CASTLE SYRTES
TRULY I would have thought, and you would have thought, and we might
well imagine Peregrine would have thought, he had had enough of castles
and the dwellers therein. Yet there is no question but that he welcomed
very heartily its appearance before him. Here at least was the tangible,
the solid, the very definitely material to counteract the sudden and
extraordinary isolation of spirit which had fallen momentarily upon him.
He had told himself it was a dream, a mere fantastic illusion of the
brain wrought of the strange atmosphere of the forest; yet, for all
that, the memory of the illusion, if such it was, lingered faintly with
him, caused him to feel no little relief at the sight of the Castle.
Where there is a dwelling, and moreover a lighted dwelling, there are
doubtless human beings, and their presence would be of solace to him.
He crossed the grass sward, his feet striking noiselessly on the soft
surface. Nearing the windows he looked within. Here he saw a large
company seated at a well-furnished board. Glass and silver sparkled on
the table. There were decanters full of red wine, dishes piled with
fruits, flowers purple, scarlet, and orange. The guests themselves lent
brilliance and colour to the scene. Surrounded by a living
flower-wreath, so the board appeared; wind-swayed, sun-kissed, as they
moved in talk and laughter, jewels on head, neck, and arm glittering in
the light.
At the head of the board sat a woman in a robe of orange silk. Her hair,
a tawny gold, bound with a fillet of flaming stones, shone with its own
lustre, rivalled successfully the brilliance of her gown. Her skin,
olive hued, glowed with a very subtle warmth. You guessed her body
possessed of the fires of the South. Her eyes, a purple-blue, looked at
you from beneath dark brows level and very beautifully marked. Her
mouth, curved and modelled like a Greek mouth, squared faintly at the
corners, showing her luxurious. Her nose, straight and finely chiselled,
had delicately arched nostrils. She leaned back in her chair, a great
one of carved ivory, and smiled at the faces around her.
One man sprang to his feet, a pretty youth in purple doublet and hose, a
big amethyst hanging from a silver chain about his neck.
“To Thaïs!” he cried, raising his glass on high. The light shining
through it the wine glowed like a ruby.
The flower-wreath about the table swayed, rose.
“To Thaïs!” came the cry from a score of voices, while ruby-red glasses
flashed aloft.
“The glorious Thaïs!” cried one.
“The divine Thaïs!”
“The adorable Thaïs!”
“The incomparable Thaïs!”
“Thaïs the Enchantress!”
“Thaïs our Venus!”
“Thaïs our Aphrodite!”
“Thaïs whom we worship!”
So the litany went around the board. And Peregrine without mocked in his
heart, deeming them fools, yet in a manner envying them their folly.
The cry died away. Again the guests were seated at the table. Peregrine
drew his tabor from beneath his cloak, a long sombre garment, given him
by an old woman on the third day of his journeying.
“’Tis not well to blazon yourself Jester,” she had said sagely. “An’ men
have the sense to see you so beneath the cloak ’tis other matter. A true
Jester will hide his motley. ’Tis your false fool shows his garb to all
comers. You, I think, are true Jester.” Whereupon she had chuckled very
cunningly.
So Peregrine wore the cloak she had given him, finding wisdom in her
words. Now from beneath it he pulled forth his tabor, stepped into the
shadow of the Castle, touched the strings lightly and set himself to
sing.
_Listen all who fain would know
How a rose began to grow,
Of its blooming I will show,
None can so well as I._
_Planted by a tender smile,
Watered with fair words the while,
Who could guess they were but guile?
None truly less than I._
_Soft it opened in the sun;
Never such a perfect one
Bloomed, I wot, since time begun.
None held so true as I._
_Red the rose and passing sweet,
For a lady’s bosom meet,
There he laid it at her feet.
None saw so well as I._
_But she crushed it ’neath her tread,
Bruised and broke it till it bled;
In the mire it lay, dead, dead.
None laughed as soft as I._
_Roses red and roses white,
Fragrant, full of sweet delight,
One day’s bloom, then falls the night.
None see it dark as I._
_Pluck the roses for your own;
Never to another shown
Crush them soon as fully blown.
None warn you well as I._
The song died away. A figure moved to the window. Backed by brilliant
light it made a dark patch in the square opening.
“Who sings warningly of love?” demanded a voice.
“I do,” said Peregrine through the darkness.
“And who are you, if one may be allowed the question?”
“A wanderer.”
“Truly one who has wandered to good purpose since he finds himself at so
fair a goal. Wilt show yourself, Sir Wanderer?”
Peregrine stepped into the square of light cast upon the grass from the
window. He saw looking out at him a big man clad in scarlet, somewhat
full-bodied. His face, as well as Peregrine could see it against the
light, was sufficiently humorous, with small twinkling eyes deep-set.
“What brought you hither?”
“Fate an’ it please you,” returned Peregrine. “Folly an’ it like you
better.”
“Folly leads not on so good a path. We will call it Fate.”
“At your will.”
“Or perchance it were better to term it good sense.”
“Good sense,” said Peregrine, “having forethought in plenty gives the
surplus of her wares to those she takes in hand. By which token I doubt
me ’twas hers led me hither.”
The big man laughed. “We’ll quarrel not as to the guide. ’Tis good
enough that you are here.”
“Humph!” said Peregrine, “maybe. But now that I am here what comes next
in order?”
“That you enter the Castle.”
“A very friendly suggestion,” quoth Peregrine. “I would however point
out that I bring no letter of credentials.”
The big man laughed again, this time rather queerly. “For that matter
the fact that you have found your way hither is in itself full enough
credential. We are not inhospitable. Also I might suggest that you have
no credential from us.”
Peregrine shrugged his shoulders. “’Twere a pretty thing if a beggar
should demand credentials from the man who gave him alms, or the
wanderer from the man who offered him a shelter. An’ he did so he were a
fool might well go drown in his own folly.”
“And you would swim in your own wisdom, so your words and song would
show.”
“If you judge by words you judge ill,” said Peregrine dryly, “since no
man will own his words folly. It needs your wise man to own himself a
fool, and thereby show his greater wisdom, since he but owns to the
heritage of his birth. And the man who denies himself possessed of
parents is a very patent fool. But to cease quibbling and come to fact.
You see before you a hungry man, a tired man, a foot-sore man. An’ your
hospitality be of deed rather than word I prithee let me experience it
on the instant.”
“With all the will in the world,” said the big man, and he turned from
the window.
The next instant the Castle door was flung wide open. Light streamed
blazing forth. Peregrine stumbled towards it. Blinking he found himself
atop the steps, dazzled by the greater brilliance.
The man in scarlet caught him by the arm.
“You are spent,” he said kindly.
“It would seem so,” said Peregrine, laughing ruefully.
“Drink this.” A glass of wine was held to his lips.
Peregrine pushed it aside. “An’ I drink wine on an empty stomach you
will see a very drunken man.”
“Bah! ’tis not so potent.” Then as Peregrine still pushed the glass
aside, “’Tis our custom, man. All who enter here drink a toast to the
Lady Thaïs on the doorstep, swear her fealty in drinking.”
“You told me not of stipulations,” muttered Peregrine very weary.
“’Tis but an ancient custom, man. There’s no ill in the glass. Drink it,
and cry to Thaïs. ’Twill put new strength into you.”
Thus urged Peregrine took the glass. “To Thaïs!” he said, and sipped the
wine. Very sweet to the palate it ran warm down his throat. “The divine
Thaïs!” he cried laughing, remembering the toast he had heard. He drank
the remainder at a draught, flung the glass to the floor. “Ah!” he said.
“It puts new life in a man. Your name?” he asked on a sudden of the
other.
“They call me Phrixus,” came the answer, “since as a child I escaped
from my stepmother, a very sharp-tongued woman. Truly ’twas by the skin
of my teeth I did so, and on no golden-fleeced ram neither. Phrixus I
have been since, and still am. May I ask a name for a name?”
“Peregrine, at your service. A fool as I dare swear myself. A wanderer
as you have perceived.”
“A lucky wanderer,” quoth the other, and took him by the arm. Very
gently he propelled him towards the great hall.
Pausing a moment on the threshhold Peregrine looked around. The hall was
a riot of colour, a very feast for the sight. A huge place it was; the
centre a great domed arch, golden and set on four columns of black
marble. The walls were hung with tapestries orange and yellow, bordered
with blue and purple most deftly intermingled. So remote were the
tapestries that the figures at the table appeared backgrounded against
sunlight above deep waters. Around were marble statues, works of the
world in the morning of time. Here was Hebe young and slender; Mercury
wing-footed; Atalanta poised swift to run; Faunus half man half goat;
Bacchus vine-wreathed; Apollo, Athene, Venus,—all were there wrought of
voluptuous fancy. Here and there gleamed silver nymphs and dryads,
flashing to seeming life in the red light of the fire which blazed at
the further end of the great hall. Green marble made the floor, spread
with rugs an harmonious blend of colour. Beneath the golden dome was set
the board, and here was movement, life, and laughter.
As Peregrine stood in the doorway with Phrixus beside him, those
opposite it looked up and saw him, the others turned.
“Welcome the new-comer!” The cry rang through the hall, losing itself in
echoes in the golden dome. None could mistake the genuine ring of it.
Peregrine was led forward; kneeling he kissed the hand Thaïs gave him.
“We bid you welcome, Sir,” she said very graciously. And she gave him a
place on her right.
“Will you not lay aside your cloak?” The request very delicately toned
yet held a faint air of command. Willy-nilly Peregrine slipped it from
his shoulders.
“Ha!” laughed Phrixus, “you are Jester. So I might have guessed. Truly
being so you are doubly welcome. Is it not so, friends?”
Again a cry rang loud. “Welcome the Jester!”
“An’ I were not very sure I were waking I should hold myself dreaming,”
mused Peregrine inwardly. Fate to his mind played pretty pranks with a
man’s life, tossed it shuttlecock-like from depths to heights, threw it
from fair earth to stony ground, and then again to very flowery beds.
Here at least was one sufficiently pleasing for the moment. Truly he
would take no thought for the morrow, but enjoy the hour to its full. An
honoured guest he sat there, satisfying his appetite very fully from
silver dishes served to him by pages in white and gold.
The meal ended the board was cleared. It and the trestles on which it
lay were carried away by serving men, rugs rolled aside. At the end of
the hall, somewhat near the great fireplace, was a raised dais. Here the
ivory chair was placed. Thaïs seated in it the company disposed
themselves around her according to will. Peregrine lay at her feet on
sapphire blue cushions soft as eiderdown. Very content with the present
he waited for the next move.
It came. The lights in the hall were extinguished. The moonlight,
falling through the windows, lay along the floor in a silver pathway.
The tapestries at the further end of the hall swung apart. From between
them, down the moonlight path, ran bare-footed girls silken-robed,
veiled, four phalanxes of colour, pale heliotrope shading to deepest
purple; red to fullest crimson; the green of young beech leaves to the
black green of pine trees; maize-colour toning through orange to tawny
brown. A moment they swayed bowing before the dais, then set themselves
to dance, accompanied by music from hidden musicians. Their feet upon
the green marble of the floor were like little white flowers dancing in
breeze-swept meadows. Here was very intoxication of movement, rhythm
perfect in harmony. As they danced they raised their veils. Peregrine
looked on their faces oval, bright-eyed, scarlet-lipped; small heads set
on slim young throats. The very incarnation of youth and joy was
personified in the dance before him. The fleetness of it, the dainty
fragility, brought with it a sense of evanescence. The thought struck
suddenly cold to his heart.
Thaïs bent from her chair towards him.
“How does it please you?” she asked, her breath soft upon his cheek, her
voice like the tone of a muffled silver bell.
“Madam, it pleases me exceeding well,” said Peregrine. Meeting her eyes
he smiled.
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