One night the moon was shining brightly upon the curtain, which
had been drawn tight across the window. Within the room the
light was dim, so that there could be seen clearly the pictures
which the moon was drawing on the curtain, figures which
marched, advanced, receded. One might almost have thought these
the shadows of some moving boughs, had one not known the ways
the moon has at certain times.
It chanced that high up in the curtain there was a tiny hole,
and through this opening the moonlight streamed, falling upon
the table in a small, silvery ellipse, of a size which one might
cover ten times with one's hand. It was natural that in this
little well of pale and dreamlike radiance the Singing Mouse
should find it fit to manifest itself. I knew not when it came,
but as I looked, the spot had found a tenant. The small,
transparent paws of the Singing Mouse displayed no shadow as
they waved and swung across this pencil of the pale, mysterious
light. Yet its eyes shone opaline and brilliant as it sat, so
that I could hardly gaze without a shiver of surprise akin to
fear, fascinated as though I looked upon a thing unreal. Thus
surrounded, almost one might say thus penetrated, by the
translucent shaft of radiance which came through the window, the
Singing Mouse told me of the figures on the curtain, which now
began to have more distinct semblances.
"Do you see the figures there?" said the Singing Mouse. "Do you
see the marching men? Have you never heard the hoofs ring on the
roof when the wind blows high? Have you not seen their ranks
sweep swift across the sky when storms arise? Have you never
seen them marching through the long aisles of the wood at night?
These are the warriors of the past. Now earth has always loved
the warriors."
I looked, and indeed it was the truth. There was a panorama on
the curtain. History had unrolled her scroll. The warriors of
the nations and the times were passing.
I saw the men of Babylon, and those who came out of Egypt. Dark
were these of hair and visage, and their arms were the ancient
bow and spear. And there were those who rode light and cast back
their rapid archery. These faded, and in their stead marched
men close-knit in solid phalanx, with long spears offering
impenetrable front. In turn these passed away, and there came
men with haughty brow, who bore short spears and swords. Near by
these were wild, huge men of yellow hair, whose shields were
leather and whose swords were broad and long. And as I gazed at
all of these, my blood thrilling strangely at the sight, the
figures blended and formed into a splendid procession of a
martial day gone by. I saw them--a long stream of mounted
men, who rode in helmet and cuirass, and bore each aloft a
long-beamed spear. In front rode one whose mien was high and
stern, and who might well have been commander. High aloft he
tossed his great sword as he rode, and sang the time a song of
war; and as he sang, the thousands of deep throats behind him
made chorus terrible but stirring in its chesty melody, for
ictus to the song each warrior smiting sword on shield in a
mighty unison whose high, sonorous note thrilled like the voice
of actual war. Steady the strong eyes gleamed out and onward as
they rode. From the steel-clad breast of each there shone
forward a glancing ray of light, as though it came direct from
the heart, untamed even by a thousand years of death. My heart
leaped to see them ride, so straight and stern and fearless, so
goodly, so glorious to look upon. Came the rattle of chain, the
clang of arms, the jangle of belt and spur; and still the brave
procession passed, in tens, in hundreds, in thousands, in a long
wave of stately men, whose eyes shone each in all the bold
delight of war. Stooped front, hooked hand and avaricious
eye--these were as absent as the glow of gold or silver. It was
the glorious age of steel.
[Illustration]
Still on they passed, always arising the hoarse swell of the
fighters' chorus. I heard the rumble of the many hoofs,
thrilling even the impassive earth. The spear points shone. The
harness rattled. The pennants fluttered stiffly in the breeze.
And then afar I heard a sweet, compelling melody, the invitation
of the bugle, that dearest mistress of the heart of man. My
blood leaped. I started up. I started forward. The sweep of the
ranks drew me on and in irresistibly. I would have raised my
voice. I sought to stay, if for but one instant, this army of
brave men, this panorama of exalted war, this incomparable
pageant of a day gone by! It was the Singing Mouse that checked
me; for I heard it sigh:
"Alas!"
And yet again the scene was changed. Across the view streamed
yet a long line of warriors. The hair of these did not float
yellow from beneath loosened casque, nor indeed did these know
aught of armor, nor did they march with banners beckoning, nor
to the wooing of the trumpet's voice. The skins of these were
red, and their hair was raven-black. Arms they had, and horses,
though rude the one and ill-caparisoned the other. Leather and
wood, and flint and sinew served them for material. Ill-armed
they were; but as they rode, with naked breasts and painted
faces, and tall feathers nodding in their plaited hair, out of
the eye of each there shone the soul of the fighting man, the
warrior, beloved since ever earth began. Not less than the men
of Babylon were these, nor than they of the ancient bow and
spear, nor than they of the steel-clad breast; and as I saw them
naked, clad only in the armor of a man's fearlessness, the word
of commendation was as ready as that of pity.
"They are late, Singing Mouse," said I, "late in the day of
war."
"Yes," said the Singing Mouse, with sadness, "they are late, and
they must pass away. But they are warriors of proof, as much as
any of those who have passed. Did you not see the melancholy of
each face as it looked forward? Their fate was known, yet they
rode forward to meet it fearlessly, as brave as any fighting men
of all the years. In time, they too shall have their story, and
with the other warriors of the earth shall march again upon the
page of history."
As I looked, the figures of these men grew dimmer. The tinkling
of beaded garments and the shuffling of the ponies' hoofs became
less and less distinct, and the dust cloud of their traveling
became fainter and fainter, and finally faded and melted away.
The curtain was bare. I heard the sighing of the wind.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The House of Truth]
[Illustration]