“Are you prepared for mountain climbing?” Elena asked the next morning
when Tacita woke.
“I am prepared for anything! I have had such a refreshing sleep! How
long has it been?”
“Nearly twelve hours, my dear. Your ancestors must have come from
Ephesus. I thought that I knew how to sleep; but the singleness of
purpose with which you lay yourself away is something entirely your own.
It is a gift. It arrives at genius. Now, who do you think that I can see
coming over a rocky path above the olives?”
“Can it be Dylar?”
“It is Dylar. He will be here in fifteen minutes.”
The people of the house paid as little attention to their guests in the
morning as they had the evening before. Elena brought the breakfast, if
she did not prepare it. Probably they were all out picking oranges.
Children were visible at a distance gathering the fruit up from under
the trees. The orchard was a good many acres in extent.
When Tacita, prepared for her journey, went down to the door, their
driver of the day before stood there with two donkeys girded with
chair-shaped saddles, with high backs and foot-rests. Not far away there
was another donkey. Beside it stood a man who uncovered his head, and
looked with an eager smile at the young traveler when she appeared.
“He is one of my people,” Elena said. “I have been talking with him. You
should salute him in this way,” lifting her hand above her face.
Tacita imitated her with a smiling glance toward the guide, who
responded.
Away under the trees talking with the farmers was a third man, who as
soon as Tacita appeared, came to meet her.
It was Dylar; but Dylar in a conventional dress such as any gentleman
might wear in traveling; and with the dress, he had assumed something of
the conventional manner. Had he lost by the change? she asked herself,
while he made courteous inquiries, and looked to see if her saddle was
firm. No: the face was the same, and could easily make one forget the
costume; and there was sincerity in the tone of his inquiries.
“We cross this angle of the mountains, and go back almost in the
direction from which you came yesterday,” Dylar said. “I am sorry that
it was necessary to take you by the longer way. Late in the afternoon we
shall reach a house where you and Elena will sleep. It is a solitary
place, but more comfortable than it looks at first sight, and it is
quite safe. To-morrow you will have but three hours’ ride.”
They mounted, and took the path that led backward over the heights. They
rode singly, Elena with her guide leading. Tacita followed with a man at
her bridle, and Dylar came last.
The air grew cooler and finer. It was the air that makes one wish to
dance.
Tacita asked herself what it could be in all these faces,—Dylar’s,
Elena’s, the two guides’, yes, and in her own mother’s and
grandfather’s,—which made them resemble each other in spite of different
features and characters. It was a spiritual family resemblance.
Ingenuous was not the word. It was not dignity alone. Strong and gentle
did not describe it. It was the expression of a certain harmonious poise
and elastic firmness of mind indicating that each one had found his
proper place, and was content with it; indicating, too, a mutual
complaisance, but a supreme dependence on something higher.
Their way led deeper into the mountains. Now and then, in turnings of
the path, Tacita lost sight of her companions. She looked backward once
for Dylar. When he appeared, he smiled and waved his hand to her
encouragingly.
“He smiled!” she whispered to herself, but did not look back again.
The sky was blue and cloudless, and pulsed with its fullness of light.
Somewhere, not far away, there was a waterfall. Its infant thunder and
lisping splash pervaded the air. The scene grew more grand and terrible.
One moment they would be shut into a narrow space from which exit seemed
impossible, dark stone grinding close without a sign of pathway; then
the solid walls were cleft as in an instant. In the near deeps lurked a
delicate shadow; far below was revealed from time to time a velvety
darkness.
Tacita’s mind, floating between present contentment, a half-forgotten
pain, and a mystical anticipation, confused the scene about her with
others far away. Clustered windows, crowded sculptures and balconies,
seemed to emboss the cliffs at either hand, or float in misty lines
along their surfaces. The sound of the haunting cascade became the dip
of oars, or the swash of the lagoon ploughed by a steamboat. She saw
their time-stained old Venetian house; and the last scenes she had
witnessed there rose before her. A wreath of mist that had risen from
some invisible stream and paused among the rocks recalled a narrow bed
with a white-haired old man lying on it, peaceful and dead. The hymn
sung as he died seemed only that moment to have ceased on the air. Why
had it sounded familiar? Perhaps it might have a phrase in common with
some song she knew. How did it go? She hummed softly, feeling for the
tune, found a bar or two, and sang in a low voice.
To her astonishment, her guide at once took up the strain, and from him
Elena and her guide, and then Dylar. They sang:—
“San Salvador, San Salvador,
We live in thee!
’Tis love that holds the threads of fate;
Death’s but the opening of a gate,
The parting of a mist that dims the sky.
We live in thee! We live in thee!
San Salvador,
We live in thee!”
Tacita held her breath to listen. Was she indeed riding through mountain
paths and morning air, or lying in a dream in some strange land? Dylar’s
was the voice that had sung beneath their window when her grandfather
was dying!
The way grew wilder. The rocks were black and frowning. Sometimes their
path was but a narrow shelf along the face of a precipice. Once the
guide made her descend, and fastened a rope from iron hook to hook set
in the rock for her to hold in passing.
At noon they reached a little plateau,—a few feet of short turf, some
tiny vines and spotted lichens, and a blue flower, all of which seemed
miracles in that place. Here they dismounted and ate their luncheon.
“What a wonder a flower would be, if there were only one in the world!”
Dylar said, seeing Tacita bend over this.
She smiled, and continued to examine it carefully, without touching. It
seemed something sacred. Who drew the little lines on its petals, and
scattered the gold dust in its heart, and gave it all that seeming of
innocent faith and courage? The grass-blades, too, with their fine
serrated edges, and sharp points thrust upward, then curving over, as if
they were spears changing to pruning-hooks,—what beautiful things they
were when there were but few!
Dylar and Elena talked with their guides in a language that she had
never heard before, yet which she could almost understand.
It was a clear-sounding and sonorous language, with a good deal of
accent, and it almost sang.
“You will soon learn it,” Elena said. “It is the flower of all
languages, not yet rich, but pure.”
They mounted, and pursued their way. After some hours the path began to
broaden and descend. They entered a pine wood, and the sun deserted
them, showing only on the tops of the highest trees. The way was dim and
fragrant, long brown aisles of gloom stretched away at their left. But
only a fringe of trees stood between them and the crags at their right.
The path turned with a long curve, and they were at the door of a dark
old house, built of rough stones, and set against a cliff. Opposite the
door a road went down into the pines, and disappeared. The road by which
they had come continued past the door, descended gently, and disappeared
around the cliffs.
The house had a sinister, deserted look. The door was off the hinges,
and set against an inner wall. The rude shutters of an upper window hung
half open. Where the masonry of the house ended and the natural rock
began was not apparent. Nature had adopted the rough stones, and set her
lichens and grasses in their interstices.
A rivulet fell from the heights into a trough near the door, twisting
itself as it fell, and braiding in strands of light. From the trough the
water overflowed, and followed the road.
“It is not so bad as it looks,” Elena said.
Dylar came to assist Tacita. “I think that you will be able to rest well
here, unpromising as it looks,” he said. “Do not be anxious. You will be
well guarded. And to-morrow your journey will come to an end.”
As they entered the house, a man came hastening down the stairs. He
saluted Dylar with reverence and Elena with delight. They spoke together
in the language the guides had used. The man bowed lowly before Tacita,
and smiled a welcome.
The room had no door but that by which they had entered, and no
furniture but a rough bench and table. There was a cavernous chimney.
The floor was strown all about with twigs and pine-needles.
One of the guides brought in some boughs, and kindled a fire on the
hearth.
Dylar took leave of Tacita, and pursued his way down the carriage-road
leading by the rocks. In parting he said,—
“After to-morrow I will see you, if the King wills.”
A stair led directly from the room to a landing. Two doors opened on
this landing. One was closed. The other stood wide open into a chamber
that was in pleasant contrast with the room below. A wide white bed, a
deep sofa, a commode and mirror, a table set with covers for two drawn
up before the sofa, and a second table holding roasted fowl, salad,
wine, and fruit promised every necessary comfort. The room was rough but
clean. A gray muslin curtain was drawn back from one side of the window,
and there was a glazed sash in a sliding frame at the other.
“Isn’t it cosy!” said Elena, who seemed to be overflowing with joy at
finding herself so near home. “Now, lie down on the sofa, dear, and you
shall have some soup as soon as it is hot. We shall fare well. Our
supper has been prepared by the housekeeper at the castle, and sent in
good order.”
“I must not ask what castle?” Tacita said.
“Why, Castle Dylar, of course!” Elena said, and went down stairs for the
soup.
There was a sound from below of the door being set on its hinges and
barred, and the shutters were closed.
“The guides will sleep below,” Elena said.
“Elena,” said Tacita, “what did Dylar mean when he said ‘if the King
wills?’ Who is the king?”
“Christ Jesus,” replied Elena, bowing her head.
“_Evviva Gesù!_” exclaimed the girl with pleasant surprise. “And is
Dylar the master of Castle Dylar?”
“He is sole master!”
“Am I allowed to ask if he has any title of nobility?”
“He is a prince,” said Elena.
She asked no more.
Later, when half asleep, she became aware of strange sounds from below,
as of a heavy weight falling, and grating hinges.
“Don’t be afraid,” Elena said. “The men are putting the donkeys in their
stable. And our chamber door is strongly barred.”