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THE
Seven Streams
BY
WARWICK DEEPING
_Author of “The Rust of Rome,” “The Red Saint,”_
_“Uther and Igraine,” etc. etc._
[Illustration]
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
MCMXI
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TO
My Dear Sister
KATHLEEN
This Dream Romance is Dedicated
“Sleep after toyle, port after stormie seas,
Ease after warre, death after life, does greatly please.”
Spenser, _The Faerie Queen_.
“Dreams;
Which are the children of an idle brain
Begot of nothing but vain phantasy.”
Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_.
THE SEVEN STREAMS
CHAPTER I
For a night and a day Tristan le Sauvage had watched his arms before the
high altar of the chapel of Purple Isle. For a night and a day he had
seen the long tapers glimmering towards their silver sockets, under the
painted roof. Dawn light and evening glow had shone through the latticed
casements east and west, dusting the stones with colour, carving deep
shadows from sculptured pillar and from moulded arch. Not a sound had
broken the silence of the tombs. Alone before the Great Cross, Tristan
had kept vigil, chastening his manhood for quest beyond the sea. Two
months had passed since a great ship with gleaming sails had swooped
like a falcon upon Purple Isle, and carried thence that white dove,
Columbe the Fair.
The sun had descended in a whorl of crimson flame when Tristan rose up
from before the altar, and passed out to his kinsfolk who had gathered
at sunset in the chapel court. The moon had climbed the starry port of
heaven. In the court lamps flickered, and white faces peered at him like
pale flowers out of the gloom. The delicate finials of many cypresses
were smitten with the moonlight; a thin perfume of spring quivered in
the air.
Before the chapel gate stood Father Madan of the Isle, clad in his Mass
robes, his white beard silvered by the light of the moon. Four acolytes
stood round him with bell and aspergil, ewer and book. Maidens in white
bore garlands of primrose and of violet on crosses of white wood. There
was a deep silence through all the court, as Tristan came out from the
inmost shadow, his head bowed over his broad chest.
Tristan le Sauvage was no lover of priests. Frocks and stoles were
women’s gear. It was with no great grace that he went on his knees on
the bare stones at Madan’s feet, while the old man stretched out his
thin white hands over him like a snowy Druid uttering incantations under
the stars.
“Son Tristan,” quoth the priest, with that innocent unction beloved of
women, “hath the good God chastened thee for this thy quest?”
Tristan hated parade with the great sinews of his heart. He was a surly
soul, a bad courtier at the crook of the knee.
“Son Tristan,” said the priest again, “the buckler of Faith awaits your
arm.”
“I have sharpened my sword, O Father,” said the man on the stones.
Madan knew well this unpolished rock, the granite that loved the
billow’s blow better than the honeyed voice of a lute. He forgave the
untamed temper of youth, and blessed him as he knelt at his feet.
His kinsfolk gathered under the long shadows of the cypresses. Dame
Joan, his mother, drew near, and kissed his lips. Her hands lay heavy
upon his shoulders; her face shone white under her pure grey hair.
“Tristan,” said she, “the good saints strengthen you. Thrice blessed am
I in the manhood of my son.”
“Mother,” he answered her simply enough, overshadowing her with his
great strength, “God by your love has given me a good schooling.
Therefore be comforted. Columbe, my sister, shall return to you again.”
When she had hung upon his bosom, Dame Joan kissed him, as did his sire
and Lavaine, his brother. They were brave folk, simple of heart,
open-souled towards Heaven. Love with them was as an eternal prayer
winging at dawn and eve to the throne of God. Girded from the great
world by the waste of waters, they lived their lives in the strong
purity of virgin faith.
The full moon gazed on them as they passed down from the chapel towards
the sea. A thousand pines thrust up their midnight spears towards the
stars. Deep to the confines of the dusky sky the far sea glimmered,
washing the island with a sheet of foam. Madan the monk led on the
company, acolytes, maidens, and young men chanting together under the
moon. Tristan walked at his mother’s side. With solemn song and the
faint pulsing of the chapel bell, they brought him slowly towards the
strand.
In a black inlet, bulwarked from the broad vigour of the sea, a galley
lay moored beside a rude stone quay. The water was scolloped all with
silver round the sable rocks. A great glistening highway stretched over
the ocean towards the east.
By the galley’s bulwarks Tristan took leave of his mother and his sire.
He sprang down behind the thwarts and took the tiller in his hand. The
black sail climbed the mast; the long sweeps smote silver from the
swirling pool. Madan stood forward and blessed him as the prow rose to
the waves. Thus Tristan le Sauvage put out from Purple Isle, and
followed the moon’s highway over the sea.