faith, golden crown of the christian! self-mesmerism, subtle alchemy of the mind! how the balance of belief swings between these twain!
a spiritual conception born in a woman's brain is as a savour of rich spices sweetening all the world. how great a power of obstinacy stirs in one small body! a pillar of fire, a shining grail. she will bring forth the finest gems that hang upon her bosom, the ruby of heroism, the sapphire of pity. she will cast all her store of gold into the lap of fate. give to her some radiant dream of hope, and she may prove the most splendid idealist, even if she do not prove a wise one. remember the women who watched about the cross of christ.
there had been trickery in the miracle, a tinge of flesh in the vision. the virgin, in the ruck of religion, had suffered herself to be personated by a clever little "player" from gilderoy, aided and idealised by a certain notorious charlatan who dealt in magic, was not above aiding ecclesiastical mummeries on occasions, and conspiring for the solemn production of miracles. a priest's juggling box, a secret door at the back of the altar used in bygone days for the manipulation of a wonder-working image, musicians, incense, and greek fire. these had made the portent possible. as for fulviac, rugged plotter, he was as grave as an abbot over the business; his words were wondrous beatific; he spoke of the interventions of heaven with bated breath.
it was a superstitious age, touched with phantasy and gemmed with magic. relics were casketed in gold and silver; holy blood amazed with yearly liquefactions the souls of the devout; dreamers gazed into mirrors, crystals, finger-nails, for visions of heaven. jewels were poured in scintillant streams at the white feet of the madonna. it was all done with rare mysticism, colour, and rich music. the moon ruled marriage, corn, and kine. the saints, like a concourse of angels, walked with melancholy splendour through the wilds.
as for the girl yeoland, she had the heart of a woman in the noblest measure, a red heart, pure yet passionate. the world waxed prophetic that shrill season. she was as full of dreams and phantasies as an astrologer's missal. nothing amazed her, and yet all earth was mysterious. the wind spoke in magic syllables; the trees were oracular; the stars, white hands tracing symbols in the sky. she was borne above herself on the pinions of ecstasy, heard seraph wings sweep the air, saw the glimmer of their robes passing the portals of the night. mysticism moved through the world like the sound of lutes over a moonlit sea.
one march morning, fulviac came to her in the northern chamber of the cliff. yeoland had masses of scarlet cloth and threads of gold upon her knees, for she was broidering a banner, the banner of the maid of gilderoy. her eyes were full of violet shadow. she wore a cross over her bosom, emeralds set in silver; a rosary, dangling on her wrist, told how her prayers kept alternate rhythm with her fingers. fulviac crooked the knee to the crucifix upon the wall, sat down near her on a rich bench of carved cedar wood.
the man was in a beneficent mood, and beamed on her like a lusty summer. he had tidings on his tongue, tidings that he hoarded with the craft of an epicure. it was easy to mark when the world trundled well with his humour. he put forth smiles like a great oak whose boughs glisten in the sun.
"you will tire yourself, little sister."
she looked at him with one of her solemn glances, a glance that spoke of vigils, soul-searchings, and prayer.
"my fingers tire before my heart," she said to him.
"rest, rest."
"do i seem weary to you?"
"nay, you are fresh as the dawn."
he brushed back the tawny hair from off his forehead, and the lines about his mouth softened.
"i have news from the west."
"ah!"
"we gather and spread like fire in a forest. the mountain men are with us, ready to roll down from the hills with hauberk and sword. in two months malgo will have sent the bloody cross through all the west."
the golden thread ran through the girl's white fingers; the beads of her rosary rattled; she seemed to be weaving the destiny of a kingdom into the device upon her banner.
"how is it with us here?" she asked him.
"i have a thousand stout men and true camped upon the cliff. levies are coming in fast, like steel to a magnet. in a month we shall outbulk a roman legion."
"and gilderoy?"
"gilderoy and geraint will give us a score thousand pikemen."
"the stars fight for us."
fulviac took her lute from the carved bench and began to thrum the chords of an old song.
"spears crash, and swords clang,
fame maddens the world.
come battle and love.
iseult--
ah, iseult."
he broke away with a last snap at the strings, and set the lute aside.
"bear with me," he said.
her dark eyes questioned him over her banner.
"i offer you the first victim."
"ah!"
"flavian of gambrevault."
an indefinite shadow descended upon the girl's face. the inspired radiance seemed dimmed for the moment; the crude realism of her thoughts rang in discord to her dreams. she lost the glimmering thread from her needle. her hands trembled a little as she played with the scarlet folds of the banner.
"well?"
"a lad of mine bears news--a black-eyed rogue from the hills of carlyath, sharp as a sword's point, quaint as an elf. i sent him gleaning, and he has done bravely. you would hear his tale from his own lips?"
she nodded and seemed distraught.
"yes. bring him in to me," she said.
fulviac left her, to return with a slim youth sidling in behind him like a shadow. the lad had a nut-brown skin and ruddy cheeks, a pair of twinkling eyes, a thatch of black hair over his forehead. bred amid the hills of carlyath, where the women were scarlet eves, and the land a paradise, he had served in gilderoy as apprentice to an armourer. carlyath's wilds and the city's roguery had mingled in him fantastic strains of extravagant sentiment and cunning. half urchin, half elf, he stood with bent knees and slouched shoulders, his black eyes alert on fulviac, his lord.
the man thrust him forward by the collar, with an eloquent gesture.
"the whole tale. try your wit."
the carlyath lad advanced one foot, and with an impudent southern smirk, remarked--
"this, madame, is an infatuated world."
thus, sententiously delivered, he plunged into a declamation with a picturesque and fanciful extravagance that he had imbibed from the strolling romancers of his own land.
"in the city of gilderoy," he said, speaking very volubly and with many gestures, "there lives a lady of surpassing comeliness. her eyes are as the sky, her cheeks as june roses, her hair a web of gold. she is a right fair lady, and daily she sits at her broad casement, singing, and plaiting her hair into shackles of gold. she has bound the lord flavian of gambrevault in a net starred with poppies, scarlet poppies of the field, so that he ever dreams dreams of scarlet, and sees visions of lips warm as wine. daily the lord flavian scours the country between avalon and the fair city of gilderoy, till the very dust complains of his fury, and the green grass curses his horse's heels. but the lady with the hair of gold compasses him like the sunset; she has stolen the eyes of heaven, and the stars are blind."
fulviac smiled over the extreme subtlety of the rendering. it was a delicate matter, delicately handled. the carlyath lad had wit, and a most seraphic tongue.
"what more?"
"there is yet another lady at avalon."
"well?"
"a lady whose name is duessa, a lady with black hair and a blacker temper. lord flavian has a huge horror of her tongue. therefore he rides like a thief, without trumpets, to gilderoy."
"yet more."
the lad spread his hands with an inimitable gesture, shrugged, and heaved a most christian sigh.
"the lady duessa is the lord flavian's wife," he said.
"surely."
"therefore, sire, he is a coward."
the lad drew back with a bow and a scrape of the foot, keeping his eyes on the floor with the discretion of a veteran lackey. at a sign from fulviac, he slipped away, and left yeoland and the man alone.
the girl's hands were idle in her lap; the great scarlet banner trailed in rich folds about her feet. there was a white mask of thought upon her face, and her eyes searched the distance with an oblivious stare. all the strong discords of the past rushed clamorous to her brain; her consecrated dreams were as so many angels startled by the assaults of hell.
she rose from her chair, cast the casement wide, and stood gazing over the forest. youth seemed in the breeze, and the clear voice of the spring. the green woods surged with liberty; the strong zest of life breathed in their bosoms. in the distance the pines seemed to beckon to her, to wave their caps in windy exultation.
fulviac had stood watching her with the calm scrutiny of one wise in the passionate workings of the soul. he suffered her to possess her thoughts in silence for a season, to come by a steady comprehension of the past. presently he gathered the red banner, and hung it on the frame, went softly to her and touched her sleeve.
"shall they kill him on the road?" he asked.
she pondered a moment, and did not answer him.
"it is easy," he said, "and a matter of sheer justice."
the words seemed to steel her decision.
"no," she said, "let them bring him here--to me."
"so be it," he answered her.
fulviac found her cold and taciturn, desirous of solitude. he humoured the mood, and she was still staring from the window when he left her. the woodland had melted before her into an oblivious mist. in its stead she saw a tower flaming amid naked trees, a white face staring heavenwards with the marble tranquillity of death.
