FATHER ANDREW
None were abroad in the streets of Dunwich on that bitter winter night
when these three trudged wearily down Middlegate Street through the
driving snow to the door of the grey Preceptory of the Knights Templar.
In a window above the porch a light burned dimly, the only one to be
seen in any of the houses round about, for by now all men were abed.
“‘Tis Father Arnold’s room,” said Eve. “He sits there at his books. I’ll
knock and call him, but do you two go lay hold of the ring of the church
door,” and she nodded toward a grey pile that stood near by. “Then none
can touch you, and how know we who may be in this house?”
“I’ll go no step further,” answered Hugh sullenly. “All this Temple
ground is sanctuary, or at least we will risk it.” And, seizing the
knocker, he hammered at the door.
The light in the window vanished, and presently they heard a sound
of creaking bolts. Then the door opened, revealing a tall man,
white-bearded, ancient, and clad in a frayed, furred robe worn over a
priest’s cassock, who held a lantern in his hand.
“Who knocks?” he asked. “Does some soul pass that you disturb me after
curfew?”
“Ay, Father Andrew,” answered Hugh, “souls have passed, and souls are
near to passing. Let us in, and we will tell you all.”
Without waiting for an answer he entered with the others, pushed to the
massive door and bolted it again.
“What’s this? A woman?” said the old priest. “Eve of Clavering, by the
Saints!”
“Yes,” she answered calmly, though her teeth chattered; “Eve of
Clavering, Eve the Red, this time with the blood of men, soaked with the
waters of the Blythe, frozen with the snows of Dunwich Heath, where
she has lain hid for hours with a furze bush for shelter. Eve who seeks
shriving, a dry rag for her back, a morsel for her lips, and fire to
warm her, which in the Name of Christ and of charity she prays you will
not refuse to her.”
So she spoke, and laughed recklessly.
Almost before she had finished her wild words the old man, who looked
what he was, a knight arrayed in priestly robes, had run to a door at
the end of the hall and was calling through it, “Mother Agnes! Mother
Agnes!”
“Be not so hasty, Sir Andrew,” answered a shrill voice. “A posset must
have time to boil. It is meet now that you wear a tonsure that you who
are no longer a centurion should forget these ‘Come, and he cometh,’
ways. When the water’s hot----”
The rest of that speech was lost, for Father Arnold, muttering some word
belonging to his “centurion” days, dived into the kitchen, to reappear
presently dragging a little withered old woman after him who was dressed
in a robe of conventual make.
“Peace, Mother Agnes, peace!” he said. “Take this lady, dry her, array
her in your best gown, give her food, warm her, and bring her back to
me. Short? What care I if the robe be short? Obey, or it will not be
come, and he cometh, but go and she goeth, and then who will shelter one
who talks so much?”
He thrust the pair of them through the kitchen door and, returning, led
Hugh and Grey Dick up a broad oak stair to what had been the guest-hall
of the Preceptory on its first floor.
It was a very great chamber where, before their Order was dispersed, all
the Knights Templar had been wont to dine with those who visited them at
times of festival. Tattered banners still hung among the cobwebs of the
ancient roof, the shields of past masters with stately blazonings were
carved in stone upon the walls. But of all this departed splendour but
little could be seen, since the place was lit only by a single lamp of
whale’s oil and a fire that burned upon the wide stone hearth, a great
fire, since Father Arnold, who had spent many years of his life in the
East, loved warmth.
“Now, Hugh de Cressi,” he said, “what have you done?”
“Slain my cousin, John of Clavering, Father, and perhaps another man.”
“In fair fight, very fair fight,” croaked Grey Dick.
“Who doubts it? Can a de Cressi be a murderer?” asked the priest. “And
you, Richard the Archer, what have you done?”
“Shot a good horse and three bad men dead with arrows--at least they
should be dead--and another through the hand, standing one against
twenty.”
“A gallant--I mean--an evil deed,” broke in the old warrior priest,
“though once it happened to me in a place called Damascus--but you both
are wet, also. Come into my chamber; I can furnish you with garments of
a sort. And, Richard, set that black bow of yours near the fire, but not
too fire. As you should know well, a damp string is ill to draw with.
Nay, fear not to leave it; this is sanctuary, and to make sure I will
lock the doors.”
Half an hour was gone by, and a very strange company had gathered round
the big fire in the guest-chamber of the Temple, eating with appetite of
such food as its scanty larder could provide for them. First there was
Red Eve in a woollen garment, the Sunday wear of Mother Agnes for twenty
years past and more, which reached but little below her knees, and was
shaped like a sack. On her feet were no shoes, and for sole adornment
her curling black hair fell about her shoulders, for so she had arranged
it because the gown would not meet across her bosom. Yet, odd as it
might be, in this costume Eve looked wonderfully beautiful, perhaps
because it was so scant and the leathern strap about her waist caused it
to cling close to her shapely form.
By her stood Hugh, wearing a splendid suit of chain armour. It had been
Sir Andrew Arnold’s in his warlike years, and now he lent it to his
godson Hugh because, as he said, he had nothing else. Also, it may
have crossed the minds of both of them that such mail as this which
the Saracens had forged, if somewhat out of fashion, could still turn
swordcuts.
Then there was Grey Dick, whose garments seemed to consist of a sack
with holes in it tied round him with a rope, his quiver of arrows slung
over it for ornament. He sat by the fire on a stool, oiling his black
bow with a rind of the fat bacon that he had been eating.
All the tale had been told, and Father Arnold looked very grave indeed.
“I have known strange and dreadful stories in my time,” he said, “but
never, I think, one stranger or more dreadful. What would you do now,
godson?”
“Take sanctuary for myself and Grey Dick because of the slaying of John
Clavering and others, and afterward be married by you to Eve.”
“Be married to the sister with the brother’s blood upon your hands
without absolution from the Church or pardon from the King; and you but
a merchant’s younger son and she to-night one of the greatest heiresses
in East Anglia! Why, how may that be?”
“I blame him not,” broke in Eve. “John, whom I never loved, strove to
smoke us out like rats because he was in the pay of the Norman, my Lord
of Acour. John struck Hugh in the face with his hand and slandered him
with his tongue. John was given his life once, and afterwards slain
in fair fight. Oh, I say, I blame him not, nor shall John’s blood rise
between him and me!”
“Yet the world will blame him, and you, too, Eve; yes, even those who
love you both. A while must go by, say a year. At least I’ll not marry
you at once, and cannot, if I would, with both your fathers living and
unadvised, and the sheriff waiting at the gate. Tell me now, do any know
that you have entered here?”
“Nay,” said Dick, looking up from his bow. “The hunt came after us, but
I hid these two in a bush and led it away past Hinton to the Ipswich
road, keeping but just ahead in the snow and talking in three voices.
Then I gave them the slip and returned. They’ll not guess that we have
come to Dunwich for a while.”
“And when they do even the boldest will not enter this holy sanctuary
while the Church has terrors for men’s souls. Yet, here you must not
stay for long, lest in this way or in that your lives pay the price of
it, or a bloody feud break out between the Claverings of Blythburgh and
the de Cressis of Dunwich. Daughter Eve, get you to bed with old Agnes.
You are so weary that you will not mind her snores. To-morrow ere the
dawn I’ll talk with you, and, meanwhile, I have words for Hugh. Nay,
have no fear, the windows are all barred, and Archer Dick shall watch
the door.”
Eve went, unwillingly enough, although she could scarcely walk, flashing
a good-night to her lover with her fine eyes. Presently Grey Dick also
went to sleep, like a dog with one eye open, in the little ante-chamber,
near to the great door.
“Now, Hugh,” said Father Arnold, when they were left alone, “your case
is desperate, for if you stay here certainly these Claverings will have
your blood. Yet, if you can be got away safely, there is still a shaft
that you may shoot more deadly than any that ever left Grey Dick’s
quiver. But yesterday I told you for your comfort--when we spoke of his
wooing of Red Eve--that this Norman, for such he is, although his mother
was English and he was English born, is a traitor to King Edward, whom
he pretends to serve.”
“Ay, and I said as much to him this afternoon when he prated to me of
his knightly honour, and, though I had no time to take note of faces, I
thought he liked it little who answered hotly that I was a liar.”
“I am sorry, Hugh; it may put him on his guard, or perhaps he’ll pay no
heed. At least the words are said, and there’s an end. Now hearken. I
told neither you nor any one all the blackness of his treachery. Have
you guessed what this Acour is here to do?”
“Spy out the King’s power in these parts, I suppose.”
“More than that”--and he dropped his voice to a whisper--“spy out a safe
landing-place for fifty thousand Normans upon our Suffolk coast. They
are to sail hither this coming summer and set the crown of England
upon their Duke John, who will hold it as vassal to his sire, Philip of
France.”
“God’s name! Is that true?”
“Ay, though in such a devil’s business that Name is best left out. Look
you, lad, I had warning from overseas, where, although I am now nothing
but a poor old priest of a broken Order, I still have friends in high
places. Therefore I watched and found that messengers were passing
between Acour and France. One of these messengers, a priest, came a week
ago to Dunwich, and spent the night in a tavern waiting for his ship to
sail in the morning. The good wife who keeps that tavern--ask not her
name--would go far to serve me. That night this priest slept sound,
and while he slept a letter was cut from the lining of his cassock, and
another without writing sewn there in place of it, so that he’ll never
know the difference till he reaches John of Normandy, and then not where
he lost it. Stay, you shall see,” and he went to the wall and from some
secret place behind the hangings produced a writing, which he handed to
Hugh, who looked at it, then gave it back to him, saying:
“Read it to me, Father, English I can spell out, but this French puzzles
my eyes.”
So he read, Hugh listening eagerly to every word:
My Lord Duke:
This by a faithful hand that you know to tell you all goes well with
your Grace’s business, and with that of your royal father. While
pretending to hunt or hawk I have found three places along this seaboard
at any one of which the army can land next summer with little resistance
to fear, for though the land is rich in cattle and corn, the people are
few.
These places of which I have made survey have deep water up to the
beach. I will tell you of them more particularly when I return.
Meanwhile I linger here for sundry reasons, which you know, hoping to
draw those of whom you speak to me to your cause, which, God aiding me,
I shall do, since he of England has wronged one of them and slighted the
others, so that they are bitter against him, and ready to listen to the
promises which I make in your name.
As an excuse for my long stay that has caused doubts in some quarters, I
speak of my Suffolk lands which need my care. Also I court the daughter
of my host here, the Knight of Clavering, a stubborn Englishman who
cannot be won, but a man of great power and repute. This courtship,
which began in jest, has ended in earnest, since the girl is very
haughty and beautiful, and as she will not be played with I propose,
with your good leave, to make her my wife. Her father accepts my suit,
and when he and the brother are out of the way, as doubtless may happen
after your army comes, she will have great possessions.
I thank your Grace for the promise of the wide English lands of which I
spoke to you, and the title that goes with them. These I will do my best
to earn, nor will I ask for them till I kneel before you when you are
crowned King of England at Westminster, as I doubt not God will bring
about before this year is out. I have made a map of the road by which
your army should march on London after landing, and of the towns to be
sacked upon the way thither. This, however, I keep, since although not
one in ten thousand of these English swine can read French, or any other
tongue, should it chance to be lost, all can understand a map. Not that
there is any fear of loss, for who will meddle with a priest who carries
credentials signed by his Holiness himself.
I do homage to your Grace. This written with my hand from Blythburgh, in
Suffolk, on the twentieth day of February, 1346.
Edmund of Noyon.
Father Arnold ceased reading, and Hugh gasped out:
“What a fool is this knave-Count!”
“Most men are, my son, in this way or in that, and the few wise profit
by their folly. Thus this letter, which he thought so safe, will save
England to Edward and his race, you from many dangers, your betrothed
from a marriage which she hates--that is, if you can get safe away with
it from Dunwich.”
“Where to, Father?”
“To King Edward in London, with another that I will write for you ere
the dawn.”
“But is it safe, Father, to trust so precious a thing to me, who have
bitter enemies awaiting me, and may as like as not be crow’s meat by
to-morrow?”
Father Arnold looked at him with his soft and dreamy eyes, then said:
“I think the crow’s not hatched that will pick your bones, Hugh, though
at the last there be crows, or worms, for all of us.”
“Why not, Father? Doubtless, this morning young John of Clavering
thought as much, and now he is in the stake-nets, or food for fishes.”
“Would you like to hear, Hugh, and will you keep it to yourself, even
from Eve?”
“Ay, that I would and will.”
“He’ll think me mad!” muttered the old priest to himself, then went
on aloud as one who takes a sudden resolution. “Well, I’ll tell you,
leaving you to make what you will of a story that till now has been
heard by no living man.”
“Far in the East is the great country that we call Cathay, though in
truth it has many other names, and I alone of all who breathe in England
have visited that land.”
“How did you get there?” asked Hugh, amazed, for though he knew dimly
that Father Arnold had travelled much in his youth, he never dreamed
that he had reached the mystic territories of Cathay, or indeed that
such a place really was except in fable.
“It would take from now till morning to tell, son, nor even then would
you understand the road. It is enough to say that I went on a pilgrimage
to Jerusalem, where our blessed Saviour died. That was the beginning.
Thence I travelled with Arabs to the Red Sea, where wild men made a
slave of me, and we were blown across the Indian Ocean to a beauteous
island named Ceylon, in which all the folk are black.
“From this place I escaped in a vessel called a junk, that brought me
to the town of Singapore. Thence at last, following my star, I came to
Cathay after two years of journeyings. There I dwelt in honour for
three more years, moving from place to place, since never before had its
inhabitants seen a Western man, and they made much of me, always sending
me forward to new cities. So at length I reached the greatest of them
all, which is called Kambaluc, or Peking, and there was the guest of its
Emperor, Timur.
“All the story of my life and adventures yonder I have written down, and
any who will may read it after I am dead. But of these I have no time to
speak, nor have they anything to do with you. Whilst I dwelt in Kambaluc
as the guest of the Emperor Timur, I made study of the religion of this
mighty people, who, I was told, worshipped gods in the shape of men. I
visited a shrine called the Temple of Heaven, hoping that there I should
see such a god who was named Tien, but found in it nothing but splendid
emptiness.
“Then I asked if there was no god that I could see with my eyes,
whereon the Emperor laughed at me and said there was such a god, but
he counselled me not to visit him. I prayed him to suffer me to do so,
since I, who worshipped the only true God, feared no other. Whereon,
growing angry, he commanded some of his servants to ‘take this fool to
the house of Murgh and let him see whether his God could protect him
against Murgh.’ Having said this he bade me farewell, adding that though
every man must meet Murgh once, few met him twice, and therefore he did
not think that he should see me again.
“Now, in my heart I grew afraid, but none would tell me more of this
Murgh or what was likely to happen to me at his hands. Still, I would
not show any fear, and, strong in the faith of Christ, I determined to
look upon this idol, for such I expected him to be.
“That night the servants of Timur bore me out of the city in a litter,
and by the starlight I saw that we travelled toward a hill through great
graveyards, where people were burying their dead. At the foot of the
hill they set me down upon a road, and told me to walk up it, and that
at dawn I should see the House of Murgh, whereof the gates were always
open, and could enter there if I wished. I asked if they would wait for
my return, whereon they answered, smiling, that if I so desired they
would do so till evening, but that it seemed scarcely needful, since
they did not suppose that I should return.
“‘Do yonder pilgrims to the House of Murgh return?’ asked their captain,
pointing towards those graveyards which we had passed.
“I made no answer, but walked forward up a broad and easy road,
unchallenged of any, till I came to what, even in that dim light, I
could see was a great and frowning gateway, whereof the doors appeared
to be open. Now, at first I thought I would pass this gateway at once
and see what lay beyond. But from this I was held back by some great
fear, for which I could find no cause, unless it were bred of what
the Emperor and his servants had said to me. So I remembered their
words--namely, that I should tarry till dawn to enter the house.
“There, then, I tarried, seated on the ground before the gateway, and
feeling as though, yet alive, I had descended among the dead. Indeed,
the silence was that of the dead. No voice spoke, no hound barked, no
leaf stirred. Only far above me I heard a continual soughing, as though
winged souls passed to and fro. Never in my life had I felt so much
alone, never so much afraid.
“At length the dawn broke, and oh, glad was I to see its light, for fear
lest I should die in darkness! Now I saw that I was on a hilltop
where grew great groves of cedar trees, and that set amid them was a
black-tiled temple, surrounded by a wall built of black brick.
“It was not a great place, although the gateway, which was surmounted by
two black dragons of stone or iron, was very great, so great that a tall
ship could have sailed through it and left its arch untouched.
“I kneeled down and prayed to the blessed Saints and the guardian angels
to protect me. Then I arose, crossed myself to scare off all evil things
by that holy sign, and set forward toward the mighty gateway. Oh, never,
never till that hour had I understood how lowly a thing is man! On that
broad road, travelling toward the awful, dragon-guarded arch, beyond
which lay I knew not what, it seemed to me that I was the only man
left in the world, I, whose hour had come to enter the portals of
destruction.
“I passed into the cold shadow of the gateway, unchallenged by any
watchman, and found myself in a courtyard surrounded by a wall also
built of black brick, which had doors in it that seemed to be of dark
stone or iron. Whither these doors led I do not know, since the wall cut
off the sight of any buildings that may have lain beyond. In the centre
of this courtyard was a pool of still, black water, and at the head of
the pool a chair of black marble.”
Sir Andrew paused, and Hugh said:
“A plain place for a temple, Father, without adornments or images. But
perhaps this was the outer court, and the temple stood within.”
“Ay, son, the plainest temple that ever I saw, who have seen many in
all lands, though what was beyond it I do not know. And yet--terrible,
terrible, terrible!--I tell you that those black walls and that black
water were more fearsome to look on than any churchyard vault grim
with bones, or a torture-pit where victims quiver out their souls
midst shrieks and groanings. And yet I could see nothing of which to be
afraid, and hear nothing save that soughing of invisible wings whereof I
have spoken. An empty chair, a pool of water, some walls and doors, and,
above, the quiet sky. What was there to fear in such things as these?
Still, so greatly did I fear that I sank to my knees and began to pray
once more, this time to the blessed Saviour himself, since I was sure
that none else could help me.
“When I looked up again the chair was no longer empty. Hugh, a man sat
in it, of whom I thought at first only one thing--that he must be very
strong, though not bigger than other men. Strength seemed to flow from
him. I should not have wondered if he had placed his hands upon the
massive sides of that stone chair and torn it asunder.”
“What was he like, Father? Samson or Goliath?”
“I never saw either, son, so cannot say. But what was he like? Oh, I
cannot say that either, although still I see him in my heart. My mortal
lips will not tell the likeness of that man, perhaps because he seemed
to be like all men, and yet different from all. He had an iron brow,
beneath which shone deep, cold eyes. He was clean-shaven, or perchance
his face grew no hair. His lips were thick and still and his features
did not change like those of other men. He looked as though he could not
change; as though he had been thus for infinite ages, and yet remained
neither young nor old. As for his dress, he wore a cloak of flaming red,
such a cloak as your Eve loves to wear, and white sandals on his feet.
There was no covering on his shaven head, which gleamed like a skull.
His breast was naked, but across it hung one row of black jewels.
From the sheen of them I think they must have been pearls, which are
sometimes found of that colour in the East. He had no weapon nor staff,
and his hands hung down on either side of the chair.
“For a long while I watched him, but if he saw me he took no note. As
I watched I perceived that birds were coming to and leaving him in
countless numbers, and thought that it must be their wings which made
the constant soughing sound that filled all the still and dreadful air.”
“What kind of birds were they, Father?”
“I am not sure, but I think doves; at least, their flight was straight
and swift like to that of doves. Yet of this I am not sure either,
since I saw each of them for but a second. As they reached the man they
appeared out of nothingness. They were of two colours, snow-white and
coal-black. The white appeared upon his right side, the black upon
his left side. Each bird in those never-ceasing streams hovered for an
instant by his head, the white over his right shoulder, the black over
his left shoulder, as though they whispered a message to his ear, and
having whispered were gone upon their errand.”
“What was that errand, Father?”
“How can I know, as no one ever told me? Yet I will hazard a guess that
it had to do with the mystery of life and death. Souls that were born
into the world, and souls departing from the world, perchance, making
report to one of God’s ministers clothed in flesh. But who can say? At
least I watched those magic fowls till my eyes grew dizzy, and a sort of
slumber began to creep into my brain.
“How long I stayed thus I do not remember, for I had lost all sense of
time. In the end, however, I was awakened by a cold, soft voice, the
sound of which seemed to flow through my veins like ice, that addressed
me in our own rough English tongue, spoken as you and I learned it at
our nurses’ knees.
“‘To what god were you praying just now, Andrew Arnold?’
“‘Oh, sir,’ I answered, ‘how do you, who dwell in Cathay, where I am a
stranger, know my language and my name?’
“He lifted his cold eyes and looked at me, and I felt them pierce into
the depths of my soul. ‘In the same way that I know your heart,’ he
said. ‘But do not ask questions. Answer them, that I may learn whether
you are a true man or a liar.’
“‘I was praying to Christ,’ I faltered, ‘the Saviour of us all.’
“‘A great God, Andrew Arnold, and a pure, though His followers are few
in the world as yet. But do you think that He can save you from Me, as
you were asking Him to do?’
“‘He can save my soul,’ I replied, plucking up courage, who would not
deny the Lord even in a devil’s den.
“‘Ah! your soul. Well, I have nothing to do with souls, except to count
them as they pass through my dominion, and you are quite right to pray
to one of the lords of that into which you go. Now, man, what is your
business with me, and why do you visit one of whom you are so much
afraid?’
“‘O Murgh!’ I began, then ceased, for I knew not what to answer.
“‘So they have told you my name? Now I will tell you one of its
meanings. It is “Gate of the Gods.” Why did you dare to visit Gate of
the Gods? You fear to answer. Listen! You came forth to see some painted
idol, or some bedizened priest muttering rites he does not understand to
that which is not; and lo! you have found that which is behind all idols
and all priests. You sought an incensed and a golden shrine and you
have found only the black and iron portals which every man must pass but
which few desire to enter until they are called. Well, you are young and
strong, come try a fall with Murgh, and when he has thrown you, rise and
choose which of those ways you will,’ and he swept his hand toward the
doors around him. ‘Then forget this world and enter into that which you
have chosen.’
“Now, because I could not help myself, I rose from my knees and
advanced, or was drawn toward that dreadful man. As I came he, too, rose
from his chair, stretching out his arms as a wrestler does, and I knew
that within the circle of those arms lay my death. Still I, who in my
youth was held brave, went on and rushed, striving to clasp him. Next
moment, before ever I touched him--oh, well was it for me that I touched
him not!--some strength seized me and whirled me round and round as a
dead leaf is whirled by the wind, and tossed me up and cast me down and
left me prone and nerveless.
“‘Rise,’ said the cold voice above me, ‘for you are unhurt.’
“So I rose, and felt even then that I who thought that every bone in my
body must be broken, was stronger than I had ever been before. It was as
though the lamp which had burnt low was filled suddenly with a new and
purer oil.
“‘Man,’ said mine adversary, and I thought that in his cold eyes there
was something like a smile, ‘did you think to touch Murgh and live? Did
you think to wrestle with him as in a book of one of your prophets a
certain Jacob wrestled with an angel, and conquered--until it was his
turn to pass the Gate of the Gods?’
“Now I stared at this dweller in Cathay, who spoke my tongue and knew
the tale of Jacob in the ancient Book, then answered:
“‘Sir Murgh, or Sir Gate, or whatever your name may be, I thought to do
nothing. You drew me to you, you challenged me and, since by the rule
of my Order I may refuse no challenge from one who is not a Christian,
I came on to do my best. But before ever I laid hand on you I was cast
down by a wind. That is all the story, save that it has pleased you to
let me live, who evidently could have slain me, for which I thank you.’
“‘You are wrong, Sir Andrew,’ he answered, ‘I did not draw you to me.
Men come to Murgh at their appointed hour; Murgh does not come to them.
You sought him before your hour, and therefore he refused you. Yet you
will meet him again, as all flesh must when its hour comes, and because
you are bold and have not cringed before my strength, for your comfort
I will show you when and how. Stand by me, but lay no hand on me or my
robe, and look into my glass while for a moment, for your sake, I stay
the stream of time and show you what lies beneath its foam that blinds
the eyes of men.’
“He waved his arms and the black doves and the white doves ceased to
appear and disappear, and the eternal soughings of their wings was
silent. He pointed to the water at his feet and I saw, not a picture,
but a scene so real that I could have sworn it was alive about me. Yes,
those who took part in it stood in front of me as though the pool were
solid ground that their feet pressed. _You_ were one of them, son, _you_
were one of them,” and the old knight paused, supporting himself against
the mantel-shelf as though that recollection overcame him.
“What did you see?” whispered Hugh.
“By God’s holy name, I saw the Blythburgh Marshes deep in snow that was
red, blood-red with the light of sunrise. Oh! I could not be mistook,
and there ran the wintry river, there the church tower soared, there
were the frowning, tree-clad banks. There was the rough moorland over
which the east wind piped, for the dead bracken bent before it, and not
twenty paces from me leaped a hare, disturbed suddenly from its form by
a hungry fox, whose red head peeped through the reeds. Yes, yes, I saw
the brute’s white teeth gleam as it licked its disappointed lips, and
I felt glad that its prey had beaten it! When you look upon that scene,
Hugh, as one day you shall, remember the hare and the head of the hungry
fox, and by these judge my truth.”
“A fox and a hare!” broke in Hugh. “I’d show you such to-morrow; was
there no more?”
“Ay, much. For instance, a hollow in the Marsh, an open grave, and an
axe; yes, an axe that had delved it where the bog was soft beneath the
snow. Grey Dick held the axe in one hand and his black bow in the other,
while Red Eve, your Eve, stood at its edge and stared into it like one
in a dream. Then at the head of the grave an old, old man clad in mail
beneath his priestly robes, and that man _myself_, Hugh, grown very
ancient, but still myself, and no other.
“And at the foot of the grave _you_, Hugh de Cressi, you and no other,
wayworn and fierce, but also clad in mail, and wearing a knight’s crest
upon your shield. You with drawn sword in hand, and facing you,
also with drawn sword, rage and despair on his dark face, a stately,
foreign-looking man, whom mine eyes have never seen, but whom I should
know again midst a million, a man who, I think, was doomed to fill the
grave.
“Lastly, standing on a little mound near to the bank of the swirling
river, where jagged sheets of ice ground against each other like the
teeth of the wicked in hell, strangely capped and clad in black, his
arms crossed upon his breast and a light smile in his cold eyes, he who
was called Murgh in Cathay, he who named himself Gateway of the Gods!
“For a moment I saw, then all was gone, and I found myself--I know not
why--walking toward the mighty arch whereon sat the iron dragons. In its
shadow I turned and looked back. There at the head of the pool the man
was seated in his chair, and to right and to left of him came the black
doves and the white doves in countless multitudes, all the thousands
of them that had been stayed in their flight pouring down upon him at
once--or so I thought. They wheeled about his head, they hid his face
from me, and I--I departed into the shadow of the arch, and I saw him
and them no more.”