IV

One day there came a messenger for Paul, and brought him news that made

him wonder: the House of Heritage had fallen, on Mistress Alison's

death, to a distant kinsman of her own and of his. This man, who was

without wife or child, had lived there solitary, and it seemed that he

was now dead; and he had left in his will that if Sir Paul should wish

to redeem the house and land for a price, he should have the first

choice to do so, seeing his boyhood had been spent there. Now Paul was

rich, for he had received many great gifts and had spent little; and

there came into his heart a great and loving desire to possess the old

house. He told the Lady Beckwith and Margaret of this, and they both

advised him to go and see it. So Paul asked leave of the Duke, and told

him his business. Then the Duke said very graciously that Paul had

served him well, and that he would buy the house at his own charges, and

give it to Paul as a gift; but he added that this was a gift for past

service, and that he would in no way bind Paul; but he hoped that Paul

would still abide in the castle, at least for a part of the year, and

make music for them. "For indeed," said the Duke very royally, "it were

not meet that so divine a power should be buried in a rustic grange, but

it should abide where it can give delight. Indeed, Sir Paul, it is not

only delight! but through your music there flows a certain holy and

ennobling grace into the hearts of all who attentively hear you, and

tames our wild and brutish natures into something worthier and more

seemly." Then Paul thanked the Duke very tenderly, and said that he

would not leave him.

So Paul journeyed alone with an old man-at-arms, whom the Duke sent with

him for his honour and security; and when he arrived at the place, he

lodged at the inn. He found the House of Heritage very desolate,

inhabited only by the ancient maid of Mistress Alison, now grown old and

infirm. So Paul purchased the house and land at the Duke's charges, and

caused it to be repaired, within and without, and hired a gardener to

dress and keep the ground. He was very impatient to be gone, but the

matter could not be speedily settled; and though he desired to return to

Wresting, and to see Margaret, of whom he thought night and day, yet he

found a great spring of tenderness rise up in his heart at the sight of

the old rooms, in which little had been changed. The thought of his

lonely and innocent boyhood came back to him, and he visited all his

ancient haunts, the fields, the wood, and the down. He thought much,

too, of Mistress Alison and her wise and gracious ways; indeed, sitting

alone, as he often did in the old room at evening, it seemed to him

almost as though she sate and watched him, and was pleased to know that

he was famous, and happy in his love; so that it appeared to him as

though she gave him a benediction from some far-off and holy place,

where she abode and was well satisfied.

Then at last he was able to return; but he had been nearly six weeks

away. He had moved into the house and lived there; and it had filled him

with a kind of solemn happiness to picture how he would some day, when

he was free, live there with Margaret for his wife; and perhaps there

would be children too, making the house sweet with their laughter and

innocent games--children who should look at him with eyes like their

mother's. Long hours would pass thus while he sate holding a book or

his lute between his hands, the time streaming past in a happy tide of

thoughts.

But the last night was sad, for he had gone early to his bed, as he was

to start betimes in the morning; and he dreamed that he had gone through

the wood to the Isle of Thorns, and had seen the house stand empty and

shuttered close, with no signs of life about it. In his dream he went

and beat upon the door, and heard his knocks echo in the hall; and just

as he was about to beat again, it was opened to him by an old small

woman, that looked thin and sad, with grey hair and many wrinkles, whom

he did not know. He had thrust past her, though she seemed to have

wished to stay him; and pushing on, had found Margaret sitting in the

hall, who had looked up at him, and then covered her face with her

hands, and he had seen a look of anguish upon her face. Then the dream

had slipped from him, and he dreamed again that he was in a lonely

place, a bleak mountain-top, with a wide plain spread out beneath; and

he had watched the flight of two white birds, which seemed to rise from

the rocks near him, and fly swiftly away, beating their wings in the

waste of air.

He woke troubled, and found the dawn peeping through the chinks of the

shutter; and soon he heard the tramping of horses without, and knew that

he must rise and go. And the thought of the dream dwelt heavily with

him; but presently, riding in the cool air, it seemed to him that his

fears were foolish; and his love came back to him, so that he said the

name Margaret over many times to himself, like a charm, and sent his

thoughts forward, imagining how Margaret, newly risen, would be moving

about the quiet house, perhaps expecting him. And then he sang a little

to himself, and was pleased to see the old man-at-arms smile wearily as

he rode beside him.

Three days after he rode into the Castle of Wresting at sundown, and

was greeted very lovingly; the Duke would not let him sing that night,

though Paul said he was willing; but after dinner he asked him many

questions of how he had fared. And Paul hoped that he might have heard

some talk of the Lady Margaret. But none spoke of her, and he dared not

ask. One thing that he noticed was that at dinner the young Sir Richard

de Benoit sate opposite him, looking very pale; and Paul, more than

once, looking up suddenly, saw that the Knight was regarding him very

fixedly, as though he were questioning of somewhat; and that each time

Sir Richard dropped his eyes as though he were ashamed. After dinner was

over, and Paul had been discharged by the Duke, he had gone back into

the hall to see if he could have speech of Sir Richard, and ask if

anything ailed him; but he found him not.

Then on the morrow, as soon as he might, he made haste to go down to

the Isle of Thorns. As he was crossing a glade, not far from the house,

he saw to his surprise, far down the glade, a figure riding on a horse,

who seemed for a moment to be Sir Richard himself. He stood awhile to

consider, and then, going down the glade, he cried out to him. Sir

Richard, who was on a white horse, drew rein, and turned with his hand

upon the loins of the horse; and then he turned again, and, urging the

horse forward, disappeared within the wood. There came, as it were, a

chill into Paul's heart that he should be thus unkindly used; and he

vexed his brain to think in what he could have offended the Knight; but

he quickly returned to his thoughts of love; so he made haste, and soon

came down to the place.

Now, when he came near, he thought for a moment of his dream; and shrank

back from stepping out of the trees at the corner whence he could see

the house; but chiding himself for his vain terrors, he went swiftly

out, and saw the house stand as before, with the trees all delicate

green behind it, and the smoke ascending quietly from the chimneys.

Then he made haste; and--for he was now used to enter unbidden--went

straight into the house; the hall and the parlours were all empty; so

that he called upon the servants; an old serving-maid came forth, and

then Paul knew in a moment that all was not well. He looked at her for a

moment, and a question seemed to be choked in his throat; and then he

said swiftly, "Is the Lady Beckwith within?" The old serving-maid said

gravely, "She is with the Lady Helen, who is very sick." Then Sir Paul

bade her tell the Lady Beckwith that he was in the house; and as he

stood waiting, there came a kind of shame into his heart, that what he

had heard was so much less than what he had for an instant feared; and

while he strove to be more truly sorry, the Lady Beckwith stood before

him, very pale. She began to speak at once, and in a low and hurried

voice told him of Helen's illness, and how that there was little to

hope; and then she put her hand on Paul's arm, and said, "My son, why

did you leave us?" adding hastily, "Nay, it could not have been

otherwise." And Paul, looking upon her face, divined in some sudden way

that she had not told him all that was in her mind. So he said, "Dear

mother, you know the cause of that--but tell me all, for I see there is

more behind." Then the Lady Beckwith put her face in her hands, and

saying, "Yes, dear Paul, there is more," fell to weeping secretly. While

they thus stood together--and Paul was aware of a deadly fear that

clutched at his heart and made all his limbs weak--the Lady Margaret

came suddenly into the room, looking so pale and worn that Paul for a

moment did not recognise her. But he put out his arms, and took a step

towards her; then he saw that she had not known he was in the house;

for she turned first red and then very pale, and stepped backwards; and

it went to Paul's heart like the stabbing of a sharp knife, that she

looked at him with a look in which there was shame mingled with a

certain fear.

Now while Paul stood amazed and almost stupefied with what he saw, the

Lady Beckwith said quickly and almost sternly to Margaret, "Go back to

Helen--she may not be left alone." Margaret slipped from the room; and

the Lady Beckwith pointed swiftly to a chair, and herself sate down.

Then she said, "Dear Paul, I have dreaded this moment and the sight of

you for some days--and though I should wish to take thought of what I am

to say to you, and to say it carefully, it makes an ill matter worse to

dally with it--so I will even tell you at once. You must know that some

three days after you left us, the young Knight Sir Richard de Benoit

fell from his horse, when riding in the wood hard by this house, and

was grievously hurt by the fall. They carried him in here and we tended

him. I had much upon my hands, for dear Helen was in great suffering;

and so it fell out that Margaret was often with the Knight--who, indeed,

is a noble and generous youth, very pure and innocent of heart--and oh,

Paul, though it pierces my heart to say it, he loves her--and I think

that she loves him too. It is a strange and terrible thing, this love!

it is like the sword that the Lord Christ said that He came to bring on

earth, for it divides loving households that were else at one together;

and now I must say more--the maiden knew not before what love was; she

had read of it in the old books; and when you came into this quiet

house, bringing with you all the magic of song, and the might of a

gentle and noble spirit, and offered her love, she took it gladly and

sweetly, not knowing what it was that you gave; but I have watched my

child from her youth up, and the love that she gave you was the love

that she would have given to a brother--she admired you and reverenced

you. She knew that maidens were asked and given in marriage, and she

took your love, as a child might take a rich jewel, and love the giver

of it. And, indeed, she would have wedded you, and might have learned to

love you in the other way. But God willed it otherwise; and seeing the

young Knight, it was as though a door was opened in her spirit, and she

came out into another place. I am sure that no word of love has passed

between them; but it has leaped from heart to heart like a swift fire;

and all this I saw too late; but seeing it, I told Sir Richard how

matters stood; and he is an honourable youth; for from that moment he

sought how he might be taken hence, and made reasons to see no more of

the maid. But his misery I could see; and she is no less miserable; for

she has a very pure and simple spirit, and has fought a hard conflict

with herself; yet will she hold to her word.

"And now, dear Paul, judge between us, for the matter lies in your

hands. She is yours, if you claim her; but her heart cannot be yours

awhile, though you may win it yet. It is true that both knights and

maidens have wedded, loving another; yet they have learned to love each

other, and have lived comfortably and happily; but whether, knowing what

I have been forced to tell you, you can be content that things should be

as before, I know not."

Then the Lady Beckwith made a pause, and beat her hands together,

watching Paul's face; Paul sate very still and pale, all the light gone

out of his eyes, with his lips pressed close together. And at the sight

of him the tears came into the Lady Beckwith's eyes, and she could not

stay them. And Paul, looking darkly on her, strove to pity her, but

could not; and clasping the arms of his chair, said hoarsely, "I cannot

let her go." So they sate awhile in silence; and then Paul rose and

said, "Dear lady, you have done well to tell me this--I know deep down

in my heart what a brave and noble thing you have done: but I cannot yet

believe it--I will see the Lady Margaret and question her of the

matter." Then the lady said, "Nay, dear Paul, you will not--you think

that you would do so; but you could not speak with her face to face of

such a matter, and she could not answer you. You must think of it alone,

and to-morrow you must tell me what you decide; and whichever way you

decide it, I will help you as far as I can." And then she said, "You

will pity me a little, dear Paul, for I had rather have had a hand cut

off than have spoken with you thus." And these simple words brought Paul

a little to himself, and he rose from his place and kissed the Lady

Beckwith's hand, and said, "Dear mother, you have done well; but my

sorrow is greater than I can bear," And at that the Lady Beckwith wept

afresh; but Paul went out in a stony silence, hardly knowing what he

did.

Then it seemed to Paul as though he went down into deep waters indeed,

which passed cold and silent, in horror and bitterness, over his soul.

He did not contend or cry out; but he knew that the light had fallen out

of his life, and had left him dark and dead.

So he went slowly back to the castle through the wood, hating his life

and all that he was; once or twice he felt a kind of passion rise within

him, and he said to himself, "She is pledged to me, and she shall be

mine." And then there smote upon him the thought that in thinking thus

he was rather brute than man. And he fell at last into an agony of

prayer that God would lead him to the light, and show him what he should

do. When he reached the castle he put a strong constraint upon himself;

he went down to the hall; he even sang; but it was like a dream; he

seemed to be out of the body, and as it were to see himself standing,

and to hear the words falling from his own lips. The Duke courteously

praised him, and said that he was well content to hear his minstrel

again.

As he left the hall, he passed through a little anteroom, that was hung

with arras, on the way to his chamber; and there he saw sitting on a

bench, close to the door that led to the turret stair, the young Knight,

Sir Richard; and there rose in his heart a passion of anger, so strong

that he felt as though a hand were laid upon his heart, crushing it. And

he stood still, and looked upon the Knight, who raised so pale and

haggard a face upon him, that Paul, in spite of his own misery, saw

before him a soul as much or more vexed than his own; and then the anger

died out of his heart, and left in him only the sense of the bitter

fellowship of suffering; the Knight rose to his feet, and they stood for

a moment looking at each other; and then the Knight said, pale to the

lips, "Sir Paul, we are glad to welcome you back--I have heard of the

Duke's gift, and rejoice that your inheritance should thus return to

you." And Paul bowed and said, "Ay, it is a great gift; but it seems

that in finding it I have lost a greater." And then, seeing the Knight

grow paler still, if that were possible, he said, "Sir Richard, let me

tell you a parable; there was a little bird of the wood that came to my

window, and made me glad--so that I thought of no other thing but my

wild bird, that trusted me: and while I was absent, one hath whispered

it away, and it will not return." And Sir Richard said, "Nay, Sir Paul,

you are in this unjust. What if the wild bird hath seen its mate? And,

for you know not the other side of the parable, its mate hath hid itself

in the wood, and the wild bird will return to you, if you bid it come."

Then Sir Paul, knowing that the Knight had done worthily and like a

true knight, said, "Sir Richard, I am unjust; but you will pardon me,

for my heart is very sore." And so Paul passed on to his chamber; and

that night was a very bitter one, for he went down into the sad valley

into which men must needs descend, and he saw no light there. And once

in the night he rose dry-eyed and fevered from his bed, and twitching

the curtain aside, saw the forest lie sleeping in the cold light of the

moon; and his thought went out to the Isle of Thorns, and he saw the

four hearts that were made desolate; and he questioned in his heart why

God had made the hard and grievous thing that men call love.

Then he went back and fell into a sort of weary sleep; and waking

therefrom, he felt a strange and terrible blackness seize upon his

spirit, so that he could hear his own heart beat furious and thick in

the darkness; and he prayed that God would release him from the prison

of the world. But while he lay, he heard the feet of a horse clatter on

the pavement, it being now near the dawn; and presently there came a

page fumbling to the door, who bore a letter from the Lady Beckwith, and

it ran;--

"_I would not write to you thus, dear Paul, unless my need were urgent;

but the dear Helen is near her end, and has prayed me many times that,

if it were possible, you should come and sing to her--for she fears to

go into the dark, and says that your voice can give her strength and

hope. Now if it be possible, come; but if you say nay to my messenger, I

shall well understand it. But the dear one hath done you no hurt, and

for the love of the God who made us, come and comfort us--from her who

loves you as a son, these_."

Then Paul when he had read, pondered for awhile; and then he said to the

page, "Say that I will come." So he arrayed himself with haste, and went

swiftly through the silent wood, looking neither to left or to right,

but only to the path at his feet. And presently he came to the Isle of

Thorns; it lay in a sort of low silver mist, the house pushing through

it, as a rock out of the sea. And then a sudden chill came over Paul,

and the very marrow of his bones shuddered; for he knew in his heart

that this was nothing but the presaging of death; and he thought that

the dreadful angel stood waiting at the door, and that presently the

spirit of one that lay within must arise, leaving the poor body behind,

and go with the angel.

In the high chamber where Helen lay burnt a light behind a curtain; and

Paul saw a form pass slowly to and fro. And he would fain have pitied

the two who must lose her whom they loved; but there passed over his

spirit a sort of bitter wind; and he could feel no pity for any soul but

his own, and his heart was dry as dust; he felt in his mind nothing but

a kind of dumb wonder as to why he had troubled himself to come.

There must have been, he saw, a servant bidden to await his coming,

because, as his feet sounded on the flags, the door was opened to him;

and in a moment he was within the hall. At the well-known sights and

scents of the place, the scene of his greatest happiness, the old aching

came back into his stony heart, and grief, that was like a sharp sword,

thrust through him. Suddenly, as he stood, a door opened, and Margaret

came into the hall; she saw him in a moment; and he divined that she had

not known he was within, but had meant only to pass through; for she

stopped short as though irresolute, and looked at him with a wild and

imploring gaze, like a forest thing caught in a trap.

In a moment there flowed into Paul's heart a great pity and tenderness,

and a strength so wonderful that he knew it was not his own, but the

immortal strength of God. And he stepped forward, forgetting all his

own pain and misery, and said, "Margaret, dear one, dear sister, what is

the shadow that hath fallen between us at this time? I would not," he

went on, "speak of ourselves at such an hour as this; but I see that

there is somewhat--we minstrels have a power to look in the heart of

those we love--and I think it is this--that you can love me, dear one,

as a brother, and not as a lover. Well, I am content, and so it shall

be. I love you too well, little one, to desire any love but what you can

give me--so brother and sister we will be." Then he saw a light come

into her face, and she murmured words of sorrow that he could not hear;

but he put his arm about her as a brother might, and kissed her cheek.

And then she put her hands upon his shoulder, and her face upon them,

and broke out into a passion of weeping. And Paul, saying "Even so,"

kissed and comforted her, as one might comfort a child, till she looked

up, as if to inquire somewhat of him. And he said smiling, "So this is

my dear sister indeed--yes, I will be content with that--and now take me

to the dear Helen, that I may see if my art can comfort her." Then it

was very sweet to Paul's sore heart that she drew her arm within his own

and led him up from the room. Then there came in haste the Lady Beckwith

down to meet them, with a look of pain upon her face; and Paul said,

still smiling, "We are brother and sister henceforth." Then the Lady

Beckwith smiled too out of her grief and said, "Oh, it is well."

Then they passed together through the oratory and entered the chamber of

death. And then Paul saw a heavenly sight. The room was a large one, dim

and dark. In a chair near the fire, all in white, sate a maiden like a

lily--so frail and delicate that she seemed like a pure spirit, not a

thing of earth. She sate with a hand upraised between her and the fire;

and when Paul came in, she looked at him with a smile in which appeared

nothing but a noble patience, as though she had waited long; but she

did not speak. Then they drew a chair for Paul, and he took his lute,

and sang soft and low, a song of one who sinks into sweet dreams, when

the sounds of day are hushed--and presently he made an end. Then she

made a sign that Paul should approach, and he went to her, and kneeled

beside her, and kissed her hand. And Margaret came out of the dark, and

put her hand on Paul's shoulder saying, "This is our brother." And Helen

smiled in Paul's face--and something, a kind of heavenly peace and love,

seemed to pass from her eyes and settle in Paul's heart; and it was told

him in that hour, he knew not how, that this was his bride whom he had

loved, and that he had loved Margaret for her sake; and that moment

seemed to Paul to be worth all his life that had gone before, and all

that should go after. So he knelt in the silence; and then in a moment,

he knew not where or whence, the whole air seemed full of a heavenly

music about them, such music as he had never dreamed of, the very soul

and essence of the music of earth. But Helen laid her head back, and,

smiling still, she died. And Paul laid her hand down.

Then without a word he rose, and went from the chamber; and he stepped

out into the garden, and paced there wondering; he saw the trees stand

silent in their sleep, and the flowers like stars in their dewy beds. And

he knew that God was very near him; he put all his burdens and sorrows,

his art, and all himself within the mighty hands; and he knew that he

could never doubt again of the eternal goodness and the faithful tender

love of the Father. And all the while the dawn slowly brightened over the

wood, and came up very slowly and graciously out of the east. Then Paul

gave word that he must return to the castle, but would come back soon.

And as he mounted the steps, he saw that there was a man pacing on the

terrace above, and knew that it was the Knight Richard, whom he sought.

So he went up on the terrace, and there he saw the young Knight looking

out over the forest; Paul went softly up to him and laid his hand upon

his shoulder, and the Knight turned upon him a haggard and restless eye.

Then Paul said, "Sir Richard, I come from the Isle of Thorns--but I

have more to say to you. You are a noble Knight and have done very

worthily--and I yield to you with all my heart the dear Margaret, for we

are brother and sister, and nought else, now and henceforth." Then Sir

Richard, as though he hardly heard him aright, stood looking upon his

face; and Paul took his hand very gently in both his own, and said, "Yes,

it is even so--and we will be brothers too." Then he went within the

castle--and lying down in his chamber he slept peacefully like a little

child.

V

Many years have passed since that day. First Sir Richard wedded the Lady

Margaret, and dwelt at the Isle of Thorns. A boy was born to them, whom

they named Paul, and a daughter whom they called Helen. And Paul was

much with them, and had great content. He made, men said, sweeter music

than ever he had done, in those days. Then the Duke died; and Paul,

though his skill failed not, and though the King himself would have had

him to his Court, went back to the House of Heritage, and there dwelt

alone, a grave and kindly man, very simple of speech, and loving to walk

and sit alone. And Sir Richard and the Lady Margaret bought an estate

hard by and dwelt there.

Now Paul would make no more music, save that he sometimes played a

little on the lute for the pleasure of the Lady Margaret; but he took

into his house a boy whom he taught the art; and when he was trained

and gone into the world, to make music of his own, Paul took another--so

that as the years went on, he had sent out a number of his disciples to

be minstrels; so his art was not lost; and one of these, who was a very

gracious child named Percival, he loved better than the rest, because he

saw in him that he had a love for the art more than for all the rewards

of art. And once when they sate together, the boy Percival said, "Dear

sir, may I ask you a question?" "A dozen, if it be your will," said

Paul, smiling; "but, dear child, I know not if I can answer it." Then

the boy said, "Why do you not make more music, dear sir? for it seems to

me like a well that holds its waters close and deep, and will not give

them forth." Then Paul said smiling, "Nay, I have given men music of the

best. But there are two reasons why I make no more; and I will tell you

them, if you can understand them. The first is that many years ago I

heard a music that shamed me; and that sealed the well." Then the boy

said musing, "Tell me the name of the musician, dear Sir Paul, for I

have heard that you were ever the first." Then Paul said, "Nay, I know

not the name of the maker of it." Then the boy said smiling, "Then, dear

sir, it must have been the music of the angels." And Paul said, "Ay, it

was that." Then the boy was silent, and sate in awe, while Paul mused,

touching his lute softly. Then he roused himself and said, "And the

second reason, dear child, is this. There comes a time to all that

_make_--whether it be books or music or pictures--when they can make no

new thing, but go on in the old manner, working with the fingers of age

the dreams of youth. And to me this seems as it were a profane and

unholy thing, that a man should use so divine an art thus unworthily; it

is as though a host should set stale wine before his guests, and put

into it some drug which should deceive their taste; and I think that

those who do this do it for two reasons: either they hanker for the

praise thereof, and cannot do without the honour--and that is

unworthy--or they do it because they have formed the habit of it, and

have nought to fill their vacant hours--and that is unworthy too. So

hearing the divine music of which I spoke but now, I knew that I could

attain no further; and that there was a sweet plenty of music in the

hand of God, and that he would give it as men needed it; but that my own

work was done. For each man must decide for himself when to make an end.

And further, dear child, mark this! The peril for us and for all that

follow art is to grow so much absorbed in our handiwork, so vain of it,

that we think there is nought else in the world. Into that error I fell,

and therein abode. But we are in this world like little children at

school. God has many fair things to teach us, but we grow to love our

play, and to think of nought else, so that the holy lessons fall on

unheeding ears; but now I have put aside my play, and sit awhile

listening to the voice of God, and to all that He may teach me; and the

lesson is hard to spell; but I wait upon Him humbly and quietly, till He

call me hence. And now we have talked enough, and we will go back to our

music; and you shall play me that passage over, for you played it not

deftly enough before."

Now it happened that a few days later Paul in his sleep dreamed a dream;

and when he woke, he could scarce contain his joy; and the boy Percival,

seeing him in the morning, marvelled at the radiance that appeared in

his face; and a little later Paul bade him go across the fields to the

Lady Margaret's house, and to bid her come to him, if she would, for he

had something that he must tell her, and he might not go abroad. So

Percival told the Lady Margaret; and she wondered at the message, and

asked if Sir Paul was sick. And the boy said, "No, I never saw him so

full of joy--so that I am afraid."

Then the Lady Margaret went to the House of Heritage; and Paul came to

greet her at the door, and brought her in, and sate for awhile in

silence, looking on her face. The Lady Margaret was now a very comely

and sedate lady, and had held her son's child in her arms; and Paul was

a grey-haired man; yet in his eyes she was still the maiden he had

known. Then Paul, speaking very softly, said, "Dear Margaret, I have

bidden you come hither, for I think I am called hence; and when I

depart, and I know not when it may be, I would close my eyes in the dear

house where I was nurtured." Then she looked at him with a sudden fear,

but he went on, "Dear one, I have dreamed very oft of late of Helen--she

stands smiling in a glory, and looks upon me. But this last night I saw

more. I know not if I slept or waked, but I heard a high and heavenly

music; and then I saw Helen stand, but she stood not alone; she held by

the hand a child, who smiled upon me; and the child was like herself;

but I presently discerned that the child had a look of myself as well;

and she loosed the child's hand from her own, and the child ran to me

and kissed me; and Helen seemed to beckon me; and then I passed into

sleep again. But now I see the truth. The love that I bear her hath

begotten, I think, a child of the spirit that hath never known a mortal

birth; and the twain wait for me." And Margaret, knowing not what to

say, but feeling that he had seen somewhat high and heavenly, sate in

silence; and presently Paul, breaking out of a muse, began to talk of

the sweet days of their youth, and of the tender mercies of God. But

while he spoke, he suddenly broke off, and held up his hand; and there

came a waft of music upon the air. And Paul smiled like a tired child,

and lay back in his chair; and as he did so a string of the lute that

lay beside him broke with a sweet sharp sound. And the Lady Margaret

fell upon her knees beside him, and took his hand; and then she seemed

to see a cloudy gate, and two that stood together--a fair woman and a

child; and up to the gate, out of a cloud, came swiftly a man, like one

that reaches his home at last; and the three went in at the gate

together, hand in hand;--and then the music came once again, and died

upon the air.