While they were speaking, three visitors whom they did not expect were
approaching San Salvador.
A German, a Frenchman, and an Italian, who had known each other many
years, meeting occasionally in the society of different European
capitals, had met in Paris that spring, and weary of a round of
pleasures which led to nothing but weariness, had started off on a long
rambling journey.
They made no plans except to go to places they had heard but little of,
and to be ready to stop at a moment’s notice.
It was the German who had discovered that their pleasures led to
weariness alone; but his friends readily agreed with him.
“I am inclined to think,” said the Italian, “that the only refuge of
civilization is in barbarism.”
“Or in a truer civilization,” said the German.
“Or in a more robust physical health,” said the Frenchman. “So many of
our moral impressions proceed from the stomach, or the nerves.”
Though the German had given expression to the unrest of his companions,
he was indebted, and perfectly aware that he was indebted to another for
his own awakening. It was but a word uttered by a stranger whom he had
met in travelling through the Alps; yet the word had often recurred to
his mind. How many times when contemplating some act, not dishonorable,
indeed, yet worldly, as he had studied and doubted, a lowly murmured
word had stolen up in his memory: “_E poi?_”
In preparing for some reception or fête like a hundred others, in
returning from some dissipation, in looking forward in his career and
planning out his future life, with what a solemn impressiveness the
quiet interrogation had been heard in the first pause of excitement: “_E
poi?_”
Their holiday was almost ended for the three friends, and they were now
on their homeward way, the line of their travels forming a long loop,
now a little past the turn. The Italian had a young wife who might be
pouting at his absence; the Frenchman was a banker, and his partners
were getting impatient; the German was an official on leave, and his
term was nearly out.
Yet when their train drew up for a few minutes at the lonely station of
the Olives, and the Frenchman, usually the leader in all their
enterprises, exclaimed, “Once more, my friends! I am sure that no one
ever stopped here before,” the other two hailed the proposal, and
snatching their valises, they stepped from the carriage just as the
train was about to start.
The Italian, one of whose nicknames was Mezzofanti, or Tuttofanti, was
always spokesman when they were likely to encounter a _patois_; but
somewhat to their surprise, this simple-seeming station-master spoke
both French and English passably.
There was an orange-farm twenty miles northward, he said, but no means
of reaching it at that time. Fifteen miles southward was a castle, and a
hamlet called the Olives. The man with the donkey-cart just leaving the
station was going there.
A castle! It sounded well.
Mezzofanti called the man and entered into negotiations with him; and
he, after looking the travelers over with a somewhat critical
expression, consented to take them to the Olives on condition that they
would take turns walking each a part of the way. He himself would walk
half the distance. His donkey would not be able to carry them all.
He further told them that they could not stop at the castle, the master
being absent; but they could stop at his house, and could have donkeys
to return to the station the next day. They would want a number of
donkeys there, as they were expecting supplies. He could give them three
good ones, so that they could ride all the way.
There was a certain calm dignity about this man, though his dress was
that of a laborer, and his French imperfect, which won their confidence;
and they accepted his offer. He had learned French, he said, from his
mother, who came to the Olives from France before he was born. He was
called Pierre at home. It was the name his mother gave him.
The first part of their road was over an arid plain, dull thin grass and
a few parched shrubs spotting the sandy soil; but in the distance was a
mass of rich dark green foliage with keen mountains, black and white,
rising into the splendid blue above them.
The German remembered one who had said: “I am a daughter of the
mountains.” He never saw one of those masses of rock and snow rising
into the air without wondering if it might not be there she drew her
first breath.
The man, Pierre, did not know the names of the mountains. Some of them
had their own names. That highest peak at the left was called the White
Lady, and was beyond the castle. The castle was very ancient, and one
part in ruins. There were many stories about it. His mother knew them.
For him, he was content with the present. The past interested him but
little. The castle was set on a spur of the mountains, and quite close
to them. The inner wall of the court was a cliff. Their road would lead
them ten miles straight to the mountains; then they turned southward,
and after five miles would reach the Olives, which was south of the
heights and just round a turn. At the first turn was a fountain where
they could water the donkey, and rest a little while, if they liked.
There was an old ruined house there where they usually stopped, going to
and from the station.
“Did the prince live much at the castle?” one of the gentlemen asked.
“No; he came occasionally. He lived abroad, now here, now there. He had
spent a fortnight the year before at Castle Dylar with his bride.”
“Oh, there is a bride!” said the Frenchman. “What is she like?”
The man had spoken in a serious and matter-of-fact way; but at the
question a smile flitted over his face.
“She is tall and slender, and white and golden-haired,” he said. “She is
very silent; but when she smiles, you think that she has spoken.”
The Italian changed color. “Do you know her name—her maiden name?” he
asked.
“We call her Lady, or Princess,” the man said. “I know no other name.”
“Where is she from?”
“Oh, far away!” he replied with a vague gesture.
The Italian asked no more; but his face betrayed excitement.
Their road had begun to rise and to be overshadowed by trees. After a
while they reached the ruined house built up against the rock, and they
alighted to rest, or look about them.
The German exclaimed: “Did you ever see such a green atmosphere! I do
not think that you will find such a pine-steeped dimness even in your
Italy, Loredan.”
Beside the house a small stream of water from the heights dropped into a
trough. Dropping, it twisted itself into a rope. Overflowing the trough,
it rippled along beside the road they were to follow.
Pierre drank, washed his face and hands, and watered his donkey. The
three travelers went to look at the house. Everything betokened
desertion and ruin. The door and shutter hung half off their hinges, and
only an upper shutter was closed. A stone stair went up from the one
room below; but a heap of brushwood on it barred the passage.
They pursued their way; and as they went, the scene softened. A narrow
space of rising grassy land, planted with olive-trees, interposed
between them and the rocks, which only here and there thrust out a rude
sentinel; and their road, having risen gradually to the house in the
pines, began to descend as gradually. The afternoon sun had been
excluded; but now it shone across their way. Olive-trees quite replaced
the pines, and allowed glimpses of an illuminated landscape to be seen
between their crisped-up leaves. They rounded a curve and entered the
village. At their right, under thick olives that hid all above them,
grassy terraces rose to the castle; at their left were the farms with
great white houses sunk in luxuriant vegetation.
The travelers were enchanted. It was a picture! It was a paradise!
Pierre conducted them to his house, and the whole family came out to
welcome them with a rustic frankness and an urban courtesy. There was
the mother of their host, a woman of eighty, his wife, two tall boys, a
girl and a baby. From the roof terrace another girl parted the long
palm-leaves to peep down at them.
Entering the wide door was like entering a church. The only partition of
the whole ground-floor was made by square pillars of whitewashed masonry
which supported the floor above on a succession of arches. But the
pillars were so large that they gave an effect of different rooms. Over
some of the arches curtains were looped to be used when greater privacy
was desired.
One corner next the door seemed designed for a parlor. Far to the right
in another direction could be discerned a hand-loom and spinning-wheel,
and a stone stair. Far to the left was a kitchen where something was
being cooked at an open fire, and nearer, between the white arches, a
table set for supper.
Pierre led his visitors up the nave of this strange house, and up the
stair to their chambers. They were whitewashed rooms with green doors
and small casement windows, over which hung full white linen curtains.
Green wooden shutters were opened outside. There were no carpets, only
straw mats; yet there was no sign of poverty. The simplicity was
artistic.
One of the boys went up with them to the castle. The sun was low, and
sent long lines of orange light across the greensward under the trees.
Three flights of stone steps led them to the lower hall, where they
waited till their guide obtained for them the readily accorded
permission to see the castle.
“There is very little to see,” the housekeeper said. “But what there is
I will show you with pleasure.”
They questioned her as they went from room to room, and by secret
passages to the upper terrace. Was there any pass through the mountains?
Her replies made them wonder that so intelligent a woman should feel so
little interest in her immediate neighborhood.
She knew of no pass except one far to the northward; but as the
mountains were a group and not a chain, it did not matter. Climbing in
the vicinity of the castle had proved so dangerous that the prince had
forbidden it.
The Italian spoke of the prince and princess, but learned no more than
he already knew, though the housekeeper showed no unwillingness to
enlighten him. She was enthusiastic in her admiration for the princess,
but did not hear him ask what the lady’s maiden name was,—did not or
would not.
Before going away, the three gentlemen laid their cards on the
drawing-room table; and when they were gone, the housekeeper looked at
them. She read:—
_Don Claudio Loredan, Venice._
_Vicomte François de Courcelles, Paris._
_Herr Ludwig von Ritter, Berlin._
“These must be sent in early to-morrow morning,” she said. “A gentleman
from Venice! Perhaps he may have known the princess.”
After supper the travelers went out to smoke their cigarettes under the
palm-tree, and the old woman, knitting-work in hand, followed them. She
evidently expected their request that she would tell them something of
the history of the castle, and complied with it with the eagerness of a
professional story-teller.
“The origin of Castle Dylar is wrapped in mystery. It is believed that
an army of builders once went from land to land building churches,
castles, and monuments of various sorts. They built fortresses, and
walls for cities, too, and had means unknown to us of moving great
stones and fitting them cunningly together. It is believed that Castle
Dylar was built by them.
“As for its owner, we will say no evil of the dead. His few poor tenants
lived in huts, and knew not how to cultivate the land. They raised a
little, which they and their beasts shared; and when their provisions
failed, they killed and ate the beasts, being the stronger and more
intelligent. When the owner—I know not his name—when he came here from
time to time, often with a number of companions, they fared better. But,
from father to son, the master came less and less, till one was left who
came not at all, but sold the castle and land to a Dylar.
“Oh, then were the people cared for! Then were they lifted out of their
misery! Then did the land bloom! The first tree planted by Dylar was an
olive-tree. ‘I dedicate the land to peace and light,’ he said; and,
gentlemen, peace and light have dwelt in it to this day. The stupid
children of the tenantry were taught. Men came and built these houses to
last a thousand years, and then another thousand. They dug a hole to let
the river through the mountains. They cultivated land. Men did great
works, and went away when they were paid; but other men and women came
in, one by one and two by two, and dwelt here. They were children of
sorrow chosen out of the world to come here and live in peace. We have
all that we want, and we know not drouth. The sun and the snow-peaks
fill our cups to overflowing. When the land grows dry, our men set
donkeys to turning the great wheel you see yonder, with a bucket at
every spoke; and they fill a tank that sends out little rivulets running
over all the land. They go to every plant and tree, like mothers giving
drink to their children. We know not drouth; and Christ is our King.
“There have been nine Dylars with the present one. Each Dylar uses his
number to his name, or sometimes alone. If a written order had the
figure nine alone, or nine straight lines signed to it, that order would
be obeyed. We put it on all things for them, too. When our prince was
here last year with his bride, we sent everything up in nines, nine jars
of olives, nine boxes of oil; and the child who could find a bunch of
nine cherries, or a sprig of nine strawberries to send up to the
princess’ table was a happy child. We sent her a box of olive-wood to
put her laces in. It was fluted in groups of nine all round, and had
nine lilies on the cover, and a border made of the figure interlaced and
flowering out. And in the centre of the cover were the initials J. C.,
with a crown above them; for Christ is King of us all. I found on the
jasmine-tree on our terrace a flower with nine petals, which was a
wonder; for they have usually only five or six, sometimes only four. The
princess pressed the flower to keep, and said it was the prince’s
flower.
“The Dylar made it a virtue for their people to be healthy and clean and
cheerful. They gave them games and pleasures as well as labor. And
whenever they find a young man, or a girl who has a gift for some airy
kind of work that needs a nicer study, they send them out to learn. They
seldom come back to stay; but they come, sooner or later, to see their
old home before they die.
“For us, we do many things. We spin thread of linen and silk, we weave
and embroider and make laces. We make wine and preserve olives and make
oil. We knit hose that a queen has worn, and would have more. For we
have a silk farm, and a silk that reels off like sunshine. And Christ is
our King.”
“Who governs you?” asked the vicomte. “Of course your prince, and the
housekeeper told us, three of your oldest men. But is there nothing
else?”
“Oh, now and again, some people come from far away, and ask some
questions, and get some taxes, they call them. They have need of money,
those who send. I know not. They come and they go. We welcome them, and
we bid them godspeed.”
“But if two of you should disagree?”
“Then each tells his story to the Three, and they decide. And if they
cannot decide, they write to Dylar, whose messenger comes.”
“But if some one accuse you, have you no one to see that no damaging
truth, or no lie, is proven against you? Have you no one to speak for
you?”
“Why should another tell my story for me? And is it not the truth which
all wish to have proven? Are we children? or bees? See, now: if I prove
a lie to-day, and gain a pound of silk by it, or a gallon of oil like
honey distilled, then the spirits of peace in the air about me are
disgusted with the evil scent of my vice, and they fly away, and evil
spirits, who love an evil deed, come near; and of three pounds of silk
they weave a chain that binds my thoughts all down to that sin I have
committed, or of three gallons of bad oil they kindle a lamp in my heart
that burns: and the only way to have peace is to go to him I have
robbed, and say: ‘I lied; and here are three pounds of silk for the
one:’ or, ‘I lied; and here are three gallons of pure oil for one.’
Moreover, the King, when I do evil, is no longer my king; but the Dark
One rules over me. What have I gained, though the silk or the oil were
like Basil’s gold?”
“Who is Basil?” asked the German, smiling. “And what was Basil’s gold?”
“Basil was a Dylar, one of the first. It is said that he was as wise as
Solomon, and could understand the language of all growing things; that
he knew what the curl of a leaf meant, or the sob of the wind. He came
and went. There are wild stories, that he was borne over chasms. I know
not. But he gave his people a message from the earth that he read in a
grain of virgin gold.”
The German was shaken by a strong tremor. “The message! The message!” he
exclaimed.
The old woman smiled at his eagerness. “Listen!” she said. “‘Dig for
your gold, my children, says Earth, your Mother. Deep in your hearts it
lies hidden.’”
“Is there any other settlement near of the Dylar?” the German asked
impetuously.
“None, sir.”
“One has gone forth into the world from this place, a woman, tall,
dark-eyed, with black hair heavy about the brows, and a soft voice. She
is a lady. Who is she? Where is she?”
“I know no such. There is one abroad who sings. She is famous, and she
returns no more. I do not know where she is, nor what name she sings by.
There are others who are married. There are two young girls who study. I
know no such lady. It might be one of Dylar’s messengers; but she is
away.”
“Could I learn at the castle?”
“Ah, no! we do not keep their track. They come and they go. There was
one who came last year. She was something like your lady. She stayed a
week; and she reaped a field of wheat. She is strong to work in the
fields.”
The German sighed, and said no more.
“The present Dylar is young, is he not?” asked the Italian.
“Oh, yes; but little over thirty. But he is very serious. His father was
gay till he lost his wife. Then he never smiled again. But when our
Dylar came here with his bride last year he was different. His eyes
followed her everywhere.”
“What did he call her?” asked the Italian.
“He called her Love; nought else. We called her princess. How fair she
was! If you should tell her a story, when you had ended, it would seem
to you that she had been the one who talked, and not you. She has
changes of expression, and little movements, so that she seems to have
spoken when she has not uttered a word. At the castle they saved all the
hairs that were in her combs and brushes, and I have a little lock of
them that coils round so soft and shining!”
When they went in, the Italian lingered behind his companions, and
detained the old woman. “Show me the lock of hair you told us of,” he
said.
She brought it with pleasure, and carefully unfolding a paper by the
light of a lamp hung against one of the pillars just inside the door,
showed a glossy golden ring, and lifting it, let it drop in a long coil.
“I will give you a gold piece for one hair!” said Don Claudio.
“I do not want the gold,” she said; “but you shall have the hair.” She
drew out two or three of the shining threads and gave them to him; and
he laid them inside a clasped fold of his pocketbook.