Once upon a time, on a summer’s morning after a night’s rain, a country
squire’s son stood within an arched doorway of his father’s house,
gazing upon the hedgerows and the fields. The sun was shining after the
storm, a high wind was shaking the trees, scurrying gusts fled through
the nodding grass, and silvery white clouds sailed the arching sky. And
beholding the bright morning and the rain-washed land, a great longing
came into the heart of the squire’s son to follow the clouds over hill,
over dale, and to see the world. Presently, with his parents’ blessing
locked in his heart’s treasury and a purse of gold in his pocket, he
leaped to the saddle of his dappled steed, waved his plumed hat, and
galloped away.
Long he rode and afar, and presently he found himself in the heart of
the deepest and darkest wildwood that was ever to be seen. Before
him, behind him, around him all about, were the trunks of numberless
trees--trees so tall that they hid the sky, and made of it but patches
of cloudy white or speckles of blue; trees--broad trees, slender trees,
trees that were like men-at-arms, trees that were shy and aloof as
maids, trees that were silent, trees that rustled, everywhere trees.
And deep was the wildwood silence and unbroken save for the soft pad of
the horse’s hoofs and the rare song of a hidden bird.
At the close of his third day, the squire’s son found himself at the
gates of a noble city built of cedar-green glass on an open hill in the
heart of the wildwood.
Now as it was late in the day when the youth arrived at the city, it
came to pass that he went to an inn for supper and the night. The
mistress of the tavern, I must tell you, was a lonely orphan maiden
named Miranda. Surely there was never a fairer or a kinder little
maid! Beneath her ancient roof the humble wayfarer met with as
friendly a greeting as his richer fellow, and with her own hands she
gave bread and milk to the unfortunate and poor.
Now it chanced that the youth had been given a chamber overlooking
the court of the inn, and presently he heard from below a confused
din of voices, laughter, and jeers. In wonder as to what the cause of
the hubbub might be, the squire’s son drew open his latticed window
and looked down. A great green cage on wheels was to be seen there,
surrounded by a throng of curious onlookers who poked fingers at
something within it, shrieked catcalls, whistled, and laughed to split
their sides.
The youth descended to the court, and made his way into the throng.
Within the cage, clad in a gray wolf’s skin, sat a creature like unto a
man. Strong of body was he, and beautiful to behold. His eyes were blue
and they were the eyes of a wild thing, and the long hair which fell
about his neck was of the strangest tawny gold. Aware of the stir made
by a newcomer, the prisoner turned, and fixed the youth with a glance
in which lay pride mingled with despair.
Presently the proprietor of the cage, who had been baiting his horse at
the stables of the inn, returned and lowered curtains about the cage
and the prisoner. Fearful lest they be summoned to pay the showman his
penny, the onlookers took to their heels, and soon the youth found
himself alone in the courtyard.
Now this prisoner, I must tell you, was known as the Man of the
Wildwood, for some hunters had found him in a net which they had spread
in the wildwood a year before. To some an animal-like man, to others
a man-like animal, the Man of the Wildwood remained a mystery in the
land. As for the prisoner, never a word said he, and none knew whether
he would not or could not talk.
Securely locked in his cage, the Man of the Wildwood was shown to all
at a penny a head.
And now, as the youth mused alone in the silence, the maid Miranda came
forth to light the great lantern in the court. A white apron she wore,
a great white cap, and there were red ribbons on her gown. The squire’s
son thought he never beheld a maid so fair.
Catching sight of the squire’s son, standing idly by, Miranda said to
him, “Pray, good sir, what may there be in yon cage?”
“The Man of the Wildwood,” replied the youth. And he told Miranda what
he had overheard amid the throng.
“Alas, poor creature,” said the gentle maiden, “how bitter must be such
a cage to one who has known the freedom of the wildwood! I surely must
bring him some honey and bread!”
And away she sped to the larder of the inn to fetch the good cheer.
The twilight deepened. When Miranda returned again, the youth and the
maid walked to the green cage and offered the gift to the Man of the
Wildwood.
For a little space the prisoner, crouched in a dark corner of the
cage, made neither sign nor sound. Then slowly, very slowly, he
approached the gift of the kind maiden and ate of it hungrily. And
because he had met with so little pity and compassion, the Man of the
Wildwood was moved to his heart’s deep, and gazed upon the young folk
with strange eyes.
All evening long the squire’s son mused on the Man of the Wildwood.
Suddenly a great pity possessed him, and going to the showman, he
purchased the prisoner for fifty golden crowns.
And now it was midnight; and the green cage, drawn by the showman’s
horse, rolled down a deserted road to the edge of the wildwood. A moon
almost at the full sailed the high heavens, now vanishing under thin,
black clouds, now floating forth through silvery rifts and isles. Side
by side, saying little to each other, sat the showman and the youth.
Suddenly a high wall of rustling darkness loomed before them at the
verge of a moonlit field; the cage had reached the gate of the forest.
With a key given him by the showman--who was a little afraid--the
squire’s son unlocked the cage, and freed the Man of the Wildwood. And
even as he did so, a summer breeze went singing through the wildwood
with a great cry of joy.
Free at last, the Man of the Wildwood said naught, but lifted his head
to the stars. Then raising his right arm high above his head, he made
a stately sign of salutation to the youth, and walked like a king into
the darkness of the trees.
The next morning the youth rose early and set forth once more upon his
travels. Cities he saw, and nations, and kingdoms, but no one in them
whom he thought fairer than Miranda. As for Miranda, scarce had the
squire’s son ridden away, than she began to hope for his return.
Little by little the tide of summer rose to its full, and ebbing, left
the gifts of golden autumn in the fields.
But now you must hear of the three merchants, the moonstone, and the
misfortunes of Miranda.
It was a harvest eve, and presently Miranda, watching by the tavern
door, beheld three men habited as merchants making their way along the
city street to the inn. Somewhat to her surprise, they came afoot. Two
of these merchants, I must tell you, were tall and lean, whilst the
third was short and fat and had green eyes. Unwilling to refuse, yet
somewhat against her better judgment, Miranda granted the request of
these merchants for lodgment at the inn.
Now these three merchants, alas, were not merchants at all but three
famous thieves, who had come to the city to steal a certain celebrated
gem belonging to the king. This gem was a moonstone--a moonstone of
such rare loveliness that men fabled that it had tumbled to earth from
the moon, and been found in a forest glade at the end of a ray of
summer moonshine. In all the world nothing there was more fair.
And now it was another midnight, and the three thieves, quitting
their rooms in the inn, stole as quietly as three cats down the
oaken stairway to the empty street. Unknown to them, however,
Miranda--wakened by their whispers--followed close behind, now
retreating into shadowy doorways, now leaning against a wall lest she
be seen.
Presently the rogues approached the huge darkened mass of the palace,
and made their way into the grounds through the dreaming gardens. A
little fountain splashed somewhere in the night. The moon had set, and
a thin layer of cloud dimmed the wheeling stars.
Chuckling softly at their success in having thus far eluded the palace
watch, the thieves now pressed open a little window and crawled into
the tower of jewels. Hurrying as fast as ever she could, Miranda ran to
wake the yeomen of the guard.
Suddenly there was a great outcry, a light appeared in a window, there
were shouts and a clash of arms, and the thieves came tumbling out of
the window with the moonstone and vanished, all three, into the starry
dark. A moment later flaming torches moved amid the trees, a throng
of men-at-arms poured into the gardens, and Miranda found herself a
prisoner.
Accused of having harbored the thieves and of having had a hand in the
robbery, the maiden of the inn was the next morning brought to trial.
Shaken to the heart, yet protesting her innocence to the last, the poor
maiden made but a confused defense, and presently was condemned to
suffer the sternest judgment of the law.
When this was pronounced, however, the friends and neighbors who loved
Miranda made such a tumult in the court that the judgment was altered,
and Miranda was sentenced to be carried in the gaoler’s cart into the
very depths of the great wildwood, and there abandoned to live or
perish as she might.
And now it was twilight, a golden harvest twilight; and Miranda,
standing with her hands tied behind her by the wrists and her head
bowed low, was drawn in a two-wheeled cart through the darkening
streets of the glass city, and carried far out into the pathless
regions of the wildwood. Once there, the gaoler--who pitied her--loosed
her from her bonds, gave her a crust of prison bread, and drove away.
Fainter and fainter grew the noise of the homeward-faring cart.
The night was moonless, the stars were bright, and a wild wind from
some far waste of the world was roaring through the trees, now dying
away to a faint and vagrant murmur, now rising to a great wailing
rustling cry that arose and broke and ebbed like a wave of the sea. And
the swaying branches tossed their clots of darkness against the stars,
whilst underfoot so dark it lay that naught was to be seen.
For some moments the unhappy maiden, trembling with dread, stood
motionless in the dark of the wildwood. Strange sounds drifted to her
ears--the moan of rival branches, the laughter of running water, and
the far cry of some hunter of the night. Suddenly she felt herself grow
icy cold, and her eyes closing, she sank to the earth and knew no more.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, that very eve, in the distant city, the squire’s son was
riding joyously to the inn. Presently he reached his long-awaited goal,
and to his great surprise found the windows darkened and the doorway
sealed and barred. Seeing him thus wandering about, a neighboring
goodwife came forth from her dwelling, and told him, with tears in her
eyes, the cruel fate of the good Miranda.
“Oh, wicked judgment!” cried the youth. “Quick--tell me whither in the
wildwood have they taken her; for I must find her, come what may!”
“Alas, who can say?” replied the goodwife. “All that I can tell thee
is that the cart vanished through the eastern gate, adown the eastern
way.”
And now the youth cried to his dappled steed to press on as he had
never done before, and galloped through the night to the wildwood.
Darker it grew and darker still.
Arriving at length in a little clearing, the squire’s son bade his
horse stand halted, and plunged into the wildwood, loudly calling and
hallooing for the lost maiden. On and on through briery thicket and
stony mire he blundered forward in the gloom. Suddenly an unseen ravine
opened beneath him; his feet trod forward into nothingness; his hands
caught at the air; and with a cry, he fell. And now as he lay there
stunned, strong arms caught him gently up and carried him away.
When he woke to life again, he found himself lying on a bed of skins
piled near a fire on a cavern floor. By his side, the torment of
his human prison fallen from him like an evil garment, noble and
beautiful and strong, stood the Man of the Wildwood.
[Illustration: _Before him stood the Man of the Wildwood_]
Lifting himself up and turning toward his rescuer, the youth poured
forth his story and sought the eyes of the Man of the Wildwood for a
token that he had understood. For a moment, however, the Man of the
Wildwood made no sign. Then, of a sudden, with a gesture at once gentle
and commanding, he touched the youth by the hand, and going to the cave
mouth, opened his arms to the dark wildwood, and called upon it in its
secret speech.
And he bade the things of the wild--the brethren who go afoot, the
kindred of the air, and the humble folk who crawl upon the earth--to
go forth through the wildwood and find the maiden and guard her well.
And he called upon them, too, to follow the thieves, and make them
prisoners of the wood.
And now a great murmur, even such a sound as heralds the coming of a
mighty rain, swept through the wood. Forth from their dens creeping
came the bears, the gray wolves, and the little foxes; the shy deer
started in their glens; the birds awakened with a flutter in their
nests and took wing into the starry dark; the little wood-mice came
tumbling out of their warm beds; and even the spotted snakes went forth
to seek. Almost in less time than it takes to tell of it, the earth and
the air seemed full of the people of the wild, questing here and there
in search of the maid.
There passed a little time, and suddenly a great brown owl, half
blinded by the firelight, swooped down to the arch of the cave-mouth
with the news that he had found the maiden asleep beneath a sheltering
pine; and a moment later a nimble gray hare with upstanding ears came
hopping in with the tidings that the thieves had been taken on a
wildwood road.
Now this news was quite enough to cure the squire’s son of his fall,
so jumping to his feet, he followed the staring owl and the Man of the
Wildwood to the refuge of Miranda.
You may be sure that Miranda rejoiced to see the squire’s son! As for
the thieves, they came upon them standing terror-stricken, huddled
together in the heart of a wide circle of watching, silent, flame-eyed
animals. Creepers and vines had seized upon them as they fled, and
bound their arms behind with leafy fetters.
Suddenly a friendly whinny was heard, and the dappled steed, guided by
a benevolent badger, came trotting through the wildwood to its master.
To lift Miranda to the saddle was but a moment’s task. The three
thieves walking ahead, Miranda riding, and the youth and the Man of the
Wildwood following behind, even thus went the little company through
the forest dark to the edge of the wildwood.
Morning was at hand; only the brighter stars were left in the wide and
cloudless sky; presently the dawn broke over the green horizon of the
trees.
Arriving at the bound of the forest, the Man of the Wildwood lifted his
arm once more in token of farewell, and with his animals clustered
about him, watched his friends till they vanished down the road.
Presently the domes and towers of the city of glass rose before the
little company. A swirling autumn mist lay over the fields between the
wildwood and the city walls, the sky was rosy overhead, and hundreds of
little bells were ringing.
Pausing at the eastern gate, the squire’s son delivered the thieves to
the yeomen of the guard.
On the following morning the three rogues, brought to trial, declared
the innocence of Miranda, confessed their wickedness, and restored
the moonstone. A stern sentence was justly theirs; but so pleased was
the king at the return of his jewel that he merely condemned them to
road-mending for a number of years. To Miranda the king gave a rich
reward, to the squire’s son, a fair house whose windows looked forth on
the treetops of the wildwood.
And thus it came to pass that the squire’s son married the good
Miranda, and lived happily with his dear wife and little ones many a
long and pleasant year.