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BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

Furtively he observed her—her clinging gown, her little velvet shoes beneath the hem of it, her long white hands resting on the soft grey fur of the cat on her knee, her yellow hair, knotted on her neck, and her lovely, meek face.

Then he noticed the steward’s wife, Sybilla; she was pale, of a type not greatly admired or belauded, but gorgeous, perhaps, to the taste of some; her russet red hair was splendid in its gleam through the gold net that confined it; her mouth was a beautiful shape and colour, but her brows were too thick, her skin too pale and her blue eyes over bright and hard.

Theirry’s glance came back to Jacobea; his pride rose that she did not speak to him, but sat there idle as if she had forgotten him; words rose to his lips, but he checked them and was mute, flushing now and then as she moved in her place and still did not speak.

Presently the steward returned and took his place on a chair between Theirry and his wife, for no reason save that it happened to be there, it seemed.

He played with the tagged laces on his sleeves and said nothing.

The mysterious atmosphere of the place stole over Theirry with a sense of the portentous; he felt that something was brooding over these quiet people who did not speak to each other, something intangible yet horrible; he clasped his hands together and stared at Jacobea.

Sebastian spoke at last.

“You go to Frankfort?”

“Yea,” answered Theirry.

“We also, soon, do we not, Sebastian?” said Jacobea.

“You will go to the court,” said Theirry.

“I am the Emperor’s ward,” she answered.

Again there was silence; only the sound of the silk drawn through the samite as Sybilla stitched the red lily; her husband was watching her; Theirry glancing at him saw his face fully for the first time, and was half startled.

It was a passionate face, in marked contrast with his voice; a dark face with a high arched nose and long black eyes; a strange face.

“How quiet the castle is to-night,” said Jacobea; her voice seemed to faint beneath the weight of the stillness.

“There is noise enough below,” answered Sebastian, “but we cannot hear it.”

The page returned, carrying a salver bearing tall glasses of wine, which he offered to Theirry, then to the steward.

Theirry felt the green glass cold to his fingers and shuddered; was that sense of something awful impending only matter of his own mind, stored of late with terrible images?

What was the matter with these people… Jacobea had seemed so different this afternoon… he tasted the wine; it burnt and stung his lips, his tongue, and sent the blood to his face.…

“It still rains,” said Jacobea; she put her hand out of the open window and brought it back wet.

“But it is hot,” said Sybilla.

Once more the heavy silence; the page took back the glasses and left the room.

Then the door beside the fire-place was pushed open and Dirk entered softly into the mute company.
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

CHAPTER IX.
SEBASTIAN
He wore a flame-coloured mantle that hung about him in heavy folds, and under that a tight yellow doublet; his hair drooped smoothly, there was a bright colour in his face, and his eyes sparkled.

“Ye are merry,” he mocked, glancing round him. “Will you that I play or sing?” He looked, in his direct burning way at Jacobea, and she answered hastily—

“Certes, with all my heart—the air is hot—and thick—to-night.”

Dirk laughed, and Theirry stared at him bewildered, so utterly had his demeanour changed; he was gay now, radiant; he leant against the wall in the centre of them and glanced from one silent face to another.

“I can play rarely,” he smiled.

Jacobea took an instrument from among the cushions in the window-seat; it was red, with a heart-shaped body, a long neck and three strings.

“You can play this?” she asked in a half-frightened manner.

“Ay.” Dirk came forward and took it. “I will sing you a fine tune, surely.”

Theirry was something of a musician himself, but he had never heard that Dirk had any such skill; he said nothing, however; a sense of helplessness was upon him; the atmosphere of gloom and horror that he felt held him chained and gagged.

Dirk returned to his place against the wall; Sybilla had dropped the red lily on to her lap; they were all looking at him.

“I will sing you the tune of a foolish lady,” he smiled.

His shadow was heavy on the wall behind him; the dark purple hues of the tapestry threw into brilliant relief the flame hues of his robe and the clear pale colour of his strange face; he held the instrument across his knees and commenced playing on it with the long bow Jacobea had given him; an irregular quick melody arose, harsh and jeering.

After he had played a while he began to sing, but in a chant under his breath, so that the quality of his voice was not heard.

He sang strange meaningless words at first; the four listening sat very still; only Sybilla had picked up her sewing, and her fingers rose and fell steadily as the bodkin glittered over the red lily.

Theirry hid his face in his hands; he hated the place, the woman quietly sewing, the dark-faced man beside him; he even hated the image of Jacobea, that he saw, as clearly as if he looked at her, brightly before him.

Dirk broke into a little doggerel rhyme, every word of which was hard and clear.

“The turkis in my fine spun hair
Was brought to me from Barbarie.
My pointed shield is rouge and vair,
Where mullets three shine royallie.

Now if he guessed,
He need not wait in poor estate,
But on his breast
Wear all my state and be my mate.

For sick for very love am I,
My heart is weak to kiss his cheek;
But he is low, and I am high,
I cannot speak, for I am weak.”

Jacobea put the cat among the cushions and rose; she had a curious set smile on her lips.

“Do you call that the rhyme of a foolish lady?” she asked.

“Ay, for if she had offered her love, surely it had not been refused,” answered Dirk, dragging the bow across the strings.

“You think so?” said Jacobea in a shrinking tone.

“Mark you, she was a rich lady,” smiled Dirk, “and fair enough, and young and gentle, and he was poor; so I think, if she had not been so foolish, she might have been his second wife.”

At these words Theirry looked up; he saw Jacobea standing in a bewildered fashion, as if she knew not whether to go or stay, and in her eyes an unmistakable look of amazement and horror.

“The rhyme said nothing of the first wife,” remarked Sybilla, without looking up from the red lily.

“The rhyme says very little,” answered Dirk. “It is an old story—the squire had a wife, but if the lady had told her love belike he had found himself a widower.”

Jacobea touched the steward’s wife on the shoulder.

“Dear heart,” she said, “I am weary—very weary with doing nought. And it is late—and the place strange—to-night—at least”—she gave a trembling smile—“I feel it—strange—so—good even.”

Sybilla rose, Jacobea’s lips touched her on the forehead.

The steward watched them; Jacobea, the taller of the two, stooping to kiss his wife.

Theirry got to his feet; the chatelaine raised her head and looked towards him.

“To-morrow I will bid you God speed, sirs;” her blue eyes glanced aside at Dirk, who had moved to the door by the fire-place, and held it open for her; she looked back at Theirry, then round in silence and coloured swiftly.

Sybilla glanced at the sand clock against the wall.

“Yea, it is near midnight. I will come with you.”

She put her arm round Jacobea’s waist, and smiled backwards over her shoulder at Theirry; so they went, the sound of their garments on the stairs making a faint soft noise; the little cat rose from her cushions, stretched herself, and followed them.

Sebastian picked up the red silk lily that his wife had flung down on the cushions; the candles were guttering to the iron sockets, making the light in the chamber still dimmer, the corners still more deeply obscured with waving shadows.

“You know your chamber,” said the steward to Dirk. “You will find me here in the morning. Good-night.”

He took a bunch of keys from his belt and swung them in his hand.

“Good-night,” said Theirry heavily.

Dirk smiled, and threw himself into the vacated window-seat.

The steward crossed the room to the door by which they had entered; he did not look back, though both were watching him; the door closed after him violently, and they were alone in the vast darkening hall.

“This is fine hospitality,” sneered Dirk. “Is there none to light us to our chamber?”

Theirry walked to and fro with an irregular agitated step.

“What was that song of yours?” he asked. “What did you mean? What ails this place and these people? She never looked at me.”

Dirk pulled at the strings of the instrument he still held; they emitted little wailing sounds.

“She is pretty, your chatelaine,” he said. “I did not think to see her so soon. You love her—or you might love her.”

His bright eyes glanced across the shadowy space between them.

“Ye mock and sneer at me,” answered Theirry hotly, “because she is a great dame. I do not love her, and yet——”

“And yet——?” goaded Dirk.

“If our arts can do anything for us—could they not—if I wished it—some day—get this lady for me?”

He paused, his hand to his pale brow.

“You shall never have her,” said Dirk, biting his under lip.

Theirry turned on him violently.

“You cannot tell. Of what use to serve Evil for nought?”

“Ye have done with remorse belike?” mocked Dirk. “Ye have ceased to long for priests and holy water?”

“Ay,” said Theirry recklessly, “I shall not falter again—I will take these means—any means——”

“To attain—her?” Dirk got up from the window-seat and rose to his full height.

Theirry gave him a sick look.

“I will not bandy taunts with you. I must sleep a little.”

“They have given us the first chamber ye come to, ascending those stairs,” answered Dirk quietly. “There is a lamp, and the door is set open. Good-night.”

“You will not come?” asked Theirry sullenly.

“Nay. I will sleep here.”

“Why? You are strange to-night.”

Dirk smiled unpleasantly.

“There is a reason. A good reason. Get to bed.”

Theirry left him without an answer, and closed the door upon him.

When he had gone, and there was no longer a sound of his footstep, a rustle of the arras to tell he had been, a great change swept over Dirk’s face; a look of agony, of distraction contorted his proud features, he paced softly here and there, twisting his hands together and lifting his eyes blindly to the painted ceiling.

Half the candles had flickered out; the others smoked and flared in the sockets; the rain dripping on the window-sill without made an insistent sound.

Dirk paused before the vast bare hearth.

“He shall never have her,” he said in a low, steady voice as if he saw and argued with some personage facing him. “No. You will prevent it. Have I not served you well? Ever since I left the convent? Did you not promise me great power—as the black letters of the forbidden books swam before my eyes; did I not hear you whispering, whispering?”

He turned about as though following a movement in the person he spoke to, and shivered.

“I will keep my comrade. Do you hear me? Did you send me here to prevent it?—they seemed to know you were at my elbow to-night—hush!—one comes!”

He fell back against the wall, his finger on his lips, his other hand clutching the arras behind him.

“Hush!” he repeated.

The door at the far end of the chamber was slowly opened; a man stepped in and cautiously closed it; a little cry of triumph rose to Dirk’s lips, but he repressed it and gave a glance into the pulsating shadows as if he communicated with some mysterious companion.

It was Sebastian who had entered; he looked swiftly round, and seeing Dirk, came towards him.

In the steward’s hand was a little cresset lamp; the clear, heart-shaped flame illuminated his dark face and his pink habit; his eyes looked over this light in a burning way at Dirk.

“So—you are not abed?” he said.

There was more than the aimless comment in his tone, an expectation, an excitement.

“You came to find me,” answered Dirk. “Why?”

Sebastian set the lamp on a little bracket by the window; he put his hand to his neck, loosening his doublet, and looked away.

“It is very hot,” he said in a low voice. “I cannot rest. I feel to-night as I have never felt—I think the cause is with you—what you said has distracted me;” he turned his head. “Who are you? What did you mean?”

“You know,” answered Dirk, “what I am—a poor student from Basle college. And in your heart you know what I meant.”

Sebastian stared at him a moment.

“God! But how could you discern—even if it be true?—you, a stranger. But now I think of it, belike there is reason in it—certes, she has shown me favour.”

Dirk smiled.

“ ’Tis a rich lady, her husband would be a noble, think of it.”

“What ye put into me!” cried Sebastian in a distracted voice. “That I should talk thus to a prating boy! But the thought clings and burns—and surely ye are wise.”

Dirk, still leaning against the wall, smoothed the arras with delicate fingers.

“Surely I am wise. Well skilled in difficult sciences am I, and quick to see—and understand—take this for your hospitality, sir steward—watch your mistress.”

Sebastian put his hand to his head.

“I have a wife.”

Dirk laughed.

“Will she live for ever?”

Sebastian looked at him and stammered, as if some sudden sight of terror seared his eyes.

“There—there is witchcraft in this—your meaning——”

“Think of it!” flashed Dirk. “Remember it! Ye get no more from me.”

The steward stood quite still, gazing at him.

“I think that I have lost my wits to-night,” he said in a low voice. “I do not know what I came down to you for—nor whence come these strange thoughts.”

Dirk nodded his head; a small, slow smile trembled on the corners of his lips.

“Perchance I shall see you in Frankfort, sir steward.”

Sebastian caught at the words with eagerness.

“Yea—I go there with—my lady——” He stopped blankly.

“As yet,” said Dirk, “I know neither my dwelling there nor the name I shall assume. But you—if I need to I shall find you at the Emperor’s court?”

“Yea,” answered Sebastian; then, reluctantly, “What should you want with me?”

“Will it not be you who may need me?” smiled Dirk. “I, who have to-night put thoughts into your brain that you will not forget?”

Sebastian turned about quickly, and caught up the cresset lamp.

“I will see you before you go,” he whispered, horror in his face. “Yea, on the morrow I shall desire more speech with you.”

Like a man afraid, in terror of himself, filled with a dread of his companion, Sebastian, the pure flame of the lamp quivering with the shaking of his hand, crossed the long chamber and left by the door through which he had entered.
 
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BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

Dirk gave a half-suppressed shiver of excitement; the candles had mostly burnt out; the hall seemed monstrous in the gusty, straggling light. He crept to the window; the rain had ceased, and he looked out on a hot starless darkness, disturbed by no sound.

He shivered again, closed the window and flung himself along the cushions in the niched seat. Lying there, where Jacobea had sat, he thought of her; she was more present to his mind than all the crowded incidents of the past day; his afternoon passed in the sunny library, his evening before the beautiful witch fire, the wild escape into the night, the flight through the wet forest, the sombre arrival at the castle, were but flitting backgrounds to the slim figure of the chatelaine.

Certainly she had a potent personality; she was exquisite, a thing shut away in sweet fragrancy. He thought of her as an ivory pyx filled with red flowers; there were her trembling passionate emotions, her modest secrets, that she guarded delicately.

It was his intention to tear open this tabernacle to wrench from her her treasures and scatter them among blood and ruin; he meant to bring her to utter destruction; not her body, perhaps, but her soul.

And this because she had interfered with the one being on earth he cared about—Theirry; not because he hated her for herself.

“How beautiful she is!” he said aloud, almost tenderly.

The last candle fluttered up and sank out; Dirk, lying luxuriously among the cushions, looked into the complete blackness with half-closed eyes.

“How beautiful!” he repeated; he felt he could have loved her himself; he thought of her now, lying in her white bed, her hair unbound; he wished himself kneeling beside her, caressing those yellow locks; a desire possessed him to touch her curls, her soft cheek, to have her hand in his and hear her laugh; surely she was a sweet thing, made to be loved.

Yet the power that had brought him here to-night had made plain that if he did not take the chance of her destruction set in his way, she would win Theirry from him for ever.

He had made the first move; in the dark face of Sebastian the steward he had seen the beginning of—the end.

But thinking of her he felt the tears come to his eyes; suddenly he fell into weary weeping, thinking of her, and sobbed sadly, face downwards, on the cushion.

Her yellow hair, mostly he thought of that, her long, fine, soft, yellow hair, and how, before the end, it would be trailing in the dust of despair and humiliation.

Presently he laughed at himself for his tears, and drying them, fell asleep; and awoke from blank dreamlessness to hear his name ringing in his ears. He sat up in the window-seat.

His eyes were hot with his late tears; the misty blue light of dawn that he found about him hurt them; he shrank from this light that came in a clear shaft through the arched window, and, crouching away from it, saw Theirry standing close to him, Theirry, fully dressed and pale, looking at him earnestly.

“Dirk, we must go now. I cannot stay any longer in this place.”

Dirk, leaning his head against the cushions, said nothing, impressed anew with his friend’s beauty. How fine and fair a thing Theirry’s face was in the colourless early light; in hue and line splendid, in expression wild and pained.

“I could not sleep much,” continued Theirry. “I do not want to see them—her—again—not like this—get up, Dirk—why did you not come to bed? I wanted your company—things were haunting me.”

“Mostly her face?” breathed Dirk.

“Ay,” said Theirry sombrely. “Mostly her face.”

Dirk was silent again; was not her loveliness the counterpart of his friend’s?—he imagined them together—close—touching hands, lips—and as he pictured this he grew paler.

“The castle is open, there are varlets abroad,” cried Theirry. “Let us go—supposing—oh, my heart! supposing one came from the college to look for us!”

Dirk considered; he reflected that he had no desire to meet Sebastian again; he had said all he wished to.

“Let us go,” he assented; his one regret was that he should not see again the delicate face crowned with the yellow hair.

He rose from the seat and shook out his borrowed flame-coloured mantle, then he closed his tired eyes as he stood, for a very exquisite sensation rushed over him; nothing had come between him and his friend; Theirry of his own choice had roused him—wanting him—they were to go forth together alone.
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

e.

CHAPTER X.
THE SAINT
They were wandering through the forest in an endeavour to find the high road; the sun, nearly at its full strength, dazzled through the pines and traced figures of gold on the path they followed.

Theirry was silent; they were hungry, without money or any hope of procuring any, fatigued with the rough walking through the heat, and also, it seemed, lost; these facts were ever present to his mind; also, every step was taking him further away from Jacobea of Martzburg, and he longed to see her again, to make her notice him, speak to him; yet of his own desire he had left her castle ungraciously; these things held him bitterly silent.

But Dirk, though he was pale and weary, kept a light joyous heart; he had trust in the master he was serving.

“We shall be helped yet,” he said. “Were we not hopeless last night when one came and gave us shelter?”

Theirry did not answer.

The forest grew up the base of the mountain chain, and after a while, walking steadily, they came out upon a gorge some landslip had torn, uprooting trees and hurling aside rocks; over this bare space harshly cleared, water rippled and dripped, finding its way through fern-grown rocks and boulders until it fell into a little stream that ran across the open space of grass and was lost in the shadow of the trees.

By the side of it, on the pleasant stretch of grass, a small white horse was browsing, and a man sat near, on one of the uprooted pines.

The two students paused and contemplated him; he was a monk in a blue-grey habit; his face was infinitely sweet; with his hands clasped in his lap and his head a little raised he gazed with large, peaceful eyes through the shifting fir boughs to the blue sky beyond them.

“Of what use he!” said Theirry bitterly; since the Church had hurled him out the Devil was gaining such sure possession of his soul that he loathed all things holy.

“Nay,” said Dirk, with a little smile. “We will speak to him.”

The monk, hearing their voices, looked round and fixed on them a calm smiling gaze.

“Dominus det nobis suam pacem,” he said.

Dirk replied instantly.

“Et vitam aeternam. Amen.”

“We have missed our way,” said Theirry curtly.

The monk rose and stood in a courteous, humble position.

“Can you put us on the high road, my father?” asked Dirk.

“Surely!” The monk glanced at the weary face of his questioner. “I am myself travelling from town to town, my son. And know this country well. Will you not rest a while?”

“Ay.” Dirk came down the slope and flung himself along the grass; Theirry, half sullen, followed.

“Ye are both weary and in lack of food,” said the monk gently. “Praise be to the angels that I have wherewithal to aid ye.”

He opened one of the leather bags resting against the fallen tree, took out a loaf, a knife and a cup, cut the bread and gave them a portion each, then filled the cup from the clear dripping water.

They disdained thanks for such miserable fare and ate in silence.

Theirry, when he had finished, asked for the remainder of the loaf and devoured that; Dirk was satisfied with his allowance, but he drank greedily of the beautiful water.

“Ye have come from Basle?” asked the monk.

Dirk nodded.

“And we go to Frankfort.”

“A long way,” said the monk cheerfully. “And on foot, but a pleasant journey, certes.”

“Who are you, my father?” asked Theirry abruptly. “I saw you in Courtrai, surely.”

“I am Ambrose of Menthon,” answered the monk. “And I have preached in Courtrai. To the glory of God.”

Both students knew the name of Saint Ambrose.

Theirry flushed uneasily.

“What do you here, father?” he asked. “I thought you were in Rome.”

“I have returned,” replied the saint humbly. “It came to me that I could serve Christus”—he crossed himself—“better here. If God His angel will it I desire to build a monastery up yonder—above the snow.”

He pointed through the trees towards the mountains; his eyes, that were blue-grey, the colour of his habit, sparkled softly.

“A house to God His glory,” he murmured. “In the whiteness of the snows. That is my intent.”

“How will you attain it, holy sir?” questioned Theirry.

Saint Ambrose did not seem to notice the mocking tone.

“I have,” he said, “already considerable moneys. I beg in the great castles, and they are generous to God His poor servant. We, my brethren and I, have sold some land. I return to them now with much gold. Deo gratias.”

As he spoke there was such a pure sweetness in his fair face that Theirry turned away abashed, but Dirk, lying on his side and pulling up the grass, answered—

“Are you not afraid of robbers, my father?”

The saint smiled.

“Nay; God His money is sacred even unto the evil-doer. Surely I fear nothing.”

“There is much wickedness in the heart of man,” said Dirk. And he also smiled.

“Judge with charity,” answered Ambrose of Menthon. “There is also much goodness. You speak, my son, with seeming bitterness which showeth a soul not yet at peace. The wages of the world are worthless, but God giveth immortality.”

He rose and began fastening the saddle bags on the pony; as his back was turned Theirry and Dirk exchanged a quick look.

Dirk rose from the grass and spoke.

“May we, my father, come with you, as we know not the way?”

“Surely!” The saint looked at them, his eyes fixed half yearningly on Theirry’s beautiful face. “Ye are most welcome to my poor company.”

The little procession started through the pine forest; Ambrose of Menthon, erect, spare, walking lightly with untroubled face and leading the white pony, burdened with the saddle bags containing the gold; Theirry, sombre, silent, striding beside him, and Dirk, a little behind, in his flame-coloured mantle, his eyes bright in a weary face.

Saint Ambrose spoke, beautifully, on common things; he spoke of birds, of St. Hieronymus and his writings, of Jovinian and his enemy Ambrose of Milan, of Rufinus and Pelagius the Briton, of Vigilantius and violets, with which flowers, he said, the first court of Paradise was paved.
 
BLACK MAGIC BY MARJORIE BOWEN CONT

“Ye have a vast knowledge,” said Saint Ambrose, amazed; and in his heart Theirry was jealous.

And so they came, towards evening, on to the road and saw in a valley beneath them a little town.

All three halted.

The Angelus was ringing, the sound came sweetly up the valley.

Saint Ambrose sank on his knees and bowed his head; the students fell back among the trees.

“Well?” whispered Dirk.

“It is our chance,” frowned Theirry in the same tone. “I have been thinking of it all day——”

“I also; there is much money.…”

“We could get it without… blood?”

“Surely, but if need be even that.”

Their eyes met; in the pleasant green shade they saw each other’s excited faces.

“It is God His money,” murmured Theirry.

“What matter for that, if the Devil be stronger?”

“Hush! the Angelus ends.”

“Now—we join him.”

They sank on their knees, to rise as the saint got to his feet and glanced about him; at the edge of the wood they joined him and looked down at the town below.

“Now we can find our way,” said Dirk in a firm, suddenly changed voice.

Ambrose of Menthon considered him over the little white pony.

“Will you not bear me company into the town?” he asked wistfully; he did not notice that Theirry had slipped behind him.

Dirk’s eyes flashed a signal to his companion.

“We will into the town,” he said, “but without thy company, Sir Saint, now!”

Theirry flung his mantle from behind and twisted it tightly over the monk’s head and face, causing him to stagger backwards; Dirk rushed, seized his thin hands, and strapped them together with the leather belt he had just loosened from his waist, and between them they dragged him into the trees.

“My ears are weary of thy tedious talk,” said Theirry viciously, “my eyes of thy sickly face.”

They took the straps from the pony and bound their victim to a tree; it was an easy matter, for he made no resistance and no sound came from under the mantle twisted over his face.

“There is much evil in the heart of man,” mocked Dirk. “And much folly, oh, guileless, in the hearts of saints!”

Having seen to it that he was securely fastened the two returned to the pony and examined their plunder.

In one bag there were parchments, books, and a knotted rope, in the other numerous little linen sacks of varying sizes.

These they turned out upon the grass and swiftly unfastened the strings.

Gold—each one filled with gold, fine, shining coins with the head of the Emperor glittering on them.

Dirk retied the sacks and replaced them in the saddle bags; neither of them had seen so much gold together before; because of it they were silent and a little trembling.

Theirry, as he heard the good yellow money chink together, felt his last qualms go; for the first time since he had entered into league with the spirits of evil he had plain evidence it was a fine thing to have the Devil on his side. A stupefying pleasure and exaltation came over him, he did not doubt that Satan had sent this saintly man their way, and he was grateful; to find himself possessed of this amount of money was a greater delight than any he had known, even a more delightful thing than seeing Jacobea of Martzburg lean across the stream towards him.

As they reloaded the pony, managing as best they might without the straps, Dirk fell to laughing.

“I will get my mantle,” said Theirry; he went up to Ambrose of Menthon, telling himself he was not afraid of meeting the saint’s eyes, and unwound the heavy mantle from his head.

The saint sank together like the dead.

Dirk still laughed, mounted on the white pony, flourishing a stick.

“The fellow has swooned,” said Theirry, bewildered.

“Well,” answered Dirk over his shoulder, “you can bring the straps, which we need, surely.”

Theirry unfastened the monk and laid his slack body on the grass; as he did so he saw that the grey habit was stained with blood, there was wet blood, too, on the straps.

“Now what is this?” he cried, and bent over the unconscious man to see where he was wounded.

His searching hand came upon cold iron under the rough robe; Ambrose of Menthon wore a girdle lined with sharp points, that at every movement must have been torture, and that, at their brutal binding of him, had entered his flesh with an agony unbearable.

“Make haste!” cried Dirk.

Theirry straightened his back and looked down at the sweet face of Saint Ambrose; he wished that their victim had cried out or moaned, his silence being a hard thing to think of—and he must have been in a pain.…

“Be quick!” urged Dirk.

Theirry joined him.

“What shall we do with—that man?” he said awkwardly; his blood was burning, leaping.

“ ’Tis a case for the angels, not for us,” answered Dirk. “But if ye feel tenderly (and certainly he was pleasant to us) we can tell, in the town, that we found him. ‘Deo gratias,’ ” he mocked the saintly, low calm voice, but Theirry did not laugh.

A splendid yellow sunset was shimmering in their eyes as they came slowly down into the valley and passed through the white street of the little town.

They visited the hostel, fed the white pony there and recounted how they had seen a monk in the wood they had just traversed, whether unconscious in prayer or for want of breath they had not the leisure to examine.

Then they went on their way, eschewing, by common consent this time, the accommodation of the homely inn, and taking with them a basket of the best food the town afforded.

Clearing the scattered cottages they gained the heights again and paused on the grassy borders of a mighty wood that spread either side the high road.

There they spread a banquet very different from the saint’s poor repast; they had yellow wine, red wine, baked meats, cakes, jellies, a heron and a basket of grapes, all bought with the gold Ambrose of Menthon had toiled to collect to build God’s house amid the snows.

Arranging these things on the soft grass they sat in the pleasant shade, luxuriously, and laughed at each other over their food.

The heavens were perfectly clear, there was no cloud in all the great dome of sky, and, reflecting on the night before, and how they had stood shivering in the wet, they laughed the more.

Then were they penniless, with neither hope nor prospect and in danger of pursuit. Now they were on the high road with more gold in their possession than they had ever seen before, with a horse to carry their burdens, and good food and delicate wine before them.

Their master had proved worth serving. They toasted him in the wine bought with God His money and made merry over it; they did not mention Ambrose of Menthon.

Dirk was supremely happy; everything about him was a keen delight, the fragrant perfume of the pine woods, the dark purple depths of them, the bright green grass, the sky changing into a richer colour as the sun faded, the mountain peaks tinged with pearly rose, the whole beautiful, silent prospect and his comrade looking at him with a smile on his fair face.

A troop of white mountain goats driven by a shepherd boy went past, they were the only living things they saw.

Dirk watched them going towards the town, then he said—

“The chatelaine… Jacobea of Martzburg——” he broke off. “Do you remember, the first night we met, what we saw in the mirror? A woman, was it not? Her face—have you forgotten it?”

“Nay,” answered Theirry, suddenly sombre.

Dirk turned to look at him closely.

“It was not Jacobea, was it?”

“It was utterly different,” said Theirry. “No, she was not Jacobea.”

He propped a musing face on his hand and stared down at the grass.

Dirk did not speak again, and after a while of silence Theirry slept.

With a start he woke, but lay without moving, his eyes closed; some one was singing, and it was so beautiful that he feared to move lest it should be in his dreams only that he heard it.

A woman’s voice, and she sang loud and clearly, in a passion of joyous gaiety; her notes mounted like birds flying up a mountain, then sank like snowflakes softly descending.

After a while the wordless song died away and Theirry sat up, quivering, in a maze of joy.

“Who is that?” he called, his eager eyes searching the twilight.

No one… nothing but the insignificant figure of Dirk, who sat at the edge of the wood gazing at the stars.

“I dreamt it,” said Theirry bitterly, and cursed his waking.
 
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