ST. GEORGE AND FAIR SABRA
Blest as Immortal Zeus is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And gazes at the witchery trace
Of gladsome laughter in thy face,
The music of thy voice to hear,
The incense of thy presence near.
During the recital of the droll's tale where was Ande? Generally, he was
interested in the tales of Uncle Billy, the droll, but this night he had
eyes and ears only for the squire's daughter.
The latter was in her element. She was young, but the death of her
mother had long made her the mistress of the great house. The presence
of the guests inspired her to do her utmost as hostess, and she was not
unequal to the task. The earlier part of the evening saw her flitting
about, a fairy figure in lace and ribbons. During the entertainment of
the droll she was at leisure, and sat on one side at a little distance,
entirely engrossed in the narrative. Here it was that Ande found her.
"And is St. George welcomed by fair Sabra, the King of Egypt's
daughter?" he said, as he sat himself near her.
In those weeks intervening between the squire's reparation and the
Christmas period, Ande had been a frequent visitor at the Manor. The
squire could not easily forget his prejudice against the name stained
with treason, but he was generous enough to smother it in the light of
the youth's brave conduct in the runaway, and wished also to make some
amends for the injustice of placing him in the stocks.
So the lad was found frequently in the neighbourhood of the Manor. The
Manor walks were familiar to him. He had often assisted Mistress Alice
in her garden work in her own favourite plot, and a warm and strong
attachment had grown up between them. The old squire occasionally nodded
to him and smiled, but beyond that there was little friendly
conversation between them.
But to the squire's daughter how useful he became. Was there any work
that would soil her dainty fingers? Ande must perform it. Was there any
task that seemed too hard for her? Ande was in requisition. Once she had
hurt her finger over a rose bush. It was Ande who heard the faint
exclamation of pain and who flew instantly to her side, and how tenderly
and with what a vague thrill, as if he himself were hurt, did he proceed
to extract the jagged thorn. It was his own handkerchief that bound up
the wound, and with what gallantry he had requested her to keep it as a
remembrance of him. He knew not that that piece of linen was stored up
among Mistress Alice's special treasures. She knew that her womanly
intuition at the gate of the Primrose Cottage was true. This youth did
love her, and it was not displeasing to her; but she knew something
else. She was gradually knowing her own feelings, that she cherished a
deeper sentiment than friendship for this brave youth who had saved her
life. The thought of this sentiment would send the crimson waves o'er
her countenance when she dwelt upon it, for a moment, in her own pretty
rooms. She would not have him suspect such a thing--not for the world.
She knew her father's hatred for treason, his strong loyal sentiments.
No, she dare not think of it too often. Her father had revealed his
plans for her future--the marriage with young Richard Lanyan. But she
had neither acquiesced nor refused. Master Lanyan was a welcome visitor
to the Manor, and she treated him well as her father's guest.
Lanyan and Ande had met once in her presence at the Manor. There was a
gleam of hatred in each eye. This was the son of the hated family that
had deprived the Trembaths of their rightful possessions, and now Ande
could perceive the marked favour with which he was greeted by the old
squire, and had a dim consciousness of the squire's hopes. It was as
much as Mistress Alice could do to so conduct herself as to offend
neither. Lanyan, after the first quick, sharp glance at Trembath, paid
little heed to him. Calmly and tranquilly he ignored him and devoted his
attention to Mistress Alice, taking the conversation into such
scholarly, Etonian themes that Ande, finding himself out of his depths,
was constrained to silence and soon moved homeward with bitter feelings
within him.
He had not come near the Manor for a week after that, and somehow or
other Mistress Alice had a foreboding that something was wrong. Did it
pain her? She would not acknowledge that it did, even to herself. But
how graciously she treated him when he did return. So had affairs been
before the Christmastide, and on account of it there was not that
strangeness between them that existed at the first.
With the remark above mentioned, the Knight, St. George, seated himself
near Alice. She smiled pleasantly and responded:
"I am afraid fair Sabra and the King of Egypt are too far remote from
our locality and times to be mixed up with us. I must congratulate you,
Ande, for your able impersonation of St. George. By the way, who is that
Turk that so murders the king's English?"
"Thomas Puckinharn, one of the village lads. He is a good fighter, but a
blow or two harder than usual saps his courage. I had hard ado to make
him fight at all," and he related their practice upon the village road
and the strategy of allowing Tommy a squire as a balm to heal his
wounded feelings. She laughed at his droll manner of reciting it, and
her laugh seemed to be music to his soul and to quicken the beating of
his heart within.
"Why," she was saying, "did you beat the Turk so savagely? I must
confess I never saw a real battle, but I imagined I saw one all the time
you were fighting. You beat down his guard and struck him over the head
and shoulders, until I trembled. I believe you would make an excellent
knight, had you lived in their times," and she shook her elfin locks in
approbation of his fighting prowess.
"Well, I thought I was fighting for fair Sabra, and the reality of it
seemed to put greater strength into my arms. A knight always fights more
bravely in the presence of his lady."
"It must be nice to have such a brave knight. And who is the lady?"
"One surpassing fair and worthy of the crown of Egypt. One whom I have
served, as a knight always serves his lady."
"I suppose you mean me," said the maiden, with a flush, and yet with
some gaiety in her tones. "Well, be it so. You shall be my knight and
defender and shall wear a pledge of your valour as a remembrance," and
she plucked a hothouse blossom from the knot at her breast and presented
it to him. "Fight bravely in life, and you will be a true knight."
"That I will," said Ande, as he received the flower, "and I shall
remember this Christmas eve, throughout my life, as one of its best
days. I shall even remove the stain of treason from our name. Treason
that is so hateful to me!"
"I trust you may," said the girl, earnestly. "It has been a hard burden
to bear. And with the ideas of our times, it is hard to advance under it
to positions of honour and trust. But I believe you will succeed."
"You do not believe, then, in the current report, held true even by your
father, of the truth of the accusation that has always clung to our
name from my grandfather's times?"
"Knowing you as I do, no. If your father and your grandfather were at
all like you, they could not have done what current report states. No. I
do not believe it."
"I am glad that you do not believe it. It gives me courage to succeed."
There was a light in the eyes of St. George, a gleam of genuine
pleasure.
"The removal of that stain, which you have often told me of, will
remove, perhaps, many barriers of which you are ignorant. My knight must
do it."
"I am that knight," said Ande, warmly.
"The knight that I should admire would be one that will not despair at a
few difficulties."
"I am that knight," eagerly.
"He must be truthful and scorn a lie."
"I do, from the bottom of my heart."
"He must be a worker, and brave and courageous."
"My principles exactly."
"He must not be satisfied to be an ordinary knight. He must be a
leader."
"My ambition," emphatically.
"He must be an exceptional man, noble, upright, a defender of the weak,
and--and--and--must be my knight, and no one else's." Her eyes were
shining darkly with a happy gleam, and there was a glow on her cheeks
that made her a thousand times more attractive to the enthralled soul
before her. Her countenance was close to his. Ah! The magic of its
influence!
[Illustration: "I am that knight," said Ande, warmly]
His heart was beating so tumultuously he feared all heard it. He knew
then and there the reason of his interest in her. Those vague feelings,
which he had not taken the trouble to analyse, burst suddenly upon him
like a revelation. He loved, yes, he knew it. Heretofore he had gone on
blindly, driven by the subtile promptings within. Now he understood his
own heart. There was a pang as he thought of the stain on his name, and
then a joyous bound of his heart as he thought she believed in him, in
his ability to eradicate the blot. She had called him her knight. He
would be so. But then the thought of Master Lanyan emerged from the
depths of the past, the squire's favour, and that scene when he was so
contemptuously ignored by the haughty, young Etonian in the gardens. He
had thought then that his hatred for him was due to the injustice to his
family; now he knew. Her features, so close to his own, were the most
prominent thing in the world to him then. What cared he for the twanging
harp of Uncle Billy, the droll. He was ordinarily interested in the
tales of Billy, but not now. That last sentence of hers of being her
knight and a knight of no one else, sent a thrill through him. He longed
to kiss her, then to throw himself at her feet and pour out the
adoration of his soul. But he knew his situation and he simply said, "I
am your knight, and no one else's."
Then the thought of Lanyan again came to his mind, "And since I am your
knight and belong to no other, it is but fair to ask you to have no
other knight," half doubtingly.
"Queens and ladies of old always had many knights to do them service,"
in mischievous, jesting tones.
Ande's heart died within him and the light left his features.
"And you intend to have many knights?"
"Perhaps."
"At least not Master Lanyan," fiercely, in an undertone.
"My knight must not be a dictator."
"But I must know," persistently.
"You are impertinent," with some dignity.
"He and his are the enemies of my house," doggedly.
"And the friends of ours," quickly.
"But he is an enemy of your knight."
"I will not be catechised." There was the gleam of a tear of vexation in
her eyes and a quiver in her voice, that sent the militant spirit in the
breast of Ande headlong in defeat. She turned her face from him in an
effort to hide her feelings. An agony of remorse swept o'er his soul.
"I have hurt you," he said, timidly.
No answer.
"What have I done. I am a brute and a coward. I am not worthy to be
called your knight," exclaimed Ande, in remorseful self-reproach.
No answer.
"Look at me, please. Speak to me," pleadingly. "You will not. I am the
worst coward living--to hurt the feelings of the best of women," in
doleful misery.
"You are hateful and unjust." An answer at length from the hidden face
that made his countenance blanch and pierced even within, but he
answered humbly:
"I am. I have been hateful and unjust to you."
"No. Hateful and unjust to yourself." The face again came into view and,
could he believe it,--yes,--the tear was gone and the fun-light was
twinkling in merriment.
"How?" in bewildered discomfiture.
"When you called yourself a coward and the worst of ones, you were
unjust to yourself and hateful to yourself."
"I suppose you are right," humbly.
"Don't look so doleful; you may be noticed. I would have my knight
cheerful and happy."
"And you are not angry?"
"No," and she shook her elfish curls and smiled.
"And you will have no other knight but me?"
"You must not be presumptuous," seriously.
"Mistress Alice, it is not presumptuous for me to speak to you on a
subject that is dear to me," said with great earnestness, his eyes
devouring her face. "And specially so here in the hall of my ancestors.
Do you see the coat-of-arms o'er the mantelpiece, engraved in the oak?"
The girl was relieved by what she thought a change in the conversation.
She brightened into new interest.
"Yes, and I wondered ever since a child what was the meaning of the
horse with his rider surrounded by the waves of the sea. Oh, do tell me,
please!"
"That is the coat-of-arms of our family. The earliest records speak of
them as occupying the Lyonnesse country, which is now under the sea
beyond Land's End. Sir Trembath, the head of the family, was overtaken
by the flood, that happened about in the eighth century, and just had to
gallop and swim his horse to the hills for refuge. He was the only one
who escaped the inroads of the ocean. All the lands of his barony,
together with others, and a hundred and forty parish churches, are now
covered by the deep. My ancestry is as noble as any, and it is not
presumption for me to speak to you on a subject that is very important
to me. As my ancestry was then, so am I now. Mistress Alice, the last
heir of the Trembaths needs a star of hope to guide him." He was
speaking rapidly, although only loud enough for her to hear. The wild
tempest of feeling was at length breaking forth.
"Listen," said the girl, demurely, "Uncle Billy is speaking now of the
Lyonesse and Arthur."
The unruly tongue was silenced. Ande, though he listened, heard not. His
eyes were on the squire's daughter, but seeing that she kept her gaze
riveted on the harper, he grew moody and silent.
Whether she listened or not to the song of the droll is a question.
Certainly there was nothing in the narrative of the droll, just then, to
cause her cheek to glow with a damask hue.
The harper's song and tale was ended, and since the hour was late there
was bustle and confusion to be gone.
"I have been unjust in dictating to you," said Ande, humbly.
"And I can have whatever knights I please?" archly.
"You are the best judge. But I would rather not," said he, with slightly
woeful look.
"Then you choose to let me be my own judge?"
"To be sure."
"Then you are my knight. Master Lanyan is not and cannot be my knight. I
choose so freely. Be upright, noble, and good."
Is it any wonder that the Knight of St. George departed with light
footsteps. He was but a lad merging into manhood. Love was strong within
him and flourished in keeping with the vigour of his youth. He knew not
that she cared for him. Sometimes he thought so. He even dared to hope
so when the doubts did not becloud his vision. It was something, though,
to be her chosen knight. He knew by her last words that he was a closer
friend at least than Lanyan. The thought lightened his spirits.
The Christmas players were the first on the way to the village. There
was a chatter among them, some extolling the squire's generosity,
others--the ability of the droll. Ande was silent. He was busy with his
thoughts.
"Ah! The squire's maid gave 'ee as hard a drubbing as thee gave me.
Edent it so?" said Tom Puckinharn, and he gave Ande a nudge in the side,
as he whispered this in his ear.
"Ah! Get along, Tom, do!" replied Ande.
Tom was the only one who noticed the _tete-a-tete_ of St. George and
Sabra. Being a loyal friend of Ande, he prudently kept his own counsel.
The remoteness of their situation, the voice and sound of the harp, the
intense interest of the guests in the harper's entertainment, precluded
any from hearing the conversation of that period.
Ande's dreams that night were very much confused. Now he was with King
Arthur at Lyonnese; now against the dragon or the Turk; then on
horse-back riding through the roaring waves of ocean, bearing in front of
him the form of the fair Sabra, who appeared wonderfully like the
squire's daughter. Then casting his eyes behind, he caught a view of the
dragon, beating and lashing the waves into foam, in his rage, and
somehow the dragon's head was that of Master Lanyan.