through the gate in the wall just then. The upper part of the face was
hidden by the hood, but the mouth wore a quiet smile. The voice was that
of a knight, and Dickon got to his feet and bowed. “I know not what you
were thinking of when you spoke of Saracen magic,” the stranger went
on, “but I would I could find an armorer for a bit of work on my dagger.
'Tis a Damascus blade, but there's no gramarye in it, I promise you.”
This was something to do at any rate. “An't please you, my lord,” Dickon
said quickly, “I am journeyman to Gaston of Abbeville, who is counted
the best armorer in these parts. I may be able for the work if 'tis not
too skillful.”
“I could do it myself,” the knight said carelessly, “if I had but the
fire and tools. I came but an hour ago, and I must go on to-morrow.”
The two went back to the shop, and the fire was kindled, a torch was
set in a wrought-iron wall-cresset, and the work begun. Dickon saw with
surprise that the knight himself had no small knowledge of the craft of
the armorer.
The dagger was of the finest Saracen steel work, the haft inlaid with
gold. Inside it the knight wished to conceal some jewels of no very
great value, in a hollow made for the purpose and opened by twisting a
round boss on the hilt. This was often done by travelers, since a man's
dagger was his companion day and night, and in case of disaster he might
thus have at hand the means to pay his way.
“That blade,” the knight observed, trying its edge, “was the gift of
a Saracen emir I made friends with beyond Damascus. Nay, look not so
amazed, lad. They are no more wizards than you or I.”
He must have divined the questions trembling on Dickon's lips, for when
the work was done he still sat in the doorway and seemed in no haste to
go. The white moon flooded the place and with the glow of the brazier
made curious blended lights and shadows. The knight had thrown aside his
cloak, and showed himself bronzed, keen-faced and active, like one who
had done his part both in council-hall and camp. “It is like this,” he
went on, clasping his knee with brown strong hands. “This Christendom of
ours is all ringed round with heathenesse--Moors, Danes, Bulgars, Arabs,
Turks--peoples white, brown, black, but caring naught for those things
which are dear and precious to Christian men and women. I have been
where the beacons flashed from hill to hill along the shore of Britain
to warn the villages of Danish pirates. I have seen the Moors from
Barbary come swarming over the borders of Granada and Andalusia until
the Christians were all but driven back into the mountains. Our faith is
not their faith, our oaths are not their oaths, nor our ways their ways.
“Now the paynim of the desert live not in towns and cities as we do, but
in tents. The wealth of a chief is in his flocks and herds,--sheep and
goats, camels, the swift desert horses. The wealth of a sultan is in
the lances he can call to his banner in time of war, under their own
leaders. There is only one war-cry that makes one host of them all, and
that is 'Allah-hu!' Saladin might promise ten times over, and thousands
of his subjects would never know it or be bound by it. And what can you
do when a promise is of no value?
“It is the same with the heathen who come raiding over the North Sea.
They plunder and pillage as they list, whether it be palace, abbey or
nunnery that lies in their way. Honor has no meaning to those who prey
on the helpless.”
“My lord,” said Dickon hesitatingly, “you mean that--that--honor is for
all men--though they take no vows?”
The stranger's voice rang like steel on steel. “Honor is for all true
men--and women--king or knight, merchant or peasant, bond or free. A
slave may be loyal to his master--the master must keep faith with the
slave. Christ died for all--for their souls, not their houses of stone
or brick or timber. Do you think, if He were on earth now, He would
choose to be served only by those of gentle blood?”
This was a new thought to Dickon, though he had always known the stories
of the healing of the blind and the leprous, and the birth at Bethlehem.
The knight went on, rising and taking up his cloak, “As for the magic
you have heard of, it is nothing but the practice of centuries. The
desert chiefs, from whom the Moslems are mostly descended, are ever
wandering from place to place, where their beasts can find grazing.
Hence all their wealth must be carried on pack saddles. They can make
with their many-colored shawls and rugs a palace out of a tent pitched
for the night. They work leather, iron, brass, because this can be done
without long stay in any one place. And when a people can have but few
luxuries they grow very skillful in the making of those few. They carry
their wisdom in such matters, as they do their wealth, wherever they go,
and hand it down from father to son. That is all the sorcery they use.
“I have told you these things because a man should have neither overmuch
fear nor any contempt for his enemy, and these paynim are, or may be
at any time, our enemies. Our faith must be as this dagger, ready for
service by day or night, but for defense, not for assassination. Since
Saladin has come to the throne there is a stirring among the tribes that
worship the false prophet, and they may be once more dreaming that they
may conquer the world for Islam. They can never do it, but they may
force us to another Crusade in time. I am on my way to England now to
make report to the King of what I have seen. I hope that some day we
may meet there. If ever you want work, Sir Gualtier Giffard on the
Welsh border will bid you welcome if you say that you were sent by Hugh
l'Estrange.”
Moved by sudden impulse Dickon told in a few words the story of
Audrey's service and their promise. The knight held out his hand in open
kindliness. “You did well,” he said. “Every man who keeps faith with his
neighbor, every good soldier, every wise and gentle monk, and more than
all, every true woman, is a link in a great chain that makes for the
safety of Christendom. A token is a small thing,--yes--but what is our
Cross itself but a token? I would wish my own lad Roger to have acted as
you did.”
AWAKENING
Before the snows are melted that cradle the mountain streams,
Before the bear and the dormouse rouse from their winter dreams,
Before the earliest linnet flutes forth his roundel clear,
There comes an authentic moment that marks the turn of the year.
A brightness in the sunshine, a hint of life in the air,
A soft mist veiling the hilltops that were so brown and bare,
Nothing to note or ponder, nothing to see or hear,--
But there is a mystic difference that marks the turn of the year!
Light as the wings of a sea-mew in the rush of startled flight,
Cool as the touch of clover, shy as the dews of night,
Strong as the love of freedom, sudden as panic fear,
The restless gypsy longing wakes at the turn of the year.
Why do we toil and swelter over the task we hate?
What is to keep us fettered to the benches of sullen Fate?
There is nothing half so fleeting,--there is nothing half so dear
As the unfulfilled desire that comes with the turn of the year!
X
FOOLS' GOLD
“Yes,” acknowledged old Tomaso thoughtfully, “I knew Archiater of
Byzantium very well at one time,--and yet no one ever really knew much
about him. He was more than a clever alchemist,--he was a discoverer of
secrets, and a good man. But for all that, he was condemned and executed
as a wizard.”
Alan of York said nothing for a minute, but his fist clenched where it
lay on the table. “How could such a thing happen?” he said at last in a
low voice.
“Naturally enough, when wisdom must ever contend against the whelming
force of folly. But there is something worse--the will of a ruler
seeking to enslave knowledge to his own purpose. A madman with ideals is
bad enough, but Barbarossa's son is a diabolically sane person without
any. A man is not called 'the Cruel' without reason.”
“But what object--” Alan began, and paused.
“Archiater the physician, as I knew him, would have been rather worse
than useless to that prince as I have heard of him,” answered the
Paduan deliberately. “Such a patron demands creatures who do as they
are told,--which is not the duty of a philosopher. The easiest way to
dispose of a man who knows too much is to dub him a wizard. But, of
course, all this is merely guessing in the dark.
“The little that I do know is this. When we had been acquainted for
about three years he told me that he had been offered the use of a house
in Goslar in which he might carry on his experiments privately. The
chief inducement, for him, lay in the nature of the country, which is
very rich in minerals, and he decided to leave Padua in the hope
of making important discoveries in this new field. He went first to
Hildesheim and developed a formula for making bronze which is said to be
extraordinary, and then began exploring the Harz mountains. He sent me
some of the ores he found; it appears that there is nearly everything in
those ranges. I heard no more until the news came, in a roundabout way,
that he was dead and his ashes cast to the four winds. His writings were
supposed to have been burned at the same time, but not all of them were,
for three manuscripts at least must have gone to make up the fragments
we found among our bezants. I wish for your sake, Alan, my son, that
I could tell you more, for I know of no man who would gain more by
Archiater's work than you. If he had been your master I think you might
have rivaled the Venetians.”
Alan was not vain, and he never dreamed that Tomaso thought so highly
of his ability. In the Middle Ages the secrets of such arts as
glass-making, enameling, leather work, gold and silver work, and the
making of dyestuffs, were most jealously guarded. Alan had had two
fortunate accidents in his life; he had been taught in the beginning
by a master-artist, and later had come upon writings by a still greater
genius, the Byzantine philosopher of whom Tomaso had been speaking.
From the first glimpse he had had of the crabbed, clear handwriting, the
terse phrases, the daring and independent thought of Archiater, he had
been fascinated. Now he had set out to cross the narrow seas and find
out what, if anything, remained of the master's life-work.
“May there not have been some friend or pupil,” he asked wistfully, “who
would have rescued his manuscripts?”
“In that case,” Tomaso replied with gentle finality, “I think some of us
must have heard of it.”
“And yet,” Alan persisted, “some one had those parchments--some one who
may have received them from Archiater himself.”
“Take care,” the old man said with a rather melancholy smile. “That a
thing is possible and desirable, is no proof that it is true. To search
for that man seems to me like hunting the forest for last year's leaves.
But here come friends of yours.”
Guy Bouverel came springing up the stair, Giovanni and Padraig close
behind him. When greetings had been exchanged, and Alan had told the
others that he was in London only for a brief stay on his way to France,
Tomaso addressed the young goldsmith.
“Guy,” he said, “did you ever ferret out anything more about those
parchment scraps we found among the King's coin? You said that you
should make some inquiries.”
“Bezants are bezants and tell no tales,” said Guy with a shrug. “And if
they did, they might lie, like so many of those who love them. Why, you
recall that I repacked that gold in my own chest because I thought one
of the clerks was growing too fond of it. I took it as it lay and never
looked at the parchments. I met the clerk one day in Chepe and
questioned him. He said that the gold was a part of that the King
recovered from the London Templars--you know, when he had to come with
an armed guard to get his moneys that were stored in their house.
Gregory of Hildesheim had something to do with it, for he was very wroth
when he found that I had got this particular chest. But he could not
have known what these scripts were or he would have kept them in a
sealed packet under his own hand.”
“He could not have read most of them,” said Tomaso. “Archiater usually
wrote his diaries in cipher. Who is this clerk?”
“Simon Gastard his name is. He was very anxious to leave England when
last I saw him. He was at me to join in a scheme for digging gold out of
the Harz mountains--Padraig, what are you grinning at?”
“Only to see how keen is your nose for a thief,” Padraig chuckled. “If
Simon is after digging gold out of the ground with his hands 'tis the
honestest plan he has had this long time. Simon thinks gold is what
heaven is made of. He would look at the sunset and calculate what the
gold would be worth in zecchins--he would. But why all this talk of the
parchments?”
“Because I have a mind to see whether any more of Archiater's work is
to be found,” said Alan quietly. “It may be a fool's errand, but I could
not rest till I had made a beginning.”
Three faces looked astonished, sympathetic and interested. Alan had
the hearty liking of his friends. They could depend upon him as on the
market cross. But they would almost as soon have expected to see
that cross set forth on pilgrimage as to find the quiet North Country
glassmaker beginning any such weird journey as this.
Tomaso broke the little silence, leaning forward in his oaken chair,
his finger-tips meeting. “We may as well sift what evidence we have,” he
said. “If the manuscripts had been in the hands of any one who knew the
cipher he must have done work so far beyond anything else in his
craft that it would be heard of. Archiater never made use of half
his discoveries--and he was always finding out secrets concerning the
crafts. He knew things about glassmaking, enamel-work, dyestuffs, and
medicine, that no one else did. He was occupied almost wholly with
experiment and research. There are not two such men in a century.
“Giovanni, you are the only one of us who has been beyond the Rhine. Do
you know any one there who might possibly aid in this search?”
The Lombard seldom talked unless he was directly addressed. “One man,”
he said, “might know the truth.”
“Would he reply to a letter?”
Giovanni shook his head. “He does not write letters. If I could see
him I would ask him, but the air of Goslar is not wholesome for me.” He
looked at Alan curiously. “Do you think of going there?”
“Why not?” Alan returned.
“There are rather more than half a score of reasons why not,” said
Giovanni, with a little mocking smile. “Do you speak many foreign
languages?”
“Only French.”
“And the moment you opened your mouth they would know you for an
Englishman. A foreign glassworker searching for the books of a reputed
wizard who made the Hildesheim bronze they are so proud of. That would
interest the Imperial spies.”
“Vanni,” said Alan, getting up, “I know well what a hare-brained
undertaking this must seem to you. But if you see fit to give me any
advice, I shall value it.”
The young men took their leave of Tomaso and followed the curving shore
of the Thames eastward to the city. “Look you,” said Guy presently, “I
have a plan--not a very shrewd one perhaps, but you shall judge of that.
This clerk, Simon Gastard, knows the country and the language. If his
story is true it may be worth looking into. I would not trust him alone
with the value of a Scotch penny. But if you were to go with him as my
proxy, you would have a chance of talking with this man Giovanni has in
mind.”
Padraig sniffed. “And Simon would sell ye to the devil if he got his
price. 'Tis pure rainbow-chasing, Alan--but I love ye for it.”
“Fools are safer than philosophers, in some parts of the world,”
observed Giovanni dryly. “And they are commoner everywhere. I hear that
the Templars are trying to find a tame wizard who can be kept in a tower
to make gold.”
“Vanni,” said Guy demurely, “did you ever, in your travels, hear of any
one making gold?”
“No,” said the Milanese, “but I have known of a score finding fool's
gold, and that's the kind you come on at the end of the rainbow.
Alan, if you are resolved on this thing, I will give you a token and a
password to a man you can trust.”
At London Stone they separated, Giovanni turning toward London Bridge,
Padraig wending his way to Saint Paul's, Guy and Alan making their way
through clamorous narrow streets to the Sign of the Gold Finch.
“By Saint Loy,” said the goldsmith suddenly, “here comes the clerk
himself. Gastard,” he beckoned to a little threadbare man edging along
by the wall, “I have a question to ask about the matter you wot of.”
If Alan had heard nothing beforehand he would have taken the man for a
fussy, inoffensive little scrivener who would never do more than he was
bid--or less. But when they were seated in the private room above the
shop, in which Guy kept some of the finest of his gold and silver work,
Simon's restless eyes began to glitter, and he reminded Alan of a rat in
the dairy.
Guy came at once to the point. Would Simon repeat his story for
Alan's enlightenment? Simon would. He related how, when returning from
pilgrimage, he had lost his way in the Harz valley and come upon a
hermitage where a very old monk lay near death. In gratitude (Simon
said) for services to him in his extremity, the hermit had revealed the
secret of a rich mine of gold in the mountains. Simon had gone to the
mine, secured nuggets of the precious metal, but most unfortunately had
shown them to Gregory of Hildesheim, a Templar said to be wise in the
arts of alchemy and metal-working. Gregory had seemed interested at
first, but afterward had told him that the ore was not gold at all, but
a cunning counterfeit devised by Satan. He had not even returned the
specimens, but had railed upon Simon for trying to pass them off as
gold. That night a heavy snowfall, the first of many, made it impossible
to visit the mine again. Now that Gregory was in England Simon wished to
go again and secure more of the gold secretly. It was scarcely possible
to find the place without direction, but one man, Simon solemnly
declared, could, with pick and shovel and leathern bag, bring away a
fortune.
“It would be necessary,” said Guy, “to purify the gold so far as to make
it into rude ingots, if it is, as you say, in the rocks and not in
free lumps and particles washed down a stream. You need a companion who
understands such work. Now, I cannot take up the matter myself, but my
friend here knows enough of metals, though he is no goldsmith, to
do that part of the work. Some sort of makeshift laboratory might be
arranged for that. Then, if it is really a rich mine, we will see what
can be done next. But you will understand that I cannot be expected
to undertake any work involving great expense unless I have some other
proof than you can give me now. If you will take my friend to this mine,
so that he may secure ore enough to make his experiments, and I see the
gold for myself, I will pay the cost of the expedition. More than this,
it seems to me, you cannot expect.”
With this Simon effusively agreed. Alan had been watching Guy's face
with interest during the interview. The Londoner's usual debonair manner
had become the cool decision of a man with whom it is unsafe to deal
slyly.
When Simon's back had vanished in the crowd of Chepe, Guy began rolling
up papers and closing books. “That may save you some time and trouble,”
he said, “if you can stomach his company. I do not believe, you know,
that there is any gold in the ledges. Simon knows no more of the nature
of metals than Saint Anthony's Pig.”
“What is the truth of the matter, do you think?” asked Alan.
“I thought at first that he had invented the whole story. But in that
case he would hardly have agreed to my plan so eagerly. It is just
possible, of course, that gold is there--it has been found in the Harz.
He says that the stuff is not brittle, and can be hammered and cut,
which does not sound like an iron ore. And his description of the rocks
is too good to be his own fancy. Again, the ore may be 'fool's gold',--a
mixture of copper and sulphur. In that case you will know it right
enough when you come to the roasting of it. In any case I am interested
enough in the tale to take a little trouble, and you and your private
treasure-hunt happen to alloy very happily with my curiosity.”
“Guy,” said Alan, “you may laugh, but your aid means more to me than you
know. If the clerk's tale is false you shall be repaid for your outlay.”
“Pshaw!” laughed Guy, “a copper mine is good enough to repay me. And
then, I take a certain interest in the manuscripts you are after.
After all, if you should find them it would be no stranger than those
parchments coming to us as they did, through the very hands of both
Gregory and Simon. That was a golden jest--but we must keep it hid
for awhile. And now, what I know of metals and their ways is at your
service.”
Behold Alan then, after no more than the usual adventures of a journey,
busied with a small furnace in a small stone-floored room over an
archway in the walled city of Goslar. It was a late spring and bitterly
cold, and the heat of the fire was grateful. Simon had thus far put off
taking his companion to see the mine, and Alan had been occupied with
fitting up a place in which the ore should be tested when the time came.
Hearing the blare of trumpets, he craned his head out of window, and
caught a glimpse of the imperial banner flaunting and snapping in the
chill wind. He caught up cap and cloak and ran down the winding stone
stairs, coming out upon the market-square just as the guards entered it.
So close that Alan could have touched him, there went by a humped
and twisted figure with a jester's bells and bauble--a man with a
maliciously smiling mouth and wicked, observant, tired eyes. The white
pointed beard and worn, lined face belonged to an older man than Alan
had expected to see. The eyes met his for a second, he flung his cloak
over the left shoulder with the gesture Giovanni had taught him, and a
few minutes later an impudent small page pulled his sleeve and whispered
that Master Stefano desired to see him.
The boy led him through ancient streets to the entrance of a tall house
near the wall, and went off whistling. An old woman opened the door and
showed him into a little ante-room where, the jester sat, perched upon
the corner of a table. Alan bowed, and waited in silence.
“Very well,” said the jester with a laugh. “And now, since we are quite
alone, why do you, an honest man, pretend to be the fellow of that
rascally clerk?”
Alan always met an emergency coolly. “I did not know the country or the
language,” he said, “and I took this way of reaching Goslar in the hope
of learning the truth about one Archiater of Byzantium.”
The jester's high cackling laughter broke in. “Truth from a fool!”
he shrilled. “Oh, the wisdom of those who are not fools is past
understanding! Why do you rake those ashes?”
“I have read some of his writings,” Alan went on undisturbed, “and if
there should be more--anywhere--I would risk much for the sake of them.”
Stefano shook his head mockingly, and the bells mocked with him. “You
English are mad after gold. They say here that Archiater sold his soul
for his knowledge.”
“That is child's prattle,” said the young man a little impatiently.
“Gold is all very well, but a man's life is in his work, not his wages.
If you can tell me nothing of what I seek, I will not trouble you.”
The fool clasped one knee in his long crooked white fingers. “You have
no wife, I take it.”
“I have not thought about it. But that has nothing to do with secrets of
the laboratory.”
“Heh-heh! Little you know of women. They have everything to do with a
secret. But suppose the manuscrips are worthless?”
“That is not possible,” Alan returned. “The lightest memorandum of such
a man has value. It is like a finger-post pointing to treasure. There
are writings, then?”
“I said nothing of the sort,” retorted Stefano. “I know all about your
search for treasure. Your clerk is digging the hills up this very day
for fool's gold. It has the look of gold--yes--but it is copper and
brimstone mixed in Satan's crucible--fool's gold and no more. Neither
you nor he will get any true gold out of that mine.”
“I tell you,” said Alan in sharp earnest, “that I came here with him for
convenience, not for treasure. A friend to whom I owe much desired to
know whether the clerk's story were true or false. For myself I seek
only to know what remains of the work of Archiater, because he
was a master whose work should not be lost. There must be
those--somewhere--who could go on with it,--if we but knew.”