us, is to Burgstead, the Feast
of the Wine of Increase which shall be drunk this even.&rsquo;</p>
<p>As she spake came another woman half up the bank, to whom went Face-of-god,
and, taking her hands, drew her up while she laughed merrily in his
face: he saluted her as he had Long-coat, and then with a laugh turned
about to wait for the third; who came indeed, but after a little while,
for she had abided, hearing their voices.&nbsp; Her also Gold-mane drew
up, and kissed her hands, and she lay on the grass by Long-coat, but
the second maiden stood up beside the young man.&nbsp; She was white-skinned
and golden-haired, a very fair damsel, whereas the last-comer was but
comely, as were well-nigh all the women of the Dale.</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god, looking on the three: &lsquo;How comes it, maidens,
that ye are but in your kirtles this sharp autumn morning? or where
have ye left your gowns or your cloaks?&rsquo;</p>
<p>For indeed they were clad but in close-fitting blue kirtles of fine
wool, embroidered about the hems with gold and coloured threads.</p>
<p>The last-comer laughed and said: &lsquo;What ails thee, Gold-mane,
to be so careful of us, as if thou wert our mother or our nurse?&nbsp;
Yet if thou must needs know, there hang our gowns on the thorn-bush
down yonder; for we have been running a match and a forfeit; to wit,
that she who was last on the highway should go down again and bring
them up all three; and now that is my day&rsquo;s work: but since thou
art here, Alderman&rsquo;s son, thou shalt go down instead of me and
fetch them up.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But he laughed merrily and outright, and said: &lsquo;That will I
not, for there be but twenty-four hours in the day, and what between
eating and drinking and talking to fair maidens, I have enough to do
in every one of them.&nbsp; Wasteful are ye women, and simple is your
forfeit.&nbsp; Now will I, who am the Alderman&rsquo;s son, give forth
a doom, and will ordain that one of you fetch up the gowns yourselves,
and that Long-coat be the one; for she is the fleetest-footed and ablest
thereto.&nbsp; Will ye take my doom? for later on I shall not be wiser.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said the fair woman, &lsquo;not because thou art
the Alderman&rsquo;s son, but because thou art the fairest man of the
Dale, and mayst bid us poor souls what thou wilt.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Face-of-god reddened at her words, and the speaker and the last-comer
laughed; but Long-coat held her peace: she cast one very sober look
on him, and then ran lightly down the bent; he drew near the edge of
it, and watched her going; for her light-foot slimness was fair to look
on: and he noted that when she was nigh the thorn-bush whereon hung
the bright-broidered gowns, and deemed belike that she was not seen,
she kissed both her hands where he had kissed them erst.</p>
<p>Thereat he drew aback and turned away shyly, scarce looking at the
other twain, who smiled on him with somewhat jeering looks; but he bade
them farewell and departed speedily; and if they spoke, it was but softly,
for he heard their voices no more.</p>
<p>He went on under the sunlight which was now gilding the outstanding
stones of the cliffs, and still his mind was set upon the Bride; and
his meeting with the mother of the yet unborn baby, and with the three
women with their freshness and fairness, did somehow turn his thought
the more upon her, since she was the woman who was to be his amongst
all women, for she was far fairer than any one of them; and through
all manner of life and through all kinds of deeds would he be with her,
and know more of her fairness and kindness than any other could: and
him-seemed he could see pictures of her and of him amidst all these
deeds and ways.</p>
<p>Now he went very swiftly; for he was eager, though he knew not for
what, and he thought but little of the things on which his eyes fell.&nbsp;
He met none else on the road till he was come to Wildlake&rsquo;s Way,
though he saw folk enough down in the meadows; he was soon amidst the
first of the trees, and without making any stay set his face east and
somewhat north, that is, toward the slopes that led to the great mountains.&nbsp;
He said to himself aloud, as he wended the wood: &lsquo;Strange! yestereven
I thought much of the wood, and I set my mind on not going thither,
and this morning I thought nothing of it, and here am I amidst its trees,
and wending towards its innermost.&rsquo;</p>
<p>His way was easy at first, because the wood for a little space was
all of beech, so that there was no undergrowth, and he went lightly
betwixt the tall grey and smooth boles; albeit his heart was nought
so gay as it was in the dale amidst the sunshine.&nbsp; After a while
the beech-wood grew thinner, and at last gave out altogether, and he
came into a space of rough broken ground with nought but a few scrubby
oaks and thorn-bushes growing thereon here and there.&nbsp; The sun
was high in the heavens now, and shone brightly down on the waste, though
there were a few white clouds high up above him.&nbsp; The rabbits scuttled
out of the grass before him; here and there he turned aside from a stone
on which lay coiled an adder sunning itself; now and again both hart
and hind bounded away from before him, or a sounder of wild swine ran
grunting away toward closer covert.&nbsp; But nought did he see but
the common sights and sounds of the woodland; nor did he look for aught
else, for he knew this part of the woodland indifferent well.</p>
<p>He held on over this treeless waste for an hour or more, when the
ground began to be less rugged, and he came upon trees again, but thinly
scattered, oak and ash and hornbeam not right great, with thickets of
holly and blackthorn between them.&nbsp; The set of the ground was still
steadily up to the east and north-east, and he followed it as one who
wendeth an assured way.&nbsp; At last before him seemed to rise a wall
of trees and thicket; but when he drew near to it, lo! an opening in
a certain place, and a little path as if men were wont to thread the
tangle of the wood thereby; though hitherto he had noted no slot of
men, nor any sign of them, since he had plunged into the deep of the
beech-wood.&nbsp; He took the path as one who needs must, and went his
ways as it led.&nbsp; In sooth it was well-nigh blind, but he was a
deft woodsman, and by means of it skirted many a close thicket that
had otherwise stayed him.&nbsp; So on he went, and though the boughs
were close enough overhead, and the sun came through but in flecks,
he judged that it was growing towards noon, and he wotted well that
he was growing aweary.&nbsp; For he had been long afoot, and the more
part of the time on a rough way, or breasting a slope which was at whiles
steep enough.</p>
<p>At last the track led him skirting about an exceeding close thicket
into a small clearing, through which ran a little woodland rill amidst
rushes and dead leaves: there was a low mound near the eastern side
of this wood-lawn, as though there had been once a dwelling of man there,
but no other sign or slot of man was there.</p>
<p>So Face-of-god made stay in that place, casting himself down beside
the rill to rest him and eat and drink somewhat.&nbsp; Whatever thoughts
had been with him through the wood (and they been many) concerning his
House and his name, and his father, and the journey he might make to
the cities of the Westland, and what was to befall him when he was wedded,
and what war or trouble should be on his hands - all this was now mingled
together and confused by this rest amidst his weariness.&nbsp; He laid
down his scrip, and drew his meat from it and ate what he would, and
dipping his gilded beaker into the brook, drank water smacking of the
damp musty savour of the woodland; and then his head sank back on a
little mound in the short turf, and he fell asleep at once.&nbsp; A
long dream he had in short space; and therein were blent his thoughts
of the morning with the deeds of yesterday; and other matters long forgotten
in his waking hours came back to his slumber in unordered confusion:
all which made up for him pictures clear, but of little meaning, save
that, as oft befalls in dreams, whatever he was a-doing he felt himself
belated.</p>
<p>When he awoke, smiling at something strange in his gone-by dream,
he looked up to the heavens, thinking to see signs of the even at hand,
for he seemed to have been dreaming so long.&nbsp; The sky was thinly
overcast by now, but by his wonted woodcraft he knew the whereabouts
of the sun, and that it was scant an hour after noon.&nbsp; He sat there
till he was wholly awake, and then drank once more of the woodland water;
and he said to himself, but out loud, for he was fain of the sound of
a man&rsquo;s voice, though it were but his own:</p>
<p>&lsquo;What is mine errand hither?&nbsp; Whither wend I?&nbsp; What
shall I have done to-morrow that I have hitherto left undone?&nbsp;
Or what manner of man shall I be then other than I am now?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Yet though he said the words he failed to think the thought, or it
left him in a moment of time, and he thought but of the Bride and her
kindness.&nbsp; Yet that abode with him but a moment, and again he saw
himself and those two women on the highway edge, and Long-coat lingering
on the slope below, kissing his kisses on her hands; and he was sorry
that she desired him over-much, for she was a fair woman and a friendly.&nbsp;
But all that also flowed from him at once, and he had no thought in
him but that he also desired something that he lacked: and this was
a burden to him, and he rose up frowning, and said to himself, &lsquo;Am
I become a mere sport of dreams, whether I sleep or wake?&nbsp; I will
go backward - or forward, but will think no more.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he ordered his gear again, and took the path onward and upward
toward the Great Mountains; and the track was even fainter than before
for a while, so that he had to seek his way diligently.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER V.&nbsp; FACE-OF-GOD FALLS IN WITH MENFOLK ON THE MOUNTAIN</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Now he plodded on steadily, and for a long time the forest changed
but little, and of wild things he saw only a few of those that love
the closest covert.&nbsp; The ground still went up and up, though at
whiles were hollows, and steeper bents out of them again, and the half-blind
path or slot still led past the close thickets and fallen trees, and
he made way without let or hindrance.&nbsp; At last once more the wood
began to thin, and the trees themselves to be smaller and gnarled and
ill-grown: therewithal the day was waning, and the sky was quite clear
again as the afternoon grew into a fair autumn evening.</p>
<p>Now the trees failed altogether, and the slope grown steeper was
covered with heather and ling; and looking up, he saw before him quite
near by seeming in the clear even (though indeed they were yet far away)
the snowy peaks flushed with the sinking sun against the frosty dark-grey
eastern sky; and below them the dark rock-mountains, and below these
again, and nigh to him indeed, the fells covered with pine-woods and
looking like a wall to the heaths he trod.</p>
<p>He stayed a little while and turned his head to look at the way whereby
he had come; but that way a swell of the oak-forest hid everything but
the wood itself, making a wall behind him as the pine-wood made a wall
before.&nbsp; There came across him then a sharp memory of the boding
words which Stone-face had spoken last night, and he felt as if he were
now indeed within the trap.&nbsp; But presently he laughed and said:
&lsquo;I am a fool: this comes of being alone in the dark wood and the
dismal waste, after the merry faces of the Dale had swept away my foolish
musings of yesterday and the day before.&nbsp; Lo! here I stand, a man
of the Face, sword and axe by my side; if death come, it can but come
once; and if I fear not death, what shall make me afraid?&nbsp; The
Gods hate me not, and will not hurt me; and they are not ugly, but beauteous.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he strode on again, and soon came to a place where the
ground sank into a shallow valley and the ling gave place to grass for
a while, and there were tall old pines scattered about, and betwixt
them grey rocks; this he passed through, climbing a steep bent out of
it, and the pines were all about him now, though growing wide apart,
till at last he came to where they thickened into a wood, not very close,
wherethrough he went merrily, singing to himself and swinging his spear.&nbsp;
He was soon through this wood, and came on to a wide well-grassed wood-lawn,
hedged by the wood aforesaid on three sides, but sloping up slowly toward
the black wall of the thicker pine-wood on the fourth side, and about
half a furlong overthwart and endlong.&nbsp; The sun had set while he
was in the last wood, but it was still broad daylight on the wood-lawn,
and as he stood there he was ware of a house under the pine-wood on
the other side, built long and low, much like the houses of the Woodland-Carles,
but rougher fashioned and of unhewn trees.&nbsp; He gazed on it, and
said aloud to himself as his wont was:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Marvellous! here is a dwelling of man, scarce a day&rsquo;s
journey from Burgstead; yet have I never heard tell of it: may happen
some of the Woodland-Carles have built it, and are on some errand of
hunting peltries up in the mountains, or maybe are seeking copper and
tin among the rocks.&nbsp; Well, at least let us go see what manner
of men dwell there, and if they are minded for a guest to-night; for
fain were I of a bed beneath a roof, and of a board with strong meat
and drink on it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he set forward, not heeding much that the wood he had passed
through was hard on his left hand; but he had gone but twenty paces
when he saw a red thing at the edge of the wood, and then a glitter,
and a spear came whistling forth, and smote his own spear so hard close
to the steel that it flew out of his hand; then came a great shout,
and a man clad in a scarlet kirtle ran forth on him.&nbsp; Face-of-god
had his axe in his hand in a twinkling, and ran at once to meet his
foe; but the man had the hill on his side as he rushed on with a short-sword
in his hand.&nbsp; Axe and sword clashed together for a moment of time,
and then both the men rolled over on the grass together, and Face-of-god
as he fell deemed that he heard the shrill cry of a woman.&nbsp; Now
Face-of-god found that he was the nethermost, for if he was strong,
yet was his foe stronger; the axe had flown out of his hand also, while
the strange man still kept a hold of his short-sword; and presently,
though he still struggled all he could, he saw the man draw back his
hand to smite with the said sword; and at that nick of time the foeman&rsquo;s
knee was on his breast, his left hand was doubled back behind him, and
his right wrist was gripped hard in the stranger&rsquo;s left hand.&nbsp;
Even therewith his ears, sharpened by the coming death, heard the sound
of footsteps and fluttering raiment drawing near; something dark came
between him and the sky; there was the sound of a great stroke, and
the big man loosened his grip and fell off him to one side.</p>
<p>Face-of-god leapt up and ran to his axe and got hold of it; but turning
round found himself face to face with a tall woman holding in her hand
a stout staff like the limb of a tree.&nbsp; She was calm and smiling,
though forsooth it was she who had stricken the stroke and stayed the
sword from his throat.&nbsp; His hand and axe dropped down to his side
when he saw what it was that faced him, and that the woman was young
and fair; so he spake to her and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;What aileth, maiden? is this man thy foe? doth he oppress
thee? shall I slay him?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She laughed and said: &lsquo;Thou art open-handed in thy proffers:
he might have asked the like concerning thee but a minute ago.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, yea,&rsquo; said Gold-mane, laughing also, &lsquo;but
he asked it not of thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;That is sooth,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;but since thou hast
asked me, I will tell thee that if thou slay him it will be my harm
as well as his; and in my country a man that taketh a gift is not wont
to break the giver&rsquo;s head with it straightway.&nbsp; The man is
my brother, O stranger, and presently, if thou wilt, thou mayst be eating
at the same board with him.&nbsp; Or if thou wilt, thou mayst go thy
ways unhurt into the wood.&nbsp; But I had liefer of the twain that
thou wert in our house to-night; for thou hast a wrong against us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Her voice was sweet and clear, and she spake the last words kindly,
and drew somewhat nigher to Gold-mane.&nbsp; Therewithal the smitten
man sat up, and put his hand to his head, and quoth he:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Angry is my sister! good it is to wear the helm abroad when
she shaketh the nut-trees.&rsquo;</p>
<p><i>&lsquo;</i> Nay,&rsquo; said she, &lsquo;it is thy luck that thou
wert bare-headed, else had I been forced to smite thee on the face.&nbsp;
Thou churl, since when hath it been our wont to thrust knives into a
guest, who is come of great kin, a man of gentle heart and fair face?&nbsp;
Come hither and handsel him self-doom for thy fool&rsquo;s onset!&rsquo;</p>
<p>The man rose to his feet and said: &lsquo;Well, sister, least said,
soonest mended.&nbsp; A clout on the head is worse than a woman&rsquo;s
chiding; but since ye have given me one, ye may forbear the other.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he drew near to them.&nbsp; He was a very big-made man,
most stalwarth, with dark red hair and a thin pointed beard; his nose
was straight and fine, his eyes grey and well-opened, but somewhat fierce
withal.&nbsp; Yet was he in nowise evil-looking; he seemed some thirty
summers old.&nbsp; He was clad in a short scarlet kirtle, a goodly garment,
with a hood of like web pulled off his head on to his shoulders: he
bore a great gold ring on his left arm, and a collar of gold came down
on to his breast from under his hood.</p>
<p>As for the woman, she was clad in a long white linen smock, and over
it a short gown of dark blue woollen, and she had skin shoes on her
feet.</p>
<p>Now the man came up to Face-of-god, and took his hand and said: &lsquo;I
deemed thee a foe, and I may not have over-many foes alive: but it seems
that thou art to be a friend, and that is well and better; so herewith
I handsel thee self-doom in the matter of the onslaught.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god laughed and said: &lsquo;The doom is soon given
forth; against the tumble on the grass I set the clout on the head;
there is nought left over to pay to any man&rsquo;s son.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said the scarlet-clad man: &lsquo;Belike by thine eyes thou art a
true man, and wilt not bewray me.&nbsp; Now is there no foeman here,
but rather maybe a friend both now and in time to come.&rsquo;&nbsp;
Therewith he cast his arms about Face-of-god and kissed him.&nbsp; But
Face-of-god turned about to the woman and said: &lsquo;Is the peace
wholly made?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She shook her head and said soberly: &lsquo;Nay, thou art too fair
for a woman to kiss.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He flushed red, as his wont was when a woman praised him; yet was
his heart full of pleasure and well-liking.&nbsp; But she laid her hand
on his shoulder and said: &lsquo;Now is it for thee to choose betwixt
the wild-wood and the hall, and whether thou wilt be a guest or a wayfarer
this night.&rsquo;</p>
<p>As she touched him there took hold of him a sweetness of pleasure
he had never felt erst, and he answered: &lsquo;I will be thy guest
and not thy stranger.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Come then,&rsquo; she said, and took his hand in hers, so
that he scarce felt the earth under his feet, as they went all three
together toward the house in the gathering dusk, while eastward where
the peaks of the great mountains dipped was a light that told of the
rising of the moon.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER VI.&nbsp; OF FACE-OF-GOD AND THOSE MOUNTAIN-DWELLERS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>A yard or two from the threshold Gold-mane hung back a moment, entangled
in some such misgiving as a man is wont to feel when he is just about
to do some new deed, but is not yet deep in the story; his new friends
noted that, for they smiled each in their own way, and the woman drew
her hand away from his.&nbsp; Face-of-god held out his still as though
to take hers again, and therewithal he changed countenance and said
as though he had stayed but to ask that question:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Tell me thy name, tall man; and thou, fair woman, tell me
thine; for how can we talk together else?&rsquo;</p>
<p>The man laughed outright and said: &lsquo;The young chieftain thinks
that this house also should be his!&nbsp; Nay, young man, I know what
is in thy thought, be not ashamed that thou art wary; and be assured!&nbsp;
We shall hurt thee no more than thou hast been hurt.&nbsp; Now as to
my name; the name that was born with me is gone: the name that was given
me hath been taken from me: now I belike must give myself a name, and
that shall be Wild-wearer; but it may be that thou thyself shalt one
day give me another, and call me Guest.&rsquo;</p>
<p>His sister gazed at him solemnly as he spoke, and Face-of-god beholding
her the while, deemed that her beauty grew and grew till she seemed
as aweful as a Goddess; and into his mind it came that this over-strong
man and over-lovely woman were nought mortal, and they withal dealing
with him as father and mother deal with a wayward child: then for a
moment his heart failed him, and he longed for the peace of Burgdale,
and even the lonely wood.&nbsp; But therewith she turned to him and
let her hand come into his again, and looked kindly on him and said:
&lsquo;And as for me, call me the Friend; the name is good and will
serve for many things.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He looked down from her face and his eyes lighted on her hand, and
when he noted even amid the evening dusk how fair and lovely it was
fashioned, and yet as though it were deft in the crafts that the daughters
of menfolk use, his fear departed, and the pleasure of his longing filled
his heart, and he drew her hand to him to kiss it; but she held it back.&nbsp;
Then he said: &lsquo;It is the custom of the Dale to all women.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So she let him kiss her hand, heeding the kiss nothing, and said
soberly:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Then art thou of Burgdale, and if it were lawful to guess,
I would say that thy name is Face-of-god, of the House of the Face.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Even so it is,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;but in the Dale those
that love me do mostly call me Gold-mane.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is well named,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;and seldom wilt
thou be called otherwise, for thou wilt be well-beloved.&nbsp; But come
in now, Gold-mane, for night is at hand, and here have we meat and lodging
such as an hungry and weary man may take; though we be broken people,
dwellers in the waste.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she led him gently over the threshold into the hall, and
it seemed to him as if she were the fairest and the noblest of all the
Queens of ancient story.</p>
<p>When he was in the house he looked and saw that, rough as it was
without it lacked not fairness within.&nbsp; The floor was of hard-trodden
earth strewn with pine-twigs, and with here and there brown bearskins
laid on it: there was a standing table near the upper end athwart the
hall, and a days beyond that, but no endlong table.&nbsp; Gold-mane
looked to the shut-beds, and saw that they were large and fair, though
there were but a few of them; and at the lower end was a loft for a
sleeping chamber dight very fairly with broidered cloths.&nbsp; The
hangings on the walls, though they left some places bare which were
hung with fresh boughs, were fairer than any he had ever seen, so that
he deemed that they must come from far countries and the City of Cities:
therein were images wrought of warriors and fair women of old time and
their dealings with the Gods and the Giants, and Wondrous wights; and
he deemed that this was the story of some great kindred, and that their
token and the sign of their banner must needs be the Wood-wolf, for
everywhere was it wrought in these pictured webs.&nbsp; Perforce he
looked long and earnestly at these fair things, for the hall was not
dark yet, because the brands on the hearth were flaming their last,
and when Wild-wearer beheld him so gazing, he stood up and looked too
for a moment, and then smote his right hand on the hilt of his sword,
and turned away and strode up and down the hall as one in angry thought.</p>
<p>But the woman, even the Friend, bestirred herself for the service
of the guest, and brought water for his hands and feet, and when she
had washed him, bore him the wine of Welcome and drank to him and bade
him drink; and he all the while was shamefaced; for it was to him as
if one of the Ladies of the Heavenly Burg were doing him service.&nbsp;
Then she went away by a door at the lower end of the hall, and Wild-wearer
came and sat down by Gold-mane, and fell a-talking with him about the
ways of the Dalesmen, and their garths, and the pastures and growths
thereof; and what temper the carles themselves were of; which were good
men, which were ill, which was loved and which scorned; no otherwise
than if he had been the goodman of some neighbouring dale; and Gold-mane
told him whatso he knew, for he saw no harm therein.</p>
<p>After a while the outer door opened, and there came in a woman of
some five-and-twenty winters, trimly and strongly built; short-skirted
she was and clad as a hunter, with a bow in her hand and a quiver at
her back: she unslung a pouch, which she emptied at Wild-wearer&rsquo;s
feet of a leash of hares and two brace of mountain grouse; of Face-of-god
she took but little heed.</p>
<p>Said Wild-wearer: &lsquo;This is good for to-morrow, not for to-day;
the meat is well-nigh on the board.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Gold-mane smiled, for he called to mind his home-coming of yesterday.&nbsp;
But the woman said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;The fault is not mine; she told me of the coming guest but
three hours agone.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Ay?&rsquo; said Wild-wearer, &lsquo;she looked for a guest
then?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, certes,&rsquo; said the woman, &lsquo;else why went I
forth this afternoon, as wearied as I was with yesterday?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Well, well,&rsquo; said Wild-wearer, &lsquo;get to thy due
work or go play; I meddle not with meat! and for thee all jests are
as bitter earnest.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;And with thee, chief,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;it is no otherwise;
surely I am made on thy model.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thy tongue is longer, friend,&rsquo; said he; &lsquo;now tarry
if thou wilt, and if the supper&rsquo;s service craveth thee not.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She turned away with one keen look at Face-of-god, and departed through
the door at the lower end of the hall.</p>
<p>By this time the hall was dusk, for there were no candles there,
and the hearth-fire was but smouldering.&nbsp; Wild-wearer sat silent
and musing now, and Face-of-god spake not, for he was deep in wild and
happy dreams.&nbsp; At last the lower door opened and the fair woman
came into the hall with a torch in either hand, after whom came the
huntress, now clad in a dark blue kirtle, and an old woman yet straight
and hale; and these twain bore in the victuals and the table-gear.&nbsp;
Then the three fell to dighting the board, and when it was all ready,
and Gold-mane and Wild-wearer were set down to it, and with them the
fair woman and the huntress, the old woman threw good store of fresh
brands on the hearth, so that the light shone into every corner; and
even therewith the outer door opened, and four more men entered, whereof
one was old, but big and stalwarth, the other three young: they were
all clad roughly in sheep-brown weed, but had helms upon their heads
and spears in their hands and great swords girt to their sides; and
they seemed doughty men and ready for battle.&nbsp; One of the young
men cast down by the door the carcass of a big-horned mountain sheep,
and then they all trooped off to the out-bower by the lower door, and
came back presently fairly clad and without their weapons.&nbsp; Wild-wearer
nodded to them kindly, and they sat at table paying no more heed to
Face-of-god than to cast him a nod for salutation.</p>
<p>Then said the old woman to them: &lsquo;Well, lads, have ye been
doing or sleeping?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Sleeping, mother,&rsquo; said one of the young men, &lsquo;as
was but due after last night was, and to-morrow shall be.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said the huntress: &lsquo;Hold thy peace, Wood-wise, and let thy
tongue help thy teeth to deal with thy meat; for this is not the talking
hour.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay, Bow-may,&rsquo; said another of the swains, &lsquo;since
here is a new man, now is the time to talk to him.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said the huntress: &lsquo;&rsquo;Tis thine hands that talk best,
Wood-wont; it is not they that shall bring thee to shame.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Spake the third: &lsquo;What have we to do with shame here, far away
from dooms and doomers, and elders, and wardens, and guarded castles?&nbsp;
If the new man listeth to speak, let him speak; or to fight, then let
him; it shall ever be man to man.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then spake the old woman: &lsquo;Son Wood-wicked, hold thy peace,
and forget the steel that ever eggeth thee on to draw.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she set the last matters on the board, while the three
swains sat and eyed Gold-mane somewhat fiercely, now that words had
stirred them, and he had sat there saying nothing, as one who was better
than they, and contemned them; but now spake Wild-wearer:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Whoso hungreth let him eat!&nbsp; Whoso would slumber, let
him to bed.&nbsp; But he who would bicker, it must needs be with me.&nbsp;
Here is a man of the Dale, who hath sought the wood in peace, and hath
found us.&nbsp; His hand is ready and his heart is guileless: if ye
fear him, run away to the wood, and come back when he is gone; but none
shall mock him while I sit by: now, lads, be merry and blithe with the
guest.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then the young men greeted Gold-mane, and the old man said: &lsquo;Art
thou of Burgstead? then wilt thou be of the House of the Face, and thy
name will be Face-of-god; for that man is called the fairest of the
Dale, and there shall be none fairer than thou.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Face-of-god laughed and said: &lsquo;There be but few mirrors in
Burgdale, and I have no mind to journey west to the cities to see what
manner of man I be: that were ill husbandry.&nbsp; But now I have heard
the names of the three swains, tell me thy name, father!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Spake the huntress: &lsquo;This is my father&rsquo;s brother, and
his name is Wood-father; or ye shall call him so: and I am called Bow-may
because I shoot well in the bow: and this old carline is my eme&rsquo;s
wife, and now belike my mother, if I need one.&nbsp; But thou, fair-faced
Dalesman, little dost thou need a mirror in the Dale so long as women
abide there; for their faces shall be instead of mirrors to tell thee
whether thou be fair and lovely.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Thereat they all laughed and fell to their victual, which was abundant,
of wood-venison and mountain-fowl, but of bread was no great plenty;
wine lacked not, and that of the best; and Gold-mane noted that the
cups and the apparel of the horns and mazers were not of gold nor gilded
copper, but of silver; and he marvelled thereat, for in the Dale silver
was rare.</p>
<p>So they ate and drank, and Gold-mane looked ever on the Friend, and
spake much with her, and he deemed her friendly indeed, and she seemed
most pleased when he spoke best, and led him on to do so.&nbsp; Wild-wearer
was but of few words, and those somewhat harsh; yet was he as a man
striving to be courteous and blithe; but of the others Bow-may was the
greatest speaker.</p>
<p>Wild-wearer called healths to the Sun, and the Moon, and the Hosts
of Heaven; to the Gods of the Earth; to the Woodwights; and to the Guest.&nbsp;
Other healths also he called, the meaning of which was dark to Gold-mane;
to wit, the Jaws of the Wolf; the Silver Arm; the Red Hand; the Golden
Bushel; and the Ragged Sword.&nbsp; But when he asked the Friend concerning
these names what they might signify, she shook her head and answered
not.</p>
<p>At last Wild-wearer cried out: &lsquo;Now, lads, the night weareth
and the guest is weary: therefore whoso of you hath in him any minstrelsy,
now let him make it, for later on it shall be over-late.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then arose Wood-wont and went to his shut-bed and groped therein,
and took from out of it a fiddle in its case; and he opened the case
and drew from it a very goodly fiddle, and he stood on the floor amidst
of the hall and Bow-may his cousin with him; and he laid his bow on
the fiddle and woke up song in it, and when it was well awake she fell
a-singing, and he to answering her song, and at the last all they of
the house sang together; and this is the meaning of the words which
they sang:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p><i>She singeth.</i></p>
<p>Now is the rain upon the day,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And every water&rsquo;s
wide;<br />Why busk ye then to wear the way,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
whither will ye ride?</p>
<p><i>He singeth.</i></p>
<p>Our kine are on the eyot still,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The eddies
lap them round;<br />All dykes the wind-worn waters fill,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
waneth grass and ground.</p>
<p><i>She singeth.</i></p>
<p>O ride ye to the river&rsquo;s brim<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In war-weed
fair to see?<br />Or winter waters will ye swim<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In
hauberks to the knee?</p>
<p><i>He singeth.</i></p>
<p>Wild is the day, and dim with rain,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Our sheep
are warded ill;<br />The wood-wolves gather for the plain,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Their
ravening maws to fill.</p>
<p><i>She singeth.</i></p>
<p>Nay, what is this, and what have ye,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A hunter&rsquo;s
band, to bear<br />The Banner of our Battle-glee<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
skulking wolves to scare?</p>
<p><i>He singeth.</i></p>
<p>O women, when we wend our ways<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To deal with
death and dread,<br />The Banner of our Fathers&rsquo; Days<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Must
flap the wind o&rsquo;erhead.</p>
<p><i>She singeth.</i></p>
<p>Ah, for the maidens that ye leave!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Who now
shall save the hay?<br />What grooms shall kiss our lips at eve,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When
June hath mastered May?</p>
<p><i>He singeth.</i></p>
<p>The wheat is won, the seed is sown,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Here toileth
many a maid,<br />And ere the hay knee-deep hath grown<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your
grooms the grass shall wade.</p>
<p><i>They sing all together.</i></p>
<p>Then fair befall the mountain-side<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Whereon
the play shall be!<br />And fair befall the summer-tide<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That
whoso lives shall see.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Face-of-god thought the song goodly, but to the others it was well
known.&nbsp; Then said Wood-father:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O foster-son, thy foster-brother hath sung well for a wood
abider; but we are deeming that his singing shall be but as a starling
to a throstle matched against thy new-come guest.&nbsp; Therefore, Dalesman,
sing us a song of the Dale, and if ye will, let it be of gardens and
pleasant houses of stone, and fair damsels therein, and swains with
them who toil not over-much for a scant livelihood, as do they of the
waste, whose heads may not be seen in the Holy Places.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Gold-mane: &lsquo;Father, it is ill to set the words of a lonely
man afar from his kin against the song that cometh from the heart of
a noble house; yet may I not gainsay thee, but will sing to thee what
I may call to mind, and it is called the Song of the Ford.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he sang in a sweet and clear voice: and this is the meaning
of his words:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>In hay-tide, through the day new-born,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Across
the meads we come;<br />Our hauberks brush the blossomed corn<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A
furlong short of home.</p>
<p>Ere yet the gables we behold<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Forth flasheth
the red sun,<br />And smites our fallow helms and cold<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Though
all the fight be done.</p>
<p>In this last mend of mowing-grass<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sweet doth
the clover smell,<br />Crushed neath our feet red with the pass<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where
hell was blent with hell.</p>
<p>And now the willowy stream is nigh,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Down wend
we to the ford;<br />No shafts across its fishes fly,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Nor
flasheth there a sword.</p>
<p>But lo! what gleameth on the bank<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Across the
water wan,<br />As when our blood the mouse-ear drank<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
red the river ran?</p>
<p>Nay, hasten to the ripple clear,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Look at the
grass beyond!<br />Lo ye the dainty band and dear<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of
maidens fair and fond!</p>
<p>Lo how they needs must take the stream!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
water hides their feet;<br />On fair kind arms the gold doth gleam,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
midst the ford we meet.</p>
<p>Up through the garden two and two,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And on
the flowers we drip;<br />Their wet feet kiss the morning dew<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As
lip lies close to lip.</p>
<p>Here now we sing; here now we stay:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;By these
grey walls we tell<br />The love that lived from out the fray,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
love that fought and fell.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>When he was done they all said that he had sung well, and that the
song was sweet.&nbsp; Yet did Wild-wearer smile somewhat; and Bow-may
said outright: &lsquo;Soft is the song, and hath been made by lads and
minstrels rather than by warriors.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay, kinswoman,&rsquo; said Wood-father, &lsquo;thou art hard
to please; the guest is kind, and hath given us that I asked for, and
I give him all thanks therefor.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Face-of-god smiled, but he heeded little what they said, for as he
sang he had noted that the Friend looked kindly on him; and he thought
he saw that once or twice she put out her hand as if to touch him, but
drew it back again each time.&nbsp; She spake after a little and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Here now hath been a stream of song running betwixt the Mountain
and the Dale even as doth a river; and this is good to come between
our dreams of what hath been and what shall be.&rsquo;&nbsp; Then she
turned to Gold-mane, and said to him scarce loud enough for all to hear:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Herewith I bid thee good-night, O Dalesman; and this other
word I have to thee: heed not what befalleth in the night, but sleep
thy best, for nought shall be to thy scathe.&nbsp; And when thou wakest
in the morning, if we are yet here, it is well; but if we are not, then
abide us no long while, but break thy fast on the victual thou wilt
find upon the board, and so depart and go thy ways home.&nbsp; And yet
thou mayst look to it to see us again before thou diest.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she held out her hand to him, and he took it and kissed
it; and she went to her chamber-aloft at the lower end of the hall.&nbsp;
And when she was gone, once more he had a deeming of her that she was
of the kindred of the Gods.&nbsp; At her departure him-seemed that the
hall grew dull and small and smoky, and the night seemed long to him
and doubtful the coming of the day.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER VII.&nbsp; FACE-OF-GOD TALKETH WITH THE FRIEND ON THE MOUNTAIN</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>So now went all men to bed; and Face-to-god&rsquo;s shut-bed was
over against the outer door and toward the lower end of the hall, and
on the panel about it hung the weapons and shields of men.&nbsp; Fair
was that chamber and roomy, and the man was weary despite his eagerness,
so that he went to sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow; but
within a while (he deemed about two hours after midnight) he was awaked
by the clattering of the weapons against the panel, and the sound of
men&rsquo;s hands taking them down; and when he was fully awake, he
heard withal men going up and down the house as if on errands: but he
called to mind what the Friend had said to him, and he did not so much
as turn himself toward the hall; for he said: &lsquo;Belike these men
are outlaws and Wolves of the Holy Places, yet by seeming they are good
fellows and nought churlish, nor have I to do with taking up the feud
against them.&nbsp; I will abide the morning.&nbsp; Yet meseemeth that
she drew me hither: for what cause?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he fell asleep again, and dreamed no more.&nbsp; But when
he awoke the sun was shining broad upon the hall-floor, and he sat up
and listened, but could hear no sound save the moaning of the wind in
the pine-boughs and the chatter of the starlings about the gables of
the house; and the place seemed so exceeding lonely to him that he was
in a manner feared by that loneliness.</p>
<p>Then he arose and clad himself, and went forth into the hall and
gazed about him, and at first he deemed indeed that there was no one
therein.&nbsp; But at last he looked and beheld the upper gable and
there underneath a most goodly hanging was the glorious shape of a woman
sitting on a bench covered over with a cloth of gold and silver; and
he looked and looked to see if the woman might stir, and if she were
alive, and she turned her head toward him, and lo it was the Friend;
and his heart rose to his mouth for wonder and fear and desire.&nbsp;
For now he doubted whether the other folk were aught save shows and
shadows, and she the Goddess who had fashioned them out of nothing for
his bewilderment, presently to return to nothing.</p>
<p>Yet whatever he might fear or doubt, he went up the hall towards
her till he was quite nigh to her, and there he stood silent, wondering
at her beauty and desiring her kindness.</p>
<p>Grey-eyed she was like her brother; but her hair the colour of red
wheat: her lips full and red, her chin round, her nose fine and straight.&nbsp;
Her hands and all her body fashioned exceeding sweetly and delicately;
yet not as if she were an image of which the like might be found if
the craftsman were but deft enough to make a perfect thing, but in such
a way that there was none like to her for those that had eyes to behold
her as she was; and none could ever be made like to her, even by such
a master-craftsman as could fashion a body without a blemish.</p>
<p>She was clad in a white smock, whose hems were broidered with gold
wire and precious gems of the Mountains, and over that a gown woven
of gold and silver: scarce hath the world such another.&nbsp; On her
head was a fillet of gold and gems, and there were wondrous gold rings
on her arms: her feet lay bare on the dark grey wolf-skin that was stretched
before her.</p>
<p>She smiled kindly upon his solemn and troubled face, and her voice
sounded strangely familiar to him coming from all that loveliness, as
she said: &lsquo;Hail, Face-of-god! here am I left alone, although I
deemed last night that I should be gone with the others.&nbsp; Therefore
am I fain to show myself to thee in fairer array than yesternight; for
though we dwell in the wild-wood, from the solace of folk, yet are we
not of thralls&rsquo; blood.&nbsp; But come now, I bid thee break thy
fast and talk with me a little while; and then shalt thou depart in
peace.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Spake Face-of-god, and his voice trembled as he spake: &lsquo;What
art thou?&nbsp; Last night I deemed at whiles once and again that thou
wert of the Gods; and now that I behold thee thus, and it is broad daylight,
and of those others is no more to be seen than if they had never lived,
I cannot but deem that it is even so, and that thou comest from the
City that shall never perish.&nbsp; Now if thou be a goddess, I have
nought to pray thee, save to slay me speedily if thou hast a mind for
my death.&nbsp; But if thou art a woman - &rsquo;</p>
<p>She broke in: &lsquo;Gold-mane, stay thy prayer and hold thy peace
for this time, lest thou repent when repentance availeth not.&nbsp;
And this I say because I am none of the Gods nor akin to them, save
far off through the generations, as art thou also, and all men of goodly
kindred.&nbsp; Now I bid thee eat thy meat, since &rsquo;tis ill talking
betwixt a full man and a fasting; and I have dight it myself with mine
own hands; for Bow-may and the Wood-mother went away with the rest three
hours before dawn.&nbsp; Come sit and eat as thou hast a hardy heart;
as forsooth thou shouldest do if I were a very goddess.&nbsp; Take heed,
friend, lest I take thee for some damsel of the lower Dale arrayed in
Earl&rsquo;s garments.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She laughed therewith, and leaned toward him and put forth her hand
to him, and he took it and caressed it; and the exceeding beauty of
her body and of the raiment which was as it were a part of her and her
loveliness, made her laughter and her friendly words strange to him,
as if one did not belong to the other; as in a dream it might be.&nbsp;
Nevertheless he did as she bade him, and sat at the board and ate, while
she leaned forward on the arm of her chair and spake to him in friendly
wise.&nbsp; And he wondered as she spake that she knew so much of him
and his: and he kept saying to himself: &lsquo;She drew me hither; wherefore
did she so?&rsquo;</p>
<p>But she said: &lsquo;Gold-mane, how fareth thy father the Alderman?
is he as good a wright as ever?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He told her: Yea, that ever was his hammer on the iron, the copper,
and the gold, and that no wright in the Dale was as deft as he.</p>
<p>Said she: &lsquo;Would he not have had thee seek to the Cities, to
see the ways of the outer world?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said he.</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;Thou wert wise to naysay that offer; thou shalt
have enough to do in the Dale and round about it in twelve months&rsquo;
time.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Art thou foresighted?&rsquo; said he.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Folk have called me so,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;but I wot
not.&nbsp; But thy brother Hall-face, how fareth he?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Well;&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;to my deeming he is the Sword
of our House, and the Warrior of the Dale, if the days were ready for
him.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;And Stone-face, that stark ancient,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;doth
he still love the Folk of the Dale, and hate all other folks?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;I know not that, but I know that
he loveth as, and above all me and my father.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Again she spake: &lsquo;How fareth the Bride, the fair maid to whom
thou art affianced?&rsquo;</p>
<p>As she spake, it was to him as if his heart was stricken cold; but
he put a force upon himself, and neither reddened nor whitened, nor
changed countenance in any way; so he answered:</p>
<p>&lsquo;She was well the eve of yesterday.&rsquo;&nbsp; Then he remembered
what she was, and her beauty and valour, and he constrained himself
to say: &lsquo;Each day she groweth fairer; there is no man&rsquo;s
son and no daughter of woman that does not love her; yea, the very beasts
of field and fold love her.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The Friend looked at him steadily and spake no word, but a red flush
mounted to her cheeks and brow and changed her face; and he marvelled
thereat; for still he misdoubted that she was a Goddess.&nbsp; But it
passed away in a moment, and she smiled and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Guest, thou seemest to wonder that I know concerning thee
and the Dale and thy kindred.&nbsp; But now shalt thou wot that I have
been in the Dale once and again, and my brother oftener still; and that
I have seen thee before yesterday.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;That is marvellous,&rsquo; quoth he, &lsquo;for sure am I
that I have not seen thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yet thou hast seen me,&rsquo; she said; &lsquo;yet not altogether
as I am now;&rsquo; and therewith she smiled on him friendly.</p>
<p>&lsquo;How is this?&rsquo; said he; &lsquo;art thou a skin-changer?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, in a fashion,&rsquo; she said.&nbsp; &lsquo;Hearken!
dost thou perchance remember a day of last summer when there was a market
holden in Burgstead; and there stood in the way over against the House
of the Face a tall old carle who was trucking deer-skins for diverse
gear; and with him was a queen, tall and dark-skinned, somewhat well-liking,
her hair bound up in a white coif so that none of it could be seen;
by the token that she had a large stone of mountain blue set in silver
stuck in the said coif?&rsquo;</p>
<p>As she spoke she set her hand to her bosom and drew something from
it, and held forth her hand to Gold-mane, and lo amidst the palm the
great blue stone set in silver.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Wondrous as a dream is this,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;for
these twain I remember well, and what followed.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;I will tell thee that.&nbsp; There came a man of
the Shepherd-Folk, drunk or foolish, or both, who began to chaffer with
the big carle; but ever on the queen were his eyes set, and presently
he put forth his hand to her to clip her, whereon the big carle hove
up his fist and smote him, so that he fell to earth noseling.&nbsp;
Then ran the folk together to hale off the stranger and help the shepherd,
and it was like that the stranger should be mishandled.&nbsp; Then there
thrust through the press a young man with yellow hair and grey eyes,
who cried out, &ldquo;Fellows, let be!&nbsp; The stranger had the right
of it; this is no matter to make a quarrel or a court case of.&nbsp;
Let the market go on!&nbsp; This man and maid are true folk.&rdquo;&nbsp;
So when the folk heard the young man and his bidding, they forebore
and let the carle and the queen be, and the shepherd went his ways little
hurt.&nbsp; Now then, who was this young man?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Quoth Gold-mane: &lsquo;It was even I, and meseemeth it was no great
deed to do.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;and the big carle was my brother,
and the tall queen, it was myself.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;How then,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;for she was as dark-skinned
as a dwarf, and thou so bright and fair?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;Well, if the woods are good for nothing else, yet
are they good for the growing of herbs, and I know the craft of simpling;
and with one of these herbs had I stained my skin and my brother&rsquo;s
also.&nbsp; And it showed the darker beneath the white coif.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;but why must ye needs fare in
feigned shapes?&nbsp; Ye would have been welcome guests in the Dale
howsoever ye had come.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;I may not tell thee hereof as now,&rsquo; said she.</p>
<p>Said Gold-mane: &lsquo;Yet thou mayst belike tell me wherefore was
that thy brother desired to slay me yesterday, if he knew me, who I
was.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Gold-mane,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;thou art not slain, so
little story need be made of that: for the rest, belike he knew thee
not at that moment.&nbsp; So it falls with us, that we look to see foes
rather than friends in the wild-woods.&nbsp; Many uncouth things are
therein.&nbsp; Moreover, I must tell thee of my brother that whiles
he is as the stalled bull late let loose, and nothing is good to him
save battle and onset; and then is he blind and knows not friend from
foe.&rsquo;&nbsp; Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Thou hast asked of me and
mine; wilt thou not tell me of thee and thine?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;not as now; thou must betake
thee to the way.&nbsp; Whither wert thou wending when thou happenedst
upon us?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;I know not; I was seeking something, but I knew not
what - meseemeth that now I have found it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Art thou for the great mountains seeking gems?&rsquo; she
said.&nbsp; &lsquo;Yet go not thither to-day: for who knoweth what thou
shalt meet there that shall be thy foe?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;Nay, nay; I have nought to do but to abide here as
long as I may, looking upon thee and hearkening to thy voice.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Her eyes were upon his, but yet she did not seem to see him, and
for a while she answered not; and still he wondered that mere words
should come from so fair a thing; for whether she moved foot, or hand,
or knee, or turned this way or that, each time she stirred it was a
caress to his very heart.</p>
<p>He spake again: &lsquo;May I not abide here a while?&nbsp; What scathe
may be in that?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is not so,&rsquo; she said; &lsquo;thou must depart, and
that straightway: lo, there lieth thy spear which the Wood-mother hath
brought in from the waste.&nbsp; Take thy gear to thee and wend thy
ways.&nbsp; Have patience!&nbsp; I will lead thee to the place where
we first met and there give thee farewell.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she arose and he also perforce, and when they came to the
doorway she stepped across the threshold and then turned back and gave
him her hand and so led him forth, the sun flashing back from her golden
raiment.&nbsp; Together they went over the short grey grass of that
hillside till they came to the place where he had arisen from that wrestle
with her brother.&nbsp; There she stayed him and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;This is the place; here must we part.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But his heart failed him and he faltered in his speech as he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;When shall I see thee again?&nbsp; Wilt thou slay me if I
seek to thee hither once more?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hearken,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;autumn is now a-dying into
winter: let winter and its snows go past: nor seek to me hither; for
me thou should&rsquo;st not find, but thy death thou mightest well fall
in with; and I would not that thou shouldest die.&nbsp; When winter
is gone, and spring is on the land, if thou hast not forgotten us thou
shalt meet us again.&nbsp; Yet shalt thou go further than this Woodland
Hall.&nbsp; In Shadowy Vale shalt thou seek to me then, and there will
I talk with thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;And where,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;is Shadowy Vale? for thereof
have I never heard tell.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;The token when it cometh to thee shall show thee
thereof and the way thither.&nbsp; Art thou a babbler, Gold-mane?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;I have won no prize for babbling hitherto.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;If thou listest to babble concerning what hath befallen
thee on the Mountain, so do, and repent it once only, that is, thy life
long.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Why should I say any word thereof?&rsquo; said he.&nbsp; &lsquo;Dost
thou not know the sweetness of such a tale untold?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He spake as one who is somewhat wrathful, and she answered humbly
and kindly:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Well is that.&nbsp; Bide thou the token that shall lead thee
to Shadowy Vale.&nbsp; Farewell now.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She drew her hand from his, and turned and went her ways swiftly
to the house: he could not choose but gaze on her as she went glittering-bright
and fair in that grey place of the mountains, till the dark doorway
swallowed up her beauty.&nbsp; Then he turned away and took the path
through the pine-woods, muttering to himself as he went:</p>
<p>&lsquo;What thing have I done now that hitherto I had not done?&nbsp;
What manner of man am I to-day other than the man I was yesterday?&rsquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER VIII.&nbsp; FACE-OF-GOD COMETH HOME AGAIN TO BURGSTEAD</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Face-of-God went back through the wood by the way he had come, paying
little heed to the things about him.&nbsp; For whatever he thought of
strayed not one whit from the image of the Fair Woman of the Mountain-side.</p>
<p>He went through the wood swiftlier than yesterday, and made no stay
for noon or aught else, nor did he linger on the road when he was come
into the Dale, either to speak to any or to note what they did.&nbsp;
So he came to the House of the Face about dusk, and found no man within
the hall either carle or queen.&nbsp; So he cried out on the folk, and
there came in a damsel of the house, whom he greeted kindly and she
him again.&nbsp; He bade her bring the washing-water, and she did so
and washed his feet and his hands.&nbsp; She was a fair maid enough,
as were most in the Dale, but he heeded her little; and when she was
done he kissed not her cheek for her pains, as his wont was, but let
her go her ways unthanked.&nbsp; But he went to his shut-bed and opened
his chest, and drew fair raiment from it, and did off his wood-gear,
and did on him a goodly scarlet kirtle fairly broidered, and a collar
with gems of price therein, and other braveries.&nbsp; And when he was
so attired he came out into the hall, and there was old Stone-face standing
by the hearth, which was blazing brightly with fresh brands, so that
things were clear to see.</p>
<p>Stone-face noted Gold-mane&rsquo;s gay raiment, for he was not wont
to wear such attire, save on the feasts and high days when he behoved
to.&nbsp; So the old man smiled and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Welcome back from the Wood!&nbsp; But what is it?&nbsp; Hast
thou been wedded there, or who hath made thee Earl and King?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Foster-father, sooth it is that I have been
to the wood, but there have I seen nought of manfolk worse than myself.&nbsp;
Now as to my raiment, needs must I keep it from the moth.&nbsp; And
I am weary withal, and this kirtle is light and easy to me.&nbsp; Moreover,
I look to see the Bride here again, and I would pleasure her with the
sight of gay raiment upon me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said Stone-face, &lsquo;hast thou not seen some
woman in the wood arrayed like the image of a God? and hath she not
bidden thee thus to worship her to-night?&nbsp; For I know that such
wights be in the wood, and that such is their wont.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Gold-mane: &lsquo;I worship nought save the Gods and the Fathers.&nbsp;
Nor saw I in the wood any such as thou sayest.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith Stone-face shook his head; but after a while he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Art thou for the wood to-morrow?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said Gold-mane angrily, knitting his brows.</p>
<p>&lsquo;The morrow of to-morrow,&rsquo; said Stone-face, &lsquo;is
the day when we look to see the Westland merchants: after all, wilt
thou not go hence with them when they wend their ways back before the
first snows fall?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;I have no mind to it, fosterer;
cease egging me on hereto.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Stone-face shook his head again, and looked on him long, and
muttered: &lsquo;To the wood wilt thou go to-morrow or next day; or
some day when doomed is thine undoing.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith entered the service and torches, and presently after came
the Alderman with Hall-face; and Iron-face greeted his son and said
to him: &lsquo;Thou hast not hit the time to do on thy gay raiment,
for the Bride will not be here to-night; she bideth still at the Feast
at the Apple-tree House: or wilt thou be there, son?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;I am over-weary.&nbsp;
And as for my raiment, it is well; it is for thine honour and the honour
of the name.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So to table they went, and Iron-face asked his son of his ways again,
and whether he was quite fixed in his mind not to go down to the Plain
and the Cities: &lsquo;For,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;the morrow of to-morrow
shall the merchants be here, and this were great news for them if the
son of the Alderman should be their faring-fellow back.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But Face-of-god answered without any haste or heat: &lsquo;Nay, father,
it may not be: fear not, thou shalt see that I have a good will to work
and live in the Dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And in good sooth, though he was a young man and loved mirth and
the ways of his own will, he was a stalwarth workman, and few could
mow a match with him in the hay-month and win it; or fell trees as certainly
and swiftly, or drive as straight and clean a furrow through the stiff
land of the lower Dale; and in other matters also was he deft and sturdy.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER IX.&nbsp; THOSE BRETHREN FARE TO THE YEWWOOD WITH THE BRIDE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Next morning Face-of-god dight himself for work, and took his axe;
for his brother Hall-face had bidden him go down with him to the Yew-wood
and cut timber there, since he of all men knew where to go straight
to the sticks that would quarter best for bow-staves; whereas the Alderman
had the right of hewing in that wood.&nbsp; So they went forth, those
brethren, from the House of the Face, but when they were gotten to the
gate, who should be there but the Bride awaiting them, and she with
an ass duly saddled for bearing the yew-sticks.&nbsp; Because Hall-face
had told her that he and belike Gold-mane were going to hew in the wood,
and she thought it good to be of the company, as oft had befallen erst.&nbsp;
When they met she greeted Face-of-god and kissed him as her wont was;
and he looked upon her and saw how fair she was, and how kind and friendly
were her eyes that beheld him, and how her whole face was eager for
him as their lips parted.&nbsp; Then his heart failed him, when he knew
that he no longer desired her as she did him, and he said within himself:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Would that she had been of our nighest kindred!&nbsp; Would
that I had had a sister and that this were she!&rsquo;</p>
<p>So the three went along the highway down the Dale, and Hall-face
and the Bride talked merrily together and laughed, for she was happy,
since she knew that Gold-mane had been to the wood and was back safe
and much as he had been before.&nbsp; So indeed it seemed of him; for
though at first he was moody and of few words, yet presently he cursed
himself for a mar-sport, and so fell into the talk, and enforced himself
to be merry; and soon he was so indeed; for he thought: &lsquo;She drew
me thither: she hath a deed for me to do.&nbsp; I shall do the deed
and have my reward.&nbsp; Soon will the spring-tide be here, and I shall
be a young man yet when it comes.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So came they to the place where he had met the three maidens yesterday;
there they also turned from the highway; and as they went down the bent,
Gold-mane could not but turn his eyes on the beauty of the Bride and
the lovely ways of her body: but presently he remembered all that had
betid, and turned away again as one who is noting what it behoves him
not to note.&nbsp; And he said to himself: &lsquo;Where art thou, Gold-mane?&nbsp;
Whose art thou?&nbsp; Yea, even if that had been but a dream that I
have dreamed, yet would that this fair woman were my sister!&rsquo;</p>
<p>So came they to the Yew-wood, and the brethren fell to work, and
the Bride with them, for she was deft with the axe and strong withal.&nbsp;
But at midday they rested on the green slope without the Yew-wood; and
they ate bread and flesh and onions and apples, and drank red wine of
the Dale.&nbsp; And while they were resting after their meat, the Bride
sang to them, and her song was a lay of time past; and here ye have
somewhat of it:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>&rsquo;Tis over the hill and over the dale<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Men
ride from the city fast and far,<br />If they may have a soothfast tale,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;True
tidings of the host of war.</p>
<p>And first they hap on men-at-arms,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;All clad
in steel from head to foot:<br />Now tell true tale of the new-come
harms,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the gathered hosts of the mountain-root.</p>
<p>Fair sirs, from murder-carles we flee,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Whose
fashion is as the mountain-trolls&rsquo;;<br />No man can tell how many
they be,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the voice of their host as the thunder
rolls.</p>
<p>They were weary men at the ending of day,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But
they spurred nor stayed for longer word.<br />Now ye, O merchants, whither
away?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;What do ye there with the helm and the
sword?</p>
<p>O we must fight for life and gear,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For our
beasts are spent and our wains are stayed,<br />And the host of the
Mountain-men draws near,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That maketh all the
world afraid.</p>
<p>They left the chapmen on the hill,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And through
the eve and through the night<br />They rode to have true tidings still,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
were there on the way when the dawn was bright.</p>
<p>O damsels fair, what do ye then<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To loiter
thus upon the way,<br />And have no fear of the Mountain-men,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
host of the carles that strip and slay?</p>
<p>O riders weary with the road,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Come eat and
drink on the grass hereby!<br />And lay you down in a fair abode<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Till
the midday sun is broad and high;</p>
<p>Then unto you shall we come aback,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And lead
you forth to the Mountain-men,<br />To note their plenty and their lack,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
have true tidings there and then.</p>
<p>&rsquo;Tis over the hill and over the dale<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They
ride from the mountain fast and far;<br />And now have they learned
a soothfast tale,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;True tidings of the host of
war.</p>
<p>It was summer-tide and the Month of Hay,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
men and maids must fare afield;<br />But we saw the place were the bow-staves
lay,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the hall was hung with spear and shield.</p>
<p>When the moon was high we drank in the hall,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
they drank to the guests and were kind and blithe,<br />And they said:
Come back when the chestnuts fall,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the wine-carts
wend across the hythe.</p>
<p>Come oft and o&rsquo;er again, they said;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Wander
your ways; but we abide<br />For all the world in the little stead;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For
wise are we, though the world be wide.</p>
<p>Yea, come in arms if ye will, they said;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
despite your host shall we abide<br />For life or death in the little
stead;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For wise are we, though the world be wide.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>So she made an end and looked at the fairness of the dale spreading
wide before her, and a robin came nigh from out of a thorn-bush and
sung his song also, the sweet herald of coming winter; and the lapwings
wheeled about, black and white, above the meadow by the river, sending
forth their wheedling pipe as they hung above the soft turf.</p>
<p>She felt the brothers near her, and knew their friendliness from
of old, and she was happy; nor had she looked closer at Gold-mane would
she have noted any change in him belike; for the meat and the good wine,
and the fair sunny time, and the Bride&rsquo;s sweet voice, and the
ancient song softened his heart while it fed the desire therein.</p>
<p>So in a while they arose from their rest and did what was left them
of their work, and so went back to Burgstead through the fair afternoon;
by seeming all three in all content.&nbsp; But yet Gold-mane, as from
time to time he looked upon the Bride, kept saying to himself: &lsquo;O
if she had been but my sister! sweet had the kinship been!&rsquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER X.&nbsp; NEW TIDINGS IN THE DALE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>It was three days thereafter that Gold-mane, leading an ass, went
along the highway to fetch home certain fleeces which were needed for
the house from a stead a little west of Wildlake; but he had gone scant
half a mile ere he fell in with a throng of folk going to Burgstead.&nbsp;
They were of the Shepherds; they had weapons with them, and some were
clad in coats of fence.&nbsp; They went along making a great noise,
for they were all talking each to each at the same time, and seemed
very hot and eager about some matter.&nbsp; When they saw Gold-mane
anigh, they stopped, and the throng opened as if to let him into their
midmost; so he mingled with them, and they stood in a ring about him
and an old man more ill-favoured than it was the wont of the Dalesmen
to be.</p>
<p>For he was long, stooping, gaunt and spindle-shanked, his hands big
and crippled with gout: his cheeks were red after an old man&rsquo;s
fashion, covered with a crimson network like a pippin; his lips thin
and not well hiding his few teeth; his nose long like a snipe&rsquo;s
neb.&nbsp; In short, a shame and a laughing-stock to the Folk, and a
man whom the kindreds had in small esteem, and that for good reasons.</p>
<p>Face-of-god knew him at once for a notable close-fist and starve-all
fool of the Shepherds; and his name was now become Penny-thumb the Lean,
whatever it might once have been.</p>
<p>So Face-of-god greeted all men, and they him again; and he said:
&lsquo;What aileth you, neighbours?&nbsp; Your weapons, are bare, but
I see not that they be bloody.&nbsp; What is it, goodman Penny-thumb?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Penny-thumb did but groan for all answer; but a stout carle who stood
by with a broad grin on his face answered and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Face-of-god, evil tidings be abroad; the strong-thieves of
the wood are astir; and some deem that the wood-wights be helping them.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, and what is the deed they have done?&rsquo; said Gold-mane.</p>
<p>Said the carle: &lsquo;Thou knowest Penny-thumb&rsquo;s abode?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea surely,&rsquo; said Face-of-god; &lsquo;fair are the water-meadows
about it; great gain of cheese can be gotten thence.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hast thou been within the house?&rsquo; said the carle.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said Gold-mane.</p>
<p>Then spake Penny-thumb: &lsquo;Within is scant gear: we gather for
others to scatter; we make meat for others&rsquo; mouths.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The carle laughed: &lsquo;Sooth is that,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;that
there is little gear therein now; for the strong-thieves have voided
both hall and bower and byre.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;And when was that?&rsquo; said Face-of-god.</p>
<p>&lsquo;The night before last night,&rsquo; said the carle, &lsquo;the
door was smitten on, and when none answered it was broken down.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; quoth Penny-thumb, &lsquo;a host entered, and
they in arms.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;No host was within,&rsquo; said the carle, &lsquo;nought but
Penny-thumb and his sister and his sister&rsquo;s son, and three carles
that work for him; and one of them, Rusty to wit, was the worst man
of the hill-country.&nbsp; These then the host whereof the goodman telleth
bound, but without doing them any scathe; and they ransacked the house,
and took away much gear; yet left some.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou liest,&rsquo; said Penny-thumb; &lsquo;they took little
and left none.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Thereat all men laughed, for this seemed to them good game, and another
man said: &lsquo;Well, neighbour Penny-thumb, if it was so little, thou
hast done unneighbourly in giving us such a heap of trouble about it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And they laughed again, but the first carle said: &lsquo;True it
is, goodman, that thou wert exceeding eager to raise the hue and cry
after that little when we happed upon thee and thy housemates bound
in your chairs yesterday morning.&nbsp; Well, Alderman&rsquo;s son,
short is the tale to tell: we could not fail to follow the gear, and
the slot led us into the wood, and ill is the going there for us shepherds,
who are used to the bare downs, save Rusty, who was a good woodsman
and lifted the slot for us; so he outwent us all, and ran out of sight
of us, so presently we came upon him dead-slain, with the manslayer&rsquo;s
spear in his breast.&nbsp; What then could we do but turn back again,
for now was the wood blind now Rusty was dead, and we knew not whither
to follow the fray; and the man himself was but little loss: so back
we turned, and told goodman Penny-thumb of all this, for we had left
him alone in his hall lamenting his gear; so we bided to-day&rsquo;s
morn, and have come out now, with our neighbour and the spear, and the
dead corpse of Rusty.&nbsp; Stand aside, neighbours, and let the Alderman&rsquo;s
son see it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>They did so, and there was the corpse of a thin-faced tall wiry man,
somewhat foxy of aspect, lying on a hand-bier covered with black cloth.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, Face-of-god,&rsquo; said the carle, &lsquo;he is not
good to see now he is dead, yet alive was he worser: but, look you,
though the man was no good man, yet was he of our people, and the feud
is with us; so we would see the Alderman, and do him to wit of the tidings,
that he may call the neighbours together to seek a blood-wite for Rusty
and atonement for the ransacking.&nbsp; Or what sayest thou?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Have ye the spear that ye found in Rusty?&rsquo; quoth Gold-mane.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea verily,&rsquo; said the carle.&nbsp; &lsquo;Hither with
it, neighbours; give it to the Alderman&rsquo;s son.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So the spear came into his hand, and he looked at it and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;This is no spear of the smiths&rsquo; work of the Dale, as
my father will tell you.&nbsp; We take but little keep of the forging
of spearheads here, so that they be well-tempered and made so as to
ride well on the shaft; but this head, daintily is it wrought, the blood-trench
as clean and trim as though it were an Earl&rsquo;s sword.&nbsp; See
you withal this inlaying of runes on the steel?&nbsp; It is done with
no tin or copper, but with very silver; and these bands about the shaft
be of silver also.&nbsp; It is a fair weapon, and the owner hath a loss
of it greater than his gain in the slaying of Rusty; and he will have
left it in the wound so that he might be known hereafter, and that he
might be said not to have murdered Rusty but to have slain him.&nbsp;
Or how think ye?&rsquo;</p>
<p>They all said that this seemed like to be; but that if the man who
had slain Rusty were one of the ransackers they might have a blood-wite
of him, if they could find him.&nbsp; Gold-mane said that so it was,
and therewithal he gave the shepherds good-speed and went on his way.</p>
<p>But they came to Burgstead and found the Alderman, and in due time
was a Court held, and a finding uttered, and outlawry given forth for
the manslaying and the ransacking against certain men unknown.&nbsp;
As for the spear, it was laid up in the House of the Face.</p>
<p>But Face-of-god pondered these matters in his mind, for such ransackings
there had been none of in late years; and he said to himself that his
friends of the Mountain must have other folk, of which the Dalesmen
knew nought, whose gear they could lift, or how could they live in that
place.&nbsp; And he marvelled that they should risk drawing the Dalesmen&rsquo;s
wrath upon them; whereas they of the Dale were strong men not easily
daunted, albeit peaceable enough if not stirred to wrath.&nbsp; For
in good sooth he had no doubt concerning that spear, whose it was and
whence it came: for that very weapon had been leaning against the panel
of his shut-bed the night he slept on the Mountain, and all the other
spears that he saw there were more or less of the same fashion, and
adorned with silver.</p>
<p>Albeit all that he knew, and all that he thought of, he kept in his
own heart and said nothing of it.</p>
<p>So wore the autumn into early winter; and the Westland merchants
came in due time, and departed without Face-of-god, though his father
made him that offer one last time.&nbsp; He went to and fro about his
work in the Dale, and seemed to most men&rsquo;s eyes nought changed
from what he had been.&nbsp; But the Bride noted that he saw her less
often than his wont was, and abode with her a lesser space when he met
her; and she could not think what this might mean; nor had she heart
to ask him thereof, though she was sorry and grieved, but rather withdrew
her company from him somewhat; and when she perceived that he noted
it not, and made no question of it, then was she the sorrier.</p>
<p>But the first winter-snow came on with a great storm of wind from
the north-east, so that no man stirred abroad who was not compelled
thereto, and those who went abroad risked life and limb thereby.&nbsp;
Next morning all was calm again, and the snow was deep, but it did not
endure long, for the wind shifted to the southwest and the thaw came,
and three days after, when folk could fare easily again up and down
the Dale, came tidings to Burgstead and the Alderman from the Lower
Dale, how a house called Greentofts had been ransacked there, and none
knew by whom.&nbsp; Now the goodman of Greentofts was little loved of
the neighbours: he was grasping and overbearing, and had often cowed
others out of their due: he was very cross-grained, both at home and
abroad: his wife had fled from his hand, neither did his sons find it
good to abide with him: therewithal he was wealthy of goods, a strong
man and a deft man-at-arms.&nbsp; When his sons and his wife departed
from him, and none other of the Dalesmen cared to abide with him, he
went down into the Plain, and got thence men to be with him for hire,
men who were not well seen to in their own land.&nbsp; These to the
number of twelve abode with him, and did his bidding whenso it pleased
them.&nbsp; Two more had he had who had been slain by good men of the
Dale for their masterful ways; and no blood-wite had been paid for them,
because of their ill-doings, though they had not been made outlaws.&nbsp;
This man of Greentofts was called Harts-bane after his father, who was
a great hunter.</p>
<p>Now the full tidings of the ransacking were these: The storm began
two hours before sunset, and an hour thereafter, when it was quite dark,
for without none could see because the wind was at its height and the
drift of the snow was hard and full, the hall-door flew open; and at
first men thought it had been the wind, until they saw in the dimness
(for all lights but the fire on the hearth had been quenched) certain
things tumbling in which at first they deemed were wolves; but when
they took swords and staves against them, lo they were met by swords
and axes, and they saw that the seeming wolves were men with wolf-skins
drawn over them.&nbsp; So the new-comers cowed them that they threw
down their weapons, and were bound in their places; but when they were
bound, and had had time to note who the ransackers were, they saw that
there were but six of them all told, who had cowed and bound Harts-bane
and his twelve masterful men; and this they deemed a great shaming to
them, as might well be.</p>
<p>So then the stead was ransacked, and those wolves took away what
they would, and went their ways through the fierce storm, and none could
tell whether they had lived or died in it; but at least neither the
men nor their prey were seen again; nor did they leave any slot, for
next morning the snow lay deep over everything.</p>
<p>No doubt had Gold-mane but that these ransackers were his friends
of the Mountain; but he held his peace, abiding till the winter should
be over.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XI.&nbsp; MEN MAKE OATH AT BURGSTEAD ON THE HOLY BOAR</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>A week after the ransacking at Greentofts the snow and the winter
came on in earnest, and all the Dale lay in snow, and men went on skids
when they fared up and down the Dale or on the Mountain.</p>
<p>All was now tidingless till Yule over, and in Burgstead was there
feasting and joyance enough; and especially at the House of the Face
was high-tide holden, and the Alderman and his sons and Stone-face and
all the kindred and all their men sat in glorious attire within the
hall; and many others were there of the best of the kindreds of Burgstead
who had been bidden.</p>
<p>Face-of-god sat between his father and Stone-face; and he looked
up and down the tables and the hall and saw not the Bride, and his heart
misgave him because she was not there, and he wondered what had befallen
and if she were sick of sorrow.</p>
<p>But Iron-face beheld him how he gazed about, and he laughed; for
he was exceeding merry that night and fared as a young man.&nbsp; Then
he said to his son: &lsquo;Whom seekest thou, son? is there someone
lacking?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Face-of-god reddened as one who lies unused to it, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, kinsman, so it is that I was seeking the Bride my kinswoman.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said Iron-face, &lsquo;call her not kinswoman:
therein is ill-luck, lest it seem that thou art to wed one too nigh
thine own blood.&nbsp; Call her the Bride only: to thee and to me the
name is good.&nbsp; Well, son, desirest thou sorely to see her?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, yea, surely,&rsquo; said Face-of-god; but his eyes went
all about the hall still, as though his mind strayed from the place
and that home of his.</p>
<p>Said Iron-face: &lsquo;Have patience, son, thou shalt see her anon,
and that in such guise as shall please thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewithal came the maidens with the ewers of wine, and they filled
all horns and beakers, and then stood by the endlong tables on either
side laughing and talking with the carles and the older women; and the
hall was a fair sight to see, for the many candles burned bright and
the fire on the hearth flared up, and those maids were clad in fair
raiment, and there was none of them but was comely, and some were fair,
and some very fair: the walls also were hung with goodly pictured cloths,
and the image of the God of the Face looked down smiling terribly from
the gable-end above the high-seat.</p>
<p>Thus as they sat they heard the sound of a horn winded close outside
the hall door, and the door was smitten on.&nbsp; Then rose Iron-face
smiling merrily, and cried out:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Enter ye, whether ye be friends or foes: for if ye be foemen,
yet shall ye keep the holy peace of Yule, unless ye be the foes of all
kindreds and nations, and then shall we slay you.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Thereat some who knew what was toward laughed; but Gold-mane, who
had been away from Burgstead some days past, marvelled and knit his
brows, and let his right hand fall on his sword-hilt.&nbsp; For this
folk, who were of merry ways, were wont to deal diversely with the Yule-tide
customs in the manner of shows; and he knew not that this was one of
them.</p>
<p>Now was the Outer door thrown open, and there entered seven men,
whereof two were all-armed in bright war-gear, and two bore slug-horns,
and two bore up somewhat on a dish covered over with a piece of rich
cloth, and the seventh stood before them all wrapped up in a dark fur
mantle.</p>
<p>Thus they stood a moment; and when he saw their number, back to Gold-mane&rsquo;s
heart came the thought of those folk on the Mountain: for indeed he
was somewhat out of himself for doubt and longing, else would he have
deemed that all this was but a Yule-tide play.</p>
<p>Now the men with the slug-horns set them to their mouths and blew
a long blast; while the first of the new-comers set hand to the clasps
of the fur cloak and let it fall to the ground, and lo! a woman exceeding
beauteous, clad in glistering raiment of gold and fine web; her hair
wreathed with bay, and in her hand a naked sword with goodly-wrought
golden hilt and polished blue-gleaming blade.</p>
<p>Face-of-god started up in his sear, and stared like a man new-wakened
from a strange dream: because for one moment he deemed verily that it
was the Woman of the Mountain arrayed as he had last seen her, and he
cried aloud &lsquo;The Friend, the Friend!&rsquo;</p>
<p>His father brake out into loud laughter thereat, and clapped his
son on the shoulder and said: &lsquo;Yea, yea, lad, thou mayst well
say the Friend; for this is thine old playmate whom thou hast been looking
round the hall for, arrayed this eve in such fashion as is meet for
her goodliness and her worthiness.&nbsp; Yea, this is the Friend indeed!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then waxed Face-of-god as red as blood for shame, and he sat him
down in his place again: for now he wotted what was toward, and saw
that this fair woman was the Bride.</p>
<p>But Stone-face from the other side looked keenly on him.</p>
<p>Then blew the horns again, and the Bride stepped daintily up the
hall, and the sweet odour of her raiment went from her about the fire-warmed
dwelling, and her beauty moved all hearts with love.&nbsp; So stood
she at the high-table; and those two who bore the burden set it down
thereon and drew off the covering, and lo! there was the Holy Boar of
Yule on which men were wont to make oath of deeds that they would do
in the coming year, according to the custom of their forefathers.&nbsp;
Then the Bride laid the goodly sword beside the dish, and then went
round the table and sat down betwixt Face-of-god and Stone-face, and
turned kindly to Gold-mane, and was glad; for now was his fair face
as its wont was to be.&nbsp; He in turn smiled upon her, for she was
fair and kind and his fellow for many a day.</p>
<p>Now the men-at-arms stood each side the Boar, and out from them on
each side stood the two hornsmen: then these blew up again, whereon
the Alderman stood up and cried:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Ye sons of the brave who have any deed that ye may be desirous
of doing, come up, come lay your hand on the sword, and the point of
the sword to the Holy Beast, and swear the oath that lieth on your hearts.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he sat down, and there strode a man up the hall, strong-built
and sturdy, but short of stature; black-haired, red-bearded, and ruddy-faced:
and he stood on the da&iuml;s, and took up the sword and laid its point
on the Boar, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I am Bristler, son of Brightling, a man of the Shepherds.&nbsp;
Here by the Holy Boar I swear to follow up the ransackers of Penny-thumb
and the slayers of Rusty.&nbsp; And I take this feud upon me, although
they be no good men, because I am of the kin and it falleth to me, since
others forbear; and when the Court was hallowed hereon I was away out
of the Dale and the Downs.&nbsp; So help me the Warrior, and the God
of the Earth.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then the Alderman nodded his head to him kindly, and reached him
out a cup of wine, and as he drank there went up a rumour of praise
from the hall; and men said that his oath was manly and that he was
like to keep it; for he was a good man-at-arms and a stout heart.</p>
<p>Then came up three men of the Shepherds and two of the Dale and swore
to help Bristler in his feud, and men thought it well sworn.</p>
<p>After that came a braggart, a man very gay of his raiment, and swore
with many words that if he lived the year through he would be a captain
over the men of the Plain, and would come back again with many gifts
for his friends in the Dale.&nbsp; This men deemed foolishly sworn,
for they knew the man; so they jeered at him and laughed as he went
back to his place ashamed.</p>
<p>Then swore three others oaths not hard to be kept, and men laughed
and were merry.</p>
<p>At last uprose the Alderman, and said: &lsquo;Kinsmen, and good fellows,
good days and peaceable are in the Dale as now; and of such days little
is the story, and little it availeth to swear a deed of derring-do:
yet three things I swear by this Beast; and first to gainsay no man&rsquo;s
asking if I may perform it; and next to set right above law and mercy
above custom; and lastly, if the days change and war cometh to us or
we go to meet it, I will be no backwarder in the onset than three fathoms
behind the foremost.&nbsp; So help me the Warrior, and the God of the
Face and the Holy Earth!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he sat down, and all men shouted for joy of him, and said
that it was most like that he would keep his oath.</p>
<p>Last of all uprose Face-of-god and took up the sword and looked at
it; and so bright was the blade that he saw in it the image of the golden
braveries which the Bride bore, and even some broken image of her face.&nbsp;
Then he handled the hilt and laid the point on the Boar, and cried:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hereby I swear to wed the fairest woman of the Earth before
the year is worn to an end; and that whether the Dalesmen gainsay me
or the men beyond the Dale.&nbsp; So help me the Warrior, and the God
of the Face and the Holy Earth!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he sat down; and once more men shouted for the love of
him and of the Bride, and they said he had sworn well and like a chieftain.</p>
<p>But the Bride noted him that neither were his eyes nor his voice
like to their wont as he swore, for she knew him well; and thereat was
she ill at ease, for now whatever was new in him was to her a threat
of evil to come.</p>
<p>Stone-face also noted him, and he knew the young man better than
all others save the Bride, and he saw withal that she was ill-pleased,
and he said to himself: &lsquo;I will speak to my fosterling to-morrow
if I may find him alone.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So came the swearing to an end, and they fell to on their meat and
feasted on the Boar of Atonement after they had duly given the Gods
their due share, and the wine went about the hall and men were merry
till they drank the parting cup and fared to rest in the shut-beds,
and whereso else they might in the Hall and the House, for there were
many men there.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XII.&nbsp; STONE-FACE TELLETH CONCERNING THE WOOD-WIGHTS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Early on the morrow Gold-mane arose and clad himself and went out-a-doors
and over the trodden snow on to the bridge over the Weltering Water,
and there betook himself into one of the coins of safety built over
the up-stream piles; there he leaned against the wall and turned his
face to the Thorp, and fell to pondering on his case.&nbsp; And first
he thought about his oath, and how that he had sworn to wed the Mountain
Woman, although his kindred and her kindred should gainsay him, yea
and herself also.&nbsp; Great seemed that oath to him, yet at that moment
he wished he had made it greater, and made all the kindred, yea and
the Bride herself, sure of the meaning of the words of it: and he deemed
himself a dastard that he had not done so.&nbsp; Then he looked round
him and beheld the winter, and he fell into mere longing that the spring
were come and the token from the Mountain.&nbsp; Things seemed too hard
for him to deal with, and he between a mighty folk and two wayward women;
and he went nigh to wish that he had taken his father&rsquo;s offer
and gone down to the Cities; and even had he met his bane: well were
that!&nbsp; And, as young folk will, he set to work making a picture
of his deeds there, had he been there.&nbsp; He showed himself the stricken
fight in the plain, and the press, and the struggle, and the breaking
of the serried band, and himself amidst the ring of foemen doing most
valiantly, and falling there at last, his shield o&rsquo;er-heavy with
the weight of foemen&rsquo;s spears for a man to uphold it.&nbsp; Then
the victory of his folk and the lamentation and praise over the slain
man of the Mountain Dales, and the burial of the valiant warrior, the
praising weeping folk meeting him at the City-gate, laid stark and cold
in his arms on the gold-hung garlanded bier.</p>
<p>There ended his dream, and he laughed aloud and said: &lsquo;I am
a fool!&nbsp; All this were good and sweet if I should see it myself;
and forsooth that is how I am thinking of it, as if I still alive should
see myself dead and famous!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he turned a little and looked at the houses of the Thorp lying
dark about the snowy ways under the starlit heavens of the winter morning:
dark they were indeed and grey, save where here and there the half-burned
Yule-fire reddened the windows of a hall, or where, as in one place,
the candle of some early waker shone white in a chamber window.&nbsp;
There was scarce a man astir, he deemed, and no sound reached him save
the crowing of the cocks muffled by their houses, and a faint sound
of beasts in the byres.</p>
<p>Thus he stood a while, his thoughts wandering now, till presently
he heard footsteps coming his way down the street and turned toward
them, and lo it was the old man Stone-face.&nbsp; He had seen Gold-mane
go out, and had risen and followed him that he might talk with him apart.&nbsp;
Gold-mane greeted him kindly, though, sooth to say, he was but half
content to see him; since he doubted, what was verily the case, that
his foster-father would give him many words, counselling him to refrain
from going to the wood, and this was loathsome to him; but he spake
and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Meseems, father, that the eastern sky is brightening toward
dawn.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; quoth Stone-face.</p>
<p>&lsquo;It will be light in an hour,&rsquo; said Face-of-god.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Even so,&rsquo; said Stone-face.</p>
<p>&lsquo;And a fair day for the morrow of Yule,&rsquo; said the swain.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Stone-face, &lsquo;and what wilt thou do
with the fair day?&nbsp; Wilt thou to the wood?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Maybe, father,&rsquo; said Gold-mane; &lsquo;Hall-face and
some of the swains are talking of elks up the fells which may be trapped
in the drifts, and if they go a-hunting them, I may go in their company.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Ah, son,&rsquo; quoth Stone-face, &lsquo;thou wilt look to
see other kind of beasts than elks.&nbsp; Things may ye fall in with
there who may not be impounded in the snow like to elks, but can go
light-foot on the top of the soft drift from one place to another.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Gold-mane: &lsquo;Father, fear me not; I shall either refrain
me from the wood, or if I go, I shall go to hunt the wood-deer with
other hunters.&nbsp; But since thou hast come to me, tell me more about
the wood, for thy tales thereof are fair.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Stone-face, &lsquo;fair tales of foul things,
as oft it befalleth in the world.&nbsp; Hearken now! if thou deemest
that what thou seekest shall come readier to thine hand because of the
winter and the snow, thou errest.&nbsp; For the wights that waylay the
bodies and souls of the mighty in the wild-wood heed such matters nothing;
yea and at Yule-tide are they most abroad, and most armed for the fray.&nbsp;
Even such an one have I seen time agone, when the snow was deep and
the wind was rough; and it was in the likeness of a woman clad in such
raiment as the Bride bore last night, and she trod the snow light-foot
in thin raiment where it would scarce bear the skids of a deft snow-runner.&nbsp;
Even so she stood before me; the icy wind blew her raiment round about
her, and drifted the hair from her garlanded head toward me, and she
as fair and fresh as in the midsummer days.&nbsp; Up the fell she fared,
sweetest of all things to look on, and beckoned on me to follow; on
me, the Warrior, the Stout-heart; and I followed, and between us grief
was born; but I it was that fostered that child and not she.&nbsp; Always
when she would be, was she merry and lovely; and even so is she now,
for she is of those that be long-lived.&nbsp; And I wot that thou hast
seen even such an one!&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Tell me more of thy tales, foster-father,&rsquo; said Gold-mane,
&lsquo;and fear not for me!&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Ah, son,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;mayst thou have no such tales
to tell to those that shall be young when thou art old.&nbsp; Yet hearken!&nbsp;
We sat in the hall together and there was no third; and methought that
the birds sang and the flowers bloomed, and sweet was their savour,
though it was midwinter.&nbsp; A rose-wreath was on her head; grapes
were on the board, and fair unwrinkled summer apples on the day that
we feasted together.&nbsp; When was the feast? sayst thou.&nbsp; Long
ago.&nbsp; What was the hall, thou sayest, wherein ye feasted?&nbsp;
I know not if it were on the earth or under it, or if we rode the clouds
that even.&nbsp; But on the morrow what was there but the stark wood
and the drift of the snow, and the iron wind howling through the branches,
and a lonely man, a wanderer rising from the ground.&nbsp; A wanderer
through the wood and up the fell, and up the high mountain, and up and
up to the edges of the ice-river and the green caves of the ice-hills.&nbsp;
A wanderer in spring, in summer, autumn and winter, with an empty heart
and a burning never-satisfied desire; who hath seen in the uncouth places
many an evil unmanly shape, many a foul hag and changing ugly semblance;
who hath suffered hunger and thirst and wounding and fever, and hath
seen many things, but hath never again seen that fair woman, or that
lovely feast-hall.</p>
<p>&lsquo;All praise and honour to the House of the Face, and the bounteous
valiant men thereof! and the like praise and honour to the fair women
whom they wed of the valiant and goodly House of the Steer!&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Even so say I,&rsquo; quoth Gold-mane calmly; &lsquo;but now
wend we aback to the House, for it is morning indeed, and folk will
be stirring there.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So they turned from the bridge together; and Stone-face was kind
and fatherly, and was telling his foster-son many wise things concerning
the life of a chieftain, and the giving-out of dooms and the gathering
for battle; to all which talk Face-of-god seemed to hearken gladly,
but indeed hearkened not at all; for verily his eyes were beholding
that snowy waste, and the fair woman upon it; even such an one as Stone-face
had told of.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XIII.&nbsp; THEY FARE TO THE HUNTING OF THE ELK</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>When they came into the Hall, the hearth-fire had been quickened,
and the sleepers on the floor had been wakened, and all folk were astir.&nbsp;
So the old man sat down by the hearth while Gold-mane busied himself
in fetching wood and water, and in sweeping out the Hall, and other
such works of the early morning.&nbsp; In a little while Hall-face and
the other young men and warriors were afoot duly clad, and the Alderman
came from his chamber and greeted all men kindly.&nbsp; Soon meat was
set upon the boards, and men broke their fast; and day dawned while
they were about it, and ere it was all done the sun rose clear and golden,
so that all men knew that the day would be fair, for the frost seemed
hard and enduring.</p>
<p>Then the eager young men and the hunters, and those who knew the
mountain best drew together about the hearth, and fell to talking of
the hunting of the elk; and there were three there who knew both the
woods and also the fells right up to the ice-rivers better than any
other; and these said that they who were fain of the hunting of the
elk would have no likelier time than that day for a year to come.&nbsp;
Short was the rede betwixt them, for they said they would go to the
work at once and make the most of the short winter daylight.&nbsp; So
they went each to his place, and some outside that House to their fathers&rsquo;
houses to fetch each man his gear.&nbsp; Face-of-god for his part went
to his shut-bed, and stood by his chest, and opened it, and drew out
of it a fine hauberk of ring-mail which his father had made for him:
for though Face-of-god was a deft wright, he was not by a long way so
deft as his father, who was the deftest of all men of that time and
country; so that the alien merchants would give him what he would for
his hauberks and helms, whenso he would chaffer with them, which was
but seldom.&nbsp; So Face-of-god did on this hauberk over his kirtle,
and over it he cast his foul-weather weed, so that none might see it:
he girt a strong war-sword to his side, cast his quiver over his shoulder,
and took his bow in his hand, although he had little lust to shoot elks
that day, even as Stone-face had said; therewithal he took his skids,
and went forth of the hall to the gate of the Burg; whereto gathered
the whole company of twenty-three, and Gold-mane the twenty-fourth.&nbsp;
And each man there had his skids and his bow and quiver, and whatso
other weapon, as short-sword, or wood-knife, or axe, seemed good to
him.</p>
<p>So they went out-a-gates, and clomb the stairway in the cliff which
led to the ancient watch-tower: for it was on the lower slopes of the
fells which lay near to the Weltering Water that they looked to find
the elks, and this was the nighest road thereto.&nbsp; When they had
gotten to the top they lost no time, but went their ways nearly due
east, making way easily where there were but scattered trees close to
the lip of the sheer cliffs.</p>
<p>They went merrily on their skids over the close-lying snow, and were
soon up on the great shoulders of the fells that went up from the bank
of the Weltering Water: at noon they came into a little dale wherein
were a few trees, and there they abided to eat their meat, and were
very merry, making for themselves tables and benches of the drifted
snow, and piling it up to windward as a defence against the wind, which
had now arisen, little but bitter from the south-east; so that some,
and they the wisest, began to look for foul weather: wherefore they
tarried the shorter while in the said dale or hollow.</p>
<p>But they were scarcely on their way again before the aforesaid south-east
wind began to grow bigger, and at last blew a gale, and brought up with
it a drift of fine snow, through which they yet made their way, but
slowly, till the drift grew so thick that they could not see each other
five paces apart.</p>
<p>Then perforce they made stay, and gathered together under a bent
which by good luck they happened upon, where they were sheltered from
the worst of the drift.&nbsp; There they abode, till in less than an
hour&rsquo;s space the drift abated and the wind fell, and in a little
while after it was quite clear, with the sun shining brightly and the
young waxing moon white and high up in the heavens; and the frost was
harder than ever.</p>
<p>This seemed good to them; but now that they could see each other&rsquo;s
faces they fell to telling over their company, and there was none missing
save Face-of-god.&nbsp; They were somewhat dismayed thereat, but knew
not what to do, and they deemed he might not be far off, either a little
behind or a little ahead; and Hall-face said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;There is no need to make this to-do about my brother; he can
take good care of himself; neither does a warrior of the Face die because
of a little cold and frost and snow-drift.&nbsp; Withal Gold-mane is
a wilful man, and of late days hath been wilful beyond his wont; let
us now find the elks.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So they went on their ways hoping to fall in with him again.&nbsp;
No long story need be made of their hunting, for not very far from where
they had taken shelter they came upon the elks, many of them, impounded
in the drifts, pretty much where the deft hunters looked to find them.&nbsp;
There then was battle between the elks and the men, till the beasts
were all slain and only one man hurt: then they made them sleighs from
wood which they found in the hollows thereby, and they laid the carcasses
thereon, and so turned their faces homeward, dragging their prey with
them.&nbsp; But they met not Face-of-god either there or on the way
home; and Hall-face said: &lsquo;Maybe Gold-mane will lie on the fell
to-night; and I would I were with him; for adventures oft befall such
folk when they abide in the wilds.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Now it was late at night by then they reached Burgstead, so laden
as they were with the dead beasts; but they heeded the night little,
for the moon was well-nigh as bright as day for them.&nbsp; But when
they came to the gate of the Thorp, there were assembled the goodmen
and swains to meet them with torches and wine in their honour.&nbsp;
There also was Gold-mane come back before them, yea for these two hours;
and he stood clad in his holiday raiment and smiled on them.</p>
<p>Then was there some jeering at him that he was come back empty-handed
from the hunting, and that he was not able to abide the wind and the
drift; but he laughed thereat, for all this was but game and play, since
men knew him for a keen hunter and a stout woodsman; and they had deemed
it a heavy loss of him if he had been cast away, as some feared he had
been: and his brother Hall-face embraced him and kissed him, and said
to him: &lsquo;Now the next time that thou farest to the wood will I
be with thee foot to foot, and never leave thee, and then meseemeth
I shall wot of the tale that hath befallen thee, and belike it shall
be no sorry one.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Face-of-god laughed and answered but little, and they all betook
them to the House of the Face and held high feast therein, for as late
as the night was, in honour of this Hunting of the Elk.</p>
<p>No man cared to question Face-of-god closely as to how or where he
had strayed from the hunt; for he had told his own tale at once as soon
as he came home, to wit, that his right-foot skid-strap had broken,
and even while he stopped to mend it came on that drift and weather;
and that he could not move from that place without losing his way, and
that when it had cleared he knew not whither they had gone because the
snow had covered their slot.&nbsp; So he deemed it not unlike that they
had gone back, and that he might come up with one or two on the way,
and that in any case he wotted well that they could look after themselves;
so he turned back, not going very swiftly.&nbsp; All this seemed like
enough, and a little matter except to jest about, so no man made any
question concerning it: only old Stone-face said to himself:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now were I fain to have a true tale out of him, but it is
little likely that anything shall come of my much questioning; and it
is ill forcing a young man to tell lies.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So he held his peace, and the feast went on merrily and blithely.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XIV.&nbsp; CONCERNING FACE-OF-GOD AND THE MOUNTAIN</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>But it must be told of Gold-mane that what had befallen him was in
this wise.&nbsp; His skid-strap brake in good sooth, and he stayed to
mend it; but when he had done what was needful, he looked up and saw
no man nigh, what for the drift, and that they had gone on somewhat;
so he rose to his feet, and without more delay, instead of keeping on
toward the elk-ground and the way his face had been set, he turned himself
north-and-by-east, and went his ways swiftly towards that a&iacute;rt,
because he deemed that it might lead him to the Mountain-hall where
he had guested.&nbsp; He abode not for the storm to clear, but swept
off through the thick of it; and indeed the wind was somewhat at his
back, so that he went the swiftlier.&nbsp; But when the drift was gotten
to its very worst, he sheltered himself for a little in a hollow behind
a thorn-bush he stumbled upon.&nbsp; As soon as it began to abate he
went on again, and at last when it was quite clear, and the sun shone
out, he found himself on a long slope of the fells covered deep with
smooth white snow, and at the higher end a great crag rising bare fifty
feet above the snow, and more rocks, but none so great, and broken ground
as he judged (the snow being deep) about it on the hither side; and
on the further, three great pine-trees all bent down and mingled together
by their load of snow.</p>
<p>Thitherward he made, as a man might, seeing nothing else to note
before him; but he had not made many strides when forth from behind
the crag by the pine-trees came a man; and at first Face-of-god thought
it might be one of his hunting-fellows gone astray, and he hailed him
in a loud voice, but as he looked he saw the sun flash back from a bright
helm on the new-comer&rsquo;s head; albeit he kept on his way till there
was but a space of two hundred yards between them; when lo! the helm-bearer
notched a shaft to his bent bow and loosed at Face-of-god, and the arrow
came whistling and passed six inches by his right ear.&nbsp; Then Face-of-god
stopped perplexed with his case; for he was on the deep snow in his
skids, with his bow unbent, and he knew not how to bend it speedily.&nbsp;
He was loth to turn his back and flee, and indeed he scarce deemed that
it would help him.&nbsp; Meanwhile of his tarrying the archer loosed
again at him, and this time the shaft flew close to his left ear.&nbsp;
Then Face-of-god thought to cast himself down into the snow, but he
was ashamed; till there came a third shaft which flew over his head
amidmost and close to it.&nbsp; &lsquo;Good shooting on the Mountain!&rsquo;
muttered he; &lsquo;the next shaft will be amidst my breast, and who
knows whether the Alderman&rsquo;s handiwork will keep it out.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So he cried aloud: &lsquo;Thou shootest well, brother; but art thou
a foe?&nbsp; If thou art, I have a sword by my side, and so hast thou;
come hither to me, and let us fight it out friendly if we must needs
fight.&rsquo;</p>
<p>A laugh came down the wind to him clear but somewhat shrill, and
the archer came swiftly towards him on his skids with no weapon in his
hand save his bow; so that Face-of-god did not draw his sword, but stood
wondering.</p>
<p>As they drew nearer he beheld the face of the new-comer, and deemed
that he had seen it before; and soon, for all that it was hooded close
by the ill-weather raiment, he perceived it to be the face of Bow-may,
ruddy and smiling.</p>
<p>She laughed out loud again, as she stopped herself within three feet
of him, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, friend Yellow-hair, we heard of the elks and looked to
see thee hereabouts, and I knew thee at once when I came out from behind
the crag and saw thee stand bewildered.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Gold-mane: &lsquo;Hail to thee, Bow-may! and glad am I to see
thee.&nbsp; But thou liest in saying that thou knewest me; else why
didst thou shoot those three shafts at me?&nbsp; Surely thou art not
so quick as that with all thy friends: these be sharp greetings of you
Mountain-folk.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou lad with the sweet mouth,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;I like
to see thee and hear thee talk, but now must I hasten thy departure;
so stand we here no longer.&nbsp; Let us get down into the wood where
we can do off our skids and sit down, and then will I tell thee the
tidings.&nbsp; Come on!&rsquo;</p>
<p>And she caught his hand in hers, and they went speedily down the
slopes toward the great oak-wood, the wind whistling past their ears.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Whither are we going?&rsquo; said he.</p>
<p>Said she: &lsquo;I am to show thee the way back home, which thou
wilt not know surely amidst this snow.&nbsp; Come, no words! thou shalt
not have my tale from me till we are in the wood: so the sooner we are
there the sooner shalt thou be pleased.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So Face-of-god held his peace, and they went on swiftly side by side.&nbsp;
But it was not Bow-may&rsquo;s wont to be silent for long, so presently
she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou art good so do as I bid thee; but see thou, sweet playmate,
for all thou art a chieftain&rsquo;s son, thou wert but feather-brained
to ask me why I shot at thee.&nbsp; I shoot at thee! that were a fine
tale to tell her this even!&nbsp; Or dost thou think that I could shoot
at a big man on the snow at two hundred paces and miss him three times?&nbsp;
Unless I aimed to miss.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, Bow-may,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;art thou so deft a Bow-may?&nbsp;
Thou shalt be in my company whenso I fare to battle.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Indeed,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;therein thou sayest but the
bare truth: nowhere else shall I be, and thou shalt find my bow no worse
than a good shield.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He laughed somewhat lightly; but she looked on him soberly and said:
&lsquo;Laugh in that fashion on the day of battle, and we shall be well
content with thee!&rsquo;</p>
<p>So on they sped very swiftly, for their way was mostly down hill,
so that they were soon amongst the outskirting trees of the wood, and
presently after reached the edge of the thicket, beyond which the ground
was but thinly covered with snow.</p>
<p>There they took off their skids, and went into the thick wood and
sat down under a hornbeam tree; and ere Gold-mane could open his mouth
to speak Bow-may began and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Well it was that I fell in with thee, Dalesman, else had there
been murders of men to tell of; but ever she ordereth all things wisely,
though unwisely hast thou done to seek to her.&nbsp; Hearken! dost thou
think that thou hast done well that thou hast me here with my tale?&nbsp;
Well, hadst thou busied thyself with the slaying of elks, or with sitting
quietly at home, yet shouldest thou have heard my tale, and thou shouldest
have seen me in Burgstead in a day or two to tell thee concerning the
flitting of the token.&nbsp; And ill it is that I have missed it, for
fain had I been to behold the House of the Face, and to have seen thee
sitting there in thy dignity amidst the kindred of chieftains.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And she sighed therewith.&nbsp; But he said: &lsquo;Hold up thine
heart, Bow-may!&nbsp; On the word of a true man that shall befall thee
one day.&nbsp; But come, playmate, give me thy tale!&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;I must now tell thee in the wild-wood
what else I had told thee in the Hall.&nbsp; Hearken closely, for this
is the message:</p>
<p>&lsquo;<i>Seek not to me again till thou hast the token; else assuredly
wilt thou be slain, and I shall be sorry for many a day.&nbsp; Thereof
as now I may not tell thee more.&nbsp; Now as to the token: When March
is worn two weeks fail not to go to and fro on the place of the Maiden
Ward for an hour before sunrise every day till thou hear tidings</i>.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now,&rsquo; quoth Bow-may, &lsquo;hast thou hearkened and
understood?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said he.</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;Then tell me the words of my message concerning
the token.&rsquo;&nbsp; And he did so word for word.&nbsp; Then she
said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is well, there is no more to say.&nbsp; Now must I lead
thee till thou knowest the wood; and then mayst thou get on to the smooth
snow again, and so home merrily.&nbsp; Yet, thou grey-eyed fellow, I
will have my pay of thee before I do that last work.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she turned about to him and took his head between her hands,
and kissed him well favouredly both cheeks and mouth; and she laughed,
albeit the tears stood in her eyes as she said: &lsquo;Now smelleth
the wood sweeter, and summer will come back again.&nbsp; And even thus
will I do once more when we stand side by side in battle array.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He smiled kindly on her and nodded as they both rose up from the
earth: she had taken off her foul-weather gloves while they spake, and
he kissed her hand, which was shapely of fashion albeit somewhat brown,
and hard of palm, and he said in friendly wise:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou art a merry faring-fellow, Bow-may, and belike shalt
be withal a true fighting-fellow.&nbsp; Come now, thou shalt be my sister
and I thy brother, in despite of those three shafts across the snow.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He laughed therewith; she laughed not, but seemed glad, and said
soberly:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, I may well be thy sister; for belike I also am of the
people of the Gods, who have come into these Dales by many far ways.&nbsp;
I am of the House of the Ragged Sword of the Kindred of the Wolf.&nbsp;
Come, brother, let us toward Wildlake&rsquo;s Way.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she went before him and led through the thicket as by an
assured and wonted path, and he followed hard at heel; but his thought
went from her for a while; for those words of brother and sister that
he had spoken called to his mind the Bride, and their kindness of little
children, and the days when they seemed to have nought to do but to
make the sun brighter, and the flowers fairer, and the grass greener,
and the birds happier each for the other; and a hard and evil thing
it seemed to him that now he should be making all these things nought
and dreary to her, now when he had become a man and deeds lay before
him.&nbsp; Yet again was he solaced by what Bow-may had said concerning
battle to come; for he deemed that she must have had this from the Friend&rsquo;s
foreseeing; and he longed sore for deeds to do, wherein all these things
might be cleared up and washen clean as it were.</p>
<p>So passed they through the wood a long way, and it was getting dark
therein, and Gold-mane said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hold now, Bow-may, for I am at home here.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She looked around and said: &lsquo;Yea, so it is: I was thinking
of many things.&nbsp; Farewell and live merrily till March comes and
the token!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she turned and went her ways and was soon out of sight,
and he went lightly through the wood, and then on skids over the hard
snow along the Dale&rsquo;s edge till he was come to the watch-tower,
when the moon was bright in heaven.</p>
<p>Thus was he at Burgstead and the House of the Face betimes, and before
the hunters were gotten back.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XV.&nbsp; MURDER AMONGST THE FOLK OF THE WOODLANDERS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>So wore away midwinter tidingless.&nbsp; Stone-face spake no more
to Face-of-god about the wood and its wights, when he saw that the young
man had come back hale and merry, seemed not to crave over-much to go
back thither.&nbsp; As for the Bride, she was sad, and more than misdoubted
all; but dauntless as she was in matters that try men&rsquo;s hardihood,
she yet lacked heart to ask of Face-of-god what had befallen him since
the autumn-tide, or where he was with her.&nbsp; So she put a force
upon herself not to look sad or craving when she was in his company,
as full oft she was; for he rather sought her than shunned her.&nbsp;
For when he saw her thus, he deemed things were changing with her as
they had changed with him, and he bethought him of what he had spoken
to Bow-may, and deemed that even so he might speak with the Bride when
the time came, and that she would not be grieved beyond measure, and
all would be well.</p>
<p>Now came on the thaw, and the snow went, and the grass grew all up
and down the Dale, and all waters were big.&nbsp; And about this time
arose rumours of strange men in the wood, uncouth, vile, and murderous,
and many of the feebler sort were made timorous thereby.</p>
<p>But a little before March was born came new tidings from the Woodlanders;
to wit: There came on a time to the house of a woodland carle, a worthy
goodman well renowned of all, two wayfarers in the first watch of the
night; and these men said that they were wending down to the Plain from
a far-away dale, Rose-dale to wit, which all men had heard of, and that
they had strayed from the way and were exceeding weary, and they craved
a meal&rsquo;s meat and lodging for the night.</p>
<p>This the goodman might nowise gainsay, and he saw no harm in it,
wherefore he bade them abide and be merry.</p>
<p>These men, said they who told the tidings, were outlanders, and no
man had seen any like them before: they were armed, and bore short bows
made of horn, and round targets, and coats-of-fence done over with horn
scales; they had crooked swords girt to their sides, and axes of steel
forged all in one piece, right good weapons.&nbsp; They were clad in
scarlet and had much silver on their raiment and about their weapons,
and great rings of the same on their arms; and all this silver seemed
brand-new.</p>
<p>Now the Woodland Carle gave them of such things as he had, and was
kind and blithe to them: there were in his house besides himself five
men of his sons and kindred, and his wife and three daughters and two
other maids.&nbsp; So they feasted after the Woodlanders&rsquo; fashion,
and went to bed a little before midnight.&nbsp; Two hours after, the
carle awoke and heard a little stir, and he looked and saw the guests
on their feet amidst the hall clad in all their war-gear; and they had
betwixt them his two youngest daughters, maids of fifteen and twelve
winters, and had bound their hands and done clouts over their mouths,
so that they might not cry out; and they were just at point to carry
them off.&nbsp; Thereat the goodman, naked as he was, caught up his
sword and made at these murder-carles, and or ever they were ware of
him he had hewn down one and turned to face the other, who smote at
him with his steel axe and gave him a great wound on the shoulder, and
therewithal fled out at the open door and forth into the wood.</p>
<p>The Woodlander made no stay to raise the cry (there was no need,
for the hall was astir now from end to end, and men getting to their
weapons), but ran out after the felon even as he was; and, in spite
of his grievous hurt, overran him no long way from the house before
he had gotten into the thicket.&nbsp; But the man was nimble and strong,
and the goodman unsteady from his wound, and by then the others of the
household came up with the hue and cry he had gotten two more sore wounds
and was just making an end of throttling the felon with his bare hands.&nbsp;
So he fell into their arms fainting from weakness, and for all they
could do he died in two hours&rsquo; time from that axe-wound in his
shoulder, and another on the side of the head, and a knife-thrust in
his side; and he was a man of sixty winters.</p>
<p>But the stranger he had slain outright; and the one whom he had smitten
in the hall died before the dawn, thrusting all help aside, and making
no sound of speech.</p>
<p>When these tidings came to Burgstead they seemed great to men, and
to Gold-mane more than all.&nbsp; So he and many others took their weapons
and fared up to Wildlake&rsquo;s Way, and so came to the Woodland Carles.&nbsp;
But the Woodlanders had borne out the carcasses of those felons and
laid them on the green before Wood-grey&rsquo;s door (for that was the
name of the dead goodman), and they were saying that they would not
bury such accursed folk, but would bear them a little way so that they
should not be vexed with the stink of them, and cast them into the thicket
for the wolf and the wild-cat and the stoat to deal with; and they should
lie there, weapons and silver and all; and they deemed it base to strip
such wretches, for who would wear their raiment or bear their weapons
after them.</p>
<p>There was a great ring of folk round about them when they of Burgstead
drew near, and they shouted for joy to see their neighbours, and made
way before them.&nbsp; Then the Dalesmen cursed these murderers who
had slain so good a man, and they all praised his manliness, whereas
he ran out into the night naked and wounded after his foe, and had fallen
like his folk of old time.</p>
<p>It was a bright spring afternoon in that clearing of the Wood, and
they looked at the two dead men closely; and Gold-mane, who had been
somewhat silent and moody till then, became merry and wordy; for he
beheld the men and saw that they were utterly strange to him: they were
short of stature, crooked-legged, long-armed, very strong for their
size: with small blue eyes, snubbed-nosed, wide-mouthed, thin-lipped,
very swarthy of skin, exceeding foul of favour.&nbsp; He and all others
wondered who they were, and whence they came, for never had they seen
their like; and the Woodlanders, who often guested outlanders strayed
from the way of divers kindreds and nations, said also that none such
had they ever seen.&nbsp; But Stone-face, who stood by Gold-mane, shook
his head and quoth he:</p>
<p>&lsquo;The Wild-wood holdeth many marvels, and these be of them:
the spawn of evil wights quickeneth therein, and at other whiles it
melteth away again like the snow; so may it be with these carcasses.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And some of the older folk of the Woodlanders who stood by hearkened
what he said, and deemed his words wise, for they remembered their ancient
lore and many a tale of old time.</p>
<p>Thereafter they of Burgstead went into Wood-grey&rsquo;s hall, or
as many of them as might, for it was but a poor place and not right
great.&nbsp; There they saw the goodman laid on the da&iuml;s in all
his war-gear, under the last tie-beam of his hall, whereon was carved
amidst much goodly work of knots and flowers and twining stems the image
of the Wolf of the Waste, his jaws open and gaping: the wife and daughters
of the goodman and other women of the folk stood about the bier singing
some old song in a low voice, and some sobbing therewithal, for the
man was much beloved: and much people of the Woodlanders was in the
hall, and it was somewhat dusk within.</p>
<p>So the Burgstead men greeted that folk kindly and humbly, and again
they fell to praising the dead man, saying how his deed should long
be remembered in the Dale and wide about; and they called him a fearless
man and of great worth.&nbsp; And the women hearkened, and ceased their
crooning and their sobbing, and stood up proudly and raised their heads
with gleaming eyes; and as the words of the Burgstead men ended, they
lifted up their voices and sang loudly and clearly, standing together
in a row, ten of them, on the da&iuml;s of that poor hall, facing the
gable and the wolf-adorned tie-beam, heeding nought as they sang what
was about or behind them.</p>
<p>And this is some of what they sang:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Why sit ye bare in the spinning-room?<br />Why weave ye naked at
the loom?</p>
<p>Bare and white as the moon we be,<br />That the Earth and the drifting
night may see.</p>
<p>Now what is the worst of all your work?<br />What curse amidst the
web shall lurk?</p>
<p>The worst of the work our hands shall win<br />Is wrack and ruin
round the kin.</p>
<p>Shall the woollen yarn and the flaxen thread<br />Be gear for living
men or dead?</p>
<p>The woollen yarn and the flaxen thread<br />Shall flare &rsquo;twixt
living men and dead.</p>
<p>O what is the ending of your day?<br />When shall ye rise and wend
away?</p>
<p>Our day shall end to-morrow morn,<br />When we hear the voice of
the battle-horn.</p>
<p>Where first shall eyes of men behold<br />This weaving of the moonlight
cold?</p>
<p>There where the alien host abides<br />The gathering on the Mountain-sides.</p>
<p>How long aloft shall the fair web fly<br />When the bows are bent
and the spears draw nigh?</p>
<p>From eve to morn and morn till eve<br />Aloft shall fly the work
we weave.</p>
<p>What then is this, the web ye win?<br />What wood-beast waxeth stark
therein?</p>
<p>We weave the Wolf and the gift of war<br />From the men that were
to the men that are.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>So sang they: and much were all men moved at their singing, and there
was none but called to mind the old days of the Fathers, and the years
when their banner went wide in the world.</p>
<p>But the Woodlanders feasted them of Burgstead what they might, and
then went the Dalesmen back to their houses; but on the morrow&rsquo;s
morrow they fared thither again, and Wood-grey was laid in mound amidst
a great assemblage of the Folk.</p>
<p>Many men said that there was no doubt that those two felons were
of the company of those who had ransacked the steads of Penny-thumb
and Harts-bane; and so at first deemed Bristler the son of Brightling:
but after a while, when he had had time to think of it, he changed his
mind; for he said that such men as these would have slain first and
ransacked afterwards: and some who loved neither Penny-thumb nor Harts-bane
said that they would not have been at the pains to choose for ransacking
the two worst men about the Dale, whose loss was no loss to any but
themselves.</p>
<p>As for Gold-mane he knew not what to think, except that his friends
of the Mountain had had nought to do with it.</p>
<p>So wore the days awhile.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XVI.&nbsp; THE BRIDE SPEAKETH WITH FACE-OF-GOD</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>February had died into March, and March was now twelve days old,
on a fair and sunny day an hour before noon; and Face-of-god was in
a meadow a scant mile down the Dale from Burgstead.&nbsp; He had been
driving a bull into a goodman&rsquo;s byre nearby, and had had to spend
toil and patience both in getting him out of the fields and into the
byre; for the beast was hot with the spring days and the new grass.&nbsp;
So now he was resting himself in happy mood in an exceeding pleasant
place, a little meadow to wit, on one side whereof was a great orchard
or grove of sweet chestnuts, which went right up to the feet of the
Southern Cliffs: across the meadow ran a clear brook towards the Weltering
Water, free from big stones, in some places dammed up for the flooding
of the deep pasture-meadow, and with the grass growing on its lips down
to the very water.&nbsp; There was a low bank just outside the chestnut
trees, as if someone had raised a dyke about them when they were young,
which had been trodden low and spreading through the lapse of years
by the faring of many men and beasts.&nbsp; The primroses bloomed thick
upon it now, and here and there along it was a low blackthorn bush in
full blossom; from the mid-meadow and right down to the lip of the brook
was the grass well nigh hidden by the blossoms of the meadow-saffron,
with daffodils sprinkled about amongst them, and in the trees and bushes
the birds, and chiefly the blackbirds, were singing their loudest.</p>
<p>There sat Face-of-god on the bank resting after his toil, and happy
was his mood; since in two days&rsquo; wearing he should be pacing the
Maiden Ward awaiting the token that was to lead him to Shadowy Vale;
so he sat calling to mind the Friend as he had last seen her, and striving
as it were to set her image standing on the flowery grass before him,
till all the beauty of the meadow seemed bare and empty to him without
her.&nbsp; Then it fell into his mind that this had been a beloved trysting-place
betwixt him and the Bride, and that often when they were little would
they come to gather chestnuts in the grove, and thereafter sit and prattle
on the old dyke; or in spring when the season was warm would they go
barefoot into the brook, seeking its treasures of troutlets and flowers
and clean-washed agate pebbles.&nbsp; Yea, and time not long ago had
they met here to talk as lovers, and sat on that very bank in all the
kindness of good days without a blemish, and both he and she had loved
the place well for its wealth of blossoms and deep grass and goodly
trees and clear running stream.</p>
<p>As he thought of all this, and how often there he had praised to
himself her beauty, which he scarce dared praise to her, he frowned
and slowly rose to his feet, and turned toward the chestnut-grove, as
though he would go thence that way; but or ever he stepped down from
the dyke he turned about again, and even therewith, like the very image
and ghost of his thought, lo! the Bride herself coming up from out the
brook and wending toward him, her wet naked feet gleaming in the sun
as they trod down the tender meadow-saffron and brushed past the tufts
of daffodils.&nbsp; He stood staring at her discomforted, for on that
day he had much to think of that seemed happy to him, and he deemed
that she would now question him, and his mind pondered divers ways of
answering her, and none seemed good to him.&nbsp; She drew near and
let her skirts fall over her feet, and came to him, her gown hem dragging
over the flowers: then she stood straight up before him and greeted
him, but reached not forth her hand to him nor touched him.&nbsp; Her
face was paler that its wont, and her voice trembled as she spake to
him and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Face-of-god, I would ask thee a gift.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;All gifts,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;that thou mayest ask, and
I may give, lie open to thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;If I be alive when the time comes this gift thou
mayst well give me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Sweet kinswoman,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;tell me what it is
that thou wouldest have of me.&rsquo;&nbsp; And he was ill-at-ease as
he waited for her answer.</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;Ah, kinsman, kinsman!&nbsp; Woe on the day that
maketh kinship accursed to me because thou desirest it!&rsquo;</p>
<p>He held his peace and was exceeding sorry; and she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;This is the gift that I ask of thee, that in the days to come
when thou art wedded, thou wilt give me the second man-child whom thou
begettest.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;This shalt thou have, and would that I might give
thee much more.&nbsp; Would that we were little children together other
again, as when we played here in other days.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;I would have a token of thee that thou shalt show
to the God, and swear on it to give me the gift.&nbsp; For the times
change.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;What token wilt thou have?&rsquo; said he.</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;When next thou farest to the Wood, thou shalt bring
me back, it maybe a flower from the bank ye sit upon, or a splinter
from the da&iuml;s of the hall wherein ye feast, or maybe a ring or
some matter that the strangers are wont to wear.&nbsp; That shall be
the token.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She spoke slowly, hanging her head adown, but she lifted it presently
and looked into his face and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Woe&rsquo;s me, woe&rsquo;s me, Gold-mane!&nbsp; How evil
is this day, when bewailing me I may not bewail thee also!&nbsp; For
I know that thine heart is glad.&nbsp; All through the winter have I
kept this hidden in my heart, and durst not speak to thee.&nbsp; But
now the spring-tide hath driven me to it.&nbsp; Let summer come, and
who shall say?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Great was his grief, and his shame kept him silent, and he had no
word to say; and again she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Tell me, Gold-mane, when goest thou thither?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;I know not surely, may happen in two days, may happen
in ten.&nbsp; Why askest thou?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;O friend!&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;is it a new thing that I
should ask thee whither thou goest and whence thou comest, and the times
of thy coming and going.&nbsp; Farewell to-day!&nbsp; Forget not the
token.&nbsp; Woe&rsquo;s me, that I may not kiss thy fair face!&rsquo;</p>
<p>She spread her arms abroad and lifted up her face as one who waileth,
but no sound came from her lips; then she turned about and went away
as she had come.</p>
<p>But as for him he stood there after she was gone in all confusion,
as if he were undone: for he felt his manhood lessened that he should
thus and so sorely have hurt a friend, and in a manner against his will.&nbsp;
And yet he was somewhat wroth with her, that she had come upon him so
suddenly, and spoken to him with such mastery, and in so few words,
and he with none to make answer to her, and that she had so marred his
pleasure and his hope of that fair day.&nbsp; Then he sat him down again
on the flowery bank, and little by little his heart softened, and he
once more called to mind many a time when they had been there before,
and the plays and the games they had had together there when they were
little.&nbsp; And he bethought him of the days that were long to him
then, and now seemed short to him, and as if they were all grown together
into one story, and that a sweet one.&nbsp; Then his breast heaved with
a sob, and the tears rose to his eyes and burned and stung him, and
he fell a-weeping for that sweet tale, and wept as he had wept once
before on that old dyke when there had been some child&rsquo;s quarrel
between them, and she had gone away and left him.</p>
<p>Then after a while he ceased his weeping, and looked about him lest
anyone might be coming, and then he arose and went to and fro in the
chestnut-grove for a good while, and afterwards went his ways from that
meadow, saying to himself: &lsquo;Yet remaineth to me the morrow of
to-morrow, and that is the first of the days of the watching for the
token.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But all that day he was slow to meet the eyes of men; and in the
hall that eve he was silent and moody; for from time to time it came
over him that some of his manhood had departed from him.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XVII.&nbsp; THE TOKEN COMETH FROM THE MOUNTAIN</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The next day wore away tidingless; and the day after Face-of-god
arose betimes; for it was the first day of his watch, and he was at
the Maiden Ward before the time appointed on a very fair and bright
morning, and he went to and fro on that place, and had no tidings.&nbsp;
So he came away somewhat cast down, and said within himself: &lsquo;Is
it but a lie and a mocking when all is said?&rsquo;</p>
<p>On the morrow he went thither again, and the morn was wild and stormy
with drift of rain, and low clouds hurrying over the earth, though for
the sunrise they lifted a little in the east, and the sun came up over
the passes, amidst the red and angry rack of clouds.&nbsp; This morn
also gave him no tidings of the token, and he was wroth and perturbed
in spirit: but towards evening he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is well: ten days she gave me, so that she might be able
to send without fail on one of them; she will not fail me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So again on the morrow he was there betimes, and the morn was windy
as on the day before, but the clouds higher and of better promise for
the day.&nbsp; Face-of-god walked to and fro on the Maiden Ward, and
as he turned toward Burgstead for the tenth time, he heard, as he deemed,
a bow-string twang afar off, and even therewith came a shaft flying
heavily like a winged bird, which smote a great standing stone on the
other side of the way, where of old some chieftain had been buried,
and fell to earth at its foot.&nbsp; He went up to it and handled it,
and saw that there was a piece of thin parchment wrapped about it, which
indeed he was eager to unwrap at once, but forebore; because he was
on the highway, and people were already astir, and even then passed
by him a goodman of the Dale with a man of his going afield together,
and they gave him the sele of the day.&nbsp; So he went along the highway
a little till he came to a place where was a footbridge over into the
meadow.&nbsp; He crossed thereby and went swiftly till he reached a
rising ground grown over with hazel-trees; there he sat down among the
rabbit-holes, the primrose and wild-garlic blooming about him, and three
blackbirds answering one another from the edges of the coppice.&nbsp;
Straightway when he had looked and seen none coming he broke the threads
that were wound about the scroll and the arrow, and unrolled the parchment;
and there was writing thereon in black ink of small letters, but very
fair, and this is what he read therein:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p><i>Come thou to the Mountain Hall by the path which thou knowest
of, on the morrow of the day whereon thou readest this.&nbsp; Rise betimes
and come armed, for there are other men than we in the wood; to whom
thy death should be a gain.&nbsp; When thou art come to the Hall, thou
shalt find no man therein; but a great hound only, tied to a bench nigh
the da&iuml;s.&nbsp; Call him by his name, Sure-foot to wit, and give
him to eat from the meat upon the board, and give him water to drink.&nbsp;
If the day is then far spent, as it is like to be, abide thou with the
hound in the hall through the night, and eat of what thou shalt find
there; but see that the hound fares not abroad till the morrow&rsquo;s
morn: then lead him out and bring him to the north-east corner of the
Hall, and he shall lift the slot for thee that leadeth to the Shadowy
Yale.&nbsp; Follow him and all good go with thee.</i></p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Now when he had read this, earth seemed fair indeed about him, and
he scarce knew whither to turn or what to do to make the most of his
joy.&nbsp; He presently went back to Burgstead and into the House of
the Face, where all men were astir now, and the day was clearing.&nbsp;
He hid the shaft under his kirtle, for he would not that any should
see it; so he went to his shut-bed and laid it up in his chest, wherein
he kept his chiefest treasures; but the writing on the scroll he set
in his bosom and so hid it.&nbsp; He went joyfully and proudly, as one
who knoweth more tidings and better than those around him.&nbsp; But
Stone-face beheld him, and said &lsquo;Foster-son, thou art happy.&nbsp;
Is it that the spring-tide is in thy blood, and maketh thee blithe with
all things, or hast thou some new tidings?&nbsp; Nay, I would not have
an answer out of thee; but here is good rede: when next thou goest into
the wood, it were nought so ill for thee to have a valiant old carle
by thy side; one that loveth thee, and would die for thee if need were;
one who might watch when thou wert seeking.&nbsp; Or else beware! for
there are evil things abroad in the Wood, and moreover the brethren
of those two felons who were slain at Carlstead.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Gold-mane constrained himself to answer the old carle softly;
and he thanked him kindly for his offer, and said that so it should
be before long.&nbsp; So the talk between them fell, and Stone-face
went away somewhat well-pleased.</p>
<p>And now was Face-of-god become wary; and he would not draw men&rsquo;s
eyes and speech on him; so he went afield with Hall-face to deal with
the lambs and the ewes, and did like other men.&nbsp; No less wary was
he in the hall that even, and neither spake much nor little; and when
his father spake to him concerning the Bride, and made game of him as
a somewhat sluggish groom, he did not change countenance, but answered
lightly what came to hand.</p>
<p>On the morrow ere the earliest dawn he was afoot, and he clad himself
and did on his hauberk, his father&rsquo;s work, which was fine-wrought
and a stout defence, and reached down to his knees; and over that he
did on a goodly green kirtle well embroidered: he girt his war-sword
to his side, and it was the work of his father&rsquo;s father, and a
very good sword: its name was Dale-warden.&nbsp; He did a good helm
on his head, and slung a targe at his back, and took two spears in his
hand, short but strong-shafted and well-steeled.&nbsp; Thus arrayed
he left Burgstead before the dawn, and came to Wildlake&rsquo;s Way
and betook him to the Woodland.&nbsp; He made no stop or stay on the
path, but ate his meat standing by an oak-tree close by the half-blind
track.&nbsp; When he came to the little wood-lawn, where was the toft
of the ancient house, he looked all round about him, for he deemed that
a likely place for those ugly wood-wights to set on him; but nought
befell him, though he stooped and drank of the woodland rill warily
enough.&nbsp; So he passed on; and there were other places also where
he fared warily, because they seemed like to hold lurking felons; though
forsooth the whole wood might well serve their turn.&nbsp; But no evil
befell him, and at last, when it yet lacked an hour to sunset, he came
to the wood-lawn where Wild-wearer had made his onset that other eve.</p>
<p>He went straight up to the house, his heart beating, and he scarce
believing but that he should find the Friend abiding him there: but
when he pushed the door it gave way before him at once, and he entered
and found no man therein, and the walls stripped bare and no shield
or weapon hanging on the panels.&nbsp; But the hound he saw tied to
a bench nigh the da&iuml;s, and the bristles on the beast&rsquo;s neck
arose, and he snarled on Face-of-god, and strained on his leathern leash.&nbsp;
Then Face-of-god went up to him and called him by his name, Sure-foot,
and gave him his hand to lick, and he brought him water, and fed him
with flesh from the meat on the board; so the beast became friendly
and wagged his tail and whined and slobbered his hand.</p>
<p>Then he went all about the house, and saw and heard no living thing
therein save the mice in the panels and Sure-foot.&nbsp; So he came
back to the da&iuml;s, and sat him down at the board and ate his fill,
and thought concerning his case.&nbsp; And it came into his mind that
the Woman of the Mountain had some deed for him to do which would try
his manliness and exalt his fame; and his heart rose high and he was
glad, and he saw himself sitting beside her on the da&iuml;s of a very
fair hall beloved and honoured of all the folk, and none had aught to
say against him or owed him any grudge.&nbsp; Thus he pleased himself
in thinking of the good days to come, sitting there till the hall grew
dusk and dark and the night-wind moaned about it.</p>
<p>Then after a while he arose and raked together the brands on the
hearth, and made light in the hall and looked to the door.&nbsp; And
he found there were bolts and bars thereto, so he shot the bolts and
drew the bars into their places and made all as sure as might be.&nbsp;
Then he brought Sure-foot down from the da&iuml;s, and tied him up so
that he might lie down athwart the door, and then lay down his hauberk
with his naked sword ready to his hand, and slept long while.</p>
<p>When he awoke it was darker than when he had lain him for the moon
had set; yet he deemed that the day was at point of breaking.&nbsp;
So he fetched water and washed the night off him, and saw a little glimmer
of the dawn.&nbsp; Then he ate somewhat of the meat on the board, and
did on his helm and his other gear, and unbarred the door, and led Sure-foot
without, and brought him to the north-east corner of the house, and
in a little while he lifted the slot and they departed, the man and
the hound, just as broke dawn from over the mountains.</p>
<p>Sure-foot led right into the heart of the pine-wood, and it was dark
enough therein, with nought but a feeble glimmer for some while, and
long was the way therethrough; but in two hours&rsquo; space was there
something of a break, and they came to the shore of a dark deep tarn
on whose windless and green waters the daylight shone fully.&nbsp; The
hound skirted the water, and led on unchecked till the trees began to
grow smaller and the air colder for all that the sun was higher; for
they had been going up and up all the way.</p>
<p>So at last after a six hours&rsquo; journey they came clean out of
the pine-wood, and before them lay the black wilderness of the bare
mountains, and beyond them, looking quite near now, the great ice-peaks,
the wall of the world.&nbsp; It was but an hour short of noon by this
time, and the high sun shone down on a barren boggy moss which lay betwixt
them and the rocky waste.&nbsp; Sure-foot made no stay, but threaded
the ways that went betwixt the quagmires, and in another hour led Face-of-god
into a winding valley blinded by great rocks, and everywhere stony and
rough, with a trickle of water running amidst of it.&nbsp; The hound
fared on up the dale to where the water was bridged by a great fallen
stone, and so over it and up a steep bent on the further side, on to
a marvellously rough mountain-neck, whiles mere black sand cumbered
with scattered rocks and stones, whiles beset with mires grown over
with the cottony mire-grass; here and there a little scanty grass growing;
otherwhere nought but dwarf willow ever dying ever growing, mingled
with moss or red-blossomed sengreen; and all blending together into
mere desolation.</p>
<p>Few living things they saw there; up on the neck a few sheep were
grazing the scanty grass, but there was none to tend them; yet Face-of-god
deemed the sight of them good, for there must be men anigh who owned
them.&nbsp; For the rest, the whimbrel laughed across the mires; high
up in heaven a great eagle was hanging; once and again a grey fox leapt
up before them, and the heath-fowl whirred up from under Face-of-god&rsquo;s
feet.&nbsp; A raven who was sitting croaking on a rock in that first
dale stirred uneasily on his perch as he saw them, and when they were
passed flapped his wings and flew after them croaking still.</p>
<p>Now they fared over that neck somewhat east, making but slow way
because the ground was so broken and rocky; and in another hour&rsquo;s
space Sure-foot led down-hill due east to where the stony neck sank
into another desolate miry heath still falling toward the east, but
whose further side was walled by a rampart of crags cleft at their tops
into marvellous-shapes, coal-black, ungrassed and unmossed.&nbsp; Thitherward
the hound led straight, and Gold-mane followed wondering: as he drew
near them he saw that they were not very high, the tallest peak scant
fifty feet from the face of the heath.</p>
<p>They made their way through the scattered rocks at the foot of these
crags, till, just where the rock-wall seemed the closest, the way through
the stones turned into a path going through it skew-wise; and it was
now so clear a path that belike it had been bettered by men&rsquo;s
hands.&nbsp; Down thereby Face-of-god followed the hound, deeming that
he was come to the gates of the Shadowy Vale, and the path went down
steeply and swiftly.&nbsp; But when he had gone down a while, the rocks
on his right hand sank lower for a space, so that he could look over
and see what lay beneath.</p>
<p>There lay below him a long narrow vale quite plain at the bottom,
walled on the further side as on the hither by sheer rocks of black
stone.&nbsp; The plain was grown over with grass, but he could see no
tree therein: a deep river, dark and green, ran through the vale, sometimes
through its midmost, sometimes lapping the further rock-wall: and he
thought indeed that on many a day in the year the sun would never shine
on that valley.</p>
<p>Thus much he saw, and then the rocks rose again and shut it from
his sight; and at last they drew so close together over head that he
was in a way going through a cave with little daylight coming from above,
and in the end he was in a cave indeed and mere darkness: but with the
last feeble glimmer of light he thought he saw carved on a smooth space
of the living rock at his left hand the image of a wolf.</p>
<p>This cave lasted but a little way, and soon the hound and the man
were going once more between sheer black rocks, and the path grew steeper
yet and was cut into steps.&nbsp; At last there was a sharp turn, and
they stood on the top of a long stony scree, down which Sure-foot bounded
eagerly, giving tongue as he went; but Face-of-god stood still and looked,
for now the whole Dale lay open before him.</p>
<p>That river ran from north to south, and at the south end the cliffs
drew so close to it that looking thence no outgate could be seen; but
at the north end there was as it were a dreary street of rocks, the
river flowing amidmost and leaving little foothold on either side, somewhat
as it was with the pass leading from the mountains into Burgdale.</p>
<p>Amidmost of the Dale a little toward the north end he saw a doom-ring
of black stones, and hard by it an ancient hall builded of the same
black stone both wall and roof, and thitherward was Sure-foot now running.&nbsp;
Face-of-god looked up and down the Dale and could see no break in the
wall of sheer rock: toward the southern end he saw a few booths and
cots built roughly of stone and thatched with turf; thereabout he saw
a few folk moving about, the most of whom seemed to be women and children;
there were some sheep and lambs near these cots, and a herd of fifty
or so of somewhat goodly mountain-kine were feeding higher up the valley.&nbsp;
He could look down into the river from where he stood, and he saw that
it ran between rocky banks going straight down from the face of the
meadow, which was rather high above the water, so that it seemed little
likely that the water should rise over its banks, either in summer or
winter; and in summer was it like to be highest, because the vale was
so near to the high mountains and their snows.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XVIII.&nbsp; FACE-OF-GOD TALKETH WITH THE FRIEND IN SHADOWY
VALE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>It was now about two hours after noon, and a broad band of sunlight
lay upon the grass of the vale below Gold-mane&rsquo;s feet; he went
lightly down the scree, and strode forward over the level grass toward
the Doom-ring, his helm and war-gear glittering bright in the sun.&nbsp;
He must needs go through the Doom-ring to come to the Hall, and as he
stepped out from behind the last of the big upright-stones, he saw a
woman standing on the threshold of the Hall-door, which was but some
score of paces from him, and knew her at once for the Friend.</p>
<p>She was clad like himself in a green kirtle gaily embroidered and
fitting close to her body, and had no gown or cloak over it; she had
a golden fillet on her head beset with blue mountain stones, and her
hair hung loose behind her.</p>
<p>Her beauty was so exceeding, and so far beyond all memory of her
that his mind had held, that once more fear of her fell upon Face-of-god,
and he stood still with beating heart till she should speak to him.&nbsp;
But she came forward swiftly with both her hands held out, smiling and
happy-faced, and looking very kindly on him, and she took his hands
and said to him:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now welcome, Gold-mane, welcome, Face-of-god! and twice welcome
art thou and threefold.&nbsp; Lo! this is the day that thou asked for:
art thou happy in it?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them timorously, but said
nought; and therewithal Sure-foot came running forth from the Hall,
and fell to bounding round about them, barking noisily after the manner
of dogs who have met their masters again; and still she held his hands
and beheld him kindly.&nbsp; Then she called the hound to her, and patted
him on the neck and quieted him, and then turned to Face-of-god and
laughed happily and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I do not bid thee hold thy peace; yet thou sayest nought.&nbsp;
Is well with thee?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;and more than well.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou seemest to me a goodly warrior,&rsquo; she said; &lsquo;hast
thou met any foemen yesterday or this morning?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;none hindered me; thou hast made
the ways easy to me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said soberly, &lsquo;Such as I might do, I did.&nbsp; But we
may not wield everything, for our foes are many, and I feared for thee.&nbsp;
But come thou into our house, which is ours, and far more ours than
the booth before the pine-wood.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She took his hand again and led him toward the door, but Face-of-god
looked up, and above the lintel he saw carved on the dark stone that
image of the Wolf, even as he had seen it carved on Wood-grey&rsquo;s
tie-beam; and therewith such thoughts came into his mind that he stopped
to look, pressing the Friend&rsquo;s hand hard as though bidding her
note it.&nbsp; The stone wherein the image was carved was darker than
the other building stones, and might be called black; the jaws of the
wood-beast were open and gaping, and had been painted with cinnabar,
but wind and weather had worn away the most of the colour.</p>
<p>Spake the Friend: &lsquo;So it is: thou beholdest the token of the
God and Father of out Fathers, that telleth the tale of so many days,
that the days which now pass by us be to them but as the drop in the
sea of waters.&nbsp; Thou beholdest the sign of our sorrow, the memory
of our wrong; yet is it also the token of our hope.&nbsp; Maybe it shall
lead thee far.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Whither?&rsquo; said he.&nbsp; But she answered not a great
while, and he looked at her as she stood a-gazing on the image, and
saw how the tears stole out of her eyes and ran adown her cheeks.&nbsp;
Then again came the thought to him of Wood-grey&rsquo;s hall, and the
women of the kindred standing before the Wolf and singing of him; and
though there was little comeliness in them and she was so exceeding
beauteous, he could not but deem that they were akin to her.</p>
<p>But after a while she wiped the tears from her face and turned to
him and said: &lsquo;My friend, the Wolf shall lead thee no-whither
but where I also shall be, whatsoever peril or grief may beset the road
or lurk at the ending thereof.&nbsp; Thou shalt be no thrall, to labour
while I look on.&rsquo;</p>
<p>His heart swelled within him as she spoke, and he was at point to
beseech her love that moment; but now her face had grown gay and bright
again, and she said while he was gathering words to speak withal:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Come in, Gold-mane, come into our house; for I have many things
to say to thee.&nbsp; And moreover thou art so hushed, and so fearsome
in thy mail, that I think thou yet deemest me to be a Wight of the Waste,
such as Stone-face thy Fosterer told thee tales of, and forewarned thee.&nbsp;
So would I eat before thee, and sign the meat with the sign of the Earth-god&rsquo;s
Hammer, to show thee that he is in error concerning me, and that I am
a very woman flesh and fell, as my kindred were before me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He laughed and was exceeding glad, and said: &lsquo;Tell me now,
kind friend, dost thou deem that Stone-face&rsquo;s tales are mere mockery
of his dreams, and that he is beguiled by empty semblances or less?&nbsp;
Or are there such Wights in the Waste.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;the man is a true man; and of
these things are there many ancient tales which we may not doubt.&nbsp;
Yet so it is that such wights have I never yet seen, nor aught to scare
me save evil men: belike it is that I have been over-much busied in
dealing with sorrow and ruin to look after them: or it may be that they
feared me and the wrath-breeding grief of the kindred.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He looked at her earnestly, and the wisdom of her heart seemed to
enter into his; but she said: &lsquo;It is of men we must talk, and
of me and thee.&nbsp; Come with me, my friend.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And she stepped lightly over the threshold and drew him in.&nbsp;
The Hall was stern and grim and somewhat dusky, for its windows were
but small: it was all of stone, both walls and roof.&nbsp; There was
no timber-work therein save the benches and chairs, a little about the
doors at the lower end that led to the buttery and out-bowers; and this
seemed to have been wrought of late years; yea, the chairs against the
gable on the da&iuml;s were of stone built into the wall, adorned with
carving somewhat sparingly, the image of the Wolf being done over the
midmost of them.&nbsp; He looked up and down the Hall, and deemed it
some seventy feet over all from end to end; and he could see in the
dimness those same goodly hangings on the wall which he had seen in
the woodland booth.</p>
<p>She led him up to the da&iuml;s, and stood there leaning up against
the arm of one of those stone seats silent for a while; then she turned
and looked at him, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, thou lookest a goodly warrior; yet am I glad that thou
camest hither without battle.&nbsp; Tell me, Gold-mane,&rsquo; she said,
taking one of his spears from his hand, &lsquo;art thou deft with the
spear?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;I have been called so,&rsquo; said he.</p>
<p>She looked at him sweetly and said: &lsquo;Canst thou show me the
feat of spear-throwing in this Hall, or shall we wend outside presently
that I may see thee throw?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;The Hall sufficeth,&rsquo; he said.&nbsp; &lsquo;Shall I set
this steel in the lintel of the buttery door yonder?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, if thou canst,&rsquo; she said.</p>
<p>He smiled and took the spear from her, and poised it and shook it
till it quivered again, then suddenly drew back his arm and cast, and
the shaft sped whistling down the dim hall, and smote the aforesaid
door-lintel and stuck there quivering: then he sprang down from the
da&iuml;s, and ran down the hall, and put forth his hand and pulled
it forth from the wood, and was on the da&iuml;s again in a trice, and
cast again, and the second time set the spear in the same place, and
then took his other spear from the board and cast it, and there stood
the two staves in the wood side by side; then he went soberly down the
hall and drew them both out of the wood and came back to her, while
she stood watching him, her cheek flushed, her lips a little parted.</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;Good spear-casting, forsooth! and far above what
our folk can do, who be no great throwers of the spear.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Gold-mane laughed: &lsquo;Sooth is that,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;or
hardly were I here to teach thee spear-throwing.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Wilt thou <i>never</i> be paid for that simple onslaught?&rsquo;
she said.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Have I been paid then?&rsquo; said he.</p>
<p>She reddened, for she remembered her word to him on the mountain;
and he put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her cheek, but timorously;
nor did she withstand him or shrink aback, but said soberly:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Good indeed is thy spear-throwing, and meseems my brother
will love thee when he hath seen thee strike a stroke or two in wrath.&nbsp;
But, fair warrior, there be no foemen here: so get thee to the lower
end of the Hall, and in the bower beyond shalt thou find fresh water;
there wash the waste from off thee, and do off thine helm and hauberk,
and come back speedily and eat with me; for I hunger, and so dost thou.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He did as she bade him, and came back presently bearing in his hand
both helm and hauberk, and he looked light-limbed and trim and lissome,
an exceeding goodly man.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XIX.&nbsp; THE FAIR WOMAN TELLETH FACE-OF-GOD OF HER KINDRED</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>When he came back to the da&iuml;s he saw that there was meat upon
the board, and the Friend said to him:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now art thou Gold-mane indeed: but come now, sit by me and
eat, though the Wood-woman giveth thee but a sorry banquet, O guest;
but from the Dale it is, and we be too far now from the dwellings of
men to have delicate meat on the board, though to-night when they come
back thy cheer shall be better.&nbsp; Yet even then thou shalt have
no such dainties as Stone-face hath imagined for thee at the hands of
the Wood-wight.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She laughed therewith, and he no less; and in sooth the meat was
but simple, of curds and new cheese, meat of the herdsmen.&nbsp; But
Face-of-god said gaily: &lsquo;Sweet it shall be to me; good is all
that the Friend giveth.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then she raised her hand and made the sign of the Hammer over the
board, and looked up at him and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hath the Earth-god changed my face, Gold-mane, to what I verily
am?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He held his face close to hers and looked into it, and him-seemed
it was as pure as the waters of a mountain lake, and as fine and well-wrought
every deal of it as when his father had wrought in his stithy many days
and fashioned a small piece of great mastery.&nbsp; He was ashamed to
kiss her again, but he said to himself, &lsquo;This is the fairest woman
of the world, whom I have sworn to wed this year.&rsquo;&nbsp; Then
he spake aloud and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I see the face of the Friend, and it will not change to me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Again she reddened a little, and the happy look in her face seemed
to grow yet sweeter, and he was bewildered with longing and delight.</p>
<p>But she stood up and went to an ambrye in the wall and brought forth
a horn shod and lipped with silver of ancient fashion, and she poured
wine into it and held it forth and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O guest from the Dale, I pledge thee! and when thou hast drunk
to me in turn we will talk of weighty matters.&nbsp; For indeed I bear
hopes in my hands too heavy for the daughters of men to bear; and thou
art a chieftain&rsquo;s son, and mayst well help me to bear them; so
let us talk simply and without guile, as folk that trust one another.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So she drank and held out the horn to him, and he took the horn and
her hand both, and he kissed her hand and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Here in this Hall I drink to the Sons of the Wolf, whosoever
they be.&rsquo;&nbsp; Therewith he drank and he said: &lsquo;Simply
and guilelessly indeed will I talk with thee; for I am weary of lies,
and for thy sake have I told a many.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou shalt tell no more,&rsquo; she said; &lsquo;and as for
the health thou hast drunk, it is good, and shall profit thee.&nbsp;
Now sit we here in these ancient seats and let us talk.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So they sat them down while the sun was westering in the March afternoon,
and she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Tell me first what tidings have been in the Dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So he told her of the ransackings and of the murder at Carlstead.</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;These tidings have we heard before, and some deal
of them we know better than ye do, or can; for we were the ransackers
of Penny-thumb and Harts-bane.&nbsp; Thereof will I say more presently.&nbsp;
What other tidings hast thou to tell of?&nbsp; What oaths were sworn
upon the Boar last Yule?&rsquo;</p>
<p>So he told her of the oath of Bristler the son of Brightling.&nbsp;
She smiled and said: &lsquo;He shall keep his oath, and yet redden no
blade.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he told of his father&rsquo;s oath, and she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is good; but even so would he do and no oath sworn.&nbsp;
All men may trust Iron-face.&nbsp; And thou, my friend, what oath didst
thou swear?&rsquo;</p>
<p>His face grew somewhat troubled as he said: &lsquo;I swore to wed
the fairest woman in the world, though the Dalesmen gainsaid me, and
they beyond the Dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;and there is no need to ask thee
whom thou didst mean by thy &ldquo;fairest woman,&rdquo; for I have
seen that thou deemest me fair enough.&nbsp; My friend, maybe thy kindred
will be against it, and the kindred of the Bride; and it might be that
my kindred would have gainsaid it if things were not as they are.&nbsp;
But though all men gainsay it, yet will not I.&nbsp; It is meet and
right that we twain wed.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She spake very soberly and quietly, but when she had spoken there
was nothing in his heart but joy and gladness: yet shame of her loveliness
refrained him, and he cast down his eyes before hers.&nbsp; Then she
said in a kind voice:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I know thee, how glad thou art of this word of mine, because
thou lookest on me with eyes of love, and thinkest of me as better than
I am; though I am no ill woman and no beguiler.&nbsp; But this is not
all that I have to say to thee, though it be much; for there are more
folk in the world than thou and I only.&nbsp; But I told thee this first,
that thou mightest trust me in all things.&nbsp; So, my friend, if thou
canst, refrain thy joy and thy longing a little, and hearken to what
concerneth thee and me, and thy people and mine.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Fair woman and sweet friend,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;thou knowest
of a gladness which is hard to bear if one must lay it aside for a while;
and of a longing which is hard to refrain if it mingle with another
longing - knowest thou not?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;I know it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yet,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;I will forbear as thou
biddest me.&nbsp; Tell me, then, what were the felons who were slain
at Carlstead?&nbsp; Knowest thou of them?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Over well,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;they are our foes this
many a year; and since we met last autumn they have become foes of you
Dalesmen also.&nbsp; Soon shall ye have tidings of them; and it was
against them that I bade thee arm yesterday.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Is it against them that thou wouldst have
us do battle along with thy folk?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;So it is,&rsquo; she said; &lsquo;no other foemen have we.&nbsp;
And now, Gold-mane, thou art become a friend of the Wolf, and shalt
before long be of affinity with our House; that other day thou didst
ask me to tell thee of me and mine, and now will I do according to thine
asking.&nbsp; Short shall my tale be; because maybe thou shalt hear
it told again, and in goodly wise, before thine whole folk.</p>
<p>&lsquo;As thou wottest we be now outlaws and Wolves&rsquo; Heads;
and whiles we lift the gear of men, but ever if we may of ill men and
not of good; there is no worthy goodman of the Dale from whom we would
take one hoof, or a skin of wine, or a cake of wax.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Wherefore are we outlaws?&nbsp; Because we have been driven
from our own, and we bore away our lives and our weapons, and little
else; and for our lands, thou seest this Vale in the howling wilderness
and how narrow and poor it is, though it hath been the nurse of warriors
in time past.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hearken!&nbsp; Time long ago came the kindred of the Wolf
to these Mountains of the World; and they were in a pass in the stony
maze and the utter wilderness of the Mountains, and the foe was behind
them in numbers not to be borne up against.&nbsp; And so it befell that
the pass forked, and there were two ways before our Folk; and one part
of them would take the way to the north and the other the way to the
south; and they could not agree which way the whole Folk should take.&nbsp;
So they sundered into two companies, and one took one way and one another.&nbsp;
Now as to those who fared by the southern road, we knew not what befell
them, nor for long and long had we any tale of them.</p>
<p>&lsquo;But we who took the northern road, we happened on this Vale
amidst the wilderness, and we were weary of fleeing from the over-mastering
foe; and the dale seemed enough, and a refuge, and a place to dwell
in, and no man was there before us, and few were like to find it, and
we were but a few.&nbsp; So we dwelt here in this Vale for as wild as
it is, the place where the sun shineth never in the winter, and scant
is the summer sunshine therein.&nbsp; Here we raised a Doom-ring and
builded us a Hall, wherein thou now sittest beside me, O friend, and
we dwelt here many seasons.</p>
<p>&lsquo;We had a few sheep in the wilderness, and a few neat fed down
the grass of the Vale; and we found gems and copper in the rocks about
us wherewith at whiles to chaffer with the aliens, and fish we drew
from our river the Shivering Flood.&nbsp; Also it is not to be hidden
that in those days we did not spare to lift the goods of men; yea, whiles
would our warriors fare down unto the edges of the Plain and lie in
wait there till the time served, and then drive the spoil from under
the very walls of the Cities.&nbsp; Our men were not little-hearted,
nor did our women lament the death of warriors over-much, for they were
there to bear more warriors to the Folk.</p>
<p>&lsquo;But the seasons passed, and the Folk multiplied in Shadowy
Vale, and livelihood seemed like to fail them, and needs must they seek
wider lands.&nbsp; So by ways which thou wilt one day wot of, we came
into a valley that lieth north-west of Shadowy Vale: a land like thine
of Burgdale, or better; wide it was, plenteous of grass and trees, well
watered, full of all things that man can desire.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Were there men before us in this Dale? sayest thou.&nbsp;
Yea, but not very many, and they feeble in battle, weak of heart, though
strong of body.&nbsp; These, when they saw the Sons of the Wolf with
weapons in their hands, felt themselves puny before us, and their hearts
failed them; and they came to us with gifts, and offered to share the
Dale between them and us, for they said there was enough for both folks.&nbsp;
So we took their offer and became their friends; and some of our Houses
wedded wives of the strangers, and gave them their women to wife.&nbsp;
Therein they did amiss; for the blended Folk as the generations passed
became softer than our blood, and many were untrusty and greedy and
tyrannous, and the days of the whoredom fell upon us, and when we deemed
ourselves the mightiest then were we the nearest to our fall.&nbsp;
But the House whereof I am would never wed with these Westlanders, and
other Houses there were who had affinity with us who chiefly wedded
with us of the Wolf, and their fathers had come with ours into that
fruitful Dale; and these were called the Red Hand, and the Silver Arm,
and the Golden Bushel, and the Ragged Sword.&nbsp; Thou hast heard those
names once before, friend?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; he said, and as he spoke the picture of that other
day came back to him, and he called to mind all that he had said, and
his happiness of that hour seemed the more and the sweeter for that
memory.</p>
<p>She went on: &lsquo;Fair and goodly is that Dale as mine own eyes
have seen, and plentiful of all things, and up in its mountains to the
east are caves and pits whence silver is digged abundantly; therefore
is the Dale called Silver-dale.&nbsp; Hast thou heard thereof, my friend?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;though I have marvelled
whence ye gat such foison of silver.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He looked on her and marvelled, for now she seemed as if it were
another woman: her eyes were gleaming bright, her lips were parted;
there was a bright red flush on the pommels of her two cheeks as she
spake again and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Happy lived the Folk in Silver-dale for many and many winters
and summers: the seasons were good and no lack was there: little sickness
there was and less war, and all seemed better than well.&nbsp; It is
strange that ye Dalesmen have not heard of Silver-dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;but I have not; of Rose-dale have
I heard, as a land very far away: but no further do we know of toward
that a&iacute;rt.&nbsp; Lieth Silver-dale anywhere nigh to Rose-dale?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;It is the next dale to it, yet is it a far journey
betwixt the two, for the ice-sea pusheth a horn in betwixt them; and
even below the ice the mountain-neck is passable to none save a bold
crag-climber, and to him only bearing his life in his hands.&nbsp; But,
my friend, I am but lingering over my tale, because it grieveth me sore
to have to tell it.&nbsp; Hearken then!&nbsp; In the days when I had
seen but ten summers, and my brother was a very young man, but exceeding
strong, and as beautiful as thou art now, war fell on us without rumour
or warning; for there swarmed into Silver-dale, though not by the ways
whereby we had entered it, a host of aliens, short of stature, crooked
of limb, foul of aspect, but fierce warriors and armed full well: they
were men having no country to go back to, though they had no women or
children with them, as we had when we were young in these lands, but
used all women whom they took as their beastly lust bade them, making
them their thralls if they slew them not.&nbsp; Soon we found that these
foemen asked no more of us than all we had, and therewithal our lives
to be cast away or used for their service as beasts of burden or pleasure.&nbsp;
There then we gathered our fighting-men and withstood them; and if we
had been all of the kindreds of the Wolf and the fruit of the wives
of warriors, we should have driven back these felons and saved the Dale,
though it maybe more than half ruined: but the most part of us were
of that mingled blood, or of the generations of the Dalesmen whom we
had conquered long ago, and stout as they were of body their hearts
failed them, and they gave themselves up to the aliens to be as their
oxen and asses.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Why make a long tale of it?&nbsp; We who were left, and could
brook death but not thraldom, fought it out together, women as well
as men, till the sweetness of life and a happy chance for escape bid
us flee, vanquished but free men.&nbsp; For at the end of three days&rsquo;
fight we had been driven up to the easternmost end of the Dale, and
up anigh to the jaws of the pass whereby the Folk had first come into
Silver-dale, and we had those with us who knew every cranny of that
way, while to strangers who knew it not it was utterly impassable; night
was coming on also, and even those murder-carles were weary with slaying;
and, moreover, on this last day, when they saw that they had won all,
they were fighting to keep, and not to slay, and a few stubborn carles
and queens, of what use would they be, or where was the gain of risking
life to win them?</p>
<p>&lsquo;So they forbore us, and night came on moonless and dark; and
it was the early spring season, when the days are not yet long, and
so by night and cloud we fled away, and back again to Shadowy Vale.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Forsooth, we were but a few; for when we were gotten into
this Vale, this strip of grass and water in the wilderness, and had
told up our company, we were but two hundred and thirty and five of
men and women and children.&nbsp; For there were an hundred and thirty
and three grown men of all ages, and of women grown seventy and five,
and one score and seven children, whereof I was one; for, as thou mayst
deem, it was easier for grown men with weapons in their hands to escape
from that slaughter than for women and children.</p>
<p>&lsquo;There sat we in yonder Doom-ring and took counsel, and to
some it seemed good that we should all dwell together in Shadowy Vale,
and beset the skirts of the foemen till the days should better; but
others deemed that there was little avail therein; and there was a mighty
man of the kindred, Stone-wolf by name, a man of middle-age, and he
said, that late in life had he tasted of war, and though the banquet
was made bitter with defeat, yet did the meat seem wholesome to him.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Come down with me to the Cities of the Plain,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;all you who are stout warriors; and leave we here the old men
and the swains and the women and children.&nbsp; Hateful are the folk
there, and full of malice, but soft withal and dastardly.&nbsp; Let
us go down thither and make ourselves strong amongst them, and sell
our valour for their wealth till we come to rule them, and they make
us their kings, and we establish the Folk of the Wolf amongst the aliens;
then will we come back hither and bring away that which we have left.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;So he spake, and the more part of the warriors yea said his
rede, and they went with him to the Westland, and amongst these was
my brother Folk-might (for that is his name in the kindred).&nbsp; And
I sorrowed at his departure, for he had borne me thither out of the
flames and the clash of swords and the press of battle, and to me had
he ever been kind and loving, albeit he hath had the Words of hard and
froward used on him full oft.</p>
<p>&lsquo;So in this Vale abode we that were left, and the seasons passed;
some of the elders died, and some of the children also; but more children
were born, for amongst us were men and women to whom it was lawful to
wed with each other.&nbsp; Even with this scanty remnant was left some
of the life of the kindred of old days; and after we had been here but
a little while, the young men, yea and the old also, and even some of
the women, would steal through passes that we, and we only, knew of,
and would fall upon the Aliens in Silver-dale as occasion served, and
lift their goods both live and dead; and this became both a craft and
a pastime amongst us.&nbsp; Nor may I hide that we sometimes went lifting
otherwhere; for in the summer and autumn we would fare west a little
and abide in the woods the season through, and hunt the deer thereof,
and whiles would we drive the spoil from the scattered folk not far
from your Shepherd-Folk; but with the Shepherds themselves and with
you Dalesmen we meddled not.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now that little wood-lawn with the toft of an ancient dwelling
in it, wherein, saith Bow-may, thou didst once rest, was one of our
summer abodes; and later on we built the hall under the pine-wood that
thou knowest.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thus then grew up our young men; and our maids were little
softer; e&rsquo;en such as Bow-may is (and kind is she withal), and
it seemed in very sooth as if the Spirit of the Wolf was with us, and
the roughness of the Waste made us fierce; and law we had not and heeded
not, though love was amongst us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She stopped awhile and fell a-musing, and her face softened, and
she turned to him with that sweet happy look upon it and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Desolate and dreary is the Dale, thou deemest, friend; and
yet for me I love it and its dark-green water, and it is to me as if
the Fathers of the kindred visit it and hold converse with us; and there
I grew up when I was little, before I knew what a woman was, and strange
communings had I with the wilderness.&nbsp; Friend, when we are wedded,
and thou art a great chieftain, as thou wilt be, I shall ask of thee
the boon to suffer me to abide here at whiles that I may remember the
days when I was little and the love of the kindred waxed in me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;This is but a little thing to ask,&rsquo; said Face-of-god;
&lsquo;I would thou hadst asked me more.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Fear not,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;I shall ask thee for much
and many things; and some of them belike thou shalt deny me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He shook his head; but she smiled in his face and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, so it is, friend; but hearken.&nbsp; The seasons passed,
and six years wore, and I was grown a tall slim maiden, fleet of foot
and able to endure toil enough, though I never bore weapons, nor have
done.&nbsp; So on a fair even of midsummer when we were together, the
most of us, round about this Hall and the Doom-ring, we saw a tall man
in bright war-gear come forth into the Dale by the path that thou camest,
and then another and another till there were two score and seven men-at-arms
standing on the grass below the scree yonder; by that time had we gotten
some weapons in our hands, and we stood together to meet the new-comers,
but they drew no sword and notched no shaft, but came towards us laughing
and joyous, and lo! it was my brother Folk-might and his men, those
that were left of them, come back to us from the Westland.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Glad indeed was I to behold him; and for him when he had taken
me in his arms and looked up and down the Dale, he cried out: &lsquo;In
many fair places and many rich dwellings have I been; but this is the
hour that I have looked for.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now when we asked him concerning Stone-wolf and the others
who were missing (for ten tens of stalwarth men had fared to the Westland),
he swept out his hand toward the west and said with a solemn face: &ldquo;There
they lie, and grass groweth over their bones, and we who have come aback,
and ye who have abided, these are now the children of the Wolf: there
are no more now on the earth.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Let be!&nbsp; It was a fair even and high was the feast in
the Hall that night, and sweet was the converse with our folk come back.&nbsp;
A glad man was my brother Folk-might when he heard that for years past
we had been lifting the gear of men, and chiefly of the Aliens in Silver-dale:
and he himself was become learned in war and a deft leader of men.</p>
<p>&lsquo;So the days passed and the seasons, and we lived on as we
might; but with Folk-might&rsquo;s return there began to grow up in
all our hearts what had long been flourishing in mine, and that was
the hope of one day winning back our own again, and dying amidst the
dear groves of Silver-dale.&nbsp; Within these years we had increased
somewhat in number; for if we had lost those warriors in the Westland,
and some old men who had died in the Dale, yet our children had grown
up (I have now seen twenty and one summers) and more were growing up.&nbsp;
Moreover, after the first year, from the time when we began to fall
upon the Dusky Men of Silver-dale, from time to time they who went on
such adventures set free such thralls of our blood as they could fall
in with and whom they could trust in, and they dwelt (and yet dwell)
with us in the Dale: first and last we have taken in three score and
twelve of such men, and a score of women-thralls withal.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now during these seasons, and not very long ago, after I was
a woman grown, the thought came to me, and to Folk-might also, that
there were kindreds of the people dwelling anear us whom we might so
deal with that they should become our friends and brothers in arms,
and that through them we might win back Silver-dale.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Of Rose-dale we wotted already that the Folk were nought of
our blood, feeble in the field, cowed by the Dusky Men, and at last
made thralls to them; so nought was to do there.&nbsp; But Folk-might
went to and fro to gather tidings: at whiles I with him, at whiles one
or more of Wood-father&rsquo;s children, who with their father and mother
and Bow-may have abided in the Vale ever since the Great Undoing.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Soon he fell in with thy Folk, and first of all with the Woodlanders,
and that was a joy to him; for wot ye what?&nbsp; He got to know that
these men were the children of those of our Folk who had sundered from
us in the mountain passes time long and long ago; and he loved them,
for he saw that they were hardy and trusty, and warriors at heart.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Then he went amongst the Shepherd-Folk, and he deemed them
good men easily stirred, and deemed that they might soon be won to friendship;
and he knew that they were mostly come from the Houses of the Woodlanders,
so that they also were of the kindred.</p>
<p>&lsquo;And last he came into Burgdale, and found there a merry and
happy Folk, little wont to war, but stout-hearted, and nowise puny either
of body or soul; he went there often and learned much about them, and
deemed that they would not be hard to win to fellowship.&nbsp; And he
found that the House of the Face was the chiefest house there; and that
the Alderman and his sons were well beloved of all the folk, and that
they were the men to be won first, since through them should all others
be won.&nbsp; I also went to Burgstead with him twice, as I told thee
erst; and I saw thee, and I deemed that thou wouldest lightly become
our friend; and it came into my mind that I myself might wed thee, and
that the House of the Face thereby might have affinity thenceforth with
the Children of the Wolf.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;Why didst thou deem thus of me, O friend?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She laughed and said: &lsquo;Dost thou long to hear me say the words
when thou knowest my thought well?&nbsp; So be it.&nbsp; I saw thee
both young and fair; and I knew thee to be the son of a noble, worthy,
guileless man and of a beauteous woman of great wits and good rede.&nbsp;
And I found thee to be kind and open-handed and simple like thy father,
and like thy mother wiser than thou thyself knew of thyself; and that
thou wert desirous of deeds and fain of women.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She was silent for a while, and he also: then he said: &lsquo;Didst
thou draw me to the woods and to thee?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She reddened and said: &lsquo;I am no spell-wife: but true it is
that Wood-mother made a waxen image of thee, and thrust through the
heart thereof the pin of my girdle-buckle, and stroked it every morning
with an oak-bough over which she had sung spells.&nbsp; But dost thou
not remember, Gold-mane, how that one day last Hay-month, as ye were
resting in the meadows in the cool of the evening, there came to you
a minstrel that played to you on the fiddle, and therewith sang a song
that melted all your hearts, and that this song told of the Wild-wood,
and what was therein of desire and peril and beguiling and death, and
love unto Death itself?&nbsp; Dost thou remember, friend?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;and how when the minstrel was
done Stone-face fell to telling us more tales yet of the woodland, and
the minstrel sang again and yet again, till his tales had entered into
my very heart.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;and that minstrel was Wood-wont;
and I sent him to sing to thee and thine, deeming that if thou didst
hearken, thou would&rsquo;st seek the woodland and happen upon us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He laughed and said: &lsquo;Thou didst not doubt but that if we met,
thou mightest do with me as thou wouldest?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;So it is,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;that I doubted it little.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Therein wert thou wise,&rsquo; said Face-of-god; &lsquo;but
now that we are talking without guile to each other, mightest thou tell
me wherefore it was that Folk-might made that onslaught upon me?&nbsp;
For certain it is that he was minded to slay me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;It was sooth what I told thee, that whiles he groweth
so battle-eager that whatso edge-tool he beareth must needs come out
of the scabbard; but there was more in it than that, which I could not
tell thee erst.&nbsp; Two days before thy coming he had been down to
Burgstead in the guise of an old carle such as thou sawest him with
me in the market-place.&nbsp; There was he guested in your Hall, and
once more saw thee and the Bride together; and he saw the eyes of love
wherewith she looked on thee (for so much he told me), and deemed that
thou didst take her love but lightly.&nbsp; And he himself looked on
her with such love (and this he told me not) that he deemed nought good
enough for her, and would have had thee give thyself up wholly to her;
for my brother is a generous man, my friend.&nbsp; So when I told him
on the morn of that day whereon we met that we looked to see thee that
eve (for indeed I am somewhat foreseeing), he said: &ldquo;Look thou,
Sun-beam, if he cometh, it is not unlike that I shall drive a spear
through him.&rdquo;&nbsp; &ldquo;Wherefore?&rdquo; said I; &ldquo;can
he serve our turn when he is dead?&rdquo;&nbsp; Said he: &ldquo;I care
little.&nbsp; Mine own turn will I serve.&nbsp; Thou sayest <i>Wherefore</i>?&nbsp;
I tell thee this stripling beguileth to her torment the fairest woman
that is in the world - such an one as is meet to be the mother of chieftains,
and to stand by warriors in their day of peril.&nbsp; I have seen her;
and thus have I seen her.&rdquo;&nbsp; Then said I: &ldquo;Greatly forsooth
shalt thou pleasure her by slaying him!&rdquo;&nbsp; And he answered:
&ldquo;I shall pleasure myself.&nbsp; And one day she shall thank me,
when she taketh my hand in hers and we go together to the Bride-bed.&rdquo;&nbsp;
Therewith came over me a clear foresight of the hours to come, and I
said to him: &ldquo;Yea, Folk-might, cast the spear and draw the sword;
but him thou shalt not slay: and thou shalt one day see him standing
with us before the shafts of the Dusky Men.&rdquo;&nbsp; So I spake;
but he looked fiercely at me, and departed and shunned me all that day,
and by good hap I was hard at hand when thou drewest nigh our abode.&nbsp;
Nay, Gold-mane, what would&rsquo;st thou with thy sword?&nbsp; Why art
thou so red and wrathful?&nbsp; Would&rsquo;st thou fight with my brother
because he loveth thy friend, thine old playmate, thy kinswoman, and
thinketh pity of her sorrow?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said, with knit brow and gleaming eyes: &lsquo;Would the man take
her away from me perforce?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;My friend,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;thou art not yet so wise
as not to be a fool at whiles.&nbsp; Is it not so that she herself hath
taken herself from thee, since she hath come to know that thou hast
given thyself to another?&nbsp; Hath she noted nought of thee this winter
and spring?&nbsp; Is she well pleased with the ways of thee?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;Thou hast spoken simply with me, and I will do no
less with thee.&nbsp; It was but four days agone that she did me to
wit that she knew of me how I sought my love on the Mountain; and she
put me to sore shame, and afterwards I wept for her sorrow.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he told her all that the Bride had said to him, as he well
might, for he had forgotten no word of it.</p>
<p>Then said the Friend: &lsquo;She shall have the token that she craveth,
and it is I that shall give it to her.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she took from her finger a ring wherein was set a very
fair changeful mountain-stone, and gave it to him, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou shalt give her this and tell her whence thou hadst it;
and tell her that I bid her remember that To-morrow is a new day.&rsquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XX.&nbsp; THOSE TWO TOGETHER HOLD THE RING OF THE EARTH-GOD</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>And now they fell silent both of them, and sat hearkening the sounds
of the Dale, from the whistle of the plover down by the water-side to
the far-off voices of the children and maidens about the kine in the
lower meadows.&nbsp; At last Gold-mane took up the word and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Sweet friend, tell me the uttermost of what thou would&rsquo;st
have of me.&nbsp; Is it not that I should stand by thee and thine in
the Folk-mote of the Dalesmen, and speak for you when ye pray us for
help against your foemen; and then again that I do my best when ye and
we are arrayed for battle against the Dusky Men?&nbsp; This is easy
to do, and great is the reward thou offerest me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;I look for this service of thee,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;and
none other.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;And when I go down to the battle,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;shalt
thou be sorry for our sundering?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;There shall be no sundering; I shall wend with thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said he: &lsquo;And if I were slain in the battle, would&rsquo;st
thou lament me?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou shalt not be slain,&rsquo; she said.</p>
<p>Again was there silence betwixt them, till at last he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;This then is why thou didst draw me to thee in the Wild-wood?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said she.</p>
<p>Again for a while no word was spoken, and Face-of-god looked on her
till she cast her eyes down before him.</p>
<p>Then at last he spake, and the colour came and went in his face as
he said: &lsquo;Tell me thy name what it is.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;I am called the Sun-beam.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he said, and his voice trembled therewith: &lsquo;O Sun-beam,
I have been seeking pleasant and cunning words, and can find none such.&nbsp;
But tell me this if thou wilt: dost thou desire me as I desire thee?
or is it that thou wilt suffer me to wed thee and bed thee at last as
mere payment for the help that I shall give to thee and thine?&nbsp;
Nay, doubt it not that I will take the payment, if this is what thou
wilt give me and nought else.&nbsp; Yet tell me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Her face grew troubled, and she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Gold-mane, maybe that thou hast now asked me one question
too many; for this is no fair game to be played between us.&nbsp; For
thee, as I deem, there are this day but two people in the world, and
that is thou and I, and the earth is for us two alone.&nbsp; But, my
friend, though I have seen but twenty and one summers, it is nowise
so with me, and to me there are many in the world; and chiefly the Folk
of the Wolf, amidst whose very heart I have grown up.&nbsp; Moreover,
I can think of her whom I have supplanted, the Bride to wit; and I know
her, and how bitter and empty her days shall be for a while, and how
vain all our redes for her shall seem to her.&nbsp; Yea, I know her
sorrow, and see it and grieve for it: so canst not thou, unless thou
verily see her before thee, her face unhappy, and her voice changed
and hard.&nbsp; Well, I will tell thee what thou askest.&nbsp; When
I drew thee to me on the Mountain I thought but of the friendship and
brotherhood to be knitted up between our two Folks, nor did I anywise
desire thy love of a young man.&nbsp; But when I saw thee on the heath
and in the Hall that day, it pleased me to think that a man so fair
and chieftain-like should one day lie by my side; and again when I saw
that the love of me had taken hold of thee, I would not have thee grieved
because of me, but would have thee happy.&nbsp; And now what shall I
say? - I know not; I cannot tell.&nbsp; Yet am I the Friend, as erst
I called myself.</p>
<p>&lsquo;And, Gold-mane, I have seen hitherto but the outward show
and image of thee, and though that be goodly, how would it be if thou
didst shame me with little-heartedness and evil deeds?&nbsp; Let me
see thee in the Folk-mote and the battle, and then may I answer thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then she held her peace, and he answered nothing; and she turned
her face from him and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Out on it! have I beguiled myself as well as thee?&nbsp; These
are but empty words I have been saying.&nbsp; If thou wilt drag the
truth out of me, this is the very truth: that to-day is happy to me
as it is to thee, and that I have longed sore for its coming.&nbsp;
O Gold-mane, O speech-friend, if thou wert to pray me or command me
that I lie in thine arms to-night, I should know not how to gainsay
thee.&nbsp; Yet I beseech thee to forbear, lest thy death and mine come
of it.&nbsp; And why should we die, O friend, when we are so young,
and the world lies so fair before us, and the happy days are at hand
when the Children of the Wolf and the kindreds of the Dale shall deliver
the Folk, and all days shall be good and all years?&rsquo;</p>
<p>They had both risen up as she spake, and now he put forth his hands
to her and took her in his arms, wondering the while, as he drew her
to him, how much slenderer and smaller and weaker she seemed in his
embrace than he had thought of her; and when their lips met, he felt
that she kissed him as he her.&nbsp; Then he held her by the shoulders
at arms&rsquo; length from him, and beheld her face how her eyes were
closed and her lips quivering.&nbsp; But before him, in a moment of
time, passed a picture of the life to be in the fair Dale, and all she
would give him there, and the days good and lovely from morn to eve
and eve to morn; and though in that moment it was hard for him to speak,
at last he spoke in a voice hoarse at first, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou sayest sooth, O friend; we will not die, but live; I
will not drag our deaths upon us both, nor put a sword in the hands
of Folk-might, who loves me not.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he kissed her on the brow and said: &lsquo;Now shalt thou take
me by the hand and lead me forth from the Hall.&nbsp; For the day is
waxing old, and here meseemeth in this dim hall there are words crossing
in the air about us - words spoken in days long ago, and tales of old
time, that keep egging me on to do my will and die, because that is
all that the world hath for a valiant man; and to such words I would
not hearken, for in this hour I have no will to die, nor can I think
of death.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She took his hand and led him forth without more words, and they
went hand in hand and paced slowly round the Doom-ring, the light air
breathing upon them till their faces were as calm and quiet as their
wont was, and hers especially as bright and happy as when he had first
seen her that day.</p>
<p>The sun was sinking now, and only sent one golden ray into the valley
through a cleft in the western rock-wall, but the sky overhead was bright
and clear; from the meadows came the sound of the lowing of kine and
the voices of children a-sporting, and it seemed to Gold-mane that they
were drawing nigher, both the children and the kine, and somewhat he
begrudged it that he should not be alone with the Friend.</p>
<p>Now when they had made half the circuit of the Doom-ring, the Sun-beam
stopped him, and then led him through the Ring of Stones, and brought
him up to the altar which was amidst of it; and the altar was a great
black stone hewn smooth and clean, and with the image of the Wolf carven
on the front thereof; and on its face lay the gold ring which the priest
or captain of the Folk bore on his arm between the God and the people
at all folk-motes.</p>
<p>So she said: &lsquo;This is the altar of the God of Earth, and often
hath it been reddened by mighty men; and thereon lieth the Ring of the
Sons of the Wolf; and now it were well that we swore troth on that ring
before my brother cometh; for now will he soon be here.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Gold-mane took the Ring and thrust his right hand through it,
and took her right hand in his; so that the Ring lay on both their hands,
and therewith he spake aloud:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I am Face-of-god of the House of the Face, and I do thee to
wit, O God of the Earth, that I pledge my troth to this woman, the Sun-beam
of the Kindred of the Wolf, to beget my offspring on her, and to live
with her, and to die with her: so help me, thou God of the Earth, and
the Warrior and the God of the Face!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then spake the Sun-beam: &lsquo;I, the Sun-beam of the Children of
the Wolf, pledge my troth to Face-of-god to lie in his bed and to bear
his children and none other&rsquo;s, and to be his speech-friend till
I die: so help me the Wolf and the Warrior and the God of the Earth!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then they laid the Ring on the altar again, and they kissed each
other long and sweetly, and then turned away from the altar and departed
from the Doom-ring, going hand in hand together down the meadow, and
as they went, the noise of the kine and the children grew nearer and
nearer, and presently came the whole company of them round a ness of
the rock-wall; there were some thirty little lads and lasses driving
on the milch-kine, with half a score of older maids and grown women,
one of whom was Bow-may, who was lightly and scantily clad, as one who
heeds not the weather, or deems all months midsummer.</p>
<p>The children came running up merrily when they saw the Sun-beam,
but stopped short shyly when they noted the tall fair stranger with
her.&nbsp; They were all strong and sturdy children, and some very fair,
but brown with the weather, if not with the sun.&nbsp; Bow-may came
up to Gold-mane and took his hand and greeted him kindly and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;So here thou art at last in Shadowy Vale; and I hope that
thou art content therewith, and as happy as I would wish thee to be.&nbsp;
Well, this is the first time; and when thou comest the second time it
may well be that the world shall be growing better.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She held the distaff which she bore in her hand (for she had been
spinning) as if it were a spear; her limbs were goodly and shapely,
and she trod the thick grass of the Vale with a kind of wary firmness,
as though foemen might be lurking nearby.&nbsp; The Sun-beam smiled
upon her kindly and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;That shall not fail to be, Bow-may: ye have won a new friend
to-day.&nbsp; But tell me, when dost thou look to see the men here,
for I was down by the water when they went away yesterday?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;They shall come into the Dale a little after sunset,&rsquo;
said Bow-may.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Shall I abide them, my friend?&rsquo; said Gold-mane, turning
to the Sun-beam.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said; &lsquo;for what else art thou come hither?
or art thou so pressed to depart from us?&nbsp; Last time we met thou
wert not so hasty to sunder.&rsquo;</p>
<p>They smiled on each other; and Bow-may looked on them and laughed
outright; then a flush showed in her cheeks through the tan of them,
and she turned toward the children and the other women who were busied
about the milking of the kine.</p>
<p>But those two sat down together on a bank amidst the plain meadow,
facing the river and the eastern rock-wall, and the Sun-beam said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I am fain to speak to thee and to see thine eyes watching
me while I speak; and now, my friend, I will tell thee something unasked
which has to do with what e&rsquo;en now thou didst ask me; for I would
have thee trust me wholly, and know me for what I am.&nbsp; Time was
I schemed and planned for this day of betrothal; but now I tell thee
it has become no longer needful for bringing to pass our fellowship
in arms with thy people.&nbsp; Yea yesterday, ere he went on a hunt,
whereof he shall tell thee, Folk-might was against it, in words at least;
and yet as one who would have it done if he might have no part in it.&nbsp;
So, in good sooth, this hand that lieth in thine is the hand of a wilful
woman, who desireth a man, and would keep him for her speech-friend.&nbsp;
Now art thou fond and happy; yet bear in mind that there are deeds to
be done, and the troth we have just plighted must be paid for.&nbsp;
So hearken, I bid thee.&nbsp; Dost thou care to know why the wheedling
of thee is no longer needful to us?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;A little while ago I should have said, Yea, If thy
lips say the words.&nbsp; But now, O friend, it seemeth as if thine
heart were already become a part of mine, and I feel as if the chieftain
were growing up in me and the longing for deeds: so I say, Tell me,
for I were fain to hear what toucheth the welfare of thy Folk and their
fellowship with my Folk; for on that also have I set my heart?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said gravely and with solemn eyes:</p>
<p>&lsquo;What thou sayest is good: full glad am I that I have not plighted
my troth to a mere goodly lad, but rather to a chieftain and a warrior.&nbsp;
Now then hearken!&nbsp; Since I saw thee first in the autumn this hath
happened, that the Dusky Men, increasing both in numbers and insolence,
have it in their hearts to win more than Silver-dale, and it is years
since they have fallen upon Rose-dale and conquered it, rather by murder
than by battle, and made all men thralls there, for feeble were the
Folk thereof; and doubt it not but that they will look into Burgdale
before long.&nbsp; They are already abroad in the woods, and were it
not for the fear of the Wolf they would be thicker therein, and faring
wider; for we have slain many of them, coming upon them unawares; and
they know not where we dwell, nor who we be: so they fear to spread
about over-much and pry into unknown places lest the Wolf howl on them.&nbsp;
Yet beware! for they will gather in numbers that we may not meet, and
then will they swarm into the Dale; and if ye would live your happy
life that ye love so well, ye must now fight for it; and in that battle
must ye needs join yourselves to us, that we may help each other.&nbsp;
Herein have ye nought to choose, for now with you it is no longer a
thing to talk of whether ye will help certain strangers and guests and
thereby win some gain to yourselves, but whether ye have the hearts
to fight for yourselves, and the wits to be the fellows of tall men
and stout warriors who have pledged their lives to win or die for it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She was silent a little and then turned and looked fondly on Face-of-god
and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Therefore, Gold-mane, we need thee no longer; for thou must
needs fight in our battle.&nbsp; I have no longer aught to do to wheedle
thee to love me.&nbsp; Yet if thou wilt love me, then am I a glad woman.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;Thou wottest well that thou hast all my love, neither
will I fail thee in the battle.&nbsp; I am not little-hearted, though
I would have given myself to thee for no reward.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is well,&rsquo; said the Sun-beam; &lsquo;nought is undone
by that which I have done.&nbsp; Moreover, it is good that we have plighted
troth to-day.&nbsp; For Folk-might will presently hear thereof, and
he must needs abide the thing which is done.&nbsp; Hearken! he cometh.&rsquo;</p>
<p>For as she spoke there came a glad cry from the women and children,
and those two stood up and turned toward the west and beheld the warriors
of the Wolf coming down into the Dale by the way that Gold-mane had
come.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Come,&rsquo; said the Sun-beam, &lsquo;here are your brethren
in arms, let us go greet them; they will rejoice in thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So they went thither, and there stood eighty and seven men on the
grass below the scree and Folk-might their captain; and besides some
valiant women, and a few carles who were on watch on the waste, and
a half score who had been left in the Dale, these were all the warriors
of the Wolf.&nbsp; They were clad in no holiday raiment, not even Folk-might,
but were in sheep-brown gear of the coarsest, like to husbandmen late
come from the plough, but armed well and goodly.</p>
<p>But when the twain drew near, the men clashed their spears on their
shields, and cried out for joy of them, for they all knew what Face-of-god&rsquo;s
presence there betokened of fellowship with the kindreds; but Folk-might
came forward and took Face-of-god&rsquo;s hand and greeted him and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hail, son of the Alderman!&nbsp; Here hast thou come into
the ancient abode of chieftains and warriors, and belike deeds await
thee also.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Yet his brow was knitted as he said these words, and he spake slowly,
as one that constraineth himself; but presently his face cleared somewhat
and he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Dalesman, it behoveth thy people to bestir them if ye would
live and see good days.&nbsp; Hath my sister told thee what is toward?&nbsp;
Or what sayest thou?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hail to thee, son of the Wolf!&rsquo; said Face-of-god.&nbsp;
&lsquo;Thy sister hath told me all; and even if these Dusky Felons were
not our foe-men also, yet could I have my way, we should have given
thee all help, and should have brought back peace and good days to thy
folk.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Folk-might flushed red and spake, as he cast out his hand towards
the warriors and up and down toward the Dale:</p>
<p>&lsquo;These be my folk, and these only: and as to peace, only those
of us know of it who are old men.&nbsp; Yet is it well; and if we and
ye together be strong enough to bring back good days to the feeble men
whom the Dusky Ones torment in Silver-dale it shall be better yet.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he turned about to his sister, and looked keenly into her eyes
till she reddened, and took her hand and looked at the wrist and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O sister, see I not the mark on thy wrist of the Ring of the
God of the Earth?&nbsp; Have not oaths been sworn since yesterday?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;True it is,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;that this man and I have
plighted troth together at the altar of the Doom-ring.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Folk-might: &lsquo;Thou wilt have thy will, and I may not amend
it.&rsquo;&nbsp; Therewith he turned about to Face-of-god and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou must look to it to keep this oath, whatever other one
thou hast failed in.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god somewhat wrathfully: &lsquo;I shall keep it, whether
thou biddest me to keep it or break it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;That is well,&rsquo; said Folk-might, &lsquo;and then for
all that hath gone before thou mayest in a manner pay, if thou art dauntless
before the foe.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;I look to be no blencher in the battle,&rsquo; said Face-of-god;
&lsquo;that is not the fashion of our kindred, whosoever may be before
us.&nbsp; Yea, and even were it thy blade, O mighty warrior of the Wolf,
I would do my best to meet it in manly fashion.&rsquo;</p>
<p>As he spake he half drew forth Dale-warden from his sheath, looking
steadily into the eyes of Folk-might; and the Sun-beam looked upon him
happily.&nbsp; But Folk-might laughed and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thy sword is good, and I deem that thine heart will not fail
thee; but it is by my side and not in face of me that thou shalt redden
the good blade: I see not the day when we twain shall hew at each other.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then in a while he spake again:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou must pardon us if our words are rough; for we have stood
in rough places, where we had to speak both short and loud, whereas
there was much to do.&nbsp; But now will we twain talk of matters that
concern chieftains who are going on a hard adventure.&nbsp; And ye women,
do ye dight the Hall for the evening feast, which shall be the feast
of the troth-plight for you twain.&nbsp; This indeed we owe thee, O
guest; for little shall be thine heritage which thou shalt have with
my sister, over and above that thy sword winneth for thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But the Sun-beam said: &lsquo;Hast thou any to-night?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; he said; &lsquo;Spear-god, how many was it?&rsquo;</p>
<p>There came forward a tall man bearing an axe in his right hand, and
carrying over his shoulder by his left hand a bundle of silver arm-rings
just such as Gold-mane had seen on the felons who were slain by Wood-grey&rsquo;s
house.&nbsp; The carle cast them on the ground and then knelt down and
fell to telling them over; and then looked up and said: &lsquo;Twelve
yesterday in the wood where the battle was going on; and this morning
seven by the tarn in the pine-wood and six near this eastern edge of
the wood: one score and five all told.&nbsp; But, Folk-might, they are
coming nigh to Shadowy Vale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Sooth is that,&rsquo; said Folk-might; &lsquo;but it shall
be looked to.&nbsp; Come now apart with me, Face-of-god.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So the others went their ways toward the Hall, while Folk-might led
the Burgdaler to a sheltered nook under the sheer rocks, and there they
sat down to talk, and Folk-might asked Gold-mane closely of the muster
of the Dalesmen and the Shepherds and the Woodland Caries, and he was
well pleased when Face-of-god told him of how many could march to a
stricken field, and of their archery, and of their weapons and their
goodness.</p>
<p>All this took some time in the telling, and now night was coming
on apace, and Folk-might said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now will it be time to go to the Hall; but keep in thy mind
that these Dusky Men will overrun you unless ye deal with them betimes.&nbsp;
These are of the kind that ye must cast fear into their hearts by falling
on them; for if ye abide till they fall upon you, they are like the
winter wolves that swarm on and on, how many soever ye slay.&nbsp; And
this above all things shall help you, that we shall bring you whereas
ye shall fall on them unawares and destroy them as boys do with a wasp&rsquo;s
nest.&nbsp; Yet shall many a mother&rsquo;s son bite the dust.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Is it not so that in four weeks&rsquo; time is your spring-feast
and market at Burgstead, and thereafter the great Folk-mote?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;So it is,&rsquo; said Gold-mane.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thither shall I come then,&rsquo; said Folk-might, &lsquo;and
give myself out for the slayer of Rusty and the ransacker of Harts-bane
and Penny-thumb; and therefor shall I offer good blood-wite and theft-wite;
and thy father shall take that; for he is a just man.&nbsp; Then shall
I tell my tale.&nbsp; Yet it may be thou shalt see us before if battle
betide.&nbsp; And now fair befall this new year; for soon shall the
scabbards be empty and the white swords be dancing in the air, and spears
and axes shall be the growth of this spring-tide.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And he leaped up from his seat and walked to and fro before Gold-mane,
and now was it grown quite dark.&nbsp; Then Folk-might turned to Face-of-god
and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Come, guest, the windows of the Hall are yellow; let us to
the feast.&nbsp; To-morrow shalt thou get thee to the beginning of this
work.&nbsp; I hope of thee that thou art a good sword; else have I done
a folly and my sister a worse one.&nbsp; But now forget that, and feast.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Gold-mane arose, not very well at ease, for the man seemed overbearing;
yet how might he fall upon the Sun-beam&rsquo;s kindred, and the captain
of these new brethren in arms?&nbsp; So he spake not.&nbsp; But Folk-might
said to him:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yet I would not have thee forget that I was wroth with thee
when I saw thee to-day; and had it not been for the coming battle I
had drawn sword upon thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god&rsquo;s wrath was stirred, and he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;There is yet time for that! but why art thou wroth with me?&nbsp;
And I shall tell thee that there is little manliness in thy chiding.&nbsp;
For how may I fight with thee, thou the brother of my plighted speech-friend
and my captain in this battle?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Therein thou sayest sooth,&rsquo; said Folk-might; &lsquo;but
hard it was to see you two standing together; and thou canst not give
the Bride to me as I give my sister to thee.&nbsp; For I have seen her,
and I have seen her looking at thee; and I know that she will not have
it so.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then they went on together toward the Hall, and Face-of-god was silent
and somewhat troubled; and as they drew near to the Hall, Folk-might
spake again:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yet time may amend it; and if not, there is the battle, and
maybe the end.&nbsp; Now be we merry!&rsquo;</p>
<p>So they went into the Hall together, and there was the Sun-beam gloriously
arrayed, as erst in the woodland bower, and Face-of-god sat on the da&iuml;s
beside her, and the uttermost sweetness of desire entered into his soul
as he noted her eyes and her mouth, that were grown so kind to him,
and her hand that strayed toward his.</p>
<p>The Hall was full of folk, and all those warriors were there with
Wood-father and his sons, and Wood-mother, and Bow-may and many other
women; and Gold-mane looked down the Hall and deemed that he had never
seen such stalwarth bodies of men, or so bold and meet for battle: as
for the women he had seen fairer in Burgdale, but these were fair of
their own fashion, shapely and well-knit, and strong-armed and large-limbed,
yet sweet-voiced and gentle withal.&nbsp; Nay, the very lads of fifteen
winters or so, whereof a few were there, seemed bold and bright-eyed
and keen of wit, and it seemed like that if the warriors fared afield
these would be with them.</p>
<p>So wore the feast; and Folk-might as aforetime amongst the healths
called on men to drink to the Jaws of the Wolf, and the Red Hand, and
the Silver Arm, and the Golden Bushel, and the Ragged Sword.&nbsp; But
now had Face-of-god no need to ask what these meant, since he knew that
they were the names of the kindreds of the Wolf.&nbsp; They drank also
to the troth-plight and to those twain, and shouted aloud over the health
and clashed their weapons: and Gold-mane wondered what echo of that
shout would reach to Burgstead.</p>
<p>Then sang men songs of old time, and amongst them Wood-wont stood
with his fiddle amidst the Hall and Bow-may beside him, and they sang
in turn to it sweetly and clearly; and this is some of what they sang:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p><i>She singeth.</i></p>
<p>Wild is the waste and long leagues over;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Whither
then wend ye spear and sword,<br />Where nought shall see your helms
but the plover,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Far and far from the dear Dale&rsquo;s
sward?</p>
<p><i>He singeth.</i></p>
<p>Many a league shall we wend together<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With
helm and spear and bended bow.<br />Hark! how the wind blows up for
weather:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Dark shall the night be whither we go.</p>
<p>Dark shall the night be round the byre,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
dark as we drive the brindled kine;<br />Dark and dark round the beacon-fire,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Dark
down in the pass round our wavering line.</p>
<p>Turn on thy path, O fair-foot maiden,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
come our ways by the pathless road;<br />Look how the clouds hang low
and laden<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Over the walls of the old abode!</p>
<p><i>She singeth.</i></p>
<p>Bare are my feet for the rough waste&rsquo;s wending,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Wild
is the wind, and my kirtle&rsquo;s thin;<br />Faint shall I be ere the
long way&rsquo;s ending<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Drops down to the Dale
and the grief therein.</p>
<p><i>He singeth.</i></p>
<p>Do on the brogues of the wild-wood rover,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Do
on the byrnies&rsquo; ring-close mail;<br />Take thou the staff that
the barbs hang over,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O&rsquo;er the wind and
the waste and the way to prevail.</p>
<p>Come, for how from thee shall I sunder?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Come,
that a tale may arise in the land;<br />Come, that the night may be
held for a wonder,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When the Wolf was led by a
maiden&rsquo;s hand!</p>
<p><i>She singeth.</i></p>
<p>Now will I fare as ye are faring,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And wend
no way but the way ye wend;<br />And bear but the burdens ye are bearing,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
end the day as ye shall end.</p>
<p>And many an eve when the clouds are drifting<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Down
through the Dale till they dim the roof,<br />Shall they tell in the
Hall of the Maiden&rsquo;s Lifting,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And how we
drave the spoil aloof.</p>
<p><i>They sing together.</i></p>
<p>Over the moss through the wind and the weather,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Through
the morn and the eve and the death of the day,<br />Wend we man and
maid together,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For out of the waste is born the
fray.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Then the Sun-beam spake to Gold-mane softly, and told him how this
song was made by a minstrel concerning a foray in the early days of
their first abode in Shadowy Vale, and how in good sooth a maiden led
the fray and was the captain of the warriors:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Erst,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;this was counted as a wonder;
but now we are so few that it is no wonder though the women will do
whatsoever they may.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So they talked, and Gold-mane was very happy; but ere the good-night
cup was drunk, Folk-might spake to Face-of-god and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;It were well that ye rose betimes in the morning: but thou
shalt not go back by the way thou camest.&nbsp; Wood-wise and another
shall go with thee, and show thee a way across the necks and the heaths,
which is rough enough as far as toil goes, but where thy life shall
be safer; and thereby shalt thou hit the ghyll of the Weltering Water,
and so come down safely into Burgdale.&nbsp; Now that we are friends
and fellows, it is no hurt for thee to know the shortest way to Shadowy
Vale.&nbsp; What thou shalt tell concerning us in Burgdale I leave the
tale thereof to thee; yet belike thou wilt not tell everything till
I come to Burgstead at the spring market-tide.&nbsp; Now must I presently
to bed; for before daylight to-morrow must I be following the hunt along
with two score good men of ours.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;What beast is afield then?&rsquo; said Gold-mane.</p>
<p>Said Folk-might: &lsquo;The beasts that beset our lives, the Dusky
Men.&nbsp; In these days we have learned how to find companies of them;
and forsooth every week they draw nigher to this Dale; and some day
they should happen upon us if we were not to look to it, and then would
there be a murder great and grim; therefore we scour the heaths round
about, and the skirts of the woodland, and we fall upon these felons
in divers guises, so that they may not know us for the same men; whiles
are we clad in homespun, as to-day, and seem like to field-working carles;
whiles in scarlet and gold, like knights of the Westland; whiles in
wolf-skins; whiles in white glittering gear, like the Wights of the
Waste: and in all guises these felons, for all their fierce hearts,
fear us, and flee from us, and we follow and slay them, and so minish
their numbers somewhat against the great day of battle.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Tell me,&rsquo; said Gold-mane; &lsquo;when we fall upon Silver-dale
shall their thralls, the old Dale-dwellers, fight for them or for us?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Folk-might: &lsquo;The Dusky Men will not dare to put weapons
into the hands of their thralls.&nbsp; Nay, the thralls shall help us;
for though they have but small stomach for the fight, yet joyfully when
the fight is over shall they cut their masters&rsquo; throats.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;How is it with these thralls?&rsquo; said Gold-mane.&nbsp;
&lsquo;I have never seen a thrall.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;But I,&rsquo; said Folk-might, &lsquo;have seen a many down
in the Cities.&nbsp; And there were thralls who were the tyrants of
thralls, and held the whip over them; and of the others there were some
who were not very hardly entreated.&nbsp; But with these it is otherwise,
and they all bear grievous pains daily; for the Dusky Men are as hogs
in a garden of lilies.&nbsp; Whatsoever is fair there have they defiled
and deflowered, and they wallow in our fair halls as swine strayed from
the dunghill.&nbsp; No delight in life, no sweet days do they have for
themselves, and they begrudge the delight of others therein.&nbsp; Therefore
their thralls know no rest or solace; their reward of toil is many stripes,
and the healing of their stripes grievous toil.&nbsp; To many have they
appointed to dig and mine in the silver-yielding cliffs, and of all
the tasks is that the sorest, and there do stripes abound the most.&nbsp;
Such thralls art thou happy not to behold till thou hast set them free;
as we shall do.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Tell me again,&rsquo; said Face-of-god; &lsquo;Is there no
mixed folk between these Dusky Men and the Dalesmen, since they have
no women of their own, but lie with the women of the Dale?&nbsp; Moreover,
do not the poor folk of the Dale beget and bear children, so that there
are thralls born of thralls?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Wisely thou askest this,&rsquo; said Folk-might, &lsquo;but
thereof shall I tell thee, that when a Dusky Carle mingles with a woman
of the Dale, the child which she beareth shall oftenest favour his race
and not hers; or else shall it be witless, a fool natural.&nbsp; But
as for the children of these poor thralls; yea, the masters cause them
to breed if so their masterships will, and when the children are born,
they keep them or slay them as they will, as they would with whelps
or calves.&nbsp; To be short, year by year these vile wretches grow
fiercer and more beastly, and their thralls more hapless and down-trodden;
and now at last is come the time either to do or to die, as ye men of
Burgdale shall speedily find out.&nbsp; But now must I go sleep if I
am to be where I look to be at sunrise to-morrow.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he called for the sleeping-cup, and it was drunk, and all
men fared to bed.&nbsp; But the Sun-beam took Gold-mane&rsquo;s hand
ere they parted, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I shall arise betimes on the morrow; so I say not farewell
to-night; yea, and after to-morrow it shall not be long ere we meet
again.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So Gold-mane lay down in that ancient hall, and it seemed to him
ere he slept as if his own kindred were slipping away from him and he
were becoming a child of the Wolf.&nbsp; &lsquo;And yet,&rsquo; said
he to himself, &lsquo;I am become a man; for my Friend, now she no longer
telleth me to do or forbear, and I tremble.&nbsp; Nay, rather she is
fain to take the word from me; and this great warrior and ripe man,
he talketh with me as if I were a chieftain meet for converse with chieftains.&nbsp;
Even so it is and shall be.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And soon thereafter he fell asleep in the Hall in Shadowy Vale.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXI.&nbsp; FACE-OF-GOD LOOKETH ON THE DUSKY MEN</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>When he awoke again he saw a man standing over him, and knew him
for Wood-wise: he was clad in his war-gear, and had his quiver at his
back and his bow in his hand, for Wood-father&rsquo;s children were
all good bowmen, though not so sure as Bow-may.&nbsp; He spake to Face-of-god:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Dawn is in the sky, Dalesman; there is yet time for thee to
wash the night off of thee in our bath of the Shivering Flood and to
put thy mouth to the milk-bowl; but time for nought else: for I and
Bow-may are appointed thy fellows for the road, and it were well that
we were back home speedily.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So Face-of-god leapt up and went forth from the Hall, and Wood-wise
led to where was a pool in the river with steps cut down to it in the
rocky bank.</p>
<p>&lsquo;This,&rsquo; said Wood-wise, &lsquo;is the Carle&rsquo;s Bath;
but the Queen&rsquo;s is lower down, where the water is wider and shallower
below the little mid-dale force.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So Gold-mane stripped off his raiment and leapt into the ice-cold
pool; and they had brought his weapons and war-gear with them; so when
he came out he clad and armed himself for the road, and then turned
with Wood-wise toward the outgate of the Dale; and soon they saw two
men coming from lower down the water in such wise that they would presently
cross their path, and as yet it was little more than twilight, so that
they saw not at first who they were, but as they drew nearer they knew
them for the Sun-beam and Bow-may.&nbsp; The Sun-beam was clad but in
her white linen smock and blue gown as he had first seen her, her hair
was wet and dripping with the river, her face fresh and rosy: she carried
in her two hands a great bowl of milk, and stepped delicately, lest
she should spill it.&nbsp; But Bow-may was clad in her war-gear with
helm and byrny, and a quiver at her back, and a bended bow in her hand.&nbsp;
So they greeted each other kindly, and the Sun-beam gave the bowl to
Face-of-god and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Drink, guest, for thou hast a long and thirsty road before
thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So Face-of-god drank, and gave her the bowl back again, and she smiled
on him and drank, and the others after her till the bowl was empty:
then Bow-may put her hand on Wood-wise&rsquo;s shoulder, and they led
on toward the outgate, while those twain followed them hand in hand.&nbsp;
But the Sun-beam said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;This then is the new day I spoke of, and lo! it bringeth our
sundering with it; yet shall it be no longer than a day when all is
said, and new days shall follow after.&nbsp; And now, my friend, I shall
see thee no later than the April market; for doubt not that I shall
go thither with Folk-might, whether he will or not.&nbsp; Also as I
led thee out of the house when we last met, so shall I lead thee out
of the Dale to-day, and I will go with thee a little way on the waste;
and therefore am I shod this morning, as thou seest, for the ways on
the waste are rough.&nbsp; And now I bid thee have courage while my
hand holdeth thine.&nbsp; For afterwards I need not bid thee anything;
for thou wilt have enough to do when thou comest to thy Folk, and must
needs think more of warriors then than of maidens.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He looked at her and longed for her, but said soberly: &lsquo;Thou
art kind, O friend, and thinkest kindly of me ever.&nbsp; But methinks
it were not well done for thee to wend with me over a deal of the waste,
and come back by thyself alone, when ye have so many foemen nearby.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;they be nought so near as that
yet, and I wot that Folk-might hath gone forth toward the north-west,
where he looketh to fall in with a company of the foemen.&nbsp; His
battle shall be a guard unto us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;I pray thee turn back at the top of the outgate,&rsquo; said
he, &lsquo;and be not venturesome.&nbsp; Thou wottest that the pitcher
is not broken the first time it goeth to the well, nor maybe the twentieth,
but at last it cometh not back.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;Nevertheless I shall have my will herein.&nbsp;
And it is but a little way I will wend with thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith were they come to the scree, and talk fell down between
them as they clomb it; but when they were in the darksome passage of
the rocks, and could scarce see one another, Face-of-god said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Where then is another outgate from the Dale?&nbsp; Is it not
up the water?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;and there is none other: at the
lower end the rocks rise sheer from out the water, and a little further
down is a great force thundering betwixt them; so that by no boat or
raft may ye come out of the Dale.&nbsp; But the outgate up the water
is called the Road of War, as this is named the Path of Peace.&nbsp;
But now are all ways ways of war.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;There is peace in my heart,&rsquo; said Gold-mane.</p>
<p>She answered not for a while, but pressed his hand, and he felt her
breath on his cheek; and even therewithal they came out of the dark,
and Gold-mane saw that her cheek was flushed; and now she spake:</p>
<p>&lsquo;One thing would I say to thee, my friend.&nbsp; Thou hast
seen me amongst men of war, amongst outlaws who seek violence; thou
hast heard me bid my brother to count the slain, and I shrinking not;
thou knowest (for I have told thee) how I have schemed and schemed for
victorious battle.&nbsp; Yet I would not have thee think of me as a
Chooser of the Slain, a warrior maiden, or as of one who hath no joy
save in the battle whereto she biddeth others.&nbsp; O friend, the many
peaceful hours that I have had on the grass down yonder, sitting with
my rock and spindle in hand, the children round about my knees hearkening
to some old story so well remembered by me! or the milking of the kine
in the dewy summer even, when all was still but for the voice of the
water and the cries of the happy children, and there round about me
were the dear and beauteous maidens with whom I had grown up, happy
amidst all our troubles, since their life was free and they knew no
guile.&nbsp; In such times my heart was at peace indeed, and it seemed
to me as if we had won all we needed; as if war and turmoil were over,
after they had brought about peace and good days for our little folk.</p>
<p>&lsquo;And as for the days that be, are they not as that rugged pass,
full of bitter winds and the voice of hurrying waters, that leadeth
yonder to Silver-dale, as thou hast divined? and there is nought good
in it save that the breath of life is therein, and that it leadeth to
pleasant places and the peace and plenty of the fair dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Sweet friend,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;what thou sayest is better
than well: for time shall be, if we come alive out of this pass of battle
and bitter strife, when I shall lead thee into Burgdale to dwell there.&nbsp;
And thou wottest of our people that there is little strife and grudging
amongst them, and that they are merry, and fair to look on, both men
and women; and no man there lacketh what the earth may give us, and
it is a saying amongst us that there may a man have that which he desireth
save the sun and moon in his hands to play with: and of this gladness,
which is made up of many little matters, what story may be told?&nbsp;
Yet amongst it shall I live and thou with me; and ill indeed it were
if it wearied thee and thou wert ever longing for some day of victorious
strife, and to behold me coming back from battle high-raised on the
shields of men and crowned with bay; if thine ears must ever be tickled
with the talk of men and their songs concerning my warrior deeds.&nbsp;
For thus it shall not be.&nbsp; When I drive the herds it shall be at
the neighbours&rsquo; bidding whereso they will; not necks of men shall
I smite, but the stalks of the tall wheat, and the boles of the timber-trees
which the woodreeve hath marked for felling; the stilts of the plough
rather than the hilts of the sword shall harden my hands; my shafts
shall be for the deer, and my spears for the wood-boar, till war and
sorrow fall upon us, and I fight for the ceasing of war and trouble.&nbsp;
And though I be called a chief and of the blood of chiefs, yet shall
I not be masterful to the goodman of the Dale, but rather to my hound;
for my chieftainship shall be that I shall be well beloved and trusted,
and that no man shall grudge against me.&nbsp; Canst thou learn to love
such a life, which to me seemeth lovely?&nbsp; And thou? of whom I say
that thou art as if thou wert come down from the golden chairs of the
Burg of the Gods.&rsquo;</p>
<p>They were well-nigh out of the steep path by now, and the daylight
was bright about them; there she stayed her feet a moment and turned
to him and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;All this should I love even now, if the grief of our Folk
were but healed, and hereafter shall I learn yet more of thy well-beloved
face.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she laid her face to his and kissed him fondly, and put
his hand to her side and held it there, saying: &lsquo;Soon shall we
be one in body and in soul.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And he laughed with joy and pride of life, and took her hand and
led her on again, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yet feel the cold rings of my hauberk, my friend; look at
the spears that cumber my hand, and at Dale-warden hanging by my side.&nbsp;
Thou shalt yet see me as the Slain&rsquo;s Chooser would see her speech-friend;
for there is much to do ere we win wheat-harvest in Burgdale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith they stepped together on to the level ground of the waste,
and saw Bow-may sitting on a stone hard by, and Wood-wise standing beside
her bending his bow.&nbsp; Bow-may smiled on Gold-mane and rose up,
and they all went on together, turning so that they went nearly alongside
the wall of the Vale, but westering a little; then the Sun-beam said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Many a time have I trodden this heath alongside our rock-wall;
for if ye wend a little further as our faces are turned, ye come to
the crags over the place where the Shivering Flood goeth out of Shadowy
Vale.&nbsp; There when ye have clomb a little may&rsquo;st thou stand
on the edge of the rock-wall, and look down and behold the Flood swirling
and eddying in the black gorge of the rocks, and see presently the reek
of the force go up, and hear the thunder of the waters as they pour
over it: and all this about us now is as the garden of our house - is
it not so, Bow-may?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said she, &lsquo;and there are goodly cluster-berries
to be gotten hereabout in the autumn; many a time have the Sun-beam
and I reddened our lips with them.&nbsp; Yet is it best to be wary when
war is abroad and hot withal.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said the Sun-beam, &lsquo;and all this place comes
into the story of our House: lo!&nbsp; Gold-mane, two score paces before
us a little on our right hand those five grey stones.&nbsp; They are
called the Rocks of the Elders: for there in the first days of our abiding
in Shadowy Vale the Elders were wont to come together to talk privily
upon our matters.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Face-of-god looked thither as she spoke, but therewith saw Bow-may,
who went on the left hand of the Sun-beam, as Face-of-god on her right
hand, notch a shaft on her bent bow, and Wood-wise, who was on his right
hand, saw it also and did the like, and therewithal Face-of-god got
his target on to his arm, and even as he did so Bow-may cried out suddenly:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, yea!&nbsp; Cast thyself on to the ground, Sun-beam!&nbsp;
Gold-mane, targe and spear, targe and spear!&nbsp; For I see steel gleaming
yonder out from behind the Elders&rsquo; Rocks.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Scarce were the words out of her mouth ere three shafts came flying,
and the bow-strings twanged.&nbsp; Gold-mane felt that one smote his
helm and glanced from it.&nbsp; Therewithal he saw the Sun-beam fall
to earth, though he knew not if she had but cast herself down as Bow-may
bade.&nbsp; Bow-may&rsquo;s string twanged at once, and a yell came
from the foemen: but Wood-wise loosed not, but set his hand to his mouth
and gave a loud wild cry - Ha! ha! ha! ha!&nbsp; How-ow-ow! - ending
in a long and exceeding great whoop like nought but the wolf&rsquo;s
howl.&nbsp; Now Gold-mane thinking swiftly, in a moment of time, as
war-meet men do, judged that if the Sun-beam were hurt (and she had
made no cry), it were yet wiser to fall on the foe before turning to
tend her, or else all might be lost; so he rushed forward spear in hand
and target on arm, and saw, as he opened up the flank of the Elders&rsquo;
Rocks, six men, whereof one leaned aback on the rock with Bow-may&rsquo;s
shaft in his shoulder, and two others were just in act of loosing at
him.&nbsp; In a moment, as he rushed at them, one shaft went whistling
by him, and the other glanced from off his target; he cast a spear as
he bounded on, and saw it smite one of the shooters full in the naked
face, and saw the blood spout out and change his face and the man roll
over, and then in another moment four men were hewing at him with their
short steel axes.&nbsp; He thrust out his target against them, and then
let the weight of his body come on his other spear, and drave it through
the second shooter&rsquo;s throat, and even therewith was smitten on
the helm so hard that, though the Alderman&rsquo;s work held out, he
fell to his knees, holding his target over his head and striving to
draw forth Dale-warden; in that nick of time a shaft whistled close
by his ear, and as he rose to his feet again he saw his foeman rolling
over and over, clutching at the ling with both hands.&nbsp; Then rang
out again the terrible wolf-whoop from Wood-wise&rsquo;s mouth, and
both he and Bow-may loosed a shaft, for the two other foes had turned
their backs and were fleeing fast.&nbsp; Again Bow-may hit the clout,
and the Dusky Man fell dead at once, but Wood-wise&rsquo;s arrow flew
over the felon&rsquo;s shoulder as he ran.&nbsp; Then in a trice was
Gold-mane bounding after him like the hare just roused from her form;
for it came into his head that these felons had beheld them coming up
out of the Vale, and that if even this one man escaped, he would bring
his company down upon the Vale-dwellers.</p>
<p>Strong and light-foot as any was Face-of-god, and though he was cumbered
with his hauberk, yet was Iron-face&rsquo;s handiwork far lighter than
the war-coat of the Dusky Man, and the race was soon over.&nbsp; The
felon turned breathless to meet Gold-mane, who drave his target against
him and cast him to earth, and as he strove to rise smote off his head
at one stroke; for Dale-warden was a good sword and the Dalesman as
fierce of mood as might be.&nbsp; There he let the felon lie, and, turning,
walked back swiftly toward the Elders&rsquo; Rocks, and found there
Wood-wise and the dead foemen, for the carle had slain the wounded,
and he was now drawing the silver arm-rings off the slain men; for all
these Dusky Felons bore silver arm-rings.&nbsp; But Bow-may was walking
towards the Sun-beam, and thitherward followed Gold-mane speedily.</p>
<p>He found her sitting on a tussock of grass close by where she had
fallen, her face pale, her eyes eager and gleaming; she looked up at
him as he drew nigher and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Friend, art thou hurt?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;and thou?&nbsp; Thou art pale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;I am not hurt,&rsquo; she said.&nbsp; Then she smiled and
said again:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Did I not tell thee that I am no warrior like Bow-may here?&nbsp;
Such deeds make maidens pale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Bow-may: &lsquo;If ye will have the truth, Gold-mane, she is
not wont to grow pale when battle is nigh her.&nbsp; Look you, she hath
had the gift of a new delight, and findeth it sweeter and softer than
she had any thought of; and now hath she feared lest it should be taken
from her.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Bow-may saith but the sooth,&rsquo; said the Sun-beam simply,
&lsquo;and kind it is of her to say it.&nbsp; I saw thee, Bow-may, and
good was thy shooting, and I love thee for it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Bow-may: &lsquo;I never shoot otherwise than well.&nbsp; But
those idle shooters of the Dusky Ones, whereabouts nigh to thee went
their shafts?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said the Sun-beam: &lsquo;One just lifted the hair by my left ear,
and that was not so ill-aimed; as for the other, it pierced my raiment
by my right knee, and pinned me to the earth, so that I tottered and
fell, and my gown and smock are grievously wounded, both of them.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And she took the folds of the garments in her hands to show the rents
therein; and her colour was come again, and she was glad.</p>
<p>&lsquo;What were best to do now?&rsquo; she said.</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Let us tarry a little; for some of thy carles
shall surely come up from the Vale: because they will have heard Wood-wise&rsquo;s
whoop, since the wind sets that way.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, they will come,&rsquo; said the Sun-beam.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Good is that,&rsquo; said Face-of-god; &lsquo;for they shall
take the dead felons and cast them where they be not seen if perchance
any more stray hereby.&nbsp; For if they wind them, they may well happen
on the path down to the Vale.&nbsp; Also, my friend, it were well if
thou wert to bid a good few of the carles that are in the Vale to keep
watch and ward about here, lest there be more foemen wandering about
the waste.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;Thou art wise in war, Gold-mane; I will do as thou
biddest me.&nbsp; But soothly this is a perilous thing that the Dusky
Men are gotten so close to the Vale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;This will Folk-might look to when he cometh
home; and it is most like that he will deem it good to fall on them
somewhere a good way aloof, so as to draw them off from wandering over
the waste.&nbsp; Also I will do my best to busy them when I am home
in Burgdale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith came up Wood-wise, and fell to talk with them; and his
mind it was that these foemen were but a band of strayers, and had had
no inkling of Shadowy Vale till they had heard them talking together
as they came up the path from the Vale, and that then they had made
that ambush behind the Elders&rsquo; Rocks, so that they might slay
the men, and then bear off the woman.&nbsp; He said withal that it would
be best to carry their corpses further on, so that they might be cast
over the cliffs into the fierce stream of the Shivering Flood.</p>
<p>Amidst this talk came up men from the Vale, a score of them, well
armed; and they ran to meet the wayfarers; and when they heard what
had befallen, they rejoiced exceedingly, and were above all glad that
Face-of-god had shown himself doughty and deft; and they deemed his
rede wise, to set a watch thereabouts till Folk-might came home, and
said that they would do even so.</p>
<p>Then spake the Sun-beam and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now must ye wayfarers depart; for the road is but rough, and
the day not over-long.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then she turned to Face-of-god and put her hand on his shoulder,
and brought her face close to his and spake to him softly:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Doth this second parting seem at all strange to thee, and
that I am now so familiar to thee, I whom thou didst once deem to be
a very goddess?&nbsp; And now thou hast seen me redden before thine
eyes because of thee; and thou hast seen me grow pale with fear because
of thee; and thou hast felt my caresses which I might not refrain; even
as if I were altogether such a maiden as ye warriors hang about for
a nine days&rsquo; wonder, and then all is over save an aching heart
- wilt thou do so with me?&nbsp; Tell me, have I not belittled myself
before thee as if I asked thee to scorn me?&nbsp; For thus desire dealeth
both with maid and man.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;In all this there is but one thing for me to say,
and that is that I love thee; and surely none the less, but rather the
more, because thou lovest me, and art of my kind, and mayest share in
my deeds and think well of them.&nbsp; Now is my heart full of joy,
and one thing only weigheth on it; and that is that my kinswoman the
Bride begrudgeth our love together.&nbsp; For this is the thing that
of all things most misliketh me, that any should bear a grudge against
me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;Forget not the token, and my message to her.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;I will not forget it,&rsquo; said he.&nbsp; &lsquo;And now
I bid thee to kiss me even before all these that are looking on; for
there is nought to belittle us therein, since we be troth-plight.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And indeed those folk stood all round about them gazing on them,
but a little aloof, that they might not hear their words if they were
minded to talk privily.&nbsp; For they had long loved the Sun-beam,
and now the love of Face-of-god had begun to spring up in their hearts.</p>
<p>So the twain embraced and kissed one another, and made no haste thereover;
and those men deemed that but meet and right, and clashed their weapons
on their shields in token of their joy.</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god turned about and strode out of the ring of men,
with Bow-may and Wood-wise beside him, and they went on their journey
over the necks towards Burgstead.&nbsp; But the Sun-beam turned slowly
from that place toward the Vale, and two of the stoutest carles went
along with her to guard her from harm, and she went down into the Vale
pondering all these things in her heart.</p>
<p>Then the other carles dragged off the corpses of the Dusky Men till
they had brought them to the sheer rocks above the Shivering Flood,
and there they tossed them over into the boiling caldron of the force,
and so departed taking with them the silver arm-rings of the slain to
add to the tale.</p>
<p>But when they came back into the Vale the Sun-beam duly ordered that
watch and ward to keep the ingate thereto, and note all that should
befall till Folk-might came home.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXII.&nbsp; FACE-OF-GOD COMETH HOME TO BURGSTEAD</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>But Face-of-god with Bow-may and Wood-wise fared over the waste,
going at first alongside the cliffs of the Shivering Flood, and then
afterwards turning somewhat to the west.&nbsp; They soon had to climb
a very high and steep bent going up to a mountain-neck; and the way
over the neck was rough indeed when they were on it, and they toiled
out of it into a barren valley, and out of the valley again on to a
rough neck; and such-like their journey the day long, for they were
going athwart all those great dykes that went from the ice-mountains
toward the lower dales like the outspread fingers of a hand or the roots
of a great tree.&nbsp; And the ice-mountains they had on their left
hands and whiles at their backs.</p>
<p>They went very warily, with their bows bended and spear in hand,
but saw no man, good or bad, and but few living things.&nbsp; At noon
they rested in a valley where was a stream, but no grass, nought but
stones and sand; but where they were at least sheltered from the wind,
which was mostly very great in these high wastes; and there Bow-may
drew meat and wine from a wallet she bore, and they ate and drank, and
were merry enough; and Bow-may said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I would I were going all the way with thee, Gold-mane; for
I long sore to let my eyes rest a while on the land where I shall one
day live.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;art thou minded to dwell
there?&nbsp; We shall be glad of that.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Whither are thy wits straying?&rsquo; said she; &lsquo;whether
I am minded to it or not, I shall dwell there.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And Wood-wise nodded a yea to her.&nbsp; But Face-of-god said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Good will be thy dwelling; but wherefore must it be so?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Wood-wise laughed and said: &lsquo;I shall tell thee in fewer
words than she will, and time presses now: Wood-father and Wood-mother,
and I and my two brethren and this woman have ever been about and anigh
the Sun-beam; and we deem that war and other troubles have made us of
closer kin to her than we were born, whether ye call it brotherhood
or what not, and never shall we sunder from her in life or in death.&nbsp;
So when thou goest to Burgdale with her, there shall we be.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then was Face-of-god glad when he found that they deemed his wedding
so settled and sure; but Wood-wise fell to making ready for the road.&nbsp;
And Face-of-god said to him:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Tell me one thing, Wood-wise; that whoop that thou gavest
forth when we were at handy-strokes e&rsquo;en now - is it but a cry
of thine own or is it of thy Folk, and shall I hear it again?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou may&rsquo;st look to hear it many a time,&rsquo; said
Wood-wise, &lsquo;for it is the cry of the Wolf.&nbsp; Seldom indeed
hath battle been joined where men of our blood are, but that cry is
given forth.&nbsp; Come now, to the road!&rsquo;</p>
<p>So they went their ways and the road worsened upon them, and toilsome
was the climbing up steep bents and the scaling of doubtful paths in
the cliff-sides, so that the journey, though the distance of it were
not so long to the fowl flying, was much eked out for them, and it was
not till near nightfall that they came on the ghyll of the Weltering
Water some six miles above Burgstead.&nbsp; Forsooth Wood-wise said
that the way might be made less toilsome though far longer by turning
back eastward a little past the vale where they had rested at midday;
and that seemed good to Gold-mane, in case they should be wending hereafter
in a great company between Burgdale and Shadowy Vale.</p>
<p>But now those two went with Face-of-god down a path in the side of
the cliff whereby him-seemed he had gone before; and they came down
into the ghyll and sat down together on a stone by the water-side, and
Face-of-god spake to them kindly, for he deemed them good and trusty
faring-fellows.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Bow-may,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;thou saidst a while ago that
thou wouldst be fain to look on Burgdale; and indeed it is fair and
lovely, and ye may soon be in it if ye will.&nbsp; Ye shall both be
more than welcome to the house of my father, and heartily I bid you
thither.&nbsp; For night is on us, and the way back is long and toilsome
and beset with peril.&nbsp; Sister Bow-may, thou wottest that it would
be a sore grief to me if thou camest to any harm, and thou also, fellow
Wood-wise.&nbsp; Daylight is a good faring-fellow over the waste.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Bow-may: &lsquo;Thou art kind, Gold-mane, and that is thy wont,
I know; and fain were I to-night of the candles in thine hall.&nbsp;
But we may not tarry; for thou wottest how busy we be at home; and Sun-beam
needeth me, if it were only to make her sure that no Dusky Man is bearing
off thine head by its lovely locks.&nbsp; Neither shall we journey in
the mirk night; for look you, the moon yonder.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Well,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;parting is ill at the
best, and I would I could give you twain a gift, and especially to thee,
my sister Bow-may.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Wood-wise: &lsquo;Thou may&rsquo;st well do that; or at least
promise the gift; and that is all one as if we held it in our hands.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Bow-may, &lsquo;Wood-wise and I have been
thinking in one way belike; and I was at point to ask a gift of thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;What is it?&rsquo; said Gold-mane.&nbsp; &lsquo;Surely it
is thine, if it were but a guerdon for thy good shooting.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She laughed and handled the skirts of his hauberk as she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Show us the dint in thine helm that the steel axe made this
morning.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;There is no such great dint,&rsquo; said he; &lsquo;my father
forged that helm, and his work is better than good.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Bow-may, &lsquo;and might I have hauberk
and helm of his handiwork, and Wood-wise a good sword of the same, then
were I a glad woman, and this man a happy carle.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Gold-mane: &lsquo;I am well pleased at thine asking, and so
shall Iron-face be when he heareth of thine archery; and how that Hall-face
were now his only son but for thy close shooting.&nbsp; But now must
I to the way; for my heart tells me that there may have been tidings
in Burgstead this while I have been aloof.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So they rose all three, and Bow-may said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou art a kind brother, and soon shall we meet again; and
that will be well.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he put his hands on her shoulders and kissed both her cheeks;
and he kissed Wood-wise, and turned and went his ways, threading the
stony tangle about the Weltering Water, which was now at middle height,
and running clear and strong; so turning once he beheld Wood-wise and
Bow-may climbing the path up the side of the ghyll, and Bow-may turned
to him also and waved her bow as token of farewell.&nbsp; Then he went
upon his way, which was rough enough to follow by night, though the
moon was shining brightly high aloft.&nbsp; Yet as he knew his road
he made but little of it all, and in somewhat more than an hour and
a half was come out of the pass into the broken ground at the head of
the Dale, and began to make his way speedily under the bright moonlight
toward the Gate, still going close by the water.&nbsp; But as he went
he heard of a sudden cries and rumour not far from him, unwonted in
that place, where none dwelt, and where the only folk he might look
to see were those who cast an angle into the pools and eddies of the
Water.&nbsp; Moreover, he saw about the place whence came the cries
torches moving swiftly hither and thither; so that he looked to hear
of new tidings, and stayed his feet and looked keenly about him on every
side; and just then, between his rough path and the shimmer of the dancing
moonlit water, he saw the moon smite on something gleaming; so, as quietly
as he could, he got his target on his arm, and shortened his spear in
his right hand, and then turned sharply toward that gleam.&nbsp; Even
therewith up sprang a man on his right hand, and then another in front
of him just betwixt him and the water; an axe gleamed bright in the
moon, and he caught a great stroke on his target, and therewith drave
his left shoulder straight forward, so that the man before him fell
over into the water with a mighty splash; for they were at the very
edge of the deepest eddy of the Water.&nbsp; Then he spun round on his
heel, heeding not that another stroke had fallen on his right shoulder,
yet ill-aimed, and not with the full edge, so that it ran down his byrny
and rent it not.&nbsp; So he sent the thrust of his spear crashing through
the face and skull of the smiter, and looked not to him as he fell,
but stood still, brandishing his spear and crying out, &lsquo;For the
Burg and the Face!&nbsp; For the Burg and the Face!&rsquo;</p>
<p>No other foe came against him, but like to the echo of his cry rose
a clear shout not far aloof, &lsquo;For the Face, for the Face!&nbsp;
For the Burg and the Face!&rsquo;&nbsp; He muttered, &lsquo;So ends
the day as it begun,&rsquo; and shouted loud again, &lsquo;For the Burg
and the Face!&rsquo;&nbsp; And in a minute more came breaking forth
from the stone-heaps into the moonlit space before the water the tall
shapes of the men of Burgstead, the red torchlight and the moonlight
flashing back from their war-gear and weapons; for every man had his
sword or spear in hand.</p>
<p>Hall-face was the first of them, and he threw his arms about his
brother and said: &lsquo;Well met, Gold-mane, though thou comest amongst
us like Stone-fist of the Mountain.&nbsp; Art thou hurt?&nbsp; With
whom hast thou dealt?&nbsp; Where be they?&nbsp; Whence comest thou?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay, I am not hurt,&rsquo; said Face-of-god.&nbsp; &lsquo;Stint
thy questions then, till thou hast told me whom thou seekest with spear
and sword and candle.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Two felons were they,&rsquo; said Hall-face, &lsquo;even such
as ye saw lying dead at Wood-grey&rsquo;s the other day.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Then may ye sheathe your swords and go home,&rsquo; said Gold-mane,
&lsquo;for one lieth at the bottom of the eddy, and the other, thy feet
are well-nigh treading on him, Hall-face.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then arose a rumour of praise and victory, and they brought the torches
nigh and looked at the fallen man, and found that he was stark dead;
so they even let him lie there till the morrow, and all turned about
toward the Thorp; and many looked on Face-of-god and wondered concerning
him, whence he was and what had befallen him.&nbsp; Indeed, they would
have asked him thereof, but could not get at him to ask; but whoso could,
went as nigh to Hall-face and him as they might, to hearken to the talk
between the brothers.</p>
<p>So as they went along Hall-face did verily ask him whence he came:
&lsquo;For was it not so,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;that thou didst enter
into the wood seeking some adventure early in the morning the day before
yesterday?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Sooth is that,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;and I came
to Shadowy Vale, and thence am I come this morning.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Hall-face: &lsquo;I know not Shadowy Vale, nor doth any of us.&nbsp;
This is a new word.&nbsp; How say ye, friends, doth any man here know
of Shadowy Vale?&rsquo;</p>
<p>They all said, &lsquo;Nay.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then said Hall-face: &lsquo;Hast thou been amongst mere ghosts and
marvels, brother, or cometh this tale of thy minstrelsy?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;For all your words,&rsquo; said Gold-mane, &lsquo;to that
Vale have I been; and, to speak shortly (for I desire to have your tale,
and am waiting for it), I will tell thee that I found there no marvels
or strange wights, but a folk of valiant men; a folk small in numbers,
but great of heart; a folk come, as we be, from the Fathers and the
Gods.&nbsp; And this, moreover, is to be said of them, that they are
the foes of these felons of whom ye were chasing these twain.&nbsp;
And these same Dusky Men of Silver-dale would slay them every man if
they might; and if we look not to it they will soon be doing the same
by us; for they are many, and as venomous as adders, as fierce as bears,
and as foul as swine.&nbsp; But these valiant men, who bear on their
banner the image of the Wolf, should be our fellows in arms, and they
have good will thereto; and they shall show us the way to Silver-dale
by blind paths, so that we may fall upon these felons while they dwell
there tormenting the poor people of the land, and thus may we destroy
them as lads a hornet&rsquo;s nest.&nbsp; Or else the days shall be
hard for us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The men who hung about them drank in his words greedily.&nbsp; But
Hall-face was silent a little while, and then he said: &lsquo;Brother
Gold-mane, these be great tidings.&nbsp; Time was when we might have
deemed them but a minstrel&rsquo;s tale; for Silver-dale we know not,
of which thou speakest so glibly, nor the Dusky Men, any more than the
Shadowy Vale.&nbsp; Howbeit, things have befallen these two last days
so strange and new, that putting them together with the murder at Wood-grey&rsquo;s,
and thy words which seem somewhat wild, it may well seem to us that
tidings unlooked for are coming our way.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Come, then,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;give me what thou
hast in thy scrip, and trust me, I shall not jeer at thy tale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Hall-face: &lsquo;I also will be short with the tale; and that
the more, as meseemeth it is not yet done, and that thou thyself shalt
share in the ending of it.&nbsp; It was the day before yesterday, that
is the day when thou departedst into the woods on that adventure whereof
thou shalt one day tell me more, wilt thou not?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, in good time,&rsquo; said Face-of-god.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Well,&rsquo; quoth Hall-face, &lsquo;we went into the woods
that day and in the morning, but after sunrise, to the number of a score:
we looked to meet a bear and a she-bear with cubs in a certain place;
for one of the Woodlanders, a keen hunter, had told us of their lair.&nbsp;
Also we were wishful to slay some of the wild-swine, the yearlings,
if we might.&nbsp; Therefore, though we had no helms or shields or coats
of fence, we had bowshot a plenty, and good store of casting-weapons,
besides our wood-knives and an axe or so; and some of us, of whom I
was one, bore our battle-swords, as we are wont ever to do, be the foe
beast or man.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thus armed we went up Wildlake&rsquo;s Way and came to Carlstead,
where half-a-score Woodlanders joined themselves to us, so that we became
a band.&nbsp; We went up the half-cleared places past Carlstead for
a mile, and then turned east into the wood, and went I know not how
far, for the Woodlanders led us by crooked paths, but two hours wore
away in our going, till we came to the place where they looked to find
the bears.&nbsp; It is a place that may well be noted, for it is unlike
the wood round about.&nbsp; There is a close thicket some two furlongs
about of thorn and briar and ill-grown ash and oak and other trees,
planted by the birds belike; and it stands as it were in an island amidst
of a wide-spreading woodlawn of fine turf, set about in the most goodly
fashion with great tall straight-boled oak-trees, that seem to have
been planted of set purpose by man&rsquo;s hand.&nbsp; Yea, dost thou
know the place?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Methinks I do,&rsquo; said Gold-mane, &lsquo;and I seem to
have heard the Woodlanders give it a name and call it Boars-bait.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;That may be,&rsquo; said Hall-face.&nbsp; &lsquo;Well, there
we were, the dogs and the men, and we drew nigh the thicket and beset
it, and doubted not to find prey therein: but when we would set the
dogs at the thicket to enter it, they were uneasy, and would not take
up the slot, but growled and turned about this way and that, so that
we deemed that they winded some fierce beast at our flanks or backs.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Even so it was, and fierce enough and deadly was the beast;
for suddenly we heard bow-strings twang, and shafts came flying; and
Iron-shield of the Upper Dale, who was close beside me, leapt up into
the air and fell down dead with an arrow through his back.&nbsp; Then
I bethought me in the twinkling of an eye, and I cried out, &ldquo;The
foe are on us! take the cover of the tree-boles and be wary!&nbsp; For
the Burg and the Face!&nbsp; For the Burg and the Face!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;So we scattered and covered ourselves with the oak-boles,
but besides Iron-shield, who was slain outright, two goodmen were sorely
hurt, to wit Bald-face, a man of our house, and Stonyford of the Lower
Dale.</p>
<p>&lsquo;I looked from behind my tree-bole, a great one; and far off
down the glades I saw men moving, clad in gay raiment; but nearer to
me, not a hundred yards from my cover, I saw an arm clad in scarlet
come out from behind a tree-bole, so I loosed at it, and missed not;
for straight there tottered out from behind the tree one of those dusky
foul-favoured men like to those that were slain by Wood-grey.&nbsp;
I had another shaft ready notched, so I loosed and set the shaft in
his throat, and he fell.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Straightway was a yelling and howling about us like the cries
of scalded curs, and the oak-wood swarmed thick with these felons rushing
on us; for it seems that the man whom I had slain was a chief amongst
them, or we judged so by his goodly raiment.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Methought then our last day was come.&nbsp; What could we
do but run together again after we had loosed at a venture, and so withstand
them sword and spear in hand?&nbsp; Some fell beneath our shot, but
not many, for they came on very swiftly.</p>
<p>&lsquo;So they fell on us; but for all their fierceness and their
numbers they might not break our array, and we slew four and hurt many
by sword-hewing and spear-casting and push of spear; and five of us
were hurt and one slain by their dart-casting.&nbsp; So they drew off
from us a little, and strove to spread out and fall to shooting at us
again; but this we would not suffer, but pushed on as they fell back,
keeping as close together as we might for the trees.&nbsp; For we said
that we would all die together if needs must; and verily the stour was
hard.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yet hearken!&nbsp; In that nick of time rose up a strange
cry not far from us, Ha! ha! ha! ha!&nbsp; How-ow-ow! ending like the
howl of a wolf, and then another and another and another, till the whole
wood rang again.</p>
<p>&lsquo;At first we deemed that here were come fresh foemen, and that
we were undone indeed; but when they heard it, the foe-men before us
faltered and gave way, and at last turned their backs and fled, and
we followed, keeping well together still: thereby the more part of these
men escaped us, for they fled wildly here and there from those who bore
that cry with them; so we knew that our work was being done for us;
therefore we stood, and saw tall men clad in sheep-brown weed running
through the glades pursuing those felons and smiting them down, till
both fleers and pursuers passed out of our sight like men in a dream,
or as when ye roll up a pictured cloth to lay it in the coffer.</p>
<p>&lsquo;But to Stone-face&rsquo;s mind those brown-clad men were the
Wights of the Wood that be of the Fathers&rsquo; blood, and our very
friends; and when some of us would yet have gone forward and foregathered
with them, and followed the chase along with them, Stone-face gainsaid
it, bidding us not to run into the arms of a second death, when we had
but just escaped from the first.&nbsp; Sooth to say, moreover, we had
divers hurt men that needed looking to.</p>
<p>&lsquo;So what with one thing, what with another, we turned back:
but War-cliff&rsquo;s brother, a tall man, had felled two of those felons
with an oak sapling which he had torn from the thicket; but he had not
slain them, and by now they were just awakening from their swoon, and
were sitting up looking round them with fierce rolling eyes, expecting
the stroke, for Raven of Longscree was standing over them with a naked
war-sword in his hand.&nbsp; But now that our blood was cool, we were
loth to slay them as they lay in our hands; so we bound them and brought
them away with us; and our own dead we carried also on such biers as
we might lightly make there, and with them three that were so grievously
hurt that they might not go afoot, these we left at Carlstead: they
were Tardy the Son of the Untamed, and Swan of Bull-meadow, both of
the Lower Dale, and a Woodlander, Undoomed to wit.&nbsp; But the dead
were Iron-shield aforesaid, and Wool-sark, and the Hewer, a Woodlander.</p>
<p>&lsquo;So came we sadly at eventide to Burgstead with the two dead
Burgdalers, and the captive felons, and the wounded of us that might
go afoot; and ye may judge that they of Burgdale and our father deemed
these tidings great enough, and wotted not what next should befall.&nbsp;
Stone-face would have had those two felons slain there and then; for
no true tale could we get out of them, nor indeed any word at all.&nbsp;
But the Alderman would not have it so; and he deemed they might serve
our turn as hostages if any of our folk should be taken: for one and
all we deemed, and still deem, that war is on us and that new folk have
gathered on our skirts.</p>
<p>&lsquo;So the captives were shut up in the red out-bower of our house;
and our father was minded that thou mightest tell us somewhat of them
when thou wert come home.&nbsp; But about dusk to-day the word went
that they had broken out and gotten them weapons and fled up the Dale;
and so it was.</p>
<p>&lsquo;But to-morrow morning will a Gate-thing be holden, and there
it will be looked for of thee that thou tell us a true tale of thy goings.&nbsp;
For it is deemed, and it is my deeming especially, that thou may&rsquo;st
tell us more of these men than thou hast yet told us.&nbsp; Is it not
so?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, surely,&rsquo; said Gold-mane, &lsquo;I can make as many
words as ye will about it; yet when all is said, it will come to much
the same tale as I have already told thee.&nbsp; Yet belike, if ye are
minded to take up the sword to defend you, I may tell you in what wise
to lay hold on the hilts.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;And that is well,&rsquo; said Hall-face, &lsquo;and no less
do I look for of thee.&nbsp; But lo! here are we come to the Gate of
the Burg that abideth battle.&rsquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIII.&nbsp; TALK IN THE HALL OF THE HOUSE OF THE FACE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>In sooth they were come to the very Gate of Burgstead, and the great
gates were shut, and only a wicket was open, and a half score of stout
men in all their war-gear were holding ward thereby.&nbsp; They gave
place to Hall-face and his company, albeit some of the warders followed
them through the wicket that they might hear the story told.</p>
<p>The street was full of folk, both men and women, talking together
eagerly concerning all these tidings, and when they saw the men of the
Hue-and-cry they came thronging about them, so that they might scarce
get to the door of the House of the Face because of the press; so Hall-face
(who was a very tall man) cried out:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Good people, all is well! the runaways are slain, and Face-of-god
is come back with us; give place a little, that we may come into our
house.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then the throng set up a shout, and made way a little, so that Hall-face
and Gold-mane and the others could get to the door.&nbsp; And they entered
into the Hall, and saw much folk therein; and men were sitting at table,
for supper was not yet over.&nbsp; But when they saw the new-comers
they mostly rose up from the board and stood silent to hear the tale,
for they had been talking many together each to each, so that the Hall
was full of confused noise.</p>
<p>So Hall-face again cried out: &lsquo;Men in this hall, good is the
tidings.&nbsp; The runaways are slain; and it was Face-of-god who slew
them as he came back safe from the waste.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then they shouted for joy, and the brethren and Stone-face with them
(for he had entered with them from the street) went up on to the da&iuml;s,
while the others of the Hue-and-cry gat them seats where they might
at the endlong tables.</p>
<p>But when Face-of-god came up on to the da&iuml;s, there sat Iron-face
looking down on the thronged Hall with a ruddy cheerful countenance,
and beside him sat the Bride; for he had caused her to be brought thither
when he had heard of the tidings of battle.&nbsp; She was daintily clad
in a flame-coloured kirtle embroidered with gold about the bosom and
sleeves, and there was a fillet of golden roses on her ruddy hair.&nbsp;
Her eyes shone bright and eager, and the pommels of her cheeks were
flushed and red contrary to their wont.&nbsp; Needs must Gold-mane sit
by her, and when he came close to her he knew not what to do, but he
put forth his hand to her, yet with a troubled countenance; for he feared
her grief mingled with her beauty: as for her, she wavered in her mind
whether she should forbear to touch him or not; but she saw that men
about were looking at them, and especially was Iron-face looking on
her: therefore she stood up and took Gold-mane&rsquo;s hand and kissed
his face as she had been wont to do, and by then was her face as white
as paper; and her anguish pierced his heart, so that he well-nigh groaned
for grief of her.&nbsp; But Iron-face looked on her and said kindly:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Kinswoman, thou art pale; thou hast feared for thy mate amidst
all these tidings of war, and still fearest for him.&nbsp; But pluck
up a heart; for the man is a deft warrior for all his fair face, which
thou lovest as a woman should, and his hands may yet save his head.&nbsp;
And if he be slain, yet are there other men of the kindred, and the
earth will not be a desert to thee even then.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She looked at Iron-face, and the colour was come back to her face
somewhat, and she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is true; I have feared for him; for he goeth into perilous
places.&nbsp; But for thee, thou art kind, and I thank thee for it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And therewith she kissed Iron-face and sat down in her place, and
strove to overmaster her grief, that her face might not be changed by
it; for now were thoughts of battle, and valiant hopes arising in men&rsquo;s
hearts; and it seemed to her too grievous if she should mar that feast
on the eve of battle.</p>
<p>But Iron-face kissed and embraced his son and said: &lsquo;Art thou
late come from the waste?&nbsp; Hast thou seen new things?&nbsp; We
look to have a notable tale from thee; though here also have been tidings,
and it is not unlike that we shall presently have new work on our hands.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Father,&rsquo; quoth Face-of-god, &lsquo;I deem that when
thou hast heard my tale thou wilt think no less of it than that there
are valiant folk to be holpen, poor folk to be delivered, and evil folk
to be swept from off the face of the earth.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is well, son,&rsquo; said Iron-face.&nbsp; &lsquo;I see
that thy tale is long; let it alone for to-night.&nbsp; To-morrow shall
we hold a Gate-thing, and then shall we hear all that thou hast to tell.&nbsp;
Now eat thy meat and drink a bowl of wine, and comfort thy troth-plight
maiden.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So Gold-mane sat down by the Bride, and ate and drank as he needs
must; but he was ill at ease and he durst not speak to her.&nbsp; For,
on the one hand, he thought concerning his love for the Sun-beam, and
how sweet and good a thing it was that she should take him by the hand
and lead him into noble deeds and great fame, caressing him so softly
and sweetly the while; and, on the other hand, there sat the Bride beside
him, sorrowful and angry, begrudging all that sweetness of love, as
though it were something foul and unseemly; and heavy on him lay the
weight of that grudge, for he was a man of a friendly heart.</p>
<p>Stone-face sat outward from him on the other side of the Bride; and
he leaned across her towards Gold-mane and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Fair shall be thy tale to-morrow, if thou tellest us all thine
adventure.&nbsp; Or wilt thou tell us less than all?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;In good time shalt thou know it all, foster-father;
but it is not unlike that by the time that thou hast heard it, there
shall be so many other things to tell of, that my tale shall seem of
little account to thee - even as the saw saith that one nail driveth
out the other.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Stone-face, &lsquo;but one tale belike shall
be knit up with the others, as it fareth with the figures that come
one after other on the weaver&rsquo;s cloth; though one maketh not the
other, yet one cometh of the other.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Wise art thou now, foster-father, but thou
shalt be wiser yet in this matter by then a month hath worn: and to-morrow
shalt thou know enough to set thine hands a-work.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So the talk fell between them; and the night wore, and the men of
Burgdale feasted in their ancient hall with merry hearts, little weighed
down by thought of the battle that might be and the trouble to come;
for they were valorous and kindly folk.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIV.&nbsp; FACE-OF-GOD GIVETH THAT TOKEN TO THE BRIDE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Now on the morrow, when Face-of-god arose and other men with him,
and the Hall was astir and there was no little throng therein, the Bride
came up to him; for she had slept in the House of the Face by the bidding
of the Alderman; and she spake to him before all men, and bade him come
forth with her into the garden, because she would speak to him apart.&nbsp;
He yeasaid her, though with a heavy heart; and to the folk about that
seemed meet and due, since those twain were deemed to be troth-plight,
and they smiled kindly on them as they went out of the Hall together.</p>
<p>So they came into the garden, where the pear-trees were blossoming
over the spring lilies, and the cherries were showering their flowers
on the deep green grass, and everything smelled sweetly on the warm
windless spring morning.</p>
<p>She led the way, going before him till they came by a smooth grass
path between the berry bushes, to a square space of grass about which
were barberry trees, their first tender leaves bright green in the sun
against the dry yellowish twigs.&nbsp; There was a sundial amidmost
of the grass, and betwixt the garden-boughs one could see the long grey
roof of the ancient hall; and sweet familiar sounds of the nesting birds
and men and women going on their errands were all about in the scented
air.&nbsp; She turned about at the sundial and faced Face-of-god, her
hand lightly laid on the scored brass, and spake with no anger in her
voice:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I ask thee if thou hast brought me the token whereon thou
shalt swear to give me that gift.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said he; and therewith drew the ring from his
bosom, and held it out to her.&nbsp; She reached out her hand to him
slowly and took it, and their fingers met as she did so, and he noted
that her hand was warm and firm and wholesome as he well remembered
it.</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;Whence hadst thou this fair finger-ring?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;My friend there in the mountain-valley drew
it from off her finger for thee, and bade me bear thee a message.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Her face flushed red: &lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;and doth
she send me a message?&nbsp; Then doth she know of me, and ye have talked
of me together.&nbsp; Well, give the message!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;She saith, that thou shalt bear in mind,
That to-morrow is a new day.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;for her it is so, and for thee;
but not for me.&nbsp; But now I have brought thee here that thou mightest
swear thine oath to me; lay thine hand on this ring and on this brazen
plate whereby the sun measures the hours of the day for happy folk,
and swear by the spring-tide of the year and all glad things that find
a mate, and by the God of the Earth that rejoiceth in the life of man.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he laid his hand on the finger-ring as it lay on the dial-plate
and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;By the spring-tide and the live things that long to multiply
their kind; by the God of the Earth that rejoiceth in the life of man,
I swear to give to my kinswoman the Bride the second man-child that
I beget; to be hers, to leave or cherish, to love or hate, as her will
may bid her.&rsquo;&nbsp; Then he looked on her soberly and said: &lsquo;It
is duly sworn; is it enough?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said; but he saw how the tears ran out of
her eyes and wetted the bosom of her kirtle, and she hung her head for
shame of her grief.&nbsp; And Gold-mane was all abashed, and had no
word to say; for he knew that no word of his might comfort her; and
he deemed it ill done to stay there and behold her sorrow; and he knew
not how to get him gone, and be glad elsewhere, and leave her alone.</p>
<p>Then, as if she had read his thought, she looked up at him and said
smiling a little amidst of her tears:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I bid thee stay by me till the flood is over; for I have yet
a word to say to thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So he stood there gazing down on the grass in his turn, and not daring
to raise his eyes to her face, and the minutes seemed long to him: till
at last she said in a voice scarcely yet clear of weeping:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Wilt thou say anything to me, and tell me what thou hast done,
and why, and what thou deemest will come of it?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;I will tell the truth as I know it, because thou
askest it of me, and not because I would excuse myself before thee.&nbsp;
What have I done?&nbsp; Yesterday I plighted my troth to wed the woman
that I met last autumn in the wood.&nbsp; And why?&nbsp; I wot not why,
but that I longed for her.&nbsp; Yet I must tell thee that it seemed
to me, and yet seemeth, that I might do no otherwise - that there was
nothing else in the world for me to do.&nbsp; What do I deem will come
of it, sayest thou?&nbsp; This, that we shall be happy together, she
and I, till the day of our death.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;And even so long shall I be sorry: so far are we
sundered now.&nbsp; Alas! who looked for it?&nbsp; And whither shall
I turn to now?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Gold-mane: &lsquo;She bade me tell thee that to-morrow is a
new day: meseemeth I know her meaning.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;No word of hers hath any meaning to me,&rsquo; said the Bride.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;but hast thou not heard these
rumours of war that are in the Dale?&nbsp; Shall not these things avail
thee?&nbsp; Much may grow out of them; and thou with the mighty heart,
so faithful and compassionate!&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;What sayest thou?&nbsp; What may grow out of them?&nbsp;
Yea, I have heard those rumours as a man sick to death heareth men talk
of their business down in the street while he lieth on his bed; and
already he hath done with it all, and hath no world to mend or mar.&nbsp;
For me nought shall grow out of it.&nbsp; What meanest thou?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Gold-mane: &lsquo;Is there nought in the fellowship of Folks,
and the aiding of the valiant, and the deliverance of the hapless?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;there is nought to me.&nbsp;
I cannot think of it to-day nor yet to-morrow belike.&nbsp; Yet true
it is that I may mingle in it, though thinking nought of it.&nbsp; But
this shall not avail me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She was silent a little, but presently spake and said: &lsquo;Thou
sayest right; it is not thou that hast done this, but the woman who
sent me the ring and the message of an old saw.&nbsp; O that she should
be born to sunder us!&nbsp; How hath it befallen that I am now so little
to thee and she so much?&rsquo;</p>
<p>And again she was silent; and after a while Face-of-god spake kindly
and softly and said: &lsquo;Kinswoman, wilt thou for ever begrudge our
love? this grudge lieth heavy on my soul, and it is I alone that have
to bear it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;This is but a light burden for thee to bear, when
thou hast nought else to bear!&nbsp; But do I begrudge thee thy love,
Gold-mane?&nbsp; I know not that.&nbsp; Rather meseemeth I do not believe
in it - nor shall do ever.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then she held her peace a long while, nor did he speak one word:
and they were so still, that a robin came hopping about them, close
to the hem of her kirtle, and a starling pitched in the apple-tree hard
by and whistled and chuckled, turning about and about, heeding them
nought.&nbsp; Then at last she lifted up her face from looking on the
grass and said: &lsquo;These are idle words and avail nothing: one thing
only I know, that we are sundered.&nbsp; And now it repenteth me that
I have shown thee my tears and my grief and my sickness of the earth
and those that dwell thereon.&nbsp; I am ashamed of it, as if thou hadst
smitten me, and I had come and shown thee the stripes, and said, See
what thou hast done! hast thou no pity?&nbsp; Yea, thou pitiest me,
and wilt try to forget thy pity.&nbsp; Belike thou art right when thou
sayest, To-morrow is a new day; belike matters will arise that will
call me back to life, and I shall once more take heed of the joy and
sorrow of my people.&nbsp; Nay, it is most like that this I shall feign
to do even now.&nbsp; But if to-morrow be a new day, it is to-day now
and not to-morrow, and so shall it be for long.&nbsp; Hereof belike
we shall talk no more, thou and I.&nbsp; For as the days wear, the dealings
between us shall be that thou shalt but get thee away from my life,
and I shall be nought to thee but the name of a kinswoman.&nbsp; Thus
should it be even wert thou to strive to make it otherwise; and thou
shalt <i>not</i> strive.&nbsp; So let all this be; for this is not the
word I had to say to thee.&nbsp; But hearken! now are we sundered, and
it irketh me beyond measure that folk know it not, and are kind, and
rejoice in our love, and deem it a happy thing for the folk; and this
burden I may bear no longer.&nbsp; So I shall declare unto men that
I will not wed thee; and belike they may wonder why it is, till they
see thee wedded to the Woman of the Mountain.&nbsp; Art thou content
that so it shall be?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Nay, thou shalt not take this all upon thyself;
I also shall declare unto the Folk that I will wed none but her, the
Mountain-Woman.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;This shalt thou not do; I forbid it thee.&nbsp;
And I <i>will</i> take it all upon myself.&nbsp; Shall I have it said
of me that I am unmeet to wed thee, and that thou hast found me out
at last and at latest?&nbsp; I lay this upon thee, that wheresoever
I declare this and whatsoever I may say, thou shalt hold thy peace.&nbsp;
This at least thou may&rsquo;st do for me.&nbsp; Wilt thou?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;though it shall put me to shame.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Again she was silent for a little; then she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O Gold-mane, this would I take upon myself not soothly for
any shame of seeming to be thy cast-off; but because it is I who needs
must bear all the sorrow of our sundering; and I have the will to bear
it greater and heavier, that I may be as the women of old time, and
they that have come from the Gods, lest I belittle my life with malice
and spite and confusion, and it become poisonous to me.&nbsp; Be at
peace! be at peace!&nbsp; And leave all to the wearing of the years;
and forget not that which thou hast sworn!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she turned and went from that green place toward the House
of the Face, walking slowly through the garden amongst the sweet odours,
beneath the fair blossoms, a body most dainty and beauteous of fashion,
but the casket of grievous sorrow, which all that goodliness availed
not.</p>
<p>But Face-of-god lingered in that place a little, and for that little
while the joy of his life was dulled and overworn; and the days before
his wandering on the mountain seemed to him free and careless and happy
days that he could not but regret.&nbsp; He was ashamed, moreover, that
this so unquenchable grief should come but of him, and the pleasure
of his life, which he himself had found out for himself, and which was
but such a little portion of the Earth and the deeds thereof.&nbsp;
But presently his thought wandered from all this, and as he turned away
from the sundial and went his ways through the garden, he called to
mind his longing for the day of the spring market, when he should see
the Sun-beam again and be cherished by the sweetness of her love.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXV.&nbsp; OF THE GATE-THING AT BURGSTEAD</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>But now must he hasten, for the Gate-thing was to be holden two hours
before noon; so he betook him speedily to the Hall, and took his shield
and did on a goodly helm and girt his sword to his side, for men must
needs go to all folk-motes with their weapons and clad in war-gear.&nbsp;
Thus he went forth to the Gate with many others, and there already were
many folk assembled in the space aforesaid betwixt the Gate of the Burg
and the sheer rocks on the face of which were the steps that led up
to the ancient Tower on the height.&nbsp; The Alderman was sitting on
the great stone by the Gate-side which was his appointed place, and
beside him on the stone bench were the six Wardens of the Burg; but
of the six Wardens of the Dale there were but three, for the others
had not yet heard tell of the battle or had got the summons to the Thing,
since they had been about their business down the Dale.</p>
<p>Face-of-god took his place silently amongst the neighbours, but men
made way for him, so that he must needs stand in front, facing his father
and the Wardens; and there went up a murmur of expectation round about
him, both because the word had gone about that he had a tale of new
tidings to tell, and also because men deemed him their best and handiest
man, though he was yet so young.</p>
<p>Now the Alderman looked around and beheld a great throng gathered
together, and he looked on the shadow of the Gate which the southering
sun was casting on the hard white ground of the Thing-stead, and he
saw that it had just taken in the standing-stone which was in the midst
of the place.&nbsp; On the face of the said stone was carven the image
of a fighting man with shield on arm and axe in hand; for it had been
set there in old time in memory of the man who had bidden the Folk build
the Gate and its wall, and had showed them how to fashion it: for he
was a deft house-smith as well as a great warrior; and his name was
Iron-hand.&nbsp; So when the Alderman saw that this stone was wholly
within the shadow of the Gate he knew that it was the due time for the
hallowing-in of the Thing.&nbsp; So he bade one of the wardens who sat
beside him and had a great slug-horn slung about him, to rise and set
the horn to his mouth.</p>
<p>So that man arose and blew three great blasts that went bellowing
about the towers and down the street, and beat back again from the face
of the sheer rocks and up them and over into the wild-wood; and the
sound of it went on the light west-wind along the lips of the Dale toward
the mountain wastes.&nbsp; And many a goodman, when he heard the voice
of the horn in the bright spring morning, left spade or axe or plough-stilts,
or the foddering of the ewes and their younglings, and turned back home
to fetch his sword and helm and hasten to the Thing, though he knew
not why it was summoned: and women wending over the meadows, who had
not yet heard of the battle in the wood, hearkened and stood still on
the green grass or amidst the ripples of the ford, and the threat of
coming trouble smote heavy on their hearts, for they knew that great
tidings must be towards if a Thing must needs be summoned so close to
the Great Folk-mote.</p>
<p>But now the Alderman stood up and spake amidst the silence that followed
the last echoes of the horn:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now is hallowed in this Gate-thing of the Burgstead Men and
the Men of the Dale, wherein they shall take counsel concerning matters
late befallen, that press hard upon them.&nbsp; Let no man break the
peace of the Holy Thing, lest he become a man accursed in holy places
from the plain up to the mountain, and from the mountain down to the
plain; a man not to be cherished of any man of good will, not be holpen
with victuals or edge-tool or draught-beast; a man to be sheltered under
no roof-tree, and warmed at no hearth of man: so help us the Warrior
and the God of the Earth, and Him of the Face, and all the Fathers!&rsquo;</p>
<p>When he had spoken men clashed their weapons in token of assent;
and he sat down again, and there was silence for a space.&nbsp; But
presently came thrusting forward a goodman of the Dale, who seemed as
if he had come hurriedly to the Thing; for his face was running down
with sweat, his wide-rimmed iron cap sat awry over his brow, and he
was girt with a rusty sword without a scabbard, and the girdle was ill-braced
up about his loins.&nbsp; So he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I am Red-coat of Waterless of the Lower Dale.&nbsp; Early
this morning as I was going afield I met on the way a man akin to me,
Fox of Upton to wit, and he told me that men were being summoned to
a Gate-thing.&nbsp; So I turned back home, and caught up any weapon
that came handy, and here I am, Alderman, asking thee of the tidings
which hath driven thee to call this Thing so hard on the Great Folk-mote,
for I know them nothing so.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then stood up Iron-face the Alderman and said: &lsquo;This is well
asked, and soon shall ye be as wise as I am on this matter.&nbsp; Know
ye, O men of Burgstead and the Dale, that we had not called this Gate-thing
so hard on the Great Folk-mote had not great need been to look into
troublous matters.&nbsp; Long have ye dwelt in peace, and it is years
on years now since any foeman hath fallen on the Dale: but, as ye will
bear in mind, last autumn were there ransackings in the Dale and amidst
of the Shepherds after the manner of deeds of war; and it troubleth
us that none can say who wrought these ill deeds.&nbsp; Next, but a
little while agone, was Wood-grey, a valiant goodman of the Woodlanders,
slain close to his own door by evil men.&nbsp; These men we took at
first for mere gangrel felons and outcasts from their own folk: though
there were some who spoke against that from the beginning.</p>
<p>&lsquo;But thirdly are new tidings again: for three days ago, while
some of the folk were hunting peaceably in the Wild-wood and thinking
no evil, they were fallen upon of set purpose by a host of men-at-arms,
and nought would serve but mere battle for dear life, so that many of
our neighbours were hurt, and three slain outright; and now mark this,
that those who there fell upon our folk were clad and armed even as
the two felons that slew Wood-grey, and moreover were like them in aspect
of body.&nbsp; Now stand forth Hall-face my son, and answer to my questions
in a loud voice, so that all may hear thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So Hall-face stood forth, clad in gleaming war-gear, with an axe
over his shoulder, and seemed a doughty warrior.&nbsp; And Iron-face
said to him:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Tell me, son, those whom ye met in the wood, and of whom ye
brought home two captives, how much like were they to the murder-carles
at Wood-grey&rsquo;s?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Hall-face: &lsquo;As like as peas out of the same cod, and to
our eyes all those whom we saw in the wood might have been sons of one
father and one mother, so much alike were they.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said the Alderman; &lsquo;now tell me how many
by thy deeming fell upon you in the wood?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Hall-face: &lsquo;We deemed that if they were any less than
threescore, they were little less.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Great was the odds,&rsquo; said the Alderman.&nbsp; &lsquo;Or
how many were ye?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;One score and seven,&rsquo; said Hall-face.</p>
<p>Said the Alderman: &lsquo;And yet ye escaped with life all save those
three?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Hall-face said: &lsquo;I deem that scarce one should have come back
alive, had it not been that as we fought came a noise like the howling
of wolves, and thereat the foemen turned and fled, and there followed
on the fleers tall men clad in sheep-brown raiment, who smote them down
as they fled.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Here then is the story, neighbours,&rsquo; said the Alderman,
&lsquo;and ye may see thereby that if those slayers of Wood-grey were
outcast, their band is a great one; but it seemeth rather that they
were men of a folk whose craft it is to rob with the armed hand, and
to slay the robbed; and that they are now gathering on our borders for
war.&nbsp; Yet, moreover, they have foemen in the woods who should be
fellows-in-arms of us.&nbsp; How sayest thou, Stone-face?&nbsp; Thou
art old, and hast seen many wars in the Dale, and knowest the Wild-wood
to its innermost.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Alderman,&rsquo; said Stone-face, &lsquo;and ye neighbours
of the Dale, maybe these foes whom ye have met are not of the race of
man, but are trolls and wood-wights.&nbsp; Now if they be trolls it
is ill, for then is the world growing worser, and the wood shall be
right perilous for those who needs must fare therein.&nbsp; Yet if they
be men it is a worse matter; for the trolls would not come out of the
waste into the sunlight of the Dale.&nbsp; But these foes, if they be
men, are lusting after our fair Dale to eat it up, and it is most like
that they are gathering a huge host to fall upon us at home.&nbsp; Such
things I have heard of when I was young, and the aspect of the evil
men who overran the kindreds of old time, according to all tales and
lays that I have heard, is even such as the aspect of those whom we
have seen of late.&nbsp; As to those wolves who saved the neighbours
and chased their foemen, there is one here who belike knoweth more of
all this than we do, and that, O Alderman, is thy son whom I have fostered,
Face-of-god to wit.&nbsp; Bid him answer to thy questioning, and tell
us what he hath seen and heard of late; then shall we verily know the
whole story as far as it can be known.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then men pressed round, and were eager to hear what Face-of-god would
be saying.&nbsp; But or ever the Alderman could begin to question him,
the throng was cloven by new-comers, and these were the men who had
been sent to bring home the corpses of the Dusky Men: so they had cast
loaded hooks into the Weltering Water, and had dragged up him whom Face-of-god
had shoved into the eddy, and who had sunk like a stone just where he
fell, and now they were bringing him on a bier along with him who had
been slain a-land.&nbsp; They were set down in the place before the
Alderman, and men who had not seen them before looked eagerly on them
that they might behold the aspect of their foemen; and nought lovely
were they to look on; for the drowned man was already bleached and swollen
with the water, and the other, his face was all wryed and twisted with
that spear-thrust in the mouth.</p>
<p>Then the Alderman said: &lsquo;I would question my son Face-of-god.&nbsp;
Let him stand forth!&rsquo;</p>
<p>And therewith he smiled merrily in his son&rsquo;s face, for he was
standing right in front of him; and he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Ask of me, Alderman, and I will answer.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Kinsman,&rsquo; said Iron-face, &lsquo;look at these two dead
men, and tell me, if thou hast seen any such besides those two murder-carles
who were slain at Carlstead; or if thou knowest aught of their folk?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Yesterday I saw six others like to these
both in array and of body, and three of them I slew, for we were in
battle with them early in the morning.&rsquo;</p>
<p>There was a murmur of joy at this word, since all men took these
felons for deadly foemen; but Iron-face said: &lsquo;What meanest thou
by &ldquo;we&rdquo;?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;I and the men who had guested me overnight,&rsquo; said Face-of-god,
&lsquo;and they slew the other three; or rather a woman of them slew
the felons.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Valiant she was; all good go with her hand!&rsquo; said the
Alderman.&nbsp; &lsquo;But what be these people, and where do they dwell?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;As to what they are, they are of the kindred
of the Gods and the Fathers, valiant men, and guest-cherishing: rich
have they been, and now are poor: and their poverty cometh of these
same felons, who mastered them by numbers not to be withstood.&nbsp;
As to where they dwell: when I say the name of their dwelling-place
men mock at me, as if I named some valley in the moon: yet came I to
Burgdale thence in one day across the mountain-necks led by sure guides,
and I tell thee that the name of their abode is Shadowy Vale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Iron-face, &lsquo;knoweth any man here of
Shadowy Vale, or where it is?&rsquo;</p>
<p>None answered for a while; but there was an old man who was sitting
on the shafts of a wain on the outskirts of the throng, and when he
heard this word he asked his neighbour what the Alderman was saying,
and he told him.&nbsp; Then said that elder:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Give me place; for I have a word to say hereon.&rsquo;&nbsp;
Therewith he arose, and made his way to the front of the ring of men,
and said: &lsquo;Alderman, thou knowest me?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Iron-face, &lsquo;thou art called the Fiddle,
because of thy sweet speech and thy minstrelsy; whereof I mind me well
in the time when I was young and thou no longer young.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;So it is,&rsquo; said the Fiddle.&nbsp; &lsquo;Now hearken!&nbsp;
When I was very young I heard of a vale lying far away across the mountain-necks;
a vale where the sun shone never in winter and scantily in summer; for
my sworn foster-brother, Fight-fain, a bold man and a great hunter,
had happened upon it; and on a day in full midsummer he brought me thither;
and even now I see the Vale before me as in a picture; a marvellous
place, well grassed, treeless, narrow, betwixt great cliff-walls of
black stone, with a green river running through it towards a yawning
gap and a huge force.&nbsp; Amidst that Vale was a doom-ring of black
stones, and nigh thereto a feast-hall well builded of the like stones,
over whose door was carven the image of a wolf with red gaping jaws,
and within it (for we entered into it) were stone benches on the da&iuml;s.&nbsp;
Thence we came away, and thither again we went in late autumn, and so
dusk and cold it was at that season, that we knew not what to call it
save the valley of deep shade.&nbsp; But its real name we never knew;
for there was no man there to give us a name or tell us any tale thereof;
but all was waste there; the wimbrel laughed across its water, the raven
croaked from its crags, the eagle screamed over it, and the voices of
its waters never ceased; and thus we left it.&nbsp; So the seasons passed,
and we went thither no more: for Fight-fain died, and without him wandering
over the waste was irksome to me; so never have I seen that valley again,
or heard men tell thereof.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now, neighbours, have I told you of a valley which seemeth
to be Shadowy Vale; and this is true and no made-up story.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The Alderman nodded kindly to him, and then said to Face-of-god:
&lsquo;Kinsman, is this word according with what thou knowest of Shadowy
Vale?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, on all points,&rsquo; said Face-of-god; &lsquo;he hath
put before me a picture of the valley.&nbsp; And whereas he saith, that
in his youth it was waste, this also goeth with my knowledge thereof.&nbsp;
For once was it peopled, and then was waste, and now again is it peopled.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Tell us then more of the folk thereof,&rsquo; said the Alderman;
&lsquo;are they many?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;they are not.&nbsp; How
might they be many, dwelling in that narrow Vale amid the wastes?&nbsp;
But they are valiant, both men and women, and strong and well-liking.&nbsp;
Once they dwelt in a fair dale called Silver-dale, the name whereof
will be to you as a name in a lay; and there were they wealthy and happy.&nbsp;
Then fell upon them this murderous Folk, whom they call the Dusky Men;
and they fought and were overcome, and many of them were slain, and
many enthralled, and the remnant of them escaped through the passes
of the mountains and came back to dwell in Shadowy Vale, where their
forefathers had dwelt long and long ago; and this overthrow befell them
ten years agone.&nbsp; But now their old foemen have broken out from
Silver-dale and have taken to scouring the wood seeking prey; so they
fall upon these Dusky Men as occasion serves, and slay them without
pity, as if they were adders or evil dragons; and indeed they be worse.&nbsp;
And these valiant men know for certain that their foemen are now of
mind to fall upon this Dale and destroy it, as they have done with others
nigher to them.&nbsp; And they will slay our men, and lie with our women
against their will, and enthrall our children, and torment all those
that lie under their hands till life shall be worse than death to them.&nbsp;
Therefore, O Alderman and Wardens, and ye neighbours all, it behoveth
you to take counsel what we shall do, and that speedily.&rsquo;</p>
<p>There was again a murmur, as of men nothing daunted, but intent on
taking some way through the coming trouble.&nbsp; But no man said aught
till the Alderman spake:</p>
<p>&lsquo;When didst thou first happen upon this Earl-folk, son?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Late last autumn,&rsquo; said Face-of-god.</p>
<p>Said Iron-face: &lsquo;Then mightest thou have told us of this tale
before.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said his son, &lsquo;but I knew it not, or but
little of it, till two days agone.&nbsp; In the autumn I wandered in
the woodland, and on the fell I happened on a few of this folk dwelling
in a booth by the pine-wood; and they were kind and guest-fain with
me, and gave me meat and drink and lodging, and bade me come to Shadowy
Vale in the spring, when I should know more of them.&nbsp; And that
was I fain of; for they are wise and goodly men.&nbsp; But I deemed
no more of those that I saw there save as men who had been outlawed
by their own folk for deeds that were unlawful belike, but not shameful,
and were biding their time of return, and were living as they might
meanwhile.&nbsp; But of the whole Folk and their foemen knew I no more
than ye did, till two days agone, when I met them again in Shadowy Vale.&nbsp;
Also I think before long ye shall see their chieftain in Burgstead,
for he hath a word for us.&nbsp; Lastly, my mind it is that those brown-clad
men who helped Hall-face and his company in the wood were nought but
men of this Earl-kin seeking their foemen; for indeed they told me that
they had come upon a battle in the woodland wherein they had slain their
foemen.&nbsp; Now have I told you all that ye need to know concerning
these matters.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Again was there silence as Iron-face sat pondering a question for
his son; then a goodman of the Upper Dale, Gritgarth to wit, spake and
said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Gold-mane mine, tell us how many is this folk; I mean their
fighting-men?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Well asked, neighbour,&rsquo; said Iron-face.</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Their fighting-men of full age may be five
score; but besides that there shall be some two or three score of women
that will fight, whoever says them nay; and many of these are little
worse in the field than men; or no worse, for they shoot well in the
bow.&nbsp; Moreover, there will be a full score of swains not yet twenty
winters old whom ye may not hinder to fight if anything is a-doing.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;This is no great host,&rsquo; said the Alderman; &lsquo;yet
if they deem there is little to lose by fighting, and nought to gain
by sitting still, they may go far in winning their desire; and that
more especially if they may draw into their quarrel some other valiant
Folk more in number than they be.&nbsp; I marvel not, though, they were
kind to thee, son Gold-mane, if they knew who thou wert.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;They knew it,&rsquo; said Face-of-god.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Neighbours,&rsquo; said the Alderman, &lsquo;have ye any rede
hereon, and aught to say to back your rede?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then spake the Fiddle: &lsquo;As ye know and may see, I am now very
old, and, as the word goes, unmeet for battle: yet might I get me to
the field, either on mine own legs or on the legs of some four-foot
beast, I would strike, if it were but one stroke, on these pests of
the earth.&nbsp; And, Alderman, meseemeth we shall do amiss if we bid
not the Earl-folk of Shadowy Vale to be our fellows in arms in this
adventure.&nbsp; For look you, how few soever they be, they will be
sure to know the ways of our foemen, and the mountain passes, and the
surest and nighest roads across the necks and the mires of the waste;
and though they be not a host, yet shall they be worth a host to us?&rsquo;</p>
<p>When men heard his words they shouted for joy of them; for hatred
of the Dusky Men who should so mar their happy life in the Dale was
growing up in them, and the more that hatred waxed, the more waxed their
love of those valiant ones.</p>
<p>Now Red-coat of Waterless spake again: he was a big man, both tall
and broad, ruddy-faced and red-haired, some forty winters old.&nbsp;
He said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Life hath been well with us of the Lower Dale, and we deem
that we have much to lose in losing it.&nbsp; Yet ill would the bargain
be to buy life with thralldom: we have been over-merry hitherto for
that.&nbsp; Therefore I say, to battle!&nbsp; And as to these men, these
well-wishers of Face-of-god, if they also are minded for battle with
our foes, we were fools indeed if we did not join them to our company,
were they but one score instead of six.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Men shouted again, and they said that Red-coat had spoken well.&nbsp;
Then one after other the goodmen of the Dale came and gave their word
for fellowship in arms with the Men of Shadowy Vale, if there were such
as Face-of-god had said, which they doubted not; and amongst them that
spake were Fox of Nethertown, and Warwell, and Gritgarth, and Bearswain,
and Warcliff, and Hart of Highcliff, and Worm of Willowholm, and Bullsbane,
and Highneb of the Marsh: all these were stout men-at-arms and men of
good counsel.</p>
<p>Last of all the Alderman spake and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;As to the war, that must we needs meet if all be sooth that
we have heard, and I doubt it not.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now therefore let us look to it like wise men while time yet
serves.&nbsp; Ye shall know that the muster of the Dalesmen will bring
under shield eight long hundreds of men well-armed, and of the Shepherd-Folk
four hundreds, and of the Woodlanders two hundreds; and this is a goodly
host if it be well ordered and wisely led.&nbsp; Now am I your Alderman
and your Doomster, and I can heave up a sword as well as another maybe,
nor do I think that I shall blench in the battle; yet I misdoubt me
that I am no leader or orderer of men-of-war: therefore ye will do wisely
to choose a wiser man-at-arms than I be for your War-leader; and if
at the Great Folk-mote, when all the Houses and Kindreds are gathered,
men yeasay your choosing, then let him abide; but if they naysay it,
let him give place to another.&nbsp; For time presses.&nbsp; Will ye
so choose?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, yea!&rsquo; cried all men.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Good is that, neighbours,&rsquo; said the Alderman.&nbsp;
&lsquo;Whom will ye have for War-leader?&nbsp; Consider well.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Short was their rede, for every man opened his mouth and cried out
&lsquo;Face-of-god!&rsquo;&nbsp; Then said the Alderman:</p>
<p>&lsquo;The man is young and untried; yet though he is so near akin
to me, I will say that ye will do wisely to take him; for he is both
deft of his hands and brisk; and moreover, of this matter he knoweth
more than all we together.&nbsp; Now therefore I declare him your War-leader
till the time of the Great Folk-mote.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then all men shouted with great glee and clashed their weapons; but
some few put their heads together and spake apart a little while, and
then one of them, Red-coat of Waterless to wit, came forward and said:
&lsquo;Alderman, some of us deem it good that Stone-face, the old man
wise in war and in the ways of the Wood, should be named as a counsellor
to the War-leader; and Hall-face, a very brisk and strong young man,
to be his right hand and sword-bearer.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Good is that,&rsquo; said Iron-face.&nbsp; &lsquo;Neighbours,
will ye have it so?&rsquo;&nbsp; This also they yeasaid without delay,
and the Alderman declared Stone-face and Hall-face the helpers of Face-of-god
in this business.&nbsp; Then he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;If any hath aught to say concerning what is best to be done
at once, it were good that he said it now before all and not to murmur
and grudge hereafter.&rsquo;</p>
<p>None spake save the Fiddle, who said: &lsquo;Alderman and War-leader,
one thing would I say: that if these foemen are anywise akin to those
overrunners of the Folks of whom the tales went in my youth (for I also
as well as Stone-face mind me well of those tales concerning them),
it shall not avail us to sit still and await their onset.&nbsp; For
then may they not be withstood, when they have gathered head and burst
out and over the folk that have been happy, even as the waters that
overtop a dyke and cover with their muddy ruin the deep green grass
and the flower-buds of spring.&nbsp; Therefore my rede is, as soon as
may be to go seek these folk in the woodland and wheresoever else they
may be wandering.&nbsp; What sayest thou, Face-of-god?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;My rede is as thine,&rsquo; said he; &lsquo;and to begin with,
I do now call upon ten tens of good men to meet me in arms at the beginning
of Wildlake&rsquo;s Way to-morrow morning at daybreak; and I bid my
brother Hall-face to summon such as are most meet thereto.&nbsp; For
this I deem good, that we scour the wood daily at present till we hear
fresh tidings from them of Shadowy Vale, who are nigher than we to the
foemen.&nbsp; Now, neighbours, are ye ready to meet me?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then all shouted, &lsquo;Yea, we will go, we will go!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said the Alderman: &lsquo;Now have we made provision for the war
in that which is nearest to our hands.&nbsp; Yet have we to deal with
the matter of the fellowship with the Folk whom Face-of-god hath seen.&nbsp;
This is a matter for thee, son, at least till the Great Folk-mote is
holden.&nbsp; Tell me then, shall we send a messenger to Shadowy Vale
to speak with this folk, or shall we abide the chieftain&rsquo;s coming?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;By my rede,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;we shall abide
his coming: for first, though I might well make my way thither, I doubt
if I could give any the bearings, so that he could come there without
me; and belike I am needed at home, since I am become War-leader.&nbsp;
Moreover, when your messenger cometh to Shadowy Vale, he may well chance
to find neither the chieftain there, nor the best of his men; for whiles
are they here, and whiles there, as they wend following after the Dusky
Men.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is well, son,&rsquo; said the Alderman, &lsquo;let it be
as thou sayest: soothly this matter must needs be brought before the
Great Folk-mote.&nbsp; Now will I ask if any other hath any word to
say, or any rede to give before this Gate-thing sundereth?&rsquo;</p>
<p>But no man came forward, and all men seemed well content and of good
heart; and it was now well past noontide.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXVI.&nbsp; THE ENDING OF THE GATE-THING</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>But just as the Alderman was on the point of rising to declare the
breaking-up of the Thing, there came a stir in the throng and it opened,
and a warrior came forth into the innermost of the ring of men, arrayed
in goodly glittering War-gear; clad in such wise that a tunicle of precious
gold-wrought web covered the hauberk all but the sleeves thereof, and
the hem of it beset with blue mountain-stones smote against the ankles
and well-nigh touched the feet, shod with sandals gold-embroidered and
gemmed.&nbsp; This warrior bore a goodly gilded helm on the head, and
held in hand a spear with gold-garlanded shaft, and was girt with a
sword whose hilts and scabbard both were adorned with gold and gems:
beardless, smooth-cheeked, exceeding fair of face was the warrior, but
pale and somewhat haggard-eyed: and those who were nearby beheld and
wondered; for they saw that there was come the Bride arrayed for war
and battle, as if she were a messenger from the House of the Gods, and
the Burg that endureth for ever.</p>
<p>Then she fell to speech in a voice which at first was somewhat hoarse
and broken, but cleared as she went on, and she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;There sittest thou, O Alderman of Burgdale!&nbsp; Is Face-of-god
thy son anywhere nigh, so that he can hear me?&rsquo;</p>
<p>But Iron-face wondered at her word, and said: &lsquo;He is beside
thee, as he should be.&rsquo;&nbsp; For indeed Face-of-god was touching
her, shoulder to shoulder.&nbsp; But she looked not to the right hand
nor the left, but said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hearken, Iron-face!&nbsp; Chief of the House of the Face,
Alderman of the Dale, and ye also, neighbours and goodmen of the Dale:
I am a woman called the Bride, of the House of the Steer, and ye have
heard that I have plighted my troth to Face-of-god to wed with him,
to love him, and lie in his bed.&nbsp; But it is not so: we are not
troth-plight; nor will I wed with him, nor any other, but will wend
with you to the war, and play my part therein according to what might
is in me; nor will I be worser than the wives of Shadowy Vale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Face-of-god heard her words with no change of countenance; but Iron-face
reddened over all his face, and stared at her, and knit his brows and
said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Maiden, what are these words?&nbsp; What have we done to thee?&nbsp;
Have I not been to thee as a father, and loved thee dearly?&nbsp; Is
not my son goodly and manly and deft in arms?&nbsp; Hath it not ever
been the wont of the House of the Face to wed in the House of the Steer?
and in these two Houses there hath never yet been a goodlier man and
a lovelier maiden than are ye two.&nbsp; What have we done then?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Ye have done nought against me,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;and
all that thou sayest is sooth; yet will I not wed with Face-of-god.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Yet fiercer waxed the face of the Alderman, and he said in a loud
voice:</p>
<p>&lsquo;But how if I tell thee that I will speak with thy kindred
of the Steer, and thou shalt do after my bidding whether thou wilt or
whether thou wilt not?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;And how will ye compel me thereto?&rsquo; she said.&nbsp;
&lsquo;Are there thralls in the Dale?&nbsp; Or will ye make me an outlaw?&nbsp;
Who shall heed it?&nbsp; Or I shall betake me to Shadowy Vale and become
one of their warrior-maidens.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Now was the Alderman&rsquo;s face changing from red to white, and
belike he forgat the Thing, and what he was doing there, and he cried
out:</p>
<p>&lsquo;This is an evil day, and who shall help me?&nbsp; Thou, Face-of-god,
what hast thou to say?&nbsp; Wilt thou let this woman go without a word?&nbsp;
What hath bewitched thee?&rsquo;</p>
<p>But never a word spake his son, but stood looking straight forward,
cold and calm by seeming.&nbsp; Then turned Iron-face again to the Bride,
and said in a softer voice:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Tell me, maiden, whom I erst called daughter, what hath befallen,
that thou wilt leave my son; thou who wert once so kind and loving to
him; whose hand was always seeking his, whose eyes were ever following
his; who wouldst go where he bade, and come when he called.&nbsp; What
hath betid that ye have cast him out, and flee from our House?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She flushed red beneath her helm and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;There is war in the land, and I have seen it coming, and that
things shall change around us.&nbsp; I have looked about me and seen
men happy and women content, and children weary for mere mirth and joy.&nbsp;
And I have thought, in a day, or two days or three, all this shall be
changed, and the women shall be, some anxious and wearied with waiting,
some casting all hope away; and the men, some shall come back to the
garth no more, and some shall come back maimed and useless, and there
shall be loss of friends and fellows, and mirth departed, and dull days
and empty hours, and the children wandering about marvelling at the
sorrow of the house.&nbsp; All this I saw before me, and grief and pain
and wounding and death; and I said: Shall I be any better than the worst
of the folk that loveth me?&nbsp; Nay, this shall never be; and since
I have learned to be deft with mine hands in all the play of war, and
that I am as strong as many a man, and as hardy-hearted as any, I will
give myself to the Warrior and the God of the Face; and the battle-field
shall be my home, and the after-grief of the fight my banquet and holiday,
that I may bear the burden of my people, in the battle and out of it;
and know every sorrow that the Dale hath; and cast aside as a grievous
and ugly thing the bed of the warrior that the maiden desires, and the
toying of lips and hands and soft words of desire, and all the joy that
dwelleth in the Castle of Love and the Garden thereof; while the world
outside is sick and sorry, and the fields lie waste and the harvest
burneth.&nbsp; Even so have I sworn, even so will I do.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Her eyes glittered and her cheek was flushed, and her voice was clear
and ringing now; and when she ended there arose a murmur of praise from
the men round about her.&nbsp; But Iron-face said coldly:</p>
<p>&lsquo;These are great words; but I know not what they mean.&nbsp;
If thou wilt to the field and fight among the carles (and that I would
not naysay, for it hath oft been done and praised aforetime), why shouldest
thou not go side by side with Face-of-god and as his plighted maiden?&rsquo;</p>
<p>The light which the sweetness of speech had brought into her face
had died out of it now, and she looked weary and hapless as she answered
him slowly:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I will not wed with Face-of-god, but will fare afield as a
virgin of war, as I have sworn to the Warrior.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then waxed Iron-face exceeding wroth, and he rose up before all men
and cried loudly and fiercely:</p>
<p>&lsquo;There is some lie abroad, that windeth about us as the gossamers
in the lanes of an autumn morning.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And therewith he strode up to Face-of-god as though he had nought
to do with the Thing; and he stood before him and cried out at him while
all men wondered:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou! what hast thou done to turn this maiden&rsquo;s heart
to stone?&nbsp; Who is it that is devising guile with thee to throw
aside this worthy wedding in a worthy House, with whom our sons are
ever wont to wed?&nbsp; Speak, tell the tale!&rsquo;</p>
<p>But Face-of-god held his peace and stood calm and proud before all
men.</p>
<p>Then the blood mounted to Iron-face&rsquo;s head, and he forgat folk
and kindred and the war to come, and he cried so that all the place
rang with the words of his anger:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou dastard!&nbsp; I see thee now; it is thou that hast done
this, and not the maiden; and now thou hast made her bear a double burden,
and set her on to speak for thee, whilst thou standest by saying nought,
and wilt take no scruple&rsquo;s weight of her shame upon thee!&rsquo;</p>
<p>But his son spake never a word, and Iron-face cried: &lsquo;Out on
thee!&nbsp; I know thee now, and why thou wouldest not to the West-land
last winter.&nbsp; I am no fool; I know thee.&nbsp; Where hast thou
hidden the stranger woman?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he drew forth his sword and hove it aloft as if to hew
down Face-of-god, who spake not nor flinched nor raised a hand from
his side.&nbsp; But the Bride threw herself in front of Gold-mane, while
there arose an angry cry of &lsquo;The Peace of the Holy Thing!&nbsp;
Peace-breaking, peace-breaking!&rsquo; and some cried, &lsquo;For the
War-leader, the War-leader!&rsquo; and as men could for the press they
drew forth their swords, and there was tumult and noise all over the
Thing-stead.</p>
<p>But Stone-face caught hold of the Alderman&rsquo;s right arm and
dragged down the sword, and the big carle, Red-coat of Waterless, came
up behind him and cast his arms about his middle and drew him back;
and presently he looked around him, and slowly sheathed his sword, and
went back to his place and sat him down; and in a little while the noise
abated and swords were sheathed, and men waxed quiet again, and the
Alderman arose and said in a loud voice, but in the wonted way of the
head man of the Thing:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Here hath been trouble in the Holy Thing; a violent man hath
troubled it, and drawn sword on a neighbour; will the neighbours give
the dooming hereof into the hands of the Alderman?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Now all knew Iron-face, and they cried out, &lsquo;That will we.&rsquo;&nbsp;
So he spake again:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I doom the troubler of the Peace of the Holy Thing to pay
a fine, to wit double the blood-wite that would be duly paid for a full-grown
freeman of the kindreds.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then the cry went up and men yeasaid his doom, and all said that
it was well and fairly doomed; and Iron-face sat still.</p>
<p>But Stone-face stood forth and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Here have been wild words in the air; and dreams have taken
shape and come amongst us, and have bewitched us, so that friends and
kin have wrangled.&nbsp; And meseemeth that this is through the wizardry
of these felons, who, even dead as they are, have cast spells over us.&nbsp;
Good it were to cast them into the Death Tarn, and then to get to our
work; for there is much to do.&rsquo;</p>
<p>All men yeasaid that; and Forkbeard of Lea went with those who had
borne the corpses thither to cast them into the black pool.</p>
<p>But the Fiddle spake and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Stone-face sayeth sooth.&nbsp; O Alderman, thou art no young
man, yet am I old enough to be thy father; so will I give thee a rede,
and say this: Face-of-god thy son is no liar or dastard or beguiler,
but he is a young man and exceeding goodly of fashion, well-spoken and
kind; so that few women may look on him and hear him without desiring
his kindness and love, and to such men as this many things happen.&nbsp;
Moreover, he hath now become our captain, and is a deft warrior with
his hands, and as I deem, a sober and careful leader of men; therefore
we need him and his courage and his skill of leading.&nbsp; So rage
not against him as if he had done an ill deed not to be forgiven - whatever
he hath done, whereof we know not - for life is long before him, and
most like we shall still have to thank him for many good deeds towards
us.&nbsp; As for the maiden, she is both lovely and wise.&nbsp; She
hath a sorrow at her heart, and we deem that we know what it is.&nbsp;
Yet hath she not lied when she said that she would bear the burden of
the griefs of the people.&nbsp; Even so shall she do; and whether she
will, or whether she will not, that shall heal her own griefs.&nbsp;
For to-morrow is a new day.&nbsp; Therefore, if thou do after my rede,
thou wilt not meddle betwixt these twain, but wilt remember all that
we have to do, and that war is coming upon us.&nbsp; And when that is
over, we shall turn round and behold each other, and see that we are
not wholly what we were before; and then shall that which were hard
to forgive, be forgotten, and that which is remembered be easy to forgive.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So he spake; and Iron-face sat still and put his left hand to his
beard as one who pondereth; but the Bride looked in the face of the
old man the Fiddle, and then she turned and looked at Gold-mane, and
her face softened, and she stood before the Alderman, and bent down
before him and held out both her hands to him the palms upward.&nbsp;
Then she said: &lsquo;Thou hast been wroth with me, and I marvel not;
for thy hope, and the hope which we all had, hath deceived thee.&nbsp;
But kind indeed hast thou been to me ere now: therefore I pray thee
take it not amiss if I call to thy mind the oath which thou swearedst
on the Holy Boar last Yule, that thou wouldst not gainsay the prayer
of any man if thou couldest perform it; therefore I bid thee naysay
not mine: and that is, that thou wilt ask me no more about this matter,
but wilt suffer me to fare afield like any swain of the Dale, and to
deal so with my folk that they shall not hinder me.&nbsp; Also I pray
thee that thou wilt put no shame upon Face-of-god my playmate and my
kinsman, nor show thine anger to him openly, even if for a little while
thy love for him be abated.&nbsp; No more than this will I ask of thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>All men who heard her were moved to the heart by her kindness and
the sweetness of her voice, which was like to the robin singing suddenly
on a frosty morning of early winter.&nbsp; But as for Gold-mane, his
heart was smitten sorely by it, and her sorrow and her friendliness
grieved him out of measure.</p>
<p>But Iron-face answered after a little while, speaking slowly and
hoarsely, and with the shame yet clinging to him of a man who has been
wroth and has speedily let his wrath run off him.&nbsp; So he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is well, my daughter.&nbsp; I have no will to forswear
myself; nor hast thou asked me a thing which is over-hard.&nbsp; Yet
indeed I would that to-day were yesterday, or that many days were worn
away.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he stood up and cried in a loud voice over the throng:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Let none forget the muster; but hold him ready against the
time that the Warden shall come to him.&nbsp; Let all men obey the War-leader,
Face-of-god, without question or delay.&nbsp; As to the fine of the
peace-breaker, it shall be laid on the altar of the God at the Great
Folk-mote.&nbsp; Herewith is the Thing broken up.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then all men shouted and clashed their weapons, and so sundered,
and went about their business.</p>
<p>And the talk of men it was that the breaking of the troth-plight
between those twain was ill; for they loved Face-of-god, and as for
the Bride they deemed her the Dearest of the kindreds and the Jewel
of the Folk, and as if she were the fairest and the kindest of all the
Gods.&nbsp; Neither did the wrath of Iron-face mislike any; but they
said he had done well and manly both to be wroth and to let his wrath
run off him.&nbsp; As to the war which was to come, they kept a good
heart about it, and deemed it as a game to be played, wherein they might
show themselves deft and valiant, and so get back to their merry life
again.</p>
<p>So wore the day through afternoon to even and night.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXVII.&nbsp; FACE-OF-GOD LEADETH A BAND THROUGH THE WOOD</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Next morning tryst was held faithfully, and an hundred and a half
were gathered together on Wildlake&rsquo;s Way; and Face-of-god ordered
them into three companies.&nbsp; He made Hall-face leader over the first
one, and bade him hold on his way northward, and then to make for Boars-bait
and see if he should meet with anything thereabout where the battle
had been.&nbsp; Red-coat of Waterless he made captain of the second
band; and he had it in charge to wend eastward along the edge of the
Dale, and not to go deep into the wood, but to go as far as he might
within the time appointed, toward the Mountains.&nbsp; Furthermore,
he bade both Hall-face and Red-coat to bring their bands back to Wildlake&rsquo;s
Way by the morrow at sunset, where other goodmen should be come to take
the places of their men; and then if he and his company were back again,
he would bid them further what to do; but if not, as seemed likely,
then Hall-face&rsquo;s band to go west toward the Shepherd country half
a day&rsquo;s journey, and so back, and Red-coat&rsquo;s east along
the Dale&rsquo;s lip again for the like time, and then back, so that
there might be a constant watch and ward of the Dale kept against the
Felons.</p>
<p>All being ordered Gold-mane led his own company north-east through
the thick wood, thinking that he might so fare as to come nigh to Silver-dale,
or at least to hear tidings thereof.&nbsp; This intent he told to Stone-face,
but the old man shook his head and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Good is this if it may be done; but it is not for everyone
to go down to Hell in his lifetime and come back safe with a tale thereof.&nbsp;
However, whither thou wilt lead, thither will I follow, though assured
death waylayeth us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And the old carle was joyous and proud to be on this adventure, and
said, that it was good indeed that his foster-son had with him a man
well stricken in years, who had both seen many things, and learned many,
and had good rede to give to valiant men.</p>
<p>So they went on their ways, and fared very warily when they were
gotten beyond those parts of the wood which they knew well.&nbsp; By
this time they were strung out in a long line; and they noted their
road carefully, blazing the trees on either side when there were trees,
and piling up little stone-heaps where the trees failed them.&nbsp;
For Stone-face said that oft it befell men amidst the thicket and the
waste to be misled by wights that begrudged men their lives, so that
they went round and round in a ring which they might not depart from
till they died; and no man doubted his word herein.</p>
<p>All day they went, and met no foe, nay, no man at all; nought but
the wild things of the wood; and that day the wood changed little about
them from mile to mile.&nbsp; There were many thickets across their
road which they had to go round about; so that to the crow flying over
the tree-tops the journey had not been long to the place where night
came upon them, and where they had to make the wood their bedchamber.</p>
<p>That night they lighted no fire, but ate such cold victual as they
might carry with them; nor had they shot any venison, since they had
with them more than enough; they made little noise or stir therefore
and fell asleep when they had set the watch.</p>
<p>On the morrow they arose betimes, and broke their fast and went their
ways till noon: by then the wood had thinned somewhat, and there was
little underwood betwixt the scrubby oak and ash which were pretty nigh
all the trees about: the ground also was broken, and here and there
rocky, and they went into and out of rough little dales, most of which
had in them a brook of water running west and southwest; and now Face-of-god
led his men somewhat more easterly; and still for some while they met
no man.</p>
<p>At last, about four hours after noon, when they were going less warily,
because they had hitherto come across nothing to hinder them, rising
over the brow of a somewhat steep ridge, they saw down in the valley
below them a half score of men sitting by the brook-side eating and
drinking, their weapons lying beside them, and along with them stood
a woman with her hands tied behind her back.</p>
<p>They saw at once that these men were of the Felons, so they that
had their bows bent, loosed at them without more ado, while the others
ran in upon them with sword and spear.&nbsp; The felons leapt up and
ran scattering down the dale, such of them as were not smitten by the
shafts; but he who was nighest to the woman, ere he ran, turned and
caught up a sword from the ground and thrust it through her, and the
next moment fell across the brook with an arrow in his back.</p>
<p>No one of the felons was nimble enough to escape from the fleet-foot
hunters of Burgdale, and they were all slain there to the number of
eleven.</p>
<p>But when they came back to the woman to tend her, she breathed her
last in their hands: she was a young and fair woman, black-haired and
dark-eyed.&nbsp; She had on her body a gown of rich web, but nought
else: she had been bruised and sore mishandled, and the Burgdale carles
wept for pity of her, and for wrath, as they straightened her limbs
on the turf of the little valley.&nbsp; They let her lie there a little,
whilst they searched round about, lest there should be any other poor
soul needing their help, or any felon lurking thereby; but they found
nought else save a bundle wherein was another rich gown and divers woman&rsquo;s
gear, and sundry rings and jewels, and therewithal the weapons and war-gear
of a knight, delicately wrought after the Westland fashion: these seemed
to them to betoken other foul deeds of these murder-carles.&nbsp; So
when they had abided a while, they laid the dead woman in mould by the
brook-side, and buried with her the other woman&rsquo;s attire and the
knight&rsquo;s gear, all but his sword and shield, which they had away
with them: then they cast the carcasses of the felons into the brake,
but brought away their weapons and the silver rings from their arms,
which they wore like all the others of them whom they had fallen in
with; and so went on their way to the north-east, full of wrath against
those dastards of the Earth.</p>
<p>It was hard on sunset when they left the valley of murder, and they
went no long way thence before they must needs make stay for the night;
and when they had arrayed their sleeping-stead the moon was up, and
they saw that before them lay the close wood again, for they had made
their lair on the top of a little ridge.</p>
<p>There then they lay, and nought stirred them in the night, and betimes
on the morrow they were afoot, and entered the abovesaid thicket, wherein
two of them, keen hunters, had been aforetime, but had not gone deep
into it.&nbsp; Through this wood they went all day toward the north-east,
and met nought but the wild things therein.&nbsp; At last, when it was
near sunset, they came out of the thicket into a small plain, or shallow
dale rather, with no great trees in it, but thorn-brakes here and there
where the ground sank into hollows; a little river ran through the midst
of it, and winded round about a height whose face toward the river went
down sheer into the water, but away from it sank down in a long slope
to where the thick wood began again: and this height or burg looked
well-nigh west.</p>
<p>Thitherward they went; but as they were drawing nigh to the river,
and were on the top of a bent above a bushy hollow between them and
the water, they espied a man standing in the river near the bank, who
saw them not, because he was stooping down intent on something in the
bank or under it: so they gat them speedily down into the hollow without
noise, that they might get some tidings of the man.</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god bade his men abide hidden under the bushes and stole
forward quietly up the further bank of the hollow, his target on his
arm and his spear poised.&nbsp; When he was behind the last bush on
the top of the bent he was within half a spear-cast of the water and
the man; so he looked on him and saw that he was quite naked except
for a clout about his middle.</p>
<p>Face-of-god saw at once that he was not one of the Dusky Men; he
was a black-haired man, but white-skinned, and of fair stature, though
not so tall as the Burgdale folk.&nbsp; He was busied in tickling trouts,
and just as Face-of-god came out from the bush into the westering sunlight,
he threw up a fish on to the bank, and looked up therewithal, and beheld
the weaponed man glittering, and uttered a cry, but fled not when he
saw the spear poised for casting.</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god spake to him and said: &lsquo;Come hither, Woodsman!
we will not harm thee, but we desire speech of thee: and it will not
avail thee to flee, since I have bowmen of the best in the hollow yonder.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The man put forth his hands towards him as if praying him to forbear
casting, and looked at him hard, and then came dripping from out the
water, and seemed not greatly afeard; for he stooped down and picked
up the trouts he had taken, and came towards Face-of-god stringing the
last-caught one through the gills on to the withy whereon were the others:
and Face-of-god saw that he was a goodly man of some thirty winters.</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god looked on him with friendly eyes and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Art thou a foemen? or wilt thou be helpful to us?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He answered in the speech of the kindreds with the hoarse voice of
a much weather-beaten man:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou seest, lord, that I am naked and unarmed.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yet may&rsquo;st thou bewray us,&rsquo; said Face-of-god.&nbsp;
&lsquo;What man art thou?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said the man: &lsquo;I am the runaway thrall of evil men; I have
fled from Rose-dale and the Dusky Men.&nbsp; Hast thou the heart to
hurt me?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;We are the foemen of the Dusky Men,&rsquo; said Face-of-God;
&lsquo;wilt thou help us against them?&rsquo;</p>
<p>The man knit his brows and said: &lsquo;Yea, if ye will give me your
word not to suffer me to fall into their hands alive.&nbsp; But whence
art thou, to be so bold?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;We are of Burgdale; and I will swear to
thee on the edge of the sword that thou shalt not fall alive into the
hands of the Dusky Men.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Of Burgdale have I heard,&rsquo; said the man; &lsquo;and
in sooth thou seemest not such a man as would bewray a hapless man.&nbsp;
But now had I best bring you to some lurking-place where ye shall not
be easily found of these devils, who now oft-times scour the woods hereabout.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Come first and see my fellows; and then
if thou thinkest we have need to hide, it is well.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So the man went side by side with him towards their lair, and as
they went Gold-mane noted marks of stripes on his back and sides, and
said: &lsquo;Sorely hast thou been mishandled, poor man!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then the man turned on him and said somewhat fiercely: &lsquo;Said
I not that I had been a thrall of the Dusky Men? how then should I have
escaped tormenting and scourging, if I had been with them for but three
days?&rsquo;</p>
<p>As he spake they came about a thorn-bush, and there were the Burgdale
men down in the hollow; and the man said: &lsquo;Are these thy fellows?&nbsp;
Call to mind that thou hast sworn by the edge of the sword not to hurt
me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Poor man!&rsquo; said Face-of-god; &lsquo;these are thy friends,
unless thou bewrayest us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he cried aloud to his folk: &lsquo;Here is now a good hap! this
is a runaway thrall of the Dusky Men; of him shall we hear tidings;
so cherish him all ye may.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So the carles thronged about him and bestirred themselves to help
him, and one gave him his surcoat for a kirtle, and another cast a cloak
about him; and they brought him meat and drink, such as they had ready
to hand: and the man looked as if he scarce believed in all this, but
deemed himself to be in a dream.&nbsp; But presently he turned to Face-of-god
and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now I see so many men and weapons I deem that ye have no need
to skulk in caves to-night, though I know of good ones: yet shall ye
do well not to light a fire till moon-setting; for the flame ye may
lightly hide, but the smoke may be seen from far aloof.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But they bade him to meat, and he needed no second bidding but ate
lustily, and they gave him wine, and he drank a great draught and sighed
as for joy.&nbsp; Then he said in a trembling voice, as though he feared
a naysay:</p>
<p>&lsquo;If ye are from Burgdale ye shall be faring back again presently;
and I pray you to take me with you.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Yea surely, friend, that will we do, and
rejoice in thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he drank another cup which Warcliff held out to him, and spake
again: &lsquo;Yet if ye would abide here till about noon to-morrow,
or mayhappen a little later, I would bring other runaways to see you;
and them also might ye take with you: ye may think when ye see them
that ye shall have small gain of their company; for poor wretched folk
they be, like to myself.&nbsp; Yet since ye seek for tidings, herein
might they do you more service than I; for amongst them are some who
came out of the hapless Dale within this moon; and it is six months
since I escaped.&nbsp; Moreover, though they may look spent and outworn
now, yet if ye give them a little rest, and feed them well, they shall
yet do many a day&rsquo;s work for you: and I tell you that if ye take
them for thralls, and put collars on their necks, and use them no worse
than a goodman useth his oxen and his asses, beating them not save when
they are idle or at fault, it shall be to them as if they were come
to heaven out of hell, and to such goodhap as they have not thought
of, save in dreams, for many and many a day.&nbsp; And thus I entreat
you to do because ye seem to me to be happy and merciful men, who will
not begrudge us this happiness.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The carles of Burgdale listened eagerly to what he said, and they
looked at him with great eyes and marvelled; and their hearts were moved
with pity towards him; and Stone-face said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Herein, O War-leader, need I give thee no rede, for thou mayst
see clearly that all we deem that we should lose our manhood and become
the dastards of the Warrior if we did not abide the coming of these
poor men, and take them back to the Dale, and cherish them.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Wolf of Whitegarth, &lsquo;and great thanks
we owe to this man that he biddeth us this: for great will be the gain
to us if we become so like the Gods that we may deliver the poor from
misery.&nbsp; Now must I needs think how they shall wonder when they
come to Burgdale and find out how happy it is to dwell there.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Surely,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;thus shall we do,
whatever cometh of it.&nbsp; But, friend of the wood, as to thralls,
there be none such in the Dale, but therein are all men friends and
neighbours, and even so shall ye be.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And he fell a-musing, when he bethought him of how little he had
known of sorrow.</p>
<p>But that man, when he beheld the happy faces of the Burgdalers, and
hearkened to their friendly voices, and understood what they said, and
he also was become strong with the meat and drink, he bowed his head
adown and wept a long while; and they meddled not with him, till he
turned again to them and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Since ye are in arms, and seem to be seeking your foemen,
I suppose ye wot that these tyrants and man-quellers will fall upon
you in Burgdale ere the summer is well worn.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;So much we deem indeed,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;but
we were fain to hear the certainty of it, and how thou knowest thereof.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said the man: &lsquo;It was six moons ago that I fled, as I have
told you; and even then it was the common talk amongst our masters that
there were fair dales to the south which they would overrun.&nbsp; Man
would say to man: We were over many in Silver-dale, and we needed more
thralls, because those we had were lessening, and especially the women;
now are we more at ease in Rose-dale, though we have sent thralls to
Silver-dale; but yet we can bear no more men from thence to eat up our
stock from us: let them fare south to the happy dales, and conquer them,
and we will go with them and help therein, whether we come back to Rose-dale
or no.&nbsp; Such talk did I hear then with mine own ears: but some
of those whom I shall bring to you to-morrow shall know better what
is doing, since they have fled from Rose-dale but a few days.&nbsp;
Moreover, there is a man and a woman who have fled from Silver-dale
itself, and are but a month from it, journeying all the time save when
they must needs hide; and these say that their masters have got to know
the way to Burgdale, and are minded for it before the winter, as I said;
and nought else but the ways thither do they desire to know, since they
have no fear.&rsquo;</p>
<p>By then was night come, and though the moon was high in heaven, and
lighted all that waste, the Burgdalers must needs light a fire for cooking
their meat, whatsoever that woodsman might say; moreover, the night
was cold and somewhat frosty.&nbsp; A little before they had come to
that place they had shot a fat buck and some smaller deer, but of other
meat they had no great store, though there was wine enough.&nbsp; So
they lit their fire in the thickest of the thorn-bush to hide it all
they might, and thereat they cooked their venison and the trouts which
the runaway had taken, and they fell to, and ate and drank and were
merry, making much of that poor man till him-seemed he was gotten into
the company of the kindest of the Gods.</p>
<p>But when they were full, Face-of-god spake to him, and asked him
his name; and he named himself Dallach; but said he: &lsquo;Lord, this
is according to the naming of men in Rose-dale before we were enthralled:
but now what names have thralls?&nbsp; Also I am not altogether of the
blood of them of Rose-dale, but of better and more warrior-like kin.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Thou hast named Silver-dale; knowest thou
it?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Dallach answered: &lsquo;I have never seen it.&nbsp; It is far hence;
in a week&rsquo;s journey, making all diligence, and not being forced
to hide and skulk like those runaways, ye shall come to the mouth thereof
lying west, where its rock-walls fall off toward the plain.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;But,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;is there no other way
into that Dale?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay, none that folk wot of,&rsquo; said Dallach, &lsquo;except
to bold cragsmen with their lives in their hands.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Knowest thou aught of the affairs of Silver-dale?&rsquo; said
Face-of-god.</p>
<p>Said Dallach: &lsquo;Somewhat I know: we wot that but a few years
ago there was a valiant folk dwelling therein, who were lords of the
whole dale, and that they were vanquished by the Dusky Men: but whether
they were all slain and enthralled we wot not; but we deem it otherwise.&nbsp;
As for me it is of their blood that I am partly come; for my father&rsquo;s
father came thence to settle in Rose-dale, and wedded a woman of the
Dale, who was my father&rsquo;s mother.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;When was it that ye fell under the Dusky Men?&rsquo; said
Face-of-god.</p>
<p>Said Dallach: &lsquo;It was five years ago.&nbsp; They came into
the Dale a great company, all in arms.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Was there battle betwixt you?&rsquo; said Face-of-god.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Alas! not so,&rsquo; said Dallach.&nbsp; &lsquo;We were a
happy folk there; but soft and delicate: for the Dale is exceeding fertile,
and beareth wealth in abundance, both corn and oil and wine and fruit,
and of beasts for man&rsquo;s service the best that may be.&nbsp; Would
that there had been battle, and that I had died therein with those that
had a heart to fight; and even so saith now every man, yea, every woman
in the Dale.&nbsp; But it was not so when the elders met in our Council-House
on the day when the Dusky Men bade us pay them tribute and give them
houses to dwell in and lands to live by.&nbsp; Then had we weapons in
our hands, but no hearts to use them.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;What befell then?&rsquo; said the goodman of Whitegarth.</p>
<p>Said Dallach: &lsquo;Look ye to it, lords, that it befall not in
Burgdale!&nbsp; We gave them all they asked for, and deemed we had much
left.&nbsp; What befell, sayst thou?&nbsp; We sat quiet; we went about
our work in fear and trembling, for grim and hideous were they to look
on.&nbsp; At first they meddled not much with us, save to take from
our houses what they would of meat and drink, or raiment, or plenishing.&nbsp;
And all this we deemed we might bear, and that we needed no more than
to toil a little more each day so as to win somewhat more of wealth.&nbsp;
But soon we found that it would not be so; for they had no mind to till
the teeming earth or work in the acres we had given them, or to sit
at the loom, or hammer in the stithy, or do any manlike work; it was
we that must do all that for their behoof, and it was altogether for
them that we laboured, and nought for ourselves; and our bodies were
only so much our own as they were needful to be kept alive for labour.&nbsp;
Herein were our tasks harder than the toil of any mules or asses, save
for the younger and goodlier of the women, whom they would keep fair
and delicate to be their bed-thralls.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yet not even so were our bodies safe from their malice: for
these men were not only tyrants, but fools and madmen.&nbsp; Let alone
that there were few days without stripes and torments to satiate their
fury or their pleasure, so that in all streets and nigh any house might
you hear wailing and screaming and groaning; but moreover, though a
wise man would not willingly slay his own thrall any more than his own
horse or ox, yet did these men so wax in folly and malice, that they
would often hew at man or woman as they met them in the way from mere
grimness of soul; and if they slew them it was well.&nbsp; Thereof indeed
came quarrels enough betwixt master and master, for they are much given
to man-slaying amongst themselves: but what profit to us thereof?&nbsp;
Nay, if the dead man were a chieftain, then woe betide the thralls!
for thereof must many an one be slain on his grave-mound to serve him
on the hell-road.&nbsp; To be short: we have heard of men who be fierce,
and men who be grim; but these we may scarce believe us to be men at
all, but trolls rather; and ill will it be if their race waxeth in the
world.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The Burgdale men hearkened with all their ears, and wondered that
such things could befall; and they rejoiced at the work that lay before
them, and their hearts rose high at the thought of battle in that behalf,
and the fame that should come of it.&nbsp; As for the runaway, they
made so much of him that the man marvelled; for they dealt with him
like a woman cherishing a son, and knew not how to be kind enough to
him.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII.&nbsp; THE MEN OF BURGDALE MEET THE RUNAWAYS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Now ere the night was far spent, Dallach arose and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Kind folk, ye will presently be sleeping; but I bid you keep
a good watch, and if ye will be ruled by me, ye will kindle no fire
on the morrow, for the smoke riseth thick in the morning air, and is
as a beacon.&nbsp; As for me, I shall leave you here to rest, and I
myself will fare on mine errand.&rsquo;</p>
<p>They bade him sleep and rest him after so many toils and hardships,
saying that they were not tied to an hour to be back in Burgdale; but
he said: &lsquo;Nay, the moon is high, and it is as good as daylight
to me, who could find my way even by starlight; and your tarrying here
is nowise safe.&nbsp; Moreover, if I could find those folk and bring
them part of the way by night and cloud it were well; for if we were
taken again, burning quick would be the best death by which we should
die.&nbsp; As for me, now am I strong with meat and drink and hope;
and when I come to Burgdale there will be time enough for resting and
slumber.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Shall I not wend with thee to see these
people and the lairs wherein they hide?&rsquo;</p>
<p>The man smiled: &lsquo;Nay, earl,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;that shall
not be.&nbsp; For wot ye what?&nbsp; If they were to see me in company
of a man-at-arms they would deem that I was bringing the foe upon them,
and would flee, or mayhappen would fall upon us.&nbsp; For as for me,
when I saw thee, thou wert close anigh me, so I knew thee to be no Dusky
Man; but they would see the glitter of thine arms from afar, and to
them all weaponed men are foemen.&nbsp; Thou, lord, knowest not the
heart of a thrall, nor the fear and doubt that is in it.&nbsp; Nay,
I myself must cast off these clothes that ye have given me, and fare
naked, lest they mistrust me.&nbsp; Only I will take a spear in my hand,
and sling a knife round my neck, if ye will give them to me; for if
the worst happen, I will not be taken alive.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he cast off his raiment, and they gave him the weapons
and wished him good speed, and he went his way twixt moonlight and shadow;
but the Burgdalers went to sleep when they had set a watch.</p>
<p>Early in the morning they awoke, and the sun was shining and the
thrushes singing in the thorn-brake, and all seemed fair and peaceful,
and a little haze still hung about the face of the burg over the river.&nbsp;
So they went down to the water and washed the night from off them; and
thence the most part of them went back to their lair among the thorn-bushes:
but four of them went up the dale into the oak-wood to shoot a buck,
and five more they sent out to watch their skirts around them; and Face-of-god
with old Stone-face went over a ford of the stream, and came on to the
lower slope of the burg, and so went up it to the top.&nbsp; Thence
they looked about to see if aught were stirring, but they saw little
save the waste and the wood, which on the north-east was thick of big
trees stretching out a long way.&nbsp; Their own lair was clear to see
over its bank and the bushes thereof, and that misliked Face-of-god,
lest any foe should climb the burg that day.&nbsp; The morning was clear,
and Face-of-god looking north-and-by-west deemed he saw smoke rising
into the air over the tree-covered ridges that hid the further distance
toward that a&iacute;rt, though further east uphove the black shoulders
of the Great that Waste and the snowy peaks behind them.&nbsp; The said
smoke was not such as cometh from one great fire, but was like a thin
veil staining the pale blue sky, as when men are burning ling on the
heath-side and it is seen aloof.</p>
<p>He showed that smoke to Stone-face, who smiled and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now will they be lighting the cooking fires in Rose-dale:
would I were there with a few hundreds of axes and staves at my back!&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, smiling in his face, &lsquo;but
where I pray thee are these elves and wood-wights, that we meet them
not?&nbsp; Grim things there are in the woods, and things fair enough
also: but meseemeth that the trolls and the elves of thy young years
have been frighted away.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Stone-face: &lsquo;Maybe, foster-son; that hath been seen ere
now, that when one race of man overrunneth the land inhabited by another,
the wights and elves that love the vanquished are seen no more, or get
them away far off into the outermost wilds, where few men ever come.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;that may well be.&nbsp;
But deemest thou by that token that we shall be vanquished?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;As for us, I know not,&rsquo; said Stone-face; &lsquo;but
thy friends of Shadowy Vale have been vanquished.&nbsp; Moreover, concerning
these felons whom now we are hunting, are we all so sure that they be
men?&nbsp; Certain it is, that when I go into battle with them, I shall
smite with no more pity than my sword, as if I were smiting things that
may not feel the woes of man.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Yea, even so shall it be with me.&nbsp;
But what thinkest thou of these runaways?&nbsp; Shall we have tidings
of them, or shall Dallach bring the foe upon us?&nbsp; It was for the
sake of that question that I have clomb the burg: and that we might
watch the land about us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said Stone-face, &lsquo;I have seen many men,
and I deem of Dallach that he is a true man.&nbsp; I deem we shall soon
have tidings of his fellows; and they may have seen the elves and wood-wights:
I would fain ask them thereof, and am eager to see them.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;And I somewhat dread to see them, and their
rags and their misery and the weals of their stripes.&nbsp; It irked
me to see Dallach when he first fell to his meat last night, how he
ate like a dog for fear and famine.&nbsp; How shall it be, moreover,
when we have them in the Dale, and they fall to the deed of kind there,
as they needs must.&nbsp; Will they not bear us evil and thrall-like
men?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Maybe,&rsquo; said Stone-face, &lsquo;and maybe not; for they
have been thralls but for a little while: and I deem that in no long
time shall ye see them much bettered by plenteous meat and rest.&nbsp;
And after all is said, this Dallach bore him like a valiant man; also
it was valiant of him to flee; and of the others may ye say the like.&nbsp;
But look you! there are men going down yonder towards our lair: belike
those shall be our guests, and there be no Dusky Men amongst them.&nbsp;
Come, let us home!&rsquo;</p>
<p>So Face-of-god looked and beheld from the height of the burg shapes
of men grey and colourless creeping toward the lair from sunshine to
shadow, like wild creatures shy and fearful of the hunter, or so he
deemed of them.</p>
<p>So he turned away, angry and sad of heart, and the twain went down
the burg and across the water to their camp, having seen little to tell
of from the height.</p>
<p>When they came to their campment there were their folk standing in
a ring round about Dallach and the other runaways.&nbsp; They made way
for the War-leader and Stone-face, who came amongst them and beheld
the Runaways, that they were many more than they looked to see; for
they were of carles one score and three, and of women eighteen, all
told save Dallach.&nbsp; When they saw those twain come through the
ring of men and perceived that they were chieftains, some of them fell
down on their knees before them and held out their joined hands to them,
and kissed the Burgdalers&rsquo; feet and the hems of their garments,
while the tears streamed out of their eyes: some stood moving little
and staring before them stupidly: and some kept glancing from face to
face of the well-liking happy Burgdale carles, though for a while even
their faces were sad and downcast at the sight of the poor men: some
also kept murmuring one or two words in their country tongue, and Dallach
told Face-of-god that these were crying out for victual.</p>
<p>It must be said of these poor folk that they were of divers conditions,
and chiefly of three: and first there were seven of Rose-dale and five
of Silver-dale late come to the wood (of these Silver-dalers Dallach
had told but of two, for the other three were but just come).&nbsp;
Of these twelve were seven women, and all, save two of the women, were
clad in one scanty kirtle or shirt only; for such was the wont of the
Dusky Men with their thralls.&nbsp; They had brought away weapons, and
had amongst them six axes and a spear, and a sword, and five knives,
and one man had a shield.</p>
<p>Yet though these were clad and armed, yet in some wise were they
the worst of all; they were so timorous and cringing, and most of them
heavy-eyed and sullen and down-looking.&nbsp; Many of them had been
grievously mishandled: one man had had his left hand smitten off; another
was docked of three of his toes, and the gristle of his nose slit up;
one was halt, and four had been ear-cropped, nor did any lack weals
of whipping.&nbsp; Of the Silver-dale new-comers the three men were
the worst of all the Runaways, with wild wandering eyes, but sullen
also, and cringing if any drew nigh, and would not look anyone in the
face, save presently Face-of-god, on whom they were soon fond to fawn,
as a dog on his master.&nbsp; But the women who were with them, and
who were well-nigh as timorous as the men, were those two gaily-dad
ones, and they were soft-handed and white-skinned, save for the last
days of weather in the wood; for they had been bed-thralls of the Dusky
Men.</p>
<p>Such were the new-comers to the wood.&nbsp; But others had been,
like Dallach, months therein; it may be said that there were eighteen
of these, carles and queens together.&nbsp; Little raiment they had
amongst them, and some were all but stark naked, so that on these might
well be seen as on Dallach the marks of old stripes, and of these also
were there men who had been shorn of some member or other, and they
were all burnt and blackened by the weather of the woodland; yet for
all their nakedness, they bore themselves bolder and more manlike than
the later comers, nor did they altogether lack weapons taken from their
foemen, and most of them had some edge-tool or another.&nbsp; Of these
folk were four from Silver-dale, though Dallach knew it not.</p>
<p>Besides these were a half score and one who had been years in the
wood instead of months; weather-beaten indeed were these, shaggy and
rough-skinned like wild men of kind.&nbsp; Some of them had made themselves
skin breeches or clouts, some went stark naked; of weapons of the Dale
had they few, but they bore bows of hazel or wych-elm strung with deer-gut,
and shafts headed with flint stones; staves also of the same fashion,
and great clubs of oak or holly: some of them also had made them targets
of skin and willow-twigs, for these were the warriors of the Runaways:
they had a few steel knives amongst them, but had mostly learned the
craft of using sharp flints for knives: but four of these were women.</p>
<p>Three of these men were of the kindreds of the Wolf from Silver-dale,
and had been in the wood for hard upon ten years, and wild as they were,
and without hope of meeting their fellows again, they went proudly and
boldly amongst the others, overtopping them by the head and more.&nbsp;
For the greater part of these men were somewhat short of stature, though
by nature strong and stout of body.</p>
<p>It must be told that though Dallach had thus gotten all these many
Runaways together, yet had they not been dwelling together as one folk;
for they durst not, lest the Dusky Men should hear thereof and fall
upon them, but they had kept themselves as best they could in caves
and in brakes three together or two, or even faring alone as Dallach
did: only as he was a strong and stout-hearted man, he went to and fro
and wandered about more than the others, so that he foregathered with
most of them and knew them.&nbsp; He said also that he doubted not but
that there were more Runaways in the wood, but these were all he could
come at.&nbsp; Divers who had fled had died from time to time, and some
had been caught and cruelly slain by their masters.&nbsp; They were
none of them old; the oldest, said Dallach, scant of forty winters,
though many from their aspect might have been old enough.</p>
<p>So Face-of-god looked and beheld all these poor people; and said
to himself, that he might well have dreaded that sight.&nbsp; For here
was he brought face to face with the Sorrow of the Earth, whereof he
had known nought heretofore, save it might be as a tale in a minstrel&rsquo;s
song.&nbsp; And when he thought of the minutes that had made the hours,
and the hours that had made the days that these men had passed through,
his heart failed him, and he was dumb and might not speak, though he
perceived that the men of Burgdale looked for speech from him; but he
waved his hand to his folk, and they understood him, for they had heard
Dallach say that some of them were crying for victual.&nbsp; So they
set to work and dighted for them such meat as they had, and they set
them down on the grass and made themselves their carvers and serving-men,
and bade them eat what they would of such as there was.&nbsp; Yet, indeed,
it grieved the Burgdalers again to note how these folk were driven to
eat; for they themselves, though they were merry folk, were exceeding
courteous at table, and of great observance of manners: whereas these
poor Runaways ate, some of them like hungry dogs, and some hiding their
meat as if they feared it should be taken from them, and some cowering
over it like falcons, and scarce any with a manlike pleasure in their
meal.&nbsp; And, their eating over, the more part of them sat dull and
mopish, and as if all things were forgotten for the time present.</p>
<p>Albeit presently Dallach bestirred him and said to Face-of-god: &lsquo;Lord
of the Earl-folk, if I might give thee rede, it were best to turn your
faces to Burgdale without more tarrying.&nbsp; For we are over-nigh
to Rose-dale, being but thus many in company.&nbsp; But when we come
to our next resting-place, then shall bring thee to speech with the
last-comers from Silver-dale; for there they talk with the tongue of
the kindreds; but we of Rose-dale for the more part talk otherwise;
though in my house it came down from father to son.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, gazing still on that unhappy
folk, as they sat or lay upon the grass at rest for a little while:
but him-seemed as he gazed that some memories of past time stirred in
some of them; for some, they hung their heads and the tears stole out
of their eyes and rolled down their cheeks.&nbsp; But those older Runaways
of Silver-dale were not crouched down like most of the others, but strode
up and down like beasts in a den; yet were the tears on the face of
one of these.&nbsp; Then Face-of-god constrained himself, and spake
to the folk, and said: &lsquo;We are now over-nigh to our foes of Rose-dale
to lie here any longer, being too few to fall upon them.&nbsp; We will
come hither again with a host when we have duly questioned these men
who have sought refuge with us: and let us call yonder height the Burg
of the Runaways, and it shall be a landmark for us when we are on the
road to Rose-dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then the Burgdalers bade the Runaways courteously and kindly to arise
and take the road with them; and by that time were their men all come
in; and four of them had venison with them, which was needful, if they
were to eat that night or the morrow, as the guests had eaten them to
the bone.</p>
<p>So they tarried no more, but set out on the homeward way; and Face-of-god
bade Dallach walk beside him, and asked him such concerning Rose-dale
and its Dusky Men.&nbsp; Dallach told him that these were not so many
as they were masterful, not being above eight hundreds of men, all fighting-men.&nbsp;
As to women, they had none of their own race, but lay with the Daleswomen
at their will, and begat children of them; and all or most of the said
children favoured the race of their begetters.&nbsp; Of the men-children
they reared most, but the women-children they slew at once; for they
valued not women of their own blood: but besides the women of the Dale,
they would go at whiles in bands to the edges of the Plain and beguile
wayfarers, and bring back with them thence women to be their bed-thralls;
albeit some of these were bought with a price from the Westland men.</p>
<p>As to the number of the folk of Rose-dale, its own folk, he said
they would number some five thousand souls, one with another; of whom
some thousand might be fit to bear arms if they had the heart thereto,
as they had none.&nbsp; Yet being closely questioned, he deemed that
they might fall on their masters from behind, if battle were joined.</p>
<p>He said that the folk of Rose-dale had been a goodly folk before
they were enthralled, and peaceable with one another, but that now it
was a sport of the Dusky Men to set a match between their thralls to
fight it out with sword and buckler or otherwise; and the vanquished
man, if he were not sore hurt, they would scourge, or shear some member
from him, or even slay him outright, if the match between the owners
were so made.&nbsp; And many other sad and grievous tales he told to
Face-of-god, more than need be told again; so that the War-leader went
along sorry and angry, with his teeth set, and his hand on the sword-hilt.</p>
<p>Thus they went till night fell on them, and they could scarce see
the signs they had made on their outward journey.&nbsp; Then they made
stay in a little valley, having set a watch duly; and since they were
by this time far from Rose-dale, and were a great company as regarded
scattered bands of the foe, they lighted their fires and cooked their
venison, and made good cheer to the Runaways, and so went to sleep in
the wild-wood.</p>
<p>When morning was come they gat them at once to the road; and if the
Burgdalers were eager to be out of the wood, their eagerness was as
nought to the eagerness of the Runaways, most of whom could not be easy
now, and deemed every minute lost unless they were wending on to the
Dale; so that this day they were willing to get over the more ground,
whereas they had not set out on their road till afternoon yesterday.</p>
<p>Howsoever, they rested at noontide, and Face-of-god bade Dallach
bring him to speech with others of the Runaways, and first that he might
talk with those three men of the kindreds who had fled from Silver-dale
in early days.&nbsp; So Dallach brought them to him; but he found that
though they spake the tongue, they were so few-spoken from wildness
and loneliness, at least at first, that nought could come from them
that was not dragged from them.</p>
<p>These men said that they had been in the wood more than nine years,
so that they knew but little of the conditions of the Dale in that present
day.&nbsp; However, as to what Dallach had said concerning the Dusky
Men, they strengthened his words; and they said that the Dusky Men took
no delight save in beholding torments and misery, and that they doubted
if they were men or trolls.&nbsp; They said that since they had dwelt
in the wood they had slain not a few of the foemen, waylaying them as
occasion served, but that in this warfare they had lost two of their
fellows.&nbsp; When Face-of-god asked them of their deeming of the numbers
of the Dusky Men, they said that before those bands had broken into
Rose-dale, they counted them, as far as they could call to mind, at
about three thousand men, all warriors; and that somewhat less than
one thousand had gone up into Rose-dale, and some had died, and many
had been cast away in the wild-wood, their fellows knew not how.&nbsp;
Yet had not their numbers in Silver-dale diminished; because two years
after they (the speakers) had fled, came three more Dusky Companies
or Tribes into Silver-dale, and each of these tribes was of three long
hundreds; and with their coming had the cruelty and misery much increased
in the Dale, so that the thralls began to die fast; and that drave the
Dusky Men beyond the borders of Silver-dale, so that they fell upon
Rose-dale.&nbsp; When asked how many of the kindreds might yet be abiding
in Silver-dale, their faces clouded, and they seemed exceeding wroth,
and answered, that they would willingly hope that most of those that
had not been slain at the time of the overthrow were now dead, yet indeed
they feared there were yet some alive, and mayhappen not a few women.</p>
<p>By then must they get on foot again, and so the talk fell between
them; but when they made stay for the night, after they had done their
meat, Face-of-god prayed Dallach bring to him some of the latest-come
folk from Silver-dale, and he brought to him the man and the woman who
had been in the Dale within that moon.&nbsp; As to the man, if those
of the Earl-folk had been few-spoken from fierceness and wildness, he
was no less so from mere dulness and weariness of misery; but the woman&rsquo;s
tongue went glibly enough, and it seemed to pleasure her to talk about
her past miseries.&nbsp; As aforesaid, she was better clad than most
of those of Rose-dale, and indeed might be called gaily clad, and where
her raiment was befouled or rent, it was from the roughness of the wood
and its weather, and not from the thralldom.&nbsp; She was a young and
fair woman, black-haired and grey-eyed.&nbsp; She had washed herself
that day in a woodland stream which they had crossed on the road, and
had arrayed her garments as trimly as she might, and had plucked some
fumitory, wherewith she had made a garland for her head.&nbsp; She sat
down on the grass in front of Face-of-god, while the man her mate stood
leaning against a tree and looked on her greedily.&nbsp; The Burgdale
carles drew near to her to hearken her story, and looked kindly on the
twain.&nbsp; She smiled on them, but especially on Face-of-god, and
said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou hast sent for me, lord, and I wot well thou wouldst hear
my tale shortly, for it would be long to tell if I were to tell it fully,
and bring into it all that I have endured, which has been bitter enough,
for all that ye see me smooth of skin and well-liking of body.&nbsp;
I have been the bed-thrall of one of the chieftains of the Dusky Men,
at whose house many of their great men would assemble, so that ye may
ask me whatso ye will; as I have heard much talk and may call it to
mind.&nbsp; Now if ye ask me whether I have fled because of the shame
that I, a free woman come of free folk, should be a mere thrall in the
bed of the foes of my kin, and with no price paid for me, I must needs
say it is not so; since over long have we of the Dale been thralls to
be ashamed of such a matter.&nbsp; And again, if ye deem that I have
fled because I have been burdened with grievous toil and been driven
thereto by the whip, ye may look on my hands and my body and ye will
see that I have toiled little therewith: nor again did I flee because
I could not endure a few stripes now and again; for such usage do thralls
look for, even when they are delicately kept for the sake of the fairness
of their bodies, and this they may well endure; yea also, and the mere
fear of death by torment now and again.&nbsp; But before me lay death
both assured and horrible; so I took mine own counsel, and told none
for fear of bewrayal, save him who guarded me; and that was this man;
who fled not from fear, but from love of me, and to him I have given
all that I might give.&nbsp; So we got out of the house and down the
Dale by night and cloud, and hid for one whole day in the Dale itself,
where I trembled and feared, so that I deemed I should die of fear;
but this man was well pleased with my company, and with the lack of
toil and beating even for the day.&nbsp; And in the night again we fled
and reached the wild-wood before dawn, and well-nigh fell into the hands
of those who were hunting us, and had outgone us the day before, as
we lay hid.&nbsp; Well, what is to say?&nbsp; They saw us not, else
had we not been here, but scattered piece-meal over the land.&nbsp;
This carle knew the passes of the wood, because he had followed his
master therein, who was a great hunter in the wastes, contrary to the
wont of these men, and he had lain a night on the burg yonder; therefore
he brought me thither, because he knew that thereabout was plenty of
prey easy to take, and he had a bow with him; and there we fell in with
others of our folk who had fled before, and with Dallach; who e&rsquo;en
now told us what was hard to believe, that there was a fair young man
like one of the Gods leading a band of goodly warriors, and seeking
for us to bring us into a peaceful and happy land; and this man would
not have gone with him because he feared that he might fall into thralldom
of other folk, who would take me away from him; but for me, I said I
would go in any case, for I was weary of the wood and its roughness
and toil, and that if I had a new master he would scarcely be worse
than my old one was at his best, and him I could endure.&nbsp; So I
went, and glad and glad I am, whatever ye will do with me.&nbsp; And
now will I answer whatso ye may ask of me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She laid her limbs together daintily and looked fondly on Face-of-god,
and the carle scowled at her somewhat at first, but presently, as he
watched her, his face smoothed itself out of its wrinkles.</p>
<p>But Face-of-god pondered a little while, and then asked the woman
if she had heard any words to remember of late days concerning the affairs
of the Dusky Men and their intent; and he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I pray thee, sister, be truthful in thine answer, for somewhat
lieth on it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;How could I speak aught but the sooth to thee, O
lovely lord?&nbsp; The last word spoken hereof I mind me well: for my
master had been mishandling me, and I was sullen to him after the smart,
and he mocked and jeered me, and said: Ye women deem we cannot do without
you, but ye are fools, and know nothing; we are going to conquer a new
land where the women are plenty, and far fairer than ye be; and we shall
leave you to fare afield like the other thralls, or work in the digging
of silver; and belike ye wot what that meaneth.&nbsp; Also he said that
they would leave us to the new tribe of their folk, far wilder than
they, whom they looked for in the Dale in about a moon&rsquo;s wearing;
so that they needs must seek to other lands.&nbsp; Also this same talk
would we hear whenever it pleased any of them to mock us their bed-thralls.&nbsp;
Now, my sweet lord, this is nought but the very sooth.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Again spake Face-of-god after a while:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Tell me, sister, hast thou heard of any of the Dusky Men being
slain in the wood?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said, and turned pale therewith and caught
her breath as one choking; but said in a little while:</p>
<p>&lsquo;This alone was it hard for me to tell thee amongst all the
I griefs I have borne, whereof I might have told thee many tales, and
will do one day if thou wilt suffer it; but fear makes this hard for
me.&nbsp; For in very sooth this was the cause of my fleeing, that my
master was brought in slain by an arrow in the wood; and he was to be
borne to bale and burned in three days&rsquo; wearing; and we three
bed-thralls of his, and three of the best of the men-thralls, were to
be burned quick on his bale-fire after sore torments; therefore I fled,
and hid a knife in my bosom, that I might not be taken alive; but sweet
was life to me, and belike I should not have smitten myself.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And she wept sore for pity of herself before them all.&nbsp; But
Face-of-god said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Knowest thou, sister, by whom the man was slain?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; she said, still sobbing; &lsquo;but I heard nought
thereof, nor had I noted it in my terror.&nbsp; The death of others,
who were slain before him, and the loss of many, we knew not how, made
them more bitterly cruel with us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And again was she weeping; but Face-of-god said kindly to her: &lsquo;Weep
no more, sister, for now shall all thy troubles be over; I feel in my
heart that we shall overcome these felons, and make an end of them,
and there then is Burgdale for thee in its length and breadth, or thine
own Dale to dwell in freely.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;never will I go back thither!&rsquo;
and she turned round to him and kissed his feet, and then arose and
turned a little toward her mate; and the carle caught her by the hand
and led her away, and seemed glad so to do.</p>
<p>So once again they fell asleep in the woods, and again the next morning
fared on their way early that they might come into Burgdale before nightfall.&nbsp;
When they stayed a while at noontide and ate, Face-of-god again had
talk with the Runaways, and this time with those of Rose-dale, and he
heard much the same story from them that he had heard before, told in
divers ways, till his heart was sick with the hearing of it.</p>
<p>On this last day Face-of-god led his men well athwart the wood, so
that he hit Wildlake&rsquo;s Way without coming to Carl-stead; and he
came down into the Dale some four hours after noon on a bright day of
latter March.&nbsp; At the ingate to the Dale he found watches set,
the men whereof told him that the tidings were not right great.&nbsp;
Hall-face&rsquo;s company had fallen in with a band of the Felons three
score in number in the oak-wood nigh to Boars-bait, and had slain some
and chased the rest, since they found it hard to follow them home as
they ran for the tangled thicket: of the Burgdalers had two been slain
and five hurt in this battle.</p>
<p>As for Red-coat&rsquo;s company, they had fallen in with no foemen.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIX.&nbsp; THEY BRING THE RUNAWAYS TO BURGSTEAD</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>So now being out of the wood, they went peaceably and safely along
the Portway, the Runaways mingling with the Dalesmen.&nbsp; Strange
showed amidst the health and wealth of the Dale the rags and misery
and nakedness of the thralls, like a dream amidst the trim gaiety of
spring; and whomsoever they met, or came up with on the road, whatso
his business might be, could not refrain himself from following them,
but mingled with the men-at-arms, and asked them of the tidings; and
when they heard who these poor people were, even delivered thralls of
the Foemen, they were glad at heart and cried out for joy; and many
of the women, nay, of the men also, when they first came across that
misery from out the heart of their own pleasant life, wept for pity
and love of the poor folk, now at last set free, and blessed the swords
that should do the like by the whole people.</p>
<p>They went slowly as men began to gather about them; yea, some of
the good folk that lived hard by must needs fare home to their houses
to fetch cakes and wine for the guests; and they made them sit down
and rest on the green grass by the side of the Portway, and eat and
drink to cheer their hearts; others, women and young swains, while they
rested went down into the meadows and plucked of the spring flowers,
and twined them hastily with deft and well-wont fingers into chaplets
and garlands for their heads and bodies.&nbsp; Thus indeed they covered
their nakedness, till the lowering faces and weather-beaten skins of
those hardly-entreated thralls looked grimly out from amidst the knots
of cowslip and oxlip, and the branches of the milk-white blackthorn
bloom, and the long trumpets of the daffodils, of the hue that wrappeth
round the quill which the webster takes in hand when she would pleasure
her soul with the sight of the yellow growing upon the dark green web.</p>
<p>So they went on again as the evening was waning, and when they were
gotten within a furlong of the Gate, lo! there was come the minstrelsy,
the pipe and the tabor, the fiddle and the harp, and the folk that had
learned to sing the sweetest, both men and women, and Redesman at the
head of them all.</p>
<p>Then fell the throng into an ordered company; first went the music,
and then a score of Face-of-god&rsquo;s warriors with drawn swords and
uplifted spears; and then the flower-bedecked misery of the Runaways,
men and women going together, gaunt, befouled, and hollow-eyed, with
here and there a flushed cheek or gleaming eye, or tear-bedewed face,
as the joy and triumph of the eve pierced through their wonted weariness
of grief; then the rest of the warriors, and lastly the mingled crowd
of Dalesfolk, tall men and fair women gaily arrayed, clean-faced, clear-skinned,
and sleek-haired, with glancing eyes and ruddy lips.</p>
<p>And now Redesman turned about to the music and drew his bow across
his fiddle, and the other bows ran out in concert, and the harps followed
the story of them, and he lifted up his voice and sang the words of
an old song, and all the singers joined him and blended their voices
with his.&nbsp; And these are some of the words which they sang:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Lo! here is Spring, and all we are living,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We
that were wan with Winter&rsquo;s fear;<br />Reach out your hands to
her hands that are giving,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Lest ye lose her love
and the light of the year.</p>
<p>Many a morn did we wake to sorrow,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When low
on the land the cloud-wrath lay;<br />Many an eve we feared to-morrow,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
unbegun unfinished day.</p>
<p>Ah we - we hoped not, and thou wert tardy;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Nought
wert thou helping; nought we prayed.<br />Where was the eager heart,
the hardy?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where was the sweet-voiced unafraid?</p>
<p>But now thou lovest, now thou leadest,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where
is gone the grief of our minds?<br />What was the word of the tale,
that thou heedest<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;E&rsquo;en as the breath of
the bygone winds?</p>
<p>Green and green is thy garment growing<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Over
thy blossoming limbs beneath;<br />Up o&rsquo;er our feet rise the blades
of thy sowing,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Pierced are our hearts with thine
odorous breath.</p>
<p>But where art thou wending, thou new-comer?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Hurrying
on to the Courts of the Sun?<br />Where art thou now in the House of
the Summer?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Told are thy days and thy deed is
done.</p>
<p>Spring has been here for us that are living<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;After
the days of Winter&rsquo;s fear;<br />Here in our hands is the wealth
of her giving,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The Love of the Earth, and the
Light of the Year.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Thus came they to the Gate, and lo! the Bride thereby, leaning against
a buttress, gazing with no dull eyes at the coming throng.&nbsp; She
was now clad in her woman&rsquo;s attire again, to wit a light flame-coloured
gown over a green kirtle; but she yet bore a gilded helm on her head
and a sword girt to her side in token of her oath to the God.&nbsp;
She had been in Hall-face&rsquo;s company in that last battle, and had
done a man&rsquo;s service there, fighting very valiantly, but had not
been hurt, and had come back to Burgstead when the shift of men was.</p>
<p>Now she drew herself up and stood a little way before the Gate and
looked forth on the throng, and when her eyes beheld the Runaways amidst
of the weaponed carles of Burgdale, her face flushed, and her eyes filled
with tears as she stood, partly wondering, partly deeming what they
were.&nbsp; She waited till Stone-face came by her, and then she took
the old man by the sleeve, and drew him apart a little and said to him:
&lsquo;What meaneth this show, my friend?&nbsp; Who hath clad these
folk thus strangely; and who be these three naked tall ones, so fierce-looking,
but somewhat noble of aspect?&rsquo;</p>
<p>For indeed those three men of the kindreds, when they had gotten
into the Dale, and had rested them, and drunk a cup of wine, and when
they had seen the chaplets and wreaths of the spring-flowers wherewith
they were bedecked, and had smelt the sweet savour of them, fell to
walking proudly, heeding not their nakedness; for no rag had they upon
them save breech-clouts of deer-skin: they had changed weapons with
the Burgdale carles; and one had gotten a great axe, which he bore over
his shoulder, and the shaft thereof was all done about with copper;
and another had shouldered a long heavy thrusting-spear, and the third,
an exceeding tall man, bore a long broad-bladed war-sword.&nbsp; Thus
they went, brown of skin beneath their flower-garlands, their long hair
bleached by the sun falling about their shoulders; high they strode
amongst the shuffling carles and tripping women of the later-come thralls.&nbsp;
But when they heard the music, and saw that they were coming to the
Gate in triumph, strange thoughts of old memories swelled up in their
hearts, and they refrained them not from weeping, for they felt that
the joy of life had come back to them.</p>
<p>Nor must it be deemed that these were the only ones amongst the Runaways
whose hearts were cheered and softened: already were many of them coming
back to life, as they felt their worn bodies caressed by the clear soft
air of Burgdale, and the sweetness of the flowers that hung about them,
and saw all round about the kind and happy faces of their well-willers.</p>
<p>So Stone-face looked on the Bride as she stood with face yet tear-bedewed,
awaiting his answer, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Daughter, thou sayest who clad these folk thus?&nbsp; It was
misery that hath so dight them; and they are the images of what we shall
be if we love foul life better than fair death, and so fall into the
hands of the Felons, who were the masters of these men.&nbsp; As for
the tall naked men, they are of our own blood, and kinsmen to Face-of-god&rsquo;s
new friends; and they are of the best of the vanquished: it was in early
days that they fled from thralldom; as we may have to do.&nbsp; Now,
daughter, I bid thee be as joyous as thou art valiant, and then shall
all be well.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she smiled on him, and he departed, and she stood a little
while, as the throng moved on and was swallowed by the Gate, and looked
after them; and for all her pity for the other folk, she thought chiefly
of those fearless tall men who were of the blood of those with whom
it was lawful to wed.</p>
<p>There she stood as the wind dried the tears upon her cheeks, thinking
of the sorrow which these folk had endured, and their stripes and mocking,
their squalor and famine; and she wondered and looked on her own fair
and shapely hands with the precious finger-rings thereon, and on the
dainty cloth and trim broidery of her sleeve; and she touched her smooth
cheek with the back of her hand, and smiled, and felt the spring sweet
in her mouth, and its savour goodly in her nostrils; and therewith she
called to mind the aspect of her lovely body, as whiles she had seen
it imaged, all its full measure, in the clear pool at midsummer, or
piece-meal, in the shining steel of the Westland mirror.&nbsp; She thought
also with what joy she drew the breath of life, yea, even amidst of
grief, and of how sweet and pure and well-nurtured she was, and how
well beloved of many friends and the whole folk, and she set all this
beside those woeful bodies and lowering faces, and felt shame of her
sorrow of heart, and the pain it had brought to her; and ever amidst
shame and pity of all that misery rose up before her the images of those
tall fierce men, and it seemed to her as if she had seen something like
to them in some dream or imagination of her mind.</p>
<p>So came the Burgdalers and their guests into the street of Burgstead
amidst music and singing; and the throng was great there.&nbsp; Then
Face-of-god bade make a ring about the strangers, and they did so, and
he and the Runaways alone were in the midst of it; and he spake in a
loud voice and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Men of the Dale and the Burg, these folk whom here ye see
in such a sorry plight are they whom our deadly foes have rejoiced to
torment; let us therefore rejoice to cherish them.&nbsp; Now let those
men come forth who deem that they have enough and more, so that they
may each take into their houses some two or three of these friends such
as would be fain to be together.&nbsp; And since I am War-leader, and
have the right hereto, I will first choose them whom I will lead into
the House of the Face.&nbsp; And lo you! will I have this man (and he
laid his hand on Dallach),who is he whom I first came across, and who
found us all these others, and next I will have yonder tall carles,
the three of them, because I perceive them to be men meet to be with
a War-leader, and to follow him in battle.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he drew the three Men of the Wolf towards him, but Dallach
already was standing beside him.&nbsp; And folk rejoiced in Face-of-god.</p>
<p>But the Bride came forward next, and spake to him meekly and simply:</p>
<p>&lsquo;War-leader, let me have of the women those who need me most,
that I may bring them to the House of the Steer, and try if there be
not some good days yet to be found for them, wherein they shall but
remember the past grief as an ugly dream.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god looked on her, and him-seemed he had never seen
her so fair; and all the shame wherewith he had beheld her of late was
gone from him, and his heart ran over with friendly love towards her
as she looked into his face with kindly eyes; and he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Kinswoman, take thy choice as thy kindness biddeth, and happy
shall they be whom thou choosest.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She bowed her head soberly, and chose from among the guests four
women of the saddest and most grievous, and no man of their kindred
spake for going along with them; then she went her ways home, leading
one of them by the hand, and strange was it to see those twain going
through sun and shade together, that poor wretch along with the goodliest
of women.</p>
<p>Then came forward one after other of the worthy goodmen of the Dale,
and especially such as were old, and they led away one one man, and
another two, and another three, and often would a man crave to go with
a woman or a woman with a man, and it was not gainsaid them.&nbsp; So
were all the guests apportioned, and ill-content were those goodmen
that had to depart without a guest; and one man would say to another:
&lsquo;Such-an-one, be not downcast; this guest shall be between us,
if he will, and shall dwell with thee and me month about; but this first
month with me, since I was first comer.&rsquo;&nbsp; And so forth was
it said.</p>
<p>Now to prevent the time to come, it may be said about the Runaways,
that when they had been a little while amongst the Burgdalers, well
fed and well clad and kindly cherished, it was marvellous how they were
bettered in aspect of body, and it began to be seen of them that they
were well-favoured people, and divers of the women exceeding goodly,
black-haired and grey-eyed, and very clear-skinned and white-skinned;
most of them were young, and the oldest had not seen above forty winters.&nbsp;
They of Rose-dale, and especially such as had first fled away to the
wood, were very soon seen to be merry and kindly folk; but they who
had been longest in captivity, and notably those from Silver-dale who
were not of the kindreds, were for a long time sullen and heavy, and
it availed little to trust to them for the doing of work; albeit they
would follow about their friends of Burgdale with the love of a dog;
also they were, divers of them, somewhat thievish, and if they lacked
anything would liefer take it by stealth than ask for it; which forsooth
the Burgdale men took not amiss, but deemed of it as a jest rather.</p>
<p>Very few of the Runaways had any will to fare back to their old homes,
or indeed could be got to go into the wood, or, after a day or two,
to say any word of Rose-dale or Silver-dale.&nbsp; In this and other
matters the Burgdalers dealt with them as with children who must have
their way; for they deemed that their guests had much time to make up;
also they were well content when they saw how goodly they were, for
these Dalesmen loved to see men goodly of body and of a cheerful countenance.</p>
<p>As for Dallach and the three Silver-dale men of the kindred, they
went gladly whereas the Burgdale men would have them; and half a score
others took weapons in their hands when the war was foughten: concerning
which more hereafter.</p>
<p>But on the even whereof the tale now tells, Face-of-god and Stone-face
and their company met after nightfall in the Hall of the Face clad in
glorious raiment, and therewith were Dallach and the men of Silver-dale,
washen and docked of their long hair, after the fashion of warriors
who bear the helm; and they were clad in gay attire, with battle-swords
girt to their sides and gold rings on their arms.&nbsp; Somewhat stern
and sad-eyed were those Silver-dalers yet, though they looked on those
about them kindly and courteously when they met their eyes; and Face-of-god
yearned towards them when he called to mind the beauty and wisdom and
loving-kindness of the Sun-beam.&nbsp; They were, as aforesaid, strong
men and tall, and one of them taller than any amidst that house of tall
men.&nbsp; Their names were Wolf-stone, the tallest, and God-swain,
and Spear-fist; and God-swain the youngest was of thirty winters, and
Wolf-stone of forty.&nbsp; They came into the Hall in such wise, that
when they were washed and attired, and all men were assembled in the
Hall, and the Alderman and the chieftains sitting on the da&iuml;s,
Face-of-god brought them in from the out-bower, holding Dallach by the
right hand and Wolf-stone by the left; and he looked but a stripling
beside that huge man.</p>
<p>And when the men in the Hall beheld such goodly warriors, and remembered
their grief late past, they all stood up and shouted for joy of them.&nbsp;
But Face-of-god passed up the Hall with them, and stood before the da&iuml;s
and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O Alderman of the Dale and Chief of the House of the Face,
here I bring to you the foes of our foemen, whom I have met in the Wild-wood,
and bidden to our House; and meseemeth they will be our friends, and
stand beside us in the day of battle.&nbsp; Therefore I say, take these
guests and me together, or put us all to the door together; and if thou
wilt take them, then show them to such places as thou deemest meet.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then stood up the Alderman and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Men of Silver-dale and Rose-dale, I bid you welcome!&nbsp;
Be ye our friends, and abide here with us as long as seemeth good to
you, and share in all that is ours.&nbsp; Son Face-of-god, show these
warriors to seats on the da&iuml;s beside thee, and cherish them as
well as thou knowest how.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god brought them up on to the da&iuml;s and sat down
on the right hand of his father, with Dallach on his right hand, and
then Wolf-stone out from him; then sat Stone-face, that there might
be a man of the Dale to talk with them and serve them; and on his right
hand first Spear-fist and then God-swain.&nbsp; And when they were all
sat down, and the meat was on the board, Iron-face turned to his son
Face-of-god and took his hand, and said in a loud voice, so that many
might hear him:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Son Face-of-god, son Gold-mane, thou bearest with thee both
ill luck and good.&nbsp; Erewhile, when thou wanderedst out into the
Wild-wood, seeking thou knewest not what from out of the Land of Dreams,
thou didst but bring aback to us grief and shame; but now that thou
hast gone forth with the neighbours seeking thy foemen, thou hast come
aback to us with thine hands full of honour and joy for us, and we thank
thee for thy gifts, and I call thee a lucky man.&nbsp; Herewith, kinsman,
I drink to thee and the lasting of thy luck.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he stood up and drank the health of the War-leader and
the Guests: and all men were exceeding joyous thereat, when they called
to mind his wrath at the Gate-thing, and they shouted for gladness as
they drank that health, and the feast became exceeding merry in the
House of the Face; and as to the war to come, it seemed to them as if
it were over and done in all triumph.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXX.&nbsp; HALL-FACE GOETH TOWARD ROSE-DALE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>On the morrow Face-of-god took counsel with Hall-face and Stone-face
as to what were best to be done, and they sat on the da&iuml;s in the
Hall to talk it over.</p>
<p>Short was the time that had worn since that day in Shadowy Vale,
for it was but eight days since then; yet so many things had befallen
in that time, and, to speak shortly, the outlook for the Burgdalers
had changed so much, that the time seemed long to all the three, and
especially to Face-of-god.</p>
<p>It was yet twenty days till the Great Folk-mote should beholden,
and to Hall-face the time seemed long enough to do somewhat, and he
deemed it were good to gather force and fall on the Dusky Men in Rose-dale,
since now they had gotten men who could lead them the nighest way and
by the safest passes, and who knew all the ways of the foemen.&nbsp;
But to Stone-face this rede seemed not so good; for they would have
to go and come back, and fight and conquer, in less time than twenty
days, or be belated of the Folk-mote, and meanwhile much might happen.</p>
<p>&lsquo;For,&rsquo; said Stone-face, &lsquo;we may deem the fighting-men
of Rose-dale to be little less than one thousand, and however we fall
on them, even if it be unawares at first, they shall fight stubbornly;
so that we may not send against them many less than they be, and that
shall strip Burgdale of its fighting-men, so that whatever befalls,
we that be left shall have to bide at home.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Now was Face-of-god of the same mind as Stone-face; and he said moreover:
&lsquo;When we go to Rose-dale we must abide there a while unless we
be overthrown.&nbsp; For if ye conquer it and come away at once, presently
shall the tidings come to the ears of the Dusky Men in Silver-dale,
and they shall join themselves to those of Rose-dale who have fled before
you, and between them they shall destroy the unhappy people therein;
for ye cannot take them all away with you: and that shall they do all
the more now, when they look to have new thralls in Burgdale, both men
and women.&nbsp; And this we may not suffer, but must abide till we
have met all our foemen and have overcome them, so that the poor folk
there shall be safe from them till they have learned how to defend their
dale.&nbsp; Now my rede is, that we send out the War-arrow at once up
and down the Dale, and to the Shepherds and Woodlanders, and appoint
a day for the Muster and Weapon-show of all our Folk, and that day to
be the day before the Spring Market, that is to say, four days before
the Great Folk-mote, and meantime that we keep sure watch about the
border of the wood, and now and again scour the wood, so as to clear
the Dale of their wandering bands.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Hall-face; &lsquo;and I pray thee, brother,
let me have an hundred of men and thy Dallach, and let us go somewhat
deep into the wood towards Rose-dale, and see what we may come across;
peradventure it might be something better than hart or wild-swine.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;I see no harm therein, if Dallach goeth
with thee freely; for I will have no force put on him or any other of
the Runaways.&nbsp; Yet meseemeth it were not ill for thee to find the
road to Rose-dale; for I have it in my mind to send a company thither
to give those Rose-dale man-quellers somewhat to do at home when we
fall upon Silver-dale.&nbsp; Therefore go find Dallach, and get thy
men together at once; for the sooner thou art gone on thy way the better.&nbsp;
But this I bid thee, go no further than three days out, that ye may
be back home betimes.&rsquo;</p>
<p>At this word Hall-face&rsquo;s eyes gleamed with joy, and he went
out from the Hall straightway and sought Dallach, and found him at the
Gate.&nbsp; Iron-face had given him a new sword, a good one, and had
bidden him call it Thicket-clearer, and he would not leave it any moment
of the day or night, but would lay it under his pillow at night as a
child does with a new toy; and now he was leaning against a buttress
and drawing the said sword half out of the scabbard and poring over
its blade, which was indeed fair enough, being wrought with dark grey
waving lines like the eddies of the Weltering Water.</p>
<p>So Hall-face greeted him, and smiled and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Guest, if thou wilt, thou may&rsquo;st take that new blade
of my father&rsquo;s work which thou lovest so, a journey which shall
rejoice it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Dallach, &lsquo;I suppose that thou wouldest
fare on thy brother&rsquo;s footsteps, and deemest that I am the man
to lead thee on the road, and even farther than he went; and though
it might be thought by some that I have seen enough of Rose-dale and
the parts thereabout for one while, yet will I go with thee; for now
am I a man again, body and soul.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And therewith he drew Thicket-clearer right out of his sheath and
waved him in the air.&nbsp; And Hall-face was glad of him and said he
was well apaid of his help.&nbsp; So they went away together to gather
men, and on the morrow Hall-face departed and went into the Wild-wood
with Dallach and an hundred and two score men.</p>
<p>But as for Face-of-god, he fared up and down the Dale following the
War-arrow, and went into all houses, and talked with the folk, both
young and old, men and women, and told them closely all that had betid
and all that was like to betide; and he was well pleased with that which
he saw and heard; for all took his words well, and were nought afeard
or dismayed by the tidings; and he saw that they would not hang aback.&nbsp;
Meantime the days wore, and Hall-face came not back till the seventh
day, and he brought with him twelve more Runaways, of whom five were
women.&nbsp; But he had lost four men, and had with him Dallach and
five others of the Dalesmen borne upon litters sore hurt; and this was
his story:</p>
<p>They got to the Burg of the Runaways on the forenoon of the third
day, and thereby came on five carles of the Runaways - men who had missed
meeting Dallach that other day, but knew what had been done; for one
of them had been sick and could not come with him, and he had told the
others: so now they were hanging about the Burg of the Runaways hoping
somewhat that he might come again; and they met the Burgdalers full
of joy, and brought them trouts that they had caught in the river.</p>
<p>As for the other runaways, namely, five women and two more carles
- they had gotten them close to the entrance into Silver-dale, where
by night and cloud they came on a campment of the Dusky Men, who were
leading home these seven poor wretches, runaways whom they had caught,
that they might slay them most evilly in Rose-stead.&nbsp; So Hall-face
fell on the Dusky Men, and delivered their captives, but slew not all
the foe, and they that fled brought pursuers on them who came up with
them the next day, so near was Rose-dale, though they made all diligence
homeward.&nbsp; The Burgdalers must needs turn and fight with those
pursuers, and at last they drave them aback so that they might go on
their ways home.&nbsp; They let not the grass grow beneath their feet
thereafter, till they were assured by meeting a band of the Woodlanders,
who had gone forth to help them, and with whom they rested a little.&nbsp;
But neither so were they quite done with the foemen, who came upon them
next day a very many: these however they and the Woodlanders, who were
all fresh and unwounded and very valiant, speedily put to the worse;
and so they came on to Burgstead, leaving those of them who were sorest
hurt to be tended by the Woodlanders at Carlstead, who, as might be
looked for, deal with them very lovingly.</p>
<p>It was in the first fight that they suffered that loss of slain and
wounded; and therein the newly delivered thralls fought valiantly against
their masters: as for Dallach, it was no marvel, said Hall-face, that
he was hurt; but rather a marvel that he was not slain, so little he
recked of point and edge, if he might but slay the foemen.</p>
<p>Such was Hall-face&rsquo;s-tale; and Face-of-god deemed that he had
done unwisely to let him go that journey; for the slaying of a few Dusky
Men was but a light gain to set against the loss of so many Burgdalers;
yet was he glad of the deliverance of those Runaways, and deemed it
a gain indeed.&nbsp; But henceforth would he hold all still till he
should have tidings of Folk-might; so nought was done thereafter save
the warding of the Dale, from the country of the Shepherds to the Waste
above the Eastern passes.</p>
<p>But Face-of-god himself went up amongst the Shepherds, and abode
with a goodman hight Hound-under-Greenbury, who gathered to him the
folk from the country-side, and they went up on to Greenbury, and sat
on the green grass while he spoke with them and told them, as he had
told the others, what had been done and what should be done.&nbsp; And
they heard him gladly, and he deemed that there would be no blenching
in them, for they were all in one tale to live and die with their friends
of Burgdale, and they said that they would have no other word save that
to bear to the Great Folk-mote.</p>
<p>So he went away well-pleased, and he fared on thence to the Woodlanders,
and guested at the house of a valiant man hight Wargrove, who on the
morrow morn called the folk together to a green lawn of the Wild-wood,
so that there was scarce a soul of them that was not there.&nbsp; Then
he laid the whole matter before them; and if the Dalesmen had been merry
and ready, and the Shepherds stout-hearted and friendly, yet were the
Wood-landers more eager still, so that every hour seemed long to them
till they stood in their war-gear; and they told him that now at last
was the hour drawing nigh which they had dreamed of, but had scarce
dared to hope for, when the lost way should be found, and the crooked
made straight, and that which had been broken should be mended; that
their meat and drink, and sleeping and waking, and all that they did
were now become to them but the means of living till the day was come
whereon the two remnants of the children of the Wolf should meet and
become one Folk to live or die together.</p>
<p>Then went Face-of-god back to Burgstead again, and as he stood anigh
the Thing-stead once more, and looked down on the Dale as he had beheld
it last autumn, he bethought him that with all that had been done and
all that had been promised, the earth was clearing of her trouble, and
that now there was nought betwixt him and the happy days of life which
the Dale should give to the dwellers therein, save the gathering hosts
of the battle-field and the day when the last word should be spoken
and the first stroke smitten.&nbsp; So he went down on to the Portway
well content.</p>
<p>Thereafter till the day of the Weapon-show there is nought to tell
of, save that Dallach and the other wounded men began to grow whole
again; and all men sat at home, or went on the woodland ward, expecting
great tidings after the holding of the Folk-mote.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXI.&nbsp; OF THE WEAPON-SHOW OF THE MEN OF BURGDALE AND
THEIR NEIGHBOURS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Now on the day appointed for the Weapon-show came the Folk flock-meal
to the great and wide meadow that was cleft by Wildlake as it ran to
join the Weltering Water.&nbsp; Early in the morning, even before sunrise,
had the wains full of women and children begun to come thither.&nbsp;
Also there came little horses and asses from the Shepherd country with
one or two or three damsels or children sitting on each, and by wain-side
or by beast strode the men of the house, merry and fair in their war-gear.&nbsp;
The Woodlanders, moreover, man and woman, elder and swain and young
damsel, streamed out of the wood from Carlstead, eager to make the day
begin before the sunrise, and end before his setting.</p>
<p>Then all men fell to pitching of tents and tilting over of wains;
for the April sun was hot in the Dale, and when he arose the meads were
gay with more than the spring flowers; for the tents and the tilts were
stained and broidered with many colours, and there was none who had
not furbished up his war-gear so that all shone and glittered.&nbsp;
And many wore gay surcoats over their armour, and the women were clad
in all their bravery, and the Houses mostly of a suit; for one bore
blue and another corn-colour, and another green, and another brazil,
and so forth, and all gleaming and glowing with broidery of gold and
bright hues.&nbsp; But the women of the Shepherds were all clad in white,
embroidered with green boughs and red blossoms, and the Woodland women
wore dark red kirtles.&nbsp; Moreover, the women had set garlands of
flowers on their heads and the helms of the men, and for the most part
they were slim of body and tall and light-limbed, and as dainty to look
upon as the willow-boughs that waved on the brook-side.</p>
<p>Thither had the goodmen who were guesting the Runaways brought their
guests, even now much bettered by their new soft days; and much the
poor folk marvelled at all this joyance, and they scarce knew where
they were; but to some it brought back to their minds days of joyance
before the thralldom and all that they had lost, so that their hearts
were heavy a while, till they saw the warriors of the kindreds streaming
into the mead and bethought them why they carried steel.</p>
<p>Now by then the sun was fully up there was a great throng on the
Portway, and this was the folk of the Burg on their way to the Weapon-mead.&nbsp;
The men-at-arms were in the midst of the throng, and at the head of
them was the War-leader, with the banner of the Face before him, wherein
was done the image of the God with the ray-ringed head.&nbsp; But at
the rearward of the warriors went the Alderman and the Burg-wardens,
before whom was borne the banner of the Burg pictured with the Gate
and its Towers; but in the midst betwixt those two was the banner of
the Steer, a white beast on a green field.</p>
<p>So when the Dale-wardens who were down in the meadow heard the music
and beheld who were coming, they bade the companies of the Dale and
the Shepherds and the Woodlanders who were down there to pitch their
banners in a half circle about the ingle of the meadow which was made
by the streams of Wildlake and the Weltering Water, and gather to them
to be ordered there under their leaders of scores and half-hundreds
and hundreds; and even so they did.&nbsp; But the banners of the Dale
without the Burg were the Bridge, and the Bull, and the Vine, and the
Sickle.&nbsp; And the Shepherds had three banners, to wit Greenbury,
and the Fleece, and the Thorn.</p>
<p>As for the Woodlanders, they said that they were abiding their great
banner, but it should come in good time; &lsquo;and meantime,&rsquo;
said they, &lsquo;here are the war-tokens that we shall fight under;
for they are good enough banners for us poor men, the remnant of the
valiant of time past.&rsquo;&nbsp; Therewith they showed two great spears,
and athwart the one was tied an arrow, its point dipped in blood, its
feathers singed with fire; and they said, &lsquo;This is the banner
of the War-shaft.&rsquo;</p>
<p>On the other spear there was nought; but the head thereof was great
and long, and they had so burnished the steel that the sun smote out
a ray of light from it, so that it might be seen from afar.&nbsp; And
they said: &lsquo;This is the Banner of the Spear!&nbsp; Down yonder
where the ravens are gathering ye shall see a banner flying over us.&nbsp;
There shall fall many a mother&rsquo;s son.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Smiled the Dale-wardens, and said that these were good banners to
fight under; and those that stood nearby shouted for the valiancy of
the Woodland Carles.</p>
<p>Now the Dale-wardens went to the entrance from the Portway to the
meadow, and there met the Men of the Burg, and two of them went one
on either side of the War-leader to show him to his seat, and the others
abode till the Alderman and Burg-wardens came up, and then joined themselves
to them, and the horns blew up both in the meadow and on the road, and
the new-comers went their ways to their appointed places amidst the
shouts of the Dalesmen; and the women and children and old men from
the Burg followed after, till all the mead was covered with bright raiment
and glittering gear, save within the ring of men at the further end.</p>
<p>So came the War-leader to his seat of green turf raised in the ingle
aforesaid; and he stood beside it till the Alderman and Wardens had
taken their places on a seat behind him raised higher than his; below
him on the step of his seat sat the Scrivener with his pen and ink-horn
and scroll of parchment, and men had brought him a smooth shield whereon
to write.</p>
<p>On the left side of Face-of-god stood the men of the Face all glittering
in their arms, and amongst them were Wolf-stone and his two fellows,
but Dallach was not yet whole of his hurts.&nbsp; On his right were
the folk of the House of the Steer: the leader of that House was an
old white-bearded man, grandfather of the Bride, for her father was
dead; and who but the Bride herself stood beside him in her glorious
war-gear, looking as if she were new come from the City of the Gods,
thought most men; but those who beheld her closely deemed that she looked
heavy-eyed and haggard, as if she were aweary.&nbsp; Nevertheless, wheresoever
she passed, and whosoever looked on her (and all men looked on her),
there arose a murmur of praise and love; and the women, and especially
the young ones, said how fair her deed was, and how meet she was for
it; and some of them were for doing on war-gear and faring to battle
with the carles; and of these some were sober and solemn, as was well
seen afterwards, and some spake lightly: some also fell to boasting
of how they could run and climb and swim and shoot in the bow, and fell
to baring of their arms to show how strong they were: and indeed they
were no weaklings, though their arms were fair.</p>
<p>There then stood the ring of men, each company under its banner;
and beyond them stood the women and children and men unmeet for battle;
and beyond them again the tilted wains and the tents.</p>
<p>Now Face-of-god sat him down on the turf-seat with his bright helm
on his head and his naked sword across his knees, while the horns blew
up loudly, and when they had done, the elder of the Dale-wardens cried
out for silence.&nbsp; Then again arose Face-of-god and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Men of the Dale, and ye friends of the Shepherds, and ye,
O valiant Woodlanders; we are not assembled here to take counsel, for
in three days&rsquo; time shall the Great Folk-mote be holden, whereat
shall be counsel enough.&nbsp; But since I have been appointed your
Chief and War-leader, till such time as the Folk-mote shall either yeasay
or naysay my leadership, I have sent for you that we may look each other
in the face and number our host and behold our weapons, and see if we
be meet for battle and for the dealing with a great host of foemen.&nbsp;
For now no longer can it be said that we are going to war, but rather
that war is on our borders, and we are blended with it; as many have
learned to their cost; for some have been slain and some sorely hurt.&nbsp;
Therefore I bid you now, all ye that are weaponed, wend past us that
the tale of you may be taken.&nbsp; But first let every hundred-leader
and half-hundred-leader and score-leader make sure that he hath his
tale aright, and give his word to the captain of his banner that he
in turn may give it out to the Scrivener with his name and the House
and Company that he leadeth.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So he spake and sat him adown; and the horns blew again in token
that the companies should go past; and the first that came was Hall-ward
of the House of the Steer, and the first of those that went after him
was the Bride, going as if she were his son.</p>
<p>So he cried out his name, and the name of his House, and said, &lsquo;An
hundred and a half,&rsquo; and passed forth, his men following him in
most goodly array.&nbsp; Each man was girt with a good sword and bore
a long heavy spear over his shoulder, save a score who bare bows; and
no man lacked a helm, a shield, and a coat of fence.</p>
<p>Then came a goodly man of thirty winters, and stayed before the Scrivener
and cried out:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Write down the House of the Bridge of the Upper Dale at one
hundred, and War-well their leader.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And he strode on, and his men followed clad and weaponed like those
of the Steer, save that some had axes hanging to their girdles instead
of swords; and most bore casting-spears instead of the long spears,
and half a score were bowmen.</p>
<p>Then came Fox of Upton leading the men of the Bull of Middale, an
hundred and a half lacking two; very great and tall were his men, and
they also bore long spears, and one score and two were bowmen.</p>
<p>Then Fork-beard of Lea, a man well on in years, led on the men of
the Vine, an hundred and a half and five men thereto; two score of them
bare bow in hand and were girt with sword; the rest bore their swords
naked in their right hands, and their shields (which were but small
bucklers) hanging at their backs, and in the left hand each bore two
casting-spears.&nbsp; With these went two doughty women-at-arms among
the bowmen, tall and well-knit, already growing brown with the spring
sun, for their work lay among the stocks of the vines on the southward-looking
bents.</p>
<p>Next came a tall young man, yellow-haired, with a thin red beard,
and gave himself out for Red-beard of the Knolls; he bore his father&rsquo;s
name, as the custom of their house was, but the old man, who had long
been head man of the House of the Sickle, was late dead in his bed,
and the young man had not seen twenty winters.&nbsp; He bade the Scrivener
write the tale of the Men of the Sickle at an hundred and a half, and
his folk fared past the War-leader joyously, being one half of them
bowmen; and fell shooters they were; the other half were girt with swords,
and bore withal long ashen staves armed with great blades curved inwards,
which weapon they called heft-sax.</p>
<p>All these bands, as the name and the tale of them was declared were
greeted with loud shouts from their fellows and the bystanders; but
now arose a greater shout still, as Stone-face, clad in goodly glittering
array, came forth and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I am Stone-face of the House of the Face, and I bring with
me two hundreds of men with their best war-gear and weapons: write it
down, Scrivener!&rsquo;</p>
<p>And he strode on like a young man after those who had gone past,
and after him came the tall Hall-face and his men, a gallant sight to
see: two score bowmen girt with swords, and the others with naked swords
waving aloft, and each bearing two casting-spears in his left hand.</p>
<p>Then came a man of middle age, broad-shouldered, yellow-haired, blue-eyed,
of wide and ruddy countenance, and after him a goodly company; and again
great was the shout that went up to the heavens; for he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Scrivener, write down that Hound-under-Greenbury, from amongst
the dwellers in the hills where the sheep feed, leadeth the men who
go under the banner of Greenbury, to the tale of an hundred and four
score.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he passed on, and his men followed, stout, stark, and merry-faced,
girt with swords, and bearing over their shoulders long-staved axes,
and spears not so long as those which the Dalesmen bore; and they had
but a half score of arrow-shot with them.</p>
<p>Next came a young man, blue-eyed also, with hair the colour of flax
on the distaff, broad-faced and short-nosed, low of stature, but very
strong-built, who cried out in a loud, cheerful voice:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I am Strongitharm of the Shepherds, and these valiant men
are of the Fleece and the Thorn blended together, for so they would
have it; and their tale is one hundred and two score and ten.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then the men of those kindreds went past merry and shouting, and
they were clad and weaponed like to them of Greenbury, but had with
them a score of bowmen.&nbsp; And all these Shepherd-folk wore over
their hauberks white woollen surcoats broidered with green and red.</p>
<p>Now again uprose the cry, and there stood before the War-leader a
very tall man of fifty winters, dark-faced and grey-eyed, and he spake
slowly and somewhat softly, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;War-leader, this is Red-wolf of the Woodlanders leading the
men who go under the sign of the War-shaft, to the number of an hundred
and two.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he passed on, and his men after him, tall, lean, and silent
amidst the shouting.&nbsp; All these men bare bows, for they were keen
hunters; each had at his girdle a little axe and a wood-knife, and some
had long swords withal.&nbsp; They wore, everyone of the carles, short
green surcoats over their coats of fence; but amongst them were three
women who bore like weapons to the men, but were clad in red kirtles
under their hauberks, which were of good ring-mail gleaming over them
from throat to knee.</p>
<p>Last came another tall man, but young, of twenty-five winters, and
spake:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Scrivener, I am Bears-bane of the Woodlanders, and these that
come after me wend under the sign of the Spear, and they are of the
tale of one hundred and seven.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And he passed by at once, and his men followed him, clad and weaponed
no otherwise than they of the War-shaft, and with them were two women.</p>
<p>Now went all those companies back to their banners, and stood there;
and there arose among the bystanders much talk concerning the Weapon-show,
and who were the best arrayed of the Houses.&nbsp; And of the old men,
some spake of past weapon-shows which they had seen in their youth,
and they set them beside this one, and praised and blamed.&nbsp; So
it went on a little while till the horns blew again, and once more there
was silence.&nbsp; Then arose Face-of-god and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Men of Burgdale, and ye Shepherd-folk, and ye of the Woodland,
now shall ye wot how many weaponed men we may bring together for this
war.&nbsp; Scrivener, arise and give forth the tale of the companies,
as they have been told unto you.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then the Scrivener stood up on the turf-bench beside Face-of-god,
and spake in a loud voice, reading from his scroll:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Of the Men of Burgdale there have passed by me nine hundreds
and six; of the Shepherds three hundreds and eight and ten; and of the
Woodlanders two hundreds and nine; so that all told our men are fourteen
hundreds and thirty and three.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Now in those days men reckoned by long hundreds, so that the whole
tale of the host was one thousand, five hundred, and four score and
one, telling the tale in short hundreds.</p>
<p>When the tale had been given forth and heard, men shouted again,
and they rejoiced that they were so many.&nbsp; For it exceeded the
reckoning which the Alderman had given out at the Gate-thing.&nbsp;
But Face-of-god said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Neighbours, we have held our Weapon-show; but now hold you
ready, each man, for the Hosting toward very battle; for belike within
seven days shall the leaders of hundreds and twenties summon you to
be ready in arms to take whatso fortune may befall.&nbsp; Now is sundered
the Weapon-show.&nbsp; Be ye as merry to-day as your hearts bid you
to be.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he came down from his seat with the Alderman and the Wardens,
and they mingled with the good folk of the Dale and the Shepherds and
the Woodlanders, and merry was their converse there.&nbsp; It yet lacked
an hour of noon; so presently they fell to and feasted in the green
meadow, drinking from wain to wain and from tent to tent; and thereafter
they played and sported in the meads, shooting at the butts and wrestling,
and trying other masteries.&nbsp; Then they fell to dancing one and
all, and so at last to supper on the green grass in great merriment.&nbsp;
Nor might you have known from the demeanour of any that any threat of
evil overhung the Dale.&nbsp; Nay, so glad were they, and so friendly,
that you might rather have deemed that this was the land whereof tales
tell, wherein people die not, but live for ever, without growing any
older than when they first come thither, unless they be born into the
land itself, and then they grow into fair manhood, and so abide.&nbsp;
In sooth, both the land and the folk were fair enough to be that land
and the folk thereof.</p>
<p>But a little after sunset they sundered, and some fared home; but
many of them abode in the tents and tilted wains, because the morrow
was the first day of the Spring Market: and already were some of the
Westland chapmen come; yea, two of them were with the bystanders in
the meadow; and more were looked for ere the night was far spent.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXII.&nbsp; THE MEN OF SHADOWY VALE COME TO THE SPRING
MARKET AT BURGSTEAD</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>On the morrow betimes in the morning the Westland chapmen, who were
now all come, went out from the House of the Face, where they were ever
wont to be lodged, and set up their booths adown the street betwixt
gate and bridge.&nbsp; Gay was the show; for the booths were tilted
over with painted cloths, and the merchants themselves were clad in
long gowns of fine cloth; scarlet, and blue, and white, and green, and
black, with broidered welts of gold and silver; and their knaves were
gaily attired in short coats of divers hues, with silver rings about
their arms, and short swords girt to their sides.&nbsp; People began
to gather about these chapmen at once when they fell to opening their
bales and their packs, and unloading their wains.&nbsp; There had they
iron, both in pigs and forged scrap and nails; steel they had, and silver,
both in ingots and vessel; pearls from over sea; cinnabar and other
colours for staining, such as were not in the mountains: madder from
the marshes, and purple of the sea, and scarlet grain from the holm-oaks
by its edge, and woad from the deep clayey fields of the plain; silken
thread also from the outer ocean, and rare webs of silk, and jars of
olive oil, and fine pottery, and scented woods, and sugar of the cane.&nbsp;
But gold they had none with them, for that they took there; and for
weapons, save a few silver-gilt toys, they had no market.</p>
<p>So presently they fell to chaffer; for the carles brought them little
bags of the river-borne gold, so that the weights and scales were at
work; others had with them scrolls and tallies to tell the number of
the beasts which they had to sell, and the chapmen gave them wares therefor
without beholding the beasts; for they wotted that the Dalesmen lied
not in chaffer.&nbsp; While the day was yet young withal came the Dalesmen
from the mid and nether Dale with their wares and set up their booths;
and they had with them flasks and kegs of the wine which they had to
sell; and bales of the good winter-woven cloth, some grey, some dyed,
and pieces of fine linen; and blades of swords, and knives, and axes
of such fashion as the Westland men used; and golden cups and chains,
and fair rings set with mountain-blue stones, and copper bowls, and
vessels gilt and parcel-gilt, and mountain-blue for staining.&nbsp;
There were men of the Shepherds also with such fleeces as they could
spare from the daily chaffer with the neighbours.&nbsp; And of the Woodlanders
were four carles and a woman with peltries and dressed deer-skins, and
a few pieces of well-carven wood-work for bedsteads and chairs and such
like.</p>
<p>Soon was the Burg thronged with folk in all its open places, and
all were eager and merry, and it could not have been told from their
demeanour and countenance that the shadow of a grievous trouble hung
over them.&nbsp; True it was that every man of the Dale and the neighbours
was girt with his sword, or bore spear or axe or other weapon in his
hand, and that most had their bucklers at their backs and their helms
on their heads; but this was ever their custom at all meetings of men,
not because they dreaded war or were fain of strife, but in token that
they were free men, from whom none should take the weapons without battle.</p>
<p>Such were the folk of the land: as for the chapmen, they were well-spoken
and courteous, and blithe with the folk, as they well might be, for
they had good pennyworths of them; yet they dealt with them without
using measureless lying, as behoved folk dealing with simple and proud
people; and many was the tale they told of the tidings of the Cities
and the Plain.</p>
<p>There amongst the throng was the Bride in her maiden&rsquo;s attire,
but girt with the sword, going from booth to booth with her guests of
the Runaways, and doing those poor people what pleasure she might, and
giving them gifts from the goods there, such as they set their hearts
on.&nbsp; And the more part of the Runaways were about among the people
of the Fair; but Dallach, being still weak, sat on a bench by the door
of the House of the Face looking on well-pleased at all the stir of
folk.</p>
<p>Hall-face was gone on the woodland ward; while Face-of-god went among
the folk in his most glorious attire; but he soon betook him to the
place of meeting without the Gate, where Stone-face and some of the
elders were sitting along with the Alderman, beside whom sat the head
man of the merchants, clad in a gown of fine scarlet embroidered with
the best work of the Dale, with a golden chaplet on his head, and a
good sword, golden-hilted, by his side, all which the Alderman had given
to it him that morning.&nbsp; These chiefs were talking together concerning
the tidings of the Plain, and many a tale the guest told to the Dalesmen,
some true, some false.&nbsp; For there had been battles down there,
and the fall of kings, and destruction of people, as oft befalleth in
the guileful Cities.&nbsp; He told them also, in answer to their story
of the Dusky Men, of how men even such-like, but riding on horses, or
drawn in wains, an host not to be numbered, had erewhile overthrown
the hosts of the Cities of the Plain, and had wrought evils scarce to
be told of; and how they had piled up the skulls of slaughtered folk
into great hills beside the city-gates, so that the sun might no longer
shine into the streets; and how because of the death and the rapine,
grass had grown in the kings&rsquo; chambers, and the wolves had chased
deer in the Temples of the Gods.</p>
<p>&lsquo;But,&rsquo; quoth he, &lsquo;I know you, bold tillers of the
soil, valiant scourers of the Wild-wood, that the worst that can befall
you will be to die under shield, and that ye shall suffer no torment
of the thrall.&nbsp; May the undying Gods bless the threshold of this
Gate, and oft may I come hither to taste of your kindness!&nbsp; May
your race, the uncorrupt, increase and multiply, till your valiant men
and clean maidens make the bitter sweet and purify the earth!&rsquo;</p>
<p>He spake smooth-tongued and smiling, handling the while the folds
of his fine scarlet gown, and belike he meant a full half of what he
said; for he was a man very eloquent of speech, and had spoken with
kings, uncowed and pleased with his speaking; and for that cause and
his riches had he been made chief of the chapmen.&nbsp; As he spake
the heart of Face-of-god swelled within him, and his cheek flushed;
but Iron-face sat up straight and proud, and a light smile played about
his face, as he said gravely:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Friend of the Westland, I thank thee for the blessing and
the kind word.&nbsp; Such as we are, we are; nor do I deem that the
very Gods shall change us.&nbsp; And if they will be our friends, it
is well; for we desire nought of them save their friendship; and if
they will be our foes, that also shall we bear; nor will we curse them
for doing that which their lives bid them to do.&nbsp; What sayest thou,
Face-of-god, my son?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, father,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;I say that the
very Gods, though they slay me, cannot unmake my life that has been.&nbsp;
If they do deeds, yet shall we also do.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The Outlander smiled as they spake, and bowed his head to Iron-face
and Face-of-god, and wondered at their pride of heart, marvelling what
they would say to the great men of the Cities if they should meet them.</p>
<p>But as they sat a-talking, there came two men running to them from
the Portway, their weapons all clattering upon them, and they heard
withal the sound of a horn winded not far off very loud and clear; and
the Chapman&rsquo;s cheek paled: for in sooth he doubted that war was
at hand, after all he had heard of the Dalesmen&rsquo;s dealings with
the Dusky Men.&nbsp; And all battle was loathsome to him, nor for all
the gain of his chaffer had he come into the Dale, had he known that
war was looked for.</p>
<p>But the chiefs of the Dalesmen stirred not, nor changed countenance;
and some of the goodmen who were in the street nigh the Gate came forth
to see what was toward; for they also had heard the voice of the horn.</p>
<p>Then one of those messengers came up breathless, and stood before
the chiefs, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;New tidings, Alderman; here be weaponed strangers come into
the Dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The Alderman smiled on him and said: &lsquo;Yea, son, and are they
a great host of men?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said the man, &lsquo;not above a score as I deem,
and there is a woman with them.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Then shall we abide them here,&rsquo; said the Alderman, &lsquo;and
thou mightest have saved thy breath, and suffered them to bring tidings
of themselves; since they may scarce bring us war.&nbsp; For no man
desireth certain and present death; and that is all that such a band
may win at our hands in battle to-day; and all who come in peace are
welcome to us.&nbsp; What like are they to behold?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said the man: &lsquo;They are tall men gloriously attired, so that
they seem like kinsmen of the Gods; and they bear flowering boughs in
their hands.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The Alderman laughed, and said: &lsquo;If they be Gods they are welcome
indeed; and they shall grow the wiser for their coming; for they shall
learn how guest-fain the Burgdale men may be.&nbsp; But if, as I deem,
they be like unto us, and but the children of the Gods, then are they
as welcome, and it may be more so, and our greeting to them shall be
as their greeting to us would be.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Even as he spake the horn was winded nearer yet, and more loudly,
and folk came pouring out of the Gate to learn the tidings.&nbsp; Presently
the strangers came from off the Portway into the space before the Gate;
and their leader was a tall and goodly man of some thirty winters, in
glorious array, helm on head and sword by side, his surcoat green and
flowery like the spring meads.&nbsp; In his right hand he held a branch
of the blossomed black-thorn (for some was yet in blossom), and his
left had hold of the hand of an exceeding fair woman who went beside
him: behind him was a score of weaponed men in goodly attire, some bearing
bows, some long spears, but each bearing a flowering bough in hand.</p>
<p>The tall man stopped in the midst of the space, and the Alderman
and they with him stirred not; though, as for Face-of-god, it was to
him as if summer had come suddenly into the midst of winter, and for
the very sweetness of delight his face grew pale.</p>
<p>Then the new-comer drew nigh to the Alderman and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hail to the Gate and the men of the Gate!&nbsp; Hail to the
kindred of the children of the Gods!&rsquo;</p>
<p>But the Alderman stood up and spake: &lsquo;And hail to thee, tall
man!&nbsp; Fair greeting to thee and thy company!&nbsp; Wilt thou name
thyself with thine own name, or shall I call thee nought save Guest?&nbsp;
Welcome art thou, by whatsoever name thou wilt be called.&nbsp; Here
may&rsquo;st thou and thy folk abide as long as ye will.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said the new-comer: &lsquo;Thanks have thou for thy greeting and
for thy bidding!&nbsp; And that bidding shall we take, whatsoever may
come of it; for we are minded to abide with thee for a while.&nbsp;
But know thou, O Alderman of the Dalesmen, that I am not sackless toward
thee and thine.&nbsp; My name is Folk-might of the Children of the Wolf,
and this woman is the Sun-beam, my sister, and these behind me are of
my kindred, and are well beloved and trusty.&nbsp; We are no evil men
or wrong-doers; yet have we been driven into sore straits, wherein men
must needs at whiles do deeds that make their friends few and their
foes many.&nbsp; So it may be that I am thy foeman.&nbsp; Yet, if thou
doubtest of me that I shall be a baneful guest, thou shalt have our
weapons of us, and then mayest thou do thy will upon us without dread;
and here first of all is my sword!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he cast down the flowering branch he was bearing, and pulled
his sword from out his sheath, and took it by the point, and held out
the hilt to Iron-face.</p>
<p>But the Alderman smiled kindly on him and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;The blade is a good one, and I say it who know the craft of
sword-forging; but I need it not, for thou seest I have a sword by my
side.&nbsp; Keep your weapons, one and all; for ye have come amongst
many and those no weaklings: and if so be that thy guilt against us
is so great that we must needs fall on you, ye will need all your war-gear.&nbsp;
But hereof is no need to speak till the time of the Folk-mote, which
will be holden in three days&rsquo; wearing; so let us forbear this
matter till then; for I deem we shall have enough to say of other matters.&nbsp;
Now, Folk-might, sit down beside me, and thou also, Sun-beam, fairest
of women.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he looked into her face and reddened, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yet belike thou hast a word of greeting for my son, Face-of-god,
unless it be so that ye have not seen him before?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god came forward, and took Folk-might by the hand and
kissed him; and he stood before the Sun-beam and took her hand, and
the world waxed a wonder to him as he kissed her cheeks; and in no wise
did she change countenance, save that her eyes softened, and she gazed
at him full kindly from the happiness of her soul.</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god said: &lsquo;Welcome, Guests, who erewhile guested
me so well: now beginneth the day of your well-doing to the men of Burgdale;
therefore will we do to you as well as we may.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Folk-might and the Sun-beam sat them down with the chieftains,
one on either side of the Alderman, but Face-of-god passed forth to
the others, and greeted them one by one: of them was Wood-father and
his three sons, and Bow-may; and they rejoiced exceedingly to see him,
and Bow-may said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now it gladdens my heart to look upon thee alive and thriving,
and to remember that day last winter when I met thee on the snow, and
turned thee back from the perilous path to thy pleasure, which the Dusky
Men were besetting, of whom thou knewest nought.&nbsp; Yea, it was merry
that tide; but this is better.&nbsp; Nay, friend,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;it
availeth thee nought to strive to look out of the back of thine head:
let it be enough to thee that she is there.&nbsp; Thou art now become
a great chieftain, and she is no less; and this is a meeting of chieftains,
and the folk are looking on and expecting demeanour of them as of the
Gods; and she is not to be dealt with as if she were the daughter of
some little goodman with whom one hath made tryst in the meadows.&nbsp;
There! hearken to me for a while; at least till I tell thee that thou
seemest to me to hold thine head higher than when last I saw thee; though
that is no long time either.&nbsp; Hast thou been in battle again since
that day?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;I have stricken no stroke since
I slew two felons within the same hour that we parted.&nbsp; And thou,
sister, what hast thou done?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;The grey goose hath been on the wing thrice since
that, bearing on it the bane of evil things.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then said Wood-wise: &lsquo;Kinswoman, tell him of that battle, since
thou art deft with thy tongue.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;Weary on battles! it is nought save this: twelve
days agone needs must every fighting-man of the Wolf, carle or of queen,
wend away from Shadowy Vale, while those unmeet for battle we hid away
in the caves at the nether end of the Dale: but Sun-beam would not endure
that night, and fared with us, though she handled no weapon.&nbsp; All
this we had to do because we had learned that a great company of the
Dusky Men were over-nigh to our Dale, and needs must we fall upon them,
lest they should learn too much, and spread the story.&nbsp; Well, so
wise was Folk-might that we came on them unawares by night and cloud
at the edge of the Pine-wood, and but one of our men was slain, and
of them not one escaped; and when the fight was over we counted four
score and ten of their arm-rings.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;Did that or aught else come of our meeting with them
that morning?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;nought came of it: those we slew
were but a straying band.&nbsp; Nay, the four score and ten slain in
the Pine-wood knew not of Shadowy Vale belike, and had no intent for
it: they were but scouring the wood seeking their warriors that had
gone out from Silver-dale and came not aback.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou art wise in war, Bow-may,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, and
he smiled withal.</p>
<p>Bow-may reddened and said: &lsquo;Friend Gold-mane, dost thou perchance
deem that there is aught ill in my warring?&nbsp; And the Sun-beam,
she naysayeth the bearing of weapons; though I deem that she hath little
fear of them when they come her way.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Nay, I deem no ill of it, but much good.&nbsp;
For I suppose that thou hast learned overmuch of the wont of the Dusky
Men, and hast seen their thralls?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She knitted her brows, and all the merriment went out of her face
at that word, and she answered: &lsquo;Yea, thou hast it; for I have
both seen their thralls and been in the Dale of thralldom; and how then
can I do less than I do?&nbsp; But for thee, I perceive that thou hast
been nigh unto our foes and hast fallen in with their thralls; and that
is well; for whatso tales we had told thee thereof it is like thou wouldst
not have trowed in, as now thou must do, since thou thyself hast seen
these poor folk.&nbsp; But now I will tell thee, Gold-mane, that my
soul is sick of these comings and goings for the slaughter of a few
wretches; and I long for the Great Day of Battle, when it will be seen
whether we shall live or die; and though I laugh and jest, yet doth
the wearing of the days wear me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He looked kindly on her and said: &lsquo;I am War-leader of this
Folk, and trust me that the waiting-tide shall not be long; wherefore
now, sister, be merry to-day, for that is but meet and right; and cast
aside thy care, for presently shalt thou behold many new friends.&nbsp;
But now meseemeth overlong have ye been standing before our Gate, and
it is time that ye should see the inside of our Burg and the inside
of our House.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Indeed by this time so many men had come out of the street that the
place before the Gate was all thronged, and from where he stood Face-of-god
could scarce see his father, or Folk-might and the Sun-beam and the
chieftains.</p>
<p>So he took Wood-father by the hand, and close behind him came Wood-wise
and Bow-may, and he cried out for way that he might speak with the Alderman,
and men gave way to them, and he led those new-comers close up to the
gate-seats of the Elders, and as he clove the press smiling and bright-eyed
and happy, all gazed on him; but the Sun-beam, who was sitting between
Iron-face and the Westland Chapman, and who heretofore had been agaze
with eyes beholding little, past whose ears the words went unheard,
and whose mind wandered into thoughts of things unfashioned yet, when
she beheld him close to her again, then, taken unawares, her eyes caressed
him, and she turned as red as a rose, as she felt all the sweetness
of desire go forth from her to meet him.&nbsp; So that, he perceiving
it, his voice was the clearer and sweeter for the inward joy he felt,
as he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Alderman, meseemeth it is now time that we bring our Guests
into the House of our Fathers; for since they are in warlike array,
and we are no longer living in peace, and I am now War-leader of the
Dale, I deem it but meet that I should have the guesting of them.&nbsp;
Moreover, when we are come into our House, I will bid thee look into
thy treasury, that thou may&rsquo;st find therein somewhat which it
may pleasure us to give to our Guests.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Iron-face: &lsquo;Thou sayest well, son, and since the day is
now worn past noon, and these folk are but just come from the Waste,
therefore such as we have of meat and drink abideth them.&nbsp; And
surely there is within our house a coffer which belongeth to thee and
me; and forsooth I know not why we keep the treasures hoarded therein,
save that it be for this cause: that if we were to give to our friends
that which we ourselves use and love, which would be of all things pleasant
to us, if we gave them such goods, they would be worn and worsened by
our use of them.&nbsp; For this reason, therefore, do we keep fair things
which we use not, so that we may give them to our friends.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now, Guests, both of the Waste and the Westland, since here
is no Gate-thing or meeting of the Dale-wardens, and we sit here but
for our pleasure, let us go take our pleasure within doors for a while,
if it seem good to you.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he arose, and the folk made way for him and his Guests;
and Folk-might went on the right hand of Iron-face, and beside him went
the Chapman, who looked on him with a half-smile, as though he knew
somewhat of him.&nbsp; But on the other side of Iron-face went the Sun-beam,
whose hand he held, and after these came Face-of-god, leading in the
rest of the New-comers, who yet held the flowery branches in their hands.</p>
<p>Now so much had Face-of-god told the Dalesmen, that they deemed they
all knew these men for their battle-fellows of whom they had heard tell;
and this the more as the men were so goodly and manly of aspect, especially
Folk-might, so that they seemed as if they were nigh akin to the Gods.&nbsp;
As for the Sun-beam, they knew not how to praise her beauty enough,
but they said that they had never known before how fair the Gods might
be.&nbsp; So they raised a great shout of welcome as the men came through
the Gate into the Burg, and all men turned their backs on the booths,
so eager were they to behold closely these new friends.</p>
<p>But as the Guests went from the Gate to the House of the Face, going
very slowly because of the press, there in the front of the throng stood
the Bride with the women of the Runaways, whom she had caused to be
clad very fairly; and she was fain to do them a pleasure by bringing
them to sight of these new-comers, of whom she had not heard who they
were, though she had heard the cry that strangers were at hand.&nbsp;
So there she stood smiling a little with the pleasure of showing a fair
sight to the poor people, as folk do with children.&nbsp; But when she
saw those twain going on each side of the Alderman she knew them at
once; and when the Sun-beam, who was on his left side, passed so close
to her that she could see the very smoothness and dainty fashion of
her skin, then was she astonied, and the world seemed strange to her,
and till they were gone by, and for a while afterwards, she knew not
where she was nor what she did, though it seemed to her as if she still
saw the face of that fair woman as in a picture.</p>
<p>But the Sun-beam had noted her at first, even amongst the fair women
of Burgstead, and she so steady and bright beside the wandering timorous
eyes and lowering faces of the thralls.&nbsp; But suddenly, as eye met
eye, she saw her face change; she saw her cheek whiten, her eyes stare,
and her lips quiver, and she knew at once who it was; for she had not
seen her before as Folk-might had.&nbsp; Then the Sun-beam cast her
eyes adown, lest her compassion might show in her face, and be a fresh
grief to her that had lost the wedding and the love; and so she passed
on.</p>
<p>As for Folk-might, he had seen her at once amongst all that folk
as he came into the street, and in sooth he was looking for her; and
when he saw her face change, as the sight of the Sun-beam smote upon
her heart, his own face burned with shame and anger, and he looked back
at her as he went toward the House.&nbsp; But she saw him not, nor noted
him; and none deemed it strange that he looked long on the Bride, the
treasure of Burgstead.&nbsp; But for some while Folk-might was few-spoken
and sharp-spoken amongst the chieftains; for he was slow to master his
longing and his wrath.</p>
<p>So when all the Guests had entered the door of the House of the Face,
the Alderman turned back, and, standing on the threshold of his House,
spake unto the throng:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Men of the Dale, and ye Outlanders who may be here, know that
this is a happy day; for hither have come to us Guests, men of the kindred
of the Gods, and they are even those of whom Face-of-god my son hath
told you.&nbsp; And they are friends of our friends and foes of our
foes.&nbsp; These men are now in my House, as is but right; but when
they come forth I look to you to cherish them in the best way ye know,
and make much of them, as of those who may help us and who may by us
be holpen.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he went in again and into the Hall, and bade show the New-comers
to the da&iuml;s; and wine of the best, and meat such as was to hand,
was set before them.&nbsp; He bade men also get ready high feast as
great as might be against the evening; and they did his bidding straightway.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII.&nbsp; THE ALDERMAN GIVES GIFTS TO THEM OF SHADOWY
VALE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>In the Hall of the Face Folk-might sat on the da&iuml;s at the right
hand of the Alderman, and the Sun-beam on his left hand.&nbsp; But Iron-face
also had beheld the Bride how her face changed, and he knew the cause,
and was grieved and angry and ashamed thereof: also he bethought him
how this stranger was sitting in the very place where the Bride used
to sit, and of all the love, as of a very daughter, that he had had
for her; howbeit he constrained himself to talk courteously and kindly
both to Folk-might and</p>
<p>the Sun-beam, as behoved the Chief of the House and the Alderman
of the Dale.&nbsp; Moreover, he was not a little moved by the goodliness
and wisdom of the Sun-beam and the manliness of Folk-might, who was
the most chieftain-like of men.</p>
<p>But while they sat there Face-of-god went from man to man of the
Guests, and made much of each, but especially of Wood-father and his
sons and Bow-may, and they loved him, and praised him, and deemed him
the best of hall-mates.&nbsp; Nor might the Sun-beam altogether refrain
her from looking lovingly on him, and it could be seen of her that she
deemed he was doing well, and like a wise leader and chieftain.</p>
<p>So wore away awhile, and men were fulfilled of meat and drink; so
then the Alderman arose and spake, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Is it not so, Guests, that ye would now gladly behold our
market, and the goodly wares which the chapmen have brought us from
the Cities?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then most men cried out: &lsquo;Yea, yea!&rsquo; and Iron-face said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Then shall ye go, nor be holden by me from your pleasure.&nbsp;
And ye kinsmen who are the most guest-fain and the wisest, go ye with
our friends, and make all things easy and happy for them.&nbsp; But
first of all, Guests, I were well pleased if ye would take some small
matters out of our abundance; for it were well that ye see them ere
ye stand before the chapmen&rsquo;s booths, lest ye chaffer with them
for what ye have already.&rsquo;</p>
<p>They all praised his bounty and thanked him for his goodwill: so
he arose to go to his treasury, and bade certain of his folk go along
with him to bear in the gifts.&nbsp; But ere he had taken three steps
down the hall, Face-of-god prevented him and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Kinsman, if thou hast anywhere a hauberk somewhat better than
folk are wont to bear, such as thine own hand fashioneth, and a sword
of the like stuff, I would have thee give them, the sword to my brother-in-arms
Wood-wise here, and the war-coat to my sister Bow-may, who shooteth
so well in the bow that none may shoot closer, and very few as close;
and her shaft it was that delivered me when my skull was amongst the
axes of the Dusky Men: else had I not been here.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Thereat Bow-may reddened and looked down, like a scholar who hath
been over-praised for his learning and diligence; but the Alderman smiled
on her and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I thank thee, son, that thou hast let me know what these our
two friends may be fain of: and as for this damsel-at-arms, it is a
little thing that thou askest for her, and we might have found her something
more worthy of her goodliness; yet forsooth, since we are all bound
for the place where shafts and staves shall be good cheap, a greater
treasure might be of less avail to her.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Thereat men laughed, and the Alderman went down the Hall with those
bearers of gifts, and was away for a space while they drank and made
merry: but presently back they came from the treasury bearing loads
of goodly things which were laid on one of the endlong boards.&nbsp;
Then began the gift-giving: and first he gave unto Folk-might six golden
cups marvellously fashioned, the work of four generations of wrights
in the Dale, and he himself had wrought the last two thereof.&nbsp;
To Sun-beam he gave a girdle of gold, fashioned with great mastery,
whereon were images of the Gods and the Fathers, and warriors, and beasts
of the field and fowls of the air; and as he girt it about her loins,
he said in a soft voice so that few heard:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Sun-beam, thou fair woman, time has been when thou wert to
us as the edge of the poisonous sword or the midnight torch of the murderer;
but now I know not how it will be, or if the grief which thou hast given
me will ever wear out or not.&nbsp; And now that I have beheld thee,
I have little to do to blame my son; for indeed when I look on thee
I cannot deem that there is any evil in thee.&nbsp; Yea, however it
may be, take thou this gift as the reward of thine exceeding beauty.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She looked on him with kind eyes, and said meekly:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Indeed, if I have hurt thee unwittingly, I grieve to have
hurt so good a man.&nbsp; Hereafter belike we may talk more of this,
but now I will but say, that whereas at first I needed but to win thy
son&rsquo;s goodwill, so that our Folk might come to life and thriving
again, now it is come to this, that he holdeth my heart in his hand
and may do what he will with it; therefore I pray thee withhold not
thy love either from him or from me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He looked on her wondering, and said: &lsquo;Thou art such an one
as might make the old man young, and the boy grow into manhood suddenly;
and thy voice is as sweet as the voice of the song-birds singing in
the dawn of early summer soundeth to him who hath been sick unto death,
but who hath escaped it and is mending.&nbsp; And yet I fear thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he kissed her hand and turned unto the others, and he gave
unto Bow-may a hauberk of ring-mail of his own fashioning, a sure defence
and a wonderful work, and the collar thereof was done with gold and
gems.</p>
<p>But he said to her: &lsquo;Fair damsel-at-arms, faithful is thy face,
and the fashion of thee is goodly: now art thou become one of the best
of our friends, and this is little enough to give thee; yet would we
fain ward thy body against the foeman; so grieve us not by gainsaying
us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And Bow-may was exceeding glad, and scarce knew how to cease handling
that marvel of ring-mail.</p>
<p>Then to Wood-wise Iron-face gave a most goodly sword, the blade all
marked with dark lines like the stream of an eddying river, the hilts
of steel and gold marvellously wrought; and all the work of a smith
who had dwelt in the house of his father&rsquo;s father, and was a great
warrior.</p>
<p>Unto Wood-father he gave a very goodly helm parcel-gilded; and to
his sons and the other folk fair gifts of weapons and jewels and girdles
and cups and other good things; so that their hearts were full of joy,
and they all praised his open hand.</p>
<p>Then some of the best and merriest of the kinsmen of the Face, and
Face-of-god with them, brought the Guests out into the street and among
the booths.&nbsp; There Face-of-god beheld the Bride again; and she
was standing by the booth of a chapman and dealing with him for a piece
of goodly silken cloth to be a gown for one of her guests, and she was
talking and smiling as she chaffered with him, as her wont was; for
she was ever very friendly of demeanour with all men.&nbsp; But he noted
that she was yet exceeding pale, and he was right sorry thereof, for
he loved her friendly; yet now had he no shame for all that had befallen,
when he bethought him of the Sun-beam and the love she had for him.&nbsp;
And also he had a deeming that the Bride would better of her grief.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXIV.&nbsp; THE CHIEFTAINS TAKE COUNSEL IN THE HALL OF
THE FACE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Then turned Face-of-god back into the Hall, and saw where Iron-face
sat at the da&iuml;s, and with him Folk-might and Stone-face and the
Elder of the Dale-wardens, and Sun-beam withal; so he went soberly up
to the board, and sat himself down thereat beside Stone-face, over against
Folk-might and his father, beside whom sat the Sun-beam; and Folk-might
looked on him gravely, as a man powerful and trustworthy, yet was his
look somewhat sour.</p>
<p>Then the Alderman said: &lsquo;My son, I said not to thee come back
presently, because I wotted that thou wouldst surely do so, knowing
that we have much to speak of.&nbsp; For, whatever these thy friends
may have done, or whatsoever thou hast done with them to grieve us,
all that must be set aside at this present time, since the matter in
hand is to save the Dale and its folk.&nbsp; What sayest thou hereon?&nbsp;
Since, young as thou mayst be, thou art our War-leader, and doubtless
shalt so be after the Folk-mote hath been holden.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Face-of-god answered not hastily: indeed, as he sat thinking for
a minute or two, the fair spring day seemed to darken about them or
to glare into the light of flames amidst the night-tide; and the joyous
clamour without doors seemed to grow hoarse and fearful as the sound
of wailing and shrieking.&nbsp; But he spake firmly and simply in a
clear voice, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;There can be no two words concerning what we have to aim at;
these Dusky Men we must slay everyone, though we be fewer than they
be.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Folk-might smiled and nodded his head; but the others sat staring
down the hall or into the hangings.</p>
<p>Then spake Folk-might: &lsquo;Thou wert a boy methought when I cast
my spear at thee last autumn, Face-of-god, but now hast thou grown into
a man.&nbsp; Now tell me, what deemest thou we must do to slay them
all?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Once again it is clear that we must fall
upon them at home in Rose-dale and Silver-dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Again Folk-might nodded: but Iron-face said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Needeth this?&nbsp; May we not ward the Dale and send many
bands into the wood to fall upon them when we meet them?&nbsp; Yea,
and so doing these our guests have already slain many, as this valiant
man hath told me e&rsquo;en now.&nbsp; Will ye not slay so many at last,
that they shall learn to fear us, and abide at home and leave us at
peace?&rsquo;</p>
<p>But Face-of-god said: &lsquo;Meseemeth, father, that this is not
thy rede, and that thou sayest this but to try me: and perchance ye
have been talking about me when I was without in the street e&rsquo;en
now.&nbsp; Even if it might be that we should thus cow these felons
into abiding at home and tormenting their own thralls at their ease,
yet how then are our friends of the Wolf holpen to their own again?&nbsp;
And I shall tell thee that I have promised to this man and this woman
that I will give them no less than a man&rsquo;s help in this matter.&nbsp;
Moreover, I have spoken in every house of the Dale, and to the Shepherds
and the Woodlanders, and there is no man amongst them but will follow
me in the quarrel.&nbsp; Furthermore, they have heard of the thralldom
that is done on men no great way from their own houses; yea, they have
seen it; and they remember the old saw, &ldquo;Grief in thy neighbour&rsquo;s
hall is grief in thy garth,&rdquo; and sure it is, father, that whether
thou or I gainsay them, go they will to deliver the thralls of the Dusky
Men, and will leave us alone in the Dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;This is no less than sooth,&rsquo; said the Dale-warden, &lsquo;never
have men gone forth more joyously to a merry-making than all men of
us shall wend to this war.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;But,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;of one thing ye may be
sure, that these men will not abide our pleasure till we cut them all
off in scattered bands, nor will they sit deedless at home.&nbsp; Nor
indeed may they; for we have heard from their thralls that they look
to have fresh tribes of them come to hand to eat their meat and waste
their servants, and these and they must find new abodes and new thralls;
and they are now warned by the overthrows and slayings that they have
had at our hands that we are astir, and they will not delay long, but
will fall upon us with all their host; it might even be to-day or to-morrow.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Folk-might: &lsquo;In all this thou sayest sooth, brother of
the Dale; and to cut this matter short, I will tell you all, that yesterday
we had with us a runaway from Silver-dale (it is overlong to tell how
we fell in with her; for it was a woman).&nbsp; But she told us that
this very moon is a new tribe come into the Dale, six long hundreds
in number, and twice as many more are looked for in two eights of days,
and that ere this moon hath waned, that is, in twenty-four days, they
will wend their ways straight for Burgdale, for they know the ways thereto.&nbsp;
So I say that Face-of-god is right in all wise.&nbsp; But tell me, brother,
hast thou thought of how we shall come upon these men?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;How many men wilt thou lead into battle?&rsquo; said Face-of-god.</p>
<p>Folk-might reddened, and said: &lsquo;A few, a few; maybe two-hundreds
all told.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;but some special gain
wilt thou be to us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;So I deem at least,&rsquo; said Folk-might.</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Good is that.&nbsp; Now have we held our
Weapon-show in the Dale, and we find that we together with you be sixteen
long hundreds of men; and the tale of the foemen that be now in Silver-dale,
new-comers and all, shall be three thousands or thereabout, and in Rose-dale
hard on a thousand.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Scarce so many,&rsquo; said Folk-might; &lsquo;some of the
felons have died; we told over our silver arm-rings yesterday, and the
tale was three hundred and eighty and six.&nbsp; Besides, they were
never so many as thou deemest.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Well,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;yet at least they shall
outnumber us sorely.&nbsp; We may scarce leave the Dale unguarded when
our host is gone; therefore I deem that we shall have but one thousand
of men for our onslaught on Silver-dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;How come ye to that?&rsquo; said Stone-face.</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Abide a while, fosterer!&nbsp; Though the
odds between us be great, it is not to be hidden that I wot how ye of
the Wolf know of privy passes into Silver-dale; yea, into the heart
thereof; and this is the special gain ye have to give us.&nbsp; Therefore
we, the thousand men, falling on the foe unawares, shall make a great
slaughter of them; and if the murder be but grim enough, those thralls
of theirs shall fear us and not them, as already they hate them and
not us, so that we may look to them for rooting out these sorry weeds
after the overthrow.&nbsp; And what with one thing, what with another,
we may cherish a good hope of clearing Silver-dale at one stroke with
the said thousand men.</p>
<p>&lsquo;There remaineth Rose-dale, which will be easier to deal with,
because the Dusky Men therein are fewer and the thralls as many: that
also would I fall on at the same time as we fall on Silver-dale with
the men that are left over from the Silver-dale onslaught.&nbsp; Wherefore
my rede is, that we gather all those unmeet for battle in the field
into this Burg, with ten tens of men to strengthen them; which shall
be enough for them, along with the old men, and lads, and sturdy women,
to defend themselves till help comes, if aught of evil befall, or to
flee into the mountains, or at the worst to die valiantly.&nbsp; Then
let the other five hundreds fare up to Rose-dale, and fall on the Dusky
Men therein about the same time, but not before our onslaught on Silver-dale:
thus shall hand help foot, so that stumbling be not falling; and we
may well hope that our rede shall thrive.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then was he silent, and the Sun-beam looked upon him with gleaming
eyes and parted lips, waiting eagerly to hear what Folk-might would
say.&nbsp; He held his peace a while, drumming on the board with his
fingers, and none else spake a word.&nbsp; At last he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;War-leader of Burgdale, all that thou hast spoken likes me
well, and even so must it be done, saving that parting of our host and
sending one part to fall upon Rose-dale.&nbsp; I say, nay; let us put
all our might into that one stroke on Silver-dale, and then we are undone
indeed if we fail; but so shall we be if we fail anywise; but if we
win Silver-dale, then shall Rose-dale lie open before us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;My brother,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;thou art a tried
warrior, and I but a lad: but dost thou not see this, that whatever
we do, we shall not at one onslaught slay all the Dusky Men of Silver-dale,
and those that flee before us shall betake them to Rose-dale, and tell
all the tale, and what shall hinder them then from falling on Burgdale
(since they are no great way from it) after they have murdered what
they will of the unhappy people under their hands?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Folk-might: &lsquo;I say not but that there is a risk thereof,
but in war we must needs run such risks, and all should be risked rather
than that our blow on Silver-dale be light.&nbsp; For we be the fewer;
and if the foemen have time to call that to mind, then are we all lost.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Stone-face: &lsquo;Meseemeth, War-leader, that there is nought
much to dread in leaving Rose-dale to itself for a while; for not only
may we follow hard on the fleers if they flee to Rose-dale, and be there
no long time after them, before they have time to stir their host but
also after the overthrow we shall be free to send men back to Burgdale
by way of Shadowy Vale.&nbsp; I deem that herein Folk-might hath the
right of it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Even so say I,&rsquo; said the Alderman; &lsquo;besides, we
might theft leave more folk behind us for the warding of the Dale.&nbsp;
So, son, the risk whereof thou speakest groweth the lesser the longer
it is looked on.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then spake the Dale-warden: &lsquo;Yet saving your wisdom, Alderman,
the risk is there yet.&nbsp; For if these felons come into the Dale
at all, even if the folk left behind hold the Burg and keep themselves
unmurdered, yet may they not hinder the foe from spoiling our homesteads;
so that our folk coming back in triumph shall find ruin at home, and
spend weary days in hunting their foemen, who shall, many of them, escape
into the Wild-wood.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said the Sun-beam, &lsquo;sooth is that; and Face-of-god
is wise to think of it and of other matters.&nbsp; Yet one thing we
must bear in mind, that all may not go smoothly in our day&rsquo;s work
in Silver-dale; so we must have force there to fall back on, in case
we miss our stroke at first.&nbsp; Therefore, I say, send we no man
to Rose-dale, and leave we no able man-at-arms behind in the Burg, so
that we have with us every blade that may be gathered.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Iron-face smiled and said: &lsquo;Thou art wise, damsel; and I marvel
that so fair-fashioned a thing as thou can think so hardly of the meeting
of the fallow blades.&nbsp; But hearken! will not the Dusky Men hear
that we have stripped the Dale of fighting-men, and may they not then
give our host the go-by and send folk to ruin us?&rsquo;</p>
<p>There was silence while Face-of-god looked down on the board; but
presently he lifted up his face and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Folk-might was right when he said that all must be risked.&nbsp;
Let us leave Rose-dale till we have overcome them of Silver-dale.&nbsp;
Moreover, my father, thou must not deem of these felons as if they were
of like wits to us, to forecast the deeds to come, and weigh the chances
nicely, and unravel tangled clews.&nbsp; Rather they move like to the
stares in autumn, or the winter wild-geese, and will all be thrust forward
by some sting that entereth into their imaginations.&nbsp; Therefore,
if they have appointed one moon to wear before they fall upon us, they
will not stir till then, and we have time enough to do what must be
done.&nbsp; Wherefore am I now of one mind with the rest of you.&nbsp;
Now meseemeth it were well that these things which we have spoken here,
and shall speak, should not be noised abroad openly; nay, at the Folk-mote
it would be well that nought be said about the day or the way of our
onslaught on Silver-dale, lest the foe take warning and be on their
guard.&nbsp; Though, sooth to say, did I deem that if they had word
of our intent they of Rose-dale would join themselves to them of Silver-dale,
and that we should thus have all our foes in one net, then were I fain
if the word would reach them.&nbsp; For my soul loathes the hunting
that shall befall up and down the wood for the slaying of a man here,
and two or three there, and the wearing of the days in wandering up
and down with weapons in the hand, and the spinning out of hatred and
delaying of peace.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Iron-face reached his hand across the board and took his son&rsquo;s
hand, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hail to thee, son, for thy word!&nbsp; Herein thou speakest
as if from my very soul, and fain am I of such a War-leader.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And desire drew the eyes of the Sun-beam to Face-of-god, and she
beheld him proudly.&nbsp; But he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;All hath been spoken that the others of us may speak; and
now it falleth to the part of Folk-might to order our goings for the
tryst for the onslaught, and the trysting-place shall be in Shadowy
Vale.&nbsp; How sayest thou, Chief of the Wolf?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Folk-might: &lsquo;I have little to say; and it is for the War-leader
to see to this closely and piecemeal.&nbsp; I deem, as we all deem,
that there should be no delay; yet were it best to wend not all together
to Shadowy Vale, but in divers bands, as soon as ye may after the Folk-mote,
by the sure and nigh ways that we shall show you.&nbsp; And when we
are gathered there, short is the rede, for all is ready there to wend
by the passes which we know throughly, and whereby it is but two days&rsquo;
journey to the head of Silver-dale, nigh to the caves of the silver,
where the felons dwell the thickest.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He set his teeth, and his colour came and went: for as constantly
as the onslaught had been in his mind, yet whenever he spake of the
great day of battle, hope and joy and anger wrought a tumult in his
soul; and now that it was so nigh withal, he could not refrain his joy.</p>
<p>But he spake again: &lsquo;Now therefore, War-leader, it is for thee
to order the goings of thy folk.&nbsp; But I will tell thee that they
shall not need to take aught with them save their weapons and victual
for the way, that is, for thirty hours; because all is ready for them
in Shadowy Vale, though it be but a poor place as to victual.&nbsp;
Canst thou tell us, therefore, what thou wilt do?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Face-of-god had knit his brows and become gloomy of countenance;
but now his face cleared, and he set his hand to his pouch, and drew
forth a written parchment, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;This is the order whereof I have bethought me.&nbsp; Before
the Folk-mote I and the Wardens shall speak to the leaders of hundreds,
who be mostly here at the Fair, and give them the day and the hour whereon
they shall, each hundred, take their weapons and wend to Shadowy Vale,
and also the place where they shall meet the men of yours who shall
lead them across the Waste.&nbsp; These hundred-leaders shall then go
straightway and give the word to the captains of scores, and the captains
of scores to the captains of tens; and if, as is scarce doubtful, the
Folk-mote yea-says the onslaught and the fellowship with you of the
Wolf, then shall those leaders of tens bring their men to the trysting-place,
and so go their ways to Shadowy Vale.&nbsp; Now here I have the roll
of our Weapon-show, and I will look to it that none shall be passed
over; and if ye ask me in what order they had best get on the way, my
rede is that a two hundred should depart on the very evening of the
day of the Folk-mote, and these to be of our folk of the Upper Dale;
and on the morning of the morrow of the Folk-mote another two hundreds
from the Dale; and in the evening of the same day the folk of the Shepherds,
three hundreds or more, and that will be easy to them; again on the
next day two more bands of the Lower Dale, one in the morning, one in
the evening.&nbsp; Lastly, in the earliest dawn of the third day from
the Folk-mote shall the Woodlanders wend their ways.&nbsp; But one hundred
of men let us leave behind for the warding of the Burg, even as we agreed
before.&nbsp; As for the place of tryst for the faring over the Waste,
let it be the end of the knolls just by the jaws of the pass yonder,
where the Weltering Water comes into the Dale from the East.&nbsp; How
say ye?&rsquo;</p>
<p>They all said, and Folk-might especially, that it was right well
devised, and that thus it should be done.</p>
<p>Then turned Face-of-god to the Dale-warden, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;It were good, brother, that we saw the other wardens as soon
as may be, to do them to wit of this order, and what they have to do.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he arose and took the Elder of the Dale-wardens away with
him, and the twain set about their business straight-way.&nbsp; Neither
did the others abide long in the Hall, but went out into the Burg to
see the chapmen and their wares.&nbsp; There the Alderman bought what
he needed of iron and steel and other matters; and Folk-might cheapened
him a dagger curiously wrought, and a web of gold and silk for the Sun-beam,
for which wares he paid in silver arm-rings, new-wrought and of strange
fashion.</p>
<p>But amidst of the chaffer was now a great ring of men; and in the
midst of the ring stood Redesman, fiddle and bow in hand, and with him
were four damsels wondrously arrayed; for the first was clad in a smock
so craftily wrought with threads of green and many colours, that it
seemed like a piece of the green field beset with primroses and cowslips
and harebells and windflowers, rather than a garment woven and sewn;
and in her hand she bore a naked sword, with golden hilts and gleaming
blade.&nbsp; But the second bore on her roses done in like manner, both
blossoms and green leaves, wherewith her body was covered decently,
which else had been naked.&nbsp; The third was clad as though she were
wading the wheat-field to the waist, and above was wrapped in the leaves
and bunches of the wine-tree.&nbsp; And the fourth was clad in a scarlet
gown flecked with white wool to set forth the winter&rsquo;s snow, and
broidered over with the burning brands of the Holy Hearth; and she bore
on her head a garland of mistletoe.&nbsp; And these four damsels were
clearly seen to image the four seasons of the year - Spring, Summer,
Autumn, and Winter.&nbsp; But amidst them stood a fountain or conduit
of gilded work cunningly wrought, and full of the best wine of the Dale,
and gilded cups and beakers hung about it.</p>
<p>So now Redesman fell to caressing his fiddle with the bow till it
began to make sweet music, and therewith the hearts of all danced with
it; and presently words come into his mouth, and he fell to singing;
and the damsels answered him:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Earth-wielders, that fashion the Dale-dwellers&rsquo; treasure,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Soft
are ye by seeming, yet hardy of heart!<br />No warrior amongst us withstandeth
your pleasure;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;No man from his meadow may thrust
you apart.</p>
<p>Fresh and fair are your bodies, but far beyond telling<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Are
the years of your lives, and the craft ye have stored.<br />Come give
us a word, then, concerning our dwelling,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
the days to befall us, the fruit of the sword.</p>
<p><i>Winter saith:</i></p>
<p>When last in the feast-hall the Yule-fire flickered,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
foot of no foeman fared over the snow,<br />And nought but the wind
with the ash-branches bickered:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Next Yule ye
may deem it a long time ago.</p>
<p><i>Autumn saith:</i></p>
<p>Loud laughed ye last year in the wheat-field a-smiting;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
ye laughed as your backs drave the beam of the press.<br />When the
edge of the war-sword the acres are lighting<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Look
up to the Banner and laugh ye no less.</p>
<p><i>Summer saith:</i></p>
<p>Ye called and I came, and how good was the greeting,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When
ye wrapped me in roses both bosom and side!<br />Here yet shall I long,
and be fain of our meeting,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As hidden from battle
your coming I bide.</p>
<p><i>Spring saith:</i></p>
<p>I am here for your comfort, and lo! what I carry;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
blade with the bright edges bared to the sun.<br />To the field, to
the work then, that e&rsquo;en I may tarry<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For
the end of the tale in my first days begun!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Therewith the throng opened, and a young man stepped lightly into
the ring, clad in very fair armour, with a gilded helm on his head;
and he took the sword from the hand of the Maiden of Spring, and waved
it in the air till the westering sun flashed back from it.&nbsp; Then
each of the four damsels went up to the swain and kissed his mouth;
and Redesman drew the bow across the strings, and the four damsels sang
together, standing round about the young warrior:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>It was but a while since for earth&rsquo;s sake we trembled,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Lest
the increase our life-days had won for the Dale,<br />All the wealth
that the moons and the years had assembled,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Should
be but a mock for the days of your bale.</p>
<p>But now we behold the sun smite on the token<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In
the hand of the Champion, the heart of a man;<br />We look down the
long years and see them unbroken;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Forth fareth
the Folk by the ways it began.</p>
<p>So bid ye these chapmen in autumn returning,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To
bring iron for ploughshares and steel for the scythe,<br />And the over-sea
oil that hath felt the sun&rsquo;s burning,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
fair webs for your women soft-spoken and blithe;</p>
<p>And pledge ye your word in the market to meet them,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As
many a man and as many a maid,<br />As eager as ever, as guest-fain
to greet them,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And bide till the booth from the
waggon is made.</p>
<p>Come, guests of our lovers! for we, the year-wielders,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Bid
each man and all to come hither and take<br />A cup from our hands midst
the peace of our shielders,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And drink to the
days of the Dale that we make.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Then went the damsels to that wine-fountain, and drew thence cups
of the best and brightest wine of the Dale, and went round about the
ring, and gave drink to whomsoever would, both of the chapmen and the
others; while the weaponed youth stood in the midst bearing aloft his
sword and shield like an image in a holy place, and Redesman&rsquo;s
bow still went up and down the strings, and drew forth a sweet and merry
tune.</p>
<p>Great game it was now to see the stark Burgdale carles dragging the
Men of the Plain, little loth, up to the front of the ring, that they
might stretch out their hands for a cup, and how many a one, as he took
it, took as much as he might of the damsel&rsquo;s hand withal.&nbsp;
As for the damsels, they played the Holy Play very daintily, neither
reddening nor laughing, but faring so solemnly, and withal so sweetly
and bright-faced, that it might well have been deemed that they were
in very sooth Maidens of the God of Earth sent from the ever-enduring
Hall to cheer the hearts of men.</p>
<p>So simply and blithely did the Men of Burgdale disport them after
the manner of their fathers, trusting in their valour and beholding
the good days to be.</p>
<p>So wore the evening, and when night was come, men feasted throughout
the Burg from house to house, and every hall was full.&nbsp; But the
Guests from Shadowy Vale feasted in the Hall of the Face in all glee
and goodwill; and with them were the chief of the chapmen and two others;
but the rest of them had been laid hold of by goodmen of the Burg, and
dragged into their feast-halls, for they were fain of those guests and
their tales.&nbsp; One of the chapmen in the House of the Face knew
Folk-might, and hailed him by the name he had borne in the Cities, Regulus
to wit; indeed, the chief chapman knew him, and even somewhat over-well,
for he had been held to ransom by Folk-might in those past days, and
even yet feared him, because he, the chapman, had played somewhat of
a dastard&rsquo;s part to him.&nbsp; But the other was an open-hearted
and merry fellow, and no weakling; and Folk-might was fain of his talk
concerning times bygone, and the fields they had foughten in, and other
adventures that had befallen them, both good and evil.</p>
<p>As for Face-of-god, he went about the Hall soberly, and spake no
more than behoved him, so as not to seem a mar-feast; for the image
of the slaughter to be yet abode with him, and his heart foreboded the
after-grief of the battle.&nbsp; He had no speech with the Sun-beam
till men were sundering after the feast, and then he came close to her
amidst of the turmoil, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Time presses on me these days; but if thou wouldest speak
with me to-morrow as I would with thee, then mightest thou go on the
Bridge of the Burg about sunrise, and I will be there, and we two only.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Her face, which had been somewhat sad that evening (for she had been
watching his), brightened at that word, and she took his hand as folk
came thronging round about them, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, friend, I shall be there, and fain of thee.&rsquo;&nbsp;
And therewithal they sundered for that night.</p>
<p>And all men went to sleep throughout the Burg: howbeit they set a
watch at the Burg-Gate; and Hall-face, when he was coming back from
the woodland ward about sunset, fell in with Redcoat of Waterless and
four score men on the Portway coming to meet him and take his place.&nbsp;
All which was clean contrary to the wont of the Burgdalers, who at most
whiles held no watch and ward, not even in Fair-time.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXV.&nbsp; FACE-OF-GOD TALKETH WITH THE SUN-BEAM</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Face-of-God was at the Bridge on the morrow before sun-rising, and
as he turned about at the Bridge-foot he saw the Sun-beam coming down
the street; and his heart rose to his mouth at the sight of her, and
he went to meet her and took her by the hand; and there were no words
between them till they had kissed and caressed each other, for there
was no one stirring about them.&nbsp; So they went over the Bridge into
the meadows, and eastward of the beaten path thereover.</p>
<p>The grass was growing thick and strong, and it was full of flowers,
as the cowslip and the oxlip, and the chequered daffodil, and the wild
tulip: the black-thorn was well-nigh done blooming, but the hawthorn
was in bud, and in some places growing white.&nbsp; It was a fair morning,
warm and cloudless, but the night had been misty, and the haze still
hung about the meadows of the Dale where they were wettest, and the
grass and its flowers were heavy with dew, so that the Sun-beam went
barefoot in the meadow.&nbsp; She had a dark cloak cast over her kirtle,
and had left her glittering gown behind her in the House.</p>
<p>They went along hand in hand exceeding fain of each other, and the
sun rose as they went, and the long beams of gold shone through the
tops of the tall trees across the grass they trod, and a light wind
rose up in the north, as Face-of-god stayed a moment and turned toward
the Face of the Sun and prayed to Him, while the Sun-beam&rsquo;s hand
left the War-leader&rsquo;s hand and stole up to his golden locks and
lay amongst them.</p>
<p>Presently they went on, and the feet of Face-of-god led him unwitting
toward the chestnut grove by the old dyke where he had met the Bride
such a little while ago, till he bethought whither he was going and
stopped short and reddened; and the Sun-beam noted it, but spake not;
but he said: &lsquo;Hereby is a fair place for us to sit and talk till
the day&rsquo;s work beginneth.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So then he turned aside, and soon they came to a hawthorn brake out
of which arose a great tall-stemmed oak, showing no green as yet save
a little on its lower twigs; and anigh it, yet with room for its boughs
to grow freely, was a great bird-cherry tree, all covered now with sweet-smelling
white blossoms.&nbsp; There they sat down on the trunk of a tree felled
last year, and she cast off her cloak, and took his face between her
two hands and kissed him long and fondly, and for a while their joy
had no word.&nbsp; But when speech came to them, it was she that spake
first and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Gold-mane, my dear, sorely I wonder at thee and at me, how
we are changed since that day last autumn when I first saw thee.&nbsp;
Whiles I think, didst thou not laugh when thou wert by thyself that
day, and mock at me privily, that I must needs take such wisdom on myself,
and lesson thee standing like a stripling before me.&nbsp; Dost thou
not call it all to mind and make merry over it, now that thou art become
a great chieftain and a wise warrior, and I am yet what I always was,
a young maiden of the kindred; save that now I abide no longer for my
love?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Her face was exceeding bright and rippled with joyous smiles, and
he looked at her and deemed that her heart was overflowing with happiness,
and he wondered at her indeed that she was so glad of him, and he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, indeed, oft do I see that morning in the woodland hall
and thee and me therein, as one looketh on a picture; yea verily, and
I laugh, yet is it for very bliss; neither do I mock at all.&nbsp; Did
I not deem thee a God then? and am I not most happy now when I can call
it thus to mind?&nbsp; And as to thee, thou wert wise then, and yet
art thou wise now.&nbsp; Yea, I thought thee a God; and if we are changed,
is it not rather that thou hast lifted me up to thee, and not come down
to me?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Yet therewithal he knit his brows somewhat and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yet thou hast not to tell me that all thy love for thy Folk,
and thy yearning hope for its recoverance, was but a painted show.&nbsp;
Else why shouldst thou love me the better now that I am become a chieftain,
and therefore am more meet to understand thy hope and thy sorrow?&nbsp;
Did I not behold thee as we stood before the Wolf of the Hall of Shadowy
Vale, how the tears stood in thine eyes as thou beheldest him, and thine
hand in mine quivered and clung to me, and thou wert all changed in
a moment of time?&nbsp; Was all this then but a seeming and a beguilement?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;O young man,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;hast thou not said it,
that we stood there close together, and my hand in thine and desire
growing up in me?&nbsp; Dost thou not know how this also quickeneth
the story of our Folk, and our goodwill towards the living, and remembrance
of the dead?&nbsp; Shall they have lived and desired, and we deny desire
and life?&nbsp; Or tell me: what was it made thee so chieftain-like
in the Hall yesterday, so that thou wert the master of all our wills,
for as self-willed as some of us were?&nbsp; Was it not that I, whom
thou deemest lovely, was thereby watching thee and rejoicing in thee?&nbsp;
Did not the sweetness of thy love quicken thee?&nbsp; Yet because of
that was thy warrior&rsquo;s wisdom and thy foresight an empty show?&nbsp;
Heedest thou nought the Folk of the Dale?&nbsp; Wouldest thou sunder
from the children of the Fathers, and dwell amongst strangers?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He kissed her and smiled on her and said: &lsquo;Did I not say of
thee that thou wert wiser than the daughters of men?&nbsp; See how wise
thou hast made me!&rsquo;</p>
<p>She spake again: &lsquo;Nay, nay, there was no feigning in my love
for my people.&nbsp; How couldest thou think it, when the Fathers and
the kindred have made this body that thou lovest, and the voice of their
songs is in the speech thou deemest sweet?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;Sweet friend, I deemed not that there was feigning
in thee: I was but wondering what I am and how I was fashioned, that
I should make thee so glad that thou couldst for a while forget thy
hope of the days before we met.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;O how glad, how glad!&nbsp; Yet was I nought hapless.&nbsp;
In despite of all trouble I had no down-weighing grief, and I had the
hope of my people before me.&nbsp; Good were my days; but I knew not
till now how glad a child of man may be.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Their words were hushed for a while amidst their caresses.&nbsp;
Then she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Gold-mane, my friend, I mocked not my past self because I
deem that I was a fool then, but because I see now that all that my
wisdom could do, would have come about without my wisdom; and that thou,
deeming thyself something less than wise, didst accomplish the thing
I craved, and that which thou didst crave also; and withal wisdom embraced
thee, along with love.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she cast her arms about him and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O friend, I mock myself of this: that erst thou deemedst me
a God and fearedst me, but now thou seemest to me to be a God, and I
fear thee.&nbsp; Yea, though I have longed so sore to be with thee since
the day of Shadowy Vale, and though I have wearied of the slow wearing
of the days, and it hath tormented me; yet now that I am with thee,
I bless the torment of my longing; for it is but my longing that compelleth
me to cast away my fear of thee and caress thee, because I have learned
how sweet it is to love thee thus.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He wound his arms about her, and sweeter was their longing than mere
joy; and though their love was beyond measure, yet was therein no shame
to aught, not even to the lovely Dale and that fair season of spring,
so goodly they were among the children of men.</p>
<p>In a while they arose and turned homeward, and went over the open
meadow, and it was yet early, and the dew was as heavy on the grass
as before, though the wide sunlight was now upon it, glittering on the
wet blades, and shining through the bells of the chequered daffodils
till they looked like gouts of blood.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Look,&rsquo; said Sun-beam, as they went along by the same
way whereas they came, &lsquo;deemest thou not that other speech-friends
besides us have been abroad to talk together apart on this morning of
the eve of battle.&nbsp; It is nought unwonted, that we do, even though
we forget the trouble of the people to think of our own joy for a while.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The smile died out of her face as she spoke, and she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O friend, this much may I say for myself in all sooth, that
indeed I would die for the kindred and its good days, nor falter therein;
but if I am to die, might I but die in thine arms!&rsquo;</p>
<p>He looked very lovingly on her, and put his arm about her and kissed
her and said: &lsquo;What ails us to stand in the doom-ring and bear
witness against ourselves before the kindred?&nbsp; Now I will say,
that whatsoever the kindred may or can call upon me to do, that will
I do, nor grudge the deed: I am sackless before them.&nbsp; But that
is true which I spake to thee when we came together up out of Shadowy
Vale, to wit, that I am no strifeful man, but a peaceful; and I look
to it to win through this war, and find on the other side either death,
or life amongst a happy folk; and I deem that this is mostly the mind
of our people.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;Thou shalt not die, thou shalt not die!&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Mayhappen not,&rsquo; he said; &lsquo;yet yesterday I could
not but look into the slaughter to come, and it seemed to me a grim
thing, and darkened the day for me; and I grew acold as a man walking
with the dead.&nbsp; But tell me: thou sayest I shall not die; dost
thou say this only because I am become dear to thee, or dost thou speak
it out of thy foresight of things to come?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She stopped and looked silently a while over the meadows towards
the houses of the Thorp: they were standing now on the border of a shallow
brook that ran down toward the Weltering Water; it had a little strand
of fine sand like the sea-shore, driven close together, and all moist,
because that brook was used to flood the meadow for the feeding of the
grass; and the last evening the hatches which held up the water had
been drawn, so that much had ebbed away and left the strand aforesaid.</p>
<p>After a while the Sun-beam turned to Face-of-god, and she was become
somewhat pale; she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay, I have striven to see, and can see nought save the picture
of hope and fear that I make for myself.&nbsp; So it oft befalleth foreseeing
women, that the love of a man cloudeth their vision.&nbsp; Be content,
dear friend; it is for life or death; but whichso it be, the same for
me and thee together?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;and well content I am; so now
let each of us trust in the other to be both good and dear, even as
I trusted in thee the first hour that I looked on thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is well,&rsquo; she said; &lsquo;it is well.&nbsp; How
fair thou art; and how fair is the morn, and this our Dale in the goodly
season; and all this abideth us when the battle is over.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Once more her voice became sweet and wheedling, and the smile lit
up her face again, and she pointed down to the sand with her finger,
and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;See thou!&nbsp; Here indeed have other lovers passed by across
the brook.&nbsp; Shall we wish them good luck?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He laughed and looked down on the sand, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou art in haste to make a story up.&nbsp; Indeed I see that
these first footprints are of a woman, for no carle of the Dale has
a foot as small; for we be tall fellows; and these others withal are
a man&rsquo;s footprints; and if they showed that they had been walking
side by side, simple had been thy tale; but so it is not.&nbsp; I cannot
say that these two pairs of feet went over the brook within five minutes
of each other; but sure it is that they could not have been faring side
by side.&nbsp; Well, belike they were lovers bickering, and we may wish
them luck out of that.&nbsp; Truly it is well seen that Bow-may hath
done thine hunting for thee, dear friend; or else wouldest thou have
lacked venison; for thou hast no hunter&rsquo;s eye.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Well,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;but wish them luck, and give
me thine hand upon it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He took her hand, and fondled it, and said: &lsquo;By this hand of
my speech-friend, I wish these twain all luck, in love and in leisure,
in faring and fighting, in sowing and samming, in getting and giving.&nbsp;
Is it well enough wished?&nbsp; If so it be, then come thy ways, dear
friend; for the day&rsquo;s work is at hand.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is well wished,&rsquo; she said.&nbsp; &lsquo;Now hearken:
by the valiant hand of the War-leader, by the hand that shall unloose
my girdle, I wish these twain to be as happy as we be.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He made as if to draw her away, but she hung aback to set the print
of her foot beside the woman&rsquo;s foot, and then they went on together,
and soon crossed the Bridge, and came home to the House of the Face.</p>
<p>When they had broken their fast, Face-of-god would straight get to
his business of ordering matters for the warfare, and was wishful to
speak with Folk-might; but found him not, either in the House or the
street.&nbsp; But a man said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I saw the tall Guest come abroad from the House and go toward
the Bridge very early in the morning.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The Sun-beam, who was anigh when that was spoken, heard it and smiled,
and said: &lsquo;Gold-mane, deemest thou that it was my brother whom
we blessed?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;I wot not,&rsquo; he said; &lsquo;but I would he were here,
for this gear must speedily be looked to.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Nevertheless it was nigh an hour before Folk-might came home to the
House.&nbsp; He strode in lightly and gaily, and shaking the crest of
his war-helm as he went.&nbsp; He looked friendly on Face-of-god, and
said to him:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou hast been seeking me, War-leader; but grudge it not that
I have caused thee to tarry.&nbsp; For as things have gone, I am twice
the man for thine helping that I was yester-eve; and thou art so ready
and deft, that all will be done in due time.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He looked as if he would have had Face-of-god ask of him what made
him so fain, but Face-of-god said only:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I am glad of thy gladness; but now let us dally no longer,
for I have many folk to see to-day and much to set a-going.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So therewith they spake together a while, and then went their ways
together toward Carlstead and the Woodlanders.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXVI.&nbsp; FOLK-MIGHT SPEAKETH WITH THE BRIDE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>It must be told that those footprints which Face-of-god and the Sun-beam
had blessed betwixt jest and earnest had more to do with them than they
wotted of.&nbsp; For Folk-might, who had had many thoughts and longings
since he had seen the Bride again, rose up early about sunrise, and
went out-a-doors, and wandered about the Burg, letting his eyes stray
over the goodly stone houses and their trim gardens, yet noting them
little, since the Bride was not there.</p>
<p>At last he came to where there was an open place, straight-sided,
longer than it was wide, with a wall on each side of it, over which
showed the blossomed boughs of pear and cherry and plum-trees: on either
hand before the wall was a row of great lindens, now showing their first
tender green, especially on their lower twigs, where they were sheltered
by the wall.&nbsp; At the nether end of this place Folk-might saw a
grey stone house, and he went towards it betwixt the lindens, for it
seemed right great, and presently was but a score of paces from its
door, and as yet there was no man, carle or queen, stirring about it.</p>
<p>It was a long low house with a very steep roof; but belike the hall
was built over some undercroft, for many steps went up to the door on
either hand; and the doorway was low, with a straight lintel under its
arch.&nbsp; This house, like the House of the Face, seemed ancient and
somewhat strange, and Folk-might could not choose but take note of it.&nbsp;
The front was all of good ashlar work, but it was carven all over, without
heed being paid to the joints of the stones, into one picture of a flowery
meadow, with tall trees and bushes in it, and fowl perched in the trees
and running through the grass, and sheep and kine and oxen and horses
feeding down the meadow; and over the door at the top of the stair was
wrought a great steer bigger than all the other neat, whose head was
turned toward the sun-rising and uplifted with open mouth, as though
he were lowing aloud.&nbsp; Exceeding fair seemed that house to Folk-might,
and as though it were the dwelling of some great kindred.</p>
<p>But he had scarce gone over it with his eyes, and was just about
to draw nigher yet to it, when the door at the top of those steps opened,
and a woman came out of the house clad in a green kirtle and a gown
of brazil, with a golden-hilted sword girt to her side.&nbsp; Folk-might
saw at once that it was the Bride, and drew aback behind one of the
trees so that she might not see him, if she had not already seen him,
as it seemed not that she had, for she stayed but for a moment on the
top of the stair, looking out down the tree-rows, and then came down
the stair and went soberly along the road, passing so close to Folk-might
that he could see the fashion of her beauty closely, as one looks into
the work of some deftest artificer.&nbsp; Then it came suddenly into
his head that he would follow her and see whither she was wending.&nbsp;
&lsquo;At least,&rsquo; said he to himself, &lsquo;if I come not to
speech with her, I shall be nigh unto her, and shall see somewhat of
her beauty.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So he came out quietly from behind the tree, and followed her softly;
and he was clad in no garment save his kirtle, and bare no weapons to
clash and jingle, though he had his helm on his head for lack of a softer
hat.&nbsp; He kept her well in sight, and she went straight onward and
looked not back.&nbsp; She went by the way whereas he had come, till
they were in the main street, wherein as yet was no one afoot; she made
her way to the Bridge, and passed over it into the meadows; but when
she had gone but a few steps, she stayed a little and looked on the
ground, and as she did so turned a little toward Folk-might, who had
drawn back into the last of the refuges over the up-stream buttresses.&nbsp;
He saw that there was a half-smile on her face, but he could not tell
whether she were glad or sorry.&nbsp; A light wind was beginning to
blow, that stirred her raiment and raised a lock of hair that had strayed
from the golden fillet round about her head, and she looked most marvellous
fair.</p>
<p>Now she looked along the grass that glittered under the beams of
the newly-risen sun, and noted belike how heavy the dew lay on it; and
the grass was high already, for the spring had been hot, and haysel
would be early in the Dale.&nbsp; So she put off her shoes, that were
of deerskin and broidered with golden threads, and turned somewhat from
the way, and hung them up amidst the new green leaves of a hawthorn
bush that stood nearby, and so went thwart the meadow somewhat eastward
straight from that bush, and her feet shone out like pearls amidst the
deep green grass.</p>
<p>Folk-might followed presently, and she stayed not again, nor turned,
nor beheld him; he recked not if she had, for then would he have come
up with her and hailed her, and he knew that she was no foolish maiden
to start at the sight of a man who was the friend of her Folk.</p>
<p>So they went their ways till she came to the strand of the water-meadow
brook aforesaid, and she went through the little ripples of the shallow
without staying, and on through the tall deep grass of the meadow beyond,
to where they met the brook again; for it swept round the meadow in
a wide curve, and turned back toward itself; so it was some half furlong
over from water to water.</p>
<p>She stood a while on the brink of the brook here, which was brim-full
and nigh running into the grass, because there was a dam just below
the place; and Folk-might drew nigher to her under cover of the thorn-bushes,
and looked at the place about her and beyond her.&nbsp; The meadow beyond
stream was very fair and flowery, but not right great; for it was bounded
by a grove of ancient chestnut trees, that went on and on toward the
southern cliffs of the Dale: in front of the chestnut wood stood a broken
row of black-thorn bushes, now growing green and losing their blossom,
and he could see betwixt them that there was a grassy bank running along,
as if there had once been a turf-wall and ditch round about the chestnut
trees.&nbsp; For indeed this was the old place of tryst between Gold-mane
and the Bride, whereof the tale hath told before.</p>
<p>The Bride stayed scarce longer than gave him time to note all this;
but he deemed that she was weeping, though he could not rightly see
her face; for her shoulders heaved, and she hung her face adown and
put up her hands to it.&nbsp; But now she went a little higher up the
stream, where the water was shallower, and waded the stream and went
up over the meadow, still weeping, as he deemed, and went between the
black-thorn bushes, and sat her down on the grassy bank with her back
to the chestnut trees.</p>
<p>Folk-might was ashamed to have seen her weeping, and was half-minded
to turn him back again at once; but love constrained him, and he said
to himself, &lsquo;Where shall I see her again privily if I pass by
this time and place?&rsquo;&nbsp; So he waited a little till he deemed
she might have mastered the passion of tears, and then came forth from
his bush, and went down to the water and crossed it, and went quietly
over the meadow straight towards her.&nbsp; But he was not half-way
across, when she lifted up her face from between her hands and beheld
the man coming.&nbsp; She neither started nor rose up; but straightened
herself as she sat, and looked right into Folk-might&rsquo;s eyes as
he drew near, though the tears were not dry on her cheeks.</p>
<p>Now he stood before her, and said: &lsquo;Hail to the Daughter of
a mighty House!&nbsp; Mayst thou live happy!&rsquo;</p>
<p>She answered: &lsquo;Hail to thee also, Guest of our Folk!&nbsp;
Hast thou been wandering about our meadows, and happened on me perchance?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; he said; &lsquo;I saw thee come forth from the
House of the Steer, and I followed thee hither.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She reddened a little, and knit her brow, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou wilt have something to say to me?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;I have much to say to thee,&rsquo; he said; &lsquo;yet it
was sweet to me to behold thee, even if I might not speak with thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She looked on him with her deep simple eyes, and neither reddened
again, nor seemed wroth; then she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Speak what thou hast in thine heart, and I will hearken without
anger whatsoever it may be; even if thou hast but to tell me of the
passing folly of a mighty man, which in a month or two he will not remember
for sorrow or for joy.&nbsp; Sit here beside me, and tell me thy thought.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So he sat him adown and said: &lsquo;Yea, I have much to say to thee,
but it is hard to me to say it.&nbsp; But this I will say: to-day and
yesterday make the third time I have seen thee.&nbsp; The first time
thou wert happy and calm, and no shadow of trouble was on thee; the
second time thine happy days were waning, though thou scarce knewest
it; but to-day and yesterday thou art constrained by the bonds of grief,
and wouldest loosen them if thou mightest.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;What meanest thou?&nbsp; How knowest thou this?&nbsp;
How may a stranger partake in my joy and my sorrow?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;As for yesterday, all the people might see thy grief
and know it.&nbsp; But when I beheld thee the first time, I saw thee
that thou wert more fair and lovely than all other women; and when I
was away from thee, the thought of thee and thine image were with me,
and I might not put them away; and oft at such and such a time I wondered
and said to myself, what is she doing now? though god wot I was dealing
with tangles and troubles and rough deeds enough.&nbsp; But the second
time I beheld thee, when I had looked to have great joy in the sight
of thee, my heart was smitten with a pang of grief; for I saw thee hanging
on the words and the looks of another man, who was light-minded toward
thee, and that thou wert troubled with the anguish of doubt and fear.&nbsp;
And he knew it not, nor saw it, though I saw it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Her face grew troubled, and the tearful passion stirred within her.&nbsp;
But she held it aback, and said, as anyone might have said it:</p>
<p>&lsquo;How wert thou in the Dale, mighty man?&nbsp; We saw thee not.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;I came hither hidden in other semblance than mine
own.&nbsp; But meddle not therewith; it availeth nought.&nbsp; Let me
say this, and do thou hearken to it.&nbsp; I saw thee yesterday in the
street, and thou wert as the ghost of thine old gladness; although belike
thou hast striven with sorrow; for I see thee with a sword by thy side,
and we have been told that thou, O fairest of women, hast given thyself
to the Warrior to be his damsel.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;that is sooth.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He went on: &lsquo;But the face which thou bearedst yesterday against
thy will, amidst all the people, that was because thou hadst seen my
sister the Sun-beam for the first time, and Face-of-god with her, hand
clinging to hand, lip longing for lip, desire unsatisfied, but glad
with all hope.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She laid hand upon hand in the lap of her gown, and looked down,
and her voice trembled as she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Doth it avail to talk of this?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;I know not: it may avail; for I am grieved, and shall
be whilst thou art grieved; and it is my wont to strive with my griefs
till I amend them.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She turned to him with kind eyes and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O mighty man, canst thou clear away the tangle which besetteth
the soul of her whose hope hath bewrayed her?&nbsp; Canst thou make
hope grow up in her heart?&nbsp; Friend, I will tell thee that when
I wed, I shall wed for the sake of the kindred, hoping for no joy therein.&nbsp;
Yea, or if by some chance the desire of man came again into my heart,
I should strive with it to rid myself of it, for I should know of it
that it was but a wasting folly, that should but beguile me, and wound
me, and depart, leaving me empty of joy and heedless of life.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He shook his head and said: &lsquo;Even so thou deemest now; but
one day it shall be otherwise.&nbsp; Or dost thou love thy sorrow?&nbsp;
I tell thee, as it wears thee and wears thee, thou shalt hate it, and
strive to shake it off.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay, nay,&rsquo; she said; &lsquo;I love it not; for not only
it grieveth me, but also it beateth me down and belittleth me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Good is that,&rsquo; said he.&nbsp; &lsquo;I know how strong
thine heart is.&nbsp; Now, wilt thou take mine hand, which is verily
the hand of thy friend, and remember what I have told thee of my grief
which cannot be sundered from thine?&nbsp; Shall we not talk more concerning
this?&nbsp; For surely I shall soon see thee again, and often; since
the Warrior, who loveth me belike, leadeth thee into fellowship with
me.&nbsp; Yea, I tell thee, O friend, that in that fellowship shalt
thou find both the seed of hope, and the sun of desire that shall quicken
it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he arose and stood before her, and held out to her his
hand all hardened with the sword-hilt, and she took it, and stood up
facing him, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;This much will I tell thee, O friend; that what I have said
to thee this hour, I thought not to have said to any man; or to talk
with a man of the grief that weareth me, or to suffer him to see my
tears; and marvellous I deem it of thee, for all thy might, that thou
hast drawn this speech from out of me, and left me neither angry nor
ashamed, in spite of these tears; and thou whom I have known not, though
thou knewest me!</p>
<p>&lsquo;But now it were best that thou depart, and get thee home to
the House of the Face, where I was once so frequent; for I wot that
thou hast much to do; and as thou sayest, it will be in warfare that
I shall see thee.&nbsp; Now I thank thee for thy words and the thought
thou hast had of me, and the pain which thou hast taken to heal my hurt:
I thank thee, I thank thee, for as grievous as it is to show one&rsquo;s
hurts even to a friend.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;O Bride, I thank thee for hearkening to my tale;
and one day shall I thank thee much more.&nbsp; Mayest thou fare well
in the Field and amidst the Folk!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he kissed her hand, and turned away, and went across the
meadow and the stream, glad at heart and blithe with everyone; for kindness
grew in him as gladness grew.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXVII.&nbsp; OF THE FOLK-MOTE OF THE DALESMEN, THE SHEPHERD-FOLK,
AND THE WOODLAND CARLES: THE BANNER OF THE WOLF DISPLAYED</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Now came the day of the Great Folk-mote, and there was much thronging
from everywhere to the Mote-stead, but most from Burgstead itself, whereas
few of the Dale-dwellers who had been at the Fair had gone back home.&nbsp;
Albeit some of the Shepherds and of the Dalesmen of the westernmost
Dale had brought light tents, and tilted themselves in in the night
before the Mote down in the meadows below the Mote-stead.&nbsp; From
early morning there had been a stream of folk on the Portway setting
westward; and many came thus early that they might hold converse with
friends and well-wishers; and some that they might disport them in the
woods.&nbsp; Men went in no ordered bands, as the Burgstead men at least
had done on the day of the Weapon-show, save that a few of them who
were arrayed the bravest gathered about the banners, and went with them
to the Mote-stead; for all the banners must needs be there.</p>
<p>The Folk-mote was to be hallowed-in three hours before noon, as all
men knew; therefore an hour before that time were all men of the Dale
and the Shepherds assembled that might be looked for, save the Alderman
and the chieftains with the banner of the Burg, and these were not like
to come many minutes before the Hallowing.&nbsp; Folk were gathered
on the Field in such wise, that the men-at-arms made a great ring round
about the Doom-ring, (albeit there were many old men there, girt with
swords that they should never heave up again in battle), so that without
that ring there was nought save women and children.&nbsp; But when all
the other Houses were assembled, men looked around, and beheld the place
of the Woodlanders that it was empty; and they marvelled that they were
thus belated.&nbsp; For now all was ready, and a watcher had gone up
to the Tower on the height, and had with him the great Horn of Warning,
which could be heard past the Mote-stead and a great way down the Dale:
and if he saw foes coming from the East he should blow one blast; if
from the South, two; if from the West, three; if from the North, four.</p>
<p>So half an hour from the appointed time of Hallowing rose the rumour
that the Alderman was on the road, and presently they of the women who
were on the outside of the throng, by drawing nigh to the edge of the
sheer rock, could behold the Banner of the Burg on the Portway, and
soon after could see the wain, done about with green boughs, wherein
sat the chieftains in their glittering war-gear.&nbsp; Speedily they
spread the tidings, and a confused shout went up into the air; and in
a little while the wain stayed on Wildlake&rsquo;s Way at the bottom
of the steep slope that went up to the Mote-stead, and the banner of
the Burg came on proudly up the hill.&nbsp; Soon all men beheld it,
and saw that the tall Hall-face bore it in front of his brother Face-of-god,
who came on gleaming in war-gear better than most men had seen; which
was indeed of his father&rsquo;s fashioning, and his father&rsquo;s
gift to him that morning.</p>
<p>After Face-of-god came the Alderman, and with him Folk-might leading
the Sun-beam by the hand, and then Stone-face and the Elder of the Dale-wardens;
and then the six Burg-wardens: as to the other Dale-wardens, they were
in their places on the Field.</p>
<p>So now those who had been standing up turned their faces toward the
Altar of the Gods, and those who had been sitting down sprang to their
feet, and the confused rumour of the throng rose into a clear shout
as the chieftains went to their places, and sat them down on the turf-seats
amidst the Doom-ring facing the Speech-hill and the Altar of the Gods.&nbsp;
Amidmost sat the Alderman, on his right hand Face-of-god, and out from
him Hall-face, and then Stone-face and three of the Wardens; but on
his left hand sat first the two Guests, then the Elder of the Dale-wardens,
and then the other three Burg-wardens; as for the Banner of the Burg,
its staff was stuck into the earth behind them, and the Banner raised
itself in the morning wind and flapped and rippled over their heads.</p>
<p>There then they sat, and folk abided, and it still lacked some minutes
of the due time, as the Alderman wotted by the shadow of the great standing-stone
betwixt him and the Altar.&nbsp; Therewithal came the sound of a great
horn from out of the wood on the north side, and men knew it for the
horn of the Woodland Carles, and were glad; for they could not think
why they should be belated; and now men stood up a-tiptoe and on other&rsquo;s
shoulders to look over the heads of the women and children to behold
their coming; but their empty place was at the southwest corner of the
ring of men.</p>
<p>So presently men beheld them marching toward their place, cleaving
the throng of the women and children, a great company; for besides that
they had with them two score more of men under weapons than on the day
of the Weapon-show, all their little ones and women and outworn elders
were with them, some on foot, some riding on oxen and asses.&nbsp; In
their forefront went the two signs of the Battle-shaft and the War-spear.&nbsp;
But moreover, in front of all was borne a great staff with the cloth
of a banner wrapped round about it, and tied up with a hempen yarn that
it might not be seen.</p>
<p>Stark and mighty men they looked; tall and lean, broad-shouldered,
dark-faced.&nbsp; As they came amongst the throng the voice of their
horn died out, and for a few moments they fared on with no sound save
the tramp of their feet; then all at once the man who bare the hidden
banner lifted up one hand, and straightway they fell to singing, and
with that song they came to their place.&nbsp; And this is some of what
they sang:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>O white, white Sun, what things of wonder<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Hast
thou beheld from thy wall of the sky!<br />All the Roofs of the Rich
and the grief thereunder,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As the fear of the
Earl-folk flitteth by!</p>
<p>Thou hast seen the Flame steal forth from the Forest<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To
slay the slumber of the lands,<br />As the Dusky Lord whom thou abhorrest<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Clomb
up to thy Burg unbuilt with hands.</p>
<p>Thou lookest down from thy door the golden,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Nor
batest thy wide-shining mirth,<br />As the ramparts fall, and the roof-trees
olden<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Lie smouldering low on the burning earth.</p>
<p>When flitteth the half-dark night of summer<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;From
the face of the murder great and grim,<br />&rsquo;Tis thou thyself
and no new-comer<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Shines golden-bright on the
deed undim.</p>
<p>Art thou our friend, O Day-dawn&rsquo;s Lover?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Full
oft thine hand hath sent aslant<br />Bright beams athwart the Wood-bear&rsquo;s
cover,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where the feeble folk and the nameless
haunt.</p>
<p>Thou hast seen us quail, thou hast seen us cower,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Thou
hast seen us crouch in the Green Abode,<br />While for us wert thou
slaying slow hour by hour,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And smoothing down
the war-rough road.</p>
<p>Yea, the rocks of the Waste were thy Dawns upheaving,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To
let the days of the years go through;<br />And thy Noons the tangled
brake were cleaving<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The slow-foot seasons&rsquo;
deed to do.</p>
<p>Then gaze adown on this gift of our giving,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For
the WOLF comes wending frith and ford,<br />And the Folk fares forth
from the dead to the living,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For the love of
the Lief by the light of the Sword.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Then ceased the song, and the whole band of the Woodlanders came
pouring tumultuously into the space allotted them, like the waters pouring
over a river-dam, their white swords waving aloft in the morning sunlight;
and wild and strange cries rose up from amidst them, with sobbing and
weeping of joy.&nbsp; But soon their troubled front sank back into ordered
ranks, their bright blades stood upright in their hands before them,
and folk looked on their company, and deemed it the very Terror of battle
and Render of the ranks of war.&nbsp; Right well were they armed; for
though many of their weapons were ancient and somewhat worn, yet were
they the work of good smiths of old days; and moreover, if any of them
lacked good war-gear of his own, that had the Alderman and his sons
made good to them.</p>
<p>But before the hedge of steel stood the two tall men who held in
their hands the war-tokens of the Battle-shaft and the War-spear, and
betwixt them stood one who was indeed the tallest man of the whole assembly,
who held the great staff of the hidden banner.&nbsp; And now he reached
up his hand, and plucked at the yarn that bound it, which of set purpose
was but feeble, and tore it off, and then shook the staff aloft with
both hands, and shouted, and lo! the Banner of the Wolf with the Sun-burst
behind him, glittering-bright, new-woven by the women of the kindred,
ran out in the fresh wind, and flapped and rippled before His warriors
there assembled.</p>
<p>Then from all over the Mote-stead arose an exceeding great shout,
and all men waved aloft their weapons; but the men of Shadowy Vale who
were standing amidst the men of the Face knew not how to demean themselves,
and some of them ran forth into the Field and leapt for joy, tossing
their swords into the air, and catching them by the hilts as they fell:
and amidst it all the Woodlanders now stood silent, unmoving, as men
abiding the word of onset.</p>
<p>As for that brother and sister: the Sun-beam flushed red all over
her face, and pressed her hands to her bosom, and then the passion of
tears over-mastered her, and her breast heaved, and the tears gushed
out of her eyes, and her body was shaken with weeping.&nbsp; But Folk-might
sat still, looking straight before him, his eyes glittering, his teeth
set, his right hand clutching hard at the hilts of his sword, which
lay naked across his knees.&nbsp; And the Bride, who stood clad in her
begemmed and glittering war-array in the forefront of the Men of the
Steer, nigh unto the seats of the chieftains, beheld Folk-might, and
her face flushed and brightened, and still she looked upon him.&nbsp;
The Alderman&rsquo;s face was as of one pleased and proud; yet was its
joy shadowed as it were by a cloud of compassion.&nbsp; Face-of-god
sat like the very image of the War-god, and stirred not, nor looked
toward the Sun-beam; for still the thought of the after-grief of battle,
and the death of friends and folk that loved him, lay heavy on his heart,
for all that it beat wildly at the shouting of the men.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXVIII.&nbsp; OF THE GREAT FOLK-MOTE: ATONEMENTS GIVEN,
AND MEN MADE SACKLESS</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Amidst the clamour uprose the Alderman; for it was clear to all men
that the Folk-mote should be holden at once, and the matters of the
War, and the Fellowship, and the choosing of the War-leader, speedily
dealt with.&nbsp; So the Alderman fell to hallowing in the Folk-mote:
he went up to the Altar of the Gods, and took the Gold-ring off it,
and did it on his arm; then he drew his sword and waved it toward the
four a&iacute;rts, and spake; and the noise and shouting fell, and there
was silence but for him:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Herewith I hallow in this Folk-mote of the Men of the Dale
and the Sheepcotes and the Woodland, in the name of the Warrior and
the Earth-god and the Fathers of the kindreds.&nbsp; Now let not the
peace of the Mote be broken.&nbsp; Let not man rise against man, or
bear blade or hand, or stick or stone against any.&nbsp; If any man
break the Peace of the Holy Mote, let him be a man accursed, a wild-beast
in the Holy Places; an outcast from home and hearth, from bed and board,
from mead and acre; not to be holpen with bread, nor flesh, nor wine;
nor flax, nor wool, nor any cloth; nor with sword, nor shield, nor axe,
nor plough-share; nor with horse, nor ox, nor ass; with no saddle-beast
nor draught-beast; nor with wain, nor boat, nor way-leading; nor with
fire nor water; nor with any world&rsquo;s wealth.&nbsp; Thus let him
who hath cast out man be cast out by man.&nbsp; Now is hallowed-in the
Folk-mote of the Men of the Dale and the Sheepcotes and the Woodlands.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he waved his sword again toward the four a&iacute;rts,
and went and sat down in his place.&nbsp; But presently he arose again,
and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now if man hath aught to say against man, and claimeth boot
of any, or would lay guilt on any man&rsquo;s head, let him come forth
and declare it; and the judges shall be named, and the case shall be
tried this afternoon or to-morrow.&nbsp; Yet first I shall tell you
that I, the Alderman of the Dalesmen, doomed one Iron-face of the House
of the Face to pay a double fine, for that he drew a sword at the Gate-thing
of Burgstead with the intent to break the peace thereof.&nbsp; Thou,
Green-sleeve, bring forth the peace-breaker&rsquo;s fine, that Iron-face
may lay the same on the Altar.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then came forth a man from the men of the Face bearing a bag, and
he brought it to Iron-face, who went up to the Altar and poured forth
weighed gold from the bag thereon, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Warden of the Dale, come thou and weigh it!&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; quoth the Warden, &lsquo;it needeth not, no man
here doubteth thee, Alderman Iron-face.&rsquo;</p>
<p>A murmur of yeasay went up, and none had a word to say against the
Alderman, but they praised him rather: also men were eager to hear of
the war, and the fellowship, and to be done with these petty matters.&nbsp;
Then the Alderman rose again and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hath any man a grief against any other of the Kindreds of
the Dale, or the Sheepcotes, or the Woodlands?&rsquo;</p>
<p>None answered or stirred; so after he had waited a while, he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Is there any who hath any guilt to lay against a Stranger,
an Outlander, being such a man as he deems we can come at?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Thereat was a stir amongst the Men of the Fleece of the Shepherds,
and their ranks opened, and there came forth an ill-favoured lean old
man, long-nebbed, blear-eyed, and bent, girt with a rusty old sword,
but not otherwise armed.&nbsp; And all men knew Penny-thumb, who had
been ransacked last autumn.&nbsp; As he came forth, it seemed as if
his neighbours had been trying to hold him back; but a stout, broad-shouldered
man, black-haired and red-bearded, made way for the old man, and led
him out of the throng, and stood by him; and this man was well armed
at all points, and looked a doughty carle.&nbsp; He stood side by side
with Penny-thumb, right in front of the men of his house, and looked
about him at first somewhat uneasily, as though he were ashamed of his
fellow; but though many smiled, none laughed aloud; and they forbore,
partly because they knew the man to be a good man, partly because of
the solemn tide of the Folk-mote, and partly in sooth because they wished
all this to be over, and were as men who had no time for empty mirth.</p>
<p>Then said the Alderman: &lsquo;What wouldest thou, Penny-thumb, and
thou, Bristler, son of Brightling?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Penny-thumb began to speak in a high squeaky voice:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Alderman, and Lord of the Folk!&rsquo;&nbsp; But therewithal
Bristle, pulled him back, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I am the man who hath taken this quarrel upon me, and have
sworn upon the Holy Boar to carry this feud through; and we deem, Alderman,
that if they who slew Rusty and ransacked Penny-thumb be not known now,
yet they soon may be.&rsquo;</p>
<p>As he spake, came forth those three men of the Shepherds and the
two Dalesmen who had sworn with him on the Holy Boar.&nbsp; Then up
stood Folk-might, and came forth into the field, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Bristler, son of Brightling, and ye other good men and true,
it is but sooth that the ransackers and the slayer may soon be known;
and here I declare them unto you: I it was and none other who slew Rusty;
and I was the leader of those who ransacked Penny-thumb, and cowed Harts-bane
of Greentofts.&nbsp; As for the slaying of Rusty, I slew him because
he chased me, and would not forbear, so that I must either slay or be
slain, as hath befallen me erewhile, and will befall again, methinks.&nbsp;
As for the ransacking of Penny-thumb, I needed the goods that I took,
and he needed them not, since he neither used them, nor gave them away,
and, they being gone, he hath lived no worser than aforetime.&nbsp;
Now I say, that if ye will take the outlawry off me, which, as I hear,
ye laid upon me, not knowing me, then will I handsel self-doom to thee,
Bristler, if thou wilt bear thy grief to purse, and I will pay thee
what thou wilt out of hand; or if perchance thou wilt call me to Holm,
thither will I go, if thou and I come unslain out of this war.&nbsp;
As to the ransacking and cowing of Harts-bane, I say that I am sackless
therein, because the man is but a ruffler and a man of violence, and
hath cowed many men of the Dale; and if he gainsay me, then do I call
him to the Holm after this war is over; either him or any man who will
take his place before my sword.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he held his peace, and man spake to man, and a murmur arose,
as they said for the more part that it was a fair and manly offer.&nbsp;
But Bristler called his fellows and Penny-thumb to him, and they spake
together; and sometimes Penny-thumb&rsquo;s shrill squeak was heard
above the deep-voiced talk of the others; for he was a man that harboured
malice.&nbsp; But at last Bristler spake out and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Tall man, we know that thou art a chieftain and of good will
to the men of the Dale and their friends, and that want drave thee to
the ransacking, and need to the manslaying, and neither the living nor
the dead to whom thou art guilty are to be called good men; therefore
will I bring the matter to purse, if thou wilt handsel me self-doom.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, even so let it be,&rsquo; quoth Folk-might; and stepped
forward and took Bristler by the hand, and handselled him self-doom.&nbsp;
Then said Bristler:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Though Rusty was no good man, and though he followed thee
to slay thee, yet was he in his right therein, since he was following
up his goodman&rsquo;s gear; therefore shalt thou pay a full blood-wite
for him, that is to say, the worth of three hundreds in weed-stuff in
whatso goods thou wilt.&nbsp; As for the ransacking of Penny-thumb,
he shall deem himself well paid if thou give him our hundreds in weed-stuff
for that which thou didst borrow of him.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Penny-thumb set up his squeak again, but no man hearkened to
him, and each man said to his neighbour that it was well doomed of Bristler,
and neither too much nor too little.&nbsp; But Folk-might bade Wood-wont
to bring thither to him that which he had borne to the Mote; and he
brought forth a big sack, and Folk-might emptied it on the earth, and
lo! the silver rings of the slain felons, and they lay in a heap on
the green field, and they were the best of silver.&nbsp; Then the Elder
of the Dale-wardens weighed out from the heap the blood-wite for Rusty,
according to the due measure of the hundred in weed-stuff, and delivered
it unto Bristler.&nbsp; And Folk-might said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Draw nigh now, Penny-thumb, and take what thou wilt of this
gear, which I need not, and grudge not at me henceforward.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But Penny-thumb was afraid, and abode where he was; and Bristler
laughed, and said: &lsquo;Take it, goodman, take it; spare not other
men&rsquo;s goods as thou dost thine own.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And Folk-might stood by, smiling faintly: so Penny-thumb plucked
up a heart, and drew nigh trembling, and took what he durst from that
heap; and all that stood by said that he had gotten a full double of
what had been awarded to him.&nbsp; But as for him, he went his ways
straight from the Mote-stead, and made no stay till he had gotten him
home, and laid the silver up in a strong coffer; and thereafter he bewailed
him sorely that he had not taken the double of that which he took, since
none would have said him nay.</p>
<p>When he was gone, the Alderman arose and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now, since the fines have been paid duly and freely, according
to the dooming of Bristler, take we off the outlawry from Folk-might
and his fellows, and account them to be sackless before us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he called for other cases; but no man had aught more to bring
forward against any man, either of the kindreds or the Strangers.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXXIX.&nbsp; OF THE GREAT FOLK-MOTE: MEN TAKE REDE OF THE
WAR-FARING, THE FELLOWSHIP, AND THE WAR-LEADER.&nbsp; FOLK-MIGHT TELLETH
WHENCE HIS PEOPLE CAME.&nbsp; THE FOLK-MOTE SUNDERED</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Now a great silence fell upon the throng, and they stood as men abiding
some new matter.&nbsp; Unto them arose the Alderman, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Men of the Dale, and ye Shepherds and Woodlanders; it is well
known to you that we have foemen in the wood and beyond it; and now
have we gotten sure tidings, that they will not abide at home or in
the wood, but are minded to fall upon us at home.&nbsp; Now therefore
I will not ask you whether ye will have peace or war; for with these
foemen ye may have peace no otherwise save by war.&nbsp; But if ye think
with me, three things have ye to determine: first, whether ye will abide
your foes in your own houses, or will go meet them at theirs; next,
whether ye will take to you as fellows in arms a valiant folk of the
children of the Gods, who are foemen to our foemen; and lastly, what
man ye will have to be your War-leader.&nbsp; Now, I bid all those here
assembled, to speak hereof, any man of them that will, either what they
may have conceived in their own minds, or what their kindred may have
put into their mouths to speak.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he sat down, and in a little while came forth old Hall-ward
of the House of the Steer, and stood before the Alderman, and said:
&lsquo;O Alderman, all we say: Since war is awake we will not tarry,
but will go meet our foes while it is yet time.&nbsp; The valiant men
of whom thou tellest shall be our fellows, were there but three of them.&nbsp;
We know no better War-leader than Face-of-god of the House of the Face.&nbsp;
Let him lead us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he went his ways; and next came forth War-well, and said:
&lsquo;The House of the Bridge would have Face-of-god for War-leader,
these tall men for fellows, and the shortest way to meet the foe.&rsquo;&nbsp;
And he went back to his place.</p>
<p>Next came Fox of Upton, and said: &lsquo;Time presses, or much might
be spoken.&nbsp; Thus saith the House of the Bull: Let us go meet the
foe, and take these valiant strangers for way-leaders, and Face-of-god
for War-leader.&rsquo;&nbsp; And he also went back again.</p>
<p>Then came forth two men together, an old man and a young, and the
old man spake as soon as he stood still: &lsquo;The Men of the Vine
bid me say their will: They will not stay at home to have their houses
burned over their heads, themselves slain on their own hearths, and
their wives haled off to thralldom.&nbsp; They will take any man for
their fellow in arms who will smite stark strokes on their side.&nbsp;
They know Face-of-god, and were liefer of him for War-leader than any
other, and they will follow him wheresoever he leadeth.&nbsp; Thus my
kindred biddeth me say, and I hight Fork-beard of Lea.&nbsp; If I live
through this war, I shall have lived through five.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he went back to his place; but the young man lifted up
his voice and said: &lsquo;To all this I say yea, and so am I bidden
by the kindred of the Sickle.&nbsp; I am Red-beard of the Knolls, the
son of my father.&rsquo;&nbsp; And he went to his place again.</p>
<p>Then came forth Stone-face, and said: &lsquo;The House of the Face
saith: Lead us through the wood, O Face-of-god, thou War-leader, and
ye warriors of the Wolf.&nbsp; I am Stone-face, as men know, and this
word hath been given to me by the kindred.&rsquo;&nbsp; And he took
his place again.</p>
<p>Then came forth together the three chiefs of the Shepherds, to wit
Hound-under-Greenbury, Strongitharm, and the Hyllier; and Strongitharm
spake for all three, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;The Men of Greenbury, and they of the Fleece and the Thorn,
are of one accord, and bid us say that they are well pleased to have
Face-of-god for War-leader; and that they will follow him and the warriors
of the Wolf to live or die with them; and that they are ready to go
meet the foe at once, and will not skulk behind the walls of Greenbury.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith the three went back again to their places.</p>
<p>Then came forth that tall man that bare the Banner of the Wolf, when
he had given the staff into the hands of him who stood next.&nbsp; He
came and stood over against the seat of the chieftains; and for a while
he could say no word, but stood struggling with the strong passion of
his joy; but at last he lifted his hands aloft, and cried out in a loud
voice:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O war, war!&nbsp; O death!&nbsp; O wounding and grief!&nbsp;
O loss of friends and kindred! let all this be rather than the drawing
back of meeting hands and the sundering of yearning hearts!&rsquo; and
he went back hastily to his place.&nbsp; But from the ranks of the Woodlanders
ran forth a young man, and cried out:</p>
<p>&lsquo;As is the word of Red-wolf, so is my word, Bears-bane of Carlstead;
and this is the word which our little Folk hath put into our mouths;
and O! that our hands may show the meaning of our mouths; for nought
else can.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then indeed went up a great shout, though many forebore to cry out;
for now were they too much moved for words or sounds.&nbsp; And in special
was Face-of-god moved; and he scarce knew which way to look, lest he
should break out into sobs and weeping; for of late he had been much
among the Woodlanders, and loved them much.</p>
<p>Then all the noise and clamour fell, and it was to men as if they
who had come thither a folk, had now become an host of war.</p>
<p>But once again the Alderman rose up and spake:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now have ye yeasaid three things: That we take Face-of-god
of the House of the Face for our War-leader; that we fare under weapons
at once against them who would murder us; and that we take the valiant
Folk of the Wolf for our fellows in arms.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he stayed his speech, and this time the shout arose clear
and most mighty, with the tossing up of swords and the clashing of weapons
on shields.</p>
<p>Then he said: &lsquo;Now, if any man will speak, here is the War-leader,
and here is the chief of our new friends, to answer to whatso any of
the kindred would have answered.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Thereon came forth the Fiddle from amongst the Men of the Sickle,
and drew somewhat nigh to the Alderman, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Alderman, we would ask of the War-leader if he hath devised
the manner of our assembling, and the way of our war-faring, and the
day of our hosting.&nbsp; More than this I will not ask of him, because
we wot that in so great an assembly it may be that the foe may have
some spy of whom we wot not; and though this be not likely, yet some
folk may babble; therefore it is best for the wise to be wise everywhere
and always.&nbsp; Therefore my rede it is, that no man ask any more
concerning this, but let it lie with the War-leader to bring us face
to face with the foe as speedily as he may.&rsquo;</p>
<p>All men said that this was well counselled.&nbsp; But Face-of-god
arose and said: &lsquo;Ye Men of the Dale, ye Shepherds and Woodlanders,
meseemeth the Fiddle hath spoken wisely.&nbsp; Now therefore I answer
him and say, that I have so ordered everything since the Gate-thing
was holden at Burgstead, that we may come face to face with the foemen
by the shortest of roads.&nbsp; Every man shall be duly summoned to
the Hosting, and if any man fail, let it be accounted a shame to him
for ever.&rsquo;</p>
<p>A great shout followed on his words, and he sat down again.&nbsp;
But Fox of Upton came forth and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O Alderman, we have yeasaid the fellowship of the valiant
men who have come to us from out of the waste; but this we have done,
not because we have known them, otherwise than by what our kinsman Face-of-god
hath told us concerning them, but because we have seen clearly that
they will be of much avail to us in our warfare.&nbsp; Now, therefore,
if the tall chieftain who sitteth beside thee were to do us to wit what
he is, and whence he and his are come, it were well, and fain were we
thereof; but if he listeth not to tell us, that also shall be well.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then arose Folk-might in his place; but or ever he could open his
mouth to speak, the tall Red-wolf strode forward bearing with him the
Banner of the Wolf and the Sun-burst, and came and stood beside him;
and the wind ran through the folds of the banner, and rippled it out
above the heads of those twain.&nbsp; Then Folk-might spake and said:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>&lsquo;O Men of the Dale and the Sheepcotes, I will do as ye bid
me do;<br />And fain were ye of the story if every deal ye knew.<br />But
long, long were its telling, were I to tell it all:<br />Let it bide
till the Cup of Deliverance ye drink from hall to hall.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Like you we be of the kindreds, of the Sons of the Gods we
come,<br />Midst the Mid-earth&rsquo;s mighty Woodland of old we had
our home;<br />But of older time we abided &rsquo;neath the mountains
of the Earth,<br />O&rsquo;er which the Sun ariseth to waken woe and
mirth.</p>
<p>Great were we then and many; but the long days wore us thin,<br />And
war, wherein the winner hath weary work to win.<br />And the woodland
wall behind us e&rsquo;en like ourselves was worn,<br />And the tramp
of the hosts of the foemen adown its glades was borne<br />On the wind
that bent our wheat-fields.&nbsp; So in the morn we rose,<br />And left
behind the stubble and the autumn-fruited close,<br />And went our ways
to the westward, nor turned aback to see<br />The glare of our burning
houses rise over brake and tree.<br />But the foe was fierce and speedy,
nor long they tarried there,<br />And through the woods of battle our
laden wains must fare;<br />And the Sons of the Wolf were minished,
and the maids of the Wolf waxed few,<br />As amidst the victory-singing
we fared the wild-wood through.</p>
<p>&lsquo;So saith the ancient story, that west and west we went,<br />And
many a day of battle we had in brake, on bent;<br />Whilst here a while
we tarried, and there we hastened on,<br />And still the battle-harvest
from many a folk we won.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Of the tale of the days who wotteth?&nbsp; Of the years what
man can tell,<br />While the Sons of the Wolf were wandering, and knew
not where to dwell?<br />But at last we clomb the mountains, and mickle
was our toil,<br />As high the spear-wood clambered of the drivers of
the spoil;<br />And tangled were the passes and the beacons flared behind,<br />And
the horns of gathering onset came up upon the wind.<br />So saith the
ancient story, that we stood in a mountain-cleft,<br />Where the ways
and the valleys sundered to the right hand and the left.<br />There
in the place of sundering all woeful was the rede;<br />We knew no land
before us, and behind was heavy need.<br />As the sword cleaves through
the byrny, so there the mountain flank<br />Cleft through the God-kin&rsquo;s
people; and ne&rsquo;er again we drank<br />The wine of war together,
or feasted side by side<br />In the Feast-hall of the Warrior on the
fruit of the battle-tide.<br />For there we turned and sundered; unto
the North we went<br />And up along the waters, and the clattering stony
bent;<br />And unto the South and the Sheepcotes down went our sister&rsquo;s
sons;<br />And O for the years passed over since we saw those valiant
ones!&rsquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>He ceased, and laid his right hand on the banner-staff a little below
the left hand of Red-wolf; and men were so keen to hear each word that
he spake, that there was no cry nor sound of voices when he had done,
only the sound of the rippling banner of the Wolf over the heads of
those twain.&nbsp; The Sun-beam bowed her head now, and wept silently.&nbsp;
But the Bride, she had drawn her sword, and held it upright in her hand
before her, and the sun smote fire from out of it.</p>
<p>Then it was but a little while before Red-wolf lifted up his voice,
and sang:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>&lsquo;Hearken a wonder, O Folk of the Field,<br />How they that
did sunder stand shield beside shield!</p>
<p>Lo! the old wont and manner by fearless folk made,<br />On the Bole
of the Banner the brothers&rsquo; hands laid.</p>
<p>Lo! here the token of what hath betid!<br />Grown whole is the broken,
found that which was hid.</p>
<p>Now one way we follow whate&rsquo;er shall befall;<br />As seeketh
the swallow his yesteryear&rsquo;s hall.</p>
<p>Seldom folk fewer to fight-stead hath fared;<br />Ne&rsquo;er have
men truer the battle-reed bared.</p>
<p>Grey locks now I carry, and old am I grown,<br />Nor looked I to
tarry to meet with mine own.</p>
<p>For we who remember the deeds of old days<br />Were nought but the
ember of battle ablaze.</p>
<p>For what man might aid us? what deed and what day<br />Should come
where Weird laid us aloof from the way?</p>
<p>What man save that other of Twain rent apart,<br />Our war-friend,
our Brother, the piece of our heart.</p>
<p>Then hearken the wonder how shield beside shield<br />The twain that
did sunder wend down to the Field!&rsquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Now when he had made an end, men could no longer forebear the shout;
and it went up into the heavens, and was borne by the west-wind down
the Dale to the ears of the stay-at-home women and men unmeet to go
abroad, and it quickened their blood and the spirits within them as
they heard it, and they smiled and were fain; for they knew that their
kinsfolk were glad.</p>
<p>But when there was quiet on the Mote-field again, Folk-might spake
again and said;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>&lsquo;It is sooth that my Brother sayeth, and that now again we
wend,<br />All the Sons of the Wolf together, till the trouble hath
an end.<br />But as for that tale of the Ancients, it saith that we
who went<br />To the northward, climbed and stumbled o&rsquo;er many
a stony bent,<br />Till we happed on that isle of the waste-land, and
the grass of Shadowy Vale,<br />Where we dwelt till we throve a little,
and felt our might avail.<br />Then we fared abroad from the shadow
and the little-lighted hold,<br />And the increase fell to the valiant,
and the spoil to the battle-bold,<br />And never a man gainsaid us with
the weapons in our hands;<br />And in Silver-dale the happy we gat us
life and lands.</p>
<p>&lsquo;So wore the years o&rsquo;er-wealthy; and meseemeth that ye
know<br />How we sowed and reaped destruction, and the Day of the overthrow:<br />How
we leaned on the staff we had broken, and put our lives in the hand<br />Of
those whom we had vanquished and the feeble of the land;<br />And these
were the stone of stumbling, and the burden not to be borne,<br />When
the battle-blast fell on us and our day was over-worn.<br />Thus then
did our wealth bewray us, and left us wise and sad;<br />And to you,
bold men, it falleth once more to make us glad,<br />If so your hearts
are bidding, and ye deem the deed of worth.<br />Such were we; what
we shall be, &rsquo;tis yours to say henceforth.&rsquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>He said furthermore: &lsquo;How great we have been I have told you
already; and ye shall see for yourselves how little we be now.&nbsp;
Is it enough, and will ye have us for friends and brothers?&nbsp; How
say ye?&rsquo;</p>
<p>They answered with shout upon shout, so that all the place and the
wild-wood round about was full of the voice of their crying; but when
the clamour fell, then spake the Alderman and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Friend, and chieftain of the Wolf, thou mayst hear by this
shouting of the people that we have no mind to naysay our yea-say.&nbsp;
And know that it is not our use and manner to seek the strong for friends,
and to thrust aside the weak; but rather to choose for our friends them
who are of like mind to us, men in whom we put our trust.&nbsp; From
henceforth then there is brotherhood between us; we are yours, and ye
are ours; and let this endure for ever!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then were all men full of joy; and now at last the battle seemed
at hand, and the peace beyond the battle.</p>
<p>Then men brought the hallowed beasts all garlanded with flowers into
the Doom-ring, and there were they slain and offered up unto the Gods,
to wit the Warrior, the Earth-god, and the Fathers; and thereafter was
solemn feast holden on the Field of the Folk-mote, and all men were
fain and merry.&nbsp; Nevertheless, not all men abode there the feast
through; for or ever the afternoon was well worn, were many men wending
along the Portway eastward toward the Upper Dale, each man in his war-gear
and with a scrip hung about him; and these were they who were bound
for the trysting-place and the journey over the waste.</p>
<p>So the Folk-mote was sundered; and men went to their houses, and
there abode in peace the time of their summoning; since they wotted
well that the Hosting was afoot.</p>
<p>But as for the Woodlanders, who were at the Mote-stead with all their
folk, women, children, and old men, they went not back again to Carlstead;
but prayed the neighbours of the Middle Dale to suffer them to abide
there awhile, which they yeasaid with a good will.&nbsp; So the Woodlanders
tilted themselves in, the more part of them, down in the meadows below
the Mote-stead, along either side of Wildlake&rsquo;s Way; but their
ancient folk, and some of the women and children, the neighbours would
have into their houses, and the rest they furnished with victual and
all that they needed without price, looking upon them as their very
guests.&nbsp; For indeed they deemed that they could see that these
men would never return to Carlstead, but would abide with the Men of
the Wolf in Silver-dale, once it were won.&nbsp; And this they deemed
but meet and right, yet were they sorry thereof; for the Woodlanders
were well beloved of all the Dalesmen; and now that they had gotten
to know that they were come of so noble a kindred, they were better
beloved yet, and more looked upon.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XL.&nbsp; OF THE HOSTING IN SHADOWY VALE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>It was on the evening of the fourth day after the Folk-mote that
there came through the Waste to the rocky edge of Shadowy Vale a band
of some fifteen score of men-at-arms, and with them a multitude of women
and children and old men, some afoot, some riding on asses and bullocks;
and with them were sumpter asses and neat laden with household goods,
and a few goats and kine.&nbsp; And this was the whole folk of the Woodlanders
come to the Hosting in Shadowy Vale and the Home of the Children of
the Wolf.&nbsp; Their leaders of the way were Wood-father and Wood-wont
and two other carles of Shadowy Vale; and Red-wolf the tall, and Bears-bane
and War-grove were the captains and chieftains of their company.</p>
<p>Thus then they entered into the narrow pass aforesaid, which was
the ingate to the Vale from the Waste, and little by little its dimness
swallowed up their long line.&nbsp; As they went by the place where
the lowering of the rock-wall gave a glimpse of the valley, they looked
down into it as Face-of-god had done, but much change was there in little
time.&nbsp; There was the black wall of crags on the other side stretching
down to the ghyll of the great Force; there ran the deep green waters
of the Shivering Flood; but the grass which Face-of-god had seen naked
of everything but a few kine, thereon now the tents of men stood thick.&nbsp;
Their hearts swelled within them as they beheld it, but they forebore
the shout and the cry till they should be well within the Vale, and
so went down silently into the darkness.&nbsp; But as their eyes caught
that dim image of the Wolf on the wall of the pass, man pointed it out
to man, and not a few turned and kissed it hurriedly; and to them it
seemed that many a kiss had been laid on that dear token since the days
of old, and that the hard stone had been worn away by the fervent lips
of men, and that the air of the mirk place yet quivered with the vows
sworn over the sword-blade.</p>
<p>But down through the dark they went, and so came on to the stony
scree at the end of the pass and into the Vale; and the whole Folk save
the three chieftains flowed over it and stood about it down on the level
grass of the Vale.&nbsp; But those three stood yet on the top of the
scree, bearing the war-signs of the Shaft and the Spear, and betwixt
them the banner of the Wolf and the Sunburst newly displayed to the
winds of Shadowy Vale.</p>
<p>Up and down the Vale they looked, and saw before the tents of men
the old familiar banners of Burgdale rising and falling in the evening
wind.&nbsp; But amidst of the Doom-ring was pitched a great banner,
whereon was done the image of the Wolf with red gaping jaws on a field
of green; and about him stood other banners, to wit, The Silver Arm
on a red field, the Red Hand on a white field, and on green fields both,
the Golden Bushel and the Ragged Sword.</p>
<p>All about the plain shone glittering war-gear of men as they moved
hither and thither, and a stream of folk began at once to draw toward
the scree to look on those new-comers; and amidst the helmed Burgdalers
and the white-coated Shepherds went the tall men of the Wolf, bare-headed
and unarmed save for their swords, mingled with the fair strong women
of the kindred, treading barefoot the soft grass of their own Vale.</p>
<p>Presently there was a great throng gathered round about the Woodlanders,
and each man as he joined it waved hand or weapon toward them, and the
joy of their welcome sent a confused clamour through the air.&nbsp;
Then forth from the throng stepped Folk-might, unarmed save his sword,
and behind him was Face-of-god, in his war-gear save his helm, hand
in hand with the Sun-beam, who was clad in her goodly flowered green
kirtle, her feet naked like her sisters of the kindred.</p>
<p>Then Folk-might cried aloud: &lsquo;A full and free greeting to our
brothers!&nbsp; Well be ye, O Sons of our Ancient Fathers!&nbsp; And
to-day are ye the dearer to us because we see that ye have brought us
a gift, to wit, your wives and children, and your grandsires unmeet
for war.&nbsp; By this token we see how great is your trust in us, and
that it is your meaning never to sunder from us again.&nbsp; O well
be ye; well be ye!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then spake Red-wolf, and said: &lsquo;Ye Sons of the Wolf, who parted
from us of old time in that cleft of the mountains, it is our very selves
that we give unto you; and these are a part of ourselves; how then should
we leave them behind us?&nbsp; Bear witness, O men of Burgdale and the
Sheepcotes, that we have become one Folk with the men of Shadowy Vale,
never to be sundered again!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then all that multitude shouted with a loud voice; and when the shout
had died away, Folk-might spake again:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O Warriors of the Sundering, here shall your wives and children
abide, while we go a little journey to rejoice our hearts with the hard
handplay, and take to us that which we have missed: and to-morrow morn
is appointed for this same journey, unless ye be over foot-weary with
the ways of the Waste.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Red-wolf smiled as he answered: &lsquo;This ye say in jest, brother;
for ye may see that our day&rsquo;s journey hath not been over-much
for our old men; how then should it weary those who may yet bear sword?&nbsp;
We are ready for the road and eager for the handplay.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;This is well,&rsquo; said Folk-might, &lsquo;and what was
to be looked for.&nbsp; Therefore, brother, do ye and your counsel-mates
come straightway to the Hall of the Wolf; wherein, after ye have eaten
and drunken, shall we take counsel with our brethren of Burgdale and
the Sheepcotes, so that all may be ordered for battle!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Red-wolf: &lsquo;Good is that, if we must needs abide till to-morrow;
for verily we came not hither to eat and drink and rest our bodies;
but it must be as ye will have it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then the Sun-beam left the hand of Face-of-god and came forward,
and held out both her palms to the Woodland-folk, and spake in a voice
that was heard afar, though it were a woman&rsquo;s, so clear and sweet
it was; and she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O Warriors of the Sundering, ye who be not needed in the Hall,
and ye our sisters with your little ones and your fathers, come now
to us and down to the tents which we have arrayed for you, and there
think for a little that we are all at our very home that we long for
and have yet to win, and be ye merry with us and make us merry.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she stepped forward daintily and entered into their throng,
and took an old man of the Woodlanders by the hand, and kissed his cheek
and led him away, and the coming rest seemed sweet to him.&nbsp; And
then came other women of the Vale, kind and fair and smiling, and led
away, some an old mother of the Wood-landers, some a young wife, some
a pair of lads; and not a few forsooth kissed and embraced the stark
warriors, and went away with them toward the tents, which stood along
the side of the Shivering Flood where it was at its quietest; for there
was the grass the softest and most abundant.&nbsp; There on the green
grass were tables arrayed, and lamps were hung above them on spears,
to be litten when the daylight should fail.&nbsp; And the best of the
victual which the Vale could give was spread on the boards, along with
wine and dainties, bought in Silver-dale, or on the edges of the Westland
with sword-strokes and arrow-flight.</p>
<p>There then they feasted and were merry; and the Sun-beam and Bow-may
and the other women of the Vale served them at table, and were very
blithe with them, caressing them with soft words, and with clipping
and kissing, as folk who were grown exceeding dear to them; so that
that eve of battle was softer and sweeter to them than any hour of their
life.&nbsp; With these feasters were God-swain and Spear-fist of the
delivered thralls of Silver-dale as glad as glad might be; but Wolf-stone
their eldest was gone with Dallach to the Council in the Hall.</p>
<p>The men of Burgdale and the Shepherds feasted otherwhere in all content,
nor lacked folk of the Vale to serve them.&nbsp; Amongst the men of
the Face were the ten delivered thralls who had heart to meet their
masters in arms: seven of them were of Rose-dale and three of Silver-dale.</p>
<p>The Bride was with her kindred of the Steer, with whom were many
men of Shadowy Vale, and she served her friends and fellows clad in
her war-gear, save helm and hauberk, bearing herself as one who is serving
dear guests.&nbsp; And men equalled her for her beauty to the Gods of
the High Place and the Choosers of the Slain; and they who had not beheld
her before marvelled at her, and her loveliness held all men&rsquo;s
hearts in a net of desire, so that they forebore their meat to gaze
upon her; and if perchance her hand touched some young man, or her cheek
or sweet-breathed mouth came nigh to his face, he became bewildered
and wist not where he was, nor what to do.&nbsp; Yet was she as lowly
and simple of speech and demeanour as if she were a gooseherd of fourteen
winters.</p>
<p>In the Hall was a goodly company, and all the leaders of the Folk
were therein, and Folk-might and the War-leader sitting in the midst
of those stone seats on the days.&nbsp; There then they agreed on the
whole ordering of the battle and the wending of the host, as shall be
told later on; and this matter was long a-doing, and when it was done,
men went to their places to sleep, for the night was well worn.</p>
<p>But when men had departed and all was still, Folk-might, light-clad
and without a weapon, left the Hall and walked briskly toward the nether
end of the Vale.&nbsp; He passed by all the tents, the last whereof
were of the House of the Steer, and came to a place where was a great
rock rising straight up from the plain like sheaves of black staves
standing close together; and it was called Staff-stone, and tales of
the elves had been told concerning it, so that Stone-face had beheld
it gladly the day before.</p>
<p>The moon was just shining into Shadowy Vale, and the grass was bright
wheresoever the shadows of the high cliffs were not, and the face of
Staff-stone shone bright grey as Folk-might came within sight of it,
and he beheld someone sitting at the base of the rock, and as he drew
nigher he saw that it was a woman, and knew her for the Bride; for he
had prayed her to abide him there that night, because it was nigh to
the tents of the House of the Steer; and his heart was glad as he drew
nigh to her.</p>
<p>She sat quietly on a fragment of the black rock, clad as she had
been all day, in her glittering kirtle, but without hauberk or helm,
a wreath of wind-flowers about her head, her feet crossed over each
other, her hands laid palm uppermost in her lap.&nbsp; She moved not
as he drew nigh, but said in a gentle voice when he was close to her:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Chief of the Wolf, great warrior, thou wouldest speak with
me; and good it is that friends should talk together on the eve of battle,
when they may never meet alive again.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;My talk shall not be long; for thou and I both must
sleep to-night, since there is work to hand to-morrow.&nbsp; Now since,
as thou sayest, O fairest of women, we may never meet again alive, I
ask thee now at this hour, when we both live and are near to one another,
to suffer me to speak to thee of my love of thee and desire for thee.&nbsp;
Surely thou, who art the sweetest of all things the Gods and the kindreds
have made, wilt not gainsay me this?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said very sweetly, yet smiling: &lsquo;Brother of my father&rsquo;s
sons, how can I gainsay thee thy speech?&nbsp; Nay, hast thou not said
it?&nbsp; What more canst thou add to it that will have fresh meaning
to mine ears?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;Thou sayest sooth: might I then but kiss thine hand?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said, no longer smiling: &lsquo;Yea surely, even so may all men
do who can be called my friends - and thou art much my friend.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He took her hand and kissed it, and held it thereafter; nor did she
draw it away.&nbsp; The moon shone brightly on them; but by its light
he could not see if she reddened, but he deemed that her face was troubled.&nbsp;
Then he said: &lsquo;It were better for me if I might kiss thy face,
and take thee in mine arms.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then said she: &lsquo;This only shall a man do with me when I long
to do the like with him.&nbsp; And since thou art so much my friend,
I will tell thee that as for this longing, I have it not.&nbsp; Bethink
thee what a little while it is since the lack of another man&rsquo;s
love grieved me sorely.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;The time is short,&rsquo; said Folk-might, &lsquo;if we tell
up the hours thereof; but in that short space have a many things betid.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;Dost thou know, canst thou guess, how sorely ashamed
I went amongst my people?&nbsp; I durst look no man in the face for
the aching of mine heart, which methought all might see through my face.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;I knew it well,&rsquo; he said; &lsquo;yet of me wert thou
not ashamed but a little while ago, when thou didst tell me of thy grief.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;True it is; and thou wert kind to me.&nbsp; Thou
didst become a dear friend to me, methought.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;And wilt thou hurt a dear friend?&rsquo; said he.</p>
<p>&lsquo;O no,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;if I might do otherwise.&nbsp;
Yet how if I might not choose?&nbsp; Shall there be no forgiveness for
me then?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He answered nothing; and still he held her hand that strove not to
be gone from his, and she cast down her eyes.&nbsp; Then he spake in
a while:</p>
<p>&lsquo;My friend, I have been thinking of thee and of me; and now
hearken: if thou wilt declare that thou feelest no sweetness embracing
thine heart when I say that I desire thee sorely, as now I say it; or
when I kiss thine hand, as now I kiss it; or when I pray thee to suffer
me to cast mine arms about thee and kiss thy face, as now I pray it:
if thou wilt say this, then will I take thee by the hand straightway,
and lead thee to the tents of the House of the Steer, and say farewell
to thee till the battle is over.&nbsp; Canst thou say this out of the
truth of thine heart?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;What then if I cannot say this word?&nbsp; What
then?&rsquo;</p>
<p>But he answered nothing; and she sat still a little while, and then
arose and stood before him, looking him in the eyes, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I cannot say it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he caught her in his arms and strained her to him, and then
kissed her lips and her face again and again, and she strove not with
him.&nbsp; But at last she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yet after all this shalt thou lead me back to my folk straight-way;
and when the battle is done, if both we are living, then shall we speak
more thereof.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So he took her hand and led her on toward the tents of the Steer,
and for a while he spake nought; for he doubted himself, what he should
say; but at last he spake:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now is this better for me than if it had not been, whether
I live or whether I die.&nbsp; Yet thou hast not said that thou lovest
me and desirest me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Wilt thou compel me?&rsquo; she said.&nbsp; &lsquo;To-night
I may not say it.&nbsp; Who shall say what words my lips shall fashion
when we stand together victorious in Silver-dale; then indeed may the
time seem long from now.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;Yea, true is that; yet once again I say that so measured
long and long is the time since first I saw thee in Burgdale before
thou knewest me.&nbsp; Yet now I will not bicker with thee, for be sure
that I am glad at heart.&nbsp; And lo you! our feet have brought us
to the tents of thy people.&nbsp; All good go with thee!&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;And with thee, sweet friend,&rsquo; she said.&nbsp; Then she
lingered a little, turning her head toward the tents, and then turned
her face toward him and laid her hand on his neck, and drew his head
adown to her and kissed his cheek, and therewith swiftly and lightly
departed from him.</p>
<p>Now the night wore and the morning came; and Face-of-god was abroad
very early in the morning, as his custom was; and he washed the night
from off him in the Carles&rsquo; Bath of the Shivering Flood, and then
went round through the encampment of the host, and saw none stirring
save here and there the last watchmen of the night.&nbsp; He spake with
one or two of these, and then went up to the head of the Vale, where
was the pass that led to Silver-dale; and there he saw the watch, and
spake with them, and they told him that none had as yet come forth from
the pass, and he bade them to blow the horn of warning to rouse up the
Host as soon as the messengers came thence.&nbsp; For forerunners had
been sent up the pass, and had been set to hold watch at divers places
therein to pass on the word from place to place.</p>
<p>Thence went Face-of-god back toward the Hall; but when he was yet
some way from it, he saw a slender glittering warrior come forth from
the door thereof, who stood for a moment looking round about, and then
came lightly and swiftly toward him; and lo! it was the Sun-beam, with
a long hauberk over her kirtle falling below her knees, a helm on her
head and plated shoes on her feet.&nbsp; She came up to him, and laid
her hand to his cheek and the golden locks of his head (for he was bare-headed),
and said to him, smiling:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Gold-mane! thou badest me bear arms, and Folk-might also constrained
me thereto.&nbsp; Lo thou!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Folk-might is wise then, even as I am; and
forsooth as thou art.&nbsp; For bethink thee if the bow drawn at a venture
should speed the eyeless shaft against thy breast, and send me forth
a wanderer from my Folk!&nbsp; For how could I bear the sight of the
fair Dale, and no hope to see thee again therein?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;The heart is light within me to-day.&nbsp; Deemest
thou that this is strange?&nbsp; Or dost thou call to mind that which
thou spakest the other day, that it was of no avail to stand in the
Doom-ring of the Folk and bear witness against ourselves?&nbsp; This
will I not.&nbsp; This is no light-mindedness that thou beholdest in
me, but the valiancy that the Fathers have set in mine heart.&nbsp;
Deem not, O Gold-mane, fear not, that we shall die before they dight
the bride-bed for us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He would have kissed her mouth, but she put him away with her hand,
and doffed her helm and laid it on the grass, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;This is not the last time that thou shalt kiss me, Gold-mane,
my dear; and yet I long for it as if it were, so high as the Fathers
have raised me up this morn above fear and sadness.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said nought, but drew her to him, and wonder so moved him, that
he looked long and closely at her face before he kissed her; and forsooth
he could find no blemish in it: it was as if it were but new come from
the smithy of the Gods, and exceeding longing took hold of him.&nbsp;
But even as their lips met, from the head of the Vale came the voice
of the great horn; and it was answered straightway by the watchers all
down the tents; and presently arose the shouts of men and the clash
of weapons as folk armed themselves, and laughter therewith, for most
men were battle-merry, and the cries of women shrilly-clear as they
hastened about, busy over the morning meal before the departure of the
Host.&nbsp; But Face-of-god said softly, still caressing the Sun-beam,
and she him:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thus then we depart from this Valley of the Shadows, but as
thou saidst when first we met therein, there shall be no sundering of
thee and me, but thou shalt go down with me to the battle.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And he led her by the hand into the Hall of the Wolf, and there they
ate a morsel, and thereafter Face-of-god tarried not, but busied himself
along with Folk-might and the other chieftains in arraying the Host
for departure.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLI.&nbsp; THE HOST DEPARTETH FROM SHADOWY VALE: THE FIRST
DAY&rsquo;S JOURNEY</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>It was about three hours before noon that the Host began to enter
into the pass out of Shadowy Vale by the river-side; and the women and
children, and men unfightworthy, stood on the higher ground at the foot
of the cliffs to see the Host wend on the way.&nbsp; Of these a many
were of the Woodlanders, who were now one folk with them of Shadowy
Vale.&nbsp; And all these had chosen to abide tidings in the Vale, deeming
that there was little danger therein, since that last slaughter which
Folk-might had made of the Dusky Men; albeit Face-of-god had offered
to send them all to Burgstead with two score and ten men-at-arms to
guard them by the way and to eke out the warders of the Burg.</p>
<p>Now the fighting-men of Shadowy Vale were two long hundreds lacking
five; of whom two score and ten were women, and three score and ten
lads under twenty winters; but the women, though you might scarce see
fairer of face and body, were doughty in arms, all good shooters in
the bow; and the swains were eager and light-foot, cragsmen of the best,
wont to scaling the cliffs of the Vale in search of the nests of gerfalcons
and such-like fowl, and swimming the strong streams of the Shivering
Flood; tough bodies and wiry, stronger than most grown men, and as fearless
as the best.</p>
<p>The order of the Departure of the Host was this:</p>
<p>The Woodlanders went first into the pass, and with them were two
score of the ripe Warriors of the Wolf.&nbsp; Then came of the kindreds
of Burgdale, the Men of the Steer, the Bridge, and the Bull; then the
Men of the Vine and the Sickle; then the Shepherd-folk; and lastly,
the Men of the Face led by Stone-face and Hall-face.&nbsp; With these
went another two score of the dwellers in Shadowy Vale, and the rest
were scattered up and down the bands of the Host to guide them into
the best paths and to make the way easier to them.&nbsp; Face-of-god
was sundered from his kindred, and went along with Folk-might in the
forefront of the Host, while his father the Alderman went as a simple
man-at-arms with his House in the rearward.&nbsp; The Sun-beam followed
her brother and Face-of-god amidst the Warriors of the Wolf, and with
her were Bow-may clad in the Alderman&rsquo;s gift, and Wood-father
and his children.&nbsp; Bow-may had caused her to doff her hauberk for
that day, whereon they looked to fall in with no foeman.&nbsp; As for
the Bride, she went with her kindred in all her war-gear; and the morning
sun shone in the gems of her apparel, and her jewelled feet fell like
flowers upon the deep grass of the upper Vale, and shone strange and
bright amongst the black stones of the pass.&nbsp; She bore a quiver
at her back and a shining yew bow in her hand, and went amongst the
bowmen, for she was a very deft archer.</p>
<p>So fared they into the pass, leaving peace behind them, with all
their banners displayed, and the banner of the Red-mouthed Wolf went
with the Wolf and the Sun-burst in the forefront of their battle next
after the two captains.</p>
<p>As for their road, the grassy space between the rock-wall and the
water was wide and smooth at first, and the cliffs rose up like bundles
of spear-shafts high and clear from the green grass with no confused
litter of fallen stones; so that the men strode on briskly, their hearts
high-raised and full of hope.&nbsp; And as they went, the sweetness
of song stirred in their souls, and at last Bow-may fell to singing
in a loud clear voice, and her cousin Wood-wise answered her, and all
the warriors of the Wolf who were in their band fell into the song at
the ending, and the sound of their melody went down the water and reached
the ears of those that were entering the pass, and of those who were
abiding till the way should be clear of them: and this is some of what
they sang:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p><i>Bow-may singeth:</i></p>
<p>Hear ye never a voice come crying<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Out from
the waste where the winds fare wide?<br />&lsquo;Sons of the Wolf, the
days are dying,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And where in the clefts of the
rocks do ye hide?</p>
<p>&lsquo;Into your hands hath the Sword been given,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Hard
are the palms with the kiss of the hilt;<br />Through the trackless
waste hath the road been riven<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For the blade
to seek to the heart of the guilt.</p>
<p>&lsquo;And yet ye bide and yet ye tarry;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Dear
deem ye the sleep &rsquo;twixt hearth and board,<br />And sweet the
maiden mouths ye marry,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And bright the blade
of the bloodless sword.&rsquo;</p>
<p><i>Wood-wise singeth:</i></p>
<p>Yea, here we dwell in the arms of our Mother<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
Shadowy Queen, and the hope of the Waste;<br />Here first we came, when
never another<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Adown the rocky stair made haste.</p>
<p>Far is the foe, and no sword beholdeth<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;What
deed we work and whither we wend;<br />Dear are the days, and the Year
enfoldeth<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The love of our life from end to end.</p>
<p>Voice of our Fathers, why will ye move us,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
call up the sun our swords to behold?<br />Why will ye cry on the foeman
to prove us?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Why will ye stir up the heart of
the bold?</p>
<p><i>Bow-may singeth:</i></p>
<p>Purblind am I, the voice of the chiding;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Then
tell me what is the thing ye bear?<br />What is the gift that your hands
are hiding,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The gold-adorned, the dread and dear?</p>
<p><i>Wood-wise singeth:</i></p>
<p>Dark in the sheath lies the Anvil&rsquo;s Brother,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Hid
is the hammered Death of Men.<br />Would ye look on the gift of the
green-clad Mother?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;How then shall ye ask for
a gift again?</p>
<p><i>The Warriors sing:</i></p>
<p>Show we the Sunlight the Gift of the Mother,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As
foot follows foot to the foeman&rsquo;s den!<br />Gleam Sun, breathe
Wind, on the Anvil&rsquo;s Brother,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For bare
is the hammered Death of Men.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Therewith they shook their naked swords in the air, and fared on
eagerly, and as swiftly as the pass would have them fare.&nbsp; But
so it was, that when the rearward of the Host was entering the first
of the pass, and was going on the wide smooth sward, the vanward was
gotten to where there was but a narrow space clear betwixt water and
cliff; for otherwhere was a litter of great rocks and small, hard to
be threaded even by those who knew the passes well; so that men had
to tread along the very verge of the Shivering Flood, and wary must
they be, for the water ran swift and deep betwixt banks of sheer rock
half a fathom below their very foot-soles, which had but bare space
to go on the narrow a way.&nbsp; So it held on for a while, and then
got safer, and there was more space for going betwixt cliff and flood;
albeit it was toilsome enough, since for some way yet there was a drift
of stones to cumber their feet, some big and some little, and some very
big.&nbsp; After a while the way grew better, though here and there,
where the cliffs lowered, were wide screes of loose stones that they
must needs climb up and down.&nbsp; Thereafter for a space was there
an end of the stony cumber, but the way betwixt the river and the cliffs
narrowed again, and the black crags grew higher, and at last so exceeding
high, and the way so narrow, that the sky overhead was to them as though
they were at the bottom of a well, and men deemed that thence they could
see the stars at noontide.&nbsp; For some time withal had the way been
mounting up and up, though the cliffs grew higher over it; till at last
they were but going on a narrow shelf, the Shivering Flood swirling
and rattling far below them betwixt sheer rock-walls grown exceeding
high; and above them the cliffs going up towards the heavens as black
as a moonless starless night of winter.&nbsp; And as the flood thundered
below, so above them roared the ceaseless thunder of the wind of the
pass, that blew exceeding fierce down that strait place; so that the
skirts of their garments were wrapped about their knees by it, and their
feet were well-nigh stayed at whiles as they breasted the push thereof.</p>
<p>But as they mounted higher and higher yet, the noise of the waters
swelled into a huge roar that drowned the bellowing of the prisoned
wind, and down the pass came drifting a fine rain that fell not from
the sky, for between the clouds of that drift could folk see the heavens
bright and blue above them.&nbsp; This rain was but the spray of the
great force up to whose steps they were climbing.</p>
<p>Now the way got rougher as they mounted; but this toil was caused
by their gain; for the rock-wall, which thrust out a buttress there
as if it would have gone to the very edge of the gap where-through the
flood ran, and so have cut the way off utterly, was here somewhat broken
down, and its stones scattered down the steep bent, so that there was
a passage, though a toilsome one.</p>
<p>Thus then through the wind-borne drift of the great force, through
which men could see the white waters tossing down below, amidst the
clattering thunder of the Shivering Flood and the rumble of the wind
of the gap, that tore through their garments and hair as if it would
rend all to rags and bear it away, the banners of the Wolf won their
way to the crest of the midmost height of the pass, and the long line
of the Host came clambering after them; and each band of warriors as
it reached the top cast an unheard shout from amidst the tangled fury
of wind and waters.</p>
<p>A little further on and all that turmoil was behind them; the sun,
now grown low, smote the wavering column of spray from the force at
their backs, till the rainbows lay bright across it; and the sunshine
lay wide over a little valley that sloped somewhat steeply to the west
right up from the edge of the river; and beyond these western slopes
could men see a low peak spreading down on all sides to the plain, till
it was like to a bossed shield, and the name of it was Shield-broad.&nbsp;
Dark grey was the valley everywhere, save that by the side of the water
was a space of bright green-sward hedged about toward the mountain by
a wall of rocks tossed up into wild shapes of spires and jagged points.&nbsp;
The river itself was spread out wide and shallow, and went rattling
about great grey rocks scattered here and there amidst it, till it gathered
itself together to tumble headlong over three slant steps into the mighty
gap below.</p>
<p>From the height in the pass those grey slopes seemed easy to traverse;
but the warriors of the Wolf knew that it was far otherwise, for they
were but the molten rock-sea that in time long past had flowed forth
from Shield-broad and filled up the whole valley endlong and overthwart,
cooling as it flowed, and the tumbled hedge of rock round about the
green plain by the river was where the said rock-sea had been stayed
by meeting with soft ground, and had heaped itself up round about the
green-sward.&nbsp; And that great rock-flood as it cooled split in divers
fashions; and the rain and weather had been busy on it for ages, so
that it was worn into a maze of narrow paths, most of which, after a
little, brought the wayfarer to a dead stop, or else led him back again
to the place whence he had started; so that only those who knew the
passes throughly could thread that maze without immeasurable labour.</p>
<p>Now when the men of the Host looked from the high place whereon they
stood toward the green plain by the river, they saw on the top of that
rock-wall a red pennon waving on a spear, and beside it three or four
weaponed men gleaming bright in the evening sun; and they waved their
swords to the Host, and made lightning of the sunbeams, and the men
of the Host waved swords to them in turn.&nbsp; For these were the outguards
of the Host; and the place whereon they were was at whiles dwelt in
by those who would drive the spoil in Silver-dale, and midmost of the
green-sward was a booth builded of rough stones and turf, a refuge for
a score of men in rough weather.</p>
<p>So the men of the vanward gat them down the hill, and made the best
of their way toward the grassy plain through that rocky maze which had
once been as a lake of molten glass; and as short as the way looked
from above, it was two hours or ever they came out of it on to the smooth
turf, and it was moonlight and night ere the House of the Face had gotten
on to the green-sward.</p>
<p>There then the Host abode for that night, and after they had eaten
lay down on the green grass and slept as they might.&nbsp; Bow-may would
have brought the Sun-beam into the booth with some others of the women,
but she would not enter it, because she deemed that otherwise the Bride
would abide without; and the Bride, when she came up, along with the
House of the Steer, beheld the Sun-beam, that Wood-father&rsquo;s children
had made a lair for her without like a hare&rsquo;s form; and forsooth
many a time had she lain under the naked heaven in Shadowy Vale and
the waste about it, even as the Bride had in the meadows of Burgdale.&nbsp;
So when the Bride was bidden thereto, she went meekly into the booth,
and lay there with others of the damsels-at-arms.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLII.&nbsp; THE HOST COMETH TO THE EDGES OF SILVER-DALE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>So wore the night, and when the dawn was come were the two captains
afoot, and they went from band to band to see that all was ready, and
all men were astir betimes, and by the time that the sun smote the eastern
side of Shield-broad ruddy, they had broken their fast and were dight
for departure.&nbsp; Then the horns blew up beside the banners, and
rejoiced the hearts of men.&nbsp; But by the command of the captains
this was the last time that they should sound till they blew for onset
in Silver-dale, because now would they be drawing nigher and nigher
to the foemen, and they wotted not but that wandering bands of them
might be hard on the lips of the pass, and might hear the horns&rsquo;
voice, and turn to see what was toward.</p>
<p>Forth then went the banners of the Wolf, and the men of the vanward
fell to threading the rock-maze toward the north, and in two hours&rsquo;
time were clear of the Dale under Shield-broad.&nbsp; All went in the
same order as yesterday; but on this day the Sun-beam would bear her
hauberk, and had a sword girt to her side, and her heart was high and
her speech merry.</p>
<p>When they left the Dale under Shield-broad the way was easy and wide
for a good way, the river flowing betwixt low banks, and the pass being
more like a string of little valleys than a mere gap, as it had been
on the other side of the Dale.&nbsp; But when one third of the day was
past, the way began to narrow on them again, and to rise up little by
little; and at last the rock-walls drew close to the river, and when
men looked toward the north they saw no way, and nought but a wall.&nbsp;
For the gap of the Shivering Flood turned now to the east, and the Flood
came down from the east in many falls, as it were over a fearful stair,
through a gap where there was no path between the cliffs and the water,
nought but the boiling flood and its turmoil; so that they who knew
not the road wondered what they should do.</p>
<p>But Folk-might led the banners to where a great buttress of the cliffs
thrust itself into the way, coming well-nigh down to the water, just
at the corner where the river turned eastward, and they got them about
it as they might, and on the other side thereof lo! another gap exceeding
strait, scarce twenty foot over, wall-sided, rugged beyond measure,
going up steeply from the great valley: a little water ran through it,
mostly filling up the floor of it from side to side; but it was but
shallow.&nbsp; This was now the battle-road of the Host, and the vanward
entered it at once, turning their backs upon the Shivering Flood.</p>
<p>Full toilsome and dreary was that strait way; often great stones
hung above their heads, bridging the gap and hiding the sky from them;
nor was there any path for them save the stream itself; so that whiles
were they wading its waters to the knee or higher, and whiles were they
striding from stone to stone amidst the rattle of the waters, and whiles
were they stepping warily along the ledges of rock above the deeper
pools, and in all wise labouring in overcoming the rugged road amidst
the twilight of the gap.</p>
<p>Thus they toiled till the afternoon was well worn, and so at last
they came to where the rock-wall was somewhat broken down on the north
side, and great rocks had fallen across the gap, and dammed up the waters,
which fell scantily over the dam from stone to stone into a pool at
the bottom of it.&nbsp; Up this breach, then, below the force they scrambled
and struggled, for rough indeed was the road for them; and so came they
up out of the gap on to the open hill-side, a great shoulder of the
heath sloping down from the north, and littered over with big stones,
borne thither belike by some ice-river of the earlier days; and one
great rock was in special as great as the hall of a wealthy goodman,
and shapen like to a hall with hipped gables, which same the men of
the Wolf called House-stone.</p>
<p>There then the noise and clatter of the vanward rose up on the face
of the heath, and men were exceeding joyous that they had come so far
without mishap.&nbsp; Therewith came weaponed men out from under House-stone,
and they came toward the men of the vanward, and they were a half-score
of the forerunners of the Wolf; therefore Folk-might and Face-of-god
fell at once into speech with them, and had their tidings; and when
they had heard them, they saw nought to hinder the host from going on
their road to Silver-dale forthright; and there were still three hours
of daylight before them.&nbsp; So the vanward of the host tarried not,
and the captains left word with the men from under House-stone that
the rest of the Host should fare on after them speedily, and that they
should give this word to each company, as men came up from out the gap.&nbsp;
Then they fared speedily up the hillside, and in an hour&rsquo;s wearing
had come to the crest thereof, and to where the ground fell steadily
toward the north, and hereabout the scattered stones ceased, and on
the other side of the crest the heath began to be soft and boggy, and
at last so soft, that if they had not been wisely led, they had been
bemired oftentimes.&nbsp; At last they came to where the flows that
trickled through the mires drew together into a stream, so that men
could see it running; and thereon some of the Woodlanders cried out
joyously that the waters were running north; and then all knew that
they were drawing nigh to Silver-dale.</p>
<p>No man they met on the road, nor did they of Shadowy Vale look to
meet any; because the Dusky Men were not great hunters for the more
part, except it were of men, and especially of women; and, moreover,
these hill-slopes of the mountain-necks led no-whither and were utterly
waste and dreary, and there was nought to be seen there but snipes and
bitterns and whimbrel and plover, and here and there a hill-fox, or
the great erne hanging over the heath on his way to the mountain.</p>
<p>When sunset came, they were getting clear of the miry ground, and
the stream which they had come across amidst of the mires had got clearer
and greater, and rattled down between wide stony sides over the heath;
and here and there it deepened as it cleft its way through little knolls
that rose out of the face of the mountain-neck.&nbsp; As the Host climbed
one of these and was come to its topmost (it was low enough not to turn
the stream), Face-of-god looked and beheld dark-blue mountains rising
up far off before him, and higher than these, but away to the east,
the snowy peaks of the World-mountains.&nbsp; Then he called to mind
what he had seen from the Burg of the Runaways, and he took Folk-might
by the arm, and pointed toward those far-off mountains.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Folk-might, &lsquo;so it is, War-leader.&nbsp;
Silver-dale lieth between us and yonder blue ridges, and it is far nigher
to us than to them.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But the Sun-beam came close to those twain, and took Face-of-god
by the hand and said: &lsquo;O Gold-mane, dost thou see?&rsquo; and
he turned about and beheld her, and saw how her cheeks flamed and her
eyes glittered, and he said in a low voice: &lsquo;To-morrow for mirth
or silence, for life or death.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But the whole vanward as they came up stayed to behold the sight
of the mountains on the other side of Silver-dale, and the banners of
the Folk hung over their heads, moving but little in the soft air of
the evening: so went they on their ways.</p>
<p>The sun sank, and dusk came on them as they followed down the stream,
and night came, and was clear and starlit, though the moon was not yet
risen.&nbsp; Now was the ground firm and the grass sweet and flowery,
and wind-worn bushes were scattered round about them, as they began
to go down into the ghyll that cleft the wall of Silver-dale, and the
night-wind blew in their faces from the very Dale and place of the Battle
to be.&nbsp; The path down was steep at first, but the ghyll was wide,
and the sides of it no longer straight walls, as in the gaps of their
earlier journey, but broken, sloping back, and (as they might see on
the morrow) partly of big stones and shaly grit, partly grown over with
bushes and rough grass, with here and there a little stream trickling
down their sides.&nbsp; As they went, the ghyll widened out, till at
last they were in a valley going down to the plain, in places steep,
in places flat and smooth, the stream ever rattling down the midst of
it, and they on the west side thereof.&nbsp; The vale was well grassed,
and oak-trees and ash and holly and hazel grew here and there about
it; and at last the Host had before it a wood which filled the vale
from side to side, not much tangled with undergrowth, and quite clear
of it nigh to the stream-side.&nbsp; Thereinto the vanward entered,
but went no long way ere the leaders called a halt and bade pitch the
banners, for that there should they abide the daylight.&nbsp; Thus it
had been determined at the Council of the Hall of the Wolf; for Folk-might
had said: &lsquo;With an Host as great as ours, and mostly of men come
into a land of which they know nought at all, an onslaught by night
is perilous: yea, and our foes should be over-much scattered, and we
should have to wander about seeking them.&nbsp; Let us rather abide
in the wood of Wood-dale till the morning, and then display our banners
on the hill-side above Silver-dale, so that they may gather together
to fall upon us: in no case shall they keep us out of the Dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>There then they stayed, and as each company came up to the wood,
they were marshalled into their due places, so that they might set the
battle in array on the edge of Silver-dale,</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLIII.&nbsp; FACE-OF-GOD LOOKETH ON SILVER-DALE: THE BOWMEN&rsquo;S
BATTLE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>There then they rested, as folk wearied with the toilsome journey,
when they had set sure watches round about their campment; and they
ate quietly what meat they had with them, and so gat them to sleep in
the wood on the eve of battle.</p>
<p>But not all slept; for the two captains went about amongst the companies,
Folk-might to the east, Face-of-god to the west, to look to the watches,
and to see that all was ordered duly.&nbsp; Also the Sun-beam slept
not, but she lay beside Bow-may at the foot of an oak-tree; she watched
Face-of-god as he went away amidst the men of the Host, and watched
and waked abiding his returning footsteps.</p>
<p>The night was well worn by then he came back to his place in the
vanward, and on his way back he passed through the folk of the Steer
laid along on the grass, all save those of the watch, and the light
of the moon high aloft was mingled with the light of the earliest dawn;
and as it happed he looked down, and lo! close to his feet the face
of the Bride as she lay beside her grand-sire, her head pillowed on
a bundle of bracken.&nbsp; She was sleeping soundly like a child who
has been playing all day, and whose sleep has come to him unsought and
happily.&nbsp; Her hands were laid together by her side; her cheek was
as fair and clear as it was wont to be at her best; her face looked
calm and happy, and a lock of her dark-red hair strayed from her uncovered
head over her breast and lay across her wrists, so peacefully she slept.</p>
<p>Face-of-god turned his eyes from her at once, and went by swiftly,
and came to his own company.&nbsp; The Sun-beam saw him coming, and
rose straightway to her feet from beside Bow-may, who lay fast asleep,
and she held out her hands to him; and he took them and kissed them,
and he cast his arms about her and kissed her mouth and her face, and
she his in likewise; and she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O Gold-mane, if this were but the morrow of to-morrow!&nbsp;
Yet shall all be well; shall it not?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Her voice was low, but it waked Bow-may, who sat up at once broad
awake, after the manner of a hunter of the waste ever ready for the
next thing to betide, and moreover the Sun-beam had been in her thoughts
these two days, and she feared for her, lest she should be slain or
maimed.&nbsp; Now she smiled on the Sun-beam and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;What is it?&nbsp; Does thy mind forebode evil?&nbsp; That
needeth not.&nbsp; I tell thee it is not so ill for us of the sword
to be in Silver-dale.&nbsp; Thrice have I been there since the Overthrow,
and never more than a half-score in company, and yet am I whole to-day.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, sister,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;but in past times
ye did your deed and then fled away; but now we come to abide here,
and this night is the last of lurking.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Ah,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;a little way from this I saw such
things that we had good will to abide here longer, few as we were, but
that we feared to be taken alive.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;What things were these?&rsquo; said Face-of-god.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;I will not tell thee now; but
mayhap in the lighted winter feast-hall, when the kindred are so nigh
us and about us that they seem to us as if they were all the world,
I may tell it thee; or mayhap I never shall.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said the Sun-beam, smiling: &lsquo;Thou wilt ever be talking, Bow-may.&nbsp;
Now let the War-leader depart, for he will have much to do.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And she was well at ease that she had seen Face-of-god again; but
he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay, not so much; all is well-nigh done; in an hour it will
be broad day, and two hours thereafter shall the Banner be displayed
on the edge of Silver-dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The cheek of the Sun-beam flushed, and paled again, as she said:
&lsquo;Yea, we shall stand even as our Fathers stood on the day when,
coming from off the waste, they beheld it, and knew it would be theirs.&nbsp;
Ah me! how have I longed for this morn.&nbsp; But now - Tell me, Gold-mane,
dost thou deem that I am afraid?&nbsp; And I whom thou hast deemed to
be a God.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Quoth Bow-may: &lsquo;Thou shalt deem her twice a God ere noon-tide,
brother Gold-mane.&nbsp; But come now! the hour of deadly battle is
at hand, and we may not laugh that away; and therefore I bid thee remember,
Gold-mane, how thou didst promise to kiss me once more on the verge
of deadly battle.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she stood up before him, and he tarried not, but kind and
smiling took her face between his two hands and kissed her lips, and
she cast her arms about him and kissed him, and then sank down on the
grass again, and turned from him, and laid her face amongst the grass
and the bracken, and they could see that she was weeping, and her body
was shaken with sobs.&nbsp; But the Sun-beam knelt down to her, and
caressed her with her hand, and spake kind words to her softly, while
Face-of-god went his ways to meet Folk-might.</p>
<p>Now was the dawn fading into full daylight; and between dawn and
sunrise were all men stirring; for the watch had waked the hundred-leaders,
and they the leaders of scores and half-scores, and they the whole folk;
and they sat quietly in the wood and made no noise.</p>
<p>In the night the watch of the Sickle had fallen in with a thrall
who had stolen up from the Dale to set gins for hares, and now in the
early morning they brought him to the War-leader.&nbsp; He was even
such a man as those with whom Face-of-god had fallen in before, neither
better nor worse than most of them: he was sore afraid at first, but
by then he was come to the captains he understood that he had happened
upon friends; but he was dull of comprehension and slow of speech.&nbsp;
Albeit Folk-might gathered from him that the Dusky Men had some inkling
of the onslaught; for he said that they had been gathering together
in the marketplace of Silver-stead, and would do so again soon.&nbsp;
Moreover, the captains deemed from his speech that those new tribes
had come to hand sooner than was looked for, and were even now in the
Dale.&nbsp; Folk-might smiled as one who is not best pleased when he
heard these tidings; but Face-of-god was glad to hear thereof; for what
he loathed most was that the war should drag out in hunting of scattered
bands of the foe.&nbsp; Herewith came Dallach to them as they talked
(for Face-of-god had sent for him), and he fell to questioning the man
further; by whose answers it seemed that many men also had come into
the Dale from Rose-dale, so that they of the kindreds were like to have
their hands full.&nbsp; Lastly Dallach drew from the thrall that it
was on that very morning that the great Folk-mote of the Dusky Men should
be holden in the market-place of the Stead, which was right great, and
about it were the biggest of the houses wherein the men of the kindred
had once dwelt.</p>
<p>So when they had made an end of questioning the thrall, and had given
him meat and drink, they asked him if he would take weapons in his hand
and lead them on the ways into the Dale, bidding him look about the
wood and note how great and mighty an host they were.&nbsp; And the
carle yeasaid this, after staring about him a while, and they gave him
spear and shield, and he went with the vanward as a way-leader.</p>
<p>Again presently came a watch of the Shepherds, and they had found
a man and a woman dead and stark naked hanging to the boughs of a great
oak-tree deep in the wood.&nbsp; This men knew for some vengeance of
the Dusky Men, for it was clear to see that these poor people had been
sorely tormented before they were slain.&nbsp; Also the same watch had
stumbled on the dead body of an old woman, clad in rags, lying amongst
the rank grass about a little flow; she was exceeding lean and hunger-starved,
and in her hand was a frog which she had half eaten.&nbsp; And Dallach,
when he heard of this, said that it was the wont of the Dusky Men to
slay their thralls when they were past work, or to drive them into the
wilderness to die.</p>
<p>Lastly came a watch from the men of the Face, having with them two
more thralls, lusty young men; these they had come upon in company of
their master, who had brought them up into the wood to shoot him a buck,
and therefore they bare bows and arrows.&nbsp; The watch had slain the
master straightway while the thralls stood looking on.&nbsp; They were
much afraid of the weaponed men, but answered to the questioning much
readier than the first man; for they were household thralls, and better
fed and clad than he, who was but a toiler in the fields.&nbsp; They
yeasaid all his tale, and said moreover that the Folk-mote of the Dusky
Men should be holden in the market-place that forenoon, and that most
of the warriors should be there, both the new-comers and the Rose-dale
lords, and that without doubt they should be under arms.</p>
<p>To these men also they gave a good sword and a helm each, and bade
them be brisk with their bows, and they said yea to marching with the
Host; and indeed they feared nothing so much as being left behind; for
if they fell into the hands of the Dusky Men, and their master missing,
they should first be questioned with torments, and then slain in the
evillest manner.</p>
<p>Now whereas things had thus betid, and that they knew thus much of
their foemen, Face-of-god called all the chieftains together, and they
sat on the green grass and held counsel amongst them, and to one and
all it seemed good that they should suffer the Dusky Men to gather together
before they meddled with them, and then fall upon them in such order
and such time as should seem good to the captains watching how things
went; and this would be easy, whereas they were all lying in the wood
in the same order as they would stand in battle-array if they were all
drawn up together on the brow of the hill.&nbsp; Albeit Face-of-god
deemed it good, after he had heard all that they who had been in the
Stead could tell him thereof, that the Shepherd-Folk, who were more
than three long hundreds, and they of the Steer, the Bridge, and the
Bull, four hundreds in all, should take their places eastward of the
Woodlanders who had led the vanward.</p>
<p>Straightway the word was borne to these men, and the shift was made:
so that presently the Woodlanders were amidmost of the Host, and had
with them on their right hands the Men of the Steer, the Bridge, and
the Bull, and beyond them the Shepherd-Folk.&nbsp; But on their left
hand lay the Men of the Vine, then they of the Sickle, and lastly the
Men of the Face, and these three kindreds were over five hundreds of
warriors: as for the Men of the Wolf, they abode at first with those
companies which they had led through the wastes, though this was changed
afterwards.</p>
<p>All this being done, Face-of-god gave out that all men should break
their fast in peace and leisure; and while men were at their meat, Folk-might
spake to Face-of-god and said: &lsquo;Come, brother, for I would show
thee a goodly thing; and thou, Dallach, come with us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he brought them by paths in the wood till Face-of-god saw the
sky shine white between the tree-boles, and in a little while they were
come well-nigh out of the thicket, and then they went warily; for before
them was nought but the slopes of Wood-dale, going down steeply into
Silver-dale, with nought to hinder the sight of it, save here and there
bushes or scattered trees; and so fair and lovely it was that Face-of-god
could scarce forbear to cry out.&nbsp; He saw that it was only at the
upper or eastern end, where the mountains of the Waste went round about
it, that the Dale was narrow; it soon widened out toward the west, and
for the most part was encompassed by no such straight-sided a wall as
was Burgdale, but by sloping hills and bents, mostly indeed somewhat
higher and steeper than the pass wherein they were, but such as men
could well climb if they had a mind to, and there were any end to their
journey.&nbsp; The Dale went due west a good way, and then winded about
to the southwest, and so was hidden from them thereaway by the bents
that lay on their left hand.&nbsp; As it was wider, so it was not so
plain a ground as was Burgdale, but rose in knolls and little hills
here and there.&nbsp; A river greater than the Weltering Water wound
about amongst the said mounds; and along the side of it out in the open
dale were many goodly houses and homesteads of stone.&nbsp; The knolls
were mostly covered over with vines, and there were goodly and great
trees in groves and clumps, chiefly oak and sweet chestnut and linden;
many were the orchards, now in blossom, about the homesteads; the pastures
of the neat and horses spread out bright green up from the water-side,
and deeper green showed the acres of the wheat on the lower slopes of
the knolls, and in wide fields away from the river.</p>
<p>Just below the pitch of the hill whereon they were, lay Silver-stead,
the town of the Dale.&nbsp; Hitherto it had been an unfenced place;
but Folk-might pointed to where on the western side a new white wall
was rising, and on which, young as the day yet was, men were busy laying
the stones and spreading the mortar.&nbsp; Fair seemed that town to
Face-of-god: the houses were all builded of stone, and some of the biggest
were roofed with lead, which also as well as silver was dug out of the
mountains at the eastern end of the Dale.&nbsp; The market-place was
clear to see from where they stood, though there were houses on all
sides of it, so wide it was.&nbsp; From their standing-place it was
but three furlongs to this heart of Silver-dale; and Face-of-god could
see brightly-clad men moving about in it already.&nbsp; High above their
heads he beheld two great clots of scarlet and yellow raised on poles
and pitched in front of a great stone-built hall roofed with lead, which
stood amidmost of the west end of the Place, and betwixt those poles
he saw on a mound with long slopes at its sides somewhat of white stone,
and amidmost of the whole Place a great stack of faggot-wood built up
four-square.&nbsp; Those red and yellow things on the poles he deemed
would be the banners of the murder-carles; and Folk-might told him that
even so it was, and that they were but big bunches of strips of woollen
cloth, much like to great ragmops, save that the rags were larger and
longer: no other token of war, said Folk-might, did those folk carry,
save a crookbladed sword, smeared with man&rsquo;s blood, and bigger
than any man might wield in battle.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Art thou far-seeing, War-leader?&rsquo; quoth he.&nbsp; &lsquo;What
canst thou see in the market-place?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Far-seeing am I above most men, and I see
in the Place a man in scarlet standing by the banner, which is pitched
in front of the great stone hall, near to the mound with the white stone
on it; and meseemeth he beareth a great horn in his hand.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Folk-might: &lsquo;Yea, and that stone hall was our Mote-house
when we were lords of the Dale, and thence it was that they who are
now thralls of the Dusky Men sent to them their message and token of
yielding.&nbsp; And as for that white stone, it is the altar of their
god; for they have but one, and he is that same crook-bladed sword.&nbsp;
And now that I look, I see a great stack of wood amidmost the market-place,
and well I know what that betokeneth.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Lo you!&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;the man with the horn
is gone up on to the altar-mound, and meseemeth he is setting the little
end of the horn to his mouth.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hearken then!&rsquo; said Folk-might.&nbsp; And in a moment
came the hoarse tuneless sound of the horn down the wind towards them;
and Folk-might said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;I deem I should know what that blast meaneth; and now is it
time that the Host drew nigher to set them in array behind these very
trees.&nbsp; But if ye will, War-leader, we will abide here and watch
the ways of the foemen, and send Dallach with the word to the Host;
also I would have thee suffer me to bid hither at once two score and
ten of the best of the bowmen of our folk and the Woodlanders, and Wood-wise
to lead them, for he knoweth well the land hereabout, and what is good
to do.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is good,&rsquo; said Face-of-god.&nbsp; &lsquo;Be speedy,
Dallach!&rsquo;</p>
<p>So Dallach departed, running lightly, and the two chiefs abode there;
and the horn in Silver-stead blew at whiles for a little, and then stayed;
and Folk-might said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Lo you! they come flockmeal to the Mote-stead; the Place will
be filled ere long.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Will they make offerings to their god at
the hallowing in of their Folk-mote?&nbsp; Where then are the slaughter-beasts?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;They shall not long be lacking,&rsquo; said Folk-might.&nbsp;
&lsquo;See you it is getting thronged about the altar and the Mote-house.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Now there were four ways into the Market-place of Silver-stead turned
toward the four a&iacute;rts, and the midmost of the kindreds&rsquo;
battle looked right down the southern one, which went up to the wood,
but stopped there in a mere woodland path, and the more part of the
town lay north and west of this way, albeit there was a way from the
east also.&nbsp; But the hill-side just below the two captains lay two
furlongs west of this southern way; and it went down softly till it
was gotten quite near to the backs of the houses on the south side of
the Market-place, and was sprinkled scantly with bushes and trees as
aforesaid; but at last were there more bushes, which well-nigh made
a hedge across it, reaching from the side of the southern way; and a
foot or two beyond these bushes the ground fell by a steep and broken
bent down to the level of the Market-place, and betwixt that fringe
of bushes and the backs of the houses on the south side of the Place
was less it maybe than a full furlong: but the southern road aforesaid
went down softly into the Market-place, since it had been fashioned
so by men.</p>
<p>Now the two chiefs heard a loud blast of horns come up from the town,
and lo! a great crowd of men wending their ways down the road from the
north, and they came into the market-place with spears and other weapons
tossing in the air, and amidst of these men, who seemed to be all of
the warriors, they saw as they drew nigher some two score and ten of
men clad in long raiment of yellow and scarlet, with tall spiring hats
of strange fashion on their heads, and in their hands long staves with
great blades like scythes done on to them; and again, in the midst of
these yellow and red glaive-bearers, in the very heart of the throng
were some score of naked folk, they deemed both men and women, but were
not sure, so close was the throng; nor could they see if they were utterly
naked.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Lo you, brother!&rsquo; quoth Folk-might, &lsquo;said I not
that the beasts for the hewing should not tarry?&nbsp; Yonder naked
folk are even they: and ye may well deem that they are the thralls of
the Dusky Men; and meseemeth by the whiteness of their skins they be
of the best of them.&nbsp; For these felons, it is like, look to winning
great plenty of thralls in Burgdale, and so set the less store on them
they have, and may expend them freely.&rsquo;</p>
<p>As he spake they heard the sound of men marching in the wood behind
them, and they turned about and saw that there was come Wood-wise, and
with him upwards of two score and ten of the bowmen of the Woodlanders
and the Wolf - huntsmen, cragsmen, and scourers of the Waste; men who
could shoot the chaffinch on the twig a hundred yards aloof; who could
make a hiding-place of the bennets of the wayside grass, or the stem
of the slender birch-tree.&nbsp; With these must needs be Bow-may, who
was the closest shooter of all the kindreds.</p>
<p>So then Wood-wise told the War-leader that Dallach had given the
word to the Host, and that all men were astir and would be there presently
in their ordered companies; and Face-of-god spake to Folk-might, and
said: &lsquo;Chief of the Wolf, wilt thou not give command to these
bowmen, and set them to the work; for thou wottest thereof.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, that will I,&rsquo; said Folk-might, and turned to Wood-wise,
and said: &lsquo;Wood-wise, get ye down the slope, and loose on these
felons, who have a murder on hand, if so be ye have a chance to do it
wisely.&nbsp; But in any case come ye all back; for all shall be needed
yet to-day.&nbsp; So flee if they pursue, for ye shall have us to flee
to.&nbsp; Now be ye wary, nor let the curse of the Wolf and the Face
lie on your slothfulness.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Wood-wise did but nod his head and lift his hand to his fellows,
who set off after him down the slope without more tarrying.&nbsp; They
went very warily, as if they were hunting a quarry which would flee
from them; and they crept amongst the grass and stones from bush to
bush like serpents, and so, unseen by the Dusky Men, who indeed were
busied over their own matters, they came to the fringe of bushes above
the broken ground aforesaid, and there they took their stand, and before
them below those steep banks was but the space at the back of the houses.&nbsp;
As to the houses, as aforesaid, they were not so high as elsewhere about
the Market-place; and at the end of a long low hall there was a gap
between its gable and the next house, whereby they had a clear sight
of the Place about the god&rsquo;s altar and the banners, and the great
hall of Silver-dale, with the double stair that went up to the door
thereof.</p>
<p>There then they made them ready, and Wood-wise set men to watch that
none should come sidelong on them unawares; their bows were bent and
their quivers open, and they were eager for the fray.</p>
<p>Thus they beheld the Market-place from their cover, and saw that
those folk who were to be hewn to the god were now standing facing the
altar in a half-ring, and behind them in another half-ring the glaive-bearers
who had brought them thither stood glaive in hand ready to hew them
down when the token should be given; and these were indeed the priests
of the god.</p>
<p>There was clear space round about these poor slaughter-thralls, so
that the bowmen could see them well, and they told up a score of them,
half men, half women, and they were all stark naked save for wreaths
of flowers about their middles and their necks; and they had shackles
of lead about their wrists; which same lead should be taken out of the
fire wherein they should be burned, and from the shape it should take
after it had passed through the fire would the priests foretell the
luck of the deed to be done.</p>
<p>It was clear to be seen from thence that Folk-might was right when
he said that these slaughter-thralls were of the best of the house-thralls
and bed-mates of the Dusky Men, and that these felons were open-handed
to their god, and would not cheat him, or withhold from him the best
and most delicate of all they had.</p>
<p>Now spake Wood-wise to those about him: &lsquo;It is sure that Folk-might
would have us give these poor thralls a chance, and that we must loose
upon the felons who would hew them down; and if we are to come back
again, we can go no nigher.&nbsp; What sayest thou, Bow-may?&nbsp; Is
it nigh enough?&nbsp; Can aught be done?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, yea,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;nigh enough it is; but let
Gold-ring be with me and half a score of the very best, whether they
be of our folk or the Woodlanders, men who cannot miss such a mark;
and when we have loosed, then let all loose, and stay not till our shot
be spent.&nbsp; Haste, now haste! time presseth; for if the Host showeth
on the brow of the hill, these felons will hew down their slaughter-beasts
before they turn on their foemen.&nbsp; Let the grey-goose wing speed
trouble and confusion amongst them.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But ere she had done her words Wood-wise had got to speaking quietly
with the Woodlanders; and Bears-bane, who was amidst them, chose out
eight of the best of his folk, men who doubted nothing of hitting whatever
they could see in the Market-place; and they took their stand for shooting,
and with them besides Bow-may were two women and four men of the Wolf,
and Gold-ring withal, a carle of fifty winters, long, lean, and wiry,
a fell shooter if ever anyone were.</p>
<p>So all these notched their shafts and laid them on the yew, and each
had between the two last fingers of the shaft-hand another shaft ready,
and a half score more stuck into the ground before him.</p>
<p>Now giveth Wood-wise the word to these sixteen as to which of the
felons with the glaives they shall each one aim at; and he saith withal
in a soft voice: &lsquo;Help cometh from the Hill; soon shall battle
be joined in Silver-dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Thus stand they watching Bow-may and Gold-ring till they draw home
the notches; and amidst their waiting the glaive-bearing felons fall
a-singing a harsh and ugly hymn to their crooked-sword god, and the
Market-stead is thronged endlong and overthwart with the tribes of the
Dusky Men.</p>
<p>There now standeth Bow-may far-sighted and keen-eyed, her face as
pale as a linen sleeve, an awful smile on her glittering eyes and close-set
lips, and she feeling the twisted string of the red yew and the polished
sides of the notch, while the yelling song of the Dusky priests quavers
now and ends with a wild shrill cry, and she noteth the midmost of the
priests beginning to handle his weapon: then swift and steady she draweth
home the notches, while the yew bow standeth still as the oak-bole ere
the summer storm ariseth, and the twang of the sixteen strings maketh
but one fell sound as the feathered bane of men goeth on its way.</p>
<p>There was silence for a moment of time in the Market of Silver-stead,
as if the bolt of the Gods had fallen there; and then arose a huge wordless
yell from those about the altar, and one of the priests who was left
hove up his glaive two-handed to smite the naked slaughter-thralls;
but or ever the stroke fell, Bow-may&rsquo;s second shaft was through
his throat, and he rolled over amidst his dead fellows; and the other
fifteen had loosed with her, and then even as they could Wood-wise and
the others of their company; and all they notched and loosed without
tarrying, and no shout, no word came from their lips, only the twanging
strings spake for them; for they deemed the minutes that hurried by
were worth much joy of their lives to be.&nbsp; And few indeed were
the passing minutes ere the dead men lay in heaps about the Altar of
the Crooked Sword, and the wounded men wallowed amidst them.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLIV.&nbsp; OF THE ONSLAUGHT OF THE MEN OF THE STEER, THE
BRIDGE, AND THE BULL</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Wild was the turmoil and confusion in the Market-stead; for the more
part of the men therein knew not what had befallen about the altar,
though some clomb up to the top of that stack of faggots built for the
burning of the thralls, and when they saw what was toward fell to yelling
and cursing; and their fellows on the plain Place could not hear their
story for the clamour, and they also fell to howling as if a wood full
of wild dogs was there.</p>
<p>And still the shafts rained down on that throng from the Bent of
the Bowmen, for another two score men of the Woodlanders had crept down
the hill to them, and shafts failed them not.&nbsp; But the Dusky Men
about the altar, for all their terror, or even maybe because of it,
now began to turn upon the scarce-seen foemen, and to press up wildly
toward the hill-side, though as it were without any order or aim.&nbsp;
Every man of them had his weapons, and those no mere gilded toys, but
their very tools of battle; and some, but no great number, had their
bows with them and a few shafts; and these began to shoot at whatsoever
they could see on the hill-side, but at first so wildly and hurriedly
that they did no harm.</p>
<p>It must be said of them that at first only those about the altar
fell on toward the hill; for those about the road that led southward
knew not what had betided nor whither to turn.&nbsp; So that at this
beginning of the battle, of all the thousands in the great Place it
was but a few hundreds that set on the Bent of the Bowmen, and at these
the bowmen of the kindreds shot so close and so wholly together that
they fell one over another in the narrow ways between the houses whereby
they must needs go to gather on the plain ground betwixt the backs of
the houses and the break of the hill-side.&nbsp; But little by little
the archers of the Dusky Men gathered behind the corpses of the slain,
and fell to shooting at what they could see of the men of the kindreds,
which at that while was not much, for as bold as they were, they fought
like wary hunters of the Wood and the Waste.</p>
<p>But now at last throughout all that throng of Felons in the Market-place
the tale began to spread of foemen come into the Dale and shooting from
the Bents, and all they turned their faces to the hill, and the whole
set of the throng was thitherward; though they fared but slowly, so
evil was the order of them, each man hindering his neighbour as he went.&nbsp;
And not only did the Dusky Men come flockmeal toward the Bent of the
Bowmen, but also they jostled along toward the road that led southward.&nbsp;
That beheld Wood-wise from the Bent, and he was minded to get him and
his aback, now that they had made so great a slaughter of the foemen;
and two or three of his fellows had been hurt by arrows, and Bow-may,
she would have been slain thrice over but for the hammer-work of the
Alderman.&nbsp; And no marvel was that; for now she stood on a little
mound not half covered by a thin thorn-bush, and notched and loosed
at whatever was most notable, as though she were shooting at the mark
on a summer evening in Shadowy Vale.&nbsp; But as Wood-wise was at point
to give the word to depart, from behind them rang out the merry sound
of the Burgdale horns, and he turned to look at the wood-side, and lo!
thereunder was the hill bright and dark with men-at-arms, and over them
floated the Banners of the Wolf, and the Banners of the Steer, the Bridge,
and the Bull.&nbsp; Then gave forth the bowmen of the kindreds their
first shout, and they made no stay in their shooting; but shot the eagerer,
for they deemed that help would come without their turning about to
draw it to them: and even so it was.&nbsp; For straightway down the
bent came striding Face-of-god betwixt the two Banners of the Wolf,
and beside him were Red-wolf the tall and War-grove, and therewithal
Wood-wont and Wood-wicked, and many other men of the Wolf; for now that
the men of the kindreds had been brought face to face with the foe,
and there was less need of them for way-leaders, the more part of them
were liefer to fight under their own banner along with the Woodlanders;
so that the company of those who went under the Wolves was more than
three long hundreds and a half; and the bowmen on the edge of the bent
shouted again and merrily, when they felt that their brothers were amongst
them, and presently was the arrow-storm at its fiercest, and the twanging
of bow-strings and the whistle of the shafts was as the wind among the
clefts of the mountains; for all the new-comers were bowmen of the best.</p>
<p>But the kindreds of the Steer, the Bridge, and the Bull, they hung
yet a while longer on the hills&rsquo; brow, their banners floating
over them and their horns blowing; and the Dusky Felons in the Market-place
beheld them, and fear and rage at once filled their hearts, and a fierce
and dreadful yell brake out from them, and joyously did the Men of Burgdale
answer them, and song arose amongst them even such as this:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p><i>The Men of the Bridge sing:</i></p>
<p>Why stand ye together, why bear ye the shield,<br />Now the calf
straineth tether at edge of the field?</p>
<p>Now the lamb bleateth stronger and waters run clear,<br />And the
day groweth longer and glad is the year?</p>
<p>Now the mead-flowers jostle so thick as they stand,<br />And singeth
the throstle all over the land?</p>
<p><i>The Men of the Steer sing:</i></p>
<p>No cloud the day darkened, no thunder we heard,<br />But the horns&rsquo;
speech we hearkened as men unafeared.</p>
<p>Yea, so merry it sounded, we turned from the Dale,<br />Where all
wealth abounded, to wot of its tale.</p>
<p><i>The Men of the Bridge sing:</i></p>
<p>What white boles then bear ye, what wealth of the woods?<br />What
chafferers hear ye bid loud for your goods?</p>
<p><i>The Men of the Bull sing:</i></p>
<p>O the bright beams we carry are stems of the steel;<br />Nor long
shall we tarry across them to deal.</p>
<p>Hark the men of the cheaping, how loudly they cry<br />On the hook
for the reaping of men doomed to die!</p>
<p><i>They all sing:</i></p>
<p>Heave spear up! fare forward, O Men of the Dale!<br />For the Warrior,
our war-ward, shall hearken the tale.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Therewith they ceased a moment, and then gave a great and hearty
shout all together, and all their horns blew, and they moved on down
the hill as one man, slowly and with no jostling, the spear-men first,
and then they of the axe and the sword; and on their flanks the deft
archers loosed on the stumbling jostling throng of the Dusky Men, who
for their part came on drifting and surging up the road to the hill.</p>
<p>But when those big spearmen of the Dale had gone a little way the
horns&rsquo; voice died out, and their great-staved spears rose up from
their shoulders into the air, and stood so a moment, and then slowly
fell forward, as the oars of the longship fall into the row-locks, and
then over the shoulders of the foremost men showed the steel of the
five ranks behind them, and their own spears cast long bars of shadow
on the whiteness of the sunny road.&nbsp; No sound came from them now
save the rattle of their armour and the tramp of their steady feet;
but from the Dusky Men rose up hideous confused yelling, and those that
could free themselves from the tangle of the throng rushed desperately
against the on-rolling hedge of steel, and the whole throng shoved on
behind them.&nbsp; Then met steel and men; here and there an ash-stave
broke; here and there a Dusky Felon rolled himself unhurt under the
ash-staves, and hewed the knees of the Dalesmen, and a tall man came
tottering down; but what men or wood-wights could endure the push of
spears of those mighty husbandmen?&nbsp; The Dusky Ones shrunk back
yelling, or turned their backs and rushed at their own folk with such
fierce agony that they entered into the throng, till the terror of the
spear reached to the midmost of it and swayed them back on the hindermost;
for neither was there outgate for the felons on the flanks of the spearmen,
since there the feathered death beset them, and the bowmen (and the
Bride amongst the foremost) shot wholly together, and no shaft flew
idly.&nbsp; But the wise leaders of the Dalesmen would not that they
should thrust in too far amongst the howling throng of the Dusky Men,
lest they should be hemmed in by them; for they were but a handful in
regard to them: so there they stayed, barring the way to the Dusky Men,
and the bowmen still loosed from the flanks of them, or aimed deftly
from betwixt the ranks of the spearmen.</p>
<p>And now was there a space of ten strides or more betwixt the Dalesmen
and their foes, over which the spears hung terribly, nor durst the Dusky
Men adventure there; and thereon was nought but men dead or sorely hurt.&nbsp;
Then suddenly a horn rang thrice shrilly over all the noise and clamour
of the throng, and the ranks of the spearmen opened, and forth into
that space strode two score of the swordsmen and axe-wielders of the
Dale, their weapons raised in their hands, and he who led them was Iron-hand
of the House of the Bull: tall he was, wide-shouldered, exceeding strong,
but beardless and fair-faced.&nbsp; He bore aloft a two-edged sword,
broad-bladed, exceeding heavy, so that few men could wield it in battle,
but not right long; it was an ancient weapon, and his father before
him had called it the Barley-scythe.&nbsp; With him were some of the
best of the kindreds, as Wolf of Whitegarth, Long-hand of Oakholt, Hart
of Highcliff, and War-well the captain of the Bridge.&nbsp; These made
no tarrying on that space of the dead, but cried aloud their cries:
&lsquo;For the Burg and the Steer! for the Dale and the Bridge! for
the Dale and the Bull!&rsquo; and so fell at once on the Felons; who
fled not, nor had room to flee; and also they feared not the edge-weapons
so sorely as they feared those huge spears.&nbsp; So they turned fiercely
on the swordsmen, and chiefly on Iron-hand, as he entered in amongst
them the first of all, hewing to the right hand and the left, and many
a man fell before the Barley-scythe; for they were but little before
him.&nbsp; Yet as one fell another took his place, and hewed at him
with the steel axe and the crooked sword; and with many strokes they
clave his shield and brake his helm and rent his byrny, while he heeded
little save smiting with the Barley-scythe, and the blood ran from his
arm and his shoulder and his thigh.</p>
<p>But War-well had entered in among the foe on his left hand, and unshielded
hove up a great broad-bladed axe, that clave the iron helms of the Dusky
Men, and rent their horn-scaled byrnies.&nbsp; He was not very tall,
but his shoulders were huge and his arms long, and nought could abide
his stroke.&nbsp; He cleared a ring round Iron-hand, whose eyes were
growing dim as the blood flowed from him, and hewed three strokes before
him; then turned and drew the champion out of the throng, and gave him
into the arms of his fellows to stanch the blood that drained away the
might of his limbs; and then with a great wordless roar leaped back
again on the Dusky Men as the lion leapeth on the herd of swine; and
they shrank away before him; and all the swordsmen shouted, &lsquo;For
the Bridge, for the Bridge!&rsquo; and pressed on the harder, smiting
down all before them.&nbsp; On his left hand now was Hart of Highcliff
wielding a good sword hight Chip-driver, wherewith he had slain and
hurt a many, fighting wisely with sword and shield, and driving the
point home through the joints of the armour.&nbsp; But even therewith,
as he drave a great stroke at a lord of the Dusky Ones, a cast-spear
came flying and smote him on the breast, so that he staggered, and the
stroke fell flatlings on the shield-boss of his foe, and Chip-driver
brake atwain nigh the hilts; but Hart closed with him, and smote him
on the face with the pommel, and tore his axe from his hand and clave
his skull therewith, and slew him with his own weapon, and fought on
valiantly beside War-well.</p>
<p>Now War-well had fought so fiercely that he had rent his own hauberk
with the might of his strokes, and as he raised his arm to smite a huge
stroke, a deft man of the Felons thrust the spike of his war-axe up
under his arm; and when War-well felt the smart of the steel, he turned
on that man, and, letting his axe fall down to his wrist and hang there
by its loop, he caught the foeman up by the neck and the breech, and
drave him against the other Dusky Ones before him, so that their weapons
pierced and rent their own friend and fellow.&nbsp; Then he put forth
the might of his arms and the pith of his body, and hove up that felon
and cast him on to the heads of his fellow murder-carles, so that he
rent them and was rent by them.&nbsp; Then War-well fell on again with
the axe, and all the champions of the Dale shouted and fell on with
him, and the foe shrank away; and the Dalesmen cleared a space five
fathoms&rsquo; length before them, and the spearmen drew onward and
stood on the space whereon the first onslaught had been.</p>
<p>Then drew those hewers of the Dale together, and forth from the company
came the man that bare the Banner of the Bridget and the champions gathered
round him, and they ordered their ranks and strode with the Banner before
them three times to and fro across the road athwart the front of the
spearmen, and then with a great shout drew back within the spear-hedge.&nbsp;
Albeit five of the champions of the Dale had been slain outright there,
and the more part of them hurt more or less.</p>
<p>But when all were well within the ranks, once again blew the horn,
and all the spears sank to the rest, and the kindreds drave the spear-furrow,
and a space was swept clear before them, and the cries and yells of
the Dusky Men were so fierce and wild that the rough voices of the Dalesmen
were drowned amidst them.</p>
<p>Forth then came every bowman of the kindred that was there and loosed
on the Dusky Men; and they forsooth had some bowmen amongst them, but
cooped up and jostled as they were they shot but wildly; whereas each
shaft of the Dale went home truly.</p>
<p>But amongst the bowmen forth came the Bride in her glittering war-gear,
and stepped lightly to the front of the spearmen.&nbsp; Her own yew
bow had been smitten by a shaft and broken in her hand: so she had caught
up a short horn bow and a quiver from one of the slain of the Dusky
Men; and now she knelt on one knee under the shadow of the spears nigh
to her grandsire Hall-ward, and with a pale face and knitted brow notched
and loosed, and notched and loosed on the throng of foemen, as if she
were some daintily fashioned engine of war.</p>
<p>So fared the battle on the road that went from the south into the
Market-stead.&nbsp; Valiantly had the kindred fought there, and no man
of them had blenched, and much had they won; but the way was perilous
before them, for the foe was many and many.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLV.&nbsp; OF FACE-OF-GOD&rsquo;S ONSLAUGHT</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Now the banners of the Wolf flapped and rippled over the heads of
the Woodlanders and the Men of the Wolf; and the men shot all they might,
nor took heed now to cover themselves against the shafts of the Dusky
Men.&nbsp; As for these, for all they were so many, their arrow-shot
was no great matter, for they were in very evil order, as has been said;
and moreover, their rage was so great to come to handy strokes with
these foemen, that some of them flung away their bows to brandish the
axe or the sword.&nbsp; Nevertheless were some among the kindred hurt
or slain by their arrows.</p>
<p>Now stood Face-of-god with the foremost; and from where he stood
he could see somewhat of the battle of the Dalesmen, and he wotted that
it was thriving; therefore he looked before him and close around him,
and noted what was toward there.&nbsp; The space betwixt the houses
and the break of the bent was crowded with the fury of the Dusky Men
tossing their weapons aloft, crying to each other and at the kindred,
and here and there loosing a bow-string on them; but whatever was their
rage they might not come a many together past a line within ten fathom
of the bent&rsquo;s end; for three hundred of the best of bowmen were
shooting at them so ceaselessly that no Dusky man was safe of any bare
place of his body, and they fell over one another in that penfold of
slaughter, and for all their madness did but little.</p>
<p>Yet was the heart of the War-leader troubled; for he wotted that
it might not last for ever, and there seemed no end to the throng of
murder-carles; and the time would come when the arrowshot would be spent,
and they must needs come to handy strokes, and that with so many.</p>
<p>Now a voice spake to him as he gazed with knitted brows and careful
heart on that turmoil of battle:</p>
<p>&lsquo;What now hast thou done with the Sun-beam, and where is her
brother?&nbsp; Is the Chief of the Wolf skulking when our work is so
heavy?&nbsp; And thou meseemeth art overlate on the field: the mowing
of this meadow is no sluggard&rsquo;s work.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He turned and beheld Bow-may, and gazed on her face for a moment,
and saw her eyes how they glittered, and how the pommels of her cheeks
were burning red and her lips dry and grey; but before he answered he
looked all round about to see what was to note; and he touched Bow-may
on the shoulder and pointed to down below where a man of the Felons
had just come out of the court of one of the houses: a man taller than
most, very gaily arrayed, with gilded scales all over him, so that,
with his dark face and blue eyes, he looked like some strange dragon.&nbsp;
Bow-may spake not, but stamped her foot with anger.&nbsp; Yet if her
heart were hot, her hand was steady; for she notched a shaft, and just
as the Dusky Chief raised his axe and brandished it aloft, she loosed,
and the shaft flew and smote the felon in the armpit and the default
of the armour, and he fell to earth.&nbsp; But even as she loosed, Face-of-god
cried out in a loud voice:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O lads of battle! shoot close and all together.&nbsp; Tarry
not, tarry not! for we need a little time ere sword meets sword, and
the others of the kindreds are at work!&rsquo;</p>
<p>But Bow-may turned round to him and said: &lsquo;Wilt thou not answer
me?&nbsp; Where is thy kindness gone?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Even as she was speaking she had notched and loosed another shaft,
speaking as folk do who turn from busy work at loom or bench.</p>
<p>Then said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Shoot on, sister Bow-may!&nbsp; The
Sun-beam is gone with her brother, and he is with the Men of the Face.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He broke off here, for a man fell beside him hurt in the neck, and
Face-of-god took his bow from his hands and shot a shaft, while one
of the women who had been hurt also tended the newly-wounded man.&nbsp;
Then Face-of-god went on speaking:</p>
<p>&lsquo;She was unwilling to go, but Folk-might and I constrained
her; for we knew that this is the most perilous place of the battle
- hah! see those three felons, Bow-may! they are aiming hither.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And again he loosed and Bow-may also, but a shaft rattled on his
helm withal and another smote a Woodlander beside him, and pierced through
the calf of his leg, as he turned and stooped to take fresh arrows from
a sheaf that lay there; but the carle took it by the notch and the point,
and brake it and drew it out, and then stood up and went on shooting.&nbsp;
And Face-of-god spake again:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Folk-might skulketh not; nor the Men of the Vine, and the
Sickle, and the Face, nor the Shepherd-Folk: soon shall they be making
our work easy to us, if we can hold our own till then.&nbsp; They are
on the other roads that lead into the square.&nbsp; Now suffer me, and
shoot on!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he looked round about him, and he saw on the left hand
that all was quiet; and before him was the confused throng of the Dusky
Men trampling their own dead and wounded, and not able as yet to cross
that death-line of the arrow so near to them.&nbsp; But on his right
hand he saw how they of the kindreds held them firm on the way.&nbsp;
Then for a moment of time he considered and thought, till him-seemed
he could see the whole battle yet to be foughten; and his face flushed,
and he said sharply: &lsquo;Bow-may, abide here and shoot, and show
the others where to shoot, while the arrows hold out; but we will go
further for a while, and ye shall follow when we have made the rent
great enough.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She turned to him and said: &lsquo;Why art thou not more joyous?
thou art like an host without music or banners.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;heed not me, but my bidding!&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said hastily: &lsquo;I think I shall die here; since for all
we have shot we minish them nowise.&nbsp; Now kiss me this once amidst
the battle, and say farewell.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;Nay, nay; it shall not go thus.&nbsp; Abide a little
while, and thou shalt see all this tangle open, as the sun cleaveth
the clouds on the autumn morning.&nbsp; Yet lo thou! since thou wilt
have it so.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And he bent forward and kissed her face, and now the tears ran over
it, and she said smiling somewhat: &lsquo;Now is this more than I looked
for, whatso may betide.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But while she was yet speaking he cried in a great voice:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Ye who have spent your shot, or have nigh spent it, to axe
and sword, and follow me to clear the ground &rsquo;twixt the bent and
the halls.&nbsp; Let each help each, but throng not each other.&nbsp;
Shoot wisely, ye bowmen, and keep our backs clear of the foe.&nbsp;
On, on! for the Burg and the Face, for the Burg and the Face!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he leapt down the steep of the hill, bounding like the
hart, with Dale-warden naked in his hand; and they that followed were
two score and ten; and the arrows of their bowmen rained over their
heads on the Dusky Men, as they smote down the first of the foemen,
and the others shrieked and shrank from them, or turned on them smiting
wildly and desperately.</p>
<p>But Face-of-god swept round the great sword and plunged into that
sea of turmoil and noise and evil sights and savours, and even therewith
he heard clearly a voice that said: &lsquo;Goldring, I am hurt; take
my bow a while!&rsquo; and knew it for Bow-may&rsquo;s; but it came
to his ears like the song of a bird without meaning; for it was as if
his life were changed at once; and in a minute or two he had cut thrice
with the edge and thrust twice with the point, eager, but clear-eyed
and deft; and he saw as in a picture the foe before him, and the grey
roofs of Silver-stead, and through the gap in them the tops of the blue
ridges far aloof.&nbsp; And now had three fallen before him, and they
feared him, and turned on him, and smote so many together that their
strokes crossed each other, and one warded him from the other; and he
laughed aloud and shielded himself, and drave the point of Dale-warden
amidst the tangle of weapons through the open mouth of a captain of
the Felons, and slashed a cheek with a back-stroke, and swept round
the edge to his right hand and smote off a blue-eyed snub-nosed head;
and therewith a pole-axe smote him on the left side of his helm, so
that he tottered; but he swung himself round, and stood stark and upright,
and gave a short hack with the edge, keeping Dale-warden well in hand,
and a gold-clad felon, a champion of them, and their tallest on the
ground, fell aback, his throat gaping more than the mouth of him.</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god shouted and waved Dale-warden aloft to the Banner
of the Wolf that floated behind and above him, and he cried out: &lsquo;As
I have promised so have I done!&rsquo;&nbsp; And he looked about, and
beheld how valiantly his fellows had been doing; for before him now
was a space of earth with no man standing on his feet thereon, like
the swathe of the mowers of June; and beyond that was the crowd of the
Dusky Men wavering like the tall grass abiding the scythe.</p>
<p>But a minute, and they fell to casting at Face-of-god and his fellows
spears and knives and shields and whatsoever would fly; and a spear
smote him on the breast, but entered not; and a bossed shield fell over
his face withal, and a plummet of sling-lead smote his helm, and he
fell to earth; but leapt up again straightway, and heard as he arose
a great shout close to him, and a shrill cry, and lo! at his left side
Bow-may, her sword in her hand, and the hand red with blood from a shaft-graze
on her wrist, and a white cloth stained with blood about her neck; and
on his right side Wood-wise bearing the banner and crying the Wolf-whoop;
for the whole company was come down from the slope and stood around
him.</p>
<p>Then for a little while was there such a stilling of the tumult about
him there, that he heard great and glad cries from the Road of the South
of &lsquo;The Burg and the Steer!&nbsp; The Dale and the Bridge!&nbsp;
The Dale and the Bull!&rsquo;&nbsp; And thereafter a terrible great
shrieking cry, and a huge voice that cried: &lsquo;Death, death, death
to the Dusky Men!&rsquo;&nbsp; And thereafter again fierce cries and
great tumult of the battle.</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god shook Dale-warden in the air, and strode forward
fiercely, but not speedily, and the whole company went foot for foot
along with him; and as he went, would he or would he not, song came
into his mouth, a song of the meadows of the Dale, even such as this:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>The wheat is done blooming and rust&rsquo;s on the sickle,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
green are the meadows grown after the scythe.<br />Come, hands for the
dance!&nbsp; For the toil hath been mickle,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
&rsquo;twixt haysel and harvest &rsquo;tis time to be blithe.</p>
<p>And what shall the tale be now dancing is over,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
kind on the meadow sits maiden by man,<br />And the old man bethinks
him of days of the lover,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the warrior remembers
the field that he wan?</p>
<p>Shall we tell of the dear days wherein we are dwelling,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
best days of our Mother, the cherishing Dale,<br />When all round about
us the summer is telling,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To ears that may hearken,
the heart of the tale?</p>
<p>Shall we sing of these hands and these lips that caress us,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
the limbs that sun-dappled lie light here beside,<br />When still in
the morning they rise but to bless us,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And oft
in the midnight our footsteps abide?</p>
<p>O nay, but to tell of the fathers were better,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
of how we were fashioned from out of the earth;<br />Of how the once
lowly spurned strong at the fetter;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of the days
of the deeds and beginning of mirth.</p>
<p>And then when the feast-tide is done in the morning,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Shall
we whet the grey sickle that bideth the wheat,<br />Till wan grow the
edges, and gleam forth a warning<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of the field
and the fallow where edges shall meet.</p>
<p>And when cometh the harvest, and hook upon shoulder<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We
enter the red wheat from out of the road,<br />We shall sing, as we
wend, of the bold and the bolder,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the Burg
of their building, the beauteous abode.</p>
<p>As smiteth the sickle amid the sun&rsquo;s burning<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We
shall sing how the sun saw the token unfurled,<br />When forth fared
the Folk, with no thought of returning,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In the
days when the Banner went wide in the world.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Many saw that he was singing, but heard not the words of his mouth,
for great was the noise and clamour.&nbsp; But he heard Bow-may, how
she laughed by his side, and cried out:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Gold-mane, dear-heart, now art thou merry indeed; and glad
am I, though they told me that I am hurt. - Ah! now beware, beware!&rsquo;</p>
<p>For indeed the Dusky Men, seeing the wall of steel rolling down on
them, and cooped up by the houses, so that they scarce knew how to flee,
turned in the face of death, the foremost of them, and rushed furiously
on the array of the Woodlanders, and all those behind pressed on them
like the big wave of the ebbing sea when the gust of the wind driveth
it landward.</p>
<p>The Woodlanders met them, shouting out: &lsquo;The Greenwood and
the Wolf, the Greenwood and the Wolf!&rsquo;&nbsp; But not a few of
them fell there, though they gave not back a foot; for so fierce now
were the Dusky Men, that hewing and thrusting at them availed nought,
unless they were slain outright or stunned; and even if they fell they
rolled themselves up against their tall foe-men, heeding not death or
wounds if they might but slay or wound.&nbsp; There then fell War-grove
and ten others of the Woodlanders, and four men of the Wolf, but none
before he had slain his foeman; and as each man fell or was hurt grievously,
another took his place.</p>
<p>Now a felon leapt up and caught Gold-ring by the neck and drew him
down, while another strove to smite his head off; but the stout carle
drave a wood-knife into the side of the first felon, and drew it out
speedily and smote the other, the smiter, in the face with the same
knife, and therewith they all three rolled together on the earth amongst
the feet of men.&nbsp; Even so did another felon by Bow-may, and dragged
her down to the ground, and smote her with a long knife as she tumbled
down; and this was a feat of theirs, for they were long-armed like apes.</p>
<p>But as to this felon, Dale-warden&rsquo;s edge split his skull, and
Face-of-god gathered his might together and bestrode Bow-may, till he
had hewed a space round about him with great two-handed strokes; and
yet the blade brake not.&nbsp; Then he caught up Bow-may from the earth,
and the felon&rsquo;s knife had not pierced her hauberk, but she was
astonied, and might not stand upon her feet; and Face-of-god turned
aside a little with her, and half bore her, half thrust her through
the throng to the rearward of his folk, and left her there with two
carlines of the Wolf who followed the host for leechcraft&rsquo;s sake,
and then turned back shouting: &lsquo;For the Face, for the Face!&rsquo;
and there followed him back to the battle, a band of those who were
fresh as yet, and their blades unbloodied, the young men of the Woodlands.</p>
<p>The wearier fighters made way for them as they came on shouting,
and Face-of-god was ahead of them all, and leapt at the foemen as a
man unwearied and striking his first stroke, so wondrous hale he was;
and they drave a wedge amidst of the Dusky Men, and then turned about
and stood back to back hewing at all that drifted on them.&nbsp; But
as Face-of-god cleared a space about him, lo! almost within reach of
his sword-point up rose a grim shape from the earth, tall, grey-haired,
and bloody-faced, who uttered the Wolf-whoop from amidst the terror
of his visage, and turned and swung round his head an axe of the Dusky
Men, and fell to smiting them with their own weapon.&nbsp; The Dusky
Men shrieked in answer to his whoop, and all shrunk from him and Face-of-god;
but a cry of joy went up from the kindred, for they knew Gold-ring,
whom they deemed had been slain.&nbsp; So they all pressed on together,
smiting down the foe before them, and the Dusky Men, some turned their
backs and drave those behind them, till they too turned and were strained
through the passages and courts of the houses, and some were overthrown
and trodden down as they strove to hold face to the Woodlanders, and
some were hewn down where they stood; but the whole throng of those
that were on their feet drifted toward the Market-place, the Woodlanders
following them ever with point and edge, till betwixt the bent and the
houses no foeman stood up against them.</p>
<p>Then they stood together, and raised the whoop of victory, and blew
their horns long and loud in token of their joy, and the Woodland men
lifted up their voices and sang:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Now far, far aloof<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Standeth
lintel and roof,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The dwelling of days<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of
the Woodland ways:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Now nought wendeth there<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Save
the wolf and the bear,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the fox of the waste<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Faring
soft without haste.<br />No carle the axe whetteth on oak-laden hill;<br />No
shaft the hart letteth to wend at his will;<br />None heedeth the thunder-clap
over the glade,<br />And the wind-storm thereunder makes no man afraid.<br />Is
it thus then that endeth man&rsquo;s days on Mid-earth,<br />For no
man there wendeth in sorrow or mirth?</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Nay, look down on the road<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;From
the ancient abode!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Betwixt acre and field<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Shineth
helm, shineth shield.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And high over the heath<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Fares
the bane in his sheath;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For the wise men and
bold<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Go their ways o&rsquo;er the wold.<br />Now
the Warrior hath given them heart and fair day,<br />Unbidden, undriven,
they fare to the fray.<br />By the rock and the river the banners they
bear,<br />And their battle-staves quiver &rsquo;neath halbert and spear;<br />On
the hill&rsquo;s brow they gather, and hang o&rsquo;er the Dale<br />As
the clouds of the Father hang, laden with bale.</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Down shineth the sun<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;On
the war-deed half done;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;All the fore-doomed to
die,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In the pale dust they lie.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;There
they leapt, there they fell,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And their tale shall
we tell;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But we, e&rsquo;en in the gate<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of
the war-garth we wait,<br />Till the drift of war-weather shall whistle
us on,<br />And we tread all together the way to be won,<br />To the
dear land, the dwelling for whose sake we came<br />To do deeds for
the telling of song-becrowned fame.<br />Settle helm on the head then!&nbsp;
Heave sword for the Dale!<br />Nor be mocked of the dead men for deedless
and pale.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLVI.&nbsp; MEN MEET IN THE MARKET OF SILVER-STEAD</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>So sang they; but Face-of-god went with Red-wolf, who was hurt sorely,
but not deadly, and led him back toward the place just under the break
of the bent; and there he found Bow-may in the hands of the women who
were tending her hurts.&nbsp; She smiled on him from a pale face as
he drew nigh, and he looked kindly at her, but he might not abide there,
for haste was in his feet.&nbsp; He left Red-wolf to the tending of
the women, and clomb the bent hastily, and when he deemed he was high
enough, he looked about him; and somewhat more than half an hour had
worn since Bow-may had sped the first shaft against the Dusky Men.</p>
<p>He looked down into the Market-stead, and deemed he could see that
nigh the Mote-house the Dusky Men were gathering into some better order;
but they were no longer drifting toward the southern bents, but were
standing round about the altar as men abiding somewhat; and he deemed
that they had gotten more bowshot than before, and that most of them
bare bows.&nbsp; Though so many had been slain in the battles of the
southern bents, yet was the Market-stead full of them, so to say, for
others had come thereto in place of those that had fallen.</p>
<p>But now as he looked arose mighty clamour amongst them; and a little
west of the Altar was a stir and a hurrying onward and around as in
the eddies of a swift stream.&nbsp; Face-of-god wotted not what was
betiding there, but he deemed that they were now ware of the onfall
of Folk-might and Hall-face and the men of Burgdale, for their faces
were all turned to where that was to be looked for.</p>
<p>So he turned and looked on the road to the east of him, where had
been the battle of the Steer, but now it was all gone down toward the
Market-place, and he could but hear the clamour of it; but nought he
saw thereof, because of the houses that hid it.</p>
<p>Then he cast his eyes on the road that entered the Market-stead from
the north, and he saw thereon many men gathered; and he wotted not what
they were; for though there were weapons amongst them, yet were they
not all weaponed, as far as he could see.</p>
<p>Now as he looked this way and that, and deemed that he must tarry
no longer, but must enter into the courts of the houses before him and
make his way into the Market-stead, lo! a change in the throng of Dusky
Warriors nigh the Mote-house, and the ordered bands about the Altar
fell to drifting toward the western way with one accord, with great
noise and hurry and fierce cries of wrath.&nbsp; Then made Face-of-god
no delay, but ran down the bent at once, and at the break of it came
upon Bow-may standing upright and sword in hand; and as he passed, she
joined herself to him, and said: &lsquo;What new tidings now, Gold-mane?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Tidings of battle!&rsquo; he cried; &lsquo;tidings of victory!&nbsp;
Folk-might hath fallen on, and the Dusky Men run hastily to meet him.&nbsp;
Hark, hark!&rsquo;</p>
<p>For as he spoke came a great noise of horns, and Bow-may said: &lsquo;What
horn is that blowing?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He stayed not, but shouted aloud: &lsquo;For the Face, for the Face!&nbsp;
Now will we fall upon their backs!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith was he come to his company, and he cried out to them: &lsquo;Heard
ye the horn, heard ye the horn?&nbsp; Now follow me into the Market-place;
much is yet to do!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Even therewith came the sound of other horns, and all men were silent
a moment, and then shouted all together, for the Wood-landers knew it
for the horn of the Shepherds coming on by the eastward way.</p>
<p>But Face-of-god waved his sword aloft and set on at once, and they
followed and gat them through the courts of the houses and their passages
into the Market-place.&nbsp; There they found more room than they looked
to find; for the foemen had drawn away on the left hand toward the battle
of Folk-might, and on the right hand toward the battle of the Steer;
and great was the noise and cry that came thence.</p>
<p>Now stood Face-of-god under the two banners of the Wolf in the Market-place
of Silver-stead, and scarce had he time to be high-hearted, for needs
must he ponder in his mind what thing were best to do.&nbsp; For on
the left hand he deemed the foe was the strongest and best ordered;
but there also were the kindreds the doughtiest, and it was little like
that the felons should overcome the spear-casters of the Face and the
glaive-bearers of the Sickle, and the bowmen of the Vine: there also
were the wisest leaders, as the stark elder Stone-face, and the tall
Hall-face, and his father of the unshaken heart, and above all Folk-might,
fierce in his wrath, but his anger burning steady and clear, like the
oaken butt on the hearth of the hall.</p>
<p>Then as his mind pictured him amongst the foe, it made therewith
another picture of the slender warrior Sun-beam caught in the tangle
of battle, and longing for him and calling for him amidst the hard hand-play.&nbsp;
And thereat his face flushed, and all his body waxed hot, and he was
on the very point of leading the onset against the foe on the left.&nbsp;
But therewith he bethought him of the bold men of the Steer and the
Bridge and the Bull weary with much fighting; and he remembered also
that the Bride was amongst them and fighting, it might be, amidst the
foremost, and if she were slain how should he ever hold up his head
again.&nbsp; He bethought him also that the Shepherds, who had fallen
on by the eastern road, valiant as they were, were scarce so well armed
or so well led as the others.&nbsp; Therewithal he bethought him (and
again it came like a picture into his mind) of falling on the foemen
by whom the southern battle was beset, and then the twain of them meeting
the Shepherds, and lastly, all those three companies joined together
clearing the Market-place, and meeting the men under Folk-might in the
midst thereof.</p>
<p>Therefore, scant had he been pondering these things in his mind for
a minute ere he cried out: &lsquo;Blow up horns, blow up! forward banners,
and follow me, O valiant men! to the helping of the Steer, the Bridge,
and the Bull; deep have they thrust into the Dusky Throng, and belike
are hard pressed.&nbsp; Hark how the clamour ariseth from their besetters!&nbsp;
On now, on!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith hung a star of sunlight on his sword as he raised it aloft,
and the Wolf-whoop rang out terribly in the Market-place, for now had
the Woodlanders also learned it, and the hearts of the foemen sank as
they heard the might and the mass thereof.&nbsp; Then the battle of
the Woodlanders swept round and fell upon the flank of them who were
besetting the kindreds, as an iron bar smiteth the soft fir-wood; and
they of the kindreds heard their cry, but faintly and confusedly, so
great was the turmoil of battle about them.</p>
<p>Now once more was Bow-may by the side of Face-of-god; and if she
had not the might of the mightiest, yet had she the deftness of the
deftest.&nbsp; And now was she calm and cool, shielding herself with
a copper-bossed target, and driving home the point of her sharp sword;
white was her face, and her eyes glittered amidst it, and she seemed
to men like to those on whose heads the Warrior hath laid the Holy Bread.</p>
<p>As to Wood-wise, he had given the Banner of the red-jawed Wolf to
Stone-wolf, a huge and dreadful warrior some forty winters old, who
had fought in the Great Overthrow, and now hewed down the Dusky Men,
wielding a heavy short-sword left-handed.&nbsp; But Wood-wise himself
fought with a great sword, giving great strokes to the right hand and
the left, and was no more hasty than is the hewer in the winter wood.</p>
<p>Face-of-god fought wisely and coldly now, and looked more to warding
his friends than destroying his foes, and both to Bow-may and Wood-wise
his sword was a shield; for oft he took the life from the edge of the
upraised axe, and stayed the point of the foeman in mid-air.</p>
<p>Even so wisely fought the whole band of the Woodlanders and the Wolves,
who got within smiting space of the foe; for they had no will to cast
away their lives when assured victory was so nigh to them.&nbsp; Sooth
to say, the hand-play was not so hard to them as it had been betwixt
the bent and the houses; for the Dusky Men were intent on dealing with
the men of the kindreds from the southern road, who stood war-wearied
before them; and they were hewing and casting at them, and baying and
yelling like dogs; and though they turned about to meet the storm of
the Woodlanders, yet their hearts failed them withal, and they strove
to edge away from betwixt those two fearful scythes of war, fighting
as men fleeing, not as men in onset.&nbsp; But still the Woodlanders
and the Wolves came on, hewing and thrusting, smiting down the foemen
in heaps, till the Dusky Throng grew thin, and the staves of the Dalesmen
and their bright banners in the morning sun were clear to see, and at
last their very faces, kindly and familiar, worn and strained with the
stress of battle, or laughing wildly, or pale with the fury of the fight.&nbsp;
Then rose up to the heavens the blended shout of the Woodlanders and
the Dalesmen, and now there was nought of foemen betwixt them save the
dead and the wounded.</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god thrust his sword into its sheath all bloody as it
was, and strode over the dead men to where Hall-ward stood under the
banner of the Steer, and cast his arms about the old carle, and kissed
him for joy of the victory.&nbsp; But Hall-ward thrust him aback and
looked him in the face, and his cheeks were pale and his lips clenched,
and his eyes haggard and staring, and he said in a harsh voice:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O young man, she is dead!&nbsp; I saw her fall.&nbsp; The
Bride is dead, and thou hast lost thy troth-plight maiden. O death,
death to the Dusky Men!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then grew Face-of-god as pale as a linen sleeve, and all the new-comers
groaned and cried out.&nbsp; But a bystander said: &lsquo;Nay, nay,
it is nought so bad as that; she is hurt, and sorely; but she liveth
yet.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Face-of-god heard him not.&nbsp; He forgot Dale-warden lying in his
sheath, and he saw that the last speaker had a great wood-axe broad
and heavy in his hand, so he cried: &lsquo;Man, man, thine axe!&rsquo;
and snatched it from him, and turned about to the foe again, and thrust
through the ranks, suffering none to stay him till all his friends were
behind and all his foes before him.&nbsp; And as he burst forth from
the ranks waving his axe aloft, bare-headed now, his yellow hair flying
abroad, his mouth crying out, &lsquo;Death, death, death to the Dusky
Men!&rsquo; fear of him smote their hearts, and they howled and fled
before him as they might; for they said that the Dalesmen had prayed
their Gods into the battle.&nbsp; But not so fast could they flee but
he was presently amidst them, smiting down all about him, and they so
terror-stricken that scarce might they raise a hand against him.&nbsp;
All that blended host followed him mad with wrath and victory, and as
they pressed on, they heard behind them the horns and war-cries of the
Shepherds falling on from the east.&nbsp; Nought they heeded that now,
but drave on a fearful storm of war, and terrible was the slaughter
of the Felons.</p>
<p>It was but a few minutes ere they had driven them up against that
great stack of faggots that had been dight for the burnt-offering of
men, and many of the felons had mounted up on to it, and now in their
anguish of fear were shooting arrows and casting spears on all about
them, heeding little if they were friend or foe.&nbsp; Now were the
men of the kindreds at point to climb this twiggen burg; but by this
time the fury of Face-of-god had run clear, and he knew where he was
and what he was doing; so he stayed his folk, and cried out to them:
&lsquo;Forbear, climb not! let the torch help the sword!&rsquo;&nbsp;
And therewith he looked about and saw the fire-pot which had been set
down there for the kindling of the bale-fire, and the coals were yet
red in it; so he snatched up a dry brand and lighted it thereat, and
so did divers others, and they thrust them among the faggots, and the
fire caught at once, and the tongues of flame began to leap from faggot
to faggot till all was in a light low; for the wood had been laid for
that very end, and smeared with grease and oil so that the burning to
the god might be speedy.</p>
<p>But the fierceness of the kindreds heeded not the fire, nor overmuch
the men who leapt down from the stack before it, but they left all behind
them, faring straight toward the western outgate from the Market-stead;
and Face-of-god still led them on; though by now he was wholly come
to his right mind again, albeit the burden of sorrow yet lay heavy on
his heart.&nbsp; He had broken his axe, and had once more drawn Dale-warden
from his sheath, and many felt his point and edge.</p>
<p>But now, as they chased, came a rush of men upon them again, as though
a new onset were at hand.&nbsp; That saw Face-of-god and Hall-ward and
War-well, and other wise leaders of men, and they bade their folk forbear
the chase, and lock their ranks to meet the onfall of this new wave
of foemen.&nbsp; And they did so, and stood fast as a wall; but lo!
the onrush that drave up against them was but a fleeing shrieking throng,
and no longer an array of warriors, for many had cast away their weapons,
and were rushing they knew not whither; for they were being thrust on
the bitter edges of Face-of-god&rsquo;s companies by the terror of the
fleers from the onset of the men of the Face, the Sickle, and the Vine,
whom Hall-face and Stone-face were leading, along with Folk-might.&nbsp;
Then once again the men of Face-of-god gave forth the whoop of victory,
and pressed forward again, hewing their way through the throng of fleers,
but turning not to chase to the right or the left; while at their backs
came on the Shepherd-folk, who had swept down all that withstood them;
for now indeed was the Market-stead getting thinner of living men.</p>
<p>So led the War-leader his ordered ranks, till at last over the tangled
crowd of runaways he saw the banners of the Burg and the Face flashing
against the sun, and heard the roar of the kindreds as they drave the
chase towards them.&nbsp; Then he lifted up his sword, and stood still,
and all the host behind him stayed and cast a huge shout up to the heavens,
and there they abode the coming of the other Dalesmen.</p>
<p>But the War-leader sent a message to Hound-under-Greenbury, bidding
him lead the Shepherds to the chase of the Dusky Men, who were now all
fleeing toward the northern outgate of the Market.&nbsp; Howbeit he
called to mind the throng he had seen on the northern road before they
were come into the Market-stead, and deemed that way also death awaited
the foemen, even if the men of the kindreds forbore them.</p>
<p>But presently the space betwixt the Woodlanders and the men of the
Face was clear of all but the dead, so that friend saw the face of friend;
and it could be seen that the warriors of the Face were ruddy and smiling
for joy, because the battle had been easy to them, and but few of them
had fallen; for the Dusky Men who had left the Market-stead to fall
on them, had had room for fleeing behind them, and had speedily turned
their backs before the spear-casting of the men of the Face and the
onrush of the swordsmen.</p>
<p>There then stood these victorious men facing one another, and the
banner-bearers on either side came through the throng, and brought the
banners together between the two hosts; and the Wolf kissed the Face,
and the Sickle and the Vine met the Steer and the Bridge and the Bull:
but the Shepherds were yet chasing the fleers.</p>
<p>There in the forefront stood Hall-face the tall, with the joy of
battle in his eyes.&nbsp; And Stone-face, the wise carle in war, stood
solemn and stark beside him; and there was the goodly body and the fair
and kindly visage of the Alderman smiling on the faces of his friends.&nbsp;
But as for Folk-might, his face was yet white and aweful with anger,
and he looked restlessly up and down the front of the kindreds, though
he spake no word.</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god could no longer forbear, but he thrust Dale-warden
into his sheath, and ran forward and cast his arms about his father&rsquo;s
neck and kissed him; and the blood of himself and of the foemen was
on him, for he had been hurt in divers places, but not sorely, because
of the good hammer-work of the Alderman.</p>
<p>Then he kissed his brother and Stone-face, and he took Folk-might
by the hand, and was on the point of speaking some word to him, when
the ranks of the Face opened, and lo! the Sun-beam in her bright war-gear,
and the sword girt to her side, and she unhurt and unsullied.</p>
<p>Then was it to him as when he met her first in Shadowy Vale, and
he thought of little else than her; but she stepped lightly up to him,
and unashamed before the whole host she kissed him on the mouth, and
he cast his mailed arms about her, and joy made him forget many things
and what was next to do, though even at that moment came afresh a great
clamour of shrieks and cries from the northern outgate of the Market-stead:
and the burning pile behind them cast a great wavering flame into the
air, contending with the bright sun of that fair day, now come hard
on noontide.&nbsp; But ere he drew away his face from the Sun-beam&rsquo;s,
came memory to him, and a sharp pang shot through his heart, as he heard
Folk-might say: &lsquo;Where then is the Shield-may of Burgstead? where
is the Bride?&rsquo;</p>
<p>And Face-of-god said under his breath: &lsquo;She is dead, she is
dead!&rsquo;&nbsp; And then he stared out straight before him and waited
till someone else should say it aloud.&nbsp; But Bow-may stepped forward
and said: &lsquo;Chief of the Wolf, be of good cheer; our kinswoman
is hurt, but not deadly.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The Alderman&rsquo;s face changed, and he said: &lsquo;Hast thou
seen her, Bow-may?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; she said.&nbsp; &lsquo;How should I leave the
battle? but others have told me who have seen her.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Folk-might stared into the ranks of men before him, but said nothing.&nbsp;
Said the Alderman: &lsquo;Is she well tended?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, surely,&rsquo; said Bow-may, &lsquo;since she is amongst
friends, and there are no foemen behind us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then came a voice from Folk-might which said: &lsquo;Now were it
best to send good men and deft in arms, and who know Silver-dale, from
house to house, to search for foemen who may be lurking there.&rsquo;</p>
<p>The Alderman looked kindly and sadly on him and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Kinsman Stone-face, and Hall-face my son, the brunt of the
battle is now over, and I am but a simple man amongst you; therefore,
if ye will give me leave, I will go see this poor kinswoman of ours,
and comfort her.&rsquo;</p>
<p>They bade him go: so he sheathed his sword, and went through the
press with two men of the Steer toward the southern road; for the Bride
had been brought into a house nigh the corner of the Market-place.</p>
<p>But Face-of-god looked after his father as he went, and remembrance
of past days came upon him, and such a storm of grief swept over him,
as he thought of the Bride lying pale and bleeding and brought anigh
to her death, that he put his hands to his face and wept as a child
that will not be comforted; nor had he any shame of all those bystanders,
who in sooth were men good and kindly, and had no shame of his grief
or marvelled at it, for indeed their own hearts were sore for their
lovely kinswoman, and many of them also wept with Face-of-god.&nbsp;
But the Sun-beam stood by and looked on her betrothed, and she thought
many things of the Bride, and was sorry, albeit no tears came into her
eyes; then she looked askance at Folk-might and trembled; but he said
coldly, and in a loud voice:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Needs must we search the houses for the lurking felons, or
many a man will yet be murdered.&nbsp; Let Wood-wicked lead a band of
men at once from house to house.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then said a man of the Wolf hight Hardgrip: &lsquo;Wood-wicked was
slain betwixt the bent and the houses.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Folk-might: &lsquo;Let it be Wood-wise then.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But Bow-may said: &lsquo;Wood-wise is even now hurt in the leg by
a wounded felon, and may not go afoot.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then said Folk-might: &lsquo;Is Crow the Shaft-speeder anigh?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, here am I,&rsquo; quoth a tall man of fifty winters,
coming from out the ranks where stood the Wolves.</p>
<p>Said Folk-might: &lsquo;Kinsman Crow, do thou take two score and
ten of doughty men who are not too hot-headed, and search every house
about the Market-place; but if ye come on any house that makes a stout
defence, send ye word thereof to the Mote-house, where we will presently
be, and we shall send you help.&nbsp; Slay every felon that ye fall
in with; but if ye find in the houses any of the poor folk crouching
and afraid, comfort their hearts all ye may, and tell them that now
is life come to them.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So Crow fell to getting his band together, and presently departed
with them on his errand.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLVII.&nbsp; THE KINDREDS WIN THE MOTE-HOUSE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The din and tumult still came from the north side of the Market-place,
so that all the air was full of noise; and Face-of-god deemed that the
thralls had gotten weapons into their hands and were slaying their masters.</p>
<p>Now he lifted up his face, and put his hand on Folk-might&rsquo;s
shoulder, and said in a loud voice:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Kinsmen, it were well if our brother were to bid the banners
into the Mote-house of the Wolf, and let all the Host set itself in
array before the said house, and abide till the chasers of the foe come
to us thither; for I perceive that they are now become many, and are
more than those of our kindred.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Folk-might looked at him with kind eyes, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou sayest well, brother; even so let it be!&rsquo;</p>
<p>And he lifted up his sword, and Face-of-god cried out in a loud voice:
&lsquo;Forward, banners! blow up horns! fare we forth with victory!&rsquo;</p>
<p>So the Host drew its ranks together in good order, and they all set
forward, and old Stone-face took the Sun-beam by the hand and led on
behind Folk-might and the War-leader.&nbsp; But when they came to the
Hall, then saw they how the steps that led up to the door were high
and double, going up from each side without any railing or fool-guard;
and crowding the stairs and the platform thereof was a band of the Dusky
Men, as many as could stand thereon, who shot arrows at the host of
the kindreds, howling like dogs, and chattering like apes; and arrows
and spears came from the windows of the Hall; yea, and on the very roof
a score of these felons were riding the ridge and mocking like the trolls
of old days.</p>
<p>Now when they saw this they stayed a while, and men shielded them
against the shafts; but the leaders drew together in front of the Host,
and Folk-might fell to speech; and his face was very pale and stern;
for now he had had time to think of the case of the Bride, and fierce
wrath, and grief unholpen filled his soul.&nbsp; So he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Brothers, this is my business to deal with; for I see before
me the stair that leadeth to the Mote-house of my people, and now would
I sit there whereas my fathers sat, when peace was on the Dale, as once
more it shall be to-morrow.&nbsp; Therefore up this stair will I go,
and none shall hinder me; and let no man of the host follow me till
I have entered into the Hall, unless perchance I fall dead by the way;
but stand ye still and look on.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;this is partly the business
of the War-leader.&nbsp; There are two stairs.&nbsp; Be content to take
the southern one, and I will take the northern.&nbsp; We shall meet
on the plain stone at the top.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But Hall-face said: &lsquo;War-leader, may I speak?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Speak, brother,&rsquo; said Face-of-god.</p>
<p>Said Hall-face: &lsquo;I have done but little to-day, War-leader.&nbsp;
I would stand by thee on the northern stair; so shall Folk-might be
content, if he doeth two men&rsquo;s work who are not little-hearted.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;The doom of the War-leader is that Folk-might
shall fall on by the southern stair to slake his grief and increase
his glory, and Face-of-god and Hall-face by the northern.&nbsp; Haste
to the work, O brothers!&rsquo;</p>
<p>And he and Hall-face went to their places, while all looked on.&nbsp;
But the Sun-beam, with her hand still in Stone-face&rsquo;s, she turned
white to the lips, and stared with wild eyes before her, not knowing
where she was; for she had deemed that the battle was over, and Face-of-god
saved from it.</p>
<p>But Folk-might tossed up his head and laughed, and cried out, &lsquo;At
last, at last!&rsquo;&nbsp; And his sword was in his hand, the Sleep-thorn
to wit, a blade of ancient fame; so now he let it fall and hang to his
wrist by the leash, while he clapped his hands together and uttered
the Wolf-whoop mightily, and all the men of the Wolf that were in the
host, and the Woodlanders withal, uttered it with him.&nbsp; Then he
put his shield over his head and stood before the first of the steps,
and the Dusky Men laughed to see one man come against them, though there
was death in their hearts.&nbsp; But he laughed back at them in triumph,
and set his foot on the step, and let Sleep-thorn&rsquo;s point go into
the throat of a Dusky lord, and thrust amongst them, hewing right and
left, and tumbling men over the edge of the stair, which was to them
as the narrow path along the cliff-side that hangeth over the unfathomed
sea.&nbsp; They hewed and thrust at him in turn; but so close were they
packed that their weapons crossed about him, and one shielded him from
the other, and they swayed staggering on that fearful verge, while the
Sleep-thorn crept here and there amongst them, lulling their hot fury.&nbsp;
For, as desperate as they were, and fighting for death and not for life,
they had a horror of him and of the sea of hatred below them, and feared
where to set their feet, and he feared nought at all, but from feet
to sword-point was but an engine of slaughter, while the heart within
him throbbed with fury long held back as he thought upon the Bride and
her wounding, and all the wrongs of his people since their Great Undoing.</p>
<p>So he smote and thrust, till him-seemed the throng of foes thinned
before him: with his sword-pommel he smote a lord of the Dusky Ones
in the face, so that he fell over the edge amongst the spears of the
kindred; then he thrust the point of Sleep-thorn towards the Hall-door
through the breast of another, and then it seemed to him that he had
but one before him; so he hove up the edges to cleave him down, but
ere the stroke fell, close to his ears exceeding loud rang out the cry,
&lsquo;For the Burg and the Face! for the Face, for the Face!&rsquo;
and he drew aback a little, and his eyes cleared, and lo! it was Hall-face
the tall, his long sword all reddened with battle; and beside him stood
Face-of-god, silent and panting, his face pale with the fierce anger
of the fight, and the weariness which was now at last gaining upon him.&nbsp;
There stood those three with no other living man upon the plain of the
stairs.</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god turned shouting to the Folk, and cried:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Forth now with the banners!&nbsp; For now is the Wolf come
home.&nbsp; On into the Hall, O Kindred of the Gods!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then poured the Folk up over the stairs and into the Hall of the
Wolf, the banners flapping over their heads; and first went the War-leader
and Folk-might and Hall-face, and then the three delivered thralls,
Wolf-stone, God-swain, and Spear-fist, and Dallach with them, though
both he and Wolf-stone had been hurt in the battle; and then came blended
together the Men of the Face along with them of the Wolf who had entered
the Market-stead with them, and with these were Stone-face and Wood-wont
and Bow-may, leading the Sun-beam betwixt them; and now was she come
to herself again, though her face was yet pale, and her eyes gleamed
as she stepped across the threshold of the Hall.</p>
<p>But when a many were gotten in, and the first-comers had had time
to handle their weapons and look about them, a cry of the utmost wrath
broke from Folk-might and those others who remembered the Hall from
of old.&nbsp; For wretched and befouled was that well-builded house:
the hangings rent away; the goodly painted walls daubed and smeared
with wicked tokens of the Alien murderers: the floor, once bright with
polished stones of the mountain, and strewn with sweet-smelling flowers,
was now as foul as the den of the man-devouring troll of the heaths.&nbsp;
From the fair-carven roof of oak and chestnut-beams hung ugly knots
of rags and shapeless images of the sorcery of the Dusky Men.&nbsp;
And furthermore, and above all, from the last tie-beam of the roof over
the da&iuml;s dangled four shapes of men-at-arms, whom the older men
of the Wolf knew at once for the embalmed bodies of their four great
chieftains, who had been slain on the day of the Great Undoing; and
they cried out with horror and rage as they saw them hanging there in
their weapons as they had lived.</p>
<p>There was the Hostage of the Earth, his shield painted with the green
world circled with the worm of the sea.&nbsp; There was the older Folk-might,
the uncle of the living man, bearing a shield with an oak and a lion
done thereon.&nbsp; There was Wealth-eker, on whose shield was done
a golden sheaf of wheat.&nbsp; There was he who bore a name great from
of old, Folk-wolf to wit, bearing on his shield the axe of the hewer.&nbsp;
There they hung, dusty, befouled, with sightless eyes and grinning mouths,
in the dimmed sunlight of the Hall, before the eyes of that victorious
Host, stricken silent at the sight of them.</p>
<p>Underneath them on the da&iuml;s stood the last remnant of the battle
of the Dusky Men; and they, as men mad with coming death, shook their
weapons, and with shrieking laughter mocked at the overcomers, and pointed
to the long-dead chiefs, and called on them in the tongue of the kindreds
to come down and lead their dear kinsmen to the high-seat; and then
they cried out to the living warriors of the Wolf, and bade them better
their deed of slaying, and set to work to make alive again, and cause
their kinsmen to live merry on the earth.</p>
<p>With that last mock they handled their weapons and rushed howling
on the warriors to meet their death; nor was it long denied them; for
the sword of the Wolf, the axe of the Woodland, and the spear of the
Dale soon made an end of the dreadful lives of these destroyers of the
Folks.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLVIII.&nbsp; MEN SING IN THE MOTE-HOUSE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Then strode the Warriors of the Wolf over the bodies of the slain
on to the da&iuml;s of their own Hall; and Folk-might led the Sun-beam
by the hand, and now was his sword in its sheath, and his face was grown
calm, though it was stern and sad.&nbsp; But even as he trod the da&iuml;s
comes a slim swain of the Wolves twisting himself through the throng,
and so maketh way to Folk-might, and saith to him:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Chieftain, the Alderman of Burgdale sendeth me hither to say
a word to thee; even this, which I am to tell to thee and the War-leader
both: It is most true that our kinswoman the Bride will not die, but
live.&nbsp; So help me, the Warrior and the Face!&nbsp; This is the
word of the Alderman.&rsquo;</p>
<p>When Folk-might heard this, his face changed and he hung his head;
and Face-of-god, who was standing close by, beheld him and deemed that
tears were falling from his eyes on to the hall-floor.&nbsp; As for
him, he grew exceeding glad, and he turned to the Sun-beam and met her
eyes, and saw that she could scarce refrain her longing for him; and
he was abashed for the sweetness of his love.&nbsp; But she drew close
up to him, and spake to him softly and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;This is the day that maketh amends; and yet I long for another
day.&nbsp; When I saw thee coming to me that first day in Shadowy Vale,
I thought thee so goodly a warrior that my heart was in my mouth.&nbsp;
But now how goodly thou art!&nbsp; For the battle is over, and we shall
live.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;and none shall begrudge
us our love.&nbsp; Behold thy brother, the hard-heart, the warrior;
he weepeth because he hath heard that the Bride shall live.&nbsp; Be
sure then that she shall not gainsay him.&nbsp; O fair shall the world
be to-morrow!&rsquo;</p>
<p>But she said: &lsquo;O Gold-mane, I have no words.&nbsp; Is there
no minstrelsy amongst us?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Now by this time were many of the men of the Wolf and the Woodlanders
gathered on the da&iuml;s of the Hall; and the Dalesmen noting this,
and wotting that these men were now in their own Mote-house, withdrew
them as they might for the press toward the nether end thereof.&nbsp;
That the Sun-beam noted, and that all those about her save the War-leader
were of the kindreds of the Wolf and the Woodland, and, still speaking
softly, she said to Face-of-god:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Gold-mane, meseemeth I am now in my wrong place; for now the
Wolf raiseth up his head, but I am departing from him.&nbsp; Surely
I should now be standing amongst my people of the Face, whereto I am
going ere long.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;Beloved, I am now become thy kindred and thine home,
and it is meet for thee to stand beside me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She cast her eyes adown and answered not; and she fell a-pondering
of how sorely she had desired that fair dale, and now she would leave
it, and be content and more than content.</p>
<p>But now the kindreds had sundered, they upon the da&iuml;s ranked
themselves together there in the House which their fathers had builded;
and when they saw themselves so meetly ordered, their hearts being full
with the sweetness of hope accomplished and the joy of deliverance from
death, song arose amongst them, and they fell to singing together; and
this is somewhat of their singing:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Now raise we the lay<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of
the long-coming day!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Bright, white was the sun<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When
we saw it begun:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O&rsquo;er its noon now we live;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It
hath ceased not to give;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It shall give, and give
more<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;From the wealth of its store.<br />O fair
was the yesterday!&nbsp; Kindly and good<br />Was the wasteland our
guester, and kind was the wood;<br />Though below us for reaping lay
under our hand<br />The harvest of weeping, the grief of the land;<br />Dumb
cowered the sorrow, nought daring to cry<br />On the help of to-morrow,
the deed drawing nigh.</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;All increase throve<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In the
Dale of our love;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;There the ox and the steed<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Fed
down the mead;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The grapes hung high<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&rsquo;Twixt
earth and sky,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the apples fell<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Round
the orchard well.<br />Yet drear was the land there, and all was for
nought;<br />None put forth a hand there for what the year wrought,<br />And
raised it o&rsquo;erflowing with gifts of the earth.<br />For man&rsquo;s
grief was growing beside of the mirth<br />Of the springs and the summers
that wasted their wealth;<br />And the birds, the new-comers, made merry
by stealth.</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yet here of old<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Abode the
bold;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Nor had they wailed<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Though
the wheat had failed,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the vine no more<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Gave
forth her store.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yea, they found the waste good<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For
the fearless of mood.<br />Then to these, that were dwelling aloof from
the Dale,<br />Fared the wild-wind a-telling the worst of the tale;<br />As
men bathed in the morning they saw in the pool<br />The image of scorning,
the throne of the fool.<br />The picture was gleaming in helm and in
sword,<br />And shone forth its seeming from cups of the board.</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Forth then they came<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With
the battle-flame;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;From the Wood and the Waste<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
the Dale did they haste:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They saw the storm rise,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
with untroubled eyes<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The war-storm they met;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
the rain ruddy-wet.<br />O&rsquo;er the Dale then was litten the Candle
of Day,<br />Night-sorrow was smitten, and gloom fled away.<br />How
the grief-shackles sunder!&nbsp; How many to morn<br />Shall awaken
and wonder how gladness was born!<br />O wont unto sorrow, how sweet
unto you<br />Shall be pondering to-morrow what deed is to do!</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Fell many a man<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&rsquo;Neath
the edges wan,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In the heat of the play<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That
fashioned the day.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Praise all ye then<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
death of men,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the gift of the aid<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of
the unafraid!<br />O strong are the living men mighty to save,<br />And
good is their giving, and gifts that we have!<br />But the dead, they
that gave us once, never again;<br />Long and long shall they save us
sore trouble and pain.<br />O Banner above us, O God of the strong,<br />Love
them as ye love us that bore down our wrong!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>So they sang in the Hall; and there was many a man wept, as the song
ended, for those that should never see the good days of the Dale, and
all the joy that was to be; and men swore, by all that they loved, that
they would never forget those that had fallen in the Winning of Silver-dale;
and that when each year the Cups of Memory went round, they should be
no mere names to them, but the very men whom they had known and loved.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XLIX.&nbsp; DALLACH FARETH TO ROSE-DALE: CROW TELLETH OF
HIS ERRAND: THE KINDREDS EAT THEIR MEAT IN SILVER-DALE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Now Dallach, who had gone away for a while, came back again into
the Hall; and at his back were a half score of men who bore ladders
with them: they were stout men, clad in scanty and ragged raiment, but
girt with swords and bearing axes, those of them who were not handling
the ladders.&nbsp; Men looked on them curiously, because they saw them
to be of the roughest of the thralls.&nbsp; They were sullen and fierce-eyed
to behold, and their hands and bare arms were flecked with blood; and
it was easy to see that they had been chasing the fleers, and making
them pay for their many torments of past days.</p>
<p>But when Face-of-god beheld this he cried out: &lsquo;Ho, Dallach!
is it so that thou hast bethought thee to bring in hither men to fall
to the cleansing of the Hall, and to do away the defiling of the Dusky
Men?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Even so, War-leader,&rsquo; said Dallach; &lsquo;also ye shall
know that all battle is over in Silver-stead; for the thralls fell in
numbers not to be endured on the Dusky Men who had turned their backs
to us, and hindered them from fleeing north.&nbsp; But though they have
slain many, they have not slain all, and the remnant have fled by divers
ways westaway, that they may gain the wood and the ways to Rose-dale;
and the stoutest of the thralls are at their heels, and ever as they
go fresh men from the fields join in the chase with great joy.&nbsp;
I have gathered together of the best of them two hundreds and a half
well-armed; and if thou wilt give me leave, I will get to me yet more,
and follow hard on the fleers, and so get me home to Rose-dale; for
thither will these runaways to meet whatso of their kind may be left
there.&nbsp; Also I would fain be there to set some order amongst the
poor folk of mine own people, whom this day&rsquo;s work hath delivered
from torment.&nbsp; And if thou wilt suffer a few men of the Dalesmen
to come along with me, then shall all things be better done there.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Luck go with thine hands!&rsquo; said Face-of-god.&nbsp; &lsquo;Take
whomso thou wilt of the Burgdalers that have a mind to fare with thee
to the number of five score; and send word of thy thriving to Folk-might,
the chieftain of the Dale; as for us, meseemeth that we shall abide
here no long while.&nbsp; How sayest thou, Folk-might, shall Dallach
go?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Folk-might, who stood close beside him, looked up and reddened
somewhat, as a man caught heedless when he should be heedful; but he
looked kindly on Face-of-god, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;War-leader, so long as thou art in the Dale which ye kindreds
have won back for us, thou art the chieftain, and no other, and I bid
thee do as thou wilt in this matter, and in all things; and I hereby
give command to all my kindred to do according to thy will everywhere
and always, as they love me; and indeed I deem that thy will shall be
theirs; since it is only fools who know not their well-wishers.&nbsp;
How say ye, kinsmen?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then those about cried out: &lsquo;Hail to Face-of-god!&nbsp; Hail
to the Dalesmen!&nbsp; Hail to our friends!&rsquo;</p>
<p>But Folk-might went up to Face-of-god, and threw his arms about him
and kissed him, and he said therewithal, so that most men heard him:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Herewith I kiss not only thee, thou goodly and glorious warrior!
but this kiss and embrace is for all the men of the kindreds of the
Dale and the Shepherds; since I deem that never have men more valiant
dwelt upon the earth.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith all men shouted for joy of him, and were exceeding glad;
but Folk-might spake apart to Face-of-god and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Brother, I suppose that thou wilt deem it good to abide in
this Hall or anigh it; for hereabouts now is the heart of the Host.&nbsp;
But as for me, I would have leave to depart for a little; since I have
an errand, whereof thou mayest wot.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god smiled on him, and said: &lsquo;Go, and all good
go with thee; and tell my father that I would have tidings, since I
may not be there.&rsquo;&nbsp; So he spake; yet in his heart was he
glad that he might not go to behold the Bride lying sick and sorry.&nbsp;
But Folk-might departed without more words; and in the door of the Hall
he met Crow the Shaft-speeder, who would have spoken to him, and given
him the tidings; but Folk-might said to him: &lsquo;Do thine errand
to the War-leader, who is within the Hall.&rsquo;&nbsp; And so went
on his way.</p>
<p>Then came Crow up the Hall, and stood before Face-of-god and said:
&lsquo;War-leader, we have done that which was to be done, and have
cleared all the houses about the Market-stead.&nbsp; Moreover, by the
rede of Dallach we have set certain men of the poor folk of the Dale,
who are well looked to by the others, to the burying of the slain felons;
and they be digging trenches in the fields on the north side of the
Market-stead, and carry the carcasses thither as they may.&nbsp; But
the slain whom they find of the kindreds do they array out yonder before
this Hall.&nbsp; In all wise are these men tame and biddable, save that
they rage against the Dusky Men, though they fear them yet.&nbsp; As
for us, they deem us Gods come down from heaven to help them.&nbsp;
So much for what is good: now have I an ill word to say; to wit, that
in the houses whereas we have found many thralls alive, yet also have
we found many dead; for amongst these murder-carles were some of an
evil sort, who, when they saw that the battle would go against them,
rushed into the houses hewing down all before them - man, woman, and
child; so that many of the halls and chambers we saw running blood like
to shambles.&nbsp; To be short: of them whom they were going to hew
to the Gods, we have found thirteen living and three dead, of which
latter is one woman; and of the living, seven women; and all these,
living and dead, with the leaden shackles yet on them wherein they should
be burned.&nbsp; To all these and others whom we have found, we have
done what of service we could in the way of victual and clothes, so
that they scarce believe that they are on this lower earth.&nbsp; Moreover,
I have with me two score of them, who are men of some wits, and who
know of the stores of victual and other wares which the felons had,
and these will fetch and carry for you as much as ye will.&nbsp; Is
all done rightly, War-leader?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Right well,&rsquo; said Face-of-god, &lsquo;and we give thee
our thanks therefor.&nbsp; And now it were well if these thy folk were
to dight our dinner for us in some green field the nighest that may
be, and thither shall all the Host be bidden by sound of horn.&nbsp;
Meantime, let us void this Hall till it be cleansed of the filth of
the Dusky Ones; but hereafter shall we come again to it, and light a
fire on the Holy Hearth, and bid the Gods and the Fathers come back
and behold their children sitting glad in the ancient Hall.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then men shouted and were exceeding joyous; but Face-of-god said
once more: &lsquo;Bear ye a bench out into the Market-place over against
the door of this Hall: thereon will I sit with other chieftains of the
kindreds, that whoso will may have recourse to us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So therewith all the men of the kindreds made their ways out of the
Hall and into the Market-stead, which was by this time much cleared
of the slaughtered felons; and the bale for the burnt-offering was now
but smouldering, and a thin column of blue smoke was going up wavering
amidst the light airs of the afternoon.&nbsp; Men were somewhat silent
now; for they were stiff and weary with the morning&rsquo;s battle;
and a many had been hurt withal; and on many there yet rested the after-grief
of battle, and sorrow for the loss of friends and well-wishers.</p>
<p>For in the battle had fallen one long hundred and two of the men
of the Host; and of these were two score and five of the kindreds of
the Steer, the Bull, and the Bridge, who had made such valiant onslaught
by the southern road.&nbsp; Of the Shepherds died one score save three;
for though they scattered the foe at once, yet they fell on with such
headlong valour, rather than wisely, that many were trapped in the throng
of the Dusky Men.&nbsp; Of the Woodlanders were slain one score and
nine; for hard had been the fight about them, and no man of them spared
himself one whit.&nbsp; Of the men of the Wolf, who were but a few,
fell sixteen men, and all save two of these in Face-of-god&rsquo;s battle.&nbsp;
Of the Burgdale men whom Folk-might led, to wit, them of the Face, the
Vine, and the Sickle, were but seven men slain outright.&nbsp; In this
tale are told all those who died of their hurts after the day of battle.&nbsp;
Therewithal many others were sorely hurt who mended, and went about
afterwards hale and hearty.</p>
<p>So as the folk abode in the Market-place, somewhat faint and weary,
they heard horns blow up merrily, and Crow the Shaft-speeder came forth
and stood on the mound of the altar, and bade men fare to dinner, and
therewith he led the way, bearing in his hand the banner of the Golden
Bushel, of which House he was; and they followed him into a fair and
great mead on the southwest of Silver-stead, besprinkled about with
ancient trees of sweet chestnut.&nbsp; There they found the boards spread
for them with the best of victual which the poor down-trodden folk knew
how to dight for them; and especially was there great plenty of good
wine of the sun-smitten bents.</p>
<p>So they fell to their meat, and the poor folk, both men and women,
served them gladly, though they were somewhat afeard of these fierce
sword-wielders, the Gods who had delivered them.&nbsp; The said thralls
were mostly not of those who had fallen so bitterly on their fleeing
masters, but were men and women of the households, not so roughly treated
as the others, that is to say, those who had been wont to toil under
the lash in the fields and the silver-mines, and were as wild as they
durst be.</p>
<p>As for these waiting-thralls, the men of the kindreds were gentle
and blithe with them, and often as they served them would they stay
their hands (and especially if they were women), and would draw down
their heads to put a morsel in their mouths, or set the wine-cup to
their lips; and they would stroke them and caress them, and treat them
in all wise as their dear friends.&nbsp; Moreover, when any man was
full, he would arise and take hold of one of the thralls, and set him
in his place, and serve him with meat and drink, and talk with him kindly,
so that the poor folk were much bewildered with joy.&nbsp; And the first
that arose from table were the Sun-beam and Bow-may and Hall-face, with
many of the swains and the women of the Woodlanders; and they went from
table to table serving the others.</p>
<p>The Sun-beam had done off her armour, and went about exceeding fair
and lovely in her kirtle; but Bow-may yet bore her hauberk, for she
loved it, and indeed it was so fine and well-wrought that it was no
great burden.&nbsp; Albeit she had gone down with the Sun-beam and other
women to a fair stream thereby, and there had they bathed and washed
themselves; and Bow-may&rsquo;s hurts, which were not great, had been
looked to and bound up afresh, and she had come to table unhelmed, with
a wreath of wind-flowers round her head.</p>
<p>There then they feasted; and their hearts were strengthened by the
meat and drink; and if sorrow were blended with their joy, yet were
they high-hearted through both joy and sorrow, looking forward to the
good days to be in the Dales at the Roots of the Mountains, and the
love and fellowship of Folks and of Houses.</p>
<p>But as for Face-of-god, he went not to the meadow, but abode sitting
on the bench in the Market-place, where were none else now of the kindreds
save the appointed warders.&nbsp; They had brought him a morsel and
a cup of wine, and he had eaten and drunk; and now he sat there with
Dale-warden lying sheathed across his knees, and seeming to gaze on
the thralls of Silver-dale busied in carrying away the bodies of the
slain felons, after they had stripped them of their raiment and weapons.&nbsp;
Yet indeed all this was before his eyes as a picture which he noted
not.&nbsp; Rather he sat pondering many things; wondering at his being
there in Silver-dale in the hour of victory; longing for the peace of
Burgdale and the bride-chamber of the Sun-beam.&nbsp; Then went his
thought out toward his old playmate lying hurt in Silver-dale; and his
heart was grieved because of her, yet not for long, though his thought
still dwelt on her; since he deemed that she would live and presently
be happy - and happy thenceforward for many years.&nbsp; So pondered
Face-of-god in the Market-place of Silver-dale.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER L.&nbsp; FOLK-MIGHT SEETH THE BRIDE AND SPEAKETH WITH HER</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Now tells the tale of Folk-might, that he went his ways from the
Hall to the house where the Bride lay; and the swain who had brought
the message went along with him, and he was proud of walking beside
so mighty a warrior, and he talked to Folk-might as they went; and the
sound of his voice was irksome to the chieftain, but he made as though
he hearkened.&nbsp; Yet when they came to the door of the house, which
was just out of the Place on the Southern road (for thereby had the
Bride fallen to earth), he could withhold his grief no longer, but turned
on the threshold and laid his head on the door-jamb, and sobbed and
wept till the tears fell down like rain.&nbsp; And the boy stood by
wondering, and wishing that Folk-might would forbear weeping, but durst
not speak to him.</p>
<p>In a while Folk-might left weeping and went in, and found a fair
hall sore befouled by the felons, and in the corner on a bed covered
with furs the wounded woman; and at first sight he deemed her not so
pale as he looked to see her, as she lay with her long dark-red hair
strewed over the pillow, her head moving about wearily.&nbsp; A linen
cloth was thrown over her body, but her arms lay out of it before her.&nbsp;
Beside her sat the Alderman, his face sober enough, but not as one in
heavy sorrow; and anigh him was another chair as if someone had but
just got up from it.&nbsp; There was no one else in the hall save two
women of the Woodlanders, one of whom was cooking some potion on the
hearth, and another was sweeping the floor anigh of bran or some such
stuff, which had been thrown down to sop up the blood.</p>
<p>So Folk-might went up to the Bride, sorely dreading the image of
death which she had grown to be, and sorely loving the woman she was
and would be.</p>
<p>He knelt down by the bedside, heeding Iron-face little, though he
nodded friendly to him, and he held his face close to hers; but she
had her eyes shut and did not open them till he had been there a little
while; and then they opened and fixed themselves on his without surprise
or change.&nbsp; Then she lifted her right hand (for it was in her left
shoulder and side that she had been hurt) and slowly laid it on his
head, and drew his face to hers and kissed it fondly, as she both smiled
and let the tears run over from her eyes.&nbsp; Then she spake in a
weak voice:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou seest, chieftain and dear friend, that I may not stand
by thy victorious side to-day.&nbsp; And now, though I were fain if
thou wouldst never leave me, yet needs must thou go about thy work,
since thou art become the Alderman of the Folk of Silver-dale.&nbsp;
Yea, and even if thou wert not to go from me, yet in a manner should
I go from thee.&nbsp; For I am grievously hurt, and I know by myself,
and also the leeches have told me, that the fever is a-coming on me;
so that presently I shall not know thee, but may deem thee to be a woman,
or a hound, or the very Wolf that is the image of the Father of thy
kindred; or even, it may be, someone else - that I have played with
time agone.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Her voice faltered and faded out here, and she was silent a while;
then she said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;So depart, kind friend and dear love, bearing this word with
thee, that should I die, I call on Iron-face my kinsman to bear witness
that I bid thee carry me to bale in Silver-dale, and lay mine ashes
with the ashes of thy Fathers, with whom thine own shall mingle at the
last, since I have been of the warriors who have helped to bring thee
aback to the land of thy folk.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then she smiled and shut her eyes and said: &lsquo;And if I live,
as indeed I hope, and how glad and glad I shall be to live, then shalt
thou bring me to thy house and thy bed, that I may not depart from thee
while both our lives last.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And she opened her eyes and looked at him; and he might not speak
for a while, so ravished as he was betwixt joy and sorrow.&nbsp; But
the Alderman arose and took a gold ring from off his arm, and spake:</p>
<p>&lsquo;This is the gold ring of the God of the Face, and I bear it
on mine arm betwixt the Folk and the God in all man-motes, and I bore
it through the battle to-day; and it is as holy a ring as may be; and
since ye are plighting troth, and I am the witness thereof, it were
good that ye held this ring together and called the God to witness,
who is akin to the God of the Earth, as we all be.&nbsp; Take the ring,
Folk-might, for I trust thee; and of all women now alive would I have
this woman happy.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So Folk-might took the ring and thrust his hand through it, and took
her hand, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Ye Fathers, thou God of the Face, thou Earth-god, thou Warrior,
bear witness that my life and my body are plighted to this woman, the
Bride of the House of the Steer!&rsquo;</p>
<p>His face was flushed and bright as he spoke, but as his words ceased
he noted how feebly her hand lay in his, and his face fell, and he gazed
on her timidly.&nbsp; But she lay quiet, and said softly and slowly:</p>
<p>&lsquo;O Fathers of my kindred!&nbsp; O Warrior and God of the Earth!
bear witness that I plight my troth to this man, to lie in his grave
if I die, and in his bed if I live.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And she smiled on him again, and then closed her eyes; but opened
them presently once more, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Dear friend, how fared it with Gold-mane to-day?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Folk-might: &lsquo;So well he did, that none might have done
better.&nbsp; He fared in the fight as if he had been our Father the
Warrior: he is a great chieftain.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;Wilt thou give him this message from me, that in
no wise he forget the oath which he swore upon the finger-ring as it
lay on the sundial of the Garden of the Face?&nbsp; And say, moreover,
that I am sorry that we shall part, and have between us such breadth
of wild-wood and mountain-neck.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, surely will I give thy message,&rsquo; said Folk-might;
and in his heart he rejoiced, because he heard her speak as if she were
sure of life.&nbsp; Then she said faintly:</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is now thy work to depart from me, and to do as it behoveth
a chieftain of the people and the Alderman of Silver-dale.&nbsp; Depart,
lest the leeches chide me: farewell, my dear!&rsquo;</p>
<p>So he laid his face to hers and kissed her, and rose up and embraced
Iron-face, and went his ways without looking back.</p>
<p>But just over the threshold he met old Hall-ward of the House of
the Steer, who was at point to enter, and he greeted him kindly.&nbsp;
The old man looked on him steadily, and said: &lsquo;To-morrow or the
day after I will utter a word to thee, O Chief of the Wolf.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;In a good hour,&rsquo; said Folk-might, &lsquo;for all thy
words are true.&rsquo;&nbsp; Therewith he gat him away from the house,
and came to Face-of-god, where he sat before the altar of the Crooked
Sword; and now were the chiefs come back from their meat, and were sitting
with him; there also were Wood-father and Wood-wont; but Bow-may was
with the Sun-beam, who was resting softly in the fair meadow after all
the turmoil.</p>
<p>So men made place for Folk-might beside the War-leader, who looked
upon his face, and saw that it was sober and unsmiling, but not heavy
or moody with grief.&nbsp; So he deemed that all was as well as it might
be with the Bride, and with a good heart fell to taking counsel with
the others; and kindly and friendly were the redes which they held there,
with no gainsaying of man by man, for the whole folk was glad at heart.</p>
<p>So there they ordered all matters duly for that present time, and
by then they had made an end, it was past sunset, and men were lodged
in the chief houses about the Market-stead.</p>
<p>Albeit, though they ate their meat with all joy of heart, and were
merry in converse one with the other, the men of the Wolf would by no
means feast in their Hall again till it had been cleansed and hallowed
anew.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER LI.&nbsp; THE DEAD BORNE TO BALE: THE MOTE-HOUSE RE-HALLOWED</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>On the morrow they bore to bale their slain men, and there withal
what was left of the bodies of the four chieftains of the Great Undoing.&nbsp;
They brought them into a most fair meadow to the west of Silver-stead,
where they had piled up a very great bale for the burning.&nbsp; In
that meadow was the Doom-ring and Thing-stead of the Folk of the Wolf,
and they had hallowed it when they had first conquered Silver-dale,
and it was deemed far holier than the Mote-house aforesaid, wherein
the men of the kindred might hold no due court; but rather it was a
Feast-hall, and a house where men had converse together, and wherein
precious things and tokens of the Fathers were stored up.</p>
<p>The Thing-stead in the meadow was flowery and well-grassed, and a
little stream winding about thereby nearly cast a ring around it; and
beyond the stream was a full fair grove of oak-trees, very tall and
ancient.&nbsp; There then they burned the dead of the Host, wrapped
about in exceeding fair raiment.&nbsp; And when the ashes were gathered,
the men of Burgdale and the Shepherds left those of their folk for the
kindred to bury there in Silver-dale; for they said that they had a
right to claim such guesting for them that had helped to win back the
Dale.</p>
<p>But when the Burning was done and the bale quenched, and the ashes
gathered and buried (and that was on the morrow), then men bore forth
the Banners of the Jaws of the Wolf, and the Red Hand, and the Silver
Arm, and the Golden Bushel, and the Ragged Sword, and the Wolf of the
Woodland; and with great joy and triumph they brought them into the
Mote-house and hung them up over the da&iuml;s; and they kindled fire
on the Holy Hearth by holding up a disk of bright glass to the sun;
and then they sang before the banners.&nbsp; And this is somewhat of
the song that they sang before them:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Why are ye wending?&nbsp; O whence and whither?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;What
shineth over the fallow swords?<br />What is the joy that ye bear in
hither?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;What is the tale of your blended words?</p>
<p>No whither we wend, but here have we stayed us,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Here
by the ancient Holy Hearth;<br />Long have the moons and the years delayed
us,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But here are we come from the heart of the
dearth.</p>
<p>We are the men of joy belated;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We are the
wanderers over the waste;<br />We are but they that sat and waited,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Watching
the empty winds make haste.</p>
<p>Long, long we sat and knew no others,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Save
alien folk and the foes of the road;<br />Till late and at last we met
our brothers,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And needs must we to the old abode.</p>
<p>For once on a day they prayed for guesting;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
how were we then their bede to do?<br />Wild was the waste for the people&rsquo;s
resting,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And deep the wealth of the Dale we knew.</p>
<p>Here were the boards that we must spread them<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Down
in the fruitful Dale and dear;<br />Here were the halls where we would
bed them:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And how should we tarry otherwhere?</p>
<p>Over the waste we came together:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;There was
the tangle athwart the way;<br />There was the wind-storm and the weather;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
red rain darkened down the day.</p>
<p>But that day of the days what grief should let us,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When
we saw through the clouds the dale-glad sun?<br />We tore at the tangle
that beset us,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And stood at peace when the day
was done.</p>
<p>Hall of the Happy, take our greeting!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Bid
thou the Fathers come and see<br />The Folk-signs on thy walls a-meeting,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
deem to-day what men we be.</p>
<p>Look on the Holy Hearth new-litten,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;How the
sparks fly twinkling up aloof!<br />How the wavering smoke by the sunlight
smitten,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Curls up around the beam-rich roof!</p>
<p>For here once more is the Wolf abiding,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Nor
ever more from the Dale shall wend,<br />And never again his head be
hiding,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Till all days be dark and the world have
end.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER LII.&nbsp; OF THE NEW BEGINNING OF GOOD DAYS IN SILVER-DALE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>On the third day there was high-tide and great joy amongst all men
from end to end of the Dale; and the delivered thralls were feasted
and made much of by the kindreds, so that they scarce knew how to believe
their own five senses that told them the good tidings.</p>
<p>For none strove to grieve them and torment them; what they would,
that did they, and they had all things plenteously; since for all was
there enough and to spare of goods stored up for the Dusky Men, as corn
and wine and oil and spices, and raiment and silver.&nbsp; Horses were
there also, and neat and sheep and swine in abundance.&nbsp; Withal
there was the good and dear land; the waxing corn on the acres; the
blossoming vines on the hillside; and about the orchards and alongside
the ways, the plum-trees and cherry-trees and pear-trees that had cast
their blossom and were overhung with little young fruit; and the fair
apple-trees a-blossoming, and the chestnuts spreading their boughs from
their twisted trunks over the green grass.&nbsp; And there was the goodly
pasture for the horses and the neat, and the thymy hill-grass for the
sheep; and beyond it all, the thicket of the great wood, with its unfailing
store of goodly timber of ash and oak and holly and yoke-elm.&nbsp;
There need no man lack unless man compelled him, and all was rich enough
and wide enough for the waxing of a very great folk.</p>
<p>Now, therefore, men betook them to what was their own before the
coming of the Dusky Men; and though at first many of the delivered thrall-folk
feasted somewhat above measure, and though there were some of them who
were not very brisk at working on the earth for their livelihood; yet
were the most part of them quick of wit and deft of hand, and they mostly
fell to presently at their cunning, both of husbandry and handicraft.&nbsp;
Moreover, they had great love of the kindreds, and especially of the
Woodlanders, and strove to do all things that might pleasure them.&nbsp;
And as for those who were dull and listless because of their many torments
of the last ten years, they would at least fetch and carry willingly
for them of the kindreds; and these last grudged them not meat and raiment
and house-room, even if they wrought but little for it, because they
called to mind the evil days of their thralldom, and bethought them
how few are men&rsquo;s days upon the earth.</p>
<p>Thus all things throve in Silver-dale, and the days wore on toward
the summer, and the Yule-tide rest beyond it, and the years beyond and
far beyond the winning of Silver-dale.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER LIII.&nbsp; OF THE WORD WHICH HALL-WARD OF THE STEER HAD
FOR FOLK-MIGHT</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>But of the time then passing, it is to be said that the whole host
abode in Silver-dale in great mirth and good liking, till they should
hear tidings of Dallach and his company, who had followed hot-foot on
the fleers of the Dusky Men.&nbsp; And on the tenth day after the battle,
Iron-face and his two sons and Stone-face were sitting about sunset
under a great oak-tree by that stream-side which ran through the Mote-stead;
there also was Folk-might, somewhat distraught because of his love for
the Bride, who was now mending of her hurts.&nbsp; As they sat there
in all content they saw folk coming toward them, three in number, and
as they drew nigher they saw that it was old Hall-ward of the Steer,
and the Sun-beam and Bow-may following him hand in hand.</p>
<p>When they came to the brook Bow-may ran up to the elder to help him
over the stepping-stones; which she did as one who loved him, as the
old man was stark enough to have waded the water waist-deep.&nbsp; She
was no longer in her war-gear, but was clad after her wont of Shadowy
Vale, in nought but a white woollen kirtle.&nbsp; So she stood in the
stream beside the stones, and let the swift water ripple up over her
ankles, while the elder leaned on her shoulder and looked down upon
her kindly.&nbsp; The Sun-beam followed after them, stepping daintily
from stone to stone, so that she was a fair sight to see; her face was
smiling and happy, and as she stepped forth on to the green grass the
colour flushed up in it, but she cast her eyes adown as one somewhat
shamefaced.</p>
<p>So the chieftains rose up before the leader of the Steer, and Folk-might
went up to him, and greeted him, and took his hand and kissed him on
the cheek.&nbsp; And Hall-ward said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Hail to the chiefs of the kindred, and my earthly friends!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Folk-might bade him sit down by him, and all the men sat down
again; but the Sun-beam leaned her back against a sapling ash hard by,
her feet set close together; and Bow-may went to and fro in short turns,
keeping well within ear-shot.</p>
<p>Then said Hall-ward: &lsquo;Folk-might, I have prayed thy kinswoman
Bow-may to lead me to thee, that I might speak with thee; and it is
good that I find my kinsmen of the Face in thy company; for I would
say a word to thee that concerns them somewhat.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Folk-might: &lsquo;Guest, and warrior of the Steer, thy words
are ever good; and if this time thou comest to ask aught of me, then
shall they be better than good.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Hall-ward: &lsquo;Tell me, Folk-might, hast thou seen my daughter
the Bride to-day?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Folk-might, reddening.</p>
<p>&lsquo;What didst thou deem of her state?&rsquo; said Hall-ward.</p>
<p>Said Folk-might: &lsquo;Thou knowest thyself that the fever hath
left her, and that she is mending.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Hall-ward said: &lsquo;In a few days belike we shall be wending home
to Burgdale: when deemest thou that the Bride may travel, if it were
but on a litter?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Folk-might was silent, and Hall-ward smiled on him and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Wouldst thou have her tarry, O chief of the Wolf?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;So it is,&rsquo; said Folk-might, &lsquo;that it might be
labour lost for her to journey to Burgdale at present.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thinkest thou?&rsquo; said Hall-ward; &lsquo;hast thou a mind
then that if she goeth she shall speedily come back hither?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;It has been in my mind,&rsquo; said Folk-might, &lsquo;that
I should wed her.&nbsp; Wilt thou gainsay it?&nbsp; I pray thee, Iron-face
my friend, and ye Stone-face and Hall-face, and thou, Face-of-god, my
brother, to lay thy words to mine in this matter.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then said Hall-ward stroking his beard: &lsquo;There will be a seat
missing in the Hall of the Steer, and a sore lack in the heart of many
a man in Burgdale if the Bride come back to us no more.&nbsp; We looked
not to lose the maiden by her wedding; for it is no long way betwixt
the House of the Steer and the House of the Face.&nbsp; But now, when
I arise in the morning and miss her, I shall take my staff and walk
down the street of Burgstead; for I shall say, The Maiden hath gone
to see Iron-face my friend; she is well in the House of the Face.&nbsp;
And then shall I remember how that the wood and the wastes lie between
us.&nbsp; How sayest thou, Alderman?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;A sore lack it will be,&rsquo; said Iron-face; &lsquo;but
all good go with her!&nbsp; Though whiles shall I go hatless down Burgstead
street, and say, Now will I go fetch my daughter the Bride from the
House of the Steer; while many a day&rsquo;s journey shall lie betwixt
us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Hall-ward: &lsquo;I will not beat about the bush, Folk-might;
what gift wilt thou give us for the maiden?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Folk-might: &lsquo;Whatever is mine shall be thine; and whatsoever
of the Dale the kindred and the poor folk begrudge thee not, that shalt
thou have; and deemest thou that they will begrudge thee aught?&nbsp;
Is it enough?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Hall-ward said: &lsquo;I wot not, chieftain; see thou to it!&nbsp;
Bow-may, my friend, bring hither that which I would have from Silver-dale
for the House of the Steer in payment for our maiden.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Bow-may came forward speedily, and went up to the Sun-beam,
and led her by the hand in front of Folk-might and Hall-ward and the
other chieftains.&nbsp; Then Folk-might started, and leapt up from the
ground; for, sooth to say, he had been thinking so wholly of the Bride,
that his sister was not in his mind, and he had had no deeming of whither
Hall-ward was coming, though the others guessed well enough, and now
smiled on him merrily, when they saw how wild Folk-might stared.&nbsp;
As for the Sun-beam, she stood there blushing like a rose in June, but
looking her brother straight in the face, as Hall-ward said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Folk-might, chief of the Wolf, since thou wouldst take our
maiden the Bride away from us, I ask thee to make good her place with
this maiden; so that the House of the Steer may not lack, when they
who are wont to wed therein come to us and pray us for a bedfellow for
the best of their kindred.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then became Folk-might smiling and merry like unto the others, and
he said: &lsquo;Chief of the Steer, this gift is thine, together with
aught else which thou mayst desire of us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then he kissed the Sun-beam, and said: &lsquo;Sister, we looked for
this to befall in some fashion.&nbsp; Yet we deemed that he that should
lead thee away might abide with us for a moon or two.&nbsp; But now
let all this be, since if thou art not to bear children to the kindreds
of Silver-dale, yet shalt thou bear them to their friends and fellows.&nbsp;
And now choose what gift thou wilt have of us to keep us in thy memory.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She said: &lsquo;The memory of my people shall not fade from me;
yet indeed I ask thee for a gift, to wit, Bow-may, and the two sons
of Wood-father that are left since Wood-wicked was slain; and belike
the elder and his wife will be fain to go with their sons, and ye will
not hinder them.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Even so shall it be done,&rsquo; said Folk-might, and he was
silent a while, pondering; and then he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Lo you, friends! doth it not seem strange to you that peace
sundereth as well as war?&nbsp; Indeed I deem it grievous that ye shall
have to miss your well-beloved kinswoman.&nbsp; And for me, I am now
grown so used to this woman my sister, though at whiles she hath been
masterful with me, that I shall often turn about and think to speak
to her, when there lie long days of wood and waste betwixt her voice
and mine.</p>
<p>The Sun-beam laughed in his face, though the tears stood in her eyes,
as she said: &lsquo;Keep up thine heart, brother; for at least the way
is shorter betwixt Burgdale and Silver-dale than betwixt life and death;
and the road we shall learn belike.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Hall-face: &lsquo;So it is that my brother is no ill woodman,
as ye learned last autumn.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Iron-face smiled, but somewhat sadly; for he beheld Face-of-god,
who had no eyes for anyone save the Sun-beam; and no marvel was that,
for never had she looked fairer.&nbsp; And forsooth the War-leader was
not utterly well-pleased; for he was deeming that there would be delaying
of his wedding, now that the Sun-beam was to become a maid of the Steer;
and in his mind he half deemed that it would be better if he were to
take her by the hand and lead her home through the wild-wood, he and
she alone; and she looked on him shyly, as though she had a deeming
of his thought.&nbsp; Albeit he knew it might not be, that he, the chosen
War-leader, should trouble the peace of the kindred; for he wotted that
all this was done for peace&rsquo; sake.</p>
<p>So Hall-ward stood forth and took the Sun-beam&rsquo;s right hand
in his, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Now do I take this maiden, Sun-beam of the kindred of the
Wolf, and lead her into the House of the Steer, to be in all ways one
of the maidens of our House, and to wed in the blood wherein we have
been wont to wed.&nbsp; Neither from henceforth let anyone say that
this woman is not of the blood of the Steer; for we have given her our
blood, and she is of us duly and truly.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Thereafter they talked together merrily for a little, and then turned
toward the houses, for the sun was now down; and as they went Iron-face
spake to his son, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Gold-mane, wilt thou verily keep thine oath to wed the fairest
woman in the world?&nbsp; By how much is this one fairer than my dear
daughter who shall no more dwell in mine house?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Yea, father, I shall keep mine oath; for
the Gods, who know much, know that when I swore last Yule I was thinking
of the fair woman going yonder beside Hall-ward, and of none other.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Ah, son!&rsquo; said Iron-face, &lsquo;why didst thou beguile
us?&nbsp; Hadst thou but told us the truth then!&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, Alderman,&rsquo; said Face-of-god smiling, &lsquo;and
how thou wouldest have raged against me then, when thou hast scarce
forgiven me now!&nbsp; In sooth, father, I feared to tell you all: I
was young; I was one against the world.&nbsp; Yea, yea; and even that
was sweet to me, so sorely as I loved her - Hast thou forgotten, father?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Iron-face smiled, and answered not; and so came they to the house
wherein they were guested.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER LIV.&nbsp; TIDINGS OF DALLACH: A FOLK-MOTE IN SILVER-DALE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Three days thereafter came two swift runners from Rose-dale with
tidings of Dallach.&nbsp; In all wise had he thriven, and had slain
many of the runaways, and had come happily to Rose-dale: therein by
the mere shaking of their swords had they all their will; for there
were but a few of the Dusky Warriors in the Dale, since the more part
had fared to the slaughter in Silver-stead.&nbsp; Now therefore had
Dallach been made Alderman of Rose-dale; and the Burgdalers who had
gone with him should abide the coming thither of the rest of the Burgdale
Host, and meantime of their coming should uphold the new Alderman in
Rose-dale.&nbsp; Howbeit Dallach sent word that it was not to be doubted
but that many of the Dusky Men had escaped to the woods, and should
yet be the death of many a mother&rsquo;s son, unless it were well looked
to.</p>
<p>And now the more part of the Burgdale men and the Shepherds began
to look toward home, albeit some amongst them had not been ill-pleased
to abide there yet a while; for life was exceeding soft to them there,
though they helped the poor folk gladly in their husbandry.&nbsp; For
especially the women of the Dale, of whom many were very goodly, hankered
after the fair-faced tall Burgdalers, and were as kind to them as might
be.&nbsp; Forsooth not a few, both carles and queens, of the old thrall-folk
prayed them of Burgdale to take them home thither, that they might see
new things and forget their old torments once for all, yea, even in
dreams.&nbsp; The Burgdalers would not gainsay them, and there was no
one else to hinder; so that there went with the Burgdale men at their
departure hard on five score of the Silver-dale folk who were not of
the kindreds.</p>
<p>And now was a great Folk-mote holden in Silver-dale, whereto the
Burgdale men and the Shepherds were bidden; and thereat the War-leader
gave out the morrow of the morrow for the day of the departure of the
Host.&nbsp; There also were the matters of Silver-dale duly ordered:
the Men of the Wolf would have had the Woodlanders dwell with them in
the fair-builded stead, and take to them of the goodly stone houses
there what they would; but this they naysaid, choosing rather to dwell
in scattered houses, which they built for themselves at the utmost limit
of the tillage.</p>
<p>Indeed, the most abode not even there a long while; for they loved
the wood and its deeds.&nbsp; So they went forth into the wood, and
cleared them space to dwell in, and builded them halls such as they
loved, and fell to their old woodland crafts of charcoal-burning and
hunting, wherein they throve well.&nbsp; And good for Silver-dale was
their abiding there, since they became a sure defence and stout outpost
against all foemen.&nbsp; For the rest, wheresoever they dwelt, they
were guest-cherishing and blithe, and were well beloved by all people;
and they wedded with the other Houses of the Children of the Wolf.</p>
<p>As to the other matters whereof they took rede at this Folk-mote,
they had mostly to do with the warding of the Dale, and the learning
of the delivered thralls to handle weapons duly.&nbsp; For men deemed
it most like that they would have to meet other men of the kindred of
the Felons; which indeed fell out as the years wore.</p>
<p>Moreover, Folk-might (by the rede of Stone-face) sent messengers
to the Plain and the Cities, unto men whom he knew there, doing them
to wit of the tidings of Silver-dale, and how that a peaceful and guest-loving
people, having good store of wares, now dwelt therein, so that chapmen
might have recourse thither.</p>
<p>Lastly spake Folk-might and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Guests and brothers-in-arms, we have been looking about our
new house, which was our old one, and therein we find great store of
wares which we need not, and which we can but use if ye use them.&nbsp;
Of your kindness therefore we pray you to take of those things what
ye can easily carry.&nbsp; And if ye say the way is long, as indeed
it is, since ye are bent on going through the wood to Rose-dale, and
so on to Burgdale, yet shall we furnish you with beasts to bear your
goods, and with such wains as may pass through the woodland ways.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then rose up Fox of Upton and said: &lsquo;O Folk-might, and ye men
of the Wolf, be it known unto you, that if we have done anything for
your help in the winning of Silver-dale, we have thus done that we might
help ourselves also, so that we might live in peace henceforward, and
that we might have your friendship and fellowship therewithal, so that
here in Silver-dale might wax a mighty folk who joined unto us should
be strong enough to face the whole world.&nbsp; Such are the redes of
wise men when they go a-warring.&nbsp; But we have no will to go back
home again made rich with your wealth; this hath been far from our thought
in this matter.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And there went up a murmur from all the Burgdalers yeasaying his
word.</p>
<p>But Folk-might took up the word again and spake:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Men of Burgdale and the Sheepcotes, what ye say is both manly
and friendly; yet, since we look to see a road made plain through the
woodland betwixt Burgdale and Silver-dale, and that often ye shall face
us in the feast-hall, and whiles stand beside us in the fray, we must
needs pray you not to shame us by departing empty-handed; for how then
may we look upon your faces again?&nbsp; Stone-face, my friend, thou
art old and wise; therefore I bid thee to help us herein, and speak
for us to thy kindred, that they naysay us not in this matter.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then stood up Stone-face and said: &lsquo;Forsooth, friends, Folk-might
is in the right herein; for he may look for anger from the wights that
come and go betwixt his kindred and the Gods, if they see us faring
back giftless through the woods.&nbsp; Moreover, now that ye have seen
Silver-dale, ye may wot how rich a land it is of all good things, and
able to bring forth enough and to spare.&nbsp; And now meseemeth the
Gods love this Folk that shall dwell here; and they shall become a mighty
Folk, and a part of our very selves.&nbsp; Therefore let us take the
gifts of our friends, and thank them blithely.&nbsp; For surely, as
saith Folk-might, henceforth the wood shall become a road betwixt us,
and the thicket a halting-place for friends bearing goodwill in their
hands.&rsquo;</p>
<p>When he had spoken, men yeasaid his words and forbore the gifts no
longer; and the Folk-mote sundered in all loving-kindness.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER LV.&nbsp; DEPARTURE FROM SILVER-DALE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>On morrow of the morrow were the Burgdale men and they of the Shepherds
gathered together in the Market-stead early in the morning, and they
were all ready for departure; and the men of the Wolf and the Woodlanders,
and of the delivered thralls a great many, stood round about them grieving
that they must go.&nbsp; There was much talk between the folk of the
Dale and the Guests, and many promises were given and taken to come
and go betwixt the two Dales.&nbsp; There also were the men of the thrall-folk
who were to wend home with the Burgdalers; and they had been stuffed
with good things by the men of the kindreds, and were as fain as might
be.</p>
<p>As for the Sun-beam, she was somewhat out of herself at first, being
eager and restless beyond her wont, and yet at whiles weeping-ripe when
she called to mind that she was now leaving all those things, the gain
whereof had been a dream to her both waking and sleeping for these years
past.&nbsp; But at last, as she stood in the door of the Mote-house,
and beheld all the throng of folk happy and friendly, it came over her
that she herself had done her full share to bring all this about, and
that all those pleasant places of Silver-dale now full of the goodly
life of man would be there even as she had striven for them, and that
they would be a part of her left behind, though she were dwelling otherwhere.</p>
<p>Therewithal she said to herself that it was now her part to wield
the life of men in Burgdale, and begin once more her days of a chieftain
and a swayer of the Folk, and the life of a stirring woman, which the
edge of the sword and the need of the hard hand-play had taken out of
her hands for a while, making her as a child in the hands of the strong
wielders of the blades.</p>
<p>So now she became calm once more, and her face was clad again with
the full measure of that majesty of beauty which had once overawed Face-of-god
amidst his love of her; and folk beheld her and marvelled at her fairness,
and said: &lsquo;She hath an inward sorrow at leaving the fair Dale
wherein her Fathers dwelt, and where her mother&rsquo;s ashes lie in
earth.&rsquo;&nbsp; Albeit now was her sorrow but little, and much was
her hope, and her foresight of days to be; though all the Dale, yea,
every leaf and twig of it whereby her feet had ever passed, and each
stone of the fair houses, was to her as a picture that she could look
on from henceforth for ever.</p>
<p>Of the Bride it is to be said that she was now much mended, and she
caused men bear her on a litter out into the Marketplace, that she might
look on the departure of her folk.&nbsp; She had seen Face-of-god once
and again since the Day of Battle, and each time had been kind and blithe
with him; and for Iron-face, she loved him so well that she was ever
loth to let him depart from her, save when Folk-might was with her.</p>
<p>And now was the Alderman standing beside her, and she said to him:
&lsquo;Friend and kinsman, this is the day of departure, and though
I must needs abide behind, and am content to abide, yet doth mine heart
ache with the sundering; for to-morrow when I wake in the morning there
will be no more sending of a messenger to fetch thee to me.&nbsp; Indeed,
great hath been the love between me and my people, and nought hath come
between us to mar it.&nbsp; Now, kinsman, I would see Gold-mane, my
cousin, that I may bid him farewell; for who knoweth if I shall see
him again hereafter?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then went Iron-face and found Face-of-god where he was speaking with
Folk-might and the chieftains, and said to him:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Come quickly, for thy cousin the Bride would speak with thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Face-of-god reddened, and paled afterwards, but he went along with
his father silently; and his heart beat as he came and stood before
the litter whereas the Bride lay, clad all in white and propped up on
fair cushions of red silk.&nbsp; She was frail to look on, and worn
and pale yet; but he deemed that she was very happy.</p>
<p>She smiled on him, and reached out her hand and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Welcome once more, cousin!&rsquo;&nbsp; And he held her hand
and kissed it, and was nigh weeping, so sore was he beset by a throng
of memories concerning her and him in the days when they were little;
and he bethought him of her loving-kindness of past days, beyond that
of most children, beyond that of most maidens; and how there was nothing
in his life but she had a share in it, till the day when he found the
Hall on the Mountain.</p>
<p>So he said to her: &lsquo;Kinswoman, is it well with thee?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;I am now nigh whole of my hurts.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He was silent a while; then he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;And otherwise art thou merry at heart?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, indeed,&rsquo; said she; &lsquo;yet thou wilt not find
it hard to deem that I am sorry of the sundering betwixt me and Burgdale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Again was he silent, and said in a while: &lsquo;Dost thou deem that
I wrought that sundering?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She smiled kindly on him and said: &lsquo;Gold-mane, my playmate,
thou art become a mighty warrior and a great chief; but thou art not
so mighty as that.&nbsp; Many things lay behind the sundering which
were neither thou nor I.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yet,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;it was but such a little time
agone that all things seemed so sure; and we - to both of us was the
outlook happy.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Let it be happy still,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;now begrudging
is gone.&nbsp; Belike the sundering came because we were so sure, and
had no defence against the wearing of the days; even as it fareth with
a folk that hath no foes.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He smiled and said: &lsquo;Even as it hath befallen <i>thy</i> folk,
O Bride, a while ago.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She reddened, and reached her hand to him, and he took it and held
it, and said: &lsquo;Shall I see thee again as the days wear?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said she: &lsquo;O chieftain of the Folk, thou shalt have much to
do in Burgdale, and the way is long.&nbsp; Yet would I have thee see
my children.&nbsp; Forget not the token on my hand which thou holdest.&nbsp;
But now get thee to thy folk with no more words; for after all, playmate,
the sundering is grievous to me, and I would not spin out the time thereof.&nbsp;
Farewell!&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said no more, but stooped down and kissed her lips, and then turned
from her, and took his ways to the head of the Host, and fell to asking
and answering, and bidding and arraying; and in a little time was his
heart dancing with joy to think of the days that lay before him, wherein
now all seemed happy.</p>
<p>So was all arrayed for departure when it lacked three hours of noon.&nbsp;
As Folk-might had promised, there were certain light wains drawn by
bullocks abiding the departure of the Host, and of sumpter bullocks
and horses no few; and all these were laden with fair gifts of the Dale,
as silver, and raiment, and weapons.&nbsp; There were many things fair-wrought
in the time of the Sorrow, that henceforth should see but little sorrow.&nbsp;
Moreover, there was plenty of provision for the way, both meal and wine,
and sheep and neat; and all things as fair as might be, and well-arrayed.</p>
<p>It was the Shepherds who were to lead the way; and after them were
arrayed the men of the Vine and the Sickle; then they of the Steer,
the Bridge, and the Bull; and lastly the House of the Face, with old
Stone-face leading them.&nbsp; The Sun-beam was to journey along with
the House of the Steer, which had taken her in as a maiden of their
blood; and though she had so much liefer have fared with the House of
the Face, yet she went meekly as she was bidden, as one who has gotten
a great thing, and will make no stir about a small one.</p>
<p>Along with her were Wood-father and Wood-mother, and Wood-wise, now
whole of his hurt, and Wood-wont, and Bow-may.&nbsp; Save Bow-may, they
were not very joyous; for they were fain of Silver-dale, and it irked
them to leave it; moreover, they also had liefer have gone along with
the House of the War-leader.</p>
<p>Last of all went those people of the once thralls of the Dusky Men
who had cast in their lot with the Burgdalers, and they were exceeding
merry; and especially the women of them, they were chattering like the
stares in the autumn evening, when they gather from the fields in the
tall elm-trees before they go to roost.</p>
<p>Now all the men of the Dale, both of the kindreds and of the thrall-folk,
made way for the Host and its havings, that they might go their ways
down the Dale; albeit the Woodlanders clung close to the line of their
ancient friends, and with them, as men who were sorry for the sundering,
were Wolf-stone and God-swain and Spear-fist.&nbsp; But the chiefs,
they drew around Folk-might a little beside the way.</p>
<p>Now Red-coat of Waterless, who had been hurt, and was now whole again,
cast his arms about Folk-might and kissed him, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;All the way hence to Burgdale will I sow with good wishes
for thee and thine, and especially for my dear friend God-swain of the
Silver Arm; and I would wish and long that they might turn into spells
to draw thy feet to usward; for we love thee well.&rsquo;</p>
<p>In like wise spake other of the Burgdalers; and Folk-might was kind
and blithe with them, and he said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Friends, forget ye not that the way is no longer from you
to us than it is from us to you.&nbsp; One half of this matter it is
for you to deal with.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;True is that,&rsquo; said Red-beard of the Knolls, &lsquo;but
look you, Folk-might, we be but simple husbandmen, and may not often
stir from our meadows and acres; even now I bethink me that May is amidst
us, and I am beginning to be drawn by the thought of the haysel.&nbsp;
Whereas thou - &rsquo; (and therewith he reddened) &lsquo;I doubt that
thou hast little to do save the work of chieftains, and we know that
such work is but little missed if it be undone.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Thereat Folk-might laughed; and when the others saw that he laughed,
they laughed also, else had they foreborne for courtesy&rsquo;s sake.</p>
<p>But Folk-might answered: &lsquo;Nay, chief of the Sickle, I am not
altogether a chieftain, now we have gotten us peace; and somewhat of
a husbandman shall I be.&nbsp; Moreover, doubt ye not that I shall do
my utmost to behold the fair Dale again; for it is but mountains that
meet not.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Now spake Face-of-god to Folk-might, smiling and somewhat softly,
and said: &lsquo;Is all forgiven now, since the day when we first felt
each other&rsquo;s arms?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea, all,&rsquo; said Folk-might; &lsquo;now hath befallen
what I foretold thee in Shadowy Vale, that thou mightest pay for all
that had come and gone, if thou wouldest but look to it.&nbsp; Indeed
thou wert angry with me for that saying on that eve of Shadowy Vale;
but see thou, in those days I was an older man than thou, and might
admonish thee somewhat; but now, though but few days have gone over
thine head, yet many deeds have abided in thine hand, and thou art much
aged.&nbsp; Anger hath left thee, and wisdom hath waxed in thee.&nbsp;
As for me, I may now say this word: May the Folk of Burgdale love the
Folk of Silver-dale as well as I love thee; then shall all be well.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Face-of-god cast his arms about him and kissed him, and turned
away toward Stone-face and Hall-face his brother, where they stood at
the head of the array of the Face; and even therewith came up the Alderman
somewhat sad and sober of countenance, and he pushed by the War-leader
roughly and would not speak with him.</p>
<p>And now blew up the horns of the Shepherds, and they began to move
on amidst the shouting of the men of Silver-dale; yet were there amongst
the Woodlanders those who wept when they saw their friends verily departing
from them.</p>
<p>But when they of the foremost of the Host were gotten so far forward
that the men of the Face could begin to move, lo! there was Redesman
with his fiddle amongst the leaders; and he had done a man&rsquo;s work
in the day of battle, and all looked kindly on him.&nbsp; About him
on this morn were some who had learned the craft of singing well together,
and knew his minstrelsy, and he turned to these and nodded as their
array moved on, and he drew his bow across the strings, and straightway
they fell a-singing, even as it might be thus:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Back again to the dear Dale where born was the kindred,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Here
wend we all living, and liveth our mirth.<br />Here afoot fares our
joyance, whatever men hindred,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Through all wrath
of the heavens, all storms of the earth.</p>
<p>O true, we have left here a part of our treasure,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
ashes of stout ones, the stems of the shield;<br />But the bold lives
they spended have sown us new pleasure,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Fair
tales for the telling in fold and on field.</p>
<p>For as oft as we sing of their edges&rsquo; upheaving,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When
the yellowing windows shine forth o&rsquo;er the night,<br />Their names
unforgotten with song interweaving<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Shall draw
forth dear drops from the depths of delight.</p>
<p>Or when down by our feet the grey sickles are lying,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
behind us is curling the supper-tide smoke,<br />No whit shall they
grudge us the joyance undying,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Remembrance of
men that put from us the yoke.</p>
<p>When the huddle of ewes from the fells we have driven,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And
we see down the Dale the grey reach of the roof,<br />We shall tell
of the gift in the battle-joy given,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;All the
fierceness of friends that drave sorrow aloof.</p>
<p>Once then we lamented, and mourned them departed;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Once
only, no oftener.&nbsp; Henceforth shall we fling<br />Their names up
aloft, when the merriest hearted<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To the Fathers
unseen of our life-days we sing.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Then was there silence in the ranks of men; and many murmured the
names of the fallen as they fared on their way from out the Market-place
of Silver-stead.&nbsp; Then once more Redesman and his mates took up
the song:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Come tell me, O friends, for whom bideth the maiden<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Wet-foot
from the river-ford down in the Dale?<br />For whom hath the goodwife
the ox-waggon laden<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With the babble of children,
brown-handed and hale?</p>
<p>Come tell me for what are the women abiding,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Till
each on the other aweary they lean?<br />Is it loitering of evil that
thus they are chiding,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The slow-footed bearers
of sorrow unseen?</p>
<p>Nay, yet were they toiling if sorrow had worn them,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Or
hushed had they bided with lips parched and wan.<br />The birds of the
air other tidings have borne them -<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;How glad
through the wood goeth man beside man.</p>
<p>Then fare forth, O valiant, and loiter no longer<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Than
the cry of the cuckoo when May is at hand;<br />Late waxeth the spring-tide,
and daylight grows longer,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And nightly the star-street
hangs high o&rsquo;er the land.</p>
<p>Many lives, many days for the Dale do ye carry;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When
the Host breaketh out from the thicket unshorn,<br />It shall be as
the sun that refuseth to tarry<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;On the crown of
all mornings, the Midsummer morn.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Again the song fell down till they were well on the western way down
Silver-dale; and then Redesman handled his fiddle once more, and again
the song rose up, and such-like were the words which were borne back
into the Market-place of Silver-stead:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>And yet what is this, and why fare ye so slowly,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;While
our echoing halls of our voices are dumb,<br />And abideth unlitten
the hearth-brand the holy,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the feet of the
kind fare afield till we come?</p>
<p>For not yet through the wood and its tangle ye wander;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Now
skirt we no thicket, no path by the mere;<br />Far aloof for our feet
leads the Dale-road out yonder;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Full fair is
the morning, its doings all clear.</p>
<p>There is nought now our feet on the highway delaying<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Save
the friend&rsquo;s loving-kindness, the sundering of speech;<br />The
well-willer&rsquo;s word that ends words with the saying,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
loth to depart while each looketh on each.</p>
<p>Fare on then, for nought are ye laden with sorrow;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The
love of this land do ye bear with you still.<br />In two Dales of the
earth for to-day and to-morrow<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Is waxing the
oak-tree of peace and good-will.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Thus then they departed from Silver-dale, even as men who were a
portion thereof, and had not utterly left it behind.&nbsp; And that
night they lay in the wild-wood not very far from the Dale&rsquo;s end;
for they went softly, faring amongst so many friends.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER LVI.&nbsp; TALK UPON THE WILD-WOOD WAY</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>On the morrow morning when they were on their way again Face-of-god
left his own folk to go with the House of the Steer a while; and amongst
them he fell in with the Sun-beam going along with Bow-may.&nbsp; So
they greeted him kindly, and Face-of-god fell into talk with the Sun-beam
as they went side by side through a great oak-wood, where for a space
was plain green-sward bare of all underwood.</p>
<p>So in their talk he said to her: &lsquo;What deemest thou, my speech-friend,
concerning our coming back to guest in Silver-dale one day?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;The way is long,&rsquo; she said.</p>
<p>&lsquo;That may hinder us but not stay us,&rsquo; said Face-of-god.</p>
<p>&lsquo;That is sooth,&rsquo; said the Sun-beam.</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;What things shall stay us?&nbsp; Or deemest
thou that we shall never see Silver-dale again?&rsquo;</p>
<p>She smiled: &lsquo;Even so I think thou deemest, Gold-mane.&nbsp;
But many things shall hinder us besides the long road.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said he: &lsquo;Yea, and what things?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thinkest thou,&rsquo; said the Sun-beam, &lsquo;that the winning
of Silver-stead is the last battle which thou shalt see?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;nay.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Shall thy Dale - our Dale - be free from all trouble within
itself henceforward?&nbsp; Is there a wall built round it to keep out
for ever storm, pestilence, and famine, and the waywardness of its own
folk?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;So it is as thou sayest,&rsquo; quoth Face-of-god, &lsquo;and
to meet such troubles and overcome them, or to die in strife with them,
this is a great part of a man&rsquo;s life.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;and hast thou forgotten that
thou art now a great chieftain, and that the folk shall look to thee
to use thee many days in the year?&rsquo;</p>
<p>He laughed and said: &lsquo;So it is.&nbsp; How many days have gone
by since I wandered in the wood last autumn, that the world should have
changed so much!&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Many deeds shall now be in thy days,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;and
each deed as the corn of wheat from which cometh many corns; and a man&rsquo;s
days on the earth are not over many.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Then farewell, Silver-dale!&rsquo; said he, waving his hand
toward the north.&nbsp; &lsquo;War and trouble may bring me back to
thee, but it maybe nought else shall.&nbsp; Farewell!&rsquo;</p>
<p>She looked on him fondly but unsmiling, as he went beside her strong
and warrior-like.&nbsp; Three paces from him went Bow-may, barefoot,
in her white kirtle, but bearing her bow in her hand; a leash of arrows
was in her girdle, her quiver hung at her back, and she was girt with
a sword.&nbsp; On the other side went Wood-wont and Wood-wise, lightly
clad but weaponed.&nbsp; Wood-mother was riding in an ox-wain just behind
them, and Wood-father went beside her bearing an axe.&nbsp; Scattered
all about them were the men of the Steer, gaily clad, bearing weapons,
so that the oak-wood was bright with them, and the glades merry with
their talk and singing and laughter, and before them down the glades
went the banner of the Steer, and the White Beast led them the nearest
way to Burgdale.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER LVII.&nbsp; HOW THE HOST CAME HOME AGAIN</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>It was fourteen days before they came to Rose-dale; for they had
much baggage with them, and they had no mind to weary themselves, and
the wood was nothing loathsome to them, whereas the weather was fair
and bright for the more part.&nbsp; They fell in with no mishap by the
way.&nbsp; But a score and three of runaways joined themselves to the
Host, having watched their goings and wotting that they were not foemen.&nbsp;
Of these, some had heard of the overthrow of the Dusky Men in Silver-dale,
and others not.&nbsp; The Burgdalers received them all, for it seemed
to them no great matter for a score or so of new-comers to the Dale.</p>
<p>But when the Host was come to Rose-dale, they found it fair arid
lovely; and there they met with those of their folk who had gone with
Dallach.&nbsp; But Dallach welcomed the kindreds with great joy, and
bade them abide; for he said that they had the less need to hasten,
since he had sent messengers into Burgdale to tell men there of the
tidings.&nbsp; Albeit they were mostly loth to tarry; yet when he lay
hard on them not to depart as men on the morrow of a gild-feast, they
abode there three days, and were as well guested as might be, and on
their departure they were laden with gifts from the wealth of Rose-dale
by Dallach and his folk.</p>
<p>Before they went their ways Dallach spake with Face-of-god and the
chiefs of the Dalesmen, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Ye have given me much from the time when ye found me in the
wood a naked wastrel; yet now I would ask you a gift to lay on the top
of all that ye have given me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Face-of-god: &lsquo;Name the gift, and thou shalt have it; for
we deem thee our friend.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;I am no less,&rsquo; said Dallach, &lsquo;as in time to come
I may perchance be able to show you.&nbsp; But now I am asking you to
suffer a score or two of your men to abide here with me this summer,
till I see how this folk new-born again is like to deal with me.&nbsp;
For pleasure and a fair life have become so strange to them, that they
scarce know what to do with them, or how to live; and unless all is
to go awry, I must needs command and forbid; and though belike they
love me, yet they fear me not; so that when my commandment pleaseth
them, they do as I bid, and when it pleaseth them not, they do contrary
to my bidding; for it hath got into their minds that I shall in no case
lift a hand against them, which indeed is the very sooth.&nbsp; But
your folk they fear as warriors of the world, who have slain the Dusky
Men in the Market-place of Silver-stead; and they are of alien blood
to them, men who will do as their friend biddeth (think our folk) against
them who are neither friends or foes.&nbsp; With such help I shall be
well holpen.&rsquo;</p>
<p>In such wise spake Dallach; and Face-of-god and the chiefs said that
so it should be, if men could be found willing to abide in Rose-dale
for a while.&nbsp; And when the matter was put abroad, there was no
lack of such men amongst the younger warriors, who had noted that the
dale was fair amongst dales and its women fairer yet amongst women.</p>
<p>So two score and ten of the Burgdale men abode in Rose-dale, no one
of whom was of more than twenty and five winters.&nbsp; Forsooth divers
of them set up house in Rose-dale, and never came back to Burgdale,
save as guests.&nbsp; For a half score were wedded in Rose-dale before
the year&rsquo;s ending; and seven more, who had also taken to them
wives of the goodliest of the Rose-dale women, betook them the next
spring to the Burg of the Runaways, and there built them a stead, and
drew a garth about it, and dug and sowed the banks of the river, which
they called Inglebourne.&nbsp; And as years passed, this same stead
throve exceedingly, and men resorted thither both from Rose-dale and
Burgdale; for it was a pleasant place; and the land, when it was cured,
was sweet and good, and the wood thereabout was full of deer of all
kinds.&nbsp; So their stead was called Inglebourne after the stream;
and in latter days it became a very goodly habitation of men.</p>
<p>Moreover, some of the once-enthralled folk of Rose-dale, when they
knew that men of their kindred from Silver-dale were going home with
the men of Burgdale to dwell in the Dale, prayed hard to go along with
them; for they looked on the Burgdalers as if they were new Gods of
the Earth.&nbsp; The Burgdale chiefs would not gainsay these men either,
but took with them three score and ten from Rose-dale, men and women,
and promised them dwelling and livelihood in Burgdale.</p>
<p>So now with good hearts the Host of Burgdale turned their faces toward
their well-beloved Dale; and they made good diligence, so that in three
days&rsquo; time they were come anigh the edge of the woodland wilderness.&nbsp;
Thither in the even-tide, as they were making ready for their last supper
and bed in the wood, came three men and two women of their folk, who
had been abiding their coming ever since they had had the tidings of
Silver-dale and the battles from Dallach.&nbsp; Great was the joy of
these messengers as they went from company to company of the warriors,
and saw the familiar faces of their friends, and heard their wonted
voices telling all the story of battle and slaughter.&nbsp; And for
their part the men of the Host feasted these stay-at-homes, and made
much of them.&nbsp; But one of them, a man of the House of the Face,
left the Host a little after nightfall, and bore back to Burgstead at
once the tidings of the coming home of the Host.&nbsp; Albeit since
Dallach&rsquo;s tidings of victory had come to the Dale, the dwellers
in the steads of the country-side had left Burgstead and gone home to
their own houses; so that there was no great multitude abiding in the
Thorp.</p>
<p>So early on the morrow was the Host astir; but ere they came to Wildlake&rsquo;s
Way, the Shepherd-folk turned aside westward to go home, after they
had bidden farewell to their friends and fellows of the Dale; for their
souls longed for the sheepcotes in the winding valleys under the long
grey downs; and the garths where the last year&rsquo;s ricks shouldered
up against the old stone gables, and where the daws were busy in the
tall unfrequent ash-trees; and the green flowery meadows adown along
the bright streams, where the crowfoot and the paigles were blooming
now, and the harebells were in flower about the thorn-bushes at the
down&rsquo;s foot, whence went the savour of their blossom over sheep-walk
and water-meadow.</p>
<p>So these went their ways with many kind words; and two hours afterwards
all the rest of the Host stood on the level ground of the Portway; but
presently were the ranks of war disordered and broken up by the joy
of the women and children, as they fell to drawing goodman or brother
or lover out of the throng to the way that led speediest to their homesteads
and halls.&nbsp; For the War-leader would not hold the Host together
any longer, but suffered each man to go to his home, deeming that the
men of Burgstead, and chiefly they of the Face and the Steer, would
suffice for a company if any need were, and they would be easily gathered
to meet any hap.</p>
<p>So now the men of the Middle and Lower Dale made for their houses
by the road and the lanes and the meadows, and the men of the Upper
Dale and Burgstead went their ways along the Portway toward their halls,
with the throng of women and children that had come out to meet them.&nbsp;
And now men came home when it was yet early, and the long day lay before
them; and it was, as it were, made giddy and cumbered with the exceeding
joy of return, and the thought of the day when the fear of death and
sundering had been ever in their hearts.&nbsp; For these new hours were
full of the kissing and embracing of lovers, and the sweetness of renewed
delight in beholding the fair bodies so sorely desired, and hearkening
the soft wheedling of longed-for voices.&nbsp; There were the cups of
friends beneath the chestnut trees, and the talk of the deeds of the
fighting-men, and of the heavy days of the home-abiders; many a tale
told oft and o&rsquo;er again.&nbsp; There was the singing of old songs
and of new, and the beholding the well-loved nook of the pleasant places,
which death might well have made nought for them; and they were sweet
with the fear of that which was past, and in their pleasantness was
fresh promise for the days to come.</p>
<p>So amid their joyance came evening and nightfall; and though folk
were weary with the fulness of delight, yet now for many their weariness
led them to the chamber of love before the rest of deep night came to
them to make them strong for the happy life to be begun again on the
morrow.</p>
<p>House by house they feasted, and few were the lovers that sat not
together that even.&nbsp; But Face-of-god and the Sun-beam parted at
the door of the House of the Face; for needs must she go with her new
folk to the House of the Steer, and needs must Face-of-god be amongst
his own folk in that hour of high-tide, and sit beside his father beneath
the image of the God with the ray-begirt head.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER LVIII.&nbsp; HOW THE MAIDEN WARD WAS HELD IN BURGDALE</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Now May was well worn when the Host came home to Burgdale; and on
the very morrow of men&rsquo;s home-coming they began to talk eagerly
of the Midsummer Weddings, and how the Maiden Ward would be the greatest
and fairest of all yet seen, whereas battle and the deliverance from
battle stir up the longing and love both of men and maidens; much also
men spake of the wedding of Face-of-god and the Sun-beam; and needs
must their wedding abide to the time of the Maiden Ward at Midsummer,
and needs also must the Sun-beam go on the Ward with the other Brides
of the Folk.&nbsp; So then must Face-of-god keep his soul in patience
till those few days were over, doing what work came to hand; and he
held his head high among the people, and was well looked to of every
man.</p>
<p>In all matters the Sun-beam helped him, both in doing and in forbearing;
and now so wonderful and rare was her beauty, that folk looked on her
with somewhat of fear, as though she came from the very folk of the
Gods.</p>
<p>Indeed she seemed somewhat changed from what she had been of late;
she was sober of demeanour during these last days of her maidenhood,
and sat amongst the kindred as one communing with herself: of few words
she was and little laughter; but her face clear, not overcast by any
gloom or shaken by passion: soft and kind was she in converse with others,
and sweet were the smiles that came into her face if others&rsquo; faces
seemed to crave for them.&nbsp; For it must be said that as some folk
eat out their hearts with fear of the coming evils, even so was she
feeding her soul with the joy of the days to be, whatever trouble might
fall upon them, whereof belike she foreboded some.</p>
<p>So wore the days toward Midsummer, when the wheat was getting past
the blossoming, and the grass in the mown fields was growing deep green
again after the shearing of the scythe; when the leaves were most and
biggest; when the roses were beginning to fall; when the apples were
reddening, and the skins of the grape-berries gathering bloom.&nbsp;
High aloft floated the light clouds over the Dale; deep blue showed
the distant fells below the ice-mountains; the waters dwindled; all
things sought the shadow by daytime, and the twilight of even and the
twilight of dawn were but sundered by three hours of half-dark night.</p>
<p>So in the bright forenoon were seventeen brides assembled in the
Gate of Burgstead (but of the rest of the Dale were twenty and three
looked for), and with these was the Sun-beam, her face as calm as the
mountain lake under a summer sunset, while of the others many were restless,
and babbling like April throstles; and not a few talked to her eagerly,
and in their restless love of her dragged her about hither and thither.</p>
<p>No men were to be seen that morning; for such was the custom, that
the carles either departed to the fields and the acres, or abode within
doors on the morn of the day of the Maiden Ward; but there was a throng
of women about the Gate and down the street of Burgstead, and it may
well be deemed that they kept not silence that hour.</p>
<p>So fared the Brides of Burgstead to the place of the Maiden Ward
on the causeway, whereto were come already the other brides from steads
up and down the Dale, or were even then close at hand on the way; and
among them were Long-coat and her two fellows, with whom Face-of-god
had held converse on that morning whereon he had followed his fate to
the Mountain.</p>
<p>There then were they gathered under the cliff-wall of the Portway;
and by the road-side had their grooms built them up bowers of green
boughs to shelter them from the sun&rsquo;s burning, which were thatched
with bulrushes, and decked with garlands of the fairest flowers of the
meadows and the gardens.</p>
<p>Forsooth they were a lovely sight to look on, for no fairer women
might be seen in the world; and the eldest of them was scant of five
and twenty winters.&nbsp; Every maiden was clad in as goodly raiment
as she might compass; their sleeves and gown-hems and girdles, yea,
their very shoes and sandals were embroidered so fairly and closely,
that as they shifted in the sun they changed colour like the king-fisher
shooting from shadow to sunshine.&nbsp; According to due custom every
maiden bore some weapon.&nbsp; A few had bows in their hands and quivers
at their backs; some had nought but a sword girt to their sides; some
bore slender-shafted spears, so as not to overburden their shapely hands;
but to some it seemed a merry game to carry long and heavy thrust-spears,
or to bear great war-axes over their shoulders.&nbsp; Most had their
flowing hair coifed with bright helms; some had burdened their arms
with shields; some bore steel hauberks over their linen smocks: almost
all had some piece of war-gear on their bodies; and one, to wit, Steed-linden
of the Sickle, a tall and fair damsel, was so arrayed that no garment
could be seen on her but bright steel war-gear.</p>
<p>As for the Sun-beam, she was clad in a white kirtle embroidered from
throat to hem with work of green boughs and flowers of the goodliest
fashion, and a garland of roses on her head.&nbsp; Dale-warden himself
was girt to her side by a girdle fair-wrought of golden wire, and she
bore no other weapon or war-gear; and she let him lie quiet in his scabbard,
nor touched the hilts once; whereas some of the other damsels would
be ever drawing their swords out and thrusting them back.&nbsp; But
all noted that goodly weapon, the yoke-fellow of so many great deeds.</p>
<p>There then on the Portway, between the water and the rock-wall, rose
up plenteous and gleeful talk of clear voices shrill and soft; and whiles
the maidens sang, and whiles they told tales of old days, and whiles
they joined hands and danced together on the sweet summer dust of the
highway.&nbsp; Then they mostly grew aweary, and sat down on the banks
of the road or under their leafy bowers.</p>
<p>Noon came, and therewithal goodwives of the neighbouring Dale, who
brought them meat and drink, and fruit and fresh flowers from the teeming
gardens; and thereafter for a while they nursed their joy in their bosoms,
and spake but little and softly while the day was at its hottest in
the early afternoon.</p>
<p>Then came out of Burgstead men making semblance of chapmen with a
wain bearing wares, and they made as though they were wending down the
Portway westward to go out of the Dale.&nbsp; Then arose the weaponed
maidens and barred the way to them, and turned them back amidst fresh-springing
merriment.</p>
<p>Again in a while, when the sun was westering and the shadows growing
long, came herdsmen from down the Dale driving neat, and making as though
they would pass by into Burgstead, but to them also did the maidens
gainsay the road, so that needs must they turn back amidst laughter
and mockery, they themselves also laughing and mocking.</p>
<p>And so at last, when the maidens had been all alone a while, and
it was now hard on sunset, they drew together and stood in a ring, and
fell to singing; and one Gold-may of the House of the Bridge, a most
sweet singer, stood amidst their ring and led them.&nbsp; And this is
somewhat of the meaning of their words:</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>The sun will not tarry; now changeth the light,<br />Fail the colours
that marry the Day to the Night.</p>
<p>Amid the sun&rsquo;s burning bright weapons we bore,<br />For this
eve of our earning comes once and no more.</p>
<p>For to-day hath no brother in yesterday&rsquo;s tide,<br />And to-morrow
no other alike it doth hide.</p>
<p>This day is the token of oath and behest<br />That ne&rsquo;er shall
be broken through ill days and best.</p>
<p>Here the troth hath been given, the oath hath been done,<br />To
the Folk that hath thriven well under the sun.</p>
<p>And the gifts of its giving our troth-day shall win<br />Are the
Dale for our living and dear days therein.</p>
<p>O Sun, now thou wanest! yet come back and see<br />Amidst all that
thou gainest how gainful are we.</p>
<p>O witness of sorrow wide over the earth,<br />Rise up on the morrow
to look on our mirth!</p>
<p>Thy blooms art thou bringing back ever for men,<br />And thy birds
are a-singing each summer again.</p>
<p>But to men little-hearted what winter is worse<br />Than thy summers
departed that bore them the curse?</p>
<p>And e&rsquo;en such art thou knowing where thriveth the year,<br />And
good is all growing save thralldom and fear.</p>
<p>Nought such be our lovers&rsquo; hearts drawing anigh,<br />While
yet thy light hovers aloft in the sky.</p>
<p>Lo the seeker, the finder of Death in the Blade!<br />What lips shall
be kinder on lips of mine laid?</p>
<p>La he that hath driven back tribes of the South!<br />Sweet-breathed
is thine even, but sweeter his mouth.</p>
<p>Come back from the sea then, O sun! come aback,<br />Look adown,
look on me then, and ask what I lack!</p>
<p>Come many a morrow to gaze on the Dale,<br />And if e&rsquo;er thou
seest sorrow remember its tale!</p>
<p>For &rsquo;twill be of a story to tell how men died<br />In the garnering
of glory that no man may hide.</p>
<p>O sun sinking under!&nbsp; O fragrance of earth!<br />O heart!&nbsp;
O the wonder whence longing has birth!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>So they sang, and the sun sank indeed; and amidst their singing the
eve was still about them, though there came a happy murmur from the
face of the meadows and the houses of the Thorp aloof.&nbsp; But as
their song fell they heard the sound of footsteps a many on the road;
so they turned and stood with beating hearts in such order as when a
band of the valiant draw together to meet many foes coming on them from
all sides, and they stand back to back to face all comers.&nbsp; And
even therewith, their raiment gleaming amidst the gathering dusk, came
on them the young men of the Dale newly delivered from the grief of
war.</p>
<p>Then in very deed the fierce mouths of the raisers of the war-shout
were kind on the faces of tender maidens.&nbsp; Then went spear and
axe and helm and shield clattering to the earth, as the arms of the
new-comers went round about the bodies of the Brides, weary with the
long day of sunshine, and glee and loving speech, and the maidens suffered
the young men to lead them whither they would, and twilight began to
draw round about them as the Maiden Band was sundered.</p>
<p>Some, they were led away westward down the Portway to the homesteads
thereabout; and for divers of these the way was long to their halls,
and they would have to wend over long stretches of dewy meadows, and
hear the night-wind whisper in many a tree, and see the east begin to
lighten with the dawn before they came to the lighted feast that awaited
them.&nbsp; But some turned up the Portway straight towards Burgstead;
and short was their road to the halls where even now the lights were
being kindled for their greeting.</p>
<p>As for the Sun-beam, she had been very quiet the day long, speaking
as little as she might do, laughing not at all, and smiling for kindness&rsquo;
sake rather than for merriment; and when the grooms came seeking their
maidens, she withdrew herself from the band, and stood alone amidst
the road nigher to Burgstead than they; and her heart beat hard, and
her breath came short and quick, as though fear had caught her in its
grip; and indeed for one moment of time she feared that he was not coming
to her.&nbsp; For he had gone with the other grooms to that gathered
band, and had passed from one to the other, not finding her, till he
had got him through the whole company, and beheld her awaiting him.&nbsp;
Then indeed he bounded toward her, and caught her by the hands, and
then by the shoulders, and drew her to him, and she nothing loth; and
in that while he said to her:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Come then, my friend; lo thou! they go each their own way
toward the halls of their houses; and for thee have I chosen a way -
a way over the foot-bridge yonder, and over the dewy meadows on this
best even of the year.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Nay, nay,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;it may not be.&nbsp; Surely
the Burgstead grooms look to thee to lead them to the gate; and surely
in the House of the Face they look to see thee before any other.&nbsp;
Nay, Gold-mane, my dear, we must needs go by the Portway.&rsquo;</p>
<p>He said: &lsquo;We shall be home but a very little while after the
first, for the way I tell of is as short as the Portway.&nbsp; But hearken,
my sweet!&nbsp; When we are in the meadows we shall sit down for a minute
on a bank under the chestnut trees, and thence watch the moon coming
up over the southern cliffs.&nbsp; And I shall behold thee in the summer
night, and deem that I see all thy beauty; which yet shall make me dumb
with wonder when I see it indeed in the house amongst the candles.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;O nay,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;by the Portway shall we go;
the torch-bearers shall be abiding thee at the gate.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Spake Face-of-god: &lsquo;Then shall we rise up and wend first through
a wide treeless meadow, wherein amidst the night we shall behold the
kine moving about like odorous shadows; and through the greyness of
the moonlight thou shalt deem that thou seest the pink colour of the
eglantine blossoms, so fragrant they are.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;O nay,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;but it is meet that we go by
the Portway.&rsquo;</p>
<p>But he said: &lsquo;Then from the wide meadow come we into a close
of corn, and then into an orchard-close beyond it.&nbsp; There in the
ancient walnut-tree the owl sitteth breathing hard in the night-time;
but thou shalt not hear him for the joy of the nightingales singing
from the apple-trees of the close.&nbsp; Then from out of the shadowed
orchard shall we come into the open town-meadow, and over its daisies
shall the moonlight be lying in a grey flood of brightness.</p>
<p>&lsquo;Short is the way across it to the brim of the Weltering Water,
and across the water lieth the fair garden of the Face; and I have dight
for thee there a little boat to waft us across the night-dark waters,
that shall be like wavering flames of white fire where the moon smites
them, and like the void of all things where the shadows hang over them.&nbsp;
There then shall we be in the garden, beholding how the hall-windows
are yellow, and hearkening the sound of the hall-glee borne across the
flowers and blending with the voice of the nightingales in the trees.&nbsp;
There then shall we go along the grass paths whereby the pinks and the
cloves and the lavender are sending forth their fragrance, to cheer
us, who faint at the scent of the over-worn roses, and the honey-sweetness
of the lilies.</p>
<p>&lsquo;All this is for thee, and for nought but for thee this even;
and many a blossom whereof thou knowest nought shall grieve if thy foot
tread not thereby to-night; if the path of thy wedding which I have
made, be void of thee, on the even of the Chamber of Love.</p>
<p>&lsquo;But lo! at last at the garden&rsquo;s end is the yew-walk
arched over for thee, and thou canst not see whereby to enter it; but
I, I know it, and I lead thee into and along the dark tunnel through
the moonlight, and thine hand is not weary of mine as we go.&nbsp; But
at the end shall we come to a wicket, which shall bring us out by the
gable-end of the Hall of the Face.&nbsp; Turn we about its corner then,
and there are we blinking on the torches of the torch-bearers, and the
candles through the open door, and the hall ablaze with light and full
of joyous clamour, like the bale-fire in the dark night kindled on a
ness above the sea by fisher-folk remembering the Gods.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;O nay,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;but by the Portway must we
go; the straightest way to the Gate of Burgstead.&rsquo;</p>
<p>In vain she spake, and knew not what she said; for even as he was
speaking he led her away, and her feet went as her will went, rather
than her words; and even as she said that last word she set her foot
on the first board of the foot-bridge; and she turned aback one moment,
and saw the long line of the rock-wall yet glowing with the last of
the sunset of midsummer, while as she turned again, lo! before her the
moon just beginning to lift himself above the edge of the southern cliffs,
and betwixt her and him all Burgdale, and Face-of-god moreover.</p>
<p>Thus then they crossed the bridge into the green meadows, and through
the closes and into the garden of the Face and unto the Hall-door; and
other brides and grooms were there before them (for six grooms had brought
home brides to the House of the Face); but none deemed it amiss in the
War-leader of the folk and the love that had led him.&nbsp; And old
Stone-face said: &lsquo;Too many are the rows of bee-skeps in the gardens
of the Dale that we should begrudge wayward lovers an hour&rsquo;s waste
of candle-light.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So at last those twain went up the sun-bright Hall hand in hand in
all their loveliness, and up on to the da&iuml;s, and stood together
by the middle seat; and the tumult of the joy of the kindred was hushed
for a while as they saw that there was speech in the mouth of the War-leader.</p>
<p>Then he spread his hands abroad before them all and cried out: &lsquo;How
then have I kept mine oath, whereas I swore on the Holy Boar to wed
the fairest woman of the world?&rsquo;</p>
<p>A mighty shout went rattling about the timbers of the roof in answer
to his word; and they that looked up to the gable of the Hall said that
they saw the ray-ringed image of the God smile with joy over the gathered
folk.</p>
<p>But spake Iron-face unheard amidst the clamour of the Hall: &lsquo;How
fares it now with my darling and my daughter, who dwelleth amongst strangers
in the land beyond the wild-wood?&rsquo;</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER LIX.&nbsp; THE BEHEST OF FACE-OF-GOD TO THE BRIDE ACCOMPLISHED:
A MOTE-STEAD APPOINTED FOR THE THREE FOLKS, TO WIT, THE MEN OF BURGDALE,
THE SHEPHERDS, AND THE CHILDREN OF THE WOLF</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Three years and two months thereafter, three hours after noon in
the days of early autumn, came a wain tilted over with precious webs
of cloth, and drawn by eight white oxen, into the Market-place of Silver-stead:
two score and ten of spearmen of the tallest, clad in goodly war-gear,
went beside it, and much people of Silver-dale thronged about them.&nbsp;
The wain stayed at the foot of the stair that led up to the door of
the Mote-house, and there lighted down therefrom a woman goodly of fashion,
with wide grey eyes, and face and hands brown with the sun&rsquo;s burning.&nbsp;
She had a helm on her head and a sword girt to her side, and in her
arms she bore a yearling child.</p>
<p>And there was come Bow-may with the second man-child born to Face-of-god.</p>
<p>She stayed not amidst the wondering folk, but hastened up the stair,
which she had once seen running with the blood of men: the door was
open, and she went in and walked straight-way, with the babe in her
arms, up the great Hall to the da&iuml;s.</p>
<p>There were men on the da&iuml;s: amidmost sat Folk-might, little
changed since the last day she had seen him, yet fairer, she deemed,
than of old time; and her heart went forth to meet the Chieftain of
her Folk, and the glad tears started in her eyes and ran down her cheeks
as she drew near to him.</p>
<p>By his side sat the Bride, and her also Bow-may deemed to have waxed
goodlier.&nbsp; Both she and Folk-might knew Bow-may ere she had gone
half the length of the hall; and the Bride rose up in her place and
cried out Bow-may&rsquo;s name joyously.</p>
<p>With these were sitting the elders of the Wolf and the Woodlanders,
the more part of whom Bow-may knew well.</p>
<p>On the da&iuml;s also stood aside a score of men weaponed, and looking
as if they were awaiting the word which should send them forth on some
errand.</p>
<p>Now stood up Folk-might and said: &lsquo;Fair greeting and love to
my friend and the daughter of my Folk!&nbsp; How farest thou, Bow-may,
best of all friendly women?&nbsp; How fareth my sister, and Face-of-god
my brother? and how is it with our friends and helpers in the goodly
Dale?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Bow-may: &lsquo;It is well both with all those and with me;
and my heart laughs to see thee, Folk-might, and to look on the elders
of the valiant, and our lovely sister the Bride.&nbsp; But I have a
message for thee from Face-of-god: wilt thou that I deliver it here?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea surely,&rsquo; said Folk-might, and came forth. and took
her hand, and kissed her cheeks and her mouth.&nbsp; The Bride also
came forth and cast her arms about her, and kissed her; and they led
her between them to a seat on the da&iuml;s beside Folk-might.</p>
<p>But all men looked on the child in her arms and wondered what it
was.&nbsp; But Bow-may took the babe, which was both fair and great,
and set it on the knees of the Bride, and said:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thus saith Face-of-god: &ldquo;Friend and kinswoman, well-beloved
playmate, the gift which thou badest of me in sorrow do thou now take
in joy, and do all the good thou wouldest to the son of thy friend.&nbsp;
The ring which I gave thee once in the garden of the Face, give thou
to Bow-may, my trusty and well-beloved, in token of the fulfilment of
my behest.&rdquo;&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then the Bride kissed Bow-may again, and fell to fondling of the
child, which was loth to leave Bow-may.</p>
<p>But she spake again: &lsquo;To thee also, Folk-might, I have a message
from Face-of-god, who saith: &ldquo;Mighty warrior, friend and fellow,
all things thrive with us, and we are happy.&nbsp; Yet is there a hollow
place in our hearts which grieveth us, and only thou and thine may amend
it.&nbsp; Though whiles we hear tell of thee, yet we see thee not, and
fain were we, might we see thee, and wot if the said tales be true.&nbsp;
Wilt thou help us somewhat herein, or wilt thou leave us all the labour?&nbsp;
For sure we be that thou wilt not say that thou rememberest us no more,
and that thy love for us is departed.&rdquo;&nbsp; This is his message,
Folk-might, and he would have an answer from thee.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then laughed Folk-might and said: &lsquo;Sister Bow-may, seest thou
these weaponed men hereby?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; she said.</p>
<p>Said he: &lsquo;These men bear a message with them to Face-of-god
my brother.&nbsp; Crow the Shaft-speeder, stand forth and tell thy friend
Bow-may the message I have set in thy mouth, every word of it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then Crow stood forth and greeted Bow-may friendly, and said: &lsquo;Friend
Bow-may, this is the message of our Alderman: &ldquo;Friend and helper,
in the Dale which thou hast given to us do all things thrive; neither
are we grown old in three years&rsquo; wearing, nor are our memories
worsened.&nbsp; We long sore to see you and give you guesting in Silver-dale,
and one day that shall befall.&nbsp; Meanwhile, know this: that we of
the Wolf and the Woodland, mindful of the earth that bore us, and the
pit whence we were digged, have a mind to go see Shadowy Vale once in
every three years, and there to hold high-tide in the ancient Hall of
the Wolf, and sit in the Doom-ring of our Fathers.&nbsp; But since ye
have joined yourselves to us in battle, and have given us this Dale,
our health and wealth, without price and without reward, we deem you
our very brethren, and small shall be our hall-glee, and barren shall
our Doom-ring seem to us, unless ye sit there beside us.&nbsp; Come
then, that we may rejoice each other by the sight of face and sound
of voice; that we may speak together of matters that concern our welfare;
so that we three Kindreds may become one Folk.&nbsp; And if this seem
good to you, know that we shall be in Shadowy Vale in a half-month&rsquo;s
wearing.&nbsp; Grieve us not by forbearing to come.&rdquo;&nbsp; Lo,
Bow-may, this is the message, and I have learned it well, for well it
pleaseth me to bear it.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Then said Folk-might: &lsquo;What say&rsquo;st thou to the message,
Bow-may?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;It is good in all ways,&rsquo; said she, &lsquo;but is it
timely?&nbsp; May our folk have the message and get to Shadowy Vale,
so as to meet you there?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea surely,&rsquo; said Folk-might, &lsquo;for our kinsmen
here shall take the road through Shadowy Vale, and in four days&rsquo;
time they shall be in Burgdale, and as thou wottest, it is scant a two
days&rsquo; journey thence to Shadowy Vale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith he turned to those men again, and said: &lsquo;Kinsman
Crow, depart now, and use all diligence with thy message.&rsquo;</p>
<p>So the messengers began to stir; but Bow-may cried out: &lsquo;Ho!&nbsp;
Folk-might, my friend, I perceive thou art little changed from the man
I knew in Shadowy Vale, who would have his dinner before the fowl were
plucked.&nbsp; For shall I not go back with these thy messengers, so
that I also may get all ready to wend to the Mote-house of Shadowy Vale?&rsquo;</p>
<p>But the Bride looked kindly on her, and laughed and said: &lsquo;Sister
Bow-may, his meaning is that thou shouldest abide here in Silver-dale
till we depart for the Folk-thing, and then go thither with us; and
this I also pray thee to do, that thou mayst rejoice the hearts of thine
old friends; and also that thou mayst teach me all that I should know
concerning this fair child of my brother and my sister.&rsquo;</p>
<p>And she looked on her so kindly as she caressed the babe, that Bow-may&rsquo;s
heart melted, and she cried out:</p>
<p>&lsquo;Would that I might never depart from the house wherein thou
dwellest, O Bride of my Kinsman!&nbsp; And this that thou biddest me
is easy and pleasant for me to do.&nbsp; But afterwards I must get me
back to Burgdale; for I seem to have left much there that calleth for
me.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Yea,&rsquo; said Folk-might, &lsquo;and art thou wedded, Bow-may?&nbsp;
Shalt thou never bend the yew in battle again?&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Bow-may soberly: &lsquo;Who knoweth, chieftain?&nbsp; Yea, I
am wedded now these two years; and nought I looked for less when I followed
those twain through the wild-wood to Burgdale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>She sighed therewith, and said: &lsquo;In all the Dale there is no
better man of his hands than my man, nor any goodlier to look on, and
he is even that Hart of Highcliff whom thou knowest well, O Bride!&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said the Bride: &lsquo;Thou sayest sooth, there is no better man
in the Dale.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Said Bow-may: &lsquo;Sun-beam bade me wed him when he pressed hard
upon me.&rsquo;&nbsp; She stayed awhile, and then said: &lsquo;Face-of-god
also deemed I should not naysay the man; and now my son by him is of
like age to this little one.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Good is thy story,&rsquo; said Folk-might; &lsquo;or deemest
thou, Bow-may, that such strong and goodly women as thou, and women
so kind and friendly, should forbear the wedding and the bringing forth
of children?&nbsp; Yea, and we who may even yet have to gather to another
field before we die, and fight for life and the goods of life.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&lsquo;Thou sayest well,&rsquo; she said; &lsquo;all that hath befallen
me is good since the day whereon I loosed shaft from the break of the
bent over yonder.&rsquo;</p>
<p>Therewith she fell a-musing, and made as though she were hearkening
to the soft voice of the Bride caressing the new-come baby; but in sooth
neither heard nor saw what was going on about her, for her thoughts
were in bygone days.&nbsp; Howbeit presently she came to herself again,
and fell to asking many questions concerning Silver-dale and the kindred,
and those who had once been thralls of the Dusky Men; and they answered
all duly, and told her the whole story of the Dale since the Day of
the Victory.</p>
<p>So Bow-may and the carles who had come with her abode for that half-month
in Silver-dale, guested in all love by the folk thereof, both the kindreds
and the poor folk.&nbsp; And Bow-may deemed that the Bride loved Face-of-god&rsquo;s
child little less than her own, whereof she had two, a man and a woman;
and thereat was she full of joy, since she knew that Face-of-god and
the Sun-beam would be fain thereof.</p>
<p>Thereafter, when the time was come, fared Folk-might and the Bride,
and many of the elders and warriors of the Wolf and the Woodland, to
Shadowy Vale; and Dallach and the best of Rose-dale went with them,
being so bidden; and Bow-may and her following, according to the word
of the Bride.&nbsp; And in Shadowy Vale they met Face-of-god and Alderman
Iron-face, and the chiefs of Burgdale and the Shepherds, and many others;
and great joy there was at the meeting.&nbsp; And the Sun-beam remembered
the word which she spoke to Face-of-god when first he came to Shadowy
Vale, that she would be wishful to see again the dwelling wherein she
had passed through so much joy and sorrow of her younger days.&nbsp;
But if anyone were fain of this meeting, the Alderman was glad above
all, when he took the Bride once more in his arms, and caressed her
whom he had deemed should be a very daughter of his House.</p>
<p>Now telleth the tale of all these kindreds, to wit, the Men of Burgdale
and the Sheepcotes; and the Children of the Wolf, and the Woodlanders,
and the Men of Rose-dale, that they were friends henceforth, and became
as one Folk, for better or worse, in peace and in war, in waning and
waxing; and that whatsoever befell them, they ever held Shadowy Vale
a holy place, and for long and long after they met there in mid-autumn,
and held converse and counsel together.</p>
<p>NO MORE AS NOW TELLETH THE TALE OF THESE KINDREDS AND FOLKS, BUT
MAKETH AN ENDING.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<p>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE ROOTS OF THE MOUNTAINS ***</p>
<pre>

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