well as the ground--then once more there are tears, warm and wet, but
this time they are not thine.... And now thou wanderest where the air is
rarer and thy breath comes in gasps--thou mountest ever higher and
higher ... there comes a moment's rest and again thou art wandering,
and always thy road is steeper and thy step more weary.... All around
thee there are shapes that make thee afraid.
"And now I hear the voice of a child crying, crying ... again a shadow
falls over thee ... this time like to the shadow of death."
The chanting voice paused and the grey head bent closer down upon the
fiery ball; the pressure upon the young man's hand became an iron grip.
Drops of perspiration stood upon the wrinkled brow as if an enormous
effort were being made. Then the voice spoke again:
"What I now see is a long road through a country of sunshine and
riches--it is evening, sweet music rises in the air, a haze of dust lies
over the horizon; then all I see, at the end, is a face of wonderful
sweetness, yet sad and full of yearning--and I see two eyes ... strange
and wonderful, and somehow thy heart is at peace.... That is all."
The voice had ceased; the grip upon the young man's hand had relaxed, a
heavy silence lay over them.
The glow in the magic ball died down till only the smouldering colour
remained. Then Eric spoke like one in a dream:
"Thou sawest the eyes! deep, grey, unblinking, sad, and yearning? So I
shall reach them in the end! Canst thou not tell me whose they are?"
The old man's head had fallen on his breast as if overcome by fatigue;
now he raised it very slowly and looked long and lovingly at the young
eager face.
"Nay! that I cannot tell thee, but this I know: Happiness cometh not
there where we seek it; it cometh like a breath out of the unknown, and
then the heart is glad and a great light is spread over all that our
eyes rest upon. Then we are full of strength and courage, and each man
is our friend.
"But the thing we clasp to our heart is never ours to keep, for thus it
is in this world. Joy and pain lie so close side by side that there
seems no line to cross between the two--and yet when crossed.... Well,
my son, I shall show thee what no other eye but mine own has ever looked
upon; it is all that remains to me of what was on the other side of the
line...."
The trembling hand removed the cover from the second object that lay on
the table, and there, revealed to Eric's astonished gaze, was a face the
like of which he had never seen before.
It lay, the head thrown back, the eyes closed, the lips slightly parted
as if asking for a last caress.
The hair waved away from the delicate, somewhat sunken temples, forming
the pillow on which it rested.
A calm expression of peace lay over the angelically pure features that
had the soft whiteness of ivory.
There was no colour save a faint tint of pink on the beseeching mouth.
Yes, it was peace that was the principal expression of that face, and
yet there was also a sad yearning in it, as if the closed eyes longed to
raise their lids a last time to look upon a face they loved....
The old man's head now lay on the hard table upon his outstretched arms;
he was overwhelmed by some tremendous emotion, unable to look at those
silent features.
The youth knew not what force moved him, but he knelt down beside the
emaciated old figure and, taking it into his strong young arms, he drew
the bowed head towards him, and held it long against his heart in a
silent embrace.
After a while both looked up and the grey hermit pressed one of his
shaking hands on the young man's head; the other he laid with a
caressing movement against the marble face.
"I have worked at this with the last strength of my feeble old hands.
And each day for many years I laboured to create the fairness of this
face which I loved, but which never was mine!
"I will not weary thee with the story of my life; it is dark and ugly,
but this thou shalt know: I loved her, and she gave me all the passion
of her pure heart. She knew not who I was, and when she found it out she
could not bear the truth, so she searched a cold grave in the deep, dark
floods. Thus she lay when last I looked upon her; the vision burnt
itself deep into my brain for ever. For long, long years after she had
crossed my path I continued to live a wicked life, full of dark deeds,
full of treachery, keeping faith with none.
"But when, old and bent, I came to these solitudes her face alone was
always with me. Then I began to carve upon the snowy marble the features
I had loved the most in this world.
"Day by day I toiled, for my fingers were stiff and trembling, but I
felt I could not die before I had completed this work of love. I felt
that if I could conjure into life the marvel of her face as it was that
day when they took her out of the cruel water and laid her, for ever
silent, before me, her murderer, I would find forgiveness before that
God I had always mocked but had learnt to believe in here in this vast
solitude so near His sky!
"It is but a short while ago that I completed my work; thou seest
thyself how surpassing fair it is, and since that day peace at last
seems to be spreading very slowly over my soul...."
The old man paused, then drawing the youth quite near to him, he took
his head in both his hands, bent it gently back, saying in a solemn
voice:
"Remember the words of a very old man, who has known all of pain and
joy, who also has lived through the hell of remorse though it came too
late ... too late.... Mayest thou never learn how sad is the word: Too
late! Go thy way, my son. Search for the treasure thou dreamest of, and
when it is thine hold it fast. It may come to thee in quite unexpected
form--at first even thou mayest not realize that thou art so near; it
may not come in splendid raiment with a crown on its head, but keep thy
heart open as well as thy eyes; turn not away from the humblest call,
never leave undone a deed of love.
"I, in my solitude, well know what it is to bitterly regret. All the
wisdom I have acquired is but ashes to me because never did I understand
how to use my riches,--I cherished what was of brass, and what was pure
gold, in my vanity, I trampled underfoot. Thou hast within thee
something that makes me believe thou art of those who win! Now I have
said enough, and thou must continue thy road; but that thou shouldst not
forget the grey hermit of the hills, I have for thee a gift, which, in
the days of my youth, was my most trusted friend. In thy hands it will
have greater power than ever it had in mine."
So saying the old man rose, went to the bed, and drew something out of
the dark. When he came back he held within his hand a shining sword.
"This sword have I loved in the pride of my youth, and even now, in my
bitter old age, it was ever at my side. Whilst I worked at the cold,
hard marble, it lay on the table near my hand; it alone felt my hot
tears of gratitude on the day I had completed my work.
"A legend is attached to it: it is said that if carried by hands that
are clean of all sin it has unknown powers that reveal themselves in
time of need. It may be true ..." the old man bowed his head.... "But my
hands ... were never clean ... so no miracle shone on my road.
"To me it was simply a good strong sword which I used in my own defence.
I used it, too, against my country's foes, and many an evening has it
dripped with blood. Gird it round thy waist and go forth with my
blessing. I know not if the blessing of a man such as I hath worth in
the eyes of God; nevertheless it comes from the deepest depths of my
weary soul, and may it follow thee wherever thou goest and help thee to
win."
Eric bent his knee, and the hermit laid both his hands on his golden
locks, lingering tenderly over them as if loath to take his fingers
away.
"One more gift have I for thee, my son, for I know the peril and
loneliness of thy road. Here inside this box"--and he drew a small
casket from his breast--"thou shalt find some tablets I once learnt to
make, and which possess marvellous power to keep the traveller alive
when he can find no food on his way; one of these alone is as much as a
feast at the table of a king. Neither is this their only magic; for he
who tastes of them to him is given command over all languages spoken
under the sun."
"But am I not taking thy daily bread from thee?" cried the young man, as
he sprang to his feet.
"Be without fear, dear youth; my days are numbered, and enough remains
to me to keep my tired old body alive, as long as God still desires me
to be of this earth. Go in peace, and have a kindly thought for the old
sinner whose last joy has been to look into thy sunny eyes!"
He led Eric to the door of the cave, and pulling the curtain aside, gave
a strange, shrill whistle.
As he did so there was a fluttering of wings, and somewhere out of the
clouds a milk-white falcon swooped down to his hand.
"This bird of mine will show thee the road. Follow him without
faltering, even if he seem to lead thee where no foot can climb. Be of
good cheer, may God be with thee!"
Eric bowed his head, kissed the kind old hand, and then turned his face
towards the lonely path he had to follow, the hawk flying before him
like a white banner floating in the wind.
The old man stood on his threshold casting longing looks after the
retreating form. An expression of intense sadness and resignation came
over his furrowed countenance; slowly, with all the fatigue of nearly a
century's living heavy upon him, he went back into his dark abode. There
he stood for a long while beside the rustic table contemplating the pale
marble face, and all his soul was in his eyes. The flickering light
played on the exquisite visage, throwing over it a living warmth, so
that the eyelids appeared to quiver as if they were trying to open once
more.
Slowly and painfully the aged recluse bent down till his faded lips
rested on the pure brow, the icy coldness of the stone penetrating
through all his veins--then with a reluctant movement he laid the dark
cloth over that vision of beauty, hiding it out of sight; and it was
like the lid of a coffin being shut over the face of the dead.
XIII
And a strange song I have heard
By a shadowy stream,
And the singing of a snow-white bird
On the Hills of Dream.
FIONA MACLEOD.
The white wings of the bird could be seen far overhead. Eric looked up
and understood that at whatever cost he must scale those heights towards
which it flew. Such had been the decree of the kind old philosopher.
Firm was his resolution to obey him in everything, because never before
had human being spoken thus unto him.
Only one fact his mind refused to grasp: how could such a man be a
sinner? He thought of the gentle, venerable face, of his wise and
beautiful sayings; and dear to his memory was the sound of his voice.
His feelings towards the silent ghosts, that still followed him, were
quite changed, for the words of the master were ever in his mind.
He felt now a kindly interest in their welfare, and hoped that strength
would be given him to lead them to peace. The clouds lay no longer so
dense over his road. He could advance with greater rapidity.
Always steeper grew the way, and always higher flew the bird; often its
white plumes were lost amongst the floating mist.
Eric was full of courage and hope; whilst he walked he kept thinking of
all he had heard. Tears came to his eyes at the remembrance of the
silvery head lying so close to the cold hard marble which made no
response, the face in its immaculate fairness so serenely unconscious of
all the feeling its beauty called forth.
Within the stern silence of that pale stone lay a punishment far greater
than human justice could inflict.
Night was coming on, but Eric still advanced with undaunted step,
ignoring the fatigue that was again making itself felt through all his
supple limbs.
The sword at his side gave him a companionable feeling; his eyes rested
upon it with pride, admiring the beautiful hilt that was carved out of a
single piece of crystal in the form of a cross. In the centre had been
set a large emerald the colour of a deep forest pool, transparent and
dark, evoking a feeling of rest amongst glorious solitudes where the
foot of man but seldom passes.
The blade was as bright as silver, and flashed like a searchlight when
Eric drew it from its sheath. He did so more than once, feeling its
edge, with the joy of a child over a new toy.
Never had he possessed so manly an arm, and his pleasure knew no bounds.
Always darker grew the night, more perilous the path. Our valiant
wanderer was now obliged to feel the way with his hands, and began to
think about where he could lay himself down to rest. It was useless to
press onward without seeing where he was going--useless to risk making a
false step that might perhaps cost him his life by hurling him into the
chasm that yawned at his side.
His only fear was to lose sight of his feathered companion; it would be
almost impossible to find it again in this desert of rocks. He stood
still to think what he had better do, when out of the darkness, quite
close before him, he saw the flash of white wings.
He sprang forward in pursuit, regardless of the danger that gaped
around him; and after a moment he found himself on a broad ledge under
the protection of a jutting rock. There, just discernible, in the dense
obscurity sat the white falcon, motionless, at rest, giving the sign
that here they should make a halt.
The great bird turned its head towards the youth, and as it did so
something resembling a tiny light gleamed on its breast.
Eric approached it cautiously for fear of frightening it away, but the
beautiful creature showed no signs of alarm, and let him lay his hand on
its head.
Then Eric saw that around the strange bird's neck a tiny chain was
clasped, from which hung a diamond of prodigious size; it radiated a
strong bluish light much like that of a shimmering star. Here in this
vast wilderness of unknown perils the little light shone brightly like
unto a kindly eye that had been placed there to watch over him during
the night.
With a sensation of comfort Eric laid himself down close to the quiet
guardian, wrapping himself up warmly in the folds of his cloak, for the
night was cold.
Indeed the rocks made but a hard and unfriendly bed, but Eric was young,
and weary was his body, so it was not long before sleep came down and
carried him off into the land of dreams.
Upon the rock near his head sat the motionless, wakeful bird of prey,
staring with unblinking eyes into the dark. The whiteness of its
feathers was faintly visible, and the blue diamond burned steadily like
the lamp of a lighthouse seen from far over the sea.
Now there was a faint movement about the sleeping boy and that silent
watcher of the Hills.
[Illustration: _A circle of mist seemed to be settling around them._]
A circle of mist seemed to be settling around them, like a giant wreath
of grey poppies; but it was not the vapours of the night that were
forming a ring round the man and the bird--it was the bodiless army of
following ghosts; and there they sat a quiet company, forms out of
another world, awaiting in mournful silence that this frail human being
should arise to lead them over perilous ways to the height that would be
their salvation.
XIV
Far off I hear the strain
Of infinite sweet pain,
That floats along lonely phantom land.
FIONA MACLEOD.
Eric had not slept many hours before he awoke with a start. All was
pitch-black around him, only the form of the white hawk was outlined
against the darkness, whilst the precious stone on its neck shone in
lonely magnificence.
Eric sat up wondering what had torn him so suddenly out of his restful
slumbers; he felt rather stiff from the hardness of his stony couch, so
sprang to his feet and stood erect, listening, awaiting any danger that
might threaten him out of the unknown. And then, suddenly, a wailing cry
broke out of the stillness; it rose like a frightened sob into the air
and rang through the night with a sound so full of terrible loneliness
that it made the heart stand still.
The bird stretched its neck, its wings expanded ready to take flight,
the light of the diamond twinkling on its breast.
Eric waited, trembling with expectancy; there was something weird and
heartrending about that helpless cry out of this boundless solitude;
again the dismal sound was heard, distinct and piercing like the
terrified voice of a very small child in an agony of fear.
Eric could bear it no longer, and sprang in the direction whence the
sound came.
At that moment his beautiful winged companion rose in the air, circling
close around the path he was on, so that the jewel flashed in moving
patterns like a small lantern being swung over his head.
Eric followed the tiny light, grateful for that dwarf spot of
brightness, which shone in the thick darkness that hemmed him in on all
sides. Many a time he stumbled over the stones that obstructed his road,
often bruising his hands and knees, sometimes falling all his length,
but always desperately aware how perilous and uncertain was this search
in the impenetrable night.
Now the wonderful bird paused in its flight, and Eric saw the small
light, suspended in the air, hovering over one particular spot: he
groped about, his hands feeling everywhere--what was he to find? All at
once, close above his head the pitiful voice was again heard, but this
time quite near. With breathless anxiety Eric scaled the rock, quite
unable to see where he was going; but his hands were always
outstretched, carefully seeking about him, and now his fingers suddenly
came in contact with something soft and warm!
With gentle precautions the young man drew the heavy object towards him,
balancing himself with surprising agility upon the narrow ledge ... and
there, in his arms, against his cheek he felt the soft face of a little
child!... Yes, a little child, whose pitiful moan rose to the sky like a
soul in distress. Clasping the small body close to his breast, the young
man with an almost superhuman effort hoisted himself on to a shelf-like
rock he had felt near by, and there he sat himself down with his
precious bundle in his arms.
As he did so the falcon swooped out of the air on to his shoulder, so
that the light of the gem could just fall upon the pale small face that
looked up into his.
Such a sweet little face, out of which two frightened eyes stared up at
him in speechless anxiety. Miserable rags alone covered the thin body
that was shivering with cold.
Eric drew his cloak close around the trembling form and held it tight
against him, whilst with kindly words he tried to calm its ceaseless
whimper.
Long he sat thus in this vast black solitude, whilst upon his shoulder
the friendly bird kept watch over the two forlorn young creatures who
had been so strangely brought together in these lonely hills.
Eric's eyes closed, and the child too, feeling comforted, was quiet now,
its head hidden against the kind heart that had been its saviour.
Probably both slept, because when Eric next looked up there was a faint
red streak in the sky; the darkness of the night was slowly lifting.
The little girl was huddled up close in his arms slumbering sweetly.
Near by on a block of granite the beautiful hawk sat like a watchful
guardian--his keen ever-open eyes fixed in an unblinking stare upon the
rising sun.
XV
Several days later Eric could have been seen advancing over the frozen
ground holding a small child's hand safely clasped in his own. He had
wandered and wandered, climbing always higher, never giving way, no
matter how overpowering his fatigue. For ever ringing in his ears was
the sound of the solitary man's voice begging that he should not
disappoint him by turning back, urging him to have courage to go always
forward till he had climbed the highest peak!--not to be afraid, because
he believed Eric to be of those who win. Ah! but would he win? Would he
ever reach the top of those lonely heights? would he ever look down upon
the other side? At first the thought of having a companion on his
arduous way was a comfort to him. The child's face was sweet, its eyes
looked up into his with a trust and confidence that gladdened his
spirit.
But soon he understood how much more slowly he could advance; how he had
to redouble his efforts at every step; how much more often he had to
rest because of the toddling feet at his side, and often, very often the
child's head pressed against his cheek; he carried it for many weary
miles, till his powers were nearly spent.
From whence the child came, whose it was, how it had been lost here
amongst these drear solitudes Eric could not get it to relate.
When he pressed it with questions it would only cry helplessly, and
point always before it, as if longing to reach the most giddy heights.
The only words it seemed to know were the strange little cry of: "Up,
up," or "Over there, over there," and persistently with its tiny hand it
pointed to the most distant horizons; and then a feverish shine of
expectancy would light its eyes and a flush come over its wan little
cheeks.
He loved the lonely wee maid, but a frightful apprehension was pressing
at his heart--would he be strong enough to save them both?
The magic tablets out of the old man's box were diminishing day by day.
He wondered how far he still must go before he had scaled the last rock.
The child was frail and delicate: its feet were bare, the wretched dress
it wore hung in discoloured rags round its thin body. Dark curls
clustered round a face of angelic beauty, pale and haggard though it
was, out of which the eyes looked like those of a frightened gazelle.
With touching gratitude the little creature clung to this man who had
saved it in its dire distress, and often Eric would feel the pressure of
its warm lips against his hand as they trudged on side by side.
Their weary feet were now carrying them across the precipitous incline
of a great mountain, the most mighty of all the range, the one whose
summit bore the highest peak, the one Eric had singled out as the
ultimate object of his steep ascent. Their way lay across wide-spreading
mountain meadows, now covered with a white sheet of snow and frost; far
ahead lay a dark forest of pine which they would have to traverse before
reaching the final ridges beyond.
Always close upon his heels followed the silent army of ghosts, and the
higher their leader climbed the more hopeful was the look of their
eyes; it almost seemed that their bodies were becoming less transparent,
that each separate form was losing something of its mist-like frailty.
The little maiden was not afraid of them, and often, when weariness had
obliged her and her companion to rest, she would stretch out both small
arms in their direction, inviting them to share her repose. And then it
would happen that out of that sad troop of followers other arms--perhaps
the empty arms of what had once been a mother--would answer with the
same yearning gesture of love, and yet all the distance of two worlds
lay between them, and the bridge had not yet been built over which they
could meet!
The little one loved to hear Eric play on his flute; so even when most
overpowered with fatigue, his breath coming in gasps, he would take it
from his pocket and try to call from it its sweetest notes. But often he
would have to lay it down, his lips were too dry, his hand shaking
overmuch.
The continual strain upon his youthful body was telling at last, and
often he had to cover his eyes with his hands, because a sudden
dizziness would overtake him.
He was in such fear that the mysterious tablets in the small box would
come to an end that he ate of them but sparingly, giving his companion
the larger share.
Eric had been accustomed to live in plenty; had he not been the
favourite of a king? And now a precious life had been given unexpectedly
into his hands--the bright singing bird, the gay flitting butterfly had
to learn to live for another! His face had lost its roundness, the smile
was still bright and sunny, but his eyes wore an anxious look that
seemed for ever searching the distance. A new feeling of softness had
stolen into his heart; those two slender arms, that tiny confiding hand
within his own, those pattering feet beside him, awoke within his soul
sensations of which he had never even dreamed. He felt that gladly
would he suffer any pain, gladly lay down his life, if this sweet being
that trusted in him could but remain unharmed.