IT must be told that those footprints which Face-of-god and the Sun-beam
had blessed betwixt jest and earnest had more to do with them than they
wotted of. For Folk-might, who had had many thoughts and longings since
he had seen the Bride again, rose up early about sunrise, and went
out-a-doors, and wandered about the Burg, letting his eyes stray over the
goodly stone houses and their trim gardens, yet noting them little, since
the Bride was not there.
At last he came to where there was an open place, straight-sided, longer
than it was wide, with a wall on each side of it, over which showed the
blossomed boughs of pear and cherry and plum-trees: on either hand before
the wall was a row of great lindens, now showing their first tender
green, especially on their lower twigs, where they were sheltered by the
wall. At the nether end of this place Folk-might saw a grey stone house,
and he went towards it betwixt the lindens, for it seemed right great,
and presently was but a score of paces from its door, and as yet there
was no man, carle or queen, stirring about it.
It was a long low house with a very steep roof; but belike the hall was
built over some undercroft, for many steps went up to the door on either
hand; and the doorway was low, with a straight lintel under its arch.
This house, like the House of the Face, seemed ancient and somewhat
strange, and Folk-might could not choose but take note of it. The front
was all of good ashlar work, but it was carven all over, without heed
being paid to the joints of the stones, into one picture of a flowery
meadow, with tall trees and bushes in it, and fowl perched in the trees
and running through the grass, and sheep and kine and oxen and horses
feeding down the meadow; and over the door at the top of the stair was
wrought a great steer bigger than all the other neat, whose head was
turned toward the sun-rising and uplifted with open mouth, as though he
were lowing aloud. Exceeding fair seemed that house to Folk-might, and
as though it were the dwelling of some great kindred.
But he had scarce gone over it with his eyes, and was just about to draw
nigher yet to it, when the door at the top of those steps opened, and a
woman came out of the house clad in a green kirtle and a gown of brazil,
with a golden-hilted sword girt to her side. Folk-might saw at once that
it was the Bride, and drew aback behind one of the trees so that she
might not see him, if she had not already seen him, as it seemed not that
she had, for she stayed but for a moment on the top of the stair, looking
out down the tree-rows, and then came down the stair and went soberly
along the road, passing so close to Folk-might that he could see the
fashion of her beauty closely, as one looks into the work of some deftest
artificer. Then it came suddenly into his head that he would follow her
and see whither she was wending. ‘At least,’ said he to himself, ‘if I
come not to speech with her, I shall be nigh unto her, and shall see
somewhat of her beauty.’
So he came out quietly from behind the tree, and followed her softly; and
he was clad in no garment save his kirtle, and bare no weapons to clash
and jingle, though he had his helm on his head for lack of a softer hat.
He kept her well in sight, and she went straight onward and looked not
back. She went by the way whereas he had come, till they were in the
main street, wherein as yet was no one afoot; she made her way to the
Bridge, and passed over it into the meadows; but when she had gone but a
few steps, she stayed a little and looked on the ground, and as she did
so turned a little toward Folk-might, who had drawn back into the last of
the refuges over the up-stream buttresses. He saw that there was a
half-smile on her face, but he could not tell whether she were glad or
sorry. A light wind was beginning to blow, that stirred her raiment and
raised a lock of hair that had strayed from the golden fillet round about
her head, and she looked most marvellous fair.
Now she looked along the grass that glittered under the beams of the
newly-risen sun, and noted belike how heavy the dew lay on it; and the
grass was high already, for the spring had been hot, and haysel would be
early in the Dale. So she put off her shoes, that were of deerskin and
broidered with golden threads, and turned somewhat from the way, and hung
them up amidst the new green leaves of a hawthorn bush that stood nearby,
and so went thwart the meadow somewhat eastward straight from that bush,
and her feet shone out like pearls amidst the deep green grass.
Folk-might followed presently, and she stayed not again, nor turned, nor
beheld him; he recked not if she had, for then would he have come up with
her and hailed her, and he knew that she was no foolish maiden to start
at the sight of a man who was the friend of her Folk.
So they went their ways till she came to the strand of the water-meadow
brook aforesaid, and she went through the little ripples of the shallow
without staying, and on through the tall deep grass of the meadow beyond,
to where they met the brook again; for it swept round the meadow in a
wide curve, and turned back toward itself; so it was some half furlong
over from water to water.
She stood a while on the brink of the brook here, which was brim-full and
nigh running into the grass, because there was a dam just below the
place; and Folk-might drew nigher to her under cover of the thorn-bushes,
and looked at the place about her and beyond her. The meadow beyond
stream was very fair and flowery, but not right great; for it was bounded
by a grove of ancient chestnut trees, that went on and on toward the
southern cliffs of the Dale: in front of the chestnut wood stood a broken
row of black-thorn bushes, now growing green and losing their blossom,
and he could see betwixt them that there was a grassy bank running along,
as if there had once been a turf-wall and ditch round about the chestnut
trees. For indeed this was the old place of tryst between Gold-mane and
the Bride, whereof the tale hath told before.
The Bride stayed scarce longer than gave him time to note all this; but
he deemed that she was weeping, though he could not rightly see her face;
for her shoulders heaved, and she hung her face adown and put up her
hands to it. But now she went a little higher up the stream, where the
water was shallower, and waded the stream and went up over the meadow,
still weeping, as he deemed, and went between the black-thorn bushes, and
sat her down on the grassy bank with her back to the chestnut trees.
Folk-might was ashamed to have seen her weeping, and was half-minded to
turn him back again at once; but love constrained him, and he said to
himself, ‘Where shall I see her again privily if I pass by this time and
place?’ So he waited a little till he deemed she might have mastered the
passion of tears, and then came forth from his bush, and went down to the
water and crossed it, and went quietly over the meadow straight towards
her. But he was not half-way across, when she lifted up her face from
between her hands and beheld the man coming. She neither started nor
rose up; but straightened herself as she sat, and looked right into
Folk-might’s eyes as he drew near, though the tears were not dry on her
cheeks.
Now he stood before her, and said: ‘Hail to the Daughter of a mighty
House! Mayst thou live happy!’
She answered: ‘Hail to thee also, Guest of our Folk! Hast thou been
wandering about our meadows, and happened on me perchance?’
‘Nay,’ he said; ‘I saw thee come forth from the House of the Steer, and I
followed thee hither.’
She reddened a little, and knit her brow, and said:
‘Thou wilt have something to say to me?’
‘I have much to say to thee,’ he said; ‘yet it was sweet to me to behold
thee, even if I might not speak with thee.’
She looked on him with her deep simple eyes, and neither reddened again,
nor seemed wroth; then she said:
‘Speak what thou hast in thine heart, and I will hearken without anger
whatsoever it may be; even if thou hast but to tell me of the passing
folly of a mighty man, which in a month or two he will not remember for
sorrow or for joy. Sit here beside me, and tell me thy thought.’
So he sat him adown and said: ‘Yea, I have much to say to thee, but it is
hard to me to say it. But this I will say: to-day and yesterday make the
third time I have seen thee. The first time thou wert happy and calm,
and no shadow of trouble was on thee; the second time thine happy days
were waning, though thou scarce knewest it; but to-day and yesterday thou
art constrained by the bonds of grief, and wouldest loosen them if thou
mightest.’
She said: ‘What meanest thou? How knowest thou this? How may a stranger
partake in my joy and my sorrow?’
He said: ‘As for yesterday, all the people might see thy grief and know
it. But when I beheld thee the first time, I saw thee that thou wert
more fair and lovely than all other women; and when I was away from thee,
the thought of thee and thine image were with me, and I might not put
them away; and oft at such and such a time I wondered and said to myself,
what is she doing now? though god wot I was dealing with tangles and
troubles and rough deeds enough. But the second time I beheld thee, when
I had looked to have great joy in the sight of thee, my heart was smitten
with a pang of grief; for I saw thee hanging on the words and the looks
of another man, who was light-minded toward thee, and that thou wert
troubled with the anguish of doubt and fear. And he knew it not, nor saw
it, though I saw it.’
Her face grew troubled, and the tearful passion stirred within her. But
she held it aback, and said, as anyone might have said it:
‘How wert thou in the Dale, mighty man? We saw thee not.’
He said: ‘I came hither hidden in other semblance than mine own. But
meddle not therewith; it availeth nought. Let me say this, and do thou
hearken to it. I saw thee yesterday in the street, and thou wert as the
ghost of thine old gladness; although belike thou hast striven with
sorrow; for I see thee with a sword by thy side, and we have been told
that thou, O fairest of women, hast given thyself to the Warrior to be
his damsel.’
‘Yea,’ she said, ‘that is sooth.’
He went on: ‘But the face which thou bearedst yesterday against thy will,
amidst all the people, that was because thou hadst seen my sister the
Sun-beam for the first time, and Face-of-god with her, hand clinging to
hand, lip longing for lip, desire unsatisfied, but glad with all hope.’
She laid hand upon hand in the lap of her gown, and looked down, and her
voice trembled as she said:
‘Doth it avail to talk of this?’
He said: ‘I know not: it may avail; for I am grieved, and shall be whilst
thou art grieved; and it is my wont to strive with my griefs till I amend
them.’
She turned to him with kind eyes and said:
‘O mighty man, canst thou clear away the tangle which besetteth the soul
of her whose hope hath bewrayed her? Canst thou make hope grow up in her
heart? Friend, I will tell thee that when I wed, I shall wed for the
sake of the kindred, hoping for no joy therein. Yea, or if by some
chance the desire of man came again into my heart, I should strive with
it to rid myself of it, for I should know of it that it was but a wasting
folly, that should but beguile me, and wound me, and depart, leaving me
empty of joy and heedless of life.’
He shook his head and said: ‘Even so thou deemest now; but one day it
shall be otherwise. Or dost thou love thy sorrow? I tell thee, as it
wears thee and wears thee, thou shalt hate it, and strive to shake it
off.’
‘Nay, nay,’ she said; ‘I love it not; for not only it grieveth me, but
also it beateth me down and belittleth me.’
‘Good is that,’ said he. ‘I know how strong thine heart is. Now, wilt
thou take mine hand, which is verily the hand of thy friend, and remember
what I have told thee of my grief which cannot be sundered from thine?
Shall we not talk more concerning this? For surely I shall soon see thee
again, and often; since the Warrior, who loveth me belike, leadeth thee
into fellowship with me. Yea, I tell thee, O friend, that in that
fellowship shalt thou find both the seed of hope, and the sun of desire
that shall quicken it.’
Therewith he arose and stood before her, and held out to her his hand all
hardened with the sword-hilt, and she took it, and stood up facing him,
and said:
‘This much will I tell thee, O friend; that what I have said to thee this
hour, I thought not to have said to any man; or to talk with a man of the
grief that weareth me, or to suffer him to see my tears; and marvellous I
deem it of thee, for all thy might, that thou hast drawn this speech from
out of me, and left me neither angry nor ashamed, in spite of these
tears; and thou whom I have known not, though thou knewest me!
‘But now it were best that thou depart, and get thee home to the House of
the Face, where I was once so frequent; for I wot that thou hast much to
do; and as thou sayest, it will be in warfare that I shall see thee. Now
I thank thee for thy words and the thought thou hast had of me, and the
pain which thou hast taken to heal my hurt: I thank thee, I thank thee,
for as grievous as it is to show one’s hurts even to a friend.’
He said: ‘O Bride, I thank thee for hearkening to my tale; and one day
shall I thank thee much more. Mayest thou fare well in the Field and
amidst the Folk!’
Therewith he kissed her hand, and turned away, and went across the meadow
and the stream, glad at heart and blithe with everyone; for kindness grew
in him as gladness grew.