hurried down the slope, not quite knowing what he was to do, thinking
that at least he would gather as many sheep as he could and drive them
homeward. But there were no sheep to be found. Where so many had been
scattered that afternoon there was now not one. The whole of the Big
Basin seemed suddenly to have emptied of them. Presently, however, he
found a broad trail of trampled snow which he followed, where it led
along a tiny stream at the foot of the bridge. As he turned, he heard
again that long, terrifying howl coming down the wind. The sheep,
perverse enough to scatter to the four winds when their master sought to
drive them in, had now, it seemed, gathered of their own will when so
great a danger threatened. Ted came upon them at last, huddled together
in a little ravine where the sparse undergrowth gave some shelter from
the snow. He could just see them in the dim light, their gray compact
bodies crowded close, their foolish black faces seeming to look
piteously to him for help. They were very quiet, although now and then
they would shift a little, stamp, and move closer. The cry of the wolf
was stilled at last, but not because the fierce marauder was not drawing
nearer.
Yes, as he stood watching, there slipped a swift dark shape over the
opposite edge of the hollow and flung itself upon a straggling ewe on
the outskirts of the flock. It was followed by a second silent shadow,
and a third. The poor sheep gave only one frantic bleat, then all was
still again save for the sound of a hideous snapping and tearing, of a
furious struggle muffled in the soft depths of the snow. Ted raised the
revolver and took careful aim, he pulled the trigger, but no explosion
followed. Michael's improvidence in letting his stock dwindle to only
two cartridges might be counted upon also to have let those two be damp.
Helplessly the boy spun the cylinder and snapped the hammer again and
again, but to no purpose.
The sheep was down now, with one of the savage hunters standing over it,
another tearing at its throat while the third was slipping along the
edge of the flock selecting a fresh victim. Ted's weapon was useless,
yet he must do something, he could not stand and see the whole herd
destroyed before his eyes. Perhaps he could frighten them away as one
could coyotes: he was so angry at this senseless, brutal slaughter that
he lost all sense of prudence. He waved his arms up and down and shouted
at the top of his lungs. He saw the creatures drop their prey and turn
to look up at him. He ran along the slope, still shouting, then, of a
sudden, stepped into an unexpected hollow, lost his balance and fell
headlong. One of the wolves left the flock and came creeping swiftly
toward him, its belly dragging in the snow.
His cry must have carried far in the quiet of the night for it was
answered from a great way off. A deep voice broke the stillness and
another, the call of coursing hounds who have winded their quarry but
have not yet found its trail. And mingled with the barking chorus there
rose high the joyful yelp of a puppy who seeks his beloved master.
Ted, slipping in the snow, struggled to his knees and called again and
again. The stealthy, approaching shadow crept a yard nearer, then paused
to lift a gray muzzle and sniff the air. The second wolf, with
slobbering bloody jaws, turned to listen, the flock of sheep snorted and
stamped in the snow.
A minute passed, then another. The boy managed to get to his feet. Then
across the edge of the hollow, white against the dark underbrush, he saw
the dogs coming, a line of swift, leaping forms, huge, shaggy and
beautiful, their great voices all giving tongue together. Down the slope
they came like an avalanche, only one separating himself from the others
for a moment to fling himself upon Ted, to lick his face in ecstatic
greeting and to rub a cold nose against his cheek. That nimble puppy
nose it was that had lifted the latch of a gate not too securely
fastened, and so set the whole pack free. Then Pedro ran to join his
brothers who were sweeping on to battle. Wolfhounds are taught to catch,
not to kill their quarry, but the thirst for blood was in the hearts of
the dogs of Arran that night. There was only a moment of struggle, a
few choking cries, and the fight was over.
Day broke next morning, clear and bright, with the chinook blowing, the
big warm wind that melts the snows and lays the white hills bare almost
in an hour. Michael Martin, fallen into a proper sleep at last, woke
suddenly and sat up in his bunk. He startled Ted, who, rather stiff and
sore from his night's adventures, was kneeling by the fire preparing
breakfast. The boy came quickly to his patient's side to inquire how he
did.
"It's better I am in body," the Irishman answered; "indeed I begin to
feel almost like a whole man again. But--" he shook his head sadly, "my
poor wits, they're gone away entirely."
Michael sighed deeply.
"After you were gone last night," he answered, "even my wandering senses
had an inkling of what a dangerous errand it was, and I got up from my
bed and stumbled to the window to call you back. Yes, the sickness has
made me daft entirely, for as sure as I live, I saw the white grayhounds
of Connemara go over the hill. But daft or no--" he sniffed at the odor
of frying bacon that rose from the hearth, "I am going to relish my
breakfast this day. Eh, glory me, if there isn't another of the
creatures now!"
For Pedro, once more applying a knowing muzzle to the clumsy latch, had
pushed open the door and stood upon the step, wagging and apologetic,
the morning sun shining behind him. Long-legged and awkward, he stepped
over the threshold and came to the bedside to sniff inquisitively at the
little silver image that lay on the blanket. Michael could never be
persuaded to believe otherwise than that Saint Christopher had brought
him.
[Illustration: WIND AN' WAVE AN' WANDHERIN' FLAME]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 6: Reprinted by permission of the publishers from _The Pool of
Stars_, by Cornelia Meigs. Copyright, 1915, by the Macmillan Company.]
WIND AN' WAVE AN' WANDHERIN' FLAME[7]
("'Tis mindin' somethin' that happened far an' back o' the times o'
the Little People I am. Sure, 'tis meself had nigh on forgot it
entirely, but when all's quiet I'll be afther tellin' it.")
THERE was always battlin' somewhere, back in those days; an' heroes that
fought with sword an' spear--forged far up an' under the rainbow by Len
the Smith, that was mighty in all sorts o' wisdom.
Now one time he was beatin' out a great shield o' gold; an' 'twas
wrought so cunnin' that who turned it over an' laid it on the wather
could step on it an' sail where he would. An' for a device on it he made
roses o' the fine gold, raised far out from it, as they'd been growin'
right there. Almost they seemed wavin' in the wind.
An' as he came to sthrikin' the last blows, his hand slipped, an' his
great hammer went flyin' downward through the air; an' his cry o'
command sent ringin' afther it was too late to hindher.
Now 'twas about toward sunset, an' the waves were beatin' high an' wild
afther storm on the west coast, that Artan, son o' Duallach, that was a
king's son, was huntin' along the coast. All day he'd been tryin' to
keep from the company o' Myrdu, his half-brother, but only by now had he
shaken him off; an' he was runnin' swiftly, for gladness o' bein' alone
with the breeze an' the flyin' spray.
Just as the sinkin' sun touched the sea, he heard the great cryin'-out
o' Len, out o' the North, an' looked up into the deep sky. An' there he
saw, whirlin' down toward him, somethin' first dark an' then bright. Not
a fearin' thought was in him; an' as it came nigh he sprang with hand
stretched out an' caught it --just savin' it from bein' buried in the
beach sand.
The force of its fallin' sent him to his knees, but in a breath he was
on his feet again, lookin' at what he held. Sure, 'twas nothin' less
than a great hammer, glowin' an' darkenin' by turns, as there had been
livin' fire within it.
"What'n ever are ye, then?" cried Artan, out o' the surprise, never
thinkin' on gettin' an answer. Yet thrue an' at once came a whisperin'
like wind in pine forests far off--
"The hammer o' Len."
"An' how'll I get ye back to him, not knowin' where to find him?" asked
Artan. "Sure, the winds must rise up an' blow me to the end o' the
rainbow, where he sits, or I'll never get there at all."
The words were scarce past his lips when down across the hills came a
warm gust o' south wind--the last o' the storm--an' caught him up, still
clingin' to the hammer, an' swept him upwards till he could see naught
for mist an' hurryin' clouds. Then came a feelin' o' sinkin', an' a
sudden jar; an' there he was standin' on green turf, lookin' at white
mountains, risin' higher nor aught he'd seen, an' between him an' them
shimmered the rainbow itself, glowin' all colors in the light o' sunset.
"Ay, 'tis aisy seein' where I am," laughed Artan, startin' toward it
bravely.
For a while he went on, an' at last he came nigh enough to see the
mighty shape o' Len, standin' waitin' at his forge. An' while night was
fast comin' on, an' the stars showin' out in the sky over all, yet the
sunfire was still flamin' up in his smithy, workin' his will at a
word.
If fear had had place in the heart of Artan, then was time for it, when
he saw the deep eyes o' Len, like dark sea-water in caves, lookin' far
an' through him. But never had that come to him, an' without speakin'
he raised the hammer toward the sthrong knotted hand that claimed it.
"Whist, then!" says Len, graspin' it quick for fear the metal was
coolin'. "Say naught till I'm done!" With that he beat an' turned the
shield, an' gave the endin' touches to it. Then, with another big shout,
he hung it on the rainbow, flashin' an' shinin' till men on earth below
saw it for Northern Lights in the night sky.
"How came ye here in me forge, Artan, son o' Duallach?" he cried.
"That I know not," spoke out Artan. "When I held yon hammer in hand, an'
cried on the wind for blowin' me to him that owned it--for no other road
there was for returnin' it--the warm blast came out o' the south an'
caught me up here."
"Ay," laughed Len, deep an' hearty. "The winds are at the will o' him
that handles it; but too great a power is that to be given careless to
mortal man. What reward will ye have, now? Whether gold, or power above
other men, or the fairest o' maids for yer wife?"
Then the blood reddened the face of Artan.
"Naught care I for gold," says he. "An' power over men should be for him
that wins it fair."
"Then 'tis the fairest o' maids ye'll be afther wantin'?" asked Len.
"Have ye seen such a one?"
"Nay," says Artan. "Dark are the faces in the house o' Duallach, an'
little to me likin'."
"Then shall ye have one fair as day," says Len. He turned to where the
shield was hangin', an' from the heart o' that same he plucked a rose o'
the beaten gold, an' gave it to Artan.
"Cast it in the sea surf at sunrise," says he, "callin'
'Darthuil!'--then shall ye have yer reward. But one thing mind. Safely
yer own is she not till first lost an' won back. When ye know not where
to seek aid in searchin', cry on me name at the sea-coast, an' aid will
there be for ye if ye come not too late--wind, wave, an' wandherin'
flame. Never does Len forget. Hold fast yer rose."
As he spoke, again came a gale, chill from the north this time, an'
whirled Artan past cloud an' above surgin' seas, an' left him on the
hilltop above the beach at the last hour before the dawnin'.
Quick Artan hastened down the cliff, still graspin' the golden rose, an'
stood where the little small waves curled over the stones, waitin' for
the first gleam o' the sun to touch the sea. Hours it seemed to him, but
minutes it was in truth, before he caught a long breath, raised the
rose high in air, an' tossed it swift an' sure into the snowy crest of a
green incomin' wave.
"Darthuil!" he cried, an' the cliff echo made a song of it.
As the drops flew upward in the red dawn an' the breaker swept in, there
by his side stood a maid with the gold o' the rose in her hair, an' the
white o' sea-foam in her fair skin, an' the color o' the sunrise in lips
an' cheek. Blither nor spring, he caught her hand an' led her over the
hills to the house o' Duallach, they two singin' for joy o' livin' as
they went.
Now not long had the two been wed (an' welcome were they under the roof
of Duallach), when Myrdu, that was half-brother to Artan, but older nor
him, came back from far huntin', ill-pleased at missin' Artan for his
companion, an' for helpin' him carry the red deer he'd shot.
"'Tis an ill youth," says he, "an' will get no good from lyin' on the
cliff edge an' lettin' the hunt go by."
"Nay," says Duallach, slow to anger. "Fair fortune has he won, an' the
favor o' the gods; an' has brought home a bride, fair as the sun at
noon."
Then was Myrdu half ragin' from bein' jealous; but not wishin' to show
that same, he called for meat an' dhrink to be brought him in the great
hall. An' Artan, wishin' to be friendly like, cried out for Darthuil to
serve his brother. Sure, when Myrdu saw her comin' toward him--shinin'
among the dark lasses o' Duallach's household like a star in the night
sky--fury was in his heart for thinkin' that Artan, bein' younger nor
him, had won what he had not, an' soon he laid plans for stealin' her
from his brother.
'Twas not many days before word o' this came to the ear o' Duallach; an'
he, hatin' strife, bade Artan an' Darthuil take horse an' ride swiftly
southward to the Lough o' the Lone Valley, to dwell on the little island
in it till evil wishes had passed from the heart o' Myrdu. So Artan,
mindin' what Len had foretold, yet thinkin' it wiser not to be afther
losin' Darthuil at all, rode away with her on his left hand when Myrdu
was sleepin' an' not knowin' what was bein' done.
When he roused an' found them gone, an' that none o' the house would say
whither, he was in a fine passion; but he made as if he was afther goin'
huntin', an' took his two fierce hounds an' went off to trace the road
they'd taken. An' sure enough, 'twas not many hours before he was on
their path.
Now safer would it have been had Artan told Darthuil the full raison why
he was takin' her far into the shelter o' forest an' lough o' the
wildherness; but she, trustin' him, asked naught, thinkin' no evil o'
livin' man. So scarce had Artan left her in the low cabin on the island
an' gone off to hunt, than Myrdu pushed through the bushes, leavin' the
hounds on the shore behind, an' floated himself out to the island on a
couple o' logs lashed with a thong o' deer-skin. Ay, but Darthuil was
startled, not dhreamin' why he'd come.
"'Tis Artan is hurt, an' afther sendin' me for ye," says Myrdu, lookin'
down unaisy like, from not wishin' to meet the rare clear eyes o' her.
"Come, an' I'll take ye where he lies."
Not waitin' a moment was Darthuil, then, but hurried doin' as she was
bid, never thinkin' what evil might be in store.
Afther a few hours Artan came back through the trees, an' game a plenty
he'd found. He pulled out his boat o' skins, an' quick paddled back to
the island. But there he found no Darthuil; no, nor any sign o' her save
the little print o' her sandal by the wather's edge.
Then came to his mind the promise o' Len. Never darin' to waste an hour
searchin' by himself, he ferried his horse across to the mainland,
mounted, an' pushed for the sea. Never once did he stop for restin'
till he was standin' where the waves beat over him, where he had cried
on Darthuil, an' she had come to him.
"Len!" he called. "Yer aidin', Len! Darthuil is stolen from me."
There came a rumblin' o' thunder, an' on the shore stood a great figure,
like a pillar o' cloud reachin' half to the sky.
"Never safe yer own till lost an' found, I said," came the deep voice.
"Now I give ye wild servants, a wind an' a wave an' a wandherin' flame
for helpin' ye to bring her safe again. Mind well that each will obey ye
but once, so call on them only when yer sharpest need comes. When ye've
again set the feet o' Darthuil safe in the hall o' Duallach, none can
take her from ye more. Now follow yer love. 'Tis to the Northland has
Myrdu carried her. Let him not pass the White Rocks, or wind an' wave
an' flame will lose power to aid ye. Use yer wit, now, an' use it well."
Artan would have spoken to thank him, but with the last word Len was no
more there; so he mounted again an' turned to the north; an' behind him
came the wind, whisperin' over the grass; an' the wave, runnin' up the
sthream near at hand; an' the flame, creepin' among dhry leaves, but
settin' fire to naught else, its time not bein' come.
Together they all thraveled the betther part of a long day, an' late on
Artan saw dust risin' ahead. 'Twas a cloud that Myrdu had raised to hide
the way he was goin', an' beyond it he was ridin', carryin' Darthuil
before him on his saddle o' skins, with the two hounds lopin' along
beside to fright her from tryin' to escape, an' to give warnin' of any
followin'; while not many miles ahead were the White Rocks, that he was
pushin' to reach.
On hurried Artan, but his horse was wearied, an' little head could he
make. Moreover, the cloud o' dust left him uncertain o' what was hid. So
he thought well, an' chose wind to serve him first.
"Go on, an' blow the dust far away, whisperin' courage to Darthuil the
while," says he. An' at once the wind sped far ahead, obeyin' his
command. When the two dogs felt it touch them, they cowered low; but
Darthuil took heart, knowin' that help was at hand. An' the dust was no
more hidin' her from Artan, so she waved her hand an' called aloud to
him to ride in haste.
Then Myrdu, fearin' that he might yet lose her, threw a handful o' twigs
behind him in the road; an' fallin' they turned into dead trees,
stoppin' the way on all sides. But Artan well knew the way to clear his
path.
"Go forward!" he cried to the wandherin' flame, "an' leave not a trace
o' them!" As he spoke, the flame swept up high in air, roarin' an'
smokin'; an' in half an instant naught remained o' the logs but a pile
o' smoldherin' ashes. But still was Myrdu fast nearin' his goal, an' had
one thing more for helpin'.
He dropped a little sharp knife in the roadway; an' as it fell, it cut
into the dust, an' there opened a wide, terrible chasm, not to be
crossed by horse nor man. Then Artan grew clear desperate.
"Wave!" he shouted, "bring Darthuil to me!"
Up then it rose, rollin' forward like flood-tide in spring; an' it
filled the gulf, an' swept away dogs an' horse an' Myrdu himself, that
none were heard of from that on; but Darthuil it floated gentle like, as
she had been a tuft o' thistle-down, back to Artan, waitin' for her.
He caught her an' clasped her close, an' turned his horse, an' never
halted till he led her safe into the hall o' Duallach, where none might
steal her from him again. An' there they lived happy all their lives.
But as for the wind an' the wave an' the wandherin' flame, so sweet an'
fair was Darthuil that ne'er would they go from her to return to Len. To
the last o' her life the wind blew soft for her when 'twas overly hot
elsewhere, an' clear cool wather flowed up from the ground to save her
dhrawin' any from the river, an' fire burned bright on her hearth
without need o' plenishin'; an' all that for the love o' Darthuil, that
was made by Len out o' the foam tossed by the wind from the sea-wave,
an' the wandherin' flame o' the sunrise.
[Illustration: THE KING, THE QUEEN, AND THE BEE]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 7: Reprinted by special permission from _The Sons O' Cormac_,
by Aldis Dunbar. Copyright, 1920, by E. P. Dutton & Company.]
THE KING, THE QUEEN, AND THE BEE[8]
ON a bright summer's day, when the sun beat down fiercely upon the heads
of the people, King Solomon sought the shade of one of his favorite
gardens. But even where the foliage on the trees was so thick that it
seemed the sun's rays could not penetrate, it was also hot. Not a breath
of air was there to fan the monarch's cheek, and he lay down on the
thick grass and gazed through the branches of the trees at the blue sky.
"This great heat makes me weary," said the King, and in a few minutes he
had quietly fallen into a deep sleep.
All was still in the beautiful garden, except for the sound of a few
humming birds, the twittering of the moths whose many-colored wings
looked more beautiful than ever in the bright sunshine, and the buzzing
of the bees. But even these sounds grew still as the fierce rays from
the sky grew hotter until all nature seemed hushed to rest. Only one
tiny bee was left moving in the garden. It flew steadily from flower to
flower, sipping the honey, until at length it began to feel overcome by
the heat.
"Oh, dear! I wonder what is the matter with me," buzzed the little bee.
"This is the first time I have come out of the hive, and I do feel
queer. I hope I am not going to faint."
The little bee felt giddy, and after flying round and round dizzily for
a few minutes it fell and dropped right on to King Solomon's nose.
Immediately the King awoke with such a start that the little bee was
frightened almost out of its wits and flew straight back to the hive.
King Solomon sat up and looked round to see what it was that had
awakened him so rudely. He felt a strange pain at the tip of his nose.
He rubbed it with his royal forefinger, but the pain increased.
Attendants came rushing towards him and asked him what was the matter.
"I must have been stung on the nose by a bee," said the King angrily.
"Send for the Lord High Physician and the Keeper of the Court Plaister
immediately. I cannot have a blister on the tip of my nose. To-morrow I
am to be visited by the Queen of Sheba, and it will not do to have a
swollen nose tied up in a sling."
The Lord High Physician came with his many assistants, each carrying a
box of ointment, or lint, or some other preparation which might be
required. King Solomon's nose, and especially the tip of it, was
examined most carefully through a microscope.
"It is almost nothing," said the Lord High Physician reassuringly. "It
is just a tiny sting from a very little bee which did not leave its
sting in the wound. It will be healed in an hour or two and the Queen of
Sheba will not be able to notice that anything at all is the matter
to-morrow."
"But meanwhile it smarts," said King Solomon. "I am seriously annoyed
with the little bee. How dared it sting me, King Solomon, monarch of all
living things on earth, in the air and in the waters. Knows it not that
I am its Royal Master to whom all homage and respect is due?"
The pain soon ceased, but His Majesty did not like the smell of the
greasy ointment which was put on his nose, and he determined that the
bee should be brought before him for trial.
"Place the impudent little bee under arrest at once," he commanded, "and
bring it before me so that I may hear what it has to say."
"But I know it not," returned the Lord High Chamberlain, to whom the
command was given.
"Then summon the Queen bee before me in an hour and bid her bring the
culprit," answered the monarch. "Tell her that I shall hold all the bees
guilty until the saucy little offender is produced before me."
The order was carried to the hive by one of the butterflies in
attendance on the King and spread consternation among the bees. Such a
buzzing there was that the butterfly said:
"Stop making that noise. If the King hears you, it will only make
matters worse."
The Queen bee promised to obey King Solomon's command, and in an hour
she made her appearance in state before the great throne. Slowly and
with much pomp, the Queen bee made her way to King Solomon. She was the
largest of the bees and was escorted by a bodyguard of twelve female
bees who cleared the way before her, walking backwards and bowing
constantly with their faces to her.
King Solomon was surrounded by all his Court which included living
beings, fairies, demons, spirits, goblins, animals, birds and insects.
All raised their voices in a loud hurrah when His Majesty took his seat
on the Throne, and a very strange noise the Court made. The lions
roared, the serpents hissed, the birds chirped, the fairies sang and the
demons howled. The goblins that had no voices could only grin.
"Silence!" cried a herald. "The Queen bee is requested to stand forth."
Still attended by her twelve guards, the Queen bee approached the foot
of the Throne and made obeisance to King Solomon.
"I, thy slave, the Queen bee," she buzzed, "am here at thy bidding,
mighty ruler, great and wise. Command and thou shalt be obeyed."
"It is well," replied Solomon. "Hast thou brought with thee the culprit,
the bee that did dare to attack my nose with its sting?"
"I have, your Majesty," answered the Queen bee. "It is a young bee that
this day did leave the hive for the first time. It has confessed to me.
It did not attack your Majesty wilfully, but by accident, owing to
giddiness caused by the heat, and it could not have injured your Majesty
seriously, because it left not its sting in the wound. Be merciful,
gracious King."
"Fear not my judgment," said the King. "Bid the bee stand forth."
Tremblingly, the little bee stood at the foot of the Throne and bowed
three times to King Solomon.
"Knowest thou not," said the King, "that I am thy royal master whose
person must be held sacred by all living things?"
"Yes, gracious Majesty," buzzed the bee. "Thy slave is aware of this. It
was but an accident, and it is the nature of thy slave, the bee, who is
in duty bound to obey thy laws, to thrust forth its sting when in
danger. I thought I was in danger when I fell."