{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_18882/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_18882","id":"gutenberg_18882","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18882","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","English fiction -- 20th century","Short stories, English"],"text":"E-text prepared by Inka Weide, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/)\n\n\n\nTHE ISLES OF SUNSET\n\nby\n\nARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON\n\nAuthor of \"The Hill of Trouble,\" &c. &c.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLondon: Sir Isaac Pitman & Sons, Ltd.\nNo. 1 Amen Corner, E.C. 1908\nPrinted by\nSir Isaac Pitman & Sons, Ltd.,\nBath.\n(2074)\n\n\n\n\n\n    TO HUGH MACNAGHTEN\n\n\n\n    _The milkie way, the bird of Paradise,\n    Church-bels beyond the starres heard, the souls bloud,\n    The land of spices; something understood._\n\n    Geo. Herbert\n\n\n\n    _Let those whose Hearts and Hands are strong\n      Tell eager Tales of mighty Deeds;\n    Enough if my sequestered song\n      To hush'd and twilight Gardens leads!\n\n    Clear Waters, drawn from secret Wells\n      Perchance may fevered Lips assuage;\n    The Tales an elder Pilgrim tells\n      To such as go on Pilgrimage.\n\n    I wander by the waterside,\n      In that cool Hour my Soul loves best,\n    When trembles o'er the rippling Tide\n      A golden Stairway to the West.\n\n    Such the soft Path my Words would trace,\n      Thus with the moving Waters move;\n    So leave, across the Ocean's Face,\n      A glimmering Stair to Hope and Love._\n\n\n\n\nContents\n\n\n   The Isles of Sunset\n\n   The Waving of the Sword\n\n   Renatus\n\n   The Slype House\n\n   Out of the Sea\n\n   Paul the Minstrel\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nThe Isles of Sunset\n\n\n\nAbout midway between the two horns of the bay, the Isles of Sunset\npierced the sea. There was deep blue water all around them, and the\nsharp and fretted pinnacles of rock rose steeply up to heaven. The top\nof the largest was blunt, and covered with a little carpet of grass and\nsea-herbs. The rest were nought but cruel spires, on which no foot but\nthat of sea-birds could go. At one place there was a small creek, into\nwhich a boat might be thrust, but only when the sea was calm; and near\nthe top of the rock, just over this, was the dark mouth of a little\ncave.\n\nThe bay in which the Isles lay was quite deserted; the moorland came to\nthe edge of the cliffs, and through a steep and rocky ravine, the sides\nof which were overgrown with ferns and low trees, all brushed landward\nby the fierce winds, a stream fell hoarsely to the sea, through deep\nrockpools. The only living things there were the wild birds, the\nmoorfowl in the heather, hawks that built in the rock face, and pigeons\nthat made their nest in hollow places. Sometimes a stag pacing slowly on\nthe cliff-top would look over, but that was seldom.\n\nYet on these desolate and fearful rocks there dwelt a man, a hermit\nnamed David. He had grown up as a fisher-boy in the neighbouring\nvillage--an awkward silent boy with large eyes which looked as though\nthey were full of inward dreams. The people of the place were Christians\nafter a sort, though it was but seldom that a priest came near them; and\nthen only by sea, for there was no road to the place. But David as a boy\nhad heard a little of the Lord Christ, and of the bitter sacrifice he\nmade for men; and there grew up in his heart a great desire to serve\nHim, and he prayed much in his heart to the Lord, that he would show him\nwhat he might do. He had no parents living. His mother was long dead,\nand his father had been drowned at sea. He lived in the house of his\nuncle, a poor fisherman with an angry temper, where he fared very\nhardly; for there were many mouths to feed, and the worst fell to the\nleast akin. But he grew up handy and active, with strong limbs and a\nsure head; and he was well worth his victual, for he was a good\nfisherman, patient of wind and rain; and he could scale the cliff in\nplaces where none other dared go, and bring down the eggs and feathers\nof the sea-birds. So they had much use of him, and gave him but little\nlove in return. When he was free of work, the boy loved to wander alone,\nand he would lie on the heather in the warm sun, with his face to the\nground, drinking in the fragrant breath of the earth, and praying\nearnestly in his heart to the Lord, who had made the earth so fair and\nthe sea so terrible. When he came to man's estate, he had thoughts of\nmaking a home of his own, but his uncle seemed to need him--so he\nlingered on, doing as he was bid, very silent, but full of his own\nthoughts, and sure that the Lord would call him when he had need of him;\none by one the children of the family grew up and went their ways; then\nhis uncle's wife died, and then at last one day, when he was out fishing\nwith his uncle, there came a squall and they beat for home. But the boat\nwas overset and his uncle was drowned; and David himself was cast ashore\nin a wonderful manner, and found himself all alone.\n\nNow while he doubted what he should do, he dreamed a dream that wrought\npowerfully in his mind. He thought that he was walking in the dusk\nbeside the sea, which was running very high, when he saw a light drawing\nnear to him over the waves. It was not like the light of a lantern, but\na diffused and pale light, like the moon labouring in a cloud. The sea\nbegan to abate its violence, and then David saw a figure coming to him,\nwalking, it seemed, upon the water as upon dry land, sometimes lower,\nsometimes higher, as the waves ran high or low. He stopped in a great\nwonder to watch the approach of the figure, and he saw that it was that\nof a young man, going very slowly and tranquilly, and looking about him\nwith a gentle and smiling air of command. All about him was a light, the\nsource of which David could not see, but he seemed like a man walking in\nthe light of an open window, when all around is dark. As he came near,\nDavid saw that he was clad in a rough tunic of some dark stuff, which\nwas girt up with a girdle at the waist. His head and his feet were bare.\nYet though he seemed but poorly clad, he had the carriage of a great\nprince, whose power none would willingly question. But the strangest\nthing was that the sea grew calm before his feet, and though the wind\nwas blowing fiercely, yet it did not stir the hair, which fell somewhat\nlong on his shoulders, or so much as ruffle his robe. And then there\ncame into David's head a verse of Scripture where it says, \"_What manner\nof man is this that even the winds and the sea obey him?_\" And then the\nanswer came suddenly into David's mind, and he knelt down where he was\nupon the beach, and waited in a great and silent awe; and presently that\nOne drew near, and in some way that David did not understand, for he\nused no form of speech, his eyes made question of David's soul, and\nseemed to read its depths. And then at last He spoke in words that He\nhad before used to a fisherman beside another sea, and said very softly,\n\"Follow Me.\" But He said not how He should be followed; and presently He\nseemed to depart in a shining track across the sea, till the light that\nwent with Him sank like a star upon the verge. Then in his dream David\nwas troubled, and knew not how to follow; till he thought that it might\nbe given him, as it was given once to Peter, to walk dry-shod over the\ndepth; but when he set foot upon the water there broke so furious a wave\nat him, that he knew not how to follow. So he went back and kneeled upon\nthe sand, and said aloud in his doubt, \"What shall I do, Lord?\" and as\nthe words sounded on his tongue he awoke.\n\nThen all that day he pondered how he should find the Lord; for he knew\nthat though he had a hope in his heart, and though he leaned much upon\nGod, yet he had not wholly found him yet. God was sometimes with him and\nnear to him, but sometimes far withdrawn; and then, for he was a very\nsimple man, he said in himself, \"I will give myself wholly to the search\nfor my Lord. I will live solitary, and I will fix my mind upon Him\"; for\nhe thought within himself that his hard life, and the cares of the\nhousehold in which he had dwelt, had been what had perhaps kept him\noutside; and therefore he thought that God had taken these cares away\nfrom him. And so he made up his mind.\n\nThen he cast about where he had best dwell; and he thought of the Isles\nof Sunset as a lonely place, where he might live and not be disturbed.\nThere was the little cave high up in the rock-face, looking towards the\nland, to which he had once scrambled up. This would give him shelter;\nand there were moreover some small patches of earth, near the base of\nthe rock, where he could grow a few herbs and a little corn. He had some\nmoney of his own, which would keep him until his garden was grown up;\nand he could fish, he thought, from the rocks, and find shell-fish and\nother creatures of the sea, which would give him meat.\n\nSo the next day he bought a few tools that he thought he would need, and\nrowed all over when it was dusk. He put his small stores in a cave by\nthe water's edge. The day after, he went and made a few farewells; he\ntold no one where he was going; but it pleased him to find a little love\nfor him in the hearts of some. One parting was a strangely sore one:\nthere was an old and poor woman that lived very meanly in the place, who\nhad an only granddaughter, a little maid. These two he loved very much,\nand had often done them small kindnesses. He kept this good-bye to the\nlast, and went to the house after sundown. The old woman bade him sit\ndown, and asked him what he meant to do, now that he was alone. \"I am\ngoing away, mother,\" he said gently. The child, hearing this, came over\nthe room from where she sate, and said to him, \"No, David, do not go\naway.\" \"Yes, dear child,\" he said, \"I must even go.\" Then she said, \"But\nwhere will you go? May I not come to see you sometimes?\" and she put her\nsmall arms round his neck, and laid her cheek to his. Then David's heart\nwas very full of love, and he said smiling, and with his arm round the\nchild, \"Dear one, I must not say where I am going--and it is a rough\nplace, too, not fit for such tender little folk as you; but, if I can, I\nwill come again and see you.\" Then the old grandmother, looking upon him\nvery gravely, said, \"Tell me what is in your mind.\" But he said, \"Nay,\nmother, do not ask me; I am going to a place that is near and yet far;\nand I am going to seek for one whom I know not and yet know; and the way\nis long and dark.\" Then she forbore to ask him more, and fell to\npondering sadly; so after they had sate awhile, he rose up and loosed\nthe child's arms from him, kissing her; and the tears stood in his eyes;\nand he thought in himself that God was very wise; for if he had had a\nhome of his own, and children whom he loved, he could never have found\nit in his heart to leave them. So he went out.\n\nThen he climbed up the steep path that led to the downs, and so to the\nbay where the Isles lay. And just as he reached the top, the moon ran\nout from a long bank of cloud; and he saw the village lie beneath him,\nvery peaceful in the moonlight; there were lights in some of the\nwindows; the roofs were silvered in the clear radiance of the moon, and\nthe shadows lay dark between. He could see the little streets, every\ninch of which he knew, and the port below. He could see the coast\nstretch away to the east, headland after headland, growing fainter; and\nthe great spaces of the sea, with the moon glittering on the waves.\nThere was a holy and solemn peace about it all; and though his life had\nnot been a happy one there, he knew in a flash that the place was very\ndear to his heart, and he said a prayer to God, that he would guard and\ncherish the village and those that dwelt there. Then he turned, and went\non to the downs; and presently descended by a steep path to the sea,\nthrough the thickets. He took off his clothes, and tied them in a pack\non his back; and then he stepped quietly into the bright water, which\nlapped very softly against the shore, a little wave every now and then\nfalling gently, followed by a long rustling of the water on the sand,\nand a silence till the next wave fell. He waded on till he could swim,\nand then struck out to where the Isles stood, all sharp and bright in\nthe moon. He swam with long quiet strokes, hearing the water ripple\npast; and soon the great crags loomed out above him, and he heard the\nwaves fall among their rocky coves. At last he felt the ground beneath\nhis feet; and coming out of the water he dressed himself, and then--for\nhe would not venture on the cliffs in the uncertain light--gathering up\nsome dried weeds of the sea, he made a pillow for his head and slept, in\na wonderful peace of mind, until the moon set; and not long after there\ncame a pale light over the sea in the east, brightening slowly, until at\nlast the sun, like a fiery ball, broke upwards from the sea; and it was\nday.\n\nNow when David awoke in the broad daylight, he found himself full of a\ngreat joy and peace. He seemed, as it were, to have leaped over a wide\nditch, and to see the world across it. Now he was alone with God, and he\nhad put all the old, mean, hateful life away from him. It did not even\nso much as peep into his mind that he would have to endure many\nhardships of body, rain, and chilly winds, a bed of rock, and fare both\nhard and scanty. This was not what had troubled him in the old days.\nWhat had vexed his heart had been unclean words and deeds, greediness,\nhardness, cruel taunts, the lack of love, and the meanness and baseness\nof the petty life. All that was behind him now; he felt free and strong,\nand while he moved about to spy out his new kingdom, he sang loudly to\nhimself a song of praise. The place pleased him mightily; over his head\nran up the cliff with its stony precipices and dizzy ledges. The lower\nrocks all fringed with weeds, like sea-beasts with rough hair, stood out\nblack from the deep blue water that lay round the rocks. He loved to\nhear the heavy plunge of the great waves around his bastions, the thin\ncries of the sea-birds that sailed about the precipice, or that lit on\ntheir airy perches. Everywhere was a brisk sharp scent of the sea, and\nthe fresh breeze, most unlike the close sour smell of the little houses.\nHe felt himself free and strong and clean, and he thought of all the\nthings he would say to God in the pleasant solitude, and how he would\nhear the low and far-off voice of the Father speaking gently with his\nsoul.\n\nHis first care was to find the cave that was to shelter him. He spent\nthe day in climbing very carefully and lightly all over the face of the\nrock. Never had he known his hand so strong, or his head so sure. He\nsate for a time on a little ledge, to which he had climbed on the crag\nface, and he feasted his eyes upon the sight of the great cliffs of the\nmainland that ran opposite him, to left and right, in a wide\nhalf-circle. His eyes dwelt with pleasure upon the high sloping\nshoulders of rock, on which the sun now shone very peacefully, the strip\nof moorland at the top, the brushwood growing in the sloping coves, the\nclean shingle at the base of the rocks, and the blue sky over all. That\nwas the world as God had made it, and as He intended it to be; it was\nonly men who made it evil, huddling together in their small and filthy\ndens, so intent on their little ugly lives, their food and drink and\nwicked ways.\n\nPresently he found the cave-mouth, and noted in his mind the best way\nthither. The cave seemed to him a very sweet place; the mouth was all\nfringed with little ferns; inside it was dry and clean; and in a few\nhours he had disposed all his small goods within it. There was a low\nslope, on one side of the rocks, where the fern grew plentifully. He\ngathered great armfuls of the dry red stalks, and made himself a\nrustling bed. So the day wore pleasantly away. One of his cares was to\nfind water; but here it seemed that God blessed him very instantly, for\nhe found a place near the sea, where a little spring soaked cool out of\nthe rock, with a pleasant carpet of moss and yellow flowers. He found,\ntoo, some beds of shell-fish, which he saw would give him food and bait\nfor his fishing. So about sundown he cast a line from the end of the\nrocks and presently caught a fish, a ling, which lives round rocky\nshores. This he broiled at a small fire of driftwood, for he had brought\ntinder with him; and it pleased him to think of the meal that the\nApostles took with the risen Christ, a meal which He had made for them,\nand to which He Himself called them; for that, too, was a broiled fish,\nand eaten by the edge of the sea. Also he ate a little of the bread he\nhad brought with him; and with it some of a brisk juicy herb, called\nsamphire, that sprouted richly in the cliff, which gave his meat an\naromatic savour; and with a drink of fresh spring water he dined well,\nand was content; then he climbed within the cave, and fell asleep to the\nsound of the wind buffeting in the cliff, and the fall of great waves on\nthe sea beaches.\n\nNow I might make a book of all the things that David saw and did on the\nislands, but they were mostly simple and humble things. He fared very\nhard, but though he often wondered how he would find food for the next\nday, it always came to him; and he kept his health in a way which seemed\nto him to be marvellous; indeed he seemed to himself to be both stronger\nin body and lighter in spirit than he had even been before. He both saw\nand heard things that he could not explain. There were sounds the nature\nof which he could not divine; on certain days there was a far-off\nbooming, even when the waves seemed still; at times, too, there was a\nlow musical note in the air, like the throbbing of a tense string of\nmetal; once or twice he heard a sound like soft singing, and wondered in\nhis heart what creature of the sea it might be that uttered it. On\nstormy nights there were sad moans and cries, and he often thought that\nthere were strange and unseen creatures about him, who hid themselves\nfrom sight, but whose voices he certainly heard; but he was never\nafraid. One night he saw a very beautiful thing; it had been a still\nday, but there was an anxious sound in the wind which he knew portended\na storm; he was strangely restless on such days, and woke many times in\nthe night: at last he could bear the silence of the cave no more, and\nwent out, descending swiftly by the rocks, the path over which he could\nhave now followed blindfold, down to the edge of the sea. Then he saw\nthat the waves that beat against the rock were all luminous, as though\nlit with an inner light; suddenly, far below, how deep he knew not, he\nsaw a great shoal of fish, some of them very large, coming softly round\nthe rocks; the water, as it touched their blunt snouts, burst as it were\ninto soft flame, and showed every twinkle of their fins and every beat\nof their tails. The shoal came swiftly round the rocks, swimming\nintently, and it seemed as though there was no end of them. But at last\nthe crowd grew thinner and then ceased; but he could still see the water\nrippling all radiant in the great sea-pools, showing the motion of broad\nribbons of seaweed that swayed to and fro, and lighting up odd horned\nbeasts that stirred upon the ledges. From that day forth he was often\nfilled with a silent wonder at all the sleepless life that moved beneath\nthe vast waters, and that knew nothing of the little human lives that\nfretted themselves out in the thin air above. That day was to him like\nthe opening of a door into the vast heart of God.\n\nBut for all his happiness, the thought weighed upon him, day after day,\nof all the grief and unhappiness that there was about him. A dying bird\nthat he found in a pool, and that rolled its filmy eye upon him in fear,\nas if to ask why he must disturb it in its last sad languid hour, the\nterror in which so many of the small fish abode--he saw once, when the\nsea was clear, a big fish dart like a dark shadow, with open mouth and\ngleaming eye, on a little shoal of fishes that sported joyfully in the\nsun; they scattered in haste, but they had lost their fellows--all this\nmade him ponder; but most of all there weighed on his heart the thought\nof the world he had left, of how men spoke evil of each other, and did\neach other hurt; of children whose lot was to be beaten and cursed for\nno fault, but to please the cruel temper of a master; of patient women,\nwho had so much to bear--so that sometimes he had dark thoughts of why\nGod made the world so fair, and then left so much that was amiss, like a\nfoul stream that makes a clear pool turbid. And there came into his head\na horror of taking the lives of creatures for his own use--the\nshell-worm that writhed as he pulled it from the shell; the bright fish\nthat came up struggling and gasping from the water, and that fought\nunder his hand--and at last he made up his mind that he would take no\nmore life, though how he would live he knew not; and as for the world of\nmen, he became very desirous to help a little as best he could; and\nthere being at this time a wreck in the bay, when a boat and all on\nboard were lost, he thought that he would wish, if he could, to keep a\nfire lit on dark nights, so that ships that passed should see that there\nwas a dwelling there, and so keep farther away from the dangerous rocks.\n\nBy this time it had become known in the country where he was--his figure\nhad been seen several times from the cliffs; and one day there had come\na boat, with some of those that knew him, to the island. He had no wish\nto mix again with men; but neither did he desire to avoid them, if it\nwas God's will that they should come. So he came down courteously, and\nspoke with the master of the boat, who asked him very curiously of his\nlife and all that he did. David told him all; and when the master asked\nhim why he had thus fled away from the world, David said simply that he\nhad done so that he might pray to God in peace. Then the master said\nthat there were many waking hours in the day, and he knew not what there\nmight be to say prayers about, \"for,\" he said, \"you have no book to make\nprayers out of, like the priests, and you have no store of good-sounding\nwords with which to catch the ear of God.\" Then David said that he\nprayed to God to guard all things great and small, and to help himself\nalong the steep road to heaven. Then the master wondered very much, and\nsaid that a man must please himself, and no doubt it was a holy work.\nThen he asked a little shamefacedly for David to pray for him, that he\nmight be kept safe from shipwreck, and have good fortune for fishing, to\nwhich David replied, \"Oh, I do that already.\"\n\nBefore the master went away, and he stayed not long, he asked David how\nhe lived, and offered him food. And David being then in a strait--for he\nhad lately vowed to take no life, said gladly that he would have\nanything they could give him. So the master gave him some victual. And\nit happened, just at this time, that some of the boats from the village\nhad a wonderful escape from a storm, and through that season they caught\nfish in abundance; so it was soon noised abroad that this was all\nbecause of David's prayers; and after that he never had need of food,\nfor they brought him many little presents, such as eggs, fruit, and\nbread--for he would take no meat--giving them into his hands when he was\non the lower rocks, or leaving them on a ledge in the cove when he was\naloft. And as, when the fish were plenteous, they gave him food in\ngratitude, and when fish were scarce, they gave it him even more\nabundantly that they might have his prayers, David was never in lack; in\nall of which he saw the wonderful hand of God working for him.\n\nNow David pondered very much how he might keep a light aloft on\ndangerous nights.\n\nHis first thought was to find a sheltered place among the rocks to\nseaward, where his fire could burn and not be extinguished by the wind;\nbut, though he climbed all about the rocks, he could find no place to\nhis mind. One day, however, he was in the furthest recess of his cave,\nwhen he felt that among the rocks a little thin wind blew constantly\nfrom one corner; and feeling about with his hands, he found that it came\nout of a small crack in the rocks. The stone above it seemed to be\nloose; and he perceived after a while that the end of the cave must be\nvery near to the seaward face of the crag, and that the cave ran right\nthrough the rock, and was only kept from opening on the outer side by a\nthin barrier of stone; so after several attempts, using all his\nstrength, he worked the stone loose; and then with a great effort, he\nthrust the stone out; it fell with a great noise, leaping among the\ncrags, and at last plunging into the sea. The wind rushed in through the\ngap; then he saw that he had, as it were, a small window looking out to\nsea, so small that he could not pass through it, but large enough to let\na light shine forth, if there were a light set there; but though it\nseemed again to him like the guiding hand of God, he could not devise\nhow he should shelter the light within from the wind. Indeed the hole\nmade the cave a far less habitable place for himself, for the wind\nwhistled very shrewdly through; he found it easy enough to stop the gap\nwith an old fisherman's coat--but then the light was hidden from view.\nSo he tried a further plan; he dug a hole in the earth at the top of the\ncliff, and then made a bed of dry sand at the bottom of it; and he piled\nup dry seaweed and wood within, thinking that if he lit his beacon\nthere, it might be sheltered from the wind, and would burn fiercely\nenough to throw up the flame above the top of the pit. He saw that heavy\nrain would extinguish his fire; but the nights were most dangerous when\nit blew too strongly for rain to fall. So one night, when the wind blew\nstrongly from the sea, he laid wood in order, which he had gathered on\nthe land, and conveyed with many toilsome journeys over to the island.\nThen he lighted the pile, but it was as he feared; the wind blew\nfiercely over the top, and drove the flames downward, so that the pit\nglowed with a fierce heat; and sometimes a lighted brand was caught up\nand whirled over the cliffs; but he saw plainly enough that the light\nwould not show out at sea. He was very sad at this, and at last went\nheavily down to his cave, not knowing what he should do; and pondering\nlong before he slept, he could see no way out.\n\nIn the morning he went up to the cliff-top again, and turned his steps\nto the pit. The fire had burned itself out, but the sides were still\nwarm to the touch; all the ashes had been blown by the force of the wind\nout of the hole; but he saw some bright things lie in the sand, which he\ncould not wholly understand, till he pulled them out and examined them\ncarefully. They were like smooth tubes and lumps of a clear stuff, like\nmolten crystal or frozen honey, full of bubbles and stains, but still\nstrangely transparent; and then, though he saw that these must in some\nway have proceeded from the burning of the fire, he felt as though they\nmust have been sent to him for some wise reason. He turned them over and\nover, and held them up to the light. It came suddenly into his mind how\nhe would use these heavenly crystals; he would make, he thought, a frame\nof wood, and set these jewels in the frame. Then he would set this in\nthe hole of his cave, and burn a light behind; and the light would thus\nshow over the sea, and not be extinguished.\n\nSo this after much labour he did; he fitted all the clear pieces into\nthe frame, and he fixed the frame very firm in the hole with wooden\nwedges. Then he pushed clay into the cracks between the edges of the\nframe and the stone. Then he told some of those who came to him that he\nhad need of oil for a purpose, and they brought it him in abundance, and\nwicks for a lamp; and these he set in an earthen bowl filled with oil,\nand on a dark night, when all was finished, he lit his lamp; and then\nclambered out on the furthest rocks of the island, and saw his light\nburn in the rocks, not clearly, indeed, but like an eye of glimmering\nfire. Then he was very glad at heart, and he told the fishermen how he\nhad found means to set a light among the cliffs, and that he would burn\nit on dark and stormy nights, so that they might see the light and avoid\nthe danger. The tidings soon spread, and they thought it a very magical\nand holy device; but did not doubt that the knowledge of it was given to\nDavid by God.\n\nSo David was in great happiness. For he knew that the Father had\nanswered his prayer, and allowed him, however little, to help the\nseafaring folk.\n\nHe made other things after that; he put up a doorway with a door of wood\nin the entering of the cave; he made, too, a little boat that he might\ngo to and fro to the land without swimming. And now, having no care to\nprovide food, for they brought it him in abundance, he turned his mind\nto many small things. He made a holy carving in the cave, of Christ upon\nthe cross--and he carved around it a number of creatures, not men only\nbut birds and beasts, looking to the Cross, for he thought that the\nbeasts also should have their joy in the great offering. His fame spread\nabroad; and there came a priest to see him, who abode with him for some\ndays, prayed with him, and taught him much of the faith. The priest gave\nhim a book, and showed him the letters; but David, though he longed to\nread what was within, could not hold the letters in his head.\n\nHe tamed, too, the wild birds of the rock, so that they came to his\ncall; one was a gull, which became so fearless that it would come to his\ncave, and sit silent on a rock, watching him while he worked. He kept a\nfish, too, in a pool of the rocks, that would rise to the edge when he\napproached.\n\nBut all this time he went not near to the village; for his solitude had\nbecome very dear to him, and he prayed continually; and at evening and\nmorning and midday he would sing praises to God, simple words that he\nhad made.\n\nOne morning he awoke in the cave, and as he bestirred himself he thought\nin his heart of all his happiness. It was a still morning, but the sky\nwas overcast. Suddenly he heard voices below him; and thinking that he\nwas needed, he descended the rocks quickly, and came down a little way\nfrom a group of sailors who were standing on the shore; there was a boat\ndrawn up on the sand, and near at hand there lay at anchor a small ship,\nthat seemed to be of a foreign gear, and larger than he was wont to see.\nHe came somewhat suddenly upon the group, and they seemed, as it were,\nto be amazed to see a man there. He went smilingly towards them, but as\nhe did so there came into his heart a feeling of danger, he knew not\nwhat; and he thought that it would be better to retire up the rocks to\nhis cave, and wait till the men had withdrawn--for it was not likely\nthat they would visit him there, or that even if they saw the way\nthither, they would adventure it, as it was steep and dangerous. But he\nput the thought away and came up to them. They seemed to be conferring\ntogether in low voices, and the nearer that he drew, the less he liked\ntheir look. He spoke to them, but they seemed not to understand, and\nanswered him back very roughly in a tongue he did not understand. But\npresently they put one forward, an old man, who had some words of\nEnglish, who asked him what he did there. He tried to explain that he\nlived on the island, but the old man shook his head, evidently not\nbelieving that there could be one living in so bare a place. Then the\nmen conferred again together, and presently the old man asked him, in\nhis broken speech, whether he would take service on the ship with them.\nDavid said, smiling, that he would not, for he had other work to do; and\nthe old man seemed to try and persuade him, saying that it was a good\nservice; that they lived a free life, wandering where they would; but\nthat they had lost men lately, and were hardly enough to sail the ship.\n\nThen it came into David's mind that he had fallen in with pirates. They\nwere not often seen in these parts, for there was little enough that\nthey could get, the folk being all poor, and small traffic passing that\nway. And then, for he saw the group beginning to gather round him, he\nmade a prayer in his heart that he should be delivered from the evil,\nand made proffer to the men of the little stores that he had. The old\nman shook his head, and spoke with the others, who now seemed to be\ngrowing angry and impatient; and then he said to David that they had\nneed of him to help to sail the ship, and that he must come whether he\nwould or no. David cast a glance round to see if he could escape up the\nrocks; but the men were all about him, and seeing in his eye that he\nthought of flight, they laid hands upon him. David resisted with all his\nmight, but they overpowered him in a moment, bound his hands and feet,\nand cast him with much force into their boat. Then David was sorely\ndisheartened; but he waited, committing his soul to God. While he\nwaited, he saw a strange thing; on the beach there lay a box, tightly\ncorded; the men raised this up very gently, and with difficulty, as it\nseemed to be heavy. Then they carried it up above the tide-mark; and,\nmaking a hole among the loose stones, they buried it very carefully,\ncasting stones over it. Then one of them with a chisel made a mark on\nthe cliff behind, to show where the box lay--and then, first looking\ncarefully out to sea, they came into the boat, and rowed off to the\nship, which seemed almost deserted; paying no more heed to David than if\nhe had been a log of wood.\n\nThe old man who understood English steered the boat; and David tried to\nsay some words to him, to ask that he should be released; but the old\nman only shook his head; and at last bade David be silent with great\nanger. They rowed slowly out, and David could see the great rocks, that\nhad now been his home so long, rising, still and peaceful, in the\nmorning light. Every rock and cranny was known to him. There was the\nplace where, when he first came, he was used to fish. There was the\ncliff-top where he had made his fire; he could even see his little\nwindow in the front of the rocks, and he thought with grief that it\nwould be dark and silent henceforth. But he thought that he was somehow\nin the hand of God; and that though to be dragged away from his home\nseemed grievous, there must be some task to which the Father would\npresently set him, even if it were to go down to death; and though the\ncords that bound him were now very painful, and his heart was full of\nsorrow, yet David felt a kind of peace in his spirit which showed him\nthat God was still with him.\n\nWhen they got to the ship, there arose a dispute among the men as to\nwhether they should run out to sea before it was dark, or whether they\nshould lie where they were; there was but little wind, so they made up\ntheir minds to stay. David himself thought from the look of the sky that\nthere was strong weather brewing. The old man who spoke English asked\nhim what he thought, and he told him that there would be wind. He seemed\nto be disposed to believe David; but the men were tired, and it was\ndecided to stay.\n\nThey had unbound David that he might go on board; and the pain in his\nhands and feet was very great when the bonds were unloosed; and when he\nwas on board they bound him again, but not so tightly, and led him down\ninto a cabin, close and dirty, where a foul and smoky lamp burnt. They\nbade him sit in a corner. The low ill-smelling place was very grievous\nto David, and he thought with a sore heart of his clean cold cave, and\nhis bed of fern. The men seemed to take no further heed of him, and went\nabout preparing a meal. There seemed to be little friendliness among\nthem; they spoke shortly and scowled upon each other; and David divined\nthat there had been some dispute aboard, and that they were ill-content.\nThere was little discipline, the men going and coming when they would.\n\nBefore long a meal was prepared; some sort of a stew with a rich strong\nsmell, that seemed very gross and foul to David, who had been used so\nlong to his simple fare. The men came in and took from the dish what\nthey desired; and a large jar was opened, which from its fierce smell\nseemed to contain a hot and fiery spirit; and that it was so David could\neasily discern, from the flushed faces and louder talk of the men, which\nsoon became mingled with a gross merriment. The old man brought a mess\nof the food to David, who shook his head smiling. Then the other, with\nmore kindness than David had expected, asked if he would have bread; and\nfetched him a large piece, unbinding his hands for a little, that he\nmight eat. Then he offered him some of the spirit; but David asked for\nwater, which the old man gave him, binding his hands after he had drunk,\nwith a certain gentleness.\n\nPresently the old man, after he too had eaten, came and sate down beside\nDavid; and in his broken talk seemed to wish to win him, if he could, to\njoin them more willingly. He spoke of the pleasant life they lived, and\nof the wealth that they made, though he said not how they came by it. He\ntold him that he had seen some of it hidden that day, which they had\ndone for greater security, so that, if the ship should be cast away, the\nmen might have some of their spoil waiting for them; and David\nunderstood from him, though he had but few words to explain it, that it\nhad been that which had caused a strife among them. For they had come by\nthe treasure very hardly, and they had lost some of the crew in so doing\nit--and some of the men had desired to share it, and have done with the\nsea for ever; but that it had been decided to make another voyage first.\n\nThen David said very gently that he did not desire to join them, for he\nwas a man of peace; and he told him of his lonely life, and how he made\na light to keep ships off the dangerous coast; and at that the old man\nlooked at him with a fixed air, and nodded his head as though he had\nhimself heard of the matter, or at least seen the light--all this David\ntold him, speaking slowly as to a child; but it seemed as though every\nminute the remembrance of the language came more and more back to the\nold man.\n\nBut at last the man shook his head, and said that he was sorry so\npeaceful a life must come to an end. But, indeed, David must go with\nthem whether he would or no; and that they would be good comrades yet;\nand he should have his share of whatever they got. And then he left\nDavid and went on to the deck.\n\nThen there fell a great despair upon David; and at the same time the\ncrew, excited by the drink they had taken, for they drained the jar,\nbegan to dispute among themselves, and to struggle and fight; and one of\nthem espied David, and they gathered round and mocked him. They mocked\nat his dress, his face, his hair, which had grown somewhat long. And one\nof them in particular seemed most urgent, speaking long to the others,\nand pointing at David from time to time, while the others fell into a\ngreat laughter. Then they fell to plucking his hair, and even to beating\nhim--and they tried to force the spirit into his mouth, but he kept his\nteeth clenched; and the very smell of the fiery stuff made his brain\nsick. But he could nor stir hand or foot; and presently there came into\nhis mind a great blackness of anger, so that he seemed to be in the very\ngrip of the evil one; and he knew in his heart that if he had been\nunbound, he would have slain one or more of them; for his heart beat\nthick, and there came a strange redness into his sight, and he gnashed\nhis teeth for rage; at which they mocked him the more. But at last the\nold man came down into the cabin, and when he saw what they were at, he\nspoke very angrily to them, stamping his foot; and it seemed as though\nhe alone had any authority, for they left off ill-using David, and went\nfrom him one by one.\n\nThen, after a while they began to nod in their places; one or two of\nthem cast themselves into beds made in the wall; others fell on the\nfloor, and slept like beasts; and at last they all slept; and last of\nall the old man came in again, bearing a lamp, and looked round the room\nin a sort of angry disgust. Then he said a word to David, and opening a\ndoor went on into a cabin beyond, closing the door behind him.\n\nThen, in the low light of the smoking lamp, and in the hot and reeking\nroom, with the foul breathing of the sleepers round him, David spent a\nvery dreadful hour. He had never in the old days seen so ill a scene;\nand it was to him, exhausted by pain and by rage, as if a dark thing\ncame behind him, and whispered in his secret ear that God regarded not\nmen at all, and that the evil was stronger than the good, and prevailed.\nHe tried to put the thought away; but it came all the more instantly,\nthat what he had seen could not be, if God had indeed power to rule. It\nwas not only the scene itself, but the thought of what these men were,\nand the black things they had doubtless done, the deeds of murder,\ncruelty, and lust that were written plainly on all their faces; all\nthese came like dark shadows and gathered about him.\n\nDavid stirred a little to ease himself of his pain and stiffness; and\nhis foot struck against a thing. He looked down, and saw in the shadow\nof the table a knife lying, which had fallen from some man's belt. A\nthought of desperate joy came into his mind. He bent himself down with\nhis bound hands, and he contrived to gather up the knife. Then, very\nswiftly and deftly, he thrust the haft between his knees; then he worked\nthe rope that bound his hands to and fro over the blade; the rope\nparted, and the blood came back into his numbed fingers with a terrible\npain. But David heeded it not, and stooping down, he cut the cord that\nbound his feet; then he rose softly, and sate down again; for the blood,\nreturning to his limbs, made him feel he could not stand yet awhile. All\nwas still in the cabin, except for the slow breathing of those that\nslept; save that every now and then one of the sleepers broke into a\nstifled cry, and muttered words, or stirred in his sleep.\n\nPresently David felt that he could walk. He pondered for a moment\nwhether he should take the knife, if he were suddenly attacked; but he\nresisted the thought, and left the knife lying on the ground.\n\nThen stepping lightly among the sleepers, he moved like a shadow to the\ndoor; very carefully he stepped; and at each movement or muttered word\nhe stopped and caught his breath. Suddenly one of the men rose up,\nleaning on his arm, and looked at him with a stupid stare; but David\nstood still, waiting, with his heart fit to break within his breast,\ntill the man lay down again. Then David was at the door. The cabin\noccupied half the ship to the bows; the rest was undecked, with high\nbulwarks; a rough ladder of steps led to the gangway. David stood for a\nmoment in the shadow of the door; but there seemed no one on the watch\nwithout. The pure air and the fresh smell of the sea came to his senses\nlike a breath of heaven. He stepped swiftly over a coil of rope; then up\nthe ladder, and plunged noiselessly into the sea.\n\nHe swam a few strokes very strongly; and then he looked about him. The\nnight was as dark as pitch. He could see a dim light from the ship\nbehind him; the water rose and fell in a slow heavy swell; but which way\nthe land lay he could not tell. But he said to himself that it was\nbetter to drown and be certainly with God, than in the den of robbers he\nhad left. So he turned himself round in the water, trying to remember\nwhere the shore lay, but it was all dark, both the sky and sea, with a\npitchy blackness; only the lights of the ship glimmered towards him like\nlittle bright paths across the heaving tide.\n\nSuddenly there came a thing so wonderful that David could hardly believe\nhe saw truly; a bright eye of light, as it were, opened upon him in the\ndark, far off, and hung high in the heavens, like a quiet star. The\nradiance of it was like the moon, cold and clear. And though David could\nnot at first divine whence it came, he did not doubt in his heart that\nit was there to guide him; so he struck out towards it, with long silent\nstrokes. He swam for a long time, the light shining softly over the\nwater, and seeming to rise higher over his head, while the glimmering of\nthe ship's lights grew fainter and more murky behind him. Then he became\naware that he was drawing near to the land; great dark shapes loomed up\nover his head, and he heard the soft beating of waves before him. Then\nhe could see too, as he looked upon the light, that there was a glimmer\naround it; and he saw that it came from the edges and faces of rocks\nthat were lit up by the radiance. So he swam more softly; and presently\nhis foot struck a rock covered with weed; so he put his feet down, waded\nin cautiously, and pulling himself up by the hands found himself on a\nrocky shore, and knew that it was his own island.\n\nThen the light above him, as though it had but waited for his safety to\nbe secured, died softly away, like the moon gliding into a cloud. David\nwondered very much at this, and cast about in his mind how it might be;\nbut his heart seemed to tell him that there was some holy and beautiful\nthing on the island very near to him. He could hardly contain himself\nfor gladness; and he thought that God had doubtless given him this day\nof misery and terror, partly that he might value his peace truly, and\npartly that he might feel that he had it not of right, but by the\ngracious disposition of the Father.\n\nSo he climbed very softly and swiftly to the cave; and entered it with a\ngreat gladness; and then he became aware of a great awe in his mind.\nThere was somewhat there, that he could not see with his eyes, but which\nwas more real and present than anything he had ever known; the cave\nseemed to shine with a faint and tender gleam that was dying away by\nslow degrees; as though the roof and walls had been charged with a\npeaceful light, which still rayed about them, though the radiance that\nhad fed it was withdrawn. He took off his dripping clothes, and wrapped\nhimself in his old sea-cloak. But he did not think of sleep, or even of\nprayer; he only sate still on his bed of fern, with his eyes open in the\ndarkness, drinking in the strong and solemn peace which seemed to abide\nthere. David never had known such a feeling, and he was never to know it\nagain so fully; but for the time he seemed to sit at the foot of God,\nsatisfied. While he thus sate, a great wind sprang up outside and\nthundered in the rocks; fiercer and fiercer it blew, and soon there\nfollowed it the loud crying of the sea, as the great waters began to\nheave and rage. Then David bestirred himself to light and trim his lamp,\nand set it in the window as a warning to ships. And when he had done\nthis he felt a great and sudden weariness, and he laid himself down; and\nsleep closed over him at once, as the sea closes over a stone that is\nflung into it.\n\nOnce in the night he woke, with the roar of the storm in his ears, and\nwondered that he had slept through it. He had been through many stormy\nnights, but he had never heard the like of this. The wind blew with a\nsteady roar, like a flood of thunder outpoured; in the midst of if, the\ngreat waves, hurled upon the rocks, uttered their voices; and between he\nheard the hiss of the water, as it rushed downwards from the cliff face.\nIn the midst of all came a sharp and sudden wailing cry; and then he\nbegan to wonder what the poor ship was doing, which he thought of as\nriding furiously at her anchor, with the drunken crew, and the old man\nwith his sad and solemn face, who seemed so different from his unruly\nfollowers, and yet was not ashamed to rule over them and draw profit\nfrom their evil deeds. In spite of the ill they had tried to do him, he\nfelt a great pity for them in his heart; but this was but for a moment,\nfor sleep closed over him again, and drew him down into forgetfulness.\n\nWhen David woke in the morning, the gale had died away, but the sky wept\nfrom low and ragged clouds, as if ashamed and sullen at the wrath of the\nday before. Water trickled in the cracks of the rock; and when David\npeered abroad, he looked into the thin drifting clouds. He had a great\ncontent in his heart, but the awe and the strange peace of the night had\nsomehow diminished.\n\nHe began to reflect upon the light that he had seen from the sea. It was\nnot his lamp that had given out such light, for it was clear and thin,\nwhile the light his own lamp gave was angry and red. Moreover, when he\nhad lighted the lamp before the storm, it was standing idle, not in the\nwindow-place, but on the rock-shelf where he had set it. Then he knew\nthat some great and holy mystery had been wrought for him that night,\nand that he had been very tenderly used.\n\nPresently he descended the cliff, and went out upon the seaward side.\nThe waves still rose angrily under the grey sky, but were fast abating.\nHe saw in a moment that the shore was full of wreckage: there were spars\nand timbers everywhere, and all the litter of a ship. Some of the\ntimbers were flung so high upon the rocks that he saw how great the\nviolence of the storm had been. He walked along, and in a minute he came\nupon the body of a man lying on his face, strangely battered.\n\nThen he saw another body, and yet another. He lifted them up, but there\nwas no sign of life in them; and he recognised with a great sadness that\nthey were the pirates who had dragged him from his home. He had for a\nmoment one evil thought in his mind, a kind of triumph in his heart that\nGod had saved him from his enemies, and delivered them over to death;\nbut he knew that it was a wicked thought, and thrust it from him; at\nlast at the end of the rocks he found the old captain himself. There was\na kind of majesty about him, even in death, as he lay looking up at the\nsky, with one arm flung across his breast, and the other arm\noutstretched beside him. Then he saw the ribs of the ship itself stick\nup among the rocks, and he wondered to find the hull so broken and\nruinous.\n\nHis next care was that the poor bodies should have burial. So about\nmidday he took his boat from its shelter, and rowed across to the land;\nand then, with a strange fear of the heart, he climbed the cliff, and\nwalked down slowly to the village, which he had thought in his heart he\nwould never have seen again.\n\nThe wind had now driven the clouds out of the sky, and the sun came out\nwith a strong white light, the light that shines from the sky when the\nearth has been washed clean by rain. It sparkled brightly in the little\ndrops that hung like jewels in the grass and bushes. It was with a great\nthrob of the heart that David came out upon the end of the down, and saw\nthe village beneath him. It looked as though no change had passed over\nit, but as though its life must have stood still, since he left it; then\nthere came tears into David's eyes at the thought of the old hard life\nhe had lived there, and how God had since filled his cup so full of\npeace; so with many thoughts in his heart he came slowly down the path\nto the town. He first met two children whom he did not know; he spoke to\nthem, but they looked for a moment in terror at his face; his hair and\nbeard were long, and he was all tanned by the sun; but he spoke softly\nto them, and presently they came to him and were persuaded to tell their\nnames. They were the children, David thought, of a young lad whom he had\nknown as a boy; and presently, as the manner of children is when they\nhave laid aside fear, they told him many small things, their ages and\ntheir doings, and other little affairs which seem so big to a child; and\nthen they would take his hands and lead him to the village, while David\nsmiled to be so lovingly attended. He was surprised, when he entered the\nstreet, to see how curiously he was regarded. Even men and women, that\nhe had known, would hardly speak with him, but did him reverence. The\nchildren would lead him to their house first; and so he went thither,\nnot unwilling. When they were at the place, he found with a gentle\nwonder that it was even the house where he had himself dwelt. He went\nin, and found the mother of the children within, one whom he had known\nas a girl. She greeted him with the same reverence as the rest; so that\nhe at last took courage, and asked her why it should not be as it had\nbeen before. And then he learned from her talk, with a strange surprise,\nthat it was thought that he was a very holy man, much visited by God,\nwho not only had been shown how, by a kind of magical secret, to save\nships from falling on that deadly coast, but as one whose prayers\navailed to guard and keep the whole place safe. He tried to show her\nthat this was not so, and that he was a simple person in great need of\nholiness; but he saw that she only thought him the holier for his\nhumility, so he was ashamed to say more.\n\nThen he went to the chief man in the village, and told him wherefore he\nhad come--that there was a wreck on the shore of the islands, and that\nthere were bodies that must be buried. One more visit he paid, and that\nwas to the little maiden whom he had seen the last when he went away.\nShe was now nearly grown to a woman, and her grandmother was very old\nand weak, and near her end. David went there alone, and said that he had\nreturned as he had promised; but he found that the child had much lost\nher remembrance of him, and could hardly see the friend she had known in\nthe strong and wild-looking figure that he had become. He talked a\nlittle quietly; the old grandmother, who could not move from her chair,\nwas easier with him, and asked him, looking curiously upon him, whether\nhe had found that of which he went in search. \"Nay, mother,\" he said,\n\"not found; but I am like a man whose feet are set in the way, and who\nsees the city gate across the fields.\" Then she smiled at him and said,\n\"But I am near the gate.\" Then he told her that he often thought of her,\nand made mention of her in his prayers; and so rose to go; but she asked\nhim to bless her, which David did very tenderly, and kissed her and\ndeparted; but he went heavily; because he feared to be regarded as he\nwas now regarded; and he thought in his heart that he would never return\nagain, but dwell alone in his cave with God. For the world troubled him;\nand the voices of the children, and the looks of those that he had known\nbefore seemed to lay soft hands about his heart, and draw him back into\nthe world.\n\nThe same day he returned to the cave; and the boats came out and took\nthe bodies away, and they were laid in the burying-ground.\n\nThen the next day many returned to clear away the wreck; and David came\nnot out of his cave while they did this; for it went to his heart to see\nthe joy with which they gathered what had meant the death of so many\nmen. They asked him what they should leave for him, and he answered,\n\"Nothing--only a piece of plain wood, for a purpose.\" So when evening\ncame they had removed all; and the island, that had rung all day with\nshouts and talk and the feet of men, was silent again; but before they\nwent, David said that he had a great desire to see a priest, if a\nmessage could be sent; and this they undertook to do. But David was very\nheavy-hearted for many days, for it seemed to him that the sight of the\nworld had put all the peace out of his heart; and his prayers came\nhollow and dry.\n\nA few days after there came a boat to the rock; the sea was running\nsomewhat high, and they had much ado to make a landing. David went down\nto the water's edge, and saw that besides the fishermen, whom he knew,\nthere was a little wizened man in a priest's dress, that seemed\nbewildered by the moving of the boat and the tossing of the big waves\nwith their heaving crests, that broke upon the rocks with a heavy sound.\nAt last they got the boat into the creek, and the little priest came\nnimbly ashore, but not without a wetting. The fishermen said that they\nwould return in the evening, and fetch the priest away.\n\nHe looked a frail man, and David could not discern whether he were young\nor old; and he felt a pity for a man who was so unhandy, and who seemed\nto be so scared of the sea. But the priest came up to him and took his\nhand. \"I have heard much of you, my brother,\" he said, \"and I have\ndesired to see you--but this sea of yours is a strange and wild monster,\nand I trust it not,--though indeed it is God's handiwork. Yet King\nDavid, your patron, was of the same mind, I think, and wrote in one of\nhis wise psalms how it made the heart to melt within him.\" David looked\nat him with much attention as he spoke, and there was something in the\npriest's eye, a kind of hidden fire, joined with a wise mirth, that made\nhim, all of a sudden, feel like a child before him. So he said, \"Where\nwill your holiness sit? It is cold here in the wind; I have a dwelling\nin the rocks, but it is hard to come by except for winged fowl, and for\nmen like myself who have been used to the precipices.\"\n\n\"Well, show the way, brother,\" said the priest cheerfully, \"and I will\nadventure my best.\" So David showed him the way up the crags, and went\nslowly in front of him, that he might help him up; but the priest\nclimbed like a cat, looking blithely about him, and had no need of help,\nthough he was encumbered with his robe.\n\nWhen they were got there, the priest looked curiously about him, and\npresently knelt down before the carving, and said a little prayer to\nhimself.\n\nThen he questioned David about his life, asking questions briskly, as\nthough he were accustomed to command; and David felt more and more every\nmoment that he was as a child before this masterful and wary man. He\ntold him of his early life, and of his visions, and of his desire to\nknow God, and of the light that he set in the rocks; and then he told\nhim of his adventure with the pirates, not forgetting the treasure. The\npriest heard him with great attention, and said presently that he had\ndone well, and that God was with him. Then he asked him how he would\nhave the treasure bestowed, and David said that he had no design in his\nmind. \"Then that shall be my care,\" said the priest, \"and I doubt not\nthat the Lord hath sent it us, that there may be a church in this lonely\nplace.\"\n\nAnd then, turning to David with a wonderful and piercing look, he said,\n\"And this peace of spirit that you speak of, that you came here to seek,\ntell me truly, brother, have you found it?\"\n\nThen David looked upon the ground a little and said, \"Dear sir, I know\nnot; I am indeed strangely happy in this lonely place; but to speak all\nthe truth, I feel like a man who lingers at a gate, and who hears the\nsound of joy and melody within, which rejoices his heart, but he is not\nyet admitted. No,\" he went on, \"I have not found the way. The Father is\nindeed very near me, and I am certain of His love--but there is still a\nbarrier between me and His Heart.\"\n\nThen the priest bowed his head awhile in thought, but said nothing for a\nlong space; and then David said, \"Dear sir, advise me.\" Then the priest\nlooked at him with a clear gaze, and said, \"Shall I advise you, O my\nbrother?\" And David said \"Yes, dear sir.\" Then the priest said, \"Indeed,\nmy brother, I see in your life the gracious hand of God. He did redeem\nyou, and he planted in your heart a true seed of peace. You have lived\nhere a holy and an innocent life; but he withholds from you his best\ngift, because you are not willing to be utterly led by him. There have\nbeen in ancient days many such souls, who have fled from the wickedness\nof the world, and have spent themselves in prayer and penance, and have\ndone a holy work--for indeed there are many victories that may be won by\nprayer. But indeed, dear brother, I think that God's will for you is\nthat this lonely life of yours should have an end. I think that you have\nherein followed your own pleasure overmuch; and I believe that God would\nnow have you go back to the world, and work for him therein. You have a\ngreat power with this simple folk; but they are as sheep without a\nshepherd, and must be fed, and none but you can now feed them. You will\nbethink you of the visit that the Lord Christ paid to the Sisters of\nBethany; Martha laboured much to please Him, but she laboured for her\nown pleasing too; and Mary it was that had the good part, because she\nthought not of herself but of the Lord. And now, dear brother, I would\nhave you do what will be very grievous to you. I would have you go back\nto your native place, and there abide to labour for God; you may come\nhither at seasons, and be alone with God, and that will refresh you; but\nyou are now, methinks, like a man who has found a great treasure, and\nwho speaks no word of it to others, and neither uses it himself, but\nonly looks upon it and is glad.\"\n\nThen David was very sad at the priest's words, knowing that he spoke the\ntruth. But the priest said, \"Now we will speak no more of this awhile;\nand I would not have you do it, unless your heart consents thereto; only\nbe strong.\" And then he asked if he might have somewhat to eat; and\nDavid brought him his simple fare; so they ate together, and while they\nate, it came into David's mind that this was certainly the way. All that\nafternoon they sate, while the wind rustled without, and the sea made a\nnoise; and then the priest said they would go and look at the treasure,\nbecause it was near evening, and he must return. So they went down\ntogether, and drew the rocks off from the box. It was a box of wood,\ntightly corded, and they undid it, and found within a great store of\ngold and silver pieces, which the priest reckoned up, and said that it\nwould be abundant for a church.\n\nThen they saw the boat approach; and the priest blessed David, and David\nthanked him with tears, for showing him the truth; and the priest said,\n\"Not so, my brother; I did but show you what is in your own heart, for\nGod puts such truth in the heart of all of us as we can bear; but\nsometimes we keep it like a sword in its scabbard, until the bright and\nsharp thing, that might have wrought great deeds, be all rusted and\nblunted.\"\n\nAnd then the priest departed, taking with him the box of gold, and David\nwas left alone.\n\nDavid was very heavy-hearted when he was left alone on the island. He\nknew that the priest had spoken the truth, but he loved his solitary\nlife, and the silence of the cave, the free air and the sun, and the\nlonely current of his own thoughts. The sun went slowly down over the\nwaters in a great splendour of light and colour, so that the clouds in\nthe sky seemed like purple islands floating in a golden sea; David\nsitting in his cave thought with a kind of terror of the small and close\nhouses of the village, the sound of feet, and talk of men and women. At\nlast he fell asleep; and in his sleep he dreamed that he was in a great\ngarden. He looked about him with pleasure, and he presently saw a\ngardener moving about at his work. He went in that direction, and he saw\nthat the man, who was old and had a very wise and tender face, was\nsetting out some young trees in a piece of ground. He planted them\ncarefully with deft hands, and he smiled to himself as he worked, as\nthough he was full of joyful thoughts. David wished in his heart to go\nand speak with him, but something held him back. Presently the gardener\nwent away, and while he was absent, another man, of a secret aspect,\ncame swiftly into the place, peering about him. His glance passed David\nby, and David knew that he was in some way unseen. The man looked all\nabout him in a furtive haste, and then plucked up one of the trees,\nwhich seemed to David to be already growing and shooting out small\nleaves and buds. The man smoothed down the ground where he drew it out,\nand then went very quickly away. David would have wished to stop him,\nbut he could not. Then the old gardener came back, and looked long at\nthe place whence the tree had been drawn. Then he sighed to himself, and\ncast a swift look in the direction in which the man had fled. He had\nbrought other trees with him, but he did not plant one in the empty\nspace, but left it bare. Then David felt that he must follow the other,\nand so he did. He found him very speedily, but it was outside the\ngarden, in a rough place, where thorny bushes and wild plants grew\nthickly. The other had cleared a little space among them, and here he\nset the tree; but he planted it ill and hastily, as though he was afraid\nof being disturbed; and then he departed secretly. David stood and\nwatched the tree a little. It seemed at first to begin to grow again as\nit had done before, but presently something ailed it and it drooped.\nThen David saw the thorny bushes near it begin to stretch out their arms\nabout it, and the wild herbs round about sprang up swiftly, and soon the\ntree was choked by them, and hardly appeared above the brake. David\nbegan to be sorry for the tree, which still kept some life in it, and\nstruggled as it were feebly to put out its boughs above the thicket.\nWhile he stood he saw the old gardener approaching, and as he approached\nhe carefully considered the ground. When he saw the tree, he smiled, and\ndrew it out carefully, and went back to the garden, and David followed\nhim; he planted it again tenderly in the ground; and the tree which had\nlooked so drooping and feeble began at once to put forth leaves and\nflowers. The gardener smiled again, and then for the first time looked\nupon David. His eyes were deep and grave like a still water; and he\nsmiled as one might who shares a secret with another. And then of a\nsudden David awoke, and found the light of dawn creeping into the cave;\nand he fell to considering the dream, and in a moment knew that it was\nsent for his learning. So he hesitated no longer, but gave up his will\nto God.\n\nIt was a sad hour for David nevertheless; he walked softly about the\ncave, and he put aside what he would take with him, and it seemed to him\nthat he was, as it were, uprooting a tree that had grown deep; he tied\nup what he would take with him, but he left some things behind, for he\nthought that he might return. And then he kneeled down and prayed, the\ntears running over his face; and lastly he rose and kissed the cold wall\nof the cave; at the door he saw the gull that had been with him so oft,\nand he scattered some crumbs for it, and while the bird fell to picking\nthe crumbs, David descended the rock swiftly, not having the heart to\nlook about him; and then he put his things in the boat, and rowed\nswiftly and silently to the shore, looking back at the great rocks,\nwhich stood up all bright and clear in the fresh light of the dawn, with\nthe waves breaking softly at their feet.\n\nDavid had no fixed plan in his mind, as he rowed across to the land. He\nonly thought that it was right for him to return, and to take up his\npart in the old life again. He did not dare to look before him, but\nsimply put, as it were, his hand in the hand of God, and hoped to be led\nforward. He was soon at the shore, and he pulled his boat up on the\nland, and left it lying in a little cave that opened upon the beach;\nthen he shouldered his pack, and went slowly, with even strides, across\nthe hill and down to the village. He met no one on the way, and the\nstreet seemed deserted. He made his way to the house of the old woman\nwho was his friend; he put his small pack at the door and entered. The\nlittle house was quite silent. But he heard a sound of weeping; when he\ncame into the outer room, he saw the maiden sitting in a chair with her\nface bowed on the table. He called to her by name; she lifted her head\nand looked at him for a moment and then rose up and came to him, as a\nchild comes to be comforted. He saw at once that some grievous thing had\nhappened; and presently with sobs and tears she told him that her\ngrandmother had died a few days before, that she had been that day\nburied, and that she knew not what she was to do; there seemed more\nbehind; and David at last made out that she was asked in marriage by a\nyoung fisherman whom she did not love, and she knew not how else to\nlive. And then he said that he was come back and would not depart from\nher, and that she should be a daughter to him.\n\nNow of the rest of the life of David I must not here speak; he lived in\nthe village, and he did his part; a little chapel was built in the place\nwith the money of the pirates; and David went in and out among the folk\nof the place, and drew many to the love of God; he went once back to the\ncave, but he abode not long there; but of one thing I will tell, and\nthat is of a piece of carving that David did, working little by little\nin the long winter nights at the piece of wood that came from the pirate\nship. The carving is of a man standing on the shore of the sea, and\nholding up a lantern in his hand, and on the sea is carved a ship. And\nDavid calls his carving \"The Light of the World.\" At the top of it is a\nscroll, with the words thereon, \"He shall send down from on high to\nfetch me, and shall take me out of many waters.\" And beneath is another\nscroll on which is graven, \"Thou also shalt light my candle; the Lord my\nGod shall make my darkness to be light.\"\n\n\n\n\n      *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nThe Waving of the Sword\n\n\n\nThe things that are set down here happened in the ancient days when\nthere was sore fighting in the land; the king, who was an unjust man,\nfighting to maintain his realm, and the barons fighting for the law; and\nthe end was not far off, for the king was driven backwards to the sea,\nand at last could go no further; so he gathered all the troops that he\nmight in a strong fort that lay in the midst of the downs, where the\nhills dipped to the plain to let the river pass through; and the barons\ndrew slowly in upon him, through the forest in the plain. Beyond the\ndowns lay the sea, and there in a little port was gathered the king's\nnavy, that if the last fight went ill with him, as indeed he feared it\nwould, he might fly for safety to another land.\n\nNow in a house below the down, a few miles from the king's stronghold,\ndwelt a knight that was neither old nor young, and his name was Sir\nHenry Strange. He lived alone and peevishly, and he did neither good nor\nevil. He had no skill in fighting, but neither had he skill in peaceful\narts. He had tried many things and wearied of all. He had but a small\nestate, which was grown less by foolish waste. He could have made it\ninto a rich heritage, for his land was good. But he had no patience with\nhis men, and confused them by his orders, which he would not see carried\nout. Sometimes he would fell timber, and then leave it to rot in the\nwood; or he would plough a field, and sow it not. At one time he had a\nfancy to be a minstrel, but he had not patience to attain to skill; he\nwould write a ballad and leave it undone; or he would begin to carve a\nfigure of wood, and toss it aside; sometimes he would train a dog or a\nhorse; but he would so rage if the beast, being puzzled for all its\ngoodwill, made mistakes, that it grew frightened of him--for nothing can\nbe well learnt except through love and trust. He would sometimes think\nthat he should have been a monk, and that under hard discipline he would\nhave fared better--and indeed this was so, for he had abundant aptitude.\nHe was alone in the world, for he had come into his estate when young;\nbut he had had no patience to win him a wife. At first, indeed, his life\nhad not been an unhappy one, for he was often visited by small joyful\nthoughts, which made him glad; and he took much pleasure, on sunshiny\ndays, in the brave sights and sounds of the world. But such delights had\ngrown less; and he was now a tired and restless man of forty years, who\nlay long abed and went not much abroad; and was for ever telling himself\nhow happy he would be if this or that were otherwise. Far down in his\nheart he despised himself, and wondered how God had come to make so\nill-contented a thing; but that was a chamber in his mind that he\nvisited not often; but rather took pleasure in the thought of his skill\nand deftness, and his fitness for the many things he might have done.\n\nAnd now in the war he had come to a pass. He would not join himself to\nthe king, because the king was an evil man, and he liked not evil; yet\nhe loved not rebellion, and feared for his safety if the king had the\nupper hand; but it was still more that he had grown idle and\nsoft-hearted, and feared the hard faring and brisk jesting of the camp.\nYet even so the thought of the war lay heavy on his heart, and he\nwondered how men, whose lives were so short upon the goodly earth,\nshould find it in their hearts to slay and be slain for such shadowy\nthings as command and dominion; and he thought he would have made a song\non that thought, but he did not.\n\nAnd now the fighting had come very near him; and he had let some of his\nmen go to join the king, but he went not himself, saying that he was\nsick, and might not go abroad.\n\nHe stood on a day, at this time, by a little wall that enclosed his\ngarden-ground. It was in the early summer; the trees had put on their\nfresh green, and glistened in the still air, and the meadows were deep\nwith grass, on the top of which seemed to float unnumbered yellow\nflowers. In and out the swallows passed, hunting for the flies that\ndanced above the grass; and he stood, knowing how fair the earth was,\nand yet sick at heart, wondering why he could not be as a careless bird,\nthat hunts its meat all day in the sun, and at evening sings a song of\npraise among the thickets.\n\nOver the trees ran the great down with its smooth green sides, as far as\nthe eye could see. The heat winked on its velvety bluffs, and it seemed\nto him, as it had often seemed before, like a great beast lying there in\na dream, with a cloth of green cast over its huge limbs.\n\nHe was a tall lean man, somewhat stooping. His face had a certain\nbeauty; his hair and beard were dark and curling; he had large eyes that\nlooked sadly out from under heavy lids. His mouth was small, and had a\nvery sweet smile when he was pleased; but his brow was puckered together\nas though he pondered; his hands were thin and delicate, and there was\nsomething almost womanly about his whole air.\n\nPresently he walked into the little lane that bordered his garden. He\nheard the sound of wheels coming slowly along the white chalky road; he\nwaited to look, and saw a sad sight. In the cart was a truss of hay, and\nsunk upon it sate a man, his face down on his breast, deadly pale; as\nthe cart moved, he swayed a little from side to side. The driver of the\ncart walked beside, sullenly and slowly; and by him walked a girl, just\ngrown a woman, as pale as death, looking at the man that sate in the\ncart with a look of terror and love; sometimes she would take his\nhelpless hand, and murmur a word; but the man heeded not, and sate lost\nin his pain. As they passed him he could see a great bandage on the\nman's chest that was red with blood. He asked the waggoner what this\nwas, and he told him that it was a young man of the country-side that\nhad been hurt in a fight; he was but newly married, and it was thought\nhe could not live. The cart had stopped, and the woman pulled a little\ncup out of a jug of water that stood in the straw, and put it to the\nwounded man's lips, who opened his eyes, all dark and dazed with pain,\nbut with no look of recognition in them, and drank greedily, sinking\nback into his sick dream again. The girl put the cup back, and clasped\nher hands over her eyes, and then across her breast with a low moan, as\nthough her heart would break. The tears came into Sir Henry's eyes; and\nfumbling in his pockets he took out some coins and gave them to the\nwoman, with a kind word. \"Let him be well bestowed,\" he said. The woman\ntook the coins, hardly heeding him; and presently the cart started\nagain, a shoot of pain darting across the wounded man's face as the\nwheels grated on the stones.\n\nSir Henry stood long looking after them; and it came into his heart that\nwar was a foul and evil thing; though he half envied the poor soul that\nhad fought his best, and was now sinking into the shadow of death.\n\nWhile he thus lingered there sprang into his mind a thought that made\nhim suddenly grow erect.\n\nHe walked swiftly along the lane with its high hedges and tall elms. The\nlane was at the foot of the down, but raised a little above the plain,\nso that he could see the rich woodland with its rolling lines, and far\naway the faint line of the Northern hills. It was very still, and there\nseemed not a care in the great world; it seemed all peace and happy\nquiet life; yet the rumbling of the cart-wheels which he still heard at\na distance, now low and now loud, told him of the sorrow that lay hidden\nunder those dreaming woods; was it all thus? And then he thought of the\ngreat armies that were so near, and of all the death they meant to deal\neach other. And yet God sat throned aloft watching all things, he\nthought, with a calm and quiet eye, waiting, waiting. But for what? Was\nHis heart indeed pitiful and loving, as His priests said? and did He\nhold in His hand, for those that passed into the forgetful gate, some\nsecret of joyful peace that would all in a moment make amends?\n\nHe stopped beside a little stile--there, in front of him, over the tops\nof an orchard, the trees of which were all laden with white and rosy\nflowers, lay a small high-shouldered church, with a low steeple of wood.\nThe little windows of the tower seemed to regard him as with dark sad\neyes. He went by a path along the orchard edge, and entered the\nchurchyard, full of old graves, among which grew long tumbled grass. He\nthought with a throb, that was almost of joy, of all those that had laid\ndown their weary bones there in the dust, husband by wife, child by\nmother. They were waiting too, and how quietly! It was all over for\nthem, the trouble and the joy alike; and for a moment the death that all\ndread seemed to him like a simple and natural thing, the one thing\ncertain. There at length they slept, a quiet sleep, waiting for the\ndawn, if dawn there were.\n\nHe crossed the churchyard and entered the church; the coolness and the\ndark and the ancient holy smell was sweet after the brightness and the\nheat outside. Every line of the place was familiar to him from his\nchildhood. He walked slowly up the little aisle and passed within the\nscreen. The chancel was very dark, only lighted by two or three deep-set\nwindows. He made a reverence and then drew near to the altar.\n\nAll the furniture of the church was most simple and old; but over the\naltar there was a long unusual-looking shelf; he went up to it, and\nstood for awhile gazing upon it. Along the shelf lay a rude and ancient\nsword of a simple design, in a painted scabbard of wood; and over it was\na board with a legend painted on it.\n\nThe legend was in an old form of French words, long since disused in the\nland. But it said:\n\n_Unsheathe me and die thyself, but the battle shall be stayed._\n\nHe had known the look of the sword, and the words on the board from a\nchild. The tale was that there had been in days long past a great battle\non the hill, and that the general of one of the armies had been told,\nin a dream or vision, that if he should himself be slain, then should\nhis men have the victory; but that if he lived through the battle, then\nshould his men be worsted. Now before the armies met, while they stood\nand looked upon each other, the general, so said the tale, had gone out\nsuddenly and alone, with his sword bare in his hand, and his head\nuncovered; and that as he advanced, one of his foes had drawn a bow and\npierced him through the brain, so that he fell in his blood between the\narmies; and that then a kind of fury had fallen upon his men to avenge\nhis death, and they routed the foe with a mighty slaughter. But the\nsword had been set in the church with this legend above it; and there it\nhad lain many a year.\n\nSo Sir Henry disengaged the sword from its place very tenderly and\ncarefully. It had been there so long that it was all covered with dust;\nand then, holding it in his hands, he knelt down and made a prayer in\nhis heart that he might have strength for what he had a mind to do; and\nthen he walked softly down the church, looking about him with a sort of\nsecret tenderness, as though he were bidding it all farewell; his own\nfather and mother were buried in the church; and he stopped for awhile\nbeside their grave, and then, holding the sword by his side--for he\nwished it not to be seen of any--he went back to his house, and put the\nsword away in a great chest, that no one might know where it was laid.\n\nThen he tarried not, but went softly out; and all that afternoon he\nwalked about his own lands, every acre of them; for he did not think to\nsee them again; and his mind went back to the old days; he had not\nthought that all could be so full of little memories. In this place he\nremembered being set on a horse by his father, who held him very\nlovingly and safely while he led the great beast about; he remembered\nhow proud he had been, and how he had fancied himself a mighty warrior.\nOn this little pond, with all its reeds and waterlilies, he had sailed a\nboat on a summer day, his mother sitting near under a tree to see that\nhe had no danger; and thus it was everywhere; till, as he walked in the\nsilent afternoon, he could almost have believed that there were others\nthat walked with him unseen, to left and right; for at every place some\nlittle memory roused itself, as the flies that rise buzzing from the\nleaves when you walk in an alley, until he felt like a child again, with\nall the years before him.\n\nThen he came to the house again, and did the same for every room. He\nleft one room for the last, a room where dwelt an old and simple woman\nthat had nursed him; she was very frail and aged now, and went not much\nabroad, but sate and did little businesses; and it was ever a delight to\nher if he asked her to do some small task for him. He found her sitting,\nsmiling for pleasure that he should come to her thus; and he kissed\nher, and sate beside her for awhile, and they talked a little of the\nchildish days, for he was still ever a child to her. Then he rose to\nleave her, and she asked him, as was her wont, if there was anything\nthat she could do for him, for it shamed her, she said, to sit and idle,\nwhen she had been so busy once, and when there was still so much to do.\nAnd he said, \"No, dear nurse, there is nothing at this time.\" And he\nhesitated for an instant, and then said, \"There is indeed one thing; I\nhave a business to do to-night, that is hard and difficult; and I do not\nknow what the end will be; will you say a prayer for your boy to-night,\nthat he may be strong?\" She looked at him quickly and was silent; and\nthen she said, \"Yes, dear child, but I ever do that--and I have no skill\nto make new prayers--but I will say my prayer over and over if that will\navail.\" And he said, smiling at her, though the tears were in his eyes,\n\"Yes, it will avail,\" and so he kissed her and went away, while she\nfell to her prayers.\n\nNow the day had all this while grown stiller and hotter, till there was\nnot a breath stirring; and now out to the eastwards there came on an\nangry blackness in the sky, with a pale redness beneath it, where the\nthunder dwelt. Sir Henry sate down, for he was weary of his walking, and\nin a little he fell asleep; his thoughts still ran upon the sword, for\nhe dreamed that he had it with him in a wood that he knew not, that was\ndark with the shade of leaves; and he hung the sword upon a tree, and\nwent on, to win out of the wood if he could, for it seemed very close\nand heavy in the forest; sometimes through the trees he saw a space of\nopen ground, with ferns glistening in the sun; but he could not find the\nend of the wood; so he came back in his dream to where he had left the\nsword; and while he stood watching it, he saw that something dark\ngathered at the scabbard end, and presently fell with a little sound\namong the leaves. Then with a shock of terror he saw that it was blood;\nand he feared to take the sword back; but looking downwards he perceived\nthat where the blood had fallen, there were red flowers growing among\nthe leaves of a rare beauty, which seemed to be born of the blood. So he\ngathered a handful, and wreathed the sword with them; and then came a\ngladness into his mind, with which he awoke, and found it evening; he\ncame back to himself with a kind of terror, and a fear darted into his\nbreast; the windows were open, and there came in a scent of flowers; and\nhe felt a great love for the beautiful earth, and for his quiet life;\nand he looked at the chest; and there came into his mind a strong desire\nto take the sword out, and lay it back in the church, and let things be\nas they had been; and so he sate and mused.\n\nPresently his old serving-man came in and told him he had set his\nsupper; so Henry went into the parlour, and made some pretence to be\nabout to eat; sending the old man away, who babbled a little to him of\nthe war, of the barons' army that drew nearer, and of how the king was\nsore bested. When he was gone Sir Henry ate a little bread and drank a\nsup of wine; and then he rose up, like one who had made up his mind. He\nwent to the chest and drew out the sword; and then he went softly out of\nthe house, and presently walking swiftly he came out on the down.\n\nIt was now nearly dusk; the sky lay clear and still, fading into a sort\nof delicate green, but all the west was shrouded in a dim blackness, the\ncloud being spread out, like a great dark bird winging its way slowly up\nthe sky. Then far down in the west there leapt, as it were, interlacing\nstreams of fire out of the cloud, and then followed a low rolling of\nthunder.\n\nBut all the while he mounted the down, up a little track that gleamed\nwhite in the grass; and now he could see the huge plain, with a few\nlights twinkling out of farms; far down to the west there was a little\nredness of light, and he thought that this was doubtless where the army\nof the barons lay; but he seemed to himself to have neither wonder nor\nfear left in his mind; he only went like one that had a task to perform;\nand soon he came to the top.\n\nHere all was bare, save for some bushes of furze that grew blackly in\nthe gloom; he stepped through them, and he came at last to where a great\nmound stood, that was held to be the highest place in all the down, a\nmound that marked the place of a battle, or that was perhaps the\nburying-place of some old tribe--for it was called the Barrow of the\nSeven Kings.\n\nHe came quickly to the mound, and went to the top; and then he laid the\nsword upon the turf by him, and kneeled down; once again came a great\noutpouring of fire from heaven in the west, and a peal of thunder\nfollowed hard upon it; and indeed the storm was near at hand; he could\nsee the great wings of the cloud moving now, and a few large drops\nsplashed in the grass about him, and one fell upon his brow.\n\nAnd now a great fear fell upon Henry of he knew not what. He seemed to\nhimself to be in the presence of some vast and fearful thing, that was\npassing swiftly by; and yet seemed, for all its haste, to have espied\nhim, and to have been, as it were, stayed by him; there came into his\nmind a recollection of how he had once, on a summer's day, joined the\nmowers in one of the fields, and had mowed a few swathes with them for\nthe pleasure of seeing the rich seeded grass fall before the gleaming\nscythe. At one of his strokes, he remembered, he had uncovered a little\nfield-mouse, that sate in the naked field, its high covert having been\nswept bare from above it, and watched him with bright eyes of fear,\nwhile he debated whether he should crush it; he had done so, he\nremembered, carelessly, with his foot, and now he wished that he had\nspared it, for it was even so that he himself felt.\n\nSo to strengthen himself in his purpose, he made a prayer aloud, though\nit was a thing that in his idle life he had much foregone; and he said:\n\n\"Lord God, if Thou indeed hearest and seest me, make me strong to do\nwhat I have a mind to do; I have lived foolishly and for myself, and I\nhave little to give. I have despised life, and it is as an empty husk to\nme. I have put love away from me, and my heart is dry; I have had\nfriends and I have wearied of them. I have profited nothing; I have\nwasted my strength in foolish dreams of pleasure, and I have not found\nit. I am as a weed that cumbers the fair earth.\"\n\nThen he stayed for a moment, for he was afraid; for it seemed to him as\nthough somewhat stood near to listen. Then he said again:--\n\n\"But, Lord, I do indeed love my fellow men a little; and I would have\nthe waste of life stayed. It is a pitiful thing that I have to offer,\nbut it is all that I have left--an empty life, which yet I love. I will\nnot promise, Lord, to yield my life to the service of men, for I love my\nease too well, and I should not keep my word--so I offer my life freely\ninto Thy hand, and let it avail that which it may avail.\"\n\nThen the blackness seemed to gather all about him, and he felt with his\nhand in the turf and found the sword; then he drew the scabbard off, and\nflung it down beside him, and he raised the sword in his hands.\n\nThen it seemed as though the heavens opened above him, but he saw not\nthe fire, nor heard the shouting of the thunder that followed; he fell\non his face in the turf without a sound and moved no more.\n\nNow it happened that about the time that he unsheathed the sword, it\ncame into the heart of the king to send a herald to the barons; for he\nsaw the host spread out below him on the plain, and he feared to meet\nthem; and the barons, too, were weary of fighting; and the king bound\nhimself by a great oath to uphold the law of the realm, and so the land\nhad peace.\n\nThe next day came a troop of men-at-arms along the hill; and they\nwondered exceedingly to see a man lie on the mound with a sword in his\nhand unsheathed, and partly molten. He lay stiff and cold, but they\ncould not tell how he came by his death, and they knew not what he had\ndone for the land; his hand was so tightly clenched upon the sword, that\nthey took it not out, but they buried him there upon the hill-top, very\nnear the sky, and passed on; and no man knew what had become of him. But\nGod, who made him and had need of him, knoweth.\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nRenatus\n\n\n\nRenatus was a Prince of Saxony that was but newly come to his princedom;\nhis father had died while he was a boy, and the realm had been\nadministered by his father's brother, a Duke of high courage and\nprudence. The Duke was deeply anxious for the fate of the princedom and\nhis nephew's fortunes, for they lived in troubled times; the Barons of\nthe province were strong and haughty men, with little care for the\nPrince, and no thought of obedience; each of them lived in his castle,\nupon a small realm of his own; the people were much discontented with\nthe rule of the Barons, and the Duke saw plainly enough that if a prince\ncould arise who could win the confidence of the people, the Barons would\nhave but little power left. Thus his care was so to bring up the Prince\nRenatus that he should understand how hard a task was before him; but\nthe boy, though quick of apprehension, was fond of pleasure and\namusement, and soon wearied of grave instructions; so the Duke did not\npersist overmuch, but strove to make the little Prince love him and\nconfide in him, hoping that, when the day of trial came, he might be apt\nto ask advice rather than act hastily and perhaps foolishly; but yet in\nthis the Duke had not perfectly succeeded, as he was by nature grave and\naustere, and even his face seemed to have in it a sort of rebuke for\nlively and light-minded persons. Still the Prince, though he was not at\nease with the Duke, trusted him exceedingly, and thought him wise and\ngood, even more than the Duke imagined.\n\nThe days had been full of feasting and pageants, and Renatus was greatly\nexcited and eager at finding himself in so great a place. He had borne\nhimself with much courtesy and dignity in his receiving of embassies and\nsuch compliments; he had, too, besides the sweet gifts of youth and\nbeauty, a natural affectionateness, which led him to wish to please\nthose about him; and the Duke's heart was full of love and admiration\nfor the graceful boy, though there lay in the back of his mind a shadow\nof fear; and this grew very dark when he saw two of the most turbulent\nBarons speaking together in a corner, with sidelong glances at the\nPrince, at one of the Court assemblies, and divined that they thought\nthe boy would be but a pretty puppet in their hands.\n\nThe custom was that the Prince, on the eve of his enthroning, should\nwatch for two hours alone in the chapel of the castle, from eleven to\none at night, and should there consecrate himself to God; the guests of\nthe evening were departed; and a few minutes before eleven the Duke sate\nwith the Prince in a little room off the chapel, waiting till it was\ntime for the Prince to enter the building. Renatus was in armour, as the\ncustom was, with a white robe over all. He sate restlessly in a chair,\nand there was a mischievous and dancing light of pleasure in his eye,\nthat made the Duke doubly grave. The Duke, after some discourse of other\nmatters, made a pause; and then, saying that it was the last time that\nhe should take the privilege of guardianship--to offer advice unless it\nwere sought--said: \"And now, Renatus, you know that I love you as a dear\nson; and I would have you remember that all these things are but shows,\nand that there sits behind them a grave and holy presence of duty; these\npomps are but the signs that you are truly the Prince of this land; and\nyou must use your power well, and to God's glory; for it is He that\nmakes us to be what we are, and truly calls us thereto.\" Renatus heard\nhim with a sort of courteous impatience, and then, with a smile, said:\n\"Yes, dear uncle, I know it; but the shows are very brave; and you will\nforgive me if my head is full of them just now. Presently, when the\npageants are all over, I shall settle down to be a sober prince enough.\nI think you do not trust me wholly in the matter--but I would not seem\nungrateful,\" he added rather hastily, seeing the gravity in the Duke's\nface--\"for indeed you have been as a true father to me.\"\n\nThe Duke said no more at that time, for he cared not to give untimely\nadvice, and a moment after, a bell began to toll in the silence, and the\nchaplain came habited to conduct the Prince to his chapel. So they went\nthe three of them together.\n\nIt was dark and still within the church; in front of the altar-steps\nwere set a faldstool and a chair, where the Duke might pray, or sit if\nhe were weary; two tall wax lights stood beside, and lit up the crimson\ncloth and the gold fringes, so that it seemed like a rare flower\nblossoming in the dark. A single light, in a silver lamp hung by a\nsilver chain, burnt before the altar; all else was dim; but they could\nsee the dark stalls of the choir, with their carven canopies, over which\nhung the banners of old knights, that moved softly to and fro; beyond\nwere the pillars of the aisles, glimmering faintly in a row. The roof\nand windows were dark, save where here and there a rib of stone or a\ntracery stood out very rich and dim. All about there was a kind of holy\nsmell, of wood and carven stone and incense-smoke.\n\nThe chaplain knelt beneath the altar; and the Prince knelt down at the\nfaldstool, the Duke beside him on the floor. And just as the old bell of\nthe castle tolled the hour, and died away in a soft hum of sound, as\nsweet as honey, the chaplain said an ancient prayer, the purport of\nwhich was that the Christian must watch and pray; that only the pure\nheart might see God; and asking that the Prince might be blest with\nwisdom, as the Emperor Solomon was, to do according to the will of the\nFather.\n\nThen the chaplain and the Duke withdrew; but as the Duke rose up, he\nlaid his hand on the Prince's head and said, \"God be with you, dear son,\nand open your eyes.\" And Renatus looked up at him and smiled.\n\nThen the Duke went back to the little room, and prayed abundantly. It\nwas arranged that he should wait there until the Prince's vigil was\nover, when he would go to attend him forth; and so the Prince was left\nby himself.\n\nFor a time Renatus prayed, gathering up the strength of his mind to pray\nearnestly; but other thoughts kept creeping in, like children peeping\nand beckoning from a door. So he rose up after a little, and looked\nabout him; and something of the solemnity of the night and the place\ncame into his mind.\n\nThen, after a while, he sate, his armour clinking lightly as he moved;\nand wrapping his robe about him--for it grew chill in the church--he\nthought of what had been and what should be. The time flew fast; and\npresently Renatus heard the great bell ring the hour of midnight; so he\nknelt and prayed again, with all his might, that God would bless him and\nopen his eyes.\n\nThen he rose again to his feet; and now the moon was risen and made a\nvery pure and tender radiance through one of the high windows; and\nRenatus looking about him, was conscious of a thrill of fear that passed\nthrough him, as though there were some great presence near him in the\ngloom; then his eyes fell on a little door on his right, opposite to the\ndoor by which they had entered, which he knew led out into the castle\ncourt; but underneath the door, between it and the sill, there gleamed\na line of very golden light, such as might come from a fire without. The\nPrince had no foolish terrors, as he was by nature courageous, and the\nholy place that he was in made him feel secure. But the light, which now\nbegan to grow in clearness, and to stream, like a rippling flow of\nbrightness, into the church, surprised him exceedingly. So he rose up\nand went to the little door, expecting that he would find it closed; but\nit opened to his hand.\n\nHe had thought to see the dark court of the castle as he had often seen\nit, with its tall chimneys and battlements, and with lights in the\nwindows. But to his amazement he saw that he was on the edge of a vast\nand dizzy space, so vast that he had not thought there could be anything\nin the world so great. The church and he seemed to float together in the\nspace, for the solid earth was all gone--and it came into his head that\nthe great building in which he stood, so fair and high, was no larger\nthan a mote that swims in the strong beams of the sun. The space was\nall misty and dim at first, but over it hung a light like the light of\ndawn, that seemed to gush from a place in the cloud, near at hand and\nyet leagues away. Then as his sight became more used to the place, he\nsaw that it was all sloping upwards and downwards, and built up of great\nsteps or stairs, that ran across the space and were lost at last in\ncloud; and that the light came from the head of the steps. Then with a\nsudden shock of surprise he saw that there were persons kneeling on the\nsteps; and every moment his sight became clearer and clearer, so that he\ncould see the persons nearest to him, their robes and hands, and even\nthe very lineaments of their faces.\n\nVery near him there were three figures kneeling, not together in a\ngroup, but with some space between them. And, in some way that he could\nnot explain, he felt that all the three were unconscious both of each\nother and of himself.\n\nLooking intently upon them, he saw that they were kings, in royal\nrobes. The nearest to him was an ancient man, with white hair; he knelt\nvery upright and strong; his face was like parchment, with heavy lines,\nbut his eyes glowed like a fire. Renatus thought he had never seen so\nproud a look. He had an air of command, and Renatus seemed to know that\nhe had been a warrior in his youth. In his hands he held a crown of fine\ngolden work, filled with jewels of great rarity and price; and the king\nheld the crown as though he knew its worth; he seemed, as it were, to be\nproffering it, but as a gift of mighty value, the worthiest thing that\nhe had to offer.\n\nOn a step below him at a little distance knelt the second; he was a\nyounger man, in the prime of life; he had the look more of a student\nthan a warrior, of one who was busied in many affairs, and who pondered\nearnestly over high matters of policy and state. He had a wiser face\nthan the older man, but his brow was drawn by lines, as though he had\noften doubted of himself and others; and he had a crown in one hand,\nwhich he held a little irresolutely, as though he half loved it, and\nwere yet half wearied of it; as though he was fain to lay it down, and\nyet not wholly glad to part with it.\n\nThen Renatus turned a little to the third; and he was more richly\napparelled than the others; his hands were clasped in prayer; and by his\nknee there lay a splendid diadem, an Emperor's crown, with few jewels,\nbut each the price of a kingdom. And Renatus saw that he was very young,\nscarce older than himself; and that he had the most beautiful face he\nhad ever seen, with large soft eyes, clear-cut features, and a mouth\nthat looked both pure and strong; but in his face there was such a\npassion of holiness and surrender, that Renatus fell to wondering what\nit was that a man could so adore. He was the only one of the three who\nlooked, as it were, rapt out of himself; and the crown lay beside him\nas if he had forgotten its very existence.\n\nThen there came upon the air a great sound of jubilant and tender music\nlike the voice of silver trumpets--and the cloud began to lift and draw\nup on every side, and revealed at last, very far off and very high, yet\nstrangely near and clear, a Throne at the head of the steps. But Renatus\ndared not look thereon, for he felt that the time was not come; but he\nsaw, as it were reflected in the eyes of the kings, that they looked\nupon a sight of awful splendour and mystery. Then he saw that the two\nthat still held their crowns laid them down upon the ground with a sort\nof fearful haste, as though they were constrained; but the youngest of\nthe kings smiled, as though he were satisfied beyond his dearest wish.\n\nThen Renatus felt that somewhat was to be done too bright and holy for a\nmortal eye to behold, and so he drew back and softly closed the door;\nand it was a pain to find himself within the dark church again; it was\nas though he had lost the sight of something that a man might desire\nabove all things to see--but he dared look no longer; and the music came\nagain, but this time more urgently, in a storm of sound.\n\nThen Renatus went back to his place, that seemed to him very small and\nhumble beside what he had seen outside. And all the pride was emptied\nout of his heart, for he knew that he had looked upon the truth, and\nthat it was wider than he had dreamed; and then he knelt and prayed that\nGod would keep him humble and diligent and brave; but then he grew\nashamed of his prayer, for he remembered that, after all, he was but\nstill praying for himself; and he had a thought of the young Emperor's\nface, and he knew that there was something deeper and better still than\nhumility and diligence and courage; what it was he knew not; but he\nthought that he had been, as it were, asking God for those fair things,\nlike flower-blooms or jewels, which a man may wear for his own pride;\nbut that they must rather rise and blossom, like plants out of a rich\nsoil. So he ended by praying that God would empty him of all unworthy\nthoughts, and fill him full of that good and great thing, which, in the\nGospel story, Martha went near to miss, but Mary certainly divined.\n\nThat was a blessed hour, to the thought of which Renatus afterwards\noften turned in darker and more weary days. But it drew swiftly to an\nend, and as he knelt, the bell beat one, and his vigil was over.\n\nPresently the Duke came to attend him back; and Renatus could not speak\nof the vision, but only told the Duke that he had seen a wonderful\nthing, and he added a few words of grateful love, holding the Duke's\nhand close in his own.\n\nOn the next day, before Renatus came to be enthroned, the Barons came to\ndo him homage; and Renatus, asking God to give him words that he might\nsay what was in his heart, spoke to them, the Duke standing by; he said\nthat he well knew that it appeared strange that one so young as himself\nshould receive the homage of those who were older and wiser and more\nstrong, adding: \"But I believe that I am truly called, under God, to\nrule this land for the welfare of all that dwell therein, and I will\nrule it with diligence. Nay--for it is not well that a land should have\nmany masters--I purpose that none shall rule it but myself, under God.\"\nAnd at that the Barons looked upon one another, but Renatus, leaning a\nlittle forward, with his hand upon his sword-hilt, said: \"I think, my\nLords, that there be some here that are saying to themselves, _He hath\nlearnt his lesson well_, and I hope that it may be seen that it is\nso--but it is God and not man who hath put it into my heart to say this;\nit is from Him that I receive this throne. Counsel will I ask, and that\ngladly; but remembering the account that I must one day make, I will\nrule this realm for the welfare of the people thereof, and I will have\nall men do their parts; so see that your homage be of the heart and not\nof the lips, for it is to God that you make it, and not to me, who am\nindeed unworthy; but He that hath set me in this place will strengthen\nmy hands. I have spoken this,\" he said, \"not willingly; but I would have\nno one mistake my purpose in the matter.\"\n\nThen the Barons came silently to do obeisance; and so Renatus came to\nhis own; but more of him I must not here say, save that he ruled his\nrealm wisely and well, and ever gave God the glory.\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nThe Slype House\n\n\n\nIn the town of Garchester, close to St. Peter's Church, and near the\nriver, stood a dark old house called the Slype House, from a narrow\npassage of that name that ran close to it, down to a bridge over the\nstream. The house showed a front of mouldering and discoloured stone to\nthe street, pierced by small windows, like a monastery; and indeed, it\nwas formerly inhabited by a college of priests who had served the\nChurch. It abutted at one angle upon the aisle of the church, and there\nwas a casement window that looked out from a room in the house,\nformerly the infirmary, into the aisle; it had been so built that any\npriest that was sick might hear the Mass from his bed, without\ndescending into the church. Behind the house lay a little garden,\nclosely grown up with trees and tall weeds, that ran down to the stream.\nIn the wall that gave on the water, was a small door that admitted to an\nold timbered bridge that crossed the stream, and had a barred gate on\nthe further side, which was rarely seen open; though if a man had\nwatched attentively he might sometimes have seen a small lean person,\nmuch bowed and with a halting gait, slip out very quietly about dusk,\nand walk, with his eyes cast down, among the shadowy byways.\n\nThe name of the man who thus dwelt in the Slype House, as it appeared in\nthe roll of burgesses, was Anthony Purvis. He was of an ancient family,\nand had inherited wealth. A word must be said of his childhood and\nyouth. He was a sickly child, an only son, his father a man of\nsubstance, who lived very easily in the country; his mother had died\nwhen he was quite a child, and this sorrow had been borne very heavily\nby his father, who had loved her tenderly, and after her death had\nbecome morose and sullen, withdrawing himself from all company and\nexercise, and brooding angrily over his loss, as though God had\ndetermined to vex him. He had never cared much for the child, who had\nbeen peevish and fretful; and the boy's presence had done little but\nremind him of the wife he had lost; so that the child had lived alone,\nnourishing his own fancies, and reading much in a library of curious\nbooks that was in the house. The boy's health had been too tender for\nhim to go to school; but when he was eighteen, he seemed stronger, and\nhis father sent him to a university, more for the sake of being relieved\nof the boy's presence than for his good. And there, being unused to the\nsociety of his equals, he had been much flouted and despised for his\nfeeble frame; till a certain bitter ambition sprang up in his mind, like\na poisonous flower, to gain power and make himself a name; and he had\ndetermined that as he could not be loved he might still be feared; so he\nbided his time in bitterness, making great progress in his studies;\nthen, when those days were over, he departed eagerly, and sought and\nobtained his father's leave to betake himself to a university of Italy,\nwhere he fell into somewhat evil hands; for he made a friendship with an\nold doctor of the college, who feared not God and thought ill of man,\nand spent all his time in dark researches into the evil secrets of\nnature, the study of poisons that have enmity to the life of man, and\nmany other hidden works of darkness, such as intercourse with spirits of\nevil, and the black influences that lie in wait for the soul; and he\nfound Anthony an apt pupil. There he lived for some years till he was\nnearly thirty, seldom visiting his home, and writing but formal letters\nto his father, who supplied him gladly with a small revenue, so long as\nhe kept apart and troubled him not.\n\nThen his father had died, and Anthony came home to take up his\ninheritance, which was a plentiful one; he sold his land, and visiting\nthe town of Garchester, by chance, for it lay near his home, he had\nlighted upon the Slype House, which lay very desolate and gloomy; and as\nhe needed a large place for his instruments and devices, he had bought\nthe house, and had now lived there for twenty years in great loneliness,\nbut not ill-content.\n\nTo serve him he had none but a man and his wife, who were quiet and\nsimple people and asked no questions; the wife cooked his meals, and\nkept the rooms, where he slept and read, clean and neat; the man moved\nhis machines for him, and arranged his phials and instruments, having a\nlight touch and a serviceable memory.\n\nThe door of the house that gave on the street opened into a hall; to\nthe right was a kitchen, and a pair of rooms where the man and his wife\nlived. On the left was a large room running through the house; the\nwindows on to the street were walled up, and the windows at the back\nlooked--on the garden, the trees of which grew close to the casements,\nmaking the room dark, and in a breeze rustling their leaves or leafless\nbranches against the panes. In this room Anthony had a furnace with\nbellows, the smoke of which discharged itself into the chimney; and here\nhe did much of his work, making mechanical toys, as a clock to measure\nthe speed of wind or water, a little chariot that ran a few yards by\nitself, a puppet that moved its arms and laughed--and other things that\nhad wiled away his idle hours; the room was filled up with dark lumber,\nin a sort of order that would have looked to a stranger like disorder,\nbut so that Anthony could lay his hand on all that he needed. From the\nhall, which was paved with stone, went up the stairs, very strong and\nbroad, of massive oak; under which was a postern that gave on the\ngarden; on the floor above was a room where Anthony slept, which again\nhad its windows to the street boarded up, for he was a light sleeper,\nand the morning sounds of the awakening city disturbed him.\n\nThe room was hung with a dark arras, sprinkled with red flowers; he\nslept in a great bed with black curtains to shut out all light; the\nwindows looked into the garden; but on the left of the bed, which stood\nwith its head to the street, was an alcove, behind the hangings,\ncontaining the window that gave on the church. On the same floor were\nthree other rooms; in one of these, looking on the garden, Anthony had\nhis meals. It was a plain panelled room. Next was a room where he read,\nfilled with books, also looking on the garden; and next to that was a\nlittle room of which he alone had the key. This room he kept locked,\nand no one set foot in it but himself. There was one more room on this\nfloor, set apart for a guest who never came, with a great bed and a\npress of oak. And that looked on the street. Above, there was a row of\nplain plastered rooms, in which stood furniture for which Anthony had no\nuse, and many crates in which his machines and phials came to him; this\nfloor was seldom visited, except by the man, who sometimes came to put a\nbox there; and the spiders had it to themselves; except for a little\nroom where stood an optic glass through which on clear nights Anthony\nsometimes looked at the moon and stars, if there was any odd\nmisadventure among them, such as an eclipse; or when a fiery-tailed\ncomet went his way silently in the heavens, coming from none might say\nwhence and going none knew whither, on some strange errand of God.\n\nAnthony had but two friends who ever came to see him. One was an old\nphysician who had ceased to practise his trade, which indeed was never\nabundant, and who would sometimes drink a glass of wine with Anthony,\nand engage in curious talk of men's bodies and diseases, or look at one\nof Anthony's toys. Anthony had come to know him by having called him in\nto cure some ailment, which needed a surgical knife; and that had made a\nkind of friendship between them; but Anthony had little need thereafter\nto consult him about his health, which indeed was now settled enough,\nthough he had but little vigour; and he knew enough of drugs to cure\nhimself when he was ill. The other friend was a foolish priest of the\ncollege, that made belief to be a student but was none, who thought\nAnthony a very wise and mighty person, and listened with open mouth and\neyes to all that he said or showed him. This priest, who was fond of\nwonders, had introduced himself to Anthony by making believe to borrow a\nvolume of him; and then had grown proud of the acquaintance, and\nbragged greatly of it to his friends, mixing up much that was fanciful\nwith a little that was true. But the result was that gossip spread wide\nabout Anthony, and he was held in the town to be a very fearful person,\nwho could do strange mischief if he had a mind to; Anthony never cared\nto walk abroad, for he was of a shy habit, and disliked to meet the eyes\nof his fellows; but if he did go about, men began to look curiously\nafter him as he went by, shook their heads and talked together with a\ndark pleasure, while children fled before his face and women feared him;\nall of which pleased Anthony mightily, if the truth were told; for at\nthe bottom of his restless and eager spirit lay a deep vanity unseen,\nlike a lake in woods; he hungered not indeed for fame, but for\nrepute--_monstrari digito_, as the poet has it; and he cared little in\nwhat repute he was held, so long as men thought him great and\nmarvellous; and as he could not win renown by brave deeds and words, he\nwas rejoiced to win it by keeping up a certain darkness and mystery\nabout his ways and doings; and this was very dear to him, so that when\nthe silly priest called him Seer and Wizard, he frowned and looked\nsideways; but he laughed in his heart and was glad.\n\nNow, when Anthony was near his fiftieth year, there fell on him a\nheaviness of spirit which daily increased upon him. He began to question\nof his end and what lay beyond. He had always made pretence to mock at\nreligion, and had grown to believe that in death the soul was\nextinguished like a burnt-out flame. He began, too, to question of his\nlife and what he had done. He had made a few toys, he had filled vacant\nhours, and he had gained an ugly kind of fame--and this was all. Was he\nso certain, he began to think, after all, that death was the end? Were\nthere not, perhaps, in the vast house of God, rooms and chambers beyond\nthat in which he was set for awhile to pace to and fro? About this time\nhe began to read in a Bible that had lain dusty and unopened on a shelf.\nIt was his mother's book, and he found therein many little tokens of her\npresence. Here was a verse underlined; at some gracious passages the\npage was much fingered and worn; in one place there were stains that\nlooked like the mark of tears; then again, in one page, there was a\nsmall tress of hair, golden hair, tied in a paper with a name across it,\nthat seemed to be the name of a little sister of his mother's that died\na child; and again there were a few withered flowers, like little sad\nghosts, stuck through a paper on which was written his father's\nname--the name of the sad, harsh, silent man whom Anthony had feared\nwith all his heart. Had those two, indeed, on some day of summer, walked\nto and fro, or sate in some woodland corner, whispering sweet words of\nlove together? Anthony felt a sudden hunger of the heart for a woman's\nlove, for tender words to soothe his sadness, for the laughter and\nkisses of children--and he began to ransack his mind for memories of his\nmother; he could remember being pressed to her heart one morning when\nshe lay abed, with her fragrant hair falling about him. The worst was\nthat he must bear his sorrow alone, for there were none to whom he could\ntalk of such things. The doctor was as dry as an old bunch of herbs, and\nas for the priest, Anthony was ashamed to show anything but contempt and\npride in his presence.\n\nFor relief he began to turn to a branch of his studies that he had long\ndisused; this was a fearful commerce with the unseen spirits. Anthony\ncould remember having practised some experiments of this kind with the\nold Italian doctor; but he remembered them with a kind of disgust, for\nthey seemed to him but a sort of deadly juggling; and such dark things\nas he had seen seemed like a dangerous sport with unclean and coltish\nbeings, more brute-like than human. Yet now he read in his curious books\nwith care, and studied the tales of necromancers, who had indeed seemed\nto have some power over the souls of men departed. But the old books\ngave him but little faith, and a kind of angry disgust at the things\nattempted. And he began to think that the horror in which such men as\nmade these books abode, was not more than the dark shadow cast on the\nmirror of the soul by their own desperate imaginings and timorous\nexcursions.\n\nOne day, a Sunday, he was strangely sad and heavy; he could settle to\nnothing, but threw book after book aside, and when he turned to some\nwork of construction, his hand seemed to have lost its cunning. It was a\ngrey and sullen day in October; a warm wet wind came buffeting up from\nthe West, and roared in the chimneys and eaves of the old house. The\nshrubs in the garden plucked themselves hither and thither as though in\npain. Anthony walked to and fro after his midday meal, which he had\neaten hastily and without savour; at last, as though with a sudden\nresolution, he went to a secret cabinet and got out a key; and with it\nhe went to the door of the little room that was ever locked.\n\nHe stopped at the threshold for a while, looking hither and thither; and\nthen he suddenly unlocked it and went in, closing and locking it behind\nhim. The room was as dark as night, but Anthony going softly, his hands\nbefore him, went to a corner and got a tinder-box which lay there, and\nmade a flame.\n\nA small dark room appeared, hung with a black tapestry; the window was\nheavily shuttered and curtained; in the centre of the room stood what\nlooked like a small altar, painted black; the floor was all bare, but\nwith white marks upon it, half effaced. Anthony looked about the room,\nglancing sidelong, as though in some kind of doubt; his breath went and\ncame quickly, and he looked paler than was his wont.\n\nPresently, as though reassured by the silence and calm of the place, he\nwent to a tall press that stood in a corner, which he opened, and took\nfrom it certain things--a dish of metal, some small leathern bags, a\nlarge lump of chalk, and a book. He laid all but the chalk down on the\naltar, and then opening the book, read in it a little; and then he went\nwith the chalk and drew certain marks upon the floor, first making a\ncircle, which he went over again and again with anxious care; at times\nhe went back and peeped into the book as though uncertain. Then he\nopened the bags, which seemed to hold certain kinds of powder, this\ndusty, that in grains; he ran them through his hands, and then poured a\nlittle of each into his dish, and mixed them with his hands. Then he\nstopped and looked about him. Then he walked to a place in the wall on\nthe further side of the altar from the door, and drew the arras\ncarefully aside, disclosing a little alcove in the wall; into this he\nlooked fearfully, as though he was afraid of what he might see.\n\nIn the alcove, which was all in black, appeared a small shelf, that\nstood but a little way out from the wall. Upon it, gleaming very white\nagainst the black, stood the skull of a man, and on either side of the\nskull were the bones of a man's hand. It looked to him, as he gazed on\nit with a sort of curious disgust, as though a dead man had come up to\nthe surface of a black tide, and was preparing presently to leap out. On\neither side stood two long silver candlesticks, very dark with disuse;\nbut instead of holding candles, they were fitted at the top with flat\nmetal dishes; and in these he poured some of his powders, mixing them as\nbefore with his fingers. Between the candlesticks and behind the skull\nwas an old and dark picture, at which he gazed for a time, holding his\ntaper on high. The picture represented a man fleeing in a kind of\nfurious haste from a wood, his hands spread wide, and his eyes staring\nout of the picture; behind him everywhere was the wood, above which was\na star in the sky--and out of the wood leaned a strange pale horned\nthing, very dim. The horror in the man's face was skilfully painted, and\nAnthony felt a shudder pass through his veins. He knew not what the\npicture meant; it had been given to him by the old Italian, who had\nsmiled a wicked smile when he gave it, and told him that it had a very\ngreat virtue. When Anthony had asked him of the subject of the picture,\nthe old Italian had said, \"Oh, it is as appears; he hath been where he\nought not, and he hath seen somewhat he doth not like.\" When Anthony\nwould fain have known more, and especially what the thing was that\nleaned out of the wood, the old Italian had smiled cruelly and said,\n\"Know you not? Well, you will know some day when you have seen him;\" and\nnever a word more would he say.\n\nWhen Anthony had put all things in order, he opened the book at a\ncertain place, and laid it upon the altar; and then it seemed as though\nhis courage failed him, for he drew the curtain again over the alcove,\nunlocked the door, set the tinder-box and the candle back in their\nplace, and softly left the room.\n\nHe was very restless all the evening. He took down books from the\nshelves, turned them over, and put them back again. He addressed himself\nto some unfinished work, but soon threw it aside; he paced up and down,\nand spent a long time, with his hands clasped behind him, looking out\ninto the desolate garden, where a still, red sunset burnt behind the\nleafless trees. He was like a man who has made up his mind to a grave\ndecision, and shrinks back upon the brink. When his food was served he\ncould hardly touch it, and he drank no wine as his custom was to do, but\nonly water, saying to himself that his head must be clear. But in the\nevening he went to his bedroom, and searched for something in a press\nthere; he found at last what he was searching for, and unfolded a long\nblack robe, looking gloomily upon it, as though it aroused unwelcome\nthoughts; while he was pondering, he heard a hum of music behind the\narras; he put the robe down, and stepped through the hangings, and stood\nawhile in the little oriel that looked down into the church. Vespers\nwere proceeding; he saw the holy lights dimly through the dusty panes,\nand heard the low preluding of the organ; then, solemn and slow, rose\nthe sound of a chanted psalm on the air; he carefully unfastened the\ncasement which opened inward and unclosed it, standing for a while to\nlisten, while the air, fragrant with incense smoke, drew into the room\nalong the vaulted roof. There were but a few worshippers in the church,\nwho stood below him; two lights burnt stilly upon the altar, and he saw\ndistinctly the thin hands of a priest who held a book close to his face.\nHe had not set foot within a church for many years, and the sight and\nsound drew his mind back to his childhood's days. At last with a sigh he\nput the window to very softly, and went to his study, where he made\npretence to read, till the hour came when he was wont to retire to his\nbed. He sent his servant away, but instead of lying down, he sate,\nlooking upon a parchment, which he held in his hand, while the bells of\nthe city slowly told out the creeping hours.\n\nAt last, a few minutes before midnight, he rose from his place; the\nhouse was now all silent, and without the night was very still, as\nthough all things slept tranquilly. He opened the press and took from it\nthe black robe, and put it round him, so that it covered him from head\nto foot, and then gathered up the parchment, and the key of the locked\nroom, and went softly out, and so came to the door. This he undid with a\nkind of secret and awestruck haste, locking it behind him. Once inside\nthe room, he wrestled awhile with a strong aversion to what was in his\nmind to do, and stood for a moment, listening intently, as though he\nexpected to hear some sound. But the room was still, except for the\nfaint biting of some small creature in the wainscot.\n\nThen with a swift motion he took up the tinder-box and made a light; he\ndrew aside the curtain that hid the alcove; he put fire to the powder in\nthe candlesticks, which at first spluttered, and then swiftly kindling\nsent up a thick smoky flame, fragrant with drugs, burning hotly and red.\nThen he came back to the altar; cast a swift glance round him to see\nthat all was ready; put fire to the powder on the altar, and in a low\nand inward voice began to recite words from the book, and from the\nparchment which he held in his hand; once or twice he glanced fearfully\nat the skull, and the hands which gleamed luridly through the smoke; the\nfigures in the picture wavered in the heat; and now the powders began to\nburn clear, and throw up a steady light; and still he read, sometimes\nturning a page, until at last he made an end; and drawing something from\na silver box which lay beside the book, he dropped it in the flame, and\nlooked straight before him to see what might befall. The thing that fell\nin the flame burned up brightly, with a little leaping of sparks, but\nsoon it died down; and there was a long silence, in the room, a\nbreathless silence, which, to Anthony's disordered mind, was not like\nthe silence of emptiness, but such silence as may be heard when unseen\nthings are crowding quietly to a closed door, expecting it to be opened,\nand as it were holding each other back.\n\nSuddenly, between him and the picture, appeared for a moment a pale\nlight, as of moonlight, and then with a horror which words cannot attain\nto describe, Anthony saw a face hang in the air a few feet from him,\nthat looked in his own eyes with a sort of intent fury, as though to\nspring upon him if he turned either to the right hand or to the left.\nHis knees tottered beneath him, and a sweat of icy coldness sprang on\nhis brow; there followed a sound like no sound that Anthony had ever\ndreamed of hearing; a sound that was near and yet remote, a sound that\nwas low and yet charged with power, like the groaning of a voice in\ngrievous pain and anger, that strives to be free and yet is helpless.\nAnd then Anthony knew that he had indeed opened the door that looks into\nthe other world, and that a deadly thing that held him in enmity had\nlooked out. His reeling brain still told him that he was safe where he\nwas, but that he must not step or fall outside the circle; but how he\nshould resist the power of the wicked face he knew not. He tried to\nframe a prayer in his heart; but there swept such a fury of hatred\nacross the face that he dared not. So he closed his eyes and stood\ndizzily waiting to fall, and knowing that if he fell it was the end.\n\nSuddenly, as he stood with closed eyes, he felt the horror of the spell\nrelax; he opened his eyes again, and saw that the face died out upon the\nair, becoming first white and then thin, like the husk that stands on a\nrush when a fly draws itself from its skin, and floats away into the\nsunshine.\n\nThen there fell a low and sweet music upon the air, like a concert of\nflutes and harps, very far away. And then suddenly, in a sweet clear\nradiance, the face of his mother, as she lived in his mind, appeared in\nthe space, and looked at him with a kind of heavenly love; then beside\nthe face appeared two thin hands which seemed to wave a blessing towards\nhim, which flowed like healing into his soul.\n\nThe relief from the horror, and the flood of tenderness that came into\nhis heart, made him reckless. The tears came into his eyes, not in a\nrising film, but a flood hot and large. He took a step forwards round\nthe altar; but as he did so, the vision disappeared, the lights shot up\ninto a flare and went out; the house seemed to be suddenly shaken; in\nthe darkness he heard the rattle of bones, and the clash of metal, and\nAnthony fell all his length upon the ground and lay as one dead.\n\nBut while he thus lay, there came to him in some secret cell of the mind\na dreadful vision, which he could only dimly remember afterwards with a\nfitful horror. He thought that he was walking in the cloister of some\ngreat house or college, a cool place, with a pleasant garden in the\ncourt. He paced up and down, and each time that he did so, he paused a\nlittle before a great door at the end, a huge blind portal, with much\ncarving about it, which he somehow knew he was forbidden to enter.\nNevertheless, each time that he came to it, he felt a strong wish, that\nconstantly increased, to set foot therein. Now in the dream there fell\non him a certain heaviness, and the shadow of a cloud fell over the\ncourt, and struck the sunshine out of it. And at last he made up his\nmind that he would enter. He pushed the door open with much difficulty,\nand found himself in a long blank passage, very damp and chilly, but\nwith a glimmering light; he walked a few paces down it. The flags\nunderfoot were slimy, and the walls streamed with damp. He then thought\nthat he would return; but the great door was closed behind him, and he\ncould not open it. This made him very fearful; and while he considered\nwhat he should do, he saw a tall and angry-looking man approaching very\nswiftly down the passage. As he turned to face him, the other came\nstraight to him, and asked him very sternly what he did there; to which\nAnthony replied that he had found the door open. To which the other\nreplied that it was fast now, and that he must go forward. He seized\nAnthony as he spoke by the arm, and urged him down the passage. Anthony\nwould fain have resisted, but he felt like a child in the grip of a\ngiant, and went forward in great terror and perplexity. Presently they\ncame to a door in the side of the wall, and as they passed it, there\nstepped out an ugly shadowy thing, the nature of which he could not\nclearly discern, and marched softly behind them. Soon they came to a\nturn in the passage, and in a moment the way stopped on the brink of a\ndark well, that seemed to go down a long way into the earth, and out of\nwhich came a cold fetid air, with a hollow sound like a complaining\nvoice. Anthony drew back as far as he could from the pit, and set his\nback to the wall, his companion letting go of him. But he could not go\nbackward, for the thing behind him was in the passage, and barred the\nway, creeping slowly nearer. Then Anthony was in a great agony of mind,\nand waited for the end.\n\nBut while he waited, there came some one very softly down the passage\nand drew near; and the other, who had led him to the place, waited, as\nthough ill-pleased to be interrupted; it was too murky for Anthony to\nsee the new-comer, but he knew in some way that he was a friend. The\nstranger came up to them, and spoke in a low voice to the man who had\ndrawn Anthony thither, as though pleading for something; and the man\nanswered angrily, but yet with a certain dark respect, and seemed to\nargue that he was acting in his right, and might not be interfered with.\nAnthony could not hear what they said, they spoke so low, but he guessed\nthe sense, and knew that it was himself of whom they discoursed, and\nlistened with a fearful wonder to see which would prevail. The end soon\ncame, for the tall man, who had brought him there, broke out into a\ngreat storm of passion; and Anthony heard him say, \"He hath yielded\nhimself to his own will; and he is mine here; so let us make an end.\"\nThen the stranger seemed to consider; and then with a quiet courage, and\nin a soft and silvery voice like that of a child, said, \"I would that\nyou would have yielded to my prayer; but as you will not, I have no\nchoice.\" And he took his hand from under the cloak that wrapped him, and\nheld something out; then there came a great roaring out of the pit, and\na zigzag flame flickered in the dark. Then in a moment the tall man and\nthe shadow were gone; Anthony could not see whither they went, and he\nwould have thanked the stranger; but the other put his finger to his lip\nas though to order silence, and pointed to the way he had come, saying,\n\"Make haste and go back; for they will return anon with others; you know\nnot how dear it hath cost me.\" Anthony could see the stranger's face in\nthe gloom, and he was surprised to see it so youthful; but he saw also\nthat tears stood in the eyes of the stranger, and that something dark\nlike blood trickled down his brow; yet he looked very lovingly at him.\nSo Anthony made haste to go back, and found the door ajar; but as he\nreached it, he heard a horrible din behind him, of cries and screams;\nand it was with a sense of gratitude, that he could not put into words,\nbut which filled all his heart, that he found himself back in the\ncloister again. And then the vision all fled away, and with a shock\ncoming to himself, he found that he was lying in his own room; and then\nhe knew that a battle had been fought out over his soul, and that the\nevil had not prevailed.\n\nHe was cold and aching in every limb; the room was silent and dark, with\nthe heavy smell of the burnt drugs all about it. Anthony crept to the\ndoor, and opened it; locked it again, and made his way in the dark very\nfeebly to his bed-chamber; he had just the strength to get into his bed,\nand then all his life seemed to ebb from him, and he lay, and thought\nthat he was dying. Presently from without there came the crying of\ncocks, and a bell beat the hour of four; and after that, in his vigil of\nweakness, it was strange to see the light glimmer in the crevices, and\nto hear the awakening birds that in the garden bushes took up, one after\nanother, their slender piping song, till all the choir cried together.\n\nBut Anthony felt a strange peace in his heart; and he had a sense,\nthough he could not say why, that it was as once in his childhood, when\nhe was ill, and his mother had sate softly by him while he slept.\n\nSo he waited, and in spite of his mortal weakness that was a blessed\nhour.\n\nWhen his man came to rouse him in the morning, Anthony said that he\nbelieved that he was very ill, that he had had a fall, and that the old\ndoctor must be fetched to him. The man looked so strangely upon him,\nthat Anthony knew that he had some fear upon his mind. Presently the\ndoctor was brought, and Anthony answered such questions as were put to\nhim, in a faint voice, saying, \"I was late at my work, and I slipped and\nfell.\" The doctor, who looked troubled, gave directions; and when he\nwent away he heard his man behind the door asking the doctor about the\nstrange storm in the night, that had seemed like an earthquake, or as if\na thunderbolt had struck the house. But the doctor said very gruffly,\n\"It is no time to talk thus, when your master is sick to death.\" But\nAnthony knew in himself that he would not die yet.\n\nIt was long ere he was restored to a measure of health; and indeed he\nnever rightly recovered the use of his limbs; the doctor held that he\nhad suffered some stroke of palsy; at which Anthony smiled a little, and\nmade no answer.\n\nWhen he was well enough to creep to and fro, he went sadly to the dark\nroom, and with much pain and weakness carried the furniture out of it.\nThe picture he cut in pieces and burnt; and the candles and dishes, with\nthe book, he cast into a deep pool in the stream; the bones he buried in\nthe earth; the hangings he stored away for his own funeral.\n\nAnthony never entered his workroom again; but day after day he sate in\nhis chair, and read a little, but mostly in the Bible; he made a friend\nof a very wise old priest, to whom he opened all his heart, and to whom\nhe conveyed much money to be bestowed on the poor; there was a great\ncalm in his spirit, which was soon written in his face, in spite of his\npain, for he often suffered sorely; but he told the priest that\nsomething, he knew not certainly what, seemed to dwell by him, waiting\npatiently for his coming; and so Anthony awaited his end.\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nOut of the Sea\n\n\n\nIt was about ten of the clock on a November morning in the little\nvillage of Blea-on-the-Sands. The hamlet was made up of some thirty\nhouses, which clustered together on a low rising ground. The place was\nvery poor, but some old merchant of bygone days had built in a pious\nmood a large church, which was now too great for the needs of the place;\nthe nave had been unroofed in a heavy gale, and there was no money to\nrepair it, so that it had fallen to decay, and the tower was joined to\nthe choir by roofless walls. This was a sore trial to the old priest,\nFather Thomas, who had grown grey there; but he had no art in gathering\nmoney, which he asked for in a shamefaced way; and the vicarage was a\npoor one, hardly enough for the old man's needs. So the church lay\ndesolate.\n\nThe village stood on what must once have been an island; the little\nriver Reddy, which runs down to the sea, there forking into two channels\non the landward side; towards the sea the ground was bare, full of\nsand-hills covered with a short grass. Towards the land was a small wood\nof gnarled trees, the boughs of which were all brushed smooth by the\ngales; looking landward there was the green flat, in which the river\nran, rising into low hills; hardly a house was visible save one or two\nlonely farms; two or three church towers rose above the hills at a long\ndistance away. Indeed Blea was much cut off from the world; there was a\nbridge over the stream on the west side, but over the other channel was\nno bridge, so that to fare eastward it was requisite to go in a boat.\nTo seaward there were wide sands, when the tide was out; when it was in,\nit came up nearly to the end of the village street. The people were\nmostly fishermen, but there were a few farmers and labourers; the boats\nof the fishermen lay to the east side of the village, near the river\nchannel which gave some draught of water; and the channel was marked out\nby big black stakes and posts that straggled out over the sands, like\nawkward leaning figures, to the sea's brim.\n\nFather Thomas lived in a small and ancient brick house near the church,\nwith a little garden of herbs attached. He was a kindly man, much worn\nby age and weather, with a wise heart, and he loved the quiet life with\nhis small flock. This morning he had come out of his house to look\nabroad, before he settled down to the making of his sermon. He looked\nout to sea, and saw with a shadow of sadness the black outline of a\nwreck that had come ashore a week before, and over which the white\nwaves were now breaking. The wind blew steadily from the north-east, and\nhad a bitter poisonous chill in it, which it doubtless drew from the\nfields of the upper ice. The day was dark and over, hung, not with\ncloud, but with a kind of dreary vapour that shut out the sun. Father\nThomas shuddered at the wind, and drew his patched cloak round him. As\nhe did so, he saw three figures come up to the vicarage gate. It was not\na common thing for him to have visitors in the morning, and he saw with\nsurprise that they were old Master John Grimston, the richest man in the\nplace, half farmer and half fisherman, a dark surly old man; his wife,\nBridget, a timid and frightened woman, who found life with her harsh\nhusband a difficult business, in spite of their wealth, which, for a\nplace like Blea, was great; and their son Henry, a silly shambling man\nof forty, who was his father's butt. The three walked silently and\nheavily, as though they came on a sad errand.\n\nFather Thomas went briskly down to meet them, and greeted them with his\naccustomed cheerfulness. \"And what may I do for you?\" he said. Old\nMaster Grimston made a sort of gesture with his head as though his wife\nshould speak; and she said in a low and somewhat husky voice, with a\nrapid utterance, \"We have a matter, Father, we would ask you about--are\nyou at leisure?\" Father Thomas said, \"Ay, I am ashamed to be not more\nbusy! Let us go within the house.\" They did so; and even in the little\ndistance to the door, the Father thought that his visitors behaved\nthemselves very strangely. They peered round from left to right, and\nonce or twice Master Grimston looked sharply behind them, as though they\nwere followed. They said nothing but \"Ay\" and \"No\" to the Father's talk,\nand bore themselves like people with a sore fear on their backs. Father\nThomas made up his mind that it was some question of money, for nothing\nelse was wont to move Master Grimston's mind. So he had them into his\nparlour and gave them seats, and then there was a silence, while the two\nmen continued to look furtively about them, and the goodwife sate with\nher eyes upon the priest's face. Father Thomas knew not what to make of\nthis, till Master Grimston said harshly, \"Come, wife, tell the tale and\nmake an end; we must not take up the Father's time.\"\n\n\"I hardly know how to say it, Father,\" said Bridget, \"but a strange and\nevil thing has befallen us; there is something come to our house, and we\nknow not what it is--but it brings a fear with it.\" A sudden paleness\ncame over her face, and she stopped, and the three exchanged a glance in\nwhich terror was visibly written. Master Grimston looked over his\nshoulder swiftly, and made as though to speak, yet only swallowed in his\nthroat; but Henry said suddenly, in a loud and woeful voice: \"It is an\nevil beast out of the sea.\" And then there followed a dreadful silence,\nwhile Father Thomas felt a sudden fear leap up in his heart, at the\ncontagion of the fear that he saw written on the faces round him. But he\nsaid with all the cheerfulness he could muster, \"Come, friends, let us\nnot begin to talk of sea-beasts; we must have the whole tale Mistress\nGrimston, I must hear the story--be content--nothing can touch us here.\"\nThe three seemed to draw a faint content from his words, and Bridget\nbegan:--\n\n\"It was the day of the wreck, Father. John was up betimes, before the\ndawn; he walked out early to the sands, and Henry with him--and they\nwere the first to see the wreck--was not that it?\" At these words the\nfather and son seemed to exchange a very swift and secret look, and both\ngrew pale. \"John told me there was a wreck ashore, and they went\npresently and roused the rest of the village; and all that day they were\nout, saving what could be saved. Two sailors were found, both dead and\npitifully battered by the sea, and they were buried, as you know,\nFather, in the churchyard next day; John came back about dusk and Henry\nwith him, and we sate down to our supper. John was telling me about the\nwreck, as we sate beside the fire, when Henry, who was sitting apart,\nrose up and cried out suddenly, 'What is that?'\"\n\nShe paused for a moment, and Henry, who sate with face blanched, staring\nat his mother, said, \"Ay, did I--it ran past me suddenly.\" \"Yes, but\nwhat was it?\" said Father Thomas trying to smile; \"a dog or cat,\nmethinks.\" \"It was a beast,\" said Henry slowly, in a trembling voice--\"a\nbeast about the bigness of a goat. I never saw the like--yet I did not\nsee it clear; I but felt the air blow, and caught a whiff of it--it was\nsalt like the sea, but with a kind of dead smell behind.\" \"Was that all\nyou saw?\" said Father Thomas; \"belike you were tired and faint, and the\nair swam round you suddenly--I have known the like myself when weary.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Henry, \"this was not like that--it was a beast, sure\nenough.\"\n\n\"Ay, and we have seen it since,\" said Bridget. \"At least I have not seen\nit clearly yet, but I have smelt its odour, and it turns me sick--but\nJohn and Henry have seen it often--sometimes it lies and seems to sleep,\nbut it watches us; and again it is merry, and will leap in a corner--and\nJohn saw it skip upon the sands near the wreck--did you not, John?\" At\nthese words the two men again exchanged a glance, and then old Master\nGrimston, with a dreadful look in his face, in which great anger seemed\nto strive with fear, said \"Nay, silly woman, it was not near the wreck,\nit was out to the east.\" \"It matters little,\" said Father Thomas, who\nsaw well enough this was no light matter. \"I never heard the like of it.\nI will myself come down to your house with a holy book, and see if the\nthing will meet me. I know not what this is,\" he went on, \"whether it is\na vain terror that hath hold of you; but there be spirits of evil in\nthe world, though much fettered by Christ and His Saints--we read of\nsuch in Holy Writ--and the sea, too, doubtless hath its monsters; and it\nmay be that one hath wandered out of the waves, like a dog that hath\nstrayed from his home. I dare not say, till I have met it face to face.\nBut God gives no power to such things to hurt those who have a fair\nconscience.\"--And here he made a stop, and looked at the three; Bridget\nsate regarding him with a hope in her face; but the other two sate\npeering upon the ground; and the priest divined in some secret way that\nall was not well with them. \"But I will come at once,\" he said rising,\n\"and I will see if I can cast out or bind the thing, whatever it be--for\nI am in this place as a soldier of the Lord, to fight with works of\ndarkness.\" He took a clasped book from a table, and lifted up his hat,\nsaying, \"Let us set forth.\" Then he said as they left the room, \"Hath it\nappeared to-day?\" \"Yes, indeed,\" said Henry, \"and it was ill content.\nIt followed us as though it were angered.\" \"Come,\" said Father Thomas\nturning upon him, \"you speak thus of a thing, as you might speak of a\ndog--what is it like?\" \"Nay,\" said Henry, \"I know not; I can never see\nit clearly; it is like a speck in the eye--it is never there when you\nlook upon it--it glides away very secretly; it is most like a goat, I\nthink. It seems to be horned, and hairy; but I have seen its eyes, and\nthey were yellow, like a flame.\"\n\nAs he said these words Master Grimston went in haste to the door, and\npulled it open as though to breathe the air. The others followed him and\nwent out; but Master Grimston drew the priest aside, and said like a man\nin a mortal fear, \"Look you, Father, all this is true--the thing is a\ndevil--and why it abides with us I know not; but I cannot live so; and\nunless it be cast out it will slay me--but if money be of avail, I have\nit in abundance.\" \"Nay,\" said Father Thomas, \"let there be no talk of\nmoney--perchance if I can aid you, you may give of your gratitude to\nGod.\" \"Ay, ay,\" said the old man hurriedly, \"that was what I\nmeant--there is money in abundance for God, if he will but set me free.\"\n\nSo they walked very sadly together through the street. There were few\nfolk about; the men and the children were all abroad--a woman or two\ncame to the house doors, and wondered a little to see them pass so\nsolemnly, as though they followed a body to the grave.\n\nMaster Grimston's house was the largest in the place. It had a walled\ngarden before it, with a strong door set in the wall. The house stood\nback from the road, a dark front of brick with gables; behind it the\ngarden sloped nearly to the sands, with wooden barns and warehouses.\nMaster Grimston unlocked the door, and then it seemed that his terrors\ncame over him, for he would have the priest enter first. Father Thomas,\nwith a certain apprehension of which he was ashamed, walked quickly in,\nand looked about him. The herbage of the garden had mostly died down in\nthe winter, and a tangle of sodden stalks lay over the beds. A flagged\npath edged with box led up to the house, which seemed to stare at them\nout of its dark windows with a sort of steady gaze. Master Grimston\nfastened the door behind them, and they went all together, keeping close\none to another, up to the house, the door of which opened upon a big\nparlour or kitchen, sparely furnished, but very clean and comfortable.\nSome vessels of metal glittered on a rack. There were chairs, ranged\nround the open fireplace. There was no sound except that the wind\nbuffeted in the chimney. It looked a quiet and homely place, and Father\nThomas grew ashamed of his fears. \"Now,\" said he in his firm voice,\n\"though I am your guest here, I will appoint what shall be done. We will\nsit here together, and talk as cheerfully as we may, till we have\ndined. Then, if nothing appears to us,\"--and he crossed himself--\"I will\ngo round the house, into every room, and see if we can track the thing\nto its lair: then I will abide with you till evensong; and then I will\nsoon return, and lie here to-night. Even if the thing be wary, and dares\nnot to meet the power of the Church in the day-time, perhaps it will\nventure out at night; and I will even try a fall with it. So come, good\npeople, and be comforted.\"\n\nSo they sate together; and Father Thomas talked of many things, and told\nsome old legends of saints; and they dined, though without much cheer;\nand still nothing appeared. Then, after dinner, Father Thomas would view\nthe house. So he took his book up, and they went from room to room. On\nthe ground floor there were several chambers not used, which they\nentered in turn, but saw nothing; on the upper floor was a large room\nwhere Master Grimston and his wife slept; and a further room for Henry,\nand a guest-chamber in which the priest was to sleep if need was; and a\nroom where a servant-maid slept. And now the day began to darken and to\nturn to evening, and Father Thomas felt a shadow grow in his mind. There\ncame into his head a verse of Scripture about a spirit which found a\nhouse \"empty, swept and garnished,\" and called his fellows to enter in.\n\nAt the end of the passage was a locked door; and Father Thomas said:\n\"This is the last room--let us enter.\" \"Nay, there is no need to do\nthat,\" said Master Grimston in a kind of haste; \"it leads nowhither--it\nis but a room of stores.\" \"It were a pity to leave it unvisited,\" said\nthe Father--and as he said the word, there came a kind of stirring from\nwithin. \"A rat, doubtless,\" said the Father, striving with a sudden\nsense of fear; but the pale faces round him told another tale. \"Come,\nMaster Grimston, let us be done with this;\" said Father Thomas\ndecisively; \"the hour of vespers draws nigh.\" So Master Grimston slowly\ndrew out a key and unlocked the door, and Father Thomas marched in. It\nwas a simple place enough. There were shelves on which various household\nmatters lay, boxes and jars, with twine and cordage. On the ground stood\nchests. There were some clothes hanging on pegs, and in a corner was a\nheap of garments, piled up. On one of the chests stood a box of rough\ndeal, and from the corner of it dripped water, which lay in a little\npool on the floor. Master Grimston went hurriedly to the box and pushed\nit further to the wall. As he did so, a kind of sound came from Henry's\nlips. Father Thomas turned and looked at him; he stood pale and\nstrength-less, his eyes fixed on the corner--at the same moment\nsomething dark and shapeless seemed to slip past the group, and there\ncame to the nostrils of Father Thomas a strange sharp smell, as of the\nsea, only that there was a taint within it, like the smell of\ncorruption.\n\nThey all turned and looked at Father Thomas together, as though seeking\na comfort from his presence. He, hardly knowing what he did, and in the\ngrasp of a terrible fear, fumbled with his book; and opening it, read\nthe first words that his eye fell upon, which was the place where the\nBlessed Lord, beset with enemies, said that if He did but pray to His\nFather, He should send Him forthwith legions of angels to encompass Him.\nAnd the verse seemed to the priest so like a message sent instantly from\nheaven that he was not a little comforted.\n\nBut the thing, whatever the reason was, appeared to them no more at that\ntime. Yet the thought of it lay very heavy on Father Thomas's heart. In\ntruth he had not in the bottom of his mind believed that he would see\nit, but had trusted in his honest life and his sacred calling to protect\nhim. He could hardly speak for some minutes,--moreover the horror of\nthe thing was very great--and seeing him so grave, their terrors were\nincreased, though there was a kind of miserable joy in their minds that\nsome one, and he a man of high repute, should suffer with them.\n\nThen Father Thomas, after a pause--they were now in the parlour--said,\nspeaking very slowly, that they were in a sore affliction of Satan, and\nthat they must withstand him with a good courage--\"and look you,\" he\nadded, turning with a great sternness to the three, \"if there be any\nmortal sin upon your hearts, see that you confess it and be shriven\nspeedily--for while such a thing lies upon the heart, so long hath Satan\npower to hurt--otherwise have no fear at all.\"\n\nThen Father Thomas slipped out to the garden, and hearing the bell\npulled for vespers, he went to the church, and the three would go with\nhim, because they would not be left alone. So they went together; by\nthis time the street was fuller, and the servant-maid had told tales,\nso that there was much talk in the place about what was going forward.\nNone spoke with them as they went, but at every corner you might see one\ncheck another in talk, and a silence fall upon a group, so that they\nknew that their terrors were on every tongue. There was but a handful of\nworshippers in the church, which was dark, save for the light on Father\nThomas' book. He read the holy service swiftly and courageously, but his\nface was very pale and grave in the light of the candle. When the\nvespers were over, and he had put off his robe, he said that he would go\nback to his house, and gather what he needed for the night, and that\nthey should wait for him at the churchyard gate. So he strode off to his\nvicarage. But as he shut to the door, he saw a dark figure come running\nup the garden; he waited with a fear in his mind, but in a moment he saw\nthat it was Henry, who came up breathless, and said that he must speak\nwith the Father alone. Father Thomas knew that somewhat dark was to be\ntold him. So he led Henry into the parlour and seated himself, and said,\n\"Now, my son, speak boldly.\" So there was an instant's silence, and\nHenry slipped on to his knees.\n\nThen in a moment Henry with a sob began to tell his tale. He said that\non the day of the wreck his father had roused him very early in the\ndawn, and had told him to put on his clothes and come silently, for he\nthought there was a wreck ashore. His father carried a spade in his\nhand, he knew not then why. They went down to the tide, which was moving\nout very fast, and left but an inch or two of water on the sands. There\nwas but a little light, but, when they had walked a little, they saw the\nblack hull of a ship before them, on the edge of the deeper water, the\nwaves driving over it; and then all at once they came upon the body of a\nman lying on his face on the sand. There was no sign of life in him, but\nhe clasped a bag in his hand that was heavy, and the pocket of his coat\nwas full to bulging; and there lay, moreover, some glittering things\nabout him that seemed to be coins. They lifted the body up, and his\nfather stripped the coat off from the man, and then bade Henry dig a\nhole in the sand, which he presently did, though the sand and water\noozed fast into it. Then his father, who had been stooping down,\ngathering somewhat up from the sand, raised the body up, and laid it in\nthe hole, and bade Henry cover it with the sand. And so he did till it\nwas nearly hidden. Then came a horrible thing; the sand in the hole\nbegan to move and stir, and presently a hand was put out with clutching\nfingers; and Henry had dropped the spade, and said, \"There is life in\nhim,\" but his father seized the spade, and shovelled the sand into the\nhole with a kind of silent fury, and trampled it over and smoothed it\ndown--and then he gathered up the coat and the bag, and handed Henry the\nspade. By this time the town was astir, and they saw, very faintly, a\nman run along the shore eastward; so, making a long circuit to the west,\nthey returned; his father had put the spade away and taken the coat\nupstairs; and then he went out with Henry, and told all he could find\nthat there was a wreck ashore.\n\nThe priest heard the story with a fierce shame and anger, and turning to\nHenry he said, \"But why did you not resist your father, and save the\npoor sailor?\" \"I dared not,\" said Henry shuddering, \"though I would have\ndone so if I could; but my father has a power over me, and I am used to\nobey him.\" Then said the priest, \"This is a dark matter. But you have\ntold the story bravely, and now will I shrive you, my son.\" So he gave\nhim shrift. Then he said to Henry, \"And have you seen aught that would\nconnect the beast that visits you with this thing?\" \"Ay, that I have,\"\nsaid Henry, \"for I watched it with my father skip and leap in the water\nover the place where the man lies buried.\" Then the priest said, \"Your\nfather must tell me the tale too, and he must make submission to the\nlaw.\" \"He will not,\" said Henry. \"Then will I compel him,\" said the\npriest. \"Not out of my mouth,\" said Henry, \"or he will slay me too.\" And\nthen the priest said that he was in a strait place, for he could not use\nthe words of confession of one man to convict another of his sin. So he\ngathered his things in haste, and walked back to the church; but Henry\nwent another way, saying \"I made excuse to come away, and said I went\nelsewhere; but I fear my father much--he sees very deep; and I would not\nhave him suspect me of having made confession.\"\n\nThen the Father met the other two at the church gate; and they went down\nto the house in silence, the Father pondering heavily; and at the door\nHenry joined them, and it seemed to the Father that old Master Grimston\nregarded him not. So they entered the house in silence, and ate in\nsilence, listening earnestly for any sound. And the Father looked oft on\nMaster Grimston, who ate and drank and said nothing, never raising his\neyes. But once the Father saw him laugh secretly to himself, so that the\nblood came cold in the Father's veins, and he could hardly contain\nhimself from accusing him. Then the Father had them to prayers, and\nprayed earnestly against the evil, and that they should open their\nhearts to God, if he would show them why this misery came upon them.\n\nThen they went to bed; and Henry asked that he might lie in the priest's\nroom, which he willingly granted. And so the house was dark, and they\nmade as though they would sleep; but the Father could not sleep, and he\nheard Henry weeping silently to himself like a little child.\n\nBut at last the Father slept--how long he knew not--and suddenly brake\nout of his sleep with a horror of darkness all about him, and knew that\nthere was some evil thing abroad. So he looked upon the room. He heard\nHenry mutter heavily in his sleep as though there was a dark terror upon\nhim; and then, in the light of the dying embers, the Father saw a thing\nrise upon the hearth, as though it had slept there, and woke to stretch\nitself. And then in the half-light it seemed softly to gambol and play;\nbut whereas when an innocent beast does this in the simple joy of its\nheart, and seems a fond and pretty sight, the Father thought he had\nnever seen so ugly a sight as the beast gambolling all by itself, as if\nit could not contain its own dreadful joy; it looked viler and more\nwicked every moment; then, too, there spread in the room the sharp scent\nof the sea, with the foul smell underneath it, that gave the Father a\ndeadly sickness; he tried to pray, but no words would come, and he felt\nindeed that the evil was too strong for him. Presently the beast\ndesisted from its play, and looking wickedly about it, came near to the\nFather's bed, and seemed to put up its hairy forelegs upon it; he could\nsee its narrow and obscene eyes, which burned with a dull yellow light,\nand were fixed upon him. And now the Father thought that his end was\nnear, for he could stir neither hand nor foot, and the sweat rained down\nhis brow; but he made a mighty effort, and in a voice which shocked\nhimself, so dry and husky and withal of so loud and screaming a tone it\nwas, he said three holy words. The beast gave a great quiver of rage,\nbut it dropped down on the floor, and in a moment was gone. Then Henry\nwoke, and raising himself on his arm, said somewhat; but there broke out\nin the house a great outcry and the stamping of feet, which seemed very\nfearful in the silence of the night. The priest leapt out of his bed all\ndizzy, and made a light, and ran to the door, and went out, crying\nwhatever words came to his head. The door of Master Grimston's room was\nopen, and a strange and strangling sound came forth; the Father made his\nway in, and found Master Grimston lying upon the floor, his wife bending\nover him; he lay still, breathing pitifully, and every now and then a\nshudder ran through him. In the room there seemed a strange and shadowy\ntumult going forward; but the Father saw that no time could be lost, and\nkneeling down beside Master Grimston, he prayed with all his might.\n\nPresently Master Grimston ceased to struggle and lay still, like a\nman who had come out of a sore conflict. Then he opened his eyes, and\nthe Father stopped his prayers, and looking very hard at him he said,\n\"My son, the time is very short--give God the glory.\" Then Master\nGrimston, rolling his haggard eyes upon the group, twice strove to speak\nand could not; but the third time the Father, bending down his head,\nheard him say in a thin voice, that seemed to float from a long way off,\n\"I slew him ... my sin.\" Then the Father swiftly gave him shrift, and as\nhe said the last word, Master Grimston's head fell over on the side, and\nthe Father said, \"He is gone.\" And Bridget broke out into a terrible cry,\nand fell upon Henry's neck, who had entered unseen.\n\nThen the Father bade him lead her away, and put the poor body on the\nbed; as he did so he noticed that the face of the dead man was strangely\nbruised and battered, as though it had been stamped upon by the hoofs of\nsome beast. Then Father Thomas knelt, and prayed until the light came\nfiltering in through the shutters; and the cocks crowed in the village,\nand presently it was day. But that night the Father learnt strange\nsecrets, and something of the dark purposes of God was revealed to him.\n\nIn the morning there came one to find the priest, and told him that\nanother body had been thrown up on the shore, which was strangely\nsmeared with sand, as though it had been rolled over and over in it;\nand the Father took order for its burial.\n\nThen the priest had long talk with Bridget and Henry. He found them\nsitting together, and she held her son's hand and smoothed his hair, as\nthough he had been a little child; and Henry sobbed and wept, but\nBridget was very calm. \"He hath told me all,\" she said, \"and we have\ndecided that he shall do whatever you bid him; must he be given to\njustice?\" and she looked at the priest very pitifully. \"Nay, nay,\" said\nthe priest. \"I hold not Henry to account for the death of the man; it\nwas his father's sin, who hath made heavy atonement--the secret shall be\nburied in our hearts.\"\n\nThen Bridget told him how she had waked suddenly out of her sleep, and\nheard her husband cry out; and that then followed a dreadful kind of\nstruggling, with the scent of the sea over all; and then he had all at\nonce fallen to the ground and she had gone to him--and that then the\npriest had come.\n\nThen Father Thomas said with tears that God had shown them deep things\nand visited them very strangely; and they would henceforth live humbly\nin his sight, showing mercy.\n\nThen lastly he went with Henry to the store-room; and there, in the box\nthat had dripped with water, lay the coat of the dead man, full of\nmoney, and the bag of money too; and Henry would have cast it back into\nthe sea, but the priest said that this might not be, but that it should\nbe bestowed plentifully upon shipwrecked mariners unless the heirs\nshould be found. But the ship appeared to be a foreign ship, and no\nsearch ever revealed whence the money had come, save that it seemed to\nhave been violently come by.\n\nMaster Grimston was found to have left much wealth. But Bridget would\nsell the house and the land, and it mostly went to rebuild the church to\nGod's glory. Then Bridget and Henry removed to the vicarage and served\nFather Thomas faithfully, and they guarded their secret. And beside the\nnave is a little high turret built, where burns a lamp in a lantern at\nthe top, to give light to those at sea.\n\nNow the beast troubled those of whom I write no more; but it is easier\nto raise up evil than to lay it; and there are those that say that to\nthis day a man or a woman with an evil thought in their hearts may see\non a certain evening in November, at the ebb of the tide, a goatlike\nthing wade in the water, snuffing at the sand, as though it sought but\nfound not. But of this I know nothing.\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nPaul the Minstrel\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nThe old House of Heritage stood just below the downs, in the few meadows\nthat were all that was left of a great estate. The house itself was of\nstone, very firmly and gravely built; and roofed with thin slabs of\nstone, small at the roof-ridge, and increasing in size towards the\neaves. Inside, there were a few low panelled rooms opening on a large\ncentral hall; there was little furniture, and that of a sturdy and solid\nkind--but the house needed nothing else, and had all the beauty that\ncame of a simple austerity.\n\nOld Mistress Alison, who abode there, was aged and poor. She had but\none house-servant, a serious and honest maid, whose only pride was to\nkeep the place sweet, and save her mistress from all care. But Mistress\nAlison was not to be dismayed by poverty; she was a tranquil and loving\nwoman, who had never married; but who, as if to compensate her for the\nabsence of nearer ties, had a simple and wholesome love of all created\nthings. She was infirm now, but was quite content, when it was fine, to\nsit for long hours idle for very love, and look about her with a\npeaceful and smiling air; she prayed much, or rather held a sweet\nconverse in her heart with God; she thought little of her latter end,\nwhich she knew could not be long delayed, but was content to leave it in\nthe hands of the Father, sure that He, who had made the world so\nbeautiful and so full of love, would comfort her when she came to enter\nin at the dark gate.\n\nThere was also an old and silent man who looked after the cattle and\nthe few hens that the household kept; at the back of the house was a\nthatched timbered grange, where he laid his tools; but he spent his time\nmostly in the garden, which sloped down to the fishpond, and was all\nbordered with box; here was a pleasant homely scent, on hot days, of the\ngood herbs that shed their rich smell in the sun; and here the flies,\nthat sate in the leaves, would buzz at the sound of a footfall, and then\nbe still again, cleaning their hands together in their busy manner.\n\nThe only other member of the quiet household was the boy Paul, who was\ndistantly akin to Mistress Alison. He had neither father nor mother, and\nhad lived at Heritage all of his life that he could remember; he was a\nslender, serious boy, with delicate features, and large grey eyes that\nlooked as if they held a secret; but if they had, it was a secret of his\nforefathers; for the boy had led a most quiet and innocent life; he had\nbeen taught to read in a fashion, but he had no schooling; sometimes a\nneighbouring goodwife would say to Mistress Alison that the boy should\nbe sent to school, and Mistress Alison would open her peaceful eyes and\nsay, \"Nay, Paul is not like other boys--he would get all the hurt and\nnone of the good of school; when there is work for him he will do\nit--but I am not for making all toil alike. Paul shall grow up like the\nlilies of the field. God made not all things to be busy.\" And the\ngoodwife would shake her head and wonder; for it was not easy to answer\nMistress Alison, who indeed was often right in the end.\n\nSo Paul grew up as he would; sometimes he would help the old gardener,\nwhen there was work to be done; for he loved to serve others, and was\ncontent with toil if it was sweetened with love; but often he rambled by\nhimself for hours together; he cared little for company, because the\nearth was to him full of wonder and of sweet sights and sounds. He loved\nto climb the down, and lie feasting his eyes on the rich plain, spread\nout like a map; the farms in their closes, the villages from which went\nup the smoke at evening, the distant blue hills, like the hills of\nheaven, the winding river, and the lake that lay in the winter twilight\nlike a shield of silver. He loved to see the sun flash on the windows of\nthe houses so distant that they could not themselves be seen, but only\nsparkled like stars. He loved to loiter on the edge of the steep hanging\nwoods in summer, to listen to the humming of the flies deep in the\nbrake, and to catch a sight of lonely flowers; he loved the scent of the\nwind blowing softly out of the copse, and he wondered what the trees\nsaid to each other, when they stood still and happy in the heat of\nmidday. He loved, too, the silent night, full of stars, when the wood\nthat topped the hill lay black against the sky. The whole world seemed\nto him to be full of a mysterious and beautiful life of which he could\nnever quite catch the secret; these innocent flowers, these dreaming\ntrees seemed, as it were, to hold him smiling at arm's length, while\nthey guarded their joy from him. The birds and the beasts seemed to him\nto have less of this quiet joy, for they were fearful and careful,\nworking hard to find a living, and dreading the sight of man; but\nsometimes in the fragrant eventide the nightingale would say a little of\nwhat was in her heart. \"Yes,\" Paul would say to himself, \"it is like\nthat.\"\n\nOne other chief delight the boy had; he knew the magic of sound, which\nspoke to his heart in a way that it speaks to but few; the sounds of the\nearth gave up their sweets to him; the musical fluting of owls, the\nliquid notes of the cuckoo, the thin pipe of dancing flies, the mournful\ncreaking of the cider-press, the horn of the oxherd wound far off on the\nhill, the tinkling of sheep-bells--of all these he knew the notes; and\nnot only these, but the rhythmical swing of the scythes sweeping\nthrough the grass, the flails heard through the hot air from the barn,\nthe clinking of the anvil in the village forge, the bubble of the stream\nthrough the weir--all these had a tale to tell him. Sometimes, for days\ntogether, he would hum to himself a few notes that pleased him by their\nsweet cadence, and he would string together some simple words to them,\nand sing them to himself with gentle content. The song of the reapers on\nthe upland, or the rude chanting in the little church had a magical\ncharm for him; and Mistress Alison would hear the boy, in his room\noverhead, singing softly to himself for very gladness of heart, like a\nlittle bird of the dawn, or tapping out some tripping beat of time; when\nshe would wonder and speak to God of what was in her heart.\n\nAs Paul grew older--he was now about sixteen--a change came slowly over\nhis mind; he began to have moods of a silent discontent, a longing for\nsomething far away, a desire of he knew not what. His old dreams began\nto fade, though they visited him from time to time; but he began to care\nless for the silent beautiful life of the earth, and to take more\nthought of men. He had never felt much about himself before; but one\nday, lying beside a woodland pool at the feet of the down, he caught a\nsight of his own face; and when he smiled at it, it seemed to smile back\nat him; he began to wonder what the world was like, and what all the\nbusy people that lived therein said and thought; he began to wish to\nhave a friend, that he might tell him what was in his heart--and yet he\nknew not what it was that he would say. He began, too, to wonder how\npeople regarded him--the people who had before been but to him a distant\npart of the shows of the world. Once he came in upon Mistress Alison,\nwho sate talking with a gossip of hers; when he entered, there was a\nsudden silence, and a glance passed between the two; and Paul divined\nthat they had been speaking of himself, and desired to know what they\nhad said.\n\nOne day the old gardener, in a more talkative mood than was his wont,\ntold him a tale of one who had visited the Wishing Well that lay a few\nmiles away, and, praying for riches, had found the next day, in digging,\nan old urn of pottery, full of ancient coins. Paul was very urgent to\nknow about the well, and the old man told him that it must be visited at\nnoonday and alone. That he that would have his wish must throw a gift\ninto the water, and drink of the well, and then, turning to the sun,\nmust wish his wish aloud. Paul asked him many more questions, but the\nold man would say no more. So Paul determined that he would visit the\nplace for himself.\n\nThe next day he set off. He took with him one of his few possessions, a\nlittle silver coin that a parson hard by had given him. He went his way\nquickly among the pleasant fields, making towards the great bulk of\nBlackdown beacon, where the hills swelled up into a steep bluff, with a\nwhite road, cut in the chalk, winding steeply up their green smooth\nsides. It was a fresh morning with a few white clouds racing merrily\noverhead, the shadows of which fell every now and then upon the down and\nran swiftly over it, like a flood of shade leaping down the sides. There\nwere few people to be seen anywhere; the fields were full of grass, with\nlarge daisies and high red sorrel. By midday he was beneath the front of\nBlackdown, and here he asked at a cottage of a good-natured woman, that\nwas bustling in and out, the way to the well. She answered him very\nkindly and described the path--it was not many yards away--and then\nasked where he came from, saying briskly, \"And what would you wish for?\nI should have thought you had all you could desire.\" \"Why, I hardly\nknow;\" said Paul smiling. \"It seems that I desire a thousand things, and\ncan scarcely give a name to one.\" \"That is ever the way,\" said the\nwoman, \"but the day will come when you will be content with one.\" Paul\ndid not understand what she meant, but thanked her and went on his way;\nand wondered that she stood so long looking after him.\n\nAt last he came to the spring. It was a pool in a field, ringed round by\nalders. Paul thought he had never seen a fairer place. There grew a\nnumber of great kingcups round the brim, with their flowers like\nglistening gold, and with cool thick stalks and fresh leaves. Inside the\nring of flowers the pool looked strangely deep and black; but looking\ninto it you could see the sand leaping at the bottom in three or four\ncones; and to the left the water bubbled away in a channel covered with\nwater-plants. Paul could see that there was an abundance of little\nthings at the bottom, half covered with sand--coins, flowers, even\nlittle jars--which he knew to be the gifts of wishers. So he flung his\nown coin in the pool, and saw it slide hither and thither, glancing in\nthe light, till it settled at the dark bottom. Then he dipped and drank,\nturned to the sun, and closing his eyes, said out loud, \"Give me what I\ndesire.\" And this he repeated three times, to be sure that he was heard.\nThen he opened his eyes again, and for a moment the place looked\ndifferent, with a strange grey light. But there was no answer to his\nprayer in heaven or earth, and the very sky seemed to wear a quiet\nsmile.\n\nPaul waited a little, half expecting some answer; but presently he\nturned his back upon the pool and walked slowly away; the down lay on\none side of him, looking solemn and dark over the trees which grew very\nplentifully; Paul thought that he would like to walk upon the down; so\nhe went up a little leafy lane that seemed to lead to it. Suddenly, as\nhe passed a small thicket, a voice hailed him; it was a rich and\ncheerful voice, and it came from under the trees. He turned in the\ndirection of the voice, which seemed to be but a few yards off, and saw,\nsitting on a green bank under the shade, two figures. One was a man of\nmiddle age, dressed lightly as though for travelling, and Paul thought\nsomewhat fantastically. His hat had a flower stuck in the band. But Paul\nthought little of the dress, because the face of the man attracted him;\nhe was sunburnt and strong-looking, and Paul at first thought he must be\na soldier; he had a short beard, and his hair was grown rather long; his\nface was deeply lined, but there was something wonderfully good-natured,\nfriendly, and kind about his whole expression. He was smiling, and his\nsmile showed small white teeth; and Paul felt in a moment that he could\ntrust him, and that the man was friendly disposed to himself and all the\nworld; friendly, not in a servile way, as one who wished to please, but\nin a sort of prodigal, royal way, as one who had great gifts to bestow,\nand was liberal of them, and looked to be made welcome. The other\nfigure was that of a boy rather older than himself, with a merry ugly\nface, who in looking at Paul, seemed yet to keep a sidelong and\ndeferential glance at the older man, as though admiring him, and\ndesiring to do as he did in all things.\n\n\"Where go you, pretty boy, alone in the noontide?\" said the man.\n\nPaul stopped and listened, and for a moment could not answer. Then he\nsaid, \"I am going to the down, sir, and I have been\"--he hesitated for a\nmoment--\"I have been to the Wishing Well.\"\n\n\"The Wishing Well?\" said the man gravely. \"I did not know there was one\nhereabouts. I thought that every one in this happy valley had been too\nwell content--and what did you wish for, if I may ask?\"\n\nPaul was silent and grew red; and then he said, \"Oh, just for my heart's\ndesire.\"\n\n\"That is either a very cautious or a very beautiful answer,\" said the\nman, \"and it gives me a lesson in manners; but will you not sit a little\nwith us in the shade?--and you shall hear a concert of music such as I\ndare say you shall hardly hear out of France or Italy. Do you practise\nmusic, child, the divine gift?\"\n\n\"I love it a little,\" said Paul, \"but I have no skill.\"\n\n\"Yet you look to me like one who might have skill,\" said the man; \"you\nhave the air of it--you look as though you listened, and as though you\ndreamed pleasant dreams. But, Jack,\" he said, turning to his boy, \"what\nshall we give our friend?--shall he have the 'Song of the Rose' first?\"\n\nThe boy at this word drew a little metal pipe out of his doublet, and\nput it to his lips; and the man reached out his hand and took up a small\nlute which lay on the bank beside him. He held up a warning finger to\nthe boy. \"Remember,\" he said, \"that you come in at the fifth chord,\ntogether with the voice--not before.\" He struck four simple chords on\nthe lute, very gently, and with a sort of dainty preciseness; and then\nat the same moment the little pipe and his own voice began; the pipe\nplayed a simple descant in quicker time, with two notes to each note of\nthe song, and the man in a brisk and simple way, as it were at the edge\nof his lips, sang a very sweet little country song, in a quiet homely\nmeasure.\n\nThere seemed to Paul to be nothing short of magic about it. There was a\nbeautiful restraint about the voice, which gave him a sense both of\npower and feeling held back; but it brought before him a sudden picture\nof a garden, and the sweet life of the flowers and little trees, taking\nwhat came, sunshine and rain, and just living and smiling, breathing\nfragrant breath from morning to night, and sleeping a light sleep till\nthey should waken to another tranquil day. He listened as if\nspellbound. There were but three verses, and though he could not\nremember the words, it seemed as though the rose spoke and told her\ndreams.\n\nHe could have listened for ever; but the voice made a sudden stop, not\nprolonging the last note, but keeping very closely to the time; the pipe\nplayed a little run, like an echo of the song, the man struck a brisk\nchord on the lute--and all was over. \"Bravely played, Jack!\" said the\nsinger; \"no musician could have played it better. You remembered what I\ntold you, to keep each note separate, and have no gliding. This song\nmust trip from beginning to end, like a brisk bird that hops on the\ngrass.\" Then he turned to Paul and, with a smile, said, \"Reverend sir,\nhow does my song please you?\"\n\n\"I never heard anything more beautiful,\" said Paul simply. \"I cannot say\nit, but it was like a door opened;\" and he looked at the minstrel with\nintent eyes;--\"may I hear it again?\" \"Boy,\" said the singer gravely, \"I\nhad rather have such a look as you gave me during the song than a golden\ncrown. You will not understand what I say, but you paid me the homage of\nthe pure heart, the best reward that the minstrel desires.\"\n\nThen he conferred with the other boy in a low tone, and struck a very\nsad yet strong chord upon his lute; and then, with a grave face, he sang\nwhat to Paul seemed like a dirge for a dead hero who had done with\nmortal things, and whose death seemed more a triumph than a sorrow. When\nhe had sung the first verse, the pipe came softly and sadly in, like the\nvoice of grief that could not be controlled, the weeping of those on\nwhom lay the shadow of loss. To Paul, in a dim way,--for he was but a\nchild--the song seemed the voice of the world, lamenting its noblest,\nyet triumphing in their greatness, and desirous to follow in their\nsteps. It brought before him all the natural sorrows of death, the call\nto quit the sweet and pleasant things of the world--a call that could\nnot be denied, and that was in itself indeed stronger and even sweeter\nthan the delights which it bade its listeners leave. And Paul seemed to\nwalk in some stately procession of men far off and ancient, who followed\na great king to the grave, and whose hearts were too full of wonder to\nthink yet what they had lost. It was an uplifting sadness; and when the\nsterner strain came to an end, Paul said very quietly, putting into\nwords the thoughts of his full heart, \"I did not think that death could\nbe so beautiful.\" And the minstrel smiled, but Paul saw that his eyes\nwere full of tears.\n\nThen all at once the minstrel struck the lute swiftly and largely, and\nsang a song of those that march to victory, not elated nor excited, but\nstrong to dare and to do; and Paul felt his heart beat within him, and\nhe longed to be of the company. After he had sung this to an end, there\nwas a silence, and the minstrel said to Paul, yet as though half\nspeaking to himself, \"There, my son, I have given you a specimen of my\nart; and I think from your look that you might be of the number of those\nthat make these rich jewels that men call songs; and should you try to\ndo so, be mindful of these two things: let them be perfect first. You\nwill make many that are not perfect. In some the soul will be wanting;\nin others the body, in a manner of speaking, will be amiss; for they are\nliving things, these songs, and he that makes them is a kind of god.\nWell, if you cannot mend one, throw it aside and think no more of it. Do\nnot save it because it has some gracious touch, for in this are the\nmasters of the craft different from the mere makers of songs. The master\nwill have nothing but what is perfect within and without, while the\nlesser craftsman will save a poor song for the sake of a fine line or\nphrase.\n\n\"And next, you must do it for the love of your art, and not for the\npraise it wins you. That is a poisoned wine, of which if you drink, you\nwill never know the pure and high tranquillity of spirit that befits a\nmaster. The master may be discouraged and troubled oft, but he must have\nin his soul a blessed peace, and know the worth and beauty of what he\ndoes; for there is nothing nobler than to make beautiful things, and to\nenlighten the generous heart. Fighting is a fair trade, and though it is\nnoble in much, yet its end is to destroy; but the master of song mars\nnought, but makes joy;--and that is the end of my sermon for the time.\nAnd now,\" he added briskly, \"I must be going, for I have far to fare;\nbut I shall pass by this way again, and shall inquire of your welfare;\ntell me your name and where you live.\" So Paul told him, and then added\ntimidly enough that he would fain know how to begin to practise his art.\n\"Silence!\" said the minstrel, rather fiercely; \"that is an evil and\ntimorous thought. If you are worthy, you will find the way.\" And so in\nthe hot afternoon he said farewell, and walked lightly off. And Paul\nstood in wonder and hope, and saw the two figures leave the flat, take\nto the down, and wind up the steep road, ever growing smaller, till they\ntopped the ridge, where they seemed to stand a moment larger than human;\nand presently they were lost from view.\n\nSo Paul made his way home; and when he pushed the gate of Heritage open,\nhe wondered to think that he could recollect nothing of the road he had\ntraversed. He went up to the house and entered the hall. There sate\nMistress Alison, reading in a little book. She closed it as he came in,\nand looked at him with a smile. Paul went up to her and said, \"Mother\"\n(so he was used to call her), \"I have heard songs to-day such as I never\ndreamt of, and I pray you to let me learn the art of making music; I\nmust be a minstrel.\" \"'Must' is a grave word, dear heart,\" said Mistress\nAlison, looking somewhat serious; \"but let me hear your story first.\"\nSo Paul told of his meeting with the minstrel. Mistress Alison sate\nmusing a long time, smiling when she met Paul's eye, till he said at\nlast, \"Will you not speak, mother?\" \"I know,\" she said at last, \"whom\nyou have met, dear child--that is Mark, the great minstrel. He travels\nabout the land, for he is a restless man, though the king himself would\nhave him dwell in his court, and make music for him. Yet I have looked\nfor this day, though it has come when I did not expect it. And now I\nmust tell you a story, Paul, in my turn. Many years ago there was a boy\nlike you, and he loved music too and the making of songs, and he grew to\ngreat skill therein. But it was at last his ruin, for he got to love\nriotous company and feasting too well; and so his skill forsook him, as\nit does those that live not cleanly and nobly. And he married a young\nwife, having won her by his songs, and a child was born to them. But the\nminstrel fell sick and presently died, and his last prayer was that his\nson might not know the temptation of song. And his wife lingered a\nlittle, but she soon pined away, for her heart was broken within her;\nand she too died. And now, Paul, listen, for the truth must be told--you\nare that child, the son of sorrow and tears. And here you have lived\nwith me all your life; but because the tale was a sad one, I have\nforborne to tell it you. I have waited and wondered to see whether the\ngift of the father is given to the son; and sometimes I have thought it\nmight be yours, and sometimes I have doubted. And now, child, we will\ntalk of this no more to-day, for it is ill to decide in haste. Think\nwell over what I have said, and see if it makes a difference in your\nwishes. I have told you all the tale.\"\n\nNow the story that Mistress Alison had told him dwelt very much in\nPaul's mind that night; but it seemed to him strange and far off, and he\ndid not doubt what the end should be. It was as though the sight of the\nminstrel, his songs and words, had opened a window in his mind, and that\nhe saw out of it a strange and enchanted country, of woods and streams,\nwith a light of evening over it, bounded by far-off hills, all blue and\nfaint, among which some beautiful thing was hidden for him to find; it\nseemed to call him softly to come; the trees smiled upon him, the voice\nof the streams bade him make haste--it all waited for him, like a\ncountry waiting for its lord to come and take possession.\n\nThen it seemed to him that his soul slipped like a bird from the window,\nand rising in the air over that magical land, beat its wings softly in\nthe pale heaven; and then like a dove that knows, by some inborn\nmysterious art, which way its path lies, his spirit paused upon the\nbreeze, and then sailed out across the tree-tops. Whither? Paul knew\nnot. And so at last he slipped into a quiet sleep.\n\nHe woke in the morning all of a sudden, with a kind of tranquil joy and\npurpose; and when he was dressed, and gone into the hall, he found\nMistress Alison sitting in her chair beside the table laid for their\nmeal. She was silent and looked troubled, and Paul went up softly to\nher, and kissed her and said, \"I have chosen.\" She did not need to ask\nhim what he had chosen, but put her arm about him and said, \"Then, dear\nPaul, be content--and we will have one more day together, the last of\nthe old days; and to-morrow shall the new life begin.\"\n\nSo the two passed a long and quiet day together. For to the wise and\nloving-hearted woman this was the last of sweet days, and her soul went\nout to the past with a great hunger of love; but she stilled it as was\nher wont, saying to herself that this dear passage of life had hitherto\nonly been like the clear trickling of a woodland spring, while the love\nof the Father's heart was as it were a great river of love marching\nsoftly to a wide sea, on which river the very world itself floated like\na flower-bloom between widening banks.\n\nAnd indeed if any had watched them that day, it would have seemed that\nshe was the serener; for the thought of the life that lay before him\nworked like wine in the heart of Paul, and he could only by an effort\nbring himself back to loving looks and offices of tenderness. They spent\nthe whole day together, for the most part in a peaceful silence; and at\nlast the sun went down, and a cool breeze came up out of the west, laden\nwith scent from miles and miles of grass and flowers, which seemed to\nbear with it the fragrant breath of myriads of sweet living things.\n\nThen they ate together what was the last meal they were to take thus\nalone. And at last Mistress Alison would have Paul go to rest. And so\nshe took his hand in hers, and said, \"Dear child, the good years are\nover now; but you will not forget them; only lean upon the Father, for\nHe is very strong; and remember that though the voice of melody is\nsweet, yet the loving heart is deeper yet.\" And then Paul suddenly broke\nout into a passion of weeping, and kissed his old friend on hand and\ncheek and lips; and then he burst away, ashamed, if the truth be told,\nthat his love was not deeper than he found it to be.\n\nHe slept a light sleep that night, his head pillowed on his hand, with\nmany strange dreams ranging through his head. Among other fancies, some\nsweet, some dark, he heard a delicate passage of melody played, it\nseemed to him, by three silver-sounding flutes, so delicate that he\ncould hardly contain himself for gladness; but among his sadder dreams\nwas one of a little man habited like a minstrel who played an ugly\nenchanted kind of melody on a stringed lute, and smiled a treacherous\nsmile at him; Paul woke in a sort of fever of the spirit; and rising\nfrom his bed, felt the floor cool to his feet, and drew his curtain\naside; in a tender radiance of dawn he saw the barn, deep in shadow, in\nthe little garden; and over them a little wood-end that he knew well by\nday--a simple place enough--but now it had a sort of magical dreaming\nair; the mist lay softly about it like the breath of sleep; and the\ntrees, stretching wistfully their leafy arms, seemed to him to be full\nof silent prayer, or to be hiding within them some divine secret that\nmight not be shown to mortal eyes. He looked long at this; and presently\nwent back to his bed, and shivered in a delicious warmth, while outside,\nvery gradually, came the peaceful stir of morning. A bird or two fluted\ndrowsily in the bushes; then another further away would join his slender\nsong; a cock crew cheerily in a distant grange, and soon it was broad\nday. Presently the house began to be softly astir; and the faint\nfragrance of an early kindled fire of wood stole into the room. Then\nworn out by his long vigil he fell asleep again; and soon waking, knew\nit to be later than was his wont, and dressed with haste. He came down,\nand heard voices in the hall; he went in, and there saw Mistress Alison\nin her chair; and on the hearth, talking gaily and cheerily, stood Mark\nthe minstrel. They made a pause when he came in. Mark extended his hand,\nwhich Paul took with a kind of reverence. Then Mistress Alison, with her\nsweet old smile, said to Paul, \"So you made a pilgrimage to the Well of\nthe Heart's Desire, dear Paul? Well, you have your wish, and very soon;\nfor here is a master for you, if you will serve him.\" \"Not a light\nservice, Paul,\" said Mark gravely, \"but a true one. I can take you with\nme when you may go, for my boy Jack is fallen sick with a stroke of the\nsun, and must bide at home awhile.\" They looked at Paul, to see what he\nwould say. \"Oh, I will go gladly,\" he said, \"if I may.\" And then he\nfelt he had not spoken lovingly; so he kissed Mistress Alison, who\nsmiled, but somewhat sadly, and said, \"Yes, Paul--I understand.\"\n\nSo when the meal was over, Paul's small baggage was made ready, and he\nkissed Mistress Alison--and then she said to Mark with a sudden look,\n\"You will take care of him?\" \"Oh, he shall be safe with me,\" said Mark,\n\"and if he be apt and faithful, he shall learn his trade, as few can\nlearn it.\" And then Paul said his good-bye, and walked away with Mark;\nand his heart was so full of gladness that he stepped out lightly and\nblithely, and hardly looked back. But at the turn of the road he\nstopped, while Mark seemed to consider him gravely. The three that were\nto abide, Mistress Alison, and the maid, and the old gardener, stood at\nthe door and waved their hands; the old house seemed to look fondly out\nof its windows at him, as though it had a heart; and the very trees\nseemed to wave him a soft farewell. Paul waved his hand too, and a tear\ncame into his eyes; but he was eager to be gone; and indeed, in his\nheart, he felt almost jealous of even the gentle grasp of his home upon\nhis heart. And so Mark and Paul set out for the south.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nOf the life that Paul lived with Mark I must not here tell; but before\nhe grew to full manhood he had learned his art well. Mark was a strict\nmaster, but not impatient. The only thing that angered him was\ncarelessness or listlessness; and Paul was an apt and untiring pupil,\nand learnt so easily and deftly that Mark was often astonished. \"How did\nyou learn that?\" he said one day suddenly to Paul when the boy was\npractising on the lute, and played a strange soft cadence, of a kind\nthat Mark had never heard. The boy was startled by the question, for he\nhad not thought that Mark was listening to him. He looked up with a\nblush and turned his eyes on Mark. \"Is it not right?\" he said. \"I did\nnot learn it; it comes from somewhere in my mind.\"\n\nPaul learnt to play several instruments, both wind and string. Sometimes\nhe loved one sort the best, sometimes the other. The wind instruments of\nwood had to him a kind of soft magic, like the voice of a gentle spirit,\na spirit that dwelt in lonely unvisited places, and communed more with\nthings of earth than the hearts of men. In the flutes and bassoons\nseemed to him to dwell the voices of airs that murmured in the thickets,\nthe soft gliding of streams, the crooning of serene birds, the peace of\nnoonday, the welling of clear springs, the beauty of little waves, the\nbright thoughts of stars. Sometimes in certain modes, they could be sad,\nbut it was the sadness of lonely homeless things, old dreaming spirits\nof wind and wave, not the sadness of such things as had known love and\nlost what they had loved, but the melancholy of such forlorn beings as\nby their nature were shut out from the love that dwells about the\nfirelit hearth and the old roofs of homesteads. It was the sadness of\nthe wind that wails in desolate places, knowing that it is lonely, but\nnot knowing what it desires; or the soft sighing of trees that murmur\nall together in a forest, dreaming each its own dream, but with no\nthought of comradeship or desire.\n\nThe metal instruments, out of which the cunning breath could draw bright\nmusic, seemed to him soulless too in a sort, but shrill and enlivening.\nThese clarions and trumpets spoke to him of brisk morning winds, or the\ncold sharp plunge of green waves that leap in triumph upon rocks. To\nsuch sounds he fancied warriors marching out at morning, with the joy of\nfight in their hearts, meaning to deal great blows, to slay and be\nslain, and hardly thinking of what would come after, so sharp and swift\nan eagerness of spirit held them; but these instruments he loved less.\n\nBest of all he loved the resounding strings that could be twanged by the\nquill, or swept into a heavenly melody by the finger-tips, or throb\nbeneath the strongly-drawn bow. In all of these lay the secrets of the\nheart; in these Paul heard speak the bright dreams of the child, the\nvague hopes of growing boy or girl, the passionate desires of love, the\nsilent loyalty of equal friendship, the dreariness of the dejected\nspirit, whose hopes have set like the sun smouldering to his fall, the\nrebellious grief of the heart that loses what it loves, the darkening\nfears that begin to roll about the ageing mind, like clouds that weep on\nmountain tops, and the despair of sinners, finding the evil too strong.\n\nBest of all it was when all these instruments could conspire together to\nweave a sudden dream of beauty that seemed to guard a secret. What was\nthe secret? It seemed so near to Paul sometimes, as if he were like a\nman very near the edge of some mountain from which he may peep into an\nunknown valley. Sometimes it was far away. But it was there, he doubted\nnot, though it hid itself. It was like a dance of fairies in a forest\nglade, which a man could half discern through the screening leaves; but,\nwhen he gains the place, he sees nothing but tall flowers with drooping\nbells, bushes set with buds, large-leaved herbs, all with a silent,\nsecret, smiling air, as though they said, \"We have seen, we could tell.\"\n\nPaul seemed very near this baffling secret at times; in the dewy silence\nof mornings, just before the sun comes up, when familiar woods and trees\nstand in a sort of musing happiness; at night when the sky is thickly\nsown with stars, or when the moon rises in a soft hush and silvers the\nsleeping pool; or when the sun goes down in a rich pomp, trailing a\ngreat glow of splendour with him among cloudy islands, all flushed with\nfiery red. When the sun withdrew himself thus, flying and flaring to\nthe west, behind the boughs of leafless trees, what was the hidden\nsecret presence that stood there as it were finger on lip, inviting yet\ndenying? Paul knew within himself that if he could but say or sing this,\nthe world would never forget. But he could not yet.\n\nThen, too, Paul learned the magic of words, the melodious accent of\nletters, sometimes so sweet, sometimes so harsh; then the growing\nphrase, the word that beckons as it were other words to join it\ntrippingly; the thought that draws the blood to the brain, and sets the\nheart beating swiftly--he learned the words that sound like far-off\nbells, or that wake a gentle echo in the spirit, the words that burn\ninto the heart, and make the hearer ashamed of all that is hard and low.\nBut he learned, too, that the craftsman in words must not build up his\nsong word by word, as a man fetches bricks to make a wall; but that he\nmust see the whole thought clear first, in a kind of divine flash, so\nthat when he turns for words to write it, he finds them piled to his\nhand.\n\nAll these things Paul learnt, and day by day he suffered all the sweet\nsurprises and joys of art. There were days that were not so, when the\nstrings jangled aimlessly, and seemed to have no soul in them; days when\nit appeared that the cloud could not lift, as though light and music\ntogether were dead in the world--but these days were few; and Paul\ngrowing active and strong, caring little what he ate and drank, tasting\nno wine, because it fevered him at first, and then left him ill at ease,\nknowing no evil or luxurious thoughts, sleeping lightly and hardly,\nfound his spirits very pure and plentiful; or if he was sad, it was a\nclear sadness that had something beautiful within it, and dwelt not on\nany past grossness of his own, but upon the thought that all beautiful\nthings can but live for a time, and must then be laid away in the\ndarkness and in the cold.\n\nSo Paul grew up knowing neither friendship nor love, only stirred at\nthe sight of a beautiful face, a shapely hand, or a slender form; by a\ngrateful wonder for what was so fair; untainted by any desire to master\nit, or make it his own; living only for his art, and with a sort of\nblind devotion to Mark, whom he soon excelled, though he knew it not.\nMark once said to him, when Paul had made a song of some old forgotten\nsorrow, \"How do you know all this, boy? You have not suffered, you have\nnot lived!\" \"Oh,\" said Paul gaily, knowing it to be praise, \"my heart\ntells me it is so.\"\n\nPaul, too, as he grew to manhood, found himself with a voice that was\nnot loud, but true--a voice that thrilled those who heard it through and\nthrough; but it seemed strange that he felt not what he made other men\nfeel; rather his music was like a still pool that can reflect all that\nis above it, the sombre tree, the birds that fly over, the starry\nsilence of the night, the angry redness of the dawn.\n\nIt was on one of his journeys with Mark that the news of Mistress\nAlison's death reached him. Mark told him very carefully and tenderly,\nand while he repeated the three or four broken words in which Mistress\nAlison had tried to send a last message to Paul--for the end had come\nvery suddenly--Mark himself found his voice falter, and his eyes fill\nwith tears. Paul had, at that sight, cried a little; but his life at the\nHouse of Heritage seemed to have faded swiftly out of his thoughts; he\nwas living very intently in the present, scaling, as it were, day by\nday, with earnest effort, the steep ladder of song. He thought a little\nupon Mistress Alison, and on all her love and goodness: but it was with\na tranquil sorrow, and not with the grief and pain of loss. Mark was\nvery gentle with him for awhile; and this indeed did shame Paul a\nlittle, to find himself being used so lovingly for a sorrow which he was\nhardly feeling. But he said to himself that sorrow must come unbidden,\nand that it was no sorrow that was made with labour and intention. He\nwas a little angered with himself for his dulness--but then song was so\nbeautiful, that he could think of nothing else; he was dazzled.\n\nA little while after, Mark asked him whether, as they were near at hand,\nhe would turn aside to see Mistress Alison's grave. And Paul said, \"No;\nI would rather feel it were all as it used to be!\"--and then seeing that\nMark looked surprised and almost grieved, Paul, with the gentle\nhypocrisy of childhood, said, \"I cannot bear it yet,\" which made Mark\nsilent, and he said no more, but used Paul more gently than ever.\n\nOne day Mark said to him, very gravely, as if he had long been pondering\nthe matter, \"It is time for me to take another pupil, Paul. I have\ntaught you all I know; indeed you have learned far more than I can\nteach.\" Then he told him that he had arranged all things meetly. That\nthere was a certain Duke who lacked a minstrel, and that Paul should go\nand abide with him. That he should have his room at the castle, and\nshould be held in great honour, making music only when he would. And\nthen Mark would have added some words of love, for he loved Paul as a\nson. But Paul seemed to have no hunger in his heart, no thought of the\ndays they had spent together; so Mark said them not. But he added very\ngently, \"And one thing, Paul, I must tell you. You will be a great\nmaster--indeed you are so already--and I can tell you nothing about the\nart that you do not know. But one thing I will tell you--that you have a\nhuman heart within you that is not yet awake: and when it awakes, it\nwill be very strong; so that a great combat, I think, lies before you.\nSee that it overcome you not!\" And Paul said wondering, \"Oh, I have a\nheart, but it is altogether given to song.\" And so Mark was silent.\n\nThen Paul went to the Duke's Castle of Wresting and abode with him year\nafter year. Here, too, he made no friend; he was gracious with all, and\nof a lofty courtesy, so that he was had in reverence; and he made such\nmusic that the tears would come into the eyes of those who heard him,\nand they would look at each other, and wonder how Paul could thus tell\nthe secret hopes of the heart. There were many women in the castle,\ngreat ladies, young maidens, and those that attended on them. Some of\nthese would have proffered love to Paul, but their glances fell before a\ncertain cold, virginal, almost affronted look, that he turned to meet\nany smile or gesture that seemed to hold in it any personal claim, or to\noffer any gift but that of an equal and serene friendship. As a maiden\nof the castle once said, provoked by his coldness, \"Sir Paul seems to\nhave everything to say to all of us, but nothing to any one of us.\" He\nwas kind to all with a sort of great and distant courtesy that was too\nsecure even to condescend. And so the years passed away.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nIt was nearly noon at the Castle of Wresting, and the whole house was\ndeserted, for the Duke had ridden out at daybreak to the hunt; and all\nthat could find a horse to ride had gone with him; and, for it was not\nfar afield, all else that could walk had gone afoot. So bright and\ncheerful a day was it that the Duchess had sent out her pavilion to be\npitched in a lawn in the wood, and the Duke with his friends were to\ndine there; none were left in the castle save a few of the elder\nserving-maids, and the old porter, who was lame. About midday, however,\nit seemed that one had been left; for Paul, now a tall man, strongly\nbuilt and comely, yet with a somewhat dreamful air, as though he\npondered difficult things within himself, and a troubled brow, under\nwhich looked out large and gentle eyes, came with a quick step down a\nstairway. He turned neither to right nor left, but passed through the\nporter's lodge. Here the road from the town came up into the castle on\nthe left, cut steeply in the hill, and you could see the red roofs laid\nout like a map beneath, with the church and the bridge; to the right ran\na little terrace under the wall. Paul came through the lodge, nodding\ngravely to the porter, who returned his salute with a kind of reverence;\nthen he walked on to the terrace, and stood for a moment leaning against\nthe low wall that bounded it; below him lay for miles the great wood of\nWresting, now all ablaze with the brave gold of autumn leaves; here was\na great tract of beeches all rusty red; there was the pale gold of elms.\nThe forest lay in the plain, here and there broken by clearings or open\nglades; in one or two places could be seen the roofs of villages, with\nthe tower of a church rising gravely among trees. On the horizon ran a\nblue line of downs, pure and fine above the fretted gold of the forest.\nThe air was very still, with a fresh sparkle in it, and the sun shone\nbright in a cloudless heaven; it was a day when the heaviest heart grows\nlight, and when it seems the bravest thing that can be designed to be\nalive.\n\nOnce or twice, as Paul leaned to look, there came from the wood, very\nfar away, the faint notes of a horn; he smiled to hear it, and it seemed\nas though some merry thought came into his head, for he beat cheerfully\nwith his fingers on the parapet. Presently he seemed to bethink himself,\nand then walked briskly to the end of the terrace, where was a little\ndoor in the wall; he pushed this open, and found himself at the head of\na flight of stone steps, with low walls on either hand, that ran turning\nand twisting according to the slope of the hill, down into the wood.\n\nPaul went lightly down the steps; once or twice he turned and looked up\nat the grey walls and towers of the castle, rising from the steep green\nturf at their foot, above the great leafless trees--for the trees on the\nslope lost their leaves first in the wind. The sight pleased him, for he\nsmiled again. Then he stood for a moment, lower down, to watch the great\nlimbs and roots of a huge beech that seemed to cling to the slope for\nfear of slipping downwards. He came presently to a little tower at the\nbottom that guarded the steps. The door was locked; he knocked, and\nthere came out an old woman with a merry wrinkled face, who opened it\nfor him with a key, saying, \"Do you go to the hunt, Sir Paul?\" \"Nay,\" he\nsaid smiling, \"only to walk a little alone in the wood.\" \"To make music,\nperhaps?\" said the old woman shyly. \"Perhaps,\" said Paul smiling, \"if\nthe music come--but it will not always come for the wishing.\"\n\nAs Paul walked in the deep places of the wood, little by little his\nfresh holiday mood died away, and there crept upon him a shadow of\nthought that had of late been no stranger to him. He asked himself, with\nsome bitterness, what his life was tending to. There was no loss of\nskill in his art; indeed it was easier to him than ever; he had a rich\nand prodigal store of music in him, music both of word and sound, that\ncame at his call. But the zest was leaving him. He had attained to his\nutmost desire, and in his art there was nothing more to conquer. But as\nhe looked round about him and saw all the beautiful chains of love\nmultiplying themselves about those among whom he lived, he began to\nwonder whether he was not after all missing life itself. He saw children\nborn, he saw them growing up; then they, too, found their own path of\nlove, they married, or were given in marriage; presently they had\nchildren of their own; and even death itself, that carried well-loved\nsouls into the dark world, seemed to forge new chains of faith and\nloyalty. All this he could say and did say in his music. He knew it, he\ndivined it by some magical instinct; he could put into words and sounds\nthe secrets that others could not utter--and there his art stopped. It\ncould not bring him within the charmed circle--nay, it seemed to him\nthat it was even like a fence that kept him outside. He looked forward\nto a time when his art of itself must fade, when other minstrels should\narise with new secrets of power; and what would become of him then?\n\nHe had by this time walked very far into the wood, and as he came down\nthrough a little rise, covered with leafy thickets, he saw before him a\ngreen track, that wound away among the trees. He followed it listlessly.\nThe track led him through a beech wood; the smooth and shapely stems,\nthat stood free of undergrowth, thickly roofed over by firm and glossy\nautumn foliage, with the rusty fallen floor of last year's leaves\nunderfoot, brought back to him his delight in the sweet and fresh\nworld--so beautiful whatever the restless human heart desired in its\npresence.\n\nHe became presently aware that he was approaching some dwelling, he knew\nnot what; and then the trees grew thinner; and in a minute he was out in\na little forest clearing, where stood, in a small and seemly garden,\ninclosed with hedges and low walls and a moat, a forest lodge, a long\nlow ancient building, ending in a stone tower.\n\nThe place had a singular charm. The ancient battlemented house,\novergrown with ivy, the walls green and grey with lichens, seemed to\nhave sprung as naturally out of the soil as the trees among which it\nstood, and to have become one with the place. He lingered for a moment\non the edge of the moat, looking at a little tower that rose out of the\npool, mirrored softly in the open spaces of the water, among the\nlily-leaves. The whole place seemed to have a wonderful peace about it;\nthere was no sound but the whisper of leaves, and the doves crooning,\nin their high branching fastnesses, a song of peace.\n\nAs Paul stood thus and looked upon the garden, a door opened, and there\ncame out a lady, not old, but well advanced in years, with a shrewd and\nkindly face; and then Paul felt a sort of shame within him, for standing\nand spying at what was not his own; and he would have hurried away, but\nthe lady waved her hand to him with a courtly air, as though inviting\nhim to approach. So he came forward, and crossing the moat by a little\nbridge that was hard by, he met her at the gate. He doffed his hat, and\nsaid a few words asking pardon for thus intruding on a private place,\nbut she gave him a swift smile and said, \"Sir Paul, no more of this--you\nare known to me, though you know me not. I have been at the Duke's as a\nguest; I have heard you sing--indeed,\" she added smiling, \"I have been\nhonoured by having been made known to the prince of musical men--but he\nhath forgotten my poor self; I am the Lady Beckwith, who welcomes you\nto her poor house--the Isle of Thorns, as they call it--and will deem it\nan honour that you should set foot therein; though I think that you came\nnot for my sake.\"\n\n\"Alas, madam, no,\" said Paul smiling too. \"I did but walk solitary in\nthe forest; I am lacking in courtesy, I fear; I knew not that there was\na house here, but it pleased me to see it lie like a jewel in the wood.\"\n\n\"You knew not it was here, or you would have shunned it!\" said the Lady\nBeckwith with a smile. \"Well, I live here solitary enough with my\ndaughters--my husband is long since dead--but to-day we must have a\nguest--you will enter and tarry with us a little?\"\n\n\"Yes, very willingly,\" said Paul, who, like many men that care not much\nfor company, was tenderly courteous when there was no escape. So after\nsome further passages of courtesy, they went within.\n\nThe Lady Beckwith led him into a fair tapestried room, and bade him be\nseated, while she went to call upon her servants to make ready\nrefreshments for him. Paul seated himself in an oak chair and looked\naround him. The place was but scantily furnished, but Paul had pleasure\nin looking upon the old solid furniture, which reminded him of the House\nof Heritage and of his far-off boyhood. He was pleased, too, with the\ntapestry, which represented a wood of walnut-trees, and a man that sate\nlooking upon a stream as though he listened; and then Paul discerned the\nfigure of a brave bird wrought among the leaves, that seemed to sing;\nwhile he looked, he heard the faint sound in a room above of some one\nmoving; then a lute was touched, and then there rose a soft voice, very\npure and clear, that sang a short song of long sweet notes, with a\ndescant on the lute, ending in a high drawn-out note, that went to\nPaul's heart like wine poured forth, and seemed to fill the room with a\nkind of delicate fragrance.\n\nPresently the Lady Beckwith returned; and they sate and talked awhile,\ntill there came suddenly into the room a maiden that seemed to Paul like\na rose; she came almost eagerly forward; and Paul knew in his mind that\nit was she that had sung; and there passed through his heart a feeling\nhe had never known before; it was as though it were a string that\nthrilled with a kind of delicious pain at being bidden by the touch of a\nfinger to utter its voice.\n\n\"This is my daughter Margaret;\" said the Lady Beckwith; \"she knows your\nfame in song, but she has never had the fortune to hear you sing, and\nshe loves song herself.\"\n\n\"And does more than love it,\" said Paul almost tremblingly, feeling the\neyes of the maiden set upon his face; \"for I heard but now a lute\ntouched, and a voice that sang a melody I know not, as few that I know\ncould have sung it.\"\n\nThe maiden stood smiling at him, and then Paul saw that she carried a\nlute in her hand; and she said eagerly, \"Will you not sing to us, Sir\nPaul?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said the Lady Beckwith smiling, \"but this is beyond courtesy! It\nis to ask a prince to our house, and beg for the jewels that he wears.\"\n\nThe maiden blushed rosy red, and put the lute by; but Paul stretched out\nhis hand for it. \"I will sing most willingly,\" he said. \"What is my life\nfor, but to make music for those who would hear?\"\n\nHe touched a few chords to see that the lute was well tuned; and the\nlute obeyed his touch like a living thing; and then Paul sang a song of\nspring-time that made the hearts of the pair dance with joy. When he had\nfinished, he smiled, meeting the smiles of both; and said, \"And now we\nwill have a sad song--for those are ever the sweetest--joy needs not to\nbe made sweet.\"\n\nSo he sang a sorrowful song that he had made one winter day, when he had\nfound the body of a little bird that had died of the frost and the hard\nsilence of the unfriendly earth--a song of sweet things broken and good\ntimes gone by; and before he had finished he had brought the tears to\nthe eyes of the pair. The Lady Beckwith brushed them aside--but the girl\nsate watching him, her hands together, and a kind of worship in her\nface, with the bright tears trembling on her cheeks. And Paul thought he\nhad never seen a fairer thing; but wishing to dry the tears he made a\nlittle merry song, like the song of gnats that dance up and down in the\nsun, and love their silly play--so that the two smiled again.\n\nThen they thanked him very urgently, and Margaret said, \"If only dear\nHelen could hear this\"; and the Lady Beckwith said, \"Helen is my other\ndaughter, and she lies abed, and may not come forth.\"\n\nThen they put food before him; and they ate together, Margaret serving\nhim with meat and wine; and Paul would have forbidden it, but the Lady\nBeckwith said, \"That is the way of our house--and you are our guest and\nmust be content--for Margaret loves to serve you.\" The girl said little,\nbut as she moved about softly and deftly, with the fragrance of youth\nabout her, Paul had a desire to draw her to him, that made him ashamed\nand ill at ease. So the hours sped swiftly. The maiden talked little,\nbut the Lady Beckwith had much matter for little speech; she asked Paul\nmany questions, and told him something of her own life, and how, while\nthe good Sir Harry, her husband, lived, she had been much with the\nworld, but now lived a quiet life, \"Like a wrinkled apple-tree behind a\nhouse,\" she added with a smile, \"guarding my fruit, till it be plucked\nfrom the bough.\" And she went on to say that though she had feared, when\nshe entered the quiet life, the days would hang heavy, yet there never\nseemed time enough for all the small businesses that she was fain to do.\n\nWhen the day began to fall, and the shadows of the trees out of the\nforest began to draw nearer across the lawn, Paul rose and said, \"Come,\nI will sing you a song of farewell and thanks for this day of pleasure,\"\nand he made them a cheerful ditty; and so took his leave, the Lady\nBeckwith saying that they would speak of his visit for many days--and\nthat she hoped that if his fancy led him again through the wood, he\nwould come to them; \"For you will find an open door, and a warm hearth,\nand friends who look for you.\" So Paul went, and walked through the low\nred sunset with a secret joy in his heart; and never had he sung so\nmerrily as he sang that night in the hall of the Duke; so that the Duke\nsaid smiling that they must often go a-hunting, and leave Sir Paul\nbehind, for that seemed to fill him to the brim with divine melody.\n\nNow Paul that night, before he laid him down to sleep, stood awhile, and\nmade a prayer in his heart. It must be said that as a child he had\nprayed night and morning, in simple words that Mistress Alison had\ntaught him, but in the years when he was with Mark the custom had died\naway; for Mark prayed not, and indeed had almost an enmity to churches\nand to priests, saying that they made men bound who would otherwise be\nfree; and he had said to Paul once that he prayed the best who lived\nnobly and generously, and made most perfect whatever gift he had; who\nwas kind and courteous, and used all men the same, whether old or young,\ngreat or little; adding, \"That is my creed, and not the creed of the\npriests--but I would not have you take it from me thus--a man may not\nborrow the secret of another's heart, and wear it for his own. All\nfaiths are good that make a man live cleanly and lovingly and\nlaboriously; and just as all men like not the same music, so all men are\nnot suited with the same faith; we all tend to the same place, but by\ndifferent ways; and each man should find the nearest way for him.\"\nPaul, after that, had followed his own heart in the matter; and it led\nhim not wholly in the way of the priests, but not against them, as it\nled Mark. Paul took some delight in the ordered solemnities of the\nChurch, the dark coolness of the arched aisles, the holy smell--he felt\nthere the nearer to God. And to be near to God was what Paul desired;\nbut he gave up praying at formal seasons, and spoke with God in his\nheart, as a man might speak to his friend, whenever he was moved to\nspeak; he asked His aid before the making of a song; he told Him when he\nwas disheartened, or when he desired what he ought not; he spoke to Him\nwhen he had done anything of which he was ashamed; and he told Him of\nhis dreams and of his joys. Sometimes he would speak thus for half a day\ntogether, and feel a quiet comfort, like a strong arm round him; but\nsometimes he would be silent for a long while.\n\nNow this night he spoke in his heart to God, and told him of the sweet\nand beautiful hope that had come to him, and asked Him to make known to\nhim whether it was His will that he should put forth his hand, and\ngather the flower of the wood--for he could not even in his secret heart\nbring himself that night to speak, even to God, directly about the\nmaiden; but, in a kind of soft reverence, he used gentle similitudes.\nAnd then he leaned from his window, and strove to send his spirit out\nlike a bird over the sleeping wood, to light upon the tower; and then\nhis thought leapt further, and he seemed to see the glimmering maiden\nchamber where she slept, breathing evenly. But even in thought this\nseemed to him too near, as though the vision were lacking in that awful\nreverence, which is the herald of love. So he thought that his spirit\nshould sit, like a white bird, on the battlement, and send out a quiet\nsong.\n\nAnd then he fell asleep, and slept dreamlessly till the day came in\nthrough the casements; when he sprang up, and joy darted into his heart,\nas when a servitor fills a cup to the brim with rosy and bubbling wine.\n\nNow that day, and the next, and for several days, Paul thought of little\nelse but the house in the wood and the maiden that dwelt there. Even\nwhile he read or wrote, pictures would flash before his eye. He saw\nMargaret stand before him, with the lute in her hand; or he would see\nher as she had moved about serving him, or he would see her as she had\nsate to hear him sing, or as she had stood at the door as he went\nforth--and all with a sweet hunger of the heart; till it seemed to him\nthat this was the only true thing that the world held, and he would be\namazed that he had missed it for so long. That he was in the same world\nwith her; that the air that passed over the house in the wood was\npresently borne to the castle; that they two looked upon the same sky,\nand the same stars--this was all to him like a delicate madness that\nwrought within his brain. And yet he could not bring himself to go\nthither. The greater his longing the more he felt unable to go without a\ncause; and yet the thought that there might be other men that visited\nthe Lady Beckwith, and had more of the courtly and desirable arts of\nlife than he, was like a bitter draught--and so the days went on; and\nnever had he made richer music; it seemed to rush from his brain like\nthe water of a full spring.\n\nA few days after, there was a feast at the castle and many were bidden;\nand Paul thought in his heart that the Lady Beckwith would perhaps be\nthere. So he made a very tender song of love to sing, the song of a\nheart that loves and dares not fully speak.\n\nWhen the hour drew on for the banquet, he attired himself with a care\nwhich he half despised, and when the great bell of the castle rang, he\nwent down his turret stairs with a light step. The custom was for the\nguests to assemble in the great hall of the castle; but they of the\nDuke's household, of whom Paul was one, gathered in a little chamber off\nthe hall. Then, when the Duke and Duchess with their children came from\ntheir rooms, they passed through this chamber into the hall, the\nhousehold following. When the Duke entered the hall, the minstrels in\nthe gallery played a merry tune, and the guests stood up; then the Duke\nwould go to his place and bow to the guests, the household moving to\ntheir places; then the music would cease, and the choir sang a grace,\nall standing. Paul's place was an honourable one, but he sate with his\nback to the hall; and this night, as soon as he entered the hall, and\nwhile the grace was sung, he searched with his eyes up and down the\ngreat tables, but he could not see her whom he desired to see, and the\njoy died out of his heart. Now though the Lords and Knights of the\ncastle honoured Paul because he was honoured by the Duke, they had\nlittle ease with him; so to-night, when Paul took his place, a Knight\nthat sate next him, a shrewd and somewhat malicious man, who loved the\ntalk of the Court, and turned all things into a jest, said \"How now, Sir\nPaul? You entered to-night full of joy; but now you are like one that\nhad expected to see a welcome guest and saw him not.\" Then Paul was\nvexed that his thoughts should be so easily read, and said with a forced\nsmile, \"Nay, Sir Edwin, we musical men are the slaves of our moods;\nthere would be no music else; we have not the bold and stubborn hearts\nof warriors born.\" And at this there was a smile, for Sir Edwin was not\nheld to be foremost in war-like exercise. But having thus said, Paul\nnever dared turn his head. And the banquet seemed a tedious and hateful\nthing to him.\n\nBut at last it wore to an end, and healths had been drunk, and grace\nwas sung; and then they withdrew to the Presence Chamber, where the Duke\nand Duchess sate upon chairs of state under a canopy, and the guests\nsate down on seats and benches. And presently the Duke sent courteous\nword to Paul that if he would sing they would gladly hear him. So Paul\nrose in his place and made obeisance, and then moved to a dais which was\nset at the end of the chamber; and a page brought him his lute. But Paul\nfirst made a signal to the musicians who were set aloft in a gallery,\nand they played a low descant; and Paul sang them a war-song with all\nhis might, his voice ringing through the room. Then, as the voice made\nan end, there was a short silence, such as those who have sung or spoken\nfrom a full heart best love to hear--for each such moment of silence is\nlike a rich jewel of praise--and then a loud cry of applause, which was\nhushed in a moment because of the presence of the Duke.\n\nThen Paul made a bow, and stood carelessly regarding the crowd; for\nfrom long use he felt no uneasiness to stand before many eyes; and just\nas he fell to touching his lute, his eye fell on a group in a corner;\nthe Lady Beckwith sate there, and beside her Margaret; behind whom sate\na young Knight, Sir Richard de Benoit by name, the fairest and goodliest\nof all in the castle, whom Paul loved well; and he leaned over and said\nsome words in the maiden's ear, who looked round shyly at him with a\nlittle smile.\n\nThen Paul put out all his art, as though to recover a thing that he had\nnearly lost. He struck a sweet chord on the lute, and the talk all died\naway and left an utter silence; and Paul, looking at but one face, and\nas though he spoke but to one ear, sang his song of love. It was like a\nspell of magic; men and women turned to each other and felt the love of\ntheir youth rise in their hearts as sweet as ever. The Duke where he\nsate laid a hand upon the Duchess' hand and smiled. They that were old,\nand had lost what they loved, were moved to weeping--and the young men\nand maidens looked upon the ground, or at the singer, and felt the hot\nblood rise in their cheeks. And Paul, exulting in his heart, felt that\nhe swayed the souls of those that heard him, as the wind sways a field\nof wheat, that bends all one way before it. Then again came the silence,\nwhen the voice ceased; a silence into which the last chords of the lute\nsank, like stones dropped into a still water. And Paul bowed again, and\nstepped down from the dais--and then with slow steps he moved to where\nthe Lady Beckwith sate, and bowing to her, took the chair beside her.\n\nThen came a tumbler and played many agile tricks before them; and then a\ncompany of mummers, with the heads of birds and beasts, danced and\nsported. But the Lady Beckwith said, \"Sir Paul, I will tell you a tale.\nA bird of the forest alighted at our window-sill some days ago, and\nsang very sweetly to us--and we spread crumbs and made it a little\nfeast; and it seemed to trust us, but presently it spread its wings and\nflew away, and it comes not again. Tell us, what shall we do to tempt\nthe wild bird back?\" And Paul, smiling in her face, said, \"Oh, madam,\nthe bird will return; but he leads, maybe, a toilsome life, gathering\nberries, and doing small businesses. The birds, which seem so free, live\na life of labour; and they may not always follow their hearts. But be\nsure that your bird knows his friends; and some day, when he has\nopportunity, he will alight again. To him his songs seem but a small\ngift, a shallow twittering that can hardly please.\" \"Nay,\" said the Lady\nBeckwith, \"but this was a nightingale that knew the power of song, and\ncould touch all hearts except his own; and thus, finding love so simple\na thing to win, doubtless holds it light.\" \"Nay,\" said Paul, \"he holds\nit not light; it is too heavy for him; he knows it too well to trifle\nwith it.\"\n\nThen finding that the rest were silent, they two were silent. And so\nthey held broken discourse; and ever the young Knight spoke in\nMargaret's ear, so that Paul was much distraught, but dared not seem to\nintervene, or to speak with the maiden, when he had held aloof so long.\n\nPresently the Lady Beckwith said she had a boon to ask, and that she\nwould drop her parables. And she said that her daughter Helen, that was\nsick, had been very envious of them, because she had not heard his\nsongs, but only a soft echo of them through the chamber floor. \"And\nperhaps, Sir Paul,\" she said, \"if you will not come for friendship, you\nwill come for mercy; and sing to my poor child, who has but few joys, a\nsong or twain.\" Then Paul's heart danced within him, and he said, \"I\nwill come to-morrow.\" And soon after that the Duke went out and the\nguests dispersed; and then Paul greeted the Lady Margaret, and said a\nfew words to her; but he could not please himself in what he said; and\nthat night he slept little, partly for thinking of what he might have\nsaid: but still more for thinking that he would see her on the morrow.\n\nSo when the morning came, Paul went very swiftly through the forest to\nthe Isle of Thorns. It was now turning fast to winter, and the trees had\nshed their leaves. The forest was all soft and brown, and the sky was a\npearly grey sheet of high cloud; but a joy as of spring was in Paul's\nheart, and he smiled and sang as he went, though he fell at times into\nsudden silences of wonder and delight. When he arrived, the Lady\nBeckwith greeted him very lovingly, and presently led him into a small\nchamber that seemed to be an oratory. Here was a little altar very\nseemly draped, with stools for kneeling, and a chair or two. Near the\naltar, at the side, was a little door in the wall behind a hanging; the\nLady Beckwith pulled the hanging aside, and bade Paul to follow; he\nfound himself in a small arched recess, lit by a single window of\ncoloured glass, that was screened from a larger room, of which it was a\npart, by a curtain. The Lady Beckwith bade Paul be seated, and passed\nbeyond the curtain for an instant. The room within seemed dark, but\nthere came from it a waft of the fragrance of flowers; and Paul heard\nlow voices talking together, and knew that Margaret spake; in a moment\nshe appeared at the entrance, and greeted him with a very sweet and\nsimple smile, but laid her finger on her lips; and so slipped back into\nthe room again, but left Paul's heart beating strangely and fiercely.\nThen the Lady Beckwith returned, and said in a whisper to Paul that it\nwas a day of suffering for Helen, and that she could not bear the light.\nSo she seated herself near him, and Paul touched his lute, and sang\nsongs, five or six, gentle songs of happy untroubled things, like the\nvoices of streams that murmur to themselves when the woods are all\nasleep; and between the songs he spoke not, but played airily and\nwistfully upon his lute; and for all that it seemed so simple, he had\nnever put more art into what he played and sang. And at last he made the\nmusic die away to a very soft close, like an evening wind that rustles\naway across a woodland, and moves to the shining west. And looking at\nthe Lady Beckwith, he saw that she had passed, on the wings of song,\ninto old forgotten dreams, and sate smiling to herself, her eyes\nbrimming with tears. And then he rose, and saying that he would not be\ntedious, put the lute aside, and they went out quietly together. And the\nLady Beckwith took his hand in both her own and said, \"Sir Paul, you are\na great magician--I could not believe that you could have so charmed an\nold and sad-hearted woman. You have the key of the door of the land of\ndreams; and think not that I am ungrateful; that you, for whose songs\nprinces contend in vain, should deign to come and sing to a maiden that\nis sick--how shall I repay it?\" \"Oh, I am richly repaid,\" said Paul,\n\"the guerdon of the singer is the incense of a glad heart--and you may\ngive me a little love if you can, for I am a lonely man.\" Then they\nsmiled at each other, the smile that makes a compact without words.\n\nThen they went down together, and there was a simple meal set out; and\nthey ate together like old and secure friends, speaking little; but the\nLady Beckwith told him somewhat of her daughter Helen, how she had been\nfair and strong till her fifteenth year; and that since that time, for\nfive weary years, she had suffered under a strange and wasting disease\nthat nothing could amend. \"But she is patient and cheerful beneath it,\nor I think my heart would break;--but I know,\" she added, and her mouth\nquivered as she spoke, \"that she can hardly see another spring, and I\nwould have her last days to be sweet. I doubt not,\" she went on, \"the\ngood and wise purposes of God, and I think that he often sends his\nbright angels to comfort her--for she is never sad--and when you sing as\nyou sang just now, I seem to understand, and my heart says that it is\nwell.\"\n\nWhile they spoke the Lady Margaret came into the room, with a sudden\nradiance; and coming to Paul she kneeled down beside him, and kissed his\nhand suddenly, and said, \"Helen thanks you, and I thank you, Sir Paul,\nfor giving her such joy as you could hardly believe.\"\n\nThere came a kind of mist over Paul's eyes, to feel the touch of the\nlips that he loved so well upon his hand; but at the same time it\nappeared to him like a kind of sin that he who seemed to himself, in\nthat moment, so stained and hard, should have reverence done him by one\nso pure. So he raised her up, and said, \"Nay, this is not meet\"; and he\nwould have said many other words that rushed together in his mind, but\nhe could not frame them right. But presently the Lady Beckwith excused\nherself and went; and then Paul for a sweet hour sate, and talked low\nand softly to the maiden, and threw such worship into his voice that she\nwas amazed. But he said no word of love. And she told him of their\nsimple life, and how her sister suffered. And then Paul feared to stay\nlonger, and went with a mighty and tumultuous joy in his heart.\n\nThen for many days Paul went thus to the Isle of Thorns--and the Lady\nMargaret threw aside her fear of him, and would greet him like a\nbrother. Sometimes he would find her waiting for him at the gate, and\nthen the air was suddenly full of a holy radiance. And the Lady\nBeckwith, too, began to use him like a son; but the Lady Helen he never\nsaw--only once or twice he heard her soft voice speak in the dark room.\nAnd Paul made new songs for her, but all the time it was for Margaret\nthat he sang.\n\nAnd they at the castle wondered why Sir Paul, who used formerly to sit\nso much in his chamber, now went so much abroad. But he guarded his\nsecret, and they knew not whither he went; only he saw once, from looks\nthat passed between two of the maidens, that they spoke of him; and this\nin times past might have made him ashamed, but now his heart was too\nhigh, and he cared not.\n\nThere came a day when Paul, finding himself alone with the Lady\nBeckwith, opened his heart suddenly to her; but he was checked, as it\nwere, by a sudden hand, for there came into her face a sad and troubled\nlook, as though she blamed herself for something. Then she said to him,\nfaltering, that she knew not what to say, for she could not read her\ndaughter's heart--\"and I think, Sir Paul,\" she added, \"that she hath no\nthought of love--love of the sort of which you speak. Nay, the maiden\nloves you well, like a dear brother; she smiles at your approach, and\nruns to meet you when she hears your step at the door\"; and then seeing\na look of pain and terror in the face of Paul, she said, \"Nay, dear\nPaul, I know not. God knows how gladly I would have it so, but hearts\nare very strangely made; yet you shall speak if you will, and I will\ngive you my prayers.\" And then she stooped to Paul, and kissed his brow,\nand said, \"There is a mother's kiss, for you are the son of my heart,\nwhatever befall.\"\n\nSo presently the maiden came in, and Paul asked her to walk a little\nwith him in the garden, and she went smiling; and then he could find no\nwords at all to tell her what was in his heart, till she said, laughing,\nthat he looked strangely, and that it seemed he had nought to say. So\nPaul took her hand, and told her all his love; and she looked upon him,\nsmiling very quietly, neither trembling nor amazed, and said that she\nwould be his wife if so he willed it, and that it was a great honour;\n\"and then,\" she added, \"you need not go from us, but you can sing to\nHelen every day.\" Then he kissed her; and there came into his heart a\ngreat wave of tenderness, and he thanked God very humbly for so great a\ngift. Yet he somehow felt in his heart that he was not yet content, and\nthat this was not how he had thought it would fall out; but he also told\nhimself that he would yet win the maiden's closer love, for he saw that\nshe loved not as he loved. Then after a little talk they went together\nand told the Lady Beckwith, and she blessed them; but Paul could see\nthat neither was she content, but that she looked at Margaret with a\nquestioning and wondering look.\n\nThen there followed very sweet days. It was soon in the spring-time of\nthe year; the earth was awaking softly from her long sleep, and was by\ngentle degrees arraying herself for her summer pomp. The primroses put\nout yellow stars about the tree roots; the hyacinths carpeted the woods\nwith blue, and sent their sweet breath down the glade; and Paul felt\nstrange desires stir in his heart, and rise like birds upon the air; and\nwhen he walked with the Lady Margaret among the copses, or rested awhile\nupon green banks, where the birds sang hidden in the thickets, his heart\nmade continual melody, and rose in a stream of praise to God. But they\nspoke little of love; at times Paul would try to say something of what\nwas in his mind; but the Lady Margaret heard him, sedately smiling, as\nthough she were pleased that she could give him this joy, but as though\nshe understood not what he said. She loved to hear of Paul's life, and\nthe places he had visited. And Paul, for all his joy, felt that in his\nlove he was, as it were, voyaging on a strange and fair sea alone, and\nas though the maiden stood upon the shore and waved her hand to him.\nWhen he kissed her or took her hand in his own, she yielded to him\ngently and lovingly, like a child; and it was then that Paul felt most\nalone. But none the less was he happy, and day after day was lit for him\nwith a golden light.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nOne day there came a messenger for Paul, and brought him news that made\nhim wonder: the House of Heritage had fallen, on Mistress Alison's\ndeath, to a distant kinsman of her own and of his. This man, who was\nwithout wife or child, had lived there solitary, and it seemed that he\nwas now dead; and he had left in his will that if Sir Paul should wish\nto redeem the house and land for a price, he should have the first\nchoice to do so, seeing his boyhood had been spent there. Now Paul was\nrich, for he had received many great gifts and had spent little; and\nthere came into his heart a great and loving desire to possess the old\nhouse. He told the Lady Beckwith and Margaret of this, and they both\nadvised him to go and see it. So Paul asked leave of the Duke, and told\nhim his business. Then the Duke said very graciously that Paul had\nserved him well, and that he would buy the house at his own charges, and\ngive it to Paul as a gift; but he added that this was a gift for past\nservice, and that he would in no way bind Paul; but he hoped that Paul\nwould still abide in the castle, at least for a part of the year, and\nmake music for them. \"For indeed,\" said the Duke very royally, \"it were\nnot meet that so divine a power should be buried in a rustic grange, but\nit should abide where it can give delight. Indeed, Sir Paul, it is not\nonly delight! but through your music there flows a certain holy and\nennobling grace into the hearts of all who attentively hear you, and\ntames our wild and brutish natures into something worthier and more\nseemly.\" Then Paul thanked the Duke very tenderly, and said that he\nwould not leave him.\n\nSo Paul journeyed alone with an old man-at-arms, whom the Duke sent with\nhim for his honour and security; and when he arrived at the place, he\nlodged at the inn. He found the House of Heritage very desolate,\ninhabited only by the ancient maid of Mistress Alison, now grown old and\ninfirm. So Paul purchased the house and land at the Duke's charges, and\ncaused it to be repaired, within and without, and hired a gardener to\ndress and keep the ground. He was very impatient to be gone, but the\nmatter could not be speedily settled; and though he desired to return to\nWresting, and to see Margaret, of whom he thought night and day, yet he\nfound a great spring of tenderness rise up in his heart at the sight of\nthe old rooms, in which little had been changed. The thought of his\nlonely and innocent boyhood came back to him, and he visited all his\nancient haunts, the fields, the wood, and the down. He thought much,\ntoo, of Mistress Alison and her wise and gracious ways; indeed, sitting\nalone, as he often did in the old room at evening, it seemed to him\nalmost as though she sate and watched him, and was pleased to know that\nhe was famous, and happy in his love; so that it appeared to him as\nthough she gave him a benediction from some far-off and holy place,\nwhere she abode and was well satisfied.\n\nThen at last he was able to return; but he had been nearly six weeks\naway. He had moved into the house and lived there; and it had filled him\nwith a kind of solemn happiness to picture how he would some day, when\nhe was free, live there with Margaret for his wife; and perhaps there\nwould be children too, making the house sweet with their laughter and\ninnocent games--children who should look at him with eyes like their\nmother's. Long hours would pass thus while he sate holding a book or\nhis lute between his hands, the time streaming past in a happy tide of\nthoughts.\n\nBut the last night was sad, for he had gone early to his bed, as he was\nto start betimes in the morning; and he dreamed that he had gone through\nthe wood to the Isle of Thorns, and had seen the house stand empty and\nshuttered close, with no signs of life about it. In his dream he went\nand beat upon the door, and heard his knocks echo in the hall; and just\nas he was about to beat again, it was opened to him by an old small\nwoman, that looked thin and sad, with grey hair and many wrinkles, whom\nhe did not know. He had thrust past her, though she seemed to have\nwished to stay him; and pushing on, had found Margaret sitting in the\nhall, who had looked up at him, and then covered her face with her\nhands, and he had seen a look of anguish upon her face. Then the dream\nhad slipped from him, and he dreamed again that he was in a lonely\nplace, a bleak mountain-top, with a wide plain spread out beneath; and\nhe had watched the flight of two white birds, which seemed to rise from\nthe rocks near him, and fly swiftly away, beating their wings in the\nwaste of air.\n\nHe woke troubled, and found the dawn peeping through the chinks of the\nshutter; and soon he heard the tramping of horses without, and knew that\nhe must rise and go. And the thought of the dream dwelt heavily with\nhim; but presently, riding in the cool air, it seemed to him that his\nfears were foolish; and his love came back to him, so that he said the\nname Margaret over many times to himself, like a charm, and sent his\nthoughts forward, imagining how Margaret, newly risen, would be moving\nabout the quiet house, perhaps expecting him. And then he sang a little\nto himself, and was pleased to see the old man-at-arms smile wearily as\nhe rode beside him.\n\nThree days after he rode into the Castle of Wresting at sundown, and\nwas greeted very lovingly; the Duke would not let him sing that night,\nthough Paul said he was willing; but after dinner he asked him many\nquestions of how he had fared. And Paul hoped that he might have heard\nsome talk of the Lady Margaret. But none spoke of her, and he dared not\nask. One thing that he noticed was that at dinner the young Sir Richard\nde Benoit sate opposite him, looking very pale; and Paul, more than\nonce, looking up suddenly, saw that the Knight was regarding him very\nfixedly, as though he were questioning of somewhat; and that each time\nSir Richard dropped his eyes as though he were ashamed. After dinner was\nover, and Paul had been discharged by the Duke, he had gone back into\nthe hall to see if he could have speech of Sir Richard, and ask if\nanything ailed him; but he found him not.\n\nThen on the morrow, as soon as he might, he made haste to go down to\nthe Isle of Thorns. As he was crossing a glade, not far from the house,\nhe saw to his surprise, far down the glade, a figure riding on a horse,\nwho seemed for a moment to be Sir Richard himself. He stood awhile to\nconsider, and then, going down the glade, he cried out to him. Sir\nRichard, who was on a white horse, drew rein, and turned with his hand\nupon the loins of the horse; and then he turned again, and, urging the\nhorse forward, disappeared within the wood. There came, as it were, a\nchill into Paul's heart that he should be thus unkindly used; and he\nvexed his brain to think in what he could have offended the Knight; but\nhe quickly returned to his thoughts of love; so he made haste, and soon\ncame down to the place.\n\nNow, when he came near, he thought for a moment of his dream; and shrank\nback from stepping out of the trees at the corner whence he could see\nthe house; but chiding himself for his vain terrors, he went swiftly\nout, and saw the house stand as before, with the trees all delicate\ngreen behind it, and the smoke ascending quietly from the chimneys.\n\nThen he made haste; and--for he was now used to enter unbidden--went\nstraight into the house; the hall and the parlours were all empty; so\nthat he called upon the servants; an old serving-maid came forth, and\nthen Paul knew in a moment that all was not well. He looked at her for a\nmoment, and a question seemed to be choked in his throat; and then he\nsaid swiftly, \"Is the Lady Beckwith within?\" The old serving-maid said\ngravely, \"She is with the Lady Helen, who is very sick.\" Then Sir Paul\nbade her tell the Lady Beckwith that he was in the house; and as he\nstood waiting, there came a kind of shame into his heart, that what he\nhad heard was so much less than what he had for an instant feared; and\nwhile he strove to be more truly sorry, the Lady Beckwith stood before\nhim, very pale. She began to speak at once, and in a low and hurried\nvoice told him of Helen's illness, and how that there was little to\nhope; and then she put her hand on Paul's arm, and said, \"My son, why\ndid you leave us?\" adding hastily, \"Nay, it could not have been\notherwise.\" And Paul, looking upon her face, divined in some sudden way\nthat she had not told him all that was in her mind. So he said, \"Dear\nmother, you know the cause of that--but tell me all, for I see there is\nmore behind.\" Then the Lady Beckwith put her face in her hands, and\nsaying, \"Yes, dear Paul, there is more,\" fell to weeping secretly. While\nthey thus stood together--and Paul was aware of a deadly fear that\nclutched at his heart and made all his limbs weak--the Lady Margaret\ncame suddenly into the room, looking so pale and worn that Paul for a\nmoment did not recognise her. But he put out his arms, and took a step\ntowards her; then he saw that she had not known he was in the house;\nfor she turned first red and then very pale, and stepped backwards; and\nit went to Paul's heart like the stabbing of a sharp knife, that she\nlooked at him with a look in which there was shame mingled with a\ncertain fear.\n\nNow while Paul stood amazed and almost stupefied with what he saw, the\nLady Beckwith said quickly and almost sternly to Margaret, \"Go back to\nHelen--she may not be left alone.\" Margaret slipped from the room; and\nthe Lady Beckwith pointed swiftly to a chair, and herself sate down.\nThen she said, \"Dear Paul, I have dreaded this moment and the sight of\nyou for some days--and though I should wish to take thought of what I am\nto say to you, and to say it carefully, it makes an ill matter worse to\ndally with it--so I will even tell you at once. You must know that some\nthree days after you left us, the young Knight Sir Richard de Benoit\nfell from his horse, when riding in the wood hard by this house, and\nwas grievously hurt by the fall. They carried him in here and we tended\nhim. I had much upon my hands, for dear Helen was in great suffering;\nand so it fell out that Margaret was often with the Knight--who, indeed,\nis a noble and generous youth, very pure and innocent of heart--and oh,\nPaul, though it pierces my heart to say it, he loves her--and I think\nthat she loves him too. It is a strange and terrible thing, this love!\nit is like the sword that the Lord Christ said that He came to bring on\nearth, for it divides loving households that were else at one together;\nand now I must say more--the maiden knew not before what love was; she\nhad read of it in the old books; and when you came into this quiet\nhouse, bringing with you all the magic of song, and the might of a\ngentle and noble spirit, and offered her love, she took it gladly and\nsweetly, not knowing what it was that you gave; but I have watched my\nchild from her youth up, and the love that she gave you was the love\nthat she would have given to a brother--she admired you and reverenced\nyou. She knew that maidens were asked and given in marriage, and she\ntook your love, as a child might take a rich jewel, and love the giver\nof it. And, indeed, she would have wedded you, and might have learned to\nlove you in the other way. But God willed it otherwise; and seeing the\nyoung Knight, it was as though a door was opened in her spirit, and she\ncame out into another place. I am sure that no word of love has passed\nbetween them; but it has leaped from heart to heart like a swift fire;\nand all this I saw too late; but seeing it, I told Sir Richard how\nmatters stood; and he is an honourable youth; for from that moment he\nsought how he might be taken hence, and made reasons to see no more of\nthe maid. But his misery I could see; and she is no less miserable; for\nshe has a very pure and simple spirit, and has fought a hard conflict\nwith herself; yet will she hold to her word.\n\n\"And now, dear Paul, judge between us, for the matter lies in your\nhands. She is yours, if you claim her; but her heart cannot be yours\nawhile, though you may win it yet. It is true that both knights and\nmaidens have wedded, loving another; yet they have learned to love each\nother, and have lived comfortably and happily; but whether, knowing what\nI have been forced to tell you, you can be content that things should be\nas before, I know not.\"\n\nThen the Lady Beckwith made a pause, and beat her hands together,\nwatching Paul's face; Paul sate very still and pale, all the light gone\nout of his eyes, with his lips pressed close together. And at the sight\nof him the tears came into the Lady Beckwith's eyes, and she could not\nstay them. And Paul, looking darkly on her, strove to pity her, but\ncould not; and clasping the arms of his chair, said hoarsely, \"I cannot\nlet her go.\" So they sate awhile in silence; and then Paul rose and\nsaid, \"Dear lady, you have done well to tell me this--I know deep down\nin my heart what a brave and noble thing you have done: but I cannot yet\nbelieve it--I will see the Lady Margaret and question her of the\nmatter.\" Then the lady said, \"Nay, dear Paul, you will not--you think\nthat you would do so; but you could not speak with her face to face of\nsuch a matter, and she could not answer you. You must think of it alone,\nand to-morrow you must tell me what you decide; and whichever way you\ndecide it, I will help you as far as I can.\" And then she said, \"You\nwill pity me a little, dear Paul, for I had rather have had a hand cut\noff than have spoken with you thus.\" And these simple words brought Paul\na little to himself, and he rose from his place and kissed the Lady\nBeckwith's hand, and said, \"Dear mother, you have done well; but my\nsorrow is greater than I can bear,\" And at that the Lady Beckwith wept\nafresh; but Paul went out in a stony silence, hardly knowing what he\ndid.\n\nThen it seemed to Paul as though he went down into deep waters indeed,\nwhich passed cold and silent, in horror and bitterness, over his soul.\nHe did not contend or cry out; but he knew that the light had fallen out\nof his life, and had left him dark and dead.\n\nSo he went slowly back to the castle through the wood, hating his life\nand all that he was; once or twice he felt a kind of passion rise within\nhim, and he said to himself, \"She is pledged to me, and she shall be\nmine.\" And then there smote upon him the thought that in thinking thus\nhe was rather brute than man. And he fell at last into an agony of\nprayer that God would lead him to the light, and show him what he should\ndo. When he reached the castle he put a strong constraint upon himself;\nhe went down to the hall; he even sang; but it was like a dream; he\nseemed to be out of the body, and as it were to see himself standing,\nand to hear the words falling from his own lips. The Duke courteously\npraised him, and said that he was well content to hear his minstrel\nagain.\n\nAs he left the hall, he passed through a little anteroom, that was hung\nwith arras, on the way to his chamber; and there he saw sitting on a\nbench, close to the door that led to the turret stair, the young Knight,\nSir Richard; and there rose in his heart a passion of anger, so strong\nthat he felt as though a hand were laid upon his heart, crushing it. And\nhe stood still, and looked upon the Knight, who raised so pale and\nhaggard a face upon him, that Paul, in spite of his own misery, saw\nbefore him a soul as much or more vexed than his own; and then the anger\ndied out of his heart, and left in him only the sense of the bitter\nfellowship of suffering; the Knight rose to his feet, and they stood for\na moment looking at each other; and then the Knight said, pale to the\nlips, \"Sir Paul, we are glad to welcome you back--I have heard of the\nDuke's gift, and rejoice that your inheritance should thus return to\nyou.\" And Paul bowed and said, \"Ay, it is a great gift; but it seems\nthat in finding it I have lost a greater.\" And then, seeing the Knight\ngrow paler still, if that were possible, he said, \"Sir Richard, let me\ntell you a parable; there was a little bird of the wood that came to my\nwindow, and made me glad--so that I thought of no other thing but my\nwild bird, that trusted me: and while I was absent, one hath whispered\nit away, and it will not return.\" And Sir Richard said, \"Nay, Sir Paul,\nyou are in this unjust. What if the wild bird hath seen its mate? And,\nfor you know not the other side of the parable, its mate hath hid itself\nin the wood, and the wild bird will return to you, if you bid it come.\"\n\nThen Sir Paul, knowing that the Knight had done worthily and like a\ntrue knight, said, \"Sir Richard, I am unjust; but you will pardon me,\nfor my heart is very sore.\" And so Paul passed on to his chamber; and\nthat night was a very bitter one, for he went down into the sad valley\ninto which men must needs descend, and he saw no light there. And once\nin the night he rose dry-eyed and fevered from his bed, and twitching\nthe curtain aside, saw the forest lie sleeping in the cold light of the\nmoon; and his thought went out to the Isle of Thorns, and he saw the\nfour hearts that were made desolate; and he questioned in his heart why\nGod had made the hard and grievous thing that men call love.\n\nThen he went back and fell into a sort of weary sleep; and waking\ntherefrom, he felt a strange and terrible blackness seize upon his\nspirit, so that he could hear his own heart beat furious and thick in\nthe darkness; and he prayed that God would release him from the prison\nof the world. But while he lay, he heard the feet of a horse clatter on\nthe pavement, it being now near the dawn; and presently there came a\npage fumbling to the door, who bore a letter from the Lady Beckwith, and\nit ran;--\n\n\"_I would not write to you thus, dear Paul, unless my need were urgent;\nbut the dear Helen is near her end, and has prayed me many times that,\nif it were possible, you should come and sing to her--for she fears to\ngo into the dark, and says that your voice can give her strength and\nhope. Now if it be possible, come; but if you say nay to my messenger, I\nshall well understand it. But the dear one hath done you no hurt, and\nfor the love of the God who made us, come and comfort us--from her who\nloves you as a son, these_.\"\n\nThen Paul when he had read, pondered for awhile; and then he said to the\npage, \"Say that I will come.\" So he arrayed himself with haste, and went\nswiftly through the silent wood, looking neither to left or to right,\nbut only to the path at his feet. And presently he came to the Isle of\nThorns; it lay in a sort of low silver mist, the house pushing through\nit, as a rock out of the sea. And then a sudden chill came over Paul,\nand the very marrow of his bones shuddered; for he knew in his heart\nthat this was nothing but the presaging of death; and he thought that\nthe dreadful angel stood waiting at the door, and that presently the\nspirit of one that lay within must arise, leaving the poor body behind,\nand go with the angel.\n\nIn the high chamber where Helen lay burnt a light behind a curtain; and\nPaul saw a form pass slowly to and fro. And he would fain have pitied\nthe two who must lose her whom they loved; but there passed over his\nspirit a sort of bitter wind; and he could feel no pity for any soul but\nhis own, and his heart was dry as dust; he felt in his mind nothing but\na kind of dumb wonder as to why he had troubled himself to come.\n\nThere must have been, he saw, a servant bidden to await his coming,\nbecause, as his feet sounded on the flags, the door was opened to him;\nand in a moment he was within the hall. At the well-known sights and\nscents of the place, the scene of his greatest happiness, the old aching\ncame back into his stony heart, and grief, that was like a sharp sword,\nthrust through him. Suddenly, as he stood, a door opened, and Margaret\ncame into the hall; she saw him in a moment; and he divined that she had\nnot known he was within, but had meant only to pass through; for she\nstopped short as though irresolute, and looked at him with a wild and\nimploring gaze, like a forest thing caught in a trap.\n\nIn a moment there flowed into Paul's heart a great pity and tenderness,\nand a strength so wonderful that he knew it was not his own, but the\nimmortal strength of God. And he stepped forward, forgetting all his\nown pain and misery, and said, \"Margaret, dear one, dear sister, what is\nthe shadow that hath fallen between us at this time? I would not,\" he\nwent on, \"speak of ourselves at such an hour as this; but I see that\nthere is somewhat--we minstrels have a power to look in the heart of\nthose we love--and I think it is this--that you can love me, dear one,\nas a brother, and not as a lover. Well, I am content, and so it shall\nbe. I love you too well, little one, to desire any love but what you can\ngive me--so brother and sister we will be.\" Then he saw a light come\ninto her face, and she murmured words of sorrow that he could not hear;\nbut he put his arm about her as a brother might, and kissed her cheek.\nAnd then she put her hands upon his shoulder, and her face upon them,\nand broke out into a passion of weeping. And Paul, saying \"Even so,\"\nkissed and comforted her, as one might comfort a child, till she looked\nup, as if to inquire somewhat of him. And he said smiling, \"So this is\nmy dear sister indeed--yes, I will be content with that--and now take me\nto the dear Helen, that I may see if my art can comfort her.\" Then it\nwas very sweet to Paul's sore heart that she drew her arm within his own\nand led him up from the room. Then there came in haste the Lady Beckwith\ndown to meet them, with a look of pain upon her face; and Paul said,\nstill smiling, \"We are brother and sister henceforth.\" Then the Lady\nBeckwith smiled too out of her grief and said, \"Oh, it is well.\"\n\nThen they passed together through the oratory and entered the chamber of\ndeath. And then Paul saw a heavenly sight. The room was a large one, dim\nand dark. In a chair near the fire, all in white, sate a maiden like a\nlily--so frail and delicate that she seemed like a pure spirit, not a\nthing of earth. She sate with a hand upraised between her and the fire;\nand when Paul came in, she looked at him with a smile in which appeared\nnothing but a noble patience, as though she had waited long; but she\ndid not speak. Then they drew a chair for Paul, and he took his lute,\nand sang soft and low, a song of one who sinks into sweet dreams, when\nthe sounds of day are hushed--and presently he made an end. Then she\nmade a sign that Paul should approach, and he went to her, and kneeled\nbeside her, and kissed her hand. And Margaret came out of the dark, and\nput her hand on Paul's shoulder saying, \"This is our brother.\" And Helen\nsmiled in Paul's face--and something, a kind of heavenly peace and love,\nseemed to pass from her eyes and settle in Paul's heart; and it was told\nhim in that hour, he knew not how, that this was his bride whom he had\nloved, and that he had loved Margaret for her sake; and that moment\nseemed to Paul to be worth all his life that had gone before, and all\nthat should go after. So he knelt in the silence; and then in a moment,\nhe knew not where or whence, the whole air seemed full of a heavenly\nmusic about them, such music as he had never dreamed of, the very soul\nand essence of the music of earth. But Helen laid her head back, and,\nsmiling still, she died. And Paul laid her hand down.\n\nThen without a word he rose, and went from the chamber; and he stepped\nout into the garden, and paced there wondering; he saw the trees stand\nsilent in their sleep, and the flowers like stars in their dewy beds. And\nhe knew that God was very near him; he put all his burdens and sorrows,\nhis art, and all himself within the mighty hands; and he knew that he\ncould never doubt again of the eternal goodness and the faithful tender\nlove of the Father. And all the while the dawn slowly brightened over the\nwood, and came up very slowly and graciously out of the east. Then Paul\ngave word that he must return to the castle, but would come back soon.\nAnd as he mounted the steps, he saw that there was a man pacing on the\nterrace above, and knew that it was the Knight Richard, whom he sought.\nSo he went up on the terrace, and there he saw the young Knight looking\nout over the forest; Paul went softly up to him and laid his hand upon\nhis shoulder, and the Knight turned upon him a haggard and restless eye.\nThen Paul said, \"Sir Richard, I come from the Isle of Thorns--but I\nhave more to say to you. You are a noble Knight and have done very\nworthily--and I yield to you with all my heart the dear Margaret, for we\nare brother and sister, and nought else, now and henceforth.\" Then Sir\nRichard, as though he hardly heard him aright, stood looking upon his\nface; and Paul took his hand very gently in both his own, and said, \"Yes,\nit is even so--and we will be brothers too.\" Then he went within the\ncastle--and lying down in his chamber he slept peacefully like a little\nchild.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nMany years have passed since that day. First Sir Richard wedded the Lady\nMargaret, and dwelt at the Isle of Thorns. A boy was born to them, whom\nthey named Paul, and a daughter whom they called Helen. And Paul was\nmuch with them, and had great content. He made, men said, sweeter music\nthan ever he had done, in those days. Then the Duke died; and Paul,\nthough his skill failed not, and though the King himself would have had\nhim to his Court, went back to the House of Heritage, and there dwelt\nalone, a grave and kindly man, very simple of speech, and loving to walk\nand sit alone. And Sir Richard and the Lady Margaret bought an estate\nhard by and dwelt there.\n\nNow Paul would make no more music, save that he sometimes played a\nlittle on the lute for the pleasure of the Lady Margaret; but he took\ninto his house a boy whom he taught the art; and when he was trained\nand gone into the world, to make music of his own, Paul took another--so\nthat as the years went on, he had sent out a number of his disciples to\nbe minstrels; so his art was not lost; and one of these, who was a very\ngracious child named Percival, he loved better than the rest, because he\nsaw in him that he had a love for the art more than for all the rewards\nof art. And once when they sate together, the boy Percival said, \"Dear\nsir, may I ask you a question?\" \"A dozen, if it be your will,\" said\nPaul, smiling; \"but, dear child, I know not if I can answer it.\" Then\nthe boy said, \"Why do you not make more music, dear sir? for it seems to\nme like a well that holds its waters close and deep, and will not give\nthem forth.\" Then Paul said smiling, \"Nay, I have given men music of the\nbest. But there are two reasons why I make no more; and I will tell you\nthem, if you can understand them. The first is that many years ago I\nheard a music that shamed me; and that sealed the well.\" Then the boy\nsaid musing, \"Tell me the name of the musician, dear Sir Paul, for I\nhave heard that you were ever the first.\" Then Paul said, \"Nay, I know\nnot the name of the maker of it.\" Then the boy said smiling, \"Then, dear\nsir, it must have been the music of the angels.\" And Paul said, \"Ay, it\nwas that.\" Then the boy was silent, and sate in awe, while Paul mused,\ntouching his lute softly. Then he roused himself and said, \"And the\nsecond reason, dear child, is this. There comes a time to all that\n_make_--whether it be books or music or pictures--when they can make no\nnew thing, but go on in the old manner, working with the fingers of age\nthe dreams of youth. And to me this seems as it were a profane and\nunholy thing, that a man should use so divine an art thus unworthily; it\nis as though a host should set stale wine before his guests, and put\ninto it some drug which should deceive their taste; and I think that\nthose who do this do it for two reasons: either they hanker for the\npraise thereof, and cannot do without the honour--and that is\nunworthy--or they do it because they have formed the habit of it, and\nhave nought to fill their vacant hours--and that is unworthy too. So\nhearing the divine music of which I spoke but now, I knew that I could\nattain no further; and that there was a sweet plenty of music in the\nhand of God, and that he would give it as men needed it; but that my own\nwork was done. For each man must decide for himself when to make an end.\nAnd further, dear child, mark this! The peril for us and for all that\nfollow art is to grow so much absorbed in our handiwork, so vain of it,\nthat we think there is nought else in the world. Into that error I fell,\nand therein abode. But we are in this world like little children at\nschool. God has many fair things to teach us, but we grow to love our\nplay, and to think of nought else, so that the holy lessons fall on\nunheeding ears; but now I have put aside my play, and sit awhile\nlistening to the voice of God, and to all that He may teach me; and the\nlesson is hard to spell; but I wait upon Him humbly and quietly, till He\ncall me hence. And now we have talked enough, and we will go back to our\nmusic; and you shall play me that passage over, for you played it not\ndeftly enough before.\"\n\nNow it happened that a few days later Paul in his sleep dreamed a dream;\nand when he woke, he could scarce contain his joy; and the boy Percival,\nseeing him in the morning, marvelled at the radiance that appeared in\nhis face; and a little later Paul bade him go across the fields to the\nLady Margaret's house, and to bid her come to him, if she would, for he\nhad something that he must tell her, and he might not go abroad. So\nPercival told the Lady Margaret; and she wondered at the message, and\nasked if Sir Paul was sick. And the boy said, \"No, I never saw him so\nfull of joy--so that I am afraid.\"\n\nThen the Lady Margaret went to the House of Heritage; and Paul came to\ngreet her at the door, and brought her in, and sate for awhile in\nsilence, looking on her face. The Lady Margaret was now a very comely\nand sedate lady, and had held her son's child in her arms; and Paul was\na grey-haired man; yet in his eyes she was still the maiden he had\nknown. Then Paul, speaking very softly, said, \"Dear Margaret, I have\nbidden you come hither, for I think I am called hence; and when I\ndepart, and I know not when it may be, I would close my eyes in the dear\nhouse where I was nurtured.\" Then she looked at him with a sudden fear,\nbut he went on, \"Dear one, I have dreamed very oft of late of Helen--she\nstands smiling in a glory, and looks upon me. But this last night I saw\nmore. I know not if I slept or waked, but I heard a high and heavenly\nmusic; and then I saw Helen stand, but she stood not alone; she held by\nthe hand a child, who smiled upon me; and the child was like herself;\nbut I presently discerned that the child had a look of myself as well;\nand she loosed the child's hand from her own, and the child ran to me\nand kissed me; and Helen seemed to beckon me; and then I passed into\nsleep again. But now I see the truth. The love that I bear her hath\nbegotten, I think, a child of the spirit that hath never known a mortal\nbirth; and the twain wait for me.\" And Margaret, knowing not what to\nsay, but feeling that he had seen somewhat high and heavenly, sate in\nsilence; and presently Paul, breaking out of a muse, began to talk of\nthe sweet days of their youth, and of the tender mercies of God. But\nwhile he spoke, he suddenly broke off, and held up his hand; and there\ncame a waft of music upon the air. And Paul smiled like a tired child,\nand lay back in his chair; and as he did so a string of the lute that\nlay beside him broke with a sweet sharp sound. And the Lady Margaret\nfell upon her knees beside him, and took his hand; and then she seemed\nto see a cloudy gate, and two that stood together--a fair woman and a\nchild; and up to the gate, out of a cloud, came swiftly a man, like one\nthat reaches his home at last; and the three went in at the gate\ntogether, hand in hand;--and then the music came once again, and died\nupon the air.","title":"The Isles of Sunset","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":53123}