"fulviac, i cannot fasten all these buckles."
the man waited at the door of her room, and looked at her with a half-roguish smile in his eyes.
she stood by the window in gothic armour of a grandly simple type, no maximilian flutings, no damascening, the simple gothic at its grandest, nothing more. her breast-plate, with salient ridge, was blazoned over with golden fleur-de-lis. the pauldrons were slightly ridged; vam-brace and rere-brace were beautifully jointed with most quaint elbow-pieces. she wore a great brayette, a short skirt of mail, but no tassets. in place of cuishes, jambs, and solerets, she had a kirtle of white cloth, and laced leather shoes. it was light work and superbly wrought; fulviac had paid many crowns for it from an armourer at geraint.
her beauty, mailed and cased in steel, seemed to shine upon the man with a new glory. when he had played the armourer, she stood and looked at him with a most conscious modesty, a warm colour in her cheeks, eyes full of tremulous light, her masses of dark hair rolling down over her blazoned cuirass. a hand and a half sword in a gilded scabbard, a rich baldric, and a light bassinet lay on the oak table. fulviac took the sword, and belted it to her, and slung the baldric over her shoulder. his hands moved through her dark hair. for a moment, her eyes trembled up at him under their long lashes. he gave the helmet into her hands, but she did not wear it.
a sudden gust of youth seized the man, an old strain of chivalry woke in his heart. grizzled and gaunt, he went on his knees in front of her and held up his hands as in prayer. there was a warm light in his eyes.
"the mother virgin keep you, little woman. may all peril be far from your heart, all trouble far from your soul. may my arm ever ward you, my sword guard your womanhood. all the saints watch over you; may the spirit of god abide with you in my heart."
it was a true prayer, though fulviac stumbled up from his knees, looking much like an awkward boy. he was blushing under his tanned skin, blushing, scarred and battered worldling that he was, for his heart still showed gold to the knife of time. yeoland thought more of him that moment than she had done these four months. a shadow passed over her face, and she touched her forehead with her hand.
fulviac, a far-away look in his eyes, was furling her great scarlet banner upon its staff. yeoland spoke to him over her shoulder.
"i am in your hands," she said.
fulviac smoothed out a crease.
"what is your will, you have not yet enlightened me?"
he looked at her gravely for a moment.
"you are ours," he said, "a woman given to us by heaven," he hesitated, as over a lie; "you are to shine out a star, a pillar of fire before the host; every man who follows you will know your story; every man who follows you will worship you in his heart. you will inspire us as no mere man could inspire; your blood-red banner will wave on heroes, patriots. you will play the comet with an army for your tail."
some sudden emotion seemed to sweep over her. she stood motionless with clasped hands, looking at her crucifix. there was a strange sadness upon her face, a tragic sanctity, as on the face of a woman who renounces the world, and more. for a long while she was silent, as though suffering some lustre light out of heaven to stream into her heart. presently she answered fulviac.
"god help me to be strong," she said, "god help me to bear the burden he has put upon my soul."
"amen, little woman."
"and now?"
"prosper is preaching to all our men upon the cliff. he is telling them your story. i take you now to set you before them all, that they may look upon a living saint. i leave the rest to your soul. god will tell you how to bear yourself in the cause of the people. come, let us pray a moment."
they knelt down side by side before the crucifix, like effigies on a tomb. fulviac's face was in shadow; yeoland's turned heavenward to the cross. it was her renunciation. then they arose; fulviac took up the scarlet banner, and they passed out together from the room.
traversing parlour and guard-room, finding them empty and silent as a church, they came by the winding stairway in the rock to the hollow opening upon the platform above. two sentinels stood by the rough door. above and around, great stones had been piled up so as to form a species of natural battlement. fulviac, bearing the banner, climbed the rocks, and signed to yeoland to follow. they were still within a kind of rude tower, walled in by heaped blocks of stone on every side. they were alone save for the two sentinels. above, they saw prosper the preacher standing on a great square mass of rock, his tall figure outlined against the sky.
they could see that the man was borne along by the strong spirit of the preacher. his arms tossed to the sky as he bent forward and preached to those invisible to fulviac and the girl. his oratory was of a fervid, strenuous type, like fire leaping in a wind, fierce, mobile, passionate. they could see him stride to and fro on his platform, gesticulate, point to heaven, smite his bosom, strike attitudes of ecstasy. his voice rang out the while, full of subtle modulations, the pathetic abandonments, the supreme outbursts of the orator. much that he said fell deep into the girl's heart. the man had that strange power, that magnetic influence that exists in the individual, defying analysis, yet real as the stirring witchery of great music, or as the voice of the sea.
anon they saw him fall upon his knees, and lift his hands to the heavens. he had cast a quick glance backward over his shoulder. prosper had soared to his zenith; he had his men listening as for the climax of some great epic. fulviac thrust yeoland forward up the slope. she understood the dramatic pause in an instant. prosper's words had been like the orisons of birds preluding the dawn. she climbed the rocks, and stepped out at the kneeling monk's side.
the scene below dazed her for the moment. many hundred faces were turned to her from the slopes at her feet. innumerable eyes seemed fixed upon her with a mesmeric stare. she saw the whole cliff below her packed with men, every rock crowned with humanity, even the pine trees had their living burden. she saw swords waving like innumerable streaks of light; she had a confused vision of fanaticism, exultation, power. deep seemed calling unto deep; a noise like the noise of breakers was in her ears.
then the whole grew clear on the instant. the sky seemed strangely luminous; every outline in the landscape took marvellous and intelligent meaning. strange promethean fire flashed down into her brain. she felt her heart leaping, her blood bounding through her body, yet her mind shone clear as a crystal grael.
below her, she had humanity, plastic, inflammable, tinder to her touch. an infinite realisation of power seemed to leap in her as at the beck of some spirit wand. she felt all the dim heroism of dreams glowing in her like wine given of the gods.
holy fire burnt on her forehead and her tongue was loosed. she stood out on the great rock, her armour flashing in the sun, her face bright as the moon in her strength. her voice, clear and silvery, carried far over cliff and wood, for the day was temperate and without a wind.
"look upon me well. i tell you the truth. i am she to whom the madonna appeared from heaven."
great silence answered her, the silence of awe, not of disbelief or disapprobation. her voice rang solitary as the voice of a wood-fay in the wilderness. the huddled men below were silent as children whose solemn eyes watch a priest before the altar. she spoke on.
"i am she whose tale you have heard. god has given me to the cause of the poor. to your babes and to your womenfolk i lift my hands; from the mother of jesus i hold my command. men of the land, will you believe and follow my banner?"
a thousand hands leapt to the sun, yet hardly a voice broke the silence, the calm as of supreme revelation. all the simple mediæval faith shone in the rough faces; all the quaint reverence, the unflinching fidelity, of the unlettered of the age shone in their hearts. they were warm earth to the seed of faith.
"men of the land, i hear great noise of violence and wrong, of hunger and despair. your lords crush you; your priests go in jewels and fine linen, and preach not the cross. your babes are slaves even before they see the light. your children, like brute beasts, are bound to the soil. men of the land, give me your strength, give me your strength for the cause of god."
she drew her sword from its sheath, pressed the blade to her lips, held it up to heaven. her voice rang over rock and tree.
"justice and liberty!"
her shrill hail seemed to lift the silence from a thousand throats. the human sea below gave up its soul to her with thundering surges and vast sound of faith. as roar followed roar, she stood a bright, silvery pinnacle above the black fanaticism beneath, transcendent hope holding her sword to the eternal sun.
behind her, fulviac unwrapped the great scarlet banner she had wrought. its cross of gold gleamed out as he lifted the staff with both hands. prosper, erect and exultant, stood pointing to its device. then, in sight of all men, he bowed down before the girl and kissed her feet, as though she had been some rare messenger out of heaven.
该作者其它作品
《the red saint》
