“Do not make a great keening
For the graves that are dug to-morrow.”
_Yeats._
It was the evening of the second day; he was lying on the grass by the
spring, the fingers of his left hand just touching the surface of the
water; his right arm had been bleeding again and he was half asleep,
very weak, and giddy when he lifted his head. Every time he opened his
eyes a long bit of the day had passed; the sun was still on the top of
the little crag when he had looked up last; he could not have slept for
more than an hour or so, but yet when he awoke it was evening, the fairy
evening on Crabland. And the fairy of the spring was standing on the
opposite side of the trickle, looking out to sea, just as he had always
thought of her, tall and slender and young, with loose hair; he could
not raise himself to do her homage, but she turned her head towards him;
their eyes met, she was Fiommar after all.
Quickly and skilfully she bound up his arm with the torn hem of her
dress; he told her what had happened, ending up with: “What are you
doing here, Fiommar?”
She hesitated: “Well, I’ve always told you things, after all; I’m come
here to kill myself.”
He caught her hands, pulled her over on to the top of him, kissed her
furiously: “Fiommar, why, why?”
She loosed herself gently: “That’ll mean telling you everything.
Meromic, are you hungry?”
“I’ve not had food for two days.”
“Oh, if I’d only known I’d find you! But wait, I’ll see----”
She ran down to the beach, to her boat; there was a hard crust of bread
under the seat, left over from some earlier fishing expedition and half
soaked with sea water, and a piece of cheese; she brought them, her
brother ate hungrily and sat up: “Now, tell me everything!”
“You know the battle was lost. I think five ships alone came to land,
with most of the crews killed; I’ve been helping with the wounded since
then. That must be the end, mustn’t it? Look, Meromic, look round the
bay: north and south and east the Romans are camped along the cliffs;
there’s no place we can call our own, no place to go on living in, no
place to die in except this island of ours.”
“But, Fiommar--surely--where’s father?”
“Dear, he’s dead. The Roman commander decreed the death of all the
Council; they were taken by armed men in the Council-house; our father
is dead by the Roman axes. You are the Wolf now.”
“Father dead! And all in two days. But you, dear sister, little sister,
is there no kinsman to take you--one of the uncles?”
“It’s the same everywhere; they’re flying or dead; you don’t think these
Romans respect a Druid, do you? Our cousins: I don’t know what’s come to
them all; I don’t even care. Life’s come to a turning-place--I can’t
look back. They say Molhir escaped; he may have. But I had no time to
lose to-day; their soldiers were coming. I knew at least I didn’t want
to be taken alive. I took my knife and my boat, and rowed out here. I
never thought I’d see you again.”
“Are we to die together, then?”
“I don’t see why you must, Meromic. Only: what will you do? Even if you
could get round out of the bay and past their camps, there’s no army
left, no town, no ships; all the allies are surrendering and, God knows,
I don’t blame them: it’s all too much to bear.”
“I might try it, all the same, if my arm weren’t hurt; but this boat of
yours wouldn’t stand the waves outside. If only you’d brought a big one!
I suppose they’d all gone, though. Well, it can’t be helped. But I
couldn’t swim again, I know. You’re sure they’re all round the bay?”
“Yes. You’d have to give yourself up. Only--they say--it’s because of
our having imprisoned their officers----”
“Well--what?”
“The Romans are going to sell every one who surrenders--sell them as
slaves.”
“That looks like my dying too. Fiommar, what is it, death? Shall we go
to the Far Isle? Or shall we stay here, ghosts along the beaches? Or is
it all a lie and there’s nothing afterwards?”
Fiommar shook her head: “I don’t know. Only I’m quite sure it’ll be
better for me than living as a slave, even if it’s black sleep. But
you’re a man: life may hold something for you still; and besides,
you’re the last of us left, the only hope for the name of the Wolf to
go on. Meromic, I think you should surrender.”
He twisted about on the grass, unable to make up his mind; in spite of
the wound, he still felt intensely alive, conscious of his strong,
unused body. He rubbed his hand over the yet warm surface of the rock,
which crumbled away in powder, he picked up a pebble between his toes.
No, the truth was that he didn’t want to die. But wasn’t part of this
exquisite life-feeling to be free, able to do what one liked with those
willing limbs? And glory: wasn’t that all part of it too--would he care
to go on if his nation was broken and scattered, if no one minded when
they heard he was a man of the Veneti? And mustn’t it be terrible being
a slave, the Pride of the Islands no more? Only there was something in
oneself that went on through it all, something that would make even
suffering more worth while than death. And the waves were so beautiful,
so regular, and the falling dusk infinitely tender: he could not leave
it yet!
Fiommar watched his face reflecting the thought; she understood. But her
own mind was made up; she had passed the time when one could hope. “Wait
till to-morrow morning,” she said.
“Very well; you’ll wait too?”
“Surely.”
But food, he must have food; she went light-foot over the crest of the
ridge to where in a hollow the wild goats were settling to sleep; here
she drew her knife and slid on her face over the noiseless turf. She
caught and killed a kid, and brought it back over her shoulder, then
made a fire by rubbing two dry sticks together, with tinder from an old
gull’s nest. The fire crackled up between two rocks; she knelt beside
it, roasting the meat on a green stick of tamarisk; the flames flickered
over her brother’s face and neck, and she felt it would be wrong for him
to die. They ate almost in silence, she not wanting to disturb the
balance of her mind, he feeling that when there was only bad news to be
got, it was better to ask no questions. Then she lay down with both
hands under her cheek and her hair loose in the moonlight, and she slept
all night. He wandered about the island, stumbling down illusive slopes,
rousing the birds or the goats, coming out of tangled bushes on to the
edge of the cliff, with the calm, solid-looking sea--the sea that had
betrayed them--stretching away below. But at last, after moon-set, he
had come back, not thinking to sleep, but slept, and woke to see Fiommar
cutting up the kid to roast for him again. For a moment, even, he had
forgotten how things were, he only thought how lovely to be alone with
Fiommar, in the morning, on Crabland, the plan of their childhood coming
true! Then he remembered.
They went down together to the beach, Fiommar put the sail ready for him
to hoist, and tied the rope in an easy knot that he could loosen with
one hand; she was taking it for granted now that he was going back, and
he himself thought no more of dying. Then she said, “I want to lie out
on the high ridge here; if I get the turfs up now, will you throw them
over me?” They prised them up with pointed sticks and his sword; the
earth was brown and damp and pleasant-smelling under the layer of
roots. It was soon done. They sat down on the pile; from that height
they could see quite plainly how the currents were setting for miles all
round them, and the fringe of foam on the rocks, pieces of drifting
wreckage, cloud shadows sweeping purple over the flecked blue, and then,
on the mainland, here and there, a wisp of smoke; their own house was
just visible to long practised eyes, a tiny gleam of sunshine on white
walls. Fiommar drew her knife. Meromic caught her to him, with his left
arm, sobbing, “Don’t, don’t!” She pulled his head down on to her breast
and held him tight, stroking his hair and singing:
“Good-bye, my darling,
Oh good-bye, my brother!
Husband or child would
Be only another.
Good-bye the islands,
The land that I love,
Good-bye my house with
It’s grey roof above!
Good-bye the hearthstone,
The fire, the smoke,
Good-bye for ever
My desolate folk!
Good-bye the sun
And the wind and the rain!
When I am dead
I shall come back again.
Now death is chosen
The dying is nought;
Honour’s un-ending
But sorrow is short.
I must make ready,
For soon I shall see
Father and friends who
Are waiting for me!”
Meromic, with his eyes shut, warm against his sister’s soft
heart-beating, felt her suddenly quiver all over; he looked up; she
smiled at him with all the colour ebbing out of her cheeks; her hands
fluttered for a moment over his face; she fell on her side. From the
slope below, the wild goats bleated faintly together; a tuft of
thistle-down blew across Fiommar’s hair; she seemed to sink lower into
the turf. He bent over her, looking at her closely; he had never seen
before just how her lip crooked up at the corner, nor how the fine downy
hairs joined her eyebrows in the middle: well, he would remember. He
picked up her hand where it lay, palm upward on the grass; but it was
heavy, it dropped from the wrist; he shivered: this was not his sister.
He put his arm under to drag her over to her place, and he felt the hilt
of the knife driven in by a firm hand; the blood was sticky on her
dress, he folded it under her; at first he could not make her lie
straight, she was all tumbled by the fall, but at last he got her lying
along with her arms at her sides and her hair over her shoulders, like a
princess in a fairy-tale. Slowly he brought the turfs from the pile; he
laid them on, covering her face last; it was like a game--surely she
must jump up soon and scatter them, the turfs they had cut together! But
the sun shone, the gulls tossed above them in the high air, the sea
washed up and down the beach below, and there was earth on her hair, on
her cheeks, on her eyelids....
Now when he had laid down the last turfs it was past noon, and the wind
was not very strong; so it seemed time to go. He went first to the
spring and stood there, listening to the splashy drip, as he had done a
hundred times before; then he took the gold rings off his fingers and
the gold bracelets off his arms, and dropped them on to the moss; the
necklace too, he laid off and left there, for whatever God or man should
find it; he made patterns, arranging and re-arranging them, trying to
think of nothing else. But he had to go down to the beach; he waded out
to the boat and untied the rope with the easy knot, hardly able to
believe that those quick hands of his sister’s were already helpless.
There was a slight swell; he poled the boat out past the rocks, and set
the sail as well as he could.
For the first hour he could still see the raised mound on the high ridge
of Crabland, and all his thoughts were with it. But, after that, his
interest turned to the nearing shore, first the smoke of burnt houses
where he had danced and feasted in old days, then the familiar outlines
of field and heath destroyed by the square lines of the Roman camps,
then moving figures on the shore. He had to choose a landing-place, and
chose the furthest; it would be unbearable to land this time at his own
cove, and while he was in the boat he was yet unconquered. The far beach
was almost empty; he knew the shelving sands well of old; now he was
rocking among the small, light-crested waves, he let down the sail. The
little boat grounded; he slipped out, half capsizing her, drew his sword
left-handed, and jabbed a narrow slit through the leather bottom; the
sea-water soaked in; Fiommar’s boat would be drawn out with the tide and
sink in a little, and never have a Roman hand laid on her.
He stood on the wet, hard sand, pressing into it with his toes,
frightfully conscious of this last time, trying to get a picture into
his mind to take away with him wherever he might go, holding on to every
detail: the sea-weed blown across the beach, full of white sand-hoppers;
a rock new fallen from the cliff, with still a tuft of samphire clinging
to it, waiting to be knocked off by the next storm; a star-fish left
high and dry by the tide, feebly lifting its arms--he threw it back into
the water, but it was only washed up again; a sea-gull sweeping,
curiously, over the half-sunken boat: one more look out to sea, where
Crabland was hidden behind the other islands, his secret for all time.
Then, taking a deep breath, he turned and walked up the beach.
Two or three legionaries were at work, mending a boat, under the edge of
the cliff; they did not notice him; he went on. The yellow vetches had
been crushed under enemy feet: now it was his turn. He wanted to find an
officer. There was a handful of men marching quickly towards him along
the track in the heather, a centurion at their head; Meromic waited,
standing very still, till they were level with him, and gathered up his
courage and his best Latin accent: “I want to surrender myself.” The
centurion glowered at him: “Go up to the camp; I’ve no time to waste.
Get on, men!” And Meromic was left with his effort wasted, and a curious
feeling of disappointment, partly that it was all to be done again,
partly that here, in his own land, no one knew that he had any
importance.
Would it, after all, be possible to escape? He looked inland and up:
there was a new sky-line of earth-work and palisade. Even if he could
get past them--what? His wound hurt him; he was tired already; there was
no telling how far off the nearest of the flying army might be, or
whether they would ever fight again. He could see the helmets of the
Roman sentries going up and down, up and down: it was hopeless.
He went on towards the camp, following the heather track carefully, not
cutting corners, nor stepping over stones where he might go round. Once
in sight, he felt oddly shy and hesitated at the corner, pulling the dry
dodder out of the whins with his left hand. Two officers came towards
him, talking; he caught the eye of one of them.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve come to give myself up.”
“Oh, very well.”
He offered the gold-hilted sword, Ar-roud, and looked away when the
Roman took it.
“You’ve hurt your arm?”
“Yes, I was on a ship.”
“Ah. You’d better come along to the tents. What’s your name?”
“Meromic, son of Kormiac.”
The Roman looked a little impressed: that was something; and a little
sorry for him too. “I suppose you know your father’s been executed as
one of the Council?”
“I did know.”
“It had to be done. Now, follow me.” The officers turned off towards the
camp, Meromic with them, glad in a way to have taken the final step.
* * * * *
A week later the weather had turned chilly; those who could were
crouching under the shelter of the turf wall; Meromic leaned back
against it, trying to shift the chains a little where they had already
scraped the skin off his ankles. From time to time the crowd of
prisoners would be swept by some rumour of what was going to happen to
them. The auctioneer’s table and chair, his clerks with their ink-pots
and unrolled accounts, and the ring of buyers, were all in the centre of
the field. It was almost impossible to hear what was going on, and every
ten, as they were bought, were taken off to the other side. But there
were a few children, and some of the Gallic auxiliaries could be
questioned. It appeared that there were five or six dealers from the
South, who were buying in the best to take away; of the rest, some were
going to the soldiers, some to the emigrants--a hard fate, that, to have
to work as a slave on your own land for the conqueror!
Another batch of ten were being called up; Meromic got to his feet; they
trailed across the mud, dragging their chains; some of them were quite
badly wounded, one fell down and was sick, but he was prodded on and up
to the table, with his face green. Some one arranged them, hastily
pushing Meromic in front, where he stood very straight and glared at the
dealers. One of them started the bidding, it went up; he tried vainly to
see where the voices came from; it hung for a moment, the hammer fell
once, a new voice took it up, the auctioneer turned respectfully; it was
the officer he had surrendered to who pushed forward and looked him up
and down--obviously the attraction. One of the dealers was bidding
again, then the officer--if only it could be him! For a moment the sun
came out, a watery gleam on the big, crowded field, a burnish on the
armour, a new tone of gold in Meromic’s hair; the dealer saw him in his
mind’s eye, looking just like that on a dull day in the market, he sent
the bidding up again. The officer shook his head and stepped aside, the
hammer fell, and Meromic choked back tears of disappointment.
The dealer fussed after his group, and at once sold off about half of
them, singly, to soldiers or colonists. The rest were put into a barn
for the night; the chains--government property--were taken off, and new
ones fitted on. Meromic saw no one he knew, no one of his own sort; they
were men-at-arms, cottagers, many of them not even freeborn: but what
difference did that make now? There was a fire in the middle of the barn
which lighted it up when the door was shut; at the other end a few women
huddled together, one of them moaning over and over again on the same
low, tearing note. A centurion came in and bargained for three or four
strong workers, then put his brand into the fire to heat, chatting,
meanwhile, with the dealer, and scratching his head. The men he had
bought were thrown on the ground, struggling, and Meromic watched,
horrified, as the brand was pressed down and held; the fourth man was
difficult to keep still, and they wanted help. “Here, you!” the
centurion called to Meromic, “you look a tough lad; come and sit on his
legs!” “No!” said he indignantly, not moving. They found some one else,
but when the branding was over, all but the smell of singed flesh, the
dealer came up to him with a whip. Meromic crouched, turning his hurt
arm and shoulder to the floor; for a moment he remembered being a tiny
boy at school, and the white-robed Druids; but they never hurt much,
they were too old; this did hurt--the dealer knew all about screening
wounds, and acted accordingly.
Seeing the officer talking to his master the next morning, he hoped he
was going to change hands, as they came near he was almost sure of it.
But no: the dealer wanted too much for him, nearly half what a pack pony
would cost. A few kind words to him, a whisper to the dealer that he
just caught, warning him that this particular sort of barbarian was
given to suicide, and the officer was gone.
South-east they went, about sixty of them, all chained together, the
dealer and his men riding beside them and forcing the pace with words
and whip: they must try and be early in the market, soon it would be
flooded with Gauls. At first the country was scarred with war, but by
the end of the first week they were out of it. He tried to make friends
with the men he was chained to, but it was not much use; they were
deadened and crushed and could speak of nothing but the road, dust or
rain, the shelter at night, the food, the fire; besides, they were
always being shifted, and from time to time one would be sold. Once he
did find a man who could talk, but it was all about women, and strictly
anatomical at that, so the romantic nineteen-year-old liked it still
less. Another thing was that Meromic was naturally clean, after the
fashion of a Gallic chief, but his companions were not, even if they’d
had the chance of being. He got perfectly used after a time to the smell
of dust and sweat and dirty wounds; but he rather hated that amount of
lice.
The towns were more plentiful as they came into southern Gaul; buyers
were many and prices were going up; usually he did not know the names of
the towns, but once in a crowded market-place he asked a child, and was
told Curdun. And he might have known: two riders were coming straight
towards him, their tartan cloaks with little golden apples at the
corners hanging over their horses’ flanks, their necks and arms gay with
twisted gold and enamel. Ardorix of Curdun reined in his horse and
stared. Meromic turned away too late; he heard the light mocking voice
that he remembered so well from the Assemblies: “And what are you doing
in this company, Meromic? I suppose you were in the sea-fight--yes? Of
course I could have told you how it was bound to end, but you
Northerners won’t take advice.”
Meromic was furious: “At least it was better than sitting down here like
dogs and taking orders from your masters!”
Ardorix laughed: “I wouldn’t say too much about masters if I were you.
Do you want me to buy you?”
“Indeed and I do not!”
“Well, well, you needn’t get angry about it. They don’t seem to have
branded you yet; you’ve got that to look forward to. I hear Italy’s the
great place for floggings now; I’d have treated you better.”
He moved off; Caltane stayed behind for a moment: “Are you sure you
don’t want to be bought, Meromic? I will myself if you choose.”
“No, thanks, Caltane,” said the other. “I’m going through with it now.
And I tell you this, I’d sooner obey a Roman than an Arvernian any day;
I don’t like half-and-halfs!”
Caltane rode on too, and Meromic simmered with rage, while his
fellow-slaves looked at him, not understanding in the least.
Five minutes afterwards the two cousins came back with a big basket they
had just bought. There was fruit in it, bloomy on green leaves, cheese,
cream, eggs and white bread, all the things Meromic had not seen for
months and, naturally, longed for. But he drew back.
“No, go on, take it!” said Caltane; “I know you must be feeling bad
enough. After all”--and he blushed hotly--“we’re fellow Gauls.”
Meromic took the basket at that, and shared it religiously with the
others, because he had not yet learnt the slave’s lesson of grab, and
they left Curdun behind them the same afternoon.
One day they came in sight of the sea again and were all sent down to
bathe. Meromic had never seen a sea like this--it seemed to be always
calm and there were no tides. The road went beside for some days; but
even the flowers and sea-gulls were different. The worst of this part of
the journey was that they had very little to eat except chestnuts, which
were nice at first, but upsetting as sole diet to these meat-eaters of
Gaul.
There was a good deal of buying and selling done in the towns and
villages about here; twenty of the Gauls were left in the gang that
trailed steadily down towards the Capital, and perhaps a dozen others,
Spaniards, Dalmatians and Greeks, were added to them. They did most of
the journey early in the morning or through the cooling evening when the
glow-worms shone at the road edge. Meromic’s wound had healed cleanly,
and gave him little pain; but somehow he found the arm was almost
useless still, and there were two fingers he could not move; he did not
know, of course, that a nerve was cut and must join up again before his
arm could get right.
During these steady marches south his mind was fairly much at peace;
there was nothing he could do yet to alter his position and he was
perfectly vague about the future. He must wait, wait till they were
there, at Rome. Overhead the new, bright stars crowded the sky; the road
stretched straight and white ahead, to Rome. He could endure, wondering
what would happen to him, who he would find, at Rome. Surely a new life
would begin, he was not broken yet, he could hope still--oh,
marvellously, though what he hoped for he could not tell.
It was on one of these evenings that they saw at last the glare over a
great city, far ahead of them in the sky. Their master hurried them on
anxiously. The next day they were staring about them at the great walls,
the fine houses, and the shops along the streets.
They found that their master was only the agent of another man, a Greek
merchant on a really large scale. They were handed over to him; their
clothes were burnt, they were washed, rather forcibly; their hair was
cut to a decent length, which the two or three Belgians hated, as it was
geas for them to cut hair or beard, and they were well fed and given a
good night’s rest before they were taken out into the market.
The merchant was an artist in his way; he arranged those naked young
bodies as carefully as a sculptor, to give every possible value to
strong limbs and beauty of face or form. Of course this was only worth
while for a few of the slaves; most of them were chained in rows like so
many cattle, and the best-looking women would usually be shown only to
prospective purchasers inside the shop. The merchant, poor man, had a
real admiration for these six-foot barbarians, and regretted quite
intensely that when they passed through his hands first they were almost
always far too wild to get into the classical poses he would have liked
so much; they fought and struggled and had to be chained, his beautiful
groups were spoilt: an unsatisfactory life, indeed!
It was a fine morning, but fresh, almost chilly, as they were driven
out, whispering to one another, to take their places; six of them were
chosen for the “window-dressing”: a brown-haired Spanish boy of about
twelve, Meromic and three other Gauls, and a German, even bigger and
fairer than the others. There was a great block of stone, four feet high
and perhaps twelve in length, faced with grey marble and with staples
for chains at back and sides, standing in front of the bound ranks; they
were told to get up. At this the German turned and fought, biting
because his hands were tied; the merchant did not want to have
whip-marks too obvious on him that day, so they twisted a thick cloth
tight over his nose and mouth, and only let it go when he was getting
blue in the face, trembling and obedient. He was put in the centre of
the group, chained very securely in case he had the same fit again. The
boy, who was much too frightened to need chaining, was made to sit at
his feet, leaning back on one hand and dangling his legs over the front
of the block. Two of the Gauls were put at each side of the German; how
their master wished he could make them into pairs of wrestlers or
disc-throwers! The lines of their bodies looked so hopelessly stiff and
wooden in this uncompromising attitude of hands fast behind surly backs!
He made them lift one foot on to a block, turn their heads, kneel--he
tried making one of them lie down; but he couldn’t get them right. Such
good material too--but they were taking a third of their price off,
looking like that!
He grew impatient, his customers would be coming soon; he had a
brilliant idea, collected ten jet-black and shining Africans, all of the
same height and looks, and stood them, close together, along the back of
the block: a perfect background if he could only get the others to go
into the picture he had in his mind’s eye. At last, almost by accident,
he got the two on the left into a tolerable position, with all four
hands chained rather loosely together and their fair, defiant heads high
above the fast-filling market-place. But he wanted something different
for the other two; the German might fetch a fancy price, possibly for
the arena, but Meromic was really the pick of the bunch, able, as he
was, to speak and read Latin, and he should be shown off properly. He
was particularly hard to deal with, you put him into a pose, but every
bone and muscle seemed to parody it! At last two poles were run into the
staples behind, and he was chained to them with his arms spread out, a
safe attitude as far as looks went, but one that could not be borne,
even as a punishment, for very long. He looked fine now--if only he
would keep his head up!--the long-lashed, blue eyes, and yellow hair,
glowing, now that the sun had crept over to their side, against the line
of impassive negroes!
The square was humming by this time with its bright-coloured,
quick-moving crowd, its street criers, its round, jolting chariots and
their excited little horses, its slow, curtained litters, its beggars,
its dogs, its gutter-babies and its cabbage leaves. Meromic could have
seen it all very well if he had wanted to, but he was having a bad day.
Like all half-civilized people, he hated being stared at with no clothes
on, by all and sundry; the elder men disliked it more, perhaps, except
for the German, who didn’t care--but then he was a thorough savage.
However, by the time he had been chained for an hour or so, that had
quite gone out of his mind, which seemed to concentrate itself on this
ache all along his arms and most of all about the right shoulder; he
endured it somehow for a time, till his master, seeing him go white, had
him unchained, and let him sit, curled up, beside the German. He noticed
then that the boy and one of the Gauls from the other side had been sold
already, and wondered if there had been any offers for him. Several
customers had, indeed, inquired, but the merchant had held out for a
higher price, and they had wandered off or been satisfied with something
else from his large stock; he was distinctly pleased with Meromic now:
every line of his limp body was supple and curving: he looked a good
deal more submissive, too, than he was likely to prove! Probably he
would have to be chained again as soon as he was rested.
However, a well-known figure had appeared in the meantime, a customer
who could be trusted to appreciate this class of goods at their full
value--but no more! Hearing of the new arrival of Gauls, he had come
down early to buy two or three good horsemen to herd his cattle on the
big estate to the south; he was an oldish man by now, but he never let
his Sicilian steward do this sort of thing for him, judging himself,
perhaps rightly, to be much more of an expert. He picked out what he
wanted, had them put through their paces, and bought them without more
bargaining than would make him respected as a sound business man.
“Have you anything else that would interest me?”
The dealer considered; he knew that his prettiest girls would only awake
a frown, his most charming young boys would be passed over scornfully.
Finally he turned towards Meromic: “The very thing, sir!”
Meromic was sitting on the block, with the stiffness gradually wearing
out of his arms, beginning to watch the crowd, wondering which, if any,
of these languid and perfumed young men, these bald and consequential
old men, would make him a possible master. Suddenly he was called; he
slid down and followed the merchant, who was delighted at such prompt
obedience just now! He stood on one foot and eyed his prospective
master sideways like a shy horse, with his head turned half away, and
disliked him, most particularly a large wart on his forehead, quite
intensely and at once. He was questioned about his reading and writing,
stared at critically, found fault with, and prodded all over, till he
blushed from head to foot and clenched his fists dangerously. He fixed
his eyes on the ground, resolved not to be aware of what was passing, to
be pure mind squeezing itself out of the unwanted body; but at once he
was told to hold up his head--they wanted to look at his teeth, using
the summary method of the horse-dealer for getting his clenched jaws
open. At this time there were tears standing in his eyes: what was the
use of anything if life was going to treat him so? Though he was unbound
it did not seem worth while to struggle: everything was pressing on him,
this atmosphere of whips and brands and chains, the foreign speech, the
walls and pavements of the great enemy town. For a moment he prayed
desperately with silent, moving lips; but the Gods were far off.
He heard the price fixed, noticing without surprise that it was now four
times what had been asked for him six weeks ago to the officer. His new
master turned away without another glance at him; his hands were tied
with an old piece of rope, and he was pushed back behind the waiting
ranks to sit on the ground and think things over.
“And that’s that,” he said to himself. “Now, what next?” He could still
feel those hands on him, he squirmed all over, rubbing his cheek against
his shoulder, as if to get rid of the clinging touch. It was his own
fault: he might have been dead and lying calm on his own beaches, dead
and flitting westward towards that Sea-Isle of the Druids, with Fiommar,
with his father. He shook his head, doubtful, like all but a very few in
any generation, of immortality as compared with life. He was still at
the beginning, he had been very happy up till now, he would be happy
again. He cast back in his mind to dances and feasts, the deer-hunt and
the boar-hunt, long days of fishing in the high-prowed boats; he was
young enough not to be thinking all the time, never again; and besides,
the same things would be no good without his sister and his friends.
There was life going on here too, things to be seen and tested and
thought about, colour which he loved, light, music,--only would he get
any of them? What was it like being a slave? What would they try and
make him do? Clearly it was a different business from the casual,
outspoken house and field service of his father’s people. This
wooden-faced old man who had bought him: what did he think? That Meromic
the Wolf, the Pride of the Islands, was going to obey him?--well, he
should see! Was it likely! And the Wolf sat up straight, rested again
and recovering his self-respect, with his mouth shut defiantly, his neck
unbowed.
In the evening he was driven, with his hands still bound, to his
master’s house; the door jarred to behind him, the trap was sprung; he
looked from side to side, and there was fear in his heart.