Читать книгу Voices from the Dust - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 13

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From time immemorial our old River has run upon its course, singing among sedge and bending willow, lapping against bank and wall and pier, laughing and chuckling to itself in sunshine and shadow,—but singing ever its song of sighful death and life’s joyous renewal, since ever Life was.

Small and insignificant beside other rivers of this planet, our Thames is yet greater than them all in experience of life and death. A silent road of age-old traffic, a crystal highway of pleasure, a defence against foes, it has helped the growth of mighty city and mightier empire.

Old Thames has watched the British village of Ligun Don or Lynne Dun wax to the proud walled city of Rome’s Londinium Augusta; it has echoed the rhythmic clash of Cæsar’s iron legions, the battle-roar of sturdy Norseman, Saxon, and fierce Dane; flood and fire and death in all shapes it has known while empires crashed to ruin, dynasties rose and fell, and the wondrous city grew and grew—mighty beyond the dreams of its long-forgotten founders.

Now where lives the Englishman, more especially the Londoner, who loves not his old River, the whole two hundred and twelve odd miles of it? For in it and on it and round about it his sturdy forefathers lived and loved, fought, suffered, and died; deep, deep within its silent bosom and in its banks to right and left lie their hallowed bones. Thus, in some sort, old Father Thames is indeed part of us, close linked and knit to our very destiny.

From its rise beyond Cheltenham to its wide outflow it is in itself a symbol of human life; pure at its source as the very Spirit of God, it laughs upon its young way between flowery banks, it grows sombre in the shade of village and town, becomes dark and foul in the great city’s mighty shadow, but, flowing on darker, sadder, leaps at last to lose itself in the sweet, clean immensity of ocean....

“And so is it, Gregory,” quoth young Miles, gazing dreamful upon the murmurous water at his feet, “so is it I do love our Thames, for verily I do feel as I had known it in other days, dim days, Greg, ere London’s Tower was, or London so great.”

“Why, small wonder thou shouldst love it, lad, for, sithee now, ’twas yonder atwixt them two trees,” answered old Gregory Hooe, the river-man, pointing with a hand gnarled and sinewy from the oar, “ay, atwixt them two trees as the old River brought ’ee to me, of a buxom summer’s eve, three-an’-twenty year agone, thanks to the good Saint Cuthbert; for a rare blessing hast been to me, Miles, lad.”

“On a summer’s eve the like o’ this?” enquired Miles, leaning his lithe, tall shapeliness upon the long oar he held.

“Ay, lad. ’Twas the old River gave ’ee to me, the saints bless it! Floated ’ee to me in small wicker ark; and a bonny atomy ye were, all lapped i’ fine linen and the jewel slung about the little neck o’ thee!”

“This,” murmured Miles, drawing from the breast of his leathern jerkin a gold medallion set with onyx stone curiously enwrought.

“Ay, lad,—the Pelican in Piety, crowned. The which be a strange symbol and rare, as do make me guess thou wast begot o’ noble blood. Belike some potent lord, a duke mayhap, went to the fathering o’ thee, Miles, or even ...”

Miles laughed and, thrusting the medallion from sight, clapped a large hand gently upon the old man’s sturdy shoulder.

“Sire me not so, Gregory. Thyself hast fathered me so kindly well, none other would I so love were he the King’s Majesty——”

“Hast said it, lad!” cried old Gregory. “As thou’rt taller and stronger than most men, so is our lord King Edward, our Longshanks. Ay, and thou hast the same small droop o’ the left eyebrow, even as he, the same proud cock o’ chin——”

“Nay, now,” quoth Miles, black brows a-twitch, yet closing the old man’s lips with gentle finger and thumb, “peace, father Greg. No lust have I to Royal bastardy, not I. Thou’rt my father, sir—a boatman I, and therewithal content.”

“God love thee, Miles, now!” said old Gregory, smiling up at his comely young giant. “Love and father thee will I even as this goodly River hath fostered me. Ha, look, son, ’tis a noble stream, our Father Thames; ’tis bread to us, riches, our very life. And heartily do I love it since it gave me thee. So is it twice thy father, ay, and mother too, since verily it bore thee, three-and-twenty year agone. Wherefore God bless our Father Thames again, say I.”

“Amen!” quoth Miles, and, doffing his leather cap, bowed his comely head in smiling reverence to the murmurous, sun-kissed River.

“And now, Father Greg, yonder come Tom and Dickon with their lads to the evening ferogage. So, by thy leave, I’ll up stream to a pool that holdeth noble trout; a crafty fellow hath thrice escaped me.”

“So—good sport, lad. But what o’ supper?”

“ ’Tis ’i the shallop here,” and he laid his hand on a small boat, a craft somewhat battered with long-usage but painted a soft and tender blue: now blue is the colour of happiness and good fortune.

With a heave of mighty shoulder he launched the shallop, leapt nimbly aboard, and waved a sun-browned hand; then, shipping oars, pulled away up stream.

And as he rowed with long, powerful strokes his dark dreamful eyes gazed where, vague with distance and pink with sunset, rose the massy walls and embattled turrets of London’s mighty Tower, and beyond this the lordly palaces, the spires and steeples of the famous city until a bend in the River hid them all.

And, after some while, he came where sighing willows leant to kiss the murmurous waters, and here he turned to make the shallop fast; but in this moment his keen eyes espied a shadow in the tide, and, knowing what this must be, with powerful thrust of oar he sent the light shallop leaping thitherward, and bending dexterously over heeling gunwale he grasped floating tresses ... then his arm was fast about a woman’s body, and winning ashore he laid her gently upon the grass.

An oval face, death pale, ’mid clinging braids of bronze-gold hair, a noble shape, yet all tender, youthful, rounded loveliness. Miles looked and looked and caught his breath for very wonder of her strange loveliness, while with reverent hands he ordered her draperies and, with water-wise skill, strove to woo her back to life.

Yet very still she lay and breathless all, as on the very brink of death; then, suddenly, even as he wrought despairing, her eyes opened on him, eyes that, meeting his, from look of dread grew wondrous tender and radiant with quick gladness. The shapely mouth curved in smile of joyous welcome, and from these pale and quivering lips came a voice sweetly low yet clear:

“Oh Metellus! Loved Julius! Forth of the shadows back to thee come I, since Love is mightier than Death! ... Oh beloved Julius!” Then a hand was upon his brow, a hand slim and wet and cold.... And now, looking into these eyes of dark bewitchment, Miles himself grew sudden cold as death ... grew warm again with eager life, yet full of great awe; then, trembling with a joy such as he had never known, he clasped her fast in sudden yearning arms.

“Fraya!” he whispered, “Oh Fraya, beloved! Now be glory to all the Gods!” But when he would have kissed her she stirred in his embrace and, uttering a small moan, looked up at him in cold amaze and spake, shivering and petulant:

“Oh alas! These cruel waters will not drown me! I am not dead, then?”

His powerful arms grew lax and, laying her upon the sward, he shivered violently, looked wildly up and around and clasped his head in shaking hands; then quoth he:

“Ah, woman ... maiden ... but now thou didst speak me strange words in another voice ... thou didst look at me with other eyes——”

“Nay,” said she, knitting black and prideful brows at him, “I spake not thee!”

“Then here was some enchantment!” whispered Miles, and crossed himself devoutly.

“Oh and alas!” she wailed, “and the River would not drown me.”

“Nay, God and His saints forfend!” said Miles, shaking his head in deep perplexity. “Kind Father Thames shall ne’er slay such loveliness, I ween.”

“Think ye so?” sighed she. “Then cast me in again to prove thy words; for Father Thames shall kill me an we do but give him time. Then shall I be quit of fear and grateful therefore. So, messire, toss me in again, I do command thee—forthright!” Miles stared, then smiled and shook his head; whereat she frowned again with look high and arrogant, albeit she shivered somewhat:

“How?” she demanded, with the prideful arrogance of lofty birth. “Wilt defy me?”

“Even so!” he answered, and reaching a large boat-cloak from his shallop wrapped it close about her despite feeble resistance.

“Ha ... messire,” she gasped. “Thou’rt presumptuous!”

“Yet no knight, lady!”

“Then who’rt thou to meddle—that darest give me life when I ... do yearn for death? Who’rt thou to order my fate thus?”

“A water-man, lady, a man o’ the River.”

“Bold knave, so is thy presumption the greater!”

“Ay, so,” nodded Miles; “but now thy so white teeth do begin a-chattering, thy tender body to quake and shiver. Wherefore incontinent I’ll bear thee to thy home——”

“Never, thou river-man; here will I hide and shiver me to death——”

“Then will I carry thee to my good father.”

“Then will I cast me again i’ the cold Thames!” quoth she, proudly resolute, despite chattering teeth and shaking limbs; wherefore Miles took himself by his smooth-shaven chin, viewing her defiant loveliness as one at loss. Then, stooping, he gathered her in his arms and strode in among the trees and underwoods that grew very thickly thereabouts.

“Ah, th-thou ... w-water-man,” she demanded, chattering, yet looking up at him with eyes no whit afraid, “th-thou large m-man o’ the R-river, what wilt d-do now to m-me?”

“Comfort thee!” he answered; and so after some while brought her where, deep hid in mazy boskages, was a little cave that opened in a grassy, bush-girt steep within a leafy dell aglow with sunset.

Here, setting her down, he gathered sticks, dried leaf and fern, struck flint and steel and set a fire going that soon leapt and crackled so merrily that she smiled and reached slim shaking hands to its genial warmth.

“River-man, how art named?” she questioned suddenly.

“Miles, lady.”

“Why, ’tis an apt name, for thou’rt mighty and long!” said she, and sat warming herself and looking up at him with a certain arrogant serenity so that his cheek flushed and he stooped to tend the fire.

“Soon,” said he, very conscious of her half-disdainful scrutiny, “soon this small cave shall be warm and thou quite dry. In the meanwhile, if ye be an-hungered, lady——”

“Nay,” said she, recoiling. “Food for me hath lost all savour; cates the most delectable I do abhor! Oh, methinks I shall eat never again!”

“Then, by fair leave, I will, lady, for I have not supped!” And away he strode, but very quickly was back again, a goodly bundle under his arm.

“What hast thou there, Master Miles?” she questioned, something plaintively.

“Cold neat’s tongue, lady, with cheese, a crusty loaf, and ale,” he answered cheerily, setting forth these viands on the grass between them.

“Hast e’er a sup of wine for a poor clammed soul?”

“Alas, no, lady! Here in leather pottle is but ale.”

“Ale?” quoth she, shuddering; “ ’tis rank drink, fit only for poor lusty knaves.”

“And water-men, lady.”

“So will I adventure me to taste o’ thine ale, Master Miles.”

“Nay—out on’t; here is no cup, lady!”

“Then needs must thou learn me to drink from thy pottle!” she sighed. So, coming beside her on his knees, he steadied the leathern jack while she assuaged her thirst.

“Oh, ’tis a harsh and mannish drink!” said she, making a wry face. “Now eat, Sir River-man Miles, eat and heed not me!” and, bowing her lovely head, she gazed upon the jovial fire, shuddering cosily to its voluptuous warmth.

Now after Miles had eaten awhile he spake, keeping his gaze also upon the crackling fire:

“Thou art, I guess, a noble lady of lofty rank and proud degree.”

“I am merest woeful poor maid and desolate.”

“Poor maid, and why would ye die?”

“Die?” she murmured, glancing askance at the goodly viands on the grass beside her.

“Wherefore would ye drown?”

“Drown?” she repeated, her blue eyes still intent. “Drown. Ay me ... yea, forsooth, ’twere better to drown than wed him I do hate. Better lie dead than in his loathed arms!”

“Verily! Yet why wed one ye hate?”

“Because ’tis I am commanded thereto by—ah, ’tis the will of—my most harsh warden.”

“Nay, but ye are of proud, courageous seeming. Defy him.”

“Alack, he is such as none may e’er defy!”

“Then wherefore not fly his cruel governance and go free?”

“Free?” she cried, tossing shapely arms in a wild yearning gesture. “Oh, sweet heaven, that I might in very truth! Freedom have I never known, nor ever may—except, mayhap, in death!”

“Thou poor, sweet soul!” murmured Miles, and she, reading in his honest eyes the frank sincerity of his pity, bowed her stately head with a small sob. Then she said:

“So it was I sought to die. Yet am I nothing brave, for whiles I stood, shill-I, shall-I, upon the River’s marge, my foot slipped, and in soused I. And being i’ the water and it so cold I yearned to live, and swam amain until my robes dragged me down. And then as kindly Death came on me and I no more afeard, e’en then thy rude hand plucked me back to life and—dread o’ the to-morrow.”

“So now,” quoth Miles, “now would I pluck thee from all fear and every sorrow an I might!” After this there was silence some while, she looking, wistful, on the fire again and he on her until at last she, sighing, spake:

“Sigh not for me, thou Miles o’ the River. Eat, Sir Water-man, eat, nor grieve for poor woeful me.”

“Nay,” he answered, “mine hunger is of a sudden strangely fled.”

“Why, then,” said she, in soft, small voice, “wilt spare me one little bite?” Up started Miles and, upon a manchet of white bread, proffered her a slice of the neat’s tongue; the which she, plaintive sighing, took and ate with small, nibbling bites yet lusty appetite.

“Eat thou also!” she commanded. And so, sitting friendly side by side, they shared the supper between them whiles evening crept down, a tender, fragrant, star-gemmed dusk with promise of a radiant moon.

“And,” sighed Miles, their supper ended, “must thou soon to wedlock indeed? With one thou hatest?”

“Indeed! Alas!” sighed she.

“Now this,” said he, frowning, “this, methinks, shall work thee shame—ay, and misery abiding!”

“This,” she murmured, looking on him sadly, “this is wherefore I sought to die.”

“But why not seek life, and perchance ... happiness?”

“As how, good friend?” she questioned eagerly, leaning towards him. “Oh, prithee teach me!”

“Dost love ... no man?”

“No man in all the world.”

“Why, then,” said Miles, staring hard at the fire, “if thou’rt truly in plight so woeful, wed a man thou dost neither hate nor ... love ... as yet.”

“What manner o’ man?” she questioned softly.

“A man o’ Thames—e’en I, lady.”

“But thou—thou lovest me not.”

“Hum!” quoth Miles.

“Nor I thee.”

“ ’Tis not expected ... yet mayhap ’twould come—in time ... who knoweth?”

“Ay, who knoweth!” she sighed, viewing the noble shape of him, dreamy eyed. “Ay, forsooth it might,” she nodded, “an thou couldst first learn to love me——”

“This I promise!” said Miles fervently.

“An wouldst be patient and tender as thou’rt strong?”

“This also I vow thee.”

“Then might I wed thee, Miles. And yet, alack, ’twere but a vain and idle dream! Thy wife or no, hide where we would, they’d snatch me from thy very arms——”

“Ha, not so, by God!” cried Miles, dark head up-flung, dark eyes fierce and bright ’neath scowling brows. “None should touch thee whiles I lived!”

“So should I be thy death!” she mourned.

“So would I die right cheerily in such just cause. Moreover, ay, by Holy Cross, I should not die alone!” Now as he scowled thus, face grim in the fire-glow, mighty fist aloft, she of a sudden rose to her knees, staring on him with a look of fearful wonderment.

“Miles!” she gasped, “Oh Miles ...!”

“How; what is’t?”

“Now,” cried she, leaning near, “in thy face, thy mien, the very shape of thee, thou’rt like to him I most do fear! Ah, surely thou art nobly born?”

“In sooth,” he nodded, smiling, “borne was I of yon noble Thames and——”

“Hail, son of Thames and fair greeting!” said a deep rich voice. “Ye twain that were, and are, and shall be—greeting!” Into the fire-glow stepped a man; tall was he and very old, for his long hair and beard gleamed silvery white, yet the eye beneath drawn hood seemed bright with fiery youth. Thus stood he, looking down on them with aspect so stately and commanding, though kindly withal, that Miles stood up, cap in hand:

“Sir Ancient,” said he, “who art thou and what wouldst thou here?”

“Leolyn the Harper, I, tall youth, that some do name John the Rhymer, for, like the ancient River yonder, I sing to such as have ears to hear withal.”

“Ay, surely I’ve heard thee,” said the lady, dark brows knit haughtily, proud head aloft. “But now no mind have I to——”

“Truly thou hast heard me sing, lady, but with ears fast shut up like thy proud heart. Yet this night, peradventure, thou shalt hear and know the great truth whereof yon River singeth, my lady Duchess.”

“How—Duchess?” cried Miles in a voice like one sore smitten.

“Indeed, good youth, the Duchess Heloise she—late betrothed to Hugo, lord of Brandon Tower. Ay, yonder sitteth this most high, right noble lady, Duchess of Rouvère, Countess of Framlinghame, Lady of Remy Beckton, and divers many other towers, manors, and demesnes both here and beyond sea—herself, though sounding so many, yet one and indivisible—and moreover ward unto our potent liege lord King Edward the First, whom God preserve!”

“The King’s ward!” gasped Miles.

“Yea—yea!” cried Heloise passionately. “All this am I, and all this would I flee, e’en were it to a fisherman’s mean hut or ... a River-man’s strong arms!”

“Ah, lady, lady!” stammered Miles, shaking his despondent head. “Here in troth ... here were bitter folly!”

“Oh,—thou!” cried Heloise, turning fiercely upon the Harper. “Out on thee for knavish, idle chatterbox! Alas, alas, Miles, a prisoner I, throned solitary upon Pomp’s dismal, very peak, a fettered victim to a mighty King’s vile polity, to be given into whatsoe’er man’s arms he will! Ah, Death were sweeter! ... Oh Miles! ... Ah, thou meddling Rhymer, I would have told him—after!” Now looking into the yearning passion of her eyes, beholding the surge and tumult of her bosom and all her eager, vital youth, Leolyn smiled and from his cloak took a small harp:

“Proud lady,” said he gently, “most sweet maiden, methinks great Love with tender wing hath touched thy cold heart, so are thine ears open at last. List now and I will sing ye the song old Thames hath sung since ever he ran, which is a song of the three Great Mysteries that are yet matters very simple to such as have ears. Hearken now, sweet children both, and be ye comforted and bold for Life and Love.”

Then Leolyn, standing over against them beyond the fire, unslung his harp, struck divers running chords, and sang in a voice soft and deep and wonder-sweet:

“Pomp and rank, estate and power,

These may pass within the hour,

Fade and languish as a flower

And wither in a day.

But Life and Love and Time, these be

Eternal all—the Deathless Three,

The veritable Trinity,

These ne’er shall pass away.

What though this fleshly body die?

The deathless Soul shall upward fly

Back—where the Fount of Life doth lie

Lost in immensity.

Thus if cold Death a while benight us,

True Love shall like good angel light us

Back into Life—and reunite us

Through all eternity.

For Life, like mighty river flowing,

Ever coming, ever going,

Like God and Time is past our knowing—

The great and Deathless Three.”

Now while they yet sat thralled by such sweet singing, Leolyn drew from his scrip a handful of dried herbs and cast them upon the fire:

“Behold!” said he. “Look, children, and know!”

Even as he spoke, up rose a column of vapour that rolled about them, thick and dense and of a marvellous sweet savour,—a smoke that wreathed awhile and thinned away.

Then of a sudden the Duchess Heloise uttered a sweet, glad cry and reached forth eager arms to him that gazed on her with eyes of adoration, a slim man of a noble bearing, sheathed in the glittering battle harness of Imperial Rome.

“Metellus! Oh Julius!” she cried.

“Fraya ... beloved ... at last!” he answered; and so they kissed; but lo—the arms about her now were dight in ringed mail, a young hawk-face smiled down on her ’neath gleaming helmet:

“Gilles!” she murmured. “Dear my lord!”

“Githa!” said he. “Sweet my wife!” and kissed her; and then again was wondrous change: a great fellow in triple chain mail, a tender-smiling, mighty man with ruddy hair:

“Oh Gyles!” she whispered.

“My loved Melissa!” he smiled, kissing her; and so again was transformation....

“Ah, ... thou!” she sighed. “My man o’ the dear River! Take me ... hold me, Miles!”

“God knoweth that will I!” quoth Miles, and caught her fast and kissed her amain until at last she chid him, saying:

“Nay, now, mine Heart,—no more, with yon Rhymer to see us!” So, unwilling, Miles released her, and then she clung to him again with a despairing cry, for behold, Leolyn the Rhymer was gone, but there, his mail gleaming in the firelight, his fierce eyes brighter yet, stood Hugo, lord of Brandon Tower, and divers of his foresters behind.

But now the young Duchess turned and fronted this fierce lord, with head erect and eyes unquailing, like the great lady she was.

“Well, messire?” she demanded haughtily. “What meaneth this so mannerless intrusion?”

Lord Hugo fell back a step:

“How?” he gasped. “How then, lady—thou that art accounted so cold ... so disdainful of wedlock with thy peer canst yet prove overly kind to yon base fellow? Ha—now black shame on thee!”

“Peace, my lord!” cried Heloise proudly. “In true love is nor shame nor any fear——”

“Love?” cried the Earl, clapping hand to the dagger at his girdle. “Love? And for such a poor knave, forsooth—such mean flesh as yon fellow?”

“E’en so, my lord; ’tis ‘yon fellow’ I’ll wed—him or none!”

“Wed ... wed, sayst thou?” cried Lord Hugo, in stammering amaze. “To ... wed him! Art mad, Heloise? What of our lord the King? Darest thou gainsay his will, defy his mandate? And for such paltry rogue! Ha, wilt defy the mighty Edward? Wilt stoop to wive such——?”

“Now, ’bate thy ill tongue, blatant man!” cried she. “Get thee to the King and say Heloise of Framlinghame hath chosen the man shall ’spouse her, else maid will she die. To the King go! Speed ye hence!”

“That will I forthright, proud lady! Yet first,” cried he, beckoning to his foresters, “seize me yon rogue!”

Back leapt Miles and, snatching up a knotted branch, swung it in his mighty grasp and therewith smote down the foremost of his assailants. Yet they were many and he but one, so they beat him to earth at last; they bound and dragged him battered and torn to Lord Hugo’s feet.

“Lewd dog, base serf, thou shalt die!”

“So must ... we all ... one day, lord!” panted Miles, his yearning gaze on Heloise’s pallid loveliness. “Yet no serf am I, but freeman born ... and do avow me ... innocent of wrong to ... any——”

“Enough! A rope to his neck, Jeannot!”

“Not so!” cried Heloise, interposing. “Sir Hugo, unworthy knight and loathed lord, the wrong he did was saving me from Thames wherein I sought to die rather than wed a man so abhorred as thyself! Now, loose him, I command! Loose him—I charge ye all in King Edward’s name, he that is peerless knight and King most just——”

“Hang him, Jeannot!” cried the Earl. “And thus, my proud, wanton lady, a maid indeed thou shalt die——”

But in that instant, swift and lithe as panther, she leapt upon him, had snatched the dagger from his girdle, yet ere she could strike, a ringing voice cried her name, and in the fire-glow stood a man very tall, lean, and stalwart, and with left eyebrow somewhat drooping.

Lord Hugo and his foresters, every man, crouched instantly upon their knees; even the proud young Duchess knelt, for despite homely garments, this man with his eagle glance and face stern and worn with ceaseless conflict and passionate effort looked what he was—the greatest of the Plantagenets. Only Miles stood, erect in his bonds, the death-noose about his naked throat; so for a long moment the King gazed on him and he upon the King, eye to eye. Then King Edward beckoned, and into the dell stepped Leolyn the Rhymer, to whom the King said wearily:

“See now, my John o’ Jingles, see how ill these lordlings serve me, ever mindful o’ their proud Norman blood, with a hearty curse on’t! Petty tyrants all, and notably—this felon.”

“Felon, sire?” quoth the Earl, flinching. “Nay, dread Majesty, thou knowest thy most loyal subject, Hugo of Brandon——”

“A rogue felon, John, that to his own ignoble purpose would commit murder upon this our subject.”

“Nay, my liege lord,” cried Hugo. “According to custom and feudal code, I, as overlord, would but do justice on——”

“Ha, fool and knave, have I ’stablished courts of law but to be flouted by such as thyself? The feudal code is dead! Here in our realm is neither Norman nor Saxon henceforth, but only Englishmen. Have we not so proclaimed?”

“Yea, Majesty, but——”

“Ha, this ‘but’ makes thee rebel. Thy black tyranny armed a brave and noble lady’s hand against thee! ... Shall we hang him? How sayst thou, Heloise?”

“Nay, sire, spare his life, so he, living, marry not me!”

The King’s wide, grim lips twitched; but looking whither she looked and seeing Miles viewing her with adoration, forgetful of majesty, bonds, and aught else under heaven, the King frowned.

“Ha!” quoth he, “ye love-sick doaters, is Edward of England then of none account? God’s life! ... Thou, Hugo, for the sake of this noble lady I grant thee life a while. Hie thee to thy tower of Brandon and there prison thyself during our good pleasure and pray God and His saints teach thee to be as merciful, as just, and as English as is thy King. Now be dumb! Hence—away!”

So Hugo, lord of Brandon, arose, made his obeisance, and hasted away with his company and never a word....

“And this is he, is’t, my John, my Jingling Jack?” said the King, coming where stood Miles in his tatters, mighty arms and shoulders gleaming. “Ha, for a maid thou hast a ready eye to manhood, Heloise! ’Tis a good, lusty youth, ’tis verily a man to——” The King’s hand pounced on the jewel that shone upon Miles’s wide breast; he stared on it wide-eyed and, snapping the chain whereon it hung, turned it to the firelight.

“John,” said he at last in a strangled voice. “Ah, John, didst know of this?”

“Lord, I knew.”

“And ... art sure, John—sure?”

“Ay, lord, sure.”

Then, swiftly, the King turned and, coming to Miles, tossed the noose from his throat and, clapping mighty hand on mighty shoulder, turned where stood Heloise.

“My lady Duchess, lovest thou this man o’ Thames?”

“Oh, sire, with all my poor heart!”

“Wouldst forsooth mate with him, this lad o’ boats?”

“Ay, verily, my lord.”

“And thou, Sir Boatman, darest thou wed this proud-spirited lady? Art bold to undertake this most unruly maid?”

“With all my heart, sire.”

“Bravely said! But since she is a woman, young and so fair o’ body, nobly born, of lofty estate, and therewith, as I say, vastly stout-willed and indomitable, and thou but mere man, needs must I fit thee, in some sense, to cope with this so puissant dame that, ’spite her present meek seeming, hath the reckless valour to defy the purpose of England’s Edward. How art thou named?”

“Miles, good my liege.”

“ ’Tis well,” said the King, drawing sword. “ ’Tis a good English name! To thy knees!”

Then, hands still prisoned, Miles knelt and King Edward rapped him with sword on bowed head and shoulder, saying:

“Now do I name thee Sir Miles Broom and make thee Lord Warden of our noble Thames. Rise up, my lord. To-morrow at noon come to me in the Tower. As for thee, my most defiant ward, sweet lady of Meekness,—thus am I rid of thee! Sever now thy lord’s bonds, loose thy master’s hands ... unless thou art afraid o’ them—aha! So fare ye well! Come, John, go with me, for much I need thy counsel.”

Now when they were alone she stood looking on him and he gazing speechless upon her.

“Oh, wonderful!” he murmured at last. “Beloved, loose my hands.”

“Dost love me, then—Man o’ Thames?”

“Ah, God knoweth it! Prithee loose my hands.”

“And wilt love me ever ... Sir Miles?”

“With my every breath ... to the end of all things. Sweet, mine Heart, loose my hands.”

“Wilt be ... patient with me and very, very tender, my lord?”

“Ah, this thou knowest. I pray thee now, loose ...” And Heloise loosed them.

The moon stood high, making a pale glory of the murmurous waters, when at last the shallop crept forth of the shadows.

“Oh Miles ... now do I thank God for thee!”

“Him and our kindly Thames, beloved.”

“That would not drown me, dear Miles!”

“That brought thee into my arms, Heloise ... nay, unto the very heart and soul of me.”

“Ah ... lovely River, dear, gentle Thames!” she sighed, and catching up a glistering handful of water, she kissed it. And surely the ancient River in all its length of days never bore twain with hopes more high or love more deep, as the little blue shallop moved dreamy on its gentle tide.

Now blue is the colour of Happiness.