{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_40950/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_40950","id":"gutenberg_40950","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40950","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Novels","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Fairy tales"],"text":"Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original lovely illustrations.\n      See 40950-h.htm or 40950-h.zip:\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/40950/pg40950-images.html)\n      or\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/files/40950/40950-h.zip)\n\n\n      Images of the original pages are available through\n      Internet Archive/American Libraries. See\n      http://archive.org/details/dreamerofdreams00sylv\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE DREAMER of DREAMS\n\nby\n\nTHE QUEEN of ROUMANIA\n\nIllustrated by Edmund Dulac\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHodder & Stoughton\nLondon, New York, Toronto\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: _Everything about her was white, glistening and\nshining._]\n\n\n                 Dedicated\n               TO MY DAUGHTER\n                  ILEANA\n\n    \"I LOOKED INTO HER EYES AND THEREIN\n    I SAW HOPES AND DREAMS AND ALL THE\n    PROMISES LIFE CONTAINS.\"\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n                                                                  PAGE\n\n    EVERYTHING ABOUT HER WAS WHITE, GLISTENING AND SHINING          17\n\n    ERIC LAY NOW, STRETCHED AT THE FEET OF THE WOMAN HE\n    COULD NOT LEAVE                                                 39\n\n    A CIRCLE OF MIST SEEMED TO BE SETTLING AROUND THEM              72\n\n    IT WAS THE MIRACULOUS BUBBLES                                  100\n\n    AND THERE, LEANING AGAINST A MOSS-GROWN CRUMBLING\n    TREE, WAS A SPIRIT-LIKE BEING OUT OF ANOTHER WORLD!            125\n\n    KING WANDA SAT UPON HIS MARBLE TERRACE BASKING IN\n    THE FIRST WARMTH OF THE SEASON                                 173\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n    And I dream in my waking dreams, and deep in the dreams of sleep.\n\n    FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nConsternation reigned in King Wanda's castle,--the great Northern King\nbefore whose will so many trembled, before whose smile so many crouched\nin expectation. His favourite painter had suddenly lost his wits and\nrefused to finish the picture he had begun on the walls of the ancient\nhall where all the great banquets were held--a beautiful hall, where a\nfrieze was being conjured into life by the incomparable art of Eric\nGundian, a quite young man of wonderful talent, who had been discovered\nby the King one sunshiny morning.\n\nEach day that Eric Gundian had spent within the King's walls his\nreputation had grown, and he had, all unconsciously, become the Court\nfavourite. His every whim had been an order; and his gay handsome face\nhad been loved by old and young.\n\nThe creeping jealousies around him had died down of themselves before\nthe sweetness of his smile and the wonder of his art.\n\nThe sound of his voice was like spring birds singing of love in\ngreen-clad forests, and when the sun shone on his head it was like the\nhaze of a summer's evening over a ripe cornfield. In his eyes slumbered\nthe beautiful peace of mountain lakes, and in his heart there lived the\nsimple trust of a pure soul ... and now Eric Gundian, Eric of the\ngolden locks--Eric the fairy-fingered, Eric the sweet-voiced had lost\nhis wits!\n\nOne morning he awoke, and no one could understand the meaning of his\ntalk; he declared he had had a dream, and in his dream he had seen two\neyes, the eyes he needed for the completing of his picture; and without\nthose eyes he never again could touch either colour or brush. King Wanda\nhad called for him to be brought before his presence, but Eric had\nsullenly refused to answer his command.\n\nAt first King Wanda had been furiously angry, but then he remembered\nEric's wonderful art, and had deigned to go out to where his favourite\nsat on the cool marble steps, that led down to the lake, before the\nKing's white palace of beauty.\n\nEric had risen before the crowned figure that bent towards him a stern\nface of inquiry, but to all the King's questions, to all his\npersuasions, flatteries, threats, and entreaties Eric had replied with a\nsad gesture of resignation, that never again could he take up his brush\ntill he had found those eyes which had haunted his dream. His pain and\nhis despair were so evident, that King Wanda felt that no words had\nforce to move the distracted young man. Sadly he departed, and mounted\none by one the shallow marble steps which reflected in glowing colours\nthe costly clothes that he wore. Once more he turned and looked down\nupon his favourite, who sat, his head in his hands, gazing across the\nsparkling lake; he heaved a deep sigh and felt like quarrelling with\nFate who had despoiled him of one of his great joys.\n\nAs he reached the palace door, he was met by the sweet little figure of\nhis daughter, who came out into the sunshine, gathering up her long\ntrailing dress, a golden ball clasped in her hands. The King smiled upon\nher, and bade her go down to the water's edge to try and console the\nyoung painter with her radiant youth. With a gay laugh Oona rolled her\ngolden ball down the snow-white steps, and it fell with a splash into\nthe water at the young man's feet, making great circles that spread,\nalways widening, over the blue expanse; but Eric never moved, he kept\nstaring into the distance as if he were following a vision no other eye\ncould see. Oona came noiselessly down the steps, rather awed by the\nsilence and stillness of the young man who had always been her gayest\nplayfellow.\n\nGently she drew near to where he sat, and dropped down at his side--then\nlike a playful kitten she nestled quite close to him and peered up into\nhis face. The smile faded from her soft lips and gave way to a look of\nwonder and distress. She put both arms round her young friend's neck,\nand pressing her blossom-like cheek against his shoulder, she asked him\ngently if he would not come and play with her beneath the flowering\napple-trees.\n\nEric looked at her as if she were a stranger; his eyes seemed to wander\nover her fair face without any recognition. Suddenly little Oona was\nafraid, and drew back; what had come to her friend? Why was he so\nchanged? Why did she begin to shiver in the warm sunshine so that all\naround her lost light and colour?\n\nOnce more she drew near, her warm little heart longing to help, longing\nto bring the smile back to the eyes of her companion. She wore a\ndark-red rose in her belt, and drawing it out she pulled the red petals\noff, one by one, letting them drop over his bent head down upon the\nwhite marble at his feet. But Eric never looked up; the velvety petals\nlay, a fading little heap, unnoticed upon the marble step, till a small\ngust of wind swept them into the water which carried them away far out\nof sight.\n\nPoor little Oona rose to her feet; a great fear had come over her; and\ngathering up her long white skirts she fled back into the palace as if\nshe were being pursued.\n\nStill Eric sat, gazing into space, till night came down and blotted out\nall things from his sight.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n     I run across hills and dales, I wander through nameless lands ...\n     because I am hunting for a golden dream.\n\n     TAGORE.\n\n\nThe road was long and dusty, and stretched out before the wanderer's\nfeet. He carried a small wallet on his back, and in his hand was a\nstrong stick. The little birds on the trees sang glad songs because it\nwas spring-time, and the branches were weighed down by the wealth of\ntheir blossoms. The wanderer was young, and his face was good to look\nupon; his clothes were new, and round his neck he wore a golden chain\nwhich was the royal gift of a King. His step was light and eager, and\nthere was a look of hope in his eyes; he had a flute in his pocket upon\nwhich he played from time to time a sweet little tune--a little tune the\nend notes of which always sounded like an unanswered question.\n\nNone had been able to keep him back; Eric of the golden locks, ... Eric\nthe fairy-fingered, ... Eric the sweet-voiced, ... Eric the mad painter,\nhad left the white castle of beauty, to wander the wide world over\nseeking for two eyes that had come to him in a dream.\n\nIn the great hall King Wanda stood, looking on the unfinished frieze; it\nwas a marvellous painting in glowing colours that ran all round the\nroom. A master hand alone could have been capable of such perfect\ncomposition, such rich colouring, such charm and poetry. The great\nprocession represented the triumph of Love.\n\nIt was like a wondrous wedding-feast, and all the figures were moving,\nan army of joyous youths and maidens, towards a golden throne. On the\nthrone sat a woman whose golden robe flowed, like a river seen at\nsunset, down towards the youths and maidens who were singing songs of\npraise, whilst they swung bloom-laden branches over their heads and cast\nwhite roses before the throne of Love. Behind this vision of youth came\nstern-faced warriors on snorting chargers, and pearl-crowned queens who\nled golden-haired children by the hand. Then came musicians who were\nfollowed by troops of beggars and the tattered forms of the poor, all\nhurrying, pressing, streaming towards that golden throne.... But the\nwoman on the throne had no face.\n\nThe fairy fingers of the artist had stopped here, suddenly; before the\nfinal accomplishment, which was to have crowned his whole masterpiece,\nEric's brush had failed him. In his dreams he had seen the face he\nwanted, the eyes that haunted him; but the moment he woke his vision\npaled, and no effort of will could call back the look of those eyes\nwhich he needed for the woman on the throne.\n\nSo Eric--the Eric whom every one loved, who had been the stern King's\njoy--had gone mad because of the desire for those eyes of his dream.\n\nThe light began to fail in the great hall; still King Wanda stood gazing\nat the figure on the throne which had no face. Great rage seized him\nbecause of his helplessness, and a great longing for the fair-haired\nyouth who had been his joy and pride. Little Oona came up to where he\nstood, and slipped her cool hand into his, laying her curly head against\nhis arm. He turned to her with a deep sigh, and together they passed out\ninto the flowering garden.\n\nThe wanderer sped along the endless road always farther and farther from\nthe palace of the King. His shoes were covered with dust, and when his\nsteps began to lag he would take from his pocket the flute upon which he\nplayed that sad little tune with the questioning notes at the end.\n\nIt was mid-day--Eric had already walked many miles, and now the sun beat\ndown with great force on his head. He wondered where he was, but only\nvaguely, because since his dream he seemed to have another head on his\nshoulders, and none of the tidy thoughts of other days would come to\nhim. He had no notion where he was going; he only knew that he could not\nrest until he found that face he needed for his picture, and above all\nthose great eyes that haunted his dreams.\n\nHe sat very still at the edge of the road where he had thrown himself.\nHe closed his eyes, and the moment he did so those he was seeking were\nbefore him, great and luminous, with an expression he had never seen in\nany other look. How clear they were, and how steadfastly they rested\nupon him with never a droop of the eyelids. It did not strike him that\nhe might be on a fool's errand, he had no doubts and no fears; the great\ngenius had become like to a little child, confident and with no thoughts\nof failure. He had no plan, he simply meant to travel all the world over\ntill he found what he was seeking; God would care for him as He did for\nthe birds of the air, and time did not count. He wiped his damp brow,\nand then looked about him; all was very still, the air was laden with\nthe sweet perfumes of summer flowers; the sky was blue, and not a leaf\nstirred on the trees. Eric smiled to himself, and played on his flute;\nhe liked to listen to his own little tunes; they were very sweet to him,\nand he quite forgot everything whilst he piped away like a bird. He\nbegan many different melodies, but they always ended on the same\nquestioning notes. He never remarked that each of his little tunes had\nthe same ending; to him they were infinitely varied. And intensely sweet\nthey were, with a haunting sound like human sighs mixed with the\nlaughter of little children. And now the clearest bird notes rang out,\nand then again the sob of a nightingale or the trickling sound of\nrunning water, clear and crystalline, as if a little source were\nbubbling forth close by. He was completely absorbed by the music, and\nmore than one passer-by had stopped a moment to listen; but Eric had\nonly nodded and smiled as if each one had been a personal acquaintance.\n\nThen he rose and wandered onwards, always keeping straight along the\nroad that stretched before him, never inquiring his way, serenely\nconfident that all would go well with him if he only held his one great\naim in view.\n\nBefore the King's palace Oona, flitting hither and thither, like a gay\nbutterfly, played with her golden balls in the sunshine, occasionally\ntripping over her too royal apparel, her clear laugh sounding through\nthe summer-laden air.\n\nBut within the still, white palace sat King Wanda, and all the time his\neyes beheld a small cloud of dust, raised by the feet of a golden-haired\nyouth, who had been the joy of his days, leaving him and all his kingly\nsplendour to follow a vision which the grey-haired man could never\nunderstand,--and it seemed to him that the little cloud of dust became\nalways smaller and smaller till he could see it no more.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n    From my heart comes out and dances before me the image of my desire.\n\n    TAGORE.\n\n\nThe town was tiny and the streets so narrow that conversation could be\nheld by neighbours across the road beneath the gables. The high pointed\nroofs had all the shades of red and brick, and before nearly each small\nwindow bunches of scarlet geraniums bloomed in profusion,--a sleepy\nlittle place, where the grey cats lazily slept in the middle of the\npavement quite undisturbed by any passer-by, quite safe from being run\nover. They blinked their eyes in the bright sunshine, and stretched\ntheir supple limbs to the kindly warmth.\n\nOver the sea of red roofs the different-shaped chimneys sent up their\nbluish smoke that hung like a transparent cloud waving slowly backwards\nand forwards in the still air. Now steps came along one of the quiet\nstreets, and the silence was such that they were heard long before the\nwalker came into sight. He was a quite young man, tired but light of\nstep, and his uncovered head shone like gold in the sunshine. Round his\nneck he wore a heavy golden chain, and his clothes were new; within his\neyes there was a searching look, but a smile was on his face, and the\nworld seemed to him just one long road upon which he could follow his\ndream. He chose the shady side of the street because the day was warm\nand the sun had poured down for many hours upon his way.\n\nAll the time he glanced right and left as if expecting to find what he\nwas looking for; but he was in no hurry, and often a glad little song\nbroke from his lips, whilst the sound of his strong stick on the cobble\nstones had a cheery note that echoed along the houses. Eric felt like a\nbird of the air, that could fly whither it would, and for which each\ntree was a resting-place.\n\nHe cared little for how long he had wandered, nor for what he had left\nbehind, nor where he was going; all he needed was a long road that would\nlead him on and on until he reached his goal. And his goal might be\nreached any day, any hour, any minute. Hope was always within his heart;\nbut it mattered not if its fulfilment were to-day or to-morrow.\n\nHis smile was so sweet and his face so fair that all were ready to open\ntheir doors to him; so he feared neither hunger nor thirst, neither heat\nnor cold, neither night nor storm.\n\nNow he was feeling rather weary, so he sat down on a doorstep, drew his\nflute from his pocket, and began to play soft little runs up and down;\nhis fingers, as if they were dancing, moving lightly over the small\nholes.\n\nThe flies buzzed around him trying to tease him, but he was indifferent\nto all except the sweet notes of his flute. So absorbed was he that he\ndid not hear the door open behind him, and only looked up when a hand\nwas laid upon his shoulder.\n\n'Twas the trembling hand of a quite old woman, very bent, her face lined\nwith many wrinkles, her eyes dim and tired. Eric sprang to his feet and\ncraved pardon for being in her way.\n\nShe looked hard at him, at first with annoyance; but his wonderful smile\ndisarmed her, so she hobbled away shaking her head, turning round more\nthan once to look again at the youthful stranger. She had left the door\ninto the crooked little house wide open.\n\nEric sat down once more upon the steps and continued his music. It was\nwonderful the peace it gave him; he needed nothing else--did not even\ntry to think, leaving Fate to shape events around him.\n\nFrom the upper window trails of scarlet geraniums hung down over his\nhead; a faint breeze fanned them, making some loose petals fall upon his\nknees.\n\nWith a smile he gathered them in his hand, enjoying the beauty of their\ncolour, letting them drop through his fingers, playing with them like a\nchild.\n\nAnd now from inside the house he caught sounds of a sweet voice singing\nsoftly some old, old song. The notes rose and rose until they entirely\nfilled the small house behind him.\n\nHe looked up to the window, but could see only the red flowers against\nthe rusty old wall.\n\nHe rose and stood in the doorway, and listened to the voice that sounded\nlike a bird singing in a wood, singing, singing to its mate a song of\nLove.\n\nIt did not make his heart beat as it would have done the hearts of other\nyouths, but it dawned upon him that the voice was human, and that it\ncould only belong to a girl or a woman.\n\nThoughts came but slowly to him as through a mist, because we know that\nsince that fatal morning Eric Gundian had lost his wits.\n\nBut Eric Gundian was still, to all outward appearance, the same\nbeautiful young man, with the same face, the same golden hair, the same\nluminous smile that bespoke the simple trust of a pure soul.... Now,\nmoved by some irresistible impulse, Eric walked into the house, and, led\nby the glorious voice, climbed the narrow dark stairs, up, up, as if he\nwere mounting into the skies. Then before the open door of a small\nsunlit room, he suddenly paused, seized with wonder....\n\nSitting near the window, her fair head bent over her work, was a lovely\nmaiden: she drew stitch after stitch through the snow-white linen, and\nthe hand which held the shining thread moved backwards and forwards like\na dove hovering over a gateway.\n\nAs she worked the song burst from her lips; she sang and sang, with the\nglorious gladness of youth which has not yet known either sorrow or\ndisappointment. There was nothing sad in her tune, it was all hope and\njoy and sweetness. Behind her head the geraniums made a fiery haze where\nthe sun smote upon them with the blinding rays of summer. Then it was\nthat Gundian felt all his soul awake with the longing that she would\nlook up, so that he might see her eyes....\n\nPerhaps they would be the eyes he was searching for. To-day, to-morrow,\nthis hour, or the next he was sure to meet them.\n\nThe maiden, all unconscious of his presence, sang on and on, from one\nsong to another, the sweetness of her voice ringing through the\nstillness like glad Easter bells.\n\nThe wanderer held his breath; and, both hands pressed against his\nbreast, waited in a sort of agony for her to raise her head.\n\nAt last she did so, but it was towards the window she looked.\n\nShe even left her chair and reached far out over the red geraniums to\nglance into the street below.\n\nAs she sat down her eyes turned to the door where the stranger stood\nwatching. With a little cry of fear she crumpled the white linen against\nher and stared at him without finding a word.\n\nImpulsively Eric sprang forward, and taking her with a quick movement by\nboth shoulders, he whirled her round to the light, peering with a hungry\nlonging into her eyes.... All was done in a flash; the astonished girl\nwas so taken by surprise that she had no time to defend herself against\nso sudden an onslaught.\n\nBut hardly had he seen her eyes than he let her go again, and putting\nhis two hands over his face, with a cry of disappointment, he turned and\nfled.\n\nDown the dark narrow stairs he sped, out into the bright sunlight; there\nhe paused a moment to pick up his stick and flute, then ran as if\npossessed; and before long he had left the sleepy red-roofed little town\nfar behind.... Still he ran, ran, eager to get away from the eyes which\nwere not the eyes he wanted.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n    I have come far, led by my dreams and visions.\n\n    TAGORE.\n\n\nThe moon was shining down upon an endless expanse of snow--as far as the\neye could reach, snow, snow, white and dazzling, strewn with a million\nglittering diamonds.\n\nIt had ceased snowing; the storm was over; but the wind still blew in\nbiting blasts, forcing the wanderer to draw his cloak more closely\naround him, and to bend his head, as he slowly advanced over that\neverlasting desert of white.\n\nHe walked and walked; there was no end to this frozen snow-field over\nwhich his feet had made a narrow little path that alone disturbed the\nshroud-like surface. And always longer and longer it grew, zigzagging\nbeneath the quiet face of the moon.\n\nFrom time to time the wind blew snowflakes against him, and they beat in\nhis face like a thousand pins, obliging him to shut his eyes not to be\nblinded.\n\nEach flake had another shape; there were stars and crosses, moss-like\nflowers and strangely shaped butterflies, all dancing in mad circles\naround the lonely wayfarer.\n\nSome kept their beautiful shape even when fallen to the ground, and the\nmoon would light them up like precious jewels out of a queenly casket.\n\nThe young man was the only living thing in this wilderness of ice and\nsnow.\n\nHe could not have told how he had got there; what will was driving him\nalways onwards upon his mad search; but nothing had power to stop him,\nnor had fear any place in his soul.\n\nNow, even the wind died down and a hush fell over all things.\n\nThe light of the moon became intenser in the growing stillness.\n\nLooking up, Eric saw myriads of stars twinkling down upon him from\nunknown heights, like friendly eyes encouraging him on his way. For a\nmoment he stood still; the silence was now as overpowering as the storm\nhad been; everything around him was bathed in a cold hard light, the\nwhiteness of which ceaselessly burnt into his brain. Suddenly a little\nbluey flame came dancing out of the distance, then another, and another,\nalways more numerous, till the whole expanse was covered with them; a\nwavering army of little lights, like thousands of lost souls coming\ntogether for a last parade in this land of the forgotten. Eric tried to\nseize one with his frozen fingers, but no sooner had he thought to grasp\nit than it slid away like a shape in a dream.\n\nThen with childlike eagerness he began a mad chase after the elusive\nlittle flames, running to and fro in the moonlight in an effort to catch\nthem, yet never succeeding; there were always more and more lights\ntempting him onwards over that desert of snow.\n\nAt last he laughed aloud, standing still to watch the little blue flames\nfloat away into the unknown out of which they had come, one after\nanother like a long procession of pilgrims in the night....\n\nThey became always smaller and smaller, seeming to beckon to him as they\ndisappeared, inviting him to follow once more in a mad chase over the\nhard frozen snow.\n\nA glow had spread over Eric's cheeks, his eyes sparkled, and the moon\nreflected herself within them. He uncovered his head, throwing back his\ngolden locks with a boyish gesture, whilst he stood still to watch the\nwonder of this northern night so clear and dazzling.\n\nAs he waited with arms outstretched trying to grasp all the beauty to\nhis heart, the artist in him keenly alive to his surroundings, he\ndiscerned a shadow approaching, followed by a second and then a third.\nAnd as they came nearer he realized that they were great white bears\nhardly to be distinguished from their background.\n\nOur wanderer felt no thrill of fear, the great beasts were so completely\nin keeping with their surroundings; their white skins harmonized\nperfectly with the immaculate snow. They came slowly towards him, quiet\nand majestic, slightly swinging their heavy bodies as they glided\nonwards. He could count about twenty.\n\nTheir huge soft feet marked also a little road on the even surface which\nwould soon join the one Eric had made from the opposite direction. Now\nthey were quite near; their warm breath made little clouds before them\nthat surrounded their pointed heads like a mist.\n\nEric watched, fascinated, and made no movement to get out of their way.\n\nThe first reached him, and without taking the slightest notice passed\non, making a small circle, but did not pause in his quiet march; and the\nothers followed in the traces his feet had left behind him, ten, twenty,\nthirty. Eric counted them and always more and more came noiselessly over\nthe snow.\n\nBut now there was another shape rising out of the distance, apparently\nas white as the watchful animals that led the way, the form of a tall\nwoman whose garments fell around her in glittering folds.\n\nEric could not yet discern her features, she was too far off; but he\nsaw how more than once she paused, bending down to gather from the snow\nsomething which she held within her hands, gazing upon it with curious\nintensity.\n\nNearer and nearer she glided, her bare feet hardly touching the ground.\nShe seemed shaped out of floating mists.\n\nAll the splendour of the night, the dazzling brilliancy, the vast\nsnow-field, the glory of the moon, the myriad stars, all paled before\nthe beauty of the woman that now approached.\n\nEverything about her was white, glistening and shining; so shining that\nthe human eye could hardly bear the radiance. Her long white hair hung\nabout her; a circle of glow-worms surrounded her forehead. Her head was\nbent, still gazing on that which she held in her hand. On either side\nmarched one of the great bears like two guardians. Just as she neared\nthe spot where Eric stood she once more bent to the snow, and with\nalmost loving precaution raised something in her hand.\n\nAs she did so her eyes met Eric's--they were beautiful eyes--large,\ndark, blazing like two burning coals. The young man felt a great emotion\nwhen they rested upon him, yet he knew directly that they were not the\neyes he was seeking; but greatly did he long to know who the beautiful\nwoman was, and what she was gathering in the snow.\n\nAs if guessing his thoughts she spoke in a clear, soft voice, always\nkeeping her eyes fixed on his, \"Thou wouldst know who I am, O lonely\nwanderer? I am the queen of these vast regions of snow--my home is\nyonder, where none dare dwell--and on nights when the moon shines bright\nI come out of my castle of ice and wander over this desert of white,\nsearching for the broken hearts that have been banished here. It is only\nwhen the moon shines bright that I can find them, for they are hidden so\nfar and wide that in the dark nights I could not see them,--and in the\nday never can I wander about,--the night alone is made for me. See, I\nwill show thee those I have found.\"\n\nAnd opening her hand, Eric perceived three little pulsing hearts,\nbeating, beating like frightened birds--and each little heart was\nbroken, and drops of blood stained the white fingers of the snow-maiden.\n\nShe leant towards them and very gently touched them with her lips.\n\n\"I carry them home with me,\" continued the strange woman, \"and I put\nthem there where they are safe, and where they can await God's last\ncall. I send my little dancing lights before me, and my ice bears walk\nwith me everywhere. They come from great distances; the moment the moon\nshines bright they all assemble before my palace to let me know it is\ntime for me to begin my search. They make my way, so that I should not\ngo where the snow is too deep, or where the ice would wound my feet.\n\n\"Come! if thou art not afraid, and I shall show thee where I keep my\nprecious treasure of broken hearts.\"\n\nStretching her hand out to the young man, she clasped his, and he found\nhimself being drawn along across the great white plain, quicker, always\nquicker--till all was but a mist before his eyes; yet he felt that even\nif it were to death he was being hurried he could not but follow this\nwonderful vision of the night.\n\nFaster and faster became their pace.\n\nEric hardly knew how he was moving; on both sides of them ran the white\nbears keeping step with their racing.\n\nAll of a sudden his beautiful guide stopped.\n\nAnd pointing before her Eric looked ... and there, rising out of the\nmist, hanging in the air, was a gigantic castle, built out of ice, that\nglittered and sparkled above the clouds--a marvellous sight, the\ndream-like vision of another world.\n\nThe snow-maiden again seized her companion's hand, and now she was\nleading him up a thousand slippery steps, hewn out of ice, that seemed\nto wind through the clouds. Eric's breath came in gasps; but still on\nrushed the fair woman, as with winged feet, till they reached a large\nspace before the palace portals.\n\nThey stood wide open, and from within streamed forth a blue light that\ngleamed far out over the smooth snow. \"Come,\" said the snow-maiden, and\nshe put her finger to her lips.\n\nStill holding Eric by the hand, she led him through the wide-open doors\ninto a vast hall, made of ice and snow. Great columns supported the\ndomed roof, and the windows that were of transparent ice gave a strange\nblue light that filled the whole place.\n\nThe hall was quite empty; the floor was put together out of small pieces\nof ice forming wonderful patterns that shimmered in different shades of\nwhite. In the middle a small descending staircase interrupted the smooth\nsurface--a sort of dark well, the first steps of which shone bluish and\nghost-like. A great light came up from somewhere far down in the heart\nof the earth.\n\nThe snow-maiden, still tightly clasping Eric's hand, now began to\ndescend the narrow stairs, and the deeper they went the stronger became\nthe light, till they reached a low vaulted chamber of great size and\nquite round, in the middle of which burnt a blinding circle of light. At\nfirst Eric was too bewildered to grasp the meaning of that ring of\nflame; then he recognized the little tongues of fire that had mocked him\nout yonder in the wilderness. The snow-maiden had sunk on her knees, and\nbeckoning Eric to come nearer, she raised one of the little fluttering\nblazes that remained balanced on her hand like a luminous butterfly.\n\nEric stared, his head close to his beautiful companion's, and saw a\nsmall hole made in the snow, where lay a tiny red heart which was split\nright across.\n\n\"This,\" whispered the snow-maiden, \"is the heart of a poor little child,\nwhose mother abandoned it, and who died of grief. I found it several\nyears ago.\n\n\"Every day I come here to all my hearts, so that they shall not feel\nlonely; and these little flames are their guardians. Each little\nwill-o'-the-wisp protects one of the hearts and keeps it warm, so that\nit shall not perish.\n\n\"And see! This one is my favourite, but it is very difficult to keep\nalive because it spent its life too rapidly, too passionately. It is the\nheart of a poet and a lover; a lover whose passion was so violent that\nhe died quite suddenly, one flower-scented night, when his hope had been\ntorn from him, and his heart broke right in two. Behold I had to bind it\ntogether with the silver threads of my hair--and often, very often, must\nI lay my warm lips against it because it cannot bear its longing.\"\n\nThe white woman held the bound pieces in both hands, and gazed upon them\nwith yearning tenderness, whilst two of the little blue lights hovered\nnear, throwing a beautiful radiance over her face.\n\n\"Beside this one I always keep two little flames, because it needs more\ncare than all the others; a poet's heart is so frail a thing; and how\nmuch more so a poet that was a lover!\"\n\nWith the utmost gentleness she laid the heart down and bent towards\nanother.\n\n\"This is the heart of a mother who lost all her blessed treasures; see\nhow cruelly wounded it is; but it is the strongest of all, because the\nstrength of a mother's heart is unequalled by any other--and God has a\nspecial place awaiting it when the great Day comes.\"\n\nFrom heart to heart the snow-maiden moved, with bent head and gentle\nhands.\n\nThe circle of glow-worms round her brow flickered and sparkled like a\nmagic flower.\n\n\"This heart,\" said the snow-maiden, raising a very dark object in her\nhand, \"is black, because it is that of a great sinner; and sometimes the\nglow that guards it becomes quite small and dim, almost goes out;\nbecause the heart suffers greatly of its own wickedness; it was saved\nbecause it broke.\n\n\"I found it very far off, in a place amongst rocks; and when I tried to\nraise it, it began to roll away from me, always farther, so that I had\nto run, to run after it with an anxious feeling that I would not be able\nto save it. It left traces of blood wherever it passed, so at last I\ndiscovered it in a dark hole beside a skull that grimaced at me with a\nhollow grin: when finally I held it in my warm hand I knew that it was\nat rest, and I carried it home very slowly.\n\n\"Whilst I retraced my steps along the weary way I had come, I sang to\nit, soft simple songs that children love. As I sang I felt the warm\nblood trickle through my fingers, and upon the snow I saw that all the\ndrops of blood had run together into the form of a small red cross,\nwhich marked upon the whiteness a sign of forgiveness.\n\n\"I looked at my hand and noticed that the drops of blood had turned into\ntears which left no more stain where they fell, but had washed from my\nfingers all traces of soil. This heart also needs me, but in another\nway; I always sing to it those simple songs, for it must forget all else\nexcept the days when it was at its mother's knee.\" Stretching her hands\nacross the circle of light the tall vision in the dazzling robe seemed\nto bless the many waiting throbbing hearts.\n\n\"I call this place my garden of expectation! And one day a great joy\nwill arise from it; ... songs of praise sung by myriads of heavenly\nvoices; ... and this light is but feeble compared to the light which\nwill shine that day.\"\n\nEric was still on his knees; he looked up at that glorious form beside\nhim, and as entranced he watched, her long white hair turned into a soft\nmisty veil that flowed down upon the ice like the mantle of a saint, and\nthe circle of glow-worms had become a halo round the face, that was the\nface of one of God's own angels.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n     And though blind and deaf for a hundred years I would see her more\n     fair than any poet has sung.\n\n     FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nEric had now left the snow-maiden far behind, had left her there amongst\nthe broken hearts she tended with such gentle hand and deep\nunderstanding.\n\nHe had gazed his last upon her as she stood in the circle of light all\nshining and bright; and then, knowing that he must go, he had torn\nhimself away, feeling that otherwise he would not have the strength to\ncontinue his road, and part from a being so full of radiance and\nwonderful beauty.\n\nAnd now he was wandering in a great forest of fir-trees, his feet\nskimming quickly over the crackling snow. It was still night around him,\nbut all the trees were lit with millions of candles. Each tree was an\nenormous Christmas tree. The whole wood was one blaze of light ... this\nhe knew was the snow-maiden's garden!\n\nIt was an astonishing sight; but he fled along; he dared not stay.\n\nAs he ran he heard the sound of many wings following him. He lifted his\nhead; in and out through the great branches of the candle-lit pines he\nsaw huge white birds appear and disappear, but so rapidly that he could\nnever distinguish what kind they were.\n\nNow he came out of the forest, and saw a vast frozen sea before him. As\nhe stepped from the shelter of the trees the whole air was filled with\nwhite wings. He looked up and saw endless flocks of wild swans; and\ncircling far above them were eagles as white as they, which flew always\nhigher, higher, farther, farther, settling at last upon the blocks of\nice that formed forbidding barriers between sea and land.\n\nAll these feathered creatures were the companions of the beautiful woman\nhe had left.\n\nHe turned, and there, rising above the illuminated forest, far above the\nclouds, seemingly suspended in the air, was the castle of ice, revealed\na last time to his enraptured sight.\n\nHe threw out his arms full of longing, as if he too had left his heart\nwithin those translucent walls ... then the heavy snow-laden clouds\ndescended and wiped out the dream like a vision of the night.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n    Joy rises in me like a summer's morn.\n\n    COLERIDGE.\n\n\nIt was evening; the sea was calm--so calm that it looked like an\nenormous mirror into which the sky was reflecting its manifold hues,\nresembling a crowned woman trying on before her glass various gorgeous\nrobes of glowing colours. Eric Gundian sat at the helm of the boat, his\nhands folded, gazing before him at the burning horizon; above him the\nhuge rusty sail spread like the giant wing of a bird. The boat moved\nslowly, and yet it cut steadily through the water, whilst the deep green\nwaves ran along each side like racers--Gundian was waiting ... he knew\nnot for what, but a great peace was over his soul, and his eyes had a\nsteadfast look of happiness.\n\nThe sky was unfurling before him its most precious colours, all the\ntones of red and gold and orange, reminding him of the palette he had\nput away.\n\nNow his hands were idle, no doubt, but the artist was still keenly\nalive, and this beauty and peace seemed part of the very depth of his\nnature.\n\nFar down within him he knew that his great talent slept, awaiting the\nday when his hands would be untied to finish his great work.\n\nHis hope and trust were simple, and his smile was sweeter than ever.\n\nThe red of the sky began now to stain the quiet endless sea--it sank\nbeneath the surface till the whole moving mass was an ocean of flame\nand light; the little waves that ran along on both sides were like\nsea-maidens trailing their shining tresses over the water.\n\nGundian rose and stood at the very extremity of the boat, his slim\nfigure outlined by a circle of light. Then he raised his clear young\nvoice, and sang an old song of his country, a song so strange and sweet,\nthat the sailors behind him took up the chorus and the deep manly voices\njoined in, forming a long echo to the triumphant notes of their young\ncompanion.\n\nHe turned round to them, his golden locks thrown back, his beautiful\neyes full of dreams and the strength of all his hopes; they had the\nfeeling that with his youth and beauty he was the very incarnation of\nlife and love. Now his voice was softer; the song became a great sigh of\nlonging, like a long-drawn effort towards the boundless, unreachable\npromises of life.\n\nThe old men sank on their knees and the young ones covered their eyes\nwith their hands; each saw before his mind the dreams of his manhood,\nthe loves he had left, the hopes he had buried, the future he longed for\nor feared.\n\nThe glorious colours had paled, only a faint reflection remained; the\nwind began to fill the sail, the boat seemed to bound forward on its\ncourse.\n\nEric's upright figure had lost its circle of light; his dark form at the\nhelm of the boat was seen now above, now beneath the horizon.\n\nThe waves grew in size, and were no longer like slim racers keeping pace\nwith the friendly vessel, but more like great angry beasts longing to\nconsume the frail craft that so confidently rode upon their restless\nheaving backs.\n\nThe sail suddenly filled and expanded ready to burst; and the seamen\ntightened the cords, being tossed from side to side as they moved\nabout.\n\nGundian's face was wet with the spray; his bright young eyes peered\nbefore him into the growing darkness.\n\nA lantern had been lit and shone far above him like the Star of\nBethlehem, flashing on his uncovered head, casting in turn lights and\nshadows over the fairness of his face. The boat bounded and creaked and\ngroaned; the wind began to howl, frightened gulls flew around the sail\nwith cries of distress, their white wings passing in and out of the\ngleam of the lantern.\n\nThe waves grew greater and greater, beating the sides of the vessel,\nthrowing huge masses of water over the low rail. Eric had to keep a firm\ngrip on the ropes so as not to be hurled into the restless, surging,\nwailing deep--to him this growing storm was a mighty joy; he revelled in\nthe wind with its many tormented voices; he loved the salt water that\ndashed in his face, drenched his clothes, and tore at the chain he wore\nround his neck.\n\nHe loved the heaving and sinking of the vessel under him; he loved the\nweird shrieks of the birds, the flashing of their white wings when they\ncame within the halo,--loved the shimmer of the lantern on the enormous,\nrolling, always advancing waves.\n\nHe trusted the seaman that sailed the ship--trusted the strong boards on\nwhich he stood,--above all he trusted with a child's simplicity the\ngreat God above.\n\nAll through the night the storm howled, and raged, and sobbed; and the\nbrave little craft fought her way through the foaming masses, till the\nmorning slowly overcame the darkness, bringing with the new day a hush\nthat held a promise of peace and rest. Thus did day follow on day, night\non night.\n\nGundian either basked in the sun, or hardened his hands working with the\nsailors, or sang them sweet songs that melted their hearts, fired their\nblood, awoke their longings, brought tears to their eyes, or a laugh to\ntheir lips. But at times he would also play his little flute; then, all\nelse vanished from his mind, and always, always did the flute hold the\nsame questioning notes that were like the cry of his soul for the\nunknown vision he was pursuing, that dreams alone allowed him to grasp.\n\nThe rough men in the boat looked upon him as a bright being of another\nsphere. They imagined he brought luck to their voyage, that his presence\ncalmed the storm and had power over the elements, that his wonderful\nvoice and magic flute enchanted the striving, ever-changing winds and\nwaves. They loved him, and were in fear of the day when he would bid\nthem good-bye and withdraw his sunny presence from their lives.\n\nThey felt that he was but a bird of passage, that it lay not within\ntheir power to keep him for ever amongst them, and each day that they\nlooked on his guileless face and on the light that kindled in his eye,\nwas a gift from on high, a day of blessing and plenty.\n\nEric could not explain why he remained, neither did he know why all of a\nsudden, one day of calm and gladness, he felt he must take up again the\ncall of the road that lay before him.\n\nIt was on a distant and lonely shore; the boat lay drawn up on the\nshell-covered beach.\n\nThe golden-haired youth looked up into the sky and saw a small bird\nflying into the limitless distance.\n\nThen Eric knew that he must follow the direction in which the bird had\ndisappeared.\n\nThey could not stop him, he had to go. He took his thick stick in his\nhand, put his flute in his pocket, hung his cloak over his shoulder;\nthen, turning round many a time to wave his cap to the rough companions\nof yesterday, he walked away into the growing heat of the day.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n    Yet there was round thee such a dawn of light ne'er seen before.\n\n    WOLFE.\n\n\nThe shore was endless and straight, Eric felt no fatigue; his face was\nbrowned by the wind, the waves, and the sun. His eyes had taken some of\nthe blue of sea and sky. His clothes were soiled, and looked less new\nthan the day he had left King Wanda's palace.\n\nBut the chain around his neck glistened in the heat of the noon.\n\nEric walked and walked, advancing but slowly, because his feet sank into\nthe deep sand as he went.\n\nAs usual his heart was full of joy, and it mattered little to him where\nhe went, although no changing beauty of the coast, no small cloud in the\nsky, no light in the sea passed by unnoticed.\n\nTo him each separate beauty was like a picture his soul had conceived.\n\nNow high rocks began to change the aspect of the flat lonely coast, and\nsoon all the young man's activity was needed to climb the obstacles that\nblocked his way.\n\nFrom that moment his advance became slower and more painful, he had to\ndraw breath; more than once he had thrown himself down upon the soft\nsand, his golden locks hidden amongst the wet pebbles, his heart\nthumping against his side. But he loved it all, rocks and sea and\nburning sun; and each difficulty that arose on the road made him feel\nbut all the happier. A joyful heart is one of God's most precious\ngifts.\n\nIt was late afternoon; and, having climbed over some slippery rocks,\nEric reached a quiet little bay, narrow, and rounded by precipitous\ncliffs on all sides.\n\nThere the sea was very silent, very green and transparent, and the flat\nlittle waves hardly made a sound as each in turn left a white line of\nfoam along the powdery sand.\n\nEric lay on his back, his cap drawn over his eyes, his cloak rolled up\nunder his head, a pleasant drowsiness filling his being after the\nefforts he had made.\n\nSuddenly he sat up with a start, wide awake now, all his senses alert.\nHe had heard something which sounded like the deep tones of a bell,\ncoming from afar off, but distinctly, like a dismal and yet persistent\nvoice, calling ... calling.\n\nHe looked around him full of excitement, keenly interested, and ready\nfor any new adventure.\n\nHe rose to his feet and stood, his hand to his ear, listening.\n\nFor a moment there was silence, and then again distinctly the sound of a\ndeep-toned bell--and this time he distinguished that the sound came from\nthe rocks that bounded the farther side of the little bay.\n\nEric felt he must follow that sound; it drew him towards it; he could\nnot resist those deep tones calling, calling.... A voice full of warning\nor invitation?...\n\nHe could not make out which, neither did he worry his mind about\nit,--was he not a bird of the air free and joyful, always a song on his\nlips, loving the sun that shone down upon him, the air that caressed his\ncheeks, and the good firm earth on which he stood?\n\nThe notes of the bell were now louder, now softer; but their tone could\nnot be resisted, and the beautiful youth felt he must follow; so he\nbegan moving towards the spot whence the sound seemed to be coming.\n\nSoon he stood before a high cliff over which long creeping plants were\ngrowing, hanging flexible branches covered over and over with some\ncoral-coloured berry, more like long chains of bright beads than a\nliving plant.\n\nThis was the only rock on which anything grew, and the shoots took root\napparently out of the dark hard stone high above his head. He lifted\nsome of the long trailing branches in both his hands, and as he did so\nthe sound of the bell was distinctly heard, as if quite near.\n\nEric knelt down and noticed with surprise that there was a large opening\nin the rock, beneath the coral-coloured plant, like the entry to a cave;\nhe stooped, carefully avoiding the hanging growth, and advanced\ngropingly to find himself in a dark tunnel.\n\nThe sound of the bell was more and more distinct, the calling more\ninsistent. With crouching gait Eric moved along, feeling his way with\nhis hands; it was quite dark, and the passage was narrow, with damp\nrough sides, against which he often bruised his fingers.\n\nNow a curious greenish light began to relieve the complete obscurity in\nwhich he had been for some minutes, and little by little Eric\ndistinguished in the far distance what was probably the end of the\nmysterious entry.\n\nThe green light became always stronger; and now our wanderer found\nhimself inside the most marvellous place he had ever seen.\n\nIt was a grotto, the walls and domed roof of which had the hue of\ntransparent emeralds; and all around was green--the rocks, the sand, the\ndeep pool of water at his feet, all radiated rays of liquid green light.\n\nThe strip of beach he stood upon was quite shallow, so that his feet\nalmost touched the deep dark water. In the middle of the tiny lake that\nfilled this wonderful grotto hung a bell, also green and wondrously\nshining; and although the rest of the water was absolutely calm, strong\nshort waves rose from the centre and hit against the bell, bringing\nforth the deep boom that had first lured Eric into this magic hall.\n\nStraight across the dark water a narrow bridge was stretched, both sides\nresting on the tinted sand, passing in the middle quite near to the\ncalling bell.\n\nThe bridge was but a yielding plank, a hand's-breadth wide, overgrown\nwith slippery, dripping moss as green as grass on a spring day when the\nsun shines over it.\n\nThe bell gave out weird sounds, sometimes like a cautioning voice\nwarning him against some danger--then again it was full of love and\nentreaty, containing an endless promise of joy and sweetness.\n\nBut Eric was too young and happy to hear within its notes anything but\nentrancing melodies existing solely to delight his ears.\n\nUnhesitatingly he stepped on to the swaying board, upon which he could\nonly advance by carefully putting one foot before the other, almost like\nbalancing himself on a tight-rope. This gave him great joy, and his\nmerry laugh echoed round the green walls as if he were joking with gay\ncomrades. An immense curiosity was upon him to look at the bell from\nnear, and to see what lay on the other side of the dark lake.\n\nHe had the intuition that something still more surprising was hidden not\nfar off.\n\nThe slippery plank dipped beneath his weight; he could hardly keep his\nfooting on the slimy moss that clung to it. But Eric was nimble, young,\nand daring; besides, he could swim like a fish, and was absolutely\nfearless.\n\nThe depth beneath him seemed bottomless; only now and again his eyes\ndistinguished shadowy forms moving about, but what they were he could\nnot see.\n\nNow he was close to the bell, and the little waves were striking it on\nall sides, making its tones so varied as to become a bewitching song of\npenetrating sweetness.\n\nEric bent his ear down to the bell, which was whispering something to\nhim under cover of the appealing notes,--but he did not understand, he\nonly laughed and stroked the bell, quite heedless of the repeated\nwarning that once again came from the depths of the lake.\n\nHe stood up on the quivering footway, and in answer to the old bell's\nvoice he raised his own, clear and ringing, within which lay all the joy\nand gladness of an untouched heart and an unsoiled life, pure,\ncrystalline, like the voice of an angel.\n\nStronger and stronger came the floods of melody; all round the green\nsides the glad notes resounded like a thousand answers, responding to\nthe boundless life-joy that this human voice contained.\n\nAgain he bent to the old bell and touched it with both hands; then\nhurried on over the perilous bridge, eager to reach the other side and\nto see what lay beyond.\n\nNow he stood on the farther shore; all about him the light streamed\ngreen and transparent; but it was not only the green light that shone\nupon him; another one was penetrating within the dim grotto, showing him\na second dark passage beyond; a golden light as if all the rays of the\nsun had been concentrated into a fiery river.\n\nEric ran forward like an impetuous child following a butterfly, full of\ntremendous eagerness for whatever might be waiting there in the middle\nof that dazzling radiance.\n\nBut such beauty met his gaze, such overpowering enchantment, that he\nstood still completely overcome.\n\nHis breath came fast, his eyes stared wide open, enraptured, his\nartist's soul quivering with ecstasy before what he saw. He was within a\nhall of purest marble, the walls, and floor, and roof all white and\nglistening like freshly-fallen snow, upon which myriads of crystals\nshone, resembling hoar frost on a sunny winter's morn.\n\nIn the centre, on a throne, sat a woman whose dress was even whiter than\nher surroundings. It lay in long straight folds, and the hem was a thick\nmass of blazing diamonds. It rippled down the steps of the throne, and\nspread over the spotless floor where the gems flashed in all colours of\nthe rainbow.\n\nThe throne was carved out of a gigantic block of pale-green jade that\nwas smooth and polished like ice. The woman's feet rested upon a lion\nwhose skin was as white as the draperies on which he couched. His\nimmense head lay upon his formidable paws, his eyes looked out, with a\nwatchful intentness, beneath his tousled mane. On each side of the\nthrone, fixed into the marble floor, two tall thick tapers burned,\nwhilst the wax ran dripping down their sides like small frozen rivers.\n\nThe candles were crowned by flickering blue lights and exhaled a\ndelicious perfume; a vapour rose from them in hazy clouds towards the\nceiling, where they hung like a thin mist.\n\nRound throne and tapers garlands of milk-white anemones with golden\nhearts were wound.\n\nThey had shed many of their petals, which lay like snow upon the marble\nfloor.\n\nThe woman sat rigid, upright, a mass of fair hair covering her shoulders\nand streaming down her back.\n\nOn her head she wore a thick wreath of the same white anemones fitting\nclosely to her forehead; but the strangest of all was that the woman's\neyes were covered with a bandage.\n\nA plain white cloth was bound round her temples beneath the wreath of\nflowers.\n\nNo movement came from the throne; the queenly apparition sat motionless\nlike unto a statue; the light of the candles alone flickered in the\nstill air, and the little bluey mists that arose from them hung over the\nsilent woman's head like a soft veil.\n\nEric was too entranced by the gorgeous sight to make a single step\nforward. Yet he longed to tear the bandage from the covered eyes, in the\ngreat hope that it might hide the look for which he was ever restlessly\nsearching. Suddenly the beautiful vision rose from her throne, and the\ngreat beast at her feet also got up, standing beside her like the\nguardian of some ancient temple.\n\nSlowly the woman descended the four polished steps, her long robe\ntrailing behind her, sweeping away the fallen leaves of the flowers, the\nprecious gems making a tinkling sound as they hit against the cool green\njade.\n\nHer feet were bare, and Gundian noticed, as she placed them by turns on\nthe steps, how marvellous they were.\n\nSlowly she came towards him, both hands outstretched before her, with\nthe searching movement of the blind.\n\nThen Eric, too, advanced with the feeling that he must take one of those\ngroping hands and lead this divine creature wherever she might wish to\ngo.\n\nNow her voice rose soft and bewitching: \"Long have I waited thy coming,\nfair stranger. I have been sitting here on my throne in sadness and\nsilence, because thou hast tarried on the road.\n\n\"Thou lovest sky, sea, earth, and sun overmuch, but now that thou hast\nreached me I shall open unto thee other joys of which thou hast never\ndreamed.\n\n\"Thy way hath been long, and thou hast wasted many a precious day, but\nlet that be of no account now that thou art here,\" and so saying, with a\ngentle movement she laid one of her arms about the boy's shoulders and\ndrew him quietly to her over the snowy floor in the direction of her\nthrone.\n\nEric was speechless, quite unprepared for so warm a reception; but\nwithout resistance, as in a trance, he let himself be led by this\nmatchless being of light, and sank down upon the steps of the throne at\nher feet where the lion had had his place.\n\nAnd there, his head close against the wondrous woman's knees, he\nlistened in a dreamy transport to the witchery of her voice--not quite\nconscious of all she was saying, but the sound was so sweet, and the\ntouch of her hand so restful and loving, that all his life throbbed\nwithin him in unspeakable delight.\n\nHe had entirely forgotten his desire to tear the bandage from her eyes.\nHe felt his will melt beneath her caress and the sound of her voice.\n\nHe had no wish left but to sit there for ever, listening and drinking in\nall the inimitable glory of the place. Now the soft voice was telling\nhim--her face bent down to his, her hair falling in golden waves around\nhim--about all the wonders she was going to show him if he would only\nremain with her,--of all the riches she would strew before his feet, the\nmusic she would play him, the many-tinted flowers she would give him,\nthe costly apparel in which she would clothe him, the variety of\nsweet-tasting dishes she would set before him to choose from ... if he\ndid not leave her!\n\nEric looked up in surprise; certainly he would not leave her! Why should\nhe go from anything so white, so beautiful, so good, and so fair.\n\nHe bent his head and kissed one of the clinging hands that caressed him\nso softly; oh, without doubt he would stay as long as she wished!\n\nThe woman threw back her head and laughed.\n\nSomehow that laugh was the only discord Eric had felt since he was\nwithin those walls; but he thought nothing of it, only it was like a\nlittle icy drop of water running down between his shoulders--and he\nwished she would not laugh; far better did he love to feel her soft\nbreath on his cheek, and her gentle fingers passing through his wavy\nlocks.\n\nHe rose to his knees on the step at her feet and, seizing both her\nhands, he begged to be allowed to remove the bandage from her eyes.\n\nBut the fair enchantress drew back, disengaging herself from his eager\nhands.\n\n\"For shame!\" she cried, and once more her laugh rang out sharply.\n\n\"Who would be so rough! And wish all the mysteries to be revealed at\nonce? This cloth over my eyes must remain till I give thee leave to\nremove it. But much hast thou to learn before that hour strikes.\n\n\"It deems me thou art but a reckless youth, understanding but badly how\nto spend thy riches, little realizing the charm of expectation!\"\n\nAnd again bending her tantalizing face quite close to his, her lips\nhidden amongst his curls, she murmured:\n\n\"I shall teach thee, oh so many things; but first of all must I know thy\nhistory and why thou art thus wandering aimlessly through the wide, wide\nworld.\"\n\nThen Eric, still on his knees, his hands pressed against her lap like an\nanxious child, told her his tale, and how his whole soul was full of the\nardent need of finding the face and eyes he wanted for completing his\nmasterpiece. \"And perhaps thou hidest behind that cloth the very eyes I\nhave been searching for the wide world over!--that is why my hands are\nso eager to tear from thy brow what may be masking all my happiness!\"\n\nAnd then Eric began to plead, his beautiful face flushed and excited,\nhis bright eyes entreating, his body quivering; indeed, a sight for the\ngods in all his youthful perfection.\n\nThe woman, although her eyes were covered, seemed aware of what was\ngoing on, and replied again laughing, \"Not yet, not yet!--but give me\nthy hand and I shall lead thee through the joys I have in store for\nthee, and at the end thou mayest quite forget what now thou deemest thy\nonly aim in life;\" and like tinkling, cold, silver bells the woman's\nlaugh echoed round the snowy vaults.\n\nFascinated and unresisting our young painter clung to her cool hand, and\nlet himself be drawn away from the white chamber.\n\nHe followed her noiseless steps, feeling that wherever she led he would\nfollow, follow, because he had given over his will into those\noutstretched hands, that had quite taken possession of his heart, and\nsoul, and senses.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n    I am restless, I am athirst for far away things.\n\n    TAGORE.\n\n\nEric lay at the feet of the enchantress. Days had passed, and from one\nbeauty to another she had been leading him. But her laugh had become\nalways harder, a note of impatience had stolen into the silken tones of\nher voice.\n\n[Illustration: _Eric lay now, stretched at the feet of the woman he\ncould not leave._]\n\nThis youth was in truth but a child, his hands grasping at the sun-rays,\nplucking the flowers, taking the joys that were offered him, lightly\nlaughing at the birds, sublimely unconscious that perhaps something\nmight be asked of him in return.\n\nOften he begged the one who held him captive to uncover her eyes,\nexplaining that although he was happy in his new surroundings he could\nnot tarry for ever; the open world lay before him through which he was\nstill pursuing the same vision.\n\nBut again and again his companion put him off with fresh\npromises--heaping upon him new joys and pleasures, till he felt weary of\nso much ease and comfort; there were even times when he had a longing\nfor the dusty roads,--the heat of the sun--the dangers of the dark\nnight--for storm and wind.\n\nAt those moments the strange woman seemed to read his thoughts in spite\nof the bandage over her eyes; and she would redouble her kindness,\nalways having a fresh joy in store for him, something unexpected and\nenchanting.\n\nEric lay now, as the lion used to lie, stretched at the feet of the\nwoman he could not leave.\n\nTo-day she sat upon a marble bench within a garden where nearly all the\nflowers were blue. The garden was small and square, paved with marble;\ntwo narrow water channels, lined with peacock-blue tiles, ran crossways\nthrough it. In the centre stood a marble well; those who leaned over the\nside to look into the depths noticed that the water was blue as the sea,\nand strange voices seemed calling from below with monotonous entreaty.\n\nOn all sides high walls encircled the garden, and shady trees spread\nover the whole enclosure, casting mysterious lights and patterns upon\nthe cool floor.\n\nThe flowers were so blue that they also had the colour of the summer sea\nwhen the sun beats on it in all his force. Small marble paths ran along\nbetween the beds, and each path was bordered by some low-growing\nfire-coloured flower that glowed with the intensity of a furnace.\n\nEach day the woman was clad in a garment of gorgeous magnificence, each\nday more splendid than the last; but never again had she been robed in\nthe snowy folds of the first day, which Eric had loved best of all.\n\nNow, as she leaned against the carved bench, her dress seemed woven out\nof the changing colours of the rainbow. It was golden at the shoulders,\nturning gradually into green, blue, and violet, always richer in hue,\ntill at the foot it deepened into bright-toned purples upon the dark\ncarpet where Eric rested quite close to her feet.\n\nAs always, those little feet were bare, with only thin sandals to\nprotect the soft soles from the hardness of the stone.\n\nRound her forehead lay a thick dark wreath of corn-flowers, beneath\nwhich the bandage showed startling white.\n\nHer hands were ceaselessly playing with long chains of sapphires and\nemeralds. She gathered them into her palms, and let them slip between\nher fingers, down upon her golden robe, like bright water splashing out\nof a precious jar.\n\nAround the well, upon low marble seats, were grouped the fairest maidens\nthat earth could give, and they were like unto a wreath of many-shaded\nflowers.\n\nThey all had coronals of blossoms on their heads in the shades of the\nrobes they wore; and each held a golden harp on which she played tunes\nthat melted heart and soul.\n\nAll the maidens turned their eyes towards the beautiful lad who lay\namong the folds of the woman's dress--but none, oh! none had the orbs of\nhis dream!\n\nHe had searched their faces in turn, and it had been all in vain.\n\nFair faces they had; their arms were soft and white; their long hair\ntrailed on the ground mixing with the petals that had fallen from the\nwreaths.\n\nThe air was heavy with the perfume that came from the flowers, and the\nsweet tones of the harps sighed amongst the spreading branches of the\ntrees.\n\nBut Eric was restless, he felt cramped in this garden of beauty;\nresentment began to grow in his heart against this fair being who played\nwith him as a child plays with a toy. She lured him on, yet never did\nshe satisfy the longing of his soul!\n\nEvery time that he extended his hand to tear the covering from her eyes,\nwith a word or gesture she changed the current of his thoughts.\n\nWhen he asked to be shown the road that would take him back whence he\nhad come, the woman would laugh--the laugh he had begun to hate,--and\ncover his face with soft caresses which seemed to drain all his manhood\nand leave him without will or power to think.\n\nWithin his heart he made plans how he might escape. The sweet perfumes,\nthe melting voices, the endless well-being, the tropical fruit he was\never feasting upon, wearied and sickened him; and yet he felt he could\nnot leave this bewitching sorceress before he had seen the colour of her\neyes.\n\nBut somehow, although he wished it with a fevered longing, he also\ndreaded the disappointment it might bring.\n\nAnd there he lay in this enchanted garden eating his heart out with the\nlonging for freedom, and yet unable to break through the silken bonds\nthat held him as with chains of iron!\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n      L'espoir m\u00eame a des portes closes;\n    Cette terre est pleine de choses\n      Dont nous ne voyons qu'un c\u00f4te.\n\n    V. HUGO.\n\n\nEric was wandering through the maze of gardens, grottos, and domed halls\nthat formed the dwelling of the sorceress. It was night--but a clear\nnight; almost as light as day because of the radiant moon that lay low\nin the sky; she was oppressively near the earth, intruding her wise\nrays, that had seen all too much, into every corner and hiding-place.\nEric hated her indiscretion; he had hoped to wrap himself in the mantle\nof the dark so that he might steal away at last.\n\nHe could stand no longer the suffocating oppression which had gradually\nbeen coming over him. To-night he had slunk away from the luxurious\nfeast his fair jailer had been giving him.\n\nHe had left her there, upon her throne of gold, amidst priceless\ndraperies, amongst the garlands of red poppies that had been entwined\nround the tables at which richly clad, loud-voiced youths were\ngathered--youths who drank and sang, and whose eyes had a strangely\ntired look, always straining after some pleasure that seemed to pass\nthem by and leave them with empty outstretched hands.\n\nAll had clamoured round that golden throne, pressing near to the queenly\nfigure who sat there in a scarlet robe, her eyes still bandaged beneath\nthe wreath of poppies which was pressed upon her shining tresses.\n\nHer penetrating laugh had sounded clearly above all the din, and she had\nlifted her hands high in the air throwing the gorgeous-coloured\npoppy-leaves over their bowed heads; and she had drunk out of a golden\ngoblet which she had held in turns to their thirsting lips.\n\nOne of the youths was as young as Eric himself and of marvellous beauty,\nwith eyes like flashing jewels, but which held a look of such intense\nsuffering that Eric could not bear the sight.\n\nThis boy had dragged himself on his knees to the steps of the throne,\nuttering incoherent prayers, the hot tears running down his cheeks; then\nhe had hidden his face within the scarlet folds of her dress and had\ncried as if his heart would break, whilst the wild woman in red had\nlaughed, laughed, mocking his sorrow with hard words, till all the\nothers had laughed with her.\n\nIt was then that Eric had fled, with a mad desire to get out into the\ncool night and flee as far as he could from all these revels of which\nhis simple soul could not grasp the meaning.\n\nYet the wonderful woman had dropped some of the poison into his veins,\nbecause, in spite of his great desire to escape, he felt a burning\nregret in his heart at the thought that he was leaving without having\nseen the woman's eyes. At the same time he almost dreaded to find the\nface of his dreams behind that white cloth which had become uncanny to\nhim ... and yet?... why was this burning pain at his heart? Why had he\ncome here? Why had he not turned back when the old bell had so\npersistently warned him? Suddenly he felt older, wiser, as if years had\nelapsed since he left the sea-shore and lost his way within this\nlabyrinth so full of beauty and temptation.\n\nHe thought he felt once more the soft touch of the woman's hands, that\nhe saw the glowing flower of her lips, the soft yielding figure, the\nwhite arms, the rippling fair hair, the tiny feet, and he stood still\nclasping his hands over his burning eyes.\n\nWhy had he not torn the bandage from her brow, and pressed his lips upon\nthat tempting mouth, crushing it beneath his own? Indeed he had been a\nfool! And no doubt it was thus she considered him, and was now deriding\nhis memory amongst those shameless guests who crowded around her tables;\nthose tables that were bending under the weight of the costly dishes,\nand where the brilliant poppies were shedding their petals as they faded\nand drooped amongst hundreds of lighted candles.\n\nEric groaned in his distress; he longed to go back before that golden\nthrone and tell the beautiful woman that he hated her ... hated her!...\n\nBut now he must escape--but why was the moon so bright? Why could he not\nfind his way to the snow-white hall, and from there, over the deep\nwater, past the mysterious well, out into the wide world once more?\n\nWhy did his head ache and throb? Why did his throat feel dry with\nill-contained sobs? What had come to him? Never had he felt thus.\n\nAll the sweet peace of his soul had been replaced by waves of unknown\nsensations and desires; and beneath it all, that burning pain at his\nheart, that unsatisfied yearning for something he could not grasp.\n\nThe moon flooded everything in a hard, merciless light; he ran from\nplace to place seeking an issue, only to find everywhere blank walls to\nstop him. He knew that he was losing his head, the blood beat in his\ntemples, his eyes could no more clearly see.... With a stifled cry of\ndistress he dropped down, and all became dark around him.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n    For in much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge\n    increaseth sorrow.\n\n    ECCLESIASTES.\n\n\nAfter a short time Eric's senses came back; he looked up and saw that he\nwas in a small, very dark chamber. How he got there he did not know, he\nhad never seen the place before. Then he rose to his feet with a start.\nA curtain had been quietly drawn aside, and he could see now into an\ninner chamber out of which a faint light shone.\n\nForgetting all his fear and misery he ran forward, hoping to find an\noutlet whence he could reach the old moaning bell, and thence escape to\nliberty under God's great sky, free like a bird once more to wander\nwherever he would. But the sight he saw riveted his feet to the ground:\nupon a low narrow couch lay the woman he had learnt to hate. She was\nstretched motionless, asleep on her back, her wonderful face only\nfaintly discernible--and oh! marvel, her eyes were no longer covered.\n\nAll about her seemed wrapped in grey vapours; the soft draperies with\nwhich her body was covered were also grey, like finely woven cobwebs.\n\nAt each side of her couch, close to her head, stood large jars of\ntarnished silver, filled with irises the colour of autumn clouds.\n\nAt her feet, rigid and unblinking, as if cast out of steel or carved in\ngranite, his eyes gazing into space, was an eagle of unusual size; there\nhe sat in quiet majesty at the feet of this vision of beauty, like a\nghost of the mountains that had been turned to stone. A faint haze lay\nover all, something mysterious and grave-like; nor was it to be\ndiscovered whence the light came. There were no windows, no opening\nanywhere, and yet everything was distinctly visible.\n\nThe face of the woman was more perfect than it had ever been. Eric was\nnow bending over it with a feeling of awe and wonder.\n\nWas ever sleeper so still, was ever living face so pale, lips so\nblanched? Gradually a cold sensation of fear began to creep over the\nstartled youth; he bent lower, his face close to that silent one. He\nsprang back with a cry of horror ... beneath the long lashes he saw that\nthe woman was looking at him, and yet....\n\nOh! What was it? What horrible nightmare was this?... She was looking,\nshe was staring ... yes, she was staring with sightless eyes--eyes out\nof which the light of life had gone for ever! for ever!...\n\nEric sank to his knees and hid his face against the still form, and as\nhe did so he felt something wet upon his cheek, something that was\ntrickling slowly down upon the floor where he knelt, something that was\ngradually spreading in a dark patch, which widened over the grey folds\nof the robe. And then Eric saw that within the woman's heart a dagger\nhad been thrust.... A dagger within the very centre of her heart.\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n     Over thy creations of beauty there is a mist of tears.\n\n     TAGORE.\n\n\nHigh and austere in their forsaken silence stood the walls of the great\nchurch--God's own sun looked in through the crumbling windows, and God's\nown sky was its only roof. Many of the columns had fallen, but others\nstood, erect and rigid, frowning down from their immense height, grey\nand lonely, like giant trees in winter.\n\nLarge heaps of stones lay about the mosaic floor that still showed signs\nof a beautiful design; statues had fallen from their pedestals and lay\nin helpless attitudes, their arms broken, their vacant eyes gazing with\nstony indifference into the sunshine. Sometimes their heads were\nmissing, having rolled away as they fell.\n\nNature was rapidly doing her work; she was spreading her consoling\nmantle of verdure and flowers over this crumbling work of art, which\nhuman hands had once, long ago, built with pious vows and prayers.\n\nGrowths were bursting out of every crevice and crack in rambling\nconfusion. Even the wild plants of the heath beyond had begun to creep\ninto the church, giving the forgotten monument a festive look as if\nflowers had been strewn everywhere on the floor for some blessed\nfeast-day. In greater masses than any other plant, wild lavender had\ntaken possession of the church, bursting the mosaic floor asunder in a\nthousand places and pushing its way everywhere, so that over all lay a\nbluey-grey shimmer like evening mists rising out of a bog.\n\nThrough the wide-open portals the desolate land could be seen,\nstretching as far as the eye could reach, covered with the same dusty\nblue flower, and quite on the horizon it mixed with the sky, so that it\nwas difficult to discern where the one began and the other ended.\n\nA peculiar stillness lay over everything; it was not easy to imagine\nthat human feet had once crowded towards the now broken altar that shone\nlike a death-cloth as the rays of the sun struck upon the still white\nstone. The thick carpet of lavender sent out a faint perfume of other\ndays, within which a whole treasure of memories was stowed away ...\nforgotten. Peace, peace, peace was over all, the peace of things that\nare past.\n\nBefore the altar, stretched out all his length on the ground amongst the\nblue of the lavender, lay Eric, his face pressed against the floor, his\ngolden curls matted, his neat clothes soiled and dusty. He lay there,\nall his young body expressing one long cry of protest against the cruel\nthings he had just learnt.\n\nHe had fled and fled, blind instinct guiding his steps, quite ignorant\nas to how he had found his way out. And then, when he once more saw the\ngreat sky over his head, he had rushed unseeingly forward, climbing the\nrocks, leaving the sea far behind.\n\nOn, on, in breathless haste to get away from that silent figure wrapped\nin grey folds, with the sightless eyes and the dagger within her\nheart ... neither did he know how he had reached this desolate place.\n\nHe had seen this ruined fane standing grey and forsaken on a waste of\nblue-grey flowers; he had seen it outlined in magnificent solitude\nagainst the clear sky, and a great wish had come over him to take refuge\nthere, in that holy place, after the atmosphere of tragedy and\ntemptation he had just left behind.\n\nWhat mattered that the place was a ruin, that holy chants and fervent\nprayers were no more heard within the skeleton walls! It had been God's\nhouse, and the weary wanderer needed sanctuary.\n\nMotionless as one asleep or dead he lay.\n\nThere was no sound around him except the buzzing of bees amongst the\nsweet-smelling lavender.\n\nThey flitted hither and thither, fetching out of each blossom its\ntreasure of honey and sweetness, whilst tiny blue butterflies danced in\ntheir midst in frivolous useless gaiety. All of a sudden a flight of\ndoves came floating out of the summer sky and settled like white sunlit\nclouds on every window-sill, where they fluttered their wings, filling\nthe whole place with flashes of light, as the sun gleamed on their snowy\nfeathers.\n\nBut still Eric lay without movement, his face among the crushed flowers.\n\nThe doves cooed and kissed each other; the bees swarmed around, and from\nsomewhere very far overhead a bird sang a glad song, his voice rising\nshrill and pure into the warm air.\n\nThe sun began to slant his rays through the beautiful high windows,\nlighting up one of the sides of the building with sheets of gold.\n\nHe sent his warm beams to kiss the young man's curls, and to caress the\nwhite hands that were clasped before him; then one of the rays fell upon\na picture that still kept its place above the altar.\n\nAt that very moment Eric, for the first time, raised his head--and\nthere, smiling down upon him in angelic pity, was a face of such perfect\nsweetness, that he felt the hot tears come rushing to his tired eyes.\n\nWith folded hands he knelt in a posture of adoration, and gazed into\nthe wonderful countenance that looked into his. A long cloak of some\nindescribable shade flowed down, enfolding the Virgin's ethereal limbs.\nHer hands were outstretched in a gesture of blessing; upon her head she\nwore a high golden crown, and the sun beat upon it making it shine like\nreal metal; and her eyes, her wonderful eyes, were full of tears.... But\nin her heart.... Oh! did he rightly see? or was he dreaming the same\nawful dream over again?... in her heart, too, a dagger had been thrust!\nMust all hearts be killed? What was this old world teaching him? Was\nsorrow everywhere? Were those that blessed treated alike with those who\npoisoned heart and soul?\n\nHow ignorant he had been, singing like a bird in the sunshine,\nunderstanding nothing, feeling nothing but his own joy to be alive!\n\nNow all seemed changed; pain and temptation, hard words and sweet\nsmiles, had replaced each other in bewildering confusion, and into the\nheart of this miraculous Mother of God, this most pure of all women they\nhad also thrust a cruel blade--and yet she continued to smile, her fair\nhands extended to his helpless gropings to understand!\n\nHis eyes riveted to the Holy Face, he approached the devastated altar\naround which the sun-rays had concentrated all their brightness, till\nthe picture of the Virgin was no longer a painting, but a living woman,\nall light and radiance, Divine pity and love.\n\nThe weary wanderer sank on his knees, his hands folded, his head bent on\nthe altar, and as he knelt there murmuring old forgotten prayers of his\nchildhood, real warm tears streamed from the eyes of the holy picture\nand fell drop by drop on his sunny locks.\n\nAnd it was like a gentle blessing which held within it a sweet promise\nof peace and comfort.\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\n\nThe lavender-covered waste and the gaunt ruins of the church had been\nleft far behind, and our traveller was now ascending the rocky pass of\nthe great rugged mountains that rose high and forbidding above his head.\nHe had felt a longing to climb somewhere very high, with a wish to be as\nnear the blue sky as possible.\n\nSomething of the peace that the holy picture had filtered into his heart\nstill remained. Within his clear look there was a dreamy wonder as if he\nstill saw pure visions before him, the warm tears of the Mother of God\nhaving consecrated him to a deeper understanding. But there remained a\nshadow upon his soul from his dark experiences within the dwelling of\nthe sorceress.\n\nHe was no more the gay, flitting, singing bird he had been. He strode\nforward with a more manly tread; something of the boyish eagerness had\ngone out of his step, some of the sweet confidence had gone from his\neyes when they rested on those he met on his way.\n\nWhen he played on his flute he marvelled at the new tones it had taken;\nthey seemed deeper, sadder, and his voice vibrated less with the joy of\nliving.\n\nYet the world was still wonderful and full of promise; these rocky\nmountains had shapes and colours that made his heart rejoice.\n\nIn this he was still the same Eric Gundian whom King Wanda had loved: he\nwas without fear, and not even the sight of these treeless giants of\nstone daunted his wanderer's spirit.\n\nEach night when he slept, no matter where he rested his head, the vision\nhe was following always appeared to him clear, vivid, unchanged--those\ngreat solemn eyes that looked into his without ever a droop of the lids.\nHe felt he must cross these enormous heights before he could reach what\nhe was seeking; that as yet his road had been too easy, and that it\nwould be needed of him to make some great effort before he was worthy of\nattaining his goal.\n\nHe looked back in thoughts upon the way he had come, and there seemed to\nhim a great difference between the Eric of yesterday and to-day.\n\nDense clouds were enfolding the peaks of the mountains and creeping like\nsoft monsters along the sides, filling the deep precipices with damp\nmoving masses which were all coming towards him ready to swallow him up.\n\nSteeper and steeper became the road, the air rarer, whilst the clouds\nlay thick and impenetrable over all.\n\nEric toiled on; only seldom could he look down upon what lay beneath\nbecause of the vapours that were wrapping themselves around him.\n\nHe knew not where he was going, but he stolidly continued his way in\nspite of the hard rocks and stones that wounded his feet, in spite of\nthe path becoming always more irksome and dangerous.\n\nOften he had but a narrow ledge to walk on, with a chasm on one side, a\nhigh wall of rock on the other; and as the clouds lay over everything he\nwas in constant peril of life.\n\nThere were moments when a straying sun-ray would break through the\nclouds, casting a sudden light upon them, transforming them into\nmother-of-pearl; and sometimes the shaft of light ran straight along the\nwhite mist as if a finger of a god were pointing downwards to the\ndwellings of men.\n\nThen out of the wall of mist a shadow rose and stood before him. It was\nfaintly outlined against the whiteness that was about him, and the\nshadow was that of a man. And as he looked, full of surprise, another\nwas at his side, and then a third, and these three shades pointed down\nthe road he had been ascending.\n\nEric turned, and there, behind him, was a whole procession of diaphanous\nfigures all following his footsteps.\n\nThey seemed transparent, yet all of them had personality; their faces\nalthough blurred and indistinct were full of different expressions.\n\nSome were old and bent, others strong, stalwart, upright. Several of the\nfemale figures were young and fair; there were even small children\namongst them, and all appeared waiting for him to lead the way.\n\nHe moved on, passing the three forms he had first seen, and with a\nshudder he realized that when he tried to touch them his fingers met\nnothing but space--his hand passed right through!\n\nAnd each time he turned his head there they were, all of them, pressing\nclose on his heels, silent, persistent. Truly it was a gruesome company\nto be wandering with in this wilderness of rocks and clouds.\n\nEric wondered how long it would last, and if they meant to go with him\nall the way.\n\nWho were they? And what did they want of him?\n\nAlthough many of them were beautiful, Eric thought them horrible and\nuncanny, and kept wondering in what way he could relieve himself of\ntheir presence; indeed he had not reckoned with such companions on his\nroad.\n\nShould he turn back? But if he did he would have to pass them all, and\nhe remembered with a shudder how his hand had gone right through those\nbodiless shapes when he had tried to touch them, so it was better to go\nforward instead of retracing his footsteps.\n\nEric came now to a turn of the path where a great rock jutted out,\nbarring his way in such a fashion that to pass it he would have to put\none foot before the other on a ledge so narrow that the sight alone made\nhim feel giddy and faint.\n\nBeneath him gaped the great sea of clouds covering unknown depths he\ncould not penetrate; but forwards he must go! Was he not like a hunted\nanimal with this procession of ghosts so remorselessly tracking him?\n\nHe bravely set his face to the dangerous pass, and very carefully, his\nhands clutching at the rough surface of the rock, he managed to turn the\ndreaded corner; as he did so, there, right in the middle of his path,\nblocking his way, was a very old man.\n\nHe sat with head bent, his long grey beard dragging on the ground;\nwithin his clasped hands he grasped a thick stick against which he was\nleaning.\n\nHe looked sad and weary, and yet he was full of quiet dignity; a\nsurprising figure to meet in a lonely place. His grey clothing hung\nloosely over his emaciated body, his wide mantle fell in thin folds\nabout him; on his head he wore a broad-brimmed, weather-beaten hat.\n\nAt the young man's exclamation of surprise he raised his head and looked\nkeenly at him, but spoke not a word. Yet this old man was not a spectre\nlike the others, but in verity a living human creature, and for that\nreason welcome to our lonely wanderer.\n\n\"Speak to me,\" cried Eric. \"I am half mad with the longing to hear a\nhuman voice. Tell me, if thou canst, who are these silent ones that dog\nmy steps, and make these mountains horrible to me? Fain would I be rid\nof them!\"\n\nHe turned to look behind him and there they were, close upon his\nfootsteps, huddled together on the narrow shelf he had just passed; and\nall of them looked at him with hungry, expectant eyes; and yet through\ntheir bodies the rocks could be distinctly seen. It was a grim sight!\nThe old man did not reply, but turned his head towards the silent\napparitions and scrutinized them long and earnestly, then a slow smile\nbroke over his face.\n\nAt last he spoke:\n\n\"Be not hard upon those that are dead, my son; these here find no peace\nbecause they did not receive a holy burial, nor were prayers said over\ntheir silent hearts; they felt thy coming, so they have arisen from\nwhere they lay in waiting, to follow thee. Let thy heart be soft unto\nthem. Their presence around thee speaks in thy favour, for they try to\nfollow only those whose conscience is without stain, for those alone can\nhelp them whose lives have been pure.\"\n\n\"Who are they?\" asked the young man, and the old one answered:\n\n\"They are the restless souls of those who died here amongst the\nmountains. They all had hopes in their hearts when they started, and\ndreams or ambitions; each thought himself strong enough to scale these\ncruel heights, but they dropped down on the way; few, very few, ever\nreach the top. They lose courage or weary and try to turn back; but it\nis difficult to go back for those who have started on these paths that\nlead so high.\"\n\n\"Tell me, O wise man,\" cried the youth, \"what mountains are these, and\nwhy did I feel that I must try to ascend them?\"\n\n\"They are called the mountains of Life, my son. For some they bear also\nthe name of the mountains of Temptation; for others they mean Toil; for\nothers Trouble; for some they are named Redemption, and for the fewest\nthey are called the mountains of Attainment.\"\n\n\"For me what shall they be called, my father?\"\n\n\"That remains to be seen, my boy,\" responded the solemn voice.\n\n\"Tarry awhile beside me and I shall tell thee a few things that may be\nof use to thee. Thy fair face pleases me, and I wish thee well. But I am\nold, and my voice has no more the force as of a river in spring-time\nwhen the snows have melted; it is more like a sluggish stream over which\na thick sheet of ice has been laid. But sit thee down close by me that I\nneed not raise it overmuch.\"\n\nSo saying he drew his cloak away, making room for Eric on the rock where\nhe was resting. The waiting shapes had become fainter, and were like\ntorn pieces of mist that had caught upon the rocks.\n\n\"But before all else, I pray thee, tell me,\" said Eric, \"why thou sayest\nthese shadows have awaited my coming; and why thou dost not thyself lead\nthem to peace? Thou who art so wise?\"\n\nThe venerable face turned to the young one with a sad smile, and the old\nsolemn voice answered in a low tone, \"To be wise is not the same as to\nbe good. Long ago, in the days of my youth, and later also in the years\nof my manhood, I was a great sinner, and many a dark unavowed act have I\ncommitted. But wise I always was, and even magic have I understood.\n\n\"There comes a time, my son, when the heart longs for peace; the white\npeace of solitude. Amongst men it could never be found, so I came up\nhere; but that was only after my head had bent beneath the snow of age,\nafter I had tasted all fruits both bitter and sweet; and this I tell\nthee: few are worth the eating. Yet thou shalt also eat of many; but\nhave a care, I pray thee, and grasp not those that were best left\nuntouched; and yet? and yet?\n\n\"When I look back I know it all had some meaning behind it--something\nthat was but a link of one long chain, and the chain is so long that the\nlinks are but of small importance, although each link deems itself the\none which holds all the chain together; and it is better it should be\nso, because the long chain needs each separate link. My talk is dark to\nthee,\" added the old man, laying his hand on Eric's.\n\n\"Forgive an old man whose thoughts ramble along; seest thou, up here in\nthis wild solitude amongst the clouds and eagles, one learns to look\ndown upon things and to realize their value; but it is useless to begin\nsuch knowledge too soon, for we, the weary ones, need all thy joy, all\nthy careless happiness, we need thy efforts, thy hopes, thy dreams, thy\ntears; none are wasted; they all go to make one great whole! Life is\nlong and yet it is short, and many roads there are, but they all,\nwithout exception, lead to the same end. I am very near that end now;\nsome reach it sooner than I. I know not what thou seekest, but all men\nare running after the same thing, though they call it by different\nnames, not knowing that they can grasp but its shadow, because the thing\nitself is God's.\n\n\"I have given it a name. I call it Happiness; but truly this I can tell\nthee: men know not when they have it ... they see it before them, and\nthen they turn round and they see it far behind ... but whilst it is\ntheirs they are blind. Dark are my words to thee, but I love thee the\nmore, because I read within thy eyes that all I am saying is without\nsense to thee, dear beginner of Life.\"\n\n\"But thou hast not told me,\" queried Eric, \"why these phantoms hope to\nfind salvation through me, and why with thy great wisdom thou canst do\nless for them than I with my foolish youth?\"\n\nSadly the old man replied:\n\n\"Because, my son, youth and innocence have a strength that all the\nwisdom from over the seven seas cannot equal. Indeed, we who have lived\nand now look back, are far more willing to stretch out our hands in\nhelp; our hearts are larger, our patience greater, our understanding\ndeeper; but it has thus been decreed that all this cannot be weighed\nagainst one little drop of thy pure innocence or of the faith thou hast,\nthat removeth mountains.\"\n\nThe old head bowed itself over the clasped hands, and on the long grey\nlocks lay a mist that was silvery and lustreless, as if some one had\nbreathed over a mirror.\n\nThe sad, tired eyes gazed with a far-off look into space, following\nforgotten visions of long ago.\n\nThere was a deep silence which the young man did not try to break. He\nbowed in awe before this gaunt old figure, and longed to hear more, to\ndrink in the wise words that fell from his lips.\n\nAlthough many were quite incomprehensible to him, his instinct told him\nthat he could learn much wisdom if he listened with all his soul.\nStrange it was that such a man should call himself a sinner when such a\ndelightful peace filled Eric's whole being as he sat there close beside\nhim.\n\nThe old man turned his head and looked into the young man's eyes.\n\n\"Fair thou art in thy glorious untouched youth. I did not hope to look\nagain on so good a sight. I wish I could give thee some of my wisdom to\nkeep thee from harm, but a loving, pure heart is also a shield, perhaps\neven better than any I could give thee; and yet when old age lifts its\neyes to look upon youth, and sees it beautiful, a prayer comes to its\nlips that it may remain thus unsoiled for ever!\n\n\"Thou must go forth without fear; and have patience, dear youth, with\nthose quiet followers of thine. If thou art strong enough thou mayest\nlead them to peace; for this I must tell thee: thy way will be hard and\nlong till thou reachest the end which is thy desire; but by the love of\nmy snowy hair I entreat thee climb to the highest summit, let not thy\nsoul be satisfied till thou hast scaled the last, steepest peak.\n\n\"There may be easier roads, but take them not; others may tempt thee\nfrom thy giddy path, but listen not to their talk. I shall put all my\nfaith in thee, and I will not that thou disappoint me. Before I die, I\nwant to know that one has reached the greatest height.\"\n\n\"But tell me,\" cried the youth, \"will I find at the end that for which I\nam seeking, which I am wandering after all the world over?\"\n\n\"That I cannot answer thee now, my son,\" replied his companion. \"Come\nwith me to my dwelling; I shall gaze into my magic stone and perchance I\nshall be able to tell thee. Give me thy hand, for I am weary; we have\nnot far to go, and it will be sweet to me to lean upon thy youth.\"\n\nWith great care and solicitude Eric helped the feeble old hermit to his\nfeet, and following the gentle pressure of his hand, he let himself be\ndirected to the mouth of a dark cave, hewn out of the rock, close to\nwhere they had been sitting.\n\n\"What a lonely place to live in!\" cried the young man. \"In truth it is\nlike an eagle's nest hung on the very edge of the precipice!\"\n\n\"It is a good dwelling for me, who only want to look backwards and not\nforwards,\" said the old man.\n\n\"Here I live in peace away from the clamouring of the crowd; I live\nwith the thought of what has been, and what was evil drops away from\nwhat was good.\n\n\"I remember far more clearly the sun that shone than the days that were\ndark. I see faces I loved, and those I hated have no more power over me.\nEven strange it seems that once I could hate; yet well do I remember how\nI loved; for this also shalt thou learn: that Love is the beginning and\nend of all things.\n\n\"Love is the key that opens every door. Love is the answer to all\nquestions. Love is the very centre of the heart of the universe. Love is\nthe voice of God, the punishment and the recompense He gives to His\npeople.\n\n\"Love carries the heart to the verge of the unknown. In Love all is\ncontained: joy and pain, hope and despair, the night and the day; what\nwas, what is, and what shall be ... but again my tongue wanders away\nwith me, soon thou shalt weary of my talk.\n\n\"Look about thee and tell me if my dwelling is to thy liking.\"\n\nThe cave in which they stood was dark; but when Eric's eyes had got\naccustomed to the dimness he saw that indeed it was but a poor abode.\n\nHis host lit a small ancient oil lamp which spread a feeble light\naround. He placed it upon a table hewn out of the root of a tree, and\nsat heavily down on a stool near by, resting his head in his hand, his\nstill keen eyes following the young man's movements as he looked about\nhim.\n\nThe cave was not large, and the sides were of bare stone. A cavity had\nbeen cut out at the farther end where a few rough skins were spread, and\nthat was the bed, indeed more like a grave than a resting-place.\n\nIn one of the corners there was a rude hearth with a few old pots;\nopposite was a shelf bending beneath the weight of many old volumes\nbound in shabby leather; a tiny aperture gave a very faint light\nsomewhere near the roof, otherwise the door was the only opening; it was\nshut by a thick woollen curtain hung on a string.\n\nAgainst one of the walls stood a large wooden chest covered with an old\nshawl, once of fine bright texture, now so mellowed by age that its\ncurious design was hardly discernible; a few low stools and a big heavy\ntable completed the whole furnishing of this primitive dwelling.\n\n\"Well,\" asked the hermit, \"what sayest thou to my sumptuous apartment?\"\n\nSmiling down upon his host Eric rejoined:\n\n\"Somewhat gloomy it seems to me--and too near the edge of the precipice\non dark nights. In very truth the thought makes me shudder, that if one\nhad not a care one could step from the door over the brink!\"\n\nThe old man laughed softly, but with the sound of some one who for many\na year had no more been accustomed to mirth.\n\n\"Come and sit thee by me, for I still have much to tell thee. Take\nyonder stool, bring it close to my side that I need not raise my tired\nold voice.\"\n\nAs Eric sat down he saw that two covered objects lay upon the table. The\nhermit stretched out his trembling hand and drew the smaller of the two\ntowards him, raising the dark cloth that covered it.\n\nAs he did so, a round ball, cut out of a stone the colour of smouldering\nashes, became visible; it was resting on a small three-legged stand\ncarved in old ivory.\n\n\"I shall now look into this magic ball to see thy future, dear wanderer.\nGive me thy hand whilst I concentrate my mind upon the polished surface;\nthou must think with all thy might of that which is thy greatest desire,\nand thou must not speak or the charm will be broken.\"\n\nEric laid his hand confidently within the dry wrinkled palm, and\nremained silent, as he had been bid, his face near to that of the old\nman, his fair locks resting against the silvery ones.\n\nWith breathless intensity he watched the magic ball, and saw with wonder\nhow it began to glow as if a fire were burning inside.\n\nThe curious light became always more intense till the ball was one\nburning flame upon which he could hardly keep his eyes.\n\nHe felt an unwonted drowsiness come over him, but with all his might he\nkept his mind fixed upon the eyes of his dream, and then out of the\nsilence came the voice of his companion, inexplicably changed and\nmusical, like far-off bells.\n\n\"I see a great picture on a wall--in the middle of which there sits a\nwoman on a throne, the woman has no face.... I see eager questioning all\naround thee, but there are tears in thy eyes.... I see a long road on\nwhich thou art wandering mostly in the brilliant sunshine, but sometimes\nit is the moon that lights thy way. Thy tears have dried, but thou\nknowest not where thou goest and thou singest like a bird. Many other\nfaces cross thy road and mostly they smile on thee....\n\n\"But somewhere there is a shadow that falls over thy path and thou art\nafraid--something there is that thou dost not understand and that\ncontains sore temptations for thee ... then.... Yes, if I rightly\nsee ... there is blood, it drips slowly to the ground, but thy own hands\nare without stain, yet thou art full of fear and fleest as quickly as\nthou canst.\n\n\"Then again there is sunshine, and round thee all is blue, the sky as\nwell as the ground--then once more there are tears, warm and wet, but\nthis time they are not thine.... And now thou wanderest where the air is\nrarer and thy breath comes in gasps--thou mountest ever higher and\nhigher ... there comes a moment's rest and again thou art wandering,\nand always thy road is steeper and thy step more weary.... All around\nthee there are shapes that make thee afraid.\n\n\"And now I hear the voice of a child crying, crying ... again a shadow\nfalls over thee ... this time like to the shadow of death.\"\n\nThe chanting voice paused and the grey head bent closer down upon the\nfiery ball; the pressure upon the young man's hand became an iron grip.\nDrops of perspiration stood upon the wrinkled brow as if an enormous\neffort were being made. Then the voice spoke again:\n\n\"What I now see is a long road through a country of sunshine and\nriches--it is evening, sweet music rises in the air, a haze of dust lies\nover the horizon; then all I see, at the end, is a face of wonderful\nsweetness, yet sad and full of yearning--and I see two eyes ... strange\nand wonderful, and somehow thy heart is at peace.... That is all.\"\n\nThe voice had ceased; the grip upon the young man's hand had relaxed, a\nheavy silence lay over them.\n\nThe glow in the magic ball died down till only the smouldering colour\nremained. Then Eric spoke like one in a dream:\n\n\"Thou sawest the eyes! deep, grey, unblinking, sad, and yearning? So I\nshall reach them in the end! Canst thou not tell me whose they are?\"\n\nThe old man's head had fallen on his breast as if overcome by fatigue;\nnow he raised it very slowly and looked long and lovingly at the young\neager face.\n\n\"Nay! that I cannot tell thee, but this I know: Happiness cometh not\nthere where we seek it; it cometh like a breath out of the unknown, and\nthen the heart is glad and a great light is spread over all that our\neyes rest upon. Then we are full of strength and courage, and each man\nis our friend.\n\n\"But the thing we clasp to our heart is never ours to keep, for thus it\nis in this world. Joy and pain lie so close side by side that there\nseems no line to cross between the two--and yet when crossed.... Well,\nmy son, I shall show thee what no other eye but mine own has ever looked\nupon; it is all that remains to me of what was on the other side of the\nline....\"\n\nThe trembling hand removed the cover from the second object that lay on\nthe table, and there, revealed to Eric's astonished gaze, was a face the\nlike of which he had never seen before.\n\nIt lay, the head thrown back, the eyes closed, the lips slightly parted\nas if asking for a last caress.\n\nThe hair waved away from the delicate, somewhat sunken temples, forming\nthe pillow on which it rested.\n\nA calm expression of peace lay over the angelically pure features that\nhad the soft whiteness of ivory.\n\nThere was no colour save a faint tint of pink on the beseeching mouth.\nYes, it was peace that was the principal expression of that face, and\nyet there was also a sad yearning in it, as if the closed eyes longed to\nraise their lids a last time to look upon a face they loved....\n\nThe old man's head now lay on the hard table upon his outstretched arms;\nhe was overwhelmed by some tremendous emotion, unable to look at those\nsilent features.\n\nThe youth knew not what force moved him, but he knelt down beside the\nemaciated old figure and, taking it into his strong young arms, he drew\nthe bowed head towards him, and held it long against his heart in a\nsilent embrace.\n\nAfter a while both looked up and the grey hermit pressed one of his\nshaking hands on the young man's head; the other he laid with a\ncaressing movement against the marble face.\n\n\"I have worked at this with the last strength of my feeble old hands.\nAnd each day for many years I laboured to create the fairness of this\nface which I loved, but which never was mine!\n\n\"I will not weary thee with the story of my life; it is dark and ugly,\nbut this thou shalt know: I loved her, and she gave me all the passion\nof her pure heart. She knew not who I was, and when she found it out she\ncould not bear the truth, so she searched a cold grave in the deep, dark\nfloods. Thus she lay when last I looked upon her; the vision burnt\nitself deep into my brain for ever. For long, long years after she had\ncrossed my path I continued to live a wicked life, full of dark deeds,\nfull of treachery, keeping faith with none.\n\n\"But when, old and bent, I came to these solitudes her face alone was\nalways with me. Then I began to carve upon the snowy marble the features\nI had loved the most in this world.\n\n\"Day by day I toiled, for my fingers were stiff and trembling, but I\nfelt I could not die before I had completed this work of love. I felt\nthat if I could conjure into life the marvel of her face as it was that\nday when they took her out of the cruel water and laid her, for ever\nsilent, before me, her murderer, I would find forgiveness before that\nGod I had always mocked but had learnt to believe in here in this vast\nsolitude so near His sky!\n\n\"It is but a short while ago that I completed my work; thou seest\nthyself how surpassing fair it is, and since that day peace at last\nseems to be spreading very slowly over my soul....\"\n\nThe old man paused, then drawing the youth quite near to him, he took\nhis head in both his hands, bent it gently back, saying in a solemn\nvoice:\n\n\"Remember the words of a very old man, who has known all of pain and\njoy, who also has lived through the hell of remorse though it came too\nlate ... too late.... Mayest thou never learn how sad is the word: Too\nlate! Go thy way, my son. Search for the treasure thou dreamest of, and\nwhen it is thine hold it fast. It may come to thee in quite unexpected\nform--at first even thou mayest not realize that thou art so near; it\nmay not come in splendid raiment with a crown on its head, but keep thy\nheart open as well as thy eyes; turn not away from the humblest call,\nnever leave undone a deed of love.\n\n\"I, in my solitude, well know what it is to bitterly regret. All the\nwisdom I have acquired is but ashes to me because never did I understand\nhow to use my riches,--I cherished what was of brass, and what was pure\ngold, in my vanity, I trampled underfoot. Thou hast within thee\nsomething that makes me believe thou art of those who win! Now I have\nsaid enough, and thou must continue thy road; but that thou shouldst not\nforget the grey hermit of the hills, I have for thee a gift, which, in\nthe days of my youth, was my most trusted friend. In thy hands it will\nhave greater power than ever it had in mine.\"\n\nSo saying the old man rose, went to the bed, and drew something out of\nthe dark. When he came back he held within his hand a shining sword.\n\n\"This sword have I loved in the pride of my youth, and even now, in my\nbitter old age, it was ever at my side. Whilst I worked at the cold,\nhard marble, it lay on the table near my hand; it alone felt my hot\ntears of gratitude on the day I had completed my work.\n\n\"A legend is attached to it: it is said that if carried by hands that\nare clean of all sin it has unknown powers that reveal themselves in\ntime of need. It may be true ...\" the old man bowed his head.... \"But my\nhands ... were never clean ... so no miracle shone on my road.\n\n\"To me it was simply a good strong sword which I used in my own defence.\nI used it, too, against my country's foes, and many an evening has it\ndripped with blood. Gird it round thy waist and go forth with my\nblessing. I know not if the blessing of a man such as I hath worth in\nthe eyes of God; nevertheless it comes from the deepest depths of my\nweary soul, and may it follow thee wherever thou goest and help thee to\nwin.\"\n\nEric bent his knee, and the hermit laid both his hands on his golden\nlocks, lingering tenderly over them as if loath to take his fingers\naway.\n\n\"One more gift have I for thee, my son, for I know the peril and\nloneliness of thy road. Here inside this box\"--and he drew a small\ncasket from his breast--\"thou shalt find some tablets I once learnt to\nmake, and which possess marvellous power to keep the traveller alive\nwhen he can find no food on his way; one of these alone is as much as a\nfeast at the table of a king. Neither is this their only magic; for he\nwho tastes of them to him is given command over all languages spoken\nunder the sun.\"\n\n\"But am I not taking thy daily bread from thee?\" cried the young man, as\nhe sprang to his feet.\n\n\"Be without fear, dear youth; my days are numbered, and enough remains\nto me to keep my tired old body alive, as long as God still desires me\nto be of this earth. Go in peace, and have a kindly thought for the old\nsinner whose last joy has been to look into thy sunny eyes!\"\n\nHe led Eric to the door of the cave, and pulling the curtain aside, gave\na strange, shrill whistle.\n\nAs he did so there was a fluttering of wings, and somewhere out of the\nclouds a milk-white falcon swooped down to his hand.\n\n\"This bird of mine will show thee the road. Follow him without\nfaltering, even if he seem to lead thee where no foot can climb. Be of\ngood cheer, may God be with thee!\"\n\nEric bowed his head, kissed the kind old hand, and then turned his face\ntowards the lonely path he had to follow, the hawk flying before him\nlike a white banner floating in the wind.\n\nThe old man stood on his threshold casting longing looks after the\nretreating form. An expression of intense sadness and resignation came\nover his furrowed countenance; slowly, with all the fatigue of nearly a\ncentury's living heavy upon him, he went back into his dark abode. There\nhe stood for a long while beside the rustic table contemplating the pale\nmarble face, and all his soul was in his eyes. The flickering light\nplayed on the exquisite visage, throwing over it a living warmth, so\nthat the eyelids appeared to quiver as if they were trying to open once\nmore.\n\nSlowly and painfully the aged recluse bent down till his faded lips\nrested on the pure brow, the icy coldness of the stone penetrating\nthrough all his veins--then with a reluctant movement he laid the dark\ncloth over that vision of beauty, hiding it out of sight; and it was\nlike the lid of a coffin being shut over the face of the dead.\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\n    And a strange song I have heard\n      By a shadowy stream,\n    And the singing of a snow-white bird\n      On the Hills of Dream.\n\n    FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nThe white wings of the bird could be seen far overhead. Eric looked up\nand understood that at whatever cost he must scale those heights towards\nwhich it flew. Such had been the decree of the kind old philosopher.\n\nFirm was his resolution to obey him in everything, because never before\nhad human being spoken thus unto him.\n\nOnly one fact his mind refused to grasp: how could such a man be a\nsinner? He thought of the gentle, venerable face, of his wise and\nbeautiful sayings; and dear to his memory was the sound of his voice.\nHis feelings towards the silent ghosts, that still followed him, were\nquite changed, for the words of the master were ever in his mind.\n\nHe felt now a kindly interest in their welfare, and hoped that strength\nwould be given him to lead them to peace. The clouds lay no longer so\ndense over his road. He could advance with greater rapidity.\n\nAlways steeper grew the way, and always higher flew the bird; often its\nwhite plumes were lost amongst the floating mist.\n\nEric was full of courage and hope; whilst he walked he kept thinking of\nall he had heard. Tears came to his eyes at the remembrance of the\nsilvery head lying so close to the cold hard marble which made no\nresponse, the face in its immaculate fairness so serenely unconscious of\nall the feeling its beauty called forth.\n\nWithin the stern silence of that pale stone lay a punishment far greater\nthan human justice could inflict.\n\nNight was coming on, but Eric still advanced with undaunted step,\nignoring the fatigue that was again making itself felt through all his\nsupple limbs.\n\nThe sword at his side gave him a companionable feeling; his eyes rested\nupon it with pride, admiring the beautiful hilt that was carved out of a\nsingle piece of crystal in the form of a cross. In the centre had been\nset a large emerald the colour of a deep forest pool, transparent and\ndark, evoking a feeling of rest amongst glorious solitudes where the\nfoot of man but seldom passes.\n\nThe blade was as bright as silver, and flashed like a searchlight when\nEric drew it from its sheath. He did so more than once, feeling its\nedge, with the joy of a child over a new toy.\n\nNever had he possessed so manly an arm, and his pleasure knew no bounds.\n\nAlways darker grew the night, more perilous the path. Our valiant\nwanderer was now obliged to feel the way with his hands, and began to\nthink about where he could lay himself down to rest. It was useless to\npress onward without seeing where he was going--useless to risk making a\nfalse step that might perhaps cost him his life by hurling him into the\nchasm that yawned at his side.\n\nHis only fear was to lose sight of his feathered companion; it would be\nalmost impossible to find it again in this desert of rocks. He stood\nstill to think what he had better do, when out of the darkness, quite\nclose before him, he saw the flash of white wings.\n\nHe sprang forward in pursuit, regardless of the danger that gaped\naround him; and after a moment he found himself on a broad ledge under\nthe protection of a jutting rock. There, just discernible, in the dense\nobscurity sat the white falcon, motionless, at rest, giving the sign\nthat here they should make a halt.\n\nThe great bird turned its head towards the youth, and as it did so\nsomething resembling a tiny light gleamed on its breast.\n\nEric approached it cautiously for fear of frightening it away, but the\nbeautiful creature showed no signs of alarm, and let him lay his hand on\nits head.\n\nThen Eric saw that around the strange bird's neck a tiny chain was\nclasped, from which hung a diamond of prodigious size; it radiated a\nstrong bluish light much like that of a shimmering star. Here in this\nvast wilderness of unknown perils the little light shone brightly like\nunto a kindly eye that had been placed there to watch over him during\nthe night.\n\nWith a sensation of comfort Eric laid himself down close to the quiet\nguardian, wrapping himself up warmly in the folds of his cloak, for the\nnight was cold.\n\nIndeed the rocks made but a hard and unfriendly bed, but Eric was young,\nand weary was his body, so it was not long before sleep came down and\ncarried him off into the land of dreams.\n\nUpon the rock near his head sat the motionless, wakeful bird of prey,\nstaring with unblinking eyes into the dark. The whiteness of its\nfeathers was faintly visible, and the blue diamond burned steadily like\nthe lamp of a lighthouse seen from far over the sea.\n\nNow there was a faint movement about the sleeping boy and that silent\nwatcher of the Hills.\n\n[Illustration: _A circle of mist seemed to be settling around them._]\n\nA circle of mist seemed to be settling around them, like a giant wreath\nof grey poppies; but it was not the vapours of the night that were\nforming a ring round the man and the bird--it was the bodiless army of\nfollowing ghosts; and there they sat a quiet company, forms out of\nanother world, awaiting in mournful silence that this frail human being\nshould arise to lead them over perilous ways to the height that would be\ntheir salvation.\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\n    Far off I hear the strain\n    Of infinite sweet pain,\n    That floats along lonely phantom land.\n\n    FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nEric had not slept many hours before he awoke with a start. All was\npitch-black around him, only the form of the white hawk was outlined\nagainst the darkness, whilst the precious stone on its neck shone in\nlonely magnificence.\n\nEric sat up wondering what had torn him so suddenly out of his restful\nslumbers; he felt rather stiff from the hardness of his stony couch, so\nsprang to his feet and stood erect, listening, awaiting any danger that\nmight threaten him out of the unknown. And then, suddenly, a wailing cry\nbroke out of the stillness; it rose like a frightened sob into the air\nand rang through the night with a sound so full of terrible loneliness\nthat it made the heart stand still.\n\nThe bird stretched its neck, its wings expanded ready to take flight,\nthe light of the diamond twinkling on its breast.\n\nEric waited, trembling with expectancy; there was something weird and\nheartrending about that helpless cry out of this boundless solitude;\nagain the dismal sound was heard, distinct and piercing like the\nterrified voice of a very small child in an agony of fear.\n\nEric could bear it no longer, and sprang in the direction whence the\nsound came.\n\nAt that moment his beautiful winged companion rose in the air, circling\nclose around the path he was on, so that the jewel flashed in moving\npatterns like a small lantern being swung over his head.\n\nEric followed the tiny light, grateful for that dwarf spot of\nbrightness, which shone in the thick darkness that hemmed him in on all\nsides. Many a time he stumbled over the stones that obstructed his road,\noften bruising his hands and knees, sometimes falling all his length,\nbut always desperately aware how perilous and uncertain was this search\nin the impenetrable night.\n\nNow the wonderful bird paused in its flight, and Eric saw the small\nlight, suspended in the air, hovering over one particular spot: he\ngroped about, his hands feeling everywhere--what was he to find? All at\nonce, close above his head the pitiful voice was again heard, but this\ntime quite near. With breathless anxiety Eric scaled the rock, quite\nunable to see where he was going; but his hands were always\noutstretched, carefully seeking about him, and now his fingers suddenly\ncame in contact with something soft and warm!\n\nWith gentle precautions the young man drew the heavy object towards him,\nbalancing himself with surprising agility upon the narrow ledge ... and\nthere, in his arms, against his cheek he felt the soft face of a little\nchild!... Yes, a little child, whose pitiful moan rose to the sky like a\nsoul in distress. Clasping the small body close to his breast, the young\nman with an almost superhuman effort hoisted himself on to a shelf-like\nrock he had felt near by, and there he sat himself down with his\nprecious bundle in his arms.\n\nAs he did so the falcon swooped out of the air on to his shoulder, so\nthat the light of the gem could just fall upon the pale small face that\nlooked up into his.\n\nSuch a sweet little face, out of which two frightened eyes stared up at\nhim in speechless anxiety. Miserable rags alone covered the thin body\nthat was shivering with cold.\n\nEric drew his cloak close around the trembling form and held it tight\nagainst him, whilst with kindly words he tried to calm its ceaseless\nwhimper.\n\nLong he sat thus in this vast black solitude, whilst upon his shoulder\nthe friendly bird kept watch over the two forlorn young creatures who\nhad been so strangely brought together in these lonely hills.\n\nEric's eyes closed, and the child too, feeling comforted, was quiet now,\nits head hidden against the kind heart that had been its saviour.\n\nProbably both slept, because when Eric next looked up there was a faint\nred streak in the sky; the darkness of the night was slowly lifting.\n\nThe little girl was huddled up close in his arms slumbering sweetly.\n\nNear by on a block of granite the beautiful hawk sat like a watchful\nguardian--his keen ever-open eyes fixed in an unblinking stare upon the\nrising sun.\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\n\nSeveral days later Eric could have been seen advancing over the frozen\nground holding a small child's hand safely clasped in his own. He had\nwandered and wandered, climbing always higher, never giving way, no\nmatter how overpowering his fatigue. For ever ringing in his ears was\nthe sound of the solitary man's voice begging that he should not\ndisappoint him by turning back, urging him to have courage to go always\nforward till he had climbed the highest peak!--not to be afraid, because\nhe believed Eric to be of those who win. Ah! but would he win? Would he\never reach the top of those lonely heights? would he ever look down upon\nthe other side? At first the thought of having a companion on his\narduous way was a comfort to him. The child's face was sweet, its eyes\nlooked up into his with a trust and confidence that gladdened his\nspirit.\n\nBut soon he understood how much more slowly he could advance; how he had\nto redouble his efforts at every step; how much more often he had to\nrest because of the toddling feet at his side, and often, very often the\nchild's head pressed against his cheek; he carried it for many weary\nmiles, till his powers were nearly spent.\n\nFrom whence the child came, whose it was, how it had been lost here\namongst these drear solitudes Eric could not get it to relate.\n\nWhen he pressed it with questions it would only cry helplessly, and\npoint always before it, as if longing to reach the most giddy heights.\n\nThe only words it seemed to know were the strange little cry of: \"Up,\nup,\" or \"Over there, over there,\" and persistently with its tiny hand it\npointed to the most distant horizons; and then a feverish shine of\nexpectancy would light its eyes and a flush come over its wan little\ncheeks.\n\nHe loved the lonely wee maid, but a frightful apprehension was pressing\nat his heart--would he be strong enough to save them both?\n\nThe magic tablets out of the old man's box were diminishing day by day.\nHe wondered how far he still must go before he had scaled the last rock.\n\nThe child was frail and delicate: its feet were bare, the wretched dress\nit wore hung in discoloured rags round its thin body. Dark curls\nclustered round a face of angelic beauty, pale and haggard though it\nwas, out of which the eyes looked like those of a frightened gazelle.\n\nWith touching gratitude the little creature clung to this man who had\nsaved it in its dire distress, and often Eric would feel the pressure of\nits warm lips against his hand as they trudged on side by side.\n\nTheir weary feet were now carrying them across the precipitous incline\nof a great mountain, the most mighty of all the range, the one whose\nsummit bore the highest peak, the one Eric had singled out as the\nultimate object of his steep ascent. Their way lay across wide-spreading\nmountain meadows, now covered with a white sheet of snow and frost; far\nahead lay a dark forest of pine which they would have to traverse before\nreaching the final ridges beyond.\n\nAlways close upon his heels followed the silent army of ghosts, and the\nhigher their leader climbed the more hopeful was the look of their\neyes; it almost seemed that their bodies were becoming less transparent,\nthat each separate form was losing something of its mist-like frailty.\n\nThe little maiden was not afraid of them, and often, when weariness had\nobliged her and her companion to rest, she would stretch out both small\narms in their direction, inviting them to share her repose. And then it\nwould happen that out of that sad troop of followers other arms--perhaps\nthe empty arms of what had once been a mother--would answer with the\nsame yearning gesture of love, and yet all the distance of two worlds\nlay between them, and the bridge had not yet been built over which they\ncould meet!\n\nThe little one loved to hear Eric play on his flute; so even when most\noverpowered with fatigue, his breath coming in gasps, he would take it\nfrom his pocket and try to call from it its sweetest notes. But often he\nwould have to lay it down, his lips were too dry, his hand shaking\novermuch.\n\nThe continual strain upon his youthful body was telling at last, and\noften he had to cover his eyes with his hands, because a sudden\ndizziness would overtake him.\n\nHe was in such fear that the mysterious tablets in the small box would\ncome to an end that he ate of them but sparingly, giving his companion\nthe larger share.\n\nEric had been accustomed to live in plenty; had he not been the\nfavourite of a king? And now a precious life had been given unexpectedly\ninto his hands--the bright singing bird, the gay flitting butterfly had\nto learn to live for another! His face had lost its roundness, the smile\nwas still bright and sunny, but his eyes wore an anxious look that\nseemed for ever searching the distance. A new feeling of softness had\nstolen into his heart; those two slender arms, that tiny confiding hand\nwithin his own, those pattering feet beside him, awoke within his soul\nsensations of which he had never even dreamed. He felt that gladly\nwould he suffer any pain, gladly lay down his life, if this sweet being\nthat trusted in him could but remain unharmed.\n\nOnce on a steep pass she had fallen, bruising her delicate feet and\ncutting her face. He had held her then in his arms as a mother would\nhave done, and an indescribable feeling of tenderness had flooded his\nheart, whilst her warm tears had wetted his cheek as he pressed her\nclose to him. The sensation of that soft little body clasped against his\nown during the cold nights they had slept side by side, his cloak\ncovering them both, was to him like treading on Holy ground! And now\nwith growing apprehension he saw the great forest opening its sombre\npaths before him.\n\nThe falcon flew leading the way, its white plumage showing like some\ngigantic flower against the dark branches.\n\nWhat secret terrors were hidden within that green solitude? How would\nthey find their way out? Indeed helpless did he feel; how could he\nprotect this frail child against the cold that was always becoming more\nbiting, searching its way under their skin trying to freeze their blood!\n\nOnwards! onwards! it was no good standing still; but the effort was\ngreater with every step.\n\nNow the green forest had received them within its thickness; immense\ntrees looked down upon them waving their branches, whispering together,\nastonished at the sight of two such defenceless travellers venturing\nthemselves within their dreaded obscurity.\n\nThe snow lay thick on the ground, always deeper the higher they climbed,\nand there came a moment when the little girl, clinging to her kind\ncompanion, cried bitterly, declaring that she could go no farther.\n\nIn despair Eric looked around him--on all sides the awful solitude shut\nhim in; rows on rows of giants frowned down upon his sorry plight, the\nwind rustled through their branches that looked like monstrous arms\ngesticulating in angry discussions over the heads of these two forlorn\nhuman beings. To Eric they suddenly appeared like enemies come together\nfrom all parts of the world to plan his destruction.\n\nEach tree was a living creature threatening him, trying to stop him, to\nturn him back! He clenched his teeth: he would not go back! He would not\ngive up! He would not allow fear to fill his soul! Was he not to be of\nthose who win? Had not the hermit believed in his courage? and his\nsilent followers had they not put all their trust in his strength?\n\nThere they stood, fantastic forms hovering on the verge of Eternity,\nfaintly discernible against the trunks of the trees, their haunted eyes\nturned towards him, their transparent bodies all bending his way in\nhushed expectation.\n\nThe wind came down in howling gusts, stirring up the withered needles\nthat lay on the snow, bending the proud trees before its ruthless\nviolence, dashing powdery clouds over the trembling child; then rushing\nin shrieking hordes through the sombre pines so that their boughs\nclashed together like an angry mob. Night was coming on; all around Eric\ncould see nothing but trees, trees--an army of Titans allied against him\nto hinder him reaching his goal. To add to the horror of his pitiful\nsituation, he thought he heard from afar the howling of wolves, and that\nhe saw creeping forms slinking amongst the thickening shadows.\n\nCalling upon all his courage, he bent down and gathered the exhausted\nchild into his arms, wrapping the folds of his cloak tightly round her\nshuddering limbs; and thus weighted he struggled on, his breath coming\nin gasps, his pulses beating, a mist before his eyes.\n\nHe toiled through the snow, up, up, winding his way between the trunks\nof the hostile trees--often stumbling--hitting his weary feet against\nbroken twigs--straining with a feeling that his veins would burst, so\ngreat was his exertion.\n\nBut he would not give way! He would not lay down his precious burden\nbefore he could find some cover for the night! To rest there upon that\nbed of snow would be certain death; his weariness was such, he knew if\nonce he fell it would be to rise no more--he would hide his head in that\nicy shroud dragging down the precious life with his, to never, never\nmove again.\n\nOn--on ... but was the child of lead? Why had his arms become so weak?\nWhy were dark vapours floating before his eyes?... Why had he a beating\nheart in each tingling nerve of his aching body? Why did his tongue\ncleave to the roof of his mouth, whilst fire seemed to course down his\nthroat? And now a great darkness suddenly wiped all things from his\nsight, and he fell with the impression that he was being suddenly hurled\ninto the night....\n\nBut it was not long that he lay thus--instinct was stronger than all;\nbesides, the warm arms of the frightened child seemed to drag him back\nto life, infusing new vitality into his spent frame; so he struggled to\nhis knees, the little girl still clinging to his neck.\n\nHe looked around him, desperation in his eyes; they had reached an\nopening in the wood--a circular glade surrounded by gaunt trees, and\nnowhere a path to be seen, and nowhere the smallest sign how he could\nget out of this drear forest, that shut him in like forbidding walls.\n\nHe pressed the maiden's face close to his, taking comfort from the soft\ncheek that was laid against his.\n\nAnd the child stood beside the kneeling man, and gently with timid hands\nstroked his tumbled locks, all the time peering at him with anxious\nattention.\n\nEric was still too weak to rise to his feet, so he remained kneeling,\nscanning the solitudes with hopeless bewilderment. The wind still howled\nthrough the tree-tops, from which dismal voices seemed to be chanting\never the same dreary ditty, and sometimes it rose to such a din that it\nwas more like unto the wild songs of savage hordes carrying their dead\nto the grave.\n\nThe falcon was nowhere to be seen; even that companion had flown away,\nso that they were alone--quite alone--in this fantastic, oppressive\nwilderness.\n\nA last shine of daylight still rested over all, and with horror\nclutching at his heart Gundian now perceived that running in lines all\nover the snow that lay before him were small footprints resembling those\nof a dog! Ah! but no dogs could inhabit so forsaken a forest; the kindly\nfriend of man would not lose his way amongst these impenetrable\nthickets; those marks in the snow had quite another explanation,\nconfirming the fear he had had before;--but something must be done:\naction would revive him,--he could not remain thus to perish miserably\nwithout trying at least to save the treasured child.\n\nWith a superhuman effort he rose to his feet,--for a moment his young\nbody swayed like a sapling in the wind; but he would not--would not give\nway! What was to be done? He had heard that great fires frightened off\nbeasts of prey--a small flame even was supposed to keep them at bay; and\nhe remembered the legend of a maiden wandering alone in a forest with\nonly a small lamp in her hand protecting her from harm,--surely he would\nnot be weaker than she. Bending down to his companion he told her to\nhelp him to gather dry twigs in the underwood; he blew upon her frozen\nfingers which were stiff and icy like his own.\n\nFrom his pocket he took the precious box, and together they shared one\nof the remaining tablets which revived them in an extraordinary way; a\nsmile even came back to the face of the wee innocent at his side.\n\nNow with feverish haste they were gathering fallen branches from under\nthe hostile trees, that angrily bent their mighty heads towards them,\nbut were unable to reach down to anything so far beneath.\n\nThe bundle grew and grew, and in their absorbing work they for a moment\nforgot the terrors around; once even the small girl's voice rang out in\na merry laugh, as she dragged a heavy log behind her, almost as large as\nherself. Soon Eric was crouching beside the stack they had collected and\ntrying with his icy fingers to make the sparks fly from his flint;--many\na time did he hit the hard stone in vain, but at last a welcome sound\nwas heard--a soft crackling that became louder, till at last a bright\nflame shot out over the dry timber they had so patiently heaped up. Both\nfrozen wayfarers stretched out their numbed hands to the saving warmth.\nAs they did so they smiled at each other from either side of the burning\nfaggots; the cheering glow lit up their pinched and tired faces, giving\nthem again the radiant look of health.\n\n\"Come to me, little one,\" cried the man, and the small creature flew\ninto his arms; then settling himself down, his back against a tree,\nquite near the blazing fire, he folded the forlorn little being tightly\nwithin his arms, his cloak drawn close over her, regardless of his own\ncomfort, only thinking how to protect her against the deadly frost of\nthe night.\n\nHe took his sword from its sheath and laid it down beside him within\nreach of his hand.\n\nLong he sat thus, trying to penetrate the darkness, whilst the rhythmic\nbreathing of his tired charge told him that for a while oblivion had\nmercifully descended upon her.\n\nBut it was a weary time before he dared close his own burning eyes, so\nafraid was he that something dreadful might happen to the child whilst\nhe slept.\n\nAt length Nature would have her way--his head sank on his breast, the\nstrained arms relaxed their hold, and all the misery was wiped from his\nmind by the kindly wings of sleep.\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\n\nEric awoke because the intensity of the cold was eating into his bones.\nThe fire had died down, only a faint glow remained under the ashes; and\nthere, oh horror!... seated on the other side of the small smouldering\nheap that once had been their protection, sat a great tawny wolf with\neyes that looked straight into his, two tiny specks of phosphorescent\ngreen.\n\nThe awful beast lifted its head and gave a long-drawn, unearthly yell\nthat echoed round the silence like the crying of a tormented soul in\ngreat agony; again and again he sent out his ghastly call, and now he\nwas answered by other calls coming from every part of that fearful\nforest. The silent thickets gave forth from their secret depths stealthy\npattering forms, slinking along, flashing their teeth, their tongues\nlolling from their dripping mouths.\n\nA late moon had risen above the peak of the mountain, and was now\nthrowing her pale rays over the bleached opening that spread before the\nyoung man's feet, so that he could clearly see how these wraiths\nassembled from all sides, called together by the baying of their leader.\n\nSo fascinated was Gundian by what he saw that for a while the immense\ndanger he ran was almost forgotten; only the frightened cry of the\nchild, who had awakened to see the awful creature staring at her with\nglistening eyes, brought him back to the reality of things.\n\nHis exhausted condition, the heavy drowsiness produced by the cold that\nwas gradually penetrating through all his veins, had thrown a torpor\nover his senses, so that all appeared as in a dream.\n\nHe returned the green stare of his opponent, unable to make an effort to\nthrow off the weakness that imprisoned his frozen limbs.\n\nThe crumbling fire was dying out more and more; the last glowing twigs\nfell together with a faint fizzing sound, that made the leading monster\nrise in fear and move back a few steps, still kept in awe by the narrow\nfrontier of heat that alone separated him from his victims.\n\nFor one more deadly moment there was a pulsing silence and then ... the\nbeast sprang with a great leap on the seated man.\n\nIn a moment Eric was on his feet, sword in hand, throwing himself before\nthe terrified child, that at all costs he meant to protect! And with a\nfurious blow, although he had been quite unprepared for so sudden an\nattack, he split the skull of his raging enemy.\n\nEric had never used arms before; war had not been his vocation; he loved\npeace and pleasure and all things that make life beautiful and sweet.\n\nBut now he stood up like a tried warrior, his blade flashing under the\nrays of the moon; alone he advanced against the ferocious beasts that\nall rushed in upon him with sudden rage to avenge their fallen chief.\n\nHe knew not from whence he took his strength; but he stood before them\nlike a figure cast in bronze, defending himself, keeping them at bay\nwith the point of his precious sword. But for each savage animal that\nfell beneath his frantic defence another seemed to spring up in its\nplace--always more and more, till their baying filled the silent night\nwith hideous clamour.\n\nHell seemed to have opened its doors. All round Eric and the child, who\nwas crouching in an agony of fear close behind him, were blazing eyes,\nsharpened fangs, ravenous bleeding jaws, a medley of dark fighting\nbodies falling over each other with angry yells, as they one and all\nrallied against the single youthful hero, who stood facing them, the\nblood streaming from the blade of his sword.\n\nBlood fell also in great dark drops from his lacerated hands, where more\nthan one murderous tooth had left its mark. His pale brow was streaked\nwith red; from off his shoulder his coat had been partially wrenched,\nand a great gash gaped through the torn tissue.\n\nStill he stood his ground; many a rugged body lay dead at his feet, but\nalways more roaring foes seemed to descend upon him, a whole army of\nhungry, voracious fiends that had sworn his destruction.\n\nHis force was giving out, he clearly felt that the unequal battle could\nlast no longer; only a miracle could now save them both.\n\nHis arm became inert; the blood flowed from the open wound in his head\nin a trickling stream down into his eyes, clouding his sight, so that he\ncould no longer direct his strokes.\n\nYes, all was over now; he was not to be of those who win.... This was to\nbe the end ... the end.... But what was this? From beneath his clenched\nfingers a dazzling glare had suddenly broken forth--a glare so intense\nand blinding that for a moment he could see nothing but its luminous\nrays! Had really a miracle come to pass? Was he dreaming? But no ... his\nawful assailants were rapidly retreating with furious groans, as if\nunable to bear the sight of the thing he held in his hand!\n\nWhat was it that suddenly cowed their savage force? Then all at once he\nunderstood.... The crystal hilt of his sword was blazing with light!\n\nHe fell on his knees, his forehead pressed against the shining cross,\nhis eyes closed, his head bent in awful fatigue. But peace had come over\nhim--a great and wonderful peace. The beasts of prey were backing,\nalways farther, from this awesome light that had so miraculously fallen\nupon them.\n\nWith hanging heads they retreated, their piercing eyes fixed upon the\nfiery symbol they dared not face. They backed and backed, till they were\nbut a mass of darkness, out of which their eyes glowed like a circle of\nEaster tapers held by pious hands in adoration before that cross of\nflame. Alone in the middle of that moonlit glade knelt Eric, quite\nstill, as in a trance; the point of his sword had reddened the snow on\nthe ground; the hilt seemed fashioned out of the stars of heaven.\n\nThe moon looked down upon his golden locks, transforming them into a\nmass of silver; even his torn and travel-stained clothes were turned\ninto glowing metal like a knight of olden days.\n\nFrom the shadow of the giant trees the little girl came slowly forward,\nand on reaching the spot where Eric prayed with lowered brow, she, too,\nfell on her knees and advancing her innocent lips kissed the blade of\nthe sword.\n\n\n\n\nXVII\n\n\nNow also the forest had been left behind. Upon the snowy covering of the\nsilent glade many a gaunt body lay still and cold, nor will we ask in\nwhat manner their hungry companions visited them when the flashing cross\nwas to be seen no more.\n\nEric was now fighting his way to reach the highest peak that shone far\nabove the clouds. Never would he be able to relate how he had found his\nway out of that forest where at first all had seemed united against him\nto hinder his progress.\n\nThe morning after that night of battle which had so gloriously ended,\nEric had walked as in a dream, the cross-shaped hilt held against his\nbreast like some crusader in a distant land. Alongside of him trotted\nthe little girl clinging to a corner of his cloak. He knew not why, but\neverything around him had lost the hostility of the night before; his\nfeet moved easily over the frozen snow without sinking beneath the\nsurface.\n\nThe giant trees were a wonder of brilliant white; during the early hours\nof morn a vapoury mist had fallen over the sleeping immensity, and the\ncoming day had transformed all around into a fairy wood of dazzling\ngems.\n\nEach separate branch stood out in crystallized splendour, each needle,\neach hanging cone had become a transparent jewel, radiating all the\ncolours of the rainbow.\n\nThe tiniest plant that had pushed its way through the snow, the driest,\nhumblest twig, the most common stone, all had been conjured into a\nmiraculous treasure of light which the most cunning human art could\nnever have fashioned. It was a joy beyond words to the eye, a splendour\nGod's nature alone could produce.\n\nAll was now peace and stillness; through the mighty rows of glittering\ntree-tops the sun shot slanting rays that lit up the snow like a field\nof golden flowers; and beyond, distant glimpses of the sky were visible,\npink like roses of the East gathered together by some enamoured king to\nbe strewn under the feet of his beloved.\n\nThe sombre pines had other faces beneath their fairy coating of frost,\nand seemed now to greet him like some honoured guest, bending their\ncrowns in sign of homage.\n\nOn he walked without any feeling of fatigue, never once stumbling on his\nway.\n\nThe falcon was again flying before him like a white kerchief waved in\ntoken of greeting; ... the higher they climbed the rarer became the\ntrees and the wider did the blushing sky spread before their eyes.\n\nNow they were out in the open once more, climbing from rock to rock; and\nwhen Eric turned round to look down upon the forest that lay far\nbeneath, like a magician's garden of gigantic frosted flowers, he\nperceived that the ghostly army of lost souls was once more following\nclose in his rear. Where had they been during that night of terror? Had\nthey lain in waiting till he had fought himself through that dangerous\ntrial? Had they trembled and feared that he was to be overthrown and\ntheir forlorn hope destroyed?\n\nThere was a great and frowning height still before him which he had to\nscale; but on this early morn so charged with brightness, his heart was\nfull of faith, and again there was a song on his lips; but now it was\none that had a deeper meaning. So with a shout of anticipation he lifted\nhis hand and waved it to the silent followers; then, pointing to the\nrocky peak that appeared above the snow and clouds like a sunlit dream,\nhe rushed forward with unfaltering step, as if he had only just started\nupon his ascent. The little girl was always near him; she, too, was full\nof the joy of the morning....\n\nBut night came on, and still they were toiling. The shining peak had\nveiled itself with a cloud of darkness; the bitter cold of the mountain\ntops was laming their steps, so fresh and buoyant at the break of day.\n\nNow the man had to bend down and lift the weary little soul once more in\nhis arms.\n\nTheir friendship had turned into tender love, and as he held her in his\nsafe embrace she covered his tired face with kisses sweet and soft like\nthe touch of a butterfly's wing. One more awful night they spent lying\nfast locked in each other's arms, vainly trying to shut out the biting\nfrost, as only protection Eric's thin black cloak.\n\nThey had mercifully discovered a cavity in one of the rocks, and there\non a bed of grey moss they had slumbered fitfully, almost too exhausted\nto find any deep repose. And when morning came it looked down upon two\nhaggard mortals sitting side by side, crushed one against the other, in\ndire distress. Their faces were pinched and livid; their teeth chattered\nwith cold; their eyes, surrounded by deep circles of fatigue, searched\nabout them in questioning misery. Within their numbed fingers they held\nan empty box!... But Eric's spirit was still undaunted. He meant to win!\nThat night his dream had risen again before his eyes, more vivid and\nfascinating than ever.\n\nLately his advance had been so tedious, the efforts needed to overcome\nthe difficulties so great, that all his faculties had been concentrated\nupon the single desire to save his own life and that of the child; so\nthat the vision of the outset had been losing some of its power.\n\nHe staggered to his feet; the child hung a dead weight round his neck,\nshe was quite unable to make further effort. What should he do? He could\nnot leave her to perish here, this dear companion of the mountain tops!\n\nYet thus encumbered, how could he reach the final height? His strength\nwas spent, his feet were bleeding, his clothes were torn, the wounds of\nthe night before were a throbbing agony beneath the clinging arms of the\nlittle girl.\n\nHe felt that they were breaking open anew, that his warm blood was\nslowly trickling down on to the snow, and with each drop that fell his\nlife seemed to be oozing slowly away. And there far above, like the\ntantalizing vision out of an ethereal world, rose the peak of his\ndesire.\n\nAgain the rays of the sun reddened its crown like a glowing flower. Was\nit mocking him in his mortal distress? Was it luring him on to life or\nto death? But he must mount, always farther; he could not give up now\nwithin sight of his goal! Courage! Courage! He must conquer and win! But\nwhat were those white arms beckoning to him out of the morning mist?\nWhat were those veils of transparent vapour waving to him from the rock\nabove? Were they apparitions out of some fantastic dream, some\nhallucination of his tired brain?\n\nAnyhow he would desperately follow them, perhaps they would help him in\nhis distress; but the higher he climbed the farther did the beckoning\nfigures always recede; each time he had thought to reach the height\nwhere they stood he saw them far away hovering above him on some steep\nboulder, which again he scaled only to be baffled anew.\n\nIt was an awful pursuit, the heavy child clinging around his neck, his\nopen wounds dripping, leaving red traces wherever he passed.\n\nHis shoes had been cut almost to shreds by the rugged rocks, so that his\nfeet suffered an agony of pain.\n\nA blind rage seized him against these spirits of the wilds who mocked\nhis cruel plight; and yet, had he but known it, it was just their\nalluring aloofness that was helping him upon his final climb. His\noverwhelming longing to reach those ethereal beings with whom he hoped\nto find rest gave him the energy to clamber always farther, the\nintensity of his desire infusing almost superhuman force into his\nattenuated body.\n\nSuddenly he stopped with a gasp, almost letting the child fall from his\narms;--other visions were now before him floating amongst the clouds.\n\nThe indistinct apparitions had taken form, changing into white-winged\nangels all flying upwards, their long trailing garments mingling with\nthe mist.\n\nAh! these would lead him to his last height! These celestial beings had\nbeen sent from heaven to help him in his bitterest need.\n\nLooking down at the child in his arms, he saw that her face was deadly\npale, her eyes were shut, the long lashes cast deep shadows on her\nsunken cheeks.\n\nIndeed it was time to reach some shelter where he could lay her down.\n\nThen raising his head a cry escaped his lips ... there close before him\nhe espied the great peak which had always appeared so absolutely beyond\nhis reach.\n\nThere it stood, enormous and majestic, an overpowering revelation rising\nout of the filmy clouds--clouds that were one mass of white-robed\nangels, their wings bearing them upwards, their arms extended in\ngestures of welcome towards this pilgrim of the heights!\n\nEric ran forward, all his remaining energy gathered together in one last\nsupreme effort. The blood sang in his ears, his breath came in tormented\ngasps, his heart beat like a giant hammer, and wherever he passed the\nhard stones bore marks of his dripping wounds.\n\nWith one arm he pressed his heavy burden against him, with the other he\nhoisted himself higher and higher, clambering with dogged persistence,\nignoring both pain and danger, always onwards, his enraptured eyes fixed\nin an ecstasy of hope on the heavenly host that was showing him the\nway ... and now ... and now ... he was lying face downwards on the hard\nsnow-covered rock, his arms outstretched over the motionless body of the\nlittle girl.\n\nHe had reached the top, he had not failed!... he had really won!\n\nLong he lay in completest exhaustion unable to move, almost unable to\nthink, or even to feel. Around him the mists rose and fell like a\nrestless foam-covered sea!\n\nSlowly he lifted his head, and what first met his gaze was the face of\nthe child.\n\nWith a startled exclamation he took it in both his hands; but it rested\nthere limp and inert with tightly shut eyes. Convulsed with fear he bent\ntowards it, pressing his lips upon the silent mouth, covering the waxen\nface with eager caresses, chafing the frozen hands, the tiny bare feet,\ncalling to it words of love and endearment, begging it to look up and\nspeak.\n\nBut all in vain; no responsive smile came to the blanched lips, and when\nhe let her slip from his arms the wee body fell back, a poor little\nheap, upon the ground.\n\nThen Eric covered his face with his hands and sobbed as if his heart\nwould break.\n\nThus did he remain completely overcome, in frightful distress. Oh,\nwhy--oh, why had he been unable to save her treasured life? Why, why was\nhe alive while she was dead? Why had all his efforts been in vain? Why\nhad he reached his goal only to be crushed by this bitter grief? O God!\nO God! What was the use of such a thing?\n\nBut what was that? Over his head the sound of wings.... He let his hands\nfall from his tear-stained face, and looking up into the blue, blue sky\nabove, overcome with wonder he discerned two shining angels who held\nwithin their arms the form of the poor little maid....\n\nThey mounted always farther into space, and as they did so he saw the\nhumble companion of his wanderings all bright and transfigured, like\nunto the angels themselves.\n\nBefore they disappeared into that vast splendour of blue, she bent\ntoward him a face full of love and gratitude, bearing an expression of\nheavenly peace which descended upon his soul, revealing unto him that\nhenceforward he need grieve for her no more.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\n    But the joy that is one with sorrow\n     Treads an immortal way.\n\n    FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nEric remained for a long while, his face turned to the sky, his eyes\nfixed upon the spot where the bright vision had melted into the\ninfinite.\n\nIndeed it had been a consoling sight to see the lowly little waif\nchanged into a shining light, her tattered rags turned into a robe as\nimmaculate as those of the ethereal beings who had borne her away into\nthe sky.\n\nGod had been merciful; it was better thus; all her fatigue and weariness\nwere at an end, all the scars and wounds had been wiped from her\nstarving body, and when she had looked down upon him it had been with a\nlight of ineffable happiness within her eyes.\n\nBut now Eric felt how completely exhausted he was; so throwing himself\nupon the naked rock, he lay face downwards like one who is dead.\n\nIt was many hours before he had strength to raise his head; and when he\ndid so, the glare of noon beat down upon him with life-giving force.\n\nHe rose to his feet looking about him, then stood in rapture before what\nhe saw.\n\nThe peak upon which he had climbed was far above everything else,\noverlooking the entire universe; a frowning solitary mass. On three\nsides of him were mountains and steep, precipitous passes, dark and\nforbidding, a whole world of mystery and desolation, where human foot\nwould not dare to penetrate; sombre secrets seemed hidden in every\ncrevice.\n\nOver all brooded an implacable silence; light and shade played on the\nface of the mountains in startling contrast, almost white in places, in\nothers deep indigo; and far away on the horizon the vast immensities\ndwindled into a mist of blue, like smoke rising out of some giant's\ncaldron.\n\nBut at his feet lay what might have been a vision of the promised land,\na wondrous revelation of light and beauty--as far as the eye could\nreach, a blooming plain all shimmering in the radiant sun, out of which\na glorious expectation seemed to rise and remain suspended, awaiting\nsome great moment of fulfilment. A heavy ripeness saturated with the\nglow of harvest was spread over the earth; long roads like silver\nribbons wound through this vast richness, and they were like\nnever-ending illusions, leading always farther into a blessed region of\ndreams.\n\nBroad rivers shone like molten metal as they slowly flowed between\nfruitful banks, in places bordered by thick forests that stood out in\ndelicate masses against all that treasure of sunshine. A happy country\nindeed, if only it did not melt away when the foot reached its border.\n\nSomething near by now attracted his attention. Beneath where he stood\nthere was a flitting to and fro, a movement in the air, something\nimpalpable and that yet called him back to his more immediate\nsurroundings.\n\nNot very far below he perceived a small dark lake like an enormous eye,\nsombre and watchful, encased between granite boulders. Around this deep\nbottomless pool stood all his ghostly followers, watching with absorbed\ninterest the water at their feet.\n\nThere was something mysterious and unusual about that green-black\nsurface.\n\nIt was dead still; and then, quite unexpectedly, anxious convulsions\nwould shake its depth, and out of its quiet face bubbles would suddenly\nrise, spreading over the whole till the entire water was covered with\nenormous dewdrops, and each single drop reflected within its circle the\nblue of the sky.\n\nThen in places the transparent globes would detach themselves and rise\ninto the air like giant soap-bubbles, floating away into space till they\ndisappeared from sight; and all these bubbles were of such exquisite\nbeauty, and so varied in hue, that Eric imagined he saw colours within\nthem that his eye had never before looked upon.\n\nWhat was the meaning of it all? What were his silent pursuers doing\naround that bewitched mountain lake? What were they awaiting? Why did a\nfeeling of silent expectancy rise to where he stood?\n\nVery carefully Eric climbed down towards that curious gathering.\nNoiselessly he approached, afraid of frightening them away.\n\nAs he did so, the shadowy figures one and all turned his way and fell\ndown on their faces in postures of sudden adoration; from over their\nheads a whispering wind waved towards him, a wind that was full of sighs\nand hushed voices, like a far-off crowd always crying the same thing.\nEric started back abashed, quite at a loss to know what he should do;\nthen to his utmost astonishment he saw how the foremost spirit arose,\nand, giving him a last look of gratitude, without the slightest warning\nquietly walked into that uncanny water and disappeared beneath the\nsurface! Following his example all the others did the same! It was but a\nflash!\n\nEric threw himself with an exclamation towards the edge, but it was too\nlate! Every trace of them was gone, nothing remained but large circles\non the face of the water. Eric looked down into the darkness, and there\nhe saw something rising slowly to the top....\n\nIt was the miraculous bubbles. One by one they appeared slowly like some\nfairy procession; and when they reached the light of day they grew in\nsize, hovered a moment over the dark element, then rose light and joyful\ninto the sky, and as they mounted their colours changed in infinite\nvariety, transparent globes of exquisite beauty.\n\n[Illustration: _It was the miraculous bubbles._]\n\nClose over the water they were green and blue; in rising their hues\nturned into violet and purple, that gently graduated through every tone\nof gold and yellow till they were one blaze of flame that quite\nimperceptibly faded away into the blue of the sky, where they hung\nsuspended, hardly discernible, till at last they were one with the\ninfinite; and that was so high, so high overhead, that it might have\nbeen at the very gates of heaven!\n\nThen Eric understood.... These were the lost souls he had freed; all had\nfound rest at last; all had been able to detach themselves from this\nweary world always higher into the sky.\n\nHad it really been given to him to be their salvation? Had they found\neternal peace and joy because he had not fallen on the way? Then indeed\nno sacrifice had been too great, no trial, no fatigue too vast. And in\nsign of gratitude they had displayed before his wondering eye the most\ndivine colours he had ever seen, filling his artist soul with the deep\njoy of beauty for which he never could be thankful enough.\n\nHe turned again to look at the pool, and as he did so there on the\nopposite bank he saw an apparition which made his heart stand still.\n\nA very old man, tall and gaunt, wrapped in grey flowing folds, a thin\ncloak suspended from his shoulders, a weather-beaten hat shading his\nface, his long beard falling far down on his breast.\n\nIn his hands he clasped a thick stick on which he leaned. With a cry of\njoy Eric stretched out his hands towards that shadowy figure, for was it\nnot his old and venerated friend the hermit!\n\nThe grey vision turned, and with hollow eyes looked at him long and\nearnestly, with such a wonderful expression of loving affection that it\nmade tears gather in the boy's eyes.\n\nBut his beloved old master was also transparent and ghostly like the\nlost souls that had at last found peace.\n\nWas this his spirit that had left his earthly body? Would God in His\nmercy grant the beautiful miracle that through his courage and\npersistence he should also have brought rest and redemption to this\nweary sinner whose precious words he could never forget?\n\nHis whole soul yearned to hear the dear tired voice once more, to drink\nanew from that source of wisdom which had so refreshed his spirit. Yet\nhe had the cruel apprehension that this joy could be his no more.\n\n\"O Father, I want to hear thee speak,\" he cried, but no answer came from\nthe other side of the dark water.\n\nThe old man only continued to stare.\n\nThen an awful despair gripped at Eric's heart, for he felt as if he had\nlost his dearest treasure.\n\nWhy was life so cruelly full of lights and shades? Why was the full cup\nalways dashed from the lips?\n\n\"Father, father,\" he cried, \"I do so long for the sound of thy voice;\nspeak, oh, speak, I beseech thee,\" but there was no response; only\nsilence deep and absolute, and a second later a faint echo of his own\nwords whispering round the granite boulders.\n\nThen something very wonderful was revealed to his sight; there beside\nthe old man stood a shining translucid woman, a woman whose face he\ncould but faintly discern.\n\nHer head was bent back and her two uplifted arms shone like rays of\nlight, pointing to the sky.\n\nHer long robe flowed down, a trailing mist, into the quiet water, where\nit hung like a cloud. And this filmy vapour wrapped itself round the\nfeet of the man, and as it slowly mounted towards his heart a marvellous\nchange came over the aged hermit; his astounded pupil saw how very\ngradually all the years rolled from him, how his bent figure became\nupright, and for a short moment the vision of a manly face full of\nstrength and beauty flashed before his eyes, and then ... everything was\ngone! A gust of wind swept the whole miracle into the dark lake, where a\ncloud of smoke alone remained.\n\nThe smoke hovered for a second, blue grey over the face of the deep; and\nthen out of the very centre shot a quivering flame, intense and\ndazzling, that mounted slowly like a tongue of fire, always higher and\nhigher, till it was lost from sight!\n\n\n\n\nXIX\n\n    My eager hands press emptiness to my heart, and it bruises my breast.\n\n    TAGORE.\n\n\nFeeling weak and completely overcome by so many conflicting emotions,\nEric now began slowly to descend from the mighty height, with an intense\nand overpowering desire for rest and food.\n\nHe was entirely spent, knowing that he could not go much farther unless\nhe found help in his need. This side of the mountain was much less steep\nthan the other; it led down by soft green inclines to the happy land he\nsaw calling to him from below.\n\nSnow and winter, rocks and wilderness were now a thing of the past; this\nwas quite another world, smiling and at peace.\n\nWith stumbling feet he dragged himself along.\n\nAll zest of having won was wiped out and gone. He only felt an aching\nlonging for the little companion who had abandoned him in the hour of\nattainment.\n\nWas this for ever the way of the weary earth? Were all victories so sad?\nHe had also an unceasing desire for the voice of his old friend the\nhermit, knowing that he would have been able to explain what was but\ndark mystery to his searching mind.\n\nHe had the sensation of being completely forsaken and useless, a weary,\nweary stranger who had no home in this world. As he was pondering, sadly\ndiscouraged, both body and mind overwrought with fatigue, he saw the\nwings of the falcon waving before him, beckoning to him like some\ntrusted friend; and this, at least, gave him a feeling of not being\nentirely forgotten.\n\nSo on he plodded, each limb stiff and painful, his unhealed wounds\nthrobbing like tormented hearts, the hand at his side empty and lonely,\nmissing the confiding touch of the childish fingers.\n\nHeavy with misery, his head sunk on his breast, he followed the bird\nwith faltering step, mechanically climbing always farther down, but a\npoor ghost of his former self, looking neither to the right nor to the\nleft, for once quite irresponsive to all the beauty around him. He knew\nnot how he advanced, all had become blank and colourless. As the day\ndrew to an end he came to a wide mountain-meadow where a flock of sheep\nwas peacefully grazing.\n\nBefore he could realize what was happening he was suddenly attacked on\nall sides by savage shaggy dogs that barked furiously, showing their\nteeth, jumping at him, and tearing at his ragged clothes.\n\nEric was much too tired to oppose any resistance, and no doubt it would\nhave gone badly with him had not a shrill whistle unexpectedly made the\ndogs stand still, all attention, their ears pointed, listening.\n\nA heavy stick was now flung in their midst scattering them on all sides,\nso that they turned and ran yelping after the peaceful sheep, masking\ntheir discomfiture by wildly scampering round the flock.\n\nThen a quite young boy came running towards where Eric stood in dejected\nmisery, his strength all spent, incapable of moving another step.\n\nThe shepherd youth, seeing how sorry was the plight of this stranger,\nwent quickly up to him, and laying a strong arm round his waist asked if\nhe could be of any help.\n\nEric was unable to answer; he felt the earth yielding beneath his feet;\nso he simply laid his head on this sturdy peasant's shoulder and let\nhimself be led away, he knew not whither.\n\nIt was long before he came back to the knowledge of his surroundings. He\nmust have lain in a deep swoon; but after a time he felt his head being\nlifted with rough kindness, whilst a bowl of warm milk was held to his\nparched lips. He drank in great gulps like one utterly famished; drank\nand drank till not a drop was left. Through his tired brain shot the\nthought, that hit him like an aching blow, if only his little companion\nwere there to share this life-giving draught; then he sank back with\nclosed eyes, still too weak to care where he was, indifferent if he was\nto live or die, all his nature one crying need of repose.\n\nHe slept many hours; indeed, so deep was his slumber that after a time\nthe shepherd came to where he lay, anxiously putting his hand upon the\nsleeper's heart, afraid of finding it silent beneath his touch.\n\nBut he felt its regular beating against the tips of his fingers; so he\nleft Eric where he had laid him within the humble hut and went out to\nhis flock, leaning upon his long stick, his chin resting on his hands,\nlooking over the mountains that were gradually fading into the shades of\nnight. Here it was already summer, the grass grew thick and green; the\ncold and frost had been left up there upon the frowning heights; indeed\nit was a smiling contrast.\n\nEric slept all that night and through the following day; darkness was\nagain spreading over the world when at last he woke.\n\nHe sat up, looking about him, trying with his numbed brain to grasp his\nwhereabouts. The door of the hut stood wide open and close before it a\nbig fire had been lit.\n\nIts crackling reminded Eric, with a pang, of the great blaze that had\nsaved him and the little maid from almost certain death. He saw again\nthe dear soft lips smiling at him from over the jumping flames,\nremembered how sunken had been her eyes, and with a groan he turned his\nface to the wall.\n\nBut he could not keep still very long; a mighty hunger was gnawing at\nhis vitals, he was in absolute need of finding food; so he rose stiffly\nfrom his couch, stretching his aching limbs as he went to the door to\nlook out.\n\nThere in the flickering light of the fire sat the shepherd, a beautiful\nboy with large brown eyes and dark hair hanging to his shoulders, a high\nfur cap on his head with a flower behind his ear.\n\nHe was dressed in a white shirt and trousers, with linen bands wound\nround his legs; on his feet he wore sandal-like shoes kept in place by\nleathern thongs.\n\nAbout his waist was a broad leather belt within which a flute and a\ndagger had been stuck, and over his back hung a coat of shaggy\nsheep-skin. Chin in hand the peasant sat staring with dreamy content\ninto the flames. In a circle around him lay his dogs, their heads\nresting on their paws, their unkempt coats the colour of earth and\nautumn-leaves. Only one enormous brute was white, which kept staring at\nhis master with watchful eyes, whilst the others slumbered and snored.\nIt was a peaceful sight; the stars coming out one by one, and not far\noff the flock lay, huddled together in attitudes of repose.\n\nEric had moved so noiselessly that even the dogs had not heard his\napproach, but now as he ventured out of the hut they immediately were\nall upon him snarling and gnashing their teeth. The shepherd jumped to\nhis feet and came quickly to where Eric stood with a joyful exclamation\nof greeting; but his guest fixed him with hollow eyes not able to utter\na word.\n\n\"I know what thou needest,\" cried the boy, and leading Eric back into\nthe hut he took from a chest two earthenware dishes, one of which was\nfilled with thick creamy cheese.\n\n\"Eat,\" said the youth, \"it will do thee good; but then I want thee to\ntalk, for lonely forsooth are these hills; I want to hear the sound of\nthy voice. I live here in utmost solitude many months of the year: I\nguard my sheep and make this cheese. I play to the stars and sing to the\nsun, but they are too far above and care not to talk to me: I want to\nhear of thy wanderings and why thou lookest so sad. Tell me, I pray,\ndidst thou verily come from the other side?\"\n\nEric seized the bowl with a hasty gesture, and greedily consumed the\ntasty food, feeling as he ate how new strength began gradually to course\nthrough his veins. Never had he been so hungry, and this simple fare was\nin truth the very best dish he had ever eaten in his life!\n\nGratefully he looked at the young peasant, and at last he spoke:\n\n\"I cannot thank thee enough for thy spontaneous hospitality at a moment\nwhen without thy help I would surely have died of exhaustion. Thou wast\nsent me from God, as a sign that in His mercy He desireth me to continue\nmy road. I have come from far, so far that to me it seems as if I had\nbeen wandering all my life.\"\n\nHe turned his trustful eyes to the youth, and with the smile which made\nhim dear to every man's heart, he continued:\n\n\"Once, it may be years ago, for I have no more count of time, I lived in\nthe palace of a king.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried the boy, \"why didst thou go?\"\n\n\"Because,\" answered Eric, \"I am seeking for a face which I cannot\nfind--a face that I see in my dreams; so I had to leave all that rich\nease and comfort, all that had sweetened my days, and always am I\nsearching and still may have to wander many a mile.\"\n\nThe shepherd stared at him in growing astonishment, almost afraid that\nhis strange guest might be crazy.\n\n\"It seems to me,\" he said, \"that there are many faces on this earth; and\nwhy must thou journey so far looking for what is so easy to find? Why\ndidst thou leave the king's palace? Forsooth, I would have remained and\nlived in joy and plenty;\" and merrily he laughed, showing two rows of\nsplendid white teeth.\n\nEric did not smile but replied:\n\n\"Ah! thou dost not understand. Dearly did I love my kingly master; and I\ngrieve that I could not listen to his bidding. But there is something\nwithin each of us that when the time comes calls with insistent voice,\nand then we must leave all and follow. I am but a foolish youth, but\nthis I have learnt: we cannot choose our lives nor in what way we desire\nto live them; some power there is stronger than our human will that\ncarries us forward upon a road we do not know. I had but a short while\nago a venerable master, and these were his words: 'That each man runs\nafter the same thing, although each calls it by a different name.' The\nmaster I loved said the name he had found for it was Happiness, but that\nnone of us realize when we have it in our hands. Why he said this I do\nnot know. Dearly did I love to hear him talk, but not always did I grasp\nthe meaning of his words.\"\n\n\"Happiness!\" queried the peasant boy; \"happiness! It soundeth sweet to\nthe ear; dost thou think that thou shalt find it at the end of the way?\"\n\nEric looked out into the flames of the fire before he slowly replied:\n\n\"The master said that we could grasp but the shadow, that the thing\nitself was God's. Deeply have I pondered over the sense of this saying,\nand this is what I have found in my mind: God hath not time for each\nman's clamouring, so He has strewn over the world things that shine and\nthings that lie in the shadow; those that shine dazzle the eye and give\npleasure, and those in the dark awake a longing to know, and thus God\nleads each man forward to search for himself, each according to his\ndesire. But the wise man said that few reach it in the end, and when\nthey do they seldom may keep it long. Ah! but I wish I knew! My heart is\nso full of longing, and yet I feel that some part of it will never be\nfilled!\"\n\nBut the peasant boy wanted to hear of other things; to him this talk was\nbut a waste of time.\n\n\"Tell me, hast thou really climbed over this barrier of mountains; and\nhow is it thou didst not perish on the way?\"\n\nGundian took his sword between both hands, and looked at it with tears\nin his eyes:\n\n\"This sword kept me from death when I thought my last hour had come, and\nalways, when all hope seemed at an end, something there was that saved\nme in my bitterest need.\n\n\"The old man of the hills believed in my power to win, and\nthen ...\"--Eric's voice trembled as he spoke--\"I had at my side a sweet\nlittle soul that providentially had been given into my care; and a\ncurious thing have I learnt: we can do for others what we cannot do for\nourselves. Many a time would I have given in and died, had not the soft\nhand of the child kept hold on my life by the desire I felt that it\nshould not perish!\"\n\nAnd then, his hands folded over the hilt of his sword, dreamily gazing\nafar off, Eric related, with many words, all he had seen and done.\n\nThe eyes of the lonely rustic hung, with ever growing interest, upon the\nface of his wonderful companion, and many a time did a loud exclamation\neither of joy or fear break from his lips; and when Eric told of the\nvision of angels, the boy started to his feet, hands joined in an\necstasy of delight.\n\n\"Thou didst see the heavenly hosts! Oh, tell me! Tell me! Were they\nindeed so fair? were their wings all shining and bright? had they crowns\non their heads? And were their robes of snowy white? didst thou hear the\nsound of their voices? did they come quite near to thee? Oh! speak, I\npray!\"\n\nEric smiled very sadly.\n\n\"They brought peace to my soul at a moment when I thought my heart would\nbreak\"; and within his mind our wanderer saw the face of his little\nfriend smiling down upon him with lips that a breath of Heaven had\nalready kissed.\n\n\"And now,\" asked the youth, \"where art thou going? Or wilt thou remain\nwith me? I am very forsaken up here on this far-off meadow. But dost\nknow, it is said that no human foot can cross those mountains that thou\nhast scaled; it is said that amongst those lonely heights there is\neternal snow and ice, and that it is always winter there when summer\nsmiles on us here.\"\n\n\"Indeed it was cold; but what has crushed my joy is that it was not\ngiven me to save the child that Fate confided to my care; and this thou\nmust know: that at the very instant I thought I had won, the Hand of God\ntook from me what would have made my victory sweet. Indeed I reached the\nhighest peak, and looked down upon the whole of the world beneath ...\nbut ... well, I cannot explain--because I am too unlearned.\n\n\"I fear that I may not yet understand--I know not if thus it is with all\nwe touch; the master I loved would have told me for sure if there is a\nhidden explanation I cannot grasp.\n\n\"He said that all our tears and hopes were needed for the making of a\nsingle whole--maybe my despair, at that moment which was loss and\nvictory all in one, belongs also to some link of the chain. Alas! he is\ngone, to come no more, and I must grope alone in the dark to find the\nmeaning of the many questions that weigh down my heart.\n\n\"But thou must tell me now what is that sunny country I saw beneath me\nwhen I was yonder, so near the skies? It was like a land all peace and\nbeauty, sending from below to where I stood a message of hope and\npromise, luring me towards its fertile plains.\"\n\n\"It is my country,\" said the peasant. \"I know not if it is full of\nbeauty and promise, but I know that I love the village in which I live,\nthat dear to me is the small cottage where my mother sits and spins, the\nold well from which the girls fetch water at the hour when the sun goes\ndown. I love the great plain where the corn waves in the heat of the\nsummer, and the long roads that are straight and dusty, upon which the\ncarts are always rumbling never in a hurry to reach the end.\n\n\"It is a good country; and on feast days we dance in the villages, and\nthe girls wear skirts of many colours. But from the time when the snow\nhas melted I come to these lonely hills with my flocks, and here I\nquietly remain--as sole companions my dogs, and occasionally the visit\nof a shepherd like myself or that of a wandering monk--till the cold\nblasts of autumn drive me back to the plains.\n\n\"I do not mind the solitude--I have my flute, and the dear songs of my\ncountry; and we love not overmuch to live in a hurry, or to move about\nwith busy hands.\n\n\"My mother weaves and spins, and my sisters embroider strange designs on\nthe shirts they will wear on the day of their marriage. Oh, indeed I\nlove this country of mine!\"\n\n\"Tell me more,\" begged Eric. \"I love to hear thee talk. I feel then the\npeace of thy plains steal over my weary body that has come from so far.\"\n\n\"There is not much to tell,\" answered the boy. \"Our cottages are small\nand are covered with shaggy roofs of thatch and maize. Large sunflowers\nlook in at the tiny windows, and when a stranger all hot and tired comes\nalong the road the dogs rush out from every door and the air is filled\nwith their barking and noise.\n\n\"At the fall of night the herds come home raising clouds of dust as they\npass. Each one knows the corner where it dwells, and stops of its own\naccord at its own gate, while the small boys run about bare-foot\nclacking their whips. In winter everything is deeply enveloped with\nsnow, which lies like a cover of feathers, keeping the fields warm from\nthe frost, and when the sun goes to bed it lights up the sky with\nflaming red that spreads over the snow as well; and then black troops of\ncrows fly across the horizon, and settle like a dark cloud upon the\nwhite immensity, flat and endless, as far as the eye can reach.\n\n\"And when spring comes the wind blows in storms and dries up the lakes\nmade by the melting snow. Then the fields are a patchwork of black and\nwhite; timidly the little flowers push their heads through the dead\nleaves in the woods, and the children run out of the villages to gather\nthem in bunches which they sell to the passers-by. Thou must remain with\nme and I shall tell thee more!\"\n\nBut Eric explained that he must soon continue his road, for he knew not\nhow far he still had to go:\n\n\"All roads will feel soft to my feet after the mountains I have climbed;\nbut my heart has lost its brightness and I begin to wonder what I shall\nreach in the end.\n\n\"At first the gladness that filled my being found an echo in each thing\nI met as I went along. I used to sing and play on my flute. And then\ncame days when all was strange and full of secret dangers I could never\nunderstand.\n\n\"Later I climbed those awful mountains; much did I find there, and much\ndid I lose. But I no more sing as once I did.\"\n\nBoth boys had risen and gone to the door of the hut, where they stood,\nhands linked, looking out on the night; and there on the stump of a tree\nnear by sat the beautiful falcon, and round his neck the blue diamond\nstill blazed like a consoling star. Eric went to the bird and laid his\nhand on its head; the faithful creature turned his way and a bright\nlight shone in its eyes.\n\n\"This was my trusted scout, who showed me where I should go; but I fear\nhe will no more follow me when I go down to the plains. If thou allowest\nI shall still spend this night under thy roof and then go my way.\"\n\n\"I wish I could leave my flocks,\" cried the youth, \"and follow thee; thy\nface is so fair, and never have I heard voice more sweet. I fear I shall\nsee thee no more, for thou seemest out of a world of dreams.\"\n\nEric did not reply, but stood looking into the night; then very slowly\nhe unfastened the golden chain he still wore round his neck, and slipped\nit over the head of his host.\n\n\"Keep this in token that really I have been with thee; but now let me\nrest on thy couch, for I must leave thee soon.\"\n\nHe turned back into the hut, and throwing himself upon the sacks of dry\nleaves that formed the shepherd's bed, he was soon fast asleep, his head\nburied in the folds of his cloak. The sun stood already far over the\nmountain tops when Eric awoke after a refreshing sleep upon the\nprimitive resting-place.\n\nOutside the shepherd-boy was watching his sheep, leaning on his staff in\nhis wonted attitude.\n\nWhen he saw that Eric was awake he greeted him with a happy smile, and\nimmediately set about getting him food, and a freshly milked drink, all\nwhite and warm.\n\nUpon Eric's bidding he led his guest to a little spring near by, where\nat last he could wash off all traces of his past wanderings.\n\nHis wounds had been awkwardly bound up by the kind-hearted youth on the\nfirst night, while he lay in a swoon.\n\nEric winced with pain when the cold water came in contact with his\nscarcely healed skin; but it was a glorious joy to bathe in the fresh\nrunning stream, and at last our traveller felt more like his old self.\n\nDuring his ablutions his host had carried off his once so neat clothes,\nand when he came back to the hut he found the faithful boy sewing up the\nrents in the rich black stuff with a long thread and needle.\n\nHe had brushed away, as well as he could, all the spots and stains, but\nthe velvet coat and silken hose had kept little resemblance to the neat\napparel in which the King's favourite had started from the white palace\nof the north. Eric lay down in the grass, turning his bare back to the\nsmiling sun-rays.\n\nBoth youths joked happily together, as the peasant sewed away with\ndiligent fingers. And when they had no more words to say, the shepherd\nlifted his young quavering voice and sang long-drawn ditties, which ever\nhad a mournful ring in their notes, full of melancholy and patient\nlonging.\n\nEric felt almost happy. His recent adventures seemed far-away dreams of\nanother life; but he knew he never would be able to forget all that he\nhad suffered, knew that the gay thoughtless boy, who had started long\nago, was for ever a thing of the past.\n\nThe falcon still sat upon the stump of the tree and watched with quiet\nattention these two boys of such different races, the one so fair, the\nother so dark, both handsome and good to look upon; but no man can know\nwhat thoughts lay behind those piercing eyes.\n\nAfter a while the last stitch had been put, and the kindly youth held up\nthe velvet coat in triumph, so that the sun shone upon it making it look\nquite new.\n\n\"Never have I seen stuff so soft,\" he exclaimed, whilst he stroked the\nrich worn tissue with his hand.\n\n\"And it is all silk within, silvery grey, like the rays of the moon! And\nthou hast given me thy golden chain! Was it indeed a gift from the\nnorthern King? And to think that thou left him and all his glory to\nwander all over the world in search of a face! Ah! never shall I know if\nthou hast found it in the end! That thought is sad to me. Forsooth, I\nwish I could call thee brother!\"\n\n\"Call me whatever thou willst,\" Eric replied. \"I shall think of thee\nwhen I am far; for didst thou not tend me with loving care? Didst thou\nnot feed me when I was famished and tired? Didst thou not save me when I\nknew I could move no farther? No brother could have done more; and one\nday, perhaps, we shall meet again. What is thy name?\"\n\n\"I am called Radu the shepherd, and my father possesses two fields and a\ncart, with oxen that are grey like the stones on the road; their horns\nare so long that it is difficult for them to hold their heads close\ntogether; but we are poor all the same, and that is why I tend my flocks\non these mountain pastures so far from my village. But if thou dost\ntarry for a time in yonder plains I may meet thee yet when I return to\nmy home; but one thing I must give thee before thou goest--thy shoes are\nquite beyond repair--I have a couple of new sandals meant for Sunday\nuse; they may not be what thou art accustomed to wear, but my heart will\nbe glad if thou wilt accept so small a gift from me. Also I must see to\nthy wounds. I have an ointment, made by the wisest woman of our village,\nthat can heal any sore. Come into my lowly hut and it will be my joy to\ndress thee and bind up thy cruel cuts!\"\n\nEric gladly followed his kind friend, deeply touched by so much simple\nhospitality, and gave himself over into the clever hands of the boy: he\nwas soon freshly bandaged with a soothing salve spread upon his aching\nscars.\n\nThen he put on his neatly patched clothes, and let his host fasten the\nsandals on his feet, wind the long leather thongs about his legs, and\ntie them firmly under the knee.\n\nNot yet content with all he had done, the boy searched about in the\npainted chest, and drew from its depths a long staff, richly decorated\nwith patterns cut out of metal and fixed upon the wood with tiny nails.\n\n\"This I have worked upon for years, inventing the most intricate\ndesigns. It has been the pleasure of my lonely hours, and I want thee to\nhave it, because never have I loved a face as much as thine; nothing so\nfair has ever come my way! But don't forget Radu the shepherd! It would\ngrieve me sore!\"\n\nNow the beautiful sword was girt round our wanderer's waist, the\nmuch-used cloak hung over his back; and then, taking the boy's present\nin his hand, he drew the kindly friend into his arms and held him long\nin a warm embrace.\n\nWhen the peasant lifted his head from Eric's shoulder large hot tears\nwere running down his cheeks.\n\nFor a last time the two boys firmly clasped hands, and then Eric tore\nhimself away. The falcon spread its white wings and flew before him\nleading the way.\n\nSeveral times Eric turned to look his last on the comrade who had been\nso kind; there he stood silhouetted against the sky, leaning as ever\nupon his staff, his flock around him, his dogs at his feet.\n\n\n\n\nXX\n\n     I saw her eyes like stars and her face pale and wonderful as dawn,\n     and her lips like twilight water.\n\n     FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nEric had now reached the base of the mountains, had actually set his\nfoot within that fruitful, smiling plain.\n\nOne of the long roads that he had perceived from the heights lay before\nhim.\n\nIt was covered with thick white dust, and on both sides the cornfields\nstood in ripening abundance, rippling in the soft wind like waves that\nhad been dyed yellow by the rays of the sun. Bright-tinted flowers grew\nin the ditches--red, blue, and yellow--a feast for the traveller's eye.\n\nEric walked quickly; new hope had risen in his heart, his body felt\nrested, his spirit eager; he wondered if this would be the land of his\ndreams? The sun shone upon him from a cloudless sky; the crystal of his\nsword reflected its dazzling blue, whilst the staff he held in his hand\nhad turned into burnished gold.\n\nHe passed many peasants as he went, and all of them turned and gazed\nafter this stranger in silken clothes.\n\nEric had never lost his radiant smile; and all whom he met felt better\nand richer because they had looked upon the light that shone in his\neyes.\n\nNever had he seen roads so straight and so shadeless; they seemed to\nlead in an uncurving line from one end of the earth to the other; and\nthose that walked upon them were never in a hurry.\n\nStrings of carts laden with freshly cut corn and hay moved slowly along,\nthe heads of the patient oxen bent low to the ground, straining under\nthe weight they dragged.\n\nHigh above the swinging loads long-haired youths stretched in lazy\ncontent, piped dreamy tunes upon their wooden flutes, their eyes hidden\nbeneath broad-brimmed hats. All were dressed in the same white shirts\nRadu had worn.\n\nThere were also old men walking beside the vehicles, bearing heavy\nscythes on their shoulders.\n\nTheir faces were browned, the colour of sun-baked earth; and from under\nthe shade of their hats silvery locks hung down covering the napes of\ntheir wrinkled necks.\n\nOne friendly peasant had bidden Eric take a rest on the top of his hay,\nand our wanderer had gladly accepted, swinging himself up on the swaying\nmass.\n\nThere he reposed among the fragrant green, half buried beneath the\nflowers of yesterday.\n\nThe faithful hawk flew down from the blue and perched close to his feet.\nEric closed his eyes, hugging his sword to his breast; and as he did so\nthe vision of his dream stood before him with startling vividness.\n\nNever had he seen the face so distinctly; never had the eyes looked into\nhis from so near. He sat up, almost expecting to find some unknown being\nat his side; but no--he was shut in all about by the withered grass that\nsmelt so sweet and was so deliciously soft to his limbs.\n\nBut why had he so clearly felt his vision's sweet presence? It made his\nheart beat with breathless excitement. How warm the sun was! How long\nthe road!\n\nThe clouds of dust raised by the wheels of the carts were so thick that\nEric could no more see where he was going. But had he not always\nallowed Fate to shape events as she would? This time again he would not\nworry, but simply believe in his luck as he had done all along, and\ntrust in God who had so mercifully guided his steps.\n\nEric must have fallen asleep on his moving bed, because when he awoke\nthe sun was already low and the carts had stopped beside a wood near the\nedge of the road. The peasants had unyoked their oxen, which were\nquietly chewing the cud, watching their masters with large humid eyes,\ntheir tails lazily flicking the swarms of flies from off their flanks.\n\nThe men sat in groups; some smoking, some preparing their meal of Indian\ncorn over a small fire they had lit in the ditch.\n\nEric climbed down from his lofty resting-place, looking around him\nrather dazed from his sleep.\n\nThe falcon rose noiselessly into the air and flew off, perching upon a\ntall tree in the wood beyond. It had not yet forsaken its travelling\ncompanion, and Eric followed its flight with an affectionate look.\n\nThe men made room for the youth as they all sat around the boiling pot\nthat hung over the fire from three crossed bars. One man stirred the\nthick dough with a solid rounded stick; from time to time they took\ndraughts of cool water, putting their lips to the thick spouts of\nquaintly shaped earthen pots which were standing at their side.\n\nNone could resist our traveller's charm, and every one treated him as an\nhonoured guest, wherever he brought his sunny smile, his dreamer's eyes,\nand his golden locks.\n\nHis new hosts asked him a few vague questions, about what he was doing,\nwhither he was going, and whence he came; but they showed no great\neagerness; it even appeared to Eric as if nothing could take them by\nsurprise. In their quiet acceptation of all that came and went, they\nmuch reminded Eric of their own beasts of burden.\n\nThey did not seem to think, but only to dream, and consider one thing as\ngood as another; they were ready to share whatever was theirs with this\nstranger whom they had met on the way.\n\nIn the distance a tiny village could be seen, hidden amongst thick\nshrubs and trees; but the peasants explained it was not their home; they\nstill had far to go, so they meant to stop here for the night, sleeping\neither in the ditch among the dusty flowers or upon their loads of hay.\n\nThey kindly proposed that Eric should remain with them and rest beside\ntheir carts, which he agreed to do; but before settling down for the\nnight he felt inclined to wander through the wood and to discover what\nlay beyond.\n\nThe peasants had suddenly espied the wonderful sword that hung from his\nbelt, and they would not let him go before they had handled it in turns.\n\nFor a moment they dropped their calm in loud exclamations of approval,\nand stood around him as he let the blade flash in the sinking light.\n\nThen he moved away, and soon was lost among the oaks of the wood that\nspread their branches over his head. Through their thick trunks the\nsetting sun could be seen turning the sky into a burning furnace, and\none side of every trunk seemed glowing hot as the fiery rays smote upon\nit.\n\nA thick carpet of green spread beneath his feet, and innumerable birds\nsang amongst the trees as he passed. The wood was small, and before long\nEric had reached the farther side.\n\nIn front of him stretched the broad bed of a river, now almost dry; but\nin several places the water flowed calmly along in separate streams.\n\nThe banks were bordered with grey-green willows and on the small islands\nin the river's bed the same trees thickly grew. The water was dyed red\nby the sinking sun, and each stone shone like a jewel, as if some\nwasteful king had cast all his treasure away.\n\nThere, where the river was dry, Eric perceived a group of small brown\ntents, like giant withered leaves, that the parting sun was turning into\nevery shade of rust and orange.\n\nLittle columns of smoke mounted into the air on all sides, throwing\ntheir blue veil of filmy vapour over the bushes in the background.\n\nTied up to some trees near by were lean, hungry-looking horses of all\nsorts, and solemn grey donkeys wandered about amongst the loose stones\ncropping each blade of grass they could find.\n\nEric descended the small bank that separated the wood from the river and\nhesitatingly approached the shabby tents. As he did so a whole swarm of\nnut-brown children came running towards him, from every corner, with\noutstretched, begging hands, their rags hanging in tatters around their\nthin little bodies.\n\nSome were quite naked and as dark as mahogany, with enormous black eyes\nand feathery lashes. They screamed and chattered, and many of them\nturned mad somersaults over the stony ground to attract the wanderer's\nattention.\n\nIn a second the whole settlement was in a violent uproar of excitement,\nmixed with the barking of dogs.\n\nFrom each dwelling dark, curiously clad men and women trooped out.\n\nMany were beautiful, and all had marvellous eyes; the younger men wore\ntheir hair in thick black curls, hanging about their faces. There were\nfrightful old hags amongst them draped in discoloured garments that\nalmost fell from their withered limbs, held only together by broad\nscarlet girdles that were wound innumerable times around their waists.\n\nOne or two young girls were startlingly handsome; they stood with heads\nthrown back, their hands on their hips, holding short white pipes\nbetween their flashing teeth.\n\nTheir tresses were bound in gaudy rags, and each wore a flower of\nbrightest hue stuck behind her ear. Round their necks they had hung\nstrings of beads and shells, of all sorts and sizes, that shone in\nvarying colours as they moved about.\n\nThey were slim and upright, with narrow hips and beautiful feet and\nhands, but one and all were as dark as Indians, their faces having taken\nthe tint of the long roads they were for ever pursuing.\n\nAs Eric had immediately guessed, this was a troop of that mysterious\nrace of gypsies that comes from no one knows whither, and wanders over\nthe world with no destination in view. Everywhere they are dreaded by\nthe quiet inhabitants of the villages, for they are ready to steal all\nthat comes their way, and never respect what belongs to another.\n\nAt the slightest provocation their knives are ready to spring from their\nbelts; their tempers blaze like scorching flames; to them it seems but\npart of the day's work to leave a dagger within the heart of any who\nhave awakened their resentment.\n\nNow they all clamoured and yelled as they dragged at his cloak, touched\nhis clothes, fingered his sword, and nearly pulled the staff from his\nhand.\n\nBut they were all laughing and excited, evidently enchanted to meet so\nfair a traveller who had so unexpectedly fallen in their midst.\n\nEric felt quite confused by this turbulent greeting, and was wondering\nwhat was going to happen next, when one of the quite old women moved out\nof the mob, took hold of his cloak, and pulled him towards her tent.\n\nShe was clothed in an old carpet-like cloth that she had wrapped round\nher loins over a discoloured shift that might once have been white, but\nwas now the shade of the earth; the whole was held together by a long\nband of faded colours that was twisted several times round hips and\nwaist. Her grey hair hung in thin strands over her face, that was\nwrinkled and brown like the bark of a tree, but which still showed signs\nof former beauty. She was bent almost double, and dragged herself along\nwith the help of a twisted staff. Like all the others she had a short\nwhite pipe in her mouth, and her head was covered with a kerchief of\nbrilliant colour.\n\nFrom her belt hung a curiously shaped shell, a sign that she was a\nteller of fortunes, and therefore a respected personage amongst this\ntroop of nomads.\n\nEric followed her without resistance, but hesitated at the entry to her\ndark dwelling, very reluctant to penetrate within anything so unclean;\nbut the old woman was insistent, and our young traveller had to yield\nand even to take his place upon some indescribable rags that served as a\nbed and seat all in one.\n\nThe air was stifling and full of smoke, the whole place so devoid of\ncleanliness that Eric hardly dared to look about. The gypsy took his\nhand in hers, but Eric found great difficulty in understanding what she\nwas saying, in spite of the knowledge that had come to him through the\nold man's tablets. With her bony finger she began following the lines on\nhis palm. Outside the tent the other gypsies stood jabbering and\nlaughing.\n\nAll of a sudden the old woman gave a start, and declared that whatever\nhis fate had been, now he was near a critical moment in his life, and\nmust expect either a great joy or a great pain, she could not tell\nwhich; ... \"but,\" added the old creature, \"great joy and great pain lie\nvery near together, and often one rises out of the other; it is hard to\nsay which is nearer truth.\n\n\"I am the wise woman of this wandering people; from near and far they\ncome to listen to my words; much could I tell thee of what I have seen,\nfor there is not a road on this earth upon which my weary feet have not\nmoved.\n\n\"If thou wilt not hurry away I shall tell thee many a tale; but to-day I\ncan show thee something which we call the treasure of our clan, though\nin truth it belongs not to us; we believe, however, that it brings luck\nto our wandering tribe. Come quickly, before the light bids us\nfarewell.\"\n\nThe strange old thing again seized our astonished traveller and dragged\nhim after her out of the tent.\n\nThe rest of the dark mob wanted to follow, but the fortune-teller, who\nseemed to be the respected head of this curious people, stopped them\nwith loud imprecations, and none dared oppose her wishes. She told them\nto go back to their camp, because she alone had the right to lead the\nfair stranger whither she would--that he was her guest and she would\nhave none of their noisy company.\n\nWith incredible agility for her age she led the way, over several\nstreams of shallow water, over rolling stones and wet sand, to a small\nisland in the middle of the river's bed. Eric marvelled at the rapidity\nwith which she moved along, helping herself with her stick; above their\nheads the white falcon flew, as always, showing the way.\n\nHere the willows grew thick and grey, trailing their sinuous branches\ndown to the ground where they mixed with earth and sand.\n\nThe gypsy parted the thick boughs, and as she did so a sound of sweet\nmusic came wafted on the air, dream-like, something within its notes\nthat was at once both ghostly and unreal, something that made the heart\nstand still in an ecstasy of wonder.\n\nEric's leader scrambled up the steep bank, still firmly clutching his\ncloak, and almost ran along, winding her way in and out, amongst the\nthick growth of shrubs.\n\nThere was deep shade here in this silent place. A soft grey-green light\nwas over all, only from between the leaves the sky could be seen\nblood-red.\n\nThe ground was covered with a thick carpet of harebells the colour of an\nItalian sky; they swayed their heads with a tinkling sound whenever a\nbreath of wind stirred the air.\n\nIt was a spot where fairies would surely dwell, mysterious, cool, and\nfull of secret promise.\n\nAnd there, in the midst of this carpet of blue, leaning against a\nmoss-grown crumbling tree, was a spirit-like being out of another world!\n\n[Illustration: _And there, leaning against a moss-grown crumbling tree,\nwas a spirit-like being out of another world._]\n\nNo words can describe what Eric felt!\n\nHe only knew he was at the end of his way ... that all his wanderings\nwere not in vain--that something marvellous and unspeakably sweet had\nsuddenly flooded earth and sky, that the entire universe had become one\nsong of praise, one cry of hope, one yearning desire of fulfilment....\n\nThere, before him in all their wonder and perfection, were the face and\neyes that had stolen the peace from his soul and the art from his hands.\n\nHe fell on his knees, overcome by the surging emotion that filled heart\nand brain.\n\nHe could not grasp this amazing miracle that completely overwhelmed his\nbeing; the hermit's words alone rang in his ears: \"It may not come in\nsplendid raiment with a crown on its head, but keep thy heart open as\nwell as thy eyes....\" Yes, his eyes and heart both were open and a\nglorious light swept over his life, like a warm wave before which all\nresistance gives way, covering both past and future, with an immense\nlonging for perfect achievement.\n\nAnd this was the vision that had been at last revealed to the eyes that\nhad searched with such tireless persistence, with such strong and\nfaithful belief in the ultimate crowning of their desire: A girl, slim\nand ethereal, clad in the garment of poverty, a shirt-like dress over\nwhich a colourless scarf had been many times wound till the delicate\nfigure resembled that of an Egyptian fresco; feet and arms were bare,\nand of utmost perfection.\n\nFrom under a wreath of fragile harebells streamed the most exquisite\ntresses ever seen--rich brown in tone, but the sun had shone on them so\nlovingly long, that a haze of golden red had been breathed over them by\nall the rays that had ceaselessly caressed their softness.\n\nShe stood, her head thrown back; within her hand she held an old violin\non which she was playing like one in a far-off world, for whom neither\nturmoil nor strife can exist, playing like an angel from the regions\nabove, where no sin and no sorrow can have place....\n\nBut her face. Oh! her face ... in truth it was not of this world!\n\nA radiance seemed to illuminate it from within, a shine that could come\nbut from a soul in touch with the infinite, a soul full of light and\nlove and hope, that no material distance could sever from its perfect\ncommunion with God. And then her eyes! Large and grey, with a far-away\nlook--eyes that see visions and dreams past the knowledge of man; starry\nand clear, yet deep as a summer sea; eyes in which lay hidden all the\nboundless illusions of our human race, mixed with a peace that has no\nname.\n\nAbove her head the leaves rustled with a whispering sound; the flowers\ntrembled, shaking their bells in waves of blue. The last glow in the sky\nfell slanting through the branches upon the girlish figure, till she\nappeared to be a transparent apparition out of the legends of yore.\n\nSerenely indifferent to the two who watched her in rapture and silence,\nshe played her heavenly music, a distant hymn to a being she alone could\nsee; and upon invisible wings the gentle evening breeze carried the\nrippling notes far away into the fading red of the sky....\n\nThe old woman came quite near to Eric and whispered in his ear:\n\n\"They say that she is mad; but I know things that lie deeper than the\ndeepest ocean, which they never can understand; however, I shall teach\nthee some of my wisdom: God has pressed His lips on her eyes, so she\never sees visions we earthly mortals have not the power to conceive.\n\n\"She is not one of us! She is of a race as far removed from ours as the\nsky is removed from the earth. But those that live in the dust, whose\nfeet move amidst the mud of the roads, cannot believe that a creature so\nspotless and pure can exist in this world and yet never soil its\nperfection!\n\n\"So they say she is daft and turn lightly away from a problem too deep\nfor the comfort of their shallow souls: for verily it is easier to\ndisbelieve what the common brain cannot fathom.\"\n\n\"But who is she?\" queried Eric, with bated breath.\n\n\"Ah! that we shall never know.\n\n\"In a distant land far over the sea we were once wandering on a\nrich-coloured autumn morning, and there we found, on the grey steps of a\nchurch, an infant of marvellous beauty. Her pearly limbs were enfolded\nin fine linen and lace. We had mercy upon the innocent babe, for our\nhearts have not the colour of our faces; and since that blessed day she\nhas been the joy of our tribe and the pride of both young and old.\n\n\"But when she grew to the age when she could talk, not a syllable could\nwe understand. Her eyes for ever were searching the skies, and her words\nspoke of things she alone could perceive. Even I, who am wise, could not\nfollow her sayings.\n\n\"But gradually an inner voice told me that there was something holy\nabout this stranger maiden, something which removed her far from us,\nsomething that mortal hands should not touch.\n\n\"Then I understood that God had laid His hand upon her brain. Now she\nseldom speaks, but always plays these heartrending notes. Hark, fair\nstranger, listen if it is not unearthly and sweet.\"\n\nEric listened with all his soul; never before had such music come to his\nears.\n\nIt was full of tears, and sighs, and hopes, and dreams; it was heavenly\nindeed, and yet a sobbing human chord pierced the whole, with a\nnever-ending cry for the things that every poor mortal needs. It rose\nand fell, carried upon the changing tides of love and hope; it contained\na yearning effort, a boundless longing, towards that land of chimeras\nand dreams beyond the boundaries of the earth.\n\nEvery chord seemed strung to a pulsing heart bound and fettered, yet\ngasping to be free.\n\nThen it changed into an intensity of peace, like the soft winds of night\ndescending slowly upon the heat and toil of the day; dying away into\nfading notes always fainter and sweeter, like the first breath of spring\nover sleeping woods, like the hushed voice of a great sadness that can\nstill hope and believe ... and then, quite suddenly, there was silence,\nand only the summer breeze stirred amongst the boughs of the trees.\n\n\n\n\nXXI\n\n                                        At last!\n    The fount of beauty, Fountain of all dreams,\n    Now am I come upon my long desire.\n\n    FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nEach day Eric came to this spot of beauty to look upon the being who was\nthe realization of his soul's desire.\n\nBut the terrible mystery, that God allowed, was that this girl never\neven seemed to see that he was there.\n\nEric Gundian, who was adored of all--Eric of the golden locks, Eric the\nsweet-voiced,--could not make her eyes realize his presence.\n\nThe wandering people had received him into their hearts, as every man\ndid upon whom he turned and smiled. They gave him a tent and begged him\nnever more to depart.\n\nBut the living dream he had come so far to seek remained in a world of\nher own, to which he could not find the key. The dark tribe felt no\nrivalry towards this being of light who had so suddenly appeared in\ntheir midst. They saw that he was a creature apart, made of another\nclay, filled with another life; something that they could dearly love,\nbut never completely understand.\n\nLike the rough seamen on the ship, they hoped he would for ever cast in\nhis lot with theirs and not depart as suddenly as he had come.\n\nZorka, the old fortune-teller, was his daily guide; and they all\nconsidered it natural that this glorious youth should have fallen\nbeneath the spell of the mad girl, who was their greatest pride and\ndeepest grief.\n\nHad they not sought in turn a smile from her lips, a look out of the\nwonder of her eyes, and had she not always seen past them, far beyond,\ninto horizons all her own, never noticing the glowing worship that was\ncast at her feet?\n\nNow they watched with growing anxiety if this handsome stranger would\nmove her heart and bring her eyes down to this earth. They both hoped\nand feared.\n\nThey longed that the miracle should come to pass, and yet, in the\ndeepest recesses of their hearts, there was not one who did not\njealously dread the moment when, perchance, she might turn in love to\nthis youth they knew was not as they. But none feared so much as old\nZorka the witch--because had she not read within the flames of the fire,\nwithin the flight of the birds, within the forms of the smoke, within\nthe ripples of the wave-kissed sands, that this maiden was not for\nearthly love, that the day when mortal lips should touch her with human\ncaress she would fade away like vapour on the sea!\n\nIndeed she may have erred in the reading of the signs, but it would be\nfor the very first time in her life. So she cursed the day when she had\nled this beautiful boy into the presence of the girl she adored. And\nyet--and yet--can ever Fate be turned from the path upon which she\nglides? Must not one and all drink from the cup which has been fashioned\nfor each separate lip?\n\nStella she had called the stranger maiden--Stella, because of her\nshining orbs; and no doubt when God needed her amongst His other stars,\nHe would then take her for His very own. Ah, the wise woman, with her\nweak and trembling hands, how could she change the course of the moving\nworlds!\n\nSo she sat by her fire and stared into the bluey flames, her old head\nbent, her knotted palms resting on her knees, puffing away at her pipe\nof clay, seeing weird shapes in the smoke that rose quivering to the\nsky.\n\nSo much had she seen, so much ... so much:\n\nLands of sunshine and regions of snow, storm-tossed waves and calmest\nsea, visions of beauty and visions of pain; men that live in the clear\nlight of day and men that crawl in the shadows of night. She had seen\nthings that had their beginnings in joy, and things that ended in\nsorrow, creatures that live and creatures that die, women that love and\nothers that hate. Murder she had seen; and her ears had heard the last\ngroaning sighs of the dying, as they had hearkened for the sounds of\nhope when the human soul was being cast naked into this world of sorrow.\n\nThe beginnings and the ends. Yes, everything had come her way,--her eyes\nwere dim and tired from having seen all too much!\n\nAnd now as she waited here not far from that island of promise, she knew\nthat the youthful wanderer was giving all his soul in an agony of hope\nand expectation. She knew she was poor and helpless before these\nmysteries of life; that at times even the wisest hands must hang in idle\nrest.\n\nYes, day by day Eric came and sat beside this treasure he had found, and\nyet it was still as far removed as in the days when he was only\ndreaming.\n\nInstead of in sleep, now his waking sight drank in the vision which was\npart of his living being. But although he had poured out every\nsupplication and ardent prayer his mind could conceive, he never could\nimprison a single look that he knew was conscious of his presence.\n\nShe sometimes would talk, but more often she would play upon her beloved\nviolin, and then Eric would feel that each drop of his blood was rushing\nthrough his veins like a mountain torrent; or he would be possessed by\na frantic longing to be free of his body to soar with the music far up\ninto heaven.\n\nIt would happen that she would take hold of his hand and lead him to\nplaces of strangest solitude, and there her visionary words would try to\ndescribe the marvellous things her brain was seeing.\n\nHe followed the flight of her extraordinary thoughts; but each day he\nwas filled with deeper depression, knowing that never had she\nconsciously looked at his face, never had she realized that it was an\nunusual companion who was now at her side, that she was alone with a\nbeing consumed by love.\n\nShe talked in a confiding voice as a child speaks to its mother, or as\none that had the habit of conversing alone in the night.\n\nThe things she said, and conjured up before his eager mind, were\nsaturated with such unheard-of sweetness that Eric lived in a world he\nhad never known.\n\nAnd so the days passed one by one; the bluebells faded and died, and\nstill Eric clung to the forlorn hope that Stella's eyes would suddenly\nopen and see him at her side. The gypsies folded their tents and moved\nfarther on, roaming from spot to spot.\n\nWherever they went Eric was always with them.\n\nFor hours he would walk in the dust of the roads, keeping pace with the\nbare feet of the woman he loved.\n\nThe falcon was always there, and still flew like a white banner before\nhim, as it had done on the very first day. But now Eric no more followed\nthe shine on its wings; he was following a lowly maiden who held his\nbeating heart within her careless hand.\n\nHe passed through many villages such as Radu had described: the savage\ndogs rushed out and surrounded their wandering procession, the\nmaize-thatched cottages had their doors wide open, and it was true that\nthe tall sunflowers could peep in at the tiny windows, and that the\nmaidens sat upon the thresholds drawing their tireless needles through\nthe snowy linen that lay in their laps.\n\nThe peasants looked at the earth-coloured travellers with glances of\ndisdain; and seldom did a kindly welcome greet them as they came.\n\nOnly for Eric they made an exception, and more than one dark-eyed girl\nwould have given much to keep him at her side.\n\nAutumn was turning the leaves into glorious colours. The woods were a\nnever-ending marvel of red, gold, and brown. On the freshly reaped\nmaize-fields the Indian corn lay in small pyramids of ripest orange. The\npeasants sat about in groups singing the songs of harvest, whilst the\nearly night did its best to hurry the glowing sunsets out of the flaming\nsky.\n\nAlways smaller grew the hope in our wanderer's heart, always more weary\nwere the endless roads.\n\nStella still had her eyes turned upon things he could not see. He had\nnot been able to make her grasp the fact that she had a stranger at her\nside.\n\nEach day he brought her another wreath for her burnished tresses--a\nwreath that he wound with his artist fingers from whatever flowers he\ncould find along his road.\n\nThey were becoming scarcer and rarer because of the descending autumn\nthat lay like a hush over the tired world. He made them of pale-tinted\ncrocuses that hung upon her forehead like tired sighs--he bound them\nwith the brightest leaves of the season that resembled the spreading\nsunsets he so loved at the end of the day. Often he had plucked shining\nberries that surrounded her waxen brow like heavy drops of blood. And\none day the wreath he brought her was all feathery and white, plaited\nwith the fluffy ghosts of the wild clematis that climbs over rock and\ntree.\n\nOn a morning when the clouds hung heavy over their heads he pressed\nabove her lovely face a garland of sloe-berries entwined with grey\nleaves of the weeping-willow; they fell about her delicate temples,\ntouching her rounded cheeks with loving caresses as a mother's hand\nwould do.\n\nOnce as she sat on a hard heap of stones, spent after the tramp of the\nday, he left her to glean from the barren fields ripe ears of corn that\nhad been scattered by the reapers on their way.\n\nHe made them into a golden crown which he laid at her feet in the dust,\nlooking into her eyes, trembling under the weight of his love.\n\nAnd always he found some lowly plant which he plucked with the thought\nof bringing a smile to her lips. He even conjured into a circlet of\nsilver the star-shaped thistles that grew amongst the wilting grass, and\nso that their prickles should not wound her delicate skin, he lined it\nwith soft green moss that lay close against her forehead, guarding it\nfrom the slightest scratch.\n\nBut the days when he found neither flower nor plant he felt like a\nbeggar that dare not come before the face of his queen....\n\nOften when the roving tribe had pitched their tents for the night,\nGundian would go and sit beside the fire with old Zorka the witch, and\nhe never wearied of the tales she told, listening, with interest that\nwas always new, to the quaint words that fell from her lips.\n\nZorka's heart had made him her own, and she dearly loved to have him at\nher side; but never did she find the needed courage to urge him to\nrelinquish his quest; yet, as the days rolled by, she feared more and\nmore that the signs might really come true.\n\nOn a night when all was dark and still, the very old woman and the\nbeautiful youth sat side by side looking into the leaping flames.\n\nZorka raised her careworn face and scanned his thinning cheeks, his\nsunken eyes, and the beautiful hands that were nervously clasped on his\nknee. Her old heart ached with fearful desire for all that could not be.\n\n\"Son, my son!\" she suddenly cried, \"ah that I could tear the stars from\nthe sky and throw them before thy feet! Oh that I could drag down the\nrays of the moon and hide them all in thy breaking heart to stop thy\nlonging! that I could draw out all the richness of the earth and give it\nto thee, so that thou shouldst be at peace! But thus it is the wide\nworld over; we think we have reached our soul's desire, and then we\nstand before it empty of all our hope.\"\n\nAs she spoke, sweet sounds of music came floating out of the dark--the\nsoft notes of a violin in which all the sorrow of the earth seemed\nconcentrated beneath the rippling cadence of joy.\n\nEric covered his face with his hands, and Zorka felt the burning tears\nrise to her dim old eyes, but she brushed them hastily away with the\nback of her hand.\n\n\"Dear young one,\" she said, \"what can I do for thee? Hast thou not told\nme that thou wast once a great artist with fairy fingers, and that thou\ndidst come all this endless way through joy, sorrow, and danger, in\nsearch of a face ... and now.... Oh, I have guessed it since many a day\nthou hast found that face--but where is thy art?\n\n\"Crave not for what thou canst not have, but cling to that which God has\ngiven thee. If I get thee brush and colour wilt thou try and create that\nface for a second time? Create it so that all should wonder how human\nhands could ever have been able to paint so glorious a treasure. When we\ncannot have the thing itself we must try and grasp its shadow.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Eric, \"my old master said that the thing is God's.\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" said old Zorka, \"if we pray to the same God, thou and\nI. Human beings always need forms into which they press their worship,\nbut I, who am old, can tell thee this: there is but one God for all, and\neach man shapes Him according to the depth and breadth of his own little\nsoul.\n\n\"When we are children and play on the ground we are taught to call Him\nFather! When we grow up we long for Him as a friend, but if He keeps His\nsmile for others we curse Him and turn our backs and say we do not\nbelieve He exists. But when grief and despair knock at our door, we long\nto feel Him near us once more, but we have lost our way. We grope in the\ndark, we hit our hands and our heads, we cry, and we moan, we stumble\nand fall till we are laid low in the dust.\n\n\"Then it is long till again we look up. Our hair is bleached, our backs\nare bent, our eyes are dim, and faltering our step; but gradually we see\nall things as they were meant to be--we have left hope far behind, all\nthat shone and was sweet knows us no more; our way is without either\nlight or shade, it is grey and smooth like the ocean after the storm has\ngone by.\n\n\"We believe that its colour will never be anything but grey; but one day\na faint light spreads very far over the most distant horizon and our\ntired brain begins to perceive that that light is coming slowly towards\nus, slowly--slowly--till it reaches our heart ... and that light means\npeace that passeth all human understanding; peace, the ultimate promise\nof that God we had cast away; peace, the blessing of our snow-white\nhair, the last hope of our ended pilgrimage. But, my boy, wilt thou do\nas I bid, and create with thy hands the face thou lovest so well?\"\n\n\"I cannot, I cannot,\" sobbed Eric, his face all convulsed with pain; \"I\nhave lost my art and lost my belief. I am now only one consuming\npassionate desire.\"\n\n\"Dear one that I love,\" answered sadly the old nomad, \"for what hast\nthou climbed so high if thou now wilt not look up? I tell thee that if\nthou wilt grasp the talent that belongs to thee thou shalt find a relief\nbeyond all thou darest to hope.\n\n\"I have been reading the signs out of the wind-swept clouds, and I know\nthat thus help will come to thee.\"\n\n\"Ah, but, Mother Zorka, tell me, will she ever look at me with eyes that\nsee?\"\n\n\"Her eyes do see, my son, and although thy face be the fairest my old\nbrain has ever conceived, canst thou know if the vision her mind is for\never adoring is not of a beauty far beyond our dreams?\n\n\"Certain flowers are not there to be plucked.\n\n\"Why the great Being of the skies has brought thee through pain and\ndanger, drawn thee into this distant land, to dash the full cup from thy\nthirsty lips, after having smilingly led thee so far--is a mystery I\ncannot explain.\n\n\"But dost realize what it would be if thou shouldst pluck the flower too\nsoon and thy touch be too rough, and the petals fall fading to the\nground; dost know how empty then thy hands would be?\n\n\"Do as I tell thee, make that heavenly face thy very own by drawing it\nwith the artist hands thy God has given thee! I love thee well, but I\nhave loved her longer than thee. If the day is to come when her heart\nshall open to earthly passion, her eyes to the dear sight of thy face,\nlet that day be blessed and hold it fast if thou canst.\n\n\"I shall only look on; for that is the weary lot of those who live in\nthe past: but once more I tell thee, paint, oh, paint her face--the time\nmay come when it will be too late!\n\n\"But now go to thy tent, for I am tired and the night is cold.\"\n\nEric rose sadly and threaded his way through the sleeping camp, past the\nfires that were burning low, past the patient groups of tired horses,\ntill he reached his bed.\n\nBut Zorka sat still many an hour, following the shadowy road of her\npast, her dim eyes fixed upon the glowing ashes, speaking to the Being\nwho rules our destinies, and asking over again the eternal, unanswered\n\"Why?\" looking up to the too distant sky which for ever keeps its\nmystery to itself.\n\n\n\n\nXXII\n\n                                He seeks to know\n    The joy that is more great than joy\n    The beauty of the old green earth can give.\n\n    FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nZorka kept her promise; and one day, who knows whence, Eric found all he\nneeded for beginning the picture the old woman had commanded him to\npaint.\n\nThe tents had been pitched quite near to a forest all shining and\nshimmering in every shade of gold; gold under foot, gold overhead, gold\nfalling softly from every bough.\n\nThe sun threw his glinting rays upon all the beauty that was a last\nglorious farewell Nature was taking from the departing year. The smoke\nof the camps and the mist of the autumn mornings mingled like spirit\nsouls, and waved in moving vapours, veils that some fairy might have\nhung over the branches to fill her dwelling with mystic shadows and\nshades. From within the shelter of the wood, the great naked plain could\nbe seen as far as the eye could reach, but the waving ocean of corn was\na past dream of the summer months.\n\nNow the fields and pastures looked desolate and barren, dark and cold,\neven beneath the face of the kindly life-giving planet that shone down\nupon it with a friendly face.\n\nThe rusty tents resembled dwarf pyramids standing upon some desert seen\nfrom afar off.\n\nBut the forest was a palace fit for a king, fashioned out of lustrous\nrays all woven together into a web of sunny yellows, and there sat Eric\nfor many an hour trying to make his picture live.\n\nStella never refused to let him take her hand, and followed him meekly\nwhither he led. He seated her upon a bank of grass, having first covered\nit over and over with leaves of fiery red.\n\nFor her lovely feet he made a nest of warm green moss, and at her side\nhe laid a sycamore leaf full of jet-black bramble-berries as polished as\nagate balls.\n\nOut of their flexible branches he wound a wreath about her head; their\nfading leaves made a many-tinted crown, more beautiful than a queen\ncould wear, all amber, topaz, and burnished gold, deep and rich in hue,\nsplashed in places as with stains of blood.\n\nIn and out among the rusty leaves he had plaited dark purple aster stars\nthat nestled among her waving hair. Whilst his nervous fingers were by\nslow degrees laying hold of his forsaken art, Stella played him ancient\ntunes of such melting sweetness that often his hot tears flowed down and\nmixed in crystal rivulets with the colours on his palette. As she\nplayed, all the visions of the days of his wanderings rose up out of the\ndistance and floated like shadows before his brain.\n\nHe saw little Oona playing with her balls on the smooth marble terrace,\nsaw the sleepy little town with the scarlet bunches of geraniums, heard\nthe bird-like voice of the unknown girl singing her song of innocence.\nHe walked again under the face of the moon into the ice maiden's snowy\ncastle, and there he stood with her amongst the beating, broken hearts\nthat lay awaiting the great trumpet call. He stood on the wave-tossed\nboards of the frail little vessel, mingling his voice with the cries of\nthe sea.\n\nThen, wandering through the enchanted grottos, he came to the place\nwhere he shudderingly knelt by the murdered form of the far too\nentrancing woman. In the ruined cathedral the Virgin's eyes once again\nblessed his folded hands with her flowing tears.\n\nAbove all, the venerated face of his dearly loved master rose\nstartlingly vivid, waving to him with trembling hands, and his little\ntravelling companion came running towards him, her dear arms\noutstretched in joyous greeting.\n\nThe silent army of phantoms passed and faded into space, so that amongst\nthe falling leaves of autumn he imagined he could clearly see the\nmany-coloured bubbles rise like tropical butterflies floating always\nfarther away.\n\nLast of all came Radu the shepherd, with eyes resembling two burning\ncoals, his white teeth shining from between his smiling lips.\n\nAnd there was not one of these trembling apparitions that did not look\ndown upon him with loving glances;--only this fair being playing at his\nside would not turn her look his way.\n\nOh, those eyes that his fairy fingers at last were fixing on his canvas:\ndeep, grey, wide open, surrounded by long black lashes that were like\ndark rays radiating from the unfathomed pupils, starry eyes overflowing\nwith celestial dreams, eyes that never, ah, never would come down to\nlook into his!\n\nHe clenched his teeth, and, casting away his brushes, he threw himself\ndown at her feet, laying his face close against them as they rested,\npale twin sisters, amongst the mosses he had gathered.\n\nBut Stella was as ever in a world of her own; and whilst the young\npainter was trembling with uncontrollable longing, his lips pressed upon\nthe ground as close to her as he dared, she serenely played on her\nviolin, making it cry out all the infinite yearning to which her\nethereal nature had never yet awakened.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII\n\n    And know that the sorrow of sorrows is only a law of his being.\n\n    FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nThe tired leaves were falling always thicker; the days were shorter;\nnight came down with the rapidity of a swooping bird; and more than once\nin the early morn a white frost had covered the ground like crystallized\nsugar strewn all over the earth.\n\nThe gypsies' camp was still pitched beside the wood. They had work to do\nin the villages close by, and often in the evenings the long-suffering\ndonkeys came back heavily laden with vessels of shining copper, which\nthe dark people mended and patched, as is the wont of their wandering\nrace.\n\nTheir voices could be heard, either in song or strife, as they hammered\naway on the rounded caldrons that shone from far, the colour of molten\nlead.\n\nThe naked children played about in noisy groups, quarrelling like little\nbrown monkeys, pursuing, with extended hands, every traveller that\nventured too near their tents, and relating their misery with lamentable\ncries.\n\nThere was word of moving to some warmer clime, but as yet no order of\nmarch had been given, though the nights were cold and the large fires\nthat were lit, and glowed in the dark like funeral pyres, were hardly\nsufficient protection. When the young men had finished their work for\nthe day they would sit around in groups, playing games of cards with\npacks all greasy and blackened by constant use, games which often ended\nin noisy discord, when more than one sharpened blade would have to be\nknocked out of angry hands. The old women came together and sat by the\nleaping flames, weird witches of ancient legends, talking and\nchattering, relating endless yarns of endless deeds both gay and\nsinister, often scolding the young ones for all they had left undone,\nthreatening them with every curse if they did not mend their ways.\n\nThe lean dogs walked about snatching at every remnant of food they could\nlay their hungry teeth upon, but the horses passively waited till the\ndark hour would sound for receiving once more their heavy burdens, which\nthey would carry with patient resignation in spite of the scarcely\nhealed wounds upon their tired backs.\n\nOnly Zorka never joined those rowdy groups; she sat alone in her gloomy\ntent like some old beggared queen, thinking about long-past glories. Her\npipe was ever between her lips; the smoke curled upwards in tiny wisps,\nforming odd shapes that quivered about like mystic signs mounting into\nthe damp cold air.\n\nEach day she watched with growing anxiety the two young people, who, at\nthe fall of night, would come slowly towards her out of the forest.\n\nSince long she had imagined that nothing more could touch her withered\nheart; but the sight of these mortals, so full of beauty, purity, and\nlight, had filled her with a new benevolence, and she longed with an\nunspeakable longing to help them if she could.\n\nShe was moved by conflicting feelings, asking herself if Stella's\nmarvellous visions were worth one poor human kiss, one enchanted\nawakening to the wonders of love.\n\nOh, what use was all her long-accumulated wisdom if it failed her at a\nmoment like this! What should she do? Should she tell the enamoured\nyouth to go his way, not to waste his days running after something that\ncould never be?\n\nBut it would break his heart; was he not a dreamer of dreams, and\ntherefore a kindred soul to the solitary maiden who had never seen\nanything but pictures that certainly were not of this world.\n\nSometimes she felt an overpowering desire that a sweet miracle might\ncome to pass, and that these two lovely innocents should both at the\nsame instant put their lips to the full cup of Life.\n\nEven ... even ... yes, death in attainment; would it be so terrible a\nthing! Ah! But does death ever mercifully cover with his wings two\nliving hearts at once? Does he not always leave the one in cold misery\nto carry his despair alone? So many heavy problems! and she who had\nthought that her overburdened brain had already solved the mysteries of\nlife! One evening she sat thus alone, pondering over all these questions\nto which she could find no answer.\n\nThe early dusk was descending slowly over one of autumn's last fine\ndays, and darkness was also rising out of the cold barren earth, meeting\nthe coming night half-way.\n\nThe sky was covered by leaden clouds, dashed by streaks of glowing red,\nwhere the sun resentfully opposed the grey shadows that strove to hide\nhim out of sight. The air was chilly and the very old woman shivered,\nfeeling forsaken and sad and useless.\n\nOver the sombre expanse that lay beyond, a faint mist mounted, like\nfleecy wool, giving each object the appearance of floating over the\nearth. The tents, the gypsies that moved about, the tethered horses, the\nslinking dogs, all seemed to have lost their bases and to be floating in\nthe air.\n\nZorka was weary, too tired to think. She was only allowing her mind to\nwander slowly through the past.\n\nThe fire, that young hands always built up beside her venerable grey\nhead, leapt and sprang like restless spirits eternally striving after\nunattainable heights, casting fantastic lights upon her crouching form.\nIt was a picture of old age, in all its forlorn, colourless sadness,\nfrom which all else has been taken except the weary comfort of looking\nback.\n\nZorka was remembering the distant years when she, too, had known wild\nlove and scorching hate; when the day had been a long smile of promise,\nwhen for her also young hearts had beaten with passionate desire.\n\nShe remembered many faces that rose like ghosts out of the past, calling\nto her with long-forgotten voices that once she had loved. She\nremembered hours of triumph when the ultimate dream of happiness had\narisen and wrapped her around with its burning flame.\n\nBut she had also lived through the long deadly years when nothing more\nwas laid at her feet, when youth had carelessly trodden upon the heart\nthat once had seemed to others a treasure impossible to obtain.\n\nPast--past--all past; but forgotten? Dear God! ah no! But old age, weary\nold age from which all flee, whose breath lies like white snow upon the\nbended head, contains also the balm and benediction of a frosty peace\nthat resembles the face of the night, unstarred and moonless, covering\nover the glaring joys and gloomy sorrows of yore!\n\nAs she was thus wandering on distant shores of her youth, a shadow\ncrossed the space before her and she looked up. It took her a little\ntime before she could come back to cold reality, till her brain realized\nthat in truth she was now but Zorka the wise old witch.\n\nEric stood at her side; the flames flared and hissed, covering him with\nchanging jets of light.\n\nBetween his hands he held a finished picture. Zorka gave a low cry of\nsurprise, and rose trembling to her feet; there in the unsteady glow of\nthe restless flames she looked upon a face the like of which human hand\nhad never before fixed upon canvas or paper.\n\nThe eyes of the painting seemed alive, and seemed to stare with\nunspeakable rapture upon a sight too marvellous for poor human words to\ntranslate into mortal language. There they were with all the\nextraordinary beauty the hoary woman had always known: and more than\nall, within these eyes the dreamer of dreams had put also another\nexpression which contained all the yearning cry of his own passionate,\nhopeless love.\n\nFor many a year old Zorka, the witch, had not shed a single tear--that\nsource of emotion had dried since ages past; but now as she gazed with\nquivering emotion upon the glory of this unearthly visage she felt how\nsomething rose up from her heart, warm and suffocating, clutching at her\nstrangled throat, till one by one warm drops ran down her furrowed\ncheeks, leaving shining wet lines upon her leathery skin like little\nstreams of rain on hard-baked earth.\n\nEric watched her, but never spoke a word; he stood motionless, his arms\nhanging at his sides, tired and resigned, as one who can fight no more.\n\nOverhead the white falcon circled and circled, uttering small weird\nshrieks like some one in pain; and as it moved about in the inky sky the\nblue diamond round its neck shone like a moving star.\n\n\"My son,\" spoke Zorka at last, \"thy work is great and wonderful; and\ntruly it could never be said of one who had fashioned so blessed a\nbeauty that his life had been lived in vain. But I perceive that thy\nhuman longing is for ever unstilled; and now some inner truth has broken\nin upon my far-seeing brain, and these are the words I have to speak to\nthee:\n\n\"Go to the woman that thy heart loveth too well--go, for such is the\nunwritten law of this earth; go and take her in thy living arms and\nteach her with a kiss all the joy and all the sorrow of the world. And\nwhat the great God above desires that the end should be is not for us,\nwho are but fashioned from His dust, to presume to foresee. Go, and I in\nthe silence of the night shall remain here to watch and pray!\"\n\nEric did as he was bid; laying the picture his hands had created down by\nthe side of the reader of signs, he silently vanished into the dark.\n\nThe fire flared into a renewed burst of flame, and stretched out long\narms of red glowing light as if endeavouring to call him back. Then a\ncold gust of wind swept over the waste and covered all around with\nclouds of smoke.\n\n\n\n\nXXIV\n\n          A song of deathless Love, immortal,\n    Sunrise-haired and starry-eyed and wondrous.\n\n    FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nWithin the tent where Stella lived each thing was sweet and pure.\n\nHer magic charm had spread over all she touched.\n\nOld Zorka had thus decreed that she should always have a dwelling that\nneed be shared with none. It was as poor a place as those around, but\nwithin the folding walls was a haven of rest and peace.\n\nOn its rustic canvas sides hung all the withered wreaths that day by day\nshe had worn. The one she had just removed from her tresses was still\nquite fresh, and softly swayed over the door.\n\nEric had found in the early morn, beneath a protecting tree, a whole\nbunch of scarlet strawberry leaves that the autumnal frosts had not yet\ntouched; he had wound therefrom a lovely garland, all crimson and red,\nthat throughout the day had crowned the loved one's brow.\n\nA fire close by cast a friendly light through every crevice, so that the\nhumble dwelling looked warm and homely, in spite of its barren poorness\nand the drear solitude upon which it stood.\n\nBefore the wide-open entry sat the mysterious maiden on an ancient\nwooden chest, her much-loved violin, as always, pressed tenderly beneath\nher cheek.\n\nShe played and played, and out of the darkness Fate was coming towards\nher, treading with noiseless feet.... Still she played on, all else\nforgotten or never even seen, tunes almost too sweet for human ear to\nbear. But to-day there was something within them resembling the sighs of\na wandering soul that longs for what it cannot reach.\n\nSomething there was that perhaps the cold night air wafted to her\nsleeping soul--something that held a warning that the tides of life were\nat last gradually rising to creep close to her heart, for she suddenly\nlaid down the faithful friend that would no more give forth the sounds\nshe was wont to hear.\n\nEach time she drew the bow across its melodious chords, the notes it\nuttered were like the cry of a lost spirit in dire distress.\n\nSo she sat gazing into the pitchy darkness with something unknown and\nfrightening, fluttering amidst the strings of her heart. And there out\nof the shadows of the lonely night a human form rose and stood beside\nher, with arms outstretched. Then Eric was on his knees before her, and\ndrew the slowly awakening maiden within the unbounded tenderness of his\nyearning arms.\n\nThe whole world seemed alive with a leaping promise of coming\nfulfilment.\n\nAnd then, oh wonder of wonders, he laid his lips upon the heart of the\ngirl, the girl who would not look upon his face.\n\nAnd as he did so he perceived how an indescribable light of dawning\ncomprehension spread slowly over all her features, and awoke like two\nluminous torches in both her eyes.\n\nThen at last her gaze met his ... twin flames of purest beauty, in\nwhich, quite gradually, all the hidden treasures of unconceived\necstasies rose one by one in an overwhelming flood too strong for human\nstrength to sustain. Awful, wonderful, terrifying ... and yet so sweet,\nso sweet that no halting tongue could ever describe such marvellous\nrevelations. Almost imperceptibly she bent her angelic lips nearer his,\nso that the vision of his dreams was all at once looking into his\nupturned face, with eyes into which a God-given splendour had suddenly\ncome in a burst of passionate understanding.\n\nNever had the exquisite orbs been so sweet, never had the ethereal face\nshone with a more divine light;--and a voice that seemed to come from\nthe far-off distances of the land of mystery pronounced these words:\n\n\"Where have I been? To what regions have I come? What is this dazzling\nsplendour that rushes through my being like a leaping river of Life?\nWhat is this dear face I see gazing into mine, what is this bounding joy\nthat wants to burst the confines of my overstrained heart? Oh what--oh\nwhat does it mean?\"\n\nDrawing herself up she stood, both hands pressed on her heaving breast,\nas if her great pain were piercing her through and through.\n\n\"What is it?... What is it?... What can it be? I do not understand!\"\n\nEric rose also, and stood trembling before this unheard-of miracle that\nhad come to pass.\n\nA great fear came to him and swept with a cold wind over his immensity\nof joy. Would she suddenly close her mind again to his flaming love, now\nthat he had at last aroused her sleeping soul?\n\n\"Oh, my love, my love!\" he cried. \"It is I, it is I, who have come over\nthe distant seas, who have travelled through sun and shade, through\nstorm and calm, who have passed through the Shadow of Death to reach the\nheaven of thy face; look at me with thy awakening eyes, and tell me that\nlife is sweet.\"\n\n\"Life!\" said the girl, her two hands still tightly clutching at her\npulsing heart.\n\n\"Life, what is Life?\"\n\n\"Life,\" cried Eric, \"is contained in this one hour of perfect\nattainment. Life is the great promise of love fulfilled. Life is the\nsacred moment when my arms may clasp thee to my thirsting soul!\n\n\"Come, my beloved, for I have waited so cruelly long, so tirelessly have\nI searched and yearned!\"\n\nStella, moved by some unknown, mysterious force, timidly drew near to\nthis stranger man, whose face was as fair as the angels with whom in her\nvisions she had always dwelt.\n\nBut what was this waking joy--this tumultuous tide of intensest bliss?\nSomething too strong, too strong, something that no living mortal could\nbear.... And yet now she lay within his passionate arms, her head hidden\nagainst his throbbing straining heart.\n\nIn an agony of delight no words can describe, his lips, his warm living\nlips, were drinking her very soul away--drawing by slow degrees her\nsweet hardly-dawning life to mix with his boundless need.\n\nHe knew that this was the ultimate limit of his soul's desire, a moment\nof such incommensurable joy, that body and soul flowed together into a\nsunrise of dazzling triumph. All that had been, was as if it had never\nexisted. Past, present, and future were caught up and welded together\ninto a blaze of unearthly rapture.\n\nHe felt that he was being carried by the eternal wings of creation into\nthe very heart of the throbbing world; he was one with Nature, he was\none with God, one with his whole being's most sacred longing. And thus,\nclosely locked in each other's arms, these two mortals of perfect beauty\nlived an hour that lies as a pulsing memory, deeply hidden within the\ndark lap of the ever-wakeful Mother Earth, and from which it rose like a\nsong of undying, eternal perfection to the vastness of the sky above: a\nsong that now floats in never-ending echoes on every passing cloud, on\nevery ray of the sun. It was an hour when Nature stood still to listen\nto the accomplishment of one of her dearest dreams--when all life seemed\nconcentrated within the happiness of those two frail human beings....\n\nA cold streak of dawn was slowly advancing with pale furtiveness out of\nthe cover of night, when Eric bent once again to press his lips upon the\nperfect mouth; as he did so Stella looked up into his face with those\neyes that had for so long been a living part of his most hidden self.\n\nOh! was ever any earthly thing so marvellous, so wonderful, as those two\ngrey stars of light! and a sweet whisper rose stealing into every drop\nof his blood:\n\n\"I love thee, I love thee, as never have I loved a single one of my\nheavenly dreams; I have learnt in this hour the most limitless\nboundaries of human bliss. Lay now thy dear lips upon these eyes thou\nhast found at last, so that no other sight than thy fond face may ever\ntrouble my inner vision.\n\n\"Oh, see the day dawns; give me once more all thy bounding soul in the\nblessing of thy kiss.\"\n\nEric lifted the beloved woman and pressed her in a frenzy of joy to his\nheart; then very gently laid his mouth upon her eyes, closing the\ndelicate lids, shutting away within her starry orbs the visage she loved\nmore than all else.\n\nLong did he remain thus holding her sweet face beneath his tender\ncaress, whilst a heavenly smile parted her gentle lips.\n\nAnd it seemed to Eric that at that moment his life and hers were flowing\nquietly together in one great tide towards the shores of Eternity....\n\nBut when old Zorka came at the break of day to see how her dear ones\nfared, she stood strangling a cry that rose in the air; then, throwing\nherself upon the ground, she hid her grey head in the dust.\n\nThere sat Eric with wandering gaze, his eyes wide open, full of frantic\nmisery, looking down upon a corpse he held pressed closely to his\nbeating heart. And through the gold of his shining locks, soft silver\nthreads were scattered like finely spun moonbeams entwined with the rays\nof the sun.\n\nZorka lifted her haggard face and stared in awe at the ghost-like pallor\nof the girl. A wonderful light rested on her waxen features as she lay\nfull of peace and rest, white and motionless in the arms of her lover.\n\nHer eyes were closed as one who has shut her tired lids over a joy too\ngreat for words, the vastness of which had burst asunder her human\nheart.\n\n\n\n\nXXV\n\n    And thy first night of death\n      Belongs to our first sorrow....\n    What knowledge now is thine?\n      A deeper one than ours.\n\n    BARD OF THE D\u00c2MBOVITZA.\n\n\nAll day the dark men of the tribe had been building a coffin into which\nthe beautiful maiden was to be laid to rest.\n\nOne and all were bowed with sorrow; this death was to them a horrible\nunreality their simple minds could not grasp. Why was this creature of\nlight cut down in her sweetest prime?\n\nWhat would their lives now be without the glamour and mystery with which\nshe had filled their wandering day?\n\nThe morning was bleak, and the rain fell in occasional showers that the\nwind swept, with moaning sighs, over the naked waste. The canvas of the\ntents flapped and creaked, straining against the poles and cords that\nheld them in place.\n\nA heavy gloom brooded over the wretched camp, so that even the\nsquabbling children spoke with bated breath.\n\nWithin Stella's silent tent sat Eric of the golden locks, staring\nwithout tears upon the face of the dead. The eyes of his dream looked\nupon him no more; he had shut them for ever with the passion of his\nkiss. Beneath his living lips she had breathed her last, dying like a\nfading flower, scorched by the flame of his love!\n\nHe had not known when she had passed away--only the growing chill he had\nfelt beneath his cheek had pierced his soul with a sudden fear, and when\nhe had called on her beloved name no answer had come in response. But\nwe shall draw a veil over that hour of morn when he realized what was to\nbe his fate. There are times of darkness and bottomless grief wherein\nthe eye of a stranger must never descend. This was the end--the end!\nHope was dead, life was a waste, and all had been but a passionate dream\nthat ended with a kiss!\n\nThe wind swept over the humble tent, but upon her lowly couch Stella\nstill smiled the wise smile that removes the dead so far beyond the\nreach of those who weep.\n\nNot far off sat Zorka, the witch, her head bent down upon her trembling\nknees, whilst the storm played amongst the frosted wisps of her hair.\nFrom all sides weird chants rose into the wintry air where the old\nwomen, sitting round their blazing fire, were singing dirges for the\ndead.\n\nAnd now came the moment when the black-eyed, black-haired sons of the\nwild came to carry Stella to her last narrow bed.\n\nThey had fashioned her a coffin with sides of shining copper the colour\nof the autumn that had now passed away. Eric had to stand by and see how\nthey lifted the body he loved, and laid it, all rigid and small, within\nthe three sides of the metal box that received in unmoved silence this,\nhis faded dream.\n\nThe gypsies had sullenly refused to let him carry her himself; they\njealously desired to have at least her inert body within their arms,\nthey who had never dared touch a single hair of her head.\n\nThey did not know that she had died beneath the kiss of his lips, but\nthey somehow guessed that at the end he had awakened her sleeping soul;\nand although they had dearly loved his beautiful face, Eric had always\nbeen an alien in their midst, all shining and fair, a being of light\namongst their sombre race.\n\nNow she was dead--Stella was dead--the Luck of their tribe lay white\nand cold in her last resting-place. Now she was theirs, and this son of\nanother clime must relinquish his right, and leave her pure perfection\nbetween their dusky hands.\n\nSo while they were carrying her from out her tent Eric wandered with\ndragging feet into the forest where he had so often sat, painting her\nlovely face.\n\nNow all the gold had fallen to the ground, the trees stood gaunt and\nbare. Over his cruelly bowed head the branches stretched naked and grey;\nfrom every twig large dropping tears fell splashing on the carpet of\nfaded leaves.\n\nNowhere could he find the smallest plant or flower out of which to wind\nher a final wreath the same as those she had always worn. In vain he\nsearched each sheltered corner; wherever he peered, all was dark and\ndead, killed by the frost of the night.\n\nWhen he came back to where she lay, pale and still, all that he had to\nbring to the woman he loved was a crown of thorns. These he pressed on\nher snowy brow where they rested, sharp and hard, amongst her silky\ntresses, so that verily she resembled a martyred queen upon the bier of\na beggar.\n\nIn a circle around her coffin the gypsies had lighted blazing fires, and\nnow that their work was done they left the stranger standing in lonely\ncommunion with that silent shape that never again would look upon the\nlight of day.\n\nAs he knelt beside her lowly bed, his face hidden on the heart that beat\nno more, a sound of wings came wafted upon the wind, and there,\nfluttering above the lifeless maiden, was his trusted companion the\nmilk-white hawk, holding in its sharpened beak the chain with the\nmoon-coloured diamond.\n\nAs Eric looked up with hopeless eyes, he saw how the beautiful creature\nswooped down quite close, covering the lovely vision with its large soft\nwings; and when it rose again, like foam against the darkening sky,\nGundian espied upon the heart of the maiden the magic diamond, shining\nas if all her love were a last time bursting from her breast in mystic\nrays of enchantment.\n\nNight came down and still Eric knelt beside his shattered happiness. All\nabout him the fires burned and crackled, and the dismal chants of the\ngypsies rose like curses to the heavens.\n\nThe wondrous face of the sleeper lived again in the glowing shine, but\nEric did not see this illusive light of life; when he looked up the\nfires had burnt out; the gypsies had gone to rest.\n\nThe night had laid its darkness over the frowning solitude; no star\nshone in the sky; the only spot of brightness was the twinkling diamond\nthat glowed there on Stella's bosom, where Eric had awakened her soul\nwith his first burning kiss of love!\n\n\n\n\nXXVI\n\n    The grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps. Dust\n    on her breast, dust on her eyes, The grey wind weeps.\n\n    FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nNext day her grave was dug, there, upon that endless plain of silence.\nEric had strewn the gaping hole with a lining of withered leaves,\ngathered from the weeping forest.\n\nBefore they hid her marvellous face out of sight he had passionately\ncovered its mask of beauty with desperate burning kisses. Zorka had\nstood close by, guarding him from hostile glances, so that this\nheartbroken lover might be for a last time alone with what had been the\ndream of his life.\n\nThen from his shoulders he took the torn black cloak he had worn during\nall his wanderings and draped it round those rigid limbs that froze his\nblood with their icy coldness.\n\n\"Mother, dear old mother,\" he cried, \"I want to keep her warm; the night\nbefore last she glowed in the arms of my passion, and now I must leave\nher to the chill mercy of the frozen ground. How can I bear such\ntorture?\"\n\nZorka laid her withered hand upon his shoulder.\n\n\"Son, my son, I feel that no ice can harm her more--she looked upon the\nflames of Love, and died whilst they were folded round her; she closed\nher eyes upon the vision of thy burning worship, and that wonderful\nsweetness was the last thing she saw; now she is for ever happy.\"\n\nSo Eric wound her from head to foot in the dark folds of his mantle; he\nhid away her white hands and her tiny feet. Then he pressed the wreath\nof thorns over the dusky drapery, placing the gleaming gem in the centre\nof her forehead. He fetched her dear violin and laid it so that her toes\njust touched its polished wood.\n\nOver the shabby black tissue of the weather-beaten vestment he spread\nthe faded wreaths that once had rested upon her rippling hair. And after\none long look of farewell he allowed the heavy lid to be shut down on\nhis hard-won happiness.\n\nThe damp earth was thrown with a hollow thud over the lid of the coffin,\nthe ground was beaten down smooth and flat on every side, so that no\nwandering stranger should ever disturb her deep dark grave beneath its\ncovering of sombre soil.\n\nThe gypsies folded their tents with hasty rapidity, longing to steal\naway from a place where silence brooded amongst the whispering winds.\n\nOld Zorka came and stood upon the spot where her darling had been hidden\nfor ever away, and there she murmured all the prayers she could call\nback to her flagging memory, whilst her streaming tears mixed with the\nmould that lay over that past dream of beauty.\n\nBut no persuasion nor entreaty could make Eric move from that dark mound\nin the barren lonely wild; he meant to remain there that first night\nwhen she had been confided to the indifferent shadows that closed in\naround her.\n\nHe promised Zorka he would follow next day, but this night he must lie\non Stella's cold grave, to protect it from the biting frost.\n\nWhen all had gone and he was alone on that dreary vastness, he drew from\nits sheath his treasured sword and planted it like a cross, there where\nher eyes must be hidden away, never more to look upon the rising sun.\n\nDreary blasts of wind blew over the gloomy desert; darkness came down\nand Eric stretched himself upon the frozen ground, his lips pressed upon\nthe spot where, far beneath the heavy covering of soil, her beautiful\nmouth must have been.\n\nThere he lay, forsaken, the only breathing being in that cruel night of\nsorrow. But not far off, amongst the dim shadows of the forest, the\nsnowy falcon was faithfully watching, though the glinting light no\nlonger shone on his breast, watching till day should mercifully break.\n\nThrough the heavy hours Eric never moved; he was fighting alone a dreary\nbattle against life and his God. Nor did he know, as his face lay hidden\nin his clenched hands, that the magic hilt of the sword was glowing like\na shining promise far over the sleeping world. There it stood, a cross\nof flame, burning with sacred light, watching over this desperate mortal\nwho longed to cast his life away.\n\nThe wind howled with voices of terror and storm; the dust was whirled in\nclouds from the frozen waste, sweeping over the cross-shaped light and\nover the weeping man, trying to blot them out of sight.\n\nBut deep down in eternal night, under the protecting arms of her lover,\nrested Stella in stony quiet, bedded in the lap of old Mother Earth.\n\nBeneath her closed lids her starry eyes were for ever guarding the last\ndear vision her waking brain had looked upon.\n\n\n\n\nXXVII\n\n    And in her two white hands like swans on a frozen lake,\n    Hath she not my heart, that I have hidden there for dear love's sake.\n\n    FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nMorning dawned, and Eric rose from the ground, half-frozen from his long\nnight's vigil, his eyes hollow, staring with a desperate look.\n\nThe wan daylight was gradually spreading over the wilderness, on which\nhe stood like a wounded soldier whom his comrades had forsaken,\nimagining he was dead. No, he was not dead, poor youth, he was alive,\ncrying, with broken heart and thirsting soul, for what could be no more.\nHe had lived his dream and shattered it all in one. Zorka had been\nright, some flowers must not be plucked; and now his hands were\nempty--empty. He himself had made the sweet petals fall, and no earthly\npower could give them back their bloom.\n\nDown there under the dark cold sod she lay, his dream of dreams, crushed\nby his passion and love. He had held his soul's desire pressed against\nhis wildly beating heart, and she had left him in their hour of rapture;\nhad died beneath the fire of his kiss.\n\nOnce more he threw himself down upon the merciless earth that covered\nher sacred beauty. He pressed his mouth upon the dust of the ground,\ntracing the sign of the Cross with his lips, there where he guessed that\nher snowy brow, her silent heart, and closed eyes lay hidden for ever\nout of sight.\n\nThen kneeling before the cross-shaped sword, Eric prayed in words of\nglowing entreaty to the great Father above, that her sleep should be\nsweet and the earth soft to that body he loved, that the weight of the\ndark mould that wrapped her round should not be heavy to her delicate\nlimbs.\n\nHe cried to that silent brooding sky to be merciful towards that\ncreature of light and soon to call her from the damp dark grave to a\nsunrise of glory and joy.\n\n\"God! my God! it cannot be that Thou lettest her slumber for ever in\nthat cold solitude and I not knowing if her sleep be sweet. She who was\nlike a ray from the sun--she who carried within her orbs the whole glory\nof the summer skies, the entire mystery of the starry nights. She whose\nmusic was the most exquisite rendering of the beauty of life; she whose\nperfection was the gladness of each awakening day, whose soul and body\nwere like the spotless snow of mountain heights where no human foot has\never passed. O God! O God! how can I leave her grave?\" And again he lay\nthere, stretched upon the relentless soil, groaning and shedding tears\nof blood, whilst the brooding silence of the naked wild lay over all,\nhostile and unheeding, with Nature's stony indifference to the sorrow\nand anguish of the human race.\n\nThen at last he tore himself away, feeling how useless were his grief\nand misery before those eternal laws of creation which for ever are, and\nfor ever shall be.\n\nNow he was fleeing that silent wilderness, bending his head against the\ndriving wind and rain, against the storm of dust and sand that the wild\ngusts were throwing in his face.\n\nSeveral times he turned in hopeless yearning towards that lonesome spot\nwhere his precious sword stood a lonely guardian of his lost happiness;\nthen, covering his face in an agony too deep for tears, on he rushed as\none who tries to escape from a sight he cannot bear.\n\nHis faithful friend the hawk flew beside him, occasionally caressing\nhis tear-stained face with the velvet touch of its wings.\n\nFor several hours he had thus fought his desperate way, when, on raising\nhis head, he saw a small cloud coming towards him out of the distance,\ngrowing in size the nearer it came.\n\nHe stood still, vaguely wondering what it might be, when out of the\nmidst of the moving dust a young boy emerged, driven along by the storm\nthat strove to carry him off his feet.\n\nThe first thing Eric discerned was a high fur cap, a shaggy coat of\nskins, into the wide sleeves of which the youth's hands had been deeply\nthrust, whilst a thick staff was pressed in the hollow of his arm.\nBehind this advancing figure came the pattering feet of innumerable\nsheep, raising beneath their steps the thick cloud Eric had first of all\ndescried.\n\nSuddenly, with a glad cry, both youths ran towards each other with\njoyful recognition, for this was none other than Radu, the shepherd, who\nwas leading his flocks home from the mountains, driven thence by the\ncoming winter.\n\nFor a moment both remained speechless, hands clasped, staring into each\nother's face that were wet and shining from the drizzling rain which had\nnot yet been able to turn into mud the thick coating of dust that lay\nlike powder on the roads. The one who spoke first was Radu, and it was\nanxiously to ask:\n\n\"Where hast thou left thy cloak? Thou art quite wet; and thy sword, thy\nbeautiful sword, where hast thou left thy sword?\"\n\nEric did not answer; he simply lifted both his hands, showing that they\nwere empty; then he let them fall again at his sides with the hopeless\ngesture of one who has given everything up for ever more. Then only did\nRadu come quite near and peer with frightened eyes more closely into his\nface.\n\n\"What is it?\" he cried. \"What is it? What hast thou seen?\"\n\n\"Heaven and Hell,\" answered Eric. \"I have been in both!\"\n\n\"And thy dream--didst thou find thy dream?\" whispered the peasant.\n\n\"I found it and I lost it,\" was the answer he got. \"It was mine for a\nshort hour of bliss--mine; but again God beat me down with my face to\nthe earth.\n\n\"I have been a dreamer of dreams, and it is not to be given to me to\nkeep what I clasp. God allowed me visions to lead me ever on; they\nbrought me to this land of promise.\n\n\"It was summer then; now thou seest what colour is over the earth. But I\ntouched my dream; I held it within my human arms; but as sayeth the\npoet: 'How can the body touch the flower which only the spirit may\ntouch,' so I killed my flower, killed it with my kiss.\"\n\n\"Can one kill with a kiss?\" cried Radu, awe in his voice.\n\n\"One can kill with more things than with a sword. I found the face of my\nvision, I followed it step by step. I hunted it down with sighs and\ntears till at last it was mine. I held it one short moment in my arms, a\nmoment within which I lived the ultimate triumph of my desire. Then it\nwas gone. I myself destroyed it, consumed it, with the thirst of my\nsoul!\"\n\n\"But was she happy?\" queried Radu, with tears in his eyes.\n\n\"Was she happy! Good God! was she happy!\" cried Eric, clenching his\nfists towards the skies. \"Yes, I believe she was happy! If I did not\nbelieve that I could not live. She said to me to kiss her eyes so that\nfor ever she could keep the picture of what she had loved best in this\nworld! At that moment she died! My warm touch of love was death! Canst\ngrasp that frightful truth?... was death! My lips, my lover's lips\nclosed her eyes for ever!... for ever ... over the vision of my face!\n\n\"Before they laid her in the ground I wrapped her in my cloak; that is\nwhy it is gone. I would not leave her thus thinly clad within the cold\nshadow of her grave; and upon the spot where she lies I planted my\nsword. There, where the eyes I followed so far are for ever closed, I\nleft my sword.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" sobbed Radu, \"and now I shall never see that face!\"\n\n\"Yes, thou shalt,\" answered his friend. \"Come with me and thou shalt see\nthe fairest being God ever made!\"\n\n\"Where?\" asked the astonished peasant, \"where?\"\n\n\"Follow me and thou shalt know!\"\n\n\"But my sheep,--they are tired; and see how tame are my dogs, exhausted\nby the length of the way.\"\n\n\"It is not far from here--there thou canst rest; thou art not in a\nhurry, and I would thou shouldst know the eyes of my dream.\"\n\nAgain Eric hid his face in his clasped hands, whilst a harsh dry sob\nrose to his throat.\n\n\"Come, come! I, too, thirst for the sight of her face.\"\n\nTowards the evening the two lads arrived at the gypsies' camp.\n\nAlong the dreary roadside several tall wooden crosses had been erected,\ntall and gaunt, with curious shapes, decorated with archaic saints in\ncrudest colours.\n\nThese weird crosses stood in a line like silent spectres, some bending\nsideways, as if tired of their vigil.\n\nIt was here that old Zorka had told Eric he would find their\nhalting-place. The fires had already been lit, the dark men and women\nsat about in groups. The tents stood out, dismal shadows, against the\nWestern Bar.\n\nEric holding Radu by the hand led him to where Zorka was cooking her\nevening meal in a blackened pot.\n\nRadu's flock had followed pitter-patter in their wake, hardly\ndiscernible in the dusk, their way-stained wool the colour of the ground\nthey trod.\n\nWhen she saw her favourite the old seer ran forward and clasped him to\nher breast, anxiously scanning his haggard face, but saying never a word\nfor fear of awakening his surging grief.\n\n\"Mother Zorka,\" he said, \"here is a friend who has come to look upon her\nface!\"\n\nZorka went to her tent, brought out the wonderful picture, and put it\ninto the peasant's hands. He stared at it in enraptured silence. Then\nvery slowly he laid it on the ground and knelt before it, making the\nsign of the cross over his brow, the tears flowing down his cheeks.\n\nZorka brought the boys food in a dish, urging her dear one to eat, but\nEric shook his head.\n\n\"Mother Zorka, willst thou tend him and give him a bed? for he was good\nto me when I was in sore distress.\"\n\nThen taking the picture he went off alone in the darkness of the night.\nThe wind howled, and the rain came down in heavier showers, beating upon\nthe miserable tents.\n\nZorka sat with the young shepherd in the shelter of her dwelling,\nlooking out upon the darkness into which the lonely mourner had\ndisappeared.\n\n\"Was she an angel?\" asked Radu, who had finished his meal, and whose\nface was still wet with tears.\n\n\"I think she was,\" said Zorka, nodding her head.\n\n\"Tell me,\" he continued, \"why did she die?\"\n\n\"Why did she die?\" repeated the tired old woman. \"Because it is given to\nsome never to wake from their dream of bliss, and those it is said are\nloved of the gods.\"\n\n\"Why was he left alone? Do the gods not love him?\"\n\nZorka sighed: \"Because some must learn to the bitter end to overcome all\nthey reach; must learn to leave behind them both joy and pain; to rise\nabove all their desires, and hopes, and fears, till their souls are as\npure and bright as an archangel's sword; and those are the chosen of\nGod.\"\n\n\"But was she happy?\" queried Radu, for the second time.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Zorka, with a solemn voice. \"Yes, she was happy. She\ndied of joy.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII\n\n    A star has ceased to shine in my lonely skies,\n    Sometimes I dream I see it shining in my heart.\n\n    FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nZorka could not bear to part from Eric of the golden locks, and begged\nhim to remain at her side.\n\nHe, too, for a while felt that he dared not leave the old woman who had\nled him to his love; so all that winter he wandered about with the\ntravelling clan, from clime to clime, leaving far behind him the country\nof his dream. Wherever he went the falcon followed, flying as near his\nhead as it could.\n\nRadu had parted from Eric with tears in his eyes; both boys felt as they\njoined hands for the last time that nothing could wipe out the deep\naffection they had conceived for each other.\n\nRadu had gone off on an endless road, playing a melancholy tune on his\nwooden flute, his flock following him, his cowed dogs at his heels, his\nfeet splashing about in the mud, the patient sheep leaving thousands of\nsmall footprints wherever they passed.\n\nBut Eric played no more, neither did he sing; and over the gold of his\nlocks the silver began to spread more and more, like foam on the sea.\n\nWherever he stopped he bought canvas and paint, but each of his pictures\nshowed always but the one and only face.\n\nHe painted the features of his dream in every form his heart could\nremember.\n\nHe represented her as first he had seen her, crowned with a wreath of\nbells, her old violin pressed under her cheek, her eyes full of the\nvisions she alone could see. He painted her seated in the dust of the\nroad with a circle of corn-ears round her delicate brow. He conjured up\nher beauty against the setting sun, whilst the coronet she wore was of\nautumn leaves all glowing as the blazing sky.\n\nOne of his sketches showed her shimmering and pale, lit by the rays of\nthe moon, and this time it was a halo he had painted round the pureness\nof her heavenly face.\n\nAnd once his restless fingers had created the picture of her marble\nfeatures as she lay motionless on her bier, her face still and white\nunder the brooding clouds, with the crown of thorns on her head, her\nwonderful eyes closed beneath the heavy lids, a smile of peace and\nhappiness hovering like a blessing over her lips.\n\nBut one picture alone no human eye but his was ever allowed to see; on\nthat one he had awakened, for a second and last time, the look her eyes\nhad borne when he had closed them with his lips.\n\nThis sketch he kept jealously hidden beneath all the others, and it was\nnever shown--not even Zorka had the right to cast a glance upon that\nexpression which was too holy for mortal to look upon.\n\nOne of his pictures he had given to Zorka in sign of gratitude. It\nrepresented the lost Luck of the wandering tribe. She stood on a lonely\nplain, her hands joined behind her back, her eyes looking straight\nbefore her, her head slightly raised as if listening for the coming of a\nbeing she could not see.\n\nA marvellous picture of unearthly beauty before which the old\nfortune-teller daily said her curious prayers, prayers to a God who had\nno form, but who lived in every breath of the wind, and who filled her\nweary old soul with the hope of coming peace.\n\nThey wandered slowly from land to land, amidst scenes of beauty, and\noften also through countries bleak and joyless; but the heart of the\npainter was always yearning for a far-off desolate plain where he had\nplanted his shining sword over the face of his love.\n\nWhen at night he closed his lids over his eyes heavy with unshed tears,\nthat wilderness always rose before him, cold and lonely, filling him\nwith a haunting dread that the sword might be slowly descending to\npierce her innocent heart. That vision would suddenly awake him out of\nhis sleep, and horror would stand at the foot of his wretched bed, till\nhe could bear it no more and would rush wildly out into the night.\n\nZorka knew all his suffering, and bowed her head always lower to the\nground.\n\nWhen spring was covering the earth with a new smile of youth, Zorka felt\nthat the moment she dreaded had come, and that the loved wanderer would\nsoon leave her to go his way.\n\nShe had heard him speak of a wonderful picture he was one day to finish\nin the palace of a mighty king. With her seer's certainty she knew that\nthe time was close at hand--had he not found the face of love,--and\nslowly the desire must strengthen within him to terminate the work he\nhad begun.\n\nShe accepted the coming of this final suffering as one who knows that\nher days are surely numbered.\n\nOne morning Eric Gundian, the last joy of her eyes, stood tall and slim\nbefore her dimmed sight.\n\n\"Mother Zorka, I feel I must go. I thank thee for all thy bounteous\nkindness, and I want thy blessing as once the dear master gave me his!\"\n\nHe knelt down as a little child might have done, and laid the frosted\ngold of his locks amongst the folds of her earth-coloured rags. She\nplaced her trembling hands upon his head and raised her quavering voice:\n\n\"Go in peace, my loved one, take up thy burden and finish thy great\nwork; it is thy duty to return to the kingly master who loved thee so\nwell, and when thy pain seems too heavy to bear, remember these words of\nold Zorka the witch.\n\n\"Those who die of happiness are blessed, but thrice blessed is the man\nwho carries without complaint the burden of his broken heart. Thou hast\nknown the sublimest fulfilment of joy. Be for ever grateful for that\nhour of bliss, and remember that she died at the moment of attainment,\nwhich is given to so few; therefore do not mourn as if her lot had been\ncruel. There are others who fall before winning the race; thou hast\nknown what it is to reach thy goal; so, thou must not weep. Go, and\ncarry joy with thee wherever thou treadest, because thou art a Chosen of\nGod. It is I, the old seer, who thus does speak.\"\n\nShe bent low over him and pressed her quivering lips to the silver\nthreads in his hair; then he rose, and stood with his head thrown back,\nhis arms reaching up towards the vault of blue, as one who longs to be\nreceived within the far-off clouds.\n\n\"But, Mother Zorka, I can sing no more; God has drowned my voice in a\nsea of tears!\"\n\n\"My son, thou hast thy wonderful art. Go and live amongst those who\nbelieve in thee. Thou hast a great work to complete, and the face of thy\nlove shall shine for ever upon the generations to come. This thou canst\nstill do for her memory's sake, and that power is given to few.\n\n\"There was a time when I believed I ought to guard our beautiful Stella\nfrom all touch of mortal love; but now I know that thus it is best. Each\nhuman being must fulfil his destiny, and Stella's destiny was to be the\nrealization of thy dream.\n\n\"The days of each man's life are counted, and not any of our poor\nknowledge can add an hour to the length of time Fate has decreed we\nshould live.\n\n\"Thou didst not kill her with thy kiss; she lived as a flower from some\nunknown land, yielding her sweet perfume to but one single being; then\nGod took her for His own, and thus her life was to end. Cry not out\nagainst what had to be. Go thy way, and one day perhaps thou wilt know\nthe meaning which now our mortal mind cannot fathom. My blessing is with\nthee. Go in peace.\"\n\nAnd that day Eric Gundian left the dark wandering people and old Zorka\nthe witch.\n\nWhen he had reached the crest of a hill he turned round and waved to the\ntrembling old woman who had been so faithful a friend.\n\nOver his head his inseparable companion fluttered like a snow-white sail\ncaught by the wind.\n\nZorka stood leaning on her crooked staff, her hand raised to protect her\neyes, that were blinded with tears, against the glare of the rising sun.\n\nShe stood watching the departing youth she had so dearly loved, and it\nseemed to her that he walked away from her straight into the glittering\nsky.\n\n\n\n\nXXIX\n\n\nSpring in all its beauty was covering the world with blossoms pink and\nwhite. Within the tender sprouting grass pale anemones were raising\ntheir delicate faces to peep at the radiant sun. Humble sweet-smelling\nviolets covered the lawns with a carpet of richest hue. Everywhere the\nbirds were singing hymns of praise to the sweet resurrection of life and\njoy. The larks were for ever mounting into the sky in eternal adoration\nof the shining sun.\n\nA haze of green was beginning to spread over the awakening woods, and\ninnumerable flowers were pushing out their tiny heads from beneath the\nthick carpet of fallen leaves. Over all lay a sweet hush of promise,\ntimid yet spreading far and wide.\n\nKing Wanda sat upon his marble terrace basking in the first warmth of\nthe season. Close beside him was Oona in a new dress of gold, a\nmarvellous book upon her knees containing pictures in glowing colours,\nrelating of fairies, both good and bad. She piped away with sweet clear\nvoice, explaining all the wonders she saw; but King Wanda sat with a\nfrown on his brow; nothing seemed to bring a smile to his lips; he had\nbecome morose and silent, and vainly his courtiers had tried to replace\nthe favourite who had so suddenly left him long ago.\n\n[Illustration: King Wanda sat upon his marble terrace basking in the\nfirst warmth of the season.]\n\nKing Wanda could find no joy since that day when Eric Gundian, the mad\npainter, had gone from his palace in search of his dream. He had given\nup all hope of seeing him again, although many a night he lay tossing\nupon his kingly couch, harking if he could not discern some sound of the\nstep that once he had loved.\n\nOther painters had proposed to finish the frieze in the beautiful hall,\nbut sternly the King had repressed their zeal. He himself kept the keys\nof that now silent chamber, and none save himself had entry through\nthose massive doors. He raised his head as some one came towards him\nover the sunlit terrace. It was a page, and this was the news he\nbrought. Outside the palace doors a stranger was standing in the garb of\na beggar, demanding admittance, saying he had come to do King Wanda's\nbidding, and entreating to be allowed to speak to the master himself.\n\n\"He is all travel-stained,\" said the page, \"and upon his back he carries\na load wrapped in a cloth. His feet are bare, his head uncovered, his\nclothes all torn and soiled; within his hands he bears a staff wrought\nwith unknown designs. The hair on his head is long and covered with\ndust, and his eyes are horribly sad; most strange of all, upon the\nbeggar's shoulder a curious bird is quietly seated. In truth the man\nseems to have come from the end of the earth.\"\n\n\"I will have word with him,\" said the King, \"as it is his desire to talk\nwith me. Am I not here for all those who call at my door? None, it shall\nbe said, go unconsoled or are sent away without receiving their heart's\ndesire.\"\n\nNow the tattered traveller was standing upon the terrace before the\npresence of the King. His load had been laid upon the marble floor. The\nwhite bird sat motionless upon his shoulder, like a ghost in a dream.\nThe rays of the sun shone upon his bent head, and as they lit on the\nlong locks of the stranger's hair, making them sparkle and flash in the\nlight, King Wanda gave a sudden cry, clutching at his heart. Then he\nsprang forward, and all the courtiers were witness of an astounding\nsight: a beggar lying against the heart of their King, who was sobbing\nas if his heart would break!\n\nAnd then Eric was on his knees, his head hidden in the hands of the good\nold King he had left to wander so far away. He was telling the crowned\nman that he had come back to finish the picture he had once begun,\nbecause now he knew what was the face of the woman who sat on the golden\nthrone.\n\n\"Give me leave, O most royal master, to complete the work of my hands;\nbut let me tell thee that Eric Gundian, thy singing-bird, died one early\nmorn under an alien sky at the break of day--it is only his spirit that\nhas come to thee, because the Dreamer of Dreams has a last great wish to\npaint the face of love upon thy gilded walls!\"\n\nSo the King himself led the weary wanderer into his gorgeous hall,\nunlocking the heavy door with the key that hung from his waist.\n\nLike a soft white cloud the falcon glided into the room before them,\nsettling upon the tall stone fire-place, whence it watched the strangely\nassorted couple.\n\nWhen alone together, for the first time Eric of the golden locks raised\nhis haggard face and looked straight into the eyes of the King.\n\nThe old man felt as though a dagger were piercing his heart when he met\nthat hopeless gaze. Certainly those were the features of the boy he had\nloved, but oh, what was it he had gone through to be so cruelly changed?\nHis cheeks were hollow, the sunken orbs stared with a far-away look too\nsad for the language of men, and his golden hair was covered with a fine\nweb of silver that lay like an early frost over a ripe field of corn.\n\nLong did King Wanda stand mute, not finding a word; he felt that he\nstood in presence of a grief so deep that he dared not come too near. It\nwas Eric who spoke:\n\n\"May I remain within thy palace, O King, to complete the work that once\nI began? I feel that now I can verily put the finishing touches to a\npicture that in ages past was the pride of my painter's art.\n\n\"And above all, I crave thy pardon for having left thee on that summer's\nmorn so long ago. It must have seemed as if I were void of both\ngratitude and love, but it was not thus.\n\n\"I have wandered far, and have returned from the regions of dreams to\nfulfil the task that thou didst once demand of me, so that thy belief in\nEric Gundian should not have been in vain! I see by thy look, O most\nroyal master, that still thou dost trust in me.\"\n\n\"May the completing of thy work bring peace to thy heart!\" was the\nKing's reply; and once more he drew the dusty wayfarer within his\nfatherly arms. Within a few days Eric was again established in his old\nplace, working with all his soul.\n\nKing Wanda had given orders that he should be left entirely undisturbed;\nand there he painted from early morn as long as the daylight lasted.\nEven King Wanda dared not trouble his peace--he had a feeling that this\nwork was being done with a love that no stranger's eye should watch.\n\nIndeed, it was with his very life's blood that the painter was now\ncompleting his masterpiece; he felt that each day he was giving some of\nhis strength--that little by little his force was going with each fresh\nstroke of his brush.\n\nAt times his face was corpse-like, as one no more of this earth.\n\nOnce little Oona had peeped through an opening in the window-curtain,\nand had then run quickly back, with a feeling that she had seen a ghost.\n\nBut the face that Eric was creating upon King Wanda's wall was of a\nbeauty no words can describe.\n\nThe woman on the throne, with the golden dress that flowed down like a\nriver seen at sunset, was leaning slightly forward, her eyes looking\naway over the heads of the crowd that was calling upon her name in\npraise.\n\nShe seemed to see no one; but other visions more beautiful than earthly\neyes could conceive filled her gaze. The two palms of her hands were\npressed down at her side in a strained attitude, as one who is half\nafraid, or perhaps awakening to some astounding knowledge.\n\nBut her eyes was the spot within which Eric Gundian had concentrated all\nhis inimitable art: they were the most marvellous wells of light and\nshade that had ever been painted by mortal hand.\n\nThey were a mighty realization of his eternal dream--that dream that had\nled him through distant countries and deadly dangers to the very fount\nof love. Eric now lived only sustained by his feverish desire to leave\nthose eyes, he had so loved, for ever upon that frieze that would be a\nliving incorporation of his one great aim.\n\nBut behind those shut doors he was wasting away; he was but a spirit\nwhose body was an overcome burden, living by the soul alone, only a\nbreath of that human life he had spent in the eternal effort to reach\nhis glorious dream. Near by sat the snow-white hawk, who would never\nleave his side except for short moments when Eric opened the window,\nupon the beauties of spring, letting the bird out to search for its\ndaily food.\n\nEric himself seemed to dread the light of the sun; neither would he eat\nof the royal dishes that were brought him; he sipped from time to time\na little water, otherwise he lived sustained by the love of his work.\n\nEric Gundian--Eric of the golden locks--was now but a wavering breath,\nkept alive by the desire to finish his wonderful picture.\n\nOne morning, when all had been stiller than usual behind those silent\nwalls, King Wanda, with anxious face, opened the heavy door--and there,\nupon the ground, stretched all his length before his finished\nmasterpiece, lay Eric Gundian, the dreamer of dreams, his wet brush\nstill clasped in his hand.\n\nNear him, as always, sat the strange white bird watchfully motionless,\nbut this time there were actually tears in its piercing eyes.\n\nThe lids of the dreamer were closed for ever, as one, dead-tired, who\nmercifully has found rest at last....\n\nBut on the golden throne of the picture sat a woman more beautiful than\nany brain can conceive,--within the expression of her eyes lay a world\nof joy and sorrow, that had blended into a look of unearthly glory\nimpossible to describe.\n\nKing Wanda stood staring, unable to move, overcome with a sorrow too\ndeep for words; yet he had the feeling that whoso had been able to\naccomplish such a miracle could only die at the moment of attainment,\nbecause such a marvel must verily be paid for by the life of the one who\nthus was allowed to create it.\n\nAll the courtiers now came trooping together and stood in awe behind\ntheir King, staring and whispering, hushed by the dark mystery they\ncould not understand.\n\nThen a murmur went from lip to lip.\n\n\"Oh, why has the marvellous woman a crown of thorns upon her head? Why,\noh why did he paint the face of Love crowned with a wreath of thorns?\"\n\nKing Wanda bowed his weary head: then he knelt on the floor and kissed\nthe brow of the favourite he had loved so well--and, looking into that\npale and silent face, he thought he understood what the Dreamer had\nmeant when, with the last touch of his brush, he had crowned Love's\nimmaculate visage with a wreath of thorns.\n\n\n\n\nXXX\n\n    And Beauty, Peace, and Sorrow are dreams within dreams.\n\n    FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\nIn a distant land Spring was also spreading over hill and dale.\n\nBut on a bare plain, where nothing grew, a miracle had come to pass: a\npeasant, returning home one starry night, had espied, from the road upon\nwhich he was slowly sauntering, a strange light in the form of a cross,\ngleaming far over the barren waste.\n\nFull of astonishment he had run to the spot, and there he had discerned\na magic crystal, all charged with radiance, in the shape before which\nevery Christian bends the knee. And the most curious of all, this\nburning cross was the hilt of a glistening sword which must have dropped\nfrom heaven, to remain thus firmly planted in the ground.\n\nAwed and filled with wonder the youth had spread the astounding news\nfrom village to village, and all the simple folk had run together,\nfalling down in worship before this miraculous sign, which God had put\nin so desert a place, as a blessing on the land.\n\nFrom far and wide, rich and poor, old and young, men, women, and\nchildren came in pilgrimage to that holy site.\n\nNone ever knew, except one humble little peasant, from whence the cross\nhad come.\n\nBut Radu, the shepherd, held his peace, thanking the Kind Mother of\nChrist for having thus ordained that so many pious believers should go\nand pray on the grave where the dreamer of dreams had buried his love.\n\nOne morning when the warm rays of the sun were lying like a blessing\nover the deserted waste, a white bird might have been seen descending\nout of the blue.\n\nIt hovered for a time over the gleaming sword, circling very slowly, so\nthat its outspread wings resembled a snowy cloud floating in the air.\n\nThen down it swooped out of the heavens, there, where Stella lay beneath\nthe dark heavy mould. Within its beak this unknown bird was holding a\nsimple seed, which it dropped on the very spot where the dead girl's\nheart rested under the sod--a seed it had carried from a distant land of\nthe north from the tenderly tended grave in a great king's garden.\nHardly had the seed touched the barren earth than it sprang up and\nspread all over the tomb a thick network of rambling thorns covered with\ncountless roses--as crimson as the broken heart of a lover.\n\nAnd these roses bloomed, even in the winter months, upon the icy\ncovering of snow, red as the reddest blood, till all the simple folk\ndeclared that indeed the place was Holy Ground.\n\nAnd thus it was that God blessed the Love of him who once had been\ncalled Eric Gundian, the Dreamer of Dreams.\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\n_Printed in Great Britain by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE LILY OF LIFE\n\nA FAIRY STORY\n\nBY THE\n\nQUEEN OF ROUMANIA\n\nWITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR BY HELEN STRATTON\n\n\n\"A graceful and charming work of fancy.... To every imaginative child it\nwill prove a rich delight.\"--_Daily Telegraph._\n\n\"It is distinctly a book to possess and delight in. The few words of\npreface contributed by 'Carmen Sylva' are an appreciation, expressed\nwith true felicity, of the charm of this prose poem, and the illustrator\nhas caught its spirit admirably.\"--_World._\n\n\"A noble picture-book. A graceful and poetic tale marked by real talent,\nand not a few touches of genuine feeling. Miss Stratton's pictures are\nvery clever and effective.\"--_Guardian._\n\n\"Great beauty pervades it all, and every situation is so entirely\npicturesque. All readers of fairy lore will find it true and\nbeautiful.... The illustrations are delightful.\"--_Daily Express._\n\n\"Graceful fancy, elevated sentiment, and simple but dignified expression\nensure a high place among the fairy tales of the publishing year for the\nQueen of Roumania's charming work, _The Lily of Life_.... The merit of\nthe telling is unusual, and it has the further advantage of being\npresented in an exceedingly handsome and artistic form. The coloured\nillustrations of Miss Helen Stratton show graceful drawing and fine\ngradations of tone. They are not merely a pictorial summary of the\nstory, but genuine works of art, and a distinctive feature of the\nvolume.\"--_Scotsman._\n\n\"A tale of great beauty.... The author shows considerable powers of\nimagination and direct expression.\"--_Spectator._\n\n\"The story is beautiful in its conception, and floats from incident to\nincident in the wondrous glamour of that atmosphere of fairyland so dear\nto the hearts of little readers.... The illustrations in conception,\ndrawing, and reproduction are in perfect harmony with the beauty of the\nstory and the volume.\"--_Northern Whig._","title":"The Dreamer of Dreams","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":52514}