Читать книгу Voices from the Dust - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 5

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Julius Octavius Metellus, centurion of the Seventh, his hurts duly tended, full fed, close prisoned yet well cared for that he might prove hearty and strong to endure the full anguish of his dying, stood looking through the bars of his cell with eyes eager and expectant, yet saw no more than this: a green garth shady with trees, and in the midst an oak, mighty with age, whose gnarled branches shaded a stone something wider and longer than a man; a stone rough-hewn and blotched, here and there, with stains other than those of weather.

Philosophic in adversity and something of a poet, he composed verses of love and life and death, but, being also young, more especially of love and death; and so passed the long hours.

Daily he looked forth of his prison-bars, and always with the same wistful expectancy, only to behold the aged tree and grimly stone, particularly the stone, so that he came to know it very well, its every evil blotch—at which times his Muse led him deathwards.

At last, upon an evening when cow-bells tinkled drowsily from lush meads, he saw her. Tall and proud and gracious as he had dreamed her, radiant in young beauty from red-bronze hair to slim, buskined foot, her slender middle clasped by a jewelled girdle that clung about her loveliness as if it too had sense enough to love her. Against her rounded bosom she bore a sheaf of new-gathered flowers; coming to that stone beneath the oak she there disposed her flowers, hiding those ugly blotches ’neath their beauty and at this moment she turned and gazed up at the prisoner and, seeing the adoration of his eyes, she reached out her hand, her red lips parted in a tender smile—but even then came the distant note of a hunting-horn, the baying of hounds, and with a lingering, eloquent look she sped away, leaving that grimly stone a thing of beauty and in the prisoner’s heart a song of joy.

This night came sturdy, jovial Tryggan, something stealthily, and, closing the massive door behind him, set broad back thereto and nodded. Said he:

“Metellus, thou’rt a Roman and therefore ’tis certain, something of a dog. Yet, being dog of war, I dare to think thee something also of a man, and so it is that one I love would not have thee die awhile, deeming thee fit for kinder things, mayhap.”

“Oh man,” said Metellus, rising to greet him, “Oh Tryggan, what’s your meaning?”

“Our princess! The maid Fraya.”

Now at this Metellus bowed his head, his eyes very bright.

“Fraya!” he whispered. “By all the great gods——”

“Stint thine oaths, Roman, and hearken! She deeming thee worthy sweeter thing than death—and such a death!—I needs must think the like——”

“Ah, generous Tryggan——”

“Nay, Roman, she plagues me, she plagues me unceasing; moreover she is ... dear to me! So to-night when the moon tops the oak grove yonder, be waking! I command the guard this night—woe’s me.” So saying, Tryggan sighed, nodded, and was gone.

And now Metellus, philosophical no longer, paced his cell with impatient foot, dreaming breathlessly of what was to be, and each time he scanned the climbing moon the name “Fraya” was on his lip. Up, up, in serene, white majesty rose the full-orbed moon, yet slower surely than ever in all the memory of man; up and up in ever-brightening glory until it topped the oaks at last. The great door swung heavily open; a soft voice breathed:

“Metellus ... Oh Julius!”

“Fraya—dear love!” he whispered, and then she was in his arms, trembling to the passion of his kisses.

“Haste! Oh, haste!” she panted. “Give me thy hand. Now—hush thee!” Thus sped they side by side, and never a sound until they were out beneath the moon, running hand in hand; so she guided him until, within a place of shadow, they came on Tryggan holding a tall white horse.

“Up, Roman!” he whispered fiercely. “Up and away! I see a light where none should be, so here’s danger for us all in tarrying. Away, Fraya!”

“Then will I go with thee, Julius,” she whispered.

“No!” quoth Tryggan. “ ’Twas not so agreed. Away, girl! Nay, little one, he but rides to his death; ay, so—and his death shall be thine——”

“Then shall it be sweetly welcome! Julius, take me, for——”

The stilly night was riven by a sudden wild shout and growing hubbub as the fugitive sprang to saddle.

“Oh!” cried Fraya. “Oh beloved Julius, leave me not to perish alone!”

“Never think it!” he answered, and stooping, caught and swung her up before him.

“Princess,” groaned Tryggan in despair, “thou’rt betrayed. The Roman rides to death, and thou——”

“Spur!” cried Fraya, as came a rush of feet, and, turning, Metellus had brief vision of Bran’s hated face, and then the great horse leapt, reared, and was away.

Fast they rode across an open mead, through rustling wood, by forest glades, plunging deep and ever deeper into the leafy wilderness; yet here, dark though it was, Fraya’s white hand directed their going. Even so needs must he stoop oft-times to kiss her eyes, her cheek, her silky hair, murmuring words of adoration and vows of deathless love, until, what with the wonder of their young passion and the glamour of this midsummer night, they clean forgot their peril.

“Wilt love me always?” she pleaded. “Wilt honour me though I am a Briton?”

“To the end of my life, ay, and beyond!” he vowed. “Oh my Fraya, to the end of Time itself!”

“When didst love me first, Metellus?”

“When first I saw thee.”

“ ’Twas when thou didst come in the matter of hostages,” she murmured happily. “Oh, I mind it well—thy bright armour, thy dear, kind eyes! It seems long since.”

“And yet, my Fraya, I do surely think I loved thee in my boyish dreams, long ere I came to Britain, long ere these bodily eyes beheld thy beauty and loveliness.”

“Ah, marvellous strange!” she murmured. “ ’Twas even so I dreamed of thee, thy dear, dark head, these proud, gentle eyes, thy gait—all these were nothing strange to me.”

“So, Fraya, dear, mine Heart, mayhap we have met and loved ere this ... in some other world, some other age. Who knoweth—who shall say?”

“Hearken!” she cried suddenly, clasping him in the protecting passion of her arms. “Dost hear?”

“Nothing, my Heart.”

“Ay, but I did! Ah—’tis there again!” she cried, as, faint with distance, rose the shrill clamour of a horn. “ ’Tis Bran!” she gasped. “ ’Tis Bran, I know his moot. Now ride amain. Oh Metellus, speed, for death surely follows hard!”

“Fear not, loved soul, they are yet afar.”

“Nay, but Bran knoweth these woodlands, every glade and clearing....”

And now, by reason of her terrors, Fraya misguided him, and going astray, they blundered amid mazy thickets and floundered into perilous slough and, or ever they won free, their pursuers were in full cry.

“Julius, beloved,” she murmured, after some while of furious going, “they are close on us! I fear me ’tis the end. We have found again this great wonder of our love but to lose it awhile.”

“Ha, they ride but three!” cried Metellus, glancing back. “Oh, for a sword! Yet if indeed I must lose thee, Beloved, willingly I’ll die also. Yet would I smite Bran from life first!”

“Ah, Metellus, ’tis a deadly thing, this hate betwixt ye twain!”

“And most strange, my Fraya, for as I seemed born loving thee, so with life came hate for him.”

“Yet hate is vain and empty thing, Metellus; ’tis waste of life.”

“ ’Tis death!” he answered twixt shut teeth. “To him or me.”

“To both!” she sighed. “To both, full oft, till Death at last shall lesson ye, and your hate be changed to love and amity. I see, I know! Life floweth ever like Time itself! ... And now, ah, my Julius, kiss me farewell awhile, for here must we die ... yet not for long, since Life is stronger than Death.”

“Why, how meanest thou, my Heart?”

“See! Yonder is chasm no horse may leap, so let us here await Death. Let us go out into the dark together until together we find Life again.”

But Metellus, rising in his stirrups, surveyed that dreadful gulf; then, clasping Fraya to his heart, he set his teeth and, with voice and hand and goading heel, urged the great white horse faster ... faster yet ... then, shouting suddenly, he plied hand and heel anew, lifting the mighty stallion with cunning wrist.... A rush of wind! A jarring shock! A wild scramble of desperate hoofs, and the brave horse, winning to level ground, gasped and fell. Half-dazed, Metellus staggered to his feet uttering a glad cry to see Fraya already upon her knees.

“Safe!” he gasped, lifting her in eager arms. “The Gods are with us, Beloved!”

But, speaking no word, she pointed, and, glancing thitherward, he saw Bran rein up his rearing steed upon the opposite brink of the chasm, saw him whirl up his long arm ... and in that moment Fraya flung herself upon Metellus, clasped him in the shelter of her arms, with words of passionate love ending in an awful, sobbing groan; and looking down he saw her transfixed by the javelin, beheld his hands bedabbled with her innocent blood.

“Die, then, traitorous wanton!” roared Bran and, wheeling his horse, galloped away.

“Ah, Metellus,” she gasped, “Oh Julius! our time of love ... is not ... yet. Nay, grieve not, I ... shall wait for thee ... shall wait to ... love thee again ... at better time. But now ... kiss me farewell awhile ... a little ... little ... while——”

And so Metellus kissed her and, with her mouth on his, she died.

After some while he gathered bracken-fern and therewith made a bed, and very reverently laid her there, wetting her pale face with his tears.

“Thy bridal couch, Beloved!” he whispered. “And so ... until we meet again ... fare thee well!”

And thus he left her with the day-spring bright upon her young loveliness.